The aftermath of the Wizengamot session spread quickly across Britain and abroad. For some, the outcome was a victory that proved tradition still had protectors. For others, it was a disaster. Newspapers filled their pages with reactions. The Daily Prophet ran a piece by Skeeter, full of her usual dramatic flair. She quoted a Progressive Lord who wouldn't give his name, but who declared: "Dumbledore has betrayed the Light by refusing to use his veto. This act shows exactly how little blood purists think of Muggleborns."
Across Europe, papers took different sides. In France and the United States, editorials warned that Britain was slipping backwards into old prejudices. In Eastern Europe, many writers praised the law, saying Britain had finally chosen to protect its magical traditions. The split was obvious. Some called it dangerous regression, others saw it as necessary order.
At Hogwarts, though, life went on. Corvus Black had just finished teaching another Potions class. His classroom, once a normal size, had been magically expanded twice to fit the growing crowd. Many upper year students, especially from Slytherin and Ravenclaw had asked to join his lectures. Letters of permission from parents and heads of houses kept piling up. His teaching was nothing like what they were used to. Strict, demanding, and detailed, but effective.
Severus Snape, however, was stewing. For years, his approach to teaching had been simple. Write the instructions on the board, scold those who failed, and take house points from those who made mistakes. It had been his system, and no one had challenged it until now. Each time one of his own Slytherins asked to attend Black's class, he felt his anger grow sharper. He signed the permission slips with a sneer, muttering curses under his breath.
What made it worse was the humiliation still hanging over him. He had yet to give the public apology in front of the entire school. The punishment tied to his deal with the Black heir. Every time his eyes met Corvus's across the Great Hall, the boy wore a slight smirk, reminding him of his defeat. Snape gripped his quill so tightly it almost snapped. If not for the Dementors the inmates at Azkaban, he would never have signed that contract.
Still, Corvus's presence wasn't all bad. Thanks to him, Gryffindor's chances at the House Cup had vanished. Minerva's students were deep in the in minus scores, their points drained. The Weasley twins, infamous for their pranks, had been silenced after trying and failing to trick the brat. Best part was Arthur Weasley, whom Snape considered a fool obsessed with Muggles had requested a meeting with Lord Arcturus Black. The irony of it almost made Snape smile. Arthur, the man who idolized Muggles, now had to beg a Black for help. He was pretty sure Lord Black will not even consider the request let alone honor it.
Snape wondered bitterly what the Muggles Arthur admired would do to him if they knew what he was. Burn him at the stake like in the old days, or tear him apart to study him like one of their potions ingredient?
Leaning back in his chair, he signed parchment after parchment, each one giving another student permission to attend Corvus's lessons. His quill scratched across the pages, but his mind wandered to the same place it always did. Lily. Always Lily. The thought weighed on him as heavily as the dungeons around him. The Potter Brat was not attending his class yet. But he saw those green eyes. It was as if Lily herself was staring at him. Staring at him with the face of James Potter! If only things had been different, he thought with a sigh, slashing his signature across another form.
--
The Weasley twins were living through the most miserable days of their lives since the day they attempted the prank Professor Black. Their detentions under him were unlike anything Hogwarts had ever seen. Instead of polishing trophies or writing lines, Corvus had devised punishments that left them humiliated, exhausted, and sore. For the first week he made them scrub each and every toilet with corrosive concoctions that burned the skin unless cleaned in precise attention. When that wasn't enough, he made them copy entire Aramaic runic sequences by hand on parchment, every curve and line must be exact. If either of them smudged a single rune, both had to start again. By the end of the sessions, their hands ached, their tempers were frayed, and the smirks that usually lit their faces were gone. Students and faculty alike whispered about it. Corvus was not a man to cross, and even Hogwarts' most notorious pranksters had been broken into silence. Every stash they had been found and confiscated, extending their detentions. After him Snape took over their detentions. After Snape Pamona and so forth.
The Marauder's Map was no longer theirs to rely on either. Corvus had already examined it, dissected its secrets, and made it his own. Their copy was stripped of his name forever. It now recorded only his footsteps, nothing more. In contrast, his own version, etched into new parchment bound to Hogwarts' wards with the authority of a Professor was superior. It showed not only names, houses, and years, but also the lattice of wards woven through the castle, their makers, their purposes, and the subtle interplay that sustained Hogwarts' protections. In his hands, the map was not a prankster's toy but a tactical tool, a blueprint of Hogwarts itself.
As the days slipped into weeks, Corvus grew stronger. He replicated Severus Snape's encyclopedic mastery of Potions, Flitwick's unmatched finesse in Charms, Minerva's commanding grasp of Transfiguration, Dumbledore's profound understanding of Magical Theory, Transfiguration and Alchemy, and even Tom Riddle's hard edged brilliance in the Dark Arts. From Fawkes, he took the Phoenix's resistance to Dark Magic, though he prayed he would never be forced to test its limits. Each replication deepened his comprehension, not as separate strands of knowledge but as threads of one great tapestry. Magic, he realized, was never meant to be divided into rigid schools of thought, light or dark, potion or charm. At its heart, all magic was one. A current flowing through every discipline, shaped by intent, strengthened by knowledge, and elevated by will. With every skill he absorbed, he felt closer to the core of what it meant to be a wizard.
It was almost Samhain, one of the four great festivals of the old ways. Corvus had formally informed Dumbledore and the staff that he would be holding a proper rite. He requested an altar be set up at the edge of the Forbidden Forest and demanded that one table remain empty in the Great Hall on the night of Samhain, as tradition required, for the departed to be honored. Albus had agreed begridgingly. This did not stop him from twisting this sacred rite to a celebration. Into something far removed from its roots, filling the hall with paper bats, jack o'lanterns, and sweets. Turning a holy night into what he saw as harmless fun. To Corvus, and to many who still clung to the old traditions, it was a disgrace, heresy.
The students were split. Letters from home flooded in. Pureblood families signed slips giving their children leave to attend Corvus' Samhain vigil after being informed his plans for the night. Slytherin sent nearly its entire house, Ravenclaw a third, Hufflepuff a surprising number and even Gryffindor a few dissenters. They brought candles for ancestors, herbs for protection, and tokens for the altar. To them, Samhain was not costumes and tricks, but the night when the veil between worlds grew thin, when fire and runes kept the living safe while honoring the dead. On the other side were the Muggleborns, many of whom sneered at the traditions, seeing them as superstition. To them, it was Halloween, a night of pumpkins, costumes, and laughter.
The tension in the castle rose like storm clouds gathering. Slytherins whispered that the headmaster was mocking their culture. Ravenclaws debated quietly over the historical rites. Hufflepuffs were caught in the middle, while Gryffindors argued loudly in their tower. Even the staff was divided, Professor Babbling expressed excitement for the rare chance to witness an authentic ritual, sharing murmured notes with colleagues about its historical significance and even wondering what kind of runes Corvus might inscribe around the bonfire when the time comes. Dumbledore, by contrast, brushed it aside with his usual twinkle, shifting the discussion toward costumes and feasts as if centuries of tradition were little more than a backdrop for sweets and laughter with his usual twinkle, speaking only of "the joy of costumes and feasts."
It all came to a head one evening in the Great Hall. Dinner was nearly over when a Gryffindor first year stood from her seat. Her slightly less bushy hair framed a face set with determination, her voice steady but loud enough to silence the hall. "Professor Black," she said. "I am Hermione Granger, a first year Gryffindor. I would like to ask, why do you hate Muggles?"
The hall froze, every gaze turning to the young witch and the young professor she had challenged. The tension, already thick as smoke, was about to ignite.
--
McGonagall shot to her feet so quickly that her chair clattered backwards onto the stone floor, the sharp sound cutting through the Great Hall. "Miss Granger!" she barked, voice like a whip. "That is not an appropriate question to ask to a professor!" Her face was flushed, eyes ingnited with fury. She could feel every eye in the hall watching, not just the students but her colleagues as well.
Snape leaned back in his chair, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. To him, this was entertainment, watching the Gryffindor know it all step out of line and the Black heir placed in an uncomfortable position. At the far end of the table, Quirrell, or Tom who was behind his stutter was listening even more intently, pale hands clasped under the table. Voldemort's thoughts coiled with curiosity. Would this young Black prove malleable, another proud wizard ready to kneel when the time came, or would he defy expectations? Either way, the Dark Lord wanted to see.
Albus, however, saw opportunity. He raised a calming hand toward Minerva, his tone deceptively mild. "Please, Minerva. Let us see how Professor Black handles the matter. I am quite certain has everything under control." His eyes twinkled with false benevolence. Inside, he relished the chance. Granger's outburst provided the perfect stage to draw Corvus Black down a notch, to test whether the boy's composure was truly as unshakable as it appeared.
All attention was on Corvus now. The Great Hall seemed to still, waiting. He placed his knife and fork neatly beside his plate, reached for a folded handkerchief, and dabbed his mouth with deliberate calm. Then he lifted his goblet, sipping water as though Hermione's question had not just echoed off every vaulted wall. Only then did he rise, robes falling into place with aristocratic precision.
He walked slowly to the center of the hall, each step measured, until he stood between the professors' table and the four house tables. His presence commanded the space.
"Sit down, Miss Granger," he said, voice calm but carrying to every corner of the room. The first year obeyed, cheeks flushed scarlet. Corvus' gaze swept the hall. "This is not the first time I have been interrupted during a meal," he continued, his eyes sliding pointedly toward the high table where McGonagall stood stiffly. "I am not familiar with every custom of the Muggle world, but here, in wizarding society, disturbing someone while they dine is considered rude. Uncivilized, even. I would hope you will not follow the example set by your Head of House."
There was a faint intake of breath along the Gryffindor table. Minerva's lips thinned further, and though she forced herself to remain silent, her knuckles were white. The jab had landed, sharp and unmistakable.
Corvus turned back to Hermione, his expression calm, voice even. "Now, before I answer your question, Miss Granger," he said. "Allow me first to ask, have you ever traveled to a foreign country?"