The letter was my official invitation to Hogwarts as a first-year student. Unorthodox as it was, my acceptance came with the personal endorsement of none other than Albus Dumbledore himself. According to the letter, Dumbledore believed I was too gifted to remain untrained, given the many “accidents” surrounding me. That was my doing, of course; I’d engineered each “accident” to catch attention, leaving just enough magical residue to force the Ministry’s hand. It was a straightforward strategy, one I knew would end with Dumbledore stepping in, his curiosity piqued by a wizard child showing unusual power at such a young age. I’d created the circumstances; now, they would play into my plans.

  Of course, I couldn’t very well announce to the world, “I am Death, and I’m here to stop Voldemort.” It wouldn’t do. People were always so fearful of me, especially since a rather persistent rumor about me had circulated for centuries…

  “Ugh.” I groaned, dismissing the thought. I hated even recalling that damned story. Deciding to shift focus before that particular annoyance dragged me into a sour mood, I carefully studied my acceptance letter, handwritten by Dumbledore himself, each word meticulously penned in his looping script.

  So, Dumbledore... you’re keeping your eye on me, are you? A part of me, perhaps the ancient, jaded part, couldn’t help but smirk at the irony. Dumbledore—who once had the Elder Wand, the wand I created for Antioch Peverell, the eldest of the three brothers I’d gifted so long ago. To think that now, as a mere child, I would tread the halls of the school Dumbledore presided over, walking a careful line between secrecy and purpose.

  My mind wandered to my clay golems, wondering how they’d fared in my absence. Back in the yard, hidden under a bush, I found their tiny treasure hoard: a collection of animal bones. Most of them were useless scraps—burnt chicken bones from someone’s discarded lunch, brittle with no magical value—but amidst them lay something far more promising. A cat’s vertebra, perfectly preserved, would serve my purposes nicely.

  Animals were… interesting, in their reactions to me. Dogs howled or whimpered in my presence, sensing the death that clung to me like a cloak. No dog would tolerate me for long, and none was allowed in our house. But cats were different. Mr. Mittens, my mother’s cherished feline, adored me. Perhaps it was the cat’s affinity for death, its quiet ability to stalk the edges of life’s veil with every mouse it killed. They adore Death to the level of near worship. Thestrals, too, were my kindred spirits; creatures that thrived on death’s edge, they recognized me instinctively and showed me a rare loyalty. Even I had a soft spot for cats. Wasn’t their charm simply undeniable? Cute little killers that they are—charismatic enough to rival a love potion.

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  Mr. Mittens wasn’t the only cat in my life, though. Soon, I’d need a familiar of my own, one that suited my needs as I prepared for Hogwarts. In the meantime, this cat’s tailbone would do. Although I could cast spells without a wand, channeling magic through my fingers like some magical creatures, it was a crude solution. A proper wand would be necessary for more advanced magic, especially given my current limitations.

  It was an irony I could barely stomach: once, I was an entity without limit, my magic boundless as the cosmos. But now, as a human, I was constrained, shackled to mortal laws. My magic had to be drawn from a finite pool within me, one that would slowly replenish over time. Without a wand, it would be nearly impossible to compete in the long run. Mortal wizards channeled magic through their wands, allowing them to draw power from their surroundings. In that way, even a lesser wizard could amplify his spells, stretching his abilities to match those far more powerful.

  Take the Killing Curse, for example—Avada Kedavra. Cast with hate, it taps into that hatred, draining the caster until they are spent. But if one were detached, indifferent, as Voldemort was, the spell could be cast again and again, almost without limit. As a being of pure magic, I had once been like water in an ocean, constantly renewed. Now, bound within this mortal frame, I would need to ration my power carefully or risk losing to the more experienced wizards in a battle of endurance.

  Ollivander’s shop would be useless for my needs. His wands, however finely crafted, would shatter under my touch. Every wand, after all, has a kind of life—a spark of magic unique to its construction. But my touch, even now in this human body, was death to living magic. What I needed was a wand of undeath, something that could withstand my power. The notion of such a wand was incomprehensible to mortals. Let them stay ignorant—it was better that way. They had nearly wiped out magical creatures in their foolish quest for potions and charms.

  Constructing my own wand would require rare materials. A Thestral hair, of course, for the core. Its natural connection to death made it ideal for containing my magic without burning out. I could collect the hair myself from the horseless carriages at Hogwarts. Then there was the vertebra I’d found—a perfect foundation. Wood couplings from magical trees would serve as bindings, holding the bones together in a way mortals had never conceived of, blind as they were to the potential of creature parts for wandmaking.

  For now, though, I would have to improvise, faking the appearance of a working wand before my parents until I had the means to craft my own. I could continue casting using the rudimentary method I’d developed, channeling magic through my fingers, though it wasn’t ideal. Soon, I’d have a wand worthy of my true purpose.

  But for now, I had a role to play. The gears were turning, and the world was shifting in anticipation of what was to come.

  The reason I need a wand is that I'm no longer a pure magical entity. Being human means playing by mortal rules. When I use magic the way I do now it draws upon the limited source that is within my body. This reservoir will refill and grow but not enough to compete with other wizards. A wand not only focuses and amplifies spells. It also allows them to draw energy from their surroundings. Think of the killing curse "Avada Kedavra". When one casts it with hate the spell draws on that hatred until the caster runs out but when the caster is indifferent and unfeeling like Voldemort they can cast the spell limitlessly. When I was a spiritual and magical entity I was like a drop of water in the ocean. No matter how much I evaporated away there was more water to refill me. Now that I'm contained in a vessel it takes too long to refill. So I must conserve what I have or I will lose a battle of attrition.