Chapter 12: The Unwanted Summons and the Price of Neutrality
The late autumn of 1979 was a period of deepening dread in the wizarding world. Lord Voldemort's power was at its zenith; his Death Eaters, emboldened by a string of brutal victories and the Ministry's near collapse, roamed with impunity. It was during this dark apex that the wards of Blackwood Manor, the formidable Aegis Corvus had perfected, thrummed with an unwelcome, insistent pressure. It was not a direct assault – even Voldemort, Corvus knew, would be wary of testing such legendary, unseen defenses head-on without reconnaissance – but rather a formal, magically projected request for parley, delivered with an arrogance that could only belong to one wizard.
Corvus stood in the obsidian-floored Grand Hall of Blackwood Manor, a vast, cathedral-like spacepanelled in ancient, dark wood, its high-arched windows looking out onto the perpetually twilight-hued, warded grounds. His father, Lord Cassian, now aged but still possessing a keen mind, stood beside him, his expression grim. Lady Lyra, her composure unshakeable, was nearby, while Corvus's wife, Isolde, held their two children, Orion (now a promising ten-year-old) and Lyra (a bright eight-year-old), close in a heavily warded alcove overlooking the Hall. They were safe, shielded by layers of magic, but Corvus had permitted them to witness what was to come. It was time they understood the true measure of the power that protected their House.
"He has audacity, I'll grant him that," Cassian murmured, his gaze fixed on the spot just beyond the main doors where the magical request still pulsed faintly. "To seek entry into Blackwood Manor, now, of all times."
"He seeks allies, Father," Corvus said, his voice calm, resonant in the vast hall. "Or, failing that, to neutralize perceived threats and consolidate his dominion. He believes all must choose a side. He is about to be disabused of that notion regarding House Blackwood."
Corvus made a subtle gesture, and the immense oaken doors swung inward silently, revealing the visitor. Lord Voldemort stood on the threshold, his form now utterly inhuman – tall, skeletal, with a chalk-white, snake-like face, lipless mouth, and burning crimson eyes that fixed on Corvus with unnerving intensity. Flanking him, just outside the manor's immediate ward-line, were two of his most formidable Death Eaters, Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov, their expressions a mixture of fanaticism and menace. They made no move to enter; Voldemort alone stepped across the threshold, the ambient magic of the Aegis seeming to recoil slightly from his dark presence, yet not barring his entry due to the parley protocols.
"Corvus Blackwood," Voldemort's voice was high, cold, and sibilant, echoing unnaturally in the hall. "Generous of you to receive me."
"Lord Voldemort," Corvus replied, his tone even, devoid of fear or deference. "You requested parley. Blackwood Manor observes ancient courtesies, even for uninvited guests."
Voldemort's lipless mouth stretched into something that might have been a smile on a human face. "Courtesies. Admirable. I have come, Blackwood, to offer you a place of honor in the new order I am forging. House Blackwood is ancient, powerful. Your talents, I hear, are… considerable. Such lineage, such power, should not stand idle, or worse, align itself with the mudbloods and fools who cling to Dumbledore's senile idealism."
The thrum from Voldemort was intense, a maelstrom of arrogance, power, and a chilling certainty of his own supremacy. Corvus felt the Dark Lord's plans, his conviction that all would eventually bow to him, his contempt for neutrality.
"House Blackwood stands with House Blackwood, Voldemort," Corvus stated, his voice resonating with quiet authority. "We have weathered many storms by remaining true to our own path. We bow to no one. We are neutral, and we shall remain so."
Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed. "Neutrality?" he hissed, the temperature in the hall seeming to drop several degrees. "There is no neutrality in this war, Blackwood. There is only my dominion, or oblivion. Those who are not with me are against me. A House as influential as yours cannot simply… abstain. Your neutrality is a denial of my authority, an insult to my vision."
"Your vision is your own, Voldemort, not ours," Corvus replied, unmoved. "We have no quarrel with you, so long as you and yours respect our borders and our sovereignty. Attempt to infringe upon either, and you will find House Blackwood is not as passive as its neutrality might suggest."
A flicker of something akin to surprise, quickly masked, crossed Voldemort's serpentine face. He had expected fear, perhaps negotiation, not this calm, unyielding defiance. Corvus felt Voldemort's internal assessment, the weighing of Corvus's reputation against his own supreme self-confidence. The multiplier surged, feeding Corvus an intimate understanding of Voldemort's current magical state, the spells he favored, the tactics he was already formulating should this parley fail.
"A bold stance, Blackwood," Voldemort sneered. "Perhaps a foolish one. Your famed wards are impressive, I grant you. But no ward can withstand the concentrated might of Lord Voldemort and his followers indefinitely. Join me, and your House will flourish beyond your ancestors' wildest dreams. Defy me, and Blackwood Manor will become another forgotten ruin, a testament to the folly of pride." His hand, long and white, tightened on his yew wand.
"That, Voldemort, is where your understanding fails," Corvus said softly, a hint of steel entering his voice. He took a step forward, his grey eyes meeting the Dark Lord's crimson stare. "You see this House as an asset to be claimed or an obstacle to be crushed. You do not see it as an independent power that desires only to be left alone. This is not a negotiation. It is a statement of fact. House Blackwood will not serve you. We will not oppose you unless provoked. But provoke us, and you will regret it."
Voldemort's patience, already thin, snapped. "Regret?" he shrieked, his voice cracking with fury. "You dare speak of regret to me, Lord Voldemort? You will learn the meaning of pain, Blackwood! You will beg for the mercy of serving me! Crucio!"
The jet of crimson light, the Unforgivable Curse that had broken countless wizards, erupted from Voldemort's wand, aimed directly at Corvus's heart. From the alcove, Lady Lyra gasped, Isolde clutched her children tighter, and even Lord Cassian flinched.
Corvus did not move. He did not even draw his wand. As the curse sped towards him, he raised a hand, palm outward. The air before him shimmered, solidified into a barrier of pure, silver-white magic, intricate runes glowing faintly within its depths. The Cruciatus Curse struck the barrier and shattered into a million harmless scarlet sparks, the sound like breaking glass.
Voldemort stared, his crimson eyes wide with disbelief. No shield he had ever encountered, not even Dumbledore's most potent defenses, had ever repelled an Unforgivable so effortlessly, so utterly.
"An impressive spell, Voldemort," Corvus said, his voice still calm, though a chilling power now emanated from him, a pressure that made the very stones of the hall seem to vibrate. "You have practiced it often, I can tell. Your proficiency with it is… noteworthy." He knew this because he felt Voldemort's own mastery of the curse amplified within himself tenfold. He could have cast a Cruciatus that would have made Voldemort's seem like a child's tantrum.
"Impossible!" Voldemort hissed, his surprise giving way to a renewed, heightened fury. "No mere shield can block the Cruciatus! What trickery is this?" He unleashed another, then a third, each one disintegrating against Corvus's silent, unwavering hand-ward.
"It is not trickery, Voldemort," Corvus explained, as if to a slow student. "It is simply… superior understanding. Your magic, for all its brutality, has limitations. You rely on power and fear. You do not always grasp the deeper symmetries, the more ancient harmonies of magic." With each of Voldemort's failed curses, Corvus felt the exact magical signature, the intent, the precise energy matrix, and his own ability to counter it grew exponentially.
Enraged beyond measure, Voldemort abandoned the Cruciatus and launched into a furious barrage of his most potent Dark Arts. Fiendfyre erupted, forming demonic shapes of flame that lunged at Corvus, only to be met by a wall of equally sentient, coalesced water that rose from the very flagstones, a creation of Corvus's will, which enveloped the cursed fire and extinguished it with a deafening hiss of steam. Bolts of black lightning, curses that could necrotize flesh or shatter bone, spells that twisted reality – all were met and neutralized by Corvus with an almost disdainful ease, often with no more than a subtle gesture or a softly spoken word in a language that predated Latin.
He knew every spell Voldemort cast before it was even fully formed in the Dark Lord's mind. He felt Voldemort's tactical decisions, his choices of attack, amplified within him, allowing him to prepare counters with contemptuous ease. It was like playing chess against an opponent whose every move was announced ten turns in advance.
The Blackwood family watched from their alcove, their initial terror replaced by a stunned, overwhelming awe. They had known Corvus was powerful, a prodigy, the pride of their House. They had not known he was this. He moved with an impossible grace, his magic a symphony of controlled power, ancient and formidable, effortlessly dismantling the attacks of the most feared Dark Lord in a century.
Voldemort, panting, his serpentine face contorted with disbelief and a dawning, unfamiliar sensation – fear – backed away a step. "Who… what are you?" he managed, his voice raspy. "No wizard can possess such power, such knowledge…"
"I am Corvus Blackwood, Head of this House," Corvus replied, taking a deliberate step towards the retreating Dark Lord. His eyes now glowed with a soft, silver light, the same light that had infused his shield. "And you, Voldemort, are a trespasser who has mistaken our desire for peace for an admission of weakness. A grievous error."
This time, Corvus attacked. He did not use Unforgivables; he had no need for such crude instruments. He unleashed a torrent of pure, concussive force, shaped by his will, that struck Voldemort like a physical blow, sending him staggering back. Before Voldemort could recover, Corvus gestured, and chains of solidified shadow erupted from the floor, ensnaring the Dark Lord's limbs, binding him. Voldemort struggled, roaring inarticulately, his dark magic flaring, but the shadow-chains held, seeming to absorb his power.
Corvus walked slowly towards the bound, struggling Dark Lord. "You have built an empire on pain and fear, Riddle," he said, his voice now resonating with the ancient power of his lineage and his unique, amplified knowledge. "You have torn your soul to ribbons in a pathetic grasp for immortality. You have terrorized the innocent and slaughtered the weak. And for what? For an illusion of power that crumbles before true understanding."
He raised his hand, and a complex, multi-layered spell, one of his own devising – a synthesis of Blackwood family magic and the profound principles he had gleaned from Voldemort's own desperate experiments – enveloped the Dark Lord. It was not a curse of pain, but one of utter magical suppression and disorientation. Voldemort shrieked, a raw, animalistic sound, as his connection to his own dark magic was momentarily, agonizingly disrupted, his senses overwhelmed.
The fight, if it could even be called that, was over in minutes. Voldemort, the self-proclaimed master of death and darkness, lay slumped in the shadow-chains, bruised, disoriented, his dark aura significantly diminished, his crimson eyes flickering with a mixture of agony, disbelief, and dawning terror. Bellatrix and Dolohov, who had watched the entire exchange from beyond the threshold with growing horror, made a move as if to intervene, but a single, icy glare from Corvus froze them in place, their fanaticism momentarily eclipsed by a primal fear.
Corvus gestured, and the shadow-chains dissolved, dropping Voldemort unceremoniously to the flagstones. The Dark Lord scrambled back, his serpentine features etched with humiliation and a newfound, profound wariness.
"Consider this your first and only lesson, Tom Riddle," Corvus said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "House Blackwood is not to be trifled with. Our neutrality is not a sign of weakness but a statement of our sovereign will. Leave now. Do not return. And do not make enemies of those who wish only to be left in peace. If you, or any of your followers, ever direct your ambitions towards this House, or any under its protection, what you experienced today will be but a gentle prelude to your utter annihilation."
He let the threat hang in the air, the absolute certainty in his voice more terrifying than any curse.
Voldemort, physically battered and psychically scarred by the sheer totality of his defeat, stared at Corvus with eyes that now held something other than arrogance. He pushed himself to his feet, his body trembling with barely suppressed rage and a nascent, chilling understanding that he had encountered a power beyond his comprehension. Without a word, he turned, stumbled back across the threshold of Blackwood Manor, and Disapparated with a crack, his two stunned Death Eaters quickly following suit.
Silence descended upon the Grand Hall, broken only by the ragged breathing of the Blackwood family in the alcove. Corvus stood for a moment, the silver glow in his eyes slowly fading, his composure absolute. Then, he turned to face his family.
Lord Cassian was pale, leaning heavily on his cane, but his eyes shone with a fierce pride. Lady Lyra's regal calm was intact, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the railing. Isolde was staring at her husband as if seeing him for the first time, her initial fear replaced by an overwhelming sense of awe and security. Orion and Lyra, their children, simply looked at their father with wide, unblinking eyes, their young minds struggling to process the monumental display of power they had just witnessed.
"He will not trouble us again," Corvus stated simply, the unspoken weight of his victory settling upon them. He had not sought this confrontation, but he had met it, and in doing so, had unveiled a fraction of the true power he wielded – a power born of another's darkness, now forged into an unbreachable shield for his House. The Dark Lord Voldemort had been given his warning. House Blackwood would remain neutral, inviolate, a silent, formidable sanctuary in a world consumed by his terror. And Corvus, its master, would continue his watch, his power a secret shared only by the ancient stones of his home and the terrified, retreating spectre of a defeated Dark Lord.