Chapter 4: The Weight of Accelerated Ascension
The biting winds of January gave way to the damp chill of early spring, and with it, the second term at Hogwarts settled into a rhythm of intensified study and simmering ambition. For Corvus Blackwood, returning from the opulent quiet of Blackwood Manor, the familiar thrum of his connection to Tom Riddle was a welcome hum beneath the surface of daily life – a constant, enriching undercurrent. Tom, Corvus could sense, had not been idle over the holidays. The orphan's resentment of his bleak surroundings had clearly fuelled a ferocious burst of self-study, and Corvus felt the amplified benefits almost immediately.
The most striking development was in the realm of magical theory. Tom, frustrated by the limitations of first-year spellwork and hungry for true power, had begun devouring texts on the fundamental principles of magic – intent, will, somatic components, and the very nature of spell creation. This was far beyond the standard curriculum. As Tom painstakingly pieced together these complex concepts, Corvus received them as intuitive truths, a grand, interconnected framework of magical understanding slotting effortlessly into his mind.
It meant that in Charms, when Professor Flitwick explained the theory behind, say, the Disarming Charm (Expelliarmus – a spell they wouldn't learn practically for years), Corvus didn't just understand the mechanics; he grasped the underlying principles that would allow one to modify it, to potentially create variations, or even to counter it with unconventional methods. He could almost see the flow of magical energy, the way intent shaped it, the way incantations and wand movements focused it.
This newfound depth of understanding made him even more formidable, yet also harder to explain. During one particularly advanced discussion in Transfiguration, Dumbledore posed a theoretical question about the limits of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, specifically concerning the creation of food. While other students looked bewildered, Tom Riddle offered a surprisingly insightful, if somewhat textbook-regurgitated, answer.
Corvus, however, felt the ten-fold amplification of Tom's recent obsessive research into the topic. He raised his hand. "Professor," he began, his voice calm and measured, "while Gamp's Law states food cannot be truly created from nothing, it doesn't preclude the multiplication or enlargement of existing food, nor the transfiguration of inedible substances into edible ones, provided the inherent magical signature of 'foodstuff' is understood and replicated. The core limitation, I believe, lies in the inability to imbue transfigured matter with true, life-sustaining nutritional value without a pre-existing template or a direct channelling from a nutritive source. It's a question of magical energy conversion versus genuine creation of complex organic compounds with inherent vital properties."
The classroom fell silent. Dumbledore stared at him, his blue eyes narrowed not with suspicion this time, but with an intense, almost startling, intellectual curiosity. Even Tom Riddle looked momentarily taken aback by the depth and originality of Corvus's analysis.
"Mr. Blackwood," Dumbledore said slowly, his voice resonating with intrigue. "That is an extraordinarily sophisticated interpretation, one that many accomplished wizards grapple with for years. Your family library must indeed be a treasure trove."
Corvus inclined his head. "My father encourages a deep understanding of theoretical frameworks, Professor. He believes practical application is empty without it." The excuse was wearing thin, even to his own ears, but it was the only one he had.
Dumbledore held his gaze for a long moment. "Indeed. A wise philosophy." He then moved on, but Corvus knew the encounter had etched him even more deeply into Dumbledore's awareness. It was a calculated risk; sometimes, demonstrating the extent of his intellect was necessary to solidify his position and ward off lesser challenges, even if it attracted greater scrutiny.
Tom, meanwhile, was becoming more active in his pursuit of Slytherin's legacy. Whispers of his nocturnal explorations, his attempts to charm or bully older students into revealing forgotten lore, reached Corvus. He sensed Tom's frustration as the Chamber of Secrets remained elusive, but also his growing proficiency in stealth and subtle coercion. Each of Tom's failed attempts to bypass a ward or unlock a magically sealed door translated into a wealth of knowledge for Corvus on ward-breaking and magical detection. It was like having a personal research assistant dedicated to the more illicit aspects of magic.
Corvus used this knowledge discreetly. He found, for instance, a hidden alcove in the library, shielded by a misdirection charm Tom had unsuccessfully tried to penetrate for weeks. Inside, Corvus discovered several centuries-old journals penned by former Slytherin students, detailing obscure spell variations and political maneuverings within the House. These became another plausible source for his "advanced studies."
The growing power did have its own weight. The constant influx of information, of amplified understanding, required mental discipline to process and integrate without becoming overwhelmed. Corvus found himself spending more time in quiet meditation, a practice he'd learned from an old Blackwood grimoire, to organize his thoughts and solidify his rapidly expanding magical core. His own magical signature, he noticed, was becoming incredibly dense and complex, far richer than a typical eleven-year-old's. He learned to consciously dampen it, to project an aura of merely 'gifted' rather than 'supernaturally advanced.'
Slytherin politics were also evolving. Tom Riddle's little group – Malfoy, Nott, Mulciber, and a few thuggish older students like Avery and Lestrange – were becoming more cohesive. They were referred to, in hushed tones by other Slytherins, as "Riddle's Knights" or, more ominously, "the Knights of Walpurgis" after a particularly dark text Tom had managed to unearth and share selectively. Corvus observed their meetings from afar, sensing the oaths of loyalty Tom was beginning to exact, the dark promises he was making.
Corvus, however, cultivated a different kind of influence. He was the untouchable scholar, the effortlessly brilliant wizard whose power seemed almost serene compared to Tom's hungry intensity. Students, even some from other houses like Ravenclaw, occasionally sought him out for help with truly challenging magical theory, and he would dispense advice with a detached wisdom that further enhanced his mystique. He was not building a gang of followers; he was establishing himself as an authority, a resource. It was a quieter, more subtle form of power, but no less potent.
One afternoon, Slughorn, beaming, cornered Corvus after Potions. "My boy, my boy! Your essay on the theoretical applications of Basilisk venom in restorative potions – absolutely revolutionary! Dumbledore himself mentioned your name to me, you know! Said you have a mind like a diamond, sharp and brilliant!"
Corvus managed a polite smile. "Professor Dumbledore is very kind. I simply find the subject fascinating." Tom had recently been researching Basilisks, clearly linked to his Chamber of Secrets obsession. The detailed knowledge of their venom, its properties, and its mythical connections had flooded Corvus's mind.
"Fascinating? It's groundbreaking!" Slughorn puffed out his chest. "You simply must attend one of my little evening gatherings, Corvus. Some very influential people often drop by – Ministry officials, famous authors… you'd be the star attraction!"
Corvus, while appreciating the networking potential, was wary of Slughorn's overt fawning. "I would be honoured, Professor, when my studies allow." He needed to control the narrative, not become Slughorn's prize exhibit.
The wider wizarding world also began to intrude. News of Gellert Grindelwald's escalating campaign across Europe filled the Daily Prophet. Tales of mass rallies, daring magical feats, and dark ideologies were discussed in hushed, anxious tones even within Hogwarts. Tom Riddle, Corvus sensed, consumed this news with a fervent, almost obsessive interest. He saw Grindelwald not as a villain, but as a model – a wizard who dared to reshape the world according to his vision.
This had a profound impact on Corvus. As Tom analyzed Grindelwald's strategies, his charisma, his use of symbolism and ideology, Corvus received an amplified masterclass in large-scale manipulation, political maneuvering, and the psychology of power. He saw the strengths and weaknesses in Grindelwald's approach, the way fear and hope could be weaponized, the importance of a compelling narrative. It was knowledge he hoped he'd never need to apply on such a grand scale, but it was invaluable nonetheless for understanding the world he inhabited and the forces that shaped it. His focus remained on House Blackwood and its security, but understanding global power dynamics was essential for that long-term goal.
As Easter approached, an incident occurred that tested Corvus's control. During a particularly chaotic Care of Magical Creatures class near the Forbidden Forest – Professor Silvanus Kettleburn, even more reckless than Hagrid would later be, had brought a cage of volatile Fire Crabs – one of the crabs blasted a jet of fire that ignited a patch of dry grass dangerously close to a group of Hufflepuff students. Panic erupted.
Kettleburn was struggling to contain the other crabs. Students were screaming. Tom Riddle, Corvus noted, watched the chaos with a cold, detached curiosity, making no move to help. Before any professor could react effectively, Corvus acted. With a clarity born of Tom's extensive (and recently amplified) theoretical research into elemental charms, Corvus wordlessly summoned a focused jet of water from a nearby trough, dousing the flames instantly. He then, with another non-verbal spell, cast a precise Freezing Charm (Glacius) that encased the errant Fire Crab in a block of ice, rendering it harmless.
The entire sequence took less than five seconds. Silence descended, broken only by Kettleburn's sputtering thanks. The Hufflepuffs stared at Corvus with wide-eyed gratitude. Dumbledore, who had arrived on the scene with Professor Flitwick, looked at Corvus with an unreadable expression.
"Remarkable presence of mind, Mr. Blackwood," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet but carrying. "And remarkable control. That level of non-verbal elemental magic is… exceptional."
"I merely reacted to the danger, Professor," Corvus said, his outward calm a stark contrast to the surge of power he'd felt. Tom's recent obsession with controlling elements, however theoretical for Riddle himself at this stage, had given Corvus an almost instinctive command.
Later that day, Dumbledore requested Corvus come to his office. The Headmaster's future office was then Dumbledore's Transfiguration office, filled with fascinating clockwork devices and arcane instruments. Fawkes was not yet present, but the room already had an air of profound magic.
"Please, sit down, Corvus," Dumbledore said, his usual twinkle somewhat subdued. He offered a lemon drop, which Corvus politely declined.
"Your progress this year has been nothing short of extraordinary," Dumbledore began, his gaze steady. "Beyond what even the most prodigious talents typically display. Your essays show a depth of understanding that rivals seasoned scholars, and your practical magic… well, we saw an example of that this afternoon."
Corvus maintained a neutral expression. "I have always been a dedicated student, Professor. The Blackwood library has provided me with many avenues for advanced study."
"Ah, yes, the Blackwood library," Dumbledore mused. "A formidable resource, I am sure. Yet, knowledge is one thing, Corvus. The intuitive grasp, the sheer power and control you demonstrate… that speaks of something more than just diligent reading." He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, Corvus, do you ever feel… different? As if your magic responds to you in ways it doesn't for others?"
This was the probing Corvus had anticipated. He had to choose his words carefully. "I have always felt a strong connection to magic, Professor. It feels… natural to me. Perhaps the Blackwood lineage is particularly strong in this generation."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore conceded, though his eyes suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "Power, Corvus, is a seductive thing. It can illuminate, but it can also consume. It is important to cultivate not only one's abilities, but also one's wisdom, one's humility, and one's compassion."
"I understand the responsibilities that come with talent, Professor," Corvus replied, his tone respectful. He knew Dumbledore was searching for any hint of arrogance, any sign of the darkness he undoubtedly sensed in Tom Riddle. Corvus would offer him none. His ambitions were for his House, for order and strength, not for wanton destruction or ideological purity in the way Tom or Grindelwald envisioned.
"I am glad to hear it," Dumbledore said, though his gaze remained searching. "Continue your studies, Corvus. You have a remarkable future ahead. Just remember that the brightest lights can sometimes cast the darkest shadows if not carefully tended."
Corvus left the office feeling the weight of Dumbledore's scrutiny, but also a sense of triumph. He had navigated the encounter without revealing his secret, reinforcing his image as a dedicated, if unusually gifted, scholar.
The final term flew by. End-of-year exams were a formality for Corvus. He effortlessly topped every subject, his name once again lauded. Tom Riddle also performed exceptionally well, second only to Corvus in most areas, a fact that Corvus knew must gall him immensely. This internal rivalry, however one-sided in its awareness, was the perfect engine for Corvus's continued growth. As Tom pushed himself to catch up to an opponent whose true advantage he couldn't comprehend, Corvus soared ever higher.
On the Hogwarts Express heading home for the summer, Corvus reflected on his first year. He had established his cover, managed Dumbledore's scrutiny, and laid the groundwork for his future influence. Most importantly, his unique gift had proven even more potent than he could have imagined. He was accumulating power and knowledge at an astonishing rate, all thanks to the unwitting efforts of the boy who would become Voldemort.
The summer stretched before him, a canvas for further study and consolidation of his abilities, supercharged by whatever dark pursuits Tom Riddle would undertake in his lonely orphanage. Corvus felt no pity for Riddle, only a pragmatic appreciation for his unwilling contribution. The world would have its struggles, its heroes, and its villains. Corvus Blackwood would simply ensure he and his family were strong enough to weather any storm, and perhaps, even profit from the ensuing chaos. His path was his own, paved with an intellect sharpened by one life and a power gifted in another.