A/N: Blah, blah, blah, etc, etc. Disclaimer is already in the first chapter.
Spring 1947
Angelina stepped off the train, dressed in her muggle clothes. She wore a pink dress; her long blond hair was in two braids tied with pink ribbons.
The little girl looked just like the sweet little girls in muggle commercials.
And there he was, waiting for her, unsmiling. Angelina's slow, sedate pace faltered for a second, then regained its even stride. She didn't want to go.
"Angelina," he greeted coolly, assisting her with her trunk and her owl.
"Mr. Bickford," she responded, giving her guardian a slight bow in response. Her voice was as cold as his own.
Unsmilingly, the two headed off to a large black muggle car that was waiting for them. Yes, the Packard was certainly one of the finest muggle cars available, and it was made even nicer with the assistance of magical technology.
"How was your year?" Bickford demanded, his voice as crisp as his three-piece muggle suit.
"Fine, sir," she responded, taking in the appearance of her guardian, the man who hadn't laid eyes on her in over a year. His mustache was still full and neatly trimmed, but was getting more silver with age. His glasses were still rimless rounds, and he still wore that bowler hat with his fancy muggle suits.
"And your grades?" he pressed, taking his silver pocket watch out of his gray tweed vest pocket.
"Top of the class, sir," the girl answered as he glanced at the time.
There was the swift snap of his pocket watch closing and the rustle of fabric as the shining silver bauble slipped back in its pouch. "Very good," he said, sounding for all the world like her progress didn't matter at all.
"And how has your work at the Ministry been?" she asked carefully, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
She must have succeeded. He didn't even focus his gray eyes on her at all to answer. "Fine, fine. Still clearing out Grindelwald's castle of the dark materials."
The child stiffened, but only for a second. "I'm sure that will take some work. Have you lost any more Aurors to the stairs?" I hope so…
"No, thankfully, we have not. The first two were enough. Now we just need to figure out how to disable the damned thing."
A tiny smile formed on Angelina's lips. You'll need me for that. How do you think I managed to play in there as a child? I asked it to keep me safe, and it did. And it will continue to do so until I ask it to do otherwise.
"You wouldn't know anything about some of the defenses your father set up, would you? No doubt, you'll want the castle to be a safe place for you to go when you become an adult…"
Not particularly, she thought. I'll just have to go around and set up all the wards that mein Vater put up again to protect me from you monsters, anyway… "No, sir," she spoke. "Mein Vater didn't feel that I should have to concern myself with any of those things. He wanted me safe. I didn't need to know how those things worked. I was just to be secure in the knowledge that they did."
"Kept you in a gilded cage, did he?" her guardian scoffed.
"He took care of me. I never wanted for anything while mein Vater was alive. He loved me." Her tone dared him to challenge her.
"Angelina, he's dead now. It's time to forget about it and move on."
"You want me to forget my family? Forget the traditions? Forget my father?" The girl looked at the stuffed suit beside her as if he were mad.
Bickford spoke gently, "Forget the world of the Dark Arts you grew up in. When I took you in, I swore I would drive it out of you. I was very displeased when you were placed in Slytherin, but Dippet insisted that this was the house that you would remain in, for that is where the Sorting Hat put you. But I won't allow you to grow up to be a dark witch. I won't allow it! I swore to the Ministry when I took you in that I wouldn't have one in my house, and I won't!" But by the time he'd finished his speech, his voice had grown more enraged, more demanding. His face had slightly reddened with the fury of his convictions.
"Would you have me be one of those little feather-headed girls from Hufflepuff who do nothing more than bow and scrape, since their pudding-filled minds will allow for no more? Would you have me be stupid, and not think for myself, or, better still, not think at all?" Angelina countered bitterly.
"Rather than have you be a dark witch? Yes! I'll see you dead, first, child," Bickford spewed.
Angelina narrowed her eyes, barely masking the malevolence that she felt. I'll see that threat, Mr. Bickford, and I'll raise you one. I'll see you dead by the time I graduate. Would you prefer a simple poison, or a nice little curse? Mein Vater would expect me to be proficient in both…
The two sat in silence as the miles slipped away beneath them, neither looking at each other for quite some distance.
Angelina spoke, her sweet, childish voice breaking the silence. "Will we be going to the cottage in Brighton this summer?"
Bickford glared at her distrustfully. "Yes, I suppose we will…"
"Honestly, sir, if you'd like the time alone without me, there's no reason that you can't leave me in the townhouse… The servants will be there, so I won't be alone…" Please leave me in London… Please leave me in London, she silently prayed.
"No, you'll come with me," he decided reluctantly.
Angelina hated Brighton. She was too fair to go out to the beach, but she hated the cottage by the sea because it was a shrine to Bickford's family. She could, in all honesty, go a lifetime without seeing it again, and be perfectly content with that. If she went outside, she would burn; if she stayed inside, she'd have to see the mockery off all their shining, innocent faces.
The townhouse, at least, while stodgy and boring and incredibly muggle in function, had a good library to keep her interests… Providing that Bickford wasn't in there to see what she was reading.
Unfortunately, Angelina didn't get to choose. So, she was being sent to what she was certain was the most horrific place in the earth.
* * *
1959
"Don't walk away from me!" she commanded.
The Master looked back at her, his green eyes filled with regret. "I'm sorry, Angelina." He kept walking, not looking back.
The witch clung to the bars and watched him disappear.
* * *
Summer 1947
The sun was shining brightly and the seagulls were flying along the shoreline as the Packard pulled up to the cottage on the coast of Brighton. The chauffeur came around and opened the door for Angelina, bowing gently as he offered her his gloved hand. Angelina slipped her tiny hand in his and allowed him to help her out from the car.
The witch inhaled deeply, feeling the soothing scent of the saltwater wash over her. The gentle breeze whipped at her skirt and unraveled wisps of hair from her braid. A tiny smile spread across her youthful face as the wind lovingly caressed her soft flesh. It felt good to be here, and would until the first rays of the sun blistered her little nose.
"Madam?" the driver asked, drawing her out of her reverie.
"Oh, sorry," she murmured, dropping his hand and moving aside so that Bickford could ease out of the limousine.
"Really, Angelina," Bickford sniffed, looking down at the child. "Can you please reserve your day dreaming for when you're out of the way?"
The child pursed her lips and somehow managed to look down her nose at him, even though he towered over her. With that, Angelina turned on her heel and walked away from him, heading for the cottage.
Well, really, it was more of a mansion, but, of course, Bickford, being the upper class snob that he was, referred to the twenty-six-room structure as their "little family cottage in Brighton".
Pretentious jerk, Angelina thought resentfully as she sat down on the porch swing. Absently, the witch twirled her wand, shooting green and silver sparks out of it as she did so.
"Angelina! Put that away! Now!" he reprimanded, his voice unduly sharp.
I wonder if I could kill you right now… Have I learned enough? Angelina thought, sizing up her guardian through narrowed eyes.
Bickford, however, continued on, walking up the stairs to the cottage, paying no mind to the malicious thoughts of the little girl he'd taken in and, well, not loved, but tolerated.
The driver carried their luggage out of the car and up to the house.
Angelina, however, remained in the shade on the porch, alone and ignored.
As the sun faded, she slipped inside, quietly creeping through the house, hating the pictures of his family. The pictures of the daughter poking the son, and making bunny ears on each other, the family sitting together and chatting, all of it irritated her, particularly when they would stop their merriment as she passed, only to glare at her.
"I'm glad you're all dead," she hissed. "I'm still alive, and I'm right here, living, while all you can do is watch."
She walked past them, annoyed with the ridiculous number of trinkets that remained from Bickford's dearly departed.
She also wondered if their death was anything like her father's.
That night, she fell asleep wondering if her father was happy in Valhalla, the legendary hall of warriors. She wondered if he missed her as much as she missed him.
* * *
Summer 1947
Dear Tom,
How is Transylvania? I hope you're learning everything that you ever hoped that you would learn.
I'm here in Brighton with Mr. Bickford. I hate this house, I hate all of the pictures of his family that are all over the place. They hate me, too. They stop laughing and chatting when I come in, and stare at me like it's my fault that they are dead. Mr. Bickford treats me like I'm not even here, except when he wants to yell at me for something.
I miss Hogwarts, I miss Papa, and I miss you. At least when I am there, I'm not treated like a criminal who should be shut up in Azkaban. And I had you and Gregory to keep me company.
With love,
Angelina
She attached the note to her owl's leg and whispered pleadingly, "Please find him. He'll know what to do."
The child gave the owl a gentle stroke under her wings, and sent the bird on the way.
Nearly two weeks later, Angelina got her response.
Angel,
Don't worry about Bickford. I'll take care of everything. On the night of the full moon, stay out of the house. Try to stay at the boardwalk as late as you can. I'll find you.
Yours,
Tom
The full moon! That was tonight! Secretly, Angelina rejoiced. She would see her Tom, and he would take her away from this mess. She wouldn't have to live somewhere that everyone hated her.
It would be nice to not be treated like a murderer, again.
A voice spoke up, disturbing her reverie. "What's got you smiling, child?"
She jumped. "I just… I was just watching my owl, sir…"
"That had better be it, Angelina. I won't have your father's Dark Arts under my roof. Bad enough the bastard took my family!" he spat.
"I'm not my father! Your good friend Albus Dumbledore killed him, remember?" she spat, banging her fist against the window. The glass shattered and she screamed.
Blood, blood, blood… It was everywhere… On her robes, on the floor, mixed in with the shards of glass embedded in her wrist… This was her blood, seeping out of her veins. Would she die like her father? Would she bleed to death in Brighton, with those portraits watching in rapt fascination as her lifeblood poured across the polished oak floor?
Bickford disapparated, leaving her alone. Would he come back before she bled to death, or would he leave her here to die unattended? Freya, send your Valkyries for me, Angelina silently prayed.
She knew that she'd be dead very soon if she kept bleeding like this… And Bickford just left her…
Angelina dragged herself over to the bed and grabbed the duvet off of the bed. She wrapped a corner of the cotton fabric around her arm and fumbled for her wand. I can heal this, she thought weakly, struggling to remember the incantation for that simple, simple charm. "Medicor," she whispered, drawing her wand across her wound. The flow of blood slowed, going from gushing to slightly dripping. Whether or not that was due to the spell, or to loss of blood, Angelina was not sure of. "Medicor," she repeated, her voice pleading. This time, pale blue sparks flew from the tip of her wand and wrapped around her arm, moving faster and faster.
Then she heard two popping sounds.
"Let me see it, child," a man commanded.
Angelina looked up and saw a mediwizard standing beside her, along with Mr. Bickford.
"You came back," she breathed. Angelina then fell into the mediwizard's arms, unable to hold herself up anymore.
"Of course I came back, child. I couldn't just leave you here to die," he admonished.
"Well, I'll be damned," the mediwizard whispered. "Marcus, look at this. The girl nearly healed herself."
Bickford examined the blood-smeared arm that the mediwizard held out to him. "How did you do this, Angelina?" he demanded, his voice not carrying the strength that it usually did.
"I used the healing spell," she murmured, her face even paler than usual as the mediwizard held her up.
"I've never seen anyone manage to so successfully heal themselves," the mediwizard rang out, astonishment etched in his face. "Which spell did you use, child?"
"Medicor," she replied faintly. That was when the room went black.
When she had awakened, she could hear the hushed tones of two adults speaking just past the door.
"Marcus, you've got a talented little witch on your hands. That's the spell that I'd have used for her, but I wouldn't have gotten this good of a wound closure without using some herbs to speed up the healing process… No one has ever successfully used that spell on themselves without dropping dead moments later from the energy that it took…"
"What do you make of it?" Bickford asked. "Dark arts?"
"For a little girl like her to do that? I'd think so. There's no way that she would have gotten that training from a wizard of the Light side at her age. It's not natural, not even for a witch to do that sort of thing. Takes a certain amount of selfishness to heal yourself of an injury like that. Goes beyond will power." The mediwizard paused, and then ventured, "That's Grindelwald's daughter, isn't it?"
"That's her," Bickford replied grimly.
"If I were you, I'd take her wand and snap it. No telling what that girl will grow up to do."
She then heard the footsteps of the two men walking away. Angelina was alone, left to her own thoughts and her nearly healed slit wrists. She pulled out Scott Cunningham's The Complete Book of Incense, Oils, and Brews and read until the sun began to droop in the sky.
When dusk came, she snapped the book shut and examined her wrist. The only thing left from her injury was a faint scar across her wrist.
Of course, the mediwizard had left hours before, and Bickford was far too busy to stand over Angelina and watch for her to keel over. All that remained in the room was Angelina, dressed in a frilly pink nightgown (which she did not pick out) and her wand. Her wand, made of Black Forest Oak and a combination of dragon heartstring and fairy dust for the core, was a Gregorovich creation and a gift from her father for her tenth birthday.
Herr
Gregorovich had said that this was the only time that he had tried that
combination, and it was ideal for charms work of the light sort and the
dark. Which side you use it for,
Fraulein, he had said, will be entirely up to you… But with that wand, you can do great
things… Only time will tell what sort
of greatness you will achieve.
Dusk… Tom will be coming soon… I've got to get out, she thought.
The girl dragged herself out of bed and threw on a blue muggle skirt and a white blouse. She hurriedly stuffed her robes in a tote, and smiled at the reassuring weight of Gregory's spider around her neck.
Hurriedly, the girl plodded out of her bedroom, down the dark stairs, through the parlor… Silently, she went, trying not to attract attention. They mustn't know I'm gone, she thought, her blue eyes darting around, going this way and that. Confident that she had not been seen, the witch deftly staggered out the door, not letting her blood loss slow her down any more than necessary.
On the sandy beach, her senses were assaulted by the heady scent of the sea. It was cleansing, it was freeing…
She made her way down the boardwalk, past the teen-age couples walking hand-in-hand, past the Ferris wheel, past the cotton candy and hot dog vendors, past the games… Through all of this, Angelina was alone, and had to wonder if she and her Lord Voldemort would ever do stupid things together, and enjoy them as much as these muggle couples.
That was when she saw a tall boy nearing eighteen leaning against a lamppost. He smiled at her, a crooked half-smile topped by glimmering green eyes.
"Tom," she breathed. Angelina's pace quickened as she approached, her blue eyes sparkling with unparalleled delight. The same figure put a finger across his lips and winked at her. A muggle couple walked between her and the figure, smiling and giggling as the girl held a large teddy bear. When the pair had passed, he was gone.
He couldn't have disapparated in the middle of all these muggles… Could he?
* * *
1959
Bastard,
she thought bitterly. You never
loved me, did you? You just wanted to
use me to pick up what was left of mein Vater's holdings… And you did it, too. And I let you. I let you use me. I let
you touch me, I let you share my bed, and you did it because you wanted my
connections, not because you wanted me.
* * *
Summer 1947
It was nearing midnight, and there was still no sign of Tom. The muggle couples were going off to their own beach houses, making hurried plans to meet again the next day in a fury of stolen kisses beneath the full moon.
The witch was growing annoyed as sat down on a bench overlooking the sea. She pulled out an antique silver pocket watch. Where was he?
Perhaps all he wanted to do was to look in on her, and be sure that she was well. Maybe he wasn't going to do anything more than that, and she would have to spend the rest of her days, or, at least, the rest of her days until she was of age, as Mr. Bickford's ward.
That was when she heard it from behind, the buttery rich and velvet smooth voice of Lord Riddle. "Did you give up on me, Angel?" the voice murmured softly, the sound wrapping around her in a sensuous embrace.
She whirled around, kneeling on the bench. A slow smile spread across her face. There, standing before her, was Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort. "Tom!" she cried out, throwing her arms around him.
"I'm glad to see you, too, Angel. Are you ready to go with me?" he asked, stroking her blond hair.
"What about— What about Bickford?" she asked hesitantly.
Tom smiled, a cold and vicious smile unlike any that she'd seen before… except for on her father, when he was planning a raid… "Bickford won't be a problem. Ever again."
A deliciously cold chill shivered up her spine. "What do you mean, Tom?" the witch pressed, not sure if she really wanted to know.
His smile grew broader. "Take a look," he encouraged, gesturing toward the Bickford house.
Filled with trepidation, her head slowly turned. Floating in the sky was a skull with a serpent threaded through it.
"What have you done?" she whispered. She knew. There was no need to ask, but to hear it from his own lips, hear his denial… That would make it all right, wouldn't it?
He tilted his head, peering at the witch quizzically. "I've saved you from a life that you didn't want. Isn't that how you viewed me at Hogwarts? As your own personal savior?"
Angelina
rose to her feet and stepped back, grateful for the bench between them.
"Come, now, Angelina… You're the one who sent me owls to let me know how unhappy you were, how you missed me… I just made sure that you would have what you wanted…"
"Don't pin this on me… What have you done to him, to the servants?" Angelina pressed, fear in her blue eyes.
Riddle smirked, "Do you really care? Does Angelina Grindelwald really care about the welfare of Marcus Bickford, a muggle lover in the Ministry of Magic?"
She stared at him silently.
"Don't you know about Bickford, Angelina? Don't you know why he took you in? It was worked out, all nice and neat with Dumbledore…"
"What are you talking about?" she hissed, her voice frosty, her eyes hard.
"Think, Angelina," he pressed. "Think… How did you come to live with Marcus Bickford?"
"My father died! How else!" she spat.
"Why Bickford? Do you think that this is all about you?"
"His family is dead… They… The Ministry… They thought that it would be good for him to have a little girl around him again…"
"But why you? There were plenty of children orphaned in raids by your father. Why not give one of them over to Bickford instead of you, the child of the great killer himself? And how do you think Bickford's family died?"
"No," she breathed, horror written across her angelic features.
He shook his head at her. "You know, Angelina. You know the truth."
"No!" she screamed.
Riddle waved his wand, magically sweeping the bench out of his way. Unimpeded, he proudly strode toward her. "The truth is out there," he whispered, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks, "but the lies are in your head. If you want to win, you need to let go of the lies inside your head, and embrace the truth, even if the truth is a frightful thing…"
"No," she protested, more feebly this time.
"The truth, Angelina… I haven't come all this way to take you with me, only to further bury you in lies…"
"I've not been told about how Bickford's family died," she answered stubbornly.
"You're in denial, Angel," he murmured gently, embracing her carefully. "You may not have heard the words, but you know how it happened. You know how his family died, and you know how you came to live with him… And you know that's what precipitated his ill-treatment of you." His voice was soothing, comforting, gently pulling the knowledge forth from her sub consciousness.
The child swallowed and nodded, burying her face against his muscular chest.
"Say it, Angel. Just say the words, and admit the truth, and you will be free," he promised.
"My—" she choked. "My father killed Marcus Bickford's family. Marcus Bickford was aligned too closely with the Aurors or something else to do with the Light, and sent his family into hiding. My father couldn't get to him, so he found Bickford's family and killed them to cripple the Light Side's defense against my father and his followers."
"And why did Bickford take you, Angelina, instead of all of those other orphan witches and wizards?" Tom probed.
"Because I am Angelina Grindelwald. My father may have taken his family, but he took me. And his insistence that I not learn the Dark Arts is simply an effort to insult my father. It's not about me. It's never about me," she finished bitterly.
Tom stepped back and bowed to the witch. "And the truth shall set you free," he pronounced, his green eyes filled with pride as he focused on the young girl in front of him.
"You still haven't answered my question… What have you done with Bickford? I do still have some possessions in that house," Angelina pointed out.
"Bickford is dead," Tom confirmed.
The child flew into a rage. "Great! And who do you think will be blamed for this when they find me gone?" she spat, now pacing in the soft sand.
"Grindelwald's supporters still at large, of course," Tom responded
"I left the note you sent by owl in my bureau!" she hissed.
"Stay. I'll get it. You have your wand, of course?"
The child looked at him as though he were stupid. "Of course. I don't leave home without it."
Riddle nodded approvingly and then disapparated.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Credits: Bickford's first speech was, indeed, patterned after Vernon Dursley's speech about Harry getting into Hogwarts. Any similarity found with Dursley and Crouch is deliberate. "The truth is out there, but the lies are in your head" is a quote from Terry Pratchett's Hogfather. And, of course "The truth shall set you free" is a quote from the Holy Bible. (And that is, pretty much, the depth of religious content you will find in my fics. I won't bash you over the head with messages regarding Greek Reconstructionalism or messages from any other religious practice. That's not why I write, and I'm pretty sure that's not why my very few readers do read what I write.) Scott Cunningham's The Complete Book of Incense, Oils, and Brews is a real book, published by Llewellyn. It can be found at your local Barnes and Noble.
To the betas: Tessie and w&m_law, thanks for the beta. Tempesta, where the Hell are you?
To the readers: Review me? Please? Please? FF.net disabled the hit counter eons ago, and this is the only way that I have of knowing if anyone actually reads what I write. Flames are welcome, particularly if they are constructive.
To the reviewers:
W&m_law: If I didn't mess with your head, you'd be concerned, anyway. ;-)
Tessie: And you love her to bits.
Rushumble, Whitebears, lee-anne: Thanks
Debra: He also knows where the switch to my power cord is on my computer. So, I'd say that three year old knows quite a bit. J
Ruby: Gregory will be around for many, many chapters to come, and I don't think it will be in the way that you are expecting.
Morrighan: More on Dumbledore will be seen when Angelina returns to Hogwarts. But remember that Dumbledore believes in giving everyone a chance, regardless of ancestry.
Candace: So far, all we've established is that he has a baby face.
PotterLovingAsh: There's more to come, but that story cannot be given the resolution that it deserves without the completion of this one. There are a lot of things here that will affect the course of Severus Snape.
Harriet Potter: Poor Gregory, indeed. As for Antonia and Angelina, while they are very, very much alike (with good reason, I might add), read both pieces again, and see that the two are driven by very, very different things.
Don't forget to review!