Corvus woke sluggish, the weight of yesterday's rituals still clinging to his limbs. The echoes of the screams, the precision of his incantations, the surge of strength and control, they had all left his mind humming and his body weary. A practical spell shower stripped away the exhaustion, steam hissing against his skin as he conjured water and warmth to cleanse himself. He dressed with deliberate care, selecting his finest robes, black as midnight, the fabric heavy with quality. Paired with a crisp grey shirt and a tie of Slytherin green. He inspected himself in the mirror, ensuring every fold lay perfectly, every button straight, every thread immaculate. He adjusted his collar one last time, his aristocratic profile sharp, his turquoise silver eyes cold and alert. With the assurance of a man who carried both tradition and power, he descended to breakfast.
The dining hall was quiet, silver cutlery gleaming beneath enchanted lamps. Corvus had just lowered his fork and knife to the plate when Arcturus entered, his silver eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence. Corvus rose, bowing his head slightly, his voice calm. "A pleasant morning, Grandfather."
Arcturus's lips curled faintly, the satisfaction clear though restrained. He nodded once and motioned his heir to sit. "And to you, Corvus." He watched the boy's movements with a critical gaze. Every gesture, how Corvus unfolded his napkin, how he cut his food, how he straightened his posture was executed with aristocratic precision. To Arcturus, it was the mark of an heir raised not merely to inherit but to command.
When the meal was finished, Arcturus gestured for Corvus to follow him into the study. The elder Black approached the hearth and drew his wand. He spoke in a tone that carried authority wrapped in warning. "Never leave the fireplace connected to the Floo network when it is not in use. Always deactivate it once you return. The Ministry watches those connections, and loose habits invite danger. I shall teach you the spellwork upon our return."
Corvus inclined his head in silent acknowledgement, committing every word to memory. Arcturus took a pinch of Floo powder, cast it into the flames, and the fire blazed emerald. "The Atrium," he intoned, and stepped into the swirl. A second later, he was gone.
Corvus straightened his robes, smoothing every crease until perfection gleamed from him, then trown a handful of floo powder and followed Arcturus by stepping into the fire. He emerged at the Ministry's grand Atrium, the epicenter of wizarding bureaucracy. Polished floors reflected the green flames of dozens of fireplaces, each disgorging wizards and witches in a rush of cloaks and chatter. Golden statues loomed high above, gleaming symbols of magical supremacy and false unity, while enchanted advertisements for cauldrons, broomsticks, and self stirring kettles drifted lazily across the vaulted ceiling. The air buzzed with voices, owls swooped overhead bearing scrolls, and memos folded into paper airplanes zipped from office to office, darting like insects.
Corvus adjusted his tie, the cut of his robe sharp against the bustle. His silver blonde hair caught the magical light, shimmering like steel, his turquoise silver eyes scanning with cool authority. More than a few witches and wizards turned their heads, first with idle curiosity, then with whispers as recognition spread. Lord Arcturus Black. The name alone was a banner, a shadow, and a warning. Some recoiled instinctively, others stiffened in respect, but all eyes followed the pair as they moved through the Atrium. Corvus, in his immaculate attire and aristocratic bearing, looked every inch the heir of a Most Noble and Ancient House.
They approached the registry desk, where two Aurors stood checking wands and recording visitors with perfunctory briskness. The hum of conversation died as Arcturus stepped forward. His voice rang out, crisp and cutting. "Lord Arcturus Black. Here to visit the Ministerial Wizarding Register."
The Auror straightened at once, eyes widening, posture snapping into formality. "Of course, my Lord," he said hurriedly. His quill stuttered slightly as it hovered over the ledger. When his gaze flickered toward Corvus, Arcturus's tone sharpened, leaving no room for doubt. "This is Corvus Black. He is with me."
"Yes, my Lord," the Auror replied quickly, scribbling their names into the ledger with a trembling hand. His eyes flicked up again, just long enough to meet Corvus's piercing stare, before he lowered his head and waved them through.
They passed into the lift, its gates clattering shut behind them. An attendant elf in a shabby uniform pressed the correct button at Arcturus's curt instruction, and the lift jolted into motion with a shudder. Corvus studied the madness around him through narrowed eyes, the ceaseless rush of robes, the disorder hidden beneath gilded ritual. The air smelled of parchment, ink, and desperation. He leaned slightly toward Arcturus and murmured, "This is… engineered inefficiency. With all the power of runes, enchantments, and charms at our disposal is this truly the best system we could design?"
Arcturus's smirk was faint, bitter amusement flickering like a ghost across his lips. "Yes. That is what I think every time I set foot in this building. Thankfully, I rarely do. Not even for the Wizengamot meetings. I send proxies more often than not. The Ministry thrives on spectacle, not substance."
The lift chimed and the gates opened with a groan. Arcturus swept forward, Corvus following in silence, their presence like a blade cutting through the murmur of clerks and visitors. Quills paused, eyes followed, whispers spread like fire through parchment. At the desk of the Ministerial Wizarding Register, a young secretary froze, her ink blotting the page as Arcturus's shadow fell across her. His voice rang with the unyielding authority of blood and legacy.
"I am Arcturus Black, Lord of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. I am here to register Corvus Black as my heir."
The secretary's quill clattered onto the desk. Her eyes widened as though she was staring at a specter risen from legend. She stammered, nodded clumsily, and bolted into the corridor behind her, nearly tripping on her robes in her haste.
Moments later, a portly wizard came hurrying forward, his robes stretched tight across his girth, sweat beading at his brow. He bowed so low his jowls shook. "Lord Black! I am Septimus Nott, Head of the Register. It would be my highest honor to process your request, my Lord." His face flushed with eagerness, his voice dripping with reverence. He extended a hand toward his office, bowing again. "If you would follow me, my Lord Black and young Heir Black as well. The House of Black deserves nothing less than proper ceremony."
--
Albus Dumbledore sat in his throne like chair, for to call it merely a seat would be an insult to its grandeur. Behind the polished wood of his desk, dozens of intricate devices ticked and whirred. Some measured the health and magical outbursts of one Harry Potter, others monitored the known Death Eaters, and still more tracked the movements of former members of the Order of the Phoenix. The web of information was his, and his control near absolute. To anyone else it might have seemed paranoia; to Dumbledore, it was stewardship, guardianship, the necessary watch of a shepherd guiding sheep too dim to recognize wolves.
His titles, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, Headmaster of Hogwarts were not honors but tools, each a carefully chosen lever in his grand design. For Dumbledore alone knew the "truth" of the future: a world where wizards and Muggles walked hand in hand, the magical serving as guides, protectors, and moral stewards of the mundane. In his mind, wizardkind was destined to uplift the weaker race, and he alone would see it done. Those who opposed him were not merely political adversaries; they were misguided, blind, or, in his darker assessment, agents of evil clinging to outdated notions of magical supremacy. Only Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore could see the path forward, and if the world resisted, then the world must be reshaped. It was not arrogance in his mind, it was necessity. In modern terms, it was a god complex cloaked in grandfatherly charm.
As Headmaster, he deliberately lowered the standard of education at Hogwarts, ensuring each graduating class of witches and wizards was less capable than the last. Weak wizards were dependent wizards, and dependence bred obedience. Every essay marked with lenience, every subject trimmed of rigor, was a chisel to carve out sharper minds and reduce them to dull blades, content to be wielded. As Chief Warlock, he molded the Wizengamot, shaping law and legislation to fracture the old families, eroding tradition, and replacing custom with his "modern" values. Entire bloodlines, once proud, now whispered and bowed to his will. And as Supreme Mugwump, he extended his influence abroad, sowing the seeds of his vision on a global stage. It was slower work, the ICW was not as easily bent as the British Ministry but progress was progress, and he had time. Time and vision. Time that only he, in his mind, knew how to use correctly.
He hummed quietly as he sifted through parchments, a letter of complaint about the renaming of sacred wizarding holidays. He dismissed it with a flick, murmuring about "dark wizards" as though the objection itself was proof of corruption. He needed the world fractured and fearful. Unity under him would come only after they had been weakened by division. Every denial of tradition, every erosion of heritage, was, to him, a brick laid in the road to Greater Good.
Dumbledore remembered well the two Dark Lords of his lifetime. One had been his equal, his brother in vision, until betrayal made them enemies. He had allowed Grindelwald to flourish, to terrify the world, until the people cried out for a savior and only then he had answered. The praise and the credit, he ensured, fell squarely at his feet, though it had been the ICW that fought the war. He alone faced Gellert in the end, carefully timed, ensuring his name would forever be linked to the fall of a giant. As for Tom Riddle, he had molded him into the perfect inefficient tyrant, a creature of spectacle and cruelty rather than true power. Though he was nearly sure the boy had created horcruxes only if he could find the deteails Tom would be his stick to discipline the wizarding Britain again. By weakening the Auror force, by ensuring Voldemort's terror was unchecked until convenient, Dumbledore created the perfect bogeyman to shape legislation, to terrify wizardkind into begging for his guidance. To the outside world, it was heroism. To Albus, it was management. All for the "Greater Good." His greater good.
The gadgets on his desk hummed, faint lights pulsing like watchful eyes. One of them chimed, a silvery whisper snaking through the air. It was one of his spies in the Ministry. Lord Arcturus Black is here. He is heading to the Department of the Ministerial Wizarding Register. he heard the whisper after activating the device.
Albus' brows lifted ever so slightly. Arcturus? Alive, and moving with purpose? The old man should have been in his final days. He still remembered the battlefields of his youth, where Arcturus Black and Gellert Grindelwald had laid waste to scores of witches and wizards. He remembered the destruction, the cunning maneuvers, the ruthless efficiency. The thought of that iron willed patriarch still drawing breath unsettled him. A relic of another age, but one still sharp enough to cut.
His mind worked quickly. Sirius rotted in Azkaban thanks to his perfectly accomplished plans. Would Arcturus pass the title to young Draco Malfoy? No, never. Arcturus loathed the Malfoys, his fight with Abraxas was still remembered. Lucius, was not different for the Black patriarch. The gilded parasite, too clever by half yet lacking spine. Then who? Dumbledore's plan had been simple: wait for Arcturus to die, seize control of the Black vote in the Wizengamot as he had with others, the Potters among them and plunder the infamous Black Library. The House of Black would be hollowed, reduced, its last embers dying in the grasp of the Malfoys. Now this unexpected development threatened his carefully woven web, a single loose thread that could unravel a tapestry spun over decades.
His eyes hardened behind half moon spectacles. This could not be ignored. Not Black. Not now.
He rose, sweeping his cloak about him, every movement deliberate, the image of a statesman preparing to descend among lesser mortals. He stepped to the fireplace, long fingers casting a pinch of Floo powder with practiced grace. "Chief Warlock's Chambers," he intoned. The fire roared emerald, and with a step he was gone. Green flames spat him out into his private office within the Wizengamot. Ancient tomes lined the walls, quills floated in neat rows, and portraits of past Chief Warlocks nodded in recognition. Without pause, Dumbledore straightened his robes, adjusted his spectacles, and set off toward the Department of the Ministerial Wizarding Register.
If Arcturus Black was making a move, Albus Dumbledore would see it with his own eyes. For he, and he alone, would decide what was best for the wizarding world. House of Black included. Opposition was not rebellion to him, merely error waiting to be corrected. And he was, after all, the only one fit to do the correcting.