Being His Daughter CONTINUED

Prologue

A man with a pale, bald head approached a door at the end of a long, dark hallway. But it wasn't just any man. No, this was a man who could make any witch or wizard cower with just a single glance of his cold gaze. Fear radiated off of him wherever he went. This man was dangerous. His name was Tom Riddle, but was notorious to the Wizarding World as Voldemort.

Knowing all of this information about the obviously evil man, it would be extremely shocking if one were to see a small child run up to his side, giggling happily, lacking even an ounce of fear. But that's exactly what happened...

The little girl stumbled over her own feet as she attempted to run alongside Voldemort, tripping and falling face-first. Before she hit the ground, the villain swished his wand and she rose up into the air, unharmed, and plopped down into his arms. Her warn brown eyes twinkled as she looked up at him in admiration, cradled in his arms.

"My dear," Voldemort cooed, stroking her soft, pale face.

"Daddy!" the little girl exclaimed happily in response, giggling before she grabbed his finger and attempted to chew on it. Voldemort's lips twitched upward in a fond smile...or grimace, as he recalled how unwillingly he loved her. She was the only thing he'd ever love...

"Where are you going?" the little girl asked. Even though she was a year old, she was clever and could speak very well.

"Well," Voldemort began. He had full confidence that the infant could understand every word that came out of his mouth. "I'm going to do something very important. You see, there is... someone...who stands in our way of ruling the Wizarding World together."

She stared up at him blankly.

"Let me explain further," he pressed on. "So you see—"

"Kill?"

Voldemort stopped right in the middle of his sentence. Where did she hear that? he thought bitterly.

"Yes," he replied anyway. "Do you know what that means?"

The little girl shook her head.

"It means to take someone's life. They can't talk, move, see, or hear anything. They're dead."

At the word "dead", the little girl's eyes widened. She knew a good enough amount of information to know that being dead wasn't good. "Daddy kills?"

"Yes," Voldemort said.

She stared at him, her eyes wide, her small hand frozen around his finger.

"But you see, Sierra," Voldemort continued, "in this world, there is no good or evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. And we are not weak. You are not weak."

Sierra continued to give him a frozen stare. Then her face broke out into a grin and she clapped her hands. "Power!" she laughed.

Once again, Voldemort's lips tugged upward.

A small, pale, blonde-haired baby boy came crawling into the hall. He looked up and noticed Sierra and Voldemort. A cheeky smirk spread across his face.

"Draco!" Sierra squealed.

Voldemort placed Sierra back onto the ground as the boy named Draco hoisted himself up onto his short, chubby legs. The two babies ran towards each other. Sierra tripped again, crashing straight into Draco. They both burst into laughter. When Sierra looked back at the door, where her father had stood only seconds before, he was gone.

Δ

The dark mansion was quiet. In the dining room, Sierra and Draco sat on top of a long, sleek table, wearing only their pampers, and Sierra, a black t-shirt that was three times too big on her.