#bloodandlegacy

[bloodandlegacy]

“Was I cursed?”

His piercing gaze filled with sorrowful understanding.

“No,” he said simply, his tone carrying a weight beyond the word. “Not cursed. Hurt.”

[bloodandlegacy]

Then I heard him—Myrtle passed by, head ducked low, and he muttered, “Mudblood.” The word hit like a spark in dry kindling, igniting the fury I’d held back. The air felt thick, pressing against my skin, and I clenched my fists, willing myself to keep control.

I looked him up and down, ensuring the look of disgust on my face remained unwavering. “Curious, isn’t it,” I said, letting my voice cut through the hum of conversation, “that someone so obsessed with purity should be a half-blood himself.”

The corridor fell silent, heads turning toward us. Tom’s gaze shifted to me, his initial smirk dismissive. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said smoothly, as though I were just another name to cross off his list of admirers.

I held his gaze, allowing a pause to stretch between us before I answered. “Andromeda Gaunt.” The name fell like a stone, and I watched, satisfaction flickering as his smirk faltered, a barely noticeable fracture in his polished mask.

His expression sharpened, his mask of civility slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of something raw and unsettled. My anger surged, the magic in me clawing to escape, to shatter the air around us, but I forced it back, my face impassive.

“Perhaps you’ve been misinformed,” he replied, his voice smooth, though each word held venom he struggled to hide. His eyes held a cold warning, a flash of irritation barely concealed beneath his charm. “The Gaunts, was it? I’d expect more respect for our traditions.”

“Oh, I know our traditions well enough,” I replied, barely containing my contempt. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it—how some cling to purity even when they don’t fully belong.” I let my gaze linger on him, cold and unyielding. “A half-blood, born from a Muggle father and a mother whose power was so weak, it barely kept her alive.”

His mask fractured, his eyes narrowing as he struggled to keep his composure. I caught the crack in his perfect image, the brief flash of anger he could barely contain, and a surge of satisfaction rushed through me. I held his gaze, unblinking, letting the contempt in my expression linger before I turned on my heel. Around us, the students shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension thickening in the air.

He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur that barely reached my ears. “Careful,” he warned, his tone laced with malice. “Some things are best left unsaid.”

I met his gaze, letting a small, mocking smile flicker across my lips. “I think I’ve said it all, Tom.”

[bloodandlegacy]

And then I saw it all—the scene unfolding before me like a nightmarish vision in slow motion. He stood at the center of the room, an imposing figure draped in shadows, his presence filling the space with a sinister elegance. The flickering candlelight cast haunting reflections on his sharp features, illuminating his face in an eerie glow. All around him, bodies lay scattered like discarded puppets, lifeless, their expressions locked in terror, mouths open in silent screams.

[bloodandlegacy]

Through the piercing green light of the chamber, I held the Cruciatus Curse steady, the surge of magic coursing through me intoxicating. Tom Riddle writhed before me, his arrogance unraveling under my power. For the first time, I was not a shadow of my lineage—I was its wrath.

[bloodandlegacy]

Chapter XV: The Darkness Within

May 19, 1958

Dear Diary,

Tonight, I tasted power unlike anything I have ever known. It wasn’t the textbook spells or the borrowed wisdom of others—it was mine. Born of my pain, my fury, and something deep, ancient, and raw within me. The swirling darkness that surrounded me wasn’t an enemy; it was an ally. It responded to me as though it had always been waiting, dormant, for me to claim it.

There is no regret in my heart for what I’ve done. No guilt. No second-guessing. Only resolve. Tom thought he could break me, reduce me to a relic of his ambition, discarded and forgotten. But he doesn’t understand who I am. I am my father’s legacy, my mother’s daughter, and I refuse to be confined by the limits others would impose on me—least of all by him.

That magic—the dark, swirling force that surged around me—I need to know it completely. Its strength was intoxicating, a symphony of chaos and creation bending the world to my will. This is not a force to fear, as others might say, but to command. It is mine to master, to shape, and to wield. This power is my birthright, and I will uncover its secrets, no matter the cost.

Perhaps this is what they feared all along—the Gaunt bloodline reclaiming what was always ours. I have no patience for their morality, their warnings, their narrow definitions of right and wrong. What matters is power, control, and the ability to shape the world as I see fit.

I feel alive in a way I never have before. Strong. Capable. Unstoppable. This darkness is not my weakness—it is my strength. And I will not rest until I know how to summon it, shape it, and bend it to my will.

Tom knows he hasn’t won. I left him a crumpled mess—sniveling, crying, screaming in pain. But that was only the beginning. The darkness within me is a force I’ve only begun to touch, and I will master it. I will wield it with precision, amplify its power, and ensure he pays for every lie, every betrayal, and every stolen piece of my life. This is far from over. My magic will be my weapon, and I will use it to bring him to his knees again and again until he truly understands what suffering means.

Tomorrow, I will return to the Restricted Section. The answers lie there, hidden among the forbidden texts that others fear to read. I will sift through every tome, every scroll, until I find the knowledge I seek. This magic is mine, and I will learn its name, its history, its depths. Nothing and no one will stand in my way—not the rules, not the professors, and certainly not Tom Riddle. If this power has chosen me, then I will prove myself not just worthy of it, but destined to command it.

[bloodandlegacy]

XX: Gaunt

It’s time.

I’ve spent half the summer preparing for this moment, honing the spells that will ensure I succeed. Practicing Unforgivables on the others at the orphanage wasn’t difficult—they’re so weak-minded, so docile, so beneath me. Muggles have no place in my world. They never did.

The time for waiting, for planning, is over. I’ve gathered what I need, pieced together her location, and now I know exactly where that squib is. The woman who tried to strip away my magic, who broke me over and over. She’ll answer for her sins today.

The jail in Gloucestershire looms ahead as I Apparate just beyond its iron gates. It’s not Azkaban, but something about the place feels eerily familiar. The heavy air, the stone walls steeped in despair—it’s enough to send flashes of my father’s face through my mind. His haunted eyes. The madness that consumed him.

For a moment, I hesitate, the pit in my stomach twisting into something almost unbearable. But I push it down, bury it with the rest of my fear. This isn’t the time for second-guessing. I came here for justice, and I won’t falter.

Inside, the air is thick with hopelessness, the kind that clings to you, seeping into your skin. The damp chill, the oppressive silence—it’s suffocating.

The thought twists like a knife in my chest, sharp and unexpected. My father—rotting away in that forsaken place, condemned as a monster, a madman unfit to live among decent wizards. They didn’t care that he was innocent. He was easy to put away—marked by the Gaunt name, branded a Parselmouth, burdened by a bloodline they had already written off as madness incarnate. What did they see when they looked at him? Not a man, but a convenient scapegoat, someone who could bear the sins of others without question.

They didn’t see the chains he was born into, the way his own father twisted and broke him before the world ever had a chance. He wasn’t mad; he was broken. Just like me.

I clutch my wand tighter, the thought burning in my chest. My father’s suffering wasn’t his fault, and neither was mine. But unlike him, I refuse to let the world cage me, to let the weight of my bloodline or my pain dictate my future.

I force myself forward, the echo of my footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence. The cell is just ahead, and with every step, my resolve hardens. This isn’t about the past. This is about reclaiming what was taken from me.

And then I see her.

She’s older, weaker than I remember, but her eyes still hold that same cruelty. The same disdain she always had when she looked at me. She’s sitting in the corner of her cell, her magicless existence etched into every weary line on her face.

The guards don’t see me. A few whispered incantations, and I’m invisible to their Muggle eyes.

When I step into her line of sight, her gaze sharpens, a sneer forming on her lips.

“So, the little freak found her way back,” she spits, her voice dripping with contempt. “What’s the matter? Still looking for someone to blame for your pathetic existence?”

Her words hit like a slap, but they don’t sting the way they once did. I’ve heard them all before. She only sees the girl she tormented standing before her now. She doesn’t see the power I’ve become.

I step closer, my voice calm, steady. “Do you know what your greatest mistake was?” I ask.

Her sneer deepens. “Letting you live.”

A cold smile spreads across my face. “No. It was underestimating me.”

Her laughter is sharp, bitter. “You think you’ve won, but you’ll always be a curse. Do you even know what you are? What you’ve done?”

She leans forward, her voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “Cassiopeia and I were friends once. Best friends. I promised her I’d take care of you—of the parasite that killed her. She adored you, you know. Believed you’d be something special. But I saw the truth.”

Her gaze sharpens, pure hatred blazing in her eyes. “You killed her, you little wretch. She might have survived if it weren’t for you. You drained the life out of her before you even opened your eyes. And I took you in—out of pity. But you weren’t worth it. You never were.”

The words hit harder than I expect, dredging up a storm of grief, anger, and something darker that churns deep inside me. My mother. The only faint glimmer of warmth in a life so filled with cold. And this woman—this vile, twisted woman—has the audacity to blame me? To speak her name and taint it with lies?

I step closer, my voice low and steady, each word laced with cold fury. “You don’t deserve to say her name. You don’t deserve to remember her.”

“Crucio.”

Her sneer collapses into a grimace of pain, the first crack in her façade.The flicker of unease in her eyes is a fleeting triumph, but it isn’t enough—not yet. My grip tightens on my wand, the weight of it grounding me, its tip steady and unyielding as I level it at her chest.

The air between us thickens, crackling with an energy I can’t quite contain. From behind me, I feel it stir—dark, writhing, alive. The shadows stretch and twist, curling like smoke, filling the room with a suffocating presence.

The Obscurus.

It unfurls slowly at first, tendrils of darkness creeping along the walls, pooling at my feet, then spreading with a force that makes the air itself seem to shudder. It moves as though it has a mind of its own, a will that mirrors my fury, my pain. The chains of smoke coil and twist around her, pinning her to the wall like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

Her sneer is gone now, replaced by something I’ve never seen in her before: fear. Real, raw fear.

“What is this?” she rasps, her voice cracking as she struggles against the smoky restraints. The chains tighten, and the room hums with the dark energy spilling from me, from it.

The darkness isn't just mine; it is me. It moves with purpose, unspoken yet understood, a mirror of everything I've endured and everything I’ve become.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The Obscurus seems to understand, responding to my emotions, my anger, my need to make her suffer as she made me suffer. It presses closer, the tendrils tightening like a vice, and for the first time, I feel it—its strength, its power, its hunger.

It wants her, I realize. It wants to consume her, to take from her what she took from me.

For a moment, I falter. The rage surging through me fights with the faintest flicker of doubt. But then I remember her words, her cruelty, her lies. I remember the years of torment, the scars she left—on my skin, on my soul.

She deserves this.

The chains of smoke tighten around her, muffling her screams, silencing her hate. My wand stays raised, steady and sure, but it’s the darkness itself that holds her now.

I step back, lowering my wand just slightly, letting the Obscurus surge forward. This is its moment, its revenge. After all, she created this in me—the monster she feared, the darkness she fed with every strike, every cruel word. Now, she’ll face it.

Her defiance crumbles, her sneer replaced by terror, and for the first time, I see her as she truly is: powerless.

She tried to destroy me, to make me small, but all she did was birth this. The Obscurus isn’t a curse—it’s mine. My pain, my anger, my will, all brought to life. A reflection of everything she tried to take from me, now turned against her.

I don’t resist it. I don’t need to. This is justice. The Obscurus moves as though it knows what I want, what I need. It presses closer, suffocating her hate, consuming the very thing that made her who she was.

For the first time, I don’t feel fear. I let it be what it was always meant to be: the reckoning she deserves.

I raise my wand again, the weight of it a perfect match for the fury coursing through me. 

“Crucio.”

Her screams tear through the cell, raw and unfiltered, but they barely reach me. The sound doesn’t satisfy me—it’s hollow, empty, like an echo of what she truly deserves. The chains of smoke tighten around her, the Obscurus responding to my unspoken will, amplifying the pain.

Her body trembles, her breath coming in ragged gasps as I lower my wand, stepping closer, my voice cutting through the haze with cold precision. “You blamed me for her death, but she chose wrong when she trusted you. You were the mistake. And now, you’ll be nothing. Forgotten. Just like the waste of a life you’ve led.”

Her lips part as if to respond, but no words come. There’s nothing she can say now that would change this moment, nothing that could undo the years of torment she inflicted on me. The spell is already on my lips, rising from the depths of my soul, unshakable in its resolve.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The green light floods the cell, consuming her entirely, and then—silence. The kind of silence that feels like it could swallow the world whole.

I lower my wand slowly, my hand steady despite the weight of what I’ve just done. The chains of smoke retreat, curling back around me like a protective shroud. The Obscurus hums with satisfaction, its presence fading but not gone, as if it understands that its purpose here is fulfilled.

She’s gone. The woman who tried to break me, who created this darkness within me, is nothing now. Her existence—her hate, her cruelty—snuffed out as though it had never been.

The Obscurus lingers in the air, a shadow of what it was moments ago, but I feel it within me still—calm, steady, a reminder of the power I wield. It’s mine. And now, it’s hers no longer.

Power surges through me, electrifying and consuming. For the first time, I feel the full weight of the spell—not just its finality, but its potency. It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels right. As if all the rage, the pain, the injustice I’ve endured has finally found its voice.

I don’t feel triumph. I don’t feel sorrow. What I feel is a cold, quiet sense of balance. The scales have tipped. The wound she inflicted on me—on my soul—has been stitched shut, not healed, but bound tightly enough that it no longer festers.

Her death doesn’t erase the scars she left behind, but it takes away her power. The things she did to me, the words she hissed in the darkness—they no longer hold weight. She can’t hurt me anymore.

As I turn to leave, the air in the cell feels lighter, as if the oppression she carried with her has evaporated. The stone walls no longer feel so suffocating. With each step I take, I feel stronger. Not freer, but unshackled.

The image of my father flickers in my mind—his gaunt face, his hollow eyes. He spent years rotting away in Azkaban, haunted by the ghosts of his past. I’m not him, I remind myself. His madness was born from a life he couldn’t escape. I’m not trapped like he was.

I’m not bound by his mistakes or anyone else’s.

I step out of the prison, the chill of the outside air biting at my skin. The sky above is gray, heavy with clouds, but there’s a clarity to it I hadn’t noticed before. The world feels sharper, more defined.

This isn’t vengeance. It never was.

This was about making her answer for what she did—for what she took from me, for what she tried to destroy. She thought she could make me powerless, but all she did was fuel the strength I carry now.

Justice is cold, they say. But so is power. And now, I know I am both.

I straighten my back, my head held high as I take a deep, steadying breath.

The Gaunt name was my father’s curse, my mother’s shame, and my burden for so long. But today, it’s my triumph.

I reclaim it not out of duty or fear, but because I’ve made it mine. And with it, I will carve a legacy that is entirely my own.

[bloodandlegacy]

VIII: Veil of Vengeance

I clutched the Time-Turner in my hand, feeling the tug of its magic, my heart ached with the memory of what I’d already seen, each beat a reminder of the loss etched into both our fates. But a sudden hesitation gripped me. The thought of facing yet another shadowed truth made me long for the comfort of a place he knew well. Before I could twist the Time-Turner again, I slipped into the same pub where my father had spent countless bitter nights. I stepped up to the bar and ordered what he would have. The barkeep shook his head, dismissing me. Without thinking, I whispered, “Imperio,” feeling a surge as his gaze softened, his will bending as he handed over a meal and an ale without question.

It was too easy—dangerously so. For a brief moment, I saw my father in myself, a flicker of darkness that made my hands tremble as I took my first sip. No one had noticed, and no one was hurt, but the thrill lingered, sharp and unsettling.

As I ate, my thoughts drifted to my father. It struck me that cruelty wasn’t in his nature—not really. It had been forced on him, crafted as a weapon by his own father. Morfin was raised in fear, each of his choices bound by it. That fear wasn’t born of respect; it was terror—the same terror that had kept my aunt Merope hidden and small. Morfin had watched his sister suffer, helpless to stop it, knowing he’d be punished the same way if he ever disobeyed. My father, I realized, had once been a boy filled with potential—twisted not by his own nature but by fear, crafted into a weapon by his father’s cruelty. I felt both sorrow and anger, realizing how different he might have been if terror hadn’t been his guide. Perhaps he could have been capable of love, even tenderness, if he’d been given the chance. But my mother had taken that from him, leaving him with nothing but this bitter, twisted legacy.

After another sip, I took a deep breath and finally twisted the Time-Turner, feeling the world spin around me. When it settled, I found myself standing under a warm, quiet sky. The crickets and soft laughter drifting from open windows. Drawn by an instinct I couldn’t explain, I walked to the outskirts of town. Ahead, a small home loomed, and I froze as I saw a lifeless body sprawled in the doorway. From within, the sound of shattering glass and heavy footsteps broke the silence.

Then a green light glowed from within, spilling through the cracks of the doorway, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. I knew that glow instantly. A scream shattered the night, sharp and brittle, and cut off just as quickly, leaving an echo of horror lingering in the air. I stood, frozen, watching as he stepped forward from the depths of the room—A boy. He couldn't have been older than seventeen, with dark hair that gleamed in the dim light, fair skin, and eyes that glinted like molten gold. He moved with an ease that was chilling, his pale face almost glowing in the darkness

I knew him, though we had never met—a shadow I recognized, as if he were a fractured fragment of a memory. He was familiar, a reflection of the wounds I carried but couldn’t name.

And then I saw it all—the scene unfolding before me; a nightmarish vision in slow motion. He stood at the center of the room, an imposing figure draped in shadows, his presence filling the space with a sinister elegance. The flickering candlelight cast haunting reflections on his sharp features, illuminating his face in an eerie glow. All around him, bodies lay scattered, discarded puppets, lifeless, their expressions locked in terror, mouths open in silenced screams.

His wand was held with a precision that spoke of mastery, an extension of his very being, both graceful and deadly. The tip glowed with that same, terrible green light, casting an unholy luminescence across the carnage. The windows loomed behind him, cracked and filthy, barely holding back the storm that raged beyond, lightning flashing and thunder growling as if the very elements rebelled against the darkness within.

Shadows gathered at his feet, almost reverent, as if even they dared not touch him, fearful of the power he held. His expression was calm, yet within his eyes, I saw something far more chilling—a satisfaction, a quiet acceptance of the devastation he had wrought. This was no impulsive act. It was a statement, a brutal declaration carved in blood and fear, a glimpse into the legacy he intended to forge.

He moved among the bodies with an eerie grace, each step light, his presence unwavering. A faint mist coiled around his feet, looking as spectral hands reaching out, desperate to cling to him but retreating in awe. I stood in the doorway, unable to tear my gaze away, feeling the chill of his ambition, the raw, unrestrained power brought to life.

Then it hit me, sharp and undeniable, a chill sinking into my bones. The sullen, golden eyes, glinting with a darkness too deep for any boy. The thin, dark hair, every strand as precise and sharp as the blade of a knife. That pale skin, almost luminous, and those angular, cutting features. He looked exactly like that man, the one I’d seen writhing under my father’s Cruciatus Curse. The memory surged up, unbidden: Morfin’s twisted satisfaction, the gleam of his wand, and the helpless figure convulsing in agony, eyes wide with terror.

It was as if that face had been resurrected, reformed in this boy, yet stripped of innocence, refined into something colder, darker. He was no stranger; he was blood. I didn’t need to hear the name or understand the magic to know who he was, what he was. He belonged to my line—a mirror I never wished to gaze into, a reflection of all the darkest pieces of us, made flesh.

A name spoken in whispers, a family cursed by the secrets that bound us all. And there he stood, an echo of the Riddle who had once been at Morfin’s mercy, reborn now as something more terrible. In that moment, I understood: this was no boy. This was a creature of shadows and fury, a dark heir poised to carve his mark into the world, a legacy bound in blood and terror. And I, standing frozen in the doorway, knew that our fates were now inextricably intertwined.

He moved toward the Gaunt home, his steps quick and unyielding. I hurried after him, each step heavier than the last. He rounded the corner, his face contorted with fury as he reached the crumbling stone gate. He pounded on the door with such force I thought it might shatter. My father answered, confusion and anger etched into his face as he stared at the boy before him.

“Don’t you know who I am?” the boy spat, his voice laced with venom.

My father blinked, caught off guard. “I… I don’t…”

The boy’s gaze darkened, his voice dripping with disgust. “You let me become the son of a filthy Muggle. Made to live among them, as if I were one of them.” The words twisted out of him, burning with hatred.

A strange recognition crossed my father’s face, mixed with loathing. “You’re her son,” he said, almost laughing. “But you’re nothing more than a half-blood, aren’t you? A Muggle’s son, appearing here only to claim a legacy you don’t deserve.”

The boy’s face hardened, his jaw clenching. “No,” he said coldly. “I’m the heir of Salazar Slytherin. The last remaining heir.” His voice held a confidence that made me shiver.

But my father’s laugh was harsh, bitter. “An heir?” he scoffed. “From a Muggle? You’re nothing. A filthy half-blood, trying to steal what isn’t yours. Salazar Slytherin’s bloodline doesn’t run through Mudblood veins.” He sneered, taunting the boy as if daring him to prove otherwise.

The boy’s expression darkened further, fury flashing in his eyes. “I’m not related to that disgrace of a man,” he sneered, as though wiping the Riddle name from existence with those words. But my father wasn’t done. He eyed the boy with a mocking smile, his voice dropping low, daring.

“You… you killed them, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice both challenging and disbelieving, laced with bitter satisfaction.

The boy’s answering smile was deadly. “No,” he whispered, his voice cold as ice. “You did.”

And as he spoke, the room glowed that sinister green. My father’s face went blank, his eyes dull as the boy’s words settled over him, twisting his mind. “I killed them,” he murmured, over and over, the words falling like stones. “I killed those nasty Mudbloods.” I wanted to scream, to wrench my father from the boy’s grip, but I was paralyzed, helpless as the confession tumbled from his lips in a hollow, unnatural chant.

Dementors began to swarm him, their dark, hooded figures closing in as he screamed, “I killed them! I killed those filthy Mudbloods!” His laughter echoed, wild and hysterical, a menacing grin twisting his face into something monstrous, void of any trace of humanity. Shadows deepened around him, the air thickening with an oppressive dread, as the distant sound of footsteps grew louder—Aurors approaching, their voices tense murmurs, and the sharp cracks of Apparition slicing through the night..

I watched, frozen, as they seized him, dragging his shuddering, laughing form away, his hollow laughter splitting the night as though he’d won some terrible victory. The boy slipped into the darkness, vanishing without a trace, while fury surged through me, fierce and consuming. This boy, this…half-blood had made my family his pawn.. 

The weight of it all settled over me, heavy and suffocating, seeping into my veins, each revelation darker than the last. My father’s haunted face, contorted in unnatural laughter, the twisted confession forced from his lips—the scene replayed in my mind, each detail sharpened by a raw, unyielding anger. That boy—this stranger with a face both familiar and foreign—had torn through my life with a cruelty beyond comprehension, twisting my father into a weapon of vengeance and leaving us in ruins..

A dark, searing fury ignited within me, burning like molten iron and chilling my veins. Each beat of my heart stoked its flames and deepened the icy resolve settling within. This boy, this half-breed—he had made a mockery of my family, reduced us to pawns in a game of hatred he’d played without hesitation.

I gripped the Time-Turner so hard I thought it might shatter, the metal biting into my palm. The truth hit me, chilling and undeniable: if he was an heir of Salazar Slytherin, then so was I. The knowledge felt like a brand, searing into my very soul, marking me as part of this dark legacy, bound by blood to powers I hadn’t yet begun to understand. But this wasn’t merely about inheritance or bloodlines—it was about claiming control over the shadows that had haunted me, the darkness that pulsed beneath my skin.

I knew, with a clarity that both terrified and emboldened me, that vengeance alone would not be enough. I needed to see every lie, every secret that bound us, dismantling his defenses and unraveling his twisted legacy to tear apart the chains that tied me to him. And so, with fury as my only compass, I set out to find him—not just to seek revenge, but to uncover the darkness that linked our fates.

I am the one and only heir of Salazar Slytherin, and I am no one's pawn.

[bloodandlegacy]

V: Reflections of Dark Magic

February 20th, 1958

Dear Diary,

These past weeks have been… revealing. I finally discovered some hidden spots—perfect places where no one would think to look. Quiet corners where I’ve been practicing a few spells I’ve only read about. It started small. I cast Imperio on some stray cats, making them jump and spin, like they were performing a private circus just for me. There’s something intoxicating about it, the way they obey without question, turning my thoughts into their movements. It’s harmless. Just a bit of fun.

Crucio is different. I’ve only dared to use it on Dugbogs. Vicious little beasts, snapping their jaws at anything that comes close. They deserve it. Watching them twist in pain, I thought it would feel wrong, but it doesn’t. It feels… powerful. I’m starting to understand why this kind of magic has its allure, why my family turned to it. I’ve practiced enough. I’m ready to look back further, to uncover what I came here to see.

Tonight, I turned the Time-Turner more than I ever have. The world blurred around me, Brocburrow shifting into focus. And then I saw him—my father, Morfin, but younger. Mid-twenties, maybe older. He was in a field, flicking his wand at cows, casting Flippendo and laughing as they toppled over. He seemed carefree, enjoying a bit of mischief. I couldn’t help but smile. For a moment, he felt almost… human. I kept going back, observing him, learning about him piece by piece.

Then there was Merope. She’s quieter than I expected, a shadow with my same weary eyes. She barely spoke, just watching, detached and unremarkable. At first, I couldn’t see anything of myself in her, only a boring girl with nothing to offer. But her eyes... it’s like looking into a reflection, one I didn’t want to acknowledge.

But tonight—tonight was different. Father was with some men, outside of a small pub. One of them caught my attention—dark, wavy hair, sharp features, eyes that glinted gold even in the dim light. He was beautiful in a way that didn’t belong in this grim place. Suddenly, Morfin raised his wand and cast Crucio on him. The man collapsed, writhing, and my father just stood there, grinning. A chill crept down my spine. I wanted to stop him, but my voice caught in my throat.

Then Merope appeared. She screamed at him to stop and ran to the man, cradling him, whispering words I couldn’t hear. Her brother just laughed, like her distress was a joke. She told him their father was looking for him, waiting at the house with someone. Morfin’s grin vanished as he trudged away, grumbling under his breath.

I followed him.

When we reached the house, my grandfather was standing with a man in a fine suit—a Ministry official, by the looks of him. I could see the anger etched on my grandfather’s face as he leaned in close to Morfin, whispering something I couldn’t catch. Whatever he said, it wiped the smirk off Morfin’s face. He raised his wand, his hand trembling only for a second, and then, with a voice that sent shivers through me, he bellowed, “Avada Kedavra!”

The green flash lit up the night, and the man fell, lifeless.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Morfin stood there, his expression hardening into something I’d never seen—a mask of obedience, of quiet triumph. In that moment, he was no longer human. He was something else, something shaped by the hands of this family.

For the first time, I felt the darkness of what it means to be a Gaunt. And I can’t decide if I want to turn back or keep watching.

[bloodandlegacy]

"You nevah should’ve… ‘ad to bear it, Ari… It weren’t just the magic, though, was it? Somethin’ darker… deeper. Somethin’ I didn’t understand—none of us did."

[bloodandlegacy]

II: The House of Rookwood

The door to the dormitory creaked open, and before I could even step inside, a blur of red curls and green robes hurtled toward me.

“Andromeda!” Juniper’s voice cracked as she threw her arms around me, the force of her embrace nearly knocking me backward. Her fingers gripped my robes as though afraid I might vanish if she let go. “You’re finally here!”

I stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of her warmth and emotion. Juniper had always been so fiery, so composed in her chaos—seeing her like this, raw and unguarded, unraveled something deep inside me. My arms slowly came up to return her hug, pulling her close.

Juniper’s voice trembled as she spoke, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I missed you so much,” she said, her words barely above a whisper.

Her raw honesty struck something deep within me, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. “I missed you too,” I murmured, my voice soft but heavy with emotion. I reached out, clasping her hand tightly. “I’m here now, Juniper. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond, her fingers gripping mine like she was afraid to let go. Finally, she nodded, a faint, teary smile tugging at her lips. “You’d better not,” she said, her voice unsteady but laced with warmth. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

Juniper pulled back just enough to look at me, her cheeks damp and flushed. Her blue eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, brimmed with unspoken relief. “You look different,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. “Stronger. Like you’ve been through a storm and come out of it with lightning in your veins.”

I smiled faintly, unsure of how to respond. She didn’t give me the chance. Her hands found mine, and she squeezed them tightly.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks,” she said, her voice breaking again. “I had all these things I wanted to say, but now… I just—” Her breath hitched, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

I tightened my grip on her hands, grounding her as best I could. “You don’t have to say anything,” I said gently. “I understand.”

Her lips quirked into a watery smile, and she nodded. “Of course you do. You always do.”

We stood there for a moment, just the two of us, the world outside forgotten.

Juniper darted to her desk, snatching up a half-eaten box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. “Before we go, you have to try this one!” she declared, holding up a speckled bean with a triumphant grin.

“Juniper, the carriage—” I began, but she cut me off by practically shoving the candy into my hand.

“Just trust me,” she said, bouncing on her heels.

As I chewed the jellybean Juniper had insisted I try—marshmallow, thankfully—she leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “Did I mention that we’re skipping the sorting ceremony and first dinner? No sitting through the headmaster’s pompous speeches or pretending to care about anyone else’s grand entrance.”

I raised an eyebrow, swallowing the sweet candy. “Skipping? Isn’t that... frowned upon?”

Juniper waved a hand dismissively, her tone dripping with casual confidence. “The Rookwoods’ influence, darling. The headmaster didn’t need much persuasion. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “the whole thing is overrated theatrics. A glorified hat picks your future? Please.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at her nonchalance. “You’re not wrong. I doubt we’ll miss much.”

“Exactly!” she declared triumphantly, tossing another jellybean into her mouth. “Neither of us needs to parade among classmates who aren’t even worth noticing.”

I couldn’t help but smile, her unrelenting confidence pulling me in like a tide. Juniper had a way of making the world seem smaller, more manageable—as if we stood above it all together. Her voice bubbled with energy, filling the room with a warmth that made the moment feel less like rebellion and more like belonging.

Before I could respond, she grabbed my hand, her grip firm and full of purpose. “Come on! The carriage is waiting, and there’s so much to show you.”

Her excitement was infectious, and I let her pull me toward the door, her words spilling out a mile a minute. We stepped into the cool night air, where the Rookwood carriage gleamed under the lanterns, its polished frame reflecting the flickering light. The driver stood patiently, holding the door open as if anticipating our arrival.

Juniper’s hand remained clasped in mine as we approached, her chatter a constant stream of plans, promises, and excitement. I barely noticed the chill in the air, her presence chasing away the cold. For the first time in years, I wasn’t just an orphan or a forgotten child of a disgraced family. I was someone worth waiting for.

And in Juniper’s eyes, I was home.

She turned to me, her ocean eyes shimmering with the reflection of the lights. “You’re not just anyone, you know,” she said softly, her earlier exuberance replaced with something quieter, more profound. “You’re Andromeda Gaunt. My anchor in all this madness.”

Her words lingered in my mind as the carriage began its ascent, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on stone gradually giving way to the whoosh of air as it took flight. The moment should have felt serene, almost magical, but Juniper had other ideas. Seemingly oblivious to the quiet majesty around us, she filled the air with her endless stream of excitement—her words tumbling over one another as she detailed everything from her summer escapades to the eccentricities of the Rookwood staff. It was as if the silence itself unsettled her, and she was determined to fill it with her voice.

“You’ll love it here,” she promised, her words tumbling over each other. “The library is enormous, and the gardens are straight out of a fairytale. Oh, and wait until you see the dining room—they still have the chandelier my great-grandmother enchanted! Honestly, you’ll think you’ve walked into a dream.”

Her chatter was both exhausting and endearing, filling the air with a warmth that made the shadows of the past feel smaller. By the time we arrived, the sheer grandeur of the Rookwood estate left me momentarily breathless.

The estate loomed ahead, its ivy-draped stone walls glowing faintly in the moonlight. The towering double doors, carved with intricate serpentine patterns, stood like silent sentinels. As we climbed the steps, the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs below echoed faintly, a reminder of the estate’s breathtaking perch above the water.

Juniper paused for a moment at the entrance, her grin softening as she glanced at me. “Ready?” she asked, her voice quieter now but still brimming with anticipation.

I nodded, though my heart thudded in my chest. There was something daunting about stepping into a house steeped in legacy—especially one tied so closely to my own.

The heavy doors creaked open as Juniper pushed them, revealing a grand entry hall bathed in golden light. The marble floors gleamed, reflecting the flicker of enchanted lanterns. Juniper barely paused to marvel, tugging me through the space as though it were any ordinary home.

“The dining room’s this way,” she said, her tone casual, but I could sense the pride beneath her words.

The dining room was every bit as grand as the rest of the estate. A massive crystal chandelier hung above the polished table, its facets shimmering with an enchanted brilliance. As the light refracted through the crystals, it cast intricate patterns onto the walls and ceiling. The patterns didn’t stay still—they moved, forming delicate silhouettes of people dancing in elegant waltzes. The figures twirled and bowed to one another in perfect harmony, their movements so fluid and lifelike that it felt as if the room itself were hosting an unseen ball.

Soft golden sparks flickered within the chandelier, as though it held the remnants of a spell meant to preserve the joy of past celebrations. The glow bathed the room in warmth, making the grand dining hall feel alive, steeped in both history and magic.

The table was a masterpiece of opulence and detail, stretching the length of the grand dining room and set for a feast that could rival any Hogwarts banquet. Gilded plates, their edges delicately etched with serpents, gleamed under the soft glow of the enchanted chandelier. Goblets of finely wrought gold stood at each setting, their surfaces catching the flickering light of the candles arranged along the table in a precise, symmetrical pattern. The candles themselves floated just above the table’s surface, their flames steady and warm, casting a gentle illumination that highlighted the fine linen tablecloth embroidered with shimmering silver threads. Every detail, from the arrangement of cutlery to the placement of folded napkins bearing the Rookwood family crest, spoke of wealth, refinement, and a reverence for tradition

As we entered the dining room, a man rose to his feet with a practiced grace, his presence commanding yet strangely inviting. His red hair, as vibrant as embers caught in the chandelier’s golden glow, framed a face that exuded both charm and mystery. His deep brown eyes, however, told a different story—intense and watchful, they carried a weight that felt almost tangible, as if the shadows of his past lingered just beneath the surface.

He stepped forward, his tailored robes rustling softly, and extended a hand. “Alaric Rookwood,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, with a faint undertone of amusement. His grin widened as he added, “Though you can, of course, call me Alaric.”

I hesitated for a moment before taking his hand, his grip firm but not overbearing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rookwood,” I replied, emphasizing the title with deliberate politeness.

His grin faltered briefly, replaced by a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place—surprise, perhaps, or approval. “Formal, are we?” he mused, his tone light, though his sharp eyes seemed to evaluate me as if measuring my worth. 

I met his gaze steadily. “I believe respect ought to be shown, sir. Especially to those whose home I’ve been welcomed into.”

His expression softened slightly, and I saw a hint of warmth behind the sharpness of his features. “Respect, you say? A rare quality these days.” He inclined his head slightly, his tone losing its earlier amusement. “In that case, welcome, Miss Gaunt. We’re honored to have you here.”

A woman glided into the room with an elegance that seemed almost ethereal, her silver-white curls catching the golden light as if spun from moonbeams. Her sharp yet soft features were striking, a perfect balance of strength and warmth, and her glowing blue eyes met mine with an intensity that felt almost maternal—fierce, protective, and deeply curious all at once.

“I’m Vivienne Rookwood,” she said, stepping forward with a smile that was both welcoming and sincere. Her voice was smooth and inviting, carrying the kind of warmth that could make even the coldest room feel like home. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Andromeda. We’ve heard so much about you.”

Her words, though kind, carried a weight of expectation that made my breath stumble for just a moment. I extended my hand, and she took it gently, her touch cool but reassuring.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rookwood,” I said, matching her formal tone. Her eyes searched mine, and there was no judgment in them—only a quiet understanding, as if she already knew more about me than I could ever put into words.

Dinner was a lavish affair. The buttery aroma of roasted pork mingled with the scent of fresh bread and herbs. Each course was presented by servants who moved with the precision of a finely tuned spell. For a fleeting moment, I felt like royalty. Then again, as the heir of Slytherin, perhaps I was.

Mr. Rookwood dominated much of the conversation, his fascination with the Gaunt family bordering on reverence. He spoke of Marvolo Gaunt as though he were a legend, recounting tales of his defiance and the Scriptorium, which he described as a mythical place steeped in the secrets of Salazar Slytherin.

“Have you ever seen it?” Mr. Rookwood leaned forward, his brown eyes alight with curiosity. “The Scriptorium?”

I shook my head, unsure how to respond.

“Ah, well,” he said, leaning back with a wistful sigh. “Some things are meant to remain a mystery.”

Mrs. Rookwood, in contrast, seemed far more interested in me as a person. She asked gentle but probing questions about my life, questions that Juniper had never dared to ask. I found myself confessing truths I had long kept hidden: the orphanage, the years of neglect, the fleeting moments of hope snatched away too quickly.

Juniper’s expression was a mix of shock and sorrow. For once, she had no witty remark, no sharp retort. I avoided her gaze, unwilling to face the pity I knew I’d find there.

By the time dessert was served—rich treacle tart paired with clotted cream—Mrs. Rookwood extended an offer that caught me entirely off guard.

“We’d like you to live with us, Andromeda,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “You need to be among your own kind.”

Juniper’s face lit up like the full moon. “A sister!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing in her chair. “This is perfect!”

Mr. Rookwood chuckled. “Of course, there are conditions,” he said. “Keep focused on your studies and visit us at least once a month.”

“Sunday suppers,” Mrs. Rookwood added with a warm smile. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

I didn’t know how to respond. A part of me wanted to refuse, to cling to the independence I had fought so hard to claim. But another part—a quieter, lonelier part—longed for the sense of belonging they offered.

It was strange, almost surreal, to feel my Gaunt name welcomed so openly, treated with respect rather than whispered disdain or outright fear. I wasn’t just a shadow of my family’s dark legacy; I was simply Andromeda.

Later that night, Juniper and I sat cross-legged on her bed, trading Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and dissolving into fits of laughter at the faces we pulled with each new flavor.

“You’d think they were hosting Merlin himself,” Juniper whispered, leaning closer as her voice dropped into an exaggerated imitation of her father. “‘Andromeda, this roast is prepared using a recipe older than Hogwarts itself. Only the finest for our honored guest.’” She rolled her eyes, her smirk widening as she continued, “‘Juniper, sit up straight! You wouldn’t want her to think we lack proper manners, would you?’”

Her laugh was soft but conspiratorial, and I couldn’t help but smile despite myself. Beneath her mockery, there was an undeniable warmth.

“And of course,” she added with a sly grin, “you can have your own room. But since we’re practically inseparable, we might as well just share one big room, don’t you think?” She leaned back on her elbows, studying me with that mischievous glint I had come to know so well. “Don’t worry—I’ll give you space when you need it. I just can’t go through another summer being separated. Honestly, it was unbearable.”

For all her sarcasm, she wanted me to belong. Her family wanted me to belong.

And in the Rookwood home, I didn’t feel like an outcast, a stranger in my own skin. I felt honored. Humbled, even. It was as if, in the quiet of their home, the weight of my name had shifted, no longer a burden but a mark of something—someone—worth respecting.

As the laughter faded, a silence settled over the room. Juniper, sensing the shift, tilted her head and studied me with an unspoken question. I hesitated, the weight of the confession pressing against my chest, but Juniper noticed. Of course she did. Her sharp eyes locked on mine, glittering with that same mischievous energy, but now something else—curiosity. Eagerness.

“I used it,” I said finally, my voice steady, purposeful. Her eyebrows shot up, and the corner of her mouth curved into a grin.

“Go on,” she urged, leaning forward now, her elbows on her knees, completely abandoning her previous playful air. She was intrigued, hanging on my every word as though it were the juiciest secret she’d ever heard. And maybe, to her, it was.

“It was that woman,” I said, the memory flashing vividly before my eyes. “The one who took me in after my mother died. The one who stripped away everything—my magic, my identity, my worth. I found her. And I used it.”

Juniper’s grin stretched wider, and her eyes danced with unrestrained glee. “And?” she prompted, her voice practically vibrating with excitement.

“And I didn’t stop there,” I admitted, a slight edge creeping into my tone. “I used the Cruciatus first. I made her feel the pain she gave me, the torment she inflicted for years. And then…” I paused, savoring the memory, but also steadying myself for the weight of it. “Then I killed her.”

Juniper let out a low, delighted laugh, clapping her hands together once. “Oh, Andromeda,” she said, almost reverently, “that’s brilliant. Truly brilliant. I knew you had it in you, but to actually do it—to take back what’s yours, to make her pay—it’s perfect.” She leaned closer, her grin fierce, her eyes shining with something almost predatory. “She deserved worse, if you ask me.”

I blinked, surprised by her reaction, though I shouldn’t have been. Juniper wasn’t just unbothered—she was ecstatic. This wasn’t a moment of confession; to her, it was a triumph, a victory worth celebrating.

“She did deserve worse,” I said, my voice stronger now, a quiet, unshakable resolve threading through every word. Juniper didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. Her eyes were locked on mine, unwavering, her presence grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

“But it wasn’t just about her,” I continued, my voice softening, but no less steady. “It was about me—what I’ve become, what I’m capable of.” I took a breath, the memory of that moment still sharp, vivid. “The Obscurus—it wasn’t some wild, uncontrollable force. It wasn’t a curse waiting to destroy me. It was mine. It obeyed me. It moved with me, like it knew what I needed before I even realized it.”

Her gaze softened, her sharp edges giving way to something deeper, something only she could offer. “And then,” she urged, her voice low, steady. She didn’t push, didn’t demand—she simply waited, her patience a silent assurance.

“It came alive in that room. Like smoke with a mind of its own, wrapping around her like chains forged from everything she ever hated in me. Her sneer, her contempt—it strangled them. It strangled her hate. And for the first time, I realized… she wasn’t powerful. She wasn’t anything. The darkness wasn’t mine to fear—it was hers to face. And she did.”

The words hung between us, charged with the weight of the moment, the magnitude of what I was describing. “The Obscurus didn’t control me, Juniper. I controlled it. It answered me. It moved with me, like it had been waiting for that moment all along. And in that room, with her hate unraveling before me, I wasn’t the girl she tried to break. I was something more—something she could never touch.”

Juniper’s expression shifted, her awe blooming into unrestrained delight. “You controlled it,” she echoed, her voice a mix of reverence and exhilaration. “Of course, you did. That’s—” She cut herself off with a sharp laugh, her excitement spilling over. “That’s magnificent.”

Her eyes burned with approval as she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And do you know what that means? You’re unstoppable. That darkness isn’t just part of you—it’s your weapon. And you,” she paused, her voice nearly trembling with reverence, “you are its master.”

“Andromeda Gaunt, unstoppable and unbreakable, carving her legacy spell by spell. It’s everything I always knew you’d become,” she said, her voice rich with pride.

Her approval settled in my chest like a warm ember, stoking the fire that had already begun to burn. Juniper didn’t see darkness or danger in what I’d done. She saw strength. Power. Victory.

“You don’t regret it, do you?” she asked suddenly, her voice probing, but warm with trust.

“Not for a second,” I replied, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “She tried to break me, Juniper. But all she did was make me stronger. And now, she’s gone. The past is gone. And what’s left…” I gestured to myself, my words hanging in the air. “What’s left is mine.”

For a moment, she just looked at me, her expression unreadable but her eyes burning with something fierce—something I hadn’t dared hope for: love. And then, as if the tension had melted away, she threw herself back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, her grin firmly in place.

“Now, tell me everything,” she demanded. “Every detail. Don’t you dare leave a single thing out.”

And I did. For the first time, I didn’t hold back. I told her everything, and instead of fear or judgment, she gave me what I never realized I needed: belief in me. 

[bloodandlegacy]

Andromeda Gaunt - Blood & Legacy: Echoes of the Keepers

[bloodandlegacy]

He wasn’t just involved with the repository—he sought to control it, twisting its power for his own ends and betraying everything our family once stood for. Worse still, he allied himself with a goblin. A goblin. Can you imagine? A deliberate betrayal of the bloodline and the legacy Charles Rookwood swore to protect as a Keeper of ancient magic.

[bloodandlegacy]

Blood & Legacy: Part Two

Sneak peak in 3... 2... 1...

[bloodandlegacy]

Blood & Legacy: Part II

Coming December 13, 2024

[bloodandlegacy]

XIX: Justice, Not Vengeance

May 21, 1958

The pit in my stomach hasn’t eased since I left the Hog’s Head. Juniper’s words haunt me like shadows I can’t escape. She doesn’t understand—not fully. She thinks I’m walking a path that leads only to destruction. And Dumbledore—he’s no different. He looked at me as if I’m a tragedy waiting to happen, already resigned to my fate

But they’re wrong.

I’ve read the stories. Ariana Dumbledore. Aurelius. I am not them. Their magic unraveled them, consumed them. But they didn’t know how to harness it. I do. They feared what they were and let it destroy them. I refuse to make that mistake.

Dumbledore doesn’t believe I can control this power. He sees me as a fragile girl barely holding herself together, but I’ll prove him wrong. I’ll show them all that what lies within me isn’t a curse—it’s strength.

And then there’s Isidora Morganach. Her name is a whisper that won’t leave me, a shadow in my thoughts. She understood pain, knew how to take it and shape it into something more. She didn’t let others dictate what she could or couldn’t be. The repository—her legacy—is proof of that.

The Time-Turner glints on my dressing table, a silent invitation. It’s more than a trinket; it’s a key to the answers I need. I’ll focus on my O.W.L.s for now—play the part of the dutiful student. But when summer comes, when the walls of the orphanage grow too close, I’ll make my move.

I’ll go back to 1890. I’ll see Isidora’s power for myself. Not just to understand it—but to master it.

But before I do, I have unfinished business here.

She’s out there—the woman who raised me. The Mudblood who tore my soul apart, who punished me for what I am, who made me believe I was broken. She made me feel small, powerless. Her scars run deeper than the one on my face, deeper even than my magic.

And she’ll pay.

I’m not doing this because I want to. Revenge is shallow, fleeting, and does nothing to heal the wounds it stems from. No, I’m going to make her pay because she deserves it.

She deserves to answer for what she did—for the years of torment, the punishments, the hatred she poured into me as if I was something to be fixed, something to be eradicated. She thought she could snuff out my magic, but all she did was fuel it. I’ll wield it, shape it into something she never dreamed possible. And if it burns me in the process—so be it.

This isn’t vengeance. It’s justice.

When that chapter is closed, when I’ve looked her in the eye and made her face what she’s done, then I’ll use the Time-Turner. I’ll see Isidora’s power. I’ll uncover the secrets of the repository.

I’m not afraid of what I am. I’m afraid of staying trapped in what others think I should be. And I’m done living under their expectations.

This is my path. No one will stop me from walking it.

[bloodandlegacy]

XIV: Retribution

I barely remembered the trek back to the Slytherin common room. My feet moved automatically, the stone corridors blurring around me as my thoughts churned. My father had been dead for a year before I set foot in Hogwarts. A year. The knowledge seared through me, an unrelenting inferno of fury and grief. Tom Riddle had stolen everything—my family, my father’s legacy, and even the chance to mourn him.

The time-turner felt light, mocking the weight of my decision. Its smooth edges pressed against my palm, icy and resolute. I spun it twice, and the world folded in on itself like a collapsing star. When the dizziness passed, I stood in the term after that cursed summer—when Tom framed my father for the Riddle murders.

This wasn’t the moment for confrontation, not yet. I couldn’t risk tearing apart the delicate threads of time, but every fiber of my being screamed for vengeance. Instead, I stayed in the shadows, watching his every move. By day, I tracked him unseen in the corridors. By night, I retreated to the Room of Requirement, the walls echoing my darkest thoughts. Days turned into a tense waiting game. My patience would pay off. It had to.

Every so often, I saw Myrtle drifting aimlessly through the castle—a reminder of our last conversation. She had tried, in her strange way, to talk me out of using the Dark Arts. For a moment, her words had given me pause. But then I’d remember Tom’s smirk, his disdainful voice dismissing my father as nothing, and my resolve burned anew.

I rehearsed my confrontation with him endlessly, imagining the words that would wound him most. "Half-breed" was the sharpest dagger I could wield, and I knew it would cut deep.

It didn’t take long to discover his peculiar habit of frequenting the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. Myrtle had mentioned it during her time at Hogwarts—a place rarely used, save for brewing illicit potions. The thought of being in such close quarters with him unnerved me, but curiosity won.

One evening, cloaked under a disillusionment charm, I followed him into the deserted bathroom. My heart hammered against my ribs, every creak of the floor amplifying the silence of the castle. I hovered just inside the doorway, watching as he stood before the sinks, his head bent low.

At first, his whispers were barely audible, but as I crept closer, they grew louder—harsher, until the air itself seemed to shudder. Parseltongue. The realization sent a chill down my spine. This was my legacy, the language of my ancestors, yet it sounded foreign and incomprehensible. Shame battled with anger, twisting into something sharper. He had stolen even this from me.

Then, I felt it.

A dark, writhing force clawed at the edges of my mind, demanding release. My chest tightened as the air thickened, heavy with an unseen menace. I staggered, gripping the wall to steady myself, as an icy tendril of fear slithered up my spine. This wasn’t my magic—not the controlled, disciplined energy I’d learned to wield. It was wild, chaotic, and alive.

For a brief, terrible moment, it felt as though the shadows themselves were reaching for me, their whispers tangling with his Parseltongue in a symphony of menace. I clenched my fists, willing the sensation away, but it coiled tighter, waiting. Watching. It wasn’t just in the room—it was inside me.

The hiss of his words grew faster, more commanding, until the ground beneath him shifted. The sink slid aside, revealing a gaping hole that plunged into darkness. My breath caught as the sound of grinding stone echoed through the room, ancient mechanisms awakened by his magic. He stepped forward without hesitation, vanishing into the abyss.

I hesitated for only a moment before following, my grip on my wand tightening as I approached the edge. Peering into the void, I saw a faint green glow casting eerie shadows on the walls. Swallowing my fear, I stepped in, descending deeper into the Chamber of Secrets.

The air grew colder as I went, heavy with magic so ancient it pulsed through the walls. Each step echoed like a drumbeat, amplifying the vast silence. Ahead, I heard his voice, a melodic hiss awakening something dormant in the chamber itself.

When I reached the bottom, the sight before me stole my breath. The chamber was massive, its arched ceilings adorned with serpent carvings that twisted and coiled in frozen motion. At the far end stood a towering statue of Salazar Slytherin, his face severe and his stone gaze piercing. Power radiated from the place, settling into my very bones. The walls seemed alive, watching, judging.

Tom stood before the statue, his back to me, hissing in that cursed language. The words poured from him with a fluidity that made my anger boil. This was my birthright, not his. I had grown up knowing nothing of this chamber, nothing of the power it held. And yet here he was, claiming it as his own.

Then I felt it again. A shadow, writhing and pulsing within me, scraping at the barriers I’d spent years building. My breath short as I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, willing it to subside. Whatever it was, it terrified me.

Myrtle’s stories flashed in my mind—the boy she described, the chamber he had opened, the serpent he commanded. The pieces fell into place with chilling clarity. This wasn’t just any chamber. This was the chamber. And I… I was the true heir of Slytherin. That knowledge settled over me—heavy, but fitting.

Pressing myself against a stone pillar, I watched him. What secrets was he coaxing from this place? Then I saw it—a faint ripple in the shadows. A massive serpent slithered deeper into the chamber. The basilisk.

Fear clawed at me, but I shoved it aside. This chamber wasn’t just his sanctuary. It was his throne, and he had sat on it unchallenged for far too long. Tonight, that would change.

I shed the disillusionment charm and stepped forward, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Imperio.”

The command was immediate. His words stopped, his body stiffened, and he turned to face me. For the first time, I saw something unexpected in his expression—fear. I advanced, my wand steady, my rage unshackled at last.

“Look at me,” I spat, my voice dripping with venom. “You worthless half-breed.”

I lifted the curse for a moment, watching him regain his composure. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his movements deliberate despite the strain, and then his smirk returned. It was that same smirk—arrogant, knowing, infuriating. “How quaint,” he drawled, his voice dripping with venom. “A few spells, a bit of theatrics. Is that all you’ve brought to this fight? Cheap parlor tricks and borrowed power?”

He stepped forward, his dark eyes gleaming with disdain. “You really think you can stand against me? You don’t even understand what you’re wielding, do you? You’re a child grasping at shadows, desperate to prove you’re more than the mediocrity you were born into.”

The words cut deep, but I refused to flinch. He tilted his head, his expression sharpening, dissecting me as if I were nothing more than an experiment gone wrong. “What will you do when the fire you’re playing with consumes you?” His smirk widened into something cruel, predatory. “When there’s no one left to save you, least of all yourself?”

I gritted my teeth, gripping my wand tighter. “You talk too much, Riddle.”

“Do I?” His voice softened into a mockery of pity. “And what about your father? What do you think he’d say if he saw you now? Pathetic, trembling, breaking under the weight of something you’ll never truly control.”

His words slid through me, deliberate and sharp. “He was a fool,” he continued, his tone laced with contempt. “Weak. Sniveling. Unworthy of the bloodline he carried. Just like his daughter. Is it any wonder he fell so easily? He was disposable. And so are you.”

My breath hitched, fury clawing its way to the surface. The chamber seemed to respond to the storm inside me. The air thickened, charged, the serpents etched into the walls shimmering as though stirred by my anger. The edges of my vision blurred as the darkness swelled, no longer contained. It wasn’t just within me anymore—it was around me. A shadow made manifest, clawing at the air, twisting reality into chaos.

The tendrils of darkness slithered outward, warping the light, and I realized with a cold dread that it was alive. It wasn’t just anger or power—it was something deeper, something primal. It wasn’t mine to command, but it had latched onto me, feeding on my fury, growing stronger with every breath I took.

Tom hesitated for a fraction of a second, his smirk faltering as he glanced at the roiling chaos around me. But then, his arrogance returned, his voice cutting through the storm. “So there it is,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The great Andromeda Gaunt, reduced to a vessel for chaos she can’t even control.”

The words stung, but I refused to let them land. I lifted my head, the shadows swirling around me, and forced my voice into something steady and sharp. “Reduced? No, Riddle. You think this is chaos? This is power. My power.”

The storm around me began to slow, the writhing darkness curling inward as it was listening, responding. The air grew heavy, not with unchecked destruction, but with deliberate intent. I could feel it—a dark force simmering beneath my skin, a force that wasn’t controlling me but waiting for my command.

Tom’s smirk faded entirely, unease flickering across his face. He stepped back instinctively, his composure cracking under the weight of what he saw. I matched his gaze, my voice lowering to a near-whisper, every word laced with quiet menace.

“You want to talk about control, Tom? Look closely. I’m not the one who’s afraid anymore.”

The chamber seemed to hold its breath, the lingering tendrils of shadow receding slightly but never fully vanishing, a predator circling its prey. My grip tightened on my wand as the silence grew, his hesitation giving me the upper hand.

This wasn’t about chaos. It was retribution.

“Crucio!” The curse exploded from my wand, the green light of the spell casting long shadows across the chamber. Tom fell to his knees, his body convulsing as the spell tore through him. His arrogance crumbled, replaced by a raw, visceral pain.

Through the piercing green light of the chamber, I held the Cruciatus Curse steady, the surge of magic coursing through me intoxicating. Tom Riddle writhed before me, his arrogance unraveling under my power. For the first time, I was not a shadow of my lineage—I was its wrath.

But I didn’t stop.

“Crucio!” I snarled again, the word ripping from my throat with a rawness that startled even me. His screams tore through the chamber, echoing off the serpent-carved walls as the darkness around me swelled. Tendrils of shadow lashed out, striking the stone with violent force, leaving blackened scorch marks in their wake. The air was thick, suffocating, alive with a chaotic energy I couldn’t fully grasp.

Dust rained from the ceiling, the ancient structure groaning as though it, too, was straining under the weight of my fury.

“You framed my father,” I spat, my voice low and venomous as I began to circle him. The shadows followed, curling and twisting around him like living chains, pressing him further into submission. His once-calculated calm had shattered, his cries raw and jagged.

“You call him pathetic,” I continued, my tone sharp and cutting, “yet look at you now. Weak. Broken. Helpless.”

I paused, letting the silence hang heavy between us, broken only by his ragged gasps. The swirling darkness seemed to mock him, wrapping tighter around his trembling form, feeding on his pain. For a fleeting moment, I saw fear in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability he couldn’t hide.

And it was intoxicating.

I raised my wand once more, the darkness around me swirling with an unnatural ferocity, feeding on the storm inside me. It wasn’t just in the air—it was in me, clawing to be unleashed.

“Crucio!” The curse burst from my lips, raw and unrestrained. The spell struck him with a force that sent the shadows writhing across the chamber walls, the green light illuminating his face. His eyes, wide with something that almost looked like fear, reflected the glow for one fleeting moment before it seemed to drain away entirely.

Silence swallowed the room, heavy and oppressive. He lay crumpled on the floor, his breaths ragged and uneven. The swirling darkness didn’t dissipate but lingered, coiling around him, a predator savoring its prey.

My own breathing was shallow, my chest rising and falling as I took in the chamber. The serpents carved into the walls no longer writhed, their malevolent energy stilled, yet the jagged, scorched marks left by the swirling darkness remained—a violent testament to the storm that had passed.

For a moment, I felt the weight of it all—the power, the destruction, the raw energy coursing through me. It didn’t leave me hollow. No, it filled me, fueled me. Strength surged in my veins, vengeance igniting that fiery spark in me. This was no longer about him. This was about reclaiming what was mine.

“This is my legacy,” I said coldly, my voice cutting through the suffocating silence. The words felt like an oath, a promise etched into the very foundation of this place. “And I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take it from me.”

I raised my wand once more, the swirling chaos responding to my anger as though it were an extension of myself. The green light of the curse illuminated the chamber as I hissed, “Crucio!”

The spell struck him again, harder, fiercer, the impact sending waves of rippling energy through the air. His screams tore through the chamber, raw and ragged, echoing off the stone walls. The serpents seemed to watch, their carved faces twisted in silent approval as if they recognized me for what I was.

I stood over him, my wand trembling in my grasp, the swirling darkness around me seething with chaos. The chamber itself seemed alive, groaning under the weight of the storm I had unleashed. The serpents carved into the walls cast long shadows that stretched across the floor, darkened with the jagged scars of my rage. Tom lay crumpled at my feet, his breaths shallow and ragged, his once-imperious expression contorted in pain.

For a moment, the fire in me surged again, threatening to consume the fragile control I clung to. My wand tilted toward him, my voice steady and cold as I hissed, “You think this ends here? You think I’ll let you walk away from what you’ve done?” I stepped closer, my shadow stretching long over his broken form, the green glow of the chamber casting eerie shadows on the twisted smile that spread across my face. “I’ll remind you every time we cross paths, Tom. You don’t own power—you fear it. And that fear will destroy you.”

I raised my wand, the word perched on the edge of my lips—the Killing Curse, the ultimate end to his defiance. The shadows around me pulsed as if they were a living force, the storm feeding off my fury, amplifying it, whispering promises of vengeance. The air was thick with power, and for a moment, I saw it in my mind’s eye: the flash of green light, the silence that would follow, the lifeless body at my feet.

The darkness twisted around him, coiling; a serpent, drawing the light from his eyes. He didn’t plead, didn’t speak—he only stared, his shallow breaths the only sound in the suffocating chamber. My wand trembled, the word so close I could taste it. Avada Kedavra.

But then, from the depths of that swirling darkness, a whisper cut through the chaos: Not yet. It’s not time.

I froze, the words slicing through the tempest inside me. My chest heaved as I searched the chamber, trying to find the source of the voice, but there was nothing—only the flicker of shadows and the echo of his shallow breaths. The time-turner caught my eye, its delicate rings spinning faintly in the dim light. The glimmer broke through the haze, pulling me back from the brink.

The realization struck like a cold slap: I couldn’t let my wrath undo everything. I couldn’t alter the fragile balance of time for the sake of vengeance. If I ended him now, it would cost me far more than I could bear.

My hand tightened around my wand, the weight of restraint pressing down, a crushing force. Every fiber of my being wanted to cast it, to see the flash of green light, to make him pay for every word, every deed that had brought us here. My finger twitched as I wrestled with the temptation, the power tantalizingly close, a bitter taste on my tongue.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

With a ragged exhale, I forced the darkness to settle, the storm reluctantly pulling back, yet still coiled and waiting, feeding on the embers of my rage. My voice cut through the heavy air, low and sharp. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

The words carried weight, more than I intended, a promise as much as a threat. My wand stayed raised, trembling with the force of the unspoken curse. The shadows around me flickered and shifted, as if they too hungered for what came next, but I held them back, barely. This wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t forgiveness.

It was control.

His shallow breaths broke the silence, rasping in the charged air. His body lay broken before me, but it wasn’t enough—not yet. I stepped closer, every movement deliberate, the chamber’s eerie green light casting twisted shadows over his form. “You’ll suffer, Tom,” I said, my tone cold and resolute. “And every time you think you’ve escaped, I’ll remind you that you haven’t.”

For a fleeting moment, his eyes flickered with something—fear, maybe, or hatred—but it didn’t matter. The darkness swirled tighter around him, a reflection of the storm still raging within me. 

It wasn’t done with him yet. Neither was I.