Written for Home Ec: Write about a ghost.

Written for Sophie who wanted a story about a powerful female.

Morgana le Fay is like a knife cutting through silk. She does what she wants when she wants and how she wants to do it. Ever since chilldhood, rebellion has run through her bones like a river runs through a gorge, pulsing and rushing and screaming until nothing else matters.

Now, without shedding her femininity, she stands strong, translucent skirts whipping around her ankles as a legion of men falls to their knees. She looks over a precipice at her troops and the backdrop of the hazy sky of a setting sun, not even wearing armor, as if daring one of them to shoot. Even if they did shoot, the arrows would pass right through her. Being a ghost does have its perks. Being a ghost without a territory to haunt is even better; exceptional in life, she refuses to be less than exceptional in death.

And, yet, she hasn't lost the charm that she had when her cheeks were still rosy. It's so easy to entrance men, especially when she has had centuries of practice.

One whispered spell, one glimpse past the walls of their mind, and she sees their darkest memories, the things that make them shiver. She uses this against them without mercy until they follow her like a pup does his savior. And a quick tongue darting out between her pale, pink lips as she stares hungrily into their eyes doesn't hurt either. They don't know what she is hungry for until it's too late.

After all, how else is she supposed to build her empire?

Wordlessly, she casts a sonorus charm so her entire army can hear her. She's not sure if they register her words; they are simply caskets of the men they once were, bled dry as she slowly sucked their brains from their skulls.

"I made you all one promise," she says, tasting the falsities sliding off her tongue like honey. "I intend to keep that promise. In the empire of tomorrow you will be a warrior, a leader, a lord. Each of you are promised a manor on which you can live comfortably until the end of your days."

Morgana le Fay does not mention that she will be the one deciding when the end of their days will come. But men have always been blinded by greed.

When Voldemort fell, both the Light and the Dark were in disarray, and she had risen from the dark like mist from a geyser. First, she slips into half-abandoned suburbs, places that feel like empty ant colonies after the rich moved out and only those who couldn't move were left. In the dusk, she visits rickety bars where vulnerable figures hunched over countertops come undone under her hands. She brushes cold fingers against their unshaven cheeks, careful never to let them try to embrace her.

Their inhibitions lowered by the haze of alcohol, they never notice when tendrils creep into their minds, never notice when the expression in her eyes turns malicious.

Town after town, she does this, leaving no bodies in her wake as she passes through.

Here she is.

And now, she is truly untouchable. No one can kill her, for she is already dead. No one can frighten her, for she is their greatest fear. No one can touch her, for she is a ghost.

She looks over her army appraisingly. They're Muggle and will fall like dominos when the Wizarding folk go after them, but the good thing about Muggles is that there are over seven billion of them.

Licking her lips, she raises her pale arm towards and sends them riding towards the sun.