The marble corridor outside the chamber still hummed with voices. Delegations peeled away in little clusters, ties loosened, heels clicking, aides already lifting phones as if the building itself could not survive a quiet minute.
Gro Harlem Brundtland did not look back at the doors. Her staff formed a tight ring, polite smiles in place, eyes flat. When her aide offered the canter, she did not pause. One sip, measured. The ministers beside her mirrored the motion. Sweden and Finland followed closely behind, as if they had rehearsed it. Denmark's delegation did the same, then Poland's.
Most of the hall watched the flags, the photographers, and the usual theatre.
A few people watched the canter.
The Balkan delegates, already half turned to leave, exchanged nods that looked casual to anyone not trained to notice timing. Their aides carried identical canters, identical ceramic sheen. One sip. A swallow. A blink that ran half a beat too long.
John Major stood with his foreign secretary and tried to keep his face neutral. The cold that had haunted the chamber since the briefings about Dementors was gone now, but the place still felt wrong.
He caught a glimpse of the American delegation. A Secret Service agent spoke into a sleeve. Another scanned the corridor without moving his head.
Major took a breath, already preparing the phrase he would use on the phone to Washington.
Then Brundtland's line of people passed the last security arch, and the first shockwave hit.
A Norwegian aide stepped into the press pen and read from a prepared sheet.
Norway withdrew from the United Nations. Norway withdrew from every council and structure attached to it. Norway closed its borders for the time being. No tourism. No exceptions. Trade would be reviewed under a new framework, to be announced.
The cameras surged.
Behind her, Brundtland walked on without turning her head. Her hand was steady on the strap of her briefcase. Her face did not change.
Sweden's statement followed within minutes. Finland came before the first journalist finished yelling the first question. Denmark's delegation did not slow down as they confirmed the same position.
In the side corridor, the ambassadors from Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania conferred for less than a minute, then their aides began handing out copies.
Major watched the papers appear as if conjured. He hated that his mind kept reaching for magical words now.
His own aide leaned close and spoke into the air by Major's ear.
"Downing Street wants you on the secure line. Washington too. Bonn is requesting an emergency call. Paris is already assembling their council."
Major nodded once, then another set of statements went out.
Greece. Bulgaria. Romania. Albania.
Not all of them had the same wording. The shape was identical. Withdrawal from the UN, closure of borders. A new cooperative framework with "partners who respected sovereignty".
The hall went louder. The sound grew sharp, as cutlery dropped on stone.
A senior British diplomat pushed through, face pale with controlled anger.
"This is coordinated chaos. This will shatter the civilised order as we know it."
Major's gaze stayed on the ministers as they walked. He tried to pick out tells. A stumble. A tremor. A glance at an aide for reassurance.
None.
They moved like people who had decided something long ago.
And that was the problem.
In London, the Cabinet Office briefing room filled in under ten minutes. Major arrived still wearing his UN credentials. He did not sit. He stood at the head of the table and watched the heads of MI5 and MI6 place folders down like offerings.
Stella Rimington's voice stayed flat. "We are seeing synchronised closures on border points. Ferry terminals. Airports and Railroads are all getting closed."
Sir David McColl slid a map forward. The Baltic looked suddenly smaller. "It is not just entry. They are halting outbound traffic as well. Commercial flights are being diverted or denied landing."
Major's chief whip muttered something about economic suicide.
A junior minister tried to laugh and failed. "They cannot do this. Not in a modern world."
Major's gaze went to the television in the corner. Stockholm. Helsinki. Copenhagen. The same podiums. The same calm faces. The same refusal to answer questions.
"What leverage do they think they have?" someone asked.
Rimington did not look up. "They have already demonstrated leverage. We have ministers and senior officials in Europe who cannot speak, cannot think, cannot function. We have assets that have disappeared without a trace. We have no working penetration into the magical side, and now we have fractures on our side as well."
Major felt the phrases he hated rise again. Magical side. Mundane side.
He forced it down.
In Washington, Bill Clinton read the first cable twice, then a third time slower. The Situation Room smelled of stale coffee and the warm plastic of telephones. His national security adviser pointed at the line where Denmark confirmed suspension of cooperation on certain NATO logistics.
"It is not withdrawal from NATO," the adviser said carefully. "At least not yet."
"Yet," Clinton repeated. His voice stayed calm, but the room felt it.
A CIA briefer spoke next. "We are picking up chatter about a new regional compact. Scandinavia plus selected Eastern and Southeastern partners. Trade and mutual support, possibly joint security. They are moving faster than any legal process allows or could follow."
Clinton rubbed his forehead. "Who is moving them?"
No one answered. Not because they had manners, but because no one wanted to put the suspicion into a sentence. Lewinski was going to work extra hard to rid the president of this stress.
In Bonn, Helmut Kohl listened to his finance minister describe the market reaction. The Deutsche Mark had not collapsed, but the tremor was there. Insurance prices on shipping lanes spiked in under an hour. Tour operators began cancelling whole seasons. Ports began asking for clarification that would not come.
Kohl stared at the window, then at his chief of staff. "It is June of 1995," he said, as if speaking the date could anchor the world. "We are talking about closed borders inside Europe."
In Paris, Jacques Chirac's newly assembled council talked over each other. Someone brought up Schengen, someone else shouted about sovereignty, and then a quiet adviser mentioned that French magical resistance had been bleeding for months. After the last attacks, they lost all contact with their agents and spies on the magical side. The room went still at the word magical.
In Madrid, Felipe González's phone rang until his secretary slammed the receiver down in frustration. Lines were jammed. Not broken, jammed. As if someone had decided that conversations were dangerous.
In Beijing, Jiang Zemin received the report in silence. His aides waited for anger. What they got was calculation. He asked for a list of names, then a list of absences. He asked why his own internal watchers had gone quiet. When his aide did not answer quickly enough, Jiang's gaze sharpened. Magical China was tilting towards the new bloc with every desperate step of ICW. Their last attempt to put Witches and Wizards in Muggle cuffs was the last drop. Zemin received a parchment from one of his aides. His gaze dipped to the document, he sighed and stood up, and started to walk towards a very rarely used room of the Zhongnanhai.
In Tokyo, Tomiichi Murayama listened to his foreign ministry describe a Europe splitting in front of them. His pen scratched paper with tight strokes. He asked about trade routes. He asked about the safety of Japanese nationals. He asked if any Japanese officials had shown the same hollow symptoms reported in Europe.
In Moscow, Boris Yeltsin read the same cables and laughed once, a sound with no humour in it. "So," he said to his aide, "someone is building a wall without bricks."
His defence minister looked grim. "Border forces are shifting. Air defence too. They are acting as if they expect raids."
Yeltsin's aide hesitated, then spoke. "There is another pattern, sir. The officials who signed onto the raids, the ones who met with the man calling himself Akingbade, many of them are either… incapacitated… or missing."
Yeltsin's laughter died. He tapped the paper twice. "Find out who is in their offices now."
Across those withdrawing capitals, people in key rooms moved with quiet efficiency. A receptionist who had never worked there before sheathed his wand, thanks to some light legilimency; he now 'remembered' every extension number. A junior adviser who had been overlooked for years suddenly had access to everything. A minister's private secretary looked like herself until she turned away and adjusted her collar. The Polyjuice potions in her drawer were enough for three months. She just hoped it would not take this long.
Back at the UN, the chamber sat half emptied, microphones still warm, translation booths still lit. The remaining delegations clustered in stunned groups that could not decide whether to shout or to flee.
The Secretary General's staff moved like people trying to hold water in their hands. Security shifted at the doors. Telephones rang and rang.
The world watched Europe fracture and did not understand the mechanism.
Markets trembled. Airlines rerouted. Naval planners redrew maps with tight faces. Intelligence chiefs stared at blank spaces where networks had been.
The withdrawals were not just speeches. They were orders already carried out.
And somewhere beneath all of it, unseen by the cameras and the press, new agreements took shape in sealed rooms, signed by hands that were either not Muggle enough, or not the hands the world thought they were.
--
Corvus read the Alliance reports with a mug of bitter coffee gone cold at his elbow. Ports disrupted. Freight stalled. Markets spiking. Cabinets screaming at one another behind closed doors. Generals giving interviews they would deny tomorrow. Everywhere the Mundane world tried to pretend it was still in control, it only proved the opposite.
He did not care for their speeches. He cared for timelines.
Rookwood waited by the door, silent, hands folded behind his back. Corvus turned a page, tapped a line with his finger, and let the report fall back to the desk.
"They will stumble for months," Corvus said. His tone stayed flat. "Longer if we get France and the UK."
Rookwood gave a small nod. He had the look of a man who had seen too many plans survive only because the other side made mistakes.
Corvus pushed the reports aside and stood. The room was warm. The Nest sat inside his head like a second heartbeat. He would rather be there than anywhere else.
"Let us see what the latest numbers in the hatcheries are," he said.
The dragon reserves they had were breeding the extra large lizards without giving time to mothers thank to three spells cast again and again by the unspeakables sent by Corvus. A troll's regeneration was not an exclusive skill in this age of Magical Britain.
Heat hit them before they saw the first pen. It was not a gentle warmth. It was the kind of heat that sat on the skin like a hand.
A line of enclosures rose from the slope, each reinforced with black iron and rune plates. At the far end, the hatchery itself sat like a bunker that had decided it was also a cathedral. Tall arches. Thick doors. A roof that looked too heavy to be logical. Inside, the air tasted of sulphur, straw, and old magic.
A handler stepped forward, robe sleeves rolled, face slick with sweat. He bowed to Corvus.
"Heir Black."
Corvus returned the nod. "Status."
Six clutches due today. Two already cracked."
Corvus walked in without slowing. The floor was stone, but it held heat. It reminded him of a forge.
Eggs sat in shallow nests, each nest marked with a small plaque that listed origin and date. Icelandic ridgeback stock from Norway. A pale, narrow egg from the Balkans. Several darker shells from the eastern ranges were brought in under heavy secrecy. The Alliance had been efficient.
In the centre of the chamber, one egg trembled. A fine crack ran along its curve, then stopped.
The handler stepped back and motioned toward a young witch and wizard waiting near the nest. Both had their hoods down. Both looked pale. There was fresh meat in their hands for the first meal and the tool to bond with the dragon.
Corvus watched their breathing, watched their hands.
"Did you decide who is going to be the rider?" He asked them, quiet. The rider leads the dragon. The second was the heavy hitter.
The wizard swallowed. The witch's jaw tightened. They nodded at the same time. "It is upto the Dragon, Sir." He replied. "But I am better at riding, while she," he pointed to the young witch. "Is way better with destructive spells."
The egg split again, wider. A sound like tearing wet cloth filled the chamber. Steam rolled out. Something inside scraped against the shell.
A head pushed through.
The hatchling's eyes were still filmed. Its scales shone like wet metal. It dragged itself into the straw and coughed, a raw little burst of heat that made the air shimmer.
Corvus let the moment hang. Bonding at hatching worked because the creature was still deciding what the world was. If you were there first, you became the first rule.
The wizard stepped forward, slowly. He held his wand low and, with his other hand, offered a strip of meat. His hand shook once, then steadied. The hatchling turned its head, tasting the air with a tongue too long for its body.
The wizard moved and placed his palm on the dragon's shoulder ridge, careful not to press. He murmured the first syllables of the bond charm. Not a spell meant to dominate. A spell meant to align.
Corvus watched the magic settle, thin and clean, and felt the bond lock like a latch.
"Good," Corvus said. Another fighter for our air force.
Rookwood exhaled, almost silent. He leaned closer to Corvus, voice low.
"The numbers are holding. Britain has seven hundred pairs ready." He stopped and scratched the number. "Seven hundred pairs ready, one freshly bonded."
Corvus smirked. "What about our allies?"
"Norway is behind, but they are catching up."
Corvus's gaze stayed on the hatchling. Britain will stay ahead. We breed, we train, we refine. The rest follow."
They left the hatchery and crossed to the open grounds where mature dragons rested in pens that looked too small for them, even with magic. Wings shifted. Claws scraped stone. A low rumble rolled through the fences and vibrated in the ribs.
Beyond the pens, a row of structures stood that did not belong to the magical world. Flat roofs. Antennas. Wiring. Equipment crates stamped with British markings. Radar sets, stolen or bought. It hardly mattered.
A wizard who has an engineer's training and experience transferred to his mind stood with a headset around his neck, face red from the heat and the stress. He looked like a man trying to stay brave in a nightmare.
This was one of the reasons he wanted dragons as his main air force. Not witches and Wizards on their brooms. The psychological effect of the flying lizards was as destructive as their flames.
Corvus stopped in front of him.
"Report."
The engineer glanced at Corvus. "Standard disillusionment charm doesn't do anything to the radar returns. They became invisible to the naked eye, not to the screen."
Corvus made a small, impatient motion with his fingers. "And the modified charm."
The engineer swallowed. "Works. Not perfectly. But it bends the waves. It is like, sorry, like wrapping the whole target in a pocket of air that lies."
Corvus's mouth twitched. "A bubble charm, dressed up."
"Yes," the engineer said, relief flickering in his eyes as if agreement was safety. "The field shape matters. Too tight and it tears. Too loose and the radar sees the edges."
Corvus turned his head toward the practice field.
A dragon stood there, massive and restless, scales dark as coal. Two riders sat on its back. The front rider held the reins and kept the beast's head angled slightly away from the observers. The second sat behind, wand ready, posture controlled.
"Cast," Corvus ordered.
The second rider lifted his wand. A spell went out, almost invisible. The air around the dragon rippled, then smoothed. The beast did not vanish from Corvus's eye. He could still see it because he knew exactly where it was. The illusion was not for him. It was for everyone else. They took off, and Corvus turned to watch the radar.
On the radar screen inside the structure, the line that had been a mountain of noise softened, then thinned, then became nothing.
The engineer let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. "It's gone."
Corvus tracked it until it disappeared within the clouds.
"Now," he said.
The second rider dropped the concealment for a breath.
To the naked eye, the dragon appeared out of nothing, a black shape cutting the sky. The second rider raised his wand and sent a mock bombardment charm toward a marked target on the far ridge. The spell hit the target and turned it to sand in a tight circle.
Then the concealment snapped back.
The dragon vanished again.
Rookwood looked at Corvus from the corner of his eye. "Muggle flying machines will not enjoy this."
"They will not understand it," Corvus corrected. "They will call it a freak incident. Then they will call it a new weapon. Then they will call it a reason to escalate. They always pick the worst option first. But the UFO believers are going to have a field day."
He watched the dragon circle back, silent now, a moving hole in the sky.
They walked the grounds for another hour. Corvus checked training schedules, rotation lists, and bonding success rates. He spoke to handlers, to riders, to a healer assigned to burns and fractures.
When they reached the western ridge, the view opened.
New magical settlements lay in the valley like pieces of a plan finally put on paper. Dark roofs. Ward stones set into the earth. A new market square is forming around a central fountain. A schoolhouse with windows still covered in protective parchment. Children ran between buildings with the reckless confidence of people born into safety.
Above them, the sky shifted.
Dragons crossed the horizon in a broad formation. Different breeds, different shapes. Some are long and narrow. Some thick, heavy, built for smashing through storms. A pale winged one flashed like bone in the sun before the concealment caught it again. A ridgeback roared once, the sound rolling down into the settlement and making heads turn.
Two magicals rode each dragon. The front riders kept the formation clean. The second riders sat with wands ready, scanning the ground and the distant sky.
Below, people stopped to watch. A few waved. A few bowed without thinking.
Corvus stood on the ridge and let the wind hit his face. He watched the dragons pass over the settlement, silent and invisible for anyone who did not know where to look, and felt the weight of what he had made.
The war was coming. They would be ready.