A blur of wings cut across the narrow window of his office.
John Major set his pen down and watched the bird settle on the perch. Not an owl. A falcon, hooded, jesses neat, talons gripping like it had been trained to hold still in rooms where men lied for a living.
Rimington stood before the desk, hands clasped behind her back. McColl hovered by the window, eyes flicking between the bird and the door as if he expected a squad of Aurors to step through the plaster.
Major leaned closer and found the message tube tied to the falcon's leg with a strip of black ribbon.
"Magicals and their love for theatre," Major muttered.
Rimington's mouth twitched. "At least it is not a raven."
Major slid the tube free. The falcon did not flinch. He rolled the parchment out, the wax seal breaking without resistance.
The handwriting was sharp; he cursed inwardly for recognising Arcturus' script. It read like a ministerial order.
Major read first. Rimington it after him and scanned it in silence. McColl pulled his glasses from his pocket and leaned over the desk to read the terms.
No interference with magical locations. No contact with Magicals other than official ones. The official contacts are named clearly. Prime Minister and four advisors on the mundane side. Minister for Magic and four advisors on the magical side. Two meetings a year. Emergency meetings by mutual agreement.
Any other contact labelled illegal.
Major exhaled through his nose. "They have written a treaty as if they were a foreign state."
Rimington tapped the line with one finger. "They have written a treaty as if we are the foreign state."
McColl straightened, slid his glasses back into his pocket, and took the parchment from Rimington without asking. He walked to the side table, took a clean sheet, and began to write.
Major watched the motion of the pen. "What are you doing, Colin?"
"Clarifying," McColl answered. He kept his voice flat, the way he spoke on recordings when he wanted the men listening to stay calm. "They will not write this and expect us to pretend the rest does not exist."
Rimington moved behind him, reading over his shoulder.
McColl's first line asked about Muggleborn children. His second question asked about incidents with magical creatures, rogue witches and wizards. His third asked for an expansion of the communication matrix. More than one name. More than one hand on the latch.
Major rubbed his forehead. "Keep your tone civil, do not threaten them, please."
McColl's pen did not pause. "I am not threatening. I am asking."
He finished, rolled the parchment, and looked at the falcon.
The bird extended its leg as if it understood the ritual.
Major stared at it for a moment. "It is frightening how quickly one gets used to this."
Rimington's gaze did not leave the window. "We have had creepier briefings in this building. At least this one arrives on time."
McColl fastened the message and opened the window.
The falcon launched into the air, cleared the sill, and vanished into London's grey.
Three days later, the answer arrived with the same falcon.
Major stood again at the same desk and watched the creature tilt its head at him as if it were offended to be used for mundane diplomacy.
McColl took the letter this time. He read it once, then again, slower.
His jaw tightened.
Rimington reached out, took it from him, and read.
It was clarifying and answering the questions one by one. Necessary precautions taken. Henceforth, there will be no more Muggleborn children to mundane parents. Magic will stay where it belongs, with the Magicals.
For the rest of your concerns, Lord Grindelwald is appointed as spokesperson. He is happy to address every topic you concern over, please organise your meetings with him.
Major pushed back his chair, stood, and reached for his jacket.
"Good luck to both of you in your correspondence with a Dark Lord."
Rimington looked up. "Prime Minister."
Major paused at the door. "Do not write anything you would not want read aloud in a courtroom. Or in a war room. Or on the evening news."
McColl's pen hovered above a fresh sheet. "We are beyond news, Prime Minister."
Major left without answering.
The meeting at Stonehenge had not ended with a signature, but it ended with a lesson.
The Royal Navy received its orders within the hour.
Recall from the North Sea. Pull back from the lanes where the vanished carriers had been last seen. Avoid the air and sea corridors now claimed by the Adriatic Arctic Pact.
On paper, it looked like de escalation.
In the rooms where maps were covered in acetate and sweat, it looked like fear was being filed under procedure.
The first cabinet discussion after the recall did not include the press secretary.
Major sat at the head of the table, simply tired and thinking about how he could proceed with his agreement with the other side.
"The AAP wants the trade routes to be cleared of foreign military elements," the Foreign Secretary said, hands on a folder too thick to be honest. "Before Major could start, he interjected as if guessing his answer. "Not speeches. They want control of corridors on their end, and they warn us that they will use military force."
The Defence Secretary kept his eyes on a chart. "Accepting it means stepping on NATO's throat."
Major drummed his fingers once, then stopped. "NATO has already lost, over half of its members have already left. The number of vessels they lost is absurd. Our vessels returned. I would like to keep it that way."
Silence followed, the kind that admitted the sentence meant more than it said.
Rimington sat against the wall with a notebook. McColl stood near the window again, listening for footsteps in the corridor.
"Approach the Pact," Major ordered. "Sign what we can sign. Proceed even if the terms collide with NATO; we do need a working relationship with the Pact."
One minister swallowed. "Prime Minister, Washington will.."
Major cut the sentence with anger. "Washington will send angry cables. They will not send dragons."
The room stood for a while, ministers started with a light chuckle, it turn to an outright laughter. The agreement talks began within days.
The first documents were boring. They included fisheries and fuel transit. Airspace corridors and even search and rescue protocols were renewed.
Every time NATO clauses appeared in the margins, the British delegation struck them out and wrote a line beneath.
Ready to withdraw if required.
It was not posturing. It was a statement of limits.
In Brussels, the tone turned hard.
In Washington, the tone turned louder.
In London, the tone turned quiet.
By the first quarter of 1996, the Adriatic Arctic Pact stopped being an alliance of ostracised states.
It grew like a bruise across the map.
The United Kingdom joined publicly after the last legal argument was drafted and filed. The announcement came in the form of a joint statement and an empty smile from a Downing Street podium.
From there, the line moved east. Germany followed after weeks of parliamentary theatre that ended with votes already counted. Smaller countries trailed behind, some by agreement, some by fear of being left outside a new border that was being drawn without asking their permission.
Azerbaijan joined on a cold morning, the ceremony held with military banners and a promise of "mutual security."
Italy joined after a private visit to Rome that no journalist could explain. The Prime Minister spoke of sovereignty with a voice that sounded borrowed.
The only continental holdouts were France, Spain, and Portugal.
Not by choice.
In those capitals, mundane governments still argued on television while another government did its work in rooms without cameras.
The magical takeovers are completed in stages. It was never a coup with tanks. It was officials replaced, signatures guided, committees steered, and resistance removed without a shot.
By the time the mundane leaders understood they had lost, they were still allowed to speak in public. That was the mercy.
A month later, Portugal's joining was announced with a ceremony.
Lisbon's waterfront glittered with flags and floodlights. The crowd saw politicians. The crowd heard speeches of security and prosperity.
Those with the right eyes saw the ward lines stitched into the air, the invisible perimeter that made the event safe from anyone who thought bullets still solved politics.
A representative stepped to the microphone and read the new name.
"From this day, the name Adriatic Arctic Pact is retired. Our alliance is not a corridor. It is a bloc. It is a will. It is the Alliance."
The word landed like a stamp. The legislation began quietly.
In Rome, a bill passed with urgent language and simple promises. The terms used in it were public order, cultural safeguard and national cohesion.
In Paris, the same phrases arrived wearing different suits.
In Madrid, ministers spoke about stability while police vans waited outside the chamber.
The laws were not written with malice, as they were not born of hatred. They were written as policy.
Harsh restrictions on immigration. Expedited removals. Work permits cancelled by administrative decision. Deportations justified by minor offences.
They offered compensation packages in the fine print. Six months of the last recorded income, a one-way ticket and a deadline.
Those who took the cheque left with luggage and silence.
Those who refused were collected.
Operations happened at dawn because dawn made fewer witnesses.
Footsteps in stairwells. Doors opened under warrants that nobody could appeal. People led us out under floodlights and told it was a procedure.
In some cities, protests formed by noon. They were silenced brutally. There were no 'refugees welcome' signs with naive idiots.
A police chief who was newly assigned gave a speech on television.
"Anyone who wants to experience foreign cultures is welcome to leave. They are welcome to live what they preach. But no one is welcome to terrorise the streets of our cities for their political indigestion."
The security forces broke them before they could become stories.
The broadcasts showed crowds. The broadcasts did not show batons.
The governments spoke of restoring Europe. They spoke of cohesion and of order.
In the pubs and cafés, the arguments turned bitter. Some people called it protection. Others called it fascism. Most people called it inevitable and went back to work because the bills did not care about ideology.
By spring, the tourist districts looked cleaner. The streets looked quieter. The headlines called it a return to normal.
Rimington read one of those headlines in a brief prepared for Major and felt her jaw tighten.
Major did not comment. He had learned that words were weapons now, and the wrong word could summon consequences that did not need votes.
Outside, Europe rearranged itself.
The flags stayed, and people started to look at theirs with loyalty and love. With the feeling that it was representing their identities and traditions, not protecting criminals. The borders hardened as the old alliances cracked.
Resources were abundant, and people were secure and happy. Being part of the Alliance was protecting their heritage and culture.
Continental Europe, which has dozens of different cultures and traditions, was having the most peaceful days of its existence. New legislation gave jurisdiction to military units to secure peace not only outside of their borders but inside as well. They started to work with the police forces. Crime rates were going down very fast. Especially with the Capital Punishments were part of those legislations. Starting with Repeat offenders, Murderers, Rapists and Thieves it was becoming the new fashion. The Shell Shock of the first sentence echoed throughout the members of the Alliance. A groomer gang was executed within the week of the sentence.
Human Rigths activist protested, but their voices were drowned by the relatives of the victims' speeches. A mother's sentence silenced the sheep who were in love with the wolf.
"I am glad," said a woman who was the mother of a thirteen-year-old girl. "I am glad those animals will not harm any other innocent life."
Political, Economic, Social and Cultural structures were being remade, and every government that remained outside the Alliance watched the map and realised the same thing.
This was not a wave of policy.