Durmstrang took the Slytherin table as if it had always belonged to them.
The first years watched with open staring. Sixth years watched with calculation. The Durmstrang students ignored all of it and sat in disciplined lines, heavy coats draped over chair backs with the same care a soldier gave his kit. Their posture did not soften even when plates were filled.
Beauxbatons went to Ravenclaw.
Their uniforms looked tailored for elegance rather than showing their status as students, and even the way they held goblets made some Hogwarts students sit straighter out of embarrassment. If Narcissa Black were to be present, she would have explained the difference between exagarration and etiquette.
Nonetheless, the Great Hall adjusted to both groups.
On Samhain, every household and every race prepared for ritual work from the shores of Portugal to the islands of Japan. Hogwarts did not pretend it was separate from the wider world. The sixth and seventh years were already moving in quiet clusters, heading for their Heads of House to request the same thing they had requested the previous year, month and week.
Heir Black.
Not because there were no ritualists. Because he was the first spark, the first drop of water after a draught of decades.
This time, Corvus would not be alone.
Professor Isolde Nacht had prepared the venue with her usual precision. Upper years who had passed their examinations in ritual theory and practice were now studying for mastery. They helped on every step with the respect the day deserved. They treated Samhain like an academic event and a political stance at the same time.
The castle liked that balance.
-
Far from the Great Hall, the Nest ran on controlled chaos.
Corvus watched the soldier learn magic in small steps.
The man sat inside the time array chamber with his wand held like a tool he did not trust yet. The wand tip trembled by a fraction, then steadied under the discipline of training.
A new core lived inside his chest like a fledgling thing, hungry and unrefined. It tugged at ambient mana with the impatience of a child.
Measuring charms hovered over the soldier's body. Quills scratched every change.
"Again."
The instruction came from a Nestborn researcher who looked barely older than a Hogwarts seventh year. Her eyes did not blink often.
The soldier drew a breath and raised the wand.
A weak spark jumped.
He swore under his breath and forced his shoulders to relax.
Corvus did not intervene. He watched; being present produced cleaner results.
The soldier tried again. This time, the wand responded with a thin red spark that hit the dummy and fizzled.
The researchers recorded the improvement.
The soldier's jaw tightened in concentration. He asked Corvus to take him to Hogwarts, where his son was. He agreed on the condition that the man should cast and memorise all the spells a second-year student of the school can do. Since then, the man hardly slept.
That mentality made him useful.
-
A door at the edge of the chamber opened without announcement as Vinda Rosier walked in. She wore her authority the way she wore her robe, with clean lines and no ornament. Her gaze flicked once to the measuring charms, once to the soldier's wand hand, then settled on Corvus. She remembered reading the report and description of shock on Ollivander's face while finding the right wand for the soldier.
Corvus gave her a brief nod.
Vinda stopped within conversational distance and kept her hands still.
"You have solved the largest problem of Wizardkin. Our population is not a joke anymore," her voice carried the approval of a mother. "I did not think I would live to see the day."
Corvus watched the soldier fail another attempt and did not look away. "The largest problem was never our numbers, Aunt Vinda. It was the sick mentality of quietly replacing Magical law with foreign ideology. It was allowing the slow formation of societies within societies. It was the patient construction of parallel power structures that owe no loyalty to the new reality they inhabit. Everything else came after we cured ourselves of such poisons."
Vinda's mouth shifted slightly. This insight was what made her heir a worthy leader. To recognise and identify the main cause of a problem and take action to solve it. Not creating committees or asking for permission from twenty different departments.
Her gaze went to the former Muggle. The man asked to see his son, Michael Nacht. She hoped Corvus would agree to the request. "Turning a mundane into a magical is the sort of work that changes the rules of the board."
Corvus turned his head then. "We will not turn every Muggle to Magicals. Our estimations show a clear difference between converted and natural wizards. Converted ones will hardly reach one-third of a natural Wizard's magical potency. We will use it as another carrot for the Muggles.
Vinda nodded quietly.
She shifted her attention to the soldier and watched him lift the wand again. "He understands discipline," she noted. "He does not believe he deserves success. He believes he must earn it."
Corvus's tone stayed even. "That makes him worthy."
Vinda's gaze returned to Corvus.
She held his gaze. "I am declaring you a Master of the Dark Arts."
A junior researcher near the quills paused for half a heartbeat, then continued writing as if nothing had been said.
Corvus inclined his head once. "Thank you, Master Rosier." He saw no need to elaborate. Though the title and her words carried a trace of sentiment for him, the mastery held no practical weight. Not anymore.
Vinda's voice stayed clinical. "You have been at that level for a long time. I withheld the title until you stopped showing impulses or emotional instability. Mastery is control, while impulse is where Dark Arts tend to prove their danger. You have proved you can hold it and more."
"As the Headmistress of Hogwarts, I invite you to conduct the Samhain Ritual this eve." She angled her chin. "Isolde Nacht is unquestioningly more than capable. So are the students who passed their examinations. Yet, that is not the point. The ritual will be attended by Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and by officials from France. Denmark and Germany. They conveyed that they will be honoured if you conduct it."
Corvus's eyes narrowed by a fraction.
Vinda continued, tone steady. "You conducted the first ritual after decades of corruption, and the witnesses still talk about it. Isolde wants the same structure, larger in scale. She prepared it. She is also pragmatic enough to understand why your presence matters."
Corvus looked back toward the soldier.
The soldier finally succeeded in animating a quill.
Corvus let a beat pass. "You are sure Isolde will not be offended?"
Vinda gave a small shrug. "Isolde is a Nacht. Offence is not her hobby."
Corvus's gaze returned fully to Vinda. "I do accept the invitation, Headmistress Rosier."
Vinda's shoulders eased while an eyebrow raised.
Corvus watched her leave, and the door shut.
The soldier's wand raised again for another spell. "Rest for a while," Corvis instructed and left the room.
--
Far away from the Nest and its arrays, Fleur Delacour ate breakfast at an English school and felt the castle watching her.
She sat with effortless posture, hair falling like it had been arranged by a patient hand that never rushed. Her uniform suited her. The hovering candles made her skin look warm, her eyes bright, her smile sharp enough to cut.
The younger years did not stand a chance.
First years stared openly. Second years attempted to look away and failed. Some third years whispered her name like it was a spell. The allure rolled off her in soft waves, stronger when her emotions were high, subtle when she was calm.
She watched the reactions with faint amusement. Then her gaze slid across the upper years.
Many held occlumency with practised calm. A few ignored her entirely with open ease, the kind that came from training rather than arrogance. Fleur was not used to that.
Beauxbatons produced masters of Charms. Beauxbatons taught the discipline of mind arts as well. Yet there was no comparison between them, and the Hogwarts upper years who resisted her as if it were routine.
That made her curious.
Her parents had prepared her for the political reality.
Her father had become Minister for Magic in France last year. He had warned her with a seriousness that did not fit a breakfast table.
Never cross him.
Her mother, Apolline, had nodded as if the warning was not dramatic but obvious.
Corvus Black.
A man young enough to be called a boy by fools and dangerous enough to be treated as law by anyone sane. A mind that had graduated from Durmstrang with perfect scores and electives completed far too early. A shadow so large that Bastion guards saluted his name with zeal.
Fleur had seen what happened when someone mocked that shadow.
A boy in her year at Beauxbatons had spoken loudly about House Black, about blood, about old titles, about words that sounded brave until consequences arrived. Bastion guards had taken him down in the middle of his speech and dragged him away.
He returned more than a month later. He returned smiling; everything he had opposed had become his creed. Fleur did not pretend that it did not frighten her. She also did not pretend that fear erased curiosity.
Veela were drawn to magic. Not romance, not poetry, magic. Might and control pulled at instinct.
The term quarter Veela made her scoff inwardly every time she heard it. There was no such thing. There was only Veela, and the blood did not negotiate.
She kept listening while having her breakfast quietly. Rumours slid through Hogwarts even faster than food.
Heir Black would conduct the Samhain Ritual.
Some students called him le grand méchant loup with nervous laughter, as if the storybook label made him safer.
Fleur lifted a slice of toast and tasted it without attention.
Her eyes stayed on the staff table.
She wanted to see the big bad wolf of the magical world.
Across the Hall, a red-haired fourth year dropped his goblet.
Pumpkin juice spread over the tablecloth while he continued staring at Fleur. A Ravenclaw prefect snapped her fingers in front of his face and told him to close his mouth before a fly nested in it. He flushed to the tips of his ears and tried to recover his dignity by pretending he had meant to spill the drink.
Fleur did not even look in his direction.
Two seats down, a Durmstrang boy with cropped hair and shoulders built for a duelling platform leaned back and watched the spectacle with faint disdain. His grey eyes flicked toward the Hogwarts upper years who kept their mental shields intact. He inclined his head once in silent acknowledgement. Discipline recognised discipline.
At the staff table, Headmistress Rosier observed the Hall without turning her head. Professor Nacht spoke quietly with a seventh-year Ravenclaw who had passed her ritual examinations the previous spring. The student held a parchment covered in layered arrays and listened without interrupting. When she nodded, she did so once, sharply, then left to correct a flaw in the chalked geometry on the courtyard stones.
Fleur finished her tea and rose with measured grace.
The movement alone caused three Hufflepuffs to straighten as if inspected. A Slytherin sixth year watched her through narrowed eyes, assessing rather than admiring. Fleur met his gaze without smiling.
She adjusted the fall of her hair and walked toward the exit with her Beauxbatons peers. Every step was precise without looking rehearsed.
Behind her, whispers rose and fell.
Control.
The word lingered in Fleur's thoughts as she stepped into the corridor.
Control of allure and of magic were very similar.
If Corvus Black truly embodied that last one, she wanted to see it with her own eyes rather than through rumours and frightened admiration.