December 1991 arrived with a biting, frost-laden wind that even the narrow, protected arteries of Knockturn Alley couldn't fully repel. The condensation on my shop windows acted as a frosted curtain, blurring the outside world into a smudge of grey and charcoal. Inside, however, the air was thick with the scent of dried sage, roasting meat, and the metallic tang of simmering cauldrons.
I was ten years old—a decade of life split between two worlds—and the weight of the coming year was starting to press against my ribs. In the months leading up to the winter solstice, I had turned my focus inward, obsessively training the affinities that had been grafted into my soul by a madman.
Without a wand, the progress was agonizingly slow. Magic, for most, is a floodgate opened by a key; for me, it was a leak I had to widen with my bare hands. But eventually, the breakthrough happened. A small, jagged spark of lightning—pale blue and smelling of ozone—flickered between my thumb and forefinger. From that single spark, the dam broke. I began to understand the language of the birds, sensing their movements through the sky as if they were extensions of my own nervous system. Fire, the gift of the Phoenix, remained elusive—a faint, stubborn simmer in my chest that refused to catch—but I could feel it waiting.
The Seer ability was another matter entirely. It wasn't something I practiced; it was something that happened to me. Fragments of the future would snag on my consciousness like burrs on wool—blurred images of a castle, a red train, and the faint, shimmering threads of destiny that connected people I hadn't even met yet. I couldn't control it, but I could respect it.
However, the most critical addition to my regimen was Occlumency. It was a staggering oversight on my part; running a clandestine intelligence network without mental shields was like building a vault out of paper. If I was to survive the scrutiny of Dumbledore, the suspicion of Snape, or the cold intrusion of Voldemort, my mind could not be an open book.
The first step was the hardest: the total clearing of the mind. It took weeks of sitting in the dark, breathing through the chaos of two lifetimes of memories, until I could reach a state of absolute Aporia—the void.
When it came time to build my defenses, I didn't reach for stone walls or iron gates. Wizards are terrestrial creatures; they think in terms of physical barriers. I chose the Cosmic. I constructed a mindscape based on the vast, terrifying expanse of deep space—a place where an intruder's mind would simply lose its orientation.
In my mind, my memories are not books or files. They are stars. My most painful experiences are cold, blue giants, burning with a distant, frozen intensity. My warmer memories—the way Giselle looks at me with that protective, mother-wolf intensity—are soft nebulae of rose and gold. My thoughts orbit like planets, following strict gravitational laws that I alone control. If a subtle intruder—like Snape or Dumbledore—were to brush against my mind at Hogwarts, they wouldn't see a lie. They would see a silent, beautiful void. They wouldn't even know where to begin looking for the truth.
One evening, as the hearth fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows across the rows of potion jars, I sat across from Giselle at our heavy wooden table. The meal was simple but hearty: roasted roots, a thick stew of winter vegetables, and bread that was still steaming from the oven. My night-black wings were folded neatly behind me, their tips brushing softly against the floorboards.
Giselle watched me with those unblinking amber eyes. She ate with a restrained, predatory grace, her focus never truly leaving me. She knew when I was plotting.
"I've been thinking," I said, setting my fork down. The sound seemed to ring in the quiet room. "About the shop. About the pack. About the fact that 'knowledge is power' is a cliché because it's true."
She raised an eyebrow, a faint, curious tilt to her head. "Are we talking about the apothecary business, or the shadow business?"
"They are the same thing, Giselle," I answered. "But we have a vulnerability. We hear everything, we see everything, but if someone powerful enough catches one of us... they can take everything. Just by looking into our eyes."
Giselle frowned, the steam from her stew curling around her face. "My mind?"
"Yes. Occlumency. It's the art of mental discipline. In our line of work, a stray thought can be as lethal as a curse. I want to teach you. I want to teach the whole pack."
The silence that followed was heavy. Giselle leaned back, her chair creaking. She looked at the wolves lounging near the hearth, then back to me. "You want us to hide our thoughts from the world? Even from each other?"
"I want you to be able to choose what the world sees," I said firmly. "I want us to build something that lasts. If we're going to push the shop's influence beyond the Alley, we need to be a fortress—physically, magically, and mentally."
She nodded slowly, a small, humored smile touching her lips. "Together, then. You teach us this 'mind-hiding,' and we'll make sure no one ever smells a secret on us."
The following night, the training began. The room was dim, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. Giselle sat cross-legged on the floor, and the pack gathered around her in a silent, respectful circle. The air felt charged, expectant.
"Close your eyes," I murmured, my voice dropping into a rhythmic, calm cadence. "Do not focus on the room. Do not focus on the wind outside. Focus on the space behind your eyes."
I guided them through the initial breathwork, helping them push away the surface-level noise of their instincts.
"Your mind is a space," I explained. "It is infinite. For me, it is a night sky. My memories are stars, my emotions are the clouds of gas between them. Everything is ordered. Everything has a place."
I extended my hands, and in my own mind, I felt my cosmos flare into brilliant, cold life. I could feel the gravity of my "planet" thoughts and the swift, icy trail of "comet" memories.
"Now," I continued, "find your own structure. Don't fight the chaos of your thoughts—guide them. If you see fireflies, give them a path. If you see a forest, grow the trees until they hide the paths. Control the chaos."
Giselle's brow furrowed in deep concentration. I could sense the shift in the room's energy as the wolves followed her lead, their breathing falling into a synchronized, heavy rhythm.
"I see... black," Giselle whispered, her voice sounding small in the vastness of the exercise. "It's endless. And there are lights... like fireflies. They're moving too fast."
"Don't chase them," I said softly. "Command them. Give the fireflies a border. Build a moon at the center of your sky and let them orbit it. Let your mind obey you."
Minutes bled into hours. I watched as the tension left their bodies, replaced by a crystalline, focused stillness. Giselle's mindscape was beginning to take form—a vast, dark sky anchored by a glowing, silver moon. Around it, the "fireflies" of her thoughts began to settle into structured, shimmering lines.
As the lesson concluded, Giselle opened her eyes. They seemed brighter, more grounded. A sense of calm followed her, a weight of authority that hadn't been there before.
"I feel... whole," she said, looking at her hands. "Safe."
I nodded, a rare sense of satisfaction warming my chest. "That is the first step. The stronger your mind becomes, the more your magic and your body will respond. We are no longer just survivors, Giselle. We are becoming the masters of our own destiny."
I folded my wings and looked toward the window. The year 1991 was almost over. In a few short months, the letter would arrive, and I would take this mental fortress into the heart of Hogwarts. I was ready. The boy who lived might have his fame, but I had my stars. And in the vastness of the cosmos I had built, I was the only thing that mattered.