Tomia Riddle

A story about Voldemort's secret daughter.

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1. Abandoned

  

   The two children stood apart from each other, staring, with different emotions etched upon their young faces.  The boy had a look of horror and fear, while the girl's once beautiful features were morphed into a look of the purest evil; her mouth was curved into a gleeful smile and her eyes were filled with hatred and anger.  They were both breathing very heavily, and the girl, sensing her foe's fearful air, took a step closer. 

   "No Tomia, don't do this!" the boy cried.  "Just because your last name is Riddle doesn't mean-"

   "Shut up you fool!" she shrieked in sort of a peculiarly soft way.

   Tomia crept closer once more.

   "I am going to finish what my father-"

   "Please, listen to me!  You don't have to-"

   "I HAVE AN ARMY!" she shouted.

    Voldemort's daughter raised her wand and aimed at the boy.  Her eyes turned scarlet.

   "Say goodbye," she taunted quietly, and she screamed the incanation.

   A jet of green light shot out of the tip of her wand and the boy opened his mouth to yell, but no sound came out.  The spell hit him squarely in the chest, and Albus Severus Potter fell to the ground, dead.

 

 

                                                              11 years earlier

 

   "Be careful!" the man hissed.

   "I'm trying, Lucius!" his wife snapped back quietly.

   Narcissa bent over and gently set the baby in her arms down on the porch and stood up, sighing.  She took out her wand and pointed it at the bundle of blankets that now lay on the step, in front of the house's door.  Slowly, strands of purple light flowed from the tip and entwined themselves around the baby.  It did not stir, and kept sleeping, its chest rising and falling slowly, peacefully. 

   "Who killed her?" the woman whispered, returning her wand to somewhere inside her torn robes.

   "The mudblood, Molly Weasley," Malfoy grumbled.

   "How could we have failed?  And Draco, he almost died!"

   "Keep your voice down," her husband warned, pressing a finger to his bloody lips.  "Our son is fine.  Now let's finish the job and go home."

   He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkly piece of paper.  Bending over, the man set it on the child, who still was fast asleep. 

   "There," he grunted, wincing as he stood up.  "We better get out of here."

   "What do we do now that the Dark Lord is... d-dead?"

   "Nothing.  Absolutely nothing."

   He gestured at the baby.

   "Not until she is ready."

 

(Hey movellians, please don't cry about Albus, I'm sorry!  Don't worry, everything will be fine, trust me!)

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