--An extra chapter for Sunday. A nice weekend to all.--
Life at Durmstrang quickly settled into a rhythm for Corvus, though it was a rhythm no less demanding than that of a battlefield. Each day was carved into strict hours of study, practice, and duels of will between students and their masters. Where others struggled, Corvus thrived, his comprehension talent letting him absorb theory with frightening speed, and his replication gift filling in the fine details of skill and experience that most of his peers lacked.
His mornings often began in the potions laboratories, where Master Horatio prowled between cauldrons like a vulture. The man's sharp eyes caught even the smallest mistake, and yet, under his watch, Corvus's brews never faltered. Especially after he replicated the professor's talent, skill and experience. His classmates whispered about his precision, how he could smell when a mixture was about to curdle or judge the thickness of a potion by the swirl of its steam. Greengrass himself said little, but from time to time he tapped Corvus's notes with one long finger and murmured, "When you sit the next round of exams, Black, I expect no less than mastery."
From there, he moved to the Dark Arts, where Vinda Rosier's elegance cloaked a ruthless edge. She taught curses like an artist wielding a brush, her lessons both mesmerizing and terrifying. Under her instruction, Corvus practiced weaving multiple hexes in rapid sequence, his comprehension letting him memorize each subtle wand movement with uncanny ease, linking the movements to each other to make chains of attacks was another useful tip Professor Rosier gifted him. During one class, Rosier's cold smile curved as she disarmed a Hungarian student. "Remember this, children," she purred. "Even in victory, there is refinement. Some of you, " her gaze slid to Corvus, sharp with meaning, "are expected to demonstrate that refinement sooner than others. My expectations from one of my closest firend's heir and my distant relatives son is expectantly higher compared to others." she finished. Clearly referring to Arcturus Black and mother of the original Corvus, Selene Rosier.
Afternoons brought the Rituals course with Menkara al Zahur, the Egyptian whose presence filled the chamber like a storm. His voice was deep, resonant, each word weighted with decades of practice. Corvus absorbed his every lecture eagerly, descriptions of blood sigils, of cosmic alignments, of the delicate balance between sacrifice and reward. After class, he often lingered, daring to ask questions about the structure of ritual magic. Menkara's eyes, ageless and piercing, would fix upon him, once he said, "You file knowledge as though your mind is a library built for gods. Good. But when the time comes for your examinations, Black, knowledge will not save you. Intent and sacrifice will."
Duelling practice with Professor Soren Halvard was another trial. The broad shouldered Norwegian ran his sessions like a military campaign, hurling hexes and conjurations at students with little mercy. Many left battered and humiliated, but Corvus, with Umbra on the rafters above watching keenly, grew sharper with every exchange. Halvard's scarred face cracked into something like a smile after Corvus deflected a chain of hexes with fluid counters. "Exams will not be kind," Halvard said gruffly. "Nor will I. You raised expectations when you managed to deflect that chain. Do not fall short when tested."
Charms, taught by Professor Amelia Veyra, contrasted with the brutality of other lessons. Her style was graceful, blending practical instruction with flashes of warmth. She delighted in innovative applications, encouraging Corvus to combine charms with transfiguration to produce unique effects. She spoke softly but firmly to him after class. "In the examinations, I will ask you to show not only skill, but imagination. Do not forget that."
Outside lessons, Corvus pursued his new courses. Healing taught him diagnostics and the precise wand movements needed to stabilize wounds and injuries. A skill he practiced obsessively, knowing its potential value in battle. Care of Magical Creatures brought him face to face with beasts half the students feared to approach. Viridith, coiled about his wrist, hissed commentary that often made Corvus smirk. "Clumsy oafs, afraid of fur and claws. I would eat that kneazle whole if you wished it." Umbra, perched nearby, cawed in dry amusement. "And choke on the fur, no doubt." Hissed Corvus. Their banter often left him chuckling quietly as he stroked the serpent's scales.
In Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, Corvus's comprehension allowed him to spot connections that others missed. His parchment filled with flawless equations and rune structures, earning him wary glances from classmates and occasional comments from Professor Blackwood. "You are expected to meet the highest standard again, Black," he remarked one evening, his hawk like features sharp in the lamplight. "Do not prove my faith misplaced."
Magical Theory tied it all together. Here, Corvus's mind stretched as he traced the invisible architecture behind every spell, charm, and ritual. The subject fascinated him deeply, and more than once, he whispered to Umbra on his shoulder, "This is the key, my friend. The skeleton beneath the flesh of magic." The raven tilted its head and croaked. He noticed the shortcomings of his talents some weeks ago. Even though Replication gave him the skill, memory and experience of his target, it does not provided him with the magical reserves to perform like the person in those memories. With ten subjects it was a miracle for him to find time even to sleep. With what little time he was able to find usually he spent them with the small circle of friends he made.
The so called circle of friends was small. From Bulgaria came Viktor Draganov, a sturdy boy with a talent for dueling. From Norway, Solveig Runesdottir, sharp tongued and gifted in runes. From Poland, Marek Kowalski, who excelled in Dark Arts but feared Professor Rosier's gaze. They gathered in the evenings, discussing classes, theories, and occasionally politics, their voices echoing in Durmstrang's stone halls. Though Corvus never dropped his guard, their company provided a useful cover of normalcy.
In all things, however, the professors' expectations pressed upon him. Each encounter reminded him that his triumph in the initial examinations had raised the bar impossibly high. They did not treat him as a student, but as a candidate of the mastery class already. Corvus, with his comprehension and replication talents sharpening him daily, accepted this with quiet satisfaction. For him, the pressure was not a burden but a forge, and Durmstrang was the anvil upon which he would be hammered into something stronger than steel.
--
After another grueling day of lessons and practice, Corvus let himself sink into his bed, his magical reserves nearly empty. His strength returned each night, but the natural regeneration was no longer enough to sustain the sheer demands of his studies and training. The strain of daily duels, ritual practice, and advanced coursework had begun to stretch him thinner than he cared to admit. Several professors had quietly noted this and advised him to leave one or two subjects. Professor Menkara in particular hinted at the existence of a ritual, ancient and deceptively complex that could expand one's magical reserves, increasing them by nearly four percent for each sacrifice. The suggestion lingered like a spark in Corvus's mind. Yet he has a better way.
His thoughts drifted back to the tomes of the Great Wizard Zanet, where he had studied a wide range of ritual frameworks. Among them, one in particular tailored for his needs. The ritual though needed a little more then simply drawing runes and chanting; this rite demanded a living and more importantly virgin participant. In its original form, the energy was shared between partners, but Corvus's mind immediately calculated modifications that would allow him to take the lion's share of power. "All I need now is some willing virgins," he muttered to himself, half in sarcasm and half in contemplation, as the shadows stretched long in his dormitory chamber.
With that decision forming, he set to work in the privacy of his room. Beneath his bed, hidden from casual view, he carved and inked a ritual circle. Every rune was layered with precision, every line drawn as if cut into the stone with a scalpel. He laid protective wards across the design, weaving enchantments to keep it dormant and invisible to prying eyes. To most it was nothing more than floorboards; to him it was a waiting weapon. The sigils would lie silent until the right circumstances arose. It was, he told himself, a tool, nothing more, nothing less. Should fortune provide him with the opportunity, he would be ready to seize it.
In the days that followed, Corvus began to notice subtle shifts around him. His reputation from the examinations had already spread across the school and whispers of his talent, his composure, and his sharp wit reached every corner of Durmstrang. As he moved through lessons or crossed the courtyards, he felt eyes linger on him more often than before. Curiosity, respect, and something softer, interest were turning toward him in equal measure.
There was Anya Petrova, a sharp eyed Bulgarian witch with a biting wit who often sat near him in Runes. She had a habit of asking for his thoughts on difficult translations, even when she clearly had the answer herself. Then there was Solveig Runesdottir, already one of his acquaintances, who had grown bolder in her remarks. Her teasing came with an undercurrent of calculation, as if testing his reactions as carefully as she tested her runes. Finally, there was Isolde Kraus, a German fifth year whose calm and steady presence stood out amid the fiery competition of Durmstrang. She had taken to exchanging notes with him in Magical Theory, her comments laced with subtle compliments that left little doubt as to her intent.
Corvus responded to their attentions with the same poise he brought to his studies. Cool courtesy, precise words, and a faint, controlled smile. He was not blind to the interest directed his way, nor unwilling to proceed with those who approached. Yet he made his stance clear whenever the topic drifted toward personal matters. "I do not seek ties of the heart," he told Solveig one evening in the library, his voice low but firm. "Only practicality. I am not one for long term attachments." His tone carried no cruelty, only the cold precision of truth.
If any of them expected romance, they would be disappointed. Yet he knew allure could be useful, and admiration could be turned into opportunity. For now, Corvus kept his circle small, his intentions veiled behind his sharp gaze and sharper words. Beneath the floorboards of his chamber, the carved runes waited, silent and ready, just like him. His life at Durmstrang was a game of preparation and patience, and he intended to remain three moves ahead of everyone else.
--
After making his intentions clear, it did not take long for Anya and Solveig to cool their advances. They preferred games of romance, and Corvus had no interest in offering that. Yet Isolde Kraus responded differently. The German witch seemed almost relieved at his blunt honesty, she was not seeking entanglement either. What she desired was companionship without chains, a partnership of convenience. Corvus accepted. Together, they crossed the line into a quiet arrangement where she thought only of pleasure, while he thought also of power.
The ritual, hidden beneath his bed, came to life at the appointed moment. Isolde never knew of its presence or its purpose, but Corvus felt its effects immediately. His modifications to the sigils worked flawlessly: every drop of energy that should have been shared flowed instead into him. Where he had expected a modest increase of ten percent, he received double. His reserves swelled by a fifth in a single evening. The sensation of strength coursing through his veins was unmistakable, and he lay awake long after, calculating how often he might repeat the process.
Over the following weeks, Corvus maintained his detached, courteous charm. He began to flirt more openly with other students, always careful to remind them, sometimes with a faint smile, sometimes with cold words, that he sought nothing lasting. Many lost interest, but a few, like Isolde, preferred the simplicity of his terms. In total, he repeated the ritual eight more times, each instance feeding into his growing well of power. By the end of the month, his magical stat had risen from B- to B+, a full two rank higher. He documented this increase meticulously, regarding it not as passion, but as progress.
His other strength came from replication. Within the same span of weeks, Corvus sought out new sources of mastery. From Professor Morozova he drew upon Advanced Transfiguration, her talent layering atop his own. From Amelia Veyra he took deeper insight into Magical Theory. His dueling sharpened again under Soren Halvard's watchful eye. In Dark Arts, he sought variety: beyond Rosier's elegance, he targeted another instructor, a young prodigy named Konstantin Dragunov, whose raw and experimental style contrasted with her refinement. Dragunov's talent burned bright orange in his vision, and when absorbed, added a dangerous unpredictability to his arsenal. Lastly, in a special module on Magical Combat, he absorbed tactical knowledge that would allow him to weave entire battlefields into weapons.
In Care of Magical Creatures however, Corvus discovered something unexpected. While handling a young drake under the supervision of Professor Dahl, he felt the tug of his replication ability. Surprised, he focused, and the cards appeared, not for a human, but for the creature itself. The drake's instinctive grasp of flame and its heightened reflexes shimmered before him as if ready to be taken. He pulled back before committing, masking his expression, but inside he grinned. If this worked on a drake, it would work on other magical beasts. His thoughts leapt instantly to one in particular.
"Get ready, Fawkes," he murmured under his breath, a smile tugging at his lips. "I am going to replicate the hell out of you."