In the main hall of Château de Lestrange sat two figures.
The chandelier overhead cast warm light and deep shadows in equal measure, carving sharp contrasts across the faces of Lord Lestrange and his grandson. Gold and darkness danced along the marble walls, but neither of them seemed aware of it.
Lord Lestrange looked… displeased. Or perhaps he wanted to be seen that way.
There was anger there, real enough. Anger that something so significant had been kept from him. That he had learned of it not from his own blood, but through another House. Yet beneath that anger sat something else, quieter but unmistakable.
Pride.
Seer abilities were rare. Coveted. Dangerous. And his grandson had awakened them.
At last, Lord Lestrange spoke.
"So," he said coolly, "you could have told me sooner that you were a Seer. Instead, I had to learn of it from someone else."
His gaze fixed on Corvus.
"Tell me," he continued, his voice held tight by restraint, "does your own grandfather not deserve your trust? Does a Lord of another House deserve it more?"
Corvus spoke quickly, the words tripping over one another.
"It's not that, Grandfather. I… I had another vision when I met my godfather. Then another when I met Sirius Black. Multiple visions. On the same day. That has never happened before. I panicked."
He swallowed, forcing himself to continue.
"When I am near someone… sometimes when I touch them… I can see their death. I saw it for my mother. For the Dark Lord. For Regulus Black. For Sirius Black."
His fingers clenched unconsciously.
"But I cannot see yours. Or Father's. And it isn't that I see everyone's death. I don't."
He shook his head, frustrated, almost pleading with the logic to make sense.
"So I thought… maybe their deaths come after mine. I cannot see my own death either. Sometimes I see fragments of a person's life instead. I don't know if what I see is past or future. It could be random. Or it could be something specific. I don't know how to tell the difference."
His voice faltered.
"And today, at the Yule Ball… there were too many. Too many visions."
Corvus fell silent.
How could he explain what he himself barely understood?
How could he say that he had arrived in this life carrying knowledge that did not belong to it? That he had awakened one day already knowing names, endings, deaths, and choices, without knowing which of them were real anymore?
Some truths could not be spoken.
Not yet.
Lord Lestrange rose from his chair, lifting his glass as he began to pace the length of the hall. The slow swirl of wine mirrored the thoughts turning over in his mind, each step measured, deliberate. He was weighing his grandson's power, turning it over like a blade whose edge he did not yet know how to hold.
"Corvus," he said at last, voice low, contemplative, "you possess an extraordinary gift. Or a curse. At your age, it is no surprise that you cannot yet control it. In that regard, it is fortunate that you signed the oath."
He stopped near the window, the candlelight catching the red in his glass.
"The last Dark Lord, Geralt Grindelwald, possessed a power not unlike yours."
He resumed pacing, slower now.
"Our House predates many of the so-called Ancient families. We began in France, centuries ago. After a brutal civil war, we changed our creed. We learned restraint."
A brief pause.
"We no longer bind ourselves blindly to opposing camps, as the Blacks still do."
His grip tightened slightly around the stem of the glass.
"The Dark Lord was my classmate," he continued. "In those days, we were Knights of Walpurgis. I admired him."
The admission hung in the air, heavy and unadorned.
"But I will not preside over the fall of my House," Lord Lestrange said quietly. He turned at last, fixing Corvus with a steady, assessing gaze.
"So tell me," he said, the weight of generations in his voice,
"how deep a conundrum are we truly facing?"
"The death of most Pure-blood families," Corvus said quietly, each word deliberate, "or their reduction to a single surviving line. The loss of at least two generations of witches and wizards. Fortunes shattered. Centuries of accumulated knowledge erased."
He lifted his gaze, steady now.
"All of it to satisfy the delusions of grandeur of a mistreated orphan who grew powerful enough to believe the world owed him a throne… and the inaction, hesitation, and politics of another man just as powerful, who believed he knew better."
"Sometimes," Corvus continued, his voice lowering, "I wonder whether Lord Voldemort is less a monster born… and more a monster engineered."
He did not rush the thought.
"A weapon shaped by Albus Dumbledore. A blade meant to cull the Pure-bloods, to harden the public against us, to turn prejudice into policy. Fear into consensus and to erode pur finances."
His eyes did not waver.
"Voldemort uses the existing power structures of our world. Blood. Lineage. Old alliances. Exactly the things that can be pointed at later and declared obsolete, dangerous, immoral."
A faint exhale. Not relief. Calculation.
"If Voldemort wins, Pure-bloods either die out or become paupers. If Dumbledore wins, we survive only to become irrelevant. Our influence dismantled. Our history reduced to a cautionary tale. Our power rendered inconsequential to a new order built in his image."
He paused, then delivered the truth without heat.
"For us, Grandfather, both ends of the road are dead ends. Victory or defeat makes little difference. We either perish… or we are allowed to live without meaning."
The room seemed to contract around them.
Lord Lestrange studied his grandson for a long moment.
Then, softly, deliberately, he asked,
"So what is the path forward for us? For the House of Lestrange?"
Corvus did not hesitate.
"We become the third power," he said. "Not dark. Not light. Soft power. Wealth-backed power."
He steadied his breath, the plan crystallizing as he spoke.
"The wizarding world is already saturated. We cannot simply grow by conventional means. To gain new streams of income, we must either seize failing enterprises… or create entirely new ones. Businesses that generate employment. That create dependence. That earn goodwill."
Influence without banners. Power without slogans.
"After the first fall of the Dark Lord, there will be fourteen years of relative calm," Corvus continued. "That window must be used to establish an enterprise not merely to generate profit, but to gather influence. To entangle institutions. To make ourselves indispensable."
His eyes hardened, not with cruelty, but with resolve.
"And in doing so," Corvus continued, "we quietly erode the power bases of both extremes. The Dark faction that rules through fear and empty promises… and the Light faction that rules through moral monopoly. While the so called neutral faction maintains status queue."
He held his grandfather's gaze, unflinching.
"If they fight over ideology," he said evenly, "we will own the infrastructure that keeps their world standing. Because there is no greater ideology than interest. No eternal friends. No eternal enemies. Only eternal interests."
A brief pause, then the admission.
"That is why I drew the Blacks closer. That is why, for the past year, I have immersed myself in runes and advanced magical theory. And why I have studied the Muggle world as well."
Lord Lestrange's fingers tightened slightly around his glass.
"Their network topologies. Their systems of conductors and sub-conductors. Their methods of scaling power without bloodlines or wands," Corvus continued. "All of it can be adapted. Refined. Rebuilt with magic."
His voice did not waver.
"I intend to create enterprises that generate profit, influence, and dependence. Products that people cannot afford to lose. Systems that institutions quietly rely upon."
He inclined his head slightly.
"And through that," Corvus finished, "we ensure not dominance… but reliance and survival."
Then he continued, quieter now, as if stating a law of nature rather than an opinion.
"Pure-bloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns are all resources. Different inputs. Same equation. Any resource left unused is wasted potential, and wasted potential is a future liability."
His voice was steady, disturbingly so.
"We must bind them all into multiple chains of interests, all linked to us. So that their prosperity becomes inseparable from ours. So that our downfall would mean their downfall as well."
A faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Calculation.
"We will drown peasants and nobles alike in opportunity, gratitude, and debt. Employment. Access. Credit. Dependency. Slowly, invisibly."
He looked directly at his grandfather.
"In time, they will defend us without being asked. Advocate for us without realizing why. Speak our interests as if they were their own."
A pause.
"This is not charity, Grandfather," Corvus said calmly.
"This is business."
Lord Lestrange chuckled softly.
"You have dreams," he said, swirling his wine, "and even grander ambitions. I will support you."
He studied Corvus with an appraising gaze.
"I admit, the picture you painted for me is… elegant. You have a talent for speeches. Not unlike the Dark Lords I have known." A faint pause. "That is not entirely a compliment."
His smile deepened, indulgent rather than warm.
"But for now, you are still a fledgling. A chick yet to learn how to fly. Your croaks may sound like prophecy… or they may be nothing more than cries for attention. Or hunger."
He lifted his glass slightly, as if toasting the thought.
"Still, I will indulge you. If not for your ambition, then for your gift as a Seer."
His tone sharpened just enough to cut.
"Remember this, Corvus. A fledgling, no matter how brilliant, that has never faced wind, rain, or predators, is exactly what you described earlier."
He smiled, slow and knowing.
"Wasted potential."
"I know, Grandfather," Corvus said quietly. "There is a storm outside now. Biting cold. Cutting winds. Predators already on the prowl."
He inclined his head, a gesture of respect rather than submission.
"For now, I need the shelter of your nest to survive it. To endure what I am not yet equipped to face."
His gaze lifted again, steady, unflinching.
"When the storm passes, I will fly. But I will need your guidance as I learn how."
A brief pause, then, softly but without doubt:
"In time, A raven can still become a dragon."