Disclaimer: If you recognize any of these characters, then they belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm not making money off of them; I just enjoy writing their stories because it amuses me terribly.
A/N: Prologues excite me. I don't normally write them, but it seems fitting for this one. It does get a bit annoying … so just know that if you don't like my prologue, none of the other chapters will be like this. Now all you have left to do is read, and of course review if there's something you must express to me :o)
Prologue
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The way in which our story begins is quite odd, to say in the least. People who've heard it, or told it, or expressed it in some other way; they never know how to start. They never know how to begin the story of Harry Potter's cousin. Because you see, no one would believe it.
Well? Am I right? Are you feeling skeptical? Surely you've read stories claiming that Mr. Potter has long-lost relatives. Aunts, brothers, grandparents, the whole schmoozle. Some of them are absolutely ridiculous. I won't disagree with you there. But there are others, are there not? Are there not stories you find yourself wanting to believe? Aren't there some that seem halfway believable? Thought so. Let's hope mine will be one of them.
Lydia Marie Potter was the daughter of Arnold Potter and Abigail Rose Kensington. Now, I know what you are thinking (to a certain degree). You are thinking, Wait a minute. Didn't she just tell us that this story wouldn't be 'ridiculous'? There was no Arnold Potter. Of course, I completely understand if you don't trust me. But listen; there was an Arnold Potter. He was our beloved James' brother. Well, half brother, technically. They were a year apart. Anyhow, if you're still with me, Arnold (who went by 'Arnie') and Abigail (who went by 'Rose') had a daughter named Lydia.
Lydia was an extremely odd little child. She had Arnie's eyes; they were an icy blue, and even when she was a toddler, she had a way of giving people the chills just by staring at them. She also had his hair, his golden blonde hair that glowed red in the sun. You would think a girl such as Lydia would have many playmates, but she didn't. One the contrary, she seemed to repel other children. It was something in the way she carried herself, in a strangely superior way; like she would someday rule the world. And hey, she very well could have.
But when Lydia was two years old, complications arose. Arnie was suspected of being a Death Eater. He was accused, and put on trial, and d'you know what? He didn't deny it. Instead he took out his wand and murdered every witch and wizard in the room. Then he came back home, rather calmly, and kissed his wife softly on the cheek. It was an eerie smile, and of course Rose noticed this. She had a knack for noticing things that other people didn't. So for the rest of the night, she felt uneasy. She felt uneasy while making dinner, she felt uneasy while giving Lydia her nighttime bath, she felt uneasy while putting on her nightgown and slipping under the covers where she knew Arnie would soon join her.
It was quick, and from what I gather, it was painless as well. Rose might've seen it coming, but there sure as hell wasn't anything she could do about it. Arnie's low mutter of Avada Kedavra was very subtle indeed. The poor woman didn't even squeal. She was just dead.
Now of course, here, Arnie was feeling very pleased with himself. You would be too, if you'd just accomplished a task for your Master. An 'enormously important' task, as even Voldemort himself had addressed it as. But then, what to do with Lydia? That could be a bit of a problem, couldn't it?
Not for Arnie. He wasn't even thinking about his young daughter. All he was thinking about was power, a power unlike any power he'd ever known. It would be wonderful, amazing, fantabulous, as Voldemort had explained to him. A loyal servant was most greatly awarded.
So the power-hungry wizard left his house, without so much as a backward glance, feeling as though he was on top of the world. He was murdered two years later, for disobeying his Master. For lying to his Master. For you see, Voldemort knows and senses all. And he sensed something that he liked; something he liked a lot. A power unlike anything he'd ever sensed before, living in Muggle London with a witch named Francesca Carter and her two nephews.
Lydia.
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