Corvus's birthday celebration was the work of Elizaveta.
That was natural enough by now. She managed parts of his day-to-day life so smoothly that he only noticed the absence when he stopped to think about it, and even then, the thought irritated him because it proved she had completed a weakness he had not known he possessed. She understood when to clear a room, when to fill it, when silence was useful, and when it was only a form of neglect wearing dignity. She completed him in practical ways first. The rest had followed.
The arrangements began on the evening before his birthday.
Elizaveta did not announce that fact because she never needed to announce the things she intended to do well. By the time Corvus returned to the frigate, the private rooms had already been cleared, the study left untouched, the dining chamber reset for two, and the bath prepared with the sort of patient precision that made him aware, again, of how much of his life ran more smoothly because she had entered it.
She had chosen quiet over spectacle.
That suited him.
No grand banquet. No line of officers, ministers, or allies pretending affection because their positions required it. She gave him a long evening that belonged to the two of them alone, which was a rarer luxury than most gifts men tried to impress him with.
It was less a birthday than the anniversary of the day they had properly become each other's problem.
Corvus considered that better.
They dined first.
The meal was simple by the standards of the Black Mansion and perfect by every standard that mattered to him. Good wine. Hot bread. Fish done exactly as he preferred it. Tea after, strong enough to finish the meal rather than apologise for it. Elizaveta spoke little during dinner, and when she did, it was with the calm ease he liked best in her.
When the meal was done, she took him to the bath.
The room had been warmed in advance. Steam hung above the water in slow pale veils. The oils she used were clean, dark, and expensive without being sweet. Corvus stepped in first. She joined him a moment later, gathered his hair back from his shoulders, and began with the parts of him he carried hardest.
She washed the tension from his shoulders with patient hands, then from his hair, then from the length of his back and chest, taking her time because she knew he liked being handled with care far more than he would ever have admitted to anyone else. He let her. He enjoyed every second and did not bother pretending otherwise. Her attention remained meticulous, never hurried, never careless, the kind that felt less like indulgence and more like being understood thoroughly.
By the time they left the bath, the night had deepened outside the hidden frigate, and the lamps in the private rooms had already been lowered.
They did not return to the study.
They returned to each other.
The final hour before midnight passed slowly and exactly as Elizaveta intended it to pass. By the time the clock began to draw close to the turning of the date, they were already in bed, skin warm from the bath, and the room around them dark enough that the little light remaining made more of a shape than detail. She stayed over him at first, then under his hands, then above him again, guiding the pace with the same quiet authority she brought to every part of his life she had claimed. Corvus answered with the same hunger he always reserved for her when no one else existed near enough to matter.
The moment midnight struck, Elizaveta drew him close, held him against her as his control finally broke, and whispered against his mouth, "I thank Mother Magic for your presence in my life, my love."
He reached his peak with her name in his throat and released himself in her while she held him there, close enough that for a few breaths the turning of the date felt like something they had made rather than something the clock had merely announced.
Afterwards, she smiled, soft in the dim light, and wrapped herself around him in a satisfied, unhurried embrace.
-
The morning came and went; it was nearing the evening again. Corvus was reading and working on the tome when a soft knock distracted him.
Fleur entered carrying a cake with the seriousness of a champion approaching a final task.
Her day at Hogwarts had run long. That much showed in the slight fatigue beneath the beauty. The gown she wore was simple by her standards, pale blue softened by candlelight, her hair left looser than usual because she had clearly prepared in haste.
"I did not want the day to end before I came," she said.
Corvus took the cake from her before she could decide whether she had sounded foolish. "Then you chose well."
Fleur's relief showed first in her shoulders and then in the small smile she tried not to make too obvious. Elizaveta, already settled on the sofa with one leg tucked beneath her, watched the exchange with quiet amusement and no trace of jealousy. That made Fleur bolder.
She offered her wishes properly first, as etiquette demanded, then stepped closer and gave him her gift.
The kiss was not a shy one.
It was hot, earnest, and very much her first attempt at kissing him like a woman rather than a betrothed girl, being careful of every rule around her. She rose onto her toes, one hand closing on the front of his robe for balance, and pressed her mouth to his with enough heat to make the cake nearly irrelevant for a moment.
When she drew back, the colour in her face arrived all at once. "My first kiss," she whispered.
Elizaveta's mouth curved.
Corvus looked at Fleur for a beat longer. "A memorable gift."
Fleur did not know where to look first. At him, at Elizaveta, at the cake, or at the nearest door through which she might retreat with some shreds of control intact.
Elizaveta spared her the worst of it by reaching over and taking the cake from Corvus's hand.
"Sit down before you combust," she said. "It would ruin the carpet, and this ship has enough maintenance issues without adding French ash." The soft smile on her face lowered the tension.
Fleur laughed despite herself and sat.
They shared the cake. The conversation stayed light after that. Elizaveta led most of it out of mercy. Fleur recovered enough to answer in full sentences. Corvus watched both women with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose life had somehow become fuller without becoming slower.
-
Days passed after that in relative ease.
Then Corvus decided that Akingbade had waited long enough.
It had been more than two years by ordinary count.
Under the time arrays, that translated to forty for the former ICW Mugwump.
The Bastion Guards took him from his cell without ceremony. By then, the old man had become what long isolation and manipulated time made of any other, thin, brittle, and stripped down to the few instincts stubborn enough to survive when days ceased meaning anything. He understood in theory that he had been held under time distortion. In practice, theory had long since stopped helping him. Too much time had passed inside too little space. Motion, duration and consequence all of it had dissolved into repetition.
The Wizengamot chamber must have looked unreal to him.
When they brought him in, he turned his head in slow, confused motions like a man being shown an old dream rebuilt from stone. His gaze found Grindelwald first and stayed there too long. Then it moved to Arcturus Black, seated as Chief Warlock, and recognition returned for a moment.
No one pitied him.
Amelia Bones read the charges in a clear voice. Treason against the magical world. Cooperation with hostile structures. Failure of duty at a scale too large to dress up as incompetence. Enabling the persecution of magical peoples through the machinery of the ICW. The list went on and did not improve.
When asked how he pled, Akingbade answered without drama.
"Guilty."
He did not look at the chamber when he said it. He looked past it, toward the emptier mercy of a quick ending.
That was the first time in the proceedings that any visible life came back into him. He wanted death. Not from courage but exhaustion.
He showed actual emotion only when the vote narrowed to the two punishments still left open to the chamber.
The vote narrowed to the Kiss or Azkaban. Hope touched his face at the mention of the first.
That hope died under the tally; the Kiss was denied.
Azkaban won.
Not the cell he had already known. The true prison, with Dementors and the long hospitality of despair and Senior Auror Dawlish, of course. The Auror had tried multiple times to change his station, but somehow his paperwork got lost every time. Akingbade would now join him there.
When the Guards led him away, he walked like someone whose death had just been postponed into cruelty.
--
By the time February began moving toward its end, the castle had returned to its newer rhythm.
The second task approached.
The side tournaments had grown teeth of their own. The duelling bracket no longer felt like a curiosity. The potioneering competition had become an academic blood sport in three languages. Quidditch standings mattered because no one wanted to lose to foreign schools on their own ground, least of all after the first match had gone to Durmstrang.
Names were submitted in sealed jars by schools. Selection was done openly three days later so that no one could accuse the heads of the schools of choosing favourites under the table.
For Hogwarts, Altair Black's volunteers came out exactly as many in the hall had guessed. One Rosier and one Black. Céleste Rosier first. Composed enough not to react beyond a slight inclination of the chin, then Castor Black, who looked briefly delighted.
Durmstrang's pair for Viktor Krum proved less decorative and more practical. Stoyan Petrov from the Quidditch team, all blunt competence and competitive impatience, and Katya Ilieva, a sharp-faced sixth year known more for combat transfiguration than social charm.
For Beauxbatons, Fleur drew Élodie Marceau and Lucien Vaillant. Élodie was all quick mind and quicker Charms. Lucien carried French elegance and had long ago realised people forgave him too easily and had built a technique to match the gift. Fleur saw them come forward, measured them both in one look, and started planning immediately.
The actual briefing for the second task took place the next morning in the lower duelling court.
The court had been expanded for the occasion. Temporary tiers had been raised along the walls so the older students, the volunteers, and enough faculty to discourage idiocy could all fit without climbing on windowsills. The champions stood at the centre with their chosen teammates. Judges' tables had been set against the far wall. Behind them hung three covered boards large enough to hold diagrams.
The student body held its breath as the heads of the schools prepared to explain the task.