A/N: Thank you so much for all your views! I really appreciate it. Sorry for the long wait. I came down with a nasty case of writer's block. . If you don't mind, please take a minute to R&R. I'd really like to know what my shortcomings are and what you would like to see in this story. (in the way of pairings etc.) Thanks!
Credits go to Susan Coolidge for the quote highlighted in pink and Cressida Cowell for the quote highlighted in blue.
Chapter 3—Sweet Memories
Thump! I dropped onto my downy bed with a gasp, which I swiftly stifled. Fortunately, all the other girls just stirred slightly or sighed in their sleep. Even bushy-haired Granger, who was an abnormally light sleeper, merely rolled over. I lay there for an hour or possibly more, envisioning fluffy sheep frolicking animatedly in a field, yet sleep stubbornly refused to come to me. Bored to tears, I began to daydream—oh, all right then, nightdream about my past…
My earliest memory is of exploring the Nott Family Library and getting hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of dusty tomes. After two hours of futilely trying to find my way out, I sat down on the icy floor and bawled my eyes out. Luckily, my wails alerted the Nott family house-elf to my predicament and she led me out of there. I was three then, and that was the last time I ever cried.
I committed my first murder when I was six. Yes, six. It was with Father's help of course. I could never have pulled off such a heinous deed on my own at that tender age. Mr. Nott had somehow managed to get into contact with my father (in Goblet of Fire, it is mentioned that Nott Senior did not search for Voldemort after his disappearance. However, in this story, Voldemort lied about that because he did not want anyone to find out about Bella.) , at that time a mere spirit, less than the meanest ghost, ensconced in the lush forests of Albania. That night, Mr. Nott took me to my father, who possessed me for a few hours, channeling all his power into six-year-old me. It wasn't that bad actually, it was just a big blank. I have no recollection of what happened; it was Mr. Nott who filled me in afterwards. Apparently, I had Avada Kedavraed Gemma Jadette Gardner in her sleep. No pain, no shrieks of agony or terror, just one flash of blinding emerald light and the dull thump of her dead body hitting the floor and it was over as quickly as it had started. Aided by my father, I transfigured myself and glamour charms till my body was identical to Gemma's. I then Vanished her dead body, crawled into bed, and thoroughly exhausted, fell asleep.
My father and I have always had telepathy. In all those years with the Gardners, (Mrs. Gardner was a half-blood witch, her husband was a Muggle, ew, although that's not quite the point) he was the one who taught me how to conduct myself such that the Gardners would never realise that their precious daughter was not what she seemed. He the one who drilled in into my head that discretion is the better part of valour that valour itself was something to be used sparingly and with great caution. He instructed me on how to lie without batting an eyelash, how to read expressions, how to blend into the shadows and silently observe all around me. In short, he groomed me to be the perfect Slytherin, one of whom Salazar Slytherin himself would be proud of.
But I was never sorted into Slytherin. I was in Godric Gryffindor's house instead. Godric Gryffindor, courageous, chivalrous, a champion of Muggle-borns. Me, sly devious, always hiding in the shadows, watching everyone and everything. Me, with an absolute loathing for Muggles and Mudbloods inculcated in me by daddy dearest. Now, you might ask, why did I believe all that tripe about Mudbloods being Muggles that had stolen their magic from wizards, causing said wizards to become Squibs? Or about Muggles having mud flowing through their veins? Well, the answer is, when you're four and your father tells you that all Muggles are scum, you believe it because you don't know any better. However, when I grow older and found out that I had been fed a copious amount of propaganda, I guess I just changed my reason for abhorring Muggles: Magic is Might, Might is Right.
And how did I get sorted into Gryffindor House, with me being the polar opposite of everything its founder had stood for? That year, my father was at Hogwarts in the bod of weak-willed, malleable Professor Quirrell. Professor Quirrell was an ambitious yet inordinately foolish young man who was travelling and seeing the world when he had the misfortune of running into my father. Father, being an expert at reading people, saw his fatal flaw—weakness of character combined with an all-consuming thirst for power and seized the opportunity. He poured lies into Quirrell's trusting ears: "There is no evil or good. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. Join me, and you will rule by my side when I rise again." As if. I would be the one who ruled by Father's side. Quirrell was only a pawn (and a very dispensable one at that) in Father's game of chess.
And so, Quirrell came to Hogwarts with Father's soul within him. With Father's help, he cast a non-verbal Confundus charm on the Hat just as it touched my head, causing the Hat to get horribly muddled and place me into Gryffindor, the house that Father had predicted that Harry Potter would be in. It was only years later that I found out how close we had come to placing me in the wrong house: Ronald Weasley had mentioned in passing that Harry, Father's nemesis was almost a Slytherin! Potter, son of a Mudblood with his inane hero complex, in the noble House of Slytherin! He would be sullying our name! But then… he could speak Parseltongue and he had an admirable amount of resourcefulness, mental fortitude and determination, qualities that Salazar prized above all in his handpicked students…
All right then, enough on that wretched Potter. You must, of course, have been wondering how I bore having to pose as a half-blood and live with a Muggle at home and Mudbloods in Gryffindor tower? I'd chalk it all up to self-control. I always kept up a sweet, friendly cordial front, but under that perfect façade, there was always a raging undercurrent of pure hatred and contempt. Even as a child, I had a charmed ledger in which I rewrote my life. It was charmed and locked so that no one save myself could ever peruse it. I remember my first entry: My name is Gemma. I love cats. I'm terrified of dogs. I hate macaroni. Over the years, I perfected my art and became a model actress. My diary entries eventually became progressively less trivial as I painstakingly carved out a personality and diligently followed my "life story" in every waking moment.
Yes, it was difficult being Father's spy within Hogwarts. I had to assimilate myself with the looks-obsessed, bimbotic girls, namely Lavender and Parvati, keep my intelligence under wraps and act book-smart but not particularly street-smart. All this was incredibly difficult for an individualistic, intellectual girl such as myself. But I pushed through—all for Father's sake of course. He forbade me from letting anyone know that I was his daughter. "Things like this spread like wildfire. I don't want anyone to know of your existence—not that I'm not proud of you, of course," he would add as he ruffled my raven tresses in his one gesture of affection. "It's merely that there are scores of people whose hatred for me runs down to their very marrows and they would not hesitate to use you to retaliate against me. You see, Bella? They call themselves good, yet they too can go crazy with blood lust and vengeance, good and evil are merely figments of imagination, a sham devised by simpletons who see the world in black and white. They are wrong, Bella. Nothing is fixed. The world is painted in shades of grey and it is up to you to manipulate the pieces of society, draw in the weak and the like-minded and annihilate those who oppose you. If you succeed, the world will bend to your will and your will rule." These are the things that he whispered to me through our telepathical connection in the dead of the night, while I listened with saucer-wide eyes and bated breath. These are the lessons that will stay with me for life that have embedded themselves in my psyche and made me who I am. Sometimes I wonder if it would be better to be a normal girl—just like Gemma would have been if I hadn't murdered her in cold blood.
As much I hate to admit it, I secretly revel in being Gemma. Being a normal girl whose only worries are boys, looks and school is oh-so-appealing at times. It would certainly be a luxury to not have to spend all one's time stealthily spying on Harry Potter, desperately trying to ascertain how he brought down the most powerful wizard of all time without lifting a finger. But no matter. These are thoughts that only sneak up on me in moments of weakness and such moments are few and far between. I was not involved in the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, the escape of Wormtail, or the near-murder of Harry Potter in the Triwizard Tournament. Father kept me in the dark about all his grand schemes—something which made me feel highly indignant initially. Later, he told me to bide my time and wait patiently for the day when I was old enough to command respect from even his most senior Death Eaters. A day, which I feel, is well on its way.
So I suppose it all boils down to the mantra which I repeat in my head every day, an endless loop with no start or end: "I am pure evil, capable of anything and my goal is total world domination." No matter how skilled I am at deflecting assaults on my mind, there is one person I cannot block: myself. Try as I might, I cannot force back the shadow of doubt that creeps up on me sometimes, the little voice of dissent that harshly questions whether I really want to be remembered as ruthless and heartless when I am dead and gone, lying still in my grave. Somehow, the volume of that voice rapidly escalates whenever I catch sight of Seamus Finnigan's blue eyes.