Chapter 7: The Scapegoat's Shadow and a Soul Divided
The death of Myrtle Warren plunged Hogwarts into an unprecedented crisis. No longer were these mere petrifications, easily reversible with Mandrake Draught; a student had been killed within the castle walls, by a monster supposedly unleashed by Salazar Slytherin's heir. The Ministry of Magic descended upon the school with a gravity that overshadowed their previous cursory investigations. Aurors patrolled the corridors, their faces grim, and Headmaster Dippet looked on the verge of collapse, the threat of school closure now an imminent probability.
Corvus Blackwood observed the unfolding chaos with a meticulously maintained facade of calm concern, but internally, his mind was a whirlwind of activity. The amplified experience of Tom Riddle creating his first Horcrux had been a brutal, profound education. He now possessed a visceral understanding of soul magic that few, if any, living wizards could claim. The chilling echo of Myrtle's terrified last moments, Tom's cold, clinical detachment during the act of murder, and the subsequent soul-tearing ritual – all were seared into Corvus's memory, not as trauma, but as invaluable, albeit horrifying, data.
Tom Riddle, meanwhile, was a masterclass in duplicity. He projected an image of a concerned, responsible Head Boy (he had been appointed at the start of the year), offering assistance to the distraught professors and Aurors, his handsome face a mask of solemnity. Yet, Corvus, through their unique connection, felt Tom's surging triumph, his exultation at having successfully created his anchor to immortality, and his cunning calculations as he began to orchestrate the next phase of his plan: deflecting blame.
The target, as Corvus knew from canon and now felt through Tom's focused machinations, was Rubeus Hagrid, the quiet, oversized Gryffindor third-year with a penchant for monstrous creatures. Tom had long been aware of Hagrid's clandestine rearing of an Acromantula, Aragog, in the castle's dungeons. It was the perfect scapegoat.
Corvus watched, with a kind of detached academic interest, as Tom subtly planted seeds of suspicion. He'd "reluctantly" confide in certain professors about Hagrid's "dangerous" pets, expressing "fears" for the safety of other students. He'd guide Aurors towards areas where Hagrid was known to frequent. The multiplier fed Corvus every nuance of Tom's manipulative genius: the carefully chosen words, the feigned sincerity, the subtle exploitation of prevailing prejudices against those who consorted with "beasts." It was an education in cunning that no textbook could ever provide.
Professor Dumbledore, Corvus sensed, was deeply skeptical of Hagrid's guilt. He argued passionately in private meetings with Dippet and Ministry officials, his powerful voice resonating with conviction. Corvus, privy to Tom's perspective, felt Riddle's annoyance at Dumbledore's interference, but also his confidence that the Transfiguration professor, for all his brilliance, lacked concrete proof against him. Dumbledore suspected Tom, Corvus was certain of it, but suspicion was not evidence.
The climax came swiftly. Armed with Tom's "information," Aurors confronted Hagrid. Aragog, likely sensing the danger, fled into what would become the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid, unable to articulate a coherent defense, his wand snapped, was summarily expelled.
The effect was immediate. The attacks stopped. The monster, supposedly Hagrid's Acromantula, was "gone." A wave of relieved, if still uneasy, calm settled over Hogwarts. Headmaster Dippet, eager to restore order and avoid the ignominy of closing the school, lauded Tom Riddle for his "bravery and quick thinking" in identifying the culprit. Tom received a Special Award for Services to the School, a gleaming gold shield he accepted with a display of humble gratitude that Corvus found almost artistic in its perfection.
Corvus felt no compunction about Hagrid's fate. While he didn't share Tom's disdain for the boy, Hagrid was an irrelevance to his own grand strategy. Tom remaining at Hogwarts, his reputation enhanced, was far more beneficial to Corvus's continued power acquisition. The injustice was merely a footnote in a much larger, far more significant game.
With the immediate crisis "resolved," Tom Riddle turned his attention more fully to his newly created Horcrux. The small, black diary was now his constant, secret companion. Corvus, through the multiplier, experienced a unique phenomenon: a dual feed of Tom Riddle's consciousness. He felt the thoughts and ambitions of the sixteen-year-old Tom, but also, with startling clarity, the distinct persona of the diary-Tom – the fragment of soul preserved at the moment of its creation, an echo of Tom at that specific age, but subtly influenced by the inherent nature of a Horcrux.
It was like listening to two distinct but harmonizing voices. The diary-Tom was more purely ambitious, less encumbered by the daily pretenses the living Tom had to maintain. It offered counsel, validated Tom's darkest impulses, and shared with him the slivers of Voldemort's future knowledge it had absorbed from Tom's own mind during its creation. Corvus learned of Tom's plans to unearth more of Slytherin's secrets, his burgeoning interest in his own Muggle heritage (and his violent rejection of it), and his ambition to one day surpass even Grindelwald. The diary was not just a container of soul; it was an incubator for Tom's nascent Dark Lord persona.
This dual perspective was incredibly illuminating for Corvus. He understood Tom's psyche with a depth that even Tom himself likely didn't possess. He saw the insecurities that drove the ambition, the cold narcissism that allowed for such cruelty, and the terrifying intellect that was being meticulously honed towards evil. And all this knowledge, all this insight, became Corvus's own, amplified tenfold, stripped of the emotional baggage, refined into pure strategic understanding.
The rest of their fifth year passed under this false peace. O.W.L. examinations loomed. While other students crammed, Corvus approached his exams with a serene confidence. His understanding of magic was now so profound, so intuitive, that the standard curriculum felt elementary. He didn't just know the answers; he understood the fundamental principles behind them, allowing him to extrapolate and synthesize knowledge in ways that astounded his examiners.
In his Transfiguration O.W.L., he was asked to transfigure a hedgehog into a pincushion. He did so flawlessly, then, when asked about the theoretical limits of cross-species transfiguration, he delivered a concise lecture on magical bio-compatibility and the ethical considerations of sentient-to-object transformations that left the examiner, a stern witch from the Wizarding Examinations Authority, momentarily speechless.
Tom Riddle, of course, also excelled, his results nearly matching Corvus's own. Slughorn was beside himself with pride, already predicting great futures for his two star Slytherins. "Mark my words," he'd boom at his Slug Club gatherings (which Corvus attended sparingly, finding them tedious but occasionally useful for networking), "Corvus Blackwood and Tom Riddle will be names spoken with awe in the Ministry one day! Titans of magic, both of them!" Corvus noted the subtle way Tom cultivated Slughorn, feeding the professor's ego, gleaning information about influential alumni.
The summer after their fifth year found Corvus at Blackwood Manor, immersed in study unlike ever before. The knowledge of Horcruxes, so viscerally acquired, demanded his attention. He spent weeks in the deepest, most warded sections of the Blackwood library, cross-referencing the practical, amplified knowledge he'd gained from Tom with obscure texts on soul magic, ancient Egyptian necromancy, and the darkest forms of defensive and offensive magic. He wasn't seeking to replicate Tom's atrocities; his interest was purely academic, driven by a need to understand the full spectrum of magical power. He learned about the vulnerabilities of Horcruxes – their destruction requiring potent magic capable of damaging the vessel beyond repair, such as Basilisk venom or Fiendfyre. He learned about the potential for soul degradation with multiple fragmentations. This knowledge, he knew, could one day be crucial.
His parents, Lord Cassian and Lady Lyra, observed his intense preoccupation with a mixture of pride and quiet concern. They saw the power coiling within him, the almost unnerving depth in his grey eyes.
"You delve into mysteries most wizards dare not even contemplate, Corvus," his father said one evening, finding him surrounded by ancient, forbidding-looking tomes.
"Knowledge is power, Father," Corvus replied, his voice calm. "And ignorance is a vulnerability House Blackwood cannot afford, especially in these darkening times."
Lord Cassian nodded slowly. "Grindelwald's shadow indeed stretches long. Ensure your knowledge serves to protect, not to corrupt."
"My loyalty is, as always, to this House and its future," Corvus affirmed.
He could feel Tom Riddle, miles away in the grim orphanage, also engaged in intense activity. Tom, empowered by his "success" in "cleansing" Hogwarts and the constant counsel of his diary-self, was undoubtedly planning his next steps. Corvus sensed Tom's growing obsession with his heritage, his determination to find his Gaunt relatives, to understand the source of his Slytherin lineage and his Parseltongue abilities. This new research direction for Tom promised a fresh influx of fascinating, if dark, knowledge for Corvus.
As the summer waned, Corvus prepared for his sixth year. He was no longer just a prodigy; he was a wizard of formidable power and almost unparalleled understanding, all acquired through a secret, symbiotic link to the boy who was steadily, irrevocably becoming Lord Voldemort. The wizarding world was teetering on the brink of a wider war with Grindelwald, while another, perhaps even more insidious, Dark Lord was quietly honing his powers within the very walls of Hogwarts. Corvus Blackwood stood at the nexus of these gathering storms, a silent, calculating opportunist, ready to turn any chaos to his and his family's advantage. The game was becoming more dangerous, the stakes higher, but Corvus felt more prepared than ever. His unique gift was a shield and a sword, and he wielded it with an icy, precise control.