By noon, over ten more ministries had declared the ICW an illegal or terrorist organisation. Every conclave in central and eastern Europe followed and made arrests. Hundreds of ICW Aurors, Hit Wizards, and clerks were in custody.
China, India, Japan, and Brazil suspended ICW activity within their borders. National wards across the region were raised to war level, so trade and travel were limited to states that agreed to the same rules. Portkey and Floo control shifted to inspection first, passage second. Gringotts posted the Ministry notices at its public counters and recorded that it would comply with lawful warrants. The sanctions the ICW had threatened against Britain returned to them when a large bloc cut trade and travel to any country that still backed the Confederation.
Arcturus read the morning papers in turn. The Prophet ran, "Confederation or Terrorists? ICW Writes Threats, Britain Writes Warrants." A Berlin sheet printed, "International Confederation of Wizards Labelled and Banned; Portkeys Frozen. Assets Confiscated." Moscow led with, "Sanctions Rebound; Trade Shut to Illegal Organisations' Holdouts." Delhi carried, "Government Suspends ICW Offices; Travel Curtailed." Tokyo's headline was, "Operations Halted Pending Review." Rio added, "Activities of ICW Suspended by Order of the Minister." Stockholm followed with, "Conclave Votes to Detain ICW Staff." The pattern held across the stack.
He set the last paper aside and let his mind settle. War level wards meant fewer holes to mind and clearer lines to defend. Trade would slow with MACUSA, but they have the rest of Europe to compensate for that. Now it was his time to keep the tempers where they are while also guarding the moral high ground. Magicals of Wizarding World would decide who looked like a government and who looked like a club that had outlived its usefulness.
A knock cut through the quiet. Ignatia entered with a ledger and set it on the desk. Arcturus opened it.
"Dragon reserves," she said. "Wards are up, keepers in place and first stock received and settled."
He turned the pages. The northern reserve had taken twenty Hebridean Blacks. The western hills counted thirty five Welsh Greens. The largest site had accepted a mixed lot: five Ukrainian Ironbellies, eight Peruvian Vipertooths and ten Norwegian Ridgebacks. Each entry showed the breeder's mark, weight range and next clutch window. Three senior keepers were recruited out of the Carpathian school and two from Romania, with staff quarters ready and a Healer on call. The orders at the back were plain. Breed fast and in number. Log growth and temperament. Test hide and scale for armour and for industry. Record enchantment tolerance by batch. Establish flight corridors. Tie alarm wards to the national net.
Arcturus kept a thumb on the place and closed the cover. Declaring ICW illegal has its merits. Starting multiple Dragon Reserves without asking for a permit was one of them. Dragons were walking galleon sacks to him; they were also disasters on a timer. Very hard to control, any incident will cause, at best local at worst global crisis. On the other hand, their meat, hide, bone, blood and fire sacs were all ingredients sought after. The outlay still pressed the ledger. Corvus had pushed for these reserves as if they were a cornerstone, not a curiosity. There would be more to it than meat and leather. Supply for dragon hide armours was useful. He did intend to understand why his heir, who rarely threw dice, wanted three sites in the first month.
"Locations secure," Ignatia said. "Wards tied to the national net. Access by portkey only. No outside flights over any site without our leave. Creature Regulation has signed the charter rules."
"Good," Arcturus said. He slid the ledger aside. "I will carry the numbers to Hogwarts. Corvus can give the full reason behind this scale. I will have the figures in hand when I ask."
Ignatia set the next parchment on the blotter. The seal of the Department of Mysteries sat at the foot. The script was careful and precise. Arcturus read the first line, then the second.
He let the page lie flat. "Send for Croaker," he said.
--
If there was one thing Corvus disliked in this new life, it was how little of it belonged to him. Defense lessons sat on top of his regular classes and ate the day whole. The first bell rang at half past seven. Last lecture ended at five at least for him. Essays waited in neat, accusing piles. He meant to speak with Aunt Vinda about a replacement. Another Auror would keep the line straight. At least he has no night classes. With the new timetable, there was an addition of twenty hours of classes every week.
Two knocks touched the jamb. Not the loud, nervous rap of a child. Two measured taps. Corvus looked up.
Granger stood at the threshold with her satchel against her hip. The door was open, yet she did not cross without leave. That was new.
"Enter," Corvus said with a slight tilt of his hand.
She walked in and stopped five paces from the desk. Hands folded. Eyes steady. No fidgeting with the strap.
"Miss Granger." He closed the notebook. "What brings you here before the bell?"
Her breath drew once, then settled. "Professor Black, I owe you an apology." No rush on the words. "My previous conduct was disrespectful according to wizarding custom and to the people who live by it. I am asking for another chance. I would prefer not to be counted as ignorant of a world I am part of by the decree of Mother Magic."
Corvus watched her for the small tells. Her tone sat on the right line between firm and deferential. Narcissa's work, through and through.
The thought carried him back over the new timetable. Etiquette had begun without noise and drew the school tight. Narcissa's presence did as much as the syllabus. Even when she walked to the high table, the room adjusted itself. Forks were set right after one hour with her. Backs straightened. Voices learned to adjust their tone. The house that learned it fastest was naturally not Gryffindor.
Gryffindor had Weasley. One hundred and fifty points in a day for the kind of foolishness that turned a corridor into a stage. Marcus Aurelius Baier, whom the older years already called Rival, had warned him twice in public and once in private. One more step out of line and he would lose his place in Dark Arts. No place in that class meant no second year. Even a boy drowning in his parents' trouble should have known that. Granger, in front of him, for example, already had. She had moved away from Weasley's side without announcement and kept her distance.
Corvus let the quiet stretch long enough to be felt, not long enough to bruise. "You have begun to learn where you stand when you enter a room," he said at last. "That is the start of every craft in our world."
A small nod answered him.
"The apology is accepted," Corvus went on. "You will earn the rest." He drew a thin sheet from the stack and slid it to the edge of the desk. "Two feet by Saturday on the difference between disagreement and insult. Use examples from your etiquette lessons. Show how a question is asked when rank is present. Bring it to me when finished."
"I will write it," Granger said, hands still folded.
"Good. Next, terms for my classroom. You will not interrupt to correct a peer in public. If you see an error, raise a hand and frame it as a question. If you disagree with me, you will come after the lesson and present your case. The lesson has a limited time, a time that we should not spend on personal questions about the faculty member's knowledge. If you are right, I will adopt it and announce it at the next lesson. If you are wrong, you will learn why."
Her chin lifted a fraction. "Understood."
"You will also report to Madam Pince this week and copy the etiquette addendum for the first years. Three copies by hand. You will deliver them to Miss Black for review."
"I will start tonight."
"Last point. You will not let pity dictate your company. A friend who drags you into trouble is not a friend."
The line landed. She understood it. "Yes, Professor."
The door clicked as the first years queued in the corridor. Corvus stood. "Wait by the front bench. You may assist with demonstrations as a start."
Granger moved to the bench and set her satchel aside. She faced the door and fixed her expression to neutral. The posture would read to the others before the hour was out.
Students began to file in. Robes brushed. Boots scuffed. Wands came out by habit and were put away by look alone. Corvus nodded in satisfaction when there was no one late by the time he closed the door.
"We will repeat the 'Protego, '" he told the room. "Wands on the desk. You will hold a shield with your arm and your mind, not with a shout."
They followed. Granger kept her eyes forward and mirrored his grip. When he moved to her side and nudged her elbow in by two fingers, she did not flinch.
He worked with the students and took the measure of the hour. The line held better than last week. Fewer mouths ran while hands worked. Narcissa's teachings were showing. Rival's more so. When the bell rang, he set the homework, dismissed them in order, and waited until the last one cleared the threshold.
Granger stepped back to the desk and curtsied. "Thank you for the chance, Professor."
"Do not waste it," Corvus replied. He watched her go and let the ward on the door hum shut.
He leaned a hip against the desk and looked at the empty benches. Some things moved faster than he had expected. Etiquette had done what force never could. It had set the spine and then the mind. Dark Arts changed the idiotic approach to the subject over all the years. The next generation of Wizarding Britain was promising something much better compared to the last five. If the lions learned as quickly as the snakes, they would stop bleeding points and start producing witches and wizards who could stand in any hall without apology.
A soft smile found its way to his face before the next class gathered outside.
--
Corvus watched the last student of the last lesson leave. The corridor noise thinned, and the ward on the door settled. Five o'clock already. He gathered the marked essays, shrank the stack, and crossed to the Great Hall for the short break the new timetable allowed before night classes.
The hall held a low, even hum. Bowls of broth steamed along the tables. Bread sat warm under linen. He took his usual place at the staff table and inclined his head to Professor Flitwick. The Charms Master returned it with a small smile and a cup of tea that never seemed to cool.
A chair scraped beside him. Marcus Aurelius Baier set a plate down and folded into the seat with an economy that belonged to men who had carried weight for a living. Up close, the senior Auror's eyes held a watchful light that did not blink much.
"Corvus Black," Baier greeted and reached for bread.
"Greetings to you as well, Marcus Aurelius Baier," Corvus answered. "Last living kin of Emperor Trajan."
Baier paused, then raised one eyebrow. "You are well informed, Black. Not many know that line. Should I be worried?"
"Only if you think I plan to chase your blood and a few bones to drag Trajan out of the quiet embrace of Mother Magic," Corvus replied, dry as dust. "I prefer my legends in books, even if they are known as 'Optimus Princeps'. Your ancestress Pompeia Plotina was known for her sense. If I wanted counsel, I would read her letters from her time in Athens, not raid your family crypt."
Flitwick sipped his tea and watched them with open amusement.
"Good to hear," Baier said. "I was also told you are a half step from mastery in Rituals, and short on hours, not skill. That is the sort of combination that keeps a man with my blood alert."
Corvus took a bowl of broth. "Be at ease, Rival. I am not hunting old emperors tonight." The nickname sat easily on the table. "There are faster ways to raise educated and experienced people than calling ghosts to lecture."
Flitwick leaned in a fraction. "And what might those ways be, Corvus?"
Corvus smiled without showing much of it. "Good syllabi are a start, Filius. Proper mentors. A school that rewards the correct habits. The rest is patience. Only if there was a way we could thrust the knowledge and experience into their minds."
Baier's mouth tipped as if he did not entirely believe the innocence. "Patience is not the word your students would choose after your morning drills."
"They will live longer for them," Corvus said. "Even Gryffindor is learning that the fastest wand is a foolish wand. Your warning to Weasley helped."
"Third and final comes next," Baier said. "One more stunt and he sits out Dark Arts until he proves he can listen. No pass in that class means no second year. I do not find joy in failures. I do find uses for empty seats."
Flitwick cleared his throat softly. "The castle has felt different this week. Etiquette has done work even my charms could not. Miss Black walks, and the room remembers its manners."
Corvus nodded. "She is a walking embodiment of a lesson. Half the school now knows how to enter a room. Granger proved it today."
Baier buttered a heel of bread with neat strokes. "She came to apologise."
"She did," Corvus said. "Correct distance. Proper address. Owned the mistake without flattery. If she keeps that course, she will be useful."
"And if she drifts," Baier asked.
"Then she learns why we set ropes on the edge," Corvus said. "No one falls for want of a warning."
They ate in a quiet that did not need to be filled. The staff along the table spoke in low voices about timetables and new ward checks. A prefect crossed to the dais to deliver a note. Flitwick read it, nodded once, and sent the boy back with a word.
Baier set his cup down. "You mention Pompeia Plotina as if you met her."
"I read the right books," Corvus said. "And I listen to the few people who have seen more years than you and I added together." His glance touched Flitwick with respect and moved on. "History has uses beyond the exam parchment. It tells you which mistakes are rented and which ones you buy."
Baier chuckled under his breath. "You and I will get along." The humour in his eyes was dry and edged. "We can trade notes on mistakes we refuse to rent again."
"Gladly," Corvus said. "We can start with the mistake of believing a shield will hold if the hand behind it has not eaten in a day. Your recruits will learn to eat before they duel."
"They will," Baier said. "And to tie their boots so they do not leave one on a stair while making a dramatic exit. That was an actual event."
Flitwick's shoulders shook once with contained mirth. "I am pleased to hear practical instruction has returned to Defense."
"Defense is a simple art," Corvus said. "Stand correctly. Breathe correctly. Avoid as much as possible. Shield when you must with your arm and your mind. Win the dull way. Let the other man waste himself on cleverness."
Baier looked at him with real approval. "We will do fine." He lifted his cup a fraction in a wordless salute and finished his broth.
The bell for night classes tolled. Chairs scraped back. Corvus rose. "Enjoy your lesson, Rival."
"Try not to terrify the first years, Black," Baier said. "Save that for the second term."
"I will consider it," Corvus said and turned toward the doors with his notes under his arm.
--
The Nest lay quiet under a sky that had not decided on rain. In the warded cells beneath the manor, Augustus Rookwood lay on a narrow bunk and stared at the ceiling as if it would answer him. The stone gave back only a clean chill and the faint feel of a ward net that did not sleep.
He closed his eyes and named the pattern of a Mooncalf herb bed without thinking. Soil composition, ward layering, the way the leaves curled before dusk, the precise cut that kept the sap sweet. He could taste the oil of a Snargaluff pod at the back of his tongue, though he had not handled one in a decade. He mapped the root structure of a Venomous Tentacula as if it had grown under his own hand. None of this knowledge had come in the usual way. No hours in a greenhouse. No patient master. It sat whole in his mind like a book written by someone with his hand.
Tibby had left a tray on the small table. Bread, stew, a bitter draught that tugged at bone and muscle. Rookwood ate, then drank as ordered. Strength had begun to creep back into his limbs. The cell did not allow magic. The mind did not care. It ran its new paths and asked who had drawn them there.
He had seen the young man turn a soul shard to smoke and then to nothing. He had watched the runes drink without spilling. Awe had been the first response. Fear had settled after. Not the wild fear of a man on a battlefield. A colder, more rational kind. A fear of method. A fear of a mind that could decide to add a craft to another man, as one adds a chapter to a book.
Rookwood set the empty cup down and lay back. He would cooperate for now. He would observe. He would test the edges that the cell allowed. Above all, he would remember that curiosity and courtesy and cruelty could share the same face.
The ward hum held steady. Somewhere above, water moved in a pipe. He named three more plants in his head and did not sleep for a long time.