Corvus left the Ministry from the Apparition point. The Atrium swallowed the last of the noise. A twist of will took him to Wiltshire. A second jump put him on soil that refused unauthorized Apparitions. The air hummed along a line of unseen teeth. Wards, scanned lightly. The magic walked his skin and allowed his entry. The same magic was stopping any unregistered Apparition. Far off, a village road blurred at the edges and slid from memory. Muggle repellent wards were standard for wizarding lands to make sure Magicals stays a secret.
He chose the long way in. Frost grew on ironwork like lace. The walk wayy curved through a garden that had been left to sulk. Yew hedges stood high and shaggy. Roses threw hooked canes at the path. At the east border a small lake slept under a thin sheet of ice. A heron watched him from a stump and gracefuly decided he could pass.
The manor held the hill with French bones. Three stories. Steep slate roof. Tall windows with narrow line of lead. A central door that wanted livery and a fanfare. Stone columns flanked the steps. The facade carried scrolls and garlands that time had not yet eaten. The place had presence, but what it needed was a gardener and an apology.
He walked the terrace and counted the breaks. Two cracked steps. A loose urn. Moss where it did not belong. The lake caught a band of pale sun and threw it back without warmth. That would do for now. He wanted to see how the house took a knock.
The gates answered to the runes on the deed. The wards tasted him and opened like a book. The main hall smelled of cold stone and dust. Portraits fixed their eyes on him. A few asked who he was.
"Tibby can sort this in a week," he muttered and called for the elf.
He popped into being with a hiccup of displaced air. Eyes wide. Ears at full sail. "Master calls. Tibby is coming fast as Tibby can."
He swept a hand toward the walls. "Collect every portrait and take them to the Lestrange vaults at Gringotts."
"Tibby does as Master says." The elf bobbed his head. "Portraits is noisy. Tibby make them quiet."
He crossed the hall to the west corridor. "I will be in the study."
The Lord's study held a desk that had bullied men. Behind it the panel gave to a press of the ring. The ward stone waited in its niche, old and patient. He laid his palm to it and remove the names that were not welcome anymore. They slid away one by one. The Lestranges. Rabastan. Rodolphus. A string of other names who had no right to be remembered. Each signature faded from the lattice. The stone felt lighter by degrees.
Blood next. Three drops to wake the core. Magic after, poured until the stone sang and the lesser ward stones under floors and behind walls took the note and held it. The structure settled. Strong and his.
He stood with both hands on the stone and continued. "Fidelius," he breathed on the exhale, and set the work when his magic wrapped each and every ward stone and the land they stood.
Fidelius was not a trick. It was a promise. The secret nested in the keeper's magic and lived there like a seed. Maps forgot. Paths bent. Owls drifted away unless told where to land. Memory of the place slid off minds that had not been invited. Group casting was possible if the structure allowed it, but one voice always held the key. Break the keeper and the secret wold cease to exist.
He chose himself as the keeper. The current ran from the ward stone into the smaller stones through the house and then back into him. The room thinned to a point of bright pressure and then widened. Quiet followed, a different kind of silence, like the first breath after breaking the surface of the water.
"Tibby," he called.
Nothing. Air and old stone and the faint tick of cooling pipes.
He smiled. "Good."
Corvus changed the name of the manor while he was at it as well. The Nest. He recorded the change with the ward stone. Now it was not possible to find the place. It was illegal to do this without informing the Ministry, though he was quite sure he was not the first nor the last. He also had a hunch that even if this was spotted, the Ministry would show leniency.
He walked the fireplaces and disabled and disconnected each from the Floo Network. Runes removed, closed over the grates like clear glass. No stray visitor would come through any of these. Not now, not ever.
He went back to the hall and looked up the stair. A dozen emty place where frames were already stood blank. Tibby had worked fast, good elf.
He stepped to the border line again and spoke the name. "Tibby."
The elf arrived mid word, eyes wet, chest heaving. "Master calls and Tibby is trying and trying but Master is nowhere. Tibby thinks Master is become shadow chicken again and fly away. Tibby is sorry."
Corvus let the corner of his mouth move. "The Nest is my personal manor. It sits in Wiltshire. That is all you need to know."
Tibby blinked. "Master is fire bird and shadow bird. Birds is needing nests. The Nest is good name."
He set a hand on the elf's head and rubbed it. "No one learns this place exists. Not kin. Not friends."
"Tibby knows, Tibby smart," the elf chirped, proud of the phrase. "Tibby be good elf."
"Start outside." He pointed toward the frosted garden. "Prune the roses. Cut the yew square. Clear the path to the lake. After that, air the rooms and open the flues. I want the manor clean and tidy. No squeak. No smell."
"Tibby starts now." He snapped his fingers. "Portraits first, then garden, then house. Tibby makes Nest shiny."
"Mind the lake edge," Corvus added. "If you fall in, I will not admit I know you."
"Tibby is not falling. Tibby is graceful like a swimming chicken." He blinked, pleased with himself, then vanished with a pop and a faint scent of soap.
Corvus stood a moment longer and listened to the new quiet. The wards lay smooth against his skin. The Nest listened to him and decided it could live with this master.
That was enough for today. He had a bird, a snake, and a transfigured ex Unspeakable to move. He turned on his heel and took the twist back to Grimmauld Place. The new house would wait.
--
He hated this place. Eamon Quill kept his jaw tight and his steps even while the cold climbed into his bones through the soles of his boots. Salt clung to the air. Stone sweated as the dark breathed. Dementors slid along the far side of the tier and the temperature fell another degree. His breath smoked and then vanished as if the air had eaten it.
Azkaban ran twenty Aurors on duty at any hour. One senior. The rest rookies who had not yet learned to hide what the place took away. Rotations changed on the first of each month. He had been here for twenty six days and felt older for it. The wall board in the guard room kept the roster honest. The sea and cold kept time, even when the clocks forgot to move forward.
Auror Dawlish was holding the post of the senior. The man had been the senior last month and this month, from the mutter in the mess, would be senior next month too. Someone with pull had left him here and forgat about it.
Eamon checked the tally at the start of the sweep. Cells checked one by one on the strip of vellum. Green for quiet. Amber for noise. Red for ward strain. High security threw more amber than usual. He marked the line and moved.
The corridor narrowed on the third turn. Frost was more than cold here. It lived in the mortar. The iron bars oozed it like a curse. He took another step. A scream cut the air from the left tier. Throaty, male and ful of agony. The sound peaked and broke and then went ragged.
"Stow it," Dawlish barked from up near the watch niche. Boots scuffed. A slam of palm to iron. "You want a hex or a curse. Your choice." He barked towards the cell.
Eamon did not talk. He had learned the value of quiet. The older man did not care for questions and cared less for advice.
Another scream. Words in it this time. "Fingers. My fingers. Rotting off." Rodolphus Lestrange. Cell HS nine. The tag on the door read the name without any title. The man sounded like he had discovered the meaning of pain anew.
Eamon slowed. Habit made him look. The door slot showed a shape hunched away from the light. The red bead on the jamb winked once. Ward strain. Amber tipped toward red.
He kept walking.
The next turn brought the light and the smell of old sweat and damp wool from the watch. Dawlish leaned on a jamb outside MS eleven and worked the latch back and forth with two fingers as if the metal owed him an answer. A pink cardigan hung on the peg inside the cell like a joke that had outlived the laugh.
"Up," Dawlish snapped through the hatch. "You do not lie there when the door opens to a senior."
A weak sound came back. "Senior. Of what." The voice had an edge of sugar and wheeze.
Dawlish's mouth twitched. His wand rose and drew a slow, deliberate arc. The curse that followed was neat and ugly. Just a hard knot of skin shredding curse that went in low and left the body on the floor gasping. Dolores Umbridge took a shallow breath and then another. Her hands scrabbled for purchase and found only damp stone.
"All because of you," Dawlish spat on the floor. "You are the lesson that keeps me awake."
Eamon shifted his weight. The cold had climbed into his teeth already. "Sir, prisoners of the high security ward are acting strange again." He said, and held out the slate.
Dawlish took it without looking. On tight lines he scrabbled. Pain management not necessary. No healer on tier. Prisoners are stable. He passed the slate back and moved on without a glance.
Eamon marked the time. He kept the column narrow and the letters legible. The rules did not ask his opinion nor the place did want it.
Another scream reached him from HS ward, hoarser now. "They are black. The nails are black." A scrape. A thump. A muffled curse in a language Eamon did not recognise.
"Do not fall for it," Dawlish called over his shoulder. "He is playing to the room they all are. If they can shout he can breathe. If they can breathe they can wait."
The duo reached the end of the tier and took the iron stair down. The sea threw spray against the lee wall and the sound reached them as a steady hiss. The Dementors moved closer on as it was nearly time for their 'meal'. The air thinned and went flat. Eamon forced his mind to the list in his head. Cell count. Door seals. Ward check. Cloak collar up. Keep moving. Never stop on the line where the cold lives.
Back at the guard room the pot of tea was already boiling. The roster board showed names and neat brass pins. Eamon counted them without thinking. Twenty on duty. Twenty pins. A faint itch at the edge of thought. He frowned at the line for HS three. Rookwood. The pin sat where it always sat. The ledger said present. The cell had felt empty on the last sweep and the one before it. He could not prove it. The Dementors liked the high tier for their drift. They clouded counts.
"Close the door," Dawlish told him. "You are letting the tea get cold."
Eamon shut the door and set the kettle back on the ring. He rubbed his hands. Feeling crept back in small needles. He pulled the quill and added the note about HS nine. Prisoner loud. No healer present. Senior took corrective action. Prisoner is alive and well. He stopped and looked at the words. There was nothing else to add.
The bell on the wall ticked once for the next sweep. Dawlish took his cloak and looped it with a tug. "You take the north run. I will take the south. If Lestranges or others starts to act again, let them sing."
"Understood." Eamon pulled his hood up. The quill had stained his fingers. He could not tell if they shook from the cold or the thought he tried not to have about the empty feeling of HS three.
He stepped back into the corridor. The dark breathed. The sea answered. He kept his eyes on the path and his mind on the count. The rules were simple. Walk, mark, ignore what song the stones tried to teach. If somene in high security wards hurt, it was because of what they had done to earn the height. He made himself believe that for one more pass and let the cold take the rest.
--
Corvus came back to the Nest with Tibby at his heels and a quiet cargo tucked under his cloak. The vial in his pocket vibrated once as if it felt the wards taste it and disapprove. He set his gear down in the hall. Crates of glass, a case of phials. Two lacquered boxes for potions, alchemy and enchanting sets.
He walked the length of the gallery and began to correct taste. French scrolls made way for clean lines. Pointed arches grew above doorheads where flat lintels had sulked. He set ribs into vaults and watched weight find the new path. Flying buttresses took shape where the roof needed a shoulder to lean on. Each change came with a breath of focus and the soft grit sound of stone adjusting under a wand that knew what it asked. Color drifted from warm limestone to slate and dark grey. Veins of black climbed the corners and settled like ink.
He tied the new work to the ward stone in the study and from there into the smaller stones across the house. The ley line under the hill answered like a deep string plucked once and set to ring. It would feed what he had built.
"Cells," he told Tibby, and turned for the stair.
The basement kept its own weather. Cold, dry and honest. Tibby touched the latch plate and left the corridor neat as a ledger. Corvus warded the first cell for safety. No magic nor any spellwork within. No summons, no transfiguration, no self harm by clever means. He checked the lattice twice and then reached into his cloak.
The palm sized bust in his hand had a face that was too calm for prison. He set it on the bunk and let the transfiguration fall away before pushing it in to the cell. Flesh turned where stone had been. The draw of breath came late and hard. Augustus Rookwood pushed himself to sitting and held there until his vision caught up.
"Mr Rookwood," Corvus said. "A pleasure." He stood clear of the bars and let the man find the room. "You wonder where you are and who speaks to you. Corvus Black. Lord of the Noble and Ancient House of Rosier. Heir of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black." He let it sit. "As for why you are here? I am curious by nature. That is why."
Rookwood worked his jaw and got a hand to his ribs. 'Private custody.' His eyes moved to the corners, slow and exact. 'DoM level wards in pattern but not exact replica. There were some ancient some modern runes linked perfectly. Clever.' He thought.
"The cell blocks all types of magic you would try," Corvus told him.
Rookwood's gaze stopped on the opposite cell. Corvus followed the gaze and smiled. "It will be occupied soon."
"For the moment." Corvus set a clear vial in the far corner. Smoke moved inside it like ink in cold water. The glass caught the light of an orb.
"I do believe you are acquainted with this lowly creature." Corvus said motioning to the vial.
"In case you have forgatten why you were at Azkaban," he florusihed and exaggerated as if introducing a King. "This is Lord Voldemort, Who He Must Not Be Named, You Know Who or in his real name, Tom Marvolo Riddle."
A tremor touched Rookwood's mouth. "So that is what you bottled." Interest warmed the words. "Not fully" Corvus continued. "This vedry smart and dangerous dark lord was not smart enough to consider creating multiple Horcuxes might be slightly harmfull towards your physical, mental and magical health. Hence he created six in total.
Rookwood couldn't help but shook his head. If what Black said was true The dark Lord.. He corrected himself. Riddle was an idiot of the highest order.
"This is one of those soul shards kept in his dairy he kept when he was a student at Hogwarts. His first Horcrux."
"Luckily, I do have a method to take it out and destroy it, and with it part of his magical potency. memories and large part of his sanity." He said with a smile. "Though the last part needs to be tested. As I am not sure he is sane enough now."
Corvus started to drew a chalk line on the floor and began to lay the array where Rookwood could see every stroke. Outer ring first. Then the bind circle.
Rookwood leaned a fraction. The hunger in him showed and was not ugly. "Not a DoM form. Your own?."
"I do not owe you any answers Mr. Rookwood." Corvus cut the last channel and looked up. "You were listed as brilliant once. Department does not accept anything less."
"A long time ago." Rookwood did not pretend modesty. "Why am I here, Lord Rosier."
"Because I want to ask questions when I am finished." Corvus set the diary on the center.
The wraith within the vial on the corner quivered. The thing inside had noticed the book. Murk pressed against glass and held there. A smear of a face formed and broke.
"Curious choice," Rookwood said. He let one finger trace the air as if he still held a wand. "To keep a piece where the whole can see it."
"Motivation." Corvus placed his palm over the outer line and let his magic flow through the pattern. He kept his voice low.
He start to chant under his breath. "Animus reddo invalesco." The ring woke. The chalk took light without flame. The diary shivered. A thin grey shape peeled from the leather and dragged itself free like smoke with weight. It smelled of a schoolboy's ink bottle. The shape found the pull from the vial and lunged for it.
The barrier in the channel held. The shade hit it and spread thin and wide. A face formed and tore. It tried again and found no purchase. It searched for the nearest way out.
Corvus watched the shard went to the outer ring. The pull changed direction. It noticed the absorbtions and tried to bite, to crawl out, to run away. It screched and screached until there was not even an acho of it left.
At the corner the wraith in the vial fought the glass. Fury boiled the murk. It beat itself flat against the side nearest the circle and left nothing but a stain and a hiss of hate. It could not leave the glass. It could only watch the theft and massacre.
Rookwood went still. His eyes shone with a mind at work. "Merlin." Barely breath. "He eats it." His hand tightened on his knee. "Not a banish. Not a cleanse." His mouth thinned. "Consumption."
"Accuracy looks good on you," Corvus told him. He took the last of the shade in measured pulls. Second by second. The diary slumped when it was done and lay on the plate like any old book. The array fell to sleep.
The vial on the far side became a storm in a bottle. The thing in it threw itself again at the glass until the shape broke into scrap and then knit again. Rage lived in every beat. Then hate. Then fear in a thin slice no wider than a breath. It subsided and waited. It had learned the wall.
Rookwood looked from the empty circle to the vial. The sharp glint in his eyes had weight. "I will answer whatever your questions are," he said, voice steady now. "In return, I will want to see the notes on that array."
"There is no need for you to answer anything," Corvus said. "As for the notes. It depends on the results of our tests."
Rookwood motioned to the vial. "It looks agitated."
"I wonder why," answered Corvus with a genuine expression. "What was he thinking when butchering his soul and leaving the parts all over the place." He closed the door on Rookwood's cell. "Rest. We talk after you have soup and a wash."
Rookwood's mouth curled a fraction. "You keep better cells than Azkaban."
"I keep better everything," Corvus told him.