Nine months in the outer world was a blink in the Nest.
Corvus stood at the rail that marked the edge of the largest time array in the Nest. Cold air drifted out of the shimmer, then snapped back as the wards corrected themselves. The array hummed, steady as a heartbeat. The numbers never lied, even when everything else did.
Rookwood waited a step behind him with a slate in hand and a quill that kept writing. Oksana Volkova stood on Corvus's other side, arms folded, expression flat. Her hair was pinned tight. Her patience was not.
A bell chimed once.
The shimmer thinned.
The first of them stepped out.
Fifteen years in their bones. Fifteen years of lessons and drills and measured meals. Fifteen years of growing while the world outside kept turning at a crawl. Their eyes adjusted to the light in a heartbeat. They did not blink like startled children. They were trained for this day. This measurement day was taught to them as one of the most important events of their lives. This day will show if they were truly orphans or if they were distant relatives of one of the Houses. Their faces excited, their smiles genuine, they moved as their teachers ordered them to.
The decision of training them with military discipline or all the love and affection the caregivers and teachers can give was not a hard decision for Corvus.
Yes, he wanted them to be soldiers, but before that, he wanted them to be the next generation of Magicals all over the world. The teachers were trained personally by him so they could use his method of transferring information to their minds in addition to their daily schooling. He wanted them to have a happy childhood in a controlled environment. They learned the difference between Muggles and Magicals early. Any idiotic thought process of living together in peace was taken out by the roots from their minds. These children were tank bred sharks. Sharks with happy childhoods.
A healer in a grey apron touched two fingers to the boy's wrist and watched a small brass disk in her palm turn from dull to bright. These disks, which were worn by the staff, were the perfect measuring device to find the ones with strong magical cores. The disk flashed once and settled.
"Next."
Another stepped out, then another. Boys and girls. Different faces, different bloodlines from different countries, different temperaments, the same steady posture. Some of them glanced at Corvus as if he were a statue that had always been there. Others looked away too quickly.
Corvus kept his hands behind his back.
Oksana leaned closer, voice low. "These are our first batch. The first children who were bred in the Nest. Tell me, Heir Black, how do you feel?"
Corvus nodded once. He already knew. Looking at all those eyes full of life, was looking to a future half written.
"It is the first step towards a brilliant future, Lady Volkova."
Rookwood angled the slate so Corvus could see the columns.
"Seventy three measured. Eight with extreme cores. Three with volatile discharge. two with shallow cores, barely able to cast any spell."
A third attendant approached a boy whose brass disk had flared bright enough to sting the eyes. The boy stood still. His jaw tightened once.
Oksana watched him. "That one."
Corvus followed her gaze.
The boy looked back at Corvus without fear. Not bravado either. Just focus.
"Tag him," Corvus murmured.
The attendant clipped a plain band around the boy's wrist. Rookwood already brought his file. A boy born to two magicals. Mother from Norway, father from Russia. Both Purebloods.
"Prepare him for harvest," Corvus said to the healer.
Rookwood's quill scratched.
Selection did not require cruelty. It required indifference.
Beyond the rail, nursery doors opened and closed as caregivers moved in a quiet tide.
Corvus's gaze slid to the far end of the hall, where two doors stood under heavier wards than the rest. One was for staff. The other for Harvesting.
He did not look at the second door for long.
He turned back to the line.
He congratulated the scientists and staff, and ordered the kids to have a free day as well.
That evening, the Black Mansion was crowded in a way Grimmauld Place had not been in a very long time.
The long drawing room held a half circle of chairs. Arcturus sat in the centre like he owned the air. Vinda Rosier took the chair to his right and looked bored on principle. Sigibert lounged to the left, eyes bright with mischief that never helped anyone. The man changed since his rejuvenation. Corvus was suspicious of the new method affecting mind more than he calculated, though other than Sigibert, no one had shown the same symptoms. Grigori was standing next to him, both of them laughing and in good mood.
Corvus stood by the window with Elizaveta next to him. She kept her hands folded. Her posture was correct. Her eyes kept moving.
A parchment lay on Arcturus's knee. He broke the seal with a thumbnail and glanced over the script.
"Distant cousins," he said, as if testing the phrase for weight. "The old lie with new paper."
Vinda's gaze flicked toward the door at the far end of the room. Behind it were a dozen teenagers under an elf's watchful eye. They stood in a line that was too perfect.
Corvus kept his voice level. "Their memories are arranged, and they are introduced as distant cousins. Do not spoil what is already working, grandfather."
Arcturus hummed once. He turned his head. "Bring them."
Corvus used his psychokinesis to open the door.
The girls stepped forward. They curtsied in perfect etiquette.
"Cassiopeia."
"Vega."
"Lyra."
"Maia."
"Electra."
"Alcyone."
The boys entered next and bowed, one after another.
"Orion."
"Altair."
"Rigel."
"Deneb."
"Castor."
"Pollux."
They said their names and waited.
Arcturus started to murmur to himself to show his displeasure at not hearing his name from any of the boys.
Corvus leaned in and whispered. "I was thinking you would like to have your name given to my firstborn Grandfather. If you would rather have it live with one of our new members, please feel free. You are the head of House Black after all."
The old man stopped his murmuring immediately.
These boys and girls have all been born from the eggs of Narcissa and Bellatrix. The other half of their genetic makeup came from the harvested sperm of the strongest purebloods from the Nest.
They were told that they had been found in various orphanages around the world and rescued from there. Once their bloodlines were found, House Black had taken them in.
His gaze moved over them with a critic's calm. He did not smile. Pride was a private thing.
They were all Metamorphmaguses, and these were not the only ones born from the eggs of the Black sisters. There were weak and even Squibs born from this batch as well. They were not present here or anywhere else. It was cruel, yes, and Corvus hated every moment of the procedure.
He exhaled tiredly, 'survival of the fittest,' he thought.
He turned to Cassiopeia, "Come close, ladies and gentleman and show us your talent, please."
Her hair shifted from dark to silver in a smooth ripple. Orion's eyes changed shade like a lens turning. Maia's cheekbones sharpened, then softened again. No strain, no panic. They made it look normal.
Elizaveta's breath caught. She recovered quickly.
Arcturus stood up. He could not sit while seeing his house getting resurrected. A short time ago, he was waiting for death; Now he was looking at young witches and wizards with his house's signature trait. He turned and hugged Corvus with all his might. Afterwards, he went to the young ones. He welcomed them one by one. Kissing the backs of the girl's hands and shaking hands with the boys. He led them to their new rooms while also shouting back, "Corvus, I'm taking yours and Sirius' wings."
Corvus was about to say something when Elizaveta linked her arm to his. He wisely shut his mouth.
Vinda's voice cut in, dry while she was also breaking the seal of a parchment. "Rosier has its own traditions in many things, but not in naming our kin. We do not need to pretend we are all poets."
Six boys stepped forward with a different kind of polish as she finished speaking.
"Adrien."
"Lucien."
"Étienne."
"Gaspard."
"Thibault."
"Sébastien."
Then the girls.
"Céleste."
"Geneviève."
"Odette."
"Isabeau."
"Madeleine."
"Solène."
They greeted Vinda with proper restraint. The kind of respect that came from being trained by people who had once been punished for less.
Vinda's eyes softened by a fraction. It was the closest she came to warmth in public. These were her own children. Born from her own eggs and Gellert's sperm.
Over nine months ago, Corvus took her to one of the nurseries to show her a batch of children born of the eggs extracted from her own body. These were the children of two very powerful magicals.
This time, it was Narcissa and Bellatrix's wings which were taken over. So Sirius, the ladies and Corvus all went to the empty wing to settle.
--
As the joyful atmosphere continued, the old guard and the rest of the Blacks sat at the dining table. It had to be extended to fit all the new inhabitants of the Black Mansion.
After the dinner, Arcturus cleared his throat. "We have new houses," he announced.
Grigori's grin returned. "You are building a kennel of wolves, Arcturus. Admit it."
Arcturus ignored him. "The old lines are shrinking. The new ones will fill the gaps."
He tapped the first page.
"House Primus. British charter. Seat in London."
Second.
"House Nocturus. German charter. Seat in Dresden."
Third.
"House Boreus. Norwegian charter. Seat in Trondheim."
Fourth.
"House Vespera. French charter. Seat relocated to Lyon once France stops bleeding."
Sigibert gave a short laugh. "Primus. Nocturus. Boreus. Vespera. Sounds like a Latin textbook with teeth."
Arcturus's mouth curled, almost a smile. "Good. People fear Latin. It reminds them of old authority."
Elizaveta leaned closer to Corvus, lips near his ear. "You are breeding titles now."
Corvus kept his eyes on the room. "I am breeding stability."
Her fingers brushed his sleeve once, then withdrew.
--
Across the Channel, in a building that smelled of stale carpet and nervous sweat, Akingbade sat at a polished table with Muggle ministers who did not understand what they were looking at.
He wore his patience like a cloak. It did not hide the edges.
A senior official from a European interior ministry slid a folder across the table. Photographs. Satellite images. A map marked with circles.
"We had locations," the official pressed. "Entrances, alleys, a market. We were told it was there. Our teams were ready."
Akingbade's fingers rested on the folder without opening it.
The official's jaw worked. "You have lied to us, Wizard."
Akingbade's gaze lifted. His smile showed no teeth. "Then you were lied to. Or you were too late."
Someone else spoke, voice tight. "Our surveillance teams are missing."
Akingbade did not move. "Then you were careless."
The room shifted. Chairs creaked. A man in uniform swallowed hard.
Akingbade's wand stayed in his sleeve. He was ready to raise it. This was not what he had planned. None of this was to happen. The rebels were to be afraid after the Muggles raided the known magical locations. They were to crawl back to ICW. Not this. These Muggles dare to question him for their blindness and failure.
"Your governments benefited from our restraint," he said. "Do not mistake ICW's restraint for weakness."
The meeting ended on a sour note; Muggles left with their pride wounded.
That night, their pride was the smallest thing they lost.
It started with a coldness that had nothing to do with the weather.
A deputy minister woke in his bed and sat up because his lungs forgot how to pull air properly. His wife reached for him, hands shaking. Her fingers met skin that felt wrong, too dry, too still.
Across the city, an adviser to a so called special monitoring department dropped his tea cup in his kitchen. The porcelain shattered. He stared at the shards without blinking. His eyes were open. Nothing was behind them.
In a secured office, a man who had signed the order for the raids tried to speak. His mouth moved. Only a wet rasp came out. He slid from his chair to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut.
By morning, hospital corridors filled with bodies that breathed and did not live.
Doctors asked questions that had no answers. Police sealed rooms that had frosted windows. Intelligence units called numbers that rang forever.
In one building, a senior officer found his entire surveillance wall blank. Not damaged. Blank. Like the feeds had never existed.
He vomited into a bin and wiped his mouth with a shaking hand.
At the edge of his vision, a shadow moved.
He turned.
Nothing was there.
His knees gave out anyway.
Two days later, cameras gathered outside the United Nations headquarters in New York.
Press badges flashed. Microphones shoved forward. A hundred questions screamed into the air.
Inside, the security was heavier than usual. Doors that were normally open closed with a finality that made even seasoned diplomats hesitate.
A sign went up on the corridor outside the chamber.
CLOSED SESSION.
A woman in a navy suit tried to argue with a guard. The guard did not budge.
In the chamber, the seats filled. Some delegates looked angry. Some looked pale. A few looked like they had not slept since the first reports came in.
A man from a European delegation unfolded a paper with hands that would not stop shaking. He tried to smooth it on the desk. The paper tore.
The Secretary General's gavel rested on the dais.
The room quieted, not because anyone felt calm, but because the sound of breathing had become too loud.
The gavel came down.
The emergency meeting began.