Corvus did not bother claiming the remains of the troll, knowing Dumbledore would either have the house elves deal with it or assign others to process the carcass. Instead, he turned his steps toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where the altar he had prepared for Samhain awaited. He was not expecting nearly four hundred students to be already gathered, robed not in Hogwarts colors but in simple black. The sight alone was striking, almost half the school body standing solemn and united, the weight of tradition heavy in the air.
When Corvus arrived, the crowd instinctively straightened into orderly lines. He raised his wand and cast Gemini, duplicating the central stone altar into seventeen more. Each was plain stone, but as the duplicates materialized, Corvus approached each one, crouching to carve anew the ancient Gaelic runes with practiced precision. Duplicated runes would not do; each symbol had to be cut by hand, infused with intent and meaning. Sparks leapt with each carving stroke, the edges of the runes glowing faintly as if the stones themselves remembered the old power.
When at last the seventeenth altar was complete, Corvus returned to the central one. The altars stretched in a line, eight to his right and eight to his left, forming a sacred axis. Professor Babbling watched, unable to hide the gleam in her eyes as she recognized the old Gaelic letters, her academic fascination barely restrained, though she wisely kept her questions to herself.
Corvus placed the tip of his wand against the 8th rune. Gaelic's symbol of death, an anchor to the old ways and poured his magic into it. A low hum filled the air, like the earth itself answering. Across the row of altars, the seventh year students chosen to lead followed suit, touching their wands to the same rune and channeling power. One by one, the circles sprang to life. Flames of emerald green flickered into being atop each altar, spreading outward in perfect symmetry until all seventeen fires blazed as one.
The students gasped as light orbs began drifting in from the forest and castle grounds. Some floated gently, others darted with urgency, glowing with pale silver, soft gold, or faint blue hues. They gathered in spiraling patterns around each altar, their movement a silent dance of remembrance. Corvus did not lift his wand; he stood with his palm hovering above the rune until the green fires swelled high enough to lick the night air. Only then did he step back, holstering his wand with a deliberate motion.
Raising both arms, his voice carried in the ancient Gaelic tongue, chanting the incantation of safe passage for lost souls. The words were deep and resonant, each syllable echoing with centuries of memory. At his command, the orbs began gliding into the green flames. Each orb burst apart as it touched the fire, scattering into countless tiny motes of multicolored light. Scarlet, azure, violet, and gold shimmered above the students like falling stars, drifting down and dissolving in peace.
The ritual lasted the entire night. Flames roared and dimmed as the tide of orbs continued, until, with dawn's first light, there were no more left wandering. The green fires, as if knowing their work was done, flickered once and died in silence. The students bowed their heads and began dispersing quietly, the air thick with reverence.
Corvus lingered only a moment longer, turning toward the forest. From the shadows stood the centaurs, watching solemnly with unreadable expressions, some of them nodded in respect. A herd of thestrals loomed nearby, their skeletal wings folded as if in prayer. Even unicorns had come, manes gleaming silver in the dawn, standing shoulder to shoulder with beasts they would normally avoid. Ghosts floated close as well, the Grey Lady, the Bloody Baron, Nearly Headless Nick, and the Fat Friar all silent witnesses to the rite. They knew in their undead minds, if they had reached the green flames they could have left this realm.
For once, the grounds of Hogwarts were utterly calm. It was as though the school itself exhaled in relief, the veil between worlds acknowledged, honored, and allowed to rest again.
--
While Corvus was conducting the rite of Samhain at the forest's edge, in the Gryffindor common room a storm was brewing. McGonagall's fury was something rarely seen by students, but that night she was a lioness unleashed. She towered over Potter, Granger, Ron, and the twins, her robes whipping about as though stirred by her rage alone.
"We are, for the first time in the history of this school, at minus one thousand two hundred points!" she thundered, voice echoing through the tower. "Do you even comprehend the disgrace? This total already includes my generous attempts to soften your losses!"
Ron, with his usual lack of tact, blurted, "But he's a dark wizard, Professor! He killed the troll with the Killing Curse.."
"You!" McGonagall roared, rounding on him with eyes that could have cut stone. "You alone are responsible for six hundred points vanishing. Six! Hundred! All the Weasleys combined through the last century bar your twin brothers of course, will not add up to this loss. You alone had managed it! Do you understand what you've done?
Ron, again in all his wisdom tried to point to the killing curse.
"The Killing Curse is an Unforgivable only when used against another witch or wizard. Against a raging magical creature threatening students' lives, it is not only permitted, it is expected. You moron!" McGonagall roared to his face.
Ron shrank back, his ears scarlet. The twins fidgeted, but McGonagall's wrath had not yet cooled. She turned her glare on them, voice low and dangerous. "And you two are to blame for another five hundred. One more step out of line, one more prank that drags this House into ruin and Expulsion or Professor Black will be the least of your worries."
She stomped her foot for emphasis. "You three will serve detention until the end of the year. No excuses, no appeals. That is final." She spun on her heel and swept from the room, slamming the portrait hole behind her.
For a long moment, silence ruled the common room. Then seventh years began rolling up their sleeves, sixth years followed suit, the message was clear. The House of Gryffindor had no more patience for the Weasley antics. No one rushed to defend them this time. Not even Percy Weasley who wisely stayed apart and silent. Though, it seems some letters to be written about the mishaps of his brothers.
The next morning, Corvus entered the Great Hall for breakfast. The atmosphere shifted the instant he stepped through the doors. Nearly half the upper years stood as one, particularly from Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and even a considerable number of Hufflepuff. They had witnessed or at least heard in vivid detail what he had done the night before. A Samhain rite not seen in Britain for decades, carried out with perfect discipline and ancient reverence. For many, it was the first time they'd seen such ritual. Since the subject was banned, no new ritual master has risen to conduct the rite honorably. What their families were doing was simply respect the tradition, not being able to conduct the rite was a bleeding spot on for most of them. Yesterday night they witnessed what their elders describe as the true rite. The passage for the lost souls. Being able to channel and be part of the great cycle of life and death has touched their souls.
They bowed slightly, as etiquette demanded, acknowledging not just a professor but a scion of one of the most ancient Houses who had restored something sacred. Corvus returned the gesture with an incline of his head, his expression calm. Quiet greetings rippled through the air. "Heir Black," "Professor Black" spoken in soft, respectful tones. He responded evenly, "A pleasant morning to you all. May Mother Magic guide our minds in this fine day."
He moved to his usual seat beside Professor Flitwick. The tiny Charms Master smiled warmly, clearly impressed by the poise of the boy seated beside him. Plates and goblets filled themselves as the elves worked, and the hum of whispers filled the hall.
Not all gazes were welcoming. At the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables, many students stared at him with wide, uneasy eyes. For them, the story of the troll had already twisted in the rumor mill. Professor Black had killed the troll with an Unforgivable Curse. To those who grew up on bedtime tales of Dark Lords and Death Eaters, the idea was chilling. They didn't see the nuance of a professor eliminating a deadly beast, they only think of green light, and the name "Black."
Fear lingered in their expressions, mixed with suspicion. Some shifted uncomfortably on their benches, others whispered behind hands. Yet none dared voice their doubts aloud. The respect Corvus commanded from the rest of the school and the stern reputation he had already carved was enough to keep even the boldest Gryffindor silent. Especially after the their head of house' 'kind' warning.
--
Corvus chuckled softly at the suspicious stares from the badgers and lions, then lowered his gaze to his hands resting calmly on the silverware. They were steady, unscarred, smooth. Hands that betrayed none of the experiments of the previous night. When he had returned to his chambers, he had finally allowed himself to absorb the ability he had taken from the troll. Rapid Regeneration. The change had been immediate. He felt it like a new current running through his veins, his very blood humming with vitality. His magical core had stretched and fused with his body in ways he could not quite describe, as if every cell now carried a whisper of healing magic, casting a perpetual spell of renewal upon him.
He had tested it carefully. First with a conjured scalpel, he drew the faintest of lines across his arm. The skin sealed itself within seconds, vanishing without even a blemish. He deepened the cuts slowly, deliberately, each wound disappearing as quickly as it was made. There were no scars, no marks, nothing to betray what had been done. The magic worked tirelessly, erasing all harm. He stopped short of darker tests. For now, the evidence was enough. He was satisfied.
Leaning back on his bed, he called forth his Status, willing each talent and mastery he had accumulated to appear clearly before his eyes. For the first time, it was not just a list of achievements, but a record of what he was becoming.
[Status]
Name: Corvus Black
Age: 16
Race: Wizard, Pureblood
Occupation: Assistant Instructor, Durmstrang
Physical: C
Magical: S-
Talents:
Comprehension Talent (Unique)
Replication Talent (Unique)
Parseltongue
Metamorphmagus
Fire Travel
Magical Resistance
Rapid Regeneration
Animagi Forms:
Shadow Raven
White Tiger
Skills:
Occlumency – Orange
Legilimency – Gold
Transfiguration – Gold
Charms – Orange
Potions – Gold
Enchanting – Purple
Alchemy – Purple
Dark Arts – Gold
Dueling – Orange
Rituals – Gold
Herbology – Orange
Magical Theory – Gold
Runes / Ancient Runes – Orange
Healing – Purple
Arithmancy – Purple
Astronomy – Purple
He exhaled slowly. Every line, every mark, was a reminder of how far he had come from the boy who first opened his eyes to the sound of Mel's beak tapping at the window. That moment felt like a lifetime ago. And yet, there was no satisfaction in pausing. Only the drive to push further. There was always more to learn, more to claim, more to shape.
His thoughts drifted to Arcturus' last letter, and a faint smile curved his lips. The old wolf had written of progress, three members of the Alliance had already sworn their oaths and begun maneuvering themselves into positions as ICW representatives for Norway, Sweden, and Austria. A small ripple, perhaps, but one that would build into a tide. The dream of influence, not just in Britain but across Europe and even further was no longer just a dream. It has started to move with baby steps. A global dream had begun to take form.
That night, as Corvus closed his eyes, he felt no tension in his chest, no restless fire in his veins. Sleep came swiftly and easily, the kind that only arrives when one knows the path ahead is already beginning to bend in their favor.