Uncertainty.

That's what consumed her as she stared at the final result — the potion she had labored over for the past several months of her life. A life that was rapidly fading.

The curse was slowly eating away at her body, stealing her strength with each passing day. It twisted her bones, burned through her magic, leaving behind only agonizing exhaustion. Bloody Merlin. He saw himself as a righteous saint, but in truth — just another hypocrite hiding cruelty behind a shining mask. In the final moment of their battle, realizing he was losing, he resorted to a dark curse. Morgana, so perceptive in magic, hadn't foreseen it. What a foolish mistake that had been.

Now her body was failing her.

Morgana grimaced at the memory of Merlin. The old fool had come to Hogwarts with the belief that the magical world should merge with that of the Muggles. How absurd.

She knew Muggles. Had lived among them, seen how they feared anything beyond their understanding. In her time, people stared at a simple rainbow with reverent fear, and a double one was taken as a divine omen. Morgana doubted time could change that. Fear drove Muggles to cruelty. They didn't kill out of hatred — but out of fear.

She knew that all too well. She still remembered how, at thirteen, she had nearly died under a rain of stones. The villagers believed her to be a witch. And they were right — Morgana smirked bitterly. But the accusation itself had been ridiculous: it was all because she had grown taller and more beautiful over one summer.

She had been saved by Salazar Slytherin. He had passed by by chance and saw her — cornered, terrified, but with a fire burning in her eyes. He brought her to Hogwarts, gave her not only shelter and knowledge, but a chance to become something more than just another victim of Muggle hatred.

But even at Hogwarts, she could not avoid crossing paths with Merlin. He was older, long gone from the castle's halls, but occasionally returned. From the first glance, they despised each other.

By the time she turned thirty-three, Hogwarts had already changed. One by one, the Founders had left.

The first was Rowena Ravenclaw — her mentor in runes and arithmancy. Her mind was as clear as the surface of a mountain lake, but even brilliance could not save her from death.

Then followed Helga Hufflepuff — kind as summer sunlight, but too fragile before the weight of age. She spent her last days in the greenhouses, where she once taught Morgana potion-making and healing.

Godric Gryffindor could not bear the loss. He left after his friends, and the echoes of his magic lingered in the halls for a long time. He had taught Morgana Transfiguration, showed her the path of the Animagus, and even tried to teach her swordplay — though she always preferred her wand.

Salazar was the last to go.

Morgana was with him in his final hours. He was more than a mentor — he was her savior, the one who had given her strength and taught her to see the world without illusions.

And then came Merlin.

Greedy for power, secretive, a hypocritical old man. The Founders had not approved of his actions. He had joined Arthur Pendragon and used magic to help the king conquer lands. This had angered Salazar the most — for, like Morgana, Merlin had come from Slytherin.

Merlin's betrayal and his foolish ambitions had driven Salazar away from his former pupil, and for the last twelve years Merlin hadn't dared come near Hogwarts. But after the last Founder died, he returned — demanding power. He wanted to take one of their places. But only Morgana knew what he truly desired. He did not hide his intentions: he wanted the witches and wizards. Especially the children. Adults did not believe in uniting the worlds, but he counted on young minds. Children were more pliable. Easier to use.

Morgana couldn't allow it.

She did not let him into the castle. And Merlin struck first. He called it "crushing the snake in the egg." But he had miscalculated.

Morgana was stronger. He despised the dark, but used it as a borrowed force. She — she embraced it as a part of herself.

She won.

But the victory cost her far too much.

With a shiver, Morgana returned to the present. Her hands trembled as she lifted the ladle. In the cauldron before her boiled her final creation — a potion she had worked on since the days of Salazar.

It promised rebirth.

They had found the recipe in an ancient treatise by an Egyptian sorcerer who had lived thousands of years ago. The full formula had not survived, and Morgana had to piece it together herself. She believed the potion would work.

Or it would kill her.

But she had no other choice.

"Bloody old goat…" she whispered before drinking the potion.

Darkness swallowed her instantly.

…but was it death?