Elizaveta woke to a voice she had not heard in months.
A woman's voice, warm and close, carrying a Russian lullaby that belonged to a bed in Moscow and a childhood that had ended too early.
Bayushki bayu.
Her eyes opened before her mind caught up. At the edge of the bed, Oksana Volkova sat with one knee angled under her and one hand in Elizaveta's hair. The fingers moved with practised ease, smoothing braids, untangling a strand that had escaped during sleep. Her mother's face looked the same. The mouth still held that small line that meant amusement even when she did not grant it. Her eyes were softer. The same softness whenever they were away from her father.
Elizaveta pushed herself upright, her arms locked around her mother's shoulders. Oksana's scent hit her like a memory, clean with a hint of smoke that belonged to Volkov winters.
Oksana's hand pressed between her shoulder blades.
"You smile in your sleep now," Oksana murmured near her ear. "Tell me why, my love."
Elizaveta pulled back just enough to see her mother properly.
"I was dreaming," Elizaveta said, and her own voice sounded younger than she liked. "That is all."
"That is not all."
Elizaveta could have lied. She could have chosen the easy route, the polite route, the route every young woman in a court learned by the age of twelve. She did not.
"I am happy, and I have lessons," she said. "Private ones."
Oksana's brows rose a fraction. Elizaveta watched her mother's face for the smallest crack of judgment. It did not come. Oksana had grown up around old bloodlines. She knew what an intended meant.
"Elizaveta." Oksana's tone carried a warning and a question, both at once.
"He is respectful," Elizaveta answered, then hesitated, then went on anyway. "It is not only… affection. His lessons are incredible. I can not speak of them, Mother. Just know this, I will be graduating before the year ends."
Oksana leaned back and studied her with a gaze that measured angles and outcomes.
"You had better be right."
Elizaveta's smile grew.
"I am," she said.
Oksana stood and smoothed the blanket as if Elizaveta were still nine. She moved to the window and looked out over the garden. The light here fell wrong. The sky was England, but the wards made the air feel like a sealed room.
"I will be leading the Volkov team," Oksana said. "Your grandfather asked for me. Your Corvus agreed. Contracts were signed before I left. Strict ones."
Elizaveta swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Bare feet met warm stone.
"So you will stay," she said.
Oksana's shoulders lifted, then settled.
"For as long as your grandfather wants me," she said. "For as long as it is safe."
Elizaveta's laugh came out quiet.
"Nothing about this place is safe, mother," she said.
Oksana turned and gave her a look that had ended arguments in the Volkov household for decades.
"Can you see that pond?" Elizaveta pointed to Medusa's pond. "A Basilisk is guarding this place; it is living in the pond. Whatever you do, never go there, mother."
Oksana looked at her daughter for a while. She was not sure if Elizaveta was joking or not, and that in itself was telling her that her sweet little girl was growing.
She helped Elizaveta get dressed in silence. Oksana watched her, taking in the changes Elizaveta had not wanted to name. Her posture. The way her lips curve whenever Corvus' name is mentioned.
Elizaveta's gaze locked with her mother's on one of those occasions. Oksana's wink gave her the confidence she needed. Corvus was her intended, and she shouldn't shy away from showing affection.
They left the room and walked the corridor. House elves appeared and vanished at the edges of vision, each with a silent bow, each with the faint pride of servants who knew their house stood at the centre of something new.
Elizaveta and Oksana reached the central hall as they saw a group of healers and other witches at the edge of the wards.
--
Corvus had been expanding the space and adding new buildings to the nest since the meeting with the old guard. Today, future inhabitants of the new nurseries and two new wings of the Nest were arriving from Germany, Russia, France, Norway, and England.
He had prepared a space and building using Transmutation and Transformation. The Unspeakables were working in shifts in order to complete the buildings. Corvus was not sure how many would arrive. Hence, he started to plan and build, considering the future of the Nest. New wings and buildings were enough to house over one thousand people.
--
Corvus lowered the wards to give the newcomers entry. A line of witches and wizards in grey and black cloaks crossed the entry, each with a healer's case strapped tight and a wand held where it could be seen. Another group of Witches followed behind, older women and younger ones, faces set, eyes sharp. They moved like people who had agreed to something that would not be spoken aloud again.
Two hundred, give or take.
Elizaveta saw some faces she remembered from Volkov Mansion among them. She recognised a cousin, then another. A woman with her hair in a severe bun met Elizaveta's eyes, dipped her head once, and kept moving.
Krafft's group arrived next, German cadence in the voices, clipped and efficient. Voss's people came after, Norwegians with rune stones. Next came elves in numbers that made Elizaveta pause.
Elves did not travel in crowds unless someone had ordered it.
Another stream followed, this one from Britain. Behind them, a French group followed. Vinda's and Arcturus' contributions. More healers. More teachers. More hands.
The Nest took them in like a lung taking air.
Oksana's hand touched Elizaveta's elbow, guiding her a step aside as a pair of men carried a crate that hummed with contained magic.
Rookwood appeared at the far end of the hall, moving like a man who lived on borrowed time and had learned to spend it well. His robes were plain. His posture was not. He did not bow to anyone except the ones who mattered.
Corvus arrived a moment later.
The air was shifting with him, the wards tightening around his presence as if the house itself recognised its master. His gaze swept the arrivals, fast and cold, then softened when it landed on Elizaveta.
She felt it like a caress on her cheek.
Corvus crossed to them. He took Oksana's hand and kissed the back of it with the same precision he used for every ritual.
"Lady Volkova," he said. "Welcome."
Oksana's chin lifted.
"Heir Black," she replied. "You have built a place worthy of its name. I hope this Nest of yours will grow as many magicals as possible."
Corvus's mouth hinted at amusement.
"It will," he said.
Elizaveta waited. When his gaze returned to her, she did not fidget. She held herself like an intended.
His fingers brushed the back of her hand, brief and private.
"Waking up to your mother must be refreshing, Lizaveta," he said to her.
"It was," she answered, then let her eyes flick to the crowd. "It is about to be busier."
Corvus's gaze followed.
"It will."
He turned and walked straight into the flow of people, and the flow parted for him.
Rookwood fell into step at his left. Two house elves trailed behind, carrying ledgers and ink.
Corvus spoke without raising his voice. The hall quieted anyway.
"Assignments," he said. "Healers, choose ten seniors from among yourselves and send them to Dr Wilmut, please. They have infants under observation and can use your help there." A hooded figure led ten healers. "The rest settle on the east wing of the Nest. Today, we will have you trained on Muggle science and what you need to know about your tasks here."
His gaze turned to the next group. Wet nurses and caregivers were sent to the new nurseries."
"Teachers, to the West wing, please. You will be briefed and tested. You are to teach toddlers. Please settle as soon as possible, and if you need anything, call for a Nest elf."
--
Three days had passed since the arrivals, and the place still felt like a camp the moment before a siege. Footsteps in every corridor. Healers arguing about schedules. Wet nurses moving like they carried the entire future in their arms, which they did. House elves darting between cribs and kitchens, hauling everything else and keeping the place as clean as possible.
Corvus crossed the central hall and listened.
He could tell where every nursery was and which ones were having chaos by the pitch of the noises coming from.
"This place was much more organised with the mothers and house elves alone." He murmured.
Rookwood appeared at his left without a sound, robes crisp, face drawn in the way men looked when they had stopped sleeping for sport.
"The new teams are settled," Rookwood offered. A baby started to protest against the world, and a caregiver called for an elf somewhere at that exact moment. "Mostly."
"Mostly is not a word I like."
Rookwood's gaze flicked toward the far corridor, where a Russian healer was currently shouting at a German wet nurse about sterilisation charms. "They will become one machine. Give it a week."
Corvus moved past him. Rookwood led him through two doors and down the stairs into the labs.
The moment they passed, the time array shift hit like a hand on the back of his neck. One hour out, twenty in.
Rows of beds lined the wall. Infants in charmed cradles. New mother candidates asleep under stasis. Healers bent over charts with quills that wrote for them.
Corvus stopped beside a cluster of healers. Most were witches and wizards who had grown up with potions and charms, not microscopes and sterilised instruments. Their eyes now tracked lines on parchment covered in sketches of lists and notes in precise, modern language.
-
Campbell stood at the edge of their group, hands braced on a metal table, watching them work, which was like watching her own profession vanish. She was still in shock. How, within a couple of days, these archaic magicians have already learned everything she worked her whole life for and how will it affect the scientific world if such a thing could be shared with the public? Humanity will jump into technology. Ideas and the culmination of understanding could be shared and transferred.
As Corvus Black and Rookwood entered the labs, her gaze focused on them. Her relationship with them could be described as tense, and it would be an understatement. She remembered his warnings about walking on thin ice. She was not sure how to proceed now hence decided to stay quiet for a while. Because she was smart enough to understand that if knowledge can be transplanted, it can be extracted as well.
-
Corvus met her eyes.
Campbell did not look away.
Wilmut appeared at the next bench, spectacles low on his nose. He held a small vial up to the light and rotated it.
Corvus stepped closer. "How are the new additions? They are adapting well, I hope."
Wilmut's gaze stayed on the vial. "Your Magic is amazing." He set it down carefully. "In two days, they turned from stick wavers to biologists, geneticists, and medical doctors with magic on top of that."
Corvus kept his voice level. "You told me once that a living system changes when pressure is applied. You should not be surprised."
Wilmut's jaw worked. There was calculation in his gaze.
"And what are we now?" Wilmut asked, eyes lifting at last. "A stepping stone for the betterment of your race?"
Corvus' mouth softened into something close to polite. "You, Dr Wilmut, are a necessary part of this team. Some others, however," his gaze went to Campbell. "An unnecessary irritation. You keep the project honest. Wizards solve problems by thinking about magical disciplines. You solve problems by analysing the process of their formation."
Corvus turned to the healers. "Continue, ladies and gentlemen. We have much to achieve."
-
They moved faster when his attention touched them. Respect mixed with the awareness that they were witnessing history in the making.
Corvus walked the row of cradles and watched tiny chests rise and fall. Eighty five toddlers elsewhere. Two hundred more are below that age. Numbers that would have been fantasy mere months ago. Now, they were a logistical problem.
Rookwood followed behind him. "The nurseries are going well. The staff have rotations."
Corvus nodded once. "Good."
He stopped at the far end of the lab where the artificial wombs sat in their frames, glass and rune plates and modern tubing stitched together by stubborn minds.
He put his hand on one of the frames and felt the wards hum under his fingertips.
Yesterday, he had walked to the ward border of the Flamels' villa, used Flamel's ribbon, and stared up at Perenelle at the window. She had watched him like she watched everything, with that bright, unnatural awareness that made a room feel smaller. He had replicated her Psychic Magic, Diamond. A new blade in his pocket. There were no new parts of the Codex this time. He spent another seven hours in their library researching on that same branch he replicated.
He chose Prenelle's Psychic Magic over Nick's telekinesis because the latter not only has a superior form of the former as psychokinesis but also has Telepathy and strengthens his Occlumency and Legilimency.
He tested psychokinesis in detail. He was able to control dozens of objects within a hundred meters.
Corvus turned back to Wilmut and Campbell.
"Prepare more units," he ordered. The words carried through the lab without a rise in volume. "Double what you have. In a month, we will be able to scale their cores and select the strongest."
Rookwood dipped his head, already reaching for a quill.
Wilmut's eyes locked on Corvus. "And when the strongest are chosen?"
Corvus' expression did not soften. "That is where you will shine, Ian. We will start to clone them. We will harvest eggs and sperm from them and breed a stronger generation with every cycle."
The lab was too busy for silence. But the air shifted anyway.
Campbell swallowed.
Wilmut set his hands on the table, knuckles pale.
Corvus watched the glass wombs and saw the future as a schedule.
Not a dream.
Not a prayer.
A plan.
--
Corvus went to the Ministry to have a talk with Arcturus about the developments in the allied countries. Ignatia met him at the outer office, her posture as stiff as the new brass plate on the door.
A folder rested in her hands. Corvus took it, thumbed it open, then stopped at the first line.
Father Manard.
He blinked once. He was not aware that the church was bold enough to send priests to the ministry.
Ignatia watched his face, searching for the punchline. Her expression stayed perfectly neutral when it did not come. She did not get paid enough for sarcasm.
Corvus slid the folder shut. "Can you send for him, please?"
Ignatia nodded and went back to her desk.
Corvus moved past her. Arcturus' door sat at the end of the corridor.
Corvus knocked twice and entered.
Arcturus looked up from a stack of parchments and a map pinned with tiny silver markers. He held a quill in one hand and impatience in the rest of his limbs.
Corvus raised the folder. "Were you aware of a priest waiting to meet with me?"
Arcturus' gaze lingered on the wax seals, then lifted to Corvus' face. He looked tired.
"A priest," Arcturus repeated, then closed his eyes for a heartbeat. "You need a vacation, son. That is final."
Corvus gave him a flat look. "I have been away."
"Away," Arcturus agreed. "Not resting. There is a difference." He pushed another folder across the desk with two fingers, the gesture dismissive and precise. "Meet with Master Manard Sturmhart. Sigibert sent him to us. More specifically, to you."
Corvus opened the folder. A face moved in the photographs, broad shouldered, dark hair clipped short, eyes too calm for a man who had done what the notes suggested he had done.
Arcturus tapped one paragraph. "Enchanting is his speciality, mechanical structures are his favourites. Like the contraptions you brought to the chamber. He makes them behave."
Corvus' mouth twitched. "Oh," was all he could mutter. He understood Ignatia's reaction now.
A knock came. Light. Controlled.
Ignatia opened the door before either of them moved.
A man stepped in.
Tall. Broad across the shoulders. No formal robes. He stopped one step inside and inclined his head to Arcturus first, then to Corvus.
"Lord Black," the man offered. His accent carried his German roots. "Heir Black."
Arcturus leaned back, satisfied. "Welcome, Herr Sturmhart," and waved a hand at Corvus. The meaning landed clean.
Corvus met the man's gaze. No flinching. No smile. Just assessment.
"Master Manard," Corvus replied and stood up. "If you would come with me, please?"
Manard's eyes shifted, a tiny calculation, then a nod. "Lead the way, Heir Black."
Arcturus' quill scratched once, like laughter translated into bureaucracy.
They left Arcturus' office together.
In the corridor, Manard kept his hands visible, and his pace matched Corvus' without trying to lead.
"Your folder says you like to enchant moving parts and mechanical structures." Corvus began.
Manard's eyes flicked to the Ministry's ceiling wards as they passed beneath them. "True in both cases."
Corvus angled his head. "What about larger, bigger mechanical structures?"
"Why not?" answered the pseudo priest.
Corvus smiled. "Your answers are similar to the answers of priests in their sermons."
Manard let out a short breath that might have been amusement. "I have practised enough sermons to know the rhythm."
They reached the new armoury of the DMLE. After his demonstration in the Wizengamot, they started to produce the pistols in hundreds. Now every auror was carrying at least one. Hit wizards, on the other hand, were going out with a rifle, a pistol and their wands.
"These," Corvus started pointing to the rows of guns. "Are the easy part, what I need are missiles. Can you enchant them to be more 'magical,' Father Manard?"