Chapter I: The Shadow of the Dragon
"Why does this feel so familiar?" Her mind's voice echoed, a whisper amidst the waves of agony and searing heat that wracked her newborn form. The pain of rebirth felt excruciatingly present, and yet it lingered with an odd familiarity, like a memory kept just out of reach. Somewhere in the dim recesses of her consciousness, Visenya Targaryen—the warrior queen, reborn again and again—grasped at fragments of this feeling. It was all a haze, a forgotten nightmare she couldn't quite recall, but one thing was clear: this was not her first time through the cycle of life and death.
A sense of irritation gnawed at her, mingling with the pain. This journey, this endless beginning, was growing unbearably tiresome. She could feel her new form being thrust forward, squeezed out of darkness into a cold world where her own cries seemed trapped in her throat, unwilling to be voiced. And then there were the hands—rough and unfamiliar—clutching her gently yet awkwardly, like they held something fragile yet unimportant. She could hear low murmurs, the voice of a man, and through the haze, his words reached her: "Solara."
"Another name…" she thought bitterly, the memory of other names—other lives—drifting like shadows in her mind. This would be her fourth name, an identity she would have to grow into, to mold or break as she saw fit. But at this moment, it felt only like an insult, an empty word thrown at her by people who couldn't even begin to comprehend her true nature. They saw only an infant, soft and fragile, unaware of the soul encased within.
Her eyes remained sealed, bound by the limitations of this infant form. She felt the overwhelming press of sensations—the coldness of the air, the coarseness of the blanket being wrapped around her, the jarring echo of the man's voice. It all grated on her senses, stirring an anger within her too vast for this tiny body to contain. It was a simmering rage, the wrath of a soul that had seen too much and been pushed to the edge of tolerance by this forced rebirth.
And then she heard it. "Wingardium Leviosa."
The words hung in the air, alien and strange, spoken in a soft, lilting tone that carried an unfamiliar resonance. "What strange language…" she muttered, her inner voice dripping with scorn. It was unfamiliar, and yet something in it sparked a curiosity—a peculiar thread of possibility. Perhaps there was something in this new life that could surprise her, though the notion hardly quelled her irritation.
Wrapped in the warmth of the cloth, the burden of all her memories and emotions pulled her into a reluctant sleep. She was exhausted, drained beyond what any newborn should feel, the weight of lifetimes pressing down upon her. Her fury, her deep-seated impatience, and her sheer will to dominate her fate were forced into slumber by the limits of this fragile body.
Yet as her consciousness faded, one thought remained, a promise to herself: when the time came, when her senses had sharpened and her strength had grown, she would take control. She would face whatever "Solara" was meant to be, bending this strange world to her will. But for now, sleep claimed her, a brief mercy in the prison of infancy.
As Solara drifted in and out of the blanketing slumber forced upon her by this newborn body, fragments of thoughts—flickering memories and half-formed plans—danced through her mind, untethered yet persistent. In the hazy twilight of awareness, Solara—Visenya—felt her own history tugging at her, straining to emerge in spite of the limits placed on her by this infant form.
Days slipped by in a blur of muffled sounds and hazy sensations, each one more frustrating than the last. Solara, as they called her, had little to do but wait, watching the shadows shift behind her still-closed eyes. She felt trapped, encased in a body too small, too weak to contain the will simmering within her. The world around her was full of strange murmurs and tender, fumbling touches, hands that held her with a reverence she found both laughable and insulting. She, Visenya Targaryen—reborn as Solara—did not need their pity or their softness. But for now, she had no choice, and she drifted off to sleep once more.
When she awoke again, more time had passed. It was impossible to say how long—days, perhaps, or even weeks. Her body still felt soft and clumsy, but her senses were sharper. The murmur of voices was clearer, the cadence of the strange language she had first heard becoming somewhat familiar. This place, wherever it was, had a hum of low magic woven into its air, though it was not a magic she recognized. It lacked the primal force of dragonfire, the sharp tang of the Old Blood, yet it felt deeply rooted, rich as soil. Whoever these people were, they had something potent, something mysterious. Something she could use.
When her eyes finally opened, the world came into view in blurry shapes and softened hues, all too bright and too new. She squinted, her infant eyes adjusting, trying to make sense of what lay before her. The room she found herself in was small and simple, with rough-hewn wooden beams framing the ceiling and walls. It was a peasant's house, as she had suspected—sparse and well-worn, filled with an earthy scent that made her want to recoil. There were no tapestries, no banners, no gleaming metal or polished stone. It was worlds away from the gilded halls of her birth, and the sight grated on her, though she kept her composure in the stillness of her crib.
Footsteps creaked toward her, and a woman leaned over the edge, a soft, warm smile on her face. She had wild, curly pale-yellow hair and silvery eyes that sparkled with kindness. Solara found herself scrutinized with a gaze that was doting and yet… naive. Though the familiar hair color had given her brief pause, ultimately, Visenya dispelled the idea of the woman being of Targaryen lineage. For this woman knew nothing of who she held in her care, knew nothing of their history. She cooed softly, oblivious to the darkly calculating mind within the baby she rocked.
The woman spoke in that strange language, her words lilting and musical. "Solara, my little star," she murmured, as if the name itself were a spell, cradling her as though she were precious, whispering promises of the future, of greatness. "Such a calm baby, you are. You're going to grow up into something special, my love. I can feel it. Maybe you'll even attend Hogwarts, just like we did."
Hogwarts. The word struck her, echoing in her mind with an almost familiar ring. A place of magic, perhaps a seat of power. Her mind latched onto it, her thoughts racing even as her eyes grew heavy with sleep. If only the woman knew. If only she had even the faintest inkling of the storm brewing within this small, silent infant.
When she next awoke, Solara felt her lip twitch, an instinctive reaction that her tiny face couldn't fully control. Her irritation at being subject to the whims of exhaustion so readily as a newborn, tugged at the seams of her patience.
A noise at the corner of the room, drew her attentions to a man wearing ugly yellow robes and a strange triangular pendant across his neck, as he entered her nursery—the one from before, she recognized the gentleness within his voice and the air of warmth about him. He looked over at her, his icy-gray eyes softening as he took in her small form. "Look at her," he said to the woman. "She's watching us, as if she understands."
"She's a clever one," the woman replied, glancing back at Solara with a mixture of pride and tenderness. "Our little Solara. I knew she was meant for something greater the moment I held her."
This amused Solara, though she made no sound. Meant for something greater? They couldn't begin to fathom it. And yet, their simplicity, their innocence, might work to her advantage. They would expect nothing of her until it was too late.
Over the next few days, she began to piece together her new reality, learning from what little she could observe. The language, though foreign, was not difficult to grasp, even without the gift of speech. She absorbed words, sounds, the rhythm of their daily interactions, the gestures and mannerisms that spoke of a different world entirely. Her new "parents" were not ordinary in the normal sense. For they performed magic as easily as one breathed, but beyond that, she recognized that they were simple folk with a fondness for gentle magic and household charms. Her father, Xenophilius Lovegood, was dreadfully plain, though eccentric, and her mother, whom she came to know as Pandora Lovegood, had a penchant for magical experimentation. It was an intriguing pursuit that Visenya Targaryen very much looked forward to engaging in when she could stand upright. In the meantime, she bided her time, learning everything she could about this strange magic they used so casually.
One night, as she lay in her cradle, Solara caught sight of a shadow moving along the wall. For a brief moment, she tensed, the warrior instinct flaring in her, demanding that she be ready for anything. But she was an infant—helpless in form, no matter her mental acuity. She could only watch, her small eyes narrowing as the shadow resolved itself into a bird—a black-feathered owl perched on the windowsill, looking at her with an unsettling intelligence.
The owl blinked, its large, dark eyes meeting hers. It was as if the creature saw her, truly saw her. A flicker of curiosity stirred within her; this owl was unlike any she had seen, its gaze filled with something almost… otherworldly. It hooted softly, a quiet, questioning sound, then took flight again, leaving her to wonder if it had truly been there or if it had been an illusion conjured by her overactive mind. It was not long after that encounter that her "parents" had entered her room, seemingly distraught, though her eyes were not developed enough to pierce the darkness with certainty. They believed her asleep, and whispered over her as her mother's soft hands stroked the soft tufts of silver hair upon her infant head.
"She's safe, Xenophilius. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had no reason to come for us," Pandora whispered, seemingly holding back tears as she did so. "Those poor Potters…"
"She's going to be a powerful witch, Pandora," her father answered, the uncertainty tainting his every word. "Trelawney told us. I feared You-Know-Who would…"
"No! You mustn't think that way, Xenophilius!" her mother's words, usually calm, seemed almost frenzied. "Her prophecy had nothing to do with him. He has no reason to…to…kill her…" she choked out the last, her words just as unsure as her father's own.
"We should both remain here for the night," Xenophilius said with a calming whisper.
"Yes," her mother agreed. "And we should pray for the Potters. Especially for poor Harry…"
From that night onward, as her parents kept their eyes upon her, strange things began to happen. When her mother set her down on the floor, toys would slide toward her with an eerie precision, as though answering some silent call. At night, she would occasionally hear murmurs of voices that faded before she could understand them, and flickers of light would dance in the corners of her vision. Whatever strange magic infused this land was beginning to respond to her, as if recognizing her presence, her potential. And through it all, she wondered on the name Harry Potter and the identity of 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.'
As the days passed, Solara grew stronger, more aware, her mind sharp as ever. She had no doubt that she would master this place, this land of peculiar magic. This body, though small and powerless now, would grow. And with it, her power would return, rising with the fierce determination that had driven her in every life she had ever known.
She would be patient. She would learn. And when the time was right, this land would know the true nature of Solara Lovegood, the true nature of Visenya Targaryen.
As Solara grew, her strength and awareness blossomed, each passing day fueling her growing resolve. Her new family remained blissfully ignorant of the force simmering beneath her innocent exterior. They saw a bright, inquisitive child, not the reborn soul of a dragon queen who had once held realms under her gaze.
By her second year, her parents had welcomed a second daughter named Luna. But Solara did not care; she focused on her own development, celebrating her own accomplishments. She could now walk confidently, and her small hands had grown deft with simple gestures. She spent hours in her father's study, flipping through the illustrated pages of spellbooks he left open—books that were nearly impossible to find amid the pages upon pages of strange entries and fanciful tales she had discovered her father relished writing. Her fingers traced the runes and symbols with an intensity he took as youthful curiosity. He would often look over her shoulder, grinning proudly as he pointed out simple spells and marveled aloud at her early interest in magic. Little did he know how much more she saw in those books, how deeply her mind drank in the words, how they whispered to her of power and possibility.
The months passed, as Solara's world expanded, and she began to grow into her small, fragile form. The walls of her parents' home, once the boundaries of her existence, became merely the backdrop to her silent, watchful study. Her parents—well-meaning, naive folk—were gentle and doting, but they were, ultimately, her captors in this strange new world. She learned quickly that they were oblivious to the depth of her gaze, assuming her sharp eyes and inquisitive expressions were nothing more than the innocent wonder of a precocious child.
Yet her mind was anything but innocent.
Her father, with his books and soft murmurs of spells, proved to be a source of unexpected knowledge. She would observe him, noting the words he muttered, the flick of his wrist, the way objects floated and turned at his command. Her mother, too, possessed magic, though hers was gentler, subtler, woven into household charms that coaxed comfort and warmth into every corner of their home. Solara observed every detail, committing it to memory, storing each piece of information as fuel for the fire she was carefully stoking within herself.
Then came the day when her father took out a thin piece of wood—a wand, she realized, recognizing it from the books she had discovered and read atop her father's desk. He held it with reverence, his voice a soft murmur as he taught her to recognize the word. "Wand," he whispered, letting her small fingers brush the polished wood. She felt a ripple of power beneath her touch, faint yet electric, like a promise.
In those early days, they didn't expect her to understand much, but she listened carefully, paying attention to every word they spoke about magic, about Hogwarts, about the strange, vast world outside their cottage. She heard tales of creatures she hadn't seen before, of enchantments she didn't recognize, of potions and spells. She devoured every scrap of information they let slip, each piece helping her build a picture of the strange land in which she now lived.
One evening, when her father was in his study, she walked over to the door, pressing her ear to the crack. She could hear him muttering to himself, practicing spells she recognized as advanced. Words like Protego, Expelliarmus, and Lumos filtered through the wooden door, and each one lodged itself in her mind. She repeated them quietly to herself, her infant voice barely more than a whisper. It was pitifully weak magic compared to what she had read existed in her new home, but she would learn to command it just as she had once commanded dragons. The spells were merely tools, and she would master them as she had mastered weapons and warfare.
As the weeks passed, she began to practice in secret. She started with small things, willing a leaf to move, attempting to shift a shadow, testing the limits of her feeble infant body. Each small success fed her impatience and fueled her ambition. She needed more power, more control, but she knew better than to rush. And more than anything, she needed a wand of her very own.
One afternoon, as her mother rocked Luna in a sun-dappled armchair, Solara's attention was caught by a tiny, delicate butterfly flitting in through the open window. She stopped in her tracks and narrowed her eyes, focusing, willing it to land on her hand. The creature hesitated, and for a breathless moment, it hovered in midair as though caught by some invisible force. Her mother, blissfully unaware of Solara's fierce concentration, simply watched with a smile.
But Solara felt it. The faint tug of power, the subtle thrumming within her as she extended her will to the creature. The butterfly fluttered toward her outstretched fingers, landing delicately on her palm. Her heart raced with satisfaction, but she forced herself to keep her breathing slow and steady, hiding her triumph. It was a small victory, but it tasted as sweet as dragon's fire.
Before she knew it, she had learned enough to recognize the world she was in—a society where magic was hidden yet celebrated among those who possessed it, bound by strange rules and peculiar customs. The "wizarding world," as her parents called it, was both new and unsettlingly small to her. Where were the grand halls, the towering battlements, the thrill of conquest and command? It was as if all of the great power and potential of magic had been bound within the confines of simple comforts and quiet lives.
But she could sense, just beyond her reach, a greater source of magic, a vast well of knowledge that this society hoarded carefully. Her parents mentioned Hogwarts often, in tones of reverence, speaking of it as the ultimate destination for young witches and wizards. It was, she realized, the seat of learning, a place where magic was studied and honed. She would go there one day—of that she was certain.
And when she did, she would claim it as her own.
The day finally came when her father held her small hands in his own and, with an affectionate grin, handed her a small, harmless children's wand—a toy, meant for a young witch to play with. Solara held it, feigning the simple joy of a child, but inside, her heart pounded with anticipation. It was no real wand, but it was something, and she seized the opportunity to experiment. She twirled it clumsily, focusing her will on a small stone in the garden. She felt a faint stirring, the shadow of magic reaching for her, responding to her call.
The stone wobbled.
Her father laughed, mistaking it for a child's luck, clapping his hands in delight as the pebble gave a little hop. But Solara felt the true pulse of magic within her, the faintest spark power, waiting to be unleashed with the right wand. Her wand. She was learning, she was growing, nearing six now, and though the process was infuriatingly slow, she was beginning to understand this world and its magic.
The sun set that evening, as it had many others before, and as she looked out at the darkening sky, her mind buzzing with plans. The horizon stretched out before her, wide and open, and though her current form limited her reach, her ambitions knew no bounds. One day, she would wield her true power again, and she would carve a new path in this world of wands and spells.
At her side, she felt the tug of small hands upon her ugly yellow dress. Looking down, she saw the large grey eyes of her young 'sister' Luna starring at her in wonder. Solara took in the curious tilt of her sister's head and the way her wide, silvery-grey eyes sparkled with wonder. Luna Lovegood, small and fragile, yet somehow stronger than she looked. There was an odd light in her gaze, a quiet perception that seemed far beyond her few years. For the first time in this new life, Solara felt something she hadn't expected—an unfamiliar pang of affection. Where once there had been only Maegor and Vhagar, now there was Luna.
How quickly the years had slipped by. Had she truly been so absorbed in her silent plotting, so consumed with her own goals, that she'd scarcely noticed her sister growing up beside her? Luna, who had once been a wriggling, swaddled infant, now stood as a small, spritely girl. Solara felt the tiny hand in her own, soft and warm, and gave it an absent-minded squeeze.
Luna's smile widened, and she tilted her head, as though she could sense Solara's thoughts. "You were staring at the sunset for a long time," she said, her voice high and clear. "What were you thinking about?"
The question caught Solara off guard. She glanced back at the horizon, watching the last traces of the sun's glow vanish into deep indigo. "The future," she replied, her voice quiet and carefully measured.
"The future," Luna repeated, her eyes lighting up with fascination. "Is it a good one?"
Solara hesitated, then looked back down at Luna. There was something both strange and charming about her, a natural innocence but also a curiosity so unshakable it bordered on wisdom. Solara couldn't help but feel a strange pull to her—this small sister who had no part in her schemes or her ambitions, yet who had quietly become part of her world.
"Perhaps it could be," Solara murmured, feeling her words soften as she spoke. "If I have anything to say about it."
Luna nodded, as though this made perfect sense, then surprised Solara by asking, "Will you protect me?"
Solara felt something flicker in her chest, something she might have once called loyalty, or perhaps even love. It was an odd, foreign feeling for someone who had long believed herself above such attachments. But Luna, in all her gentle, peculiar charm, was different. She was not a tool to be used or a pawn in a game. She was simply… herself.
"Yes," Solara replied at last, her voice soft yet firm. "I'll protect you."
Luna's smile grew even wider, her grip on Solara's hand tightening. "Good," she said, sounding entirely satisfied, as though she had known the answer all along. "I'll protect you too."
Solara couldn't help a quiet laugh at that—a true, unguarded laugh, something she hadn't felt since her last life. It was absurd, really. What protection could this delicate child offer her? And yet, she felt something shift within her, a sense of purpose that was no longer driven solely by ambition and vengeance.
Luna's simple loyalty, her innocent certainty, settled something within Solara. This world of magic, though powerful and strange compared to the one she had known, had given her something unexpected. She might never command kingdoms again, never feel the raw ecstasy of burning thousands of men alive, but perhaps there were other forms of strength to discover.
As they stood there, watching the night settle over the hills, Solara felt, for the first time in her long, fractured life, a sliver of peace. And in that moment, she resolved that, wherever her path might lead, Luna would remain by her side. She would fight for her, protect her—even above her ambitions, perhaps, Luna would come first.
"Come," Solara said, her tone gentler than she had intended, as she led her sister back toward the house. "The night is growing cold."
Luna gazed up at her with unflinching trust, her small fingers still wrapped around Solara's hand, and for the first time, Solara wondered if her path toward power might look different than she had once imagined.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Did a quick summary of her development to save time. Otherwise, she would never actually get to Hogwarts. =P