Corvinus crouched in the shadows, far from the reach of torchlight or wandering students. The chamber beneath Hogwarts was quieter than it had any right to be, each drop of water echoing like a drumbeat in the hollow corridors. He didn't move often, not because he was weak, but because he had learned that stillness was more effective than motion. The castle itself would whisper to him if he paid attention.
He ran a fingertip along the rough stone floor, feeling the subtle thrum of residual magic from centuries of spells. Spells that had left traces, echoes of intent, patterns in the air like footprints. A miscast charm in the library, a hurried incantation in the classrooms, a distracted flick of a wand in the corridors—all of it fed him information. The castle was alive in ways the professors didn't understand, and he was its only attentive observer.
Corvinus' eyes scanned the narrow chamber. There were no mirrors, no windows, only walls of stone etched with runes he had left long ago—some dormant, some awake. He could activate them with a thought if he chose. But that would be too obvious, too aggressive. Patience was the weapon now, subtlety the edge.
From where he crouched, he could trace the flow of magic throughout the school: where it concentrated, where it thinned, where the very stones resonated with the presence of certain students. And in all that flow, one name gleamed like a pulse above the rest: Potter.
He didn't need to see the boy to feel him. Every flicker of luck, every improbable coincidence, every nudge from chance was like a thread vibrating in the air, and he was an expert at tugging threads without being noticed. Corvinus already began planning where he could interfere first—small, seemingly harmless events. A misplaced book, a floating feather, a door that shut too quickly. Minor annoyances to everyone else, perfect tests for him.
He rose slowly, letting his long limbs unfold like a shadow stretching in the candleless light. He moved toward a narrow passage that led deeper into the foundation, a route few had walked since the school's construction. It wasn't just a hallway; it was a conduit of power, carved to channel energy from the magical foundations upward. By the time the boy moved across the school, Corvinus could feel it, measure it, anticipate it.
"Luck can be taken," he murmured, almost to himself. "And I will take it. But not all at once. That would alert the foolish. No… patience." He let the word linger in the damp air, savoring it. "Patience will strip him, little by little, until the castle itself obeys me."
He paused, listening to the distant hum of life above. Students laughed. A candle flickered in a distant corridor. Somewhere, a broom squeaked under a hand too unpracticed to fly correctly. Perfect. Every minor quirk, every accident, was another piece of the puzzle falling into place.
Corvinus crouched again, hands brushing along the etched runes on the wall. The thin cracks in the stone, imperceptible to anyone else, throbbed faintly in recognition of his presence. His lips curved in a slow, cold smile. The school thought it safe, the students thought themselves secure. And the boy… the boy thought he was protected.
Corvinus shifted deeper into the passage, each step silent against the uneven stone. He traced his fingers along the wall, feeling the pulse of magic flowing through the foundations, listening to it like a musician tuning a hidden instrument. Somewhere above, the castle vibrated with life: footsteps, laughter, the hum of spells being practiced.
He chose his first target carefully. A classroom where the boy had spent the morning. The runes under the floor shifted slightly under his will, tiny currents of energy nudging a stack of books just out of alignment. It was nothing anyone would notice—except that it created a perfect chain. A trip, a misstep, a momentary distraction. To the castle's occupants, it would be harmless, a natural accident. But to him, it was the first tug on the web he was weaving.
Next, he reached toward the corridors themselves. Staircases groaned subtly, shifting an inch in a direction they shouldn't have. A door creaked closed ever so slightly ahead of someone entering. These were whispers of chaos, hints of imperfection that drew attention without causing alarm. Every small disturbance allowed him to measure the boy's influence, the "luck" that clung to him like a shield.
He smiled thinly. Each incident weakened the boy's shield just a little, letting him taste the faintest echoes of that wild, improbable fortune. One day, the threads of chance would fray entirely, and the castle would obey him as surely as he obeyed its foundations.
He lingered by the hidden archways, listening to muffled footsteps echo above. Every student, every spell, every flicker of the torch was data, feeding him knowledge he had spent centuries accumulating. Even teachers were not safe. Each careless movement, each distraction, each minor lapse could be exploited.
And the boy—Harry Potter—remained blissfully unaware.
A wand misfired here, a book fell there, a door refused to open on its own. Subtle, seemingly trivial, yet each one was carefully orchestrated. Corvinus noted the patterns, smiling faintly as the boy's "luck" nudged events, almost reacting, almost correcting. Each correction strained the seal a little more, the crack in the runes a little wider.
The chamber seemed to hum in response to his presence, the stones beneath him thrumming like a heartbeat in sync with his own. He had waited centuries for a moment like this: not confrontation, not attack, but preparation. A web spun unseen, a trap tightening without anyone realizing.
Corvinus withdrew into a shadowed corner, hands brushing along the etched walls, tasting the magic of the castle itself. The night above was calm. Candles flickered. Students laughed. Harry moved through his evening, oblivious.
Let him be oblivious.
Patience, he reminded himself. Each step, each whisper, each minor accident was a stitch in the grand tapestry. One day, all would unravel. And when it did, Hogwarts would finally remember the name Corvinus Gaunt.
The next morning, Harry was running late. Not for once because he'd overslept, but because his shoes had inexplicably tangled themselves in the blanket as he tried to get out of bed. He yanked them free, cursing under his breath, and nearly tripped over Hedwig's cage, which had somehow shifted closer to the edge of the table overnight.
"Great," he muttered. "First day back, and the castle's already messing with me."
Hermione, already up and fussing over her bag, didn't look up. "Honestly, Harry, you're paranoid."
But Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It wasn't anything dramatic, just a string of minor mishaps: the quill he picked up to do homework had a nib that leaked ink in the exact shape of a crooked lightning bolt, the toast he had for breakfast landed butter-side down despite his best efforts, and a mug somehow rolled just far enough to spill hot tea on the floor. None of it was catastrophic. None of it was permanent. But it was… weird.
As he trudged toward the Great Hall, he stumbled again, this time on a stair that had been perfectly fine yesterday. He looked up quickly, but the steps were exactly where they should be. Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed.
Only the feeling remained—an itch at the back of his mind, like the castle itself was watching, testing him.
By the time he reached the hall, the rest of the students were already seated, talking and laughing as usual. Ron waved him over, looking far too cheerful. "Late again, mate! You're making me look punctual!"
Harry forced a grin, but inside, the unease lingered. It was subtle, imperceptible to everyone else, but it was enough to make him glance around. He didn't notice the faint shimmer in the shadows near the enchanted ceiling, a ripple in the air that followed him like a ghost. He didn't see the way the torches flickered just slightly as he passed, or the whisper of stone shifting far below his feet.
Corvinus had begun.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't violent. But the first threads were being tugged. And before long, Harry's "luck" would start feeling less like fortune and more like a leash.
...
All my brain is gone, imma watch some brainrot to refuel :)