While Corvus was preparing for his Alchemy exams, a storm was brewing back in Wizarding Britain. The kind of political tempest that could strip the varnish off even the most confident minister. Cornelius Fudge, one of the worst ministers in the history of wizarding world. Who always enjoyed theatrics but rarely possessed steadiness, now found himself drowning in chaos. Howlers arrived by the hundreds, their angry shrieks echoing through the marble halls of the Ministry. Owls bearing complaints swooped into his office in endless flocks. Delegations of furious witches and wizards lined up at his door each morning, demanding explanations. Why was the Department of Education so incompetent? Why had Hogwarts fallen so far behind its foreign counterparts? Some even dared to call for his resignation.
It had begun with a single article. That venomous quill of Rita Skeeter had once again set the nation ablaze. Her glowing piece on the Black heir's mastery in Potions had ignited public outrage. He still wondered how the woman had managed to find those "donation records" he'd forgotten to declare. He couldn't touch her now. Not without booking a very, very long time in Azkaban. The Prophet was her kingdom and she ruled it with gossip and poison.
And now, another headline struck like lightning.
"YOUNGEST MASTER OF CHARMS IN HISTORY: DURMSTRANG'S BLACK STAR SHINES AGAIN."
In the article, Skeeter's words danced with venom and wit:
"At just sixteen, Corvus Black, Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black has been officially recognized as a Master of Charms, following his earlier triumph as the youngest Potions Master in over four centuries. While foreign institutions such as Durmstrang continue to nurture brilliance, one must ask, what exactly is Hogwarts doing with its exorbitant tuition fees? Magical Britain's children deserve better than a crumbling curriculum and an absentee headmaster more concerned with lemon drops than learning."
She went on to question the Ministry itself.
"The Department of Education must answer as well. Why parents pay hundreds of Galleons for mediocrity. Are we funding excellence or excuses? Should the nation's future rely on outdated methods while foreign schools breed prodigies like Master Black?"
For the Ministry's senior administrators, it read like a declaration of war. If a boy at the same as some of Hogwart's fourth years could hold two masteries, why hadn't any of their so called 'brightest minds' achieved the same? Fudge felt the sting of it personally. A wound to both his pride and his political standing.
Dolores Jane Umbridge, the toad in pink, thrived amid scandal. She presented one of her 'brilliant' bureaucratic solutions. A formal petition to revoke the citizenship of Corvus Black. Fudge's eyebrows rose. "You mean the same Corvus Black who's heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black?" He asked pointing to the name written.
He took the parchment from her stubby hands and read through the neatly written, vindictive proposal. The reasons were laughable. Catastrophic at best, suicidal at worst, Discrediting Wizarding Britain, undermining its Ministry, its institutions, and Hogwarts itself.
The more he read, the colder the room felt.
"Dolores," he said slowly, folding the parchment to stall for thought, "we need him. Not the other way around."
Her saccarine voice cooed, "But of course, Minister. I shall proceed accordingly, if that is what you wish." He knew, before he stick it in, while doing the deed and even afterwards. But Firewhiskey had strange effects. Nonetheless, the frog was more loyal then even Lucius.
Fudge rubbed his temples. "If he gives us even a single flattering quote in the Prophet, one sentence praising the Ministry the entire scandal becomes Dumbledore's problem, not ours. That's how we win." His tone sharpened. "And do not let Lord Black hear about this, Dolores." He pointed to the folded parchment. "There are forces I'd rather not cross at any cost."
She smiled, her feline smile. "Naturally, Minister. Leave it to me."
Fudge sighed, slumping into his chair. He didn't yet realize how dearly he would come to regret those words. In time, he would curse this exact moment, the moment he left the matter in Umbridge's eager, poisonous hands.
--
While the Minister was unknowingly digging his own grave, Arthur Weasley finally managed to secure a meeting with Arcturus Black. It had taken weeks of formal letters and carefully worded requests. Lord Black did not even acknowledge the first attempts. Only after Arthur consulted Albus and painstakingly rewrote his letter in the proper bounds of wizarding etiquette did a reply finally come.
The process felt suffocating to Arthur, these old rituals of phrasing and posture that pure blood families still clung to were waste of time. His family had long abandoned such nonsense, proudly living without the pretentious airs of old bloodlines. To him, wizarding society should have outgrown these relics of the past, just as Muggles had. Yet, as he drafted polite phrases and his thoughts in a roundabout sentences, he couldn't help but think that perhaps he should have taught his own children, especially the twins how much power these families still wielded. Understanding that might have kept them from stepping so carelessly on the pride of one of the most dangerous houses in Britain.
He pushed those thoughts aside, though. The purpose of the meeting was simple, he wanted to ask for leniency for the harmless prank of the twins.
Arcturus, however, was far from amused. When he first received word that two of Arthur Weasley's boys had tampered with his heir's meal, his reaction was nothing short of fury. The letter, though poorly penned described the incident as a "harmless prank," but to Lord Black it looked far more like an assassination attempt by poisoning. Only after a thorough review of Hogwarts' detention records did he accept that the pair were reckless, infamous redheaded prankster. Bullies, rather than scheming murderers. They reminded him unpleasantly of his own kin, Sirius and that Potter boy, the werewolf and the sneaky brat. The idiots who had filled Sirius' head with lofty nonsense about the "right side of history."
That right side put one six feet under, the other in Azkaban for causing the death of one and direct murder of the last.
When Arthur finally arrived at the Ministry's stately conference room, Arcturus' mood was glacial.Lord Black sat at the head of the table, posture regal and expression carved from stone. Every inch the patriarch of an ancient house. Arthur, though usually genial and polite, felt the man's authority pressing down on him like a physical weight.
For Arthur, this meeting was not about pride but family. Each time the Prophet splashed another story about Corvus Black's triumphs, he winced at the reminder of his sons' stupidity. Percy's letters told him that the twins and Ron's lives at Hogwarts had become a cycle of endless detentions that will continue until term's end. Arthur thought it excessive. Yes, they were mischievous, but they were still only children, Just like Corvus Black.
Now, seated across from one of the most feared and respected men in magical Britain, Arthur needed to find a way to appeal to reason. He had already spoken with Minerva and Albus. Minerva had refused to intercede, insisting the punishment was deserved, while Dumbledore had merely assured him that expulsion was off the table. This meeting was his last chance.
So Arthur took a steadying breath and faced Arcturus Black, determined to make his case, that whatever titles and honors the young heir bore, he was still just a boy, and like all boys, prone to foolish mistakes. It was time, Arthur hoped, to close the matter and let bygones be bygones.
--
Corvus had just completed his Alchemy examinations, and the experience left him both invigorated and reflective. True Alchemy was not potion making or transfiguration, it was an art that balanced transformation, essence, and will. It demanded harmony between the understanding of material and the how far the magic can stretch it. A dialogue between creation and control. The exam covered three specialized branches. Transmutation, Botanical Alchemy, and Essence Alchemy, the latter often called Atomic Alchemy by modern practitioners after Muggle science advanced in chemistry.
In Transmutation, Corvus moved with calm precision, his gestures deliberate and graceful. He began with the simplest of substances. A lump of coal and a bar of raw iron. His wand carved fine lines of molten gold light in the air, sigils that pulsed in rhythm with his words. The coal compressed with a low hum, its structure realigning as its dull surface shimmered to glossy graphite, then to a translucent diamond, before darkening again into a rare, black crystalline form favored for rune amplification. Corvus narrated each step with clarity, explaining how elemental resonance and magical frequency intertwined to reshape the atomic lattice. The iron followed suit. Purified into refined steel, then transmuted into a silvery copper alloy capable of channeling and storing magic in the form of liquid light. The examiners leaned forward, murmuring with appreciation. Every change reflected control, understanding, and respect for the nature of transformation itself. The registration of the process was aready completed under his name.
In Botanical Alchemy, Corvus turned to living matter, alchemy in its most delicate form. For the fifth year portion, he accelerated and reversed the growth cycle of a simple sprig of dittany, demonstrating how its regenerative essence could be preserved even as the plant aged. For the sixth year segment, he performed a similar process on mandrake roots, adjusting their maturity while maintaining their magical potency. Finally, for the seventh year practical, he placed several ordinary herbs in a wide cauldron and planted a single valerian root at the center. Slowly, the alchemical reaction began as his wand was moving continuously. The surrounding plants withered as the asphodel in its infancy drew their essence into itself, blooming with eerie vitality. A soft shimmer spread through its petals, breathing with quiet life. "Transformation should never be forced," Corvus said evenly to the observing masters. "You must convince the essence, Make the material wish to change." The asphodel's bloom pulsed once, as though in agreement.
Lastly came Essence Alchemy, the pinnacle of the craft, where matter and will converged. Corvus combined powdered quartz, the ground ash of a phoenix feather, and a measured drop of his own magic. The ingredients floated before him in suspension, orbiting one another before collapsing inward into a mist that condensed into a luminous sphere. The orb emitted a low, resonant hum, vibrating in tune with his heartbeat. "Essence Alchemy," he said softly, "is the balance between the possible and the forbidden. The single breath between creation and ruin." The panel exchanged looks of quiet approval. In that moment, they no longer saw a student performing before them, but a master who had already stepped beyond the boundaries of his generation.
By the exam's end, Corvus passed every trial, his expertise and knowledge solid. The judges congratulated him formally as he bowed and departed.
Later that afternoon, at the British Ministry, a young clerk intercepted him in the atrium. "Senior Undersecretary Umbridge requests your presence, Master Black," the man said, offering a polite nod of respect.
Corvus' smile didn't reach his eyes. "Tell her," he said coolly, "that I don't answer to summons from paper pushers. If the Ministry wishes to speak with me, they'll do it through proper channels." His tone was polite but glacial. The clerk blanched and quickly stepped aside as Corvus disappeared toward the apparition point.
Back at Grimmauld Place, the familiar warmth of Arcturus' study greeted him. The old patriarch sat behind his desk, quill in hand, parchment spread like a battlefield of ink and gold. He looked up with a rare grin. "Ask for something," Arcturus said, leaning back. "Your birthday's near. Indulge yourself. The honor you bring to this house would make even the ancestors rise in applause." He chuckled darkly. "Better yet, go tell Walburga's portrait about your success. Let her wail in shame. It will make my evening."
Corvus smirked, amusement tugging at his lips. Already turning toward the hall. But his intent wasn't mere mischief. For all her shrill arrogance, Walburga's portrait still held memories of the family's past and through her, he will find a way to touch the subject of his interest. To mention the long banished mongrel, Sirius Black.