Acceptance
Nerves were beginning to tickle and aggravate the rich meal that had settled like cement in Corvus’s stomach.
Dinner had been magical, Mother and grandfather had been shocked to see the pair of them arrive together, in fact Mother had given his father (or is it brother now?) a vicious scolding for ‘not being able to wait fifteen minutes’ but after gentle coaxing to quiet down from grandfather she one again contained her resemblance to a she-demon and instead took to combing and braiding Corvus’s hair to calm herself down as they all waited for dinner to arrive.
She loved doing that, braiding and playing with his hair, it was longer now than it had ever been in his life – now making steady progress over his shoulders and down his back thanks to mother’s careful attention and millions of hair-care potions – and he had to admit Corvus loved it as much as she did.
It was a bit childish really, but Corvus now associated his time with the Dursleys with the horrific haircuts he had been subjected to under Aunt Petunia’s rule. He couldn’t even argue with her as his hair might as well have been home to several species of birds from the state of it on a good day. It was brittle, spiky and as stiff as a board and as stubborn as one too – it was resistant to combing, gel, straightening and full-on buzz cuts apparently seeing as it just grew right back that one time. His hair seemed to reflect the general ill-state of him, and now he was pampered like a prince under mother’s watchful eye – it was finally reaching a state that was ‘passable’. And he had been assured by her reverent praises of the Black genes that his hair would become tameable once they did the ritual.
And now he reached the root of his nerves. The ritual.
He didn’t understand why he was nervous; he had been looking forward to officially joining this delightful family since the moment a wonderfully strange woman materialised in the local park. He desperately wanted to become a part of it, he wanted to wrap this lineage around his body like a warm blanket, he wanted its history to seep into his blood and bones and rewrite every memory so that this house would be all he had ever known. He didn’t know how to express this little act of greed. And he didn’t know how to tell anyone that he was scared of it as well.
As much as Corvus was glad he was, well, Corvus – he knew deep down that the short time he had spent as Harry and Boy would leave an impression on him even as he grew and the memories of dust, dark and scorching bruises faded. Boy was the scraggly kid with gaunt cheeks, sentient hair and eyes so green they hurt to look at. Boy was the short kid with clothes that swallowed him and a haunting look that spoke of the hurt he endured. Boy was a freak, a layabout, a waste of space.
Corvus would miss him. He felt like he was abandoning him.
Scraping ominously on the floor, Corvus was shocked out of his thoughts by the sound of the ancient doors welcoming the small family of four to the ritual room – and suddenly, Corvus didn’t care about anything at all.
Magic practically crashed over him like a tidal wave unleashed from the very air, its cloying sweetness enveloping his being and drowning him in its power. Thoughts of doubt were chased from the corners of his mind and into oblivion as he raced into the epicentre of the thrumming magic like a child to a sweet shop. It was gorgeous, it was just how mother had described to him in awed whispers beside his bedside as she lulled him to dreams and guarded him from nightmares. Every stone, floorboard, piece of parchment, chip and splinter that lurked in the room simply oozed power – fully saturated with the sheer volume of it. It writhed in anticipation, tickling his breath, toying with his hair and laying like a shroud over his skin. This. This is what he wanted.
He would miss boy. He would mourn him. When time elapses and he is older and much wiser, he will spend nights missing his old skin, his old cadaver – and he will long for his true lineage and feel as if he cut a life short. But now, any memories of hardship and suffering are eclipsed by the beauty that stretches and languishes like a prized cat before his very eyes.
He watches, fascinated, as mother draws mysterious symbols with equal care as she caresses his hair with, all painted with the heady, metallic scent of her and her son’s blood – flashing deliciously from behind the stark paleness of her hand. But the recent blood loss doesn’t seem to bother her. Mother moves with an energy like that of a woman twenty years younger and a smile that could rival a schoolgirl’s, she hops from edge to edge of her masterpiece with an excitement Corvus can see is greatly disturbing both his father and grandfather who both seem impervious to the wonder of the ritual room. He feels bad for them, they’re the ones missing out.
All three of them are soon enlisted under mother’s irrefutable command and are sent bustling around the cluttered room collecting silvery powders, locks of carefully preserved hair that glint in the now blue light and what Corvus is pretty sure is his soon-to-be official father’s blood – carefully preserved and contained in a delicate vial adorned with macabre and dainty glass skulls and other delicate omens of death.
Lovely.
Lilting and enrapturing, mother’s chants and promises to lady magic begin to fill the room, twisting and intertwined with long forgotten languages and the now overpowering caresses of magic. The circle is a work of art, nearly filling the entire floor space of the room, forcing the other three of them to tip toe between integral lines of runes and blood as they fetched increasingly bizarre ingredients to feed the ravenous ritual. As if hearing his thoughts, the graceful curves of the monstrous circle began to glow – abandoning the rich crimson hue of blood for a ghostly blue so hauntingly bright it appeared white, like a deadly flame.
He barely even registers the encouraging hands of his father and grandfather inching him towards the centre of the circle, into the eye of magic. It is ready. Mother looks up from her chanting to give him her sharp but reassuring smile, the hands on his back guide him through the ritual circle, past all the now flowing rivers of light, the magic itself brushing against him in a calming welcome. It was ready. He was ready.
Pushing off of the hands, he tiptoed to the epicentre of the ritual, remembering the incessant badgering from mother about each step he must take, he clumsily sat himself down and closed his eyes – letting the delightful throes of magic wash over him like a heat wave, seeping into his skin, his flesh and his bones.
Mother’s chanting was picking up in pace again, becoming fervent and eclectic as power twisted itself through her words – he could feel it wrapping around his body like a blanket, he had to fight off a grin as his blood roared with unnatural energy. However, the lines of meticulous runes began to shine painfully bright, until it was all he could see, and suddenly he couldn’t even see that.
Then he felt the magic burrowing into his body, he had been warned of this by mother, but nothing could have truly prepared him for it, he felt everything as it grasped and pulled at his bones, moulded his skeleton like clay and melted his eyes, hair, and flesh until he felt like his body was stretched to its breaking point. This was agony he had only recently learned the word and now it was all he could think about. His brain was screaming it as it was reshaped by magic’s forming hands and the command of the ritual, he felt like he was on fire and suddenly as if he was molten lava as he was forced back together and compressed under an inescapable pressure-
He lay gasping on the cold stone floor, his hands were strange and shaking and his very being was still tingling and prickling with magic – cool hands began touching his face and his back – manoeuvring his limp body off the soothing stones and into somebody’s arms, he didn’t care who’s anymore, he sank into them like he was melting once again as he began to come round to the sound of whispering voices.
He cracked open one of his aching eyes, taking in the bright light of the hallway he was being carried through, and as his eyes landed on what he was pretty sure was the form of his mother – he wearily smiled as his brain formed an immediate connection between them.
Family.
Walburga couldn’t help but heave a huge sigh of relief once the light faded and the enormous drain on her magic slowed from a burst dam to a trickling stream. It truly was a powerful ritual, in the weeks between Corvus’s rescue and then Sirius’s she had been pouring over its theory and runic arrangements like a woman possessed – she had never really seen anything like it.
It was an ancient ritual, predating Latin spell casting and probably even the invention of wands by several centuries, the runes held power so sharp she could taste blood on her tongue if she stared at them too long and one wrong line could render this entire ritual fatal to everyone in this room – but she was confident in her skills, and it was a risk she was willing to take.
Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she forced her creaking joints up from their previous crouched position and made her way to the centre of the circle where her little boy lay in a bundled heap amid the crackling ozone of remnant magic. As she drew nearer, she noticed the miraculous effects of the ritual even from a distance – the Potter hair that would normally be sticking up at an offending ninety-degree angle now lay tame and wavy on the stone beneath him, not only that, but they boy seemed larger than before – less waif-like if that made sense.
Picking up her pace, she approached Corvus and knelt down to brush his new hair away from his face, only to have the air knocked from her chest.
It was Sirius.
Wait. No, it wasn’t Sirius – Sirius was off to the right somewhere still trying to blink the light out of his eyes – but Corvus now looked just like Sirius had when he was young, when he was sweet, only four years old and still followed her around like a little duckling. That traitorous thought made her heart ache with decades old grief – no, that Sirius had died a cold and lonely death in the halls of this very house, his body was off to the side yes, but his innocent soul had long since been wrenched from its carrier by her own hands.
And here he was again. Innocent, uncorrupted, untainted by vicious words and heartless spells – was lady magic laughing, wherever she was? Did she delight in presenting her servants with a too-good-to-be true salvation? Did she plan to rip it to shreds and bleed it dry while it forced her to watch – or would it make her be the one to do it again?
It felt cruel, but if salvation was dangled before her, she would not give up, not this time, no matter the mountains in her way – she owed it to Sirius, to Regulus.
She ran her hand over the smooth porcelain face that glimmered fascinatingly in the dying ritual light, and she felt a hole in her heart heal as her brain worked through the millions of thoughts whipping like the wind around her skull – this was her son. Her son. Her little boy. Corvus.
She didn’t care if the smile that had surely ripped its way across her face made her look demented, she had never felt so whole.
Gently, the two others in the room approached from behind – they didn’t seem to as confident in her skills, unfailingly rude – they should know to never doubt a woman’s work, and she could sense the very second Sirius’s eyes fell upon his carbon copy. She turned around, still cradling the limp boy, to catch the melting pot of emotions that bubbled to the surface on his face. She knew it must be difficult for him, one second there was relief, then grief, then happiness, then regret, then relief again – he had had his past in the grasp of his hand, the last living remnant of his friends that he would, and did try, kill for. Gone in the blink of an eye, she wondered if he was feeling the same way she did – the equal measures of horror, excitement and anticipation of what the future might wreck upon him.
As if she’d let that happen. By the look of grim determination that seemed to win over his face, he had come to the same conclusion – for Merlin’s sake sometimes it scared her how similar they were, all that effort to distance themselves from one another and where did it lead them?
To the ritual room, with their future in her arms and a fragile truce – not spoken, not heard, but a truce all the same.
What do the muggles say? Its water under the bridge? Teamwork makes the dream work? The latter makes her vomit in her mouth, disgusting muggles and their can-do attitude, be miserable like everyone else!
A clearing of a throat shattered the atmosphere with the subtlety of a bull in a china shop – “I know this is special and everything, but we really should be getting him to a bed to recover…” The droning voice of Arcturus follows him as he pushes past the two of them to get a closer look at his now official grandson, for all the effort he puts into seeming intimidating it is useless if he acts like this whenever Corvus is in the same room. Despite his frail appearance, he scoops him up from the cold slabs and leads the strange procession out of the ritual room – back into the blinding afternoon light poring through the freshly scrubbed windows.
At the first sight of a comfortable chair, all the adrenaline that had coursed through her body alongside the pure ritual magic evaporated out of her being. For Salazar’s sake she was too old for this, she all but collapsed into the velvet cushions, running her hands over the intricate silver embroidery and painstaking detailing as she tried to recover from that massive magical undertaking.
She watched with half an eye open as Arcturus similarly crumpled into one of the many assorted and dramatic wing-backed chairs, presumably having handed Corvus over into Kreacher’s meticulous care, and as Sirius plonked down onto the plush carpet that stretched before the fire. Merlin, she didn’t even have the energy to yell at him – They all sat in a strangely companiable silence with nothing but the echoing ticks of the countless whimsical clocks dotted around the room to breath into the absence of noise.
She took the time to think - there were many things, problems and nuisances that needed to be controlled and dealt with appropriately; she needed to slowly reintroduce herself to polite society, Arcturus needed to get one foot back in the political sphere, hell, Sirius needs mental help. And above all that, the plan to integrate Corvus back into society without raising any eyebrows about their sudden acquisition of a four-year-old was still underway. They were quite literally running on the fumes of their past glory to pull off a last-minute save for their legacy – it was humiliating to see how far they had fallen and how quickly death had taken grasp of her family. Barely 10 years ago, no one would dare question the actions of the most ancient and noble house of Black – but time was vicious.
Now, only four of the main line remain. Hundreds of years of fighting tooth and nail to land on the pinnacle of wizarding kind and this is the result? It is laughable, she should feel nothing but the deepest despair at this dire situation – yet all she can feel is a burning rage. It has been muted, ignored, buried under her grief, but now it has clawed its way to the surface. She feels angry, vengeful, resentful and bitter – what better outlet was there but showing society what have Black blood meant?
She glances up to catch the two men’s eyes and relays her thoughts, “We need a more long-term plan, we don’t just need to work for Corvus we need to work on the house of Black as a whole – the two are interchangeable.”
The weary eyes of Arcturus once again gained their steel, “I hate to say it, but you are right, our influence has dwindled too far for me to be comfortable.”
“Is Charis still alive? The one who married into the crouchs?”
“She died in 1973 Walburga do keep up.”
“Shame, she was always popular with the other socialites – she always knew everything, it was actually quite unsettling-”
“You could always ask you parents? Irma never skips a ladies’ tea party.”
She felt her face unconsciously contort at the mention of her parents, “Merlin, do I have to? I don’t visit them for a reason – I have never met worse company-”
She ignored the suspicious and sudden hacking cough from Sirius, brat.
A soul-weary sigh escaped from Arcturus’ chest, “Trust me, I know, but if we can convince Pollux to drag his arse out of retirement as well, we can get more control over our finances again – who knows what havoc Narcissa has wrecked upon our bank account!”
Sirius opened his mouth to produce what was likely to be a wildly inappropriate joke, knowing her son, but he was thankfully interrupted by the frantic banging on the windowpane.
Shocked out of her skin, Walburga whipped like a rabbit - around only to come face to face with the crazed eyes of an eagle owl, practically foaming at the mouth as it brandished the dainty envelope in its claws. This did not bode well.
Carefully inching open the window with the same amount of caution one would use to tame a dragon, she plucked the mysterious letter from its glinting talons before snapping down the latch to protect herself from its beating wings as the monstrous beast unceremoniously took flight.
All three of them stood awkwardly in shock before Walburga had the tact to clear her throat, resume her seat and carry on like nothing had happened.
Summoning an ornate letter opener practically buzzing with counter-curses and protective charms, she gave in to the anticipation and slit the paper open – letting the delicate lavender-scented paper clatter onto her lap. Despite the precautions, she still eyed the seemingly innocent parchment with suspicion as she squinted at the lilting script.
Dear Walburga and Sirius,
How is he recovering from Azkaban – I must say everyone is terribly worried and anxiously awaiting your correspondence – but he must not be doing too badly from what I have seen.
You must imagine my surprise, when as I passed by the main family tree, I noticed a new little detail that I confirmed with my elves was not there five minutes previously.
With this in mind, I graciously invite you to attend a family meal at my manor this weekend – and it would be greatly appreciated if you brought along our newest addition.
I eagerly await your reply and attendance.
Sincerely, your favourite aunt,
Cassiopeia
Walburga could have sworn she had at least three heart attacks reading that. She mimicked her father-in-law as she let out a sigh that told of the frustration currently doing wonders for her blood pressure.
At least they don’t have to worry about reaching out.