He placed her inside the crib, knowing that this was the baby who was destined to kill him. He knew it, he felt it; then why was there this gut-wrenching pain in him that told him he was wrong?
It has to be her, he thought. She was sound asleep in her crib, not even aware of the fact that she had been kidnapped. Kidnapped, he thought, I kidnapped her just so she wouldn't fulfill the prophecy.
Yes, she was indeed, the baby who was destined to fulfill it. Was it her or the baby boy who sat beside her when he took her?
However, he continued thinking, whether she is the one or not, she will be the one to give birth to the future Dark Lord, the future me. Voldemort's thoughts kept circling his mind as he stared at the baby beside him, Isabelle Potter.
"The Dark Lord is waiting for Miss," said Kreige, the faithful house elf. Isabelle always felt sorry for those creatures, those sad little creatures that were forced into slavery.
Looking up from her book, she smiled at the house elf and responded softly, "Yes, thank you." Her voice so delicate, so pure, so beautiful was like music to the house elf's ears.
Slowly, she placed her book neatly beside her and walked out of the room, trying to find Voldemort.
"Father?" she questioned in a large whisper, not hearing a reply at instant. No matter what, she was to call him Father; she had no choice and she could not disagree with it.
"I'm right here, Isabelle."
Smiling pleasantly, she walked over to him and wrapped her rather delicate, fragile arms around him. She had missed him so when he was at his meeting. She had a certain fond for him; he raised her.
"I am not a fan of hugs, Isabelle but as you wish."
Her cheeks flushed with pink, embarrassment taking over her as she backed away from the Dark Lord.
"I'm sorry, Father," she said quietly, hanging her head in shame. Quickly, she placed her arms behind, crossing them as she did so.
"Do not worry; I will allow you to do as you wish."
"Thank you, Father."
Removing her hands from behind her, she placed her hands to her side and looked up, smiling at Voldemort. Yes, she was to treat him like a father but somewhere inside her – she could not find it, though – somewhere inside her, she knew there was a small hatred for him for he was the one who had killed her mother, her father and had almost killed her brother.
Indeed, Harry Potter was her brother but he did not know it, only she did. Standing before her was a man who the world seemed to fear but she treated him as if he were someone normal, someone everyone loved. But her love for him was not a daughter- father love but a friendly love, a love between two buddies.
Interrupted from her thoughts, Isabelle looked at Voldemort with a smile on her lips as she moved her bangs to the side by slightly moving her head.
"I did not call you down here just to stare at each other, Isabelle. Now, let us get on with it. I will ask of you something, something I want you to do."
Voldemort had a gleam in his eye as he said that and Isabelle understood everything. Nodding her head, she knew she had no choice; she had to do this. He handed her a red colored diary which looked rusty from far point of view and had a brand new look to it up close.
"I will need you to write your daily life in this diary. At the end of the day, write what you have experienced, what you have thought, what you have lived." Isabelle continued admiring the spectacular notebook; it was almost as if she had seen nothing like it before. Looking up once again, she spoke in a soft whisper, almost afraid to say it, "Is that all, Father?"
"Yes," he responded softly, seeing the eagerness to write in her eyes.
"Well, thank you."
She bowed lightly and made her way back to her bedroom, where she was to start writing. Using a quill, in beautiful manuscript, she wrote in the front page of the beloved notebook: The Diary of Isabelle Potter.
