That year marked another quiet ascension in the shadows. While the rest of the wizarding world busied itself with rebuilding after the chaos of Grindelwald's downfall, I turned inward — into the deep, forbidden chambers of ritual magic.
For months, the great hall of Slytherin Manor became my sanctum of blood and sigil. I studied everything I could acquire — black-bound tomes smuggled out of Eastern Europe, parchment scrolls from Greece, and even a few half-burned manuscripts recovered from Nurmengard's archives. Each spoke of ancient power: blood as conduit, sacrifice as catalyst, will as the anchor that shapes it all.
I learned to carve runes not with ink, but with intent — to let my magic trace the pattern into reality itself. Rituals for strength, vitality, enhanced regeneration, even ones that twisted the line between body and soul. Most of them were dangerous, and some came close to killing me when I misjudged the energy flow, but the risk was always worth the knowledge gained.
During this period, I gave Hagrid a mission. His kindness and gift with magical creatures made him uniquely suited for it. I needed allies who could shake the ground when they marched — the giants.
He didn't question my orders, only nodded with that simple faith of his and set out. It took months, but when he returned, the work was done. The giants, tired of being hunted and shunned, had agreed to follow me — not out of loyalty, but necessity. Still, obedience was obedience, and under my guidance they'd soon learn respect.
Hagrid also brought back word of an old acquaintance of his — Aragog, a massive Acromantula he had raised from birth. I saw opportunity immediately. A single Acromantula could become a hundred. So I rewarded Hagrid, ensured his protection, and found a suitable mate for Aragog. The colony would multiply quickly — venom, silk, and an army of monstrous eight-legged soldiers all at my command.
But my most important experiment that year was far smaller — and infinitely deadlier.
Using the preserved egg of a serpent I'd taken from an ancient vault beneath Hogwarts, I performed a hatching ritual infused with dark energy and parseltongue incantations. It was delicate work — any mistake would either kill the embryo or unleash a monster beyond control. When the shell cracked, what slithered forth was perfection: a baby basilisk no larger than a snake, its scales glimmering green-black in the candlelight, its eyes faintly gold.
I spoke softly in Parseltongue — *"Cal