Corvus returned to the Nest after two days spent getting used to the new extensions of his power.
Elizaveta waited for him in his chambers, reading reports and taking notes on his behalf. The Shadow delivered the reports and sorted them into two boxes after confirming which ones she was permitted to read. The right bundle was for his Lord's eyes only. The left, she was allowed to read, organise and take notes accordingly.
Corvus stepped out of a side passage with three Bastion Guards behind him, all of them silent, all of them moving like they were part of the same machine. His robes were dry. His hair was neat. Only his eyes showed he had been somewhere that did not care about comfort.
Elizaveta rose.
He reached her first, one hand finding her waist before drawing her hand into his. After a light kiss, he settled behind his desk and settled Elizaveta on his lap. The Bastion Guards left the room and took their stations.
"You smell like the ocean," she noted.
Corvus tilted his head and kissed her collarbone. "You, my little wolf, on the other hand, smell like heaven."
"Tibby said you became a supreme flying spaghetti chicken hedgehog and fishing." Elizaveta kept her tone light, but her eyes stayed on his face. "He is accurate more often than he shows."
Corvus couldn't help but chuckle lightly. "Tibby deserves a present for the creative description he comes up with."
"So you have not turned into a flying spaghetti monster with fishing rods?" She asked with all the innocence of a prowling wolf.
His laughter came out of his control. Elizaveta smiled with satisfaction. She loved him more when he laughed, and she loved it even more when it was because of her and with a light heart.
His thumb rubbed the side of her hand once, then released. It was a gentle dismissal disguised as affection. "I was solving a minor problem."
"Minor," Elizaveta repeated.
Corvus shifted the conversation as if he had placed a ward between them. "What did Manard tell you to convince you to leave the frigate in his capable hands?"
Elizaveta's brows lifted. "He asked nicely, I did not want to test his creative side to hijack the vessel."
"Hopefully, it will return improved," Corvus replied.
"Improved how?"
"I have no idea, my dear. But I trust him."
Elizaveta smiled. As long as their bedroom was not disturbed, she had no issue with upgrades.
-
A knock came from the door. Corvus let her stand up and straightened her robes.
Elizaveta sat in one of the armchairs and continued to read reports as the Shadow reported the developments over MACUSA, the eastern confederations, and the smaller conclaves. The operator left after a while.
Corvus's gaze tracked the Shadow for half a heartbeat, then turned to Elizaveta.
"Whitcomb still resists," Elizaveta said, without raising her head from the reports.
"For now." Corvus started to move towards her. There was hunger in his eyes. Elizaveta felt her heart skip a beat.
"I missed you," Corvus leaned in for a kiss. She put a finger to his lips. "I was being kind when I said you smell like the ocean. You smell like fish."
Elizaveta returned to the reports. "Go shower, my love. Waste enough time, and I might join you."
Corvus looked at the shewolf with a smile. He liked this side of her.
-
"We are invited to a dinner at Black Mansion by Aunt Vinda," Elizaveta announced, tugging at the sleeve of her half‑fastened gown.
Corvus's eyes narrowed, not at the invitation itself, but at the galling implication that he was being invited to his home.
"Invited to my own home," he murmured, dryly.
Elizaveta turned, lips curving into a mischievous smile. "It is not yours," she countered with soft firmness. "You had a wing there, then lost it to the children you created. Honestly, I cannot believe my future husband is a homeless man."
She pressed a hand to her forehead in exaggerated despair, feigning a swoon. "Oh, the tragedy! Destined to marry a vagabond!"
Corvus arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. He took a deliberate step toward her. Her eyes widened. "Oh no.." she squeaked, before yelping and darting across the room, her gown still half‑fastened, ribbons trailing as she fled.
Corvus gave chase, laughter rumbling low in his chest.
Corvus pressed a kiss to her forehead as he let her go after enjoying her laughter a bit.
"Do you know who else will be there?"
Corvus asked, his tone serious, trying to gauge the weight of the situation.
"I do. The Minister for Magic of France will be there with his family." Elizaveta's voice darkened slightly, her expression tightening.
Corvus glanced at her, resisting the urge to slip into her memory. "Anything I should know, my little wolf?" His words carried both caution and invitation, hoping she might open up.
Elizaveta shook her head, though her eyes lingered on him. "No… just give it a chance, please. I would trust Aunt Vinda not to invite us unless it truly mattered."
Corvus paused for a moment, then nodded.
"I will speak to Tornhook about a Rosier residence. Then my future wife will not be married to a homeless bum."
Elizaveta's eyes brightened. "Céleste will like that."
"Céleste is your favourite," Corvus noted.
"She is disciplined," Elizaveta replied. "Geneviève is a disaster."
"Geneviève is talented," Corvus corrected.
"So is fiendfyre," Elizaveta replied, then stopped herself, eyes flicking to his face.
Corvus's mouth moved again, amused.
He returned to his desk and started to read the reports of his Shadows.
Arcturus Black had cast out Andromeda.
Corvus read the report twice, then set it down.
"I should have handled her earlier," he murmured.
Elizaveta kept her voice neutral. "You cannot handle every bruise."
"House Black is not allowed bruises," Corvus replied.
Her complaints had been filed. The wording was dramatic. The tone was theatrical. Andromeda Tonks accused them of discrimination against Muggles and Muggleborns.
Corvus stared at the sentence for a long moment.
"There are no Muggleborns," he said quietly.
Elizaveta watched him. "She does not accept that."
"Then she is either ignorant or addicted to lies." Corvus's fingers tapped the paper once. "I will send Narcissa and Bellatrix."
Elizaveta's brows rose. "You want Bella to persuade someone."
"Narcissa will persuade. Bella will apply pressure," Corvus replied. "If Andromeda needs force to remember reason, Bella will provide it."
"Arcturus already removed her," Elizaveta said.
Corvus's gaze hardened. "It doesn't matter; if need be, I can make him take her back."
Elizaveta did not argue. She had met Narcissa's calm cruelty.
Corvus folded the report and placed it in a drawer. The problem was handled, which meant he had permission to focus on what mattered.
Brazil.
The dark spots on the maps.
And the Shroud.
He returned to Grimmauld Place the moment the seventh day ended. Corvus went straight to the ritual room.
The Shroud of Mictlan waited inside its containment, a small sphere of darkness that did not reflect light. It pressed against the inner surface of its prison as if it had learned patience.
He reached out and replicated Soul Drain.
The moment the skill settled into him, the sphere trembled. Shadowy tendrils brushed the edge of the prison again, more eager now, more certain of what it wanted.
Corvus narrowed his eyes. "Not yet."
He teleported to the master bedroom, lying down on the bed, spine straight, hands resting at his sides. His breathing slowed, and his mind opened.
Absorption began.
The world shifted.
The warmth of sheets vanished and became dry heat, then cold stone, then a wind that tasted of blood and smoke. Corvus's senses snapped into a memory.
Mictlantecuhtli stood in a temple carved from black rock, bone ornaments hanging from the walls like trophies. The air stank of incense and fear. Torches burned with a dull light that did not comfort.
Rebels had breached the outer steps.
They ran in with spears and crude charms, faces painted, hearts brave in the way fools were brave. They saw a figure at the altar, cloaked in darkness, and they believed numbers would matter.
Mictlantecuhtli lifted his hand.
Shadow Tendrils unfurled from his back. Strands of darkness moved like living whips, their tips sharpened into obsidian lances.
The first rebel lifted a spear.
A tendril pierced his chest. It struck again and again, in less than a second, over ten tendrils stabbed the rebel.
The rebel's eyes widened, mouth opening to shout. No sound came. The last tendril stayed inside his chest and pulsed once.
Soul Drain.
Corvus felt it like a cold hook set into the centre of his being. The tendril not only tore flesh. It bit into essence.
A thin stream of light, not visible to mortal eyes, bled from the rebel's body through the shadow strand. It travelled up the tendril and vanished into Mictlantecuhtli.
The rebel sagged.
His life did not end swiftly. His skin blanched in seconds, the flush of life draining away as if the blood itself recoiled from his veins. Muscle collapsed, cheeks hollowed, and the healthy glow of flesh shrivelled into dry parchment. His hair dulled, his lips cracked, and the moisture of his body evaporated under the relentless pull. In moments, he was no longer a man but a husk. A mummy, brittle and lifeless, crumbling under its own weight. All that was taken from him turned to strengthen the mana pool, magical might and soul strength of Mictlantecuhtli.
The elder's aura thickened.
Corvus felt the sensation of strength settling into bone, into soul, into that immortal core that did not tire. The gain was small in a single drain. In the span of centuries, it became an ocean.
A second rebel threw an axe.
The tendrils moved.
One strand snapped forward and blocked. Another wrapped around the rebel's throat and lifted him off the ground. Feet kicked. Hands clawed at nothing.
Soul Drain pulsed again.
The rebel's struggle slowed. His eyes rolled back. His skin turned grey as if winter had moved into him.
Mictlantecuhtli did not move even a step. His shadows hunted for him. More rebels surged. The tendrils became a storm.
They pierced shoulders, thighs, and stomachs. They pinned bodies to walls. They dragged one man across the stone and flung him aside as if he were weightless. In between the strikes, Soul Drain drank.
Corvus lived every second.
He felt the exact moment the drain shifted from flesh to essence. He felt the resistance when a target had a stronger will. He felt the satisfaction when it broke.
The memory was one of hundreds. Again and again, Corvus experienced it until it became instinct.
His heart beat steadily in the present while his mind watched centuries of repetition.
Another battle ended. Leaving behind shrivelled corpses.
Then another memory.
Mictlantecuhtli stood at the edge of a dimensional rift, gazing into the endless procession of souls drifting through Mictlan. To mortals, it was the underworld of Aztec belief, a place of trial and shadow. In truth, it was his vast reservoir, a fuel depot where every wandering spirit was siphoned into his dominion. The realm was saturated with souls, a ceaseless tide of essence that fed his strength and deepened the abyss at his command.
They waited; they did not know Corvus.
Corvus's excitement sharpened inside his chest, and he forced it down. It was too early. He still needed Dimensional Passage.
The absorption continued.
For Corvus, every drain will mean a slightly deeper mana pool. A slightly tougher soul. A slightly stronger grip on his own power. All in small doses.
But the memory carried the exact location of a dimension full of souls waiting to be devoured.
He kept processing.
He kept the hunger behind his eyes where no one could see it.
-
In Hogwarts, tension took a different shape.
The tournament announcements had turned the castle loud. Students spoke in rivalries that were half excitement, half fear. Duels were arranged in corridors until professors broke them apart. Potion study groups became battlefields of ego.
Fleur Delacour lived with her own tension.
A couple of days ago, Headmistress Rosier summoned her to the seventh floor.
Fleur climbed the stairs with measured steps, curtsy rehearsed in her mind even though she could do it without thinking. A Bastion Guard stood outside the office door, still as stone, visor hiding his eyes. She climbed the spiral stairs and knocked.
"Enter," came Vinda's voice.
Fleur opened the door and stepped into the office, then stopped.
Her father sat in front of the desk.
Minister Delacour's posture was controlled, but his hands were folded too tightly. He rose the moment he saw her.
"Come, my flower." His voice held warmth that did not fit the setting. "Meet Madame Vinda Rosier. An ally of our house through my father. May Mother Magic embrace his soul."
Fleur curtsied. "A pleasure, Madame Rosier."
Vinda did not stand. She acknowledged Fleur with a small nod that carried approval.
Fleur waited.
Only when Vinda gestured did Fleur sit.
Vinda continued in French, voice steady. "Your father conveyed your request to meet my heir."
Fleur kept her chin level. "Please call me Fleur, Madame Rosier."
A small smile formed at the corner of Vinda's mouth. "Very well. Fleur."
Her eyes settled on Fleur. "You should understand that Corvus is polite when politeness is useful. He is not a normal wizard. I am not speaking of his size nor of his magical potency."
Fleur's fingers tightened once on her skirt, then relaxed.
Vinda leaned back slightly. "Everything you see in the magical and mundane world carries his signature. Some in ink. Some in strategy. Some in blood." Her eyes stayed on Fleur. "Are you sure you want to meet him?"
Fleur's veela nature screamed yes so loudly it made her own thoughts feel quiet.
Vinda continued without softening. "Two years ago, I angered him over a small misunderstanding. His response was fiendfyre. Third floor to this door. He has improved since then, of course. That does not mean he is not dangerous."
Minister Delacour's face tightened.
Vinda's voice remained calm. "The Unit and the Black Bastion are his. If he ordered them to burn down the world, they would ask only for the most efficient route."
Fleur's breath caught. Fear and curiosity rose with it.
And something older rose beneath both.
"Oui, madame," Fleur said. The words came out steady. "I am committed to my request."
Minister Delacour closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them again as if accepting a verdict.
Vinda studied Fleur for a long beat, then gave a single nod.
"Then I will arrange it," she decided. "I will inform you when the time is set."
Fleur lowered her eyes, then lifted them again with controlled courage.
"Thank you, Madame Rosier."
She rose, and her father followed suit. Fleur kept her posture perfect as her heart beat too fast.
Outside the office, the Bastion Guard remained still as a statue, and Fleur realised a simple truth.
This meeting was not permission. It was a warning delivered politely as a final exit.