Corvus went to a side door, following the faint sound of shouting and muffled cries. As he opened it, the stench of sweat, fear, and unwashed bodies rolled out to greet him. Inside, his 'test subjects' were crammed into small iron cages stacked on top of one another, a grim menagerie of trembling faces and hateful glares. His turquoise silver eyes quickly caught the crude red X marks Kreacher had scrawled onto the foreheads of several captives. The simplicity made him chuckle; the elf's practicality was as brutal as it was efficient. Still, Corvus decided it was unwise to test his Legilimency on the predators marked with those signs. Cruel he might be, but he would not debase himself by sinking to the level of those who preyed upon children.
Instead, he chose one of the unmarked drug dealers. With a flick of his wand, the cage door swung open with a creak of metal. The man bolted in desperation, but Corvus's calm, aristocratic voice cut through the chaos: "Petrificus Totalus." The dealer collapsed instantly with a satisfying thud, body stiffened into a board. A whispered "Wingardium Leviosa" sent the stiffened figure floating into the air, guided like a puppet toward the ritual chamber. As Corvus locked his gaze with the captive, something deeper stirred. The connection formed without effort. No wand, no incantation. Voldemort's gift of Legilimency resonated in him. His first probe was.. clumsy. Too blunt, too direct but each attempt brought new lessons. With every subject, he practiced: subtle as a whisper, sharp as a dagger, or heavy as a hammer. By the eighth, his skill had steadied. He could now slip into a mind with all the elegance of a knife sliding between ribs.
At last, he moved them to the ritual chamber. The circle was drawn and waiting, its glowing lines thrumming with promise and hunger. He placed the first drug dealer at the center and raised his wand. "Potentiam, tuam accipio, ut mihi." His intent was clear: physical strength. The man screamed for nearly a minute, his body writhing and contorting until it dissolved into nothing but ash. Corvus felt his own body tighten, stronger, though only slightly. A Muggle's strength, it seemed, was pitiful compared to that of a wizard. He brushed away the remains with a flick, checked the circle for cracks, and moved on without hesitation.
Next came one of the predators marked with Kreacher's red X. Hatred curled in Corvus's chest as he raised his wand. "Crucio." The curse snapped from him like a whip of flame. The screams tore through the chamber, high, piercing, and desperate. Corvus tilted his wand experimentally, discovering he could twist the agony, intensify it, dull it, shift it like a musician playing notes on an instrument. For two hours he experimented, adjusting, perfecting. When he finally dragged another broken figure to the circle, it's eyes were vacant, hollow. "Not even in your dreams shall you find release of death," Corvus whispered coldly. He spoke the ritual again, and this time the victim did not scream or struggle. The Cruciatus had burned the soul down to embers, leaving little fuel for the ritual's fire.
Disappointment edged his thoughts. He wished he had tested Imperio before using Crucio and Legilimency. Now the minds and senses of his captives were little more than shattered glass. They were useless for further study, their potential wasted. He would have to trouble Kreacher for another batch. Still, he pressed on until the last of the seventeen had been consumed. Ashes vanished with a wave of his wand. A quick glance at his status revealed:
Physical: D to D+.
Seventeen Muggles had raised his physical strength by a single step. So that is the measure, he thought, lips curling faintly. Let us see what the next group will yield.
He turned to leave, but before he reached his room, a loud crack split the air. Kreacher appeared, eyes glistening, and threw himself at Corvus's legs. "Thank you, Master Corvus!" he croaked, clutching him tightly as if to anchor himself.
Corvus merely inclined his head, his voice calm and measured. "You are most welcome, Kreacher."
The elf sniffled, then spoke again, his voice raspy. "Old Master Arcturus asks Master Corvus to go to the study at once." Corvus nodded, replying with cool precision, "I will be there shortly." With another crack, Kreacher was gone.
Corvus straightened his robes, smoothed the creases with deliberate care, and walked to the study. He knocked once and entered at the command of Lord Black. Arcturus sat behind his desk, silver eyes glinting with authority, the weight of years hanging about him like a cloak. "Come and sit," he said. "It has been nearly a week since you arrived. You spend your days and nights buried in the library. I hear you even ordered Kreacher to fetch filth for you today. What purpose did this serve?"
Corvus tilted his head slightly, weighing his words with a strategist's caution. Then he asked, "My lord, do you know what a Horcrux is?"
At once, Arcturus's face twisted in a grimace, fury flashing in his eyes like lightning across storm clouds. The very word was poison. "I see you do," Corvus continued evenly. "The so called Dark Lord Voldemort, or as the spineless call him, He Who Must Not Be Named, created these abominations. Today, I destroyed one." From within his robes, he took the locket and placed it on Arcturus's desk. The older man recoiled slightly, refusing even to look at it.
"It is cleansed, my lord," Corvus assured him, voice steady as iron. "The shard of soul within is gone. This is the locket of Salazar Slytherin. It was hidden in a cave where Voldemort hid it. Where your grandson Regulus Arcturus Black perished. I know this because I saw it in Kreacher's memory, through Legilimency."
Arcturus's gaze snapped up multiple emotions passed through the sharp grey eyes of Black Patriarch. After a while he closed them for a while. After he opened them again he focused at the word Legilimency, a spark of satisfaction breaking through the fury twisting his features. "So. Not only an Occlumens, but you practice Legilimency as well."
Corvus inclined his head. "Yes, my lord. It is a tool I will master, just as I have mastered Occlumency."
For a long moment, silence stretched, broken only by Arcturus's harsh breathing. Then he barked Kreacher's name. The elf appeared, trembling, ears flat against his skull. Arcturus demanded every detail of Regulus's death. Kreacher sobbed through the tale, the cave, the Inferi, the locket and when he was finished, his shoulders shook with grief. At last, Arcturus dismissed him with a wave.
Arcturus leaned back in his chair, his voice heavy but resolute. "Tomorrow, you will come with me to the Ministry. I will appoint you as my heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. You have the diligence, the character, and the worldview. And now you have given me the truth of Regulus's fate. Perhaps I will even recover his body for a proper burial before my own days end."
Corvus bowed his head. "As you command, my lord."
Arcturus raised a frail hand, veins stark against pale skin. His voice softened for the first time, carrying the weight of legacy. "No need for formality any longer. You may call me Grandfather."
The words hung in the air. Corvus studied the man's lined face, his burning eyes. The silence that followed was not awkward, but heavy with meaning. Then he smiled faintly, carefully, and said, "Of course, Grandfather."
For Arcturus, the moment was one of triumph, legacy, and fragile hope. For Corvus, it was calculation. He felt no bond, no warmth. He was a transmigrator, a man without family in this world. But being heir to the House of Black carried weight: vaults of galleons in Gringotts, influence in the Wizengamot, and the power of a name feared and revered. He would wield it all. And though he admitted quietly to himself that he found Arcturus likable, ruthless, cunning and pragmatic that was a luxury, not a bond.
"Go now," Arcturus said, his voice once more iron. "Tomorrow we deal with the idiocy of the Ministry. And tell Walburga what you have done. She will understand what it means to disobey me."
Corvus inclined his head. "As you wish, Grandfather." He closed the door behind him, sighing faintly. Even in grief, Arcturus sought to wound others, striking at a dead woman's pride for disobeying his orders years ago. The Black Madness, Corvus thought. Walburga would not welcome the news. He would need to find a way to soften the blow or let Kreacher bear it in his stead. Either way, the game continued, and Corvus would ensure he always remained the player, never the pawn.
--
As Corvus had predicted, Walburga did not take the news lightly. The portrait erupted in shrill screeches, her painted face twisted with fury, before collapsing into sobbing laments that shook the very frame of her portrait. At last came silence, broken only by her trembling breath. Then, turning her tear streaked visage toward Corvus, she whispered through the stillness, "Thank you… thank you.." Her tone was fractured, hysterical, but genuine, as though in her madness she had found some shred of pride that the Black name was not forgotten.
Corvus inclined his head ever so slightly, then turned on his heel toward Kreacher. "Go," he commanded with cold precision, "to the Muggle prisons. Bring me more test subjects. Select from among the filth, the drug dealers, the predators. Mark the latter once more, as before. Do not bring innocents, Kreacher. Bring only vermin."
The elf's ears twitched, and his wide eyes gleamed with something approaching joy. "Yes, Master Corvus, Kreacher shall obey. Kreacher shall bring the filthy beasts, the unworthy scum. Kreacher shall mark them, oh yes… Mistress would be proud, Mistress would!" He vanished with a loud crack, a grotesque smile curving his misshapen features, the echo of his words lingering in the air.
By the time Corvus reached the ritual chamber, three captives awaited him, two of them bearing Kreacher's red X. He wasted no time. Raising his wand with effortless poise, he intoned, "Imperio." His voice was calm, noble, and unyielding. The large man's eyes glazed, his resistance collapsing like sand before the tide. Corvus directed him with the barest flicker of thought to practice the reason of his imprisonment, commanding him to turn upon the other marked predator. It obeyed, its will no longer its own. Corvus continued this experiment, exchanging the roles of attacker and victim, observing the subtle shifts in obedience, the ease with which domination settled upon the weak minded. He watched with grim satisfaction as their souls cracked beneath the weight of the curse, forced to live the cruelties they had once inflicted upon others.
On one side of the chamber he wove Imperius like a puppeteer pulling strings; on the other, he delved into the minds of the unmarked, perfecting his Legilimency. Each probe revealed another layer of weakness, and each retreat tightened his skill further. He began to experiment with levels of subtlety, light brushes that caused only flickers of thought, and deep strikes that carved into hidden memories. Soon he could conceal his approach so completely that the victims never realised they were compromised until he pulled their fears to the surface like a fisherman yanking prey from dark waters.
With each probe, he grew sharper, quieter, more elusive. His passive touches became as faint as whispers, his assaults as clean as a blade drawn across silk. He began cataloguing the differences in minds, the sluggish haze of drug dealers, the dull emptiness of broken men. By the time the forty eighth captive settled into his cage, Corvus's control had become as natural as breathing. The art of subjugation was his to wield.
When at last he declared the experiments complete, Kreacher nodded eagerly and dragged forth the next batch. Corvus turned his wand upon the predators once again. "Crucio." His voice was silk over steel, his expression cool as marble. The screams that filled the room were a grotesque symphony, and he experimented with finesse, wrist twitches altering the depth of agony, flourishes lengthening the pain, subtle rotations bringing screams that were higher, sharper. Though he knew the repeated use of the curse dimmed the quality of the soul for ritual purposes, he justified it coldly. There was still a police officer at some part of his heart, punishing the guilty. These were not innocents; they were vermin, subhuman wretches who once hid behind the law's shield. Here, there was no law, only justice, and he was its arbiter.
He saved seven of the frailest, most hollow eyed predators for his final test. Standing before them, wand raised high, he whispered the last of the Unforgivable set: "Avada Kedavra." The emerald light struck cleanly, unfaltering, each victim collapsing instantly, lifeless before their bodies hit the floor. The power of the spell came easily to him, as though his soul had been waiting for its release. By the end, he was satisfied. All three Unforgivables bent to his hand, not as borrowed power but as extensions of his will.
It took another two hours to finish the batch. Ashes vanished with a wave, the circle cleansed once more until no trace of what had occurred remained. When Corvus summoned his status, he noted the change:
Physical: D+ to C.
Two steps gained. He studied himself in the mirror after a cleansing shower. His reflection was transformed, his frame, once merely robust and reliable, now revealed the cut of muscle beneath his robes. His height had stretched subtly. Making his limbs heavier with density, his chest broader. He looked like a man who had trained in gyms for years, lifting steel, yet carried it with the grace of a noble scion. Every line of his body now spoke of potential violence. He flexed once, feeling the weight of his new form, and smiled faintly at the promise it carried.
And still, he felt no guilt. Sixty five Muggles had fallen to his wand and circle, yet to him they were nothing more than pests, less than animals. His years as a police officer returned in this moment, not as conscience but as validation. He had ended threats, eliminated predators, purged filth. It was accomplishment, not sin. The tally was not burden but ledger, proof of progress.
He slid into the bed in his underwear, muscles still humming faintly with the echo of magic and exertion. His lips curved faintly as he considered what had transpired. He was in love with magic, but Ritual magic above all. It was exact, brutal, and rewarding. The Unforgivables, too, bent to him easily, yet it was Crucio and Imperio that truly fascinated him. One the art of pain, the other the art of command. Legilimency sharpened alongside them, a triad of tools for domination. They were not spells he could use daily in open. Therefore he was going to focus on Charms, Transfiguration and their Battle forms, disciplines that would ensure his public growth was seen as legitimate while his darker arts remained hidden. These three were part of his core lessons after all, and mastery of them would give him the perfect mask.
When he retired that night, he slept as peacefully as a child, the cries of the guilty still echoing faintly in memory like a lullaby of justice, weaving into his dreams as a hymn of order restored.