The green flames of the Floo spat Corvus and Dumbledore into the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Corvus stepped out first, brushing the soot from his robes with a sharp flick of his wand. Dumbledore followed, his half moon glasses gleaming, face composed yet heavy with thought. Together, the unlikely pair crossed the busy hall, drawing stares and whispers from clerks and Ministry staff alike.
A junior Auror in crisp blue robes greeted them while they were entering the DMLE. He straightened, nerves plain on his young face. "Headmaster Dumbledore, Heir Black," he greeted, voice firm but respectful. "What brings you to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement today?"
"We would like to see Madam Bones," Dumbledore said smoothly, inclining his head. "If you would be so kind as to ask if she is available."
The Auror blinked once, clearly aware of the weight of the names before him, then nodded briskly. "Please wait here a moment." He vanished down the corridor at a near jog.
Corvus folded his hands behind his back, his expression composed, though the faint curve of his lips hinted at a smirk. Dumbledore stood silently beside him, eyes on the moving lifts, his face unreadable.
Moments later, the young Auror returned. "Madam Bones will see you now. Please, follow me." He led them through the corridors of the DMLE to a heavy oak door. He knocked twice, waited, and only after a firm "Enter" from within did he push the door open.
Inside, Madam Amelia Bones sat at her desk, parchment stacked neatly around her, her monocle glinting as she looked up. Corvus stepped in first, bowing his head slightly. "Madam Bones," he said with careful politeness. Dumbledore followed, greeting her more warmly: "Amelia, thank you for receiving us on such short notice."
Amelia's sharp eyes flicked between the two men before settling on Corvus. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Chief Warlock, Heir Black?" Her gaze darted between the two.
"I wish to withdraw my complaint regarding one Severus Snape," Corvus said, his tone calm, though a faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "Azkaban… should have smoothed the rough edges by now."
Amelia sighed, leaning back in her chair. She understood the subtext. Deals had been struck behind closed doors, this much was obvious. "Very well," she said at last. She pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward her, quill scratching briskly as she drafted the official order. With a practiced flick, she sealed it with red wax and pressed the sigil of the Head of the DMLE firmly into place. "This will release him."
She rang a small silver bell, and an Auror appeared at the door. "Send this order to Azkaban at once," Amelia instructed, holding out the sealed document.
"If I may," Dumbledore interjected smoothly, extending his hand. "I am heading there. I would be happy to deliver it myself."
Amelia's brows drew together. For a moment, she looked ready to refuse. Then, with visible reluctance, she slid the envelope across the desk into Dumbledore's waiting hand. "Very well. See that it reaches the warden intact, Headmaster."
Dumbledore inclined his head with grave politeness. "You have my word." He tucked the envelope into his robes, rose, and after a brief nod Corvus and Amelia, swept from the room.
Once the door closed, Amelia turned her attention back to Corvus. Her expression softened slightly, though the weight of her words remained. "I only hope, Heir Black, that whatever arrangement you or Lord Black and Dumbledore have come to was worth all this trouble."
"It was," Corvus replied without hesitation. He rose gracefully to his feet, inclining his head once more. "I will not keep you from your duties any longer. Good day, Madam Bones."
"Good day, Heir Black," Amelia answered, already turning back to the stack of parchment awaiting her hand.
Corvus left the office with steady steps, the faintest trace of satisfaction lingering on his face as the door shut behind him. He asked the junior Auror if Mr. Dumbledore has took the order of Snape's release, knowing full well it will start a hurricane of gossip.
--
Word of Severus Snape's release spread like wildfire as Corvus thought. Within minutes the Ministry became a hive of whispers, parchment paused mid scroll and quills left hovering in the air as clerks leaned closer to share hushed speculation. Aurors clustered near doorways and corners, voices dropping as they traded rumors. Few doubted the truth of it. House Black had caught Dumbledore in a corner and the old Headmaster had been forced to swallow his pride and pay dearly to secure his Potions Master's release. For many, it was not a surprise but a confirmation of what they had long suspected. That Arcturus Black was not a relic but a player, sharp as ever, and that his heir was rising quickly as his weapon and shield.
Among the Traditionalists, reactions were mostly approving and even admiring. Even the Death Eaters agreed to what Blacks did. A few heads of families murmured with satisfaction that Arcturus had shown the exact qualities of a true patriarch. Take a rival's weakness and turn it into power. More than one elder remarked, with faint smirks, that it was high time someone reminded Dumbledore he was not in the golden throne he thinks himself to be. Neutral families, cautious as always, were more pragmatic. They weighed the advantages quietly, like merchants considering a new investment. If House Black had the strength to make the great Albus Dumbledore bend, then common sense dictated aligning themselves with the Blacks, or at least ensuring they were not standing in the way when favors and benefits were distributed. The Progressives, however, were uneasy. Snape was a sore topic for them. Many of their members muttering bitterly that Dumbledore had been forced into compromise and that this was a dangerous precedent. Yet even they were careful to keep such words behind closed doors.
Far away from the polished marble of the Ministry, in the bleak corridors of Azkaban, Severus Snape sat slumped in his cell, exhaustion etched into every line of his pale face. His hand still ached where the curse mark had burned through, though Madam Pomfrey's efforts had kept it from festering. He stared at the damp stones until the sound of footsteps drew near.
An Auror approached, keys clinking, boots echoing against the grimy floor. "Get ready, Snape," the man barked, his tone dripping with contempt. "Your little vacation's over. Dumbledore's here to save your hide."
From the shadows across the corridor, a hoarse laugh broke the silence. Sirius Black, gaunt and wild eyed, leaned against the bars of his cell. His voice was mocking, but underneath lay a bitterness that tasted like ash. "Come again, Snivellus," he rasped, his lips curling though his eyes burned with something far darker than amusement. He had spent years in this pit, more than a decade of watching the world go on without him, locked away as a traitor by his own kin and abandoned by the man he once trusted. Not once had Dumbledore come to Azkaban for him. Not once had the so called champion of the Light spoken for his innocence. And yet here he was, coming to the rescue of Severus Snape, a marked Death Eater.
Regret twisted like a knife in Sirius's chest. He had spent his youth rebelling against his family, clinging to the belief that he was fighting for something greater, that following Dumbledore was following the side of righteousness. Now, watching Snape being led out in shackles while the old man waited to spirit him away, Sirius saw the truth. He was never more than a pawn on Dumbledore's board, a tool discarded when convenient. He clenched his fists, the bones of his knuckles sharp against skin stretched too thin.
Chains rattled as Snape was dragged to his feet. His face was drawn and his eyes sunken, but his sneer remained etched like a shield. Other prisoners pressed close to their bars, their eyes gleaming with cruel amusement at the new drama. The Lestrange brothers leered, their grins wicked. "Come again, little spy," one of them called, voice oily with malice. Bellatrix's laughter rang down the corridor, a shrill and broken cackle that scraped along the stones. At times it was impossible to tell if she was laughing or sobbing, the sound so frayed it carried like nails across slate. Rookwood's eyes glinted coldly from deeper in his cell, calculating, while other nameless Death Eaters muttered curses or jeered at Snape's retreating back.
The air grew heavy. A sudden drop in temperature made breath plume white in front of mouths. The rattling breaths of Dementors filled the corridor, cloaked figures drifting past like carrion birds circling prey. Their chill sank into marrow, into memory, dredging up regrets and grief until despair clung like frost. Sirius flinched, retreating deeper into his cell, his body trembling as shadows stretched long. A dog's whimper heard from his cell as the shadow of the Dementor passed. This place was a nightmare not only because of its guardians, but because every soul within was another tormentor. Lestranges, Rookwood, Bellatrix, Snape himself. In Azkaban, everyone was both victim and monster, reminding him his failure again and again.
As Snape was led away, Sirius turned his face to the wall, retreating into the darkness. Whatever illusions he had once held about Dumbledore, whatever fragile loyalty he had nursed, crumbled in that moment. They were gone, burnt away by cold despair and a truth that cut too deep. Dumbledore did not save soldiers, only pieces useful to his war. And Sirius Black had never been anything more than expendable. It was time for him to think. Think long and hard.
--
After Albus and Severus returned to Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey immediately began her diagnostics on the Potions Master. Days spent under the suffocating hospitality of Dementors had left him weakened beyond recognition. His skin was pallid, his eyes hollow, and his movements sluggish. She kept him in the infirmary for observation, tending to him with brisk efficiency while muttering that he ought to count himself lucky left that horrid place. Word quickly spread among the faculty, and one thing became unmistakably clear, no one would be foolish enough to provoke Corvus Black again. The lesson had been seared into them by Severus's suffering. The same Severus who acted like a spoiled little brat with his theatrics under Dumbledore's protection had been chewed and spit out without a second thought.
While Hogwarts quietly digested this revelation, Corvus was far from their halls, deep in the ritual chamber of Grimmauld Place. He had decided not to attempt the absorption of the phoenix's Fire Travel in his room. The risk of setting the space ablaze was far too high. The ritual chamber, with its carved runes and reinforced wards, was safer. Still, he felt a rare nervousness as he began, aware that this was not like replicating skills from wizards or witches. This was his first absorption of a magical creature's ability.
The difference was immediate and profound. Human magic came with ordered thought patterns, logic, and discipline. The phoenix's gift, however, was wild instinct. Alien to his human mind. It wasn't a structured spell, it was sensation, the rush of heat, the whisper of fire curling around feathers, the natural pull toward places the bird wanted to go. Trying to translate that into human understanding was like forcing a bird's flight into the stiff confines of parchment and ink. It resisted him at every turn.
The process stretched across the entire day and well into the night. Corvus carved out a new partition in his mind palace, dedicating a chamber to hold these instinctual abilities separate from the tidy, codified spells and knowledge of men. Only when that mental room was ready did the phoenix's Fire Travel settle into place, shimmering faintly in his awareness. When he opened his eyes, sweat dampened his brow, but triumph glinted in his gaze.
He took a steadying breath and attempted his first trial. It took nearly twenty seconds, an eternity in a duel just to wrestle the phoenix's instinct into a form his human mind could command. When he finally erupted into flames and reappeared across the chamber, he nearly toppled over, heart hammering. Still, he grinned. It had worked.
Again and again, he practiced. From corner to corner, wall to wall, forcing his body and mind to adapt. The phoenix's instincts demanded freedom, not calculation, and each jump felt like balancing on the edge of a storm. Slowly, painfully, he adapted. He learned to trust the sensation rather than overthink it. By dawn, the movements were smoother, the bursts of fire sharper, and the scorches fewer. He expanded range of his attempts to his room and and entry hall as well.
It was not without mishaps. More than once he misjudged the height of his landing, appearing directly on the floor and leaving a scorched hole on the carpets where his boots had touched down. Tibby, ever loyal, darted about with his wide eyes shining in admiration, repairing the burns with a flick of his small fingers. "Master moves like a fire chicken!" the elf exclaimed reverently, even as he patched the damage for the seventh time. Corvus allowed a chuckle to escape. The elf's adoration was sincere, if clumsily phrased.
By the time the first rays of dawn spilled through the windows, Corvus had made significant progress. He no longer burned the carpets every time, and his transitions felt less like tumbling into chaos and more like stepping with purpose through a curtain of flames. He even managed to refine the fire's volume, arriving in a muted shimmer rather than a roaring blaze. Satisfied with the progress of the night, he gave one final leap back into his chambers.
"Tibby," he said, his voice edged with exhaustion but tinged with satisfaction, "prepare a hot bath. I think I've earned it." The elf nodded eagerly and vanished with a loud crack, leaving Corvus to savor both his success and the lingering warmth of fire that now pulsed faintly within his veins.