Corvus awoke in a cold sweat, the shadowed corners of an unfamiliar room pressing in on him. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the eerie manor surrounding him. This was not his apartment, and these were not his hands.
His mother, Bellatrix Lestrange, was a striking beauty. Long black hair framed her sharp features, and her piercing eyes gave her an almost ethereal presence. In stark contrast stood his father, Rudolphus, a gloomy man perpetually lost in his own thoughts. Their interactions were strained, devoid of warmth, a far cry from what one might call a loving family.
Each time Corvus looked into a mirror, he saw a stranger staring back. The small, pale boy with dark eyes bore no resemblance to the man he used to be. He missed his old life, but instinct told him that nostalgia was a luxury he could no longer afford. Survival demanded adaptation.
The most surreal aspect of it all was the house-elf.
A creature straight out of the Harry Potter books, small-bodied with large eyes and dressed in a pink garment, attended to his every need. Corvus was reasonably certain he had landed in some fantasy setting, possibly even the Harry Potter universe itself. That suspicion solidified when the house-elf vanished before his eyes.
Fantasy, indeed.
His mind raced as he tried to stitch together fragments of his past life with this new reality. He had been an ITSM consultant, living a mundane, predictable existence. Now, he was trapped in a world of magic, danger, and aristocratic insanity.
The memory returned unbidden.
One Friday night, he had come back from an office weekend party, more tipsy than usual. He remembered stumbling into his apartment, heading straight for the restroom. He had wanted to vomit. Then his foot slipped.
Darkness.
When he awoke again, he found himself lying on a cot, a strange creature shaking him frantically, pleading for him to wake up while calling him "little master."
At first, he thought he was dreaming. A cosplayer in a pink dress with oversized eyes calling him "little master" was not how he expected to start his morning. Still groggy, he played along.
"I'm fine," he muttered. "I'm awake."
The creature froze.
Then it burst into tears, snot and tears streaming freely. "Oooh, little master, you be safe! Cherry thought you be dead! You fell from top of library shelf, wee head bleeding everywhere! Cherry tell you so many times not to climb!"
That was… alarmingly specific.
Corvus raised a hand toward his head. Pain exploded down his spine.
"Aaah!"
"It hurts, little master! Cherry bring potions right away!" the house-elf cried, vanishing instantly.
"What the fuck?" Corvus whispered. "Potions?"
The realization struck him like a thunderbolt.
He examined his hands. Pale. Small. Not his. The robes he wore were deep green. He had never owned anything green in his life.
Panic welled up, followed by dread.
He had died in his own vomit, only to wake up as the son of Bellatrix Lestrange.
Days passed as Corvus grappled with fear, confusion, and an unsettling curiosity. Each morning, he hoped this was all a vivid dream. Each morning, the cold gothic manor and the diligent house-elves proved him wrong.
Cautious and observant, he began asking questions. Carefully. Strategically. He learned he had recently turned three. His lessons, conducted mostly by house-elves, focused on basic English and etiquette. He played the role of an eager child while quietly gathering information, feeling like an imposter trapped in borrowed skin.
A few weeks after his soul had settled into this body, he met his mother properly.
Bellatrix was even more breathtaking up close, reminding him faintly of Morgana from the Merlin series. She asked about his day, and he told her he was learning his letters. Her eyes softened, and she brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
"My darling boy," she whispered, pride and longing mingling in her tone.
Then his father entered.
"Bella, we must prepare," Rudolphus said, his voice flat. "Our Lord is here. It is time to introduce our son."
Bellatrix's eyes gleamed with excitement. She gripped Corvus's hand too tightly.
"Yes. Finally," she whispered. "You are going to meet someone very important. Behave."
He was not allowed to leave his room until summoned. His parents visited rarely. Isolation and a child's limited mobility made it difficult for him to understand the hierarchy of this strange world.
When he was finally escorted into the drawing room, he saw a pale-skinned man with black hair and crimson eyes seated in his grandfather's chair.
"Here comes my son," Bellatrix announced proudly. "Corvus Marvolo Lestrange."
The man's gaze pinned him in place.
"Ah, Marvolo," Voldemort murmured. "I sense potential."
"Yes, sir," Corvus replied automatically.
"You may address me as My Lord."
"Yes, My Lord."
Voldemort smiled thinly. "No need to be nervous. I am Lord Voldemort. It should be your pleasure to meet me."
Everything crystallized in that moment.
Corvus bowed slightly. "It is, my Lord. Though I do not yet understand what pleasure means."
Laughter erupted across the room.
"Take him away, Bella," Voldemort said lightly. "We have matters to discuss."
Back in his room, Corvus's thoughts spiraled.
Why is my middle name Marvolo? Who had cursed him with that name? Was this the main timeline or some warped offshoot? Was Dumbledore misguided or monstrous? Was Bellatrix insane or trapped by circumstance?
One thing was certain. Whoever named him Marvolo had a cruel sense of humor.
He had no guide. No warnings. No cheat sheet.
At least he was rich.
Weeks turned into months. He studied obsessively. He eavesdropped. He observed. His parents visited sporadically. His mother brought sweets. His father offered lectures on pureblood conduct. Both seemed to be deteriorating before his eyes.
He met his uncle and his godfather, Regulus Black. Regulus intrigued him. Saving him might change something. Or everything.
Still, no magic manifested.
Fear gnawed at him. What if he was a squib? What if that was why Bellatrix was remembered as childless?
Then, on his sixth birthday, something extraordinary happened.
A translucent interface materialized before his eyes.
Stats. Templates. Talents. Skills. Familiars. A store.
A system.
Corvus named it Siri.
Relief flooded him. Finally, a foothold. A tool.
Drawing on his past life, he resolved to master it. To understand its limits. To exploit its strengths.
He was no longer just an IT consultant.
He was a wizard standing on a twisted chessboard of fate.
And this time, he intended to play to win.