The lift in the Ministry of Magic moved with its usual metallic shudder, chains clinking faintly behind the brass panels as it ascended through the countless levels of the magical government.
Raven stood inside with his hands tucked neatly behind his back, posture straight but relaxed, his expression composed in the way only years of practiced restraint could achieve. The lift was moderately crowded — robes brushing against robes, the air thick with parchment dust, ink, and the faint scent of polished oak. Due to the space he had to cast the Shrinking Charm to his Trunk and put it in his pocket.
A calm female voice rang out from the enchanted brass grille above.
"Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation."
The lift jerked slightly as it slowed before continuing upward.
Raven's dark eyes flicked briefly toward the small window of the lift door. Through it, he could see the corridor blur past in flashes of polished stone and enchanted torches.
He exhaled slowly.
How come the ministry's lift never changed it's structure?
A gentle clearing of the throat pulled him from his thoughts.
"Ah— good morning."
Raven turned slightly.
Standing beside him was a tall, thin man with a kindly face, slightly thinning red hair, and spectacles perched crookedly on his nose.
Arthur Weasley.
Arthur held a stack of parchment files under one arm and looked mildly flustered, as if he had already misplaced something important that morning.
"Good morning," Raven replied politely.
Arthur blinked once in recognition.
"Mr. Shafiq, is it?" he asked kindly.
"Yes... Raven Shafiq."Raven give a small nod.
Arthur adjusted the parchments.
"Terribly sorry about your parents, truly. The whole Ministry heard about it."
His tone was sincere — the sort of simple, honest sympathy that Arthur Weasley was known for.
Raven inclined his head slightly.
"Thank you, Mr. Weasley. Your words are appreciated."
Arthur gave a small awkward smile.
"I trust you're here for the inheritance proceedings?"
"Yes."
Arthur nodded knowingly.
"Seventh floor?"
"That is correct."
Arthur chuckled softly.
"Ah, yes Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Estates, rather tedious paperwork, I'm afraid. I had to accompany a friend once — took nearly the entire day."
The lift shuddered again.
The voice announced calmly.
"Level Seven, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Estates."
The brass doors slid open with a soft clang.
Arthur stepped aside politely.
"After you, Mr. Shafiq."
Raven gave a courteous nod.
"Thank you."
As he stepped out into the corridor, Arthur added kindly,
"Well then — best of luck with it all."
Raven paused briefly.
"I suspect I shall need it."
Arthur gave a sympathetic chuckle before the lift doors closed again.
The seventh floor of the Ministry carried a very different atmosphere from the lower administrative levels. It's been divided into two departments.
If the lower floors resembled bureaucratic machinery, the seventh had the quiet tension of legal finality.
It's because on the right left corner of the seventh floor, stands Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Estates.
This was where fortunes changed hands.
Where bloodlines were settled.
Where magical contracts older than some nations were stored in enchanted vaults.
The corridor stretched wide and high, lined with towering mahogany doors bearing polished brass plaques.
Magical Property Registration Office.
Wizarding Inheritance and Estate Division.
Pureblood Lineage Records.
The floors were marble, veined in pale silver that shimmered faintly with protective enchantments. Every few feet stood floating quills scribbling notes on hovering parchment sheets, overseen by stern clerks in dark green Ministry robes.
The place was busy — though not loudly so.Instead of chaotic chatter, the air carried quiet urgency.
Legal murmurs.
Rustling parchment.
The occasional frustrated sigh of a wizard who had just discovered some forgotten ancestral clause.
Raven walked through the corridor with steady, deliberate steps. He did not rush, yet he did not linger, as if the walls themselves demanded a kind of careful respect.
The polished floor reflected the soft glow of floating lamps above, and the faint hum of magical energy seemed to vibrate through the stone walls.
Despite his calm, measured pace, his presence did not go unnoticed.
"Is it him? Shafiq?"
"The disowned heir? "
"The wastre—"
Heads turned, whispers trailed in his wake, and a few ministry staff paused mid-scribble, quills hovering over parchment, their eyes drawn to him. After all the Shafiq name carried weight—legacy, influence and inevitably scandal.
Raven felt the weight of their stares, the quiet calculation in their gazes, the unspoken and whispered judgments. He had grown used to it. The eyes that once intimidated him no longer mattered.
He focused instead on the rhythm of his own footsteps, the subtle brush of his robes against the corridor walls, the faint scent of ink and parchment that lingered in the air.
Then—a strange prickle ran down Raven's spine.He slowed his steps, senses sharpening, attuned to the subtle pulse of the corridor. Then he felt it—a gaze, heavy and precise, threading through the space around him.
Beneath it, something deeper stirred. Magical fluctuations, subtle but undeniable, brushing against his awareness like a whisper of a long-remembered spell. The presence was… familiar. Too familiar.
Raven's eyes flicked across the hall, careful, measured.
He didn't need to look long to know he wasn't imagining it. The aura carried the same taut control, the same quiet intensity he had sensed before—someone who could bend magic around them without effort, whose very being left the air taut and charged.
He let his gaze slide away, pretending he hadn't noticed. Pretending it was just another shadow in the crowded Ministry corridor.
Then, from behind a stack of documents, a voice rang out:
"Severus!"
Snape turned toward the voice with an irritated expression.
Raven continued down the corridor, steps steady, measured.
Yet he could still feel it—that lingering gaze on his back. Cold. Appraising. Curious.
Familiar in a way that pricked at something deep and unspoken, a memory folded carefully away.
He ignored it. Let the sensation pass over him like a shadow brushing his skin, faintly familiar, almost achingly so.
Some ghosts, Raven reminded himself, carried feelings better left buried.
A few steps later, a Ministry clerk appeared.
"Mr. Shafiq, this way, please."
Raven nodded and followed silently down the corridor. The soft hum of magic seemed to cling to the walls as they approached a door.
The Ministry clerk opened it, revealing a quiet room. A legal officer waited at a desk to the left, documents neatly stacked, while clerks at their own tables checked papers with floating quills.
"Right this way," the clerk said, stepping back and closing the door.
Raven entered, the hush settling around him, and approached the desk. The meeting was about to begin.
The Legal Officer immediately straightened.
"Good morning, sir."
A few other staff members nodded respectfully.
"Good morning," Raven replied calmly.
Raven had scarcely settled into the chair when a sharp, disdainful snort cut through the quiet.
"Oh, how quaint."
He turned just enough to see her.
Bathilda Shafiq—Rosier.
His aunt.
She dominated the chair as if it were a throne far too small, her bulk spilling over the edges like molten wax. Heavy jowls trembled as she sneered, eyes glittering with fury.
"Here comes the disgrace of the Shafiq family," she hissed.
Even from across the room, Raven felt the subtle magical fluctuations radiating from her—angry, wild, unrestrained. He studied them dispassionately, noting their rhythm, the spikes of tension, the undercurrent of desperation in his mind.
He wondered why he hadn't seen her immediately. Perhaps she blended in with the shelf beside her. Raven let out a quiet chuckle at the thought and eased into the vacant chair, just a foot away, facing her.
The clerks froze, caught off guard by her shrill proclamation.
Raven observed her calmly, almost clinically, as though reading a subject in a study.
"Aunt," he said, voice measured.
"Do not call me that!" she snapped. "I have no nephew who chooses… men over honour!"
Raven folded his hands behind his back, voice smooth and deliberate. "You summoned me here for an inheritance hearing, Aunt?"
"I did no such thing!" she barked. "This is the Ministry's doing, a farce! As if that degenerate blood of yours deserves the Shafiq estate."
The Legal Officer at the desk cleared his throat. Quill hovered, ink shimmering faintly. "Before further dispute, the will shall be read in full, as required under Clause 174-B of Magical Bloodline Continuation and sanctioned by the Wizengamot. All heirs present are to witness the proceedings."
Madam Roseir's lip curled. "I shall not sit through bureaucratic drivel!"
"Pray, remain seated, Madam," the officer said calmly. "You may voice objections once the reading concludes."
The parchment shimmered, glowing as the officer began to read:
"Primary estate: Shafiq Manor, Somerset. Commercial properties: Shafiq's Apothecary at Diagon Alley; Shafiq Herb and Potion Farm, Hogsmeade outskirts. Vault holdings: Gringotts ancestral vault containing heirlooms, magical stocks, and family artifacts. Sole magical heir: Mr. Raven Shafiq."
Raven noted the subtle tension in the room—the way her magical aura reacted to each word. She was trying to intimidate, to assert dominance. He remained perfectly still, eyes on her, reading her like a case study.
"She was DISOWNED!" Madam Roseir shrieked.
"Disownment does not invalidate inheritance unless a binding magical severance ritual has been performed. No such ritual happened," the Legal Officer said evenly. "The will, approved by the Wizengamot, is binding."
Madam Roseir's hands clenched on the chair arms raised and point at Raven. "You are a wastrel! A stain on the Shafiq bloodline!"
Raven's voice remained calm, precise. "I owe no one an apology for my existence."
"You shame your parents' graves!" she spat.
"If we are speaking of graves," he said smoothly, "perhaps you should hide behind your husband's."
The floating quills shivered faintly in the charged air, ink shimmering. Raven's eyes never left her, taking in every twitch, every flare of magical power, every calculated surge of rage. He could see exactly what made her flinch, what she feared—even if she refused to admit it.
"What did you say?" she gasped.
"After all," he continued, voice even, unyielding, "it is difficult to call someone a disgrace to a pureblood family while married to a known ..... Death Eater."
A ripple of gasps swept through the room.
Even the Legal Officer's quill hovered midair.
Raven's stance was calm, his expression unreadable, the epitome of controlled authority.
Madam Roseir's hands gripped the chair arms. "You insolent boy! You think your parents' deaths allow you to speak thus?"
"My parents' deaths," Raven said quietly,
"have very little to do with your husband's… choices."
The Legal Officer's voice rang firm. "Madam Roseir, the reading is complete. You are no longer required for these proceedings."
"This cannot be! I will not leave!" Roseir shrieked, wand flickering with sparks as she glared at Raven.
Before she could curse him, the door swung open. Two Ministry Wardens entered, cloaks brushing the floor, staves glowing faintly with restraint spells.
"Madam Roseir, you are required to leave immediately," the lead Warden said calmly.
"I will not!" she screeched, flailing.
Raven remained still, eyes cold and measured. "Your actions are your concern, Aunt," he said.
The Wardens moved forward. With firm, practiced gestures, they guided her toward the door and her final scream echoed as the doors closed behind her.
Silence fell. Raven's hands remained folded, calm, as the room resumed its quiet order.
Raven inclined his head toward the Legal Officer.
"Thank you," he said, voice calm, measured.
"Your inheritance," the officer continued, "includes Shafiq Manor, the Diagon Alley apothecary, the herb and potion farm in Hogsmeade, and the ancestral vault at Gringotts. All assets, holdings, and magical properties are fully under your control. Outstanding debts are minimal and manageable."
Raven picked up the quill. The ink shimmered faintly as he signed.
Raven Shafiq.
The parchment glowed softly, settling into quiet luminescence. The weight of his name, his lineage, and the wizarding estate—both wealth and influence—now rested firmly on his shoulders.
Raven's gaze swept the room once more, calm, measured, in full control.
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TBC