---Horray, we reached five hundred powerstones. Here is an extra chapter. Thank you mates.---
Corvus finished his first week with his busy schedule. The very first thing he did upon returning to his study was to scribble a note requesting a private meeting with Professor Menkara Al-Zahur. Umbra gave a sharp, throaty caw as Corvus tied the letter to his leg, and the raven vanished into the night to deliver the message to the centuries old ritualist. The reply came scarcely an hour later. Corvus checked his attire one last time in the mirror, adjusting his robes with meticulous care before heading for the professor's chambers.
Menkara's flat was unlike his own, far grander, more cluttered, and filled with strange Egyptian ornaments. Gilded ankhs, protective scarabs, papyrus scrolls, and jars etched with hieroglyphics covered every surface. When Corvus entered, Menkara motioned him to sit. "Tell me, young Black," the professor asked without preamble, "why have you not chosen my class for one of your masteries?" His tone carried both curiosity and a hint of disappointment.
Corvus inclined his head respectfully. "Time, Professor. Even now, Dumbledore seeks to drag me back to Britain. To study banned subjects openly would only serve his narrative to paint me as the next Dark Lord. It is strategy, not preference." His words were measured, though the sarcasm in his final line was unmistakable.
Menkara shook his head, whether in disappointment at Corvus or disdain for the fickle British public, it was not clear. "And the reason for this meeting?"
Corvus leaned forward and explained his dilemma with the Animagus transformation. "The standard method is insufficient. It binds one to a single form. Perhaps noble, but perhaps ludicrous form. A fish? An ostrich? And the theory that one's animagi form mirrors one's nature… tell me, Professor, if one takes the form of a dog, does that mean loyalty? A need for a master? Or merely a fondness for fleas?"
Menkara chuckled at first, then burst into full laughter at the mention of fleas. "You have a sharp tongue, boy."
Corvus pressed on, describing what he had discovered of the Native American method that allowed multiple forms. Menkara's eyes narrowed, intrigued. "There is such a ritual. Surprising you uncovered it. Perhaps one day, young heir, you will show this old man the fabled Black Library. Rumor whispers even tomes from Herpo the Foul lie in your walls." His eyes glinted with mischief.
Corvus gave a polite smile. "There are indeed works that might intrigue you, Professor. I will be certain to bring a copy when next I return home." It was a gesture of goodwill, and Menkara inclined his head in acceptance.
Then, in a solemn tone, the old ritualist began. "The Native American Shaman's way is no mere method, but a ritual. The conductor casts the incantations while the subject enters a meditative state within the runic circle. The incantations will open your mind, allowing you to commune and bond with animal spirits, thus be able to shift to their forms. But beware, the spirits will try to claim you. They will fight to inhabit your body. Only discipline of mind will keep them at bay. Occlumency will serve you well, but you must be vigilant."
Corvus nodded firmly, his occlumency shields were different from the general concept of mind shields and he highly doubted an animal spirit will have the concept of DOS commands to not only invade his mind but to inhabit in his body. They moved to the ritual room, to no one's surprise Menkara has a well prepared and fully equipped Rital room. Under the professor's guidance, he carved the intricate runic circle to the floor. When all was prepared, Menkara started to explain the ritual, he informed Corvus how he has the last say if he does not want to choose the form of the animal spirits he encounters by simply not making an eye contact and once he formed a bond with the first spirit he should stop the meditative state as well. He could repeat the ritual once his mind is rested and sharp enough again, advised Menkara. After nodding, Corvus seated himself in the center, spine straight, eyes closing as he sank into his mindspace. The Old Ritualist stood at the edge, ancient staff in hand, and began to chant the incantations. His voice rose and fell like desert winds across stone temples, each syllable older than memory.
At the begining, Corvus felt only a strange lightness, as though his thoughts drifted upward from his body. Then the sensation of floating enveloped him, weightless and unmoored. He opened his eyes and found himself still sitting, but no longer within Menkara's Ritual room. Instead, he was in a wide clearing bordered by dense forest. The air was dim, the sky above veiled as if twilight lingered unnaturally.
The first sound he heard was a sharp caw of a crow or a raven, unsettling beating of wings that seemed to ripple the very air followed. He turned, searching for the source and then he saw it. A Shadow Raven, larger than any common raven he'd seen so far, its feathers shimmering faintly with iridescent hues like oil on water. Its eyes glowed a deep, pulsing crimson, and with every beat of its wings it left a ripple behind, as though dragging a shred of night across the clearing. It landed on a stone outcrop, talons scraping against the rock with a precision too sharp to be natural. Its gaze burned into him. Eyes that did not just see flesh, but the aura of his very magic. He was already hoping for a form that can fly and turned his gaze to the dark avian.
Corvus froze as those blood red eyes locked onto his own. The world seemed to still, the forest holding its breath. A pulse of alien power pressed against his mind silent, cold, yet vast. The Shadow Raven's gaze was not merely a look. It was a probe, searching, testing, threatening to peel him apart. A mental war had begun.
He trusted the durability and complexity of the walls of his Occlumency, his mindscape dark as the feathers of the shadowy creature, each thought sharpened into a barrier. The Shadow Raven struck, its instict like a tide of darkness spilling into the edges of his consciousness. Corvus braced himself, every ounce of discipline strained to hold the line. The shadows in the clearing stretched and writhed as if alive, wrapping around him, while the Raven's eyes pulsed brighter, hungering. The clash of wills was silent but fierce. Wizard against beast, discipline against instinct, mind clashing against mind beneath the shroud of twilight. Corvus allowed the pressure in, planning to exhaust the creature by letting it use it's mental power to simply ram in the dark empty space of his mandpalace.
--
While Corvus wrestled with the Shadow Raven in the depths of his mind, far away in Paris the International Confederation of Wizards convened in its grand chamber at the Palais des Congres, one of the long established meeting places for the ICW. The vaulted hall shimmered with enchantments, banners of dozens of magical nations floating above their representatives. As the assembly settled, Supreme Mugwump Albus Dumbledore rose from his high seat. His robes gleamed in the enchanted light and his eyes twinkled with carefully measured warmth. "Honorable representatives," he said, his grandfatherly voice carrying through the chamber, "I welcome you all to the one thousand one hundredth meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards. May our debates bring clarity, and may our decisions bring harmony to our world."
The day's schedule began with petitions from smaller magical communities. The Turkish delegate, Alp Sancaktar, rose and pleaded for aid, describing how djinn, empowered by the meddling of local dark wizards, had begun to devastate villages and influence politicians, destroying the future of the country. "We humbly request a detachment of specialists to reinforce our Aurors, who are sorely outmatched."
Next came Helena Duarte, the delegate from Portugal, who lamented an outbreak of rogue sea serpents in the Azores, wreaking havoc on both magical and non magical shipping lanes. "Our wardstones are weakening. We request immediate ICW reinforcement before tragedy forces the Statute of Secrecy to crumble in the region."
Following her was Kofi Mensah of Ghana, speaking for a coalition of West African enclaves. He demanded that the ICW send mediators to settle a conflict between two rival clans of Animagus shamans, whose disputes had escalated into violent raids. "Our children can no longer walk safely," he said gravely. "The matter demands resolution before blood feuds consume us."
Finally, the floor was yielded to Babajide Akingbade, Supreme Head of the African Wizarding Union. He rose with serene authority, presenting his proposed legislation, that all heirs of magical families must finish their education in their homelands, regardless of where the started. "Such a measure," he declared, "will preserve culture, history, and identity. Our young must not be scattered, shaped by foreign institutions that know nothing of their heritage."
When Akingbade finished, the German representative, Dieter Weiss, Head of the Department of Magical Education at the German Ministry, stood with cold precision. "Pray tell, Mr. Akingbade, how do you intend to handle the disputes this legislation will create? What of heirs not yet formally declared? What of students in the midst of their studies? And what of mixed nationality children? These questions cannot be brushed aside."
Akingbade waited, then replied, "The position of heir is simple, Herr Weiss. In the absence of an official declaration, the heir apparent shall be recognized. Ongoing education can be transferred to the homeland on the last year of the institue without issue, and as is the tradition across every magical community, the father's nationality shall decide lineage as it decides the family name. This law is not a burden, it is a safeguard."
The Norwegian representative, Astrid Ulfsdóttir, Mistress of Wards at the Oslo Enclave, rose next. "And what of forbidden subjects? Rituals are banned in Spain and England for example. If an heir studies rituals at Durmstrang or Beauxbatons, how can they continue their education once dragged home? Will they be forced to abandon their course of study altogether?"
Akingbade inclined his head. "In such cases, Madam Ulfsdóttir, the subject should be removed from the curriculum. No heir should be above the laws of their homeland."
A chorus of disapproval swept the chamber. From the Bulgarian delegation, Konstantin Dragomirov, Deputy Minister of Magic, rose to speak. "Why not allow heirs to remain in their chosen schools, finishing their education uninterrupted? Let them sit examinations within embassies or official institutes they attend. Thus, we preserve both the child's progress and nations' rights, while preventing lesser schools from stealing credit undeserved." As he said the last words, his eyes fixed directly on Dumbledore. A low chuckle rippled through the hall.
The Russian delegate, Sergei Volkov, Senior Advisor to Magical Security, stood. "Bulgaria's point is sound. Let education continue where it is strongest, and let sovereignty be preserved in exams."
Then came China's representative, Wu Lian, Rector of the Shanghai Academy of Martial Magic. She rose gracefully and spoke with quiet force. "In China, Japan, Eastern Europe, Russia, India, Brazil and other respected countries with perfected education many of us have specialized institutes. Parselmagic in India, Herbology at Castelobruxo, Martial Magic in China, Dark Arts at Durmstrang. Nearly a tenth of our students pursue mastery. How will your law address this? From where we stand, Mr. Akingbade, your legislation is not preservation, but theft, a shameless attempt to strip credit from superior institutions."
A wave of approval thundered through the chamber, applause and murmured assent rippling from table to table.
From his high seat, Dumbledore's smile faltered. He raised his hand gently, eyes twinkling still, though tighter now. "Honorable members," he said, his voice carrying warmth meant to soothe, "let us proceed with calm. These points must be addressed one by one, and each voice heard in turn."
But behind his calm exterior, the Chief Warlock of Britain felt unease coil in his chest. He had expected resistance, but not this level, not so broad and definatly not so united. His calculations had been wrong. Unless some private bargains could sway the undecided, Akingbade's legislation would collapse if he will not spend half the favors owed to him. Already, the chamber had found its rhythm in opposition, and Albus Dumbledore realized with cold clarity that the tide was slipping from his grasp.
--
The debates dragged on for hours, broken by three recesses that were filled not with rest but with frantic side conversations, whispered bargains, and the subtle exchange of parchment slips that would never be entered into record. Albus Dumbledore, for all his carefully cultivated calm, felt his patience fray. Every delegation he had to approach demanded something, a favor, a promise of ICW funding for infrastructure, a quiet guarantee that their candidates would be considered for future posts. The old headmaster's smile remained fixed, but behind it his jaw clenched tighter with each concession.
By the time the final wording of the legislation emerged, it was hardly what he had envisioned. The sweeping authority he had hoped for was chipped down, clause by clause, until only fragments remained. Yet Dumbledore knew enough of politics to recognize that even a sliver of victory could be spun as triumph.
The agreed upon terms were these, heirs, even when returning to their homelands, would still be considered students of the institutes where they had begun their education. Disputed subjects would not be banned outright, education would continue, provided special permissions were granted, and examinations in all subjects, including the disputed ones, would be taken at the original institute. For those heirs who had finished their official curriculum and advanced into mastery classes, their status would be recognized as foreign assistant professors. In such cases, local institutes would even be required to pay for their services, framing it as cultural and academic exchange rather than loss. And finally, the legislation would be distributed to national governments and set to take effect with the next academic year.
When the chamber adjourned, Albus lowered himself into his chair, his fingers resting stiffly on the carved armrests. He had what he could call a Pyrrhic victory, it had cost him dearly. Too many favors promised, too much goodwill spent, and too many clever eyes now watching for weakness. He allowed his eyes to twinkle once more as he rose to depart, but within, his frustration simmered. The House of Black had not yet been brought to heel, and worse, his political capital was bleeding out faster than he could replenish it.