The dinghy skimmed over water so clear it felt like cheating. Corvus kept a simple glamour on it, not for the islanders, but for the cameras and the bored rich who treated binoculars like toys. The frigate waited farther out, hidden and patient, with the kind of discipline only the Nestborn managed without complaint.
Elizaveta stood at the bow with her hair tied back, one hand braced on the rail. The wind pressed her dress against her legs and tried to pull it up. She pinned it down with a flat look that would have stopped a grown man mid-argument.
Corvus watched the shoreline draw closer. The dock at Mykonos came into view in soft morning light. White walls, blue shutters, narrow lanes that forced people to walk closely.
Elizaveta stepped off first. Sandaled feet hit wood with a clean tap. She turned and offered a hand with the same quiet certainty she used in a duelling circle.
Corvus took it and let her pull, even though she could not. Her fingers stayed curled around his. She walked as if the island belonged to her for the day.
Islanders woke up early. The front racks already carried bright fabric that looked designed to be seen from a distance. Elizaveta paused at the first window display, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Corvus leaned in close, voice kept low for the crowd drifting past. "This is where they sell confidence by the meter."
Elizaveta's mouth tightened. The hint of amusement betrayed her anyway.
She stepped inside.
The air held perfume and new cloth. Music played softly in the background. A young clerk approached with a smile sharpened for tourists, then lost half of it when she saw Corvus's height and the way his gaze cut through the room. Business was good, but business with a monster of a man was not so much. Corvus smirked; it was enough to keep the young man honest on more than one front.
Elizaveta drifted toward a wall of swimsuits and stopped like she hit a ward.
"So many," she breathed.
Bikinis. One pieces with deep backs. High cut legs. Straps that seemed held together by spite alone. Patterns that belonged on flags. Colours that did not exist in wizarding shops.
Elizaveta picked up a black set with a thin strap and held it between two fingers as if it might bite.
"This covers nothing," she noted.
"It covers a point," Corvus replied. His eyes moved over the rack, then back to her face. "It is somehow... practical. In addition, people want attention."
Her gaze slid to him, measuring. "Does it work?"
Corvus did not answer with words. His eyes dropped to the small triangle of fabric, then lifted back to her with a calm that made the clerk pretend to fold towels somewhere else.
Elizaveta's cheeks warmed by a fraction. She set the piece back, then grabbed three other sets with more coverage as if to prove she was still sensible. Yet added that one when Corvus turned his back.
She turned toward the fitting rooms. Halfway there, she stopped and reached for another rack. Underwear. Lace, satin, cotton, silk, things with bows, things with straps, things that looked engineered rather than sewn.
Elizaveta stared at a pale set with delicate stitching. Her fingers traced the edge. Her throat moved.
"Muggle women wear this," she murmured.
Corvus stepped closer behind her. His hand settled at her waist, firm, claiming space without forcing it. His thumb pressed a small circle through the fabric of her dress. "Muggle or Magical, women should not be criticised for wanting to look good, especially in their bedrooms."
Elizaveta inhaled once. The air left her through her nose in a controlled line. She took the set, then another, then a third that was more daring, more ridiculous, and somehow still elegant.
Corvus followed her to the fitting room corridor. The curtain closed. He waited outside, listening to the faint rustle of fabric, the clink of hangers, the small sound of her breath when she decided something was acceptable.
The curtain opened.
Elizaveta stood in a dark green swimsuit that hugged her body like it was made for her. The cut framed her waist and hips cleanly. Her shoulders looked delicate. Her legs looked longer than they had any right to. She held her posture as if she was still in a ballroom, even though she was barefoot on cheap fitting room carpet.
Corvus's gaze moved over her with slow approval. His jaw set. His fingers tightened.
Elizaveta tilted her head. "You are thinking too loudly."
Corvus stepped into the corridor and pulled the curtain aside with one hand. The other hand slid over her side, stopping at her hip. Heat rose under his palm. "You want an honest answer."
Her eyes stayed on his. The challenge sat there, quiet.
Corvus leaned in and kissed her. Not a gentle one. It was a claim made in plain daylight. Her hand caught his wrist, then moved up to his forearm, nails pressing lightly as she returned the kiss.
A woman in the corridor coughed and hurried past, eyes fixed on the floor. Elizaveta broke the kiss with a small breath, then smiled, sharp and pleased.
"You are as shameless as ever," she noted.
Corvus adjusted the strap at her shoulder with careful fingers, as if it were a weapon he was securing. "You came to a Muggle island with me. Shame died at the dock."
She disappeared behind the curtain again.
When she came out the second time, she wore a white set with clean lines, practical and severe. It should have looked like armour.
It did not.
Corvus watched her walk once to the mirror and back. Her body moved with controlled confidence. Her hips swayed just enough to make it obvious she knew what she was doing.
Elizaveta caught his expression in the mirror. Her lips curved. "This one is safer."
"Safer for who?"
Elizaveta stepped close and put two fingers under his chin, forcing his attention up to her face. "For you, if I wear the other one, you will start another war."
Corvus took her hand and kissed her knuckles, slowly. The gesture was wizarding etiquette and pure menace in the same breath. "I already have wars. This one will be legendary."
The clerk returned with a smile that looked strained now. Elizaveta handed over half the rack without blinking. The clerk's eyes widened at the total, then remembered himself and tapped the register with obedient speed.
They left the shop with more bags than she planned. Elizaveta laced her arm through his and leaned in close as they walked down a narrow lane. Her voice dropped.
"Muggle underwear is absurd."
Corvus's gaze flicked to a tourist couple fumbling with a map. "It is not absurd. It is efficient. It creates a reaction and costs them nothing but cloth."
Elizaveta's eyes glinted. "Then I will weaponise it."
Corvus let out a quiet sound. "You already do."
They took the next ferry to Naxos. The sun climbed, salty air dried on skin. Elizaveta bought sandals, then refused the first pair because the strap sat wrong. Corvus watched her negotiate with a shopkeeper in polite English that carried the weight of a court. The shopkeeper did not know why he was sweating. Corvus was standing behind Elizaveta with his gaze focused on him.
On Paros, she found a dress that fit too well and made Corvus pause in the doorway like an idiot. A simple summer cut with light fabric and an open back. She turned in front of him once, then let her fingers rest on his chest.
"Did you like it?"
Corvus's hand slid to her lower back, palm flat. "Yes."
Elizaveta leaned in and kissed him again, short and satisfied, then took the dress from the clerk like she was collecting tribute.
By late afternoon, they were on Santorini, sitting on a terrace above the caldera. Elizaveta's hair was loose now. The wind played with it. She sipped a cold drink and watched the sea.
Corvus's thumb traced the inside of her wrist. Her pulse beat steadily. "You wanted to be close."
Elizaveta shifted into his side and let her shoulder press into his ribs. "You do not make it difficult."
Corvus's lips brushed her temple. "Not for you. I just decided to enjoy it."
Her quiet laugh warmed his ear.
He paid in cash. He carried bags like trophies. He kissed her fingers when she offered her hand, then kissed her mouth when she offered nothing at all. The island sun sank. The humour stayed between them. The rest of the world could wait one more night.
--
The unused room at Number 10 Downing Street had the hearth burning already and the kind of silence that made occupants uneasy. John Major sat at the head of the table with a folder open in front of him, though his eyes kept drifting to the clock.
One month to the elections. One month to keep his seat, keep his party together, keep the newspapers from smelling blood.
His gaze fell on the falcon, and he thought maybe leaving this madness was not a bad idea. Blair was becoming a favourite of the public nowadays.
McColl stood at his right, stiff and watchful. Rimington sat opposite with a notebook already open. Her pen did not stop moving. The clock's second hand sounded like a threat.
Ten o'clock arrived.
Green fire flared in the hearth with a hiss that had no right to exist in a normal room. Heat rushed out, then snapped back. Two figures stepped through the flames.
The first was unmistakable. White hair tied back, posture straight, eyes that held too much certainty. Gellert Grindelwald did not look like a man seeking cooperation. He looked like a man allowing it.
Beside him stood a lady. Black robes, clean cut, no visible jewellery beyond a single ring that caught the light once. The temperature in the room dropped by a degree the moment she crossed the threshold. Major felt it on his skin, then forced his face to remain calm.
Major learned not to trust his eyes when it comes to counting how many Magicals were in the room. His instincts warned him, but his eyes found nothing. He filed it under, do not trust your senses.
Major stood. McColl followed. Rimington rose last.
"Welcome, Lord Grindelwald." Major kept his voice level.
Grindelwald's gaze swept the room. It paused on McColl's sidearm, then moved on as if that were a child's toy.
Vinda extended her hand, palm down, with the practised certainty of old nobility.
Major took it gently. He lowered his head and placed a light kiss on her knuckles, exactly where etiquette demanded. The gesture felt ridiculous and necessary at once.
McColl repeated it. Rimington chose a small, correct nod and received a curtsy in return, subtle, measured, the kind that acknowledged rank without surrendering anything.
Vinda's eyes cut between them, sharp and cold. "Prime Minister Major. Sir McColl. Dame Rimington."
Grindelwald's smile widened as if he enjoyed being surrounded by people who knew they were out of their depth.
"Prime Minister," he began, and his voice carried the weight of a formal presentation, "allow me to present Lady Vinda Rosier, Lady of the Rosier line on the Continent, and my companion."
Vinda's chin lifted by a fraction, receiving the introduction as if it was her due.
McColl leaned forward, polite curiosity sharpened by intelligence work. "Rosier. You would be a relative of Lord Rosier. His sister, perhaps."
Vinda's mouth did not soften. "I am Lady of the Rosier line on the Continent, Sir McColl. Corvus holds the title by right of his mother and by my blessing. I appointed him my heir."
Major caught Rimington's pen move faster.
McColl's eyes stayed calm. "And his paternal line."
Vinda turned her head slightly, as if the question offended good manners. The air cooled again.
"Did he not introduce himself properly?"
Her gaze stayed on McColl as she corrected the record with surgical precision.
"My heir is Corvus Black. Lord of the Most Noble House of Rosier. Heir of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. Proxy to the Noble House of Malfoy."
She let the titles land, then added the part meant to twist the knife.
"He is Master of Alchemy, Transfiguration, Potions, and Charms. Soon, he will take his mastery in the Dark Arts as well."
Major felt McColl go very still beside him.
For over a year, they had assumed the young giant attached to Minister Black was an adviser, a guard and a curiosity.
A Lord with multiple masteries was not an adviser. He was already a problem; now it became official.
Vinda watched their faces and did not bother hiding her satisfaction. She knew exactly what those words did. It did not change the balance. It just made the imbalance visible.
They took their seats. Tea and wine waited on the table, untouched.
Grindelwald stepped behind Vinda's chair and adjusted it with the casual courtesy of a man who could kill the room and still remember manners. He sat beside her.
McColl's hand stayed near his gun as Grindelwald drew his wand. The movement was instinct.
Vinda's eyes flicked to the gun, then back to McColl's face. The stare was flat enough to make a soldier reconsider his own muscles.
Grindelwald flicked his wand once. Teapot lifted. Cups filled themselves. Wine glasses slid into place as if the table obeyed a silent command. He was flexing, reminding them of the power balance.
McColl forced his hand away from the weapon and reached for his cup instead.
Grindelwald took a sip, expression amused. "You are tense."
McColl met his gaze without flinching. "For us, these wands are weapons. Consider it an occupational habit."
Grindelwald's smile stayed. "If I were more delicate, I might have been offended."
Major leaned forward, fingers interlaced. His voice came out blunt, tired, and honest. "This imbalance of intelligence is disturbing, Lord Grindelwald. Your side knows our world. All we know is your Ministry's location in London."
Rimington's pen scratched. McColl took the opening and pushed.
"We kept up through Muggleborn contacts and your newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Both channels are gone now. I propose a better line of communication between our societies. It will allow us to manage relations more effectively."
Grindelwald's eyes glittered with quiet amusement, as if this was the part of the play he liked best. "Let us pretend I agree."
He placed his cup down with a soft tap.
"What will it entail? Locations, names of officials, or access to places you are not able to see?"
The question hung in the room like a knife left on the table on purpose.