Chapter 2: The Serpent's Den and Whispers of Power
The procession into the Great Hall was a river of nervous excitement and hushed awe. Corvus, walking amongst the other first years, felt the familiar thrum from Tom Riddle, who was a few places ahead. It was a beacon of focused intensity, Tom's dark eyes already devouring the spectacle of the enchanted ceiling, the floating candles, and the four long house tables already filling with older students. For Corvus, the scene was overlaid with memories of a future Harry Potter's first arrival, yet the reality was sharper, more immediate.
Professor Dumbledore, his auburn hair and beard catching the candlelight, stood beside a rickety stool upon which rested the most famous magical artifact Corvus had ever anticipated encountering: the Sorting Hat. Its frayed brim and patched appearance did little to diminish the aura of ancient magic clinging to it. Dumbledore's speech was brief, welcoming, with a characteristic twinkle in his eye that Corvus found both reassuring and slightly unnerving, knowing the depths of the man beneath the genial exterior.
Then, the Hat sang. Its song was different from the one Corvus remembered from the books of his past life, naturally, as the verses often changed. This year, it spoke of unity in the face of unmentioned shadows, of courage, intellect, loyalty, and ambition, each a cornerstone of Hogwarts but also, perhaps, a warning.
The Sorting began. Names were called, and one by one, students went forward, sat on the stool, and had the Hat placed upon their heads. Corvus watched, his mind calm. He knew, with a certainty that transcended mere hope, where he needed to be. Ravenclaw, with its emphasis on intellect, would be a comfortable fit for his studious nature. Gryffindor, with its penchant for reckless bravery, held no appeal for his calculated approach to life. Hufflepuff, though admirable in its loyalty, was not ambitious enough. No, it had to be Slytherin. Not just for the traditional Blackwood affiliation, though that was a factor his parents would appreciate, but because Tom Riddle would undoubtedly be there. His power source needed to be close, observable.
"Blackwood, Corvus!"
Professor Minerva McGonagall – or rather, a much younger witch who must be the Transfiguration professor of this era, Professor Galatea Merrythought, if his timeline was correct – called his name. He moved with an unhurried grace that drew a few appreciative murmurs from the Slytherin table. He sat, and the Hat dropped over his eyes, plunging him into musty darkness.
"Well, well, what have we here?" a voice whispered in his mind, ancient and amused. "A Blackwood, certainly. Lineage clear as glass. But there's more… so much more. Memories not your own… a mind far older than its years. And ambition, oh yes, ambition in spades, intricately woven with a remarkable intellect."
Corvus didn't flinch from the mental intrusion. He projected calm confidence. "I seek the best environment to cultivate my talents and protect my interests."
"Protect your interests?" the Hat chuckled. "A polite way of saying 'accrue power.' You have the mind for Ravenclaw, no doubt. You'd soar there. But there's a cunning here, a desire for influence that Ravenclaw's towers might not fully satisfy. And a certain… ruthlessness? Pragmatism, perhaps you'd call it. You're not afraid to use any advantage, are you?"
Corvus thought of Tom Riddle, of the invisible siphon he'd established. "Knowledge is power, but power strategically applied is influence. I value both."
"Indeed. You see connections others miss. You play the long game. Yes… you could do great things. You have the potential for immense power, young Blackwood. The question is, what will you do with it? Ah, but that's not my decision to make, is it? My task is simply to place you where you will thrive… or where you will find the tools you seek. And for that, there is only one choice, isn't there?"
Corvus felt a sense of inevitability. "Slytherin."
"Indeed," the Hat mused. "You understand its true nature. Not just dark wizards, but leaders, innovators, those who shape the world from the shadows or the spotlight, by hook or by crook. Yes, better be… SLYTHERIN!"
The last word was shouted to the Hall. The Slytherin table erupted in polite, yet distinctly satisfied applause. Corvus removed the Hat, handed it back with a nod, and walked towards the green and silver banners. He caught the eye of a few older students, their expressions appraising. He knew the reputation – a Blackwood in Slytherin was expected, almost a given.
He took a seat, acknowledging the nods from his new housemates, and turned his attention back to the Sorting. A few more names, then: "Riddle, Tom!"
A hush fell. The name was unfamiliar, common. Tom walked to the stool with that same coiled stillness Corvus had noted on the train. He sat, and the Hat was placed upon his head. Corvus watched intently, feeling the thrum from Tom, now tinged with a sharp, anxious curiosity. The Hat was on Tom's head for a longer time than most, nearly a minute. Corvus could almost imagine the internal debate – the Hat sensing Tom's fractured soul, his immense, untamed power, his desperate ambition.
Then, unequivocally: "SLYTHERIN!"
A ripple of surprise went through the other tables, but the Slytherins applauded again, perhaps a little more vigorously this time. Tom Riddle, his face impassive, but with a glint of triumph in his dark eyes, joined the Slytherin table. He didn't sit near Corvus, choosing a spot further down, among students who looked less overtly affluent. Smart. He was already assessing social dynamics, avoiding immediate association with the established elite until he understood the landscape.
Corvus felt a wave of satisfaction. Stage one complete. His power source was now in his House, within easy observation, within the same classes, the same common room. The efficiency of the return multiplier would be optimal.
The feast that followed was as magnificent as legend described. Corvus ate sparingly, more interested in observing his new housemates. There was a young Abraxas Malfoy, already exuding an air of aristocratic disdain; various Lestranges, Notts, and Averys, names that resonated darkly from his future knowledge. He made polite, non-committal conversation, storing names and faces, assessing potential allies and rivals. He wasn't looking for friends, but for useful connections, individuals who could, in time, serve the interests of House Blackwood, and by extension, his own.
After the feast, the Slytherin prefects – a stern-faced older boy named Travers and a sharp-featured girl, Walburga Black (a distant cousin, Corvus recalled with a mental grimace, knowing her future fanaticism) – led the first years down to the dungeons. The Slytherin common room was a long, low-ceilinged chamber under the Black Lake. Greenish light filtered through the windows, revealing carved stone walls, dark wood furniture, and silver lamps casting an eerie glow. It was grand, imposing, and undeniably intimidating.
"Welcome to Slytherin," Travers announced, his voice echoing slightly. "Password is 'Pureblood Prowess'. Changes weekly. Curfew is at nine. Rules are on the notice board. Don't embarrass the House." His gaze lingered on Tom Riddle for a moment, a silent warning, before sweeping over the other, more common-looking first years.
The dormitories were off a spiral staircase. Corvus found himself sharing a room with three other boys: Malfoy, a quiet, watchful boy named Nott, and a boisterous, less refined boy called Mulciber. Tom Riddle was in an adjacent dormitory.
Corvus claimed a bed by the window, which offered a mesmerizing view into the murky green depths of the lake. Giant squid tentacles occasionally drifted past, and Grindylows peered in with malevolent curiosity. He unpacked methodically, his movements precise. Malfoy was already preening, Nott observing, and Mulciber loudly proclaiming his excitement.
Later that night, long after the others were asleep, Corvus lay in bed, the eerie green light playing over his face. He could feel the hum of ambient magic in the ancient castle, and beneath it, the steady, powerful current from Tom Riddle. Tom was likely awake too, Corvus mused, soaking in his new reality, plotting his ascent.
Corvus opened his Transfiguration textbook, "A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration" by Emeric Switch. He'd read it cover to cover over the summer, of course. But now, as he idly flipped through the pages, he felt a new layer of understanding infuse his mind. It was Tom, in his own dormitory, undoubtedly poring over the same text with fierce concentration, trying to absorb every nuance. For every principle Tom grappled with, for every theory he dissected, Corvus received ten times the insight, ten times the intuitive grasp. The match-to-needle transformation, the first practical lesson, suddenly seemed laughably simple, the underlying magical mechanics laid bare in his mind with crystal clarity. He could almost feel the precise magical shaping required, the exact energy output.
He closed the book with a faint smile. This was going to be even more effective than he'd hoped.
The first few weeks of classes established a pattern. Corvus Blackwood was, to put it mildly, a prodigy.
In Charms with Professor Flitwick – a much younger, spry version of the one Corvus knew from his past life – their first spell was Lumos. While other students struggled to produce more than a faint glow, Tom Riddle, after a few focused attempts, managed a steady, if small, light. Instantly, Corvus felt the knowledge solidify within him. When his turn came, he casually flicked his wand, and a brilliant, pure white light blazed forth, illuminating the entire classroom, making Flitwick squeak in surprise and nearly fall off his stack of books.
"Merlin's beard, Mr. Blackwood!" Flitwick exclaimed, adjusting his spectacles. "Ten points to Slytherin for a perfectly executed Lumos Maxima! Though we were aiming for the standard charm, your control is exceptional!"
Corvus merely inclined his head. "Thank you, Professor. I read ahead." He saw Tom Riddle watching him from across the room, a flicker of something – envy? calculation? – in his dark eyes before his expression smoothed over.
Transfiguration with Professor Dumbledore (who, in this era, taught the subject before becoming Headmaster) was even more telling. The task was the classic match-to-needle. Most students managed to make their matches pointy or slightly silvery. Tom Riddle, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, struggled visibly for a good ten minutes. Corvus felt the waves of Tom's frustration, the repeated mental efforts to visualize the change, the near misses. Then, a breakthrough. Tom's match quivered, then slowly, painstakingly, transformed into a passable, if slightly bent, needle.
The moment Tom succeeded, a profound understanding flooded Corvus. It wasn't just intellectual comprehension; it was an innate, physical knowing. When Dumbledore paused by his desk, Corvus, with a single, fluid wand movement and a murmured incantation, transformed his match into a perfectly formed, gleaming silver needle, sharp enough to draw blood.
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Remarkable, Mr. Blackwood. Flawless. Another ten points to Slytherin." His blue eyes held a keen, appraising look that Corvus met with polite neutrality. "You have a rare talent for Transfiguration."
"My mother is quite skilled, Professor," Corvus offered by way of explanation, a half-truth. Lyra Blackwood was indeed proficient, but this was far beyond her tutelage.
Potions with Professor Horace Slughorn was a different, yet equally beneficial, dynamic. Slughorn, already cultivating his "Slug Club" of promising students, was immediately drawn to Corvus's noble name and evident talent. Tom Riddle, despite his less impressive lineage, quickly caught Slughorn's eye too, due to his meticulous preparation and insightful questions.
Their first potion was a simple Cure for Boils. Tom, Corvus could sense, was a natural. He followed the instructions precisely, his movements economical, his ingredients perfectly measured. As Tom worked, Corvus felt an intuitive grasp of potion-making deepen within him. He understood the subtle interactions of ingredients, the precise temperatures, the exact stirring patterns, not just by rote learning, but by an innate feel for the craft. His own Cure for Boils was, of course, perfect.
"Splendid, Corvus, my boy, splendid!" Slughorn boomed, beaming. "And you too, Mr. Riddle! Two naturals in one class! Slytherin is truly blessed this year!"
Corvus noted how Tom preened slightly under the praise, a carefully controlled flicker of pleasure. He also noted how Riddle often stayed behind after Potions, asking Slughorn insightful questions, already beginning the subtle art of ingratiation that would serve him so well. Each piece of knowledge Tom gleaned, Corvus received tenfold. Slughorn's anecdotes about rare ingredients or obscure potion effects became instant, ingrained knowledge for Corvus.
He was careful, however, not to appear too perfect. Occasionally, he would feign a slight imperfection, a moment of "struggle," especially if Tom was finding a particular concept difficult. He didn't want to draw undue attention from Dumbledore, who he knew was far too perceptive. His aim was to be seen as a brilliant, dedicated student, a prodigy yes, but a believable one. The "I read ahead" excuse, combined with his family name, covered much of it.
His housemates reacted to his abilities with a mixture of respect, envy, and in some cases, a desire to associate with him. Abraxas Malfoy, initially aloof, began to seek out his company, recognizing Corvus as a fellow pure-blood of high standing and talent. Corvus tolerated Malfoy's presence, understanding the value of the Malfoy name and connections, though he found Abraxas's arrogance tiresome. Nott remained quiet and observant, while Mulciber, less intellectually inclined, was simply impressed.
Corvus spent his evenings in the Slytherin common room or the library, often "studying." In reality, he was mostly absorbing the accelerated learning channelled from Tom. He could feel Tom's late-night forays into more advanced texts, his curiosity about restricted sections, his tentative explorations of magic that hinted at a darker inclination. When Tom researched hexes to deal with bullies (which Corvus knew he inevitably would, given his orphanage experiences), Corvus gained an amplified understanding of their mechanics, counter-curses, and ethical implications – not that he cared much for the latter beyond how they might affect his reputation.
One evening, Corvus was reading a complex treatise on warding schemes in the common room, the text practically deciphering itself as Tom, somewhere in the castle, likely struggled through a similar, if less advanced, book. Malfoy approached him, flanked by Lestrange and Avery, two older Slytherins.
"Blackwood," Malfoy said, a touch of deference in his tone. "Impressive work in Transfiguration today. Dumbledore looked ready to offer you a teaching post."
Corvus looked up, his expression unreadable. "Professor Dumbledore is an excellent teacher. One learns quickly under his tutelage."
Lestrange, a hulking boy with dull eyes, grunted. "He's too soft on mudbloods and blood traitors, if you ask me."
Corvus felt a familiar pulse from Tom – a surge of agreement, of resonant hatred for those he perceived as beneath him. This amplified echo within Corvus was purely informational; he felt no personal animosity towards Muggle-borns, merely indifference unless they directly threatened his interests.
"Professor Dumbledore's personal views are his own," Corvus said coolly. "His efficacy as a Transfiguration master is undeniable. That is what matters in his classroom." He had no interest in petty blood-purity debates with these thugs, though he understood their importance in Slytherin politics. He needed to project an image of focused ambition, not thuggish prejudice. His power would come from skill and intellect, not just ideology.
Malfoy seemed to take this as a sign of sophisticated agreement. "Quite right, Blackwood. Results are what matter." He then lowered his voice. "Some of us are gathering later. Discussing… matters of true Slytherin interest. You'd be welcome."
Corvus knew what this meant: the beginnings of Tom Riddle's inner circle, or at least its precursor. Tom himself wasn't overtly leading any such group yet, still being too new, too unknown. But others were already gravitating towards the old pure-blood ideologies.
"Thank you, Malfoy, but I have a significant amount of reading for Herbology. Perhaps another time." He needed to observe Tom's assimilation into these groups, not lead them or become too visibly entangled too early. His connection to Tom was his secret weapon; drawing attention to any unusual closeness between them would be counterproductive.
Malfoy looked slightly put out but nodded. "Of course. Study is important."
As they walked away, Corvus returned to his book, though his mind was elsewhere. He could feel Tom's growing influence, a subtle magnetism drawing other discontented or ambitious Slytherins towards him. Tom was quiet, watchful, but when he did speak, his words were persuasive, his charisma undeniable, even if it was a dark, predatory charm.
Corvus wasn't worried about Tom overshadowing him. Tom's efforts only fueled Corvus's own. Every dark spell Tom researched, every manipulative tactic he learned, every piece of forbidden lore he uncovered – Corvus received it all, amplified and refined. He was, in essence, becoming a far more powerful, knowledgeable, and magically skilled version of Tom Riddle, but without the damaged psyche and blatant megalomania. His ambition was just as vast, but far more controlled, more patient.
He closed his book, a thoughtful expression on his face. The game was well and truly afoot. He had his power source, he was establishing his reputation, and he was perfectly positioned within the serpent's den. His only real challenge would be managing the sheer scale of his rapidly advancing abilities without raising too many alarms. He needed to cultivate an image of brilliant but dedicated, not suspiciously supernatural. And for that, he needed to ensure Tom Riddle continued his relentless, unwitting tutelage.
The well-being of the Blackwood family, his own security, and his ascent to power – all were inextricably linked to the dark path of the boy in the next dormitory. Corvus felt no guilt, only a grim satisfaction. It was, after all, a gift. And he was a Blackwood; they never wasted a gift.