Karkaroff waited at the foot of the main stair with the rest of his staff arranged in a neat, disciplined line. Durmstrang did not do flowers or cheerful banners. Stone, iron, and silence were the school's taste, and it suited the mood today.
Two dozen Black Bastion guards held the perimeter outside the entrance. They stood like statues in dark uniforms fitted for men built like siege engines, rifles resting with easy familiarity.
The students were kept behind the faculty, sorted by year, hands behind backs, mouths closed. Even the loud ones understood that this was not the sort of visit that tolerated giggling.
Igor's gaze slid across the line of guards again, irritation rising and failing to find a place to settle. A year ago, he would have ordered them off his grounds. Today, he let them stand. Durmstrang survived by reading the wind.
The new order had taught everyone the same lesson. Complaints were permitted, and resistance was tolerated only for the length of time it took to be removed.
Magicals learned the Unit's capabilities quickly.
Before, keeping witches and wizards alive had been an important point. The Muggle threat was always there. A war was won by numbers, and every wand mattered.
That logic died when the population started to increase drastically. Muggle weapons entering the scene speed up the killing rate.
The first time a rabble decided to gather around a rally and play at revolution, half of the group dropped before the first wizard Apparated into view. No flashy curse, no shouted incantation. Just a sequence of flat cracks from distant positions, and bodies folding as if strings were cut.
The survivors did not understand what was happening until the warning arrived.
Drop your wands and kneel.
Those who obeyed were taken alive.
Those who hesitated were cleaned up by snipers and piercing hexes fired through enchanted barrels at a pace no wand arm could match. It was impossible to know what curse would come because there was no wand to watch, no hand movement to read, and no duelling etiquette to rely on.
As if the Unit was not enough, the Black Bastion came next.
Internal security. Everywhere.
From ministries to settlements, from schools to hospitals, they were present like a second layer of stone beneath every institution. Men tall enough to be giants, strong enough to make a troll think twice, wandless, silent, and loyal to Corvus Black with a fervour that made Igor's skin itch.
The first year from Magical Britain had been sent to Durmstrang as a protest, some families' theatrical attempt at distance from the new Ministry. Igor had scoffed for a week. A British wizard choosing Durmstrang because it was less dark than Hogwarts was an absurdity that deserved laughter.
Then the boy made the mistake of talking about Corvus Black in front of a Bastion guard.
Nobody expected the reaction.
One guard levelled his rifle without haste. The other stepped in and hit the boy's chin with the butt of the weapon. The impact was clean. The boy spun, hit the stone, and slept.
The Bastion collected him. He returned a week after that with corrected ideas and a much quieter mouth.
Step by step, House Black increased its influence over the magical world. Step by step, the Rise of Black became the only reality anyone was permitted to live inside.
The air shifted at the entrance.
Corvus Black appeared with Elizaveta Volkova at his right.
Igor stared and forced himself to blink.
Corvus had been tall when he left this school. Tall enough to make students straighten when he entered a room.
Now he was over eight feet.
The height was one thing. The presence was another.
Corvus stood like a predator that had decided it did not need to hide its teeth. The air around him carried pressure, a weight that told the body to behave before the mind had time to argue.
Elizaveta looked like a doll beside him. Not fragile or weak, but small by comparison. She held herself with the calm of someone who belonged in rooms full of ministers and old families. Her arm remained linked with his, and the closeness made it worse for anyone trying not to stare.
The Black Bastion guards snapped to salute, rifles angled with practised precision.
Corvus gave them a nod first.
"At ease."
The guards shifted posture in unison, still alert, still watching. The movement was minor, the obedience absolute.
Corvus turned to Igor.
"Headmaster Karkaroff."
The greeting landed as acknowledgement; there was no affection there.
Igor arranged his face into something resembling a welcome and found it harder than he expected. "Heir Black."
Corvus's gaze moved across the faculty.
Menkara al Zahur stood among them, posture sharp with impatience. The old ritualist's expression carried a familiar dissatisfaction at waiting. Then he looked up properly.
The dissatisfaction cracked.
His eyes narrowed, then widened. His mouth opened a fraction, shut again, and his head gave a small shake as if his mind refused to accept what his eyes reported.
Elzbieta Nowak watched from the side with a scientist's composure and a teacher's caution.
István Varga looked like he wanted to measure Corvus with a yardstick and a blade.
Amelia Veyra held her hands clasped, polite and controlled, the sort of posture that meant she was already planning how to survive the next decade.
Corvus moved through them with brief nods and minimal words, old habits of aristocratic courtesy kept intact. He gave each professor a moment that marked them as remembered.
His gaze slid to the student body.
A small wave, barely more than a shift of fingers.
The students held their breath anyway.
They moved inside.
The Great Hall of Durmstrang was not a place that encouraged applause. Stone swallowed sound. Torches burned low and steady.
Igor walked beside Corvus and cleared his throat.
He delivered a speech. It has the sincerity of a coward when his survival depends on it. Durmstrang was proud of its youngest graduate. Durmstrang respected his accomplishments. Durmstrang would remain at the ready when called.
Corvus listened with a polite face and eyes that did not care.
Lunch followed.
Busy, controlled, and filled with the sort of conversation where every sentence was weighed for consequence. Corvus spoke with staff, with a handful of older students, and with a few younger ones who looked like they had been pushed forward by parents who wanted their child seen.
Afterwards, Igor guided him toward the corridor that led to Corvus's old chambers.
Twelve Bastion guards escorted them as an honour guard. When Corvus entered, they took their positions outside and held the corridor like it was a border.
The chamber had been enlarged, polished, and improved with every thinkable detail. New runes lay under the stonework. The bed looked untouched. The desk had been replaced with a heavier one. The only problem was that the chairs had not been chosen for a man of Corvus's current size.
He shut the door and let the silence settle. His eyes moved over the room once, then returned to Elizaveta.
"Karkaroff remains what he always was."
Elizaveta's mouth curved. She did not need the rest of the sentence to understand it.
"A useful coward."
Corvus's expression held a mild satisfaction at being understood without explanation. He sent Umbra. The bird left through the window with a single harsh caw and vanished into the grey.
The reply came quickly.
Corvus glanced at Elizaveta. "Will you come?"
She shook her head, calm. She belonged here socially, but she did not need to sit through a ritualist's excitement. "Not this time."
Corvus turned his head to the left and spoke to empty air.
"Keep her safe."
Three female Shadows surfaced into visibility like ink rising through water. They nodded once and disappeared again. The room felt the same, and the pressure in the air made it obvious it was not.
Corvus left.
Menkara's chambers were as Corvus remembered. Sparse and orderly. The kind of space that existed for purpose rather than comfort.
Menkara sat opposite, leaning forward, eyes bright with anticipation.
His hands moved once, a restrained gesture that was almost a plea. "You have done something."
Corvus took the seat and let his posture settle, relaxed in a way that implied he owned the room. "I have done several things."
Menkara's impatience pushed through his discipline. "Your stature and the density of your magic are unbelievable. I can feel the pressure. So do not insult me with vagueness."
Corvus allowed himself a small smile and changed the topic to show his reluctance.
Menkara's eyes sharpened. The old man's hunger was not for gossip. It was for the method.
Corvus took out the gift from a spatial opening. As a result of his latest replications, mokeskin pouches were useless to him. Space was not what it used to be, not to him.
An enchanted ritual blade from the cavern, old work, sharp enough to make the air around it feel cautious.
Menkara's hands reached out and stopped just short of touching it, as if he needed to respect it before claiming it. Then his fingers closed around the hilt.
His breath caught.
The look on his face was expressive enough to show his appreciation. Corvus did not tell him where it came from, and Menkara did not ask.
After the initial reverence, the ritualist steadied himself and returned to the reason he believed Corvus had come.
"You want your last form from the shamanic ritual."
Corvus nodded.
They moved to the ritual room.
Corvus carved the circle without moving his hands or chanting. Wandless and silent, neat lines forming with the inevitability of a plan executed. Menkara watched with approval and pride. He could have killed to get the methods of this young and frighteningly capable man, yet there were limits, and he was not eager to find where Corvus lied. The last time he nearly gave up his life to his prank.
Corvus sat within the circle, and Menkara began to chant. The sound was old. It did not echo like a song. It sank into stone. Corvus closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the air was dry and hot. He stood in an arid desert under a bleached sky. Sand pressed against his boots. The horizon trembled with heat. The world felt thin here, like a skin stretched too tight.
Far away, a mesa rose from the flat land, and on that mesa sat a nest large enough to house a carriage.
Corvus started toward it.
His new senses tingled. Something in the distance shifted, not movement, but structure. He slowed and focused. He could see the fabric of this place. Not with eyes, not in a way that could be described, but with the same certainty as feeling skin. He could feel its texture.
He inhaled.
This was a cemetery of magical animals with consciousness. The shamanic ritual allowed him to step here and bond with any soul he encountered. He smiled, then turned the smile inward. He tested the space around him with spatial mastery.
A moment.
Then the sensation of his own beating heart reached him, distant and real. A sharp urge rose, primitive and displeasing. He wanted to rip the fabric of this reality and open a way back to his body. He felt the reality of this place, this dimension, bend to his intent.
So this is how he could travel between dimensions. It was ineffective, based on pure luck, and it could end in total disaster.
If he used his ability randomly, where would it take him? A dead point at a random spot in the universe. A dimension where his victims' souls roamed? A place between dimensions where nothing was built for living minds?
No... There had to be a better way.
A shadow passed over him. Corvus stopped and looked up. A bird cut across the sky, vast and deliberate. It was a Thunderbird.
Its wings spread wide enough to cast a moving night across the sand. Feathers the colour of storm clouds rippled along its body, each shift catching pale light like steel. The head carried a hooked beak and eyes that looked old, with judgment. Electricity danced along the edges of its wings in thin threads, flickering and fading, then returning as if the air itself served it.
The wind changed in its wake.
Dry heat gave way to the smell of rain and ozone that did not exist in this dead dimension. The sound of distant thunder rolled across the desert without any clouds to justify it.
Corvus smiled.
He held the creature's gaze. He invited it without words, because some beings did not respond to speech.