"She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes; thus mellowed to that tender light, which heaven to gaudy day denies." - Lord Byron


Prologue

1979


The air is cool and still inside of the Manor, but Narcissa knows it is about to drop several degrees.

She sits politely, with her hands folded and her ankles crossed demurely under her chair. Her spine is stiffer than what is perhaps appropriate, but she must brace herself for what is about to come.

Across from her, her sister slumps in her seat with boredom. Narcissa can remember when their mother used to scold her for slumping like that. It was eons ago.

Narcissa wishes she had something to do with her hands. She wishes she were undisciplined enough to fiddle idly with her wand, casting Dark curses nonchalantly at the wall like Bella.

She watches as another hole slowly burns through the wallpaper on the parlor wall. She flinches just a bit. That was new wallpaper.

"Bella, perhaps you could-"

"Oh, hush now, Cissy," Bellatrix smirks. Her black makeup is even thicker tonight than usual. Her raggedy lace drapes off the chair like some sort of bizarre funeral shroud. Narcissa faintly wonders how anyone could possibly be comfortable in that many layers of tight lace. She's always preferred silk.

In the room next to the parlor, she hears the hoots and whoops of the men. She subconsciously places a hand over her stomach; not all of the Death Eaters are here yet. Bellatrix had been proper enough to visit with her for a little while, but Narcissa knows she'll abandon her soon enough to join in with tonight's Dark Revel. Lucius had promised that no more Revels would be held in their home once he'd found out about her pregnancy. So far, he had kept his word. The Dark Lord had even been so kind as to place protection spells on the wife of his most loyal Death Eater.

She tries not to shudder as she remembers the cool magic sliding over her skin, coming from a wand that has murdered countless. Narcissa has always held fierce attraction for cruelty, but not of the physical kind. Now that is all that is left.

Narcissa blinks as demurely as she can and reaches for the list of stars and constellations she borrowed from the Black family library. She wants to choose the perfect one. She knows somewhere deep inside of her that this child will be a boy; Malfoys always have boys. It is the only child she will be permitted to have.

Bellatrix studies her movements with sharp eyes, and then cackles. "Going for Cygnus Junior? Hmm?"

Narcissa wrinkles her nose delicately at the mention of their father. "No."

Bellatrix cackles wildly again, and Narcissa clenches her mouth against the bile rising in her throat. Her morning sickness has just stopped after three weeks, and besides, it is now late in the evening; but Bellatrix and the depth of her madness still sicken her.

"Druella, then? Ickle Malfoy brat could be a girl. Would serve Lucius right, for all his talk about the next great era of Malfoy men." There is blatant contempt in Bellatrix's voice.

Narcissa's anger flares within her.

Her hormones drive her crazy. Narcissa has always been calm and collected and controlled. She cannot stand that her emotions drag her along the way they do. So far, being pregnant has been a great bore. She wants to feel her child move, wants to feel her child's heartbeat, wants her child in her arms and wants her child's nursery things to finally be shipped already so she can begin decorating.

Her child.

She already loves him. She loves him with everything she has.

Her sister is mad. Her sister is gone. Narcissa's love for her sister is purely nostalgic now. And her sister has just insulted her child.

She raises one eyebrow at Bellatrix. "Ickle Malfoy brat will be half a Black."

"And that is the only thing making it worthy of such a name." Bellatrix gestures towards the list of stars in Narcissa's hand with her wand, and instantly a corner of the top page lights on fire.

Narcissa's heart leaps into her throat. She loathes Dark magic. It is useless. It is cowardly. She reaches slowly into the pocket of her robes and extinguishes the flame.

She feels it the second the Dark Lord and the rest of his minions arrive in her manor.

Instantly her husband swoops into the room, his face carefully blank. She eyes the men rushing through the halls, the men that hiss at Bellatrix as she files into line with them. Her sister hisses back, entirely at ease among rapists and murderers and monsters. Then Narcissa smiles up at her husband and places her hand in his. She pretends her knees do not shake as she walks to the largest drawing room they possess.

The Dark Lord is already seated in a large armchair, in front of an empty stone fireplace. The room is shady and colder than the rest of the house.

Narcissa's eyes find those of Severus. He scans her face; he has been anxious for her since the announcement of her pregnancy. He knows what stress of this nature does to her. He knows better than anyone how fragile Narcissa is. She is no Bellatrix. She holds no stomach for the cruelty she has so much admiration for. The child growing inside of her is his godson. He has a right to be worried.

She gives him a stiff nod, making sure to turn her nose upward at the greetings of the Death Eaters lower in rank than her husband. Appearances are everything.

Her heart pounds out of her chest when her eyes slide over to meet Voldemort's. Her husband has guided her to the forefront of the room, through rows and rows of Death Eaters. She feels her husband bow low to the ground. Appearances are everything.

"My Lord," he murmurs. His tone is pure reverence. The first time she was witness to this, she was reminded of the images in the Muggle books Andromeda used to smuggle from Muggle stores and read to her; the ones where valiant knights bowed low in front of high kings. It seemed fitting of her aristocratic Lucius. Now she is not so sure.

"Lucius." The word is a slippery sigh from the Dark Lord. His slitted eyes and nose don't match his wispy brown hair. In another world he might have been attractive, Narcissa thinks. He certainly still is to Bellatrix.

She tastes bile again at the thought.

She immediately inclines her head when her husband rises, and leaves her eyes on the floor. She will not bow. She will not curtsy. She will not prostrate herself in front of this vile creature. She is no servant of his.

"Darkest of Lords," she greets. She always comes up with clever ways of referring to him. She refuses to make him her master, even in words. He never notices. He laps up the false praise like her husband laps up power.

"Lady Malfoy. You look as radiant as always. I trust the potions I sent with your husband were beneficial to you?"

Narcissa blinks, her mind scrambling. Potions? Ah, yes. The morning sickness potions. The Dark Lord had sent them, along with his congratulations, upon hearing of her pregnancy. She had taken them from Lucius with a sparkle in her eyes and a delighted squeal, and when he had left, she had shattered the vials in the sink and watched as the potions siphoned down the drain.

She has hidden her sickness from her husband ever since.

"Incredibly beneficial, Your Darkness. I was most gracious. Thank you for such a thoughtful gift." She meets his eyes again, and feels a tickle against the corners of her mind.

"You are most welcome, Narcissa. Lucius, offer your wife a chair. This will be a long meeting, and she should not be standing in her delicate condition." There is a hint of mocking under his tone, but Voldemort looks at Lucius expectantly.

Lucius is obviously confused- she is no Death Eater, out long a member of the Inner Circle- but he does as is requested and gracefully leads her to the most comfortable chair in the room.

Narcissa watches as Bellatrix throws herself to the floor in front of Lord Voldemort. Her black hair fans out on the expensive hardwood, and her back arches as she folds herself against her knees.

The higher you are, the harder you fall, Narcissa thinks wryly.

"Bella," the Dark Lord nods, barely glancing at her. As always, Rodolphus seems pained at his wife's submission to another man. He also seems resigned.

Bellatrix scrambles to her feet and to the left of the Dark Lord. Lucius sighs next to Narcissa- out of frustration, boredom, or more reverence she can't tell- and takes his place to the right.

"My friends," Voldemort begins. His voice is low and almost as Dark as his magic. "Tonight, we gather together to Revel; to Revel in chaos and Darkness and despair. We gather to celebrate victories of comrades, and to deal out justice and punishment to Mudbloods and those that sympathize with them."

Andromeda. Nymphadora. Panic flashes through Narcissa, as cold and shady as this room in her beloved Manor. She pushes it back and places both palms on her flat stomach. She desperately wishes she had a list of names to distract her now.

What could the Dark Lord have to say that she would possibly need to hear?

The Death Eaters cheer in agreement to their Lord's small speech. Then he dismisses them, and all but the Inner Circle file out. Narcissa sits unnaturally still, waiting. She hopes she will be asked to leave soon. Considering she's still permitted to sit in a chair instead of standing in the half circle gathered around Voldemort, she seriously doubts it.

"My most loyal of servants…" Voldemort begins, then pauses to collect his thoughts a moment. He stands, pushing his chair almost into the fireplace behind him in his haste. "I have been giving a personal objective much consideration. I would like your thoughts on it."

Narcissa's hands begin to shake. The Dark Lord never asks for the opinions of his followers unless he has already made up his mind. What horrendous thing is he going to do? Is she sitting in this room, in this chair, because he is about to propose a raid on Andromeda's home? Does he know about the letters hidden in her bureau drawer? Does he know about the secret photograph of her niece, the one in which her hair changes color over and over? Does he know how much love she still has for her bloodtraitor family?

Love and traitors are two things the Dark Lord will never tolerate.

"In Pureblood society, it is important to carry on the legacy of ones lineage."

What?

All the breath leaves Narcissa's lungs. The rush of air is noticed by all in the room, and she feels lightheaded. With relief or a different kind of sheer terror, she doesn't know. The hardest emotions for Narcissa to evaluate are her own.

The Dark Lord raises an eyebrow at her. "Lady Malfoy. You look very pale. Are you well?"

This is her chance. Her chance to claim illness and go lie upstairs in her bed until Voldemort leaves her home.

But she must know his new plans. If he is including her in this, it must directly affect her. And now, whatever affects her affects her child.

She'll stay.

"I am fine, oh Dark Lord. I apologize. Sometimes my condition can cause shortness of breath. It will pass momentarily."

It is a blatant lie, but the only thing the Dark Lord knows about pregnant women is that to kill one is to add two to his personal body count.

He blinks at her in irritation and continues. "As you all know, I come from a most noble and reputable bloodline. It dates back to Salazar Slytherin himself."

The room full of Death Eaters all nod and mumble in respect. Narcissa resists the urge to roll her eyes and focuses on calming her heart rate. Her blood pounding through her veins this quickly cannot possibly be healthy for her child.

"I shall be immortal."

This is not the first time Voldemort has declared that, but it still sends terror throughout her body. She won't imagine a lifetime of groveling to this man. It would drive her madder than her sister.

"As such, I will have no need for an heir. However, I have found myself considering it. I came across a very powerful spell in my research weeks ago; it reveals the most perfect mate to the caster. I would very much like a protégée. There are times when I need more than the most loyal of my servants in an area where I cannot be present myself. Also, I would like for the line to continue. I cannot deny wanting my blood to run through the veins of another. A dynasty would be the highest form of flattery."

Narcissa presses her stomach more firmly into her hands. She wishes she could feel her child. She truly does. How can he consider a child a thing and not a beautiful honor? To carry the young man her child will undoubtedly become is the thing she is most grateful for; she has never considered the fact that he will have her blood to be important past the fact that it will be pure and he will have a station in society always secure for him.

"The dilemma I have, you see, is whether or not to cast the spell."

Bellatrix speaks first. Narcissa knew she would. There is a manic glint in Bellatrix's eyes. Though her husband is standing right next to her, Bellatrix desperately and blatantly wants to be the one to carry the Dark Lord's child.

"My Lord. The spell has risks. What if the one it decides is your best mate is a woman who is on the side of the Light? Surely she would be alerted. She would run from the honor of being the one to carry-"

"Yes, yes." Voldemort interrupts her and scrapes his nails through his hair. It is the most agitatedly human thing Narcissa has ever seen him do. "But the woman who is my best mate is surely the one that will instill the child with the most power. I will produce my offspring through force if necessary."

Narcissa's hands spring from her stomach to the arms of her chair. She digs her nails into the soft upholstery. Rape. He is speaking of rape as though it as just as common as making love.

She has never felt more grateful to have a doting husband that makes every act of theirs pleasurable. He is one of the few that refuses to degrade himself and her by forcing himself on another woman. That is where she has drawn the line. She has told him so. If he rapes someone, she will know, and she will leave. Money, prestige, and reputation be damned.

She scans the Dark Lord and his mutilated body. She shudders at the thought of him doing such a thing.

Even across the room, Lucius senses her unease. "My Lord, I do not believe the spell to be worth the risk. It would raise too high of an alert if a Light witch was chosen. And what if a Mudblood was chosen? It would have all been for not. That being said, I do not believe your most perfect mate would be a non-pure Light witch."

"My thoughts exactly, Lucius."

Dolohov and Rosier shift uneasily. Severus quirks an eyebrow. "My Lord, the gender of the heir would not be guaranteed. Even with the most advanced medical spellwork in Saint Mungo's that would not be possible."

Voldemort agrees. "Another risk, Severus."

Crabbe, Narcissa thinks, has never been the brightest. He has brute force, and so Voldemort sends him on the most high profile of missions. He stands and scratches his head now, obviously confused.

"Also, my Lord… there is something I must inform you of. I would much rather do so in private, however." Severus says.

Narcissa knows that she will most certainly be dismissed now. She can feel the words that will set her free right there in the open air.

It's an incredible shock when instead, Voldemort says, "Malfoys, Bellatrix. You stay. The rest of you, go wait with the others. None of what we've spoken of is to leave this room."

The Death Eaters give her looks of envy and contempt, but obediently shuffle out of the room and into the hallway.

A cold sweat breaks out between her shoulder blades.

"My Lord. A prophecy has been made. A prophecy concerning you, and a child not yet born."

Voldemort is silent for several long moments. "Continue."

"I overheard a Seer in a meeting with Dumbledore. She made the prophecy in the middle of the meeting."

"Out with it, Severus. What were the contents of this prophecy?"

Narcissa watches, more than a little interested. Her own Sight had been squashed by her mother. It had been miniscule to begin with.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"

Narcissa's breath catches. No one in the room speaks or breathes. This is more than a pregnant pause. It's the instant of silence between life and death.

"That is all?" Voldemort finally asks.

Severus hesitates. The hesitation is barely noticeable. It would not be noticeable at all to someone that does not know him as intimately as Narcissa. Then he murmurs, "Yes, My Lord."

Everyone is always murmuring around the Dark Lord.

"Thank you, Severus. Your information is always most useful."

Voldemort sinks back into his chair. He is slumping. He slumps almost in the same way Bellatrix does, with an air of nonchalant power. It unnerves Narcissa. His finger is against his lips and he remains unblinking. She has never seen anyone so deep in thought.

She doesn't know how long it takes him to resurface from his own mind, but it is quite a while. She's glad he didn't ask her to stand.

After an eternity of terrifying contemplation, the Dark Lord stands once more. His back is straight and she knows he has solidified the decision he made before consulting any of them.

"I will perform the spell tonight."

Narcissa's heart sinks deep inside of her chest. She never believed in the gods the Neo-Druids of her youth mentioned from time to time (and worshipped with free love and flowers in their hair right along with filthy Muggles), but now she sends up a plea to any of them willing to listen. She would not wish this curse on any woman.

She is terrified of a child not yet born. What kind of mutant will the Dark Lord create? In her mind, Narcissa remembers Muggle pictures in black and white, moving as Wizard photographs did, on a large screen. Andromeda had always been fond of Muggle cinemas. She used to sneak Narcissa out with her when she was very young; she had nightmares of a beast called an alien eating its way out of a woman's torso for months, but to run to the comfort of her mother's arms meant to betray Andromeda, and she would never have done that.

Surely a Muggle alien would be a blessing compared to the Dark Lord's child.

Narcissa takes a steady breath to quell the rising hysterical laughter in her throat.

She watches with a sharp, observant gaze as the Dark Lord pulls a very old piece of parchment from his robes. She cannot read the writing on it; it looks Welsh.

She can tell from the glimpse Severus got of it that he can read it, however. His face is ashen. She dares to raise an eyebrow at him in curiosity.

The brief flicker of his black eyes towards her speaks volumes: Not now.

Voldemort raises his wand, and instantly the Death Eaters assembled fall to their knees around him. Narcissa, for the first time, wishes she were standing so she could do the same. She has been present when the Dark Lord casts. His power when performing complicated spells induces such a wave of vertigo that it sends anyone in a ten foot radius sprawling to the floor. Instead, she merely bows her head demurely.

The evil bastard has just raised his wand when a pure white dove appears quite literally out of thin air.

Voldemort does not jump at the unexpected sight as Narcissa does, nor does he flinch when the bird's feathers brush against him as the rest of the Death Eaters do. Instead, he calmly reaches up and plucks a thin envelope from the beak of the bird.

When he goes to curse it on a whim, the bird disappears again. Narcissa flinches, sure his anger will rise, but it does not. Instead, he arches one thin eyebrow, and opens the letter.

Narcissa sees the words Tom Marvolo Riddle written in very old script on the front, but it is gone in a blaze of fire as soon as she does. Voldemort drops the ashes to the ground, still reading.

Narcissa keeps her head bowed the entire ten minutes that Voldemort is scanning the letter.

Truly, it was not that big of an envelope. She wishes to send flowers to whoever stunned him enough to make him reread something so short, and also stalled the damnation of an innocent woman.

Then the Dark Lord starts to laugh, and Narcissa wishes she had taken the potions he sent, because the sound makes her stomach turn. Bile rises in the back of her throat and stings the end of her tongue, but she swallows hard and ignores the feeling.

"This is excellent! Truly excellent! The spell is no longer even required."

Bellatrix is the only one brave enough- or insane enough- to say anything. Her words drip acid and a promise of torture. "A volunteer from among your ranks, my Lord?"

The Dark Lord is so positively giddy that he doesn't even punish Bellatrix for her insolence. "No, no, Bella. Not quite. It seems my so called perfect mate has sought me."

Bellatrix shrieks in wordless rage, and then yelps when Voldemort sends a flashy curse her way. Afterwards, she seethes in silence.

Narcissa sits and waits.

Finally, after several minutes of contemplation, Voldemort looks at her husband kneeling on the floor. Voldemort is all business once more, giddiness locked away. But there is no denying he is immensely pleased about something. She watches as Severus's shoulders tense slightly and unadulterated terror sets in, licking its way down her spine and through her mind.

"Rise, Lucius."

To her husband's credit, he is not shaking when he does so. Her fingers tremble, but nothing else. She wants to be brave like Lucius. She always has. (Secretly, in the very depths of her subconscious where she composes letters to Andromeda and spots purchases she is too cowardly to make for her niece, where she is still kind and unassuming and unselfish, she likes to think her husband would have made an admirable Gryffindor, were he not so power-hungry.)

"My Lord?"

"You are quite certain that your wife will bear you a male child?"

Lucius blinks once. "Yes, my Lord. It is all but guaranteed. The Malfoys have borne male children for-"

"Lovely. You see, Lucius, I am quite invested in the welfare of your offspring."

"I am most thankful my Lord, but why-"

"Because, Lucius. When considering my own progeny, I had a bit of an epiphany. I do not wish for any to have my name. I am the sole heir to the noble bloodline to which I belong. Therefore, my future child," Voldemort hisses the word as though it is akin to Mudblood, "must be a female. In that way, she may marry a pureblood and continue my line without the burden of a name."

Narcissa's blood freezes in her veins and there is an anguished scream stuck deep inside her chest.

"I have just been guaranteed that, among other things, my child shall be a female."

Of course he had. The Dark Lord got anything he wanted, even the soul of her unborn child.

"I would like to arrange a betrothal with you, Lucius."

Lucius dares to allow his eyes to flicker towards her. Voldemort stares penetratingly at her husband, not sparing her even a glance.

No wonder he placed those protection spells on her. No wonder he took such an interest in her very recent announcement. She has carried her child inside of her barely a month, and he is already plotting its destruction.

He has taken what is hardly hers.

"You see, when I placed the protection spells on your lovely wife, I cast another. Just as a bit of a… trial. Regardless of the gender of my own child, I needed to make certain it would always have a guardian. A strong male betrothal if it were female, as I hoped, or a strong ally and General if it were male. I cast a spell to gauge the potential magical strength of the latest addition to the Malfoy lineage."

The Dark Lord turns to her, and it takes every ounce of strength she has to lift her head and meet his eyes. Narcissa marvels at how she can hide the hate she feels.

"Lady Malfoy, you should be quite honored. Your child has the potential to have the strongest magical core I've observed in decades."

Narcissa's eyes widen, and she can take no more. She bows her head once more and her chest heaves on a sob. She only allows herself one, but in the eyes of the Dark Lord, she is broken.

He smiles.

She always knew her child was meant for greatness. But not like this. Never like this.

How many lives will the life growing inside of her take in the name of the beast in front of her?

"Look at her," The Dark Lord orders, and obediently every eye in the room turns on her. "She is speechless," Voldemort mocks.

Severus's mind reaches out to hers, reassuring her. He shows her images of students in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, of students laughing between classes, of playgrounds and pet stores and small training brooms in Diagon Alley. He tries in his own way to remind her that her child's life isn't over before it begins.

For the first time in her life, Narcissa does not believe Severus.

"You are dismissed, Narcissa," the Dark Lord snaps. She jumps once more in her chair, and then stands. She bows stiffly, and scurries for the door. Narcissa is not brave. Not like Lucius. Not like Andromeda. Not like Gryffindors. Certainly not enough to save her child. Narcissa is merely pathetic and devastated and more afraid than she has ever been in her entire life.

The beady eyes of Dolohov, Crouch Jr., and Pettigrew follow her flight up the stairs of her Manor. She rounds a corner and falls to her knees in the dark shadows of her home.

Then she weeps for the lives she cannot save.


The woman waits in the shadows created by the rocks.

She has been waiting for this day for a year. She knew what he would seek even before he himself did, and now she will give it to him.

Their world is going to change, and very soon. He will have his dynasty. His progeny will touch and inspire every corner of the globe. Dark or Light. For better, or for worse. She has Seen it, and so shall it be.

He is precisely three minutes late, but she knew he would be.

His almost non-existent eyebrows raise at the sight of her standing there in shadows, but not bothering to hide herself from him. Perhaps she is more beautiful than he was expecting. She smiles a bit at the thought.

"Tom."

He scowls at the sound of his given name, but makes no move to harm her. "What is your name?"

She smirks at him, and it clearly disturbs him. She doubts anyone has looked at him in this way, as an equal, in a very long time. If ever. "That's not important. Call me Her. Or She, depending on the grammatical necessities."

His eyes flicker with curiosity once more, but he lets it go. "And you are going to give me what I came for? What we agreed upon?"

"Perhaps," she muses, and his eyes glint with anger. Oh, his eyes. They are very expressive. Much more so than she thought they would be. "If you agree to a few conditions."

She watches his frustration mount inside of him. He is very impatient and petulant. She will have to guard against that in their offspring.

"What conditions, witch? You already guaranteed the gender-"

"I must cast several charms before we conceive the girl. You mustn't interfere in any way. I also get to keep her for the first year after her birth. You will receive her on the following Samhain. You may name her anything you like, so long as the name Morgane is included. It is my bloodline's tradition. Afterwards, you will never attempt to find me, contact me, or otherwise associate yourself with me in any way unless it is for the sole benefit of our child, and is not for any of your own personal gain."

She can tell by the dubious expression on his face that he has not thought of the Old Ways in a very long time, and puts little stock in them. So much the better; perhaps she might be able to sway events in her own way after all. It takes him a moment to calculate the date.

"And if I disagree? If I demand access to my child before the year is up? You agreed in the letter that she was entirely mine, to do with as I pleased-"

"Tell me, oh fearsome Dark Lord, do you have the means or the desire to care for a helpless, pitiful infant?" Her words are sharp, biting, and mocking. If she were anyone else, he would have cast her to the ground, writhing in pain at the very least for her tongue. For some reason, he restrains himself.

It is not as though she didn't master defenses against such petty curses as the Cruciatus a long time ago, anyway.

Then Tom Riddle's anger starts to melt away, and he laughs in a giddy, high way.

"Do we have an agreement?"

"But of course." He chuckles, and gestures for her to step forward and perform any spells she may need to.

He is surprised when she does not pull out a flimsy wand, but instead begins instantly casting, using only her hands to perform the complicated spells. She simply holds her palms out in front of her, towards the sky; the magic in the air on this island is so thick it takes almost no effort on her part to perform spells many millennia old.

The lust and the hunger for power grows in his eyes with each spell she casts. As disturbing as his physical body might be, she cannot help but feel a small thrill at this man in front of her.

At least he never performed the soul mate spell. She would never have been able to break away from him then. She would have hated having unwavering devotion for a man she considers a coward.

When the spells are finally over, a glowing ball of pure magical energy erupts in the middle of the island. The waves against the shore rock higher than ever, the wind picks up speed, cracks appear in the earth where it had been strong and smooth before, and the lush greenery bursts into flames.

Tom studies the large mass of magic, trying to discern its ever changing colors and textures. She knows even he is amazed at such raw, primal, and incredible power. "What is this?"

"Magic, in its purest form. The island we have met on is in the middle of the Atlantic; it is where the four major ley lines meet. Quite the perfect place to conceive a child meant to bring the world to its knees with power, yes?" What she does not mention is that these are no normal ley lines, but the ley lines of all the world's elements. The man in front of her has no idea what kind of power he is about to become partly responsible for bringing into this world; he only knows that it is immense, and that he wants it. The thought amuses her.

Their eyes meet, and in his she sees only death. She sees the path she could have chosen, at that crossroads long ago.

She lifts her chin, and then he is on her.


1981

Lord Voldemort has almost forgotten his child.

Almost, but not quite. He had been notified of the day of her birth, and on that day had named a loyal Death Eater her official caretaker. He has not thought of her since.

It has been quite the busy time for him. He has had much killing to do, much torturing to commit, much power to gain. He basks in the fear of an entire nation, and wonders idly what he will do when he takes over the rest of Europe. Move on to Asia, perhaps?

Of course, all of that must come after tonight.

"Thank you for your services, Wormtail," he whispers. He doesn't feel the need to speak any louder. Quiet can be a very nice weapon, when used appropriately.

Wormtail shivers on the floor at his feet. The name has always amused him. It is entirely fitting, and it is even better that it constantly reminds the rat of the friends he betrayed so easily.

Voldemort holds no respect for those unwilling to die at his hand.

"Tonight, my brothers and sisters, marks a new era." He hisses at his followers, and like a well-oiled machine, their answering hisses rise in the air.

His eyes meet those of Bellatrix, and she simpers under his gaze. He feels a flicker of irritation, and a bit of lust that quickly fades.

"Tonight, I destroy those that have so often defied me. Tonight, I destroy another enemy that will die under my wand as so many foolish others."

It has been too long since Voldemort has personally killed anyone instead of sending a team of his Death Eaters to a raid- almost a week. His blood is boiling in his veins, and his soul aches deliciously at the prospect of tearing itself open once more and letting the darkness in.

Voldemort watches the quiet anguish of Severus Snape. Usually his servant would be standing most loyally by his side. Instead, he has chosen to stand in the far corner of the room tonight.

Humor and vindictive cruelty battle inside of him. "Tonight, I may even bring back one of my most faithful a new pet."

Severus does not flinch, but he doesn't have to. Satisfaction washes through Voldemort. He twirls his wand carelessly against his fingers, relishing in the smooth wood that will end someone's existence very soon.

Glorious. Everything is glorious.

He hopes there will be blood this time.

And if it happens to be the filthy blood of the woman his servant so desires, all the better.

"When I return, we shall have the largest Revel yet!"

All of his Death Eaters cheer, and then he is gone, swooping out the door and into the night.

Godric's Hollow is little more than a ghost town at this time of the evening. He leaves its outskirts, his footsteps making no noise. There is an energy in the air tonight that is irresistible. His eyes narrow at the sight of the modest home Wormtail had informed him of.

There is surprisingly a light still glowing in one of the windows. He can see movement behind it, outlined by faint silhouettes. How beautiful it will be when those warm bodies are finally cold on the floor in front of him.

They have it coming.

He is about to take another step when he hears a faint pop. Next to him is suddenly a woman, where there had not been a woman before.

He is surprised to notice she is wearing the same dress as the first night he saw her, the night he took her and owned her for a few hours. Her dark hair frames her dark eyes. Everything about her is dark except for her skin. It practically glows in this moonlight. Her body shows no sign of bearing his child.

He grits his teeth in irritation. "I am busy."

"I have a delivery for you. This one I could not send by dove."

And she holds out to him a tiny girl. She has hair a few shades darker than his own, and a few shades lighter than Hers. That is practically all he can see of her, she is wrapped up so tightly. The fabric is smooth and unlike anything he has ever seen before.

It takes him an entire minute to work out that the disgusting babe she is presenting him with is his own. His desired heir. Today is Samhain by the Old calendar. He had almost forgotten.

"Take her to a man named Severus Snape. He is her caretaker in the event that I am unavailable. Which I clearly am." He gestures towards the house. He does not want the light to flicker off before he barges in. He craves a fight, however puny it may be. Sleeping targets don't often scream.

She raises an eyebrow. "House call?"

He merely sneers at Her, his eyes darting down to his daughter, and then back to Her.

"I refuse to hand her to anyone but you. We had an agreement. Besides," She snorts, looking detachedly at the house, "if it's a simple house call, it shouldn't be much of a burden."

When he opens his mouth to agitatedly protest once more, She glares at him. "If you do not take her now, I will take her. For good. You will never see her again."

Awkwardly, Voldemort snatches the child from Her hands. He uncomfortably tucks her into the crook of his left arm. He needs his right free to use his wand. His enemies must be destroyed tonight, regardless of this inconvenience.

"What are you naming her?"

Ah, yes. The name. He had given it much consideration after their coupling, and had chosen it almost a year ago. "Aveline Atropos Morgane Enigme."

With one last lingering look at their daughter, She vanishes.

He snarls at the space She once inhabited and grasps his daughter more securely. The girl does not stir in his arms.

He storms up the pathway and in his vast irritation, blows the side door and half of the wall to pieces. He pays no mind as it showers down around him. He drinks in the sound of a woman screaming inside.

"Lily, take Harry and-"

"No, James, I-"

"Go! Go! I love you, Lily, you and Harry, now go-"

He faintly hears feet pounding frantically up stairs. He enters the house and dodges a nasty jinx sent his way from around the corner. He feels nothing but disgust for these people. They could have joined his ranks. They could have been mighty, and instead chose to live in filth. They will pay, as all who defy him do.

Only three more curses are sent his way. He chases the dark-haired man up the stairs. He catches him on the landing. He watches as the light fades from his eyes and he slumps to the ground.

Avada Kedavra has always been incredibly effective.

He wishes to play more with his next victim. He wants to hear her scream some. If she agrees to come with him and join his ranks, he will only torture her a bit before handing her over to Severus. Absently, he checks on the child on his arm. She is still sleeping. He does not think to question this.

He glides up the rest of the stairs. He can afford to waste seconds now. The woman and her disgusting child are not going anywhere.

He comes upon the room, and takes in the scene; she is on her knees, her red hair hopelessly tangled in shrapnel from the wall. Her son is in a crib in front of her.

"Mummy loves you. Daddy loves you. Be brave, Harry-"

"How charming," Voldemort mocks. His voice is higher than normal at the veiled insult. Killing makes him more excited than anything else in the world. He still craves the sight of blood. He wonders if hers is redder than her hair.

She whirls around, on her feet in seconds. "No, please, not Harry, not him-"

"I am going to kill your son."

She turns even paler at the revelation. Her breaths begin to shorten with her sobs. It is a pity, Voldemort thinks, that her last breaths are so short. None of his victims ever think to lengthen their last ones and enjoy them. Stupid filth.

"No. No. Please, not Harry. Please! I'll do anything! Not Harry, not my baby boy, no."

"I will let you go. Step aside, foolish girl, and you may live."

She does not hesitate. Her word is no longer a plea, but a suicide note with steely resolve. Her emerald eyes burn, and he can see why Severus is so enchanted by her. She would make a tantalizing little slave. "No."

After a flash of blazing green light, Lily Potter is dead on the floor. He is disappointed by the lack of blood, but she did let out a satisfying, shrill wail.

Young Harry Potter gurgles in his crib. Voldemort's own daughter is still blissfully sleeping. He grins as he peers over the wooden railings.

He sees the same green eyes that he just eternally shut. How striking, to get to close the same pair of eyes twice.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Voldemort's world explodes, and all he knows is pain more brutal than any he has ever inflicted, pain more agonizing than any he has ever personally experienced.

And then he is nothing.

In the smoldering remains of the house, Harry Potter begins to howl. Flung thirteen feet away from him, Aveline slowly opens her eyes and silently begins to cry.


That same moment, great distances away, Draco Malfoy jerks from his sleep very abruptly and begins screaming at the top of his lungs.

Narcissa sits up in bed instantly. Cold terror fills her very being. No child should ever scream that way; he sounds as though he's being murdered where he lies. Lucius sits up in their bed next to her, but she is already tugging on a robe and sprinting down the hall.

There are three house elves already in the nursery, trying desperately to hush her son. He refuses. His little face is red and he gasps on great sobs. She grabs her son from the terrified elves, checking his entire body for some sort of injury or ailment. Draco is a beautiful child in both appearances and temperament; he had rarely fussed at night even as a newborn. Screams like this are entirely unexpected.

She can find nothing wrong with him.

Lucius is by her side immediately. "What's the matter with him?"

"I don't know!" Narcissa's voice is almost a screech. "Nothing, from what I can tell!"

"Perhaps it was a nightmare. Do babies get nightmares?" There is a hint of panic in Lucius's voice.

Narcissa wracks her brain and comes up blank. "I don't know that, either!"

"Mistress, if Nanny may interrupt, Mistress, Nanny knows how to calm Baby Master Draco, Mistress." A small, old elf tugs on the hem of Narcissa's robe calmly. Nanny has been passed around almost all of the Pureblood families for years, bought and sold interchangeably when one bloodline has a new member. She has been invaluable to Narcissa. She's thinking about keeping the old elf for good, other families be damned.

"Yes, yes, what is it, Nanny?"

"Nanny can make Baby Master Draco a Sleeping Drought, Mistress. Nanny knows how to mix it with milk. It will not harm Baby Master Draco. He will sleep as he always does, Mistress. Night terrors are not so uncommon in babies, Mistress."

Narcissa relaxes, and begins cooing to her son, rocking him steadily back and forth in her arms. He is over a year old, and she still feels as though she delivered him yesterday. Lucius is even worse; he is incredibly protective of their child. Taking his cue from Narcissa, he nods to Nanny.

"Yes, Nanny, do so. Quickly."

"Yes, Master Malfoy. Nanny be quick. One moment, Master Malfoy." And Nanny disappears with a small pop.

It doesn't take long after Nanny's return for Draco to fall back into an uneasy sleep. Lucius kisses his son's forehead and meanders down to his study for a strong brandy. Narcissa resolves to go to the kitchens and mix more milk and Sleeping Droughts herself in case Draco wakes once more.

She is passing one of the drawing rooms when she senses the Manor wards tingle. Someone is at her home in the middle of the night. She wraps her robe tighter around her and scurries to the front door. She yanks it open, and Severus stumbles into her arms.

He is freezing to the bone, and holds some sort of bundle haphazardly in his arms. He is shaking with uncontrollable sobs, and Narcissa instantly aches for him. She knows what this means.

Lily Potter was not spared.

Severus presses himself against her, buries his face into her neck. Together they awkwardly fall to a heap on the floor, and with a flick of her wrist she shuts the heavy front door.

Severus's cries echo through the foyer, haunting and hallow. His entire body trembles.

"I'm so sorry," Narcissa whispers.

He blubbers something incoherent, and she squeezes him tighter.

It is only after they have sat in the chilly foyer for several long minutes, grieving the loss of a Mudblood together, that she realizes the bundle he is holding is moving against her.

Narcissa does not shriek -she is far too full of decorum for that- but she does gasp when she draws back from Severus and sees a small baby girl tucked into a blanket and wrapped in his jacket.

"Severus Snape! What in Merlin's name-"

"It is his." Severus snarls the word. "The heir of our esteemed Dark Lord."

Shock settles into her stomach. She never expected a tiny beast to be so undeniably beautiful.

"May I?" she breathes before she is even aware of what she is doing.

Severus all but throws the child at her.

She carefully unfolds the strange blanket. The fabric is entirely unknown to her, but it is smoother and warmer than silk could ever be. Underneath is a child almost the same age as her Draco. She has dark hair, and a perfect little nose, and full lips.

Narcissa does not understand how she can feel so much affection for a child that will undoubtedly murder hundreds.

"Where is Voldemort?" she asks. How did Severus end up with the child?

"He's gone."

It takes Narcissa several moments. "Gone where?"

She strokes the child's cheek and the girl curls into her hand and chest. Her heart melts a bit.

"No, Narcissa. I mean the Dark Lord, the most evil man of all time, is gone."

Now Narcissa shrieks.

She summons Lucius, and he takes one look at the child that is most decidedly not theirs in her arms, and one look at Severus's devastated face, and demands answers. They both listen as Severus tells them about how he received a letter from the baby girl's mother, giving him her name and Voldemort's location; how he rushed to the Potter home only to find it already destroyed, Aveline lying in the same tarnished room as Harry Potter; how he had held Lily's body as long as he could, only leaving when he heard the great footsteps and sobs of Rubeus Hagrid, and how he had gathered up his charge and Apparated directly to the Manor.

Narcissa sits in stunned silence. She was never a fan of the Dark Lord, but Lucius had a bit of protection under his reign. Now, they will undoubtedly have to answer to the Ministry, and the Wizarding World at large. She thinks of Bellatrix, and how madly devastated she will be; undoubtedly she will cause mass amounts of death and destruction at the news. Then she thinks of Andromeda; can she associate with her freely once more? Can her Draco make play dates with Andromeda's Nymphadora?

The baby in her arms curls her fingers around one of Narcissa's, rubbing the large diamond of her engagement ring. She smiles a bit at the child.

She thinks of her cousin, Sirius Black. He was raised, for all intents and purposes, to become the head of the Black House, and to turn as Dark as his name implied. But he had been sorted into Gryffindor of all Houses, and had become best friends with… with…

Well. No use crying over spilt blood. Not now. Not when it's all over.

Narcissa smiles wider at the little girl in her arms. She truly is quite beautiful, and even with the Dark Lord gone, she knows her husband holds no desire for another child. And perhaps, even with her heritage, the child will be something entirely different. Perhaps tiny Aveline will be a Sirius instead of a Bellatrix. It would certainly give Narcissa an excuse to buy the incredibly fashionable child-size dresses she admires from time to time in Diagon Alley.

She looks up to find Severus staring blankly into the fireplace. His entire will to live is gone. She can see it in his eyes; there is nothing there any longer. If he doesn't find some sort of motivation, she knows he will wither away to nothing.

Severus has been her best friend since the day she was married to Lucius. He was the only one that saw her as an individual instead of the wife of a Death Eater. She knows more about him than anyone else does, and he understands her.

She refuses to lose him to the haunting memory of a bloody Gryffindor.

"Severus," she says quietly. His head snaps up, the flames creating deep shadows on his face. He almost looks like a corpse himself, so deep is his grief. "Severus, dear, what do you plan to do with the girl?"

Severus blinks slowly several times. Lucius watches curiously; he does not know Severus as well as Narcissa does. He does not know the depth of his love for a dead woman.

Slowly, Severus's gaze turns contemplative. He was always an intelligent man; perhaps his intelligence will become his salvation now that his heart has been shattered.

"I am going to… to visit someone."

Narcissa knows he means Dumbledore. He had confided in her and only she, what his promise to Dumbledore had been in exchange for his help in hiding the Potters. She had intended to join him in his secret rebellion against the Dark Lord, and when the time was right, she had intended to inform her son of her traitorousness, and allow him to choose his own path. She could never escape the Dark, but she could try her best to kill it from the inside as a spy with Severus. She had hoped her son would choose to do the same when the time came.

Voldemort had made many, many mistakes when he decided to hunt down Lily Potter.

Narcissa and her husband share a worried glance as Snape slams the front door behind him. Then Lucius bends and kisses her on the forehead.

"Sometime tomorrow, I shall turn myself in to the Ministry," Lucius says to her quite calmly. He smirks at her, the same smirk that had disarmed her entirely when they had been courting, and then trudges sleepily up the stairs and back to their room.

Narcissa glances down at the sleeping child in her arms.

She doesn't look like Tom Riddle at all.

Narcissa Apparates the both of them upstairs, into Draco's nursery. She conjures an identical crib for Aveline, and places her gently inside. Nanny is snoozing lightly in a chair next to Draco. She can handle whatever arises before morning.

Narcissa goes back to sleep next to her husband, and rests easily for the first time since the Dark Lord's rise.


Sirius Black laughs manically as he is dragged away in chains in broad daylight.


Hagrid hands over a snoozing Harry to Dumbledore the night after the fall of He Who Must Not Be Named. He had quite a time, transporting him back to Hogwarts, where Poppy was waiting to heal him.

She had been able to do nothing for the lightning shaped cut.

Dumbledore decides it may make quite a handy scar.


Severus stares down at the daughter of the man who had murdered the only woman he had ever loved.

Narcissa has somehow managed to overlook the girl's heritage entirely, and spends as much time cooing softly to her as she does to her own son. The two babies get along quite well.

As it turns out, Aveline has hazel eyes. They are the only hint that she belongs to Tom Riddle, and are incredibly stunning; sometimes they appear almost golden. Other times, they are as dark as her soul probably is and as dark as her father's eyes used to be. And still other times, when the light shines in just the right way, they seem to be a deep emerald green.

Severus has always had a weakness for green eyes; even sort-of-green hazel eyes. And now he has a plan.

According to Dumbledore, Voldemort will rise once more and return to claim the life that he failed to take- Harry Potter's. He will also be expecting Severus to have taken care of his heir. When he does rise, Severus Snape will be ready. When he does rise, Voldemort will fall once more, for eternity.

And his own daughter will be his demise.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do, however, own all original characters that may appear here.

I have decided to begin this story today in honor of Alan Rickman. Rest in peace.