Disclaimer: The Potterverse belongs to Rowling. Not me.

The twigs and branches scratched the Riddle daughter happily, pleased to touch their wood with skin, scratching off cells and leaving behind drips of blood.

Bridget Riddle did not feel them, though, and even if she could her mind was too wrapped up to notice. Her stomach churned anxiously as she retreated deeper and deeper into the forest, on the way to meet her father as all her friends' warning echoed in her brain. She should have listened to them…Should have stayed at home…Should have been born to somebody-anybody-else…

Bridget Riddle wasn't herself anymore, though. The closer to got to seeing her father the higher her walls built themselves up, the more her attitude changed. Words spoken just hours before were forgotten, part of another word, another lifetime, another Bridget.

Bridget Riddle was Voldemort's daughter. She wasn't Seth's girlfriend, Harry's friend, Ron's companion, Hermione's confident, or even Draco's cousin. She was only Voldemort's daughter, so important, so desperate, so cold.

She could deny it, declare her disobedience all she wanted but when the sun set and he called her to him she would always answer, always be his own, never completely tearing herself away. The difference between who she was now, who she transforming to be, was so striking had her outward appearance not changed at all you wouldn't even know it was the same girl.

The part, however minuscule it was, that was dark, the was like her father, came out and in turn Bridget was losing her head.

She showed no emotion, happy or sad, as she walked through the woods, for her father had taught her emotion was a weakness. If she were to ever give any part of herself away she would succumb to another and according to Lord Voldemort that was wrong, a fate far worse than death. But hadn't she already succumbed to him?

Bridget really couldn't explain it. There were no words that could describe what happened to her when she came face to face with her father, how she subconsciously prepared for it. It was strange to be like this with her father, because when she wasn't around him she was defiant. She stood by her own beliefs, so different from his, and kept herself in check. She thought she was different.

With Voldemort, though, as she came to meet him, she tried her best to act in ways that would please him. As much as she hated her father he still affected her in ways she couldn't explain, ways she hated, but ways she knew would connect them forever.

Her body did not ache as she ran, having lost the ability to feel pain with her birth. She knew that conversation would come up with her father, and she imagined the conversation in her head. Would he be proud or furious?

Bridget recognized the portkey that would take her to her father immediately. She hated how he had to make things so difficult, but she supposed not just anybody could come find him the way she could. She picked the portkey up, feeling the familiar twist in her stomach as she traveled far, far, away.

It was raining where he hid out, storming almost, but Bridge stood tall and strong without a care for the fact that she was getting soaked as she walked to the small cottage where she knew her father awaited her.

As she walked she became, finally, Voldemort's daughter. She was stubborn, emotionless, powerful, but most recognizably alone. There was no other in her position, no other who could share this turmoil she went through daily. Her best friend had been torn away from her and even her relationship with her boyfriend felt one-sided.

Perhaps, the only person she could truly relate to was the worst of them all, Harry. They shared so many of the same qualities, but argued to much because of it, ruining friendships that took so much effort to build up. So what if she'd shown him the pieces of her she'd never shown anybody else, not even Lillian? They could never get past the walls that stopped them, never escape from the chains that bound them.

They, Harry Potter and Bridget Riddle, were both alone because of the same person. And yet, they could never leave the place of isolation for Lord Voldemort trapped them there, by purpose, leaving them to rot in their own personal cell worse than the darkest corners of Azkaban.

It was no surprise Lord Voldemort ridded himself of emotion when it pained so much as this. It would be better to be numb than to feel the pain of solitude, regret, loss.

Bridget stood in front of the door to the cottage where her father resided, not yet willing to open the door. She knew it would be a painful hour and her body shied away from the pain it knew it would receive when she saw her father's face.

Lord Voldemort caused pain beyond that of the forgivable curses. He hurt directly, aiming straight for the life, the heart, the most important treasures of all. Her hurt by his actions, causing a pain that could not so easily be healed by healers in wards of white.

Sighing, the girl raised her hand to nock on the door, only to have it opened by one Peter Pettigrew, the betrayer of friends. She knew of what he'd done to his friends and a burst of energy flowed through Bridget; she would not be like that.

"Who are you?" he stuttered, sizing her up carefully. Bridget glared.

"Oh, nobody important. Might as well be Harry Potter," she drawled on, sarcasm lacing her tone with a perfection rarely heard on others.

"How did you find us?" he demanded, ignoring her silly jokes. How could it not be obvious who she was?

"Silly rat," she muttered, pushing him aside as she walked inside the cottage. There was a fire crackling loudly inside and Bridget shivered, not realizing she was cold until she felt the warmth. If it weren't for the fact that the most powerful dark wizard of the age were in the room it might have been quaint.

"Daughter, please, ignore Wormtail's rude behavior. Have a seat," her father greeted, the echo of a smile appearing on his face. Bridget obeyed silently. "How have you been?" he asked almost politely, as if they were having a casual conversation.

"As good as one can hope," Bridget responded, staring intently at the flames before her. Could fire kill the devil himself? If this house suddenly burst up into flames would Voldemort die along with her? It was a silly question, but Bridget guessed he wouldn't. He wasn't human enough.

"I heard from a little rat that you're immune to pain. How could I not have known?" he muttered the last bit to himself, his long fingers crossed delicately upon his lap.

"It slipped my mind," Bridget retorted.

"I must confess," Voldemort started, "I was a bit disappointed when my daughter told her friends before her father. Friends that happen to by my enemies."

"I figured they'd care more," Bridget defended, laughing icily. "They care about me more than you ever will."

"All the same," Voldemort said, leaning forward. He didn't deny Bridget accusations, but instead turned the subject. "They are not the sort you should be associating yourself with. Pain will only come from those relations."

"You are the one that said such emotions were weak," Bridget argued.

"For me, of course, but your for? Perhaps I have not analyzed the situation carefully enough."

"Do you have any other suggestions then, death father?" Bridget snapped, turning to meet his red eyes with a glare. Her jaw was set, her teeth grinding against each other.

"Why couldn't you have chosen your company amongst the Slytherins? You know I was of that house and your cousin-"

"When will this end?" Bridget interjected, not wanting to hear long speeches about the great wizards coming from the house of snake. "This fighting, it appears endless."

"The point being you shall cut relations with Gryffindors," Voldemort stated, ignoring her interruptions.

"No!" Bridget exclaimed, standing. "I would fare better off cutting relations with you!"

"Cru-"

"Stop it," Bridget hissed. "I won't feel it even if you try. You're running after something you can't kill. You're hopeless," Bridget ranted, becoming furious with her father.

"You will realize, one day, that yelling at me is not the best choice," Voldemort seethed, lowering his wand. "You will realize what life will be like once you cross Lord Voldemort!"

"I don't need to hear this," Bridget muttered, turning towards the door.

"I was hoping, dear daughter, that it would not have to come to this. But I'm afraid it has," he whispered into the night, watching his daughter retreat back to the comforts of her school.

Lord Voldemort laughed, pleased with the plans that formed so delicately in his mind. He would have his daughter and she would be his. The nonsense about Potter would end, the sins she would commit outweighing any good deeds.

Yes, Voldemort would have his daughter returning to him, and he wouldn't even have to kill somebody.

The only question remaining, was why was he so hesitant?