I own nothing except Lolita and my own insanity.
J.K. Rowling is a Goddess amongst kings.
Albus Dumbledore knew many things. He knew the secrets of the forbidden forest. He knew of the dragons that lurked in the mountains, the thestrals that pulled the carriages, the devastating creatures of the black lake. He knew and had in fact perfected every charm, potion, and spell that the wizarding world had ever created. He knew how to bring loved ones back from the dead.
But not once did Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore ever believe that the only child, the illegitimate child, of the most feared wizard in history was in fact, still alive. In Tom Riddle's short school life, not once did Dumbledore see or suspect that young Mr. Riddle had girlfriend, or lover for that matter. Riddle had always been entirely magic oriented, and would have scoffed at the very notion of being in love with another person, other than himself. So how could this, this little slip of a child, be alive and existing in the southern regions of the United States? How on earth had the Ministry not found her, and how had she remained undetected all these years? Had he done this, thinking she would simply disappear, or had he tried to protect her?
At that thought, Dumbledore nearly choked on his tea. Lord Voldemort, mass murder and dark wizard, care about another person? That seemed highly unlikely. There was no way that the vicious, brooding child he remembered all those years ago, could possibly feel anything but contempt or indifference, especially in this child's case. He had abandoned her with muggles, after all. Still, something told Dumbledore that there was something far deeper and darker involved in the future of Ms. Riddle. The Dark Lord wouldn't leave any loose ends, and he would never simply forget the fact he has a magical offspring amongst the muggle population of New Orleans. Why on earth had Tom chosen to leave her there in the first place, in the hoo doo capital of the United States?
Dumbledore leaned back in his large armchair, defeated. He stared up at a sleeping Fawkes, the phoenix's feathers glistening in the light of the fire, brilliant crimson and orange dancing on his wing. With what happed with Sirius Black last year, could this school really take another bombshell? What of Harry? What of Harry. How would young Mr. Potter feel if the child of his parents' murderer began attending school with him and his classmates? Eating lunch and playing Quiditch together as if her father hadn't slaughtered his mother in front of him. How would Harry cope with that? And what if the child did, in fact, turn out to be like her father? What if she had decided to join him and became a Death Eater? Dumbledore already feared this was the path of Draco Malfoy and several of his Slitherin cohorts. What if she led this school to the ruin and decay that he predicted would one day be upon them?
He sighed. He knew regardless of what could or would happen, he had to retrieve for her. She was a child, a child in pain, a child in the worst form of living hell imaginable. Dumbledore was a reasonable man, but even he knew when the right thing to do, out weighted what he should do. She would be safe, here at Hogwarts. She would laugh, make friends, learn, and realize that the world had more to offer then the darkness and loneliness she had no doubt been used to.
She would know a home, after years of being destitute.
Minerva McGonagall had been against this plan from the start. She was horrified that Dumbledore would even consider this, putting the lives of Mr. Potter and the rest of the school, maybe even the rest of the wizarding world, in danger, because it was the right thing to do. It most definitely was not the right, nor the smart thing to do! Did he even fathom what he was asking herself and Rubius to do? Did the possibilities completely trump the inevitable? Or the fact that this could end up killing them all?! McGonagall had always known Professor Dumbledore to be an honorable, intelligent wizard, but bloody hell, was his age finally catching up with him? And to drag them here, OF ALL PLACES?
Minerva inwardly raged as she kicked a discarded bottle of what was once whisky out of her path, walking past rows of crippled, moss eaten trees, past the decaying houses and human waste that resided in the 12th Quarter of New Orleans. McGonagall had never been one to judge based on social standing or a persons' yearly income, but this place was absolutely dreadful.
"How do we even know if she will be able to adapt at Hogwarts?" Minerva pestered on, walking hastily as she attempted to keep up with the wide steps of Rubius Hagrid and Albus Dumbledore, games keeper and headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Dumbledore sent her a knowing glance, enough that she closed her mouth, ceasing her complaining.
"She either will, or she won't, dear Minerva. The rest is fate. All we can do is keep a close eye on her, and hope that she chooses what her life could be, rather than what it has been", Dumbledore said almost forlorn, knowing that the young Riddle girl would have to come to terms with what has happened, what she is, and what she will become in time. He stopped when they had reached it, a decrepit old brick building, trash littering the small yard, the smell of rot and piss strong and merciless. Minerva had to take a moment to compose her-self when the smell finally hit her senses, covering her nose with the sleeve of her dress robes. Following Dumbledore, she attempted to maneuver through the trash and over grown grass, reaching the set of stairs leading up to what she assumed was the front entrance of the building. Turning back, she cast a questioning glance at Hagrid, who stared at the frame of the door. Realization suddenly sunk in, enough to make her snicker.
"Professor, erm, would you mind..?" She said softly to Dumbledore, who appeared puzzled. After a moment, he realized that Hagrid would not, in fact, fit through the entrance of the home. Pulling his wand out of the sleeve of his robe, he pointed at the door.
"Dilata". Suddenly, the door grew three times its original size, just large enough for Hagrid's massive form to enter the decaying building. As they entered the home, they were met with an entirely different stench, enough to make Hagrid, the games keeper, gag and visibly heave.
The air in the building was pungent with decay and mold, and some other insidious scent, close to that of a crystal meth lab, strong and chemical. If possible, even more garbage was strewn around the inside of the house, rotting food and unmentionables scattered along the floor. McGonagall stepped over a rotted apple distastefully, and looked to Dumbledore, watching as the Headmaster stepped further into the house. The walls, paint peeling and wood rotting, revealed a different time, paintings of rabbits gathering at a bush, a doe staring into the distance. Before this house had died, and its owners had given up on keeping it, somebody had lived here. Someone had been carefree and content, somebody had actually tried to lead a normal life. Dumbledore frowned mid thought. They had been happy, and then just, gave up, moved on.
The sound of someone stomping angrily upstairs broke the three eclectic travelers out of their reverie, and their attention turned to the staircase at the end of the hall. Dumbledore made the first move towards the stairs, the others following suit cautiously. The sound of screaming and broken, french slang could be heard, a heavy creole accent. They ascended the stairs quietly, prepared to take care of whatever muggle ruckus was going on upstairs. When they reached the top, they entered a long hallway, in even worse shape than the yard and downstairs if that was even possible. Red peeling wallpaper, red light bulbs, and tacky burgundy carpet made the house feel less like a home and more like a bordello in the poorer section of Spain. The angry screaming had died down into terrified, anxious muttering, and when the trio thought all was silent, a disgruntled woman nearly tore a door off of its hinges, running into a wall and holding her head in her hands. The woman was sobbing and muttering to her-self in a drug induced daze, and continued to do so until she noticed the three oddly dressed strangers standing in her hallway. Her eyes widened, her gaze automatically dropping to the ground.
"Madam…..are you alright?" Minerva's startled voice whispered, her eyes widening at the bloody spectacle that was the unknown woman's face. The woman's trembling stopped, and was replaced with laughter. The laughter of somebody who has lost their mind.
"Putain mal, she fucking killed him! That stupid little slut killed my Guillone!"The woman choked out in a thick accent, enraged. She held her head in her hands, as if that was the only thing keeping her fragile psyche together. She may have been good looking, pretty even, once upon a time. Her tanned skin ashen and dry, her dark hair matted with blood and god knows what else. Wearing cheap rags that some may have called "sexually appealing", what really spoke to the outlanders about this woman's life were the track marks running across her arm and neck. This woman was a junkie, and unraveling before their very eyes.
The woman was hysterical again, reaching under her short dress, sobbing.
"She took him from me. I don't know how, but she did. It's over, he's gone." She choked out. The hand under her dress revealed the extent of her sorrows, evoking a gasp from Minerva.
The woman held the revolver, the desperation on her face replaced with a vacant look of acceptance and woe.
"Père, pardonne moi." The revolver placed in her mouth, she pulled the trigger, before the travelers had any time to react.
The Hogwarts trio stood there, speechless, as the woman's deformed, lifeless body crumbled against the now blood spattered wall. Nobody said anything. What could they say? The most heinous thing they had seen in their professional existence had been witnessing the avada kedavera performed on another witch/wizard. How could they have stopped this violent act of muggle self-hatred and despair? They couldn't, and that alone was enough to rattled their entire beings.
Hagrid, bless his giant heart, was the first to speak.
"I 'ear somethin' from that room, the one she came out of." He stated quietly, staring towards the door that the now dead woman had burst through.
He was right. An erratic breathing could be heard coming from inside the room. More mumbling, soft laughter, and breathing. Dumbledore hesitated, stepping over the dead woman in the hallway, moving to open the cracked door. The other's took a deep breath and held it as they passed the woman on the ground, almost unrecognizable now that the bullet had destroyed the lower half of her face. Her eyes were still open, all of the hurt and sadness that she must have experienced during her life was visible, now during post-mortem. It was enough to make Minerva blink back unshed tears, and Hagrid shift awkwardly, not knowing how to react to the events that just taken place.
Dumbledore pushed the door open softly and peered inside the room. The windows had been painted over black, paint chipping and floor boards splintering. It was far too dark for them to see on their own, so Dumbledore did the only thing he could to further assist the situation.
"Lumos", he said softly.
What they saw next, was probably even more horrifying than the suicide they had just witnessed. On the ground lay an unknown man, his charred body smoldering, recently burnt. His features were almost undistinguishable. This must have been the Guillone the woman was so upset about. What really got their attention was the rattling sound and the confused, erratic mumbling coming from the corner of the room. Albus held his wand towards the sound, revealing a new, nearly unscathed being,
Lying on the dirty sheets, was the daughter of Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort.
Her deathly pale arms and legs had been bound to the four posts of the metal bedframe, her body covered in angry bruises and nearly infected lacerations. She was clad black, ratty underwear, and a black tank top riddled with holes. Her bone white hair matted with blood and dirt, her fuchsia eyes darting around the room erratically, occasionally rolling back into her head as she mumbled to herself. Track marks running up her arms were all the evidence they needed at this point.
She was a heroin addict, but it did not appear it was by choice.
Minerva rushed to the girls' side, untying her binds as the girl began to sob, realizing she had been saved. Upon further inspection, Dumbledore and Hagrid realized that she had killed Guillone. Somehow, she had set fire to him, but not before removing his genitalia, the blood running down her mouth confirming their sickening view of the situation.
They turned to the girl. The malnourished, shell of a girl that Minerva had freed and was now cradling, the sobbing girl that had been rescued from an otherwise brutal torture.
Trembling, the girl looked up, and both Hagrid and Albus stiffened under her drug induced gaze.
"H-Help me." Her voice cracked, thick creole accent, smooth as silk.
Hagrid sat next to the bed, the mountain of a man taking her hand in his, his soft eyes telling her that she was safe now.
That everything was going to be alright.
"Whut's yer name, girl?" Hagrid asked softly, trying not to startle the damaged creature before him.
The girl stared at him for several moments, before rushing forward, locking her arms around his thick neck and sobbing.
"My name is Lolita, and I want to live."
I was abused as a child, and want this story to center around the psychological affects abuse has on someone. I want this story to describe everything abuse victims can't, and I hope you will stick with me for the ride.
Reviews and comments are much appreciated. 3