Chapter 7. New Powers ?

Dobby led me to the guest room, a space meticulously maintained and adorned as if prepared to host a guest at a moment's notice.

The room exuded an air of opulence, reminiscent of the grandeur one might find in a Victorian-age castle. The windows were adorned with billowing white curtains, allowing just the right amount of sunlight to filter through. At the heart of the room, a majestic four-poster bed stood, its regal presence commanding attention.

"Master Severus, do you have any preferences regarding the attire you wish to wear, sir?" Dobby inquired, his fingers twitching with readiness.

House elves possessed a remarkable ability to conjure clothing out of thin air, their mastery of wandless magic a testament to their unique skills. However, they required clear instructions to channel their magic effectively.

Having observed their proficiency in wandless magic, I was well aware that the house-elves' magical abilities fell under a category known as elven magic. Unlike wizards who needed to be trained in the use of magic, house-elves possessed an inherent aptitude for it from birth. Their magic evolved through sheer will and intent, yet they seemed confined to serving the wizarding world.

Most house-elves endured mistreatment without ever raising a finger against their masters, unless they were granted freedom. It was as if nature had bestowed them with a gift while simultaneously placing limitations to maintain a delicate balance.

The origins of house-elves remained shrouded in mystery, existing alongside magical families since time immemorial. While there was no concrete evidence of when they began serving wizards, it was believed that elves had been in servitude since their first appearance.

Unfortunately, many had taken advantage of their nature, subjecting them to mistreatment. Only a few exceptional elves, like Dobby, dared to express their discontent with such treatment. However, due to their inherent nature, they remained bound to their respective families unless they were granted freedom.

During my regular visits to the Malfoy Manor, I couldn't help but notice a stark contrast between Dobby and the other elf who had served the Malfoy family since my very first visit. While the latter elf seemed subservient, content with the treatment bestowed upon them, Dobby exhibited a clear resistance, while not openly displaying his reluctance to serve the Malfoys, still harboring a deep-seated fear of them.

It occurred to me that Dobby's rebellious spirit might prove advantageous in the future. Instances of goblins and other sub-human species rebelling against their mistreatment were not uncommon, as they yearned for fair treatment and equality. This defiant nature could potentially serve a purpose for me.

Starting an Elven rebellion sounds fun, might bring those do-gooders down a peg for selective ignorance and shock those haughty inbreds a lesson.

'Focus, Severus, Focus. Not the time to plan a rebellion.'

However, for the time being, I pushed thoughts of the house elves aside and focused my attention on Dobby.

"Dobby, I don't have any particular preference, so why don't you select something? Choose something elegant, but in black," I stated, trying to make my intentions clear.

"Dobby not worthy, sir. Dobby mustn't choose. Dobby must do what the master desires. Dobby must be a good elf," Dobby muttered frantically, his voice filled with anxiety.

"Dobby, cease your fretting!" I commanded firmly, my tone leaving no room for argument.

Startled, Dobby halted his mumbling, looking at me with a mixture of fear and apprehension.

"Dobby, I am not Lucius, nor his father. I am not your master, in fact. I have no desire to punish you. I simply asked for your assistance because I am uncertain about my own preferences," I explained, hoping to reassure him.

"But if Dobby chooses, then Dobby becomes a bad elf," he replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Do you wish to help me or not?" I asked, pressing the matter.

He nodded, indicating his willingness to assist, and in that moment, I detected a glimmer of independent thought within him.

It was an encouraging sign, of sanity, a flicker of resistance that set him apart from the other mistreated house elves who served pureblood families.

"Then let us keep this our little secret, Dobby. I will not divulge your involvement to Malfoy or anyone else," I assured him, understanding the weight of his concern.

His eyes widened, resembling bright orbs of light, as my words registered within him.

"Sir, you won't tell the master?" he inquired, his voice filled with excitement and hope.

"No, Dobby. Now, please leave me. I must prepare for the task ahead," I instructed, giving him permission to depart.

With a nod of gratitude, Dobby disapparated from the room, his small form disappearing in a blink.

House elves possessed untapped potential beyond their domestic duties, far beyond what the narrow-minded purebloods could comprehend. It was a tragic oversight, one that prevented them from realizing the true value of these loyal creatures.

I pondered the significance of their role as I stepped into the attached bathroom, which, in comparison to my former residence, seemed almost cramped.

I stepped into the grand shower, its size befitting the opulence of the Malfoy family, who, despite not being included in the revered Sacred 28, held an esteemed status as the wealthiest purebloods in England.

As the cold water cascaded over my bare skin, I closed my eyes, attempting to process the whirlwind of events that had transpired over the past twenty-four hours.

The simple Christmas outing had transformed into a tragic loss, the death of my beloved mother.

The mere thought of her caused a sharp pang of sorrow deep within me.

Memories flooded my mind, the nights spent by her side as she regaled me with stories of Hogwarts, and the wise counsel she imparted before I embarked on my own journey.

"Remember, Severus, I care not which house you find yourself in, as long as you remain true to yourself," she had whispered, her words etching themselves into my very being as I boarded the Hogwarts Express.

The weight of her absence was an ache that resonated through my heart.

"I cannot yield now, not now." I resolved, employing Occlumency to suppress the pain, to push aside the inevitable.

The frigid water served as a stark reminder of the cold reality that lay before me.

Having chosen to follow in my mother's footsteps, I had joined the house of Slytherin.

This year, she had entrusted me with her own collection of books, a treasure trove of knowledge.

Within their pages, I had meticulously documented years of research, devising new brewing methods for existing potions, crafting original spells, and formulating counterspells to thwart curses.

Each volume held a piece of my magical journey, an embodiment of my relentless pursuit of mastery of magic.Yet, even as I closed my eyes, the haunting image of the previous night's gory scene replayed before me. I knew it would forever haunt my dreams.

There was but one path before me, a path that involved setting the stage for the revival of my mother, for manifesting the dream she had nurtured within me.

The promise I had made to her, to become the greatest wizard, echoed in my mind. I have always craved power, a hunger that burned within me since childhood. However, my mother desired something more than raw strength. she wished me to be the greatest wizard, not the most powerful.

Being the greatest did not necessarily equate to being the most powerful. I have to forge a path that would make my mother proud, a path that would earn her unwavering respect.

Albus Dumbledore was a prime example of such greatness—a wizard who commanded both fear and reverence, even among his supporters and adversaries alike. His name carried weight and influence throughout the wizarding world.

Then there was Voldemort, the self-proclaimed most powerful wizard. While some of his followers clung to that notion, their loyalty was often driven by fear rather than genuine respect. This fact became evident through the behavior of Malfoy Senior toward Voldemort.

He viewed Voldemort as a means to justify his own actions, his true allegiance lying with self-preservation. He taught his son, Lucius, the importance of knowing when to retreat, a lesson inherent in the mindset of many purebloods. A good lesson.

Most purebloods, motivated by self-interest, would abandon Voldemort the moment it appeared their cause was faltering. Their decisions were always calculated moves, and Voldemort became a conduit for expressing their hatred and disdain for Muggles.

Before the tumultuous world of politics engulfed my life, I recalled a simpler dream I held as I set foot in Hogwarts.

I longed for nothing more than to learn magic and find solace within a happy family—a wish tinged with the innocence of childhood. However, Hogwarts itself would soon shatter those aspirations, leaving behind only a shell of who I once was.

Disillusioned by the harsh realities I encountered, I realized that survival necessitated blending in, playing the dangerous game of politics, and feigning allegiance to beliefs I cared little for—all in an effort to safeguard myself.

As time went on, the façade I had donned for self-preservation began to meld with reality, pushing me further into the ranks of the Death Eaters.

But it wasn't solely an external force that drew me towards the dark side. Revenge against the Potter gang, coupled with the allure of a place where I could delve into the forbidden arts, also influenced my decision. However, it was an incident this year that solidified my resolve.

I vividly remember the day Dumbledore made me swear an oath to protect his precious Gryffindors—a demand that ran counter to my own desires.

It was back when I let my emotions overtake me, reveling in the prospect of using the evidence I had acquired to see Potter and his cohorts expelled.

I cared little for the consequences they would face or the disruption it would cause to their education. They had to pay for their transgressions against me.

Merely expressing a preference for Slytherin over Gryffindor did not grant them the right to meddle in my affairs. I was not one to sit back and allow them to escape unscathed. I retaliated, inflicting upon them the same pain they had inflicted upon me.

I yearned for their removal, using their supposed knowledge of the dark arts as an excuse for their mistreatment of me.

Why was it their concern whether or not I delved into the darker aspects of magic? This cycle of vengeance began to shape my outlook, leading me to project my hatred for my Muggle father and Potter onto other Muggle-borns and Gryffindors.

Yet, when I initially boarded the Hogwarts Express and spoke those words, I was oblivious to the inner workings of the Slytherin house. My reference to the Slytherin motto was based solely on the values it represented, not the notions of blood purity.

That is why, at the time, I wished for Lily to be sorted into Slytherin—I had no inkling of how Slytherins treated half-bloods and Muggle-borns.

I must confess that I was not innocent in my treatment of other Muggle-borns, but in my mind, I am justified in my desire to witness Potter and his gang expelled as a personal view, caring little for how others perceived their actions.

It was on that fateful day, driven by foolishness, that I believed the legends surrounding the Whomping Willow and ventured near, only to encounter a werewolf.

I was well aware of Lupin's condition, and my intent was simply to gather evidence before retreating. I did not anticipate a fully transformed werewolf nor did I know it was the night of the full moon. I was not foolish enough to risk my life for a mere piece of evidence.

Potter arrived to save his friend from the consequences of murder. I understood well that Potter's actions were motivated solely by his desire to protect his companion, as not a day went by when he did not attempt to hex me.

We were all taken before Dumbledore, who had the audacity to express gratitude to Potter for rescuing a fellow student, despite their attempts to employ methods that could have proven fatal.

He lightly reprimanded Black and allowed him to go free, concocting flimsy excuses to justify his leniency. He never truly cared for my life, as that old manipulative fool admitted during our heated exchange. If he genuinely abhorred the idea of causing harm to others, he would not have hexed individuals, leaving them to suffocate on soap bubbles.

Albus Dumbledore, someone I once admired and saw as an inspiration, revealed his hypocritical nature—able to perceive the good in everyone, yet using them solely for his own purposes. It felt utterly hypocritical for him to lecture me while turning a blind eye to their escape, all for fear of exposing Lupin's true nature.

My respect for him dissipated entirely when he uttered those words: "You shouldn't have listened to Mr. Black. You knowingly entered the willow. I need you to swear an oath that you wouldn't speak about Mr. Lupin being a werewolf and tonight's event." He twisted the narrative to make me feel guilty. However, I remained resolute in my indifference.

I was coerced into making that oath, one that forbade me from speaking about that harrowing night. Yet, Potter was permitted to recount his version of events, basking in the glory of being a hero who saved me. I was denied the opportunity to share my side of the story.

Dumbledore's indifference toward my life cemented my decision: if the esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts did not care about my demise, then why should I fear the consequences of aligning myself with the Death Eaters?

Even if I did not join their ranks at that very moment, I vowed never to fight for Dumbledore again.

As the water cascaded over me, my mind wandered back to the peculiar events that unfolded after I ended my father's life. The Shadows.

I could still sense his lifeless body lingering within the depths of my own shadow, preserved in a macabre state.

Curiously, his remains showed no signs of decomposition or bloating, as if suspended in an eternal moment.

Strangely, I possessed an intimate knowledge of every aspect of his being, both external and internal, etched into the recesses of my mind.

A change had taken hold within me, revealing itself when I delved into the practice of Occlumency. The barriers I erected within my mind felt different, an alteration distinct from the norm. It was akin to the sensation that washed over me when I inflicted those fatal wounds upon my father—shadows moving at my command. And then, when I ventured into the cemetery, an uncanny familiarity permeated the air.

This was not mere magic; it was something altogether different. My profound understanding of magic, cultivated through my relentless pursuit of magical knowledge and the creation of spells, allowed me to discern the dissimilarity.

Obscurus, an enigmatic phenomenon, flitted through my thoughts as a potential explanation. However, I swiftly dismissed the notion. Obscuruses typically manifested in younger witches and wizards, a consequence of their relentless suppression of magic to conceal their true nature. But I had never needed to conceal my abilities.

Something had irrevocably shifted within me, an intangible transformation that eluded my grasp. Could it be akin to the empowered heroes I had witnessed on television? Or perhaps, more akin to the maligned mutants that the Muggle world seemed to disdain?

Leaving the shower behind, I stepped out onto the cool bathroom tiles, finding solace before the mirror.

My reflection stared back at me—my lanky frame, the curtain of hair obscuring my face. Though freshly shampooed, my complexion possessed an otherworldly pallor, and a distinctive hook marred the shape of my nose. This hook, a lasting reminder of an injury inflicted by my father, forever tainted my appearance.

My mother had attempted to mend it with the Episkey spell, but the imperfection remained, an unwelcome reminder of the abuse I endured.

This lanky body wasn't strong enough to carry my mother even at the pivotal moment, a shame I never intended to happen again.

I have never cared too much about my appearance and clothing but I knew their importance. How quickly people were swayed by them. If I want to be seen, adored, and revered, I need to change my appearance.

I reached out, my fingertips tracing the contour of my hooked nose, and a decision crystallized within me.

To sever the connection to my father's memory and the torment of my past, I resolved to alter the shape of my nose.

Gazing upon the sink, I steeled myself and swung my head forward, colliding with the cool porcelain surface.

*Crack*

With a resounding crack, a fissure marred the surface of the sink, a testament to the excruciating pain I had just endured.

"Aaavooo!" I cried out, my voice laced with agony.

Hastily, I summoned my wand with a whispered "Accio" and enveloped myself in a hushed "Muffliato" charm to prevent any unwanted eavesdropping.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" Still writhing in discomfort and pain, I murmured to myself, "I shouldn't have done that."

Carefully, I aimed my wand at my nose, ensuring that it remained unaffected by any further changes.

With a deliberate flick of my wand, I cast the healing spell "Episkey" upon it, hoping for a noticeable alteration in my appearance.

"Well, it makes me look so different, but in a good way." I mused, recognizing not that changed countenance before me.

If I wished to inspire loyalty and followership, I knew that mere physical alterations would not suffice. My lanky figure failed to exude an aura of intimidation or authority.

Charisma, I pondered, was the key to captivating others' devotion. It extended far beyond mere appearances; it encompassed the very presence one carried.

Though cultivating an air of friendliness proved elusive for me, I resolved to fashion myself as a protector—a symbol of power and command that would inspire allegiance.

Staring intently at the shadow dancing upon the opposite wall, a peculiar curiosity gripped me. Would the shadows devour me as well?

Contemplating this enigma, I found myself impulsively reaching out to touch the elusive darkness, reminiscent of the indescribable connection I had experienced in the cemetery, among the dead.

To my astonishment, instead of encountering a solid wall, my hand effortlessly passed through it. My HAND, My freaking HAND went through the wall.

Summoning all my courage, I plunge my head into the inky abyss.

Though greeted by impenetrable darkness and bone-chilling cold, a profound sense of belonging pervaded my essence—an inexplicable familiarity.

Hastily withdrawing from the shadow's embrace, I recoiled, fearful of something unknown happening.

Perplexed and unable to fathom the extent of the transformation, I found myself possessed of this extraordinary power without rhyme or reason.

Such abilities remained uncharted within the annals of wizarding lore. While spells of similar nature existed, the possession of inherent powers by individuals themselves remained an enigma.

A distant recollection stirred within my mind—a conversation I had once shared with Mr. Evans regarding "mutants."

Closing my eyes, I strained to recall the discussion that had taken place.

"So, tell me, Severus. Is Lily truly a witch? Does Hogwarts truly exist?" he had inquired.

"Yes, sir. She is a witch. When Lily turns eleven, she shall receive her acceptance letter from Hogwarts," my younger self had replied.

"It appears she is not a mutant, Rose. No one shall come seeking her out, and she will have the opportunity to attend school," he had reassured Mrs. Evans.

"What if she were one? I hope you would not treat her differently. Or..." Mrs. Evans had voiced her concern.

"No, I would never treat her differently. It is simply that mutants are surrounded by rumors and myths. People hold great hate toward them, and I would rather not expose her to that, and I don't want others to find out if she was one." Mr. Evans had responded, reassuring his wife.

"But they do not hold witches in high regard either," Mrs. Evans had countered.

"Indeed, but within the confines of that magical boarding school, she will find safety and kinship among people like her," Mr. Evans had explained.

"Sir, who exactly are these mutants you speak of?" my younger self had inquired hesitantly, curious.

"You see, Severus, there exist certain individuals with extraordinary powers, shrouded in mystery. People refer to them as mutants. They possess abilities such as flight, emitting beams of light, and conjuring fire from thin air," Mr. Evans had shared, his voice taking on a childlike tone, an attempt to lighten the weight of the conversation surrounding mutants.

Even then, my younger self had grasped his veiled intention—to conceal society's deep-seated animosity toward mutants.

At that tender age, I already comprehended muggles' hatred for all things empowered, although they paradoxically idolized so-called "superheroes" now.

A change had taken hold of me, an invisible metamorphosis that left my outward appearance untouched, yet something inside me felt fundamentally altered. Life, it seemed, had decided to curse me with a labyrinth of complications.

First, I had to kill my father's life, and now the revelation of uncharted powers. Powers, for which I will yet again be hated and possibly hunted.

Taking stock of the abilities that had seemingly manifested within me, I listed them in my mind.

1)A connection to death—those strange yet familiar sensations in the presence of lifeless bodies.

2)An uncanny affinity with shadows, as evidenced by my hand passing through my very own shadow and my father's dead body in them.

3) An inexplicable intuition concerning my own physical being—an instinctual understanding of change in my body that defied explanation.

4) And finally, a transformation of my eyes, not awakened, the nature of which eluded my comprehension, yet.

However, such fragmented observations provided scant insight into the inner workings of these newfound powers.

The existence of powered individuals did not surprise me, for muggles had once persecuted wizards and witches in their misguided paranoia prior to the implementation of the International Statute of Secrecy.

Yet, information on mutants remained scarce, elusive in the confines of news reports.

Given the dearth of knowledge, mutants must either be hiding their abilities or be pursued relentlessly by those who fear them. Both scenarios warranted concern.

Ah, the joyous addition of an ancient manipulator, a maniac intent on igniting a war against muggles, and the ongoing pursuit of those with extraordinary powers.

My day keeps getting better and better.

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With this, I have completed 15k words, please blast me with a few stones and comments so that it would be visible to a larger audience.

And by the way, this was such a big chapter to write, I hope you liked it. Leave a comment.