1. Revengeful Betrayal – 1990

Tom Riddle's diary had been glued to Ivy's hand for a lengthy four months before Evelyn finally acted. The situation was haunting. Ivy had been spending hours a day refusing to move from her chair as she spilled every thought into her father's ancient diary. However, at any time that the book lay neglected or with vulnerability of being read, the contents apparently disappeared. This was possibly the same magic used on a map Evelyn had heard of (the Marauder's Map), in which once the words "mischief managed" had been said, the map became an empty piece of parchment again. Several times Evelyn had searched the book, hoping that Ivy might have once forgotten to utter the magic words which veiled her writing.

"I wonder what you're writing in that book," Evelyn's said heartily as Ivy deposited Tom's diary onto the kitchen table.

"A lot," Ivy replied blankly, eyeing her mother, "it helps me sort through my thoughts and come up with new ideas and views."

Ivy had always been an intelligent, insightful and well-spoken little girl. Even at the juvenile age of nine she could grasp most of what was being said to her and speak in such a way that was far beyond anyone else her age. Nevertheless, her dialect had, all of a sudden, become so established, one would metaphorically rub their eyes in disbelief when told Ivy's actual age. Her vocal characteristics were loosely reminiscent of a voice Evelyn had heard a winter night nine years ago – an admittedly unsettling resemblance. Ivy really was maturing into the very image of her father.

"Really? What views?" Evelyn smiled, sitting beside her daughter at the table.

Ivy hesitated, before narrowing her eyes and answering, "My eyes have really been opened about...certain kinds of people." She gave a vague smile before returning to the diary.

My Lord. Ivy began as her mother busied herself preparing dinner.

Ivy. Tom Riddle briskly replied.

In some ways, it's obvious that my mother was raised by a pair of muggles. Her logic is backwards. Ivy documented, ducking as two plates zoomed past her towards her mother.

That's what you can expect from a mudblood. Especially one unashamed of her heritage. I honestly don't see the need to pollute our bloodline with non-magical derivation.

I agree.

Ivy, you cannot tell me you agree and then do nothing to help your situation. There's only one way forward for our family. And it will singularly be achieved by the purging of unworthy life. It was essential that I eliminate the last of the unworthy Riddle line. Shouldn't you?

My mother. Ivy glanced up at Evelyn. She was stood at the edge of the kitchen humming as she prepared their meal, immersed in blissful naivety.

Your mother. I trust you won't find yourself misguided by the muggle pseudo-notion of love.

Never.

A short week had passed before Ivy finally stood in the doorway of Evelyn's bedroom, her mouth twisted with disgust. Her trembling fingers shook the stolen wand she clutched in her right hand. Her grip on the wand tightened as she stepped closer to the side of her softly snoring mother. Evelyn was absorbed in her dreams, a victim of pitiful innocence.

"Sleeping well?" the nine-year-old drawled, slowly but precisely raising the wand towards her mother's chest.

Her mother's eyes gradually blinked open, soon widening with horror. Evelyn was thrown, her gaze travelling from the outstretched wand in her daughter's hand to her own chest – the area at which her daughter's wand was pointed. Realisation and panic flooded Evelyn's features, thrusting a fresh surge of adrenaline through Ivy's veins.

"I trust you won't find yourself misguided by the muggle pseudo-notion of love." Her father's circled her head, compelling her to step closer to her filthy mother's bedside.

"Is that–?" her mother began, watching her daughter with dread.

"Your wand." Ivy said harshly, turning Evelyn's wand in her unsteady fingers. "Yes, it is."

"What are you going to do with that, honey?" her mother murmured, voice quaking.

"You're the dirt of my bloodline," Ivy spat, looking her mother up and down and wincing with distaste. "Mudblood."

"Ivy," Evelyn breathed through choked sobs. "I've done nothing! You have to believe me!"

"Believe you?" Ivy scoffed, jabbing the air with the wand. "I'd sooner believe and intoxicated muggle than a filthy mudblood like you."

"Ivy, please! You're better than your father!" her mother cried.

"My father? My father is Lord. My father is everything!" Ivy screamed, impressed by the deafening echo of her own voice.

"Your father is evil!"

"My father is perfection!"

"Don't–!"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"