Back in my underground base beneath Godric's Hollow, the dim candlelight flickered across shelves stacked high with old, battered tomes. Most were from the Potter family library—books filled with spells and theories rooted in the light side of magic. The kind of magic Dumbledore would approve of.
I sat on my throne, legs crossed, tapping Voldemort's wand idly against the armrest as page after page turned before me with a flick of my hand. The wand responded to me beautifully now, the connection almost intoxicating.
Still, I had to be careful. The last thing I needed was Dumbledore sniffing around because I'd accidentally vaporized someone with a curse only Voldemort knew.
So I studied. I read the Potter books cover to cover—charms, defensive spells, healing incantations. Even Transfiguration: A Guide for the Modern Wizard found its way into my reading pile. Light magic wasn't nearly as dramatic as the darker arts, but its elegance had its own appeal. Control. Balance. And above all—concealment.
At first, the spells felt almost laughably simple compared to what I could already do. But as I practiced, I began to twist them—making them faster, sharper, stronger. My light spells had the precision of dark magic, the control of years of experience I technically hadn't lived.
A Lumos so bright it could blind an intruder.A Shield Charm that shimmered like molten glass and deflected even my own curses.A Disarming Charm so forceful it left scorch marks on the walls.
Yes, Dumbledore would be pleased if he saw me now—his precious "Girl-Who-Lived," practicing light magic.
I smirked at the thought.
If only he knew that beneath the surface of every spell, every wand movement, was the mind of the man he feared most—and something even greater, something he'd never understand.
Me.