The wizarding world awoke to a storm of headlines. Every major magical newspaper in Europe blazed with the same story: Corvus Black, Champion of the Under Eighteen Continental Tournament! Photographs captured him mid duel, wand loose in his hand, eyes glowing with determination, spells crackling like lightning from his fingertips. The Daily Prophet carried a dramatic moving image of his final strike against Harald Bjornsen, the lightning bolt that seared through the arena, immortalized in ink and motion.
Rita Skeeter's quill ran wild. "Black Heir Crushes Continental Competition!" her column crowed. "So long have we seen a duelist of such precision and terrifying grace. Corvus Black fights not like a boy, but like a general reborn. Where did he learn such ruthless efficiency? Certainly not at Hogwarts." She spent paragraphs skewering Hogwarts' declining standards, contrasting them with Durmstrang's harsh brilliance, and ending with a jab at Dumbledore's leadership: "Perhaps the Chief Warlock might learn a thing or two from the young heir he so desperately tried to chain."
Other voices chimed in. The Evening Prophet praised the victory as a moment of national pride: "Britain has its champion again, though it is Durmstrang we must thank, not Hogwarts." The French La Gazette Magique called Corvus "le Faucheur Noir", 'the Black Reaper' and warned that a new power had emerged among the old families. The Germans ran respectful coverage, noting Viktor Krafft's surrender and his words of courtesy. Even the Americans in The Salem Sentinel printed an astonished piece titled "Who Can Stop the Black Heir?"
While owls swarmed Britain, Arcturus, Corvus, and Vinda Rosier did not return to Grimmauld Place. Instead, they accepted the hospitality of an acolyte and old ally who lives in Madrid. The mansion they stayed in was a sprawling estate, old stone cloisters ringed by gardens with fountains whispering. There, away from Britain's noise, they could read the headlines in peace.
In Britain itself, reactions rippled like fire. Lucius Malfoy raged in private, not simply because the Blacks had shone brighter, but because his son Draco was no longer even considered an heir to the family. With Corvus already declared by Arcturus, Lucius knew the patriarch's hatred for him and his fellow Death Eaters meant the Malfoys' influence over the House of Black was finished. Crystal shattered against the walls of Malfoy Manor as Lucius fumed. Augusta Longbottom pursed her lips, admitting, albeit reluctantly, that the boy's talent could not be denied yet her hatred for Bellatrix, as usual painted the Black heir as just another unhinged dark wizard. Amelia Bones of the DMLE remarked grimly to her Aurors, "Merlin help us if that young man ever turns against the Ministry."
At Hogwarts, the faculty huddled around the moving pictures in the Prophet. McGonagall allowed herself a rare smile at Corvus' discipline. Snape sneered aloud, but his dark eyes lingered on the footage of Corvus' transfigurations and the ruthless efficiency of his curses. "He fights like he's been trained for war," he muttered under his breath. Flitwick, meanwhile, clapped his tiny hands, delighting in the sheer brilliance of the boy's charms and wordless casting. Even Sprout remarked softly, "Durmstrang teaches them hard, but… look at the control."
And then there was Albus Dumbledore. The old man sat alone in his office, Fawkes crooning softly in the background. His eyes lingered on the moving photograph of Corvus standing victorious, wand lowered, expression calm as if battle was nothing new. Albus' fingers tapped the desk in irritation. "Dangerous," he murmured. "Far too dangerous." He knew the tide of opinion was turning. The boy's fame, his pedigree, his power, it all threatened to undo years of careful manipulation. For the first time in decades, Albus felt the weight of uncertainty pressing on him.
Meanwhile, in Durmstrang's halls, word spread like wildfire. Students bragged they had shared classes with the Black Heir. Professors nodded knowingly, some already declaring him the finest product of their school in a century. And in the Spanish estate, as Corvus folded the Prophet closed, Vinda Rosier's lips curved in her thorny smile. She turned to him and said, her voice sharp as ever, "Word the oath you want from me, Black."
--//--
Corvus stood, his expression cool but intent, and recited the terms carefully, each word measured like a blade being honed: "You, shall swear upon your magic and your life that you will not, under any circumstance, reveal, tell, write, or even hint at the details of the ritual I will conduct by any means. Thoughts included. You shall never attempt the ritual for yourself, nor shall you perform it for any other. Its knowledge and practice remain bound to me, and to House Black. Should you break this oath, may your magic wither and your body fail."
Vinda did not flinch. Her eyes glittered with a mixture of respect and irritation at being bound, but she raised her wand nonetheless. "I, Vinda Rosier, swear upon my magic and my life…" she began, her voice steady, repeating word for word the oath as he had spoken it. "These terms I accept, and these limits I embrace. Let my magic be my witness." A sharp flash of light wrapped around her wand and chest, then sank into her, sealing the vow with a shiver of power that even Arcturus felt.
She lowered her wand but did not sit back. Instead, she narrowed her eyes. "Now tell me, Black. What sort of ritual is this? I told you once, I will not shatter my soul, nor will I stoop to murdering infants simply to stretch my years."
Arcturus' expression darkened instantly. His silver eyes gleamed like cold steel as he leaned forward, outrage simmering in his tone. "Rosier," he said sharply, "are you truly suggesting that I would lower myself to such filth? That Corvus, Heir of the House would commit crimes so foul against Mother Magic? The very thought is an insult to our blood."
The air in the room grew taut, until Corvus lifted a hand slightly to ease the tension. His tone was calm, measured, but carried weight. "No, Professor. The ritual siphons the life force of the sacrificed in to the caster. Nothing more, nothing less. And as for the targets, I choose only the dregs of society. Criminals, predators, the ones who would poison the world with their existence. Their end fuels something greater."
Vinda tilted her head, one thin brow arching upward. "Practical. Very practical. Smart, even. Though I doubt Menkara taught you this. If he had such a treasure of a ritual, he would hardly still look like the dried husk he is."
Corvus chuckled softly at that, amusement flashing in his eyes. "Quite right. My esteemed Rituals professor has no knowledge of this ritual. This one, Professor, is mine and mine alone." He left its true origin unspoken, guarding that secret carefully.
Vinda smirked faintly, though her eyes lingered on him with newfound calculation. "Two weeks from today, Black. Grimmauld Place. I expect to see you there."
And with that, the pact was sealed. The vow burned into her very magic, its weight pressing on the air, and the bargain settled heavy over the room. The future was drawing closer with every passing hour, and the three of them could feel it.
--//--
When dawn broke, Arcturus and Corvus thanked their host before returning to Britain. Vinda, with a mysterious smirk, announced she had business to attend to in Spain and promised to join them later. At the Spanish Ministry of Magic, and even more so upon arriving at the British Ministry, the pair were met with open admiration and a constant stream of congratulations. Witches and wizards flocked to them, eager to shake hands or simply witness the two Blacks who had stirred the continent. After carefully extricating themselves, they reached the apparition point and returned to Grimmauld Place.
Their work resumed without pause. Arcturus and Corvus pushed forward with their careful infiltration of the criminal syndicates. Squibs, once dismissed as outcasts, were now being remade as loyal assets. Each was subjected to rigorous legilimency screenings, followed by binding magical contracts so tight that even the thought of betrayal became impossible. The secrecy was crucial, every step had to stay invisible to the Ministry and especially to the ICW. Within two weeks, nearly a hundred Squibs had been placed into various levels of criminal networks. It was only a matter of time before they would seize full control, not just of Britain but of operations across Europe. Corvus enforced two hard rules with absolute conviction: no sales to children, and no forcing women into addiction for exploitation. Beyond that, he reasoned, if muggles were foolish enough to ruin themselves, then trade would continue, what would matter from whom the poison was bought.
Exactly two weeks later, Professor Vinda Rosier appeared at Grimmauld Place. True to her style, the first words out of her mouth were a sharp insult aimed at the house decor, sneering that Arcturus clearly had no sense of taste. Arcturus rose to defend his home, calling it perfectly suited to the Black legacy, only for Vinda to counter with a string of sharp curses in French. Corvus chuckled at their verbal sparring, noting the old camaraderie between the two.
Kreacher was summoned to serve tea, and on Corvus' order, the elf was sent to fetch seven test subjects, marking the scum, the worst of worst in the usual way. Vinda arched a brow at this but said nothing, only sipping her tea with a knowing gleam in her eyes. When Kreacher returned to report the task complete, Corvus thanked him warmly before rising and gesturing for Professor Rosier to follow. Arcturus joined them as the trio descended into the ritual chamber.
Corvus took his time inscribing the circles, each rune carved with precision, his movements steady and assured. When finished, he gestured to the circle where Vinda was to stand. "Do not step outside of it," he instructed firmly. From the cages, he dragged forth the first victim, a burly brute whose eyes darted around in sudden fear, and he himself stepped into the conductor's circle. The man was thrown into the central chamber, and Corvus began the incantation.
At once, the sigils glowed a sinister red. The victim screamed as his body convulsed, his life force drawn out in agonizing strands until he collapsed into nothing but ash. Vinda inhaled sharply, then steadied herself as she felt the first rush of vitality course through her veins. The dull ache in her bones lightened. The color in her cheeks returned faintly. Arcturus, watching with fascination, stood abruptly, his wand in hand, he personally stunned and levitated the next prisoner from his cage into the ritual circle. His voice was rough with awe as he muttered, "Let's not waste time."
One by one, the sacrifices were brought forward. With each, the runes burned brighter, the hue shifting from dark crimson to deep scarlet, then to gold, until at the seventh victim, the chamber was lit in dazzling white brilliance. Vinda's transformation was undeniable. Her skin smoothed, her wrinkles decreased, and her posture straightened as the vitality of youth seeped into her limbs. By the final sacrifice, she looked as though twenty years had been peeled from her face. Power radiated from her aura, controlled, sharp, yet undeniably renewed.
When the last ash was vanished by Corvus' wand, Vinda turned her head and smiled, not her usual barbed smirk, but something gentler, touched with genuine warmth. "You have done well, Corvus," she said softly, inclining her head in rare acknowledgment. Arcturus, still holding his wand at his side, murmured almost reverently, "Morgana herself would have approved of such precision."
She remained at Grimmauld Place for two days, her new found vigor settled. Her energy brimming, her sharp wit fully restored. When she finally departed, Arcturus and Corvus felt the weight of what they had accomplished settle over them, aware that the balance of power of Europa was about to change, to a large extent.
Not long after, an owl swept into the study bearing a letter sealed with Hogwarts' crest. Corvus frowned immediately. Before even touching it, he cast a series of detection charms, layering spell after spell to ensure there was no hidden curse or compulsion, laced into the parchment. Only once satisfied did he place the letter upon the desk, eyes narrowing as he prepared to read Albus Dumbledore's carefully crafted words.