Arcturus Black arrived at the ministry on an ordinary morning and expected it to stay that way. The early corridors of the Ministry were quiet, which suited work that required a steady hand. Today's list began with choosing a secretary; he would shortlist three and send them to Corvus for the final pass. That habit had crept in without fanfare. Power sat in his chair, yet the center of gravity had shifted to a young man with turquoise silver eyes.
He set his cane by the mantel and let the thought finish. Corvus had been right about Gellert. Grand strokes win headlines and lose countries. Quiet arithmetic inside the ICW was the correct way to win centuries. Take the benches one by one, place loyalists, and starve the busybodies. Norway soon will start to announce its magical settlements. Corvus explained what must be done before his arrival there. They were going to set a similar setup in Russia's underground world. Grigori will be the second after Henrick. He already carried instructions to the north. Money moved where it should.
His heir had vision; He as the minister, had reach. Titles felt smaller than the work. He wanted results.
A thick folder waited on the blotter. He broke the seal and read. Breath hitched, then stopped. He read again. Flashes were moving in his mind. A name, a healer's hand. The cruelty of two old houses, which became thralls under one bastard's control. They did not stopped there, next was Curly hair, bright eyes that never sat quite straight. Bellatrix Black, not Lestrange. Not if he had a say.
He shut the folder and crossed to the DMLE. Clerks stepped aside with brisk greetings; aurors straightened; none of it slowed him. He paused once in the corridor and called an elf.
"Kreacher."
The old elf arrived with a pop, spine bent, eyes keen. "Master calls."
"Bring Corvus without delay."
Kreacher vanished before the last word finished. Arcturus knocked once and entered on Amelia's reply. He set the folder on her desk and rested one palm on the cover as if it were a live wardstone.
At Hogwarts, Corvus lingered over a late breakfast beside Flitwick's empty seat. With strong coffee in his right hand, pancakes steaming on the plate, the Invigoration Draught still pushed the night out of his bones. Extreme Speed hummed in the muscles. He would sleep when the work allowed it.
A soft pop sounded at his elbow. Kreacher bowed. "Old Master needs you. No delay."
Corvus dabbed his mouth with a napkin and rose in the same motion. "Let us not keep him waiting." His hand opened to the elf, and magic took them both in a clean pull.
They arrived outside Amelia Bones's office. Arcturus stood with his palm on the folder. He looked up when the air settled. There was no greeting, only a brief nod that put them all in their places.
"Come in," Amelia called, voice level and clipped.
Corvus pushed the door, crossed the threshold, and took the chair opposite. He glanced at his grandfather. The old wolf's gaze was cold and sharp. His hand on a folder. Whatever lay under that cover would move the day and likely the month.
--
Silence settled after the last page of the healer's report. Arcturus read the line again, jaw tight. Corvus closed the folder and tapped once on the leather.
"Tibby," he called. The elf popped in. "Bring Bellatrix' original marriage contract."
The parchment arrived a breath later. Corvus smoothed it on the desk, eyes moving through clauses he already knew. "There is no clean angle for you to nullify it, Grandfather. It binds Bella to House Lestrange and gives the husband absolute claim. We will not win that on wording." He looked up. "So all we need to do is encourage Rodolphus to cancel the contract and release her. I will talk to it.. him, I will talk to him."
Arcturus held the gaze, then nodded once. He faced Amelia. "Director Bones. As Minister, I authorise Heir Black to negotiate with Rodolphus Lestrange on behalf of House Black. Prepare whatever permit is required. My granddaughter suffers with every hour this contract remains."
Amelia's quill paused above the blotter. She measured the young man across the desk, then the old one beside him. "Negotiation," she repeated, voice even. In her mind the word translated itself to something with screams, a lot of them. She opened a drawer and took out the correct form. All she could do was to provide an Auror for the 'safety' of Heir Black.
Arcturus spoke before she could add a rider. "The meeting shall be private. This is a matter between Houses Black and Lestrange. The Ministry will not interfere."
Amelia's breath left on a quiet sigh. The most direct safeguard died in the air between them. She filled the lines anyway, with a precise hand and no crossings out. Stamp, date, signature.
Arcturus rose. "I will leave you to your duties, Director." He reached the door, hand on the knob, then looked back at Corvus. "I expect good news, Heir Black."
A mild smile curved in reply. "I will make the point plain and make sure the other party gets it thoroughly, Minister."
When the door closed, Amelia turned the permit once more in her fingers. She stood and crossed the office, passing it over without flourish. "You will not deliver me a dead prisoner in Azkaban. Keep your negotiation under control."
Corvus slipped the parchment into his inner pocket. "You have my word there will be no corpse." His tone stayed courteous; the eyes did not blink. "I am very good at healing magic."
The words hung in the room with their exact weight. Amelia's mouth tightened. She was not blind to what men like Rodolphus had done, nor to what he would do again if given a wand and a hallway. She also wore the badge on her lapel and meant it. "If Lestrange withdraws consent of his own quill and voice, the contract ends. That, and only that, will satisfy the record."
Corvus inclined his head. "Then I will arrange for clear consent."
"Do it by the book," she answered. "And remember that the book is on my desk."
He turned to go. Tibby appeared with a soft pop, already holding a small set of healing potions. Corvus took them without comment.
On the threshold he inclined his head slightly. "Director."
Amelia looked up and nodded back.
--
Gawain Robards lived by clean files and quiet facts. The desk in front of him held both. Reports stacked by date. Names underlined in neat ink. A single heading written once and circled twice: Potter, Harry James.
The first hole opened at the Department of Magical Child Welfare. No record of custody. No petition for guardianship. No sight of a magical adoption. The boy's parents died on the first of November. The department logged sympathy notes and nothing else. Robards capped his quill and wrote the first conclusion in a measured hand. The child vanished on the night of the attack.
Two Legilimens from the internal registry took oaths in his office. Each vow bound them to silence and to restraint. Disguises were prepared. A routine muggle welfare check was filed with the local authority. The pair crossed the threshold of number four and walked the rooms behind smiles and clipboards. Memory strands told the rest. Fear soaked into wallpaper. Petty cruelties knotted through the years. A boy in a cupboard where a bedroom should have been. Cold meals. Locked doors. Chores that outstripped a child's bones.
Arabella Figg surfaced next. Floo logs showed an active connection to her sitting room. The Legilimens visited her too. Old photographs of cats on every shelf. A kettle that never quite boiled. The wand stayed holstered. A soft question here. A gentler one there. The mind lay open enough with only a touch. Monthly notes to a single name. Dumbledore. The pattern settled like silt in a glass. Observations of rags and bruises. Nothing remedied. Everything filed away.
Neighbors added edges to the picture. A teacher at the muggle school described a boy who arrived without knowing his name. He was small and underfed. The nurse's ledger held weights that did not change and eyesight that no one corrected. A constable's log listed two complaints, both closed the same day. Robards pinned each scrap to the grid he kept in his head. Lines crossed. The center did not move.
Team of ward breakers stepped to the pavement on Privet Drive at dusk. No wands drawn. No sparks to alarm the street. Robards watched the lead witch kneel and touch the brick. Ancient work bound to blood. The reading crystal flared and dimmed. The senior ward breaker folded her hands and spoke in a voice meant for a church. Shelter against a named enemy. Perfect for a siege. Useless for a house that needed a childhood. The cupboard's wood carried residue of binding charms. The latch still remembered a lock.
Back at his desk he opened a thin folder marked Figg. A single page clipped to the front dated each month for over ten years. Every line routed to the same office. The name at the top did not surprise him. The title below it did.
Pieces became a picture. A placement arranged outside the law. A watcher assigned. A silence purchased through reputation rather than writ, right or will. Robards straightened the stack with two fingers and let the assessment settle. The suspect had weight. The suspect began to look like someone Wizarding Britain knows well.
One question remained where the ink turned to numbers. Who held the vault key. Who drew from the vault after deaths of the parents. Why was there no will. Answers lived under Gringotts stone.
Director Bones signed the access order without commentary. The goblin at the first rail read it once and carried it away. Robards waited where guests wait. He did not shift his weight. He counted his breaths. A new goblin arrived with a wooden case, a ledger, and a sheet of stamped parchment.
The case held a cast of the Potter key's teeth. Ownership marks threaded the metal. The ledger carried entries written in runic shorthand. Withdrawals recorded in the months after the deaths. Each line signed by proxy. The stamped sheet noted a will placed in the archive and sealed for review. A single instruction rested in the margin. Placement of the child is at the discretion of the Chief Warlock.
Robards turned a page and let silence do the thinking. A proxy requires a grant of agency. A grant requires a paper trail. The trail pointed in one direction and never bent. He lifted his gaze to the goblin and gave a small nod of thanks. Courtesy was currency here. The clerk inclined his head in return and closed the case with deliberate care.
Back in the Ministry he wrote the narrative without flourish. The quill moved and the facts took their shapes. No record in Child Welfare. Placement carried out without legal process. Monitoring assigned to a squib through private arrangement. Evidence of neglect and abuse at the address. Blood wards installed to justify a decision never tested by experts. Vault activity conducted by proxy. A will sealed rather than read.
A last note at the foot of the page completed the circle. The nation cheered the fall of a monster on a bright morning. Fireworks in alleyways. Toasts in drawing rooms. Owls thick as snow across the counties. Far from the noise, on a neat street with clean hedges and painted doors, a baby cried in a cot he did not own. The night was cold. The month was November. The blanket did not fit.
Robards laid the quill beside the file and closed the cover with his palm. One more step waited under the bank's ceiling. The signatures that had turned keys would have names. The names would answer to law.