Corvus folded the signed parchment and slipped it into his mokeskin pouch. He glanced at Yelena Morozova and motioned her back a few paces. He needed the space for his demonstration.
"Tibby."
The elf popped in, ears high. "Master calls Tibby?"
"Bring the bound troll and the matured mandrake."
"Tibby brings, Master." Another pop. The room shivered. A cave troll appeared on the floor, wrapped toe to neck in a thick steel coil, mouth clamped with a circular band. A second pop set a mandrake in its box on the long table, leaves glossy and fully matured.
"The magic begins now," Corvus said, a small smirk touching his mouth. "Watch closely, Master Morozova."
He lifted the Elder Wand. "Veritas Essentia." A tight clockwise circle, then a clean upward lift. Turquoise light gathered at the tip, formed a firm orb, and crossed the space to strike the troll.
An aura bloomed. A perfect ring hung around the troll like a standing pool of air. Inside it, thousands of small runic characters drifted and turned, lines within lines forming strange patterns. Some glowed bright white. Some pulsed in slow gold. Others moved in shades from ash to deep black. The whole pattern breathed.
Corvus stepped nearer and pointed. "Here." A lively green tangle flowed like braided reeds. "Regeneration. The signature repeats in trolls, phoenixes, and certain lizards. Shape stays nearly the same." He traced a finger through the air at another field of motion with a different pattern. He pointed to a blood red pattern. "This one. Inherent strength. I have seen this in giants, ogres, and a few other magical animals known for their strength."
Yelena's eyes did not blink.
"Second step," Corvus said. "Essentia Transitoria." Two short cuts, right to left, then a shallow arc to settle. He cast first on the troll, then on the mandrake, both of the spells. Both auras rose, brightened, and slowed. The patterns stopped moving while under the Essentia Transitoria.
"In this state, their traits and skills are open to change. A simple Finite is enough to end the state they are in." He moved to the mandrake. The plant's aura was visible under both spells, standing still as if awaiting commands. The mandrake's aura circle was smaller, naturally. Corvus examined it for a while, trying to find a space to fit the regeneration pattern.
"Third step. The delicate one." He drew a breath. "Essentia Scriptura." The wand movement was a narrow down and back, as if sewing.
The mandrake's aura shimmered. The patterns were still in their paused state. Corvus held the troll's green regeneration lattice in his sight. He began to write with his wand. The tip moved in quick, exact motions, dot to hook to bar, every stroke a rune, every rune a part of a greater curve. The troll's pattern took shape within the plant's aura. Not as large as the original. A faithful, smaller twin, nested between the mandrake's own patterns.
Yelena held her breath.
Corvus waited one beat, then slipped a silver blade from his pouch and bent to the largest leaf. A clean cut. Sap beaded. He set the leaf aside. Five heartbeats. New tissue budded. A fresh leaf unfurled and grew to full size. He harvested again. And again. He worked in a steady rhythm: cut, set, watch, grow. The aura held, the green lattice humming over the plant like a quiet engine.
At the fifth harvest, the script flickered once. He adjusted his stance and checked the pattern to make sure it was standing still. The glow of it dimmed a bit. He went on.
Six. The mandrake shivered but kept pace. Seven, Eight, Nine. He lifted the tenth leaf to the table and let the knife rest.
"Finite Incantatem." He ended the transitory state on the plant first, then on the troll. The auras dimmed and folded back into the bodies. The troll strained against the steel and failed one more time. The mandrake sat as if nothing had happened.
Ten fresh, identical leaves lay in a neat line on the table. No browning, no bruises. They were fully matured, harvested at the perfect time, clean and ready for use.
Yelena stepped close. She looked from the leaves to the plant and back to him. "In essence, this is transfiguration, yes," she said, voice even. "Yet more than form. To transfigure the Essence as script. Those patterns that were made of small runic symbols..." She watched the troll's coil settle. "I assume you are already working on permanence."
A hint of a smile. "If I were, Master Morozova, I am not sure we have the closeness for me to share it."
She held his gaze, then inclined her head a fraction. "I will apply to the Conclave of Master Transfigurers. The headquarters sits in Prague. Their board will want a demonstration and your formulae under seal." Corvus took a thick set of parchments from his pouch. Yelena took them and checked the pages one by one. After a while, she nodded. " I will inform you of the result." She let her eyes pass over the ordered row of leaves. "You have solved a set of problems for both wizarding and Muggle worlds, Master Black." She put weight on the title. In her judgment, this young man had already deserved the title. "My expectations were high, yet you have surpassed them. It is an honour to be named your master in this craft, even if you did this work alone. I hope one day you choose to share this miracle with the world."
Corvus cleaned the blade with a flick and stowed it. The steel coil creaked as the troll tested it again and gave up. He checked the mandrake's crown. It was looking as healthy as the moment it matured.
"Tibby."
The elf popped in at once. "Master?"
"Return the troll to the cell and the Mandrake to the greenhouse next to the others of its kind."
"Tibby knows." The elf gathered both with a snap of his long fingers and vanished.
Yelena drew the quill she had signed with and rolled the feather between her fingers. "You know what this means. Supply chains that do not fail and are never short on rare or unique ingredients. It will mean the life and death of many witches and wizards in need."
"It means advantage, Master," Corvus said. He put the leaves under a stasis charm and tucked them in his mokeskin pouch. 'And leverage when the resources of some unfortunate countries burn overnight.' He thought to himself.
She gave a small, fierce smile. "You are a political creature, Master Black."
"I will take it as a compliment," Corvus answered.
Yelena capped her ink and slid the quill away. "I will write now." She paused. "Master Black." A slight bow. She sat back and started to write without another word.
Corvus looked at the empty air where the auras had been. He would share the results with the world in the simple form of Trade Bans.
--
Vinda set her cup on its saucer after the last sip. A double knock on the door. "Enter."
Yelena Morozova crossed the threshold with a stack of envelopes clutched to her chest. A crisp nod to Vinda. "Headmistress." Another to Arcturus. "Minister." Her gaze returned to Vinda. "I need the Floo. Wartime wards have blocked every other grate. This cannot wait."
Vinda's brow lifted a hair. "Urgent enough to sprint through my office?"
Yelena stepped to the hearth and reached for the urn of powder. "I have to register the applications of Master Black to the Conclave of Master Transfigurers at once."
Both listeners froze for a beat.
Arcturus recovered first. "Applications," under his breath. A glance at Vinda. They both knew a master could not share a method before review, and Corvus was ruthless enough not share without a contract or a vow.
Vinda cleared her throat. "Professor, where is 'my' heir?" Her tone made the words precise.
Arcturus folded his arms and watched Vinda without blinking. "Professor Morozova, where is 'MY' heir?"
Yelena's brows rose at the little cold war playing out in front of her. She pinched a measure of powder between finger and thumb. "First floor. My classroom. That is where he was when I left." She tossed the powder, called for the Ministry, and stepped into green flame.
Vinda pushed back her chair. "We are going down."
Arcturus stood with a short nod. "We are." They left together, the door closing behind them.
-
Corvus had already left the castle. The Nest welcomed him with quiet stone and cool air. He went to the cellar and rolled his sleeves. He opened the first lidded crate. The smell of rain and musk rose out. Graphorn horns gleamed in dozens. Another crate. Silver tipped feathers from the thunderbird pair settled in a lacquered case. He ran a thumb along the spine of one plume and felt the faint static kiss his skin. The next crate was full of bundled Aconite leaves. Last, a bed of dark soil parted to reveal mandrake roots he had held back for his own stores. He trimmed with the same steady rhythm he had used earlier. The room filled with the clean green scent of crushed leaf and damp earth.
There would be no shortage of rare ingredients again. Not for him. Not ever.
He stoppered jars, checked labels twice, and slid everything into a stasis cabinet. There were more than one thousand sets of ingredients for the Wolfsbane Potion. Satisfied, he crossed the hall and took the stone steps down.
The dungeons of the Nest breathed old magic. Cells lined the corridor, each wrapped in containment runes he had tuned by hand. The druids from the Department of Mysteries lay on pallets under a calm charm. One stirred. Another blinked and stared at the ceiling as if trying to remember a name.
Corvus paused at the first doorway. The array over the threshold hummed like a struck string. Loyalty was being etched into every one of them. He would keep their craft, strip their secrecy, and set the address of their service to himself.
He checked the tally on a slate hanging from a hook. Eighteen are left in stasis. The Druid council had given him much. Too much. Knowledge of the leylines under Britain and France. Ports known only to the elder line. Ritual scaffolds hidden under false floors. All of it is sorted now. All of it is his. His to distribute to these Druids. He would make them continue their traditions. He would make a few small changes to their structure. No more elders, they will work for him.
He cast a quick Tempus and returned to the entrance of the dungeons. Two minutes to close the loop.
He moved to the centre bay and drew a breath. He rolled his shoulders and let his magic stretch to the edges of the room, testing each ward, each latch. Everything was as it should be.
A slow smile found his mouth. Arcturus and Vinda would be prowling corridors by now, trying to pin him to a chair with questions. They would get their answers soon enough.
He conjured an armchair and sat. Called Tibby for a cup of tea and waited. The loop would close, bring a day's work home, and set the next one in motion.
Light flared behind a stone column. Flame travel. The fire folded tight, precise, a practised entrance. He went there and vanished.
--
Amelia set the last file on the stack and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Ink pooled at the edge of the parchment where her quill had stalled. The lamp on her desk threw a steady circle of light. Cold tea sat untouched to her right.
A clerk hovered in the doorway with a clipboard hugged to his chest. He watched her for a cue. She lifted a hand. He retreated without a word. The door clicked once and left her with the list.
Order of the Phoenix. Final interrogations complete. Names in neat lines. Over a dozen Aurors from her department alone. Many other Ministry clerks and runners were there as well. How come, she asked herself for the umpteenth time. She tapped the nib against one entry and left a small black dot beside it. Alastor Moody. This was one of the things she found unacceptable.
The quill scratched as she initialled the final page. Memory vials glinted in a padded tray. Each one labelled in a tight hand. DoM extractions. Dates, offences, and the evidence were clean. The conclusions were blunt.
Her jaw tightened another notch. A chair scraped in her mind. The interrogation room, the cuffs fixed to the table. Molly Weasley leaned forward until the restraints bit and shouted herself hoarse. Spittle struck the wood and hissed where the sterilising charm vanished it clean.
"You have become a tool for the Death Eaters," screamed the redheaded witch. "You shame your badge."
After showing her the evidence, Molly only acted more aggressively. She yanked at the cuffs and screamed, "Albus Dumbledore would never..." She cut her off with a stunner.
Amelia slid a vial across the table with two fingers. Silver light swirled against the glass. The stopper came free with a soft pop. She dipped her head to the Pensieve. Albus was standing over a map. He marked a route with blue chalk. His orders were dressed as guidance. Her brothers were walking into it with their wives at their sides because they trusted a man who smiled and talked of the greater good.
She checked each name a final time. Some would plead. Most would not. The list of charges did not change. Conspiracy with a dark wizard. Obstruction of law. A few fell under unlawful paramilitary activity. Everyone of them had heard the evidence. Every one of them chose blindness.
Her blood climbed when her thoughts touched the worst vial. Albus Dumbledore at a desk, penning a note in a neat hand that was not fit to write the names of her brothers. A casual order that pointed two households at a death trap and called it duty. She clenched her teeth until the pressure eased. She wanted to find him and keep him alive for a very long time under her wand.
She capped her ink and stacked the files again. Wax seals cooled as she gathered the folders. She took her cloak from the peg and swung it over her shoulders in one practised motion. Wand to sleeve. She palmed the tray of vials and let the cabinet lock with a click behind her.
The corridor outside ran long and straight. Boots rang once on stone. An Auror rounded a corner and nodded. He stepped aside as she walked past and did not slow. This was another one of the batch that Minister Black approved personally.
She left the lift and walked towards the Minister's office. The gate slid back. Ignatia Travers looked up from her desk. The room read the set of Amelia's mouth and became very quiet.
"Director Bones," greeted Ignatia with a nod. "You are here for the Minister, I assume."
Amelia set the tray of vials and the folders on the corner of the desk. "For the Minister, all interrogations are complete with the statements attached."
Ignatia reached for the bell. "He is in."
Amelia looked at the closed door to Arcturus Black's office and let the anger go cold. Hot anger made mistakes. Cold anger made cases. She would give him the truth, all of it, and then the decisions would be his and the Wizengamot's.
Whatever came next would not be hers to command. She was fine with that. She had done her part. Now the law would do the rest. She intended to watch every step.