The last days before his demonstration before the Potioneers Association was spent largely by dodging Professor Greengrass, who had become obsessed with the origin of the healing tears Corvus had provided. The man's persistence was relentless. Corvus finally brushed him off with the explanation that a "family friend with with a phoenix familiar" supplied the House of Black. It was a convenient lie, enough to get the professor to finally leave him be.
During those same days, Yelena 'introduced' Corvus to another four of her friends, two of whom still carried their maidenhead. The silent rituals afterward gave him a slight increase in power, though far less than he had hoped. It made him wonder if he was destined to become known as the greatest "cherry popper" of the wizarding world. He would need to find another, more efficient method to expand his magical potency and rituals were winking at him.
On the fourth evening, as dusk painted the Durmstrang sky, Professor Greengrass and Corvus went to the administrative office to receive their portkeys. Their destination was Paris, where the headquarters of the Potioneers Association was located. The portkey activated and in a whirl of color they arrived in the atrium of the French Ministry of Magical Affairs, le Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France in their classy language. The French Ministry was a place of elegance. Arched marble ceilings inlaid with gilded runes, murals depicting moments of magical French history and enchanted lanterns that floated gracefully above the tiled floor. It was bureaucracy dressed in splendor, radiating the pride of a nation that saw itself as the beating heart of continental wizardry. It was a shame.. that the same could not be said about their mundane counterpart though..
A lovely clerk greeted them warmly, ushering them to register their wands before leading them to the apparition point. Greengrass clasped Corvus by the shoulder and with a sharp twist they Apparated together to the Potioneers Association. Already evening was descending and the association's high domed building glowed under the moonlight.
Inside, the pair joined the formal queue. When their names was finally called, Corvus moved to the demonstration table set beneath the central dome, where moonlight spilled through a circular opening above, illuminating his bench. He inclined his head respectfully to the jury and introduced himself, simply as a mastery student of Professor Horatio Greengrass of Durmstrang Institute. Two members of the jury nodded approvingly, the third however, a middle aged man with sharp features, sneered.
"Ah, the famous Black Heir," he said in a heavy French accent. The words dripped with disdain. Even the other two judges frowned at his breach of professionalism.
Corvus choose to ignore him and set to work. He laid out the ingredients for the Aetherveil Serum, carefully checking their quality. As he brewed, he explained every step of the process, describing the properties and purpose of rowan splinters, valerian root, ginkgo leaves, mooncalf tears, mistletoe berries and finally the most precious of all, phoenix tears. His hands moved with precision, his voice calm and even as he stirred clockwise nine times slowly, then counterclockwise seven times, with a slightly faster rhythm exacting and deliberate. For nearly three hours the jury observed in silence, taking notes, occasionally comparing their parchments against his meticulous explanations.
At last the potion shimmered, turning from murky black to a clear silver blue. Corvus let it settle, then carefully siphoned it into six vials. Three he offered to the jury, three slipped into his mokeskin pouch, there was no need to be wasteful.
Questions followed, what had inspired him, what theories guided his approach, what innovations separated this from earlier attempts. Corvus answered them all in detail, speaking with the measured tone of one who had rehearsed and understood. At the end, the jury demanded a vow, that this potion was his and his alone, not stolen nor copied. With his wand pointed towards the ceiling and a steady voice, Corvus swore it, unconcerned.
The jury withdrew to deliberate. Half an hour later they returned. The hostile judge's frown had deepened, but the eldest among them descended from the dais, parchment in hand, his proof of mastery.
"Master Black," the elder declared, extending the rolled document. "By two votes to one, we hereby recognize you as a Potions Master. May Mother Magic bless you for your contributions to the craft and wizardkin."
The words hung in the air, heavy with significance. Corvus took the proof of his mastery, inclining his head. The title was his.
The other two judges stepped down as well. It was tradition for the judges to congratulate the newly declared master. The hostile one though Instead of greeting, introduced himself with icy disdain.
"Henri Charbonneau. Son of the late Victor Charbonneau, once Minister for Magic of France. He was, may his soul rest in peace was the Minister at the time of Grindelwald. Head of your house was one of his generals, Arcturus Black and the rest of their ilks is called the calamity upon Paris in our records. It was I who vetoed your recognition." He declared as if done something noteworthy. "Alas, the other judges fail to see the taint of your blood that will stain this noble art." His disdain deepened. "The House of Black is exactly what it names itself. A darkness. A sickness upon wizarding world."
Before he could utter another syllable, Corvus' wand was at his throat. His voice was velvet over steel. "I am having a pleasant evening, pest. You are not important enough to spoil it. It is unfortunate my grandfather did not end your bloodline while in France. Do not tempt me to finish what he left.. undone."
The chamber tensed. The other judges stiffened, while Greengrass shifted uneasily between pride and alarm. This was history, his pupil had become the youngest Potions Master recorded over the last four centuries. This Charbonneau was trying to stain the triumph.
Professor Greengrass cleared his throat, his voice sharp. "This is not a place for politics and feuds." His voice was cold. "Today is to be celebrated, Corvus. Let us not darken it with redundant matters." His eyes flicked to Henri as he spoke the final words. Nods came from the other two judges. A judge was to be neutral. Not decding based on decades old grudges.
Corvus exhaled slowly, lowering his wand. He turned back to the other two and bowed his head slightly in thanks before striding from the hall at Greengrass' side. His name would shine bright enough. There was no need dipping it into unworthy blood. At least, not today.
--
Upon their return to Durmstrang, Corvus and the Professor were summoned by Headmaster Karkaroff to the professor's hall. The entire faculty was gathered and to Corvus' surprise, they greeted him with genuine applause. The youngest Potions Master in over four centuries had walked among them and his presence commanded respect. His predecessor, they reminded him, had been none other than a pupil of Nicolas Flamel. Corvus allowed himself a small smile as his colleagues, once teachers, now peers called him Master Black or Professor Corvus. He had stepped into their league.
Karkaroff, always eager to make a spectacle and find a way to benefit from the situation, congratulated him warmly and declared that in the morning, the entire student body would be informed at breakfast. "And letters, of course," he added with a gleam in his eyes, "to every paper in the wizarding world." Corvus inclined his head politely but interjected, "Headmaster, may I request you delay the letters? Within days I must demonstrate my charms before the Charmwrights Guild. Better to announce them together. It will bring Durmstrang even more glory." The former deatheater hesitated only briefly before agreeing, visions of future acclaim shining in his mind.
Later, Professor Greengrass insisted Corvus call him Master Horatio now, as was proper. Together they answered questions from colleagues about the Aetherveil Serum, its ingredients and its miraculous effects. They lingered well into the late evening hours. When Corvus finally excused himself, he carried with him a sense of satisfaction.
When he returned to his chambers that evening, Yelena was waiting for him at the corridor, a sly smile upon her lips. "Congratulations, Master Black," she purred, but her tone promised more than words. Her congratulations came in an intimate form, leaving Corvus quite certain that good fortune seemed to follow him everywhere of late. By the time she slipped away into the night, he found himself reflecting that some honors were sweeter in private than in public.
The next morning, true to his word, Karkaroff announced Corvus' achievement before the entire student body. At the mention of the youngest Potions Master in centuries, the Main Hall erupted into a standing ovation. Even some of the more jaded mastery students rose to honor him. Corvus acknowledged the cheers with a composed nod. This was a step towards a larger plan. He saw admiration on the faces of his peers, envy on others and awe on those of the youngest students. Durmstrang had a new legend in its halls.
That noon, Professor Amelia Veyra sent word that they would travel to Luxor, home of the Charmwright Guild the day after. Corvus welcomed the news and spent the intervening days focusing on his studies. Refining Dark Arts, perfecting his Veruscut shield spell and taking his basilisk form at late nights to harvest venom and grow comfortable with his serpentine instincts. He even tested his predatory hunger. An unlucky moose fell victim to him. He noticed how easy it was to hunt with the arsenal of this form. Step one, locate the target. Step two, lock gaze. The experience of swallowing it whole though.. left him both awed and unsettled. The taste of raw life force was potent. He resolved that it was effective but not one he intended to repeat casually.
--
News of Corvus' achievement spread across Europe and beyond like wildfire, even without Karkaroff's official letters. In France, Le Prophète Magique hailed him as "a prodigy of Durmstrang, refined under the vigilant eye of Master Horatio Greengrass, already destined to etch his name beside the greatest in Potioneering." In Germany, the Deutsches Zauberblatt praised his discipline, calling him "the youngest master in living memory, a wizard whose rigor and brilliance place him beyond the reach of his peers." Italy's Il Giornale Magico dubbed him "the rising star of House Black," while publications in Eastern Europe lauded his rise as a return to the golden days of wizardry. In Bulgaria, a paper even suggested, half seriously, that Durmstrang's alumni should now be considered Europe's greatest treasure.
Britain, however, felt the sting most keenly. Rita Skeeter of the Daily Prophet seized the opportunity with glee. In one of her most biting columns yet, she wrote:
"The Youngest Potions Master, Corvus Black"
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
"Sixteen years old. Let us pause there, dear readers. Sixteen and already the youngest Potions Master in four centuries. Corvus Black, heir to one of Britain's oldest families, has another achievement. He is a certified master. A title what no Hogwarts graduate has managed to get in decades. And what won him this coveted title? Aetherveil Serum, a potion so miraculous it can draw patients from the void of catatonia back into the waking world. That is not gossip, that is fact, proven in the halls of Eirheim itself."
Skeeter continued with her characteristic sting:
"I spoke personally with Anneliese Falk, a fifteen year old German witch who awoke after seven harrowing months thanks to Black's invention. 'Danke, Master Black,' she told me with a trembling smile, clutching her uncle's hand. 'I can walk again, speak again, live again.' Her guardian wept beside her, confessing: 'We owe him everything. The name Black will forever be sacred in our family.' Touching, isn't it dear readers? This reporter was outright weeping at the scene of that lovely girl. And what a damning contrast to the state of Britain's own so called premier school. That makes you want to weep for whole different reason."
Then came the twist of the knife.
"Hogwarts, once a jewel of Europe, now a laughingstock. Around forty students graduate each year from the former jewel, yet where are their masteries? The last was Severus Snape. A gifted brewer, yes but a disaster at the lectern, notorious for sabotaging the very futures of those who might have gone on to be Healers or Aurors. And mastery classes? None. Not one. Dumbledore, in his infinite wisdom, deems sloppy instruction sufficient while our peers such as Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, Castelobruxo nurture prodigies and churn out masters as if from a crucible."
Her conclusion was merciless:
"Corvus Black is proof of what true rigor, tradition, and excellence can achieve. He is proof of what Britain has squandered. Hogwarts fails our children. The Ministry's Department of Education slumbers. And Albus Dumbledore, too busy with his other posts. Readers, I ask you, are you not worried for the future of British wizardry? Because this reporter is very worried indeed."