Light in the Darkness

Chapter 1

Cordelia sat at a long mahogany table, leaning forward as she so often did to let her long mess of dark curls fall over her face. This effectively hid her eyes from view of the others at the table, and allowed her a veil through which to observe the cruel, gaunt, and scarred faces that she had known all her life. A fire at the far side of the large room flickered a red and orange glow across these faces, but as the flames danced over their features Aurora saw something in them that was utterly unfamiliar to her; she saw fear.

Never had these faces ever shown even the slightest inclination of nervousness, they were trained to be harsh and vicious predators, never the prey, yet now they resembled young deer that were cornered by a famished wolf. Of course, no one at the table seemed to notice each others nervous twitches, but Cordelia, who had always been meticulously observant of her surroundings and analytical of any potential threats, noticed these things immediately and cataloged them in her memory. After all, when it comes to Death Eaters, it can be somewhat difficult to prepare for what is coming ahead when no one wants to tell a "senseless little girl", as Yaxley had referred to her when she had entered the room for the meeting. But now, even he was silent -the scathing little ferret- and Cordelia noticed that he too was unusually nervous. The cloud arrogance that usually condensed into a rather pompous atmosphere about him was gone, and in its place was a rather irritating sign of his discomfort, a steady tapping of his pale skinned index finger.

Tap-tap. -tap. Tap-tap-tap. Slowly the sound began to wear on Cordelia's nerves. Already she did held a great dislike for her Yaxley, but even more annoying was the sound of her cousin Draco cracking his knuckles. She actually cared for her cousin, though the beginning of their relationship had been rather difficult.

Shaking a few more strands of hair into her face, she tried to recall the exact date when she had first met Draco, but knew immediately that even her great memory skills could not trace back to her infancy. Instead she focused on her earliest memory of him.

The memory was slippery, like trying to hold onto a slick bar of soap. It had been in the years before she lived at Malfoy Manor, back when she was still in the care of her great-aunt Walburga and great-uncle Orion. A young Cordelia, maybe seven or eight years old, had been visiting for a holiday, and had taken the opportunity to silently snoop through her Aunt's closet in search of old photographs of her mother and father. Enveloped in her quest, the little dark-haired girl did not notice the presence of her bleach blonde cousin until he had effectively pulled one of her ringlets so ferociously that she had fallen to the floor. Then, he had stood over her, smiling as mischievously as a six or seven year-old could, and then he had looked around at the array of photographs she had organized neatly around her.

"Looking for your mum?" he had asked her, and she had not replied, only glared at him before returning to her work in silence. Naturally, her lack of response frustrated him infinitely, and, knowing that if he harmed her again physically she would not be so forgiving a second time, he formulated a verbal follow-up. "You do know why she's not here of course," when she did not respond he continued, "She left you, her and your father. They didn't want a little freak like you so they left," there he interjected a small laugh, but the sound was caught in his throat as Cordelia leapt up like a cat and tackled him to the ground. For a few minutes she had wildly punched at him, and would have been likely to continue had Narcissa not heard the boy's cries and rushed in to pry Cordelia off of her son. Draco had had a broken nose from the incident, and Cordelia with three star-like scars on her left shoulder blade where Orion had branded her a fireplace iron.

The memory came and went like a flash of lightning. One minute it was there, clear as day in the front of her mind, and the next it was gone, back to the archives of her temporal lobe. As her mind filtered back to reality, her dark eyes involuntarily drifted across the room to the family portrait of the Malfoys that had been painted a few weeks after the incident. There, a young Draco stood perfectly poised beside his mother, Narcissa, who was seated on a lavishly covered stool while Draco's father, Lucius, stood behind her with one hand resting gently on her shoulder and the other on his son's. If you looked closely enough you could see that Draco's nose was ever so slightly crooked and had turned a light shade of magenta at the bridge. The thought would have made Aurora smile, but the memory of the smell of her own searing flesh that had filled the room as she was punished for attacking Draco made her shudder out of the memory and focus on her surroundings once more. The relationship between Cordelia and Draco had improved as they got older. In truth she pitied and envied him. He had the loving parents she had missed out on while under the "care" of Walburga and Orion, what with her actual parents being locked away in Azkaban since she was just a toddler. Yet, he was also weak. He wasn't strong like her, like she had to be to survive Grimmauld Place...

Cordelia's thoughts were cut short as the doors at the back of the room suddenly opened, and a petrified silence fell over everyone in the room. The only sound that could be heard was the scraping of chairs as everyone rushed to stand out of respect for their master. The Dark Lord entered the room, his cloak billowing around him, giving him the graceful and simultaneously menacing appearance of floating as he walked towards the empty seat at the head of the table.

"I've been reviewing your academic records, Cordelia. Karakoff graciously handed them over to me before his death, " the Dark Lord began with a small smirk, as if to remind all in the room that he had murdered Karakoff just weeks before, and that he would easily do the same to anyone else who dare cross him, "It appears as though Durmstrang has taught you well..."

With a flourish of his cloak, he approached her, ordering the others to sit down. Still standing Aurora never broke eye contact with the man -if he was even a man at all- that she had met only once in the previous summer. The Dark Lord saw in her so many things that reminded him of her mother. Aside from her light brown complexion which she had inherited from her father, she was her mother's daughter. Her messy curly hair was just like Bellatrix's as was her large, dark brown eyes that seemed to burn like Bellatrix's, but he could see control in them as well; perhaps something from her more mildly tempered father. Karakoff had told him that she was the most powerful student he had ever encountered, perhaps the most powerful witch of her age. She was an unmovable rock in her stubbornness, but in the same breath he saw that she could blaze like a wildfire with her force and power.

"While I am sure you expect me to bless you with the Dark Mark, I must post-pone that just a bit longer..." The Dark Lord continued, "Your education is so very important to me, which is why I would like you to transfer to Hogwarts, the very place where I was educated, as were your mother and father," he said with a smile.

Cordelia's steady gaze faltered for a second at the mention of her parents, with a small glimmer of emotion flickering in her eyes, which almost seemed to lighten in color. The Dark Lord had wondered if she would be a defiant threat to his return to power, but the thought was fleeting as he saw that childlike desperation for a parent's love glisten in her eyes. To gain the love of Bellatrix Lestange, the Dark Lord knew that little Cordelia would have to pledge her undying loyalty to their cause, to his cause.

The Dark Lord smiled, sat down with a flourish of his robes and with a malevolent smile, gestured for Cordelia to take her seat. She did not yet bare the Dark Mark, but the Dark Lord expected that she would serve him as faithfully as her mother had for so many years.