Chapter 1: The Unseen Tether
The first sensation Corvus Malachi Blackwood consciously registered in his new life, aside from the rather shocking experience of birth itself, was a faint, almost imperceptible thrum beneath his skin. It was like a distant engine, a hum of potential that resonated with something outside himself. He was, by all accounts, a perfectly normal, if slightly quiet, baby born to Lord Cassian and Lady Lyra Blackwood, a respected and ancient pure-blood family known more for their astute political maneuvering and vast library than any particular dark or light leanings. They were pragmatists, above all.
The year was 1926. Corvus, with the jumbled but surprisingly intact memories of a twenty-first-century Harry Potter enthusiast, knew this year was significant. Somewhere, likely in less salubrious circumstances, Tom Marvolo Riddle had also just been born.
As months turned into years, the thrum grew. It wasn't constant, but pulsed in time with events Corvus couldn't see. When he was three, toddling through the manicured gardens of Blackwood Manor, he suddenly understood the intricate charm his mother was practicing on a wilting rosebush – a Revitalisation Charm he'd never been taught. It wasn't just understanding; he felt the wand movements, the precise inflection of the incantation, as if he'd performed it a dozen times. Lady Lyra, astounded, watched her son wave a chubby finger, and the rosebush perked up with an unnatural vigour, blooming three new buds instantly.
"Cassian, you must see this!" Lyra had exclaimed, her usual composure momentarily lost.
Corvus, even then, knew this wasn't normal. The thrum had been particularly strong that day. He'd felt a wave of focused intent, frustration, then a burst of accidental magic from elsewhere, followed by a tenfold surge of comprehension and magical energy within himself. Tom, he surmised, must have been having a particularly potent outburst of accidental magic at Wool's Orphanage.
This pattern continued. When Tom, in his lonely, miserable childhood, likely experimented with his nascent abilities – perhaps making a toy float, or unknowingly causing discomfort to a bully – Corvus reaped the rewards. If Tom managed to levitate a pebble once after an hour of concentration, Corvus would suddenly gain the intuitive understanding and magical muscle memory of having done it ten times, flawlessly.
His parents were baffled, then proud, then slightly unnerved by his precocious talent. He spoke early, read voraciously from the Blackwood library by age five, and displayed a control over wandless magic that would make accomplished adult wizards envious. He learned to be discreet. He'd practice in the solitude of his grandly furnished room or the deeper, warded sections of the Blackwood estate, attributing his progress to diligent study of the family grimoires. He never mentioned the thrum, or the sense of an invisible tether to another, distant magical core.
He knew the source of his gift was Tom Riddle. The prompt itself from his reincarnation stated it: "return multiplier for anything tom/voldemort dose he gets a return multiplied 10 times." This meant Tom was his unwitting, unwilling, and entirely unaware magical tutor. The implications were staggering. Every step Tom took towards power, Corvus would take ten.
His goals were simple, refined by adult cynicism and the foreknowledge of a bloody future war. He had no desire to be a hero, no savior complex. The wizarding world could sort itself out. His priority was the Blackwood family – his current, loving parents, any future siblings, and by extension, the prosperity and security of their House. And, of course, his own power and survival. Tom Riddle was a threat, yes, but for now, he was also an unparalleled asset.
The key, Corvus knew, was control. He needed to solidify this connection, perhaps even make it more efficient, and ensure it remained his secret. And he needed to do it before Tom Riddle became too powerful or too suspicious. The perfect opportunity, he'd long decided, would be their first journey to Hogwarts.
The morning of September 1st, 1938, dawned crisp and clear. Eleven-year-old Corvus stood before the full-length, silver-gilded mirror in his room, adjusting the fall of his brand-new, perfectly tailored black Hogwarts robes. He was tall for his age, with the characteristic dark hair of the Blackwoods, but his eyes were a startling, intense grey that seemed to absorb the light, a trait inherited from a distant maternal ancestor. He looked every inch the scion of a noble house: composed, confident, and with an air of quiet authority that belied his years.
Beneath the surface, however, his mind was a whirlwind of calculations. Today was pivotal.
"Corvus, dear, are you ready? The carriage is waiting," Lyra called from downstairs, her voice warm.
"Coming, Mother," he replied, his voice calm and even. He gave his reflection one last, appraising look. The thrum was particularly active today, a low, excited buzz. Tom, too, was heading to Hogwarts. The prospect of formal magical education must be invigorating for the orphan.
Downstairs, Lord Cassian Blackwood was waiting by the Floo, a tall, imposing figure with a neatly trimmed beard and the same astute grey eyes as his son. "Excited, Corvus?"
"Anticipating the challenges, Father," Corvus said, the perfectly polite and slightly formal response his parents had come to expect.
"Good lad. Remember, Hogwarts is not just about learning magic, but about forging connections. The right alliances can be more valuable than the most powerful spell." Cassian clapped him on the shoulder. "The Blackwood name carries weight. Use it wisely."
"I will, Father."
Their journey to King's Cross was uneventful, a smooth ride in their magically expanded carriage. Corvus spent the time mentally reviewing the intricate, somewhat obscure piece of binding magic he'd unearthed in a forgotten corner of the Blackwood library. It wasn't a Dark curse, not in the traditional sense. It was an old, symbiotic tethering ritual, designed to link two magical cores for mutual benefit, though it could be subtly… influenced by the caster to ensure one party benefited more. In his case, far more. He'd spent months adapting it, weaving in elements to specifically resonate with and amplify the existing, naturally formed connection he shared with Tom. The ritual required a physical touch, a moment of focused intent, and a brief, almost silent incantation. Child's play for him, given his advanced abilities, but the execution needed to be flawless and unnoticed.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was a cacophony of sights and sounds. Owls hooted, cats yowled, steam billowed from the magnificent scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express, and families bustled about, saying their emotional goodbyes. Corvus, a picture of aristocratic calm, navigated the crowd with an ease that drew a few appreciative glances. His parents, after a final hug and reminders to write, allowed him to board the train on his own. They trusted his maturity.
He found an empty compartment near the middle of the train, stowed his trunk, and then, with a feigned casualness, began his search. He walked the length of the train, his senses extended, feeling for that familiar thrum, now almost a palpable vibration in the air around its source.
He found him in one ofall_places the last compartments. Tom Riddle was sitting alone, by the window, already wearing his neatly patched, but clearly second-hand, Hogwarts robes. He was handsome, even at eleven, with dark hair, pale skin, and strikingly dark eyes that held a watchful, almost unnerving intensity. There was an air of coiled stillness about him, a fierce, contained pride that Corvus recognized instantly. He was observing the other students, the families, with a mixture of disdain and longing.
Corvus felt a surge of… not pity, but understanding. He knew Tom's story, the loveless orphanage, the desperate yearning for belonging and power. It was a dangerous combination. And it was the engine driving Corvus's own accelerated growth.
"Excuse me," Corvus said, his voice polite, "is this seat taken?"
Tom Riddle looked up, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Corvus's expensive robes, the new trunk, the aura of quiet confidence. Corvus could almost see the calculations in those sharp eyes – assessing potential threat, potential usefulness.
"No," Tom said, his voice cool and clipped, a touch of wariness in it.
"Thank you." Corvus slid into the seat opposite him, offering a slight, formal nod. "Corvus Blackwood."
Tom's eyes flickered with recognition at the name. "Tom Riddle." His tone was flat, giving nothing away.
An awkward silence descended. Corvus wasn't interested in genuine friendship with Riddle. He was here for one purpose. He needed an excuse for the physical contact.
"Excited for Hogwarts?" Corvus asked, feigning the usual first-year enthusiasm. "I've heard so much about it. My family has attended for generations." He let that sink in – the casual mention of lineage, of belonging.
Riddle's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I am looking forward to learning true magic," he said, a hint of fervour in his voice. "Not just… accidental tricks."
"Ah, yes, control is everything, isn't it?" Corvus mused, subtly guiding the conversation. "They say the Sorting Ceremony itself is a fascinating piece of magic. To determine where we best belong."
"Belong," Riddle echoed, the word tasting strange on his tongue. He looked out the window again, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
This was it. Corvus needed a catalyst. He subtly tapped into his own magic, focusing on a minute flaw in the window latch near Tom. With an almost invisible pulse of will, he caused it to rattle violently, as if about to break.
Tom flinched, his head snapping back to the window. "What was that?"
"Unstable latch, I suppose," Corvus said smoothly, leaning forward as if to inspect it. "These old trains… always something." He reached out, ostensibly to steady the latch, his hand passing close to Tom's arm.
"Allow me," Corvus said, his voice dropping slightly. As his fingers brushed against the worn fabric of Tom's robe, just above the wrist, he unleashed the spell.
It wasn't a flashy piece of magic. The incantation was a mere whisper, more a focused exhalation of will than spoken words: "Coniungo, alimento, mihi." (Unite, nourish, for me.)
A spark, so faint it was almost invisible, jumped between their skin. Corvus felt a profound, almost intoxicating click, as if a circuit had been completed. The already present thrum between them intensified tenfold, becoming a steady, powerful current flowing directly into him. It was exhilarating, a pure infusion of raw magical potential and nascent understanding. He felt Riddle's ambition, his thirst for knowledge, his nascent explorations into darker aspects of magic – all of it, or rather the potential of it, the learning process of it, magnified and channelled.
Tom Riddle blinked, a slight frown creasing his brow. He might have felt a faint tingle, a momentary warmth, but nothing more. He pulled his arm back slightly, not out of suspicion of magic, but simply as a natural reaction to unexpected touch from a near stranger.
"There," Corvus said, leaning back with a satisfied smile he quickly schooled into polite neutrality. "Seems steady now." He had, in fact, also subtly fixed the latch with a near-imperceptible nudge of magic.
"Thank you," Tom said, his eyes still narrowed, searching Corvus's face for a moment before dismissing the incident. He likely attributed any strange sensation to static electricity or his own nerves. He was proud, and wouldn't want to seem easily flustered.
The change in the 'thrum' was immediate and profound for Corvus. Before, it was like catching intermittent radio signals. Now, it was a dedicated, high-speed fibre optic line straight from Tom Riddle's developing magical core to his own. He could feel Tom's mind already working, analyzing the train, the people, the snippets of overheard conversations about spells and Houses. And with every new piece of information Tom absorbed, every mental exercise he performed, Corvus felt a corresponding, amplified surge of comprehension.
It's done, Corvus thought, a thrill coursing through him. The primary conduit is established.
The rest of the train journey passed with Corvus making polite, if distant, conversation. He gauged Tom's intelligence, his ambition, his carefully hidden insecurities. Riddle was sharp, hungry for knowledge, and possessed a chilling sort of charisma even at this age. He was also deeply suspicious of anyone who tried to get too close, a trait Corvus could respect, and would use.
Corvus didn't try to befriend him, not really. He positioned himself as an equal, perhaps even a slightly detached superior due to his lineage and obvious affluence. He spoke of the different Hogwarts houses, casually mentioning the strengths of each, subtly guiding Tom's thoughts towards Slytherin without being too obvious. After all, Tom needed to go to Slytherin for history to play out in a way Corvus could predict and exploit.
"Slytherin, of course, values ambition and cunning," Corvus remarked, as if speaking to himself. "Many powerful wizards have come from there. Though some say it has a… darker reputation." He watched for Tom's reaction.
A flicker of interest in Riddle's eyes. "Power is not inherently dark, Blackwood. It is how it is used."
"An astute observation, Riddle," Corvus conceded. Perfect.
Other students occasionally poked their heads into the compartment. A round-faced boy asking about a toad, a bushy-haired girl already reciting textbook passages. Corvus dealt with them politely but dismissively, reinforcing the quiet exclusivity of the compartment he shared with Tom. He needed Tom to feel a certain sense of shared space, however temporary, to ensure the binding settled without Riddle consciously trying to sever an unknown connection.
As the train rattled on, Corvus focused inward, basking in the amplified flow from Tom. He could feel Tom mentally dissecting the spells mentioned in "Hogwarts: A History," which he was probably reading for the first time. Corvus, in turn, gained the proficiency of having studied those sections ten times over, the knowledge integrating seamlessly. It was almost effortless. He could feel Tom's nascent attempts at Occlumency as well – a natural defense mechanism for a boy used to hiding his thoughts and emotions. Corvus's own mind shields, already quite developed thanks to Blackwood training manuals, solidified with an almost startling leap in strength.
This is incredible, Corvus thought, a rare genuine smile touching his lips as he looked out at the darkening Scottish landscape. He's a goldmine.
He felt no guilt. Tom Riddle was destined to become a monster, a mass murderer. Corvus wasn't saving him, nor was he trying to. He was simply using him. If, in the distant future, Corvus became powerful enough to protect his own and perhaps subtly nudge events to avoid the worst of the bloodshed without putting himself or his family at risk, that would be a secondary benefit. His primary concern was the Blackwood legacy and his own ascent.
When the train finally began to slow, the announcement echoing for students to leave their luggage and put on their robes, Corvus stood. "Well, Riddle," he said, offering a cool nod. "It seems we're here. I imagine we'll see each other at the Sorting."
Tom Riddle simply nodded back, his dark eyes unreadable. He had no idea that the polite, wealthy boy who had shared his compartment had just shackled him in a way more profound than any iron chain, a shackle that would fuel Corvus Blackwood's rise to power on the back of Tom's own relentless ambition.
As they disembarked at Hogsmeade station, the booming voice of a giant man calling for "Firs' years!" cut through the evening chill. Corvus spotted Hagrid – or at least, a much younger version of him. He allowed himself a brief moment of nostalgia from his past life before his focus snapped back.
He made sure to stay relatively close to Tom during the boat ride across the Black Lake. The first sight of Hogwarts, magnificent and sprawling under the starry sky, was breathtaking, even for someone who had seen it countless times in movies and his own imagination. He felt Tom's awe, his fierce determination, and a wave of that energy, multiplied, washed over him. It felt like pure potential.
Standing in the Entrance Hall, waiting for Professor Dumbledore – looking remarkably younger, with auburn hair and beard, and a twinkle already in his eye – Corvus felt perfectly calm. He was exactly where he needed to be. He glanced at Tom Riddle, who was staring up at the enchanted ceiling, his face a mask of hungry ambition.
The future was uncertain, but Corvus Blackwood had an ace up his sleeve, or rather, an invisible tether to the boy who would become Voldemort. And with every breath Tom took, every spell he learned, every dark ambition he nurtured, Corvus would grow stronger.
His only concern, a minor one for now, was how he'd explain his meteoric progress to his parents and professors. 'Diligent study' could only account for so much. But that was a problem for another day. For now, he just needed to get Sorted (Slytherin, most likely, given his ambition and the nature of his power, though Ravenclaw was a possibility due to his intellect), and then, the real work – or rather, the real reaping – would begin.
He wasn't a hero. He was an opportunist, armed with foreknowledge and a unique, powerful gift. And he intended to make the most of it. The wizarding world would have its Dark Lord, and Corvus Blackwood would have his power. It seemed a fair, if entirely secret, exchange.