The Raven swooped down.
Its feathers were black as ink, yet gleamed with a metallic sheen.
Its wings were broad and powerful, each beat whipping up a gale; its eyes were deep as an abyss, shining with wisdom beyond the mortal world. It plunged from the sky at an astonishing speed, like a black arrow.
Straight at the stitched monster!
The stitched monster's eyes all widened at once, their dark red glow flickering unstably. Bellatrix's voice came from the half of its fused face, carrying a trace of barely concealed fear. "Raven..."
The Raven suddenly halted less than three feet above the ground.
Its wings snapped open, stirring up a violent wind that scattered rubble and dust in every direction. Its body began to change—not a transformation, not an illusion, but a more fundamental, more natural alteration.
Fang's body stretched and expanded. Feathers turned into robes, wings into arms, claws into feet.
A boy stood amid the ruins.
He looked twelve or thirteen, with black hair, delicate features, and ordinary dark clothes, his hands tucked into his pockets. His eyes were black and deep, like a bottomless pool. He simply stood there, looking no different from any ordinary twelve-year-old child. But everyone knew he was not.
Flitwick's pupils contracted slightly. He did not know this boy, but he knew that Raven. Those ancient legends, those records of the incarnation of fate, those dust-covered tomes hidden in the deepest reaches of the Hogwarts library—he had read them. He had thought they were merely legends, merely the imaginings of ancient wizards, merely mysterious explanations imposed upon phenomena that could not otherwise be understood.
But now, that Raven stood before him, transformed into a boy.
Ian Prince turned around and looked at the stitched monster. His expression was calm, and those deep eyes