The Great Hall hummed with layered conversation as second through seventh years claimed their seats. Floating candles glowed warmly, casting light on the sea of black robes below. Corvus observed quietly, some recognized him. Their reaction was immediate. Whispers rippling through the Slytherin and Ravenclaw benches mostly. Black, Heir Black, that's him… Recognition was instant, especially among the pure blood children. At the Hufflepuff table, a bob of bubblegum pink hair stood out and Corvus smirked faintly, so Nymphadora Tonks was indeed here. In his memory of the canon, things had been hazy. But fate or something else, had kept certain pieces aligned.
There was, however, a clear difference. Hogwarts now admitted students at thirteen, not eleven, and the impact was obvious. Thirteen year old Harry Potter shuffled uncertainly under the stares of the hall, shoulders hunched, far quieter than Corvus had expected. No Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger yet flanking him, but the threads of destiny still wove their patterns. When Potter was called to the Sorting Hat, Corvus leaned forward slightly. The verdict came swiftly, Gryffindor! The familiar chain continued. Ron Weasley followed, the hat barely touching his head before declaring the same. Granger, sorted before the two was a bit surprise though. With another two years Corvus was expecting her to be sorted to Ravenclaw yet she was sitting in her 'destined' house. Corvus watched carefully, so much was still aligned, yet every change in circumstance might ripple unpredictably.
Once the Sorting was complete, the tables filled themselves with a glorious spread upon Dumbledore's invented nonesensical words, the headmaster was doing this for fun most probably as they were not the names of some of the Hogwarts Elves. He checked... Platters of roasted meats, jugs of pumpkin juice, heaps of vegetables, bowls of treacle tart. The noise swelled as students filled their bellies, chattering eagerly about the year ahead. At the staff table, Corvus maintained polite composure. He let himself watch quietly, cataloguing details, considering how much had shifted and how much remained the same.
When the meal ended, Dumbledore rose, his arms spread wide, blue eyes twinkling with infuriating cheer. "Another year at Hogwarts!" he declared, his voice booming yet oddly whimsical. He meandered through his customary rambling and welcome words before his tone shifted to one of weight. "We have some changes to our faculty this year," he said, gaze sweeping the hall.
"First," he gestured to a man in a ridiculous purple turban, "Professor Quirinus Quirrell will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts." Quirrell rose with visible nerves, stammering out a greeting, his high pitched voice faltering with his fake stutter. Students giggled at the absurd headwear, the sound rippling like a breeze before dying down. Dumbledore continued smoothly. "And secondly, we are most honored to welcome a truly unusual addition to our staff, Assistant Professor Corvus Black."
Silence was the reaction. Afterwards gasps, whispers, even outright staring spread through the Great Hall. Dumbledore pressed on, each word carefully chosen. "Though only sixteen years of age, Professor Black has completed fourteen subjects at Durmstrang Institute, and going through his mastery classes in Potions, Charms, and the Dark Arts. His classes will be conducted in rooms on the third floor. Furthermore, in light of his unique selection of masteries, a sealed chamber has been prepared for his Dark Arts studies. The room is heavily warded. No student is to approach it."
Corvus exhaled softly through his nose. Dumbledore's phrasing was almost baiting, the forbidden room, practically an invitation to curious Gryffindors.
Corvus stood smoothly, the applause a mixture of hesitant claps and enthusiastic bursts. Students stared in disbelief. A professor their age? He stood up, inclined his head politely, then spoke, his voice clear and unhurried. "Thank you Headmaster, for your kind words and introduction. Students, you may call me Assistant Professor or Professor while in class. Outside of it, you may address me as Heir Black, if you were taught proper wizarding etiquette or Mr. Black if you were not." His eyes swept deliberately across the hall. The implication was sharp. Pure bloods and most of Half bloods sat taller, their pride confirmed, while some half bloods and Muggle borns shifted uncomfortably.
"I will not tolerate recklessness," Corvus continued, his tone sharpening. "Foolishness and carelessness will be punished. But if you act with discipline and respect, you will find me fair. May we have a fruitful year together."
For a moment the Great Hall was hushed, the weight of his words pressing into the students. Then applause rose again, though the undertone was wary. Corvus sat back down, expression calm, inwardly pleased at the impact he'd made.
Dumbledore, smiling serenely as ever, moved forward again. "A few final reminders," he said, his voice lightening. "The third floor corridor, on the opposite side of Professor Black's classrooms, is strictly forbidden to any student who does not wish to die a very painful death." Nervous laughter rippled across the four tables. Corvus smirked faintly to himself, another carefully veiled bait disguised as warning. He was quite sure Headmaster will ward the hell out of that corridor.
As the feast ended, the students streamed toward their dormitories, buzzing about the young Black heir who would now be their professor. Whispers of awe, skepticism, and curiosity filled the halls. Corvus Black, already an enigma, had secured his place at the very heart of Hogwarts, his shadow stretching long over the year to come.
--
The second of September dawned grey and cool, though inside Hogwarts the halls were alive with the buzz of new timetables and the shuffle of students still adjusting to castle life again. For Corvus Black, the day carried less bustle and more purpose. His schedule was light, only two classes to teach, both first years, and both in the afternoon. That morning he lingered over his tea and notes, methodically reviewing his prepared lesson plans before heading down to the Great Hall for lunch. He especially moved close to the Hufflepuff table to pluck one bubly and pink fruit. Strangely the skill card of metamorphmagus was different from her other skill cards. It was same as the cards of Fawks or other magical animals. He replicated it without a second thought and paused the absorption for a more appropriate time. He had a light lunch, he was ready. His first stop: the Charms classroom.
He arrived early, his steps measured and calm, and waited until the students filed in and settled at their desks. First year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. As the clock struck, he flicked his wand to close the door with a firm snap, silencing the chatter instantly. Standing at the front of the room, his dark eyes swept across the small sea of nervous faces.
"Charms," Corvus began, his voice clear and steady, "are the heartbeat of magic. They weave themselves into every branch of our world. Whether in the hands of a healer sealing wounds, an Auror disarming a foe, or a simple household witch or wizard ensuring the home runs smoothly. Where Transfiguration changes the nature of something, and Potions brew power into form, Charms are about focus, refinement, and control."
He paused, letting the weight of the words hang before continuing. "Every wizard and witch here will use charms daily. Some are so subtle you may forget they are spells at all. A drying charm to keep ink from smearing across your parchment, or a simple heating charm to keep tea warm on a cold day. Others are complex enough to decide the fate of duels, or the survival of entire communities."
He let that thought sink in before moving on to their first practical spell. "This year, we begin with Lumos. You know it as the Wand Lighting Charm, but it is more than just a glow at the tip of your wand. It has variations, refinements, applications you will not yet have imagined."
With practiced ease, he demonstrated the standard form: Lumos, a soft white light blooming at the tip of his wand. "This, you already know, if you have read your book." The light dimmed as he raised his wand slightly. "Lumos Solem, sunlight, bright enough to burn away shadows and useful in combating certain creatures of darkness." A sharper beam flared, golden and hot. "Lumos Maxima, a burst of light powerful enough to illuminate an entire chamber." A dazzling orb flashed, forcing students to shield their eyes. "Lumos Orbis, a floating globe of light that follows the caster." He conjured three glowing orbs, sending them drifting lazily around the room, to the students' quiet amazement. Finally, with a flick, he shifted the glow into shades of red, blue, and green. "Lumos Spectra, colored light, useful for signaling, studying under different conditions, or altering visibility."
Gasps and whispers rippled through the room. Corvus smiled faintly, not unkindly, before dispelling the lights and addressing them again. "You will find that every charm has layers. What looks like a child's trick is, in truth, a foundation for mastery. The key is not only in words and wand movements, but in understanding intent."
He raised his wand once more, slowly repeating the incantation. "Lumos." His voice carried a note of instruction. "Again. Lumos." He repeated a third time, this one almost a whisper, showing how even tone could affect casting. "Now," he said, lowering his wand, "you try."
At his command, the classroom filled with hesitant murmurs of Lumos. Sparks flared, some too bright, others sputtering into nothing. Corvus walked among them, his sharp gaze catching every faltering syllable. When one boy's light flickered wildly, he adjusted the boy's grip with a firm hand. "Not so tight. Magic flows better when you let it breathe." Another girl whispered the incantation too timidly; he crouched beside her. "Say it as if you mean it. Magic listens to will, whispered or not."
Step by step, he corrected, explained, and encouraged. By the third repetition, all of the class held steady beams of light. He nodded, satisfied. "Good. Remember, this is only the first step. Charms will be with you for the rest of your magical lives, in every place you cannot yet imagine. Learn them well, and they will serve you beyond measure."
--
Corvus strode into the Potions classroom, his robes whispering against the flagstones as he moved. He took his place behind the professor's desk, letting the silence settle while he surveyed the room. The Slytherin first years were the first to arrive, led by one of their prefects. Draco Malfoy stepped forward with Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson at his side. His chin lifted in practiced aristocratic poise.
"Heir Black," Draco began smoothly, voice carrying the confidence of generations. "Allow me to present myself, Draco Malfoy, heir to the House of Malfoy. My father Lord Malfoy, sends his compliments on your victory of the tournament and your success at Durmstrang. He conveys the esteem of the traditionalist families, who are most pleased to see the scions of their houses instructed by one of such distinction."
Corvus inclined his head in acknowledgment, eyes cool but voice perfectly measured. "Your words are received, Heir Malfoy. Extend my regards to Lord Malfoy and your mother, my cousin Narcissa, whose presence in our family remains a point of pride." At that, Draco's chest swelled with visible satisfaction, his spine straightening as though bolstered by the recognition.
Corvus gave similar, courteous acknowledgments to Nott, Parkinson and Zabini, though the weight of his regard was different. Only Zabini's reputation marked him apart from the other children of Death Eaters, but appearances mattered, and Corvus played the role with precision. The Gryffindors, arriving shortly thereafter, caught the exchange, their expressions a mix of curiosity.
When the time struck for the lesson to begin, Corvus flicked his wand and the door shut with a decisive thud. He turned his gaze upon the assembled students, his tone calm and level. "Potions," he began, "are among the most ancient disciplines practiced by wizardkind. Long before charms or transfiguration, before the shaping of wands or the casting of curses, there were brews. They are subtle, powerful, and" he paused to emphasize the importance of his point "when mishandled, catastrophic."
The door swung open at that moment. Ronald Weasley stumbled inside, hair askew, face flushed from haste. "Sorry," he blurted, "I was late, I.."
Corvus' gaze sharpened like a blade. He cut across Ron's apology with quiet steel. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for barging into my classroom as though it were a barn, Mr. Weasley. An additional fifteen for tardiness. You will not join this lesson. Report to your Head of House immediately." With a flick of his wand, Ron was propelled gently but firmly backward into the corridor. The door slammed shut, leaving stunned silence in his wake.
The Slytherins sat like statues, disciplined and unmoving, aware that even a smirk could draw unwanted attention. The Gryffindors, however, bristled, murmuring among themselves at the harshness of the penalty. Potter's brow furrowed, Granger looked scandalized, and Longbottom squirmed uncomfortably. Corvus let the whispers rise for only a moment before fixing them with a level stare. The murmurs died instantly.
"As I was saying, before being interrupted." Corvus resumed, his voice as steady as stone, "Potion Brewing is an art that tolerates no recklessness. One drop too many, a single stir in the wrong direction, and a draught meant to heal may become one that maims or kills. This classroom has been arranged so that each of you will work alone. No reliance on another's skill. No excuses."
He walked slowly between the rows, gestures precise as he conjured diagrams in the air. "This year you will brew simple tonics, Cure for Boils, Herbicide Potion, Wiggenweld and learn to handle ingredients safely. You will memorize how clockwise stirring encourages binding, while counterclockwise separates volatile compounds. You will understand the difference between slicing an ingredient fresh or letting it stew, and why fluxweed picked at the wrong phase of the moon can poison a brew rather than empower it."
Corvus stopped beside a desk, conjuring a small puff of smoke with a swirl of his wand. "A single misprocessed ingredient can undo hours, days or in some cases months of work. A slip of concentration will turn a sleeping draught into a poison. There are records of brewers who devoted months, even years, to potions undone in a moment of carelessness. Do not join their number." His voice dipped low, almost conversational, but the intensity of his gaze drove the warning deep.
"Safety is your first potion. If you do not respect the cauldron, you will not master what brews within it."
His command over the class was complete. Even the Gryffindors, still uneasy about their house's point loss, sat straighter. The lesson continued with measured precision, Corvus establishing his classroom as one where order, discipline, and respect for the art of potion making were not merely expected, but demanded.