Disclaimer: I don't own either World of Warcraft or Harry Potter, they are owned by Blizzard Entertainment and J.K. Rowling, respectively. I just play around with their stories.


Date: ?

Azalea surveyed her surroundings, the large, ominous portal behind her still glowing with an eerie blue light, its shimmering surface pulsating softly like a living thing. The light cast ghostly reflections on the scorched earth around her, illuminating patches of jagged rock and scattered debris that seemed to tell stories of long-forgotten battles.

The portal was a vast archway, its edges adorned with intricate carvings that spiraled upward, depicting swirling patterns and cryptic symbols. They seemed to dance and shift as the light flickered, creating an unsettling illusion of movement. The portal's surface was a mesmerizing mix of colors—deep azure interspersed with hints of violet and silver, reminiscent of the night sky but tinged with something more sinister.

It gave off a low hum, a barely audible vibration that reverberated through the air, as if the fabric of reality itself was straining against the power contained within. Azalea could feel the energy thrumming in the pit of her stomach, an instinctual awareness that this was a threshold between worlds, a conduit of unimaginable forces.

At the base of the portal stood two towering statues of men, monumental figures crafted from a dark stone that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. They loomed like ancient sentinels, each figure clad in armor that had weathered time itself. Their hoods covering their heads, casting a dark shadow across where the face should be.

Their stone swords were pointed firmly to the ground, symbols of both defense and solemn watchfulness. The statues' eyes glowed faintly, emanating an otherworldly light that felt alive, as if they were not merely made of stone but sentinels imbued with consciousness. Azalea felt an inexplicable weight under their gaze, as though they were peering directly into her soul. What do they see? A lost girl or a monster in the making?

The question gnawed at her, intertwining with the tension that hung in the air. Each shift of her stance seemed to trigger a reaction from the statues, their glowing eyes tracking her movements with unsettling precision.

The atmosphere around the portal was thick with anticipation, a stillness that hinted at the chaos that lay beyond. She couldn't shake the feeling that this place was both a sanctuary and a trap, a gateway to something vast and unknown.

The ground beneath her was littered with shards of broken stone and remnants of what once might have been a grand structure. The echoes of history lingered here, whispers of battles fought and sacrifices made, resonating with the air thick with dust. Azalea felt a shiver run down her spine as she took in the scene, the portal behind her pulsating like a heartbeat.

The air was dry and hot, each breath drawing in more heat and dust, leaving her mouth parched and her throat scratchy. The oppressive atmosphere felt like a weight pressing down on her chest, stifling and unyielding.

Above her, the sky was a mottled canvas, barely illuminated by the fading sunlight. It hinted at stars just out of reach, their faint twinkles lost in the chaos of swirling, dark clouds that loomed ominously on the horizon. The colors bled together—deep purples, sickly greens, and grays—creating a surreal backdrop that mirrored her turmoil.

The land stretched out before her like a wasteland, desolate and lifeless. It bore the scars of a past catastrophe, as if scorched by a dark ritual that had demanded sacrifice from both the earth and the soul. Here and there, blackened remnants of trees jutted from the ground like skeletal fingers reaching for the sky, their charred bark telling tales of flames that had devoured them whole. Barren soil lay beneath her feet, parched and cracked, offering no signs of life—no grass, no wildflowers, not even the whisper of a breeze to disturb the oppressive silence.

In the distance, jagged mountains loomed like sentinels, their peaks shrouded in swirling mists. Shadows danced along the rugged terrain, elongating and shifting as the last light of day surrendered to the encroaching twilight. The landscape was marked by deep fissures and ravines, as if some great force had torn through the earth, leaving behind a scarred and broken surface. As Azalea surveyed her surroundings, she felt a profound sense of isolation.

The desolation mirrored her own struggles, each lifeless expanse a reminder of her past losses. Perhaps this wasteland is a reflection of my own existence, she mused, her heart heavy as she observed the burned trees and barren soil that surrounded her. It was as if the very land resonated with her sorrow, echoing the turmoil within her soul.

As she concentrated on the magic around her, she could feel how the magic of the portal was even now warping the landscape, leaving behind a desert devoid of life.

Thunder rumbled ominously above, as if the heavens themselves mourned what had been lost.

Before exploring further into this unfamiliar terrain, Azalea took a moment to check her supplies, her pulse quickening as she rifled through her well-worn bag.

She unzipped it, and the first item to emerge was her photo album, its worn cover a testament to countless revisits. She hesitated, her breath catching as she opened it. The faces of her parents, Andi and Teddy, smiling up at her, their joyful expressions starkly contrasting the desolation surrounding her now. It was a cruel reminder of everything that had been stolen from her—a life filled with laughter, now replaced by shadows and loss.

What a sick joke life plays, she thought bitterly, keeping reminders of love close while surrounding her with echoes of death. She quickly closed the album and tucked it back into her bag, feeling the weight of longing within her.

Azalea turned her attention to her potions, carefully sorting through the vials nestled in her bag. Blood replenisher, pepper-up, a few sleeping draughts—everything appeared intact. Relief washed over her as she recast their preservation charms, driven by ever-present paranoia. Each vial was a lifeline, a small shield against the unpredictable dangers lurking just beyond the crater's edge.

The air felt heavy with unsettling silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of movement just outside the crater. Azalea's instincts prickled; she sensed something lurking just beyond her sight.

The ground stretched out like a barren wasteland, broken only by skeletal trees and crumbling stone. The sky overhead was a sickly hue, as if the very air had been stained by remnants of ancient magic. It felt like a place abandoned by hope, where shadows danced just beyond her reach.

She forced herself to concentrate, pushing back the tide of dread that threatened to overwhelm her. Azalea had faced danger before, but this felt different—raw and unpredictable.

The muted sounds of movement grew closer, sending a chill down her spine. She could not afford to be careless. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath, recalling the resolve and sheer force of will that had carried her this far. The world beyond was unforgiving, and she needed to be sharp, to rely on her instincts and magic.

With her supplies secured and determination reignited, Azalea prepared to venture out of the crater. Each step into the unknown would be a testament to her resilience.

Whatever awaited her here, she would face it head-on, ready to reclaim her agency in a world determined to strip it away. With a final glance back at the portal from which she came, she took a deep breath, ready to confront the prospect of a new world.

Opening herself to the magic surrounding her, she hoped to discern a path. Her consciousness traversed the land, and somewhere to the north, she felt an ominous nexus pulsating with necrotic energy, calling her closer, almost welcoming her into its embrace.

The familiar coldness of death wrapped around her like a shroud. Going north, she felt a nexus pulling at her, beconning her closer, almost embracing her very essemce. Further, far in the north an even greater nexus loomed, its suffocating aura demanding her submission. But she had no intention of surrendering. She refused to be another pawn in a game written in blood.

Now armed with a sense of direction, Azalea cast a quick disillusionment and notice-me-not charm over herself. Transforming into her Animagus form, she marveled at the by now familiar sleek black feathers and glowing white eyes—a fitting disguise for her, a raven, a harbinger of death. As she soared into the sky, leaving the portal behind her, with only the sprawling landscape below. A faint path traced its way across the terrain like a serpent, leading to a distant fortress that beckoned her onward.

As she approached the fortress, the heavy gates loomed ahead, marked with arcane symbols that flickered with a ghostly glow—a testament to the magic woven into the very fabric of the keep. Azalea couldn't help but wonder how many spells had been cast in its defense, how many lives had been sacrificed to maintain its walls. It was a fortress built on sacrifice.

Descending near the gate, she landed on top of what seemed to be the entrance to the fortress. She was met with the sight of guards—tired but resolute, their faces etched with lines of worry and determination. They stood ready, as if anticipating an assault from both the demons lurking outside and the darkness within.

Trapped between two nightmares, much like herself. Inside, the echoes of battle resonated through stone corridors, the walls lined with relics of past victories and losses. Tattered banners hung limply; their colors faded yet defiant against the encroaching darkness. These walls have seen so much—courage, betrayal, and the relentless march of despair.

The air was thick with the weight of history, each stone a testament to the souls who had fought and fallen. She could feel it—the burdens they carry, the sacrifices they make. As she gazed below her from the top of the gate, the desolate landscape beyond seemed to stretch infinitely, filled with the echoes of the past. The scarred earth and twisted trees mirrored her own inner turmoil.

She listened to the guards talking to one another. Their language sounded like English, but their accents were foreign—an unsettling reminder that she was far from home. She probed into the mind of one guard, discovering snippets of history about this land, known as Azeroth, and its most recent war: a prince who murdered his father and marched an undead army toward the high elves. Murder, betrayal... It echoed her own story.

How he faught his way towards the Sunwell, a shimmering beacon of magic and life that had once been a sanctuary for the proud high elves of Quel'Thalas. Now, it lay in ruins, a target of the relentless assault waged by the fallen prince, Arthas, and his merciless undead army. The devastation that unfolded was almost poetic in its cruelty, a cruel echo of lost glory and broken oaths.

As she found out more about the Ranger General—a leader who had sworn to protect her people, only to be raised into undeath where she was forced to slaughter them—Azalea felt a deep, unsettling kinship. The stories of tragedy and betrayal resonated within her, each tale of loss a haunting reminder of her own past. She knew all too well the weight of broken promises and the bitter sting of betrayal; they had been her constant companions throughout her own dark journey.

The Scourge, with their hollow eyes and relentless hunger, reminded her too much of the Inferi Voldemort had raised during her own war—a soulless army of the damned, driven only by the will of a master who saw them as nothing more than tools for his ambition. Azalea felt a flicker of empathy for these lost souls, once vibrant individuals now trapped in a cycle of misery and servitude.

But then came the whispers—rumors of a new society forming among the recently freed undead, an uprising against their cruel master, regaining their free will. It intrigued her. These undead, now claiming their own autonomy, were not merely victims; they were survivors, just like her. The twisted irony struck her like a bolt of lightning: she, too, had once been a pawn in someone else's game. What if she could use their plight to her advantage?

The thought stirred something deep within her—a flicker of ambition ignited by the possibility of aligning herself with this burgeoning movement of the undead, perhaps she could not only exact vengeance upon the one who had raised them into undeath but also claim a foothold in this new world they were carving out.

A chance to turn the tables, to become a player rather than a pawn. Tempting, indeed.

Azalea envisioned a dark coalition, an army that would rise from the ashes of despair to reclaim their lost lives and reshape the very fabric of their existence. With her knowledge of magic and the arts of war, she could help them, empower them, and together they could challenge the master that had once controlled them.

But the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty. Would these freed souls accept her? Could she truly trust them? In the depths of her heart, Azalea felt the weight of her past decisions. She had walked a fine line between light and shadow, and now, as she contemplated her next move, she knew that embracing this dark alliance could either be her salvation or her doom.

The choice loomed before her: she understood that she would need to tread carefully in a world where she knew nothing substantial of. She pulled out of the guards mind and spread her wings again. Now with the start of a plan forming in her mind, she felt no need to continue listening to the guards thoughts.

As Azalea continued heading further north, the scenery below transformed into a vivid tapestry of life, rich and vibrant. The trees stood tall, their canopies a lush green, while the grass below swayed gently in the breeze, as if welcoming her entrance.

She caught glimpses of jaguars prowling through the underbrush, their powerful bodies blending seamlessly with the dappled shadows. The river glistened, alive with shimmering fish darting beneath the surface, each splash a reminder of the vitality that thrived here—a stark contrast to the desolation she had left behind in the blasted lands. The memory of that barren wasteland loomed heavily in her mind, a haunting reminder of decay and despair.

The air was thick with ash there, and the only sounds were the echoes of hopelessness that lingered like ghosts. But here, life surged around her, a vivid reminder of what once was and what could be again.

After hours of flight, Azalea finally spotted a small alcove at the foot of a mountain—an inviting refuge from the relentless winds. She descended into the clearing, feeling the weight of the world settle around her for a fleeting moment.

The air here was thick with the rich scent of damp earth and blooming wildflowers, a brief respite before the storm brewing within her. Shadows danced at the edge of her consciousness, the weight of her fears and uncertainties pressing down like a heavy cloak. For now, she would take what she could get—this illusion of safety was still safety.

It offered her a chance to gather her thoughts and prepare for the journey ahead. She inhaled deeply, letting the warmth of the sun envelop her, her feathers emmiting a comforting warmth over her weary frame. It grounded her to the present. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, stretching shadows across the ground, Azalea felt the tiredness of the day slam into her, a wave of exhaustion that threatened to pull her under.

Transforming back into her human form, Azalea felt a rush of adrenaline surge through her veins, the familiar sensation grounding her as she sprang into action. With deft movements, she began casting protective spells, her hands weaving intricate yet familiar patterns in the air as shimmering wards materialized around her.

Each incantation wrapped her in layers of defense, creating a fortress of magic to shield her from the lurking dangers of the world beyond the trees. Once she felt secure, she carefully removed her disillusionment charms, allowing her presence to emerge from the cover of invisibility.

Sinking to the soft earth, she allowed herself a moment to rest, knowing that the journey she would partake in the following day would be a long one. The tranquility of the forest enveloped her like a soft blanket, muffling the distant sounds of chaos that crackled just outside its reach. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of pine and earth.

Birds flitted about, their songs a cheerful counterpoint to the tension that thrummed within her. For a moment, Azalea allowed herself to breathe in the serenity, relishing the quiet beauty of nature.

But she knew better than to be lulled into complacency. This tranquility was merely the calm before the inevitable storm—a lesson she had learned all too well in her tumultuous life. As her thoughts turned inward, Azalea reflected on her past battles, each one a stark reminder that peace was fleeting.

Each encounter shaped her, honing her instincts and fortifying her resolve. Now, as she prepared to step back into a world rife with danger, she felt the familiar flicker of determination ignite within her.

Once satisfied, she set up her tent—a structure that felt both familiar and unsettling. Inside, the lavish decor was a cruel reminder of the Black family's legacy—a lineage stained with darkness that she could never fully escape.

A legacy tainted by blood. On a nearby table lay a stack of parchment: her painstakingly gathered notes on the Veil of Death. Hours spent sifting through ancient tomes had yielded little—most sources offered only vague references, nothing substantial.

What a waste of time, since most she had already gathered on her own.

She grabbed her grimoire from the bookshelf, worn smooth from years of study. Inside, her thoughts swirled with the weight of her ancestry, a burden intertwined with power.

The Peverells—legendary figures in the wizarding world, bound to themes of mortality and desire—were best known for their mastery of the Deathly Hallows and their deep connection to Death.

Antioch, the eldest, obsessed with power, had created the Elder Wand, seeking ultimate dominance.

Cadmus, the middle brother, yearned for love and crafted the Resurrection Stone, hoping to reunite with lost souls.

Ignotus, the youngest, valued wisdom and chose the Invisibility Cloak, allowing him to evade Death's grasp.

Their legacies left behind a complex tapestry of magic intertwined with themes of mortality and desire. Over time, the Peverell name became synonymous with dark and powerful magic, leaving a haunting shadow on the wizarding world.

Azalea reflected on this history, seeing it as both a burden and a privilege. She understood the implications of her lineage but relished the potential for power it brought, determined to reshape their narrative into one of strength rather than tragedy.

Azalea viewed her lineage with a mix of pride and disdain, knowing the power she held yet resenting the burdens of her ancestry. She believed her old world's fear of dark magic was naïve, seeing it as a tool—purely utilitarian. Her cynicism led her to embrace spells that others shunned, viewing them not as malevolent but as pathways to strength and control. In her mind, the ultimate goal was mastery, regardless of the moral implications.

She would forge her own legacy, even if it meant wading through blood.

As she sank into the couch, journal in hand, she contemplated what lay ahead. The hope for an easy life had already crumbled, replaced by the harsh truth: she would need to claw her way through this new world, no matter the cost.

Freedom, sweet and intoxicating, pulsed through her veins, but freedom often came at a price. She would navigate this world on her own terms, unburdened by the past, determined to rise from the ashes of her own tragedy. Let the world come to her; she would be ready, and she would not be merciful to those who opposed her.

Tomorrow might bring more horror, but what choice did she have? Sleep finally claimed her as the exhaustion from the ritual finally washed over her.


Date: March 30th, 1998

The moon hung high over the dense forest, casting eerie shadows that danced among the twisted branches as Azalea, Ron, and Hermione navigated the underbrush. They had been on the run for weeks, hunting for Horcruxes, their spirits worn thin by the weight of their task.

An unsettling silence enveloped them, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl. Every sound seemed amplified in the quiet, a reminder of the danger lurking just beyond their sight.

As they moved cautiously, Azalea couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. It was a sensation she had come to know all too well.

The forest, once a refuge, now felt like a labyrinth of shadows. She exchanged a glance with Ron and Hermione, the worry etched on their faces mirroring her own. Suddenly, the stillness shattered. A group of snatchers, drawn by the scent of desperation and the promise of a hefty reward, emerged from the undergrowth like wraiths.

They had tracked the trio for days, piecing together the patterns of their movements and the faint traces they left behind.

Azalea reacted instinctively, her wand already drawn, adrenaline surging through her veins. Her black hair whipping around her, her green eyes glowing with power in anticipation for the coming battle. The snatchers moved with a predatory grace, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.

"Get back!" she shouted, her voice steady despite the chaos unfolding around them. She was getting real tired about these people, tales of their exploits reaching even their camp. She knew it was just better to end this, once and for all. In that moment she made her decision, one that would change the trajectory of the war and her future.

As the first snatcher lunged, Azalea raised her wand and shouted, "Tenebris Aeternum!" Dark shadows erupted from her wand, coalescing into a swirling mass of ravens that engulfed the man in an inky haze. The creatures cawed fiercely, their wings beating like thunder, obscuring him in a veil of darkness and confusion.

He gasped, eyes wide with terror, before the ravens imploded, leaving only a smear of blood on the forest floor. As spells flew around her, Azalea tapped into her ancestral magic, feeling the familiar power of the Peverells surge through her veins. Its icy grasp wrapped around her, both chilling and comforting, igniting a sense of strength deep within her.

With a flick of her wrist, chains of shadows shot out, ensnaring the nearest snatcher and lifting him off the ground. In an instant, they constricted around him: they all could hear his bones shatter. As his body crumpled to the ground in a mangled heap, his face etched in terror and agony.

As they caught sight of him, a sharp gasp escaped Ron and Hermione, their faces pale with shock and horror. They instinctively stepped back, the reality of the gruesome scene overwhelming them.

Ignoring them, Azalea unleashed a wave of cold darkness that swept through the clearing, dismantling their attackers with ruthless efficiency. She summoned a flock of glowing white ravens that dove into the chests of the remaining snatchers, bursting forth with blood spraying out.

"Azalea, stop that this instant!" Hermione screamed, her eyes wide with horror. Ron stumbled back, disbelief etched across his face. "Azalea, stop! This isn't you!"

Azalea stepped forward, adrenaline coursing through her veins, the thrum of her magic pulsing inside her with every breath, every beat of her rapidly beating heart. The remaining snatchers hesitated, fear creeping into their eyes.

With a flick of her wrist, chains of dark magic shot out again, wrapping around another attacker. She squeezed, relishing the look of desperation on his face as his life force was snuffed out.

As the last snatcher fell, and the forest fell eerily quiet, save for Azalea's heavy breathing. She looked down at the carnage, a strange sense of satisfaction flooding her.

Hermione's face was pale, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "What have you done?" she whispered, trembling.

"They were a threat," Azalea replied, her voice calm but steely ."I did what needed to be done."

Hermione stepped closer, anger flashing in her eyes,

"You've crossed a line! Dark magic… You're losing yourself! You're becoming the very thing we fight against!"

"You think your way is the answer? The world is brutal, and I refuse to be its victim. This is survival—it's either them or us! We can't waste time using stunners; they'll just revive their friends, and the battle will continue. Now they won't hunt anyone else down; I made sure of that."

"At what cost?" Ron interjected, his voice trembling. "We're fighting against evil, not becoming it."

Azalea felt a surge of defiance. "I'll do what it takes. If that means using 'dark' magic, so be it. It's the only way to win. They won't care if it's an adult or a child standing before them. Do you really believe they'll show any of us mercy? Then why should I? If I have to give up my morals to end this war on my terms, then so be it."

Hermione's expression softened, concern breaking through her anger. "But we can't lose ourselves in this fight. We need to hold onto our humanity. We can't sink to their level. We need to stand above it!"

The tension crackled in the air, but Azalea stood firm, torn between the thrill of her magic and her bond with her friends.

"Humanity has done nothing but fail us," she whispered. "I won't let that happen again. No one has ever looked out for us; we only had ourselves. The teachers never helped us when it mattered. All the adults in our life have failed us. This is no different. I plan to survive this hell, and I'll take Tom down, even if it costs me my humanity in the process!"

She looked at her friends, and for a moment, doubt flickered in her mind, but the thrill of her magic drowned it out.

"I won't apologize for what I've done," she said, her voice low and resolute. "If I have to walk this path alone, then so be it." As they stood amidst the remnants of their shared humanity, the air thick with tension and fear, Azalea turned away, embracing the shadows that promised her strength.

Her heart hardened, and in that moment, she became something both terrifying and magnificent—a dark sorceress in a world that had long forgotten mercy.

Hermione stood her ground, eyes blazing with a mix of fear and determination. The silence of the forest felt suffocating, the air thick with the remnants of violence. She stepped closer to Azalea, her voice firm but trembling with emotion.

"Azalea, listen to me! Dumbledore believed in you. He saw the good in you—the potential to be a force for change. But this—this isn't what he wanted for you. He wouldn't want you to become another Tom, another monster that seeks power without regard for life."

Azalea scoffed, "Is that really what you think of me? that I lust for power? No Hermione, I only seek his death. In the end, it's your intent. I don't plan to conquer the wizarding world. I only want to take Tom down. Dumbledore's ideals didn't save us; they only made us vulnerable."

"No!" Hermione shouted, her voice breaking. "Tom was born out of fear, out of a desire to control and dominate. You can't fight evil by becoming it! Dumbledore wanted you to embrace your strengths, not drown in darkness! He taught us that true power lies in love, in protecting those we care about, not in terror and bloodshed." Azalea's expression hardened, but Hermione pressed on, desperation lacing her words.

"Do you really think Dumbledore would have supported this? He spent his life fighting against the very darkness you're now embracing. He wanted to inspire hope, not despair! You're losing yourself, and if you continue down this path, you'll become everything you've fought against. He loved you!"

Hermione's words hung heavy in the air, but Azalea's expression turned to disdain.

"You think Dumbledore cared about me?" She spat, her glare intensifying with each word.

"He was just another man playing god, pulling the strings while we suffered. He didn't save my family; he didn't stop Tom the first time—my mother did. All he did was talk about love and sacrifice while hiding the truth and hiding in his ivory tower."

Hermione stepped back, disbelief washing over her. "Azalea, that's not fair! Dumbledore—"

"Not fair?" Azalea interrupted, her voice rising. "What's fair about losing everything and being raised in a Merlin be damned cupboard? He made sure I didn't know love before coming to Hogwarts. He made sure of that when he left me at the tender hands of the Dursleys. He knew about the darkness and chose to let it thrive. He used us as pawns in his grand game, and now you want me to follow his lead? To become another puppet in his ideology?"

"Azalea, you're better than this!" Hermione pleaded, desperation creeping into her voice. "Dumbledore wanted to protect you! He believed in your potential to be a force for good, not darkness!"

Azalea laughed bitterly, the sound echoing in the eerie silence of the forest. "Good? What has that ever accomplished? Back in school, everyone shunned me as the suppossed 'Heir of Slytherin'; it took me to kill a damned basilisk, one that nearly killed me before people believed in me again. Never mind the fact that my best friend and my mother were both muggleborn. And now? Just look around! People die every day because of a war Dumbledore didn't stop when he had the chance to, even before Tom's first rise to power. I won't be weak like him. I won't let fear dictate my choices!"

"Azalea, don't you see?" Ron chimed in, trying to reach her through the anger. "This isn't strength; it's surrendering yourself to your hatred! You're letting it twist you!"

"Strength?" Azalea shot back, fury flaring in her eyes. "This is my magic, the magic that has been in my family for centuries! Dumbledore's way is just a façade—a lie meant to keep us submissive and under his control. Following his every order, as good little pawns do, but the chessmaster is dead!", she spat the last part out, her face twisting in anger.

"He has been for almost an entire year, and yet you still follow his every word. I refuse to be shackled by his morals any longer. The only truth I see is that my magic can protect me in ways that his so-called 'light' never could; if that means I'm going 'dark' or end up alone, then so be it."

Hermione's heart sank, the weight of Azalea's rejection cutting deep. "But you don't have to walk this path alone! We can fight together, using our strengths for good! There is no need for these kinds of spells!"

Azalea scoffed, her voice laced with disdain. "You cling to your beliefs like it's a shield, but it won't save you in this world. Dumbledore didn't save my family, and he won't save anyone else. I'm choosing my own destiny—one where I wield the darkness without fear of being consumed by it." Azalea felt doubt creeping in, her resolve wavering, but she clenched her fists, refusing to surrender to fear. "You don't understand! This is the only way to survive!"

"Is it?" Hermione's voice softened, filled with empathy. "Is this really survival? Or is it just another form of surrender? If you give in to the darkness, it will consume you, just like it consumed Tom. You'll be left alone, with nothing but regret. Dumbledore wouldn't want that for you."

For a moment, the forest held its breath, the echoes of the night surrounding them. Azalea felt the weight of Hermione's words pressing against her, a flicker of doubt igniting in her chest.

"You don't know what it's like," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I never even wanted to fight in this Merlin be damned war, but I'll do everything in my power to stop it. I won't let another child be raised without their mother's embrace if I can help it. If that means using 'dark' magic, then so be it!"

With that, she turned her back on them, footsteps heavy in defiance. The flicker of doubt that Hermione had desperately sought to ignite within her flickered and dimmed.

Azalea had chosen her path, and in that choice, she felt more powerful than ever—a dark sorceress free from the chains of her past.

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances filled with horror as they watched Azalea walk away, her magic palpable in the air, yet they followed her at a sedate pace, unable to fully abandon their friend even as fear gripped their hearts.


Date 614 by the king's Calendar:

Sylvanas sighed, a weary breath escaping her as she flinched at the unsettling dual-tone sound it made. Weeks had passed since that bastard Arthas Menethil had chosen not to kill her but instead raised her as a banshee.

Breaking free from his will had taken weeks of struggle, and in her wake, others had followed.

Now, she stood cloaked in tattered remnants of her once-proud ranger armor, the deep blue and silver threads faded and frayed. Her skin, pale and lifeless with a grayish hue, stood in stark contrast to the dark leather and metal that clung to her gaunt frame.

Ornate pauldrons, once shining, were now dulled and marred, bearing the scars of countless battles. Her hood cast a shadow over her sharp features, but beneath it, pale silvery strands of hair flowed like a river of moonlight, framing her face with an ethereal beauty.

Once a vibrant blonde, her hair was now tinged with the remnants of her past, a ghostly reminder of the life she had lost, a striking contrast to the haunting glow of her red eyes—like embers of a long-extinguished fire.

Each detail of her appearance was a reminder of her past life, twisted by the curse of undeath yet still fierce and defiant.

Finding a place to belong had been a great struggle. Her desperate plans for Lordaeron emerged after Silvermoon had all but shunned her and her fellow rangers.

The betrayal cut deep, stoked by the injustice of her fate. Had she not endured enough? She, who had stood defiant until her last breath, only to be felled by that cursed blade.

The memory of Arthas's cold, lifeless eyes—glowing with an eerie blue light—haunted her, a lingering reminder of the moment her soul was ripped from her body. After reclaiming her form, she sought out her rangers—sisters in spirit—who had fallen before his endless legions. Some had perished by her own twisted screams, yet they never faltered in their resolve until their final breath.

When she pleaded her case at the gates of Silvermoon, the weight of devastation pressed down on her. The living stared at their approaching forms with fear—pale skin, glowing red eyes, and gaunt faces.

Their armor hung loosely on their emaciated frames, stained with blood and marred by the chaos of countless battles against the Scourge. Their instinct to draw weapons was entirely understandable; Sylvanas had lived that terror more than anyone.

Yet, their outright refusal, their damnation of her and her rangers—those who had fought against his endless hordes—filled her with a seething anger. As if they had chosen this fate! The injustice of it all only stoked the fires of her resolve, forging a deeper determination to reclaim what was lost and prove that they were not the monsters they were made out to be.

She recalled the arduous journey south, a swelling horde of the undead trailing behind her, united by a fragile hope of finding a place to belong.

As they finally approached Lordaeron, the once-great city lay in ruins, overtaken by mindless ghouls, skeletons, and shambling zombies.

Among them, only a handful retained enough awareness to understand their plight and join her cause.

Sylvanas wasted no time, quickly rallying half of the remaining undead forces to stage a daring coup and seize control of this fractured empire. With sharp cunning and the support of the banshees—echoing whispers of fury—she coerced various factions lingering in the shadows—gnolls, bandits, and ogres—into fighting alongside them, binding their fates to her own.

Before long, the dreadlord Varimathras fell under her sway, swiftly pledging his loyalty in exchange for his life. With his dark power at her disposal, the undead forces successfully overthrew Detheroc and his army, forging an uneasy alliance with the mind-controlled Grand Marshal Garithos.

Together, they aimed to liberate Lordaeron from the clutches of the remaining dreadlord, Balnazzar. Garithos, despite his deep-seated disdain for non-humans, recognized the necessity of this alliance.

Sylvanas promised him that once the battle was won, Lordaeron would revert to his jurisdiction—a promise she had no intention of honoring. With their new allies at her side, the undead marched onward, their resolve steeled to end Balnazzar's reign.

In a climactic clash, the combined forces of the undead and the Alliance resistance dismantled the final bastion of the dreadlords' power in Lordaeron. In a final act of vengeance, Varimathras struck down his nathrezim brother, the air thick with the weight of their shared hatred.

Yet, no sooner had Garithos demanded that the Forsaken vacate the land than Sylvanas revealed her true intentions.

Without hesitation, she executed the human leader, claiming the ruins of Lordaeron for the free-willed undead, sealing her fate and that of her new kingdom.

Pity was the last thing she desired; revenge consumed her thoughts—revenge against Menethil and his accursed Scourge.

Yet, to achieve that, she needed help. Now, in this ruined kingdom that once housed dignitaries from across Azeroth, she had found a home for her people.

The Forsaken, as they called themselves, had been abandoned in their attempts to reconnect with the living. They were met with scorn, as if their very existence was a threat.

Thus, the creed of 'beware the living' was born. Cut off from all ties, they had forged a new identity—one bound by their shared suffering.

A knock on her door broke her thoughts. "My lady, it's time," Velonara's voice sliced through the silence.

One of her fellow rangers, she had been among the few to witness Sylvanas's death—and one of the many who had suffered because of it, forced to fall by her own screams.

Menethil had taken a twisted pleasure in making her turn against her allies, especially those she had trained alongside for decades.

With a final, weary sigh, Sylvanas steeled herself. Showing weakness before her people was not an option; they needed a strong leader now more than ever. Morale was all they had left, and she would not let them down.

As she stepped into the courtyard, the raised platform loomed ahead. Confidence swelled within her as she surveyed her people.

Each individual was unique, yet together they marched toward a common goal. Her heart ached as she spotted small figures nestled between the legs of their parents—children raised in a world of horror, looking to her for guidance, uncertain of their place in it.

The eyes of all of them met hers, filled with an uncertainty that they all felt. It was time to show them their strength. Taking a deep breath, Sylvanas let her voice ring out across the courtyard.

"Children of the grave, heed my call!"

Silence fell like a heavy blanket, the tension palpable as her words settled in.

"In life, we endured unimaginable tragedies. We watched our homes turn to ashes and cried out in agony as our loved ones were torn from us. We felt the world crumble beneath our feet."

She could see their expressions shift, pain and fury igniting within them.

"And in the face of such horrors, we were denied even the release of death. We, who have suffered the worst, are now cast aside, shunned and feared. But let me be clear: we did not choose this fate, and we would not wish it upon anyone else!"

She paused, drawing in another breath as her voice rose with passion.

"To those who question our place in this world, to those who would call us monsters—listen closely!" The air crackled with anticipation, and she sensed the shame lingering in some of her fellow Forsaken.

"We are not mindless wretches! We are not mere shadows of a ghoul army! No... we are something far more powerful!" Hope surged in their glowing eyes, a fire igniting within them.

"We are the chill in a coward's spine! We are the instruments of unyielding ire!

WE ARE THE FORSAKEN!"

Her voice thundered across the ruins, reverberating through the remnants of a once-great city.

"Together, we shall rise against the one who robbed us of our peace, the one who stole our very deaths! We will march upon the Lich King, the architect of our suffering, and we will show Azeroth that we are not to be trifled with! We are a force of our own. We are a people forged in struggle. We have fought our battles. We! Earned! Our! Place!"

The cheers erupted like a storm, a wave of energy sweeping through the crowd.

"The time has come for us to reclaim our power, our vengeance, and our rightful place in this world! Together, we shall rise as a force to be reckoned with! No longer will we be shadows in the dark; we will stand in the light of our own might!

Glory to the Forsaken!"

Turning back toward the ruins—their home now—Sylvanas felt the roar of her people surge within her, filling her with renewed strength. For the first time since her undeath, a faint flicker of hope began to blossom inside her. Scorned by the living, they had forged an unbreakable bond in death. Here, among her fellow Forsaken, they truly belonged. Together, they would rise, a united force against the darkness that had once consumed them.

AN:

Thank you all for reading my little story so far!

For all the dates and years I'm using the King's Calendar from WoWpedia, it has the most comprehensive timeline available for everything that happened in Warcraft Lore, but even then it's only sorted by years, not months. According to that timeline Arthas invaded Quel'Thalas in the year 612, and Sylvanas broke free sometime in 614. That was also the year that she created the faction of the Forsaken. As Azalea isn't aware of the current date it will still be marked as ?.

I thought I'd show a bit of Azalea's past, how the war influenced her to use darker means to survive it and made her more cynical about life. And how Ron and Hermione reacted to that choice, and how the first cracks started to form in their friendship.

I also added in a bit Sylvanas to start and flesh her out a little bit, her speech is heavily influenced by her speech she gives at Hallow's End. As I never liked what they did with her in the later expansions, especially in Shadownlands as they just made her a mindless villian without a plan of where to take her.

Also, I noticed I kept on writing Azelea instead of Azalea, the way it's properly spelled and it really started to bug me when I noticed that. Hence why the story is also renamed with the fix.