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An odd girl, she thinks.
She was sixteen when she was brought to her, all scrawny pale limbs and a gaunt face, so odd-looking when she stood near her other pure-blood classmates.
“Speak, girl,” she had said impatiently. She was not impressed by her at first glance—another half-blood prodigy girl brought by another Malfoy.
“Severina, my lady.” Her head and shoulders dipped to the floor as she kneeled. “Severina Snape.”
Her eyes were pitch-black, so different from her own violent red, and yet despite it all, they held an eagerness she found all too familiar.
Poor thing, she would consider that early summer, when Severina once again came first to be marked. A need for love or acceptance, as was common among girls like her—half-bloods without a father’s shadow to guide them or a mother’s gentle hand; it made Severina different from her peers, and most importantly, made her remind Voldemort of herself.
That was her biggest flaw, she decided.
She had not paid much attention to her in the initial years; why would she? She had plenty of work to do.
But the girl was stubborn; from every spell cast to every potion brewed, Severina wanted to carve a place in her ranks. Of course, she was not the first, nor the last, to have such ambition. Bellatrix, Regulus, and Barty made rather fine and feisty competition.
Bellatrix in particular had been the loudest.
“Why must we let that—mudblood slut—sit with us, my lady?” Bellatrix had sneered, fist clenching.
She liked Bellatrix, her blade, but even blades get dull from time to time.
And she did not like the use of such words in her court: slut, whore, harlot, and whatever else that could be said to damage a woman's character.
“Don’t spoil your mouth with such language,” she had cooed to the girl, as if explaining to a child, which she might as well be. “Severina has shown herself to be capable enough to shed the weight of her blood.”
“And do you not trust my decisions, Bella? Do you doubt me?”
Silence had filled the air around them.
“Forgive me, my lady.”
That had been the end of Bellatrix’s—or anyone’s—objection.
She had been proven wrong; that girl was not something to pity. She could fight well for herself.
Her clothes had been ripped from the top, blood had been smeared over her neck, and her own wand was held tightly in one hand.
Another wand was clutched in her right hand, its owner lying dead on the floor. A Lestrange, whose name she had already forgotten.
“I—he tried to hurt me.” Her voice was calm, but her body was shaking. For a moment, Voldemort had thought that would be enough to scar the girl for life, a first taste of blood, enough to make her run away from all this.
Voldemort looked at Severina. Who then looked at her. Did she want assurance?
Severina’s idle hand twitched, half in confusion and half in fear. Do they not feed the children in Hogwarts nowadays, or was her starved appearance purely self-inflicted?
That was the problem with these half-blood girls, looking for motherly affection everywhere, knowing it would never come.
She should have sent the girl back; killing a pure-blood man on top of being a half-blood girl was enough to guarantee punishment, even if that man did attempt rape.
That part never really mattered.
“A clever display of the Diffindo,” she said. It really was, her eyes drifting to the sharp, clean cut of the man's torso—such fine spellsmanship.
“It’s not the Diffindo, my lady,” Severina replied.
“Your own spell, then?” Voldemort was surprised; self-made spells were rare, especially one so violent, and at that age—something she thought only she could achieve.
Maybe she could keep the girl for a while; she made better company than anything she had had in years.
A few weeks later, she taught the girl some of her own spells. She was a quick learner; she mastered flight easily, her waist thin and delicate as Voldemort guided her gently.
That’s all it took to swear her to be a spy.
Poor girl indeed, she thinks.
Perhaps she had gathered a liking for her. This half-blood prodigy, who was well-versed in taking everything life seemed to throw at her.
Pity that’s what binds this girl to a traitorous place in Voldemort’s heart—a girl, a half-blood, and neither pretty nor charming. What could be a path for such a girl? She reminded Voldemort of her mother, Merope, whose name she invoked rarely.
A part of Voldemort—no, Tom—was still trying to find her mother, just as she did all those years in that dirty, secluded orphanage.
Appreciation turned to trust when that prophecy was muttered.
And later that trust turned to something else.
As with most things about Voldemort, it wasn’t good nor safe, mostly for Severina.
Damn that girl, and damn her too.
“My lady—please. Spare her, take the boy. But not her—I beg of you,” Severina had gone to her knees, pleading.
She had known of the estrangement between that mudblood and her, but she did not know that she still lived in Severina's heart.
What did she have for that Potter woman—friendship? Lust? Or love—it didn’t matter. What mattered was that another woman had a claim on Severina.
Voldemort was not the most important person in her life.
She had agreed, of course. Severina had earned that at most.
Pretty little thing, bright red hair that reminded her of Dumbledore when younger, and emerald green eyes. She could understand why Severina would care for this girl.
She had screamed, running, taking her boy with her, locking the door as if that could have stopped her.
Even wandless, she fought as much as she could to save her child.
How different would things be, she had wondered, if they all had such a protective and loving mother?
The girl had died; Voldemort didn’t want to, but she had a tendency to hurt even when not meaning to.
But the girl was clever; she took Voldemort down with her, too.
Another orphan half-blood.
Perhaps Dumbledore would take good care of this one; the third time’s the charm, they say.
Tom Riddle was a strange girl—yes, a girl, the matrons would explain to the disappointed couples who’d come in hopes of a boy.
And those who did come for a girl would leave angry. Tom Riddle was a girl, a beautiful girl, but far too clever and proud for her own good.
She’d once bitten a man who just wanted a “good look”—“Beauty comes with its effects, girl,” the matron would say as she gave her a good beating later for it.
Tom would scare the children into submission and would lock her door tight when couples or boys tried to come.
The matrons had whispered in passing how Tom could catch a good man if she got rid of that boyish name and nature—“Pretty little thing, would make a proper wife if domesticated.”
But Tom did not want to be a wife.
Hogwarts was better; magic was a great equaliser, and if she mastered it—became better than anyone else—it would ensure no man nor boy could take her or her virginity—make her greater than anyone.
Tom could still remember the girls coming to the orphanage, no older than Tom, bellies heavy, their eyes dry and dull, overpowered by men and abandoned by family.
Tom would ensure no man could ever have his hold on her like that; she would make herself unattainable, her womb empty and incapable of life.
Abraxas had tried to—who later had his face bloodied and ruined, and healed only when he had gone on his knees in front of her.
She had Obliviated him after that; from that day on, she never let any man come close to her vicinity.
How pleased she was to see her new form, snake-like and red-eyed, monstrous.
Her womb was the first to go, then her breasts, then her hair and eyes, leaving her body with no chance to be captured for life.
Peter had tried well; her rebirth left not much to complain of.
She had thought Severina would not come; Voldemort, after all, had not kept her word.
The girl always knew how to surprise her.
A woman now, thinner and colder—does she not eat enough? Were the years that harsh on her? She had learned how to glamour herself; her hair was now slick and straight, and she wore slight makeup. Voldemort liked the black lipstick she painted her lips with.
“Forgive me,” Voldemort had stated, “for not saving your mudblood.” It was not that she was regretful of her death; she had simply wanted to see Severina's reaction, if she still harboured affection for her.
“It does not matter, my lady. I have long since forgotten her,” she said coldly.
Liar.
“Is it?” Voldemort had come closer. “Tell me, Severina,” her eyes bore into her, beautiful black voids meeting red.
“Do you not think of her, dream of her?—answer me.”
“No, my lady, no.”
Voldemort’s hand raised to cup her face; Severina did not object. Voldemort’s lips came near hers, and she kissed her.
Severina's lips were cold and inexperienced; any doubt of her doing this with that mudblood before had quickly vanished.
“Permission to leave?” she’d asked. “There’s a meeting happening in Hogwarts, I must be needed.” Severina's hand trembled slightly as she pulled her hood off.
Another lie, she thinks. Lies tasted sweet on Severina’s lips.
“You may leave.”
Severina walked away faster than usual.
Green eyes—that should have told her enough—his mother's eyes, that mudblood.
Severina had gone from one master to another; she never belonged to Voldemort.
It pained her to kill her. Nagini struck her fast, leaving her dead in mere seconds.
Death had suited Severina well, blood pooling around her like a red halo, making her look at more peace than she ever had in life.
She had kissed her again, iron mixing with salt.
Then she had fixed her clothes and hair, applying the lipstick back, before closing the door.
She would keep her, Voldemort had decided; after all, it was the only way to have her now. Severina had gone to a place she had no intention of going.
Betrayal. It was Voldemort’s own fault; she had gone soft. Let the girl lie, frolic around, when what she should have done was break her ankles and keep her locked.
The boy had laughed—proud like his father, protective like his mother—as he told her of the wand ownership, of Severina.
Damn her, damn Dumbledore, and damn that boy.
Green met red, and all was done.
Tom Riddle’s body hit the floor, and she died like any other woman.