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Chapter Text

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That night, River’s Orphanage was shrouded in a suffocating darkness. Silence should have lulled the children to sleep, yet it shattered under the piercing scream that echoed through every corner of the old building. Mrs. Anderson, the head of the orphanage, stormed forward with heavy steps full of fury, her heels striking against the wooden floor, producing an ominous echo.

The children spilled out of their rooms—some crying, some frozen in horror at the sight before them. A boy lay on the floor, his arm grotesquely bent, shards of glass scattered around him. In the wrecked corner of the hall sat a five-year-old girl, her onyx hair disheveled, emerald eyes wet with tears. She trembled, her face streaked with dust and grief.

With a sharp command, Mrs. Anderson ordered the children back to their rooms. The caretakers rushed to carry the injured boy to the hospital, while the rest of the children were forced back to bed. The once-chaotic hall fell silent, leaving only Mrs. Anderson and Morigann.

“Get up!” Mrs. Anderson snapped, yanking Morigann’s small arm roughly.

“It wasn’t my fault,” the girl sobbed, scrambling to keep pace with the woman’s quick, merciless steps.

“Silence!” Mrs. Anderson hissed, her face rigid, her eyes glowing with both fear and hatred.

“I only… I only defended myself,” Morigann stammered, her little body shaking. “He—he tried—he tried to put his hand under my skirt.”

But Mrs. Anderson refused to listen. Her grip tightened as she dragged the child away.

The old car sped through the night, leaving the city lights behind until nothing surrounded them but the blackness of the forest. Morigann cried, begged for forgiveness, promising to accept any punishment—anything but abandonment. Yet Mrs. Anderson’s hand remained cold, cruel, unyielding, forcing her down the path into the woods.

“Madam, I promise to be a good girl. I promise!”

The only answer she received was a harsher tug, dragging her knees against the dirt. At last, deep within the trees, Mrs. Anderson stopped—only to shove Morigann hard against a trunk. The child staggered, hit the bark, and whimpered in pain.

“Stop… please stop…” she pleaded as her hair was yanked mercilessly.

The pull grew tighter, forcing her tiny face upward into the terrifying gleam of Mrs. Anderson’s eyes.

“You are a monster,” the woman said coldly, her fingers gripping the girl’s jaw.

Morigann sobbed, her breath catching. “I… I’m a monster?” she asked in trembling innocence.

“Yes. You are a monster.” Mrs. Anderson even brushed away her tear. Then she leaned closer, her whisper sharp as a knife: “You must die. A dark creature like you should never be near children. You will only hurt everyone.”

The world froze for Morigann. Her breath halted, her tears dried. Terror hollowed her emerald gaze.

“I… I must… die?”

Mrs. Anderson’s voice cracked, almost desperate. “Just die and never come back…”

And with that, she turned away, leaving Morigann alone in the suffocating forest.

The little girl sat there, staring at the retreating figure until it vanished into the dark. A broken whisper escaped her lips, “I… a monster…” she repeated again and again, until blue fire suddenly erupted from her body. The forest ignited, flames devouring everything. Trees collapsed into ash, leaves turned to embers. In the middle of the inferno, Morigann hugged her knees, shut her eyes, and waited to be consumed.

But the fire refused to touch her. It wrapped around her, shielding instead of burning.

No one knew how long had passed before the flames finally died, leaving only ash and the stench of smoke. At the heart of the scorched ruin, Morigann still sat curled up, her face streaked with dried tears. That was when footsteps broke the silence, drawing nearer.

“Stop!” she screamed in despair, fresh tears spilling. “I can hurt you… I’m a monster… I—”

The figure did not stop. From the shadows, a chilling voice replied, “You are not the monster.”

Panicked, Morigann shouted again, her voice cracking, “I said stop! I can hurt you!! Please, don’t come near me!”

A man emerged from the darkness—handsome, severe—and in a heartbeat his appearance shifted into something horrifying, serpentine. His skin pale, gleaming with scales, his eyes blazing crimson, his nose flat.

“You are not the monster,” he whispered with a cruel smile. “I am the monster.”

Morigann gasped, her small shoulders trembling. “But I… I hurt people… Mrs. Anderson said I’m a monster…”

The man laughed bitterly, cruelly. “You weep because of the words of filthy muggles? Creatures so vile they are unworthy of your tears?” He stepped closer, his gaze sharp. “You are a Potter. Potters do not bow. Potters do not cry. Potters do not beg. Potters never kneel before anyone or anything. Potters lift their heads high and stare back, unflinching.”

Morigann’s eyes widened, stunned. “How do you know… that I’m a Potter?”

“Because I am Lord Voldemort,” he declared with pride. “I know things even you do not.”

He extended his hand. “Stand, Moira. Stop this pathetic display.”

Hesitantly, Morigann reached out. Her tiny fingers trembled at his touch. Voldemort lifted her chin, meeting her tearful eyes. “Be brave, Moira. Be brave like your grandfather. Be brave like your father. They never begged, never knelt, never yielded—even to death itself. From now on, remember this.”

Morigann froze, yet the fire within her—newborn, untamed—seemed to stir at his words. From that night forward, her destiny was rewritten. The world would come to know her not as an abandoned orphan, but as the bride of Lord Voldemort.

Chapter Text

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Nine years had passed since that night at River’s Orphanage. Now Morigann Potter, fourteen years old, slumped in a high-backed chair with her chin propped on her palm, glaring at the heavy tome before her as though it were her lifelong nemesis. Her head lolled from side to side like a puppet with strings about to snap, before she let out a yawn—an enormous one—that made even Draco Malfoy, standing beside her, snap the book shut with a loud thud sharp enough to startle the owls in the tower.

“You’ve yawned seventeen times in the last half hour,” Draco’s voice was calm, but his tone brimmed with reprimand.

“I wasn’t yawning,” Morigann retorted quickly—only to yawn again, mouth stretched wide. She pulled the book over her face, her muffled voice leaking through the pages, “I was just… taking a very deep breath.”

“If you yawn one more time, Morigann, I swear I will sew your mouth shut with a spell,” Draco hissed, his voice smooth yet strained with patience that was running dangerously thin.

Morigann yawned again immediately, then winked impishly. “See? You can’t stop it. Yawning is natural, Malfoy. If you want me to quit, you’ll have to stop the earth from spinning first.”

Draco looked like a man who had repeated the same lecture far too many times. “You haven’t even translated a single page.”

Morigann slid down the chair, lips puckered in a pout. “Drayyy… I’m bored. If I read one more word from this book, my brain will turn into rotten pumpkin porridge.” She groaned, resting her chin atop the dusty stack of pages. “I want to play. We could fly on brooms, blow something up—anything but this.”

Draco dragged his hand down his face. “You haven’t even finished a quarter. That book is not to be dismissed so lightly. Our Lord chose it for you. That’s an honor, so focus.”

“An honor? Rubbish,” Morigann snorted, slamming the book shut. Her small fingers drummed against the cover, her green eyes flickering with both drowsiness and rebellion. “Draco, you’re too sweet with your words. Voldemort stole it. I’m certain this book belonged to some ancient library now weeping for its lost treasure.”

“Morigann—”

“Oh, come off it! Don’t pretend, Malfoy. Your ‘Lord’ is no patron saint of books.” she teased, grinning.

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. “Mind your words. You cannot speak of him like that.”

“Everyone knows Voldemort stole it,” Morigann shot back in a mock-Professor’s voice.

Draco arched a brow, straining to stay patient. “And do not toss his name about so carelessly. He is not only our master, he is also—”

“My husband,” Morigann cut in, flapping her hand up and down with a face of mock-gagging. “Yes, yes, I know. Thanks for the reminder. Now can I go play?”

“Of course not.” Draco’s voice was calm again, though the vein at his temple pulsed dangerously.

Morigann sighed dramatically, glaring at him with accusatory eyes. “If I die of dust poisoning, it’s my husband’s fault.”

Draco crossed his arms. “If you finish one more chapter, you may step outside for a bit. A walk in the grounds, perhaps. Or, if you behave, half an hour of Quidditch.”

“WHAT?! Thirty minutes?” Morigann leapt from her chair, face flushed. “I’ve been trapped in this room for nine hours and you’re offering me half an hour of freedom? That’s cruelty, Draco. Even Dementors show more mercy!”

She hurled her quill at his chest. Draco barely shifted aside, his gaze darting in horror to the manuscript that nearly toppled. “Merlin, Morigann! That text is thousands of years old! You can’t toss it around like a toy—”

“I’ve had enough of this book,” Morigann groaned, eyes blazing. “Ink, dust—and ugh! If I die suffocated by ancient parchment, it’s Voldemort’s fault. I want out. I want to see someone other than your pale face, Dray.”

Draco pressed the tome back toward her, fixing her with a hard stare that only half-masked his gentleness. “You ought to be grateful. That book is worth thousands of galleons and older than your entire bloodline. Our Lord allows you to use it—”

“Grateful, he says,” Morigann scoffed. “Oh yes, the greatest gift! A relic older than my great-great-grandfather. Voldemort gave me this on purpose—to torment me with endless pages of dust and languages I can’t even read. It’s abuse of teenage rights!”

Draco shut his eyes, counting silently to ten. He was used to Morigann’s theatrics, but today the girl was pushing him straight to the cliff’s edge of sanity.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” 

“Dray…” Morigann’s tone melted, her eyes widening into the pitiful gaze of a lost fawn. “I think I’m suffering from academic poisoning. Poisoning! Do you want me to choke to death on ancient phrases before I even turn fifteen?”

Damn it. Draco Malfoy could endure the Cruciatus Curse, could challenge squads of Aurors head-on, but Morigann Potter’s pleading gaze was always his undoing. He sighed heavily. “Fine. Fifteen minutes around the castle. Then back to the desk.”

“You’re my savior, Malfoy. That’s better than dying slowly with dusty parchment.” Morigann’s face brightened instantly, her wide grin lighting up the room.

She hopped from the chair, nearly tripping on the carpet, but Draco reflexively caught her arm.

“Walk properly, don’t bounce. You’re an empress, not a drunken goblin,” he scolded, though his grip remained careful.

“Drunken goblins probably live happier lives than I do,” Morigann muttered. “I just want to live like other children. If I were at Hogwarts right now, I’d be playing Quidditch—not arguing with you about an old book.”

“You’re an empress, not a backyard child, remember?”

Morigan sneered. “You’re too stiff, and you’ve repeated that like a parrot.”

She strode forward with the energy of someone freshly released from Azkaban. Draco followed steadily, every inch the dutiful bodyguard. Every servant or wizard who passed immediately bowed deeply, as though Morigann herself were a walking crown.

“They’re ridiculous,” Morigann muttered with a scowl. “As if I’m a dragon about to eat them alive.”

“They’re showing respect,” Draco explained patiently.

“Respect? Looks more like fear. Honestly, I’d love to jump out and yell ‘boo!’ just to see their faces.”

“Don’t you dare. You’re an empress—walk with grace.”

Morigann snorted. “What’s next? Am I not allowed to breathe? Because it feels like whatever I do violates some pure-blood etiquette. Sit too fast—not proper. Walk too quick—not graceful. Laugh—too loud. It’s torture.”

“Morigann! That’s not appropriate,” Draco snapped, his voice caught between frustration and desperation.

“You know what’s inappropriate, Draco? Trapping a fourteen-year-old girl with a thousand-page book that reeks worse than a troll’s foot.”

“Morigann,” Draco warned icily.

“Yes, yes, I know. Silent, graceful, no complaints, no winking, no tripping—oh Merlin!” Morigann nearly toppled again, saved only by Draco’s quick grip.

“Mind your tongue,” Draco muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched into the barest smile. He was far too used to her antics.

Their steps halted when noise erupted from the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Morigann leaned against the railing, black hair spilling wildly over her shoulders, green eyes scanning below. There, Fleur Delacour had just slapped Hermione Granger across the face. Hermione did not retaliate—she only stood tall, her face hardened in fury, while servants and house-elves whispered frantically around them.

A ring of servants, house-elves, and lesser concubines watched eagerly, as though it were a stage play.

Morigann rested her chin on the railing, observing. “Ah, the concubines’ daily performance begins earlier today,” she murmured flatly, almost bored.

But her sharp gaze soon caught something amiss. Fleur and Hermione looked pale, gaunt. Fleur, usually radiant as crystal, appeared the worse of the two—drained and wan.

“What do you see?” Draco asked, composed as ever.

“Dray,” Morigann whispered. “They all look pale. Are they ill?”

Draco straightened. “Fever, shortness of breath, vomiting. The worst among the concubines and the heirs.”

Morigann narrowed her eyes. “What do the healers say?”

“They suspect poison, though the source is unknown. Rumors abound—some believe it’s a curse, others that it’s dark craft.”

Morigann drew a long breath, casting another look at Fleur and Hermione still locked in a cold glare. “Hm. Interesting. Whoever did it has guts.” She rose to her feet, her gown swaying, and said darkly, “Bring me their medical reports. Every record. Nothing hidden.”

Draco frowned. “You want to investigate yourself?”

“I just want to be sure I can still breathe safely in my husband’s house of enemies. See that it’s in my chamber by nightfall. Leave nothing out.”

“As you wish, My Lady.” Draco bowed slightly.

Morigann strode into the castle, grumbling. “New troubles always find me in this place. My husband won’t even let me breathe in peace! Poison everywhere, curses in every corner, and me? Stuck with a moldy book. What kind of life is this?”

Draco followed close behind, his eyes resting on the small, fiery back of Morigann. She might be dramatic, spoiled, stubborn, rebellious enough to drive him to despair—but beneath her complaints and chaos, she still cared for those around her. That was what set her apart from anyone else in this dark palace. The corner of Draco’s mouth twitched, torn between exasperation and laughter.

“Just like her father,” he muttered under his breath.