Chapter 2 : Having a daughter
"There is no doubt that is around the family and the home that all the greatest virtues, the most dominating virtues of human, are created, strengthened and maintained." (Winston Churchill)
Tom's black eyes travelled once again the face of this mysterious woman, who, he was certain, was a part of his family. This certainty intrigued and troubled him : even if the Gaunts were known to be the only descendants of Salazar Slytherin, in the absolute it was not impossible that the founder of Hogwarts would have had other descendants, perharps even more hidden ; maybe they have travelled, or changed their name. Nevertheless, a distant cousin would not physically look like him so mouch. This ghostly unknown woman had his hair, his eyes, his features. What distant cousins could present so the same genetics ?
Willing to get answers, he replied to this woman's request, who stared at him with an expression close to adoration. Tom hesitated a few seconds, more by fear to discover the offered memories than by embarrassment to breach them. Over the yes, the most brilliant student of Hogwarts have developed his gift of Legilimency, so much his presence was not detectable anymore, and he appreciated to punctually use it on some teachers, Horace Slughorn first. But Tom never saw the whole life of a person this way, as he was not interested, and because this spell would maybe demand too much energy.
Finally decided, the teenager delicately took the face of the dark-haired woman between his palms, touching her temples with the tip of his fingers. The spell was softly whispered, and the two bounded people closed their eyes. A sort of breeze came to caress their bodies, and they felt their spirits aspirated by an external force, progressively leaving the reality. Behind their eyelids, a black and thin smoke appeared, disclosing at last dark and blurred colours, finally revealing shapes outlines of which became clearer. A few seconds were necessary to Tom to realise he had literally dived into the woman's memories ; he was physically there, invisible, like in a Pensieve – this way to watch memories was described in one the books he looked through.
Tom had the very bad feeling he would not like the scenes that would be revealed to him.
August 15th, 1971.
A young twenty-years-old woman was lying in a four poster bed, sculpted in ebony, with ecru white sheets that had just been changed, replacing the former laundry stained with blood. In this middle of August, temperature was elevated in this dark bedroom, covered by green tapestry and numerous paintings by masters and mirrors. The lights were feeble, and some Elves just finished to be busy around the bed, main piece of furniture of the room.
The woman was half sat ; dark, curled and thick hair, eyelids more heavy than usual, a thin smile on her lips betraying her exhaustion, she looked at the new born she just gave birth, comfortably snuggled in her arms. Above her, a tall man, of the same, as dark-haired as her, with an impressing stature and thick beard, delicately applied a damp and fresh cloth on the forehand of the one, who, logically, must be his spouse.
The door suddenly opened, revealing a couple even more younger ; the man was as blonde as the woman, a nearly white platinum blonde – it had to be the Malfoy couple, as the wizards with this colour of hair were rare. The two had a straight body holding and a proud face, dressed elegantly with the most beautiful fabrics, and an expression of impatience mixed with joy appeared on their two faces. The woman hastily stepped forward the bed, her eyes not looking away from the new mother and the sleeping child.
"Sister mine, she exclaimed with emotion, what a joy, what happiness, congratulations! The mixture between Black's blood and Lestrange's can only result in a superb child : is it a daughter or a son ?
- Thank you, Cissy. It's a daughter, the dark-haired woman informed with an arrogant little smirk.
- A Lestrange heir, this is a great pride, Rodolphus, the blond man commented, slightly tilting his head, sign of approbation.
- May you already think about marrying her to you future son, if you have one, Lucius, the named Rodolphus responded, incisive, a false and twitchy smile on his lips."
The named blonde Lucius, had a rictus, a grin cutting with his usual coldness on his face. His efforts to seem to warmly welcome this birth were minimal : respecting the Lestrange spouses for their pure blood, and because the dark-haired woman, Bellatrix Black, was the sister of his own fiancée, Narcisa, Lucius did not appreciate them. Without doubt, the light of madness in their eyes was the reason why.
Indeed, the two couples, beyond their family relationship by marriage, embraced the ideology of the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, who imposed his power on the British magical society for more than ten years. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, whose marriage was soon planned, already behaved as a real married couple, and were busy to manage their business and maintain the prestige of the very old Houses Black and Malfoy : influent, wealthy, noble look, they counted among their contacts all the people who evolved in the high spheres of the British society.
Then, if the young blonde man went on mission not very often for the moment because he did not join the obscure ranks, and his fiancée did not want to be officially a part of it, Bellatrix Black and her husband Rodolphus Lestrange, the new parents, whom the soul was as dark as their hair and their eyes, counted among the most loyal servants of the Dark Lord, fighting under his orders, raising with pride their Dark Mark tattooed on their left arm, a mark of servitude and loyalty representing a black skull, where from a snake seeming nearly alive extricated itself.
Since their enrolment in the murky army, the "Deathaters", shortly after the end of their studies at Hogwarts and only a few weeks after their marriage, the wife and the husband shone with their success in their missions given and their devotion to their Master, the woman proving herself better and receiving the favours of the Dark Lord more often than anyone else.
Rodolphus, whose the joy seemed to be nearly forced, stood straight beside the marital bed and barely looked at the new born, answered to Lucius with a similar smirk. And for good reason, only three people knew the truth : the child was a daughter indeed. But not his.
"Morgana, the man declared with a categorical tone. Her name will be Morgana Lestrange."
Bellatrix bowed her head to show her submission. The willing of her Master was the law, and no one could object or provides a critique.
"This child will not bear my name, Bella, she is your daughter, and officially the one of Rodolphus. It would be unfortunate the shame comes down on you and your family if a different information falls in other ears.
- My Lord, I am aware of that, but I will always remain proud to have given you a heir, she is yours now.
- No sentimentalism. Bella, the "Lord" drily reminded. You are young and fiery, I will not deny you your mother role, but I expect from you to accomplish the missions I will confide you.
- And I will satisfy you beyond your hopes, my Lord ! the young Lestrange spouse approved with a passionate voice, this time bowing nearly the totality of her body."
The Dark Lord dismissed her, requiring to be alone with his daughter – because he was indeed the true father of the child – and the Deatheater left the room with a smile, happy that the birth of the so-named Morgana delighted her Master she loved so much.
Once the door closed again, the latter sat down on one of the imposing and comfortable armchairs of the small living room of the Lestrange's manor, delicately holding the child – his daughter – in the crook of his arms. She was sleeping, sweetly, silently, seeming so small in the big and warm arms of her father.
The man, now out of sight, let escape a febrile sigh, and his hands slightly shaked, for the first insecure, not sure of what he had to do. But when the child moved in his embrace, he felt his doubts flying away. When she grabbed a section of his gown, he ignored the meaning of her gesture, because he did not know if it was a desire of security, or a willing to hold on to the man her subconscious recognised as her father. The Dark Lord leaned his head on her daughter, getting close to her as studying better her features, her small body. Soon a strand got loose from his dark and slightly curled hair, and the baby, feeling the warm breath and the prickle of the strand of hair, slowly woke up. Her eyelids flitted with slowness, her gaze directly settled on her father's face, and the man felt his heart beating faster, as those eyes were familiar, he recognised them : they was his, those he had before they became red – but this unusual coloration did not seem to frighten the new born. With eyes as black as the hair she already possessed, beautiful, almond-shaped, framed by lashes promising to be much longer with age – and surmounted by heavy eyelids, characteristics of her mother – the child, he was sure, would be in a few years his exact copy, au féminin. Her true parentage would be difficult to dissimulate, but strangely at this moment, the man did not mind at all.
The second fist of the little Morgana raised to grip the strand of hair that dangled above her, and at her father's big surprise, she pulled with a strength unsuspected from a few days born baby. Watching the man's eyes going wide, the child offered a huge smile and emitted a crystalline chirping, typically childish, that made the ice imprisoning the Dark Lord's heart melt. An irresistible impulse overwhelmed him, he leaned more, and made his nose touch her daughter's tiny one, in a tender gesture he surely executed for the first time of his life : the effect was immediate, and the baby laughed again with all her heart.
The dark sorcerer felt his thin and red lips stretch, his white teeth lighting a dazzling smile. The softest he could, he whispered his first words :
"Good morning, Morgana. My name is Tom Riddle, and I am your father."
Hearing this, the black eyes scrutinized him, and, as if she was satisfied, the little child exclaimed a joyful "Ha!" that sounded like an approval.
Tom embraced the baby tighter, and his heart warmed : he was secretly father, he had a heir to teach everything and speak Parseltongue with, now he possessed a reason to see the future with hope. He was not alone anymore.
The glass broke.
"Oops" the four-years-old little girl said, freezing her hands, her neck immediately hunching her frail shoulders in shock, half-open lips and wide eyes, as if she feared the reprimands for her clumsiness.
"Morgana, be careful !" a masculine voice behind her reprimanded.
"Forgive me, my Lord !" the child apologised with a little voice, her head lowered to the ground in a childish expression of culpability.
Morgana called the Dark Lord "My Lord", because for her Rodolphus Lestrange was her father, even if she felt a connexion strange and intense at the same time with this man she found pleasant to look at : tall and impressive, handsome with his harmonious features and waved hair, mesmerising with his black eyes slightly carmine and his deep and suave male voice, charming with his delicate and graceful gestures, enhancing white hands with long fingers that were able to cast any possible spell. The little girl did not understand the real meaning behing the word "Lord", but she knew the man was called so, and in her mind it was not surprising, because it perfectly reflected her image of a witchking, like in the tales.
The Dark Lord, busy to quietly read, discreetly sighed. Her daughter already knew how to read, speak well, and started to master the alphabet, but her magical powers were still in their infant stage. She was a very pretty little girl, her black hair falling on her shoulders in cascade of undulations, always smiling, watching the world with sparkling black eyes, a crystalline slight laughter always there and a curiosity only equalling her intelligence.
Tom repaired the broken glass with a mechanical movement of his first, and ordered the child to leave the room to join her preceptor : learn, learn, learn, always, it was the only way to reach something.
Morgana was the only child among all these Deatheaters. When she asked her parents if they were other children of her age among their entourage, they visibly stiffen, as if the question disturbed them and should not have been put. Then the little girl never asked again.
She would have like to play a little bit with someone, she did not know what, but she wanted to escape from her books, think about something else than her preceptors' lessons, be busy in this big empty mansion while her parents left for a mission. Sometimes the Dark Lord came to the manor, even if the reason of his visits was unclear, and her aunt Narcissa often took care of her, bringing Dobby, the house elf of the Malfoy family, to distract her a little bit. Despite this, Morgana really felt alone. Therefore, she practiced her magic all theday long, at risk of causing an accident ; she lost herself in music, never leaving her violin her parents gave her, and she constantly worked until the notes she produces became less sour.
Her mother Bellatrix educated strictly, like a princess of the most royal blood, and her father Rodolphus taught her the pure blood wizards' values. Private teachers taught ner necessary knowledge for a young girl of her prestige, like the basis of Magic, the genealogy of pure blood wizards families, nicknamed the "Twenty-eight Sacred" which she was part, the history of British and European wizards ; also they delivered her lessons of manners, music and dance, but she also learned elocution and notions of general knowledge, intellectual thought and politics – the Dark Lord had mysteriously insisted on those points.
One day in December, Bellatrix confessed to her daughter news which delighted her, and her face lighted up so much she exulted :
"Morgana Lestrange, my child. It is time for you to know your secret, or confirm the suspicions you may have had. You are a Black. But you also are the daughter of the Dark Lord, our Master, and then the descendant of Salazar Slytherin. Your blood is the most powerful and prestigious ever." Bellatrix affirmed to her six-years-old daughter, the tone categorical and filled with a pride perhaps too much exacerbated.
However, the Dark Lord did not recognised her as his daughter, because if so she would become illegitimate and potentially susceptible to be disinherite. The news would indeed not please Cygnus and Dorea, and Rodolphus' parents. Even Walburga Black, Bellatrix' aunt, yet friend of Tom at Hogwarts, would scream her dissatisfaction to see her niece guilty of adultery. The scandal would be even more important if the impurity of her blood was known, as Tom was the only one to know he was, in fact, a half-blood.
This day, when she learned the Master she admired so much, was actually her father, the little Morgana seemed to have received her Christmas gifts in advance. She regained some energy, her gestures became keen, and the stars did not leave her eyes. The Lord ! Her father ! She knew it !
Luckily, the Dark Lord planned to come to the Lestrange Manor, because Bellatrix, without doubt, could not have revealed their secret without his authorisation, and he only waited for a few minutes in the small living room before seeing an overexcited child. Morgana, the hand raised and on the handle, remained frozen on the doorstep, staring with big eyes, a smile lighting her baby face, the man she was forever bounded with. She closed the door, in a trembling gesture betraying her overflows of enthusiasm, and, with pure innocence, impinged herself upon her Master, hanging on to his legs, shoutint "Papa !" – because Rodolphus would be the one to be called "Father".
Tom was not surprised by the impulsive and affectionate behaviour of the little girl. Legs still imprisoned – her daughter was a real Body-bind curse – he leaned on the child and put his two hands on her head, in a strange and uncomfortable embrace but pleasant still. With this gesture, not natural at all for him, Tom reached the maximum of tenderness he was certainly capable.
"Now, I understand why I can communicate with snakes, like you !" Morgana exclaimed in a blissful tone, rising her eyes to her father to check if he was pleased by the news, hoping he was proud of her.
- Really? You are a Parselmouth too, like me.
- Yes. So, me too, I am the descendant of Slytherin?
- You are my daughter, so I bequeathed you my heritage, my blood and my gifts, the Dark Lord informed her with a smile curving the corner of his lips."
Freeing his legs, the wizard headed toward a big black armchair, tastefully embroidered with silver thread, leading his daughter with him, putting his hand on her back. He lifted her to place her on one his thighs, until she was comfortably sat and was able to look at him and talk without training her neck too much.
"You must never talk about your Parselmouth gift to anyone, or speak it. Communicate with snakes is an extremely rare gift, us and our ancestors are the only known representants. Anybody would understand the link between you and me, and this should never happen."
Morgana nodded, perceiving the importance of this secret that seemed to make her father concerned.
"How did you discover your gifts and powers ?" she interrogated.
And without understanding what he was doing, without wondering why he revealed himself so, Tom briefly shared her childhood with her daughter : the difference widening as he grew up, the mistrust and fear from the others for this taciturn child, too silent, too clever, the insults launched to this monster possessed by Satan, the pride when he learned he was extraordinary and not an insane child intended for the asylum, the enthusiasm and admiration when he discovered magic, but also the disillusion when he was ignored and denigrated by the noble pure blood students of Slytherin, the hatred towards the Muggles growing in him, his hatred towards himself for being a half-blood, and his infernal and unstoppable descent into the dark side of magic. So many things that nobody knew and he never confessed.
Once he finished, Tom realised he dived into his memories, momentarily leaving the real world, and he discovered that his daughter put her head between his shoulder and his chest, the eyes lowered as if she was sleeping, a sad expression on her face. Not hearing the deep and so beautiful voice of her father, the child awakened from her torpor, rising her dark eyes, her eyelashes imprisoned some tears. For a long time, she looked at the smooth face without default of her dad, her thin lips were pinched against each other, the nose she wanted, in a childish way, to touch, his face so gaunt of cheek bringing out his cheekbones and gave an harmonious shape, the long eyelashes extending his eyelids did not rise yet, and this strand of hair falling on his forehand, driving her crazy, that she always wanted to pull. At her age, Morgana did not know what the beauty of man meant, but she was able to say that the Dark Lord was handsome, and she always stared at him like one could admire an artwork he loved.
"Me, I love you, Papa" she said, without realising her familiarity, with a soft voice full of conviction, trying to hug her father with her small arms that only reached the opposite shoulder.
Only the silence answered, because Tom's thoughts froze in her head as the not yet formulated words remained trapped in his throat. The short sentence of his daughter did not reminisce anything for him, except some clichés and foreign notions, but something in his heart reacted without he could prevent or identify it.
"You won't abandon me?" she questioned with a genuine concern hiding some hope.
Tom raised a surprised eyebrow, he did not expect such a question, and he knew his story moved his daughter and found a resonance inside her, despite her young age and the fact she certainly did not understand everything.
"No, I won't abandon you, Morgana" he assured, unshaking voice, while he absolutely did not know what he would be able to do in the future.
- Promised ? the little girl insisted in Parsletongue.
- Promised.
"My Lord, forgive my insolence, but I really wish to insist.
- Bella, what is the point of making your daughter attend the executions of Muggles?"
What would become the first war of wizards did not spare anyone, and would be considered as the darkest era of the contemporary history of Magic, exceeded the records of violence and barbary. The Dark Lord was top-heavy with power, his troops spreading beyond the British pure blood wizards alone, and security became the first preoccupation of the sorcerers. To the deadly attacks of Deatheaters answered the non-limits violence of the Ministry of Magic and its Aurors – many of them were members of the Order of the Phoenix, an organisation created by Dumbledore, gathering all the wizards wanting to fight against the Dark Forces.
In this Manichean world presented in a shortened way by the British and European press, the acts of the two sides oversteps the limits of Law and morality ; the assassinations were as frequent as the arrests, and the use of Veritaserum was often accompanied by tortures, rivalling the ingenuity and cruelty which had to envy nothing to the American MACUSA's methods.
The Dark Lord did not care about what his Deatheaters thought about this, at the contrary the war seemed to awakened in them a sort of animal instinct ; the executions of Muggles were common to "set an example", but only those who wanted attended, and never the question of the presence of a child has been raised hitherto.
Especially if his own daughter was involved.
Morgana was indeed too quick, with a personality too warm and good to satisfy Bellatrix, who claimed that her daughter would never become a real lady worthy of the name Black, and if Tom also noticed that, he considered this behaviour was normal for a child. Did Bellatrix want that a little girl qualifies her reactions by attending very early the ordinary actions of their war?
And Lord Voldemort let himself be convinced.
"It is unacceptable ! I knew this kid would cause us problems one day, as if he had not ashamed our family enough by being sorted to Gryffindor! Leaving from home like that, with his revolutionary ideas in his mind! I am still happy he joined the Potter, they are not the most acceptable pure blood wizards, but at least they are, even if I heard that their son laid his eyes upon a Mudblood. Now we only have our formidable Regulus to keep a minimum of honnor."
Morgana still heard her great-aunt Walburga screaming those words (it seemed she spent the majority of her time to scream), denigrating her son Sirius and ending to talk about him as if he was not a part of the family anymore, emphasizing the qualities of his second son, Regulus. Sirius, the eldest of Walburga's children and his cousin Orion Black, has indeed decided to leave his stuffy family home to join his best friend, James Potter, not able to bear the supremacist and extreme ideas of his family full of "freaks" – his own words – who supported, even joined, the Dark Lord.
Alone, in her bed, between two nightmares where corpses of Muggles fell dead on the ground after having been copiously tortured for many of them, some even burned alive, Morgana shuddered, horrified as if she would be, like Sirius, disinherited and denied by her mother and her two fathers.
"All things truly wicked start from an innocence." (Ernest Hemingway)
