--A/N
Thanks to your votes and support, we've climbed right to the top and I couldn't be more chuffed! You've helped make something truly special. I'm raising a cuppa to every single one of you.
As it became customary, here is a cheeky extra chapter. A little thank you treat for all your support and enthusiasm. --
As the last of the sixth years filed out of the classroom, the door closing softly behind them, Vinda Rosier turned her sharp gaze on Corvus. "Now, tell me," she asked, her voice cool and commanding, "what was it you were looking for me about, Corvus?"
He straightened, inclining his head respectfully. "I wanted to know if you were available for me to demostrate the spell I've crafted, Aunt Vinda."
One elegant brow arched upward. "The arithmancy behind the procedure?" she said, her tone laced with both interest and suspicion and extended a hand towards Corvus.
Corvus nodded and pulled a neat bundle of parchments from his mokeskin pouch. Vinda accepted them, her eyes scanning with practiced speed. For a long moment she was silent, the only sound the rustle of parchment in her hands. Then she looked up, her expression unreadable.
"Are you trying to put yourself on the ICW watchlist, boy?" she asked, her aloof voice cutting through the silence.
"No," Corvus answered simply, meeting her gaze.
She exhaled softly, more a sigh than anything. "This is one of the brightest pieces of spellcraft I've seen in years, Corvus," she admitted. "You undeniably have a brilliant mind. But think, why do you suppose I, or any master of the Dark Arts worth the name, not creating new torture curses?" She tapped the parchment lightly. "Take this one, for instance. If my reading of your calculations is correct, it would take no more than ten seconds for an adult witch or wizard to die. Ten agonizing seconds, their blood boiling and rushing from their wounds. And yet…" she gestured to the carefully inked counter curse, "you've gone to the trouble of fashioning a way to undo it, as though such a thing would even be possible."
Corvus' brow furrowed. He had not expected to be chastised after such work. He felt an ember of irritation, quickly banked, replaced by confusion.
Vinda rose gracefully, still holding the parchments, and with a flick of her wand summoned a cage from the corner. Another Erkling, thin and sharp toothed, hissed inside. She levitated the creature out, placing it before her, and raised her wand. "The Dark Arts," she said, her tone now low and instructive, "are an endless ocean, Corvus. Deep, vast, and black as pitch. It is easy to fall. Easy to lose yourself. Easy to forget the true meaning of the art."
She lifted the Erkling into the air with a silent Levicorpus, letting it dangle upside down, its shrieks echoing through the chamber. "What you have crafted is an exquisite spell, forged from knowledge of arithmancy and cruelty alike. But you must learn what it truly means."
She studied the parchment once more, then with a clear, deliberate voice, cast, "Sanguisenctum."
Invisible blades lanced outward, tearing across the Erkling's chest in a jagged line. Blood sprayed, steaming, heated from within. The creature convulsed, shrieking with such despair that it rattled the walls. Vinda released the Levicorpus, and it crumpled to the floor, still wailing until, after four heartbeats, the sound faltered. By the fifth, silence fell. The blood still sizzled on the stone, a scarlet pool that hissed like a dying fire.
"Double the time for a grown wizard," Vinda murmured, her eyes still on the corpse. She turned back to Corvus. "Tell me, what use is a counter curse when the victim will not live long enough for it to matter?"
Corvus had no reply. His lips pressed into a thin line as his chest tightened. He could feel his pride withering under her gaze.
"You impress me, Corvus," she continued, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Your spellcraft is genius. Your knowledge of arithmancy and the Dark Arts is far beyond your years, I dare say close to a master of the art. Yet your understanding of it is not on the same level. You have disappointed me. You failed to see the deeper truth. That power without purpose is wasted cruelty. You've shown me brilliance, but also the absent minded folly of a genius who forgets to ask himself why."
Her words cut deeper than any curse. For once, Corvus said nothing. He simply stood, silent and chastened, shame coiling in his gut like a snake. And Vinda Rosier, ruthless as ever, let the silence linger, knowing it would teach him more than any further lecture.
--
Corvus left Professor Rosier's classroom in a foul mood, his expression set in stone. The weight of her words pressed heavy on him, each step down the corridor marked by silence. He did not glance at the curious students he passed, nor did he bother to acknowledge their greetings. His mind was a storm of self reproach.
When at last he reached his chambers, he strode straight to the window, flung it open, and shifted into his Shadow Raven form. With one powerful beat of his wings, he soared into the evening air. The sun was already dipping low, painting the sky in shades of orange and crimson. Cold wind rushed through his feathers, but instead of discomfort, it brought him clarity. For a time, he simply flew, letting his body act on instinct while his thoughts spiraled inward.
Images came unbidden. His death as a police officer in another world, his strange arrival in this one, the moment he first met Arcturus Black, the claim of the title of Heir Black. He remembered his triumphs, his dueling victory, his replications, the knowledge he absorbed from masters of their crafts. And now this, the sting of failure. Not failure of skill, but of understanding.
He had replicated the experiences of masters, yes, but not their wisdom. He had borrowed their knowledge, stripped bare and clinical, without the filter of a lifetime of joy, sorrow, mistakes, and growth. He had skipped the human cost, the weight that gave meaning to their mastery. That was why he faltered today.
As he circled back toward the castle, wings cutting across the twilight air, he felt a flicker of lightness in his chest. Vinda Rosier's rebuke, harsh though it was, had given him a needed jolt. Dark Arts, he realized, were not immoral. They were amoral. Stripped of human judgment, detached from fleeting notions of good or evil. To wield them was not to revel in cruelty, but to acknowledge their nature.
When he thought now of the Killing Curse, he saw not only a tool of murder but also a masterpiece of design. Its incantation was inelegant perhaps, but its simplicity of purpose was flawless. Just as the Cruciatus, while infamous for cruelty, could in short bursts be used to stimulate nerves for healing. Even the Imperius, abhorrent in misuse, could be a tool for guidance or control in times of crisis. Their danger was not in their existence but in the intent of the caster. Dark Arts was freedom coming wisdom.
The curse he had crafted, Sanguisenctum, was not Dark Arts. It was Black Magic. A creation born from sadism rather than purpose. That was the difference between mastery and corruption. Black Magic was born of indulgence in cruelty; Dark Arts, properly understood, was a philosophy of power, balance, and detachment.
He landed once more at his chambers, shifting back into human form. His mood had steadied. He now understood, he did not need more spells of pain and death. He needed to deepen his comprehension, to create or control magic that reflected not only knowledge but also the soul of the Art itself.
--
After settling and regaining control of his thoughts, Corvus pulled a stack of parchments toward him. His earlier creation, the sadistic charm meant to freeze a victim's body while while incinerating them from within now seemed crude, born more of arrogance than true mastery. Vinda Rosier's words had cut deep, but they also forced him to reconsider. If he wanted to be more than a craftsman of pain and misery, he needed to build something worthy. His mind shifted, and slowly a new concept began to take shape.
It was a shield charm. Not another simple reimagining of Protego, but something layered, intricate, and subtle. Designed to endure against the darkest curses. He could not say if the seed of the idea came from some half remembered of knowledge from something he read in his former life, or whether it was wholly his own inspiration. Either way, it was promising. The structure would be composed of three distinct layers. The innermost, a standard energy shield similar to Protego. The middle, a conjured glass in an elliptic shape, transparent therefore invisible to the naked eye. Especially between two energy shields. Lastly, the outermost layer, another energy shield, designed to feed on the magic of the curses hurled against it, growing stronger the more it was tested and burst outwards when broken discharging the stored magic within. Hidden between two layers of magic, that conjured glass would act as the physical layer, solid enough to halt an Unforgivable.
He dipped his quill and began sketching calculations. Protego's formula was already etched into his mind palace, so he built outward from it with meticulous care. The first layer, he decided, would be dark grey, translucent enough not to block the caster's view, its opacity adjusting depending on the strength of incoming spells. The second layer, the glass, would be take shape the moment the first layer came to life, able to adapt to the needs of battle. The final layer he envisioned as pale blue, faint but resilient, capable of absorbing magical residue of the spells it shielded against to reinforce itself. The practicality of the structure struck him and he couldn't help but wonder why no such shield was already in cannon timeline.
Hours slipped by as ink filled parchment after parchment, the calculations and diagrams piling around him like the blueprints of a fortress. He named the spell Veruscut, short for Verus Scutum. The True Shield. Testing it alone in his chamber, he slashed his wand diagonally upward and pushed forward, projecting the barrier outward from his body. The shimmering shield appeared, three layers overlapping so seamlessly that only the faint ripple of energy betrayed its presence. He tested its strength, altering its size and form. Each time, the hidden glass held steady between its guardians of energy shields, refracting light faintly as though water rippled across its surface.
As dawn painted the horizon, Corvus refined variations. Veruscut Maxima expanded into a large scale shield capable of protecting an entire group or enclosing a perimeter, its glass layer curving like a dome. Veruscut Sigillum anchored itself to a fixed point, forming a stationary ward. When he tested it with the Killing Curse, the Cruciatus, and the Imperius, each one broke harmlessly against the barrier, leaving only faint vibrations. Depending on the magic poured in the shield it was able to defend against one to three unfgivable curses. Veruscut Vitalis added a pulse of restorative magic to the innermost layer, stabilizing the caster's vitals if wounded. Finally the last variant he sketched was Veruscut Tectum, a complete bubble shield surrounding the caster. Unlike the others, this form sealed him in a sphere of layered protection, guarding from every angle. It was costly in terms of magical energy, but its purpose was clear, absolute defense when retreat or survival was the only option. He knew such a spell could save a life when nothing else would.
By the time he set his quill aside, exhaustion heavy in his eyes, the spell was complete. This was not sadism, not empty cruelty. It was discipline, balance, and creation.