Chapter 23: The Serpent's Reckoning and an Echo of Defeat (Late 1996 - Early 1997)
The year following the disastrous Battle of the Department of Mysteries was one of escalating terror for the wizarding world. Lord Voldemort, his return now an undeniable, public truth, shed any pretense of subtlety. His Death Eaters, emboldened by the Azkaban breakout and their master's renewed, if somewhat unstable, physical form, launched a brutal campaign of attacks, assassinations, and widespread intimidation. The Ministry, under the new, beleaguered leadership of Rufus Scrimgeour, struggled to mount an effective defense, its efforts often too little, too late.
For Corvus Blackwood, this period was one of intense, if detached, observation and continued personal advancement. The multiplier, connected to a fully embodied and active Voldemort, was once again a torrent of high-level strategic planning, dark magical innovation, and raw, ambitious fury. Voldemort was obsessed with several objectives: punishing those who had failed him at the Ministry, tightening his control over his followers, undermining Dumbledore's influence (particularly at Hogwarts), and, though he rarely allowed his thoughts to linger there consciously, the festering, unhealed wound of his prior humiliation at Blackwood Manor.
Corvus knew, with the chilling certainty his unique gift provided, that Voldemort's pride would not allow that particular slight to go unanswered indefinitely. The Dark Lord, Corvus sensed, viewed the Blackwood anomaly as a personal insult, a galling inconsistency in his narrative of supreme power. He would have to return, to attempt to erase that prior defeat, to bring the insolent, neutral Lord Blackwood to heel or to annihilate him. It was not a matter of if, but when.
The 'when' came on a bleak, windswept night in the early spring of 1997. The Aegis of Blackwood, the intricate, multi-layered warding scheme that enveloped the estate, thrummed with a violent, sustained assault. It was not the polite request for parley of Voldemort's first visit, nor the subtle infiltration attempts of lesser dark wizards. This was a direct, brutal challenge – a magical siege.
Corvus stood in his private study, the newly completed Philosopher's Stone resting on a velvet cushion within a warded alcove, its gentle crimson glow a beacon of controlled power. He felt Voldemort's rage, amplified tenfold, as the Dark Lord and a select retinue of his most powerful Death Eaters – Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Yaxley, and several hulking, magically augmented brutes Corvus didn't recognize by name but understood by their dark magical signatures – hurled potent curses and destructive enchantments against the outer layers of the Aegis.
"He is… persistent," Corvus murmured, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise impassive features. He had hoped his previous demonstration would have been sufficient. Clearly, Voldemort's ego was a more powerful motivator than even self-preservation.
Isolde entered the study, her face pale but composed. Orion and Lyra, now fully adult and formidable wizards in their own right (though dwarfed by their father's power), stood behind her, their expressions grim. They had been at the Manor for a rare family council when the assault began.
"The outer wards are under significant strain, Corvus," Isolde stated calmly. "The children are secured in the deepest vaults, protected by the Sentinels."
Corvus nodded. His Blackwood Sentinels, the obsidian automata of his own creation, now numbered a dozen, each a powerhouse of defensive and offensive magic, patrolling the inner sanctums and ready to engage any breach.
"He will not breach the Aegis itself, not without days of effort, by which time Dumbledore and the entire Ministry would likely descend," Corvus said. "This is not a true siege. It is a challenge, an attempt to draw me out. He seeks a rematch, to soothe his wounded pride." He sighed. "Very well. It seems some lessons must be taught more than once."
He turned to his family. "Remain here. You will be perfectly safe. I will deal with our uninvited guest."
Corvus moved not to the Grand Hall this time, but to a rarely used postern gate on the northern edge of the estate, a place where the ancient forest pressed close. He wished to meet this challenge away from the Manor itself, to minimize any potential for incidental damage to his ancestral home, and to make a more… personal statement.
As he stepped beyond the shimmering boundary of the Aegis, the full fury of the magical assault washed over him, a cacophony of dark energies. He felt Voldemort's presence, a locus of seething hatred and power, some hundred yards distant, surrounded by his coven of Death Eaters.
"Corvus Blackwood!" Voldemort's voice, magically amplified, ripped through the night, laced with venom and a desperate, almost unhinged, confidence. "You thought to humiliate Lord Voldemort and face no consequence? You thought your walls could protect you forever from my wrath? Come forth and face your doom, you arrogant fool!"
Corvus walked calmly towards the source of the voice, his own magical aura suppressed, appearing as little more than a shadow in the moonlit forest clearing. The Death Eaters, upon seeing him, tensed, their wands raised, but Voldemort gestured them back, his crimson eyes fixed on Corvus with burning intensity. The Dark Lord's appearance was even more serpentine, more monstrous than before, his new body clearly still settling, still bearing the marks of its crude, dark creation.
"You return, Tom," Corvus said, his voice carrying effortlessly, a stark contrast to Voldemort's amplified shriek. "I had hoped our previous conversation was sufficiently… conclusive. It seems I overestimated your capacity for learning from experience."
Voldemort's lipless mouth twisted. "You will pay for that day, Blackwood! Today, you will kneel, or you will be annihilated! There is no third option!" He felt the Dark Lord's surge of magic, the complex web of curses he was preparing, the strategies learned from their last encounter being re-evaluated and (he thought) improved. All of it flooded Corvus's mind, amplified tenfold.
"There is always a third option, Tom," Corvus replied, a hint of weariness in his tone. "The one where you depart, wiser and perhaps more intact than you arrived. I offer it to you again, though my patience wanes."
"Insolence!" Voldemort screamed, and the battle was joined. He unleashed a torrent of Dark Magic, spells of bone-shattering force, soul-withering curses, tendrils of pure darkness that sought to ensnare and corrupt. Bellatrix and the others began to advance, their own curses flying.
Corvus sighed. He raised a hand, and a shield of incandescent silver light, more potent, more absolute than any he had manifested before – subtly enhanced by the refined energies of his Philosopher's Stone, which now made his personal magic flow with unparalleled purity and force – sprang into existence around him, effortlessly deflecting the combined assault. The Death Eaters' curses shattered against it like brittle glass, their expressions turning to shock.
"You have learned nothing, Tom," Corvus said, his voice now resonating with a power that made the very air crackle. This time, he would not merely defend. He would demonstrate the absolute chasm between them.
He moved, a blur of motion that seemed to defy normal physics. Voldemort, for all his power, found his spells anticipated, his movements predicted. Corvus was not just reacting; he was ahead of Voldemort, countering curses before they were fully cast, dismantling complex enchantments with single, precise gestures. His magic was a force of nature, elegant and devastating. He did not need Unforgivables. He wielded pure magical force, shaped by an intellect that possessed tenfold Voldemort's own strategic and arcane understanding.
He transfigured the very ground beneath the Death Eaters' feet into grasping stone hands, immobilizing them in an instant. Bellatrix shrieked in rage, but her spells fizzled uselessly against the enchanted stone. Dolohov's complex entrail-expelling curse was unraveled in mid-air by a Blackwood counter-spell so ancient Voldemort himself had only read of it in the most forbidden texts.
Then, Corvus focused on Voldemort. The Dark Lord, seeing his followers so easily neutralized, fought with the desperate fury of a cornered animal. He conjured Fiendfyre, a monstrous basilisk of cursed flame that roared towards Corvus. Corvus met it not with water this time, but with a counter-fire of purest silver, a creation of his own, born from alchemical principles and elemental mastery. The two constructs clashed, silver against black, and the Fiendfyre was consumed, its dark energies purified and dispersed.
Voldemort stared, his crimson eyes wide with a renewed, deeper terror. This was not the same Blackwood he had faced before. This wizard was… more. The effortless superiority, the calm, absolute control, the sheer depth of magical understanding – it was beyond anything he had conceived.
"You seek to wash away shame, Tom?" Corvus asked, advancing slowly, his silver aura now blazing, the very air around him thrumming with power. "You only succeed in drowning in it further."
He gestured, and Voldemort was lifted into the air, his yew wand flying from his grasp, his body contorting as invisible forces bound him. The Dark Lord struggled, hisses of Parseltongue and raw magical force erupting from him, but he was held fast, helpless.
"You are an echo, Tom," Corvus said, his voice devoid of heat, a statement of pure, unassailable fact. "A parasite clinging to a fractured existence. You understand nothing of true power, the power of creation, of preservation, of a soul whole and untainted." He had his Stone, his Sentinels, his family, his unbreachable sanctuary. Voldemort had only his Horcruxes, his fear, and his insatiable, self-destructive hunger.
Corvus didn't intend to kill him; the multiplier, even now, was providing unique insights into Voldemort's reaction to this second, more profound, defeat. But a lesson was required, one that would be seared into the Dark Lord's very essence. Corvus focused his will, drawing on the deepest principles of binding and warding magic he had perfected. He wove a complex enchantment around Voldemort, not one of pain, but of limitation.
"This sigil," Corvus explained, as a faint, silver mark, almost invisible, burned itself onto Voldemort's spectral aura, a mark only Corvus could truly perceive through their connection, "will serve as a reminder. Should your thoughts, your ambitions, ever again turn towards House Blackwood or any under my protection, it will flare, and you will recall this night, this… re-education." The sigil would not harm Voldemort directly, but it would be a constant, irritating reminder of his powerlessness against Corvus, a magical brand of humiliation.
With a final gesture, Corvus released the Dark Lord, who crumpled to the forest floor, gasping, his magical aura battered, his pride shattered beyond repair. The immobilized Death Eaters, witnessing their master's second, even more comprehensive, defeat, were frozen in terror.
"Take your master and depart," Corvus commanded them, his voice resonating with the power of the Lord of Blackwood. "And convey this message to any who would still follow him: Blackwood territory is inviolable. Blackwood neutrality is absolute. Test it again, and there will be no parley, no warnings. Only oblivion."
The Death Eaters, scrambling, levitated their broken master and Disapparated with terrified pops, leaving only the scent of ozone and fear in the chilled night air.
Corvus stood for a moment in the silent clearing, the silver glow around him slowly receding. He had once again asserted his dominance, his House's inviolability. Voldemort, he knew, would never truly learn, his nature being what it was. But this second, more profound humiliation, coupled with the magical reminder Corvus had imprinted upon him, would make him extremely hesitant to ever again directly challenge Blackwood power.
He returned to the Manor, where his family awaited, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and an even deeper understanding of the force that was Corvus Blackwood. He was not just their father, husband, son; he was their ultimate protector, a wizard who could face down the Dark Lord himself and send him fleeing in terror, not once, but twice.
The war outside would continue. Voldemort would lick his wounds and find softer targets. Dumbledore and his Order would fight on. But within the hallowed, warded boundaries of Blackwood, there was peace, there was security, there was power. And Corvus, the silent scholar, the alchemist-lord, would continue his work, his knowledge ever expanding, his mastery absolute, a king in his own unassailable domain.