Corvus opened the heavy double doors of the Black Library. At once, the vast chamber greeted him, rows upon rows of shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, the scent of parchment and dust lingering like incense. Narrow corridors wound between the towering stacks, each wall lined with tomes older than nations. His turquoise silver eyes darted across the spines, cataloguing thousands of volumes with a hunger that bordered on reverence. Every step he took echoed faintly, as though the library itself was alive and listening.
He stepped inside with measured calm, but his gaze was sharp, drinking in every title. For nearly an hour he roamed the largest of the rooms, his mind already mapping the general locations of subjects. Charms in the eastern alcove, Rituals along the southern wall, Dark Arts filling an entire vaulted annex. He paused often to run his hand along the spines, whispering the names of books to himself as if to commit them twice over. Already he felt the weight of power pressing down on him, as if the very books breathed and whispered to him, testing his worthiness to enter.
At last, he reached for a volume bound in blackened leather and etched with silver runes: The Depth of Sacrificial Rituals by the Great Wizard ZaneT69. Corvus's fingers lingered over the cover before opening it. Inside, he found what he expected and more. There were detailed accounts of sacrificial magic, ranging from blood rites to the darkest of soul rituals. Some entries described practical sexual rituals that could heighten the magical capacity of one or both participants. Others detailed precise methods of channeling life and death to forge strength, diagrams of circles and notes in margins written in Latin and Ancient Runes. As he read, Corvus felt the stir of certainty: this would be one of his favorite tomes in the library, a companion he would return to again and again.
The days of his Yule break passed swiftly, consumed by study. Morning and night, he sat in the library's dim glow, page after page committing itself to his perfect memory. Topics blurred together as his comprehension talent devoured them: curses older than Hogwarts, protections woven into bones, potions brewed with forbidden ingredients, even treaties on wandlore. Yet still he returned to ZaneT's book, drawn to the terrible efficiency of sacrificial ritual craft. Sometimes he closed his eyes and let the concepts reorder themselves in his mind palace, testing their logic and imagining improvements.
Two days before his return to Durmstrang, Corvus made his decision. He would not merely study these rituals, he would test them. There were two in particular that called to him. One of them especially required a Horcrux within a runic circle. "Animus Reddo Invalesco" was a powerful spell created by another great wizard Noddwyd. It was described as a Curse that destroyed Horcruxes and turned the soul piece into raw magical power for the caster. Brutal. Efficient. Pure.
He traced the symbols in the air several times, practicing the motions and feeling the pull of the words even unspoken. There were multiple Horcurxes in this world, even in the house itself. He was going to start with that one.
The second ritual was more precise, more flexible. Its incantation: "Potentiam, tuam accipio, ut mihi." With this, the caster could choose to take something specific from the victim, strength, talent, vitality while sacrificing the remainder of the target's essence to fuel the ritual. Ritual magic, after all, was a science of balance and exchange, no different from alchemy or chemistry. Corvus noted in the margins his own ideas for refining the equations of power.
He closed the tome and called for Kreacher. The elf appeared with a pop, hunched and scowling, his ears twitching. Corvus asked if there was a ritual chamber within the house. Kreacher's face twisted, but he nodded, muttering, "Yes, young Master Corvus… old Mistress had one, oh yes… Mistress wanted her sacrifices done proper, she did."
Corvus's expression remained calm. "And can you provide me with suitable test subjects?"
The elf's eyes gleamed faintly, and his rasping voice carried a note almost innocent in its cruelty. "Yes, Master Corvus. Kreacher can find filthy Muggles, bring them here, yes… Mistress used to ask for them too, before she died. Said they screamed so sweet, they did."
Hearing this, Corvus merely inclined his head. "Good. Capture ten to twenty. But make certain they are foreigners, not Londoners. I will not have my countrymen to be sacrificed while there are 'others'." He spoke with the same calm certainty as if he were ordering supper.
Kreacher bowed low, his face stretched into a grin both eager and twisted. "As Master commands." With another pop, he vanished, leaving Corvus alone with his thoughts, the flickering candlelight, and the endless whispering shelves of the Black Library.
--
While Corvus waited for the dutiful elf to return with suitable 'test subjects,' he sat calmly in his chair, a tome on advanced arithmancy open before him. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the page as he traced the runes with his finger, memorizing equations and structures with ease. Numbers, he thought, were the hidden backbone of magic, rituals, wards, and enchantments all owed their strength to unseen calculations. Each symbol was a key, each equation a gate that unlocked deeper control over the currents of power. He let the formulas settle in his mind palace, slotting them into neat compartments, reorganizing them into something even sharper than the original text.
Minutes stretched into nearly an hour, but he did not mind. Silence suited him, and the library's weight of knowledge wrapped around him like a cloak. The only sound was the steady scratch of his quill making notes in the margin and the occasional hiss of the fire. Corvus was still lost in the complex structure of a runic equation when the inevitable disruption came.
With a loud pop, Kreacher appeared, bowing low, his spindly body shaking with a mixture of glee and venom. His bulbous eyes glowed faintly in the firelight. "Kreacher has done as Master Corvus asked," he rasped. "Seventeen filthy Muggles, yes, rounded up and waiting. Some were peddling the honky powders and pills. Others… others follow little girls, nasty, vile ones. Kreacher has brought them all, as Mistress would have wanted, yes." His grin widened, both eager and grotesque.
Corvus closed the book with deliberate calm, rising from his seat. The heavy tome shut with a quiet thud that carried finality. Seventeen. More than enough for experimentation. His gaze sharpened at Kreacher's words, drug dealers and child groomers. The lowest kind of vermin, creatures who polluted the world with their sickness.
"Mark the groomers," Corvus ordered, his voice cold and precise, cutting through the air like a blade. "I will have need of them for testing. There are spells I wish to practice, two of the Unforgivable, in particular. Their screams will not trouble my conscience."
Kreacher's ears twitched, and he gave a small bow, clearly delighted at the cruelty of the task. "Oh, yes, Master Corvus. Kreacher will mark them well. They will cry and beg, but Kreacher knows they deserve worse. Kreacher knows Mistress would be pleased."
Even as he spoke the words, Corvus felt the flicker of justification settle in his chest, spreading like calm fire. He had already absolved himself of guilt, already reasoned that monsters deserved no mercy. Their existence stained the world; he would cleanse it wherever he encountered them. Each death would not only rid the world of filth but fuel his rise, adding strength to his magic and discipline to his craft.
He allowed himself a long breath, cold serenity flowing through him. There was no hesitation, no wavering. The path he had chosen was as clear as the equations he had just studied: balance and exchange, power gained through sacrifice. In his mind, the calculations aligned. Seventeen Muggles. Two Unforgivable curses. Rituals to test. By the time his Yule recess ended, he would leave Grimmauld Place stronger.
--
Corvus followed Kreacher down the dim hallway, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. The air smelled faintly of dust and magic long dormant. He allowed his voice to drift into the silence, calm and deliberate. "I have discovered a spell, one designed to shatter enchantments considered unbreakable," he said, watching the elf closely for a reaction.
Kreacher halted abruptly, his thin shoulders trembling. Slowly, the elf tilted his large head upward, bulbous eyes locking onto Corvus's own. "Is young Master Corvus sure?" he croaked, his voice quivering with both disbelief and a flicker of desperate hope. "Kreacher tried, Kreacher tried everything, but nothing could destroy what Master Regulus gave Kreacher… the cursed locket…"
"Yes, I am certain," Corvus replied, his tone steady, aristocratic. He lowered his chin slightly, silver turquoise eyes gleaming in the dim light. "If you wish, I can demonstrate upon something you believe indestructible."
With a loud crack, Kreacher vanished, only to reappear moments later clutching an object close to his chest. His hands shook as he held it out, eyes glistening with shame. "Here, Master Corvus. The locket… Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to destroy it, but Kreacher could not. Kreacher failed his Master." His voice broke, and tears welled up, spilling down the deep lines of his face.
Corvus crouched gracefully, lowering himself until he was eye level with the elf. He reached out and patted Kreacher's head once, twice, three times with measured calm. "There is no need to despair, Kreacher. You were loyal to your Master, and now I am here to complete what he began." His words were polite and deliberate, a balm to the sobbing elf. Inwardly, however, Corvus recognized the object instantly, Salazar Slytherin's locket. A Horcrux of Voldemort himself.
He took the locket with a firm hand and followed Kreacher into the ritual chamber. The air there was heavy, thick with ancient wards, and the walls bore faint stains from rituals long past. The chamber seemed to pulse with memory. Corvus moved with purpose, drawing the runic circle with precise flicks of his wand, every line etched sharp and exact in his mind. His talent ensured no rune faltered, no curve misplaced. When the circle was complete, he placed the locket at its center. Raising his wand, he intoned with cold clarity, "Animus Reddo Invalesco."
At once, the locket trembled. A foul, dark shade erupted, a fragment of soul splitting from its shell and thrashing against the runic barrier. It screeched, a sound between human cry and serpent's hiss, battering at the glowing lines in vain. The runes flared brighter, holding the shade within. Then, like smoke caught in a gale, it was pulled inexorably toward Corvus, streaming into his chest. The sensation was chilling and intoxicating all at once, like ice flooding his veins even as fire ignited behind his ribs. His heartbeat quickened; he could feel the raw essence of another being threading into his magic. When the last wisp dissolved, silence returned. The Horcrux was gone.
Corvus closed his eyes, whispering a command through thought alone. Status. A translucent panel shimmered into view before him:
[Status]
Name: Corvus Black
Age: 16
Race: Wizard, Pureblood
Occupation: Student, Durmstrang – Third Year
Physical: D
Magical: B-
Talents:
- Comprehension Talent (Unique)
- Replication Talent (Unique)
- Parseltongue
He exhaled slowly. His magical reserves had surged from C to B-, and now he felt the new thread of a gift humming within: Parseltongue. The language of serpents whispered at the edge of his mind. He wondered if he could write it on his CW as a foreign language, syllables slithering into his awareness, waiting to be spoken. Yet that was not all. As he turned his gaze upon Kreacher, he felt a strange pull. A sharp pain flared in his temples, a pounding headache, and then.. connection.
Their eyes locked. Corvus's turquoise silver gaze met the elf's watery orbs, and in that instant he felt it. Legilimency. The flow of thought was not words, but images pouring into him like a flood. He saw the black cave with its cursed waters lapping against stone, Regulus's young face pale with resolve as he pressed the locket into Kreacher's trembling hands. He felt the elf's despair, the weight of impossible orders, the agony of failure that had gnawed at him for years. The emotions pressed into Corvus's own chest, shame, grief, devotion. So heavy it nearly bent his will. The bond was raw, intimate, undeniable, as if Kreacher's very soul had brushed against his.
Corvus inhaled sharply, steadying himself with iron will, and withdrew before the connection overwhelmed him. His mind palace flared, stars bright against the darkness, sealing the intrusion. He blinked once, and the flow was gone.
So this was the gift left behind by the Dark Lord's fragment: Legilimency. He would hone it until it became a weapon as sharp as any blade, silent and precise. His test subjects would suffer, and in their suffering, he would learn control. And now, with Parseltongue as well, he carried two gifts Voldemort had once claimed as his own.
Will the other horcruxes increase his magical reserves as this once he thought. "Time will tell," he murmured to himself. Then he turned his gaze to Kreacher. "Go now. Break it, Kreacher. Complete Regulus's last request."
The elf stared at him with wide eyes, torn between despair and hope. With trembling hands, Kreacher lifted the locket high, then hurled it to the ground with all his strength. The golden casing cracked, splintered, and broke apart. Kreacher fell to his knees, sobbing openly, shoulders shaking with years of pent up grief. His wails echoed against the warded walls, sharp and broken.
Corvus bent once more, placing a hand atop the elf's head with uncharacteristic gentleness. "You have done well, Kreacher. Regulus would be proud." His words cut through the sobs like a lifeline.
The elf wept louder, pressing his face to the cold stone, then vanished with a loud crack. The chamber was silent once more, heavy with finality.
Corvus straightened, lifted his wand, and whispered, "Reparo." The shards of the locket rose, fusing back together until the jewelry appeared whole once more. He studied it with a cold smile, fingers brushing its surface. The soul was gone, but the shell remained. A hollow trophy, a relic of triumph, and the first proof of his path to power.