Lord Arcturus Black was tired. Tired of watching the House of Black, one of the most noble and ancient of wizarding lines, drift aimlessly in the shifting winds of wars and dark lords. He had seen it all, and he had borne the weight of it longer than most. The years had carved lines of steel into his face, but his eyes still burned with a fire undimmed by age. A fire fed by disappointment and betrayal.
In his youth he had walked at the side of Gellert Grindelwald. Not as a servant, never that, Blacks did not bend knee. He had been one of Grindelwald's inner circle, a general and a confidant. To the world, Grindelwald had been a dark lord, but to Arcturus he had been something else: a brother in arms, a man who understood the truth, that magic was meant to rule, not to hide. Together they had fought for a vision of wizardkind's supremacy, a world cleansed of weakness, a world where the superior would not be shackled by the inferior. And though Grindelwald had fallen, Arcturus never forgot the purity of the ideology. The man had been defeated, yes, but the idea remained eternal, untouchable.
Then came the rise of Voldemort. Arcturus had watched his ascent with cold eyes and recognized the difference immediately. This one was not like Grindelwald. He did not see himself as the champion of wizardkind, but as its master, twisting followers into slaves. His methods were chaos, his followers rabble dressed in masks, little more than thugs wielding magic like cudgels. Arcturus had forbidden his family to follow him, to bow their heads to this upstart who styled himself a lord. "A Black serves no master," he had said, again and again. But his own children had not listened, seduced by power, fear, promises, and weakness.
And the result? His grandchildren scattered and broken. Bellatrix, brilliant and fearless, now rotting in Azkaban, her madness wasted in chains. Sirius, reckless and proud, chained beside her, his arrogance now turned into humiliation. Andromeda, cast out for the sin of love, her bloodline severed. Narcissa, bound to the Malfoys, to that spineless blond ferret who slithered through politics without honor, groveling for power he did not deserve. Regulus, the only one who had shown promise, dead before his time. His legacy, the House he had guarded all his life, was slipping through his fingers like sand. To fall into Malfoy hands, that would be a betrayal worse than death.
Arcturus's heart simmered with anger, but also with iron resolve. He would not let the name of Black be reduced to ashes. For the love of Magic itself, for the dignity of wizardkind, he would not let it happen. And then, when all seemed lost, a glimmer of hope had appeared. A name from a distant, forgotten branch: Corvus Black.
The boy's father, Lynx Black, a distant cousin of Cygnus Black III. His mother, Selene Rosier, from a line steeped in tradition and shadow, a family whose roots were as dark as they were proud. Pure blood on both sides, untainted and unquestionable. A student of Durmstrang, not coddled by Albus's delusions of equality, but forged in discipline, tradition, and darkness. A boy who had the makings not of a pawn, but of an heir. An heir who could reclaim what had been squandered by those too blind to see.
Yes, Arcturus thought. This one can be shaped. This one can be tested, honed, and made into the weapon the House of Black requires. This one can be the key.
His political instincts sharpened as ever, he considered the future. The Ministry was corrupt, weak, a nest of vipers fattened on compromise and cowardice. They could not lead wizardkind; they could barely govern themselves. Dumbledore played at being a savior, but in truth was the greatest manipulator alive, bending wizardkind to kneel at Muggle feet with talk of harmony. And Voldemort's a failure from start had proved that brute terror without order, without vision, was useless. What wizardkind needed now was strength with vision, power with purpose, discipline with heritage.
And who better than a Black to give it to them?
Arcturus's eyes hardened. He would not die leaving his House in ruins. The boy would be molded, tested, sharpened. He would be broken if he faltered, reforged if he cracked, but he would stand in the end as heir and as blade. If Corvus proved worthy, the Black legacy would rise again, untainted, unbent, unbroken. And if not… then Arcturus would find another way, for he would not go to his grave defeated.
--
Corvus stepped into the study, his gaze immediately locking onto Lord Arcturus Black. The man before him looked every bit his age: hair long and white, shoulders slightly bowed with years of burden. Yet his eyes, silver, sharp, and unyielding cut through the room like a blade. Fragile in body, perhaps, but the mind behind those eyes remained intact, honed, and as dangerous as ever. Bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, and a heavy oak desk dominated the chamber. Every inch of the room whispered authority, tradition, and judgment.
Corvus bowed, lowering his head with precise etiquette. "Lord Black," he said evenly, his voice carrying the poise demanded of his bloodline.
Arcturus followed every gesture, every step, his gaze dissecting the boy with deathly precision. He sought mistakes, however small, a falter in movement, hesitation in speech, arrogance in posture. When he found none, he gave the smallest of nods, approval without words, but heavy with meaning. For Arcturus Black, silence was often the highest form of praise.
"Sit," Arcturus commanded, his tone as sharp as a whip.
Corvus obeyed without delay, settling in the chair across from him. The silence between them stretched, thick with tension, until Arcturus finally asked about his studies. His voice was not idle, it was the weight of inquiry, a test disguised as conversation.
"In Durmstrang," Corvus began, his voice calm and deliberate, "advancement is not bound to age or year. A student progresses by passing both written and practical examinations. If he can demonstrate mastery, he will advance, no matter how many years attended. No favoritism, no artificial restraints."
Arcturus's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "Better. That is how a true magical institution should be run. Merit and strength, not pandering to weakness. A hierarchy of ability, not of excuses."
Corvus inclined his head. "I am already on the fifth year curriculum in Potions, Dark Arts, Rituals, Duelling, and Charms. Fourth year work in Herbology, Transfiguration, Battle Transfiguration and Charms, Astronomy, and Runes."
Arcturus leaned back, satisfaction flickering in his gaze. "Durmstrang breeds warriors. Hogwarts breeds sheep. In that castle, the talented are shackled so the weak may keep pace. Equality, they call it. In truth, it is injustice. To halt the superior so the inferior may crawl forward. That is corruption of the highest order. Weakness infects everything it touches, and Dumbledore spreads it like a plague."
Corvus allowed the corner of his mouth to curl faintly. "I agree, my lord. To hinder those who rise naturally is to poison the very roots of magic. Wizards are not meant to kneel beside Muggles in servitude, nor to hold back their own for the sake of petty fairness."
Arcturus's expression sharpened, then softened with memory. "Gellert thought the same. It is why he thrived there. Why I wish, perhaps, that I had walked those halls as a boy. Durmstrang produces leaders, visionaries, conquerors. Not pawns." He let the words hang in the air before leaning forward slightly, his sharp eyes pinning Corvus. "And you, boy, you already speak with the tone of someone who understands this truth. That is promising."
He fixed his eyes on Corvus again, and for the first time, he spoke his name. "Do you know why I summoned you, Corvus Black?"
Corvus met his gaze unflinchingly. "I do not, my lord," he answered, even as he quietly activated his Replication Talent. In his vision, cards shimmered into existence around Arcturus's head. Occlumency, Dueling, Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, their colors glowed purple, rich. Potions glowed blue, Herbology and Arithmancy green, Astronomy white. There were others as well but his focus was not there. The colors denoted quality and depth, he realized, each one a portrait of skill and legacy.
Without hesitation, he focused on Occlumency. A pulse of foreign knowledge pressed against his mind as the card shone and a purple light dissolved into him, its experience and technique sinking deep. He halted the full absorption, locking it away until he was alone. The taste of mastery lingered, a promise of the power he would soon wield fully.
Arcturus sighed, his voice carrying the weight of years and battles. "I have summoned you because the House of Black requires an heir. My children and grandchildren have disappointed me, or been destroyed by their own weakness. They betrayed their blood, their duty, their name. You are of the blood, untainted, unbroken. You will remain here at Grimmauld Place. Kreacher will prepare a room. Do not waste this chance, for I will not offer it twice."
Corvus nodded again, his silver eyes reflecting calm resolve. "As you command, my lord."
Dismissed, he rose and followed Kreacher up the winding staircase. The elf muttered and grumbled as always, venom in every word, but Corvus only listened with half an ear. When he asked if Kreacher could fetch his belongings, the elf sniffed but nodded, grudging respect already tugging at his manner. Soon they arrived before a dusty, long unused room. The door creaked open, revealing cobwebs, sagging drapes, and the smell of stale air.
Kreacher snapped his fingers irritably, beginning to clean, but Corvus's wand was already in hand. He moved with deliberate precision, casting charm after charm. Scourgify to strip away layers of grime, Orbis Recto to make the bedclothes spring back into form, Reparo to mend cracked furniture. Together, man and elf restored the chamber, and though Kreacher muttered curses under his breath, his eyes betrayed shock. This young blood of Black, this boy, lowered himself to work alongside a servant. It was an act he could not understand.
Corvus only smiled faintly. "Thank you, Kreacher. You serve this House well. Remember that."
The elf blinked, muttered something inaudible, and with a sharp pop, vanished.
Now alone, Corvus sat on the edge of the freshly made bed. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. The knowledge of Occlumency waited within him, the discipline and mastery of Arcturus himself. He opened the floodgates, allowing it to pour through, every barrier, every technique, every subtle art of guarding the mind. The experience of decades merged with his own, expanding, sharpening, fortifying. Walls of steel and shadow erected themselves in his consciousness, layer upon layer, until his thoughts were a fortress. This was not merely knowledge. It was a legacy.
As his breathing slowed, Corvus's lips curved into the faintest smile. This was power. This was the beginning. He would work harder, carving his mind into something unassailable, something beyond the reach of Dumbledore, Voldemort, or any who dared pry. The first step had been taken. Many more would follow.
--
Corvus opened his eyes after an hour of rest, the weight of his training settling comfortably into his mind. It was already noon. He let his turquoise silver eyes drift closed again, this time turning his focus inward. He would forge his mind into a fortress. Not just walls and wards, but something greater, something that reflected who he was.
He began weaving the vast emptiness of his inner world, shaping it into a star strewn void. Within this darkness, even the faintest intrusion would be visible to him, like sparks against black silk, a wave on the surface of a still lake. Slowly, he drew forth the constellation that bore his name: Corvus, the raven. Four bright stars Gamma, Delta, Epsilon, and Beta Corvi, blazed into being, forming the quadrilateral pattern he recalled from stargazing in his old life.
Gamma, known as Gienah, became the vault of the original owner's memories, the childhood of this body, the traditions of the Black family, and the scattered lessons left behind by parents long gone. Delta became the repository of his past life. His years as a police officer, the bitter lessons of a dying nation, and most importantly, his knowledge of the Potterverse and the story yet to unfold. Epsilon became his library: a growing archive of everything he had studied at Durmstrang, each subject carefully arranged and catalogued. Charms, Rituals, Dark Arts, Potions.. filed and locked away. Finally, Beta completed the quadrilateral, holding the fragments of his emerging future, waiting to be filled with what he would claim through replication.
Each star was protected, each memory encrypted. He did not rely solely on magical symbolism; he organized them as if they were a computer system, guarded behind layers of DOS style commands. He was pretty sure even the most skilled Legilimens would be baffled with such systems. They could no more break through this structure than a blind man could read code on a dark screen.
When he opened his eyes again, there was serenity. Occlumency was not merely a shield; it was an evolution. His thoughts now moved ten times faster, patterns emerging in moments where once they would have taken hours. His memory was crystalline, recalling entire passages of books he had skimmed, every flicker of expression in the people he had spoken to. And his emotions, those too were under his command. Behind a frozen wall, untouched and unshaken, he reigned over his own mind. Even the smallest twitch of his mouth or the flicker of his brow was now his to permit or deny.
He allowed himself the faintest smile, a cold but satisfied curve of the lips.
At that moment, a sharp pop echoed through the chamber. Kreacher appeared, hunched and muttering, his eyes gleaming with the usual mixture of bitterness and obedience. "Master Corvus," the elf rasped, his tone dripping with disdainful reverence, "old Master says dinner soon. Half hour, Kreacher says. Master Corvus is to be ready, yes…"
Corvus inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, Kreacher. I will be ready."
The elf blinked, clearly unsettled by the polite acknowledgment, then muttered something under his breath and disappeared with another crack.
Rising, Corvus noticed that his belongings had already been arranged neatly in the room, robes folded, trunk opened, books stacked in perfect order. Kreacher's hand, no doubt, though perhaps spurred by Walburga's command. He stripped off his current robes and, with a wave of his wand, conjured another cascade of steaming water to wash himself. The makeshift shower left him refreshed. Another flick dried him instantly, and he dressed with care in a formal set of black robes, sharp lines emphasizing the authority of his heritage.
His steps were silent as he moved through the corridors toward the dining hall. The portraits watched him with interest as he passed, old eyes measuring him against ghosts of the past. He wondered, as he walked, whether this meal would be the moment Arcturus chose to open the gates of the famed Black Library. The treasure trove of knowledge that could shape him into something far greater than either Dumbledore or Voldemort could ever imagine.