Author's Note:
To be honest, the premise of this story is inspired by Strange Potter. Although the plot is entirely different, it was that work that gave me the initial idea. I've already written a story with Doctor Strange as the protagonist, so now I wanted to try something different—
and I believe Wanda fits this role perfectly.
As you'll see, I've started two new stories: Marvel: Age of Hero and Harry Potter: Is Harry's Mom Wanda? Both were the most voted. Whichever gets more likes will be the one I prioritize, while the other will naturally receive fewer chapters per week.
......…
At the top of a mountain, amidst the mist and the freezing wind, stood the ruins of an ancient sanctuary. Stone by stone, time had eaten away at it, and yet it still held the essence of something sacred… or cursed.
At its heart, seated on a base eroded by ancient rituals, sat the most powerful witch in the world: Wanda Maximoff. Her eyes, once ablaze with rage and sorrow, were now dull, filled with abyssal sadness.
In front of her, a walking corpse—possessed by an alternate version of Doctor Strange—watched her in silence, its dead sockets glowing with the magic that still burned within.
"I was the one who opened the Darkhold…" Wanda murmured, her voice broken, her gaze fixed on the ground. "So… I must be the one to close it."
She turned to look at Strange. He, with the solemnity of one witnessing an inevitable sacrifice, nodded slowly.
"No one else will be tempted by the Darkhold… ever again," whispered Wanda as her red aura began to wrap around her arms.
She extended her hands. A deep roar shook the sanctuary. Beams groaned and twisted as if they knew their fate. Stones cracked. The ceiling collapsed. Part of the mountain trembled.
And then, with one final breath, Wanda let go of everything… and the entire structure fell upon her.
Darkness.
But it was not the end.
In the instant before death claimed her, her life flashed before her eyes. She saw Vision. She saw her children. Their laughter, their tears. She saw every mistake. Every decision that pushed her into the abyss. Guilt wrapped around her like an old friend.
And finally… she accepted it.
Then… nothing.
A black sea welcomed her. Silent. Cold. Infinite.
She floated in the midst of that absolute void, without direction or purpose. She looked upward, though she no longer knew if "up" even existed. There was no ground, no sky. Just her—and nothingness.
Was this hell? The punishment for all she had done? Eternal solitude… without forgiveness.
Time ceased to matter. Seconds… or centuries passed. Her identity began to fade. Wanda no longer knew if she was still herself. Her emotions, her anger, her sorrow… slowly vanished, like water slipping through fingers.
Until…
A light.
Tiny. Barely a dancing dot, the size of an insect.
Wanda watched it without emotion, without hope. Only out of habit—to see something that wasn't darkness.
But the light persisted. It moved, vibrated… as if it was trying to get her attention.
And then, without warning, it approached.
It touched her.
A soft brush on her forehead. And in that instant, like lightning splitting through a storm, something within Wanda awakened. Her emotions returned. Slowly… painfully… but real.
Her eyes opened clearly for the first time in eons.
"Who… are you?" she whispered with a hoarse, barely audible voice.
The light-insect vibrated. Wanda, though confused, understood without words. Her heart clenched.
"Your son?… No. You don't know who I am. You don't know what I've done…" Wanda said, her tone rougher, guilt weighing in every syllable. "Do you? And still you want to…?"
She stopped. Silence replied.
"Are you sure?"
An image struck her suddenly. A memory that wasn't hers.
A boy. No older than four. Thick glasses. Sad eyes. He reached out for affection from a woman who coldly ignored him, sending him away from the room like he was a nuisance. The boy walked, head down, into a small cupboard under the stairs. There, he sat on a miserable mattress, hugging his knees, trying to hold back his tears.
Wanda clenched her jaw. Her gaze turned hard—determined.
"…Fine," she whispered. "I'll do it. I'll take care of your son. But in return… you will cleanse my corruption."
The light pulsed intensely. Then it expanded. It grew. It changed shape.
And then, before Wanda, rose a luminous doe—majestic and serene. The creature approached slowly and, with infinite tenderness, touched her forehead with its muzzle.
The darkness surrounding her trembled. The void began to shine. Light… at last. First a spark. Then a wave. Until everything turned white.
The water disappeared. Wanda felt the ground beneath her feet. She stood, staggering. In front of her, the doe watched her with sadness… and hope. Like a mother entrusting her daughter with something irreplaceable.
"I'll do my best," Wanda said, recognizing that pain with a lump in her throat.
The doe nodded gently… and faded into specks of light.
And suddenly, a brutal pull took hold of her. As if her body were being sucked in by an invisible force, compressed to the size of a seed… and then violently expelled.
Wanda dropped to her knees, dizzy, gasping. She leaned against a wall.
"That was… interesting," she murmured, regaining her balance.
Something felt off. She felt… different.
She snapped her fingers and conjured a mirror. What she saw left her speechless.
Her face was young, fresh. Barely twenty years old. Though she could rejuvenate herself as a witch, she had never bothered to. She didn't need to. Her natural longevity already set her apart from humanity.
But now… she was young. Beautiful.
"Well… not bad," she said with a half-smile, dismissing the mirror.
She turned, her expression now firmer, and murmured with determination:
"It's time to find Lily's son."
...............…..
Privet Drive.
A neat, orderly, perfectly boring neighborhood. And at number 4 lived a family that embodied everything they considered "normal." Vernon Dursley, a portly man with a thick mustache, ran a drill company and spent his days complaining about anything that didn't fit into his rigid view of the world. Petunia, thin with a long neck, had a special talent for spying through windows, always alert to her neighbors' movements. Their son, Dudley, was — according to Vernon — the very picture of perfection.
But there was another child living in that house. One Vernon never called by name. One who, to him, was simply "abnormal."
Harry.
Four years ago, he had appeared on the doorstep wrapped in a blanket, accompanied by a note. He was Petunia's sister's son. Dead. Vernon thought it was some kind of sick joke. But it wasn't. From that day on, his life ceased to be "normal."
Because Harry was the son of them. Of the freaks.
And Vernon could never forgive that.
At the time, Vernon had a good job. A comfortable, orderly life, free of surprises. But the arrival of that child ruined everything.
One more mouth to feed didn't seem like much… until he remembered whose child it was. That boy wasn't going to take anything away from his precious Dudley — his pride, his heir. So he decided to put him where he'd be least of a nuisance: under the stairs, in a small, dusty cupboard filled with spiders and dampness. They'd give him just enough to survive. Nothing more.
But sometimes, the brat cried. He dared to ask for food, to talk, to exist. And that was too much. That's why, if he raised his voice or took something that wasn't his, Vernon didn't hesitate to throw him out or give him a good beating.
He didn't say a word when his sister Marge came to visit either. That cruel woman who delighted in insulting or spitting on him. He didn't even flinch when one of her enormous dogs bit him. If he was lucky, they'd throw some disinfectant on the wound and lock him up again. As long as he didn't die, it was fine.
DING DONG!
Vernon was flipping through the newspaper the brat had brought in. The doorbell pulled him from his peaceful routine.
"Go see who it is. If it's a salesman, tell them we're not interested," he ordered, without looking up.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied in a dull voice, stepping out of his cupboard. He walked to the door, standing on tiptoe to reach the lock. At four years old, he was small even for his age.
He opened the door slightly and blinked in surprise.
"Hi… are you a saleslady?" he asked shyly. In front of him stood a woman with reddish hair that seemed to gently sway with the wind.
"Hello," she replied with a warm smile. "No, I'm not a saleslady."
Harry looked her up and down. She wore a red cloak and a strange tiara.
"Your clothes are weird."
Wanda glanced at her outfit and nodded, amused.
"You're right."
She snapped her fingers and, in an instant, her clothes changed into a sleek outfit: a dark red blazer, black pants, and a matching shirt.
"Is this better?"
Harry's eyes widened. It was the first time he'd seen anything like that.
"Boy! Who is it? I told you if it was a salesman...!" Vernon's voice roared from inside, cutting off the moment. He walked toward the door with a scowl, ready to yell at whoever it was.
But when he saw Wanda, the words caught in his throat. She was beautiful. Radiant. A charming young woman smiling sweetly at the child. His expression softened instantly; he almost stammered as he greeted her.
However, when Wanda looked up and saw him, her smile vanished. Her eyes hardened. A cold expression — almost one of disdain — settled on her face.
"What's going on, Vernon?" Petunia asked, approaching from the kitchen as she noticed the awkward silence. Seeing her husband gawking at another woman, she immediately frowned.
"Who are you? And what do you want in our house?" she snapped, crossing her arms. The voice of a wife sensing a threat to her marriage was like a whip.
Wanda didn't flinch.
"I'm Wanda Maximoff. I'm a friend of Lily Potter's."
The name fell like a thunderclap in the middle of the hallway.
"She asked me to look after her son. That's why I came to get him."
At the mention of Lily's name, Vernon and Petunia paled. They immediately understood that this woman was not ordinary. That she belonged to that world.
That damned world they so desperately wanted to forget.
Vernon's expression changed. The fascination disappeared, replaced by a mixture of disdain, discomfort, and — deep down — fear.