France did not return to normal after the hospital attack.
Paris tightened first, then the pressure spread outward, district by district, suburb by suburb, until the word ghetto stopped being an insult and started being a label on a map used for raids. Police units moved in with lists and photographs. Doors came down. Flats were searched. People who had smiled at the wrong strangers and carried the wrong packages learned that a crowd could turn against them faster than any court.
The civilians who had cooperated with rogue magicals were identified with unnatural efficiency. Most of them had not understood what they were doing. That did not save them. The ones who did understand had chosen it anyway. That saved them even less.
Within days, the first wave filled holding centres.
The second wave started before the first finished being processed.
A pattern repeated across the wider territory under GAIA.
In London, a group that had been meeting in a rented back room above a closed shop found the Unit already waiting when they arrived. The men at the door had expected police. They had expected shouting and batons.
One man tried to turn and run.
A Unit member stepped forward and pinned him with a binding that snapped his ankles together. The man hit the pavement hard enough to bite his tongue. Two more tried to reach for something under their coats.
They were taken alive, barely.. but still alive.
In Birmingham, an organiser who had been proud of his secrecy walked into his own meeting and saw every chair already occupied. Not by his people.
A Unit officer sat in the place reserved for leadership and tapped a folder twice against the table.
The organiser froze in the doorway.
The folder opened.
Photographs. Names. Addresses. A clean list of payments from countries that invested billions in temples all over Europe.
The organiser tried to speak, to deny, to accuse them of xenophobia. The officer raised a hand.
A simple gesture.
The organiser's throat tightened as if an invisible fist had closed around it. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, hands clawing at the air.
A healer watched the reaction with professional calm and kept the man breathing.
The group was taken in one sweep.
In Brussels, the arrests happened in daylight. The intention was obvious.
Crowds gathered. People shouted. Some shouted in support. Some shouted in rage. A few men tried to surge toward the shield wall.
The shields held.
The Bastion guards did not need to chase. They let the crowd exhaust itself against disciplined stillness, then moved forward one step at a time until the street belonged to them. Different from what these aggressors were used to, Bastion guards and the Unit have no problem shooting them. The organisers were taken alive; the rest depended on their reactions.
The same story played out in different accents. The mundane world watched and panicked. They find it hard to discover that they were living among traitors and terrorists.
MACUSA and the rest followed suit. It literally turned into a Witch Hunt.
-
On the magical side, the response was worse. Wardstone nets widened across the globe. Confederations that had once argued over borders now agreed on one thing. No corner would remain unwarded. No pocket would remain unmonitored. They built overlapping layers until even the air felt owned.
The traitors on the magical side were captured within hours of the hospital attack.
Oaths and contracts prevented meaningful betrayal, but fear still made people sloppy. A ward line flickered where it should not. An owl left a roost at the wrong hour. A meeting place carried residue.
Nestborns, the Unit and Bastion Guards moved through the gaps. Their network collapsed like brittle glass. The main group of traitors found themselves inside cells at the French Ministry.
Le Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France.
They were dragged into interrogation rooms. They sat under wards designed to stop glamour, suicide curses, to stop everything except the truth.
They breathed a sigh of relief anyway.
France was still a country. France still had courts. France still pretended imprisonment was the worst that could happen.
They will have a trial, a sentence. They expected to survive.
The door opened.
Multiple teams arrived at once.
Unit members first, faces covered, hands steady. Bastion guards followed with shields and rifles held at angles that promised certainty rather than threat.
The traitors flinched.
A man in a Ministry robe tried to stand and demand jurisdiction.
A Bastion guard stepped forward and applied a restraint charm that snapped the man back into the chair.
They were bound, put under coma curses, and lifted from the seats with the same indifference used to move furniture.
One of them managed a strained laugh.
"Where do you think you are taking us," he attempted, voice shaking at the end.
A Unit member adjusted his rifle with quiet care.
"If you are lucky, you will end up with Dementors."
The traitor swallowed. He and everyone else in the Magical World knew one thing. If you are taken by the Unit or Bastion Guards, imprisonment becomes the best outcome.
While Corvus's forces cut rotten parts out of societies that had mistaken a clumsy attack for bravery, Corvus was elsewhere.
--
On the afternoon of the thirty-first of October, Corvus Black entered the Great Hall through the main doors.
Bastion guards lined the sides of the Hall. They snapped to attention in perfect unison. Their salute hit the air like a single sound.
Three guards walked with him, one to his left, one to his right, one a step behind.
When he reached the dais, the three guards peeled away with disciplined steps and vanished through the walls behind the staff table. They took positions out of sight, which meant everyone felt them more.
Vinda Rosier stood to welcome him.
Karkaroff rose next, coat flaring as if he could not help turning any movement into performance.
Madame Maxime stood last.
Her height made the staff table look smaller. Corvus's eight-foot-two looked short beside her, and his mouth tightened by a fraction at the insult of physics.
He followed etiquette anyway.
His lips brushed the back of her hand with the correct degree of respect.
Madame Maxime accepted it with calm dignity.
The adults returned to their seats.
The gazes of the students did not. Shock held them for a breath.
Then whispers started.
The smart students stopped whispering quickly.
They looked at the salute. They looked at the guards. They looked at the way staff adjusted around Corvus. They reached the same conclusion.
Mater Magica Aeterna was a kingdom, and Corvus Black ruled it from the shadows with an iron fist.
-
Fleur Delacour did not think about kingdoms. Her Veela nature screamed. She sat at Ravenclaw's table with Beauxbatons and stared toward the dais as if the air between her and Corvus had become a chain. Power rolled from him in a steady pressure that made her senses ache.
It should not have been possible. She had visited covens in France. She had stood at the edge of Veela gatherings large enough to make grown wizards forget their names. This one person was radiating more Magic than a whole coven.
Her breath hitched.
Her allure reacted on instinct. It rose without control. Upper years who had resisted her before now tensed and swallowed and forced their occlumency shields tighter. A few Durmstrang students stared too long before catching themselves. Younger years suffered openly. A first-year student dropped a fork while drooling and did not even notice. One fourth-year moron was in the same situation.
Fleur tried to rein it in. Her control slipped again when Corvus did not even glance in her direction. Not in curiosity, not in acknowledgement.
The dismissal was not cruel; it was worse. It was indifferent.
-
Dinner arrived early. The castle wanted bellies full before the ritual. Food appeared. Plates clinked. The conversation tried to sound normal and failed.
As the sun moved toward the horizon, faculty rose in controlled order.
Students followed.
They streamed toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where preparations waited. Rows of students stood in disciplined rows. Officials from multiple ministries formed their own line, posture rigid and faces blank. Goblins arrived to participate. Centaurs stood at the tree line with bows unstrung, eyes fixed on the centre. Thestrals gathered behind them, wings folded and heads lowered.
No one spoke loudly. They did not come for entertainment. They came to honour Samhain.
Corvus stood at the centre.
In front of him waited one massive altar of stone, larger than the ones used in his first year in Hogwarts. To his left, twelve smaller altars formed a line. To his right, twelve more mirrored them.
Twenty-five total.
Isolde Nacht stood at the first altar to Corvus's right.
Mastery class students took the remaining positions. Each one had a wand. Each one had practised the old Gaelic rune work until their wrists ached.
Isolde's expression remained composed. She had conducted this rite dozens of times. She had heard the stories about Corvus's first-year ritual and assumed, privately, that students exaggerated when they wanted a legend. This simple ritual was a call to the drifted souls. The moment the fires were lit, and the moment they were snuffed, they might turn green for a moment. It was the indicator that the veil between the realms was open. A successful ritual should have the green colour twice if it was conducted by a competent ritualist.
She believed Menkara Al Zahur's recommendation of Corvus was for political reasons instead of expertise. The Association recognised him as Master Ritualist for the same reasons; it made sense too. Corvus Black was a strong figure.
Yet she did not agree, not even for a second. Academic success should not have been mixed with political might.
She watched Corvus carefully. The moment the sun touched the line of the horizon, Corvus began to chant. Gaelic rolled out of him with heavy certainty. He did not raise a wand. He did not step forward. Psychic mastery moved instead.
Across all twenty-five altars at once, an invisible force carved ancient runes into stone. The sound was faint, a controlled scrape multiplied by scale. Arrays formed in perfect patterns.
Isolde felt her own magic react.
The central altar ignited first.
Natural flame bloomed, orange and red. The heat rolled outward in a wave that made the air tighten.
Then the altars on both sides ignited.
Left and right lit in parallel, flames rising at matching heights like a measured pulse.
Isolde's lips curled into a small smirk. A Natural fire.
The twelfth altars on each side were lit last.
Isolde's smirk faltered. The colour of the flames changed. Emerald surged into the outer flames with vivid force.
It did not fade. It was a green that looked alive. The change began rushing inward.
The twelfth altars burned green, then the eleventh, then the tenth, the colour moving altar by altar toward the centre as if the fire itself was marching.
Isolde's jaw loosened.
Her hand tightened on her wand.
The green flames did not appear briefly. It stayed and spread. It advanced.
When the green flames reached the central altar, the entire line roared as if responding to a command.
Corvus's chant rose into a crescendo that hit the bones rather than the ears. The last rays of the sun disappeared at that exact moment.
Orbs appeared and floated. They drifted in from the forest. They slipped through the castle grounds. They came from everywhere, as if the world had been waiting for this instant.
The first time he conducted this ritual, the orbs had been lights.
Now, necromancy recognised them.
His gaze tracked shapes beneath the glow. A witch in old robes. A wizard with a broken nose. A kneazle that had once belonged to someone and still sought them. A thestral spirit that moved like smoke.
They circled the altars.
Most circled the central flame.
Smaller numbers took the rest, drawn to the anchors where mastery students stood.
-
Harry watched from the student rows.
He saw the orbs and felt the pull in his chest anyway.
He remembered the rumours in his first-year ritual, the calm after, the way the grounds had felt lighter.
This was not lighter.
This was heavier.
It felt like the veil had been seized by the throat and ordered to behave.
Neville's fingers clenched around his sleeve.
Harry did not look away. He did not want to miss even a second of this ritual.
Vinda stood with the officials, posture steady, eyes unreadable. Approval lived in her stillness. She remembered the evening Isolde arrived at the castle and talked about her grandson. She scoffed at the audacity of that witch.
-
Fleur stood with Beauxbatons and forgot to breathe properly. The green fire reflected in her eyes until they looked almost luminous. Her allure did not matter here. It did not seduce these flames. It did not stir these souls.
Her nature reached toward power and found something beyond that. A force that treated beauty as background. The thought should have offended her. It thrilled her instead.
-
Isolde felt something else.
Humiliation. Both on personal and professional levels. She had conducted this rite and never seen this many souls circle the flame. She had seen green appear at the start and at dawn, never sustained, never organised like an army moving inward. Her scepticism cracked. Not into admiration, no.
Into recognition.
This young man's title was not political. He was a ritualist at a level she had not met. The orbs began to glide toward the green flames. As each touched, it burst into motes that scattered like coloured dust. Scarlet, azure, violet and gold.
They fell over the crowd and dissolved without leaving any residue. They left nothing behind, no ash, nor smoke.
There was only peace. The night deepened, yet the flames held their vibrant green colour. The crowd remained still.