Harry Potter and The Girl who Lived

Chapter 3: Violet

I stare back at my reflection in the long-framed mirror in the corner of my room. I was dressed in dark jeans, a black turtle-neck, and black runners. Black, my favourite colour. I was to have my lesson late tonight with Professor Snape. He was going to teach me how to disapparate in the middle of a cornfield. I was surprised Father had allowed me to step out of the house, but he probably thought it was fine with Professor Snape.

I let loose my dark unruly hair to fall at my shoulders and frame my pale face. I quickly add some dark kohl to my waterline to highlight my green eyes. My eyes, the ones Professor Snape never fails to compliment. He would always say that my eyes are just like mother's. Whenever I questioned him about my mother, or asked him about his relation with her, he would turn his solemn face, and continue with the next lesson. There were no pictures of her around the house, no memories, no letters, nothing. When I asked Father to tell me of my mother, he would simply scold me and tell me to never ask of her, all while he fixes his steely eyes onto my pale face.

Just as I brush my hair, my eyes catch hold of my scar, a thin yet prominent line with the shape of a lightning bolt. I run my fingers over it remembering the tingling pain I felt last night. The dreams were there as well. As I would usually wake horrified in sweat, all I could ever recall were the green flashing lights, a hiss, a feminine scream, and then silence. Dead silence. The head splicing pain and the dreams happened in that sequence every time. I told Professor Snape about it one day, and he taught me a technique to control the dreams, but I couldn't. It took too much effort and concentration, and plus I wanted to find out what took place.

But last night, the visions escalated. I started to see a very blurry image of a woman with fiery red hair, standing in front of me. She must be the one who was screaming. I also heard a high-pitched voice, as someone had stung her with the death curse, Avada Kedavra. And she fell with a thud.

A knock on my door breaks my train of thought from last night's visions, and my father's high-pitched voice breaks the silence.

"Violet, can I come in my dear?"

"Yes Father," I replied as I turned towards the chestnut door to let him in.

"My, my, my, Violet, you look pretty," as Father smiled and kissed the top of my head.

A small smile crept onto my face as Father entered the room and stood in the middle of my round carpet.

Father is different. He has no hair, and the top of his head is covered with spidery veins. His nose is flat with slits on either side, and he has a set of scarlet eyes, which can be seen radiantly in the late hours of night. He's freakishly tall and thin, and pale as a skeleton. His arm wore a tattoo inked into his skin, covered by the lengthy sleeves of his cloak.

We don't have anything in common, but as time passed on we grew into each other, and his soft side would take over whenever I was hurt or struggling. His authority and dominance was extremely important to him. When Professor Snape stands in front of him, Professor stiffens, as if he too fears my father, my wonderful father who has taken care of me and adored me since that day I was born. Ever since I learnt how to speak, the house-elves taught me to call father, "Father." I did what I was told, and I was never really interested in what his full name was, and why we didn't share the same last name, if he had one. But that discussion ended with, "Violet dear, please don't fuss about your last name. It's pointless."

However, last week I did overhear a conversation between my father and Professor Snape, and Professor referred to my father as something I never heard before. The air changed as the words left Professor's mouth with nothing but eeriness, and my father's smile grew wide. That night, he was called "Lord Voldemort."