The hub emptied in stages. Krafft and Volkov filed through the lift with their elites. Vinda and Arcturus went last. Their footsteps faded.
Corvus knelt on the stone and drew his favourite array.
He set two rings, tight and clean. Main array to sacrifice. Inner lines to channel. Runes for taking and giving. Memory to one path, magic to another, life to the well in the centre. He breathed once, steady, and began the chant.
The first Dark Druid lay quiet inside the circle. The runes lit in a slow climb. Red lifted from the skin like thin smoke and pulled down into the well. Green and blue slipped across the grooves and along the narrow channel to Corvus' palm. The body started to shrink as its life was being sucked by the array. The mouth of the druid opened on a silent, painful scream. When the lines went dark, there was only a small drift of ash.
He closed his eyes and let Occlumency work. Extreme speed turned the rush of memory into a steady stream he could file. He was in Callanish at dawn. The historical stones are wet with mist. A small boy was carried to the circle and lifted to the elder's hands. Six hooded figures took positions to conduct a rite older than the Council of Wizards and the seal of any Ministry. Lessons in quiet rooms with no windows. He joined the Department without ever setting foot in Hogwarts. Names learned by whispers. Orders taken from men who never gave their faces.
Corvus continued without stopping. The second of the six settled into place. The same chant started. By the sixth, his voice became a bit hoarse; his regeneration took care of it in a heartbeat. Blood and Life was sacrificed for magical potency and knowledge of the six.
He got the exact location and even the details of the command room. It was below the hub. A room with no door, no stairs and no windows. The only way in was portkeys. He saw the switch stones set into the control table and the feel of the masks the elders wore from the memories. These were the elder council of the Druid Conclave hiding for over four thousand years. These were the elders of Time, Soul, Death, Space, Creation, and Chaos.
He opened his eyes and erased the circle in reverse order. Last rune first, first rune last. No trace was left.
Eighteen Druids still lay under coma curses along the far wall. He would use them in other tests and projects. Half the council was gone. He rose, flexed his fingers, and called a war hammer into his left hand. Elder Wand sat easily in his right. He stepped to the centre of the hub and let Phase take him.
Stone flowed around his calves, his thighs, his chest. He sank with a slow pull as if the floor had turned to cold water. Speed and agility came up at once. Six hooded figures sat below and to the front, tight around a table of runes and crystals.
He phased through the command room ceiling.
For the elders, it happened in a breath. A head came through the stone. Then shoulders. Then a broad body that should not have been there at all. The boy turned once above the table and landed on the control map with both feet. All they could see was a blur.
The Elder of Chaos started to laugh. The sound was broken at the edges, too high and thin. The Elder of Soul reached for his wand.
The hammer moved first and fast, very fast.
-
Corvus stepped on the control table and watched the elders. One of them started to move his head back as if laughing. Another started to raise his hand. They were all moving at the speed of a snail in slow motion. He moved first and drove the pick head of the war hammer down through the Elder's left shoulder. The point punched through meat and bone. A wet sound stretched along the puncture. The figure's wand started the dropping motion.
The hammer came back in the same line. Corvus slid to his right and took another's shoulder. The joint gave with a hard crack. The figure started to turn. Corvus transfigured the stone beneath the feet of the third into boiling water. The druid started to drop into the boiling water beneath him. Corvus imagined the lovely sound of a pig boiling alive coming from him.
Another raised a hand to cast. He took a short step across the table. His boot met the next one's jaw and turned his hood sideways. He jumped down, and a heavy backswing caught the hooded face of the figure closest to him. Breath went out in a long grunt.
The last one started to move as if to retreat behind the chair. Corvus waited for the figure to come to his right side while swinging the hammer to meet the pelvis bone. He dropped the speed and agility the moment the hammer made contact.
He watched with satisfaction as the first one screamed while holding his shoulder, or what was left of it. The second one moved as if hit by a high caliber round. The fourth's head went back first, followed by his body. Fifth folded to one knee, and the last flew forward with his hands going to his butt with a rising scream.
Corvus did not stop. He first collected the wands, afterwards removed the robes and started to put them under coma curses, one by one.
Corvus recognised Croaker by his voice; the Unspeakable lifted his palms in a show of surrender from his place still on one knee. "We can talk," he began.
Corvus closed the space and put his knuckles into Croaker's hooded face. The elder's head snapped back. His head kissed the floor.
Once done, there were another six figures, elders of an order thousands of years old. A carnivorous smile appeared on his face. 'What a platter,' he thought.
--
The castle woke earlier now. Candles burn bright by six. Prefects on their feet. Breakfast lines formed without noise. Mischief did not survive double loads and night lessons. Even the Weasley boy watched his step when Baier's eyes passed over him.
Vinda crossed the high table with a measured stride. Shoulders square. Robe fastened in clean lines. The weight of the previous day sat behind her eyes. Clearing the Department of Mysteries had cost breath and focus. Corvus had been the hinge. Without his read on those robes, this would have bled longer.
She took her place and let the hall settle. Three taps of her goblet rang across. Benches quieted.
"A pleasant morning to all. I would like to welcome our first arrival," Vinda said, voice carrying without effort. "Herrin Isolde Nacht. Master of Rituals."
Doors by the staff antechamber opened. Isolde entered with her back straight and chin level. Steel grey hair pinned clean. Robes plain and exact. She paused beside the dais and took the hall in one sweep. Students straightened by reflex.
A few claps began at Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff joined. Slytherin followed. Gryffindor caught up a breath late.
Isolde inclined her head to Vinda and faced the hall. "Rituals require order," she said. "You will learn to draw clean circles, to read binding, to respect cost. Fourth years and above will report with proper ingredients and trimmed nails. We will correct the years this school spent pretending that rituals as a subject are something to be feared."
She looked down the table to Corvus. A small lift of an eyebrow. "Heir Black. I'm eagerly waiting to see whom you will choose as your master in Rituals."
Corvus let a corner of his mouth move. "You will not be bored, Herrin Nacht."
A dry sound came from Horatio's cup. Flitwick hid a smile behind a napkin. Pomona adjusted her plate. The staff had shifted this term. Yelena's standards in Transfiguration, Horatio's in Potions, Baier's drills for first to third years, and Narcissa's etiquette. Each addition pulled the line tighter. Vinda approved.
She lifted her goblet again. "Our second appointment. Countess Seraphine Lasombra. History."
Attention sharpened before the doors even opened. Seraphine entered with slow steps and calm poise. Black hair fell straight to her back. Skin pale and smooth as porcelain. The line of her dress was clean, the neckline daring without apology. Violet eyes caught the candlelight and held it. Fangs showed when she smiled, a brief white promise that did not pretend to be anything else.
Older students leaned forward. A few first years forgot their porridge. The Hufflepuff table flushed in a neat row. Slytherin watched with open interest. Gryffindor looked and then remembered Narcissa's class and looked with better manners.
Seraphine stopped a pace in front of the dais and raised her chin to the enchanted ceiling. Thin daylight bled through grey cloud. Her mouth tightened in brief distaste.
"History speaks best when narrated by a tongue that lived it," she said. "Some of you were taught that my kind stand outside your halls and your laws. You will stop thinking like that. You will learn who wrote your treaties. You will learn what wars Wizardkin asked the children of the moon to end."
She let the words sit. "I prefer night classes. I will tolerate Dawn if I must. Bring ink that does not smear. Bring a mind that does not wander." She added the last line, looking especially towards the fifth to seventh years.
A murmur moved along the benches and died quickly when Vinda turned her head. Corvus watched the room steady itself. Even the twins at Gryffindor folded their hands as if they had chosen to do it first.
Vinda resumed her seat. "Professor Nacht will publish schedules for fourth through seventh years by supper. Countess Lasombra will post hers beside them. Prefects will assist with room changes. Will the Faculty be kind enough to add their thoughts for the day, please?"
Narcissa set down her teacup. "Prefects will ensure attire meets code," she added in the level tone that made children sit up. "No ink on cuffs. No loosened ties. Hair is clean and bound in classes and corridors. Houses will lose points for slovenly presentation before they lose them for errors in content."
Yelena clicked her quill once. "Transfiguration practicals will assume you can stand at a bench without fidgeting," she said. "If you cannot, you will learn."
Baier cut a slice of toast and did not look up. "First years have drills at seven on Tuesdays and Fridays. Second and third, the hour after. I will not hear any complaints."
A single sigh rose from Gryffindor and died when Horatio's gaze found the source.
Vinda let the current of the hall rest. The school had accepted the new hours without a tantrum. Work crowded out noise. That was the point.
Isolde took her chair, posture still straight as a yardstick. A set of ritual knives rested in a velvet roll at her elbow. Seraphine sat with a patient stillness that felt older than the walls. A Slytherin seventh year forgot to breathe and then recovered, cheeks red; he was not alone.
Corvus leaned toward Vinda. "Good choices," he said under the hum of plates and cutlery.
Vinda did not hide the small nod. "We will see the difference by month's end."
Seraphine's gaze passed over the four tables again and paused on a cluster of Muggleborns that had taken the early changes hard. Her mouth softened by a fraction. "You will find your footing," she told them. "History is not a whip. It is a map."
The Ravenclaw prefect wrote the line down at once. Others followed.
Vinda tapped her goblet one last time. "Eat," she said. "Classes resume on the hour."
Benches scraped back into motion. Plates refilled. The chatter rose, but lighter, cleaner. Hogwarts moved around the new centre without argument.