Note: For now this is a oneshot, but I am considering turning it into a full-fledged story, if it gets enough reviews or I simply feel like it. :) So if you want to see more, review!

She had been born on a cold October night in 1956. Voldemort had not been there at the time, nor would he have cared to have been. Her mother had named her Ellen, and she had sent Voldemort notice of the birth via owl post. Voldemort had read the letter (he had been in Turkey at the time) and thought, So. It is a girl. The only emotion he had felt about the birth was a tinge of annoyance that it had changed his identity. He was now technically a father, and though he didn't care one way or another about the existence of the child itself, it annoyed him that someone else could add to his identity without his express approval. Still, it was what it was. He burned the letter and checked out of the hotel. His next destination was Syria, and he had a meeting at noon he didn't want to miss.

The first time he ever saw his daughter, she was four. He had finally returned from his travels abroad, and was steadily gaining followers and in the off-time experimenting with various types of magic, when the research of a certain spell took him to America—New York City, to be precise.

It was as he was leaving a meeting with an ancient professor that he recalled, rather dimly, that the child lived in New York City. Her mother had written to him rather frostily about a year ago informing him of the move: she had accepted a teaching position there, since there was nothing in England to tie her down—she had said this rather insinuatingly, as if expecting him to come running after her. Voldemort's lip curled. As if he would chase after any woman, no matter how pleasing they had been in bed.

Voldemort had stood at a crossroads in Brooklyn, his hands in the pockets of his robes, debating with himself as to whether or not to visit. Intellectually he knew there was little point in seeing the child. Still, academic curiosity won out. He was curious as to what sort of offspring he had produced. He apparated to the Upper West Side, and a quick spell pointed him in the right direction.

He came upon the pair—mother and daughter—at a nearby playground. He did not want to be noticed by anyone, especially the mother, so he disillusioned himself and observed the child from the shade of a tree.

She was blond, his daughter, with curls and blue eyes like her mother. He noted that facially, however, she more closely resembled him: his nose, his cheekbones, his mouth, and his eyebrows. So this was how he would have looked as a girl. Interesting. He tilted his head to the side, observing her as she built…something…in the sandlot. She shaped the sand with a purpose, quick fingers, quick hands: she obviously had an idea in mind. She appeared bright, at least, but that was to be expected from his child.

Not far from the sandlot, her mother sat stiffly on a park bench, apparently trying her best to ignore the man sitting next to her. Voldemort's eyes drifted to the wizard, who was watching his two little girls on the swing set, and Voldemort's lip curled. Revulsion swept through him as he thought of the wizard coming here every day, faithfully bringing his daughters to the park after he was through with whatever menial task he did for a living. Just to think, had Voldemort been somewhat less ambitious, he could have found himself doing that every day. Disgusting.

And without so much as another glance at his daughter, he apparated away with a crack.

That was the only time he ever saw her as a child. Her mother continued to send him letters for a few more years, finally stopping when the girl was seven. The final note frostily informed him that she had 'no intention' of 'ever revealing his paternity' to the child. That was fine with him. After that, the only correspondence he received concerning the girl was a letter from the New York City Academy of Magic. It was an automated, magical pamphlet sent to both the mother and father of admitted children outlining the rules and curriculum of the institution. Voldemort had glanced at it briefly, realized what it was for, and promptly burned it. He had little interest in knowing the girl was attending school, and even less interest in the school itself.

After that, for over a decade, it was as if the girl never existed. He gathered followers, performed several dangerous dark rituals, and grew in deadly prominence till there was not a magical being in Britain who did not know his name, and did not fear to speak it. Most of the time, he never thought of her at all, and when he did it was with a little jolt of unpleasant surprise. Oh yes. The girl. The thought of having a daughter always settled on him uncomfortably. It was so terribly plebian to have children, and he might have killed the child but for the thought that she was of Slytherin's bloodline. To go out of his way to kill a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, when it could serve no obvious strategic purpose, seemed like a waste of magical blood. To simply ignore her existence was a better solution.

And ignore her he did. He assumed she grew and lived, unknowing of her parentage, in New York City still, although he supposed she could be in Timbuktu and he would never know. He couldn't bring himself to care. He never sought her out, never would have, and indeed, in all likelihood would have never seen her again had she not found him herself.

It happened on a cold January night in 1980, when the Death Eater Mulciber came trembling before Lord Voldemort. Voldemort stared down at him with barely-concealed loathing. Mulciber had been revealed as a Death Eater only two weeks ago, and it was only by claiming enchantment that he had managed to escape Azkaban. His face had been splashed all across the British newspapers, and though he remained a free man, since he was no longer anonymous and trusted, his value to Voldemort had plummeted.

"My lord," said Mulciber, kissing the hem of Voldemort's robe, "Someone has approached me requesting to see you."

Oh? Considering Mulciber's recent fame, it was probably an Auror or some Order of the Phoenix lackey in disguise, hoping to kill him off. Voldemort was about to tell Mulciber so, scathingly, when the man hurried on:

"She's an American, my lord. A woman who says her name is Ellen. And she's pregnant."

Voldemort closed his mouth and stilled, letting the words wash over him. An American named Ellen, come looking for him. And pregnant. This could be interesting. He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.

His silence apparently terrified Mulciber, for he squeaked, "My lord, I didn't tell her I was going to meet you or gave any indication I knew you at all! I can return to my manor and have her sent away! She's a rather ragged-looking thing—"

"No," said Voldemort sharply, his red eyes falling on Mulciber, ire rising in him. "No," he said more quietly. "Bring her here. Immediately."

Mulciber stared up at Voldemort in blatant surprise. Then he scrambled back away, bowed low, and disapparated with a crack. Voldemort gazed blankly at the spot he had disappeared from, his thoughts whirring, a rather uncomfortable feeling beginning to bloom in his chest.

Ellen, an American woman seeking him. It had to be she. Why had she come? What did she want? Voldemort had never imagined her, upon discovering her identity, wishing to see him.

And pregnant? That was another thought that settled uncomfortably on Voldemort's shoulders. Here it was again—another identity bestowed upon him that he did not want. Grandfather. Again, so plebian, and so terribly old. He was not yet sixty. Some wizards hadn't even had their first child by his age, and the little brat had gone and made him a grandfather, and Voldemort didn't even know by whom. That was the important question. Who was the father? Voldemort would kill the girl if she had married a mudblood.

With a crack Mulciber reappeared, clutching by the arm a young, heavily-pregnant woman with blond hair. Voldemort took one look at her and turned to Mulciber. "Leave," he said, in clipped tones, "Now."

His voice brooked no argument. Mulciber gave the girl a rather pitying glance before disapparating with a crack. Once he was gone, Voldemort's red eyes settled on his daughter, and he took in her adult appearance for the first time.

Gone was the lively little girl he had watched in the park. She had been incredibly beautiful some time ago, that much he could tell, but some tragedy had snatched her beauty away. She was looking Gaunt, and in more ways than one. It was remarkable, suddenly, how his daughter suddenly resembled his mother. Voldemort had seen Merope Riddle when she was pregnant in Borgin's memory, and looking at the woman in front of him, Voldemort saw her again now. Long blond hair, once lustrous and curly, hung lank and limp down her back. Her arms and legs were skinny, her skin sallow, in the way only hungry peoples' were. The fattest part of her was her stomach, which was distended outwards in the late stages of pregnancy. Looking at her, Voldemort felt a strange emotion, one that, not often experiencing emotions, he couldn't name. It compelled him to speak gently to her.

In Parseltongue he asked, "What happened?"

She looked up at him, and in her dark blue eyes he espied exhaustion and anxiety. "You know who I am?"

"Are you not my daughter?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, and to his horror, he saw her eyes glisten with tears. Barely holding them back, she stammered out in trembling Parseltongue, "H-how c-come no one ever told me?"

Voldemort debated how to answer that. "It was your mother's decision," he said at last. Which was true. Again, he asked, "What happened to you? Why are you here?"

She choked back a sob. Voldemort tried not to flinch. "H-he left me," she gasped out, a tear trickling down her cheek. "H-he t-took everything—all our money, all our valuables, our apartment. I have n-nothing. I h-had already q-quit my job b-because of the baby, a-and they w-wouldn't h-hire me back."

That strange emotion reared its head again, and Voldemort looked at her oddly. "Why?" Why did he abandon you? Why wouldn't they hire you back? Why didn't you kill them for treating you this way?

"Because of you!" she choked out. "I didn't know! Mother didn't tell me, even as she was dying! I had never been outside New York City, and I had never gone to a zoo, so I had never encountered a snake, and I didn't know!" The last part came out as a desperate wail. "Then I went to Central Park with my husband, and there had been a snake escaped from the local m-muggle zoo, and it was there, and I spoke to it without thinking. My husband saw. He knew who I was then, as did I, and he panicked, claimed that I had lied to him, that I had tricked him. He left me there at the park, and I went back to our building, but the manager wouldn't let me in. Everything we had had we had had in both our names, and by the time I got home he had transferred the deed to the apartment and all our m-money, including everything I inherited from Mother, into his name. I had nothing. I tried to go to my friends, but he had told them who I was, and they wouldn't touch me. They treated me like something diseased.

"I've lived on the streets of Manhattan for months, searching for a job, but no one will take ona pregnant lady. In the end, I decided to find you. I sold the necklace my mother gave me to afford a portkey ticket here. I've been searching for you since. You are all I have left." She looked up at him then, pleadingly.

It was similar, too similar, to what had happened Merope Riddle. Voldemort rifled through his daughter's memories, his disgust growing every minute, though he wasn't sure who he was disgusted with—her or her friends. Possibly both. He lingered for a moment on the memory of her pathetic pureblood husband, screaming at her, claiming she had tricked him, and something cold and terrible settled in Voldemort's chest—a desire for vengeance. He coldly memorized the man's face.

He retreated from his daughter's mind and considered her for a moment. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with her, so for the time being he thought it prudent to keep her alive till he could think of an appropriate use. Voldemort turned his head to the side. "Missy!"

With a crack, a pathetic-looking house-elf appeared, bowing low and trembling before Voldemort. "Y-yes, M-master?"

"Guide Mrs. Reid to our secluded guest quarters, have her cleaned, fed, and appropriate clothes requisitioned for her. A healer will come to examine her in the interim."

The elf looked curious but knew better than to ask anything. "Y-yes, M-master." It bowed low again, then scampered to his daughter's side, grabbing her arm. "Missus is to come with me now."

Voldemort had only a brief glimpse of his daughter's incredulous expression before she and the elf disappeared with a crack.

After she had left, Voldemort sent one of his healers, Jameson, to examine her, and after that settled back into his chair, considering this unexpected turn of events.

He would admit it unsettled him, having her in his house, and Voldemort loathed being unsettled. Yet at the same time, the feeling grew stronger and stronger that she ought to be here. Seeing her was like seeing his own mother walking the Earth again, and with her story being so similar to Merope's, Voldemort couldn't banish the powerful sense of déjà vu. The whole ordeal felt somewhat surreal. He considered the possible implications of her arrival for a full two hours, until Jameson came back with his report.

"What is her health like?" Voldemort demanded softly.

Jameson gulped. "M-my lord, she is very ill. She is suffering from Cogeria, a rather rare prenatal complication."

A pause. "Explain." His voice was dangerous.

Jameson swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit higher than usual. "M-my lord, Cogeria is a p-prenatal condition o-ccassion-ally seen in old f-family lines. It is g-generally s-sparked by s-some t-trauma or t-tragedy. It causes the w-witch to f-fatigue exp-p-onentially. I-it—"

Voldemort held up his hand, and Jameson felt silent immediately.

"Is it fatal?"

If possible, Jameson looked more terrified than ever. "It c-can be," he squeaked, "It depends on the labor. If labor is d-difficult, it could drain whatever energy she has l-left—"

Voldemort held up his hand again, and Jameson fell silent immediately.

"What can be done to prevent this?"

Jameson licked his lips nervously. "M-my l-lord," he stammered, "th-there is little that c-can be done—" at Voldemort's expression, he hurried on—"ex-x-cept p-perhaps b-bed r-rest, m-my l-lord!"

Voldemort considered him for a moment. Could this be what had killed his mother? If it had been, then…No. He shook himself of those thoughts. There was no point in pondering the past. He dismissed Jameson with a well-delivered threat of what exactly would happen to him should the girl die.

Days passed. Voldemort attempted to function as normal, but his daughter's presence hovered constantly at the back of his mind, like an irritating tick. Ignoring her was well and fine when she was halfway across the world. He found it was a bit more difficult to manage when she was in his own house.

Still, he made no attempt to visit her, determined at least to pretend she had no effect on him. All he knew of her was what Jameson told him—she had been relegated to constant bed-rest. She was stable, but still very weak. She was having a hard time keeping down food, so it was a constant battle to maintain her strength. She had been weak and starving for too long, her body shuttling all of the nutrients to her baby. In short, she had waited too long to seek out her father.

She was going to die.

Voldemort knew this. It was fate, a circular destiny. Voldemort's daughter would die the same way Voldemort's mother had. It was ironic and intriguing, and as the days passed, he found himself more and more intrigued and anxious about the child Fate was bringing into his life.

He suspected it would be a boy.

He was right. Around 11 in the evening on February 1st, Jameson came to Voldemort and told him his daughter had gone into labor. The labor lasted almost thirteen hours, till at last around midday, on February 2nd, Candlemas, the mid-most day of winter, Voldemort's daughter gave birth to a son. An hour later, she died.

Voldemort stood beside her body, staring down at it with unblinking red eyes. He could practically feel the warmth fading from her. Her hair was plastered to her scalp with already cold sweat. Her sheets lay rumpled around her, messy and sweaty and bloody. Even in death she looked exhausted and troubled, defeated even. Voldemort stared at her and thought that this must have been what his mother had looked like when she had died.

In the corner of the room, Jameson knelt on the floor, trembling. Voldemort turned to him, wand raised. It didn't matter that this death was surely the will of Fate—Jameson had failed him. Voldemort made his death quick and painless—an Avada Kedavra, before the man had a chance to react.

The baby had cried when it was born, but it had quieted now, and was staring up at him with solemn dark eyes. It looked like Voldemort, much as his daughter had, before her abandonment. He already had hints of high cheekbones and what had once been Voldemort's long, aristocratic nose. Even as a baby, his build was long and thin, as Voldemort's. The only great difference in their appearance seemed to be their hair. Voldemort's, at that age, had been black. The boy's was a glossy chestnut.

Voldemort ran a long finger down the boy's cheek. His heart was racing as he stared at the boy, excitement thrumming through his veins. Destiny had always marked his life, had always guided him.

Destiny had given him this child.

He knew that. His pulse began to race as he thought of it. He knew it because there was no other possible way in which he would have considered the child's birth anything but a hindrance. Destiny could have given him no clearer message of the worth of the babe than to make his birth parallel Voldemort's own. A child of Slytherin's line, abandoned by his father before birth, abandoned by his mother at birth, so similar…Fate had given him this child for a reason, and Voldemort just had to find out what it was. Voldemort traced the boy's face, his nostrils flaring, his chest heaving with excitement. A soaring feeling swept through him, like euphoria, and he almost laughed aloud, right there next to his daughter's body, his poor, broken daughter, the daughter whose sole purpose in life was to give birth to this child, this gift from Fate…

He summoned the house-elves. He instructed them to bury his daughter's body and to burn Jameson's. He watched as they did so, all the while considering what name to give the boy.

The name was important. The name had to mean something. It had to be unique. There were so many surnames he could give the boy. Reid—his father's surname—was out of the question, as was Riddle, for obvious reasons. The boy's mother's maiden name had been Goodwin, a name much too closely associated with the Light for Voldemort's taste. Gaunt was a possibility, but that name had been obscure and derided for too long in certain parts of the Wizarding world. Besides, Voldemort did not want a constant reminder of his esteemed uncle and grandfather. 'Slytherin' or 'Peverell' would have been preferable, but those names were far too conspicuous for their own good. Thus like he had for himself, Voldemort would have to fashion a new surname for the boy, but not one so odd that it drew unwanted attention.

He settled on Ellwood. It meant "Elf-ruler" in the Old Tongue, but in the Old Tongue elves did not refer to house-elves. 'Elf,' then, had been a generic name for all magical creatures. An appropriate surname, thought Voldemort smugly, for one of his descendants. Ruler of all the magical world. And as for the boy's first name, 'Revelin' won out. It was another Old Tongue name, and it meant 'Pride, Rebellion,' for Voldemort believed the boy would be one of his many prides, and a strong asset in his rebellion.

His body thrumming in anticipation, Voldemort smiled, leaned down, and placed a cold, deathly kiss on the babe's forehead, his eyes gleaming. The Light would learn to fear the name Revelin Ellwood.