SUMMARY: Lord Voldemort's daughter Cynthia finds herself a major part of the war against the Dark forces.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the other characters created by J.K. Rowling. This story is merely a fanfiction, written for pleasure, and I am not receiving any money or anything else for writing the story. Other than personal gratification, of course!
Voldemort's Princess
Part 1: His Precious One
by Princess Angelita
My name is Cynthia. The surname my Father has given to me, although not technically his, is Gaunt. My Father's surname, his true one, is Riddle. His true name: Tom Marvolo Riddle. But that doesn't matter, because no one knows him by that name. Yet everyone in the wizarding world knows who he is . . . what he has done . . . and everyone fears him more than they fear their darkest nightmares. Then again, he probably is most people's worst nightmare.
My father is Lord Voldemort.
And I, Cynthia Merope Gaunt, am his only child. No one knows about me. Father made sure of that. When he was alive, he did not tell anyone about me except his most trusted Death Eaters: my godmother, Bellatrix Lestrange, and a married couple who cared for me, pretending I was their own . . . Theodeus and Calista Romanov. Since my Father's death, I have lived with the Romanov family, and they have been very kind to me. Indeed, I love them dearly, but not as I loved my Father.
I am sixteen years old, although I should be twenty-two. I was born six years before the infamous Harry Potter made his appearance into the world. When I was three years old, my Father got word of a Prophecy that somehow put me in danger. Because of this Prophecy, Father put me into a deep, magical sleep. One I would not wake up from until the danger was past. I did not age or grow during this time. This next part . . .
This is hard for me to write. Yet when one is writing about herself, one must write all the facts.
A Note: I learned all these things from the Romanov's, who have never hesitated to answer any questions I have had about my Father or myself.
You see, my Father died because of me.
My father learned that this Harry Potter boy had something to do with the Prophecy he had heard. There was another Prophecy by now, which gave my father two reasons why Harry Potter had to be killed. Three, actually. Potter's parents worked against my Father and had foiled several of his plans. Anyway, because my Father went to kill the Potter boy, because of the Prophecies, one which told him about a danger to me . . . because of all this my Father is dead.
Father killed Potter's parents, yet when he tried to kill Potter, then only a one-year-old child, the result was his own death.
I would have given anything to know what the Prophecies said, but the Romanov's never knew. Father kept that information to himself.
The moment my Father died, the magic keeping me asleep died with him and I woke up.
I remember awakening, in a strange bed hung with green. I called for my Father. No one answered but a house-elf whose name I didn't know. She was shocked that I was awake and seemed to sense something had happened to him. I know now it was because no spell can be undone except when the person who cast said spell either removes it or dies. The house-elf knew this. She alerted Bellatrix Lestrange, as she had been told to do by my Father in just such a situation. Aunt Bella Apparated in my room only minutes later. She looked terrible. It was the first time I had ever seen her with mussed hair, and torn robes. She had scratched her face and pulled clumps out of her hair. Her eyes were red and were filled with tears.
"My precious darling," she whispered. "Your Father has disappeared." She did not say dead. All the Death Eaters knew the precautions my Father had taken against death. I began to cry, not understanding. She picked me up and cuddled me to her, Apparating out of the room. We appeared in a home I knew well. That of the Romanov's, who had cared for me many times before. Aunt Bella whispered a few words in Calista's ear. A look of shock and dread came over her face, but when she turned to me, she had plastered a false, cheery smile on her lips. "Come with me, Cynthia. We will get you something to eat while your Aunt Bella looks for your Father."
For days I waited for word from my Father, but none ever came.
One day, several months after my Father first disappeared, a scraggly owl flew in the window as I ate breakfast with Uncle Theodeus and Aunt Calista. Uncle read the letter it contained, and his face turned stark white. "What is it, Theo?" Aunt Calista asked, her tone low and containing icy fear. He swallowed hard. "Bellatrix, along with Rodolphus, Jameson, and the Crouch boy have been arrested." A crystal goblet shattered on the floor, knocked over by Aunt Calista's arm as her hands flew to her mouth.
"What?" was all she could squeak out. "They were arrested for trying to find our Master," Uncle continued. "They captured the Aurors, Frank and Alice Longbottom, and used the Cruciatus Curse on them until they lost their minds. They are sentenced to Azkaban with no hope of redress." "So what will we do?" Aunt asked, her voice shaking. "What we were told to, Calista," Uncle said, his tone sadder than I had ever heard. He turned to me with a look of pity. "Cynthia, do you understand?" I didn't, but I nodded.
"You will live with us until your Father returns, as he ordered. When he comes back, he will help your Aunt Bella." He cleared his throat. "And Cynthia, darling, I have to make sure you are safe. That means you must never, under any circumstances, tell anyone who your Father is. Until he returns, we must pretend you are our child. Do you understand?" I nodded, and I did understand that time, for my Father had told me basically the same thing many times before.
And so the waiting began.
During the first year after my Father died, I lived every day with the expectation of seeing him soon. So did Uncle and Aunt. They watched with trepidation as their fellow Death Eaters were either killed or imprisoned in Azkaban, living in fear in case they were next. Oftentimes I heard them whispering in their bedroom, wondering if they should make plans for my safety, but not knowing where I should be sent in case they were taken.
After another year passed, the tension in the household was almost gone. The hunt for stray Death Eaters had lessened, and Uncle and Aunt were breathing easier. I was then five years old, (I have always lived as if those three in sleep never occured), and had gone from impatient waiting for my Father to angry and irritable that he was not there yet. I spent hours rehearsing how I would give him a stern talking-to when he did return to me, telling him how mad I was that he kept me waiting for so long.
By the time I was ten, though, my hope . . . as well as the hope of Uncle and Aunt . . . had gone. Somewhere in the five years we had changed from saying 'he had disappeared' to 'he had died'. Sometime during those years I changed from being a child to an adult, in my despair and grief, in my anger and almost hatred of my Father for lying to me, for saying he would always be there when he wasn't. My feelings changed daily from loud anger to quiet hopelessness to tearful sadness.
I was never a playful child, although I had the best toys. Uncle and Aunt never had any children, and they doted on me. I disliked other children, and since my caretakers would never have allowed me to play with any other than the purest of purebloods, my choice of playmates would have been rather limited anyway. My closest companions were my nurse, Adela Avery, and my two English mastiffs, Ares and Athena. I had several tutors as well, from the time I was four. Professor Cassandra Malfoy taught me to read, write, and to do math until I was nine, then I began learning magic.
Professor Thaddeus Nott taught me Transfiguration, Arithmancy, and History of Magic, while Professor Vincent Macnair taught Ancient Runes, Astronomy, Herbology, and Potions. I learned Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, and Healing Spells from Professor Sylvia Greyback. My classes were from eight in the morning until four in the evening, with two half-hour breaks and an hour lunch in the middle. Professor Nott came Mondays and Wednesdays, Professor Macnair on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Professor Greyback came only on Fridays. This arrangement continued until I was fourteen years old.
My interests during that time would probably be considered rather boring by normal children. I enjoyed learning, and spent extra time doing homework and reading up on my subjects, especially Potions, Transfiguration, and Healing Spells, which pleased my teachers and Uncle and Aunt immensely. They all said I was an unusually intelligent child, and when the teachers were gone, Uncle and Aunt would nod at each other and say I was my Father's daughter indeed. In addition to schoolwork, I devoured books on various subjects, but mostly ones on the Dark Arts or anything that mentioned my Father. I also loved to fly and spent hours every Saturday on my broomstick, flying around the Romanov's twenty-acre estate deep in the heart of Wiltshire.
My life would have been perfect if only my Father could have been there.
Then came my fourteenth year.
My birthday was in August, and it so happened that the Quidditch World Cup was to be held in England only days afterward. Uncle and Aunt thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for me, so they purchased tickets. I was very excited. I had a new set of amber-colored robes that exactly matched my eyes, and since I was at the age to notice boys, I couldn't wait to see what they thought. I scrutinized myself in the mirror before we left. I was already dressed in the robes, since we were not staying the night there, just Apparating before the game and Apparating back home when it was over. (Side-Along Appariton for me, of course!)
I had always thought I was not beautiful, but I did think I was rather pleasing to look at. My eyes were a beautiful amber color, which turned scarlet when I was angry. I was very proud of my eyes since I had never met anyone with eyes like mine. They were large and almond-shaped, rimmed with long black lashes, and I thought they were just gorgeous. My face was oval-shaped with a pointed chin and high, prominent cheekbones that reminded me of my fathers. I had what I thought of as an aristocratic nose, and full, pale lips that I wished were redder.
My hair was dark brown and very thick, cut straight across in the middle of my back, and with bangs that were about an inch above my eyebrows. My skin, as Aunt always said, was the color of the moon. She told me this when I was little and another child teased me about my pale skin with it's slightly grayish tinge, which made me feel much better. When I thought about it, it was the exact color of the moon on a clear night. Which was somewhat romantic to my teenage heart. I did not like my body, simply because I thought I was too thin. Aunt, who was plump, was constantly irritated by this view and told me I was not skinny but slender. Uncle, with a smile, told me that I looked just as a young woman should look. Perfect.
I did think I looked rather good when we got to the World Cup. My opinion was boosted by the admiring looks of all the boys who happened to see me. I merely smiled at them and continued walking between Uncle and Aunt, up to the Top Box where the Minister of Magic himself would be seated. We were the first ones there, except for a house-elf, and I took the opportunity to survey my surroundings. The stadium was beautiful, I thought, very large and open and built so everyone could see what was going on. Uncle had bought me a pair of Omnioculars, a velvet program, and little figurines of the most popular players from both teams. The Bulgarian team's Seeker, Viktor Krum, stalked around on my hand staring up at me with a surly expression, while the three Irish Chasers, Troy, Mullet, and Moran, their arms interlinked, danced an Irish jig.
I was immersed in the program when Uncle suddenly let out a strangled gasp. Aunt and I turned to look where he was staring. A red-headed man was entering the Top Box, along with twin red-headed boys, a tall red-headed boy, a red-haired girl, a girl with bushy brown hair, and a skinny boy with tousled black hair, green eyes, and glasses. Uncle was staring at the green-eyed boy with a mixture of anger, shock, hatred, and uneasiness. I furrowed my brow, wondering why, when the boy wiped his forehead, revealing a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at him.
It was Harry Potter.
Because of him, I had no Father.
Aunt grabbed my chin and pulled me around to face her. "We cannot afford a scene," she whispered, her frightened brown eyes boring into mine. I nodded stiffly, and forced myself to look back down at my program. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't read it, so I picked up my Omnioculars, and suddenly got an idea. I turned towards Potter, pretending to look over his shoulder at some rowdy boys, while I caught his image in the Omnioculars. I faced them back towards the goal hoops and turned the knob to make the Omnioculars replay Potter's face, over and over again. Hate spread through my blood, making me feel as if I was about to boil over.
It was the thought of my Father, and what he would have felt if his beloved daughter ended up getting killed or sent to Azkaban, that kept me from killing Potter then and there.
Thankfully, a distraction came in the form of three blonde people . . . a man, woman, and boy that looked about my age. Uncle's eyes widened with shock and delight. He stood up, holding out his hand. "Lucius!" he said happily. The blonde man's eyes widened in surprise. "Theodeus! And Calista! How wonderful to see someone of good family in this box!" Potter and the red-heads he was with turned around angrily. The blonde boy was staring at Potter with immense hatred in his eyes. Uncle nudged me, reminding me of my manners.
"This is our niece, Cynthia Romanov," Uncle said in introduction. "Cynthia, darling, this is our good friend Lucius Malfoy." I shook Mr. Malfoy's hand. "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Malfoy," I said politely, staring into his handsome face. His ice grey eyes seemed to draw me in. "Pleased to meet you as well, Miss Romanov," he said pleasantly. "And this is my wife, Narcissa, and my son, Draco." I shook Mrs. Malfoy's hand as well, marveling at her grace, poise, and beauty, wishing immediately that I had her silky blonde hair and perfect figure. Then I came face to face with Mr. Malfoy's son.
Draco Malfoy took my hand and shook it, staring at me as if I was the most beautiful creature on the planet. I felt the same way about him. He was taller than I by about six inches, and had the flat, wiry muscles of someone I knew played Quidditch often. His blonde hair and grey eyes were the exact image of his father, except Draco's hair was cut short and his eyes, in my opinion, were far more gorgeous. His chiseled face reminded me of the statues of Greek gods I had seen in Rome the previous summer.
We stared at each other in silence, not hearing our adults' conversation, until Uncle nudged me again. "Cynthia, this is the Minister of Magic, Mr. Fudge," he said, pushing me towards a man dressed in smart brown robes and a green bowler hat. I pulled my eyes away from Draco and looked at the Minister, greeting him as I had greeted Mr. Malfoy. As he smiled at me, taking both hands in his and commenting on my beautiful eyes, I suddenly felt a jolt course through my body. "Ascandris lia hande matcu," I heard in my ear.
Surprised, I looked around. There was no one there but Potter and his companions, the Minister and his companions, the Malfoys and my Uncle and Aunt. Draco was watching me, and gave me a curious look. I shook my head, wondering who had spoken to me. And in Parseltounge. "I will be with you soon," the voice had said. The Minister of Magic began the game, and there was no time to dwell on it. I found myself seated next to Draco. He gave me a smile and asked who I would be cheering for.
"Whoever that Potter boy isn't," I said, smiling back. Draco laughed. "I go to school with Potter," he said, his tone derisive. "I hate the bloody git. And his Mudblood friend." "Which is the Mudblood?" I asked, curious because I had never seen one. "The ugly one with the face like a chipmunk, and the bush growing out of her head," Draco said, his lip curling with disgust. I looked over at the brown-haired girl. "I've never seen a Mudblood before," I admitted. Draco laughed until his face turned bright red. "Seriously? What school do you go to?" "None. I have tutors," I answered. Draco looked appalled. "So you just hang around at home all day?" I nodded. "Yes. I am in school from eight to four."
Draco shook his head and turned his attention to the game. Since I never had paid much attention to anything involving Quidditch, I asked Draco to tell me what was going on, which he did with enthusiasm. I found myself enjoying his company more than the game itself. When it was over, Ireland winning . . . but the Bulgarian seeker getting the Snitch, Draco and I found ourselves hanging back from our adults, happily conversing about the wonderful flying we had seen. To our surprise, we were interrupted by my Uncle saying vehemently "No. We cannot." Draco and I glanced over to see Mr. Malfoy looking irritated and Uncle and Aunt looking frightened.
"We cannot," Uncle repeated, glancing over at me. "For reasons . . . reasons I cannot explain." "I refuse to discuss this here," Mr. Malfoy said in a disappointed tone. "I had thought . . . but never mind. I hope to see you again, Theodeus, and you too, Calista." He nodded at Uncle and Aunt, as did his wife Mrs. Malfoy, then turned to Draco. "Come, Draco, we must be going." Draco sighed. "I hoped we would spend more time together," he said. "Send me an owl, will you?" I nodded. "I will if you'll write me too." "Draco!" Mr. Malfoy called. Rolling his eyes, Draco leaned in and kissed my cheek. "Until we meet again," he said, grinning.
And then he was gone.
Uncle and Aunt seemed very agitated, even after we returned home. Asking what was bothering them availed nothing. The next morning at breakfast, they kept giving each other worried looks. When a house-elf brought in the Daily Prophet, as was usual, Uncle's mouth pressed into a tight line and Aunt laid down her fork. Uncle grabbed the paper and stared at the front page. He looked at Aunt and nodded. "The stupid, stupid people!" Aunt cried, her face white. "What's going on?" I asked. Uncle and Aunt exchanged a wary glance, then Aunt nodded and Uncle handed me the paper.
A huge photograph of a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth, formed out of green stars, shone brightly in the sky above a bunch of burning tents and people running away looking terrified. The headline read SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP. I stared at it, breathing heavily. "Does this mean . . . Father is alive?" I asked in a small voice. They exchanged worried glances. "Darling . . . all this was . . . was merely to frighten other wizards and . . . and play a cruel prank on Muggles," Aunt said slowly. I stared down at the picture. "So these people are just playing around?" "Cynthia, you remember Mr. Malfoy?"
"Yes," I said, still staring at my Father's mark. "Dearest, the reason we left so quickly was because Lucius asked us to join this . . . this prank," Uncle continued. My eyes shot up. "What do you mean?" I asked angrily. "Cynthia, Lucius is . . . was . . . a Death Eater. A high ranking one." "Theodeus!" Aunt cried sharply. "She has a right to know," Uncle said quietly. "So you're telling me that a high ranking Death Eater, one of my Father's own men, cast Father's mark up into the sky as a prank? As if Father was nothing but a joke, or the bogeyman? Something merely used to frighten?" My voice grew higher. "As if Father accomplished nothing else with his life? Would he have done this if Father was not dead?"
Uncle and Aunt exchanged terrified glances. I knew why. My eyes were glowing scarlet. I could feel the fire in them. "Cynthia . . ." "No!" I screamed. "How can I just sit back and watch my Father's name grow into nothing but a story told to scare people?" I began to sob and ran from the room, upstairs to my bedroom where Ares and Athena greeted me with happy dog kisses. Petting them both randomly, I sank onto the bed and closed my eyes, trying to forget the rage I was feeling, the infinite sadness . . . when it came again. The voice. "Eshaskar yesdehn. Ascandris lia hande matcu." "Don't cry. I will be with you soon."
I must have fallen asleep because I only remembered the words as if through a dreamy haze for weeks afterward.
To my surprise, soon after the World Cup, Uncle and Aunt told me that a new schedule for my schooling would soon take effect. Beginning that October, I would see Professor Nott for Transfiguration, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes on Monday and Wednesday. Professor Macnair would come for Herbology, Charms, and Potions on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays, Uncle himself would be my teacher. The lessons: Defensive Magic and Dark Arts. I would begin to learn to defend myself, as well as learn Dark spells of various kinds. These new lessons surprised me because, although they allowed me the freedom of reading books about the Dark Arts, Uncle and Aunt tended to act as if they had never had anything to do with them.
I knew it was because they feared my Father still, and the punishments he would have wrought upon them if they were sent to Azkaban, leaving me with no protection, would have been extreme, to say the least. They pretended to act like a normal wizarding family who had taken in their distant relative's daughter because they had no children of their own. Because of their discretion, they had never even been suspected of being a Death Eater. I was later to learn that one of the reasons for this was the fact that my Father cast powerful protective spells over them, spells that would not fade even after his death, simply because they were to be my caretakers if he was gone.
And so it was that my fourteenth year passed . . . with my new study schedule, Athena having puppies, I got a Firebolt 2 . . . things that seem like nothing to me now. For only a few months before my fifteenth birthday, something happened to change my life forever.
That June, before my summer holiday, my tutors had become rather annoying, telling me that when I was fifteen I had to take my O.W.L.'s and that the time to study was now, and so on and so on until I was ready to hit them. Except for Uncle, of course. He told me that I had done extremely well for someone who had never done defensive or Dark magic before. I was able to perform every spell he set me to do . . . but then, as I said before, I had read many books on the subject . . . as well as tried out most of the spells in the woods surrounding our home. So I wasn't surprised when he began teaching me much harder Dark spells and more complicated defensive magic.
I had been reading avidly about the Triwizard Tournament in the Daily Prophet, because it was held at Hogwarts, where Draco went (He never sent me an owl because his father was mad at Uncle for not going along with his prank, and I never sent him one because I was mad at his father.), and also because Harry Potter was one of the contestants. There were only supposed to be three, one from each school: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, but somehow Potter had become the 'second' Hogwarts champion. The other was a Cedric Diggory. The Beauxbatons champion was a gorgeous girl named Fleur Delacour, and the Durmstrang one was no other than Viktor Krum.
I kept hoping Potter would die, but he never did. I went to bed on the night the last task was to be completed, praying for Potter's death and anxious to get the Daily Prophet the next morning to see who had won. The night started as usual. I got ready for bed, brushing my teeth and my hair, washing my face, and getting into bed. As was usual for me, I thought of my Father, trying to recall everything about his countenance I could. As was also usual, I concentrated the most on his eyes. So hard, I could almost see them.
I thought I was dreaming.
I did see them.
In the corner of my room, as if my Father was sitting on my chair by the balcony window.
I sat up. The two red orbs glittered at me. They moved.
The person connected to them stood up and moved into the moonlight. I choked back a scream.
"Cynthia . . ."
"Father!"
I flew out of the bed and into his arms. Arms much thinner than I remembered. I was sobbing, kept saying over and over "Father, oh my Father," babbling the words into his black robes. He held me tightly against his chest, stroking my hair. He said nothing until I had calmed down.
"Cynthia, let me look at you." I stood back from him and turned around, my arms out. "Do you like what you see, Father?" I asked. "You aren't disappointed?" He laughed, high-pitched and without humor. "You are beautiful, my precious." It was then that I took a good look at him. "Father, what happened to your face?"
He smiled. "Nothing but what should have happened years ago, little one." I reached out and touched his skeletal face . . . the protruding cheekbones, the eyelids over slanted red eyes, the two snakelike slits he had instead of a nose. "Father . . ." He drew his hood back to reveal a bald, grey-skinned head. "Do not concern yourself, Cynthia," he said, reaching out and drawing me back into his arms. "Father . . . why did you not return sooner?" I asked after some time had passed.
Sighing loudly, he drew me to the bed and sat, motioning for me to sit beside him. He began to tell me of all that befell him from the moment of his downfall. Patting my arm every so often, as if he was making sure I was still there, my Father related his story with anger and hatred in his tone. I began to cry when hearing of his miserable existence. When he was through, I took his face in my hands.
"Father, why did you not come to me? You know I would have cared for you. Why did you rely on that miserable Wormtail? Don't you . . ." I let out a sob of frustration. "Don't you trust me?" That moment was the first time I have ever seen him look pained. "My precious, forgive me. It was my own pride that kept me away all these years. I could not bear for you to see me in my pitiable state." I leaped up, furious. "And what about me?" I shouted. "Your daughter? Don't you think I needed you? Don't you realize you could have been returned to power much faster if you would have came to me? I . . . I could have been the one to care for you, like you cared for me when I was a baby!"
He stood up, looking angry and humiliated. "I could not come to you, Cynthia. Understand that." "Father . . ." I cried, throwing my arms around him. "Father, I love you so much. Please forgive me." "You are forgiven, my child," he said, stroking my hair. "I understand your pain. Don't you realize that it hurt me deeply to be away from you? The moment I was strong enough, I used my power to watch you, to see how you looked, how you were being cared for. I saw you at the World Cup. I spoke to you. Did you not hear my words?"
"Ascandris lia hande mactu," I whispered. He smiled. "And am I not here?" "You are. Finally." I took his hand, marveling at the coldness of his fingers. "Father, I wish I could have been there when you were brought back to your body," I told him. "I wish I could have been the one to give you back your wand." He held me close to him. "I know it. As do I, daughter." He held me for a few moments more, before we were interrupted by the door slamming open. Father shoved me out of the way and raised his wand to repel the Stunning spell that came through the doorway.
"Oh . . ." I heard Uncle's moan of horror. I pulled myself up off the floor and watched as Uncle fell to his knees. "Master, forgive me. I thought . . ." "You are forgiven, Theodeus," Father said coldly. "Your diligence in assuring my daughter's safety is to be rewarded, not punished." "Thank you, My Lord," Uncle said, his voice shaking. "May I ask . . . how it is you have returned to us?" "I think the story will best be told by Cynthia, tomorrow morning when your wife has awoken as well. Send her my greetings and gratitude for raising my daughter to be the woman she is now." He waved a hand. "Now leave us." Uncle bowed himself out and closed the door.
"Daughter," Father began. "I must leave you for tonight." I began to protest, but he put a finger on my lips to silence me. "You know Albus Dumbledore will know of my . . . resurrection. Therefore it is imperative that I locate a safe place for my headquarters, reorganize the Death Eaters . . . so many things, Cynthia. And as much as I want you by my side, I want you to be protected even more." I said nothing, for it was all true. As much as I didn't want his face to be out of my sight, I knew he had to go.
"You will remain with the Romanov's, until you are of age," Father continued. "I will visit you as often as I possibly can. You are always in my thoughts, my precious." He ran his finger along my cheek. "You understand why this must be?" I nodded, holding back tears. "I do. I cannot disappear the same night you appeared. It would be noticed." His red eyes flashed at me. "My intelligent little one. Do as the Romanov's tell you." He scrutinized me for a moment. "They have always been kind? They have never made you feel unwanted?"
"Oh no, Father. They have been wonderful. I love them very much." His eyes narrowed a little. "More than I? I have not been with you all these years." I stared at him in shock, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Father, I have loved you the most as long as I have lived." He drew me to him, stroking my back and arms. "Soon you will be called to be loyal to me as well as love me, little one," he said. "Will you meet the challenge?" "Father, there is nothing I want more to be the one to kill Harry Potter for what he did to you," I said, my tone as cold as his. "I would gladly slit his throat and dance on his dead body!"
He laughed, long and cruelly. "My true, beloved daughter," Father said, amused. "Would you really?" I nodded vehemently. "Before you leave, Father, there is something I would ask." "And what would you ask, daughter?" "Will you rescue Aunt Bella?" I asked softly. His eyes gleamed furiously. "Daughter, your Aunt Bella and those in Azkaban, those who chose imprisonment over denouncing me . . . they will be honored beyond all Death Eaters. They will be rescued . . . and they will have their revenge on those who put them there."
I smiled. "Father, it is almost daylight." He smiled back and put a hand on my cheek. "I must go," he said. "But remember I am always with you, and always have been. Soon, my precious daughter, you will stand at my side as I rule." "Father, remember I love you." "I love you as well. You are the only being in this world I care for," he answered . . . and for once his tone was not cold. "Father!" I cried before he went, tearing a ring from my hand. It was a silver snake fashioned to curl around the finger, with emeralds for eyes.
"Wear this, for me?" I asked, handing it to him. "I had it made to remind me of you." He put the ring on his smallest finger. "I will treasure it. I must go now, Cynthia. Remember, I will always protect you." With one last cold smile, Father Apparated out of the room. I stood there until the sun rose, staring at the spot he had disappeared.
I made a vow that night.
My Father was alive again, and I would punish those who had kept him from me for so many years. I would study hard and gain enough power to become worthy to stand beside him, worthy of his trust and love, worthy to be his daughter.
And I would destroy all who stood in my way.
