Ten years. Ten years of silence, study, and perfection.
Time no longer mattered to me — not when I had transcended its grasp. Days bled into nights, nights into years, years into centuries of thought. Yet my mind remained as sharp as ever, each moment another stroke in the grand design that only I could perceive.
And now, my research stood upon the edge of revelation.
I had finally understood what made the phoenix defy death — what allowed it to rise from ash and agony, born anew through fire and song. The answer lay not in its feathers, nor its soul, but in a flame — a divine ember hidden deep within its chest.
That flame was life distilled to its purest form. A piece of the cosmos itself, burning with the essence of renewal.
The process of extracting it was… delicate. One mistake could turn even the immortal into dust. But my precision had long surpassed human comprehension. I worked in silence, my wand glowing faintly over the creature's body as my runic instruments pulsed with synchronized rhythm. I reached into the very core of the phoenix — not physically, but magically — threading between the boundaries of flesh and soul.
When I finally drew the flame forth, it came willingly, as though recognizing me as its new master.
The instant it left the bird, the phoenix screamed. Its light dimmed, feathers dulling from gold to gray. It collapsed upon the cold marble of my laboratory — lifeless, empty, extinguished.
For the first time in centuries, I felt something stir within me. Not pity — curiosity. The bird's flame flickered faintly within my palm, an orb of living fire that neither burned nor cooled, pulsing with an ancient heartbeat.
I placed it within a crystal phial and sealed it with seven layers of alchemical wards. It shone softly on my desk, like a sun in miniature, whispering with the energy of creation itself.
But I did not yet know what to do with it.
Not yet.
In the meantime, I returned to my other works. The breadth of my knowledge had grown beyond anything the world had ever seen. My mastery of alchemy was absolute, my potioncraft unsurpassed. Yet even in those fields, there were still mysteries to uncover — new frontiers to break.
Herbology, for instance, had become a science of limitless potential in my hands. Through relentless experimentation, I had learned how plants interacted not only with potions, but with magic itself. I bred species that did not exist in nature — night‑blooming flowers that could draw in curses and purify them, vines that fed on magical residue, even a lily whose petals could transmute poison into life energy.
Every plant was a spell made manifest. Every potion, a formula for evolution.
And then there was healing magic.
The irony was not lost on me — the Dark Lord turned healer, the god of death turned giver of life. But mastery is mastery, whether it stems from destruction or creation. And I had long since understood that to dominate life, one must understand how to preserve it.
I surpassed even the most legendary healers. My spells could regrow shattered bones in seconds, mend torn organs, restore burned flesh without scar or flaw. I crafted incantations that reknitted nerves, revived unconscious minds, and stabilized bodies that should have long since died.
Once, I even tested my limits — I allowed one of my Death Eaters to stab me clean through the heart. My blood poured out, pooling at my feet, yet I did not fall. With a calm breath, I willed my own body to function. My blood continued to circulate, my lungs to draw air, even as I conjured a replacement heart of living flame. Within minutes, I was whole again.
Immortality, regeneration, resurrection. I had achieved them all.
And with my clones aiding me — five, sometimes ten at a time — progress accelerated beyond reason. Each of them worked tirelessly, their minds an extension of my own. One brewed experimental elixirs. Another charted the interactions between magical flora and phoenix energy. A third dissected draconic anatomy, while others analyzed soul structure, curse manipulation, and elemental fusion.
Our results were staggering.
My study of dragons alone had rewritten the boundaries of magical understanding. I learned that their blood was not merely powerful — it was conscious, resonating with elemental memory. Dragonfire, phoenixflame, basilisk venom — all parts of a divine trinity of creation, destruction, and rebirth.
Even my ancient basilisk, slumbering deep within the expanded Chamber of Secrets, had become both subject and ally. I harvested its venom, blood, and scales, forging them into alchemical reagents that no mortal could comprehend. I used its essence to strengthen my potions, to merge serpentine resilience with human flesh.
Then, there were the relics.
The artifacts of the four Founders of Hogwarts had always fascinated me — each one a masterpiece of its own kind. Slytherin's locket, Gryffindor's sword, Ravenclaw's diadem, Hufflepuff's cup — all were relics of ancient magic, crafted by those whose knowledge I now eclipsed.
But even perfection can be improved.
I disassembled each artifact, layer by layer, studying the enchantments that made them legendary. Then I rebuilt them — reforged them — infused with my magic. The locket pulsed now with serpentine consciousness, whispering wisdom to its wearer. The sword of Gryffindor shone with alchemical fire, cutting through not just matter, but magic itself. Ravenclaw's diadem became a living focus for thought, amplifying intellect to divine levels. Even the cup — once a symbol of loyalty — now served as a chalice of immortality, holding liquid life distilled from my potions.
Every day, I drew closer to the ultimate synthesis — life and death, flame and shadow, creation and destruction — all under my command.
The phoenix flame still rested in its crystal prison on my desk. Its light never dimmed, though sometimes it pulsed faster when I drew near, as if recognizing its rightful host. I could feel its pull — the temptation to merge it with my own power, to bind the secret of true rebirth to myself.
But I was patient.
Power without understanding is waste.
For now, I continued to perfect every art, every field, every discipline that existed — and many that did not. The world outside had long since ceased to matter. Wizards and muggles alike whispered my name as if it were legend, a myth of the eternal ruler who never aged.
Let them.
I had become something greater than myth.
And soon, when the time was right, I would ignite that phoenix flame — and from it, forge a new truth.
A world reborn.
In my image.