She was alone. Her mother, dead. Her father - well, he might as well be dead. When all was said and done, she was a pale ghost. The shadow that lurked behind your door. The fear that haunted you in the middle of your dreams. When all was said and done, she was, indeed, Voldemort's daughter.
Her once-sweet voice was nearly gone. After one last lesson two years ago, her singing instructor had given up on "the souless little creature" that was his student. And perhaps a tiny part of her held some regret.
She traveled from place to place, never staying in one sanctuary for more than a year. From the Malfoys' mansion to Snape's hideaway, she's moved throughout England, always under the vigilant eyes of the Death Eaters.
Perhaps she should have worried when she was old enough to understand the horrible fate of Voldemort. Maybe even felt some sorrow for the loss of her own father. But no emotion penetrated her hard exterior. Her eyes remained as dark as deep pools of blood. Her raven hair barely reaching past her shoulders, cropped off here and there. She was a remant of Voldemort's evil and mysterious past.
And the Potter boy. She's heard of him, too. Possibly the only person who intrigues her more than Voldemort. She knew that one day he would find her. Hunt her down as he tries to avenge his parents' death. Isn't a world full of vengence so much sweeter than a so-called world of love?
"He's back!" shouted Draco, half out of excitement and half out of fear. "The Dark Lord has returned." Draco sauntered over and looked down at her. "Well?"
"What do you want?" she snapped. She's had the misfortune of staying at the Malfoys' castle for the past six months. That's half a year of hearing Draco brag.
"Perhaps he can teach you something called respect." Draco retorted. "You're nothing! Do you hear? You should be the one scrubbing the bathroom floor!"
"What's this?" she replied coldly. "Miss you house-elf? What was his name? Bobbins?" Through the course of 14 years, she's watched Malfoy go from stuck-up to malignant, and apparently, it's rubbed off on her.
"Damn it! Why do I have to put up with a Mudblood like you?!"
That was two years ago. Born one year before the Potter boy, she's now an adult witch. He was possibly learning of the Horcruxes as she records these thoughts in her worn diary: "I must prevent him from finding the fragments of Voldemort's soul. At least for now."
Violet softly closed the door behind herself. She quietly eased into the secret meeting. She heard Voldemort speak and the other hooded figures nod. Words and instructions were exchanged. Threats were left unsaid, for everyone understood the price of failure. Everyone else was dismissed while Violet remained. She knew what questions would come forth from Voldemort's thin lips. She knew the answers she must give.
"Do you have it?" hissed the Dark Lord. His snake-like face had now lost all resemblence to that of a human's. His crimson eyes burned in the darkness, and the slits of his nose flared.
"Your secrets are safe, m'Lord," Violet answered.
"Good. I had planned for it to come sooner, but one cannot rush time, nor the death of a certain boy." His eyes narrowed, searching for deceit in Violet's voice. "We shall see how strong Potter really is! Go now!" he ordered Violet. "I've no more use of you here."
Violet bowed herself out and disapperated to her refuge.
In her dreams, there was always a tall figure cloaked in black. His hand reaches for hers, but she would always pull away, never allowing him to draw near.