The ritual ended as the gathered witches and wizards planted their chosen seeds in the Greengrass garden, pouring the remaining blood of the sacrificed hares and the blessed spring water into the soil. The mingling of life and death bound the rite, and soft incantations marked the closing. When it was done, the mood was lighter. Most of the guests departed with pleasant smiles and quiet conversations, the ritual reminding all present of balance and renewal. Arcturus and Corvus stayed a little longer conversing with the prominent figures of known families. Mostly patriarchs or heirs of side branches, yet it was important for Corvus as this was the very first entry he made to the high society.
The days that followed were far less ceremonial for Arcturus. He moved swiftly, contacting the Acolytes and discreetly reaching out to members of the Alliance. Messages were sent through owls bearing seals long forgotten by the public but remembered by the old families. Meetings were arranged in dim lit chambers and private parlors where words carried more weight than laws. Arcturus pressed the urgency of the upcoming ICW session, reminding allies that Dumbledore's legislation would set a precedent too dangerous to ignore. He offered reassurances, favors, and invoked the shared duty of preserving tradition. In some quarters, his reputation and newfound vigor did most of the convincing. Veterans of Grindelwald's war still remembered him as one of the Generals. By the end of the week, his influence had tilted several undecided votes. The Acolytes whispered of his return to strength, and the Alliance murmured that House Black might yet stand as the standard bearer of wizard supremacy.
Corvus, meanwhile, spent his days in Grimmauld Place buried in the Black Library. His research was consumed with the question of animagi transformation. He was not satisfied with the prospect of taking only a single form. Instead, he hunted for fragments of lore that hinted at greater possibilities. Among dusty tomes and brittle scrolls, he uncovered mentions of a ritual practiced by Native American shamans, one that allowed the gifted to assume multiple forms. Unfortunately, the book he found contained only vague references and lacked the specific incantations or the structures of runic circles required. Frustrated but determined, he resolved to consult professor Menkara Al Zahur at Durmstrang. The old Egyptian's knowledge was vast, and Corvus was certain he would know more.
When not studying, he made excursions to Diagon and Knockturn Alleys, quietly searching for talents worth replicating. Shopkeepers and patrons alike were measured with careful eyes, yet none held a Purple Card let alone an Orange or Gold. He especially stayed away from Garrick Ollivander as he was suspecting the old wandmaker to be one of Dumbledore's spies in the alley. He returned empty handed each time, more convinced than ever that true power would not be found in merchants or back alley characters of Wizarding Britain.
The holiday soon ended, and with it, Corvus prepared to return to Durmstrang. Yet his return this time was different. As a gratudate he no longer has a dormitory on the student's wing of the castle. Instead, he was led to the professors' wing, his quarters now those of a scholar and instructor. His new rooms had been expanded with extension charms, turning what might have been a modest chamber into a comfortable flat. As he unpacked his belongings, Umbra perched near the window and Viridith coiled lazily in his terrarium, Corvus allowed himself a small smile. The space was his own, a fitting symbol of his progress.
The following morning, he was summoned by the Professors Rosier, Veyra and Greengrass. They presented him with his schedule for assisting with the first and second year classes. Corvus accepted it with measured courtesy, his mind already turning toward the dual role he now carried, student of mastery and teacher of the next generation.
--
Corvus's first assignment was with the first year class in Dark Arts. When he entered the classroom, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The students quieted as if a spell had been cast, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of respect, curiosity, and no small amount of awe. His reputation had already reached their ears. The youngest in Durmstrang's history to complete the entire curriculum and step directly into mastery studies. Even those known for rebellion or arrogance held their tongues, sitting straighter as his gaze swept across the room.
He wasted no time. Instead of introductions he started to lecture. "Discipline," he began, his tone sharp yet controlled, "is the foundation of this subject. Without it, the Dark Arts will consume you, not empower you." His words struck like iron, leaving no room for doubt. From the very first moment, he set the standard. Proper posture, silence when he spoke, wands held and moved with precision. Not one dared to test his patience, sensing that the heir of House Black would not tolerate laxity.
As the lesson progressed, Corvus gave them insights that no book could capture. He explained the true nature of curses, not merely their incantations, but how intent gave them weight, how malice sharpened their edge. How Occlumeny can help not only with control of the emotions required to cast the most simple of dark curses but the after effects as well. He demonstrated the delicate balance between willpower and magical current, pointing out that even the strongest curse collapses if the caster wavers. "Control," he said, pacing slowly, his silver turquoise eyes flashing, "is the difference between mastery and ruin. You will learn control, or you will learn nothing. Without it your name will be just another addition to long list of people who dimissed it and became the fuel of why Dark Arts are feared across the world." His voice carried through the chamber with the certainty.
The students scribbled furiously, though many paused simply to watch him, entranced by the calm certainty in his tone. A few exchanged hushed looks, their awe barely concealed, yet none broke his rule of silence. For that hour, they were utterly his.
Unseen to them all, Professor Vinda Rosier stood at the back beneath a Disillusionment Charm, her presence hidden but her attention unwavering. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his stance, the cadence of his voice, the way he commanded without shouting. She had trained many apprentices, but rarely had she seen one so young hold a room of students with such ironclad authority.
When the bell tolled and the students rose, whispers immediately broke out. "He's stricter than Professor Rosier," one muttered. Another murmured, "I can't belive, the Black heir is teaching us. He's already at mastery class." Their chatter followed them out, their footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.
The shimmer of the spell peeled away as the door closed, and Vinda Rosier stepped forward, her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Well done, Corvus," she said, her voice smooth and measured. "The class was handled with precision and authority. They will remember this lesson for the rest of their days here."
Her eyes glittered with quiet amusement as she added, "On another topic, tell me does Arcturus's newfound vigor have anything to do with your… talents?" The emphasis was light, but the meaning sharp. "I've made my reasearch," she said. "There is no way to restore youth without paying steep prices." Her eyes shone with curiosity. "Yet, I doubt Arcturus would stoop so low for the result I'm hearing."
Corvus allowed himself only the faintest smile in return, offering no explanation. Silence was its own answer. As he regarded her, his replication ability stirred. Around her head, the cards of knowledge and skill shimmered into view, and the one he was particularly looking for glowed with vibrant orange. Magical Theory. With practiced focus, he reached for it, feeling the professor's depth of understanding, the decades of experience woven into the craft. He halted the absorption for now, the knowledge was best integrated in solitude. Soon her mastery would join his growing reservoir of the same skill.
The exchange passed unnoticed by her. To her, he was a promising heir with a sharp mind and an iron hand. To him, she had become another stepping stone in his relentless climb. As he gathered his notes and prepared to face the rest of his schedule, both as teacher and as student, his faint smile lingered. For Corvus Black, every day was another move on the board and today he had taken yet another piece. She exhaled, "It seems, I have to ask your grandfather for you to spill." A smile on her lips, "Blacks are always same, guarding your secrets like Goblins with their gold." She left the class.
--
Corvus's next set of lessons as assistant instructor began with Charms. The younger years filed in with curiosity bright in their eyes, many whispering about his reputation. Corvus stood at the front, posture precise, his wand in hand. He began not with theatrics but with truth. "Charms," he said evenly, "are not a narrow subject. They are the backbone of magic itself. Every discipline you will ever study, be it Transfiguration, Arithmancy, or Dark Arts leans upon charms. Heavily."
He gave examples, his voice firm but instructive. "The Levitation Charm is not just a classroom trick; it is the principle behind enchanted architecture. Shield charms even though evolved form the foundation of warding magic are now feeding the understanding of vaiations of both warding and even rituals. Even the spells that bind runes into artifacts rely upon charms as their binding force. To neglect charms is to neglect the very skeleton of spellcraft." He moved through demonstrations, wand flicks executed with flawless precision, explaining how intent and will altered outcomes just as much as the wand movement. He even shifted the color of basic charms to show how subtle differences in intention could reshape the spell. The students listened intently, scribbling notes, the realization dawning that this was not merely a subject but the key that unlocked all others. Some whispered later that the Black heir spoke with the authority of a master rather than an aprrentice of one.
The next day brought Potions, and here Corvus's tone shifted. His understanding of the subject made it clear that Potions are as dangerus as Dark Arts under the untrained hands. When the first years filed in, he stood waiting, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. A boy in the second row fiddled nervously with a chopping knife, poking at the roots and powdered ingredients set on his desk. In a flash Corvus' shout cracked, startling the class into silence. His voice was cold, clipped. "Put. That. Down." The boy froze, crimson rising in his cheeks.
Corvus swept the room with his gaze. "You will understand this: Many of the ingredients and nearly all of the potions are volatile. Ingredients combine in ways that can heal or maim, strengthen or kill. A pinch too far, a stir too fast, and the difference is life and death. I will not tolerate carelessness. Not from you, not from anyone." His words hung heavy in the air.
He straightened, eyes still hard. "You will obey my instructions as if you were under Imperius. If you cannot do so, you will find yourself banned from my lessons. Are we clear?"
A silence followed, then the students answered as one, voices tight but unified. "Yes, sir."
Only then did Corvus nod. "Good. Now, we begin."
As the lesson continued, he softened only in tone, never in discipline. He explained the history of potioneering, tracing it back to its roots in ancient Egypt, Greece and Asian cultures, and showing how it tied into nearly every other field. "Arithmancy guides ratios and limits of possibilites. Charms stabilize reactions. To brew is to weave together every thread of magic you have ever learned." He connected this to modern practice, describing how Healers depended on precise brews and how duellists often survived thanks to quick draught elixirs prepared correctly. He reminded them that each vial was a balance of science and sorcery, and that sloppiness was a betrayal of both.
He reminded the class of the importance of Herbology, the other half of Potiennering. How it will affect the road ahead of them to not only memorize, and identify the magical flora of wizarding world but also try and learn chemistry from the muggle science. Not knowing your enemy is pure idiocy he added as expressions of some of the students from darker families changed.
The students listened raptly, careful in every movement as they ground, sliced, and measured under his watchful eye. Not a single knife wavered after his warning. Even the boy who had erred earlier kept his hands folded until given direct instruction. Later, as they left, several whispered nervously but also with admiration that he was stricter than any professor they had yet encountered.
When the lesson ended and the last of the students filed out, Professor Greengrass, who had observed from the side, chuckled softly. "I wish I had opened my first lesson that way," he admitted. "Might have spared myself dozens of accidents over the years."
Corvus allowed himself the faintest smirk. "Best to cut recklessness at the root, Professor."
Greengrass nodded, still chuckling. "Indeed. I suspect they will not forget your words soon. You may have frightened them into obedience, but perhaps that is exactly what this subject requires."