Albus Dumbledore was many things, but surrender was not in his nature. His first plan to use the Wizengamot to tie down the Black heir had collapsed before it even began, but Albus was too seasoned a strategist to waste time mourning a lost scheme. He simply shifted to the next move. If he could not bind Corvus Black through domestic law, then he would attempt it on the international stage. His new arena was the International Confederation of Wizards (ICW), the oldest and most influential magical council in existence, where decisions reached beyond borders and reputations were either secured or destroyed.
The ICW was not a casual meeting of officials. Every wizarding government, from small enclaves hidden in mountain valleys to vast powers like Germany, Russia, China or the United States, has a representative. In some countries, the Minister of Magic or Chief Warlock filled the role, while in others a career diplomat or trusted ambassador was chosen. Collectively, these representatives formed a parliament of united nations of the magical world, and their votes carried the weight of treaties, trade, and even war. The Supreme Mugwump presided over them all, guiding debate, deciding order, and serving as the symbolic voice of the Confederation. That title currently belonged to Dumbledore, giving him more than ceremonial authority. It allowed him to frame issues, steer conversations, and apply subtle pressure on those who hesitated.
His new plan was already taking shape. With carefully written letters, discreet Floo conversations, and whispered promises offered in private chambers, Albus worked tirelessly to secure allies across Europe and beyond. Babajide Akingbade, the respected leader of the African Wizarding Union, had already agreed to propose the law on his behalf. The legislation would require the heirs of all noble magical families to complete their education in their native countries. To the untrained eye, it looked like a defense of culture and tradition. In truth, Dumbledore intended it as a chain, one that would drag Corvus Black from Durmstrang back to Britain, forcing him into the halls of Hogwarts where Dumbledore's influence was strongest. France, Spain, and Italy had already pledged support, citing national pride and unity as justification. Albus knew that if the measure succeeded, his problem would be solved without lifting a wand.
But success was far from guaranteed. The northern and eastern Europa's representatives Russia, Germany, Bulgaria, Poland, and the Scandinavian states chief among them stood firmly against him. They cherished tradition and independence, rejecting the idea that an international body could dictate how they raised or trained their youth. To them, Durmstrang was not a brutal relic but a shining beacon of discipline and strength. They defended its reputation fiercely, and they distrusted Dumbledore's polished speeches about equality and unity. To their ears, his words were veiled threats, a push for Progressive influence to spread like vines through their ancient institutions. Each meeting with them grew more tense, their smiles sharp, their courtesy brittle.
Meanwhile, pressure was building within Britain itself. The Daily Prophet's harsh reports about Hogwarts' slipping standards had unsettled the public, and Cornelius Fudge, ever the coward and opportunist panicked at the growing criticism. For Fudge, lying to the public was second nature after getting bribes, but this storm demanded more than empty words. He needed action, or at least the appearance of it. Thus he leaned heavily on Dumbledore, demanding swift results that the Ministry could parade as proof of competence. The Department of Magical Education added its own voice, desperate to salvage its crumbling reputation. To them, Durmstrang's triumphs were a humiliation; Hogwarts' failures were a national scandal.
Dumbledore, however, believed the path forward remained open. Western Europe was aligned with him. France had committed, and Spain and Italy followed suit. Smaller nations, those without the resources to stand alone often voted with whichever side promised protection, prestige, or trade. If he gathered enough of these minor voices, the balance would tilt in his favor. He imagined the vote already, a majority raising their hands in support, the parchment signed, the law sealed. He saw the boy, Corvus Black, wrenched from the iron discipline of Durmstrang and deposited within Hogwarts' walls, where Albus could watch him, mold him, and ultimately control him.
In Dumbledore's mind, this was never about one promising young wizard. It was about the future balance of power in the wizarding world. Allowing Corvus Black to grow unchecked in Durmstrang's halls, armed with foreign ideas and traditional strength, risked birthing a rival that even he might not be able to contain. For Dumbledore, every move was part of a larger game. And in this game, no rival, no matter how gifted, ambitious, or dangerous could not be allowed to rise beyond his reach.
--
While Dumbledore was scheming at the international level, Corvus and the rest of the Durmstrang students were busy preparing to leave for the Spring Equinox. Like the Summer Solstice, this was far more than a break from classes. It was one of the central festivals of the wizarding calendar, a reminder of old customs that had resisted centuries of Muggle influence. For those who still valued the traditional ways, the equinox was both sacred and symbolic, a moment of balance and renewal that tied their identity directly to magic itself. Students whispered to one another in the halls about family gatherings, rituals, and celebrations that awaited them, while banners depicting ancient runes and constellations fluttered in the cold spring winds that blew in from the mountains.
At the main atrium, the staff distributed Portkeys to each student. Small objects, brooches, bits of carved wood, even plain spoons were handed out, each attuned to carry its bearer home. When Corvus reached the front of the line, the clerk hesitated, his eyes flicking to a sealed note on the desk. "Heir Black," he said formally, "Headmaster Karkaroff requests that you meet him before you depart." The words drew curious looks from a few nearby students, though no one dared to voice a question. Corvus inclined his head with quiet composure and walked directly toward the headmaster's office.
The heavy wooden doors loomed tall before him. He knocked twice, sharp against the silence. From within came Igor Karkaroff's smooth, sharp voice, "Enter." Corvus stepped inside, his posture straight, and gave a respectful nod. "Headmaster," he greeted evenly.
Karkaroff set aside the parchment he had been reviewing and rose, his tall frame draped in dark, fur lined robes. His pale hands spread in a gesture of welcome, though his sharp eyes never lost their calculating gleam.
"Allow me to congratulate you, Heir Black. Your performance has been remarkable. In only three years, you have achieved what most require seven to complete. By every standard, you have already graduated from Durmstrang's primary program. As you now continue with mastery studies in Potions, Charms, and the Dark Arts, I would ask that you also assist our professors with instruction. The first and second year students would benefit from your guidance, and such a role will enhance your reputation both within these halls and beyond."
He paused, leaning slightly forward, and his voice shifted from warm praise to cold politics. "There is, however, a matter that must be addressed. Rumors reach us that Albus Dumbledore is pressing the International Confederation of Wizards for a law that would compel heirs to return to their homelands for schooling. His intentions are transparent. He wishes you in Britain, and more importantly, under his control."
Corvus's expression hardened into a thin smile. "That does not surprise me, Headmaster. Dumbledore's ambitions are no secret. His reputation, and that of Hogwarts, wanes with every passing month. The Ministry's Department of Education flounders. Their desperation explains his maneuvering. But even if such a law passed, how would my studies continue in Britain? The Dark Arts are forbidden there. At best, they could drag me back, but my true education, my mastery remains here at Durmstrang. I cannot imagine you, nor this fine institution, allowing our achievements to be handed over as credit to a manipulator who postures as Hogwarts' guardian. My grandfather, Lord Black, often calls him a crook nosed schemer. I find the description accurate."
Karkaroff's lips curved into a smile, equal parts sinister and amused. "A fair assessment. Durmstrang's honor will not be stolen for another's political vanity. Your progress is our triumph as much as it is your own. If foreign powers attempt to interfere, they will find us less malleable than they expect. Dumbledore may carry titles, but we carry pride and tradition."
With a deliberate movement, he opened a drawer and withdrew a slender black quill. A flick of his wand transfigured it into a Portkey, gleaming faintly. He scribbled an activation phrase onto a folded slip of parchment and pressed both items into Corvus's hand. "Here is your Portkey for the equinox Heir Black. Speak the phrase, and you will arrive safely to your Ministry. And know this, I will make certain that my fellow representatives abroad are reminded that a young and promising mind must not be torn from his rightful education simply to satisfy the vanity of others."
Corvus bowed his head with dignified respect. "Your assurance honors me, Headmaster. I will remember it." He turned, his robes brushing the stone floor, and left the office. The corridors hummed with students preparing to depart, their laughter and voices echoing. At the great entrance of the castle, he unfolded the slip of parchment and read the word written upon it in Karkaroff's handwrite: Durmstrang.
--
As Corvus stepped into the Ministry of Magic in London, he steadied himself, adjusting his uniform as he moved away from the crowded landing zone where international Portkeys arrived in steady flashes of light. The air smelled faintly of parchment and soot, and enchanted notices glowed along the walls. A Ministry clerk hurried forward, quill poised. Corvus inclined his head with calm dignity and announced in a clear tone: "Corvus Black, heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."
The clerk blinked, startled, then quickly extended a hand. "Welcome, Heir. Black," he said, shaking firmly. "And congratulations on your success. The Prophet has written of it in detail. You are the pride of our nation." His voice held the forced cheer of a civil servant repeating words expected of him.
"Of course," Corvus replied smoothly, though inwardly he dismissed the praise. Pride of the nation meant little while Dumbledore still had his talons sunk deep into the Ministry and the public mind. He let none of his cynicism show, only a faintly polite smile as he passed.
He strode through the Atrium with quiet authority, boots echoing across the polished floor. Statues of wizarding heroes loomed around him, their golden wands lifted high, but to Corvus they looked like hollow symbols. Reaching the apparition point, he twisted into motion and disappeared in a whirl of black and crimson, reappearing a moment later within the protective wards of Grimmauld Place. The air here was cooler, quieter, heavy with history. He ascended swiftly to his room, where he set Umbra's perch by the window, placed Viridith carefully in his enchanted terrarium, and arranged his trunk neatly at the foot of his bed. He did not bother to change out of his Durmstrang uniform. Instead, with deliberate calm, he summoned Kreacher with a measured call.
The elf appeared with a loud crack, bowing low, his bat like ears twitching. "Master Corvus has returned," Kreacher croaked, his voice caught between suspicion and warmth, a strange mixture of bitterness and new loyalty.
"Thank you, Kreacher," Corvus quipped, his tone steady but warm. "It is always good to see a friendly face."
The elf blinked once, twice, his large eyes growing wider. "Master Corvus… considers Kreacher a friend?" he asked in a high, wavering tone, as though the very idea was too great a gift to believe.
"Of course," Corvus replied without hesitation, reaching down to pat the elf gently on the head. "You are, and always will be."
Kreacher's eyes grew wet, tears trembling as he straightened, his expression caught between shock and devotion. He bobbed his head rapidly, muttering half under his breath, "Good Master… kind Master Corvus… true son of the Noble House…"
Corvus asked quietly, "Is Lord Black available to receive me?"
Kreacher snapped upright, his posture stiff with renewed purpose, and gave a sharp nod. With another crack, he vanished, only to reappear a moments later, bowing low once more. "Come, Master Corvus. The old Master waits."
Corvus inclined his head in acknowledgement, then gathered Umbra and Viridith, and left his chamber. As he walked the dim corridors toward the study, the house's ancient portraits stirred faintly, their eyes following him with whispers of curiosity and approval.