Chapter 14: The Serpent's Paranoia and the Night of Severance (1979-1981)
Lord Voldemort's retreat from Blackwood Manor was not merely a physical withdrawal; it was a psychic shockwave that rippled through his dark consciousness, an event Corvus Blackwood experienced with tenfold clarity. The Dark Lord, who considered himself the apotheosis of magical power, had been effortlessly, almost contemptuously, dismantled and dismissed. The humiliation was a corrosive acid, eating at his pride, but it also instilled a new, unfamiliar sensation: a sliver of caution when dealing with powers he did not fully comprehend. Corvus sensed that Voldemort, while vowing eternal vengeance against House Blackwood in the deepest recesses of his fragmented soul, would not make another direct attempt on the manor anytime soon. He had been given a glimpse of a power that dwarfed his own in a way he couldn't understand, and it unnerved him.
Instead, Voldemort threw himself with renewed ferocity into his war against the rest of the wizarding world. His attacks became more savage, his Death Eaters more unhinged, as if their master's personal humiliation needed to be expunged through the suffering of others. Corvus, from his sanctuary, continued to be the silent recipient of Voldemort's tactical brilliance, his depraved spellcraft, and his escalating paranoia.
It was this paranoia that became Voldemort's driving force in the two years that followed his defeat at Corvus's hand. The prophecy, delivered by Sybill Trelawney to Albus Dumbledore and partially overheard by Severus Snape, consumed him. Corvus felt Voldemort's obsessive fixation on the fragments Snape had managed to relay: a boy born at the end of July, whose parents had thrice defied him, destined to possess the power to vanquish the Dark Lord.
The multiplier granted Corvus an intimate view of Voldemort's frantic efforts to interpret and neutralize this threat. He experienced Voldemort tasking his Death Eaters with hunting down records of births, cross-referencing them with lists of known Order members and dissidents. The names Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter soon rose to prominence in Voldemort's agitated thoughts. Corvus felt the Dark Lord's internal debate, his cold assessment of which child posed the greater threat, his eventual, fatal decision to target the Potter boy, seeing in him a half-blood like himself, a more potent echo of his own story.
Throughout this period, Corvus's life at Blackwood Manor continued its serene, ordered rhythm. He oversaw his family's interests, educated his children, Orion and Lyra, in the foundational principles of magic (their innate talents already promising, though he revealed nothing of his own unique power source to them beyond the expectation of Blackwood excellence), and delved deeper into his own arcane research. The constant influx of Voldemort's high-level magical activity, even his paranoid divinatory explorations and research into obscure protective enchantments for himself, provided Corvus with an ever-expanding reservoir of knowledge. He learned of ancient scrying techniques Voldemort employed, of rituals to glean information from unwilling minds, of curses designed to break even the strongest wills – all amplified, all understood, all cataloged within his formidable intellect.
He watched, with detached interest, as the Order of the Phoenix fought their desperate, losing battle. He felt Voldemort's strategic dismantling of their networks, his ruthless elimination of key operatives. He also sensed Dumbledore's efforts to protect the two families of the prophecy, the implementation of the Fidelius Charm for both the Longbottoms and the Potters.
Then came the betrayal. Corvus felt the precise moment Voldemort learned of the Potters' location in Godric's Hollow. It was not a direct telepathic link, but the sudden, laser-like focus in Voldemort's mind, the triumphant, hateful surge of certainty that pulsed through their connection. Peter Pettigrew, the Secret-Keeper, had broken. The amplified knowledge of this betrayal, the sickening feeling of treacherous triumph from Voldemort, was another dark insight Corvus absorbed.
On the night of October 31st, 1981, Corvus Blackwood was in his private observatory atop the highest tower of Blackwood Manor, ostensibly charting a complex astrological conjunction, but in reality, his senses were attuned to the distant, raging storm of Lord Voldemort's intent. He felt the Dark Lord's approach to Godric's Hollow, his cold anticipation, the dark magic coiling within him like a striking serpent.
The events unfolded within Corvus's mind with a horrifying, amplified clarity that was more real than any vision:
He felt Voldemort blast open the door of the Potters' cottage.
He felt James Potter's defiant, wandless last stand, his desperate shout for Lily to take Harry and run.
He felt the green flash of the Killing Curse and James's life instantly extinguished – a sensation Voldemort barely registered beyond a flicker of contemptuous dismissal.
He felt Voldemort stalking up the stairs, the child's cries, Lily Potter's desperate pleas for her son's life.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now."
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—"
And then, the critical moment. Lily Potter's refusal to stand aside, her unwavering intent to sacrifice her life for her son. Corvus felt Voldemort's impatience, his final, callous curse: "Avada Kedavra!"
The instant Lily died, Corvus felt an unprecedented surge of magic, something ancient, profound, and utterly alien to Voldemort's understanding. It was the raw power of sacrificial love, forming an almost tangible shield around the infant Harry. When Voldemort turned his wand on the child, Corvus felt the Dark Lord's absolute conviction in his own power, his arrogant belief that nothing could stop the Killing Curse.
The green light erupted. And then, chaos.
For Corvus Blackwood, it was as if the universe tore itself apart. The thrum, the constant, familiar connection to Tom Riddle's magical core that had been a part of his existence since birth, screamed. He felt an agony that was not his own, amplified tenfold – the searing, unendurable pain of a Killing Curse rebounding, of a soul being violently ripped from its mutilated moorings. He felt Voldemort's shock, his disbelief, his terror as his painstakingly constructed physical form disintegrated.
But the connection did not sever completely. It frayed, thinned to a mere spectral thread, but it held. And through that tenuous link, Corvus experienced the next astonishing revelation: Voldemort was not truly dead. He felt the tattered, disembodied spirit of the Dark Lord, weak, terrified, less than the meanest ghost, fleeing the scene of his own destruction. He felt the Horcruxes, those anchors of mutilated soul, thrumming in the darkness, holding Voldemort tethered to the mortal plane, preventing his utter dissolution. And most significantly, Corvus understood the mechanics of Lily Potter's sacrifice with a depth and clarity that perhaps even Dumbledore would envy. He felt how her love, willingly given in death, had created a magical protection so potent it had defied the Unforgivable. It was a magic born not of arcane formulae or dark rituals, but of pure, selfless intent – a power Voldemort, in his arrogance, had never even considered.
Corvus staggered back from his telescope, his hand pressed to his temple, his mind reeling from the sheer intensity of the amplified experience. The sudden, drastic reduction in the flow of power and consciousness from Voldemort was like losing a limb he hadn't known was essential. The constant background hum of Tom Riddle's prodigious magical activity, which had fueled his own accelerated learning for over fifty years, was now a faint, erratic whisper, the dying echo of a vanquished (but not extinguished) consciousness.
The wizarding world, Corvus knew, would soon erupt in celebration. They would believe Voldemort gone forever, peace restored. He, however, knew the truth. The Dark Lord was diminished, yes, disembodied, his power shattered – but not destroyed. His Horcruxes remained. His spirit endured.
A slow, thoughtful expression settled on Corvus's face. This changed everything. His primary, if unwilling, source of accelerated magical learning was now… effectively offline. The daily influx of new spells, dark rituals, strategic insights from an active Dark Lord was gone. What remained was the vast, encyclopedic knowledge he had already accumulated, a treasure trove of power and understanding beyond measure. And the faint, spectral link to Voldemort's disembodied spirit and his Horcruxes still offered… something. Perhaps a way to monitor his eventual return, to understand the nature of his diminished existence.
The immediate effect was a curious quiet in his mind, a cessation of the relentless magical 'noise' he had lived with his entire life. It was not unpleasant, merely… different. His own power, already monumental, was now solely his to cultivate and refine, without the constant, passive amplification.
He walked to the window of his observatory, looking out at the silent, starlit grounds of Blackwood Manor. The wizarding world would rejoice in a false dawn. Dumbledore would likely place the Potter boy somewhere safe, shielded by his mother's lingering protection. The Death Eaters would scatter, some feigning repentance, others going into hiding, awaiting their master's return.
Corvus Blackwood had a new set of calculations to make. Voldemort would return, eventually. The Horcruxes ensured it. And when he did, he would be changed, perhaps even more dangerous, driven by a vengeful fury. Corvus's neutrality had served him well, establishing his House as an untouchable sanctuary. Now, he possessed knowledge of Voldemort's greatest secret – the Horcruxes – and a profound understanding of the sacrificial magic that had been his undoing. This knowledge was power, a different kind of power than he had wielded before, but potentially just as potent.
He would not seek out the Horcruxes, nor would he aid Dumbledore in their destruction. That was not his path. His path remained the unwavering protection and advancement of House Blackwood. But he would be ready. The years of peace to come, the inter-war period, would be a time for him to consolidate his own unparalleled knowledge, to further strengthen his defenses, and to observe the faint, lingering whispers from the vanquished Dark Lord, anticipating his inevitable, vengeful resurgence. The game was far from over; it had simply entered a new, more subtle phase. And Corvus, as always, would play his hand with cold, calculating precision.