By the time I turned three, my control over magic had grown far beyond what any child should have possessed. The system's help, Minzy's training, and endless nights of study had turned my mind into a fortress — strong, organized, disciplined.But even fortresses can have invaders.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it: something slithering behind the walls of my thoughts. A whisper. A flicker of rage and memory not my own.
It was time to deal with it.
I sank into meditation, letting my consciousness drift inward. The world around me dissolved, replaced by my mindscape — a vast sea of darkness beneath a crimson sky, and in the center, a ruined throne.
And on that throne sat him.
Tom Riddle.
He looked young — maybe sixteen — pale skin, cold eyes that shimmered with malice and pride. The ghost of a boy who'd once called himself the greatest wizard alive.
"So," he said softly, voice dripping with arrogance. "You're the parasite living in my head."
"I could say the same to you," I replied.
He smiled thinly. "You're not the same child. There's something… older about you."
I met his gaze evenly. "Because I've lived before. And I know exactly who you are, Tom."
He stood, his presence stretching like a shadow through the air. "Then you know you can't defeat me. I am magic perfected."
"No," I said quietly. "You're power without balance. Knowledge without compassion. You're what happens when brilliance forgets humanity."
The darkness surged. Pain split through my skull as his mind clashed with mine — a war of memories and magic. I saw flashes: his years in the orphanage, Hogwarts, the Chamber of Secrets, the creation of the Horcruxes. His brilliance was breathtaking — and terrifying.
But I fought back. I had Lily's gift for charms, her purity of soul, and my own stubborn will.
"Your power belongs to me now," I whispered.
Tom screamed as I reached forward — not with my hands, but with my will — and pulled. His essence shattered into light and shadow, memories pouring into me like fire. Knowledge flooded my veins: the structure of spells, the beauty of runes, the rhythm of ancient curses.
When it ended, I stood alone. The throne was empty. The sea had gone still.
I opened my eyes, gasping.
The room around me trembled with raw, uncontained magic. Toys levitated. Shadows danced. The air crackled with power so dense it almost burned.
I could feel it — his knowledge, his memories — now part of me.
I understood Legilimency so instinctively I could almost taste the emotions of those nearby.
My mental walls thickened, my Occlumency perfect.
A faint hiss left my lips, and a snake hidden beneath my bed answered in kind. Parseltongue.
Power surged through me without wand or word — wandless, nonverbal magic blooming like a living thing.
And deep beneath it all pulsed something far older, colder: soul magic. The forbidden art Tom Riddle had only begun to understand — now mine to command.
But with it came something else. Ruthlessness. Ambition. The faint, thrilling hunger to test my strength.
I touched my chest, feeling my heart race beneath small, childlike fingers. "I see now," I whispered. "Tom, you weren't my curse. You were my catalyst."
For the first time, I smiled — truly smiled — and it wasn't innocent.