If I still had a conscience, it was fading fast.
Not by choice — but by potion.
I could feel it like thick ink slowly spreading through water. My thoughts, once morally grounded, now twisted themselves into cold strategy.
I worried a little… and then the worry felt silly.
Why fight what I was crafted to become?
Father didn't just want a daughter — he wanted a general. A mastermind. A ruler molded in shadow.
And Merlin help me… I was eager to accept the role.
I may still be in a crib, barely babbling, but my mind — my old mind — remained intact. Years of political experience, negotiations, power plays, understanding how governments collapse and how tyrants rise…
I would be the architect of Voldemort's victory.
The chessboard of destiny lay before me, and I analyzed the pieces:
✔ Voldemort✔ Prophecy✔ Lily's sacrifice✔ Dumbledore✔ Harry Potter
The problem wasn't Father's power. It was the story itself.
Voldemort could tear the world apart… but the plot refused to let him win. Harry was a narrative anchor. Destiny had a bias.
So I'd break destiny.
Step One:Let Voldemort lose at Godric's Hollow. It must happen. Lily's magic has to shatter him — prophecy sealed — horcrux split made inevitable.
Step Two:Stay hidden. Grow stronger while everyone assumes the Dark Lord is gone forever.
Step Three:Ensure Dumbledore dies — preferably still by Snape's wand. The plan from the Half-Blood Prince era remains optimal.
Step Four:Kill Harry Potter. Personally. No prophecy means no plot armor.
Then power becomes a simple matter of strategy and elimination. Political cleanup. Fear management. Control of the Ministry. International expansion.
And Father on his throne.
And me, crowned in shadows.
Princess of the New World.
I recognized Snape's handiwork in my bottles — subtle bitterness masked beneath sweetness. Loyalty and corruption potions strong enough to twist entire armies, fed to a baby like it was formula.
I admired the efficiency.
I despised the necessity.
And yet… the potions didn't control me completely.
They enhanced what I already chose to become.
I felt dark emotions sharpening — cruelty, possessiveness, ambition. I caught myself imagining Harry crying while I hexed him into silence.
That was… new.
And terrifying.
And thrilling.
I am changing.I cannot stop it.I don't want to stop it.
I'm becoming a dark witch with a perfect mind for war.
Even Bellatrix — with her fanatic devotion and cracked laughter — could never match what I would become. She lost sanity to darkness. I would maintain mine.
A monster with strategy.
A villain with a plan.
Father visited again that night, brushing my soft cheek with surprising tenderness.
"You are almost ready," he whispered. "Soon, my daughter… the world will burn for us."
His voice ignited a pyre of anticipation inside me.
I was being built into a weapon.
I was being sculpted into royalty.
And when the time came…I would make sure history remembered me not as Voldemort's shadow…
…but as his equal.