Arcturus set down his delicate porcelain teacup with deliberate care, the faint clink echoing like a gavel in the Register's chamber. Septimus Nott, the portly official presiding over the paperwork, beamed as he handed over the final parchment. He was the grandson of Balthazar Nott, brother to Cantankerus Nott, one of the earliest Death Eaters alongside Lucius Malfoy and others during Voldemort's rise. Septimus, though less infamous, still carried that legacy in his blood.
"It is done, Lord Black," Septimus said proudly, his voice swelling with the satisfaction of duty completed. "The registration of Heir Black is now complete."
"Thank you, Septimus," Arcturus replied with a curt nod, his tone as sharp as ever. "Send my regards to your grandfather, Balthazar."
Septimus's face lit up, chest swelling with visible pride. For the grandson of a Nott, the acknowledgement of Arcturus Black was currency more valuable than galleons. Arcturus's eyes narrowed with dry amusement. "And for Merlin's sake, stop delaying your marriage to that Macnair girl. Or your grandfather and I will drag you by the ear to the altar ourselves."
The flush of embarrassment rose instantly across Septimus's cheeks, and he laughed nervously, wringing his plump fingers together. Corvus, immaculate in his black robes, grey shirt, and tie of Slytherin green, sitting across Arcturus, allowed himself the faintest smile at the display. Every fold of his attire was perfect, every button gleamed, his aristocratic bearing impossible to miss. With the business concluded, Arcturus rose to his feet, Corvus following suit, and together they offered their farewells before stepping back into the corridor.
They had scarcely reached the secretary's desk when a new voice, smooth, honeyed, and falsely warm, intruded upon the air. "Arcturus," came the greeting. Crook nosed, blue eyed, and wrapped in the purple robes of horrid taste, Albus Dumbledore stood there, twinkle carefully rehearsed in his gaze. "I heard you were in the Ministry today. What a joyous occasion to see an old friend."
Arcturus's lips curled in disdain, his reply like venom. "I do not recall a single moment in my life where I considered you a friend, Albus."
The air thickened at once, tension coiling between them like the meeting of ancient warlords. Albus's eyes, their false mirth still twinkling, shifted, falling upon Corvus. "And who might this young man be?"
Arcturus ignored the question entirely, his silence more powerful than words. The stillness stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring. Dumbledore turned instead to the secretary, who blurted nervously, "This gentleman is Heir Black, Chief Warlock."
Both Arcturus and Corvus raised a brow in perfect unison, a ripple of shared amusement breaking through the tension. The absurdity of her flustered declaration lightened the scene, though only for a heartbeat.
"Oh, how lovely," Albus said softly, his voice cloaked in grandfatherly warmth. "Though I do not recall him from the halls of Hogwarts."
Arcturus scoffed, his temper flashing like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Why should any Black send their child to that crumbling institution?" His voice rang with steel. "He is attending to Durmstrang."
The words struck Albus like a slap across the face. He recoiled faintly, though his carefully cultivated smile never faltered. "Hogwarts is one of the finest magical schools in Europe, Arcturus," tone measured but with a note of strain.
Corvus allowed himself a quiet scoff of his own, his tone calm yet biting. "It 'was' one of the finest… two centuries ago, Grandfather. Now it is considered among the worst. Its graduates require an additional two years of education to be accepted abroad."
Arcturus barked a laugh, cold and triumphant, his silver eyes gleaming with fire. "I was having a fine day, Albus, until I saw your ugly face." He turned on his heel, cloak sweeping in a regal arc as he strode away. "Come, Corvus. We have work to do."
Corvus followed smoothly at his side, a faint smile tugging at his lips. As he walked, he activated his Replication Talent. A week had passed since his last use, and the spectral cards shimmered into existence around Albus like a constellation of power. There were more than what he had seen around Arcturus, each glowing with dangerous intensity. Among them, several burned bright orange. A rank above purple he understood. Legilimency. Magical Theory. Advanced Transfiguration and many others. Corvus's eyes lingered, yearning for all of them, but there was no time. He fixed on Legilimency, feeling the foreign knowledge press insistently against his Occlumency barriers. He held it back, halting the absorption until he was in solitude. The knowledge would wait.
Behind them, Albus's mask of kindly warmth remained intact. He turned to the secretary, voice gentle as silk, every word coated with false benevolence. "Now, my dear," he said smoothly, "be so good as to show me all the documents pertaining to Lord Black's procedure. I would like to make sure everything is in order."
The secretary blanched, fumbling with parchments under his gaze. Albus's eyes, sharp and calculating behind the half moon spectacles, scanned the papers with meticulous care. Every detail mattered to him; every piece of parchment was another thread to weave into the great tapestry of his plans.
--
Arcturus and Corvus made their way from the Ministry's corridors to the Atrium, and from there through the Floo to Diagon Alley. Their steps soon carried them to the towering marble edifice of Gringotts, the wizarding bank and the last sovereign foothold of the goblins. Goblin guards in gleaming armor flanked the entrance, their sharp eyes narrowing at every wizard who passed. Arcturus inclined his head in a grave nod of respect, and Corvus, precise in etiquette, mirrored the gesture. The guards dipped their heads in return. A rare honor.
Inside, the echo of their boots mingled with the clink of gold and the scratch of quills. A goblin in livery approached, his tone brisk. Arcturus stated, "I wish to see my account manager." The goblin nodded and bade them to follow. They passed long counters and corridors and piles of ledgers,until they reached a heavy oak door. Their guide knocked twice, then pushed it open.
Within, an older goblin rose from behind a desk of dark wood. His face bore scars, his eyes gleamed like steel, and when he smiled it was with rows of jagged fangs. Arcturus's voice warmed with genuine respect. "Tornhook, old friend. How have you been?"
The goblin's grin widened. "It is good to see you, Arcturus. Strange, though, I had been waiting for news of your funeral, not to see you smiling in my office." The two clasped forearms like warriors, a greeting of equals forged in old battles over gold and steel.
Arcturus gestured toward Corvus. "This is my heir."
Tornhook's eyes glittered as he studied the young wizard. "Come, sit, young Black."
Corvus nodded his head slightly, voice calm and respectful. "It is an honor, Master Tornhook."
The goblin's grin showed more teeth. "A good seedling. Yes, this one remembers respect. Few wizards do."
They spoke of business. The Black vaults were vast, one of the oldest fortunes in Britain. The main family vault, deep within Gringotts, contained treasures gathered across centuries. Galleons in mountains, cursed artifacts, grimoires bound in dragonhide. By right of heirship, Corvus would gain access to a personal heir vault, provisioned by transfers from the main treasury. Tornhook explained: "As Heir Black, you are entitled to a private vault. A sum of two thousand galleons will be transferred annually from the family vault to yours until such time as you inherit the Head of House. Investments tied to the family name will also yield dividends, accessible with my seal."
Corvus inclined his head, satisfied. Wealth, influence, independence. All now within his reach.
Another goblin entered the office bearing a small wooden box. Setting it on the desk, he opened it to reveal an ancient ring wrought of black metal, its crest carved with the Black family sigil. "The Heir's Ring," Tornhook said. "Place a drop of blood upon it, and Gringotts will recognize your heirship. Ministry parchment is politics. Goblin recognition is law."
Corvus took the dagger that lay next to the box and pricked his thumb without flinching. A single drop fell onto the ring, vanishing as the metal absorbed it. He turned then to Tornhook and inclined his head. "Permission to use my wand within your hall?"
The goblin's eyes flickered with approval. "Granted."
With a flick of his wrist, Corvus summoned his wand and whispered, "Episkey." The wound sealed at once. He returned the wand to its holster, every gesture deliberate, proper. Tornhook gave a sharp nod of satisfaction.
Arcturus's eyes gleamed with pride. His heir was showing the very etiquette he had fought to preserve.
Tornhook pushed the box toward Corvus. "Go on, young heir. Claim it."
Corvus looked to Arcturus, who gave a single approving nod. Sliding the ring onto his right hand ring finger, he felt it tighten and adjust itself to fit perfectly. A warmth coursed through him, heavy with magic and legacy. The rite was complete. The House of Black had its heir.
Rising, Arcturus and Corvus clasped Tornhook's arm once more, exchanging parting words of respect. As they left the bank and stepped back into the light of Diagon Alley, Corvus turned to his head of house. "I would like to purchase supplies before I return to Durmstrang tomorrow."
Arcturus inclined his head. "Very well. Be home for dinner. There is business yet to discuss."
With that, they parted, Arcturus striding back toward Grimmauld Place, and Corvus turning deeper into the Alley, the heir ring heavy and certain upon his hand.
--
He began his shopping with precision, starting at Twilfitt and Tattings for a set of immaculate new robes, their fabric heavy and tailored with aristocratic sharpness. From there he moved to procure potion ingredients, quills, parchment, and a selection of rare tomes from Flourish and Blotts, his arms soon burdened with bags and boxes, Kreacher was the savior of this unpleasent situation. His spree carried him further through Diagon Alley until, inevitably, his feet turned toward the shadowed mouth of Knockturn Alley. The air grew colder, the light dimmer, and the smell of damp stone filled his lungs as he stepped into the crooked street where dark commerce flourished. Soon, he stood before Borgin and Burkes.
Inside, the shop reeked of dust and old curses. Shelves bent under the weight of sinister trinkets, a withered hand, cursed jewelry, bloodstained tomes. Objects glinted with malevolence in the candlelight, each humming with a history of wickedness. At the far counter, Mr. Borgin raised his head, eyes glittering with greed and sly calculation.
"Welcome, young sir," Borgin said, rubbing his hands together as though polishing invisible coins. "What treasure may I show you today?"
Corvus's turquoise silver eyes fell upon the Vanishing Cabinet, standing innocently in the corner like any common wardrobe. He pointed at it with calm finality. "The Cabinet. What is your price?"
Borgin's smile widened. "Ah, an exquisite piece, steeped in fascinating history. Five hundred galleons, and worth every coin." He launched into a tale spun with false grandeur, inventing noble owners and embellishing its origins, his words slick as oil, his tone dripping with opportunism.
Corvus waited until the man had finished his performance, then spoke flatly. "Fifty galleons. If not, I shall wish you a pleasant day."
The grin faltered. Borgin declined immediatly and offered four hundred and seventy, expected a counteroffer, the usual dance of negotiation. When none came, and Corvus turned on his heel to leave, panic overcame him. "Deal!" he barked desperately as the young heir reached the door.
Corvus turned back, his smile faint and victorious. After the exchange of gold, he called softly, "Kreacher." The house elf popped into existence, bowing low. Corvus gestured to the Cabinet. "Kindly put it in my room."
"Yes, Master Corvus," Kreacher rasped, and with another crack he and the Cabinet were gone.
Mr. Borgin, recognizing the elf of the Black family, paled, his greedy satisfaction souring into the bitter taste of having been outmaneuvered. Corvus's smirk deepened as he stepped back into the sunlight of Diagon Alley. With business concluded, he treated himself to a bowl of ice cream at Florean Fortescue's, savoring the sweetness of chocolate and mint as if nothing untoward had occurred in Knockturn Alley.
His last errand took him to the Magical Menagerie. The shop brimmed with hoots, squawks, hisses, and the earthy musk of creatures kept too long in cages. As he wandered past iron bars and enchanted terrariums, his gaze fell upon a large enclosure of snakes. He leaned closer, listening, a smile curved his lips as he understand them.
The leaf viper, scales gleaming emerald, was hissing irritably at its neighbors. "Look at them, coiling and slithering like fools. That amber one.. ugh, the gall of him! 'Soup material,' I say. Chop him up, boil him down, yes, amber soup, that would fix him!" The amber bush viper across the glass hissed back angrily, but Corvus chuckled inwardly at their bickering.
After making sure no one was near enough to hear, he lowered his head, letting the serpentine syllables of Parseltongue slip from his lips. "I could do that, dear serpent, but there is another option. I could purchase you, not for soup, but as a companion. What say you?"
A ripple went through the terrarium as the other snakes lifted their heads. "A Speaker!" they hissed in unison.
The leaf viper tilted its head, tongue tasting the air. "You will not boil me into soup, Speaker? Not stew, not broth, not even a potion?"
"I will not," Corvus replied firmly, his tone carrying the weight of a vow.
The viper flicked its tongue again. "Hmm. Then perhaps we can come to an arrangement." It slithered toward the glass, bold and self assured. Corvus extended his arm into the terrarium, and the serpent coiled itself proudly around his forearm, settling with regal grace.
"I need to buy a messenger bird," Corvus hissed softly. "Will you aid me, my dear?"
The viper lifted its head haughtily. "I shall be your critic, Speaker."
Amused, Corvus inclined his head. "Very well."
Together they passed the rows of cages. At the first, the viper recoiled with theatrical disgust. "Owls. Haughty, pompous creatures. They think themselves kings of feathers. They'd write essays about themselves if given a quill. No."
Next, a falcon glared proudly from its perch. The viper hissed scornfully. "Oh, look at him, 'I am speed, I am fury, I am elegance.' He will spend more time preening in the mirror than delivering letters. No."
They came to a hawk. "Too noisy. Screeches like a banshee. Your ears will bleed before your messages arrive. No." Then a crow. "Oh no, no, no. That one would eat my tail just for sport. I can see it in his eyes. Villainous bird. No." A kestrel. "Tiny. Pathetic. What would you do, send shopping lists with him? Do not insult me, Speaker." A parrot. "Parrots? Please. You want your secrets shouted down the Alley? No." Each suggestion was dismissed with sarcastic venom, and Corvus smothered his laughter behind a polite hand.
At last, they came to a raven, its black eyes gleaming with intelligence. The viper's head tilted thoughtfully, tongue flicking. "Ah. This one I like. Clever eyes. Sharp beak, yes. The raven suits you, Speaker."
Corvus crouched before the cage, his voice soft, respectful. "I would like you to be my messenger, noble raven. Will you consent?"
The raven studied him in silence, intelligent black eyes unblinking. Then it turned to the viper. After a long, solemn pause, it dipped its head in agreement.
Corvus smiled, satisfaction warming his expression. One hand cradled the cage with the raven inside; the other bore the viper coiled contentedly around his arm, scales cool against his skin. He carried them both to the counter. As he paid for his new companions, he wondered idly how Lord Arcturus would react when he learned his heir a Parselmouth and had chosen both a serpent and a raven. The symbolism was almost poetic, shadow and fang, wisdom and venom, bound to the Black heir. With a smirk he returned to 12 Grimmauld.