The idea of seeing her Aunt made Raven want to retreat immediately. He had no desire for a confrontation today, nor did he have the patience for the subtle political games his aunt so often thrived in.
Not now—certainly not now, when his thoughts were set on far greater matters, on the quiet but determined effort of restoring the glory of the House of Shafiq.
His Aunt's words had always been venom wrapped in silk, delivered with that practiced elegance that made cruelty sound almost refined. Her presence alone was enough to stir memories of a time when the ambitions within the Shafiq family had nearly suffocated the house itself.
Just the thought of her standing at the gates stirred a familiar discomfort within him. Yet Raven knew better than to ignore her.
Avoidance was not an option.
To stay hidden, to keep a low profile and hope she would eventually grow tired and leave—such behaviour belonged to someone who had never known power, someone who would allow themselves to be cornered and crushed before they had even begun.
That was not who he was.
He was Raven.
The Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Shafiq.
The title alone demanded a certain presence, a refusal to shrink simply because an unpleasant guest had arrived.
Raven turned toward the path that led from the manor to the front gates. The stretch of land between them was long, a broad and carefully maintained approach that had been designed centuries ago to impress visitors long before they ever reached the main doors of the estate.
Under normal circumstances he might have walked it, allowing the quiet dignity of the approach to speak for itself.
But today he had little interest in ceremony.
There was a tension in the air that made the idea of a slow walk feel unnecessarily drawn out. Waiting would only give his aunt more time to prepare whatever barbed greeting she had undoubtedly brought with her.
Raven had no intention of giving her that luxury.
Without hesitation, focus settled over him as he fixed his destination clearly in his mind—the front gate, just inside the boundary of the estate.
Then space twisted, the familiar pull of Apparition tightening around him as though the world itself had folded inward for a single breath.
With a sharp, quiet crack, the sensation ended.
Raven appeared directly at the front gate.
Gravel shifted faintly beneath his shoes as he steadied himself. The tall iron gates stood just behind him, marking the boundary of the Shafiq estate. The wards embedded within the ancient metal hummed almost imperceptibly, subtle yet powerful, a reminder that beyond this point lay the domain of the house.
Beyond the gates stood his aunt and Raven faced them from within, while they remained outside.
Behind her Aunt stood a group of seven robed figures.
The sun light caught the fine embroidery of their robes, glinting faintly against threads of deep green and silver. Upon their chests rested a familiar crest—elegant, ancient, and unmistakable.
The sigil of the Rosier family.
It was a quiet but deliberate display, a reminder of the house his aunt had married into after the death of her late husband—a known Death Eater whose name still carried a dark reputation within certain circles.
All seven figures stood just beyond the gate, unmoving.
While Raven remained within and there, at the center, stood the figure he recognized immediately.
His cousin—a man of his own age—standing stiffly with that familiar glimmer of entitlement in his dark eyes, the sort of arrogance that seemed almost natural to him.
Raven took a step forward, his wand resting loosely in his hand, and allowed his gaze to pass over the others.
Though they were cloaked, the magic around them was easy enough to sense. Young, strong, and clearly well-trained. Their posture alone suggested discipline—perhaps practiced in dueling or defensive spells.
Yet to Raven, they were little more than ambitious children playing at war.
"Raven," his aunt's voice carried over the distance, sharp and smooth like a finely honed blade, "what nerve you have. Forbidding us entrance. To keep your own family waiting at the gate? Pathetic."
Raven's lips twitched into the faintest curve of amusement. "Aunt," he said evenly, "it is not my intention to insult you. The wards are ancient, designed to protect the manor from those who enter with greed in their hearts. From those who care more for ambition than for legacy."
His aunt's eyes narrowed, the sunlight light catching the gleam of her gold-threaded robes. "Greed? You dare call us greedy? You a wastrel, who has abandoned your duty, your family and the future of the Shafiq legacy? You—"
"Enough," Raven interrupted, his voice calm but firm. He raised his wand slightly, a subtle reminder that the wards were not the only line of defense the estate possessed. "You are here to speak, not to rant. Words will not pass these gates without my consent, and consent is not given lightly."
His cousin's lips curled into a smirk, and Raven saw the same arrogance he had always hated. "Unworthy," the boy spat, "unworthy of the head of this clan. It should be me Raven, not you to hold this position. You are weak, Raven. Too soft, too sentimental. You are… nothing like a Shafiq should be."
Raven let out a low, quiet laugh that carried faintly across the distance. It was the laugh of someone who had known power and could afford to mock ambition that lacked patience. "Ambitious, aren't you?" he said softly, letting the words hang in the air.
"Very well. But you might first consider what it means to occupy the position you so desire. Perhaps… make certain that your claim does not break the law, or that your head does not follow before your feet arrive at the seat."
After hearing his words there was a flicker of hesitation among the group.
They were good, Raven acknowledged.
Dangerous.
But not clever.
Not enough to see the advantage they had already lost.
"I said, leave," Raven repeated, his tone soft but laced with steel.
His aunt laughed softly, the sound delicate yet utterly devoid of warmth.
"Do you think a gate will make me turn back?"
She rested her hand lightly against the ancient iron, feeling the wards thrumming beneath the metal.
"This house was raised by our blood long before you were born, boy. Do not mistake silence for surrender."
Her eyes lifted toward the manor beyond, dark and resolute.
"I will not leave. If the living deny what is owed…"
Her lips curved faintly, cold and certain.
"…then I shall ask the ancestors themselves whose blood this house remembers."
Her words came with the arrogance of someone born into privilege, someone convinced of the inviolability of family rank, of noble blood.
Raven allowed a flicker of irony to curl in his chest. He had been born into this world too, and yet he was the one standing firm. He had survived being disowned, cast out and still… he was the Lord of the house now.
He drew himself a little taller, composure settling over him like a cloak.
"Take your time, Aunt Bathilda Rosier," he said calmly, the name spoken with deliberate precision.
The faint emphasis was unmistakable.
"Enjoy your little spectacle if you must. But understand this—you will not breach these gates today."
His gaze remained steady, unmoved by her theatrics.
"My family, my land, my wards… they exist for a reason."
His voice lowered, quiet but unyielding.
"And purpose does not bend for resentment—nor for those who no longer bear the name of this house."
For a moment, the air was still. Then the robed figures began to move. Their wands flicked in synchronization, sending sparks and destructive streaks toward the protection ward that surrounded the gate.
Raven could feel their intent, a sharp, palpable edge of hatred and aggression.
He did not flinch. Not in the slightest.
They hurled curses, elemental bursts of fire and darkness, spells designed to shatter barriers and incinerate the earth itself.
The ward shimmered as if alive, ancient magic resonating in response. The spells struck, and each one bounced off like a child throwing stones against a dragon. Sparks flew, a crackle of energy that could have been terrifying to anyone unprepared—but to Raven, it was little more than a brief annoyance.
He watched quietly, almost disinterested, as their fury simmered and flared.
Then he lifted his wand, movements fluid, precise, and economical.
"Expecto Patronum," he intoned.
A silvery light erupted from the tip of his wand. From it emerged a creature of delicate elegance, wings unfolding and catching the soft morning light, glinting briefly before it drifted forward. For a heartbeat it hovered, fragile and luminous, before dissolving into the broad brightness of the day.
Raven did not smile—not outwardly. But there was a faint amusement in the tilt of his head as he watched the Patronus vanish. Help would arrive soon enough.
The Ministry was more than competent to deal with his aunt and her lackeys should they attempt anything further.
"Take your time," he said, voice soft but carrying, allowing it to drift across the distance to his aunt and her followers. "Enjoy your little demonstration. I have already summoned assistance. It is on its way. Do not expect me to intervene directly… not yet."
His aunt's face twisted, a mask of fury and disbelief. "You… insolent child! You dare—"
Raven interrupted with a wave of his wand, a subtle flick that was almost theatrical in its ease. "I am not a child, Aunt. I am the Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Shafiq. This estate, its wards, its legacy—they are mine! I will not tolerate attempts to claim them through violence or ambition untempered by wisdom."
Her lips pressed together tightly, the faint quiver of anger betraying her control. Her voice hissed through clenched teeth. "You… you think this changes anything. The clan will not bend to a boy who has no spine! It should not—cannot—be in the hands of a wastrel like you!"
Raven shook his head lightly, a faint, controlled smile tugging at his lips. "Do enjoy yourselves while you wait," he said smoothly. "The Ministry will be here shortly. Consider this… a courtesy, Aunt Bathilda."
And with a soft pop, Raven Apparated again, leaving the front gates behind. He materialized inside the manor, back in the quiet shadows of the hallways, where the air smelled faintly of lavender and old books.
He walked slowly, deliberately, letting the echo of his boots on marble carry through the stillness. He allowed himself a single, quiet exhalation.
The confrontation had been brief, but it had accomplished its purpose. He had drawn a line. He had reminded them who truly commanded the estate. Who truly held the legacy of House Shafiq.
Raven knew the road ahead would not be easy. His aunt would not relent. His cousin would not stop scheming. But he had something they did not.
Patience.
Strategy.
The knowledge that brute force alone did not win wars.
For the first time in years, Raven felt a flicker of satisfaction.
Outside, the robed figures continued to batter the gate with spells that hissed and cracked against the ancient wards. But inside, Raven was already planning the next move.
The day was far from over and he was ready.
TBC
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