Corvus watched the map in front of him and put the last red pins on the last known locations of the ships on the North Sea. The Muggle war always began the same way. A lie told cleanly enough that it passed as policy.
He did not mourn the fishing trawler. He filed it away where he kept all the other necessary ugliness. A price paid by people who would never know what they had bought.
Tibby waited by the door with a bundle of cloaks; dozens of elves were behind him, all of them holding the same type of cloaks.
Corvus tapped the edge of the table. The quills around it stopped scratching. Rookwood and two Unspeakables froze mid motion. A map of the Norwegian Sea hovered above the wood, pale lines shifting when the room wards breathed.
"Teams one through twenty." Corvus let the words fall into place. "You land on the vessels. You start with the captains and work down the ladder. Officers, petty officers, and specialists are ours to take. Do not waste time on men who cannot steer the machines or operate the guns."
One of the witches swallowed. Corvus ignored it.
"Do not kill the rest, put them under coma curses. Be careful and do not cast more than ten Imperius Curses per witch or wizard. When you hit that limit, swap to coma and restraints."
An elf appeared with a pop and gave a parchment to Rookwood.
"Wards of Azkaban have been expanded to hide the vessels." He announced after reading it.
Corvus nodded. A thin smile appeared on his face. With a sharp move, some of the empty parchments transformed into tiny models of their targets. He enlarged them with a silent flick and started to explain where to land and how to move while on board.
"Now, wear your cloaks and Apparate as teams to the pointed areas on the east shores. You will mount your brooms and start to fly from there. Stay above the horizon until you are within range."
Arcturus, Vinda, Grigori, Sigibert, Voss, McDuff, Carrow, Abernathy, Nagel and nearly two dozen Alliance witches and wizards were ready and waiting. The old guard was a team of their own. Corvus made sure they were together in this one. They already knew their role and were excited for the upcoming operation.
Corvus turned to Gellert and Arcturus. "You will take the Clemenceau. Work as you always do. Do not forget, start with the captains first. go down the ladder step by step." He then turned to Sigibert. "The comms are yours, Uncle Sigibert."
Voss adjusted his cuffs and looked at the map and the dots.
Grigori's grin carried no warmth. "If they shoot at brooms?"
Corvus slid his eyes to him. "They will not shoot if you stay under the cloak, Uncle Grigori. I do not want any mistakes on this. If you want to play, learn the sea shanty 'Hoist the Colours' and let the Comms sing it through the comms to all channels, Military and Civil, when their HQ asks what is happening. And even with your cloaks and brooms, if any of them will manage to hit you, I will personally congratulate him or her."
It earned a low laugh. Not joy. Relief sharpened into humour.
Arcturus's gaze cut across the room. Quiet approval. An unspoken order to move.
One by one, they moved to the edge of the wards and vanished in the small distortions of Apparition, leaving only the aftertaste of magic in the wards. Corvus watched the map for a count of three, then killed the hovering charm.
The room thinned as his team leaders were gone. Silence returned.
Only Gellert remained from the operational teams, leaning against the window frame like he owned the view and did not care who disagreed.
Manard stood near the bookcase, broad shoulders squared, fingers stained with soot and ink and a kind of joy that made him look younger than he had any right to.
Gellert's eyes tracked the last shimmer of Vinda's departure. His expression stayed polite. Something tight lived under it.
"I wonder," Gellert began, voice light, "what you plan to do with those huge ships once you get them."
Corvus stepped to the window. The grounds of the Nest sat in the dark like a sleeping animal. New buildings, new wards, new paths cut through the old land. A place that had stopped pretending to be merely a manor.
His reflection in the glass looked younger than he felt.
"Population is not the only difference between us, Uncle Gellert."
Gellert's brow rose; he continued to listen.
Corvus turned just enough for the words to land properly. "They built these floating fortresses because they learned to move steel and fuel across oceans. They built the systems to feed them, arm them, and point them in the right direction."
Gellert's mouth curved. "And you plan to steal their toys."
Corvus gave him a look. "No. I plan to learn and adapt them. Think of the possibilities of not only swimming but also floating vessels. Housing hundreds of Magicals roaming the oceans and skies of this world."
Gellert's amusement faded into something quiet. Not fear, but calculation, and the unpleasant awareness of scale.
"Before meeting you, I imagined you like a boy with a knife," Gellert murmured. "You have shattered that image the moment we met. You were not a boy, and now you stopped being an old man as well. Now you speak like a country."
Corvus did not answer; he kept his eyes on the last formidable dark lord this world has seen.
Gellert's eyes closed for a heartbeat. When they opened, the old cruelty had returned, but it had edges now. Uncertainty, tucked behind pride.
"Careful, Corvus. Countries attract enemies, especially strong ones."
Corvus's smile was small. "So do boys with knives."
Gellert kept silent. He looked once more at the Nest, towards the nursery his children were in, then left the room towards the edge of the wards. He Apparated without flair.
Corvus turned to Manard.
"Are you ready, Father?"
Manard's grin widened, and for a second, he looked like a man about to open a gift rather than step into a war. "These will be much bigger than the missile launchers."
Corvus nodded once. "We will be enchanting hulls. Engines. Comms arrays. The kind of structures that carry the arrogance of nations."
Manard rolled his shoulders. "Good. I have been bored."
A short laugh escaped Corvus before he could stop it. It sharpened the glint in his eyes.
"Then try not to die of excitement."
Manard's eyes gleamed. "After you, my lord."
--
London did not know why it was holding its breath.
The Ministry corridors looked the same. The stone. The brass. The safe, smug stillness. Only the people had changed. Quieter feet. Straighter backs. Wands carried with more care.
Amelia Bones stood at the edge of the Apparition point and watched her people form ranks without needing to be told twice.
Senior Aurors first. Hit Wizards behind them. A hundred faces she had learned to read in courtrooms and crime scenes. Some were loyal to her. Some were loyal to the badge. Most, however, had started to look past both, toward the old man in the Minister's chair.
Arcturus Black's order had been simple.
Make sure all the available Senior Aurors and Hit Wizards are ready.
Amelia did not ask why. She had learned her lesson about questioning the Minister's orders. She tried months before. Arcturus simply looked at her and cancelled his order to her. Afterwards, he sent a Patronus to one of the Senior Aurors and got what he wanted.
Amelia was very well aware of the new situation. The new regime was not what she was used to. Every department was working like a clock. Efficiency was over the charts. Crime nearly became something rare. When her Aurors were called for one, they started to get excited. Her loyalty was to the Realm and Justice. Minister Black was doing a miracle job on both cases. Hence, she really was not disturbed by the new regime. On the contrary, she has become one of the hardest defenders of it. She noticed it in the Summer when Susan was complaining about the amount of work she had to finish during her vacation. She started to explain why each subject is important, why she should be thankful instead of complaining, and... at that moment, she stopped. She left Susan there and went to her study.
When exactly did she become the defender of a school as strict as Durmstrang? People started to call Hogwarts the best of the best. She was feeling jealous when she compared her own days at the castle. Yet again, when did she become the defender of the system? She had no answer, and it stopped bothering her a long time ago.
--
Marcus Aurelius Baier waited near the back, arms crossed, expression bored enough to pass as calm. He was called back from Hogwarts. His gaze slid over the assembled Aurors with an experienced contempt. Not for his colleagues, for the idea that anyone would need this many.
When he noticed Amelia watching, he lifted his chin in acknowledgement.
An Auror captain stepped up, voice careful. "Ma'am. Any word on the destination or the situation?"
Amelia's eyes flicked to the clock. The hands crawled like they had something to hide.
"Not yet."
"Minister's office?"
Amelia pictured Arcturus's handwriting. Clean, old school, like a blade honed by habit. She pictured the way his orders arrived without explanation, and still made sense after the fact.
"You will hear it when you need to hear it."
The captain swallowed, then nodded and moved away.
Amelia turned back to her office, not because she needed paperwork, but because she was no different from that captain.
Half the force out there were names Arcturus approved. She had read the lists. She had signed their acceptance herself. She had watched the shift happen.
It should have bothered her.
Instead, she felt a tired kind of relief. Britain had been rotting under corrupt hands for too long. Arcturus had cut those hands. Cruel policies, yes. Clean results, also yes. She could hate the means and still acknowledge the outcome.
Her door clicked shut.
Five hours later, Ignatia brought a parchment.
"Mobilise."
Amelia left her chair so fast that it scraped the stone.
She reached the Apparition point and found the room already moving. Words passed in short bursts. Wands checked. Cloaks tightened. The backbone of Wizarding Britain, assembled and ready.
Rival's grin flashed in the corner of her vision. He looked delighted by the idea that someone, somewhere, had made a mess worth this force.
Amelia raised her voice just enough. "Our destination is Azkaban."
It hit the group like a cold draught. No one asked why.
They stepped into position by twos and threes. Concentration tightened the air. The first wave vanished in twisting plumes.
Amelia watched them go, counting heads, feeling the weight of the order settle on her shoulders.
When the last of them Apparated, the hall felt too large.
She stood alone for a moment, then turned toward the Minister's corridor, jaw set.
Arcturus Black had decided Azkaban required nearly one hundred Senior Aurors and over two hundred Hit Wizards.