Corvus drew his wand from the wrist holder with a flick, the motion smooth and practiced. The sound of the leather straps tightening around his forearm, the hiss of the wand sliding free, echoed faintly in the room. It reminded him of another life, of long nights wasted on a glowing screen, guiding hooded assassins through cities long gone. Wrist blades, that had been the signature of that franchise, a tool of death hidden in plain sight. The comparison was not lost on him. The wrist holder he wore now felt similar in function, but unlike the fantasy of his youth, this was real, and this wand was no mere tool. It was both weapon and promise.
He let instinct guide his grip and studied the weapon in hand with a seriousness that bordered on reverence. The wand was crafted of yew wood, thirteen inches, with a core of thestral tail hair braided with basilisk scale. He was sure it was not bought from Garrick Ollivander. Like most of Durmstrang students his wand as well was handiwork of Gregorovitch. A rare and dangerous combination that would terrify a weaker wizard. Yew had always been tied to death, power, and transformation, favored by dark arts practitioners and feared duelists. Thestral hair could only bond with those who had truly known death, seen it and accepted it without flinching. And basilisk scale? That was something beyond common lore, volatile in the wrong hands, but harmonizing beautifully with his affinity for Rituals. He could almost feel it pulsing faintly in his grasp, eager, as though it recognized him. Alive. Waiting. A wand for dominance and shadow. Fitting for the path he intended to carve.
Raising it, he spoke with deliberate clarity: "Tempus." The air shimmered, lines of light unfolding into a clock made of silver glyphs. They hovered before him, radiant and exact. 22:20, 19 December 1992.
He regarded the time in silence. Confirmation. A small thing, yet significant. This world had already diverged from the tales he recalled. Students did not enter school at eleven but at thirteen. The traditions of magical Europe had been reasserted, at least in this. Corvus himself was sixteen, already a third year student of Durmstrang Institute. The harshness of the school, its cold walls and colder teachers, had not been exaggerated. Where Hogwarts coddled, Durmstrang demanded. Where Hogwarts encouraged camaraderie and equality, Durmstrang encouraged strength and individualism. He was already molded by those traditions, disciplined and hardened by frost and rigor. By this reckoning, the so called Boy Who Lived, the Potter brat would be thirteen next year, stepping for the first time into Dumbledore's fold. The Sorcerer's Stone arc. If memory served, that was where it began.
The thought drew a thin smile from him. Fate was aligning, and he would not squander the advantage of foresight.
He lowered his wand and exhaled, watching as the glow of Tempus dimmed and bled away into the shadows. The hour was late, and tomorrow would carry him by portkey to Grimmauld Place. Corvus hoped, with a quiet hunger, that Lord Arcturus Black would permit him at least a glance at the fabled Black Library. The secrets whispered to exist there were said to dwarf what even Durmstrang dared to teach. Rituals, blood bindings, spells carved into bone and stone. He wanted them all.
Setting the wand aside, Corvus adjusted his robes with absent care. He noticed again how much had changed in so short a span. His back was straight even in solitude, his posture impeccable. When he muttered to himself, the words came clipped, precise, aristocratic. He reached for the kettle and cup not with the absent motions of habit, but with the practiced care of a host preparing for unseen guests. Every movement was measured, every breath contained. Even his thoughts, his inner voice now bore the inflection of old nobility, a sharp cadence that brooked no softness. Pureblood etiquette was bleeding into his very bones, and he found he did not mind at all, infact enjoying it. It was the language of power in this reality, and it was his now.
He paced the hall slowly, hands folded behind his back, inspecting details he had overlooked before: the alignment of chairs at the table, the precise arrangement of silverware in the kitchen, the way the portraits in the hallway were meant to be addressed. He caught himself bowing his head slightly to a painted ancestor, the gesture so natural it startled him. Unfortunately they were all regular portraits, it seems his family really was low on budget. When he realized what he had done, he chuckled quietly, though the sound carried no mirth. He was adapting too quickly, far too easily. But appearances mattered here. In this world, appearances were often the difference between influence and irrelevance.
Finally, he began walking toward the master bedroom of the small manor. The air was still, and the faint creak of old floorboards under his steps reminded him of the age of his inheritance. Tomorrow was important. If even the smallest of the stories and whispers about Arcturus Black held truth, then punctuality and respect would be demanded. Tardiness would not be tolerated. He intended to make his entrance as a Black worthy of the name.
--
Corvus opened his eyes just as the sun began to edge its way above the horizon, a pale wash of gold slipping through the curtains of the manor. For a moment he simply lay there, letting the silence of the old house weigh on him. Then, without conscious thought, his hand moved to his wand, the instinct as natural as breathing. A flick of his wrist and the whispered incantation, "Tempus," painted glowing silver numbers into the air above him: 07:10. Time enough to prepare before the portkey at ten.
He stretched his broad frame, then gestured again, this time weaving his wand with deliberate precision. "Orbis Recto," a household charm he had encountered in one of the dusty tomes the night before, sent the tangled sheets into motion. The bedclothes rose into the air, folding and smoothing with the neatness of a house elf's work. In a matter of seconds, the bed was immaculate, corners tucked, pillows fluffed. Simple, efficient magic reduced to its most practical form. He could not help but admire the elegance.
Discarding his sleeping clothes, Corvus turned the wand in his hand and murmured, "Aguamenti." A steady stream of water burst from the tip, cascading into a hovering sphere. A twist of intent altered its temperature; steam rose instantly, filling the room with warmth. He stepped into the conjured wash, the hot water rolling across his skin like a shower. The sensation was oddly grounding. Another sweep of his wand and a crisp "Tergeo" drew away the lingering droplets, leaving him dry as though he had never touched the water.
He dressed in fresh robes, the fabric dark and formal. Even alone, he found himself smoothing the sleeves, adjusting the collar until everything lay sharp and precise. His parents' lessons, drilled into the original Corvus now whispered through him, and with each moment awake they wove themselves deeper into his own instincts. He could fight the influence of the former owner yet see no reason for it unless there was something more than influence there. Back straight, chin held at the proper angle, wand at hand: etiquette was not affectation, but armor.
In the kitchen, he prepared his meal with the same quiet discipline. Bread sliced neatly, cheese laid in even portions, and a steaming cup of tea. He ate slowly, savoring the ordinary simplicity while his mind already raced ahead to the day's obligations. When he was finished, he cleaned his plate with a brisk "Scourgify," the crumbs and stains vanishing, and then passed the wand once more to the counter with "Tergeo." The room gleamed, as spotless as when he had entered. Nothing left out of place. Appearances mattered, even here where no one else could see.
Finally, he returned to the library. The air smelled faintly of parchment and candlewax, a scent he was already beginning to associate with power. He had spent half the night among these shelves, and yet the hunger for more knowledge drove him back without hesitation. Today he was drawn to the section on daily and household charms, and as he cracked open a tome, he marveled at the sheer variety of enchantments wizards had devised for even the most mundane of tasks. Orbis Recto for beds and linens, Charta Volare to organize scattered parchments, Frigus Aer to cool a room in summer, Calor Orbis to heat one in winter. There were charms to polish cutlery, to stir tea, to close shutters, to snuff candles, to light hearths. The sheer specificity was staggering. Almost all of them relied not on incantations, but on clear intent and subtle, simple wandwork: a flick, a twist, a subtle arc.
He turned pages slowly, eyes tracking the diagrams of motion, memorizing the shapes of spellcraft. Useful, yes, but also telling. The magical world was addicted to tradition, to memorized gestures that dictated outcomes. Magic here was infinite in potential, yet bound and shackled by the weight of centuries of precedent. Wonderful in scope. Limiting in practice.
As his gaze moved across another chapter, his thoughts drifted. He began to calculate timelines, layering his inherited knowledge with what he recalled from the stories. Next year would mark the boy's entrance into Hogwarts. The Potter brat, the so called savior. That would mean the Sorcerer's Stone arc. Quirrell, a servant of Voldemort, skulking in shadows. The Philosopher's Stone, smuggled into the castle under the guise of protection. A troll unleashed in the dungeons. The Mirror of Erised, bait and trial alike. Each event orchestrated by Dumbledore, not simply tolerated but designed, crafted as stepping stones for a child's growth. It made Corvus sneer under his breath. This world bent to the will of a manipulative old man, and the story itself to the whims of a boy.
But Corvus Black would not sit idle and watch as a spectator. He began to set his own list, priorities that would shape his rise. He was going to find a way to attend to Hogwarts, not for the quality of their so called education, but to milk the plot knowledge dry. He needed some defenses before that though.
First: Occlumency. He needed his mind to be an iron vault, untouchable and impenetrable. If Arcturus held mastery, it could be copied. If not, Dumbledore or Snape would suffice.
Second: Legilimency, the twin blade. To look past the eyes of others, to drag truth from their thoughts, there was no leverage greater. Again, Dumbledore or Snape were the most likely targets.
Third: Animagus transformation. A second form was not a parlor trick but a weapon. It was stealth, escape, camouflage, and power. He would need it.
Fourth: Rituals. Blood magic, sacrificial offerings, bindings older than Hogwarts itself. His natural gift pointed him here, and the whispers in the darker tomes promised strength beyond spells alone. He needed to master these arts, to perfect them.
As the morning light strengthened, Corvus leaned back in his chair. The book of charms lay open before him, diagrams dancing in his vision, but his focus had turned inward. This year would be one of preparation. Next year, the world's attention would shift to Harry Potter, the naive child at the heart of a grand manipulation. But Corvus was here now, watching from the shadows, and he would not allow the stage to belong to the boy alone.
This was his story, too. And when the time came, his hand, not Dumbledore's would be the one to tilt the scales.
--
Corvus closed the books he had been studying and, with a flick of his wand, sent them floating back to their proper places on the shelves. He stood, brushing down his robes, and walked toward the mirror in the corner of the room. His reflection stared back: tall, silver blonde hair neatly in place, turquoise silver eyes sharp, robes immaculate. He allowed himself a faint nod of approval. At his command, "Tempus," glowing numbers formed in the air, 09:45.
He waited in silence, hands folded behind his back, until precisely 09:50. The letter rolled and held lighly in his hand began to glow faintly, parchment trembling as if alive. Then came the wrenching pull, the sudden, suffocating force that dragged him forward, compressing him as though shoved through the eye of a needle. The world blurred, twisted, then released him with a lurch. He staggered once, boots striking hard stone, but steadied quickly. He was standing before the dark, imposing door of 12 Grimmauld Place.
Straightening, he lifted his hand and knocked twice, firm and measured. For a moment, silence reigned. Then the door creaked open to reveal a house elf with sagging skin, great bat like ears, and eyes that gleamed with bitterness. Kreacher. His face was twisted into a familiar scowl, voice rasping with disdain: "Blood traitors and half breeds always coming 'round, filthy mess… Master won't like being kept waiting. Come in, come in, Kreacher hasn't got all day…"
Corvus's eyes flickered, memory aligning with what he knew of this elf. In the books, this creature would one day serve the Potter brat with fanatical loyalty, even rallying other house elves to fight at Hogwarts. That was unacceptable. That loyalty would be his. He inclined his head slightly, pureblood grace in every movement and said with calm authority, "Thank you, Kreacher."
The elf's grumbling faltered for a heartbeat. Respect and acknowledgment were foreign things to him, but they struck a chord. Corvus followed him inside, boots echoing against the floorboards of the entrance hall. The house was not pristine, it bore marks of age, clutter, and disrepair but it was far from ruin that was shown on screen. The bones of grandeur remained, stern portraits watching from the walls, silver fixtures catching the faint glow of the lamps.
The silence broke abruptly as a shrill, hateful voice shrieked from a massive portrait along the wall. Walburga Black, mother of Sirius, her painted eyes burning with suspicion: "Kreacher! Who have you dragged in here now? Another intruder? A disgrace in my halls?"
Before the elf could stammer out a reply, Corvus stepped forward, bowing slightly with perfect etiquette. "Madam Black, permit me to introduce myself. I am Corvus Black, son of Lynx Black and Selene Rosier. I come at the summons of Lord Arcturus Black, Head of our Most Noble and Ancient House."
The portrait's fury ebbed, replaced by a thin, pleased smile. her painted eyes gleamed as she hissed with approval, "At last, a Black who remembers his place. Kreacher! See that this one is treated with respect. Lord Black must not be kept waiting."
Kreacher muttered under his breath but obeyed, shuffling toward the grand black double doors at the end of the hall. Corvus followed, his gaze taking in every detail, the dark wood polished to a faint gleam, the faint hum of old wards woven into the walls, the heavy scent of dust and history.
Kreacher stopped before the doors and knocked once with his gnarled hand. The sound echoed like a drumbeat through the hall. Corvus, ever precise, murmured "Tempus" once more. 09:56. Perfect. Still on time. He allowed the faintest of smiles to curl his lips as the doors swung open. Then, composed and ready, he stepped into the study of Arcturus Black.