Chapter 3: Shadows, Whispers, and Ascendant Power
The first term at Hogwarts unfurled like an ancient scroll, revealing layers of intrigue, burgeoning rivalries, and the steady, almost inexorable accumulation of power for Corvus Blackwood. Autumn painted the Forbidden Forest in hues of gold and crimson, while inside the castle walls, the academic pace quickened, and the subtle currents of house politics grew stronger.
Corvus continued to be the star pupil, his brilliance a beacon in every class. What his professors and classmates saw was relentless dedication and innate talent. What they didn't see was the invisible torrent of understanding pouring into him from Tom Riddle. As Tom, driven by a desperate need to prove himself, grappled with complex theories and pushed the boundaries of first-year magic, Corvus reaped a tenfold harvest.
In Defence Against the Dark Arts, taught by a rather nervous Professor Strigoi who seemed more afraid of the subject than the students, Tom showed a keen interest in curses and their counters. When Professor Strigoi hesitantly described the mechanics of a Shield Charm (Protego), a spell usually reserved for older students, Tom spent hours in the library researching its nuances, practicing the wand movements until his arm ached. Corvus, lounging in the Slytherin common room with an unrelated Arithmancy text, felt the familiar surge: Tom's frustration, the meticulous analysis of the charm's structure, the eventual breakthrough. The following day, when a practice dummy animated with a mild Stinging Hex veered towards him, Corvus, without a word, threw up a shimmering Protego so potent it not only deflected the hex but sent the dummy skittering back across the room.
Professor Strigoi nearly fainted. "Mr. Blackwood! That was… NEWT-level shielding! How…?"
"My father insisted I learn basic defensive measures before coming to Hogwarts, Professor," Corvus replied smoothly, his expression one of polite modesty. "The world can be a dangerous place." This was true; Lord Cassian had indeed hired a tutor for basic duelling stances and a few simple jinxes, but nothing on this scale. The lie was plausible enough.
Dumbledore, who often observed other classes, happened to be at the back of the classroom that day. His blue eyes, usually twinkling, held a sharp, penetrating focus as they rested on Corvus. It was a gaze that seemed to peel back layers, and Corvus felt a momentary prickle of caution. He met the gaze steadily, his own expression unclouded. Dumbledore eventually nodded slowly, a thoughtful frown on his face, before turning his attention elsewhere. Corvus knew he was filing away another piece of the "Corvus Blackwood enigma."
The whispers about him grew. "Prodigy," some said. "Genius," others murmured. The older Slytherins, like Abraxas Malfoy, Lestrange, and Avery, began to treat him with a mixture of respect and a certain wariness. He was clearly powerful, but he remained aloof from their budding Dark Arts study groups, which Tom Riddle was increasingly, if subtly, beginning to orchestrate.
Corvus observed Tom's methods with detached fascination. Riddle didn't overtly command; he insinuated, manipulated, and appealed to the prejudices and ambitions of his peers. He'd offer "help" with difficult assignments, subtly binding others to him with debts of gratitude. He'd share snippets of "interesting" lore he'd "discovered," always hinting at greater power accessible to those who were "worthy." He was already building his flock, drawing in the discontented, the cruel, and the power-hungry.
One blustery November evening, Corvus was in his four-poster bed, supposedly asleep. He'd cast a subtle Listening Charm on the dormitory wall adjoining Tom's – a charm he'd "mastered" with ridiculous ease after sensing Tom's own clumsy, initial attempts to learn it for his own nefarious purposes. He heard Tom's low voice, speaking to Nott and Mulciber.
"...and the old texts speak of chambers hidden within these walls," Tom was saying, his voice a sibilant whisper that sent a shiver down Corvus's spine despite himself. "Places of immense power, accessible only to true heirs. Salazar Slytherin himself…"
Corvus's eyes snapped open in the darkness. The Chamber of Secrets. Tom was already on the trail, a full year before Harry Potter's second year in the original timeline. The multiplier surged. Corvus felt Tom's obsessive curiosity, the hunger for this specific piece of Slytherin legacy, the nascent understanding of Parseltongue that Tom was likely just beginning to consciously explore. For Corvus, this translated into a sudden, intuitive grasp of serpentine linguistics, a faint hissing in the back of his mind when he focused, though he had no immediate use for it. More importantly, he gained an academic understanding of the lore surrounding the Chamber, its supposed location, and its purpose, far exceeding what Tom could have gleaned so far.
This particular surge was unsettling. It wasn't just academic knowledge; it was tinged with Tom's dark obsession, his budding megalomania. Corvus focused, mentally shielding himself, compartmentalizing the raw emotion from the pure information. He was a beneficiary, not a participant in Tom's darkness.
His own interactions with Tom were rare and carefully managed. He offered Riddle no camaraderie, only a cool, distant respect that mirrored Tom's own guardedness. Occasionally, their paths would cross in the library.
"Riddle," Corvus might nod, finding Tom engrossed in a leather-bound tome in a shadowy alcove.
"Blackwood," Tom would reply, his eyes narrowed, always assessing.
Once, Corvus found Tom attempting to access a book from the restricted section, his eyes burning with frustration as his first-year status denied him. Later that week, Corvus, using a complex unlocking charm he'd "learned" with suspicious ease (thanks to Tom's earlier, failed attempts to research and practice less sophisticated versions), casually retrieved a different, though equally obscure, volume from the same section in full view of Madam Pince, the librarian. He'd established a rapport with her by appearing to be a genuinely dedicated scholar. He merely nodded to Tom as he passed, the unspoken message clear: there are levels to this game. Tom's jaw had tightened, his eyes glinting with resentment and a grudging sort of respect.
Corvus wasn't trying to compete with Tom directly; that would be pointless and potentially dangerous. His aim was to establish himself as independently powerful, his abilities attributed to his lineage and diligent study. The Blackwood family library was vast and known for its collection of rare texts – the perfect excuse for his advanced knowledge. He wrote home regularly, requesting specific books, which his parents, thrilled by his academic prowess, readily supplied. These books then served as plausible sources for the spells and theories he "mastered."
The Quidditch season arrived, and Slytherin's first match was against Gryffindor. Corvus had no interest in playing – too much public scrutiny, too little direct application to his long-term goals. He attended, however, observing from the stands with an analytical eye. Tom Riddle was also there, not cheering, but watching the players with an unnerving intensity, as if dissecting their movements, their strategies, their weaknesses. When the Slytherin Seeker was knocked off his broom by a Bludger, Corvus felt Tom's fleeting, vicious satisfaction before it was masked. This unfiltered emotion, amplified tenfold, was something Corvus was learning to quickly process and discard, keeping only the strategic insights.
He continued to cultivate his image within Slytherin. He was seen as aloof but not arrogant, powerful but not overtly threatening to his peers unless challenged. He offered occasional, insightful advice on academic matters if approached respectfully, solidifying his reputation as a brilliant scholar. He was creating a sphere of influence based on intellectual superiority and perceived power, distinct from Tom's growing cabal of ideologues.
Exams before the Christmas holidays were, for Corvus, a triviality. While other students crammed and fretted, he calmly answered questions with a depth and breadth of knowledge that astounded his professors. In Transfiguration, Dumbledore set a particularly challenging practical: transforming a teacup into a live tortoise. Most students managed a twitching cup or a vaguely shell-shaped object. Tom Riddle, after considerable effort, produced a small, sluggish, but recognizably alive tortoise. The moment Tom's transfiguration solidified, Corvus felt the familiar cascade of understanding. His own teacup, with a graceful flick of his wand, became a lively, perfectly formed tortoise that immediately scuttled off the desk.
Slughorn was ecstatic with Corvus's Potions essay on the properties of moonstone, declaring it "worthy of a mastery candidate." Flitwick simply shook his head in amazement after Corvus demonstrated three different variations of the Levitation Charm, including a non-verbal one Tom had been secretly practicing in the dead of night. The amplified understanding of non-verbal magic was a significant boon, allowing Corvus to practice and perfect spells with a subtlety Tom had yet to achieve.
His end-of-term report was glowing, filled with superlatives. Lord Cassian and Lady Lyra were immensely proud, their letters full of praise and encouragement. They saw their son as the future of their House, a wizard of unparalleled promise. Corvus read their letters with a quiet satisfaction. His first priority – ensuring the strength and security of his family – was well on track. His rapidly growing power would make House Blackwood untouchable.
As the Hogwarts Express prepared to take students home for Christmas, Corvus found himself briefly sharing a compartment landing with Tom Riddle, both waiting for the corridor to clear.
"Enjoyable term, Riddle?" Corvus asked, his tone neutral.
Tom's dark eyes met his. "Instructive. And yours, Blackwood?"
"Illuminating," Corvus replied. "Hogwarts has much to offer those who know where to look."
A faint, knowing smirk touched Tom's lips. "Indeed. Some secrets are more deeply buried than others." He was undoubtedly thinking of the Chamber.
"But not so deep that they cannot be unearthed by a determined mind," Corvus countered softly, letting Riddle know he wasn't the only one with ambition or an interest in Hogwarts' mysteries. He wasn't interested in the Chamber itself – too risky, too much potential for unwanted attention from Dumbledore. But the knowledge, siphoned from Tom, was valuable.
Tom's eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of challenge within them. But then the corridor cleared, and they went their separate ways without another word.
The Christmas holidays at Blackwood Manor were a welcome respite. Corvus spent his days in the vast family library, ostensibly researching for the next term. In reality, he was integrating the enormous influx of knowledge and magical proficiency he'd gained. He practiced complex charms and transfigurations in the warded training rooms, his control growing more precise, his power more profound, with each passing day. He could feel Tom, miles away in the dreary Wool's Orphanage, likely seething with resentment and doubling down on his own studies, perhaps experimenting with his nascent control over animals or his ability to cause fear. Each burst of Tom's desperate, lonely experimentation fed Corvus's own abilities, refining them, amplifying them.
One afternoon, his father, Cassian, found him levitating multiple ancient tomes, arranging them on high shelves with intricate, interwoven charms, all done non-verbally. Cassian watched for a long moment, his expression a mixture of awe and something Corvus couldn't quite decipher – perhaps a touch of apprehension.
"Your mother tells me Dumbledore himself has remarked on your prodigious talent," Cassian said, his voice carefully neutral.
Corvus let the books settle gently. "Professor Dumbledore is a keen observer."
"He is," Cassian agreed. "He is also a very powerful wizard, Corvus. And a very… principled one. Such men can be wary of power that develops too quickly, too easily."
Corvus met his father's gaze. "My progress is the result of diligent study and the resources of our family library, Father. Nothing more." He knew his father suspected there was something extraordinary at play, but Cassian was also a pragmatist. A powerful heir was an asset to the House.
"Of course," Cassian said, a slight smile touching his lips. "Continue your diligent studies, son. The Blackwood name has not seen such promise in generations." He paused. "Just be… discreet in your brilliance. Not all eyes that watch are friendly, and not all admiration is benign. Power invites scrutiny."
"I understand, Father," Corvus said. He did. Dumbledore was one concern. A prematurely unveiled Tom Riddle was another. And then there were the more conventional rivals, those who would envy and seek to undermine House Blackwood. His power was a shield, but it also needed to be wielded with finesse.
As he prepared to return to Hogwarts for the second term, Corvus felt a deep sense of confidence. His unique gift was functioning perfectly. Tom Riddle was an unwitting engine for his ascent, and Corvus was navigating the complexities of Hogwarts with a skill that belied his eleven years. He had no savior complex; the fate of the wizarding world was not his primary concern. His path was one of self-interest, the protection of his family, and the accumulation of personal power. If that path happened to run parallel to, or even exploit, the rise of a Dark Lord, then so be it.
He was playing a long game, and the pieces were moving exactly as he wished. The thrum of connection to Tom Riddle was a constant, comforting reminder of his unique advantage – a dark gift, perhaps, but one he would use to its fullest potential. The shadows of the future were long, but Corvus Blackwood was learning to walk them with an uncanny, almost predatory grace.