Corvus woke early, the pale light of dawn creeping through the frost on the windows, painting them with pale silver patterns. After a light breakfast, he bid a formal farewell to Arcturus, who clasped his arm firmly in approval. With that blessing lingering, he stepped into the Floo to travel to the British Ministry of Magic. From there, he navigated the bustling halls until reaching the Department of Magical Transportation, where a grim faced clerk provided him with a portkey to the German Ministry of Magic. In a whirl of color and force, he landed with precision upon immaculate, polished stone floors.
At once, the difference struck him. Where the British Ministry resembled a hive of chaos, flying memos darting overhead, papers plucked by idle hands, Aurors and clerks milling like confused children, the German Ministry exuded discipline. The corridors gleamed, carved from flawless granite, their wards perfectly layered and humming faintly in the air. No enchanted paper dared fly unbidden, every message locked into enchanted courier channels. Officials moved with crisp purpose, uniforms impeccable, their conduct sharp and martial. Here, Corvus thought, was governance worthy of respect. In Britain, cracks yawned wide in every foundation, the building itself a monument to inefficiency. It would be easier to raze it all to ash and rebuild than to waste time patching the broken edifice.
After presenting himself at the contact office of Durmstrang Institute, he was issued a portkey to be activated within two minutes. As he waited, his mind drifted back to the contrast between the Ministries. The British system looked like something cobbled together by amateurs, riddled with illogical and inconsistent designs, almost deliberate to waste energy. The German system was efficient, precise, and utterly unyielding. It was the difference between a crumbling house and a fortress designed to last centuries. That, Corvus mused, explained why Britain staggered from crisis to crisis, while continental wizardry retained its strength.
The portkey activated with a snap and once again the magic squeezed him through unseen tunnels before spitting him out into a different place entirely. He inhaled sharply as the cold struck his lungs. Before him stretched the stark majesty of the far north. mountains crowned with white peaks rose like jagged spears against the pale sky, frozen lakes stretched vast and gleaming like shards of broken glass, and forests of black pine groaned under the burden of snow. The road beneath his boots was paved with black stone, each slab etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, glowing to mark the safe path toward the looming fortress of Durmstrang Institute.
The castle itself rose vast and severe, towers of dark stone jagged against the wintry sky. Its walls bore the scars of centuries of storms and battles, each crack and mark left unpolished as testimony to its endurance. Durmstrang was not built for comfort or charm; it was a place designed to inspire respect, even fear. At the great iron gates, a gatekeeper sat within a hut carved from the same stone. The man slid aside a thick glass panel and fixed Corvus with sharp, assessing eyes. In fluent German, Corvus gave his name and year. The gatekeeper noted it with a scratch of quill upon heavy parchment, then shut the glass without another word. It was simple, unadorned, and efficient, Durmstrang's way in all things.
He moved steadily into the fortress. His first destination was his dormitory chamber on the third floor of the student wing. He withdrew his trunk, shrunk neatly to fit in his pocket, and restored it to full size at the foot of his bed. Umbra's perch he placed by the frost-lined window, and Viridith he settled into an enchanted terrarium lined with warming charms. Then, with swift and silent precision, he layered protective runes and charms across the door and walls. Alarms to warn of intruders, barriers to repel trespassers, and silencing wards to guard his secrets. Privacy was sacred here, and none would intrude on his sanctum as security of his room was his own responsibility.
His preparations complete, Corvus strode to the Office of Student Affairs. There, with calm precision, he submitted his request to sit for examinations in all ten of his subjects up to the seventh year. The officer behind the desk, a stern witch with steel blue eyes and hair bound tightly in a knot, lifted her gaze in open disbelief. "At most, five subjects may be tested in any cycle," she said curtly. "After three months, you may reapply for another five. Choose wisely." She slid a parchment form across the desk with brisk efficiency.
Corvus nodded without complaint, his quill scratching swiftly as he selected all his subjects on the fourth year curriculum. Herbology, Transfiguration, Astronomy, Runes, Battle Transfiguration and Charms. He declared he would sit not only for the fourth year of each, but also the fifth, sixth, and seventh year curriculum as well. Twenty examinations in total, divided between written theory and practical trial. His hand was steady as he signed.
Durmstrang's system was merciless yet clear. Advancement was earned, never granted by age or entitlement. Students could attempt higher level exams at will, but to pass required excellence before a the professors. One was tested for precision, creativity, and pushed to the very brink of failure. Success meant immediate advancement, regardless of age or year. Failure meant repeating the coursework until perfection was attained, with no excuses tolerated. Only by passing through this gauntlet did a student earn access to the Mastery courses, where knowledge was not merely learned but reforged, every assumption broken down and rebuilt under fire. It was not a system designed for fairness, but for the cultivation of the exceptional.
The officer stamped his form with a hard press of the seal, her eyes narrowing as they lingered on him with wary curiosity. "Your examinations begin tomorrow morning. They will span three days. You will sit for written and practical trials. Report at dawn."
Corvus inclined his head, the faintest smile touching his lips. Here, unlike in Britain, mediocrity found no shelter, no excuse, no shield. Here, he thought, he would thrive and rise higher than any expected.
--
The next morning dawned cold and merciless. Snow fell lightly over the northern mountains as Corvus, dressed in Durmstrang's black and crimson uniform, strode toward the great examination hall. The structure itself seemed to embody the Institute's philosophy, vast, severe, and unforgiving. The chamber was cavernous, lit by enchanted torches that cast hard shadows across the stone walls. Banners of Durmstrang's ancient houses and traditions hung heavy from the rafters. Long tables were lined with stacks of parchment, measuring instruments, enchanted apparatus, and the stern eyes of professors awaiting the ambitious few bold enough to test beyond their assigned year.
The first subject was Astronomy, overseen by Professor Elzbieta Nowak, a stern Polish witch with silver hair drawn into a tight knot. She was infamous for her cold standards and her habit of humiliating unprepared students. The theory exam required candidates to draw starmaps from historical dates, such as the founding of Rome, the fall of Byzantium, and the coronation of Charlemagne and explain how planetary alignments had influenced major rituals of the time. Corvus filled page after page with crisp, methodical accuracy, weaving together logical connections between celestial movements and magical potency. He noted how eclipses amplified sacrificial rites, how planetary conjunctions had influenced wards laid across the Rhine in the 12th century, and how comets were long considered omens thinning the veil between realms. For the practical exam, Nowak led them to the tower observatory, where frost rimed the glass dome. Corvus identified constellations with ease, calculating their current influence on arithmantic equations and ritual balances. He did this for each year's curriculum. When he spoke of the Corvus constellation and its geometry enhancing necromantic rites on seventh year exam, the professor's expression flickered with interest. A rare concession of respect.
The second subject was Herbology, judged by Professor Henrik Dahl, a tall, lean Norwegian wizard whose soil stained hands betrayed a lifetime in the greenhouses. His reputation was one of merciless rigor. Students often left his classes with bandaged fingers or poisoned pride. The theory demanded comparative essays on European versus Siberian magical flora and their application in warding. Corvus's responses were precise, highlighting the resilience of Russian fireweed against flame hexes, the blood thickening effects of Norwegian ironroot in duels, and the ritual properties of Transylvanian bloodthorn. For the practical, he was led into the greenhouse complex carved into the cliffs. There, frost hardened plants hissed and snapped as Dahl demanded identification by sight, scent, and magical resonance. Corvus moved steadily through the test, identifying over a dozen species, from Screaming Mandrakes to frost nettles. He demonstrated deft handling of Venomous Tentacula, he brewed a frost nettle infusion with calm ease for the seventh year practical. Dahl, notorious for scowls, granted a grudging nod.
The third subject was Runes, under Professor Tiberius Blackwood, an expatriate Briton whose hawk like features and clipped voice unnerved many. He demanded precision and artistry in equal measure. The theory section presented a ward stone inscribed with a labyrinth of Nordic and Slavic runes intertwined. Candidates were tasked to decode not only their literal meaning but the layered magical structure within. Corvus analyzed their symbiosis in flowing script: how the Isa rune of stillness amplified Algiz's protective field, how Sowilo's solar force turned wards destructive, and how Kenaz's illumination gave clarity to Algiz's shield. The practical required carving a functional rune arrays into raw stones. The last one designed to trap and repel elemental fire. Corvus's chiseling was exact. When Blackwood released a conjured inferno against it, the ward flared bright and deflected the flames cleanly. The professor's eyes, sharp and skeptical, softened just enough to betray satisfaction.
The fourth subject was Transfiguration, under Professor Yelena Morozova, a statuesque Russian witch with a voice like iron bells. She was known for breaking fragile egos with ruthless candor. The theory included mass conversion. Why certain ratios allowed larger objects to transform without collapse, and how willpower stabilized such transformations. Corvus's essay demonstrated an intricate grasp of conservation principles merged with magical will, even referencing obscure theories from Durmstrang's founding masters. The practicals was grueling, transforming a goblet into a falcon, then a boulder into a horse, and finally shifting one transfigured object into another unrelated form while preserving structural stability. Corvus performed each step with calm precision. His goblet falcon cawed and beat its wings before reverting seamlessly. Morozova's stern features softened into the faintest approving nod, a rare prize from her.
Last came Battle Transfiguration and Charms, the most dreaded of all, overseen by Professor István Varga, a Hungarian wizard scarred from countless duels. His reputation as both merciless teacher and undefeated duelist cast a shadow across the hall. The theory exam required deep strategic thinking. How to manipulate terrain mid battle, bind charms into temporary constructs, and unravel an opponent's woven wards. Corvus laid out diagrams and explanations with ruthless logic, detailing how collapsing walls into rubble could be reshaped into barriers, or how serpentine constructs could be countered by unraveling their charm matrix at the base. The practical was brutal. Varga conjured a storm of attacks. Starting from fourth year up to seventh. Boulders crashing down, walls of fire rushing forward, ropes of cursed energy lashing at his limbs. Corvus adapted without hesitation. He turned stone into sand that smothered fire, reshaped bindings into serpents that struck at their caster, layered charms over transfigured shields until they absorbed curses and hurled them back with force enough to stagger Varga. The duel ended with Corvus's shield reflecting the professor's disarming curse, wand flying from the scarred man's grip. Varga retrieved it with a grin edged in approval. "Not bad, boy. Not bad at all."
By the end of the third day, Corvus had endured twenty examinations, five subjects, each tested through four years of curriculum, both theory and practice. His quills were blunted, his wand hand ached, and his body felt the toll of ceaseless exertion. Yet he had not faltered once. Professors spoke in murmurs of the boy who advanced like a seasoned scholar, whispers spreading that the Black heir might become the youngest in living memory to step into the hallowed Mastery courses. Even the most skeptical had been forced to concede: Corvus Black had not only met Durmstrang's standards, he had surpassed them, and the Institute would remember his name.
--
When the examinations were finished and the dust had settled, Corvus found himself narrowed to his five core subjects, Potions, Dark Arts, Rituals, Dueling, and Charms. Yet he also knew the luxury of time was his ally. Three months stretched ahead before the next cycle of examinations, giving him twelve opportunities to replicate the skills and talents of others. Also to enroll on new classes now he has the time. He intended to use each chance to its fullest.
Now that he has the time, Corvus took advantage of the situation to enroll in new subjects. Healing, Apparition, Care of Magical Creatures, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Magical Theory. Apparition, he learned, was not a full course but a short module of four intensive lessons, granting a license only if mastery was proven; otherwise, students could repeat the training the following month. Healing offered rigorous practice in diagnostic charms and stabilisation rituals, while Care of Magical Creatures honed practical knowledge of magical beasts in harsh environments. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes built upon his earlier interests, layering complex formulae and symbol work into his growing arsenal. And Magical Theory provided the scaffolding behind all spellcraft, the intellectual architecture upon which every incantation rested. Each of these, he resolved, would strengthen the breadth of his education and serve his greater ambitions.
Returning to his replications, he first set his gaze upon Potions, taught by Master Horatio Greengrass, an austere man with ink stained fingers and a reputation for brewing antidotes so refined that even the German Ministry relied on them during the last dragon pox plague. Greengrass was patient, meticulous, and utterly unforgiving of error. When Corvus's Replication Talent absorbed his expertise, he felt a flood of measurements, instincts, and a thousand subtle lessons pour into him, from the scent of perfect potions to the faint shimmer of unstable brews.
For Dark Arts, his teacher was none other than Vinda Rosier, elegant and ruthless, once the most trusted lieutenant of Gellert Grindelwald himself. Her lectures carried the weight of history, each spell sharpened like a dagger, each curse wielded with theatrical precision. To learn from her was to sip poison and call it wine. When Corvus replicated her talent, he felt her decades of cunning flow into him. The elegance of lethal precision, the artistry of cruelty cloaked in silk.
The professor of Rituals was the infamous Egyptian sorcerer Menkara al Zahur, whispered of in both awe and dread. Declared persona non grata in half the wizarding world for his reckless and ruthless attempts to recreate the fabled Philosopher's Stone, Menkara was said to be well over three centuries old. Whether he had succeeded in his quest was a matter of speculation, but the timeless gleam in his eyes told its own tale. His presence in Durmstrang was both scandal and glory, and when Corvus copied his talent, the sheer depth of ritual theory, balance, and sacrifice settled into his mind like molten gold.
The Dueling Master was Professor Soren Halvard, a broad shouldered Norwegian whose name was whispered with reverence. A champion of the Northern and Southern Circuits multiple times, he had defeated twenty opponents in a single day during the War of the Troll Marches. His scars were maps of survival, and his style was ruthless efficiency. Replicating Halvard's expertise was like drinking fire. Every stance, every feint, every calculated risk filed itself into Corvus's mind with crystalline clarity.
Lastly, Charms was taught by Professor Amelia Veyra, a witch of Spanish origin whose ancestors had fled the Inquisition's last sparks and built a new life in the north. Her charms were said to have saved entire villages from famine and plague. Her teaching blended warmth with precision, though her spells carried power enough to rival any duelist's curse. Replicating her talents left Corvus with a vast repertoire of delicate control and innovative applications, from weaving household charms with elegance to bending combat charms into devastating new shapes.
It was during these absorptions that Corvus made a startling discovery. The colors that represented the strength of talents shifted before his eyes: white for simple, green for competent, blue for advanced, purple for mastery, orange for the highest peaks. But above orange shimmered a new hue: gold. He first encountered it with Menkara al-Zahur's Rituals, Soren Halvard's Dueling, and Vida Rosier's Dark Arts. Gold did not simply represent skill, it radiated the weight of legends, a level of mastery that reshaped the world around it. Corvus smiled to himself as he filed this revelation away. These were not merely teachers. They were monuments of power. And now, through his gift, their monuments were becoming his foundation.