Corvus woke to an open Friday and a clean ledger. No classes. No visitors. A perfect day to begin billing a toad who had reached above her station. Not only for what she had done in this life. Also for what she was in another.
He dressed with care. Dark grey robes. Silver and green thread along the cuffs. A small indulgence. He let the metamorph on his frame loosen, settled his height another inch, and felt the bones hum. In a month he would stop using the skill and enjoy his new height.
The Great Hall stirred as he crossed the threshold. First years offered shy greetings. Older years tried not to stare and failed. He returned nods in kind and took his usual chair beside Flitwick.
"A good morning, Filius."
Flitwick glanced up from his porridge. "For you, very good indeed Corvus. You look sharp enough to cut glass."
"An old acquaintance will receive a visit." Corvus buttered toast. "A person I have known for more than one lifetime."
"Sometimes you sound older than your years." Flitwick smiled. They ate in quiet rhythm. Bread. Fruit. Tea. The calm before work.
He left through the west doors and crossed the lawns. Frost clung to the grass in a fine lace. At the ward line he paused, felt the hum, and stepped beyond it into the fringe of the forest. The cloak slid over his shoulders after a while. Pressure changed. Light bent. He Apparated to the coast north of Portlethen and arrived above a scarp of rock where the tide gnawed at dark stone.
The air smelled of salt and iron. Fields lay behind him. The sea ran cold and patient in front of him. He stowed the cloak in his mokeskin pouch and took to the sky as a raven. Feathers settled. Wings caught. Bloodsight opened like a second set of eyes.
Extreme speed activated and the world slowed. Spray rose from the breakers and hung as beads of glass. A gull climbed and the stroke of each wing spread into a long slow fan. His own shadow moved like a stain across the water.
The island rose like a broken tooth from a stalled sea. With Extreme Speed still on, the world moved in heavy frames. Waves shouldered the basalt and burst in slow curtains of white. Spray hung in the air like ground glass. Each sheet of foam crawled back over the rock and left silver trails that did not quite sink.
Dementors wheeled above the upper tiers. Their black rags did not flap so much as flow, long strips that lagged a beat behind the body, then caught up, then streamed again. A hood would tilt toward him and he saw no face, only a cavity that drank the light. Their passage left the air grainy and thin. Sound pulled away. Even the cry of a far gull stretched and thinned until it snapped.
He banked close. The nearest dementor drifted past like a torn banner in cold water. The hem of its robe brushed the air and the tatters curled and unwound, slow as weed in a tide. The prison below took the impact of another wave. White water climbed the wall, lost its strength, and slumped, inch by inch. Salt and frost needled his breath.
He slid closer on silent wings. A Dementor turned as if some blind instinct had pricked. No face waited under the hood. Only a darkness that swallowed light and gave nothing back. The robe edges frayed and dragged frost from the air. The cold had a taste. Old iron. Older fear.
Corvus let the feeling pass through him and loosed his replication talent. Cards shimmered around the Dementor in his sight, each a neat statement of function. Memory mapping. Emotion manipulation. Emotion siphoning. Soul siphoning. Flight. Phase veil. Frigid aura. He studied the color of the cards, dull grey with blackened corners. He replicated memory mapping and felt it press against his occlumency. Absorption would wait. The toad came first.
The tower filled his vision as he flew in. He slowed his speed and dropped to a stone lip that framed a high window. Talons met grit. He folded his wings and let the world resume its tug. Time returned in a rush. The rags snapped. The sea struck hard and clean. He fixed on a narrow window and came down to the stone.
He peered into the window. A corridor lay beyond. Torchlight pooled in brass baskets along the wall. Shadows ran long and thin. He breathed once to settle his pulse, shifted back to a man, and the cold lunged at his skin before retreating as a Dementor drifted past. The cloak went on and he vanished from sight.
Umbridge. The name tasted like old bile. In this world she climbed by feeding on the weak and flattering the greedy. He had always wanted to weigh the measure of her rot. Today she would learn what it meant to be noticed.
--
Herbology spilled into crisp air that smelled of damp soil and nettle. Harry stacked his tools, returned the pruning knife, and answered Professor Sprout's parting question with a neat account of fluxweed timing. He even added which draughts preferred mature seed to leaf and why. A couple of Ravenclaws glanced up. Hermione pressed her quill into the spine of her notes until her knuckles went white. He was not reciting a paragraph. He was explaining the rule and its edges, as if he had learned the logic under it. Two nights tearing through the library had found no secret primer. The thought clicked hard. He was getting extra instruction. She would ask him, and then she would tell him to stop. It was not fair!
Ron's problem was simpler. Nobody wanted him at the Gryffindor table unless they needed a spare inkpot. Detentions stacked like wobbling towers. The twins kept getting caught. Hermione was the only person who still sat with him, and even she sighed while helping with homework. If Harry would just smile at him in a corridor the house might stop glaring. He needed the Boy Who Lived back at his side, and he needed it now.
Harry used a household charm to gather his tools and book, put them in his bag and shouldered it. He cut for the path to the castle. Feet hurried behind him. Ron thumped along, voice up and loud.
"Harry. Harry, wait up."
Harry did not look back. His pace did not waver.
A hand caught his shoulder and squeezed. Ron leaned in, breath hot. "Are you deaf, mate."
Harry shoved the hand off and stepped out of reach. "Have some tact, Weasley."
Hermione came up on his other side, hair wild as usual, this did not bother him at all. He was not petty enough to mock people for their looks. Maybe a little. Yet her bossy, high and might act was not something he can tolarate. "Harry, we need to talk. Now!"
He turned his head a fraction. The green eyes were cool. "Granger. Weasley. This is the last time I'm warning you. Stop using my first name. You do not have permission. I am busy and I would like to be on my way."
Ron's ears flushed. "You are turning into one of those dark wizards. Stop acting like.."
Harry lifted his wand. The tip settled at Ron's chest. The corridor air went still.
Hermione reached for Ron's sleeve, ready to scold both of them.
Another wand came up from behind her and angled across her wrist before she could take a step. Neville Longbottom stood there with his back straight and his new wand steady. He dipped his chin to Harry in a stiff little bow that almost worked.
"Heir Potter."
Harry eased his wand a thumb's width. "Heir Longbottom."
Neville kept his eyes on Ron and Hermione. "You looked cornered. Thought you might need a hand with the shame of our house."
A ghost of a grin touched Harry's mouth. "Your arrival is timely, Heir Longbottom."
He faced Ron again. "Consider the warning, Weasley. You too, Granger. I do not wish to repeat myself."
He lowered his wand and stepped away. Neville fell in beside him without being asked. The two boys turned for the castle to Transfiguration.
Ron sputtered and ran a hand through his hair. "He cannot talk to us like that."
Hermione stared at the hem of Harry's robes until they vanished round the corner. Something like envy burned behind her eyes. He had been better in every class for nearly two weeks now. Not louder, not smug, only sure. In Potions he answered with reasons instead of recipes. In Herbology he tied plant to potion with the ease of a second year. There had to be a book. There was always a book. She would find it, and if he would not share it, she would go to Professor McGonagall and demand fairness. The word sat sour on her tongue even as she thought it. She pressed her lips together and turned away.
Down the corridor, Harry and Neville walked with too much formality and enjoyed every moment of it. Harry tried a measured cadence. "You handled that well, Heir Longbottom. Thank you for the assistance."
Neville hid a smile. "You are welcome, Heir Potter."
They made it four steps before both of them cracked. Neville snorted. Harry laughed under his breath. The stiffness dropped from their shoulders.
"Did I sound as stiff as I think I did," Neville asked.
"Worse," Harry answered, and the grin stayed. "But you looked taller while you did it."
Neville lifted his chin an inch. "Heir Black says posture is half the duel."
"He says a lot of things," Harry answered, and there was warmth in it. "I think he is right."
They traded looks and quickened their pace. Etiquette still fit them like new boots, a little tight and squeaky, but they liked how it made them walk. The idea that they were doing something good, something proper, settled in their chests and stayed there.
Behind them, Ron muttered about traitors and dark wizards, the words sliding around the old whine in his voice. Hermione shushed him without much heat. Her mind had already returned to the library stacks and the map of the shelves in her head. If there was a secret, she would pry it out.
At the top of the stairs Harry glanced sideways. "Thank you for stepping in. I know I could have handled it."
Neville shrugged one shoulder. "I know you could have. I wanted to."
That earned another quick grin. They pushed through the doors of the classroom together. Later, years from now, both of them would mark that short walk as the first time the brotherly bond between them felt solid. A look. A wand raised for a friend. A warning spoken without shouting.
--
Elizaveta let out a slow breath and lifted her eyes to her mother. Oksana watched her over the rim of a teacup, the same glacial blue in both sets of eyes. The cup touched the saucer without a sound.
"Tell me about him, my dear."
A small smile eased the corners of Elizaveta's mouth. "He is clever. He is steady. He is already known for his work, not only his name. At my age he holds two masteries and a title from the last U18 tournament. He presses forward, but he listens."
Warmth moved through Oksana's gaze. "And yet you are thinking very hard."
Elizaveta's fingers straightened a blank sheet of parchment. "I do not want to push. A man with a will like his does not need a second general. He needs a partner who steadies the table while he moves the pieces."
Oksana nodded once. "Good. A house stands when beams meet at the right angles. Do not try to be the same beam he is. Be the one that answers it. Support does not mean silence. It means you know when to speak and what to do."
Elizaveta's shoulders loosened. "I can do that."
"I know you can." Oksana set the teacup aside and reached to tuck a pale strand behind her daughter's ear. "Invite him to match your pace. Make it easy for him to show you who he is."
Elizaveta hesitated. "There is one thing I should say. I asked to see his form. He asked what he would receive in return. I showed him mine."
A hint of amusement touched Oksana's mouth. "The wolf."
"Yes. The wolf bowed. He did not force it. He only stood and waited."
"Then you saw something true," Oksana murmured. "Submission in play is trust, not loss. Keep that lesson. The woman does not yield herself. She chooses when to lean and when to stand."
Elizaveta drew the parchment closer and uncapped her ink. "What should I write?"
"Write what you are. Be clear. Be kind. Give him a path forward. He is to visit us here to my knowledge. I will make sure you two have some private time to 'show your forms to each other,'" she teased.
Heat rose to Elizaveta's cheeks. A lovely shade pink on her light skin. The quill moved. The lines were neat and sure. Elizaveta kept the words simple. She noted her regard. She named a day for a walk when he visits and granted him leave to write first if duty kept him away. Only a door that was open and guarded by good sense.
Oksana watched the last stroke dry. Two fingers came down over the fold in a quiet blessing. "This is the hand of a woman, not a girl."
A soft breath left Elizaveta. "Thank you, mama."
"Remember who you are. You are a Volkova. Not a prize and not leashed. A partner."
Wax warmed. The seal pressed and cooled. Elizaveta held the letter a moment longer, then rose.
Oksana stepped close and kissed her brow. "Send it."
Elizaveta met her eyes and nodded. "I will."