I have always been a fan of anything to do with fiction. My life was marked by stories of impossible worlds, unlikely heroes and memorable villains. Mangas, comics, series, comics, all of these were my fascination. My mind was a chest full of useless information for anyone else, as well as for me in a sense: dates, characters, plots. For example, who was Enerjak from Sonic The Hedgehog (Archie Comics)? Simple, an evil demigod spirit, one of the most powerful Echidnas and a recognisable villain of the fat Penders, so he was also remembered for his battle against Silver The Hedgehog (aka the goat and my favourite character of the franchise). Exactly, facts that nobody cared about were the ones in his brain, things like the fact that the protagonist of Shin Megami Tensei 1 had up to three different names easily, Futsuo, Kazuya (there are many of these in SMT curiously enough) and Sho. But I never thought that these fantasy snippets could be anything more than entertainment… until I woke up here.
The first thing I remember was the darkness, followed by an overwhelming feeling of vulnerability. I tried to move, but my body was unresponsive. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a pitiful cry that didn't even sound like mine. My thoughts were chaotic, my memory an incomplete puzzle. But when I opened my eyes and saw the man carrying me, everything began to fit together.
—Tsk, stop crying, you insufferable brat— He let out an annoyed voice as he pulled what looked like blankets off my face—. You don't need to cry over every little stupid thing, you know?
His grey eyes were cold, cruel, as if he were assessing how much he could take before he broke me. His expression was one of utter annoyance, and his stiff demeanour revealed that he was used to obeying orders, not enjoying them. I had no idea who he was at first, but then he spoke again, this time, his words echoing like a hammer blow in my mind.
—Why, of all the bloody Death Eaters, did I end up with Bellatrix's baby?—The man snarled, gritting his teeth in contempt—. Bloody brat, instead of taking care of her living shit machine, she throws it at me and tells me to hand it over to old geezer Lestrange, like she's my boss or something like that.
[Downloading "Proto-B.S.M.S." in progress]
Bellatrix Lestrange. Death Eaters. My mind raced a mile a minute. I knew those names, those words. They were impossible to ignore, impossible to misunderstand. And if I still doubted, the face of the man holding me confirmed it all. The clenched jaw, the messy hair, the look of someone who enjoyed the pain of others, a total madman from head to toe. I recognised him instantly. The name of this human waste was Barty Crouch Jr.
[0%].
And that's when it hit me. I was in the world created by J.K Rowling, aka Lazy Rowling, i.e. the magical world of Harry Potter. It wasn't a dream, or a nightmare, or a sick joke. This was real. But not as a spectator, not as someone who could watch from a distance and enjoy the spectacle. I was trapped in the body of a baby.
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Well, on the plus side, there were MUCH worse magical worlds, from things like Nasuverse, Magical Girls, Kamen Rider Wizard or well, any single series of that franchise in specific (where you can literally end up dead on any day of the week if you happen to live in the main hero's city), any world connected to Shin Megami Tensei, and the list goes on and on.
Compared to all of those, Harry Potter was a MUCH more relaxed world, although you had Voldemort and his Death Eaters, not all was lost.
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Now, back to the current situation...
Wait a second! Did he say Bellatrix's son?
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If Crouch Jr. wasn't lying (why would he be lying when he was alone, is he stupid?) then his words were true, he was the son of Bellatrix Lestrange, or well, he had been reincarnated in the body of said spawn. But that didn't make sense. I knew it, because I knew this story better than I knew my own life. Bellatrix didn't have a male child. The only creature who ever carried her blood was Delphini, a girl born long after Voldemort's fall. I, for one, shouldn't exist. I was an anomaly, an error in the narrative of a world that, until this moment, I believed to be fictional.
My mind was trying to rationalise the impossible, trying to find the positives of being in a world where anyone could put a curse on me and disappear my bones if they weren't idiots.
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While I was thinking and falling into possible insanity, Crouch Jr. was walking down a dark path, throwing curses into the air. This was all wrong. My last memory, blurred and fragmented, was of an accident, a blinding light…. I guess the mythical entity known as The Truck ran over me and I ended up here. What an absurd reality, for God's sake. I didn't even have answers for this, just questions that piled up like an unbearable weight.
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Every step Crouch Jr. took towards that bloody mansion plunged me deeper into despair. I was trapped in a world full of magic and death (depending on the period), in a body I couldn't control, like a puppet in a game I didn't understand. What the hell was I supposed to do now?
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From my perspective, it all still felt surreal. But finally, the manor appeared before us. Lestrange bloody manor. Its silhouette loomed like a monument to ego, a mix of opulence and decadence that seemed to scream to the world that dark wizards knew how to live in style. The place smelled musty and of ancient magic, as if every wall was steeped in secrets that should never be revealed.
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Without stopping to consider the cold, the ground, or my existence, Crouch Jr. crouched down and dropped me on the stone floor in front of the front door. The impact was lessened by the blankets, but enough to remind me that I, at this moment, was nothing more than an unwanted package.
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—There you go, you fucking little shit of a brat—He growled as he pulled a scroll out of his pocket and placed it on my tiny chest. —. I hope Lestrange has time for your tantrums, because I don't.
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It was just me and the charging sound of this thing, I can't see it clearly but it's something technological, I'm sure of that. But considering there were only two options of what it could be, I decided to put them aside and stay focused on what could happen to me now.
[11%]
There I was, a baby abandoned at the entrance of a mansion full of dark wizards, with a letter that probably explained my origin or, worse, requested that I be raised as the next heir to Bellatrix's madness, the typical Black curse. I could do nothing but watch, listen, and pray that no one decided to accidentally crush me. .
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Time seemed to stand still. The cold was unbearable, and the sound of my own breathing was all I could hear. And then, finally, the door opened.
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A tall figure appeared in the doorway, illuminated by the dim light filtering in from the mansion. The silhouette was that of a stern-looking man, whose presence seemed to fill all the available space. His dark, slightly untidy hair framed a face marked by deep wrinkles that spoke of years of worry, difficult decisions, and perhaps the occasional mistake that was impossible to correct. A prominent scar crossed his neck, extending to the left corner of his mouth, giving him an even more intimidating appearance. His eyes, as dark as a well on a cold, moonless night, seemed to analyze every detail with almost inhuman precision, and he did so with an air of natural contempt that needed no words to express itself...
This must be Corvus Lestrange VI, or so I deduced from his bearing and attitude. It was obvious that this was Mr. Lestrange, though I allowed myself to add the "VI" out of simple family tradition. The Lestranges, after all, were known for perpetuating the Corvus name with a Roman numeral that followed each generation, and he seemed to be no exception. According to the few details available, he had studied under Voldemort and belonged to the Walpurgis Knights Club. However, what he had done with his life beyond that was a mystery. I knew, yes, that he had been the father of the best-known Lestrange's, but beyond that, his story was an enigma.
Coming back to the present, his cold, piercing gaze found me immediately, as if he had been searching for me since before I crossed the threshold. His eyes flicked from me to the letter resting on my chest, then back to my face, as if he were trying to read beyond the words. He remained silent, not uttering a single word at first. Instead, he bowed with an elegance that belied his general harshness, leaning on a carved wooden cane he used to prevent any twists or imperfections in his movements.
With almost ritualistic precision, he picked up the letter. His movements were measured, controlled, as if he were participating in a ceremony whose importance only he understood. He opened it slowly, taking his time, and began to read. As he did so, his eyebrows rose slightly, just a slight movement that, nevertheless, revealed more than what his lips were keeping quiet. A wry smile appeared on his face. It was not a friendly smile or one of satisfaction; it was a bitter mixture of mockery and resignation, as if what he was reading was not a surprise, but the confirmation of something he had already anticipated, something he had probably been fearing for a long time.
—One more orphan to drag the Lestrange name through the mud... —he finally muttered. His voice was low, sharp, and though he spoke more to himself than to me, every word seemed laden with venom—. I damn you, Bellatrix.
After those words, he turned to me and, with a firm hand, lifted me off the ground. Despite his severity, he did so with surprising care, almost as if he were handling a valuable but also extremely dangerous object. His eyes scanned me again carefully, as if he were assessing every part of me. To him, I was nothing more than a pawn in a game that had undoubtedly begun long before my arrival.
Without saying another word, he let out a long sigh of exasperation, a heavy exhalation that seemed burdened with the weight of the secrets and responsibilities he carried with him. He closed the door behind him with a calculated, almost ceremonious movement, and began to walk down the dark hallway of the mansion. Each step he took resonated in the silence, as if the echo itself was loaded with meaning, a kind of constant reminder of the expectations and untold stories hidden behind those walls.
Finally, he stopped at a specific spot, a kind of empty space that seemed to have been waiting for him forever. Without warning, he left me on a table covered with additional blankets, probably to protect me from the cold. He walked away a few steps, and although the darkness made it difficult to distinguish his movements clearly, the sound of his voice cut through the silence like a knife.
—Lupin! Here, now!
The scream echoed through the air, filling everything with its authority. Just seconds later, the distinctive sound of an apparition broke the stillness. I figured from the context that it was the Lestrange family's house elf. I soon learned that his name was Lupin, a name that reminded me of the heroic thief, Lupin The Third, though obviously the similarities ended there.
The elf's voice was high-pitched and nervous, filled with a mixture of respect and anxiety:
—Is this the Lestrange heir, the son of Lady Bellatrix and Master Rodolphus? Is this for real, Master Corvus?!
The question hung in the air, but Corvus –whom I had correctly named VI, let's just say I'm very good at this– didn't seem interested in answering. In fact, his only reaction was a sound of frustration from the wizard directed at the elf, who, apparently accustomed to such snubs, ignored them completely. It was evident that the elf was much more interested in observing me.
He moved quickly forward, examining me with a mixture of curiosity and reverence. I could feel his gaze roaming over every feature of my face, as if trying to find some tangible proof of my kinship with the Lestranges. To me, however, the idea of being Bellatrix's son was an unpleasant thought. I had always considered Rodolphus a useless and uninteresting character, and now, faced with the possibility of being the product of his union with Bellatrix –or worse, of an infidelity on her part with possibly Voldemort given the events of the original story with Delphini –I couldn't help but feel a deep disdain. Frankly, they could all go to hell.
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As the elf continued to mutter unintelligibly, my attention returned to Corvus, who stood in the shadows. Although I could not see him clearly, his figure emanated an aura of absolute control, as if nothing escaped his grasp. His presence was overwhelming, and in that moment I understood that my destiny, my identity, everything I was and would be, was completely in his hands... at least for now.