Voldemort's Daughter

Chapter 1 - My first Kill

Chapter One - My First Kill

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*Six years ago*

I was at the orphanage only hours before blood was spilled by my very own hand, blood spilt for the first, but not the last time. I had grown up in the orphanage for most of my life, as I was no older than 6 months when I was dropped off on the front doorstep in the early hours of a summer morning.

One thing I learnt quickly while growing up in a home designated for unwanted children was that I was a different. Not in the sense that I had two heads, but to other kids I may as well have. No, I was just a little more timid and quiet compared to the other children, who were all fairly outgoing and brash. I suppose growing up rough made them all a little more testy than the average kid. And just like a sickness, the kids zeroed in on me often, just for being different.

I had to develop a thick skin early on if I wanted to survive, and this resilient attitude was what helped me later on life when it counted. I learnt to keep to myself for most days when I could, but sometimes the relentless bullying was unavoidable, and those days were what I spent many thoughts dreading about. All of my early life experiences were tainted with negative people that tried so hard to build themselves up that they didn't mind who they had to step on to gain self-worth.

Now the day it happened, the day I killed the first of my victims - there were couples here at the orphanage. The couples walked about shuffling through the children, glazing over us like cattle, deciding which of the bunch they wanted to take home. Usually couples only desired the younger children, which was what could be expected - just like puppies, people wanted them when they were still cute and innocent. Us older children had a fat chance of leaving this place unless we ran away or waited until we were 18 and the State no longer had responsibility over us.

Yet that day something strange happened, something I think not even the other children thought was a possibility - I got adopted.

I was nine at the time and the couple that had adopted me were a married couple, Dametri and Marion. Dametri was tall with black hair, his skin olive in colour, who wore a deep emerald suit that complemented his green colored eyes and skin tone. He was a fairly average man, and the same could be said for his wife Marion. His wife who wore a long dark purple dress, had features that were a stark contrast in comparison to his own. Her eyes light blue and her hair fiery red that elongated half way down her back. From afar they seemed like the perfect couple, they envisioned the look of normalcy. You'd expect them to own that dreamy house with a white-picket fence, a perfectly tuned garden and a house cat named fluffy with its jingly collar.

As sweet as they seemed however, I couldn't quite pick what was wrong with them, there was just something off. The adoption with them was done and organized within the hour of their arrival, and before I even had a chance to ask questions, I was whisked off to my new home with the orphanage left in the rear-view mirror.

The pain I had been carrying for nine years finally felt like it was being lifted from my chest, but knowing my luck, and observing how this couple acted, I knew deep down that my troubles were far from over. I knew that a new chapter of pain was ahead of me as the anxiety of what lay ahead stirred deep in my belly, but the naivety of a nine year old just wanted to enjoy a short cars ride of happiness.

After driving for about an hour through the suburbs of nearby London, we finally arrived at my new home, and I was welcomed to a small cottage that was exactly like how I had envisioned it. The cottage was surrounded by large oak trees, shielding the view from prying neighbors. Its garden was small, but flourished with an array of different flowers, including my favourite - velvet purple peonies littered the front garden bed. The low white fence cordoned off the front of the property, extending toward the backyard that was obscured from view.