Corvus paused at the door of the Minister's office and looked back with a pleasant smile. "Grandfather, next time you send Aurors to fetch me with instructions to use force 'if' necessary, please choose men you can afford to lose. I might not be in the mood to follow them."
Arcturus's eyes cooled; two emotions sat there: pride and reserve. His heir was taking control and showing his colours by drawing invisible lines veiled with kind niceties. Arcturus did not believe for a moment that Corvus would retaliate against any Ministry staff he sent. He knew, of course, that Corvus would read the Aurors he sent. One of them was a natural Occlumens, yet that made no difference for Corvus. He had a right to be proud. His house was rising from its ashes. Sirius, Narcissa and soon Bella. Now all he needed was to convince the mutt to get married and give him some grandchildren.
One finger tapped the desk as his thoughts turned to choosing a spouse for Sirius. Corvus inclined his head, turned on his heel, and left.
-
Back at Hogwarts, the day ran without a fuss. Defence, Potions, Charms. Chalk dust hung in the practice hall while first years braced as they were already done with the year's curriculum and nearly done with the second year as well.
After his classes were done, he reached his rooms, locked the door and used Flame Travel to step to the Nest. The loop needed closing. A breath, a twist of the hourglass, the light pull in his gut. Memories and a list of the completed tasks from his other self slid into place.
Flame Travel took him high over Azkaban, open air and iron sea below. He dropped through the cold and shifted; raven wings caught the fall. Dementors drifted in slow patrol, weightless and hungry. He reached for one and replicated Flight, so Phase would not be a hassle but a perfect tool.
He left at once. Flame Travel carried him straight back to his bedchamber. The skill settled and unfolded. The memory came with it: birth in a fog of grief, first lift above a frozen shore, the easy rise without muscle or bone.
He stripped and stepped into scalding water. Soap, then more soap. He scrubbed until his skin flushed. The last of the grave chill bled from his memory with the steam, though the echo of that newborn anguish still clung like a film.
The Great Hall was loud at dinner. Benches scraped. Owls swept the rafters. Yelena Morozova intercepted him before he reached the dais.
"Your demonstration is on Friday afternoon," she said, tone dry as parchment. "Arrange your schedule accordingly."
He inclined his head. "Noted, Master Morozova."
On the dais, Vinda watched him cross the hall. "Heir Black," she called. "Will you escort me to my office after dinner?" It was not a question, and Corvus knew it.
"Of course, Headmistress."
He took his usual place between Flitwick and Rival. Rival leaned in a fraction.
"Looks like you are in trouble with the Headmistress, Black." The corner of the Auror's mouth ticked. Flitwick's eyes smiled over his goblet.
"Such loyal friends," Corvus said, and reached for the roast.
They ate while news ran up and down the tables in quick currents. New patrols near Hogsmeade, fewer and fewer witches and wizards in Diagon. A duel in the courtyard that ended with suspension of two third years; they would repeat the year and be on probation for the rest of their time.
The first night class in Rituals was filled to the brim, not only by the students. Faculty asked permission from Professor Nacht and joined the lecture. History, on the other hand, was a story in itself. Beauty and allure of the resident Vampire, Seraphine Lasombra, were going as well as could be expected. Upper years especially learned that those violet eyes could be scary when the Professor wanted them to be. The general fear and misinformation about the vampire race was fading, and appreciation for the moonbound was rising, thanks in no small part to Seraphine's beauty.
When the platters cleared and the lamps dimmed for evening study, Vinda stood. Corvus rose as well and fell in step at her side.
The gargoyle had been set aside since the day Vinda took over. The stairs carried them up in quiet turns. Vinda's office opened to a steady fire and ordered shelves. She shut the door and faced him.
"Explain why I could not see my heir for six days." No preface. "And explain why an old fossil got an audience before I did. I assumed climbing a few stairs was easier than taking a trip to London."
He held her gaze. Her chin was high. The set of her mouth said she was not bluffing.
"I had work that would not wait," he said.
"Yes, I heard that, especially your study on Transfiguration." She stepped closer. "Yet I was not looking for you for political, academic or ICW related issues." She continued, her gaze getting softer. "You are my only relative, Corvus. You are my heir beyond everything else. So do not let your Auntie get worried about you again. Now sit, I want to hear everything you did this week, starting with the druids and do not miss any detail." She motioned him to sit on the chair in front of her desk, and she sat across from him.
"I did not intend to worry you, Aunt Vinda," he said and started to explain what he did this week, from the Department of Mysteries to his master's work on Transfiguration.
Vinda filled his cup for the third time. "This was not hard, now was it?" She smirked as he took a sip.
He glanced at the hearth, then back. "I need to travel to Russia, Aunt Vinda." Corvus continued. "Hence, I've asked Grandfather to arrange an Auror or two to take over the DADA classes. With the new additions, there is no shortage of personnel at the DMLE."
"When?" she asked.
"Sunday. I do not plan to return from Prague. I will move to Moscow and arrange the new territories, map the Muggle crime rings and start to add a new channel to our income."
Silence held. The fire snapped once. Outside, a bell marked evening study.
She folded her arms. "I do not like being kept out of the circle, Corvus."
"I know." He did not look away.
"Try to convince Grigori to send Elizaveta here, if possible, with her mother." She continued, a faint curve on her lips.
Corvus was not expecting this. A smile bloomed on her face. "Do not tell me you've already forgotten about your intended. Elizaveta will be the Lady Rosier after all."
Corvus cleared his throat, "I believe it is still early to plan a wedding, Aunt Vinda." Corvus stood up. "I have taken enough of your time," he said and started towards the door.
Her eyes followed him. "Tell Arcturus to hurry, I will have to rearrange DADA classes with the Aurors he will send. As for your Potions and Charms classes, Professor Slughorn is going to join us soon. As for Charms, though, I'm looking for additional Professors. But for now, Flitwick and the others will be enough."
"Very well," he said. "I will contact Grandfather within the hour."
--
It took two days before Arcturus convinced Director Bones to send another two Aurors to be stationed in Hogwarts. They both were Alliance members; if Corvus learned anything from Dumbledore, one of the most important topics was starting to shape the young ones as early as possible. Hence, nearly all the members of the Faculty were sympathisers of the cause. He handed off Defence to the Aurors without fuss and enjoyed his free time. By breakfast the next morning, Horace Slughorn had swept back into the castle in a swirl of cologne and velvet. Slughorn eyed the Slytherin table, sighed about the Head of House position he no longer filled, and then brightened when he remembered who did.
"Professor Horatio Greengrass. A proper choice," he murmured, approving the old tradition of Potions Professor and Head of Slytherin House bound together. Harsher discipline, a cleaned syllabus, and fresh blood on the dais suited him fine. What suited him even more was the new talents. He spent the morning waddling after Corvus and Baier like a persistent duck, coaxing, cajoling, and hinting about a Slug Club gathering that was not yet approved by Vinda.
Corvus gave him nothing but a courteous smile and longer strides. Rival was better at hiding as he was gone the moment Slughorn turned his attention to Corvus, and was not seen afterwards.
By Friday noon, he and Yelena Morozova stepped through the green flare of Vinda's office hearth to the Ministry, cleared security, and took the Portkey to Prague.
On the Muggle side, the map had split Czechoslovakia into two. On the magical side, the Ministry still governed both lands. Their welcome proved it. Wands were registered with brisk efficiency. Tea arrived without being asked. A senior undersecretary walked them to the atrium.
Morozova linked her arm through his. They turned on the spot and Apparated into the heart of magical Prague.
The old city breathed craft. Copper roofs greened with age. Shopfronts were carved with saints and beasts that watched you back. A brass automaton in a clockmaker's window tipped its hat each hour and shuffled its feet as though impatient with time. The alleys were wide enough for business. Stalls sold rune etched glass, quick quills and a respectable amount of tools enchanted by the Transfigurers' Conclave. Down by an arched bridge, a clay figure the size of a troll slumbered in a niche, ward plaque worn smooth by reverent hands.
The Conclave of Master Transfigurers dominated an entire square. The building did not stand so much as adjust itself. Cornices flexed. Mouldings flowed and stiffened. Statues along the façade shifted identities with lazy certainty: Emeric Switch folded into a hawk and back again; a witch in a furred collar became a lynx, then a woman, then a lynx once more; an ancient Egyptian mage held a wand one moment and a crook and flail the next. The main arch changed as they watched, from Roman to castle keep to the spare ribs of High Gothic. Doorways repositioned to greet foot traffic. Windows opened with a blink and narrowed to slits when a gust rose. The whole front was a lesson: form obeys the will that masters the Transfiguration.
Inside, corridors reconfigured like well trained shoals, guiding visitors without a single signboard. Floors were stone where silence was required and sprung wood where demonstration halls needed give.
They reached the counter half an hour early. Morozova stated their purpose and offered papers. The clerk's quill moved fast. "Demonstration is sealed," the clerk said, tone all procedure. "Private chamber nine. Warded by both the Conclave and Gringotts to guarantee privacy. No recording, scrying, or any form of listening is possible. Anything else I can help you with?"
"None," Morozova replied.
"Very good. This way."
The floor of the corridors started to guide them along a gallery where reliefs showed the first recorded human Animagus and the formalisation of Counter transfiguration. They passed a glass wall that briefly reflected them in different animal forms. Morozova turned to an Owl, while Corvus' reflection changed shapes between a Raven and a Tiger, before his third form could show he activated his speed and agility and changed his shape to his white tiger and sped to the end of the corridor. When Morozova reached him, he simply smiled. "What a strange mirror." Morozova scoffed. She was, of course, aware of what the reflections were. It was amusing to see Corvus running away like that.
A final bend, and a bronze door unlatched itself at their approach. The room beyond was plain and practical. Spell dampening runes set into the skirts of the walls; layered privacy veils humming under the floorboards. A ventilation grille charmed to vent fumes without surrendering anything to the outside, and lastly, the candles hovering, nothing pretty to distract a judge.
Morozova paced the perimeter, testing the containment with a few small pushes of will. "They are thorough," she said with approval in her tone.
Corvus set his satchel on a side table and laid out his instruments without hurry. Silver knife, a small statue of a Troll, transfigured for the ease of transport. It was registered by both of the Ministries. For this demonstration, he decided to ask the Judges to choose a plant or a beast. All sound. He could work.
"Judges will be here in ten minutes," Morozova said, glancing at the room's timepiece. Morozova started to explain how any disclosed method becomes a Conclave record unless expressly sealed beforehand. She has already prepared multiple parchments to be signed by the Judges. What he was going to show would start wars if shared.
Morozova faced him, hands behind her back, expression as unreadable as ever. "You get one audience," she said. "Be precise, direct and clear. I already consider you a Master of the Craft."
A shadow crossed the glass slit set high in the wall. Voices, low and clipped, approached from the corridor. The runes beside the door glowed once as the newcomers were accepted.
"Ready," Morozova said.
"Ready," he answered, his eyes on the door as the first of the judges stepped through.