Summary: As if fifth year weren't hectic enough, what with Umbridge, the D.A. and, of course, quidditch, now another issure has entered Harry's life. Her name is Bella Rae Nawklaccop...or so she says. Her story is about to entangle with his and neither will ever be the same. The only question is this: Is there a riddle too tricky for the boy who lived?

OK, this belongs to a friend of mine, she didn't want to make a pen name so she asked if I would post it for her. So, here it is.

Dislcamer: Not mine, it's all JKR's...except for one of the characters, and she's Kira's. So absolutely none of it belongs to me...except the penname. lol

Prologue:

"Special?" It was not a word Rowena had ever been described by before. Freak, creep, demon-child, weird…All those words rang a bell, but "special?" Not a chance. And yet here was this man, this "Professor Dumbledore," telling her what she had known all along. She was different; she was not like the others. But "special"? That was something she had never expected to hear.

"It's a lot to take in," Dumbledore said kindly, putting a hand on her boney shoulder. He was watching her thoughtfully as she sat at the edge of her dirty grey bed, staring down at her lap dazedly. It felt so odd to him to be standing in this orphanage again…By Merlin's beard, he thought, she even has his bedroom. But that wasn't too surprising. Witches and wizards were often drawn to places once inhabited by magic. Still, the dresser…It squatted in the corner, perfectly unharmed, even after being set on fire for a second time. Magic was a wonderful thing, indeed, Dumbledore reflected. Well, wonderful and terrible, considering the dresser's past owner. With that thought, the old headmaster sighed, unscrambling all of his muddling ideals. Right now he needed to concentrate on the girl.

"Sir," Rowena said slowly. "How can I believe all this? All my life I've lived with normal people and never once have I so much as fancied that I was 'special', as you say. I'm really nothing special at all!"

Dumbledore pursed his lips. "And what makes you say that, I wonder?" He said in a knowing voice. "It's not as if you've grown up in a place where no one has the time to get to know you. If that were the case, it would make perfect sense no one noticed you were unique." His blue eyes twinkled. Rowena could merely nod slightly.

"It is rather busy here," she agreed softly. "Even Miss Rosie hardly knows all of us by name. Only the children really talk to each other; the adults are too busy with infants and whatnot..."

"The children have noticed a difference about you unlike the adults, have they not?" Dumbledore pointed out. Rowena lowered her head, ashamed.

"You could say that," she admitted. "They all think that I'm a freak." She looked up at him with large, desperate eyes as if asking if what the children said was true.

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded. "Muggles often are narrow-minded. They see something spectacular and call it a crime because they can't understand it. But does not understanding really make something a crime?" Rowena shook her head slowly. "There you go, then." A thin smile spread across her face.

"So...I am a normal witch?" She said.

"Not exactly, no," Dumbledore sighed again. "But normality is overrated, don't you think? Much better to be special." He winked.

"But how exactly am I special?" Rowena questioned. Her whole body was quivering with her hunger for information. It was written across her face in a way Dumbledore had only ever seen in one other person. With Rowena, however, her expression of curiosity was complimenting, not terrifying.

"You are special," Dumbledore explained slowly, carefully choosing his words. "Because of your blood." Rowena frowned.

"You mean my parents?" She asked quickly. "Were they powerful?" My, she's sharp one. Dumbledore thought approvingly.

"Yes, very powerful," he told her. Rowena's frown deepened. Something about his tone made her suspicious. Dumbledore's cheery manner now seemed tainted, as if he were holding back a key piece to the puzzle of her history.

"Who were they?" She asked pointedly, looking him directly in the eye. Dumbledore returned her steady gaze.

"Your mother," he started, "came from a very long line of purebloods, witches and wizards who never mixed with muggles. Her maiden name was Black."

"What was her first name?" Rowena breathed.

"Artemis. Artemis Lyra Black. She was very beautiful, and very, very powerful. I expect that's what intrigued your father."

"And who was he?" Rowena begged.

"That is a much more difficult question," Dumbledore sighed. Rowena waited. It killed him to have her watching him like this. So innocent, so naive...Neither of her parents had ever been so pure. All that she had of them were her looks. Her fair skin, her dark hair and eyes, her graceful posture...But she had a much sweeter, softer appearance then either her mother or father. If you could call them a mother and father, which Dumbledore definitely couldn't.

"Sir?" Rowena pushed eagerly, yet gently.

"Not all wizards are good," said Dumbledore. "And the darkest of our time is a man named Tom Marvolo Riddle. But he doesn't go by that name anymore. He has changed it to Lord Voldermort." He spoke the name with such disgust that a shiver ran down Rowena's spine. She wrapped her arms around her legs as Dumbledore described the horrors Voldermort and his Death Eaters had caused until finally explaining the Dark Lord's downfall through his attempted murder of Harry Potter. When he had finished, a ringing silence filled the room. Rowena was shaking. She looked up at Dumbledore questioningly.

"Why are you telling me this?" She asked.

Dumbledore closed his eyes. "Because you wanted the name of your father." He said.

"But why did you need to tell me all of that too?" Her voice was becoming squeaky. She swallowed. "Voldermort didn't...kill him, did he?"

"In a way, he did," Dumbledore muttered quietly, his eyes still closed. "I've always looked at it that way."

"But sir, who was he?" Rowena moaned desperately. Dumbledore said nothing. She buried her head in her knees, her thoughts racing. At last, she knew the real question she needed to ask.

"Sir?" She said timidly. "Who...am I?"

"You?" Dumbledore repeated with yet another sigh. "You, my dear, are Rowena."

"Yes, I know," Rowena said patiently. "But my last name? They never found out...Sir, what is it?"

"Black is the name in the records..." Rowena breathed a sigh of relief. A smile dared to venture on her lips. Dumbledore didn't have to look to know it was there. For a moment, he considered not telling her. But he knew he had to. So, killing the last scrap of hope the girl had, he continued. "...Riddle is the name that should be."

There was a gasp and a thunk. Dumbledore opened his eyes at last to see Rowena collapsed on the floor.
The Dark Lord's daughter had fainted dead away.