Vinda unfolded the small parchment and let the silence stretch long enough for the hall to lean forward.
"Altair Black."
A wave of sound rose from Slytherin, then caught fire across Durmstrang, then rolled through Ravenclaw. Even Hufflepuff joined in, mostly because cheering was safer than staring. Gryffindor clapped in pockets, loud in the places where school pride won over house.
Altair stood from the Slytherin table. Third year by roster, sixth year by curriculum, and built like a boy who had skipped the awkward parts of puberty on purpose. His face was neat, almost pretty in the Black way, then his eyes ruined the neatness in a way that made the room look twice.
One silver and one purple eye locked on the Headmistress of Hogwarts.
Vinda kept her expression smooth. Heterochromia meant nothing with metamorphmaguses, and the Nestborn Blacks wore that talent like it was a uniform. From the purple colour, Vinda could discern that the egg was one of Bella's; the only one who knew where each child's parental part came from was Corvus, and he treated those details as private as his set of skills.
Altair crossed the hall, boots quiet, posture correct. He stopped at the dais, bowed to Madame Maxime, then to Karkaroff, then to Vinda. The boy kept his chin at the proper angle, not too low to grovel, not too high to invite correction.
Vinda held his gaze for a beat. "Stand at my right."
Altair shifted half a step and took his place. The applause still rolled.
Vinda raised her hand. The sound died immediately.
A few first years flinched at the sudden quiet. A Beauxbatons second-year swallowed too loudly and looked offended by his own throat.
Madame Maxime took a step forward, long arms folding with the calm of a woman who could lift a carriage.
"Champions," she began, French accent crisp and musical, "you were selected because you possess a combination that cannot be taught. Talent, yes, discipline, absolutely. But adaptability is above all. This tournament will not reward the loudest wand or the most dramatic curse. It will reward the mind that stays sharp when every plan collapses." Her gaze travelled over the student body. "It is also an old bridge between schools. Rivalry is a spice. You will compete, and you will represent your institutions with grace. Anyone who forgets grace will meet the opinions of the judges, personally."
Karkaroff joined her, a man who enjoyed being seen as severe. His eyes settled on Krum for a fraction of a moment, then moved away.
"Durmstrang did not sail here to be entertained," Karkaroff stated. His voice carried across the hall without needing amplification. "We came to measure our best against others. A tournament is a measure where champions will compete. It reveals the clever, the stubborn, and the foolish. It reveals who panics, who adapts, and who wastes breath." His gaze moved to the cup on the table in front of the dais, then back to the students. "Do not mistake the lack of bloodshed for lack of consequence. A champion's failure stains a school. A champion's success elevates it."
A Ravenclaw snorted quietly and earned an elbow from the student beside him.
Vinda stepped forward, robes severe, posture precise. The room cooled a fraction without magic.
"This tournament will be watched," she said. "Not only by your teachers. Not only by your peers. It will be watched by officials, dignitaries, families, and those who prefer to judge from a distance." Her eyes flicked across the hall, stopping on the seats where Ministry guests sat and pretending not to see the reporters. "This is why the tasks have been selected with logic instead of theatre. You will be tested, but you will not be thrown into a meat grinder for the sake of tradition."
A few Durmstrang students looked mildly disappointed. Fleur looked relieved and then annoyed at herself for it.
Vinda turned her head slightly and addressed the champions without softening her voice.
"You will be given clear rules. You will be observed and scored." Her eyes shifted to the crowd. "The first task will take place on the twenty-fourth of November, two hours after noon. The arena will be announced a week prior. Champions will be sequestered the night before. You will be allowed your robes, wands, minds and nothing else."
Altair kept his face calm, but his purple eye brightened by a fraction.
Vinda let the quiet sit again, then motioned for the champions to return to their tables. The hall breathed out. Conversation erupted like it had been waiting under the floorboards.
Altair bowed again, then walked back with the same calm pace. A few younger Slytherins leaned toward him as if proximity would improve their standing. He ignored them with polite cruelty.
Vinda sat. She waited until the noise settled enough to be useful, then leaned toward Maxime and Karkaroff.
"After the meal," Vinda murmured.
Maxime's mouth curved. "Naturally."
Karkaroff gave a single curt nod.
The next morning, the three heads met in Vinda's office. A Bastion Guard stood outside the door, still as a statue. Vinda's table held parchment, ink, and a stack of preliminary security reports. Her mind went to the very first meeting, before the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. It was held in the Ministry.
-
"Task one," she said.
Karkaroff tapped the parchment with a finger. "A duel."
Maxime exhaled through her nose. "A duel is not a task. You can not solve everything with duels."
Karkaroff's eyes narrowed; he was getting ready to give hundreds of examples drawn from wizarding history.
Vinda lifted a hand. "We can posture later. We need tasks that test more than violence and do not leave students in the care of healers for a month. We also need tasks that the crowd can enjoy and understand without a lecture." She looked at the parchment again. "First task can be a controlled gauntlet."
Maxime leaned forward, interest sharpening. "Explain, please."
Vinda spoke with the tone of someone reading out a sentence.
"A warded arena with three lanes. The champions run the same lane sequence. Obstacles are magical, reactive, and scored on three factors. Speed, precision, and judgement. The obstacles will include curse and hex-triggered gates, transfiguration puzzles, and a restraint segment where brute force causes a penalty." She looked at Karkaroff. "You can stop pouting. There is still a combat segment where three lanes cross over. Champions can attack each other on that exact spot to prevent others from continuing."
Karkaroff's mouth twitched. "Good."
"The crowd will see everything," Vinda continued. "We can use hovering mirrors and projection charms. The judges will be sitting above the platform."
Maxime nodded slowly. "That is… reasonable."
Karkaroff grunted. "Task two."
Maxime slid a parchment forward. "Team integration."
Vinda's eyes narrowed. "A team task in a champion tournament."
"Oui," Maxime replied. "Because the world does not care about a single prodigy if the prodigy cannot work with others. Each champion will be assigned a pair of volunteers from their school, selected randomly from those who submit their names. Volunteers will not be thrown into danger. The champion will be evaluated on leadership, decision-making and restraint."
Karkaroff looked offended. "Randomly?"
"If you want to hand-pick the strongest students and call it fairness, bring select few," Maxime replied.
Vinda's gaze flicked to Karkaroff as if to say, see.
Karkaroff's expression remained stony. "Task three."
Vinda offered the third task to be shaped and decided by all three of them before sending the tasks to the Ministries for approval. After some more meetings, they decided.
Vinda motioned Karkaroff to read the details of what they worked on for the third task. "Public demonstration and mastery. It should be a stage task. They will be given a problem and limited tools. The problem will be the same for all three champions. The judges score creativity, control, and efficiency."
Maxime's smile returned. "A charms showcase." Her voice softened into pleased certainty. "Beauxbatons will enjoy that."
"It will not be only charms," Vinda replied. "It will be a mixed discipline challenge. Transfiguration, charms, warding, and one segment that tests raw magical potency without allowing collateral damage." She looked at Karkaroff. "Potency without stupidity."
Maxime let out a low laugh and settled back. "Dates?"
Vinda tapped the parchment. "First task on twenty fourth of November. Second task on the tenth of January. Third task on the twenty-first of February. The duelling tournament and potion competition run alongside. Quidditch runs as a separate bracket."
Karkaroff gave a small nod. "Acceptable."
Maxime and Vinda nodded. Some smaller details would be decided on the go now that the main frames were ready.
--
Far across the Atlantic, Eleanor Whitcomb stared at a stack of reports and wondered when her country had started to drift without asking permission.
MACUSA had not been conquered. Not on paper. Not on the floor of Congress. Yet every week more of her people spoke as if merging with Mater Magica Aeterna was inevitable and beneficial, even righteous.
It started with a few voices. Then the voices became department heads. Then conclave leaders.
Whitcomb's office at the top of the Woolworth Building had always felt solid. Now it felt like a room on a ship that somebody else was steering.
She stood at the window and looked down at the city. New York moved like it always did, ignorant and loud. Somewhere below, witches and wizards lived in this new order where Magicals were getting the respect they deserved.
A knock came.
Her secretary entered with a folder, then withdrew without speaking. The folder carried a familiar seal. Magical Law Enforcement.
Whitcomb opened it.
Inside were three letters. All three were written by different hands. All three were pushing the same idea.
Alignment and Integration and merging with MMA. A path toward joining the larger order. The language was polite. The pressure was not.
Whitcomb set the papers down and leaned back while closing her eyes.
She had halted the process, for now. She had delayed votes. She had pushed committees into review loops. She had smiled in public and threatened in private.
It was not enough, not because she lacked authority. Because something was changing inside the very bones of her government and in the confederation MACUSA at large.
Whitcomb knew coercion when she saw it.
A second knock came. One of her advisers entered, face careful.
Whitcomb kept her voice level. "How many today?"
The adviser swallowed. "Two more conclave leaders declared their support, and they did it publicly."
Whitcomb let that sit.
"At what cost?" she murmured.
"The cost for now is time, President." The adviser admitted. " And when the time runs out, they will replace you with someone who listens."
-
In the central branch of the Nest, Elizaveta Volkova walked through the corridors.
The place had grown. It always grew; even a week was enough to see changes in the structure.
Every time she returned, another hall existed, another training room, another workshop where alchemists argued with engineers.
Elizaveta left the frigate at Azkaban with a team of guards and returned alone. Father Manard had requested her presence with the polite insistence that meant he had found something he wanted to implement on the frigate.
She reached the central wing and slowed.
Corvus was not here.
That was not unusual. It was merely annoying.
Uncle Arcturus did not know where he was. Narcissa and Bellatrix did not know. Aunt Vinda was no different.
Elizaveta exhaled, then composed her face.
Kreacher appeared beside her with a soft pop and a cup of tea already in hand.
Steam rose in a neat line.
"Good mistress looking for Master Corvus?" Kreacher rasped. His voice always sounded like it had crawled through dust and survived out of spite.
Elizaveta accepted the cup and let the warmth hit her fingers. "I am," she admitted.
Kreacher's head shook. "Kreacher not knowing. Kreacher only cleaning. Kreacher only serving." He stared at the floor for a moment, then his head snapped up. "TIBBY!"
The shout echoed down the corridor.
A second pop.
Tibby appeared with the enthusiasm of a creature who believed physics was optional.
"Oh, old Kreacher calls Tibby, old Kreacher have more Muggles to feed snakey?" Tibby asked, then spotted Elizaveta and began to bounce. "Mistress Wolfy is back. Mistress Wolfy is back."
Elizaveta blinked and decided to ignore the first part; it was healthier for her sanity. She fought the smile and failed.
Tibby spun in place and performed a strange little dance that involved elbows and feet and a proud chest. It was not quite a bow. It was not quite a victory celebration. It was something in between.
"Tibby," Elizaveta began carefully, "do you know where Corvus is?"
Tibby nodded so hard his ears flopped. "Yes, Mistress Wolfy. Tibby knows."
He continued his dance.
Elizaveta waited.
Tibby added a new movement. Thumbs hooked under his armpits. He flapped his elbows and strutted like a chicken with opinions.
Elizaveta kept her voice calm. "And will you tell me where he is?"
"Oh," Tibby declared with delight, "Master became the supreme flying spaghetti chicken hedgehog and fishing now."
Kreacher stared at Tibby with the look of an elf who had seen insanity for centuries and nodded, filing Tibby in the list of beings with Black Madness.
Elizaveta blinked once.
Then twice.
"Thank you, Tibby."
Elizaveta took a slow sip of tea and decided it was wiser to wait for Corvus than question his clearly mad elf.