Corvus Black had once been a man of another world.
In London, he had lived as a police officer, a servant of order in a city slipping further into chaos. The uniform had been his armor, his shield against a society that seemed to tear itself apart day after day. He had seen the steady erosion of tradition, the complacency of leaders, and the rising arrogance of those who sought to dismantle the very foundations of the nation. That day, his unit had been deployed to a protest. One of many, though this one already reeked of violence. What began as shouting had soured into rage, banners and slogans transforming into weapons and threats.
A coalition of radical groups, masked agitators waving foreign flags and a tide of opportunists merged into one chaotic surge. Corvus stood with his unit. Shield raised, helmet pressing down on his brow. He could not help the bitter thoughts that welled up: This is what happens when government and crown surrender. When a people abandon their heritage, they are consumed, invaded by what replaces it. Britain was once an empire. Now it crumbles, brick by brick, with no one left to defend it.
The chants grew into screams. A brick sailed through the air, striking a visor down the line. The barrier trembled under the surge. Boots stomped, fists struck, spit flew. Then the line broke. Corvus was shoved into the melee, shield jolting as bodies pressed against him. A clash of boots and fists, the stink of sweat and fury, cries of rage in guttural foreign tongues. He pivoted, striking with his baton, but even as he did another rushed him. Then came the sharpness. The sudden, shocking puncture of steel. A knife, crude but effective, driven into his side. He gasped, the heat spreading quickly, blood soaking beneath his vest.
Another stab, then another. He staggered, vision tunneling. His brothers in arms dragged him back, their hands slippery with his blood. Sirens rose like banshees in the distance. The ambulance swallowed him, the harsh fluorescent lights burning his fading eyes. Pain blurred into a haze, bitterness curling like smoke inside him. He thought of betrayal, of weakness, of a crown that had abdicated its duty. A country that had allowed itself to be invaded by foreigners in the name of political correctness. His breathing grew ragged. Sound fell away. The sirens dimmed, the lights flickered out. He exhaled his last breath, lips twisting in silent scorn.
Then, darkness.
A sharp knock startled him awake. His eyes opened to a dimly lit room heavy with the scent of parchment and old wood, so utterly unlike the sterile stench of antiseptic and blood. For a moment he thought it a fevered dream. Yet before him was a window, and perched upon its sill was a falcon, regal and motionless, its golden eyes unblinking as they fixed upon him. He blinked, heart racing, trying to understand. The bird tapped its beak against the glass, deliberate, commanding. Compelled, he rose and unlatched the window.
The falcon swept in on whispering wings, a predator dressed in shadow. It landed gracefully upon the arm of the chair where he sat, its talons curling into the wood. For a long moment it studied him, head tilting. Then, with a subtle motion, it indicated the parchment scroll bound to its leg. Corvus reached forward, hesitating only briefly, and unfastened the scroll. As soon as it was free, the falcon leapt into the air, feathers brushing against his cheek as it vanished into the night sky.
Still clutching the scroll, Corvus sank back, confusion and dread tangling in his chest. Then the flood began. Memories, alien and overwhelming, poured into him like a river breaking its banks. He saw a childhood not his own: corridors lined with ancestral portraits, lectures on the purity of blood and the primacy of old ways, the lonely dinners in a small, crumbling manor far from the gleam of London. He saw his own reflection in another's eyes: Corvus Black, an orphan of a forgotten side branch of the infamous House of Black. His late parents, unapologetically dark and devout traditionalists had long ago arranged his education at the Durmstrang Institute.
The images came in fragments. Tutors hired by duty rather than affection, runes etched onto parchment, winters that bit like iron. He was home for the Yule recess, the manor kept cold to conserve resources, and his uniform on his trunk still bore the colors of Durmstrang. Lessons and subjects came after, Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Potions, Duelling, Astronomy.. One subject above all stood out: Rituals. The boy's natural gift and discipline in the art of structured, sacrificial magic shone clearly, bindings, votive exchanges, all learned with a zeal that far outstripped his peers.
And then it settled, the weight of realization pressing into him like stone. He had died as a London police officer and awakened here, in this body, in this strange, impossible world.
Harry Potter. Hogwarts. Voldemort. Dumbledore. Words from a children's book now carved into his reality. He was no avid fan; he had skimmed the books years ago, watched pieces of the films with his nephew. But he had always dismissed them. A naive boy posing as a hero, guided by selfish friends, manipulated by a headmaster cloaked in benevolence yet obsessed with control, abusive teachers and relatives. A story for the young, not for men hardened by the truths of the world. And yet here he was, breathing in the dust of that very fiction, and it was no longer fantasy. It was reality. Was he sent here after his grudge against the invaders of his homeland, against the corruption veiled under the guise of progress and tolerance.
He exhaled slowly, the weight of both lives balancing within him. A new world. A new body. A new path. The bitterness of his death lingered still, sharp and poisonous. Yet now, perhaps, he had been given another chance. A chance to shape, to carve, to bend. He looked down at the scroll still clutched in his hand, its seal unbroken. With deliberate care he unfurled it, the parchment crackling softly in the silence. The ink was bold, the handwriting sharp, as though cut into the page with a blade:
Corvus Black,
You are hereby summoned to 12 Grimmauld Place. Tomorrow at ten sharp this note will activate as a portkey.
Arcturus Black, Head of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black
Corvus simply checked the note again and set it gently upon the table beside him. The words of Arcturus Black weighed heavily in his mind, yet even as he pondered his next step, something impossible occurred. A shimmer, faint at first, appeared before his eyes. Then, like ink spreading across glass, a translucent screen formed in the air.
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Still there. Letters etched in pale light, floating just beyond reach:
[Status]
Name: Corvus Black
Age: 16
Race: Wizard, Pureblood
Occupation: Student, Durmstrang - Third Year
Physical: D
Magical: C
Talents:
- Comprehension Talent (Unique)
- Replication Talent (Unique)
Corvus read the words once. Twice. A third time. It did not change, nor did it fade. This was no elaborate hallucination. It was real, yet blessedly simple. There were no flashing quests, no gaudy rewards, no punishments or penalties. He disliked such systems, having read about them in idle fictions before. This one was restrained, unobtrusive, almost… dignified. He found himself satisfied.
His eyes lingered on the talents section. Two entries. Two gifts. And as he focused upon the first, the screen shifted, words rearranging themselves into a description:
Comprehension Talent: Grants the ability to comprehend any subject of study with unnatural speed and depth, enabling mastery beyond conventional limits.
He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. Knowledge was power, and here it was, offered freely.
The second talent, however, made his pulse quicken.
Replication Talent: Allows the user to copy one skill or talent from a target within 10 meters. Usable once per seven days. Copied abilities are transferred with the original owner's experience and understanding. Further growth is possible through the Comprehension Talent.
Corvus leaned back slowly, absorbing the implications. A game changer indeed. Not only could he learn quickly, he could replicate genius itself. He could accumulate centuries of expertise in a lifetime, layer upon layer of brilliance folded into himself.
His gaze drifted downward to the bottom of the screen. The rest of his status waited there, steady and unchanging. He exhaled and prepared himself to read it in full.
So he was a pureblood after all. That thought steadied him, a faint reassurance threading through the strangeness of his new reality. Even when he had watched fragments of the films back on Earth, he had secretly sympathized with the traditionalist side, despite his nephew's loud protests and boyish arguments. He remembered those evenings with a bitter smile. That world was gone now. His parents already passed, himself dead. Only his sister remained, happily married, heavily pregnant with her second child. In the quiet of this manor, he wished silently that whatever power had brought him here would protect her and the family he had left behind.
His focus shifted back to the hovering status screen. As his gaze landed on the line marked Physical: D, the letters shifted and new explanations formed.
Physical Rating: Scale ranges from F- to SS. F- represents the frailty of the weakest Muggles, while SS embodies legendary, mythic strength. His current rating, D placed him above a common man, but far from the peaks of possibility.
He moved to the next line, Magical: C. Again the text shifted.
Magical Rating: F- is a Muggle without a trace of power. F+ represents squibs, E for those who possess magic only in name. D marks weak and untalented wizards, while C is the level of a standard adult witch or wizard. The upper limit, SS, belonged to legends spoken of only in awe, beings beyond even Merlin the level of gods of pantheons.
Corvus let out a low hum of satisfaction. The system's clarity pleased him; no tricks, no hidden costs, only truth displayed in measured degrees. He smiled faintly. There was potential here.
One practical thought struck him then. Did this manor come with a house elf? He closed his eyes, combing through the inherited memories. His mouth twisted in a grimace when he found the answer, no it has not. This branch of the Black family had fallen too far into obscurity for such luxuries. He sighed, pushing the thought aside.
Rising from his seat, he began to wander the manor. Room by room, corridor by corridor, he studied it all. The fading tapestries, the worn wood, the faint dust lingering in corners. The silence was complete, broken only by the soft echo of his steps. After nearly twenty minutes, he had seen it all, and though the place was small, he felt its weight and age.
At last he returned to the small library, the only chamber that seemed alive with purpose. Shelves lined with books waited in quiet rows, tomes of magic and tradition. His lips curved into a smile. Now, finally, it was time. Time to test the true extent of his Comprehension Talent.
The first volume his fingers brushed against was Magical Theory. He drew it out, setting it carefully upon the table. Next came Intermediate Transfiguration, its spine cracked from long study. Arithmancy and Its Foundations followed, then Enchantments Beyond Common Use, The Principles of Warding, Ritual Architectures and Circle Theory, Binding and Votive Exchange, Alchemy of the Northern Schools, Dark Ritual Structures, and Runic Sequences of the Ancient Houses. He continued until nearly twenty books formed a heavy stack upon the table, their combined presence radiating the weight of centuries of knowledge.
With a faint smile, he left the library for a moment, walking down into the small kitchen. The manor was silent, but he found what he needed: a tin of black tea and a simple kettle. The ritual of preparation was soothing. Water heated over a flame, steam rising, the aroma sharp and grounding. Cup in hand, he returned to the library and seated himself before his chosen mountain of knowledge.
Magical Theory unfolded first. At a glance, familiar principles of how spells shaped raw magic, wand movements guiding willpower into structured forms. Yet as he read, his Comprehension Talent came alive. What had once seemed dry and abstract now revealed crystalline order. The so called "arbitrary" wand motions traced subtle geometries of magical flow; mispronunciation of incantations did not fail because of language, but because resonance shattered when rhythm broke.
Transfiguration yielded its secrets next. Not mere reshaping of matter, but persuasion, convincing the underlying magical identity of the world to adopt a new name. Skill lay not in brute force, but in the finesse of argument between wizard and reality.
Arithmancy revealed patterns like constellations. Equations were not lifeless numbers, but living symmetries binding spells to stability. Arrays collapsed when the balance of magical probability had not been properly weighted.
Book after book opened to him. Enchantments disclosed the hidden principles of permanence, why some charms faded after hours while others endured for centuries. Warding offered glimpses into layered barriers, not as walls but as living nets of force. Alchemy spoke of the transformation of essence, not only of matter but of the soul itself. The ritual texts, though, enthralled him most: circles as equations written in space, offerings as variable substitutions, intent as the binding function. Even the darker tomes whispered truths he could not have imagined, rites that demanded not blind faith, but precise mathematical symmetry, runes that drank intention as fuel.
By the time the hour grew late, his tea was cold beside him and twenty books lay spread across the table, their knowledge no longer confined to parchment but etched into the sharp clarity of his mind. Corvus leaned back, exhaling a long breath. For the first time since awakening in this world, he felt the edges of his destiny forming.
Tomorrow, the portkey would take him to Grimmauld Place, where Lord Arcturus Black would judge an orphaned heir whose best art was Rituals and where Corvus fully intended to remain a Durmstrang student, as his parents had arranged.