As the chamber emptied in Paris, representatives of Germany, Bulgaria, Russia, and China lingered just long enough to clasp Babajide Akingbade's hand. Their congratulations were warm, but their smirks when they turned to Dumbledore carried an edge of mockery. "A most productive meeting, Supreme Mugwump," Dieter Weiss of Germany remarked smoothly, his tone a shade too polite. Konstantin Dragomirov of Bulgaria added with a low chuckle, "May all our sessions be so… fruitful." It was a pointed jest, everyone present knew that the compromises reached had favored their bloc, and that Dumbledore's supposed victory was worse than outright defeat. He had been forced to spend dearly for scraps, and his rivals could taste it.
Far to the north, in the quiet of Grimmauld Place, Arcturus Black sat in his study, the fire in the hearth burning bright and steady. A letter lay open in his hand, the elegant script spiked with deliberate barbs. It was from Vinda Rosier. Once, like Arcturus, she had been a general in Gellert Grindelwald's war. A strategist as ruthless as she was brilliant. The two had fought side by side, comrades in arms, and even now, long after the war, their friendship endured in a language laced with thorns.
Arcturus, you impossible relic,
I hear whispers that you look half your age again. Have you finally bartered your soul, or are you simply too stubborn to die like the rest of us? I must say, your heir has the same infuriating streak. Stubborn, sharp, and unyielding. Must be something in the Black blood, though I suppose it's more curse than blessing.
As for me, the years are less forgiving. My body grows more treacherous by the day, and I have no wish to surrender it to Death without a proper fight. If there is a way without the usual ruinous price, I am willing to negotiate. I would dearly like to see Gellert again before my bones turn to dust. You know as well as I that Nurmengard is no place for a lion to rot alone.
Give my regards to your obstinate heir. Tell him not to look so pleased with himself when he inevitably proves me right. Yours, with all the thorns you so enjoy, Vinda.
Arcturus read the letter with a fond smile, chuckling softly at her sharp turns of phrase. Only Vinda could lace friendship with such venom and make it taste sweet. She had always been like that, even in the war, her words cutting as cleanly as her wand. He levitated the parchment slip from his fingers into the fire, watching the flames curl and devour it.
Setting his teacup down, he drew a fresh sheet of parchment toward him. His quill scratched as he began a write to Corvus, informing his heir of Vinda's request. He gave his blessing freely, urging him to cooperate, for Vinda was not only a trusted powerhouse but one of his oldest and dearest friends. He even instructed Corvus to call her Aunt Vinda, a chuckle escaping him at the thought. He only hoped she would not curse the boy seven ways for the presumption.
Before signing, he added a note on the work of the Acolytes and the Alliance. They had done well, he wrote, and with their help he felt cautiously hopeful about the future. Folding the letter, he sealed it with the Black crest, the faintest of smiles lingering on his weathered face. Some friendships endured fire, war, and age and the bond with Vinda Rosier was proof enough of that.
--
Corvus stood firm within his mindscape, the constellation of his Occlumency palace burning cold and bright. Stars shimmered like sentinels around him, each memory locked and guarded. The Shadow Raven hammered against his defenses with pure instinct, its will sharp as talons and heavy as night. Each of the probes went into the dark space Corvus allowing it. The air in his mind rippled with every blow. Caws like thunder rolled through the darkness, and wings thrashing against the walls of his thoughts. He did not strike back, not yet. He allowed the creature to exhaust itself, each furious assault getting lost harmlessly against cold of space the gleaming barriers of his constellation standing strong. Patient, calculating, he stood still as an ancient tower, unyielding, letting the storm wear itself down.
At last he sensed it, the tremor of withdrawal, the subtle slackening in the Raven's will as it faltered. In that instant Corvus moved. His mind lashed outward with ruthless precision, no probing strike but a spears of raw dominance driving into the creature's essence. He pressed harder, never relenting, until the Raven's shrieks turned from defiance to pain. Its great wings faltered, its crimson eyes dimmed, and finally the beast lowered its head. Slowly, almost reverently, it stepped closer, bowing. Corvus reached out, his hand resting on its sleek, iridescent feathers. The Raven dissolved into a swirl of shadow and smoke, pouring into his chest, binding spirit to spirit.
His breath caught as instinct surged through him. He willed himself to change, and the world bent. His vision warped; colors shifted; edges sharpened. The world became sharp and alive in new ways, auras of other spirit animals glowing faintly around trees, the shimmer of unseen currents flowing through the air. He looked down, and where once were hands, there were feathers black as midnight, glimmering faintly like oil in firelight. His body felt taut, his bones light, every muscle coiled with energy. Yet when he took his first step, human instinct betrayed him, and he toppled forward onto his beak. A mocking pulse of amusement rippled through him from the Raven's spirit. A cruel laughter without sound.
He tried again. And again. Until, at last, his body obeyed the instincts of a bird. He stretched his wings wide, testing their strength, first flapping on the ground before daring to lift. He leapt, glided, landed, stumbled, tried again. Each attempt steadied him, until soon he was soaring above the clearing. Shadows bent toward him, rippling as though bowing to their master. He darted from shadow to shadow, his form vanishing into darkness and reappearing meters away. Once, he smashed headlong into a tree, his head ringing, feathers scattering. He shook himself and pressed on, learning to balance awareness of the shadows with the world around him. With each attempt he grew more deft, until Shadowstep became natural, a dance of vanishing and reappearing.
He experimented further. He stilled himself in darkness, letting shadows envelop him until even his aura felt erased. When his turquoise silver eyes ignited, the world shimmered anew. He saw faint trails of magic, threads of light woven into everything, the lingering marks of spells, the subtle glow of life itself. Bloodsight. He felt like a predator perched atop the food chain, every soul around him revealed in delicate webs of color and light.
He lost track of time. Hours, perhaps, slipped past as he soared and tested, his spirit burning with exhilaration. Only when he willed himself to return did the feathers dissolve into smoke, leaving him seated once more in the ritual circle. He opened his eyes to find himself back in Menkara's chamber. The old ritualist was asleep in his chair, lips pursed, staff leaning against his shoulder. Corvus cleared his throat once. Twice. On the third time, Menkara stirred, his eyes snapping open with the wariness of a man who had survived centuries.
"Can I stand, Professor?" Corvus asked.
"Of course you can, boy," Menkara said with a faint smirk.
They cleared the runic circle together, the chalky lines vanishing under Egyptian's wand. Then the two moved to the sitting room. Menkara bade Corvus recount every detail, and the boy did, describing the mental war, the Raven's submission, the first awkward steps, and the eventual triumph of flight. The professor listened with rapt attention, his eyes gleaming with pride and hunger for knowledge. "A Shadow Raven," he murmured. "Not as rare as the phoenix, but rare enough to be spoken of in whispers. To bond with one… extraordinary indeed."
He insisted on seeing it with his own eyes. "Shift," he commanded. Corvus obeyed. Smoke and feathers enveloped him, and soon the large bird stood before the professor, wings folded but aura pulsing with restrained power. Menkara circled him slowly, hands clasped behind his back, inspecting every detail. The gloss of feathers, the turquoise silver hue of the eyes, the faint ripples of shadow trailing from his wings. He made Corvus hop, caw, extend each wing separately, then fold them again. He demanded he vanish into shadow, then reappear. Each test Corvus passed to prove his was in total control of the animal form and not the spirit.
At last, without warning, the professor reached out and plucked one of the glossy tail feathers. Corvus cawed furiously, the cry sharp enough to rattle the shelves, before shifting back into human form, rubbing the base of his spine. "You could have warned me, Professor," he said, voice dry, irritation laced with grudging respect.
Menkara only smirked, twirling the feather between his fingers. "Consider it payment, boy. Teaching and conducting rituals is never free. And this," he studied the feather as though it were a relic, "this is unique. Worth more than any coin. I will take an oath to not use it to harm you or your bloodline boy, stop staring at me like that. Keep testing yourself. Explore every gift the Raven has granted you. There may be abilities even magizoologists have missed."
He handed Corvus a parchment inscribed with the ritual's incantations. His eyes twinkled with mischief and curiosity as he leaned closer. "Go on then, young Black. The bird has chosen you. Now prove yourself worthy of it. And when you are ready, return to me. We shall see what other spirit answers your call."
--
The days slipped by in a rhythm of mastery classes, lessons taught to nervous novices, and stolen hours of private practice. Each evening, when his duties were done, Corvus turned to his Shadow Raven form. Night after night, he repeated the process until shadowstep and bloodsight became instinct, as natural to him as breathing. And as his mastery deepened, something curious began to stir. Even in his human body, shadows whispered. At first it was a trick of the eye, a tingle at the edge of his senses, but one evening in his chambers, he allowed instinct to guide him. He stepped into the dark corner cast by the cupboard and in the blink of an eye, emerged from the shadow behind his armchair across the room.
Excitement burned in him. He pushed the limits further, from room to room, then from one classroom to another. Soon he was spanning floors with ease. The ability had rules, he discovered quickly that it was no apparition, nor flame travel like the phoenixes. Shadows were his gates, and sight was his tether. One night, taking wing into the snow laden forest beyond the castle walls, he tested his reach. Perched at the edge of the trees, he shadowstepped from trunk to trunk until he vanished from one end of the forest and reappeared on the other, nearly four kilometers in a single breath. That, he decided, was his limit. For now.
The Shadow Raven's other gifts were no less intoxicating. Bloodsight, honed through repetition, now worked in his human form as well. Each living being carried a magical aura, vibrant and unique, like a fingerprint of magic. No two were alike. Even siblings bore vastly different patterns, subtle weaves of light and color that told their own state of health and mental state. He could see fatigue in auras, or recent spellwork still crackling faintly around a wand arm. The knowledge was power, pure and simple. He wondered if Muggles will have a magical auroa as well. If they do life itself will be a magical ocaean he could delve in to discover.
Not everyone was delighted with his progress though. Umbra, for one, never ceased cawing whenever Corvus entered his chambers. The raven would flap onto his shoulder, peck lightly at his ear, and croak what could only be described as smug approval. In every sense of the word, Umbra had become his wingman. They often flew together, soaring side by side above Durmstrang's icy cliffs, two dark shapes dancing in the sky.
Viridith, on the other hand, was decidedly less amused. The serpent spent hours coiled in his terrarium, grumbling incessantly. "As if one feathered nuisance were not enough, now there are two. My poor ears will never recover from the endless cawing." When Corvus passed by, Viridith would flick his tongue sharply and add, "You traitorous human, you chose feathers over scales. Truly, you have abandoned me." His dramatics only grew louder when Umbra gave a particularly loud caw in response. "I should move with the old one." hissed the leaf viper.
Corvus could only smirk at their quarrels. "who knows what the next form will be," he murmured once, scratching Umbra's neck feathers while Viridith hissed in dismay.