Viridith was slithering slowly towards the gardens. "Sso the human cannot carry poor Viridith," he complained to the grass. "Too heavy for his delicate wrists. Poor dear." He reached the stones at the shore and lifted his head, tasting the air like a judge.
Bubbles disturbed the surface of the still lake. One, three, and a string of ten. The surface bulged. Viridith coiled tight. Poison sacks readied. The water broke around a head as large as a wardrobe. Not scales first but a crown of hard plates. Then eyes. Silver with turquoise light.
He forgot to breathe or taste the air. "Honoured one," came out of him in a submissive hiss. His head dropped until his chin touched his coils. The great head broke the surface and the enormous body started to move out of the lake. After a while Viridith felt the Basilisk's head lowering until a breath of air was separating them.
A sound like slate on stone slid through the reeds. The big serpent tasted the air and let a curl of satisfaction show in its nod. "How do you like your surprise, Viridith," the voice asked in the sacred tongue of the serpent.
Viridith managed a tremor of joy. "Master is wicked. Viridith approves, Viridith is brave but no sssuicidal. Viridith will not bite the honored one."
The vast shape eased back and shifted to a man in a dark robe. Corvus brushed lake spray from his sleeve and held out a hand.
Viridith flowed up his arm as if nothing had ever been wrong with the world. "Ooh, my king," he hissed, shameless now. "We will show the feathered rats. We will teach them respect for proper sscales."
"Try not to frighten Umbra," Corvus told him. "He has work to do."
"Viridith will guard the king's lake," the viper declared, full of office. "The garden needs a firm fang. The lake needs a hiss."
"Do not sing at night," Corvus warned. "I prefer silent neighbours, not serenades."
"Viridith will hum." A satisfied coil. "Very quietly."
"Go on then."
The viper slipped from his arm and moved towards the green grass with the kind of stealth that made birds nervous in their sleep. Corvus watched the dark for a while, then turned toward the house.
The stairs down to the holding rooms held dry air and honest cold. Tibby had left a covered tray at the first door and a neat stack of vials on a shelf with tags in a careful hand. Corvus read them without touching. Nutrient draft. Bone knit. Nerve soothers. Clean work.
Rookwood stood when he entered. The man had put on a little weight and a little colour.
"Mr Rookwood," Corvus said, as he stood at the door of the cell.
"Heir Black, some tea would flatter us both," Augustus answered, voice dry as good parchment. "Yet I'm afraid the accommodations are not suited to your title."
Corvus let that earn a faint smile. "You look better." He glanced at the tray.
"I will trust your observation." Rookwood's eyes were looking left and right, trying to find the reason this young man was back.
"Now that you are well enough for sarcasm, I would like to start my experiments," Corvus said Conjuring an armchair. "I want to Imprint knowledge and experience without the wasted time that comes with study. If it holds, I will build teams out of men who do not have twenty years to spare."
Rookwood's attention sharpened. "You intend to write on the mind as if it were wax?"
"As if it were a ledger," Corvus said. "You are a good subject. You know the structures of mind enough to allow me to test the theory on you. We will know if I succeed or not without wasting time."
Rookwood looked at the warded bars and back to his captor. "What do I get for such a service?"
"Staying alive, for once" Corvus told him. "I can return you to where I took you from very easily and not necessarily in a good shape."
Rookwood nodded, he was not surprised by the sharp answer.
I want you to lower your shields enough to let me work."
Rookwood's mouth tilted. "You ask a man to set down the only armour, only tool that kept his mind his own self through the decade in Azkaban."
"You are a free man Mr. Rookwood. You do have the right to refuse to participate." Corvus said. "Though I heard it takes a long time to build the Occlumency shields again. Especially after a trauma of aggressive Legilimency. A long time you would be useless to me." He draw the line.
"An armchair would be appreciated Heir Black." was the agreement of an answer from Rookwood. "It will ease the process to be in a relaxed sitting position."
Corvus smiled kindly and nodded. An armchair same as the one he is sitting on appeared in the cell.
"We will start with naturally occurred memory paths you can afford to lose if the worst happens. Street plans, regular lists and some other dull things."
Rookwood weighed him for a long beat. "I do hope you have a healer on call if you cook my brain. Heir Black"
"I am a good healer, you can be assured."
Rookwood sat and took a deep breath. He flexed his hands on the arms once and let them still. He locked his gaze with Corvus, "Proceed."
--
Magical Paris held its breath under a lid of winter cloud. Inside the council hall the light came cold through tall glass. Blue banners hung from the ceiling with the Confederation seal worked in gold thread. Translation charms hummed like bees.
Babajide Akingbade took the dais when the room had filled. MACUSA sat in a tight block. France and Spain kept to the front row. South and North African unions shared a bench and spoke together in low voices. The smaller conclaves that lived on ICW funds huddled near the back with their votes ready to be cast on whatever the main players points at.
Akingbade set both hands on the rail. "Wizarding Britain has taken an illogical and illegal step," he began. "They have arrested Albus Dumbledore. They have denied contact. They refuse our letters. This is nonsense and it cannot and should not stand."
A rustle moved the chamber. The French delegate lifted a neat brow. The Spaniard stared, kept his gaze on the dais.
"The options we do have are," Akingbade continued. "Pressure the block that has declared the Confederation an illegal organization. Pressure the ones who have suspended our work. Sanctions, censures, travel limits. Trade holds. ICW is the spine of the Wizarding World. We need to remind them this point thoroughly."
MACUSA's envoy leaned forward. "We can slow port entries," she said. "We can stop fundings. We can make life heavy for their trade. Yet will these steps free the Supreme Mugwump?"
The North African chair tapped two fingers on his notes. "We can close our borders on parchment. We cannot close them on the ground. They do not need us on fundamental levels."
The French reprasantative cleared her throat. "An inquiry then. A formal demand to stand witness to the trials and afterwards ask for Mr. Dumbledore to be handed over."
A clerk crossed the floor at a quick walk and placed a leather folder on the dais. Akingbade opened it. Reports lay inside.
He read the first page. His mouth went thin. "From Britain to Russia," he said. "The line is against us." He turned another page. "The conclaves we have funded with gold refuse our coin. They buy land under with their own funds."
A hand went up from the back. Reprasantative of Belarus, a small conclave. The man spoke without waiting for permission. "We began purchase months ago. We are nearly finished with their constructions as well. Ward stones set. Many quarters done. Vampires have quarters. Werewolves have ranges. Centaurs have pasture. Confederation has no jurisdiction on such purchases or settlement plans. Unless, of course you are dismissing our autonomy."
The hall broke into small pockets of talk. MACUSA's envoy wrote fast. Spain whispered to France and did not smile.
Another clerk brought a second stack. A list of ports. A map with pinpricks of light. A page of banking records that made the room go quiet.
"Central Europe is building," Akingbade read. "Eastern Europe is building. China and India are still neutral. They refuse both sides and wait. If this holds we will lose the majority vote."
"Public sentiment," someone called from the floor.
"Minister Black has made use of the Department of Mysteries," Akingbade said, eyes on the next page. "He feeds the international press with Albus' deeds and tries to reduce the trust wizardkin have in Confederation. We do look more and more untrustworthy each day."
MACUSA's envoy set down the quill. "We do not believe Britain will hand over Mr. Dumbledore willingly."
Silence answered for a long count.
Akingbade let the folder close. "The Confederation, will not stoop to use 'underhanded measures'," he said, the words flat as stone. "We will continue to monitor and try to establish diplomatic channels with Minister Black."
A murmur of assent ran along the back row where the poorer conclaves sat. Need had taught them how to nod.
Akingbade looked back to the front. "France will watch the channel. Spain will watch the south. The unions will watch the crossings. We do expect the support and vote of the conclaves in such trying times."
No one liked that line. Yet no one argued against it.
The clerk at his elbow leaned in and whispered. Akingbade nodded once and addressed the room. "One last report. Vampire covens, Werewolf packs and Centaur clans are on the move. From all over the continent towards North."
France's envoy folded her parchment. "Then we should thank them for making our nations safer."
Other's were not as shortsighted or naive. It was time to wait and see.
--
The goblin runner's steps made no more noise than a thought. The hooded figure showed a badge and did not bother with titles.
"How may Gringotts assist the Unspeakable," the runner asked without a hint of question.
"I would like to speak with the manager of the Lestrange vaults," the figure answered.
"Master Tornhook will receive you as Lestrange Vaults are under House Black." The runner turned. Doors admitted them by the logic of seals and signatures. Wards tasted the air and stepped aside.
"You have a writ Wizard?." Asked Tornhook.
The hooded figure placed a Parchment. Tornhook cracked the seal and read with his mouth in a flat line.
"Department of Mysteries requests a review of holdings," he read aloud. "Portkeys. Vault signatures. Family keys. The account is under investigation for war crimes. You want to know who can move what."
The hooded head inclined.
"There are no Lestrange vaults anymore," Tornhook continued and put the deal signed with blood quill by Rodolphus Lestrange himself. "There is nothing other than the name Lestrange for you to investigate. I suggest the DoM to contact Minister Black though it is Heir Black who would know what you are looking for. Anything else Gringotts can help you with wizard?" The dismissal was clear and could be considered polite on Goblin standards.
-
Knockturn's winter never warmed. A second hooded figure pushed through Borgin and Burkes and brought clean air with him. The bell over the door rang like a sick laugh.
"Closed," Borgin called. He did not look up from the tray of rings he was cataloguing.
"I doubt that statement Mr. Borgin," the hooded man said, and let the badge flash once.
Borgin moved the tray aside as if it had never mattered. "How may this honest shop assist the departmant of myteries?"
"Records," the man said. "For the year Tom Riddle worked here. For the months before and after as well."
Borgin tried to smile. His teeth betrayed him. "Of course."
-
In a Ministry cell block that smelled of soap and cold steel, an Unspeakable stood outside a door and waited for the healer to inform the person in the cell.
"Bellatrix Black," he said when the door opened and the healer nodded to him.
A pale face turned into the light. The cheekbones had found themselves again. The eyes were sharp and alive. "I do not like man hides their faces," she purred. "Show me yours."
"No." He extended a folded parchment towards her. "A petition to testify. You will swear to answer honestly for the time you were a Death Eater. We do want names, places and objects. Especially objects given by the so called dark lord. In return the department will support your release and guarantee no stain will be linked to your name."
She took the paper between two fingers as if it smelled. "The Dark Lord," she scoffed. It is Riddle." she said, and smiled. "If this Is a game, you are late. I've already told everything to DMLE. Including the list of items given to me. It was a cup. That is all I know."
"Describe the cup," he said.
"Gold," she breathed. "He said it was precious for a woman long killed by her own elf and I cared not."
The Unspeakable wrote two words and left.
-
A note from the Department landed on Lucius Malfoy's breakfast tray at one of the smaller Manors he has. The main house was given to Narcissa. His breakfast went cold while he read. His face did not move for a while. Afterwards he started to curse in hushed tones.
-
A carriage clock ticked in a study. Horace Slughorn sat with a blanket across his knees and stared at the fire as while reading some resarch notes.
"Professor," a voice came from the doorway, polite to a fault.
Slughorn startled, nearly jumped out of panic, though it was not possible with his weight. "Goodness, I did not hear you."
"The Department of Mysteries would appreciate your notes and memories of one Tom Marvolo Riddle," the visitor said. The badge stayed at the man's belt. "You taught him. You remember the ashes he left in your grate."
Slughorn's face went through two colours and came to rest on a third. "I have nothing that would interest your division."
"I do not think so Professor" said the figure, "I would not be here if that was the case." He set a small, empty vial on the table.