Chapter 13: The Cultivation of Loyalty

The Archimedes Principle

Chapter 13: The Cultivation of Loyalty

February, 1886

The Lestrange-Greengrass empire was a marvel of silent, ruthless efficiency. In the three years since their marriage, Cassian and Isadora had consolidated their power with the precision of a corporate merger, transforming ancient, stagnant pure-blood wealth into a dynamic, modern engine of commerce and influence. Their son and heir, Orion, was a healthy toddler, his magical core already showing signs of formidable power. The Ark, their secret biosphere, flourished beneath the manor, a living testament to their ultimate ambition. Yet, as Cassian reviewed the long-range projections with Prometheus, a critical flaw in the grand design became apparent.

"The hardware is nearly complete," he stated, pacing the floor of his subterranean laboratory. Isadora sat opposite him, reviewing a financial report from Lestrange Capital. "The Ark can sustain life indefinitely. The transport mechanism is a complex problem, but solvable. The weak point in the system is the software. The people."

Isadora looked up, her expression sharp and focused. "The pure-bloods are unsuitable. Their ideology is a terminal illness. They are obsessed with a past that never truly existed and blind to the future that will consume them. They are not colonists. They are museum pieces."

"Precisely," Cassian affirmed. "We require a population engineered for the task. One that is loyal, skilled, and entirely dependent on us. We cannot recruit such a population. We must grow it."

He laid out the plan, a strategy born from the cold logic that had defined his entire existence. It was a plan to exploit the wizarding world's most glaring social failures.

"This society has no safety net," he began, his voice devoid of emotion. "It is a relic of a pre-industrial age, clinging to Victorian sensibilities without any of the corresponding social reforms. Orphans of magical blood are either left to the mercy of uncaring relatives or, worse, abandoned to the brutalities of Muggle institutions. Muggle-borns are thrust into our world with no financial support, no social network, and no understanding of our customs, making them perpetual outsiders. These are not unfortunate circumstances. They are untapped resources."

His proposal was twofold, a pincer movement designed to acquire human capital under the unassailable guise of philanthropy.

"First, we establish an orphanage," he declared. "The Corvus Institute for Magical Foundlings. It will not be a workhouse like the Muggles have, filled with neglect and misery. It will be a paradise. A center of learning and comfort, equipped with the best resources magic and our money can provide. We will rescue magical orphans from their squalor and give them a life of privilege. In return, they will give us their absolute, unquestioning loyalty."

Isadora's lips curved into a subtle, appreciative smile. "The political capital would be immense. It would make us untouchable. Any who oppose us would be seen as attacking the saviors of orphaned children."

"Exactly," Cassian said. "The second initiative will target the Muggle-borns. We will create the Prometheus Endowment for Magical Advancement. It will offer full scholarships to Hogwarts for gifted students from impoverished Muggle families. It will cover their books, their robes, their wands—everything. It will even provide a stipend to their Muggle families, ensuring their gratitude."

"And the price?" Isadora asked, already knowing the answer.

"A magically binding contract of employment upon graduation," Cassian stated. "A lifetime of service to the Lestrange-Greengrass Holding Company in exchange for a life they could never have dreamed of. We will own the next generation of talented Muggle-borns, body and soul."

The plan was set in motion with terrifying speed. An article, penned by a journalist on Cassian's payroll, appeared on the front page of the Daily Prophet. It lauded the "unprecedented generosity" of the Lestrange-Greengrass family, framing the initiative as a noble effort to strengthen the wizarding world by caring for its most vulnerable. The Ministry, caught completely off guard, had no choice but to publicly applaud the move, their own inaction on the matter thrown into sharp relief.

The Corvus Institute was established in a remote, sprawling estate in the Scottish Highlands, a property acquired by Lestrange Capital years prior. The building was gutted and rebuilt from the inside out using advanced spatial magic. Dark, oppressive rooms became bright, airy learning centers. Dank dormitories were replaced with comfortable private suites. The grounds were transformed into a landscape of enchanted gardens and state-of-the-art training facilities.

The first children were "acquired" by a team of house-elves. They moved like ghosts through the grim, underfunded Muggle orphanages, identifying children whose accidental magic had marked them as outcasts. A five-year-old girl who could make flowers bloom out of season, a seven-year-old boy who could talk to snakes—they were taken from their miserable lives and brought to the Institute. They arrived terrified and were met with warmth, good food, and kindness for the first time in their lives. Their education began immediately, a curriculum designed to instill gratitude and loyalty to their benefactor, the man they knew only as "The Founder."

The Prometheus Endowment, meanwhile, sent its first acceptance letter. It went to a ten-year-old girl in Manchester named Alice Thorne. She was a witch of extraordinary raw power, living in a two-room flat with her widowed mother who worked sixteen hours a day in a textile mill. The Hogwarts letter had been a source of wonder followed by despair. They had no money, no way to afford this new world.

Then, a polite, well-dressed wizard from the Endowment arrived. He explained the scholarship, the full coverage of all costs, the generous stipend that would allow Alice's mother to quit her job. With tears of gratitude, Mrs. Thorne signed the parchment, the magically binding clauses of indenture glowing for a fraction of a second, unseen and unread. Alice Thorne, the first Prometheus Scholar, was now an asset of the Lestrange-Greengrass empire.

Months later, Cassian and Isadora stood on a high balcony of the Corvus Institute, observing the grounds. Below, two dozen children, dressed in clean, comfortable robes, were learning basic wand movements from a private tutor. They were laughing, their faces bright with the joy of discovery.

"They are thriving," Isadora commented, her tone one of a scientist observing a successful experiment. "Their magical cores are strengthening at a rate far exceeding the average Hogwarts student. The curriculum is working."

"They are being cultivated," Cassian corrected. "Like the rarest plants in the Ark. We are providing the perfect environment, and they are growing to our exact specifications. They are the future population. Loyal. Gifted. And ours."

He looked out at the children, not with pride or affection, but with the cool satisfaction of a master strategist seeing a long-term plan come to fruition. He was not just building an empire of wealth and power. He was building a civilization, one soul at a time. The old world could have its coming wars and its petty squabbles. He was busy building the new one.