Cleft in Twain

The chronicles of Elenore Eight Elysium Riddle-Malfoy

Lord Voldemort opened the paper, and frowned. It wasn't the daily prophet he was reading…he wouldn't find what he was looking for there. A stack of already devoured muggle newspapers sat on the dusty floor beside him, gathering dust. He clicked his tongue, still searching for the section he was after; the births, deaths and marraiges.

Finally, he found what he was looking for. He ran a long, pale finger down the columns of announcements, black and white ads with printed pictures of rattles and prams heralding the arrival of new babies in to the world. He stopped at one announcement:

Eric and Natasha Brown proudly welcomed their new born

Baby girl 'Elenore Brown' in to the world at eight minutes past

Eight on august the eighth. Congratulations, Natasha and Eric,

May all our blessings be with you and little Elenore.

Voldemort's lips parted in a sick smile. He reached over for the other paper which lay on the top of the large stack to his left. It was dated almost six years ago, and bore the headline:

Young couple die in house fire – gas leak blamed

The article went on to describe how two people had died in the blaze – one Natasha Brown and her husband Eric. Six more were wounded, but remarkably, there were no more casualties. The Brown's two year old daughter, Elenore, had escaped without a scratch. A search was in progress for her closest living relative.

Voldmoert smiled again. There were no other relatives. He had made sure of that. Elenore had been sent, at the age of two and a half, in to a publicly funded orphanage, where she had lived all her years up until now – her eighth year on the planet. It was time.

Voldemort stood slowly, tossing the paper aside and making small clicking sounds with his tongue. Nagini slithered in to the room with a piece of parchment clenched in her toothy maw. Thin fingers reached out and took it from her, caressing the top of her scaley head.

"Good girl, Nagini. You always bring me what I need."

Nagini rubbed against Voldemort's leg like some kind of gross cat, then slid out of the room in search of food. Voldemort had Wormtail tied up in the basement. Perhaps she would go and nibble on his toes some more.

Voldemort unrolled the parchment, and scanned it briefly with his bright crimson eyes.

"Sixteen RavenHill Road, London. Hmm…."

With a snap of his boney fingers and a puff of smoke, he was gone. The parlour was empty, and deserted. Nothing could be heard except for the muffled sound of a man whimpering, and a scaley tongue licking against human flesh.