Corvus knocked once on the study door, and before he could knock again, his grandfather's voice came through. "Enter, Corvus."
Inside, Arcturus Black was already standing, silver hair bright against the dark of his robes. Corvus stepped in and nodded politely. "Grandfather. I'm home."
Arcturus crossed the room and, in a rare moment of warmth, pulled his heir into a firm hug, patting his back. "Welcome, boy. You've made me proud. You've made the House proud." Instead of retreating behind his desk, he sat across from Corvus, choosing closeness over formality. "Come, sit. Tell me, how have you been?"
"Thank you, Grandfather," Corvus said as he settled in. "I'm well. But I bring news. Before I left Durmstrang, I met with Headmaster Igor Karkaroff."
Arcturus raised an eyebrow, and Corvus explained in detail, Karkaroff's praise for his record and the warning about Dumbledore's plan to push through the ICW a law that would drag heirs back to their homelands. Corvus also told him how he had answered, pointing out that as long as he studied the Dark Arts, Durmstrang would always have a claim over him that Hogwarts could not match. After all what he had already achieved there was impossible to replicate in Britain.
Arcturus sat in thought for a moment, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair, then nodded slowly. "True enough. With the Dark Arts forbidden here, that argument holds weight. But having you here in Britain has its own uses as well. Your presence strengthens our name in ways subtle and obvious."
Corvus gave a thin smile. "To be exact, Grandfather, I'm no longer just a student. I've already graduated from all the core and some elective subjects. Karkaroff asked me to help teach Potions, Charms, and Dark Arts to the first and second years. If Dumbledore pushes this law through, I won't be a pupil returning. Only way for me to enter Hogwarts will be if I'll be an assistant professor. My exams will still be taken in Durmstrang, not Hogwarts."
Arcturus leaned back, silver eyes sharp with thought. "That gives me a way to press the point. You'll be shaping the next wave of their children, first and second years from powerful families. That will weigh heavily when I speak with their elders, for they will know their heirs have been taught by you, not by the sorry excuses of Hogwarts." He let out a low chuckle, though his face remained serious.
Corvus asked, "When does the Confederation meet, Grandfather?"
"In three weeks," Arcturus said. "I'll call on the Acolytes and reach out to the Alliance." At Corvus's questioning look, he added, "The Acolytes were our inner circle, kin and allies who keep the old ways alive. The Alliance is broader, families from the neutral and traditional camps who resist the Progressives' nonsense. Between them, we can blunt Dumbledore's push. With careful coordination, we will not stand alone."
A cough shook him then, rough and dry, lasting longer than before. Corvus frowned and leaned forward. "How is your health Grandfather?"
Arcturus gave a grim smile, waving a hand. "As fine as a relic such as myself can be. My time is not yet done, but I am no longer the man I once was."
"Well," Corvus said with a smirk, "let's see to it that this relic lasts. The House still needs you, more than ever." He raised his voice. "Kreacher."
The elf appeared with a crack, bowing low. "Master Corvus calls. Kreacher comes. What does young Master need?"
Corvus's gaze was steady. "Another collection, Kreacher. Not from the prisons this time. From the streets. Take the scum, the predators, the dealers, the corrupt. Mark them as before."
Kreacher's ears twitched, and a grin split his face. "Yes, Master Corvus. Kreacher understands. Filth shall be taken, marked, and brought to you. The city is full of vermin.. Kreacher will bring only the worst."
"Good," Corvus said, his voice calm but firm. "Do it quickly please."
The elf nodded fiercely and vanished with another loud crack. Corvus turned back to Arcturus, his expression steady. "There's a ritual, one that draws the life force from a victim into the caster. I'll use it to strengthen you, Grandfather. The House still needs you, and I won't let death take you before your time."
Arcturus studied him for a long moment, the silence heavy, then smirked faintly. "Very well. Let's see it done. Rituals were never my strong suit, and I'd like to see what you can manage. Show me what you've learned."
--
Corvus worked in silence for over an hour, chalk and wandtip gliding across the cold stone floor. To a casual eye the glyphs might have seemed meaningless scribbles, but to him they were alive, symbols that breathed with intent, each rune a cog in a greater mechanism. His comprehension talent allowed him to see not just the marks, but the entire logic beneath them. He adjusted the main circle several times, redrawing runes with exacting care before carefully adding two smaller ones: one for Arcturus to stand within, the other for himself as the conductor of the ritual. The air itself seemed to grow tense as the web of lines, arcs, and sigils spread outward, humming faintly. Some runes anchored, others drew power, others still served to transfer or stabilize. Where others would see guesswork or superstition, Corvus understood the language as clearly as if it were written in plain script.
His movements were methodical. He paused often, examining not only how one rune fed into another, but also how small adjustments could enhance the efficiency of the entire construct. He replaced an old binding rune with a sharper variant, one he had found in a text on Mesopotamian circles, and inscribed stabilizing lines between the three structures. To him, these were not mere glyphs, they were the veins and nerves of a living body, and he was the surgeon.
While he worked, the muffled sounds of angry shouting and terrified whimpers carried from the side chamber where Kreacher had stacked the cages. The noise rose and fell like the buzzing of flies. A curse here, a sob there, the scrape of iron bars. Corvus ignored it all until the last line of chalk was finished and sealed with a pulse of magic from his wand. Only then did he straighten, dusting his hands and exhaling slowly. He turned to Arcturus, voice steady, controlled. "Grandfather." With a polite gesture, he indicated the side chamber. Together, the two Blacks entered.
Seven muggles crouched behind iron bars, eyes wide with panic, the stink of fear filling the air. Three of them bore crude red X marks scrawled on their foreheads, Kreacher's method of separating the most vile. Corvus summoned the elf forward with a nod. "Well done, Kreacher. You've served the House faithfully once again."
Kreacher puffed up with pride, bowing so low his nose brushed the floor. "Yes, Master Corvus. Kreacher finds the filth, Kreacher marks the filth, Kreacher brings the filth."
"You have done well," Corvus said evenly. "That will be all for now. Rest, you have earned it." With a loud crack, the elf vanished.
One of the marked, a burly man with broken teeth. Rage blazed in his eyes as he spat, his voice thick with a foreign accent. "Hey, pretty boy! Open this door, and I'll show you why you just made the biggest mistake of your life." His words echoed through the chamber, dripping arrogance and hate.
Arcturus arched an eyebrow at such idiocy. His lips twitched into the faintest smirk as he turned toward his heir, making no move to intervene. This, clearly, was a test.
Corvus regarded the man with an expression of detached calm, as though the brute were no more than a noisy animal. With a flick of his wand, the cage door creaked open. The man charged out, fists raised, a snarl twisting his face. Corvus's wand barely lifted. His voice, quiet as a breath, carried across the room: "Crucio."
The reaction was instant. The man collapsed to the floor, his scream tearing through the stone walls, shrill and broken. His body writhed, twisting violently, every muscle spasming as if aflame. Corvus's wrist moved with subtle precision, deepening the agony, stretching the suffering like a craftsman tuning an instrument. The screams rose to fresh heights until they rasped into hoarse sobs.
Arcturus's silver eyes narrowed, not in disapproval but in appraisal. He watched closely, noting how his heir's face remained utterly still. No sadistic joy like Bellatrix, no hesitation like weaker kin. Corvus was in control. He wielded pain not as entertainment, but as a tool. The curse served him, he did not serve it.
At last, Corvus lowered his wand. The man slumped to the floor, sobbing and twitching violently, broken in body and spirit. Corvus turned calmly back to the cages, his tone deceptively gentle. "Any other brave soul care to speak?"
The response was silence. Only frantic headshakes and muffled cries came from the remaining prisoners. None dared open their mouths.
Corvus gave a slight nod, satisfied. He turned to his grandfather. "Grandfather, the Cruciatus Curse shatters the soul. That diminishes the strength a ritual can draw. Better he serve as an example." With a flick of his wand, the ruined man rose into the air, jerking like a puppet dangling from unseen strings, and drifted toward the waiting circle.
Arcturus regarded him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Efficient. Ruthless. You waste no effort on mercy." His voice carried no censure, only recognition. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You are not only of Black blood, Corvus. You are worthy of it."
--
Corvus positioned Arcturus within the second circle and stepped into his own, wand raised. The burly man floated into the main array, twitching and sobbing. Corvus's voice rang out, low and steady: "Potentiam, tuam accipio, ut mihi."
The runes flared crimson, light spilling like blood across the chamber walls. The man's scream ripped through the air as his body convulsed violently, veins bulging, skin tightening before collapsing inward. Flesh withered in seconds, bones cracked and splintered with sickening pops, and then dissolved into fine dust. His eyes rolled back, the mouth stretched wide in a frozen mask of agony before the entire body crumbled to ash. The energy of his existence surged outward, racing along the glowing runes, pouring into Arcturus's circle. The old patriarch stiffened, jaw tightening as the current tore into his frame.
The second victim was dragged forward, shrieking until his voice broke. The incantation rolled again from Corvus's tongue, and the man's body followed the same grisly path, skin shriveling, muscles snapping, bones disintegrating, his essence ripped apart strand by strand. When he was gone, nothing remained but a faint black smear on the stone. The crimson glow deepened further, and Arcturus's breathing quickened, his chest rising with new vigor.
On the third sacrifice, the transformation became visible. As the victim dissolved screaming into dust, the runes shifted from crimson to an ominous golden hue. Arcturus's gnarled hands smoothed, the deep creases of age fading. His knuckles unbent, fingers more supple, the skin pulling tighter with fresh strength. Corvus noted every detail, eyes coldly precise, cataloguing each effect.
By the fourth, Arcturus gasped aloud. He could feel it, his bones, brittle for decades, were reforging beneath his skin. His posture straightened, shoulders squaring, the familiar ache in his joints fading into silence. He flexed his arms experimentally, eyes widening as vitality poured into his marrow. "I can feel it," he muttered under his breath, awe creeping into his voice.
The fifth victim gave him steadiness. His breath no longer rattled in his lungs; his voice carried firmness again. On the sixth, a fierce gleam returned to his silver eyes, one long absent. The sharp clarity of youth shimmered in his gaze, a reminder of battlefields long past. He clenched his fists and felt strength answer.
Then came the seventh. The circle burned white hot, molten gold arcing across every rune. The victim dissolved in a crescendo of shrieks that shook the chamber. Ash swirled, glowing embers of life's remains scattering like sparks. When the glow dimmed and the dust settled, Arcturus stood taller than he had in decades. His breathing was deep and steady, his frame filled with renewed energy. He had not become young again, but the ravages of age had been carved away. His back was straighter, his face less drawn, his hands steady and strong. He felt at least twenty years younger, his body remade by the ritual's hunger.
Corvus lowered his wand slowly. The runes dimmed to nothing, the chamber heavy with the scent of charred dust and echoes of screams. With a single flick, he vanished the mounds of ash, sweeping the floor clean as if nothing had occurred. The silence that followed was absolute, the weight of what they had done sinking into the stone itself.
Arcturus looked down at his hands, flexing them again and again, marveling at their steadiness. He turned to Corvus, eyes wide with something rare, genuine amazement. "By the shadows of our House… it is real. The weakness is gone. I can feel it in my bones, in my blood." He straightened, testing his spine, no tremor in his movement. "I had not thought it possible. Yet here I stand, renewed. Twenty years… perhaps more."
His gaze sharpened, fixing on his heir with fierce pride. "Corvus, what you have wrought here is power, true and undeniable. You have given the House of Black a gift beyond measure." For a moment his voice cracked, and he added quietly, "I only wish Melania could see this. She would have marveled."
He stood silent, caught between loss and triumph, as the chamber still hummed faintly with the echoes of stolen life.