The Raven's Sins

Chapter 1

What is good? What is bad? What really matters? At some point we all ask these

questions of ourselves, and it's a damn good thing we do. Imagine if you could never step back

and examine your life. Who knows what you might do if you were unable to see what you had

become? Take my word for it now, you don't want to know. There's an easy way and a hard way

to learn the facts of life, and I learned the hard way. All because of two boys named Draco

Malfoy and Harry Potter, a war for global domination, and a gift I wish I didn't have.

People say a lot of things about me, most of which aren't actually true. Muggles tend to

classify me as a "goth" and an "emo," but all that really shows is that they're about as acute as a

flobberworm. Probably about as useless too. Wizards tend to say I'm a Death Eater, and that I

should be brought before the Wizengamot, tried, and sent to Azkaban. This is precisely the first

point I would like to make. I am not a Death Eater. Say it out loud if it helps to get it into your

memory. Of course, I'm not the kind of person you would want your kids to have as a role model

either, but I'm not a You-Know-Who-worshiping monster who is not only affiliated, but

obsessed with the dark arts. Second point, I didn't choose to be this way. If I was given the

opportunity to become like this again, or to start anew, would this be the path I selected?

Absolutely not. Everything from my mannerism to my façade was impressed upon me by

extenuating circumstances. I wanted to go to a proper wizarding school, work in the Ministry of

Magic, maybe even become Minister someday. But those dreams were ripped from me by a little

thing called destiny. More than you can ever imagine.

You've probably heard the phrase "Like father, like son," right? Except for the fact that

I'm a girl, I'm the poster-child for it. When I was younger, for example, I never listened to

anyone but my father. Partly because I didn't want to, but partly because I didn't have to. As far

as I knew my mother had died right after I was born. I had no siblings, and the only other adults

in my life were my father's creepy friends, over whom my father seemed to have complete,

uncontested authority. There was no one else around to give me commands, so I did as I pleased

until my father wanted something. I probably wouldn't have done what he had told me in the

first place, but I never seemed to have a choice. My father had a special way of making me do

things I didn't want to, and he freely employed, if not abused, this power. It seemed that one

minute I'd be screaming and protesting, the stubborn little bitch that I was, and the next I'd be

obediently performing whatever menial task he had demanded of me in a trance-like state. It

took me years to finally figure out the diabolical device he had used on me, and by that time I

was learning to resist it already.

As I grew older, my father's demands had become more severe. As they became

increasingly darker, such as carrying out a crime, I had felt the need to control myself, and resist

the temptation to carry out his crazed, and usually unlawful demands. Such refusals always

resulted in beatings, whippings, or an occasional bout of the Cruciatus Curse. The welts stung,

the bruises inhibited movement, and the curse was, at the time, nearly unbearable, but the pain

would always subside, and it was never so bad that I couldn't just get away from it all. I was

never allowed outside, but at times like those, rules were made to be broken. I could unlock my

window, quietly push up the pane, and scramble out onto the roof. I would lean against the side

of my dormer, absent-mindedly peeling up the ancient shingles from the crumbling house, and

just let my vision wander across town below, and then out to the hills beyond. The reason I took

such pleasure in this view was a mystery to me, but something about it was just breathtaking.

Something easily recognizable to me, if only because it was so lacking in my own existence. The

town was lively, happy, colorful, but my life was cold, dark...dead

Like my father had always told me, with a sinister glint in his eye, I was special. I knew

it the first time I had looked in the mirror, the first time I picked up a wand, the first time I had

felt a special surge of power, coursing through my veins, emboldening me. My appearance alone

was enough to give away volumes of information, and I have to admit I don't have much of a

knack for making first impressions. My face was like that of a china doll, pale with tiny pink

spots that were all the color there was in my cheeks. My face was perfectly boned, ending in a

neat little pointed chin. My hair was raven black, shining and shimmering as it hung bone-

straight down my back to my elbow. My eyes were large and thoughtful, though uncommonly

colored. They were a dark navy blue, deep and clear like the ocean on a cold November day. The

quality they possessed, or rather, didn't possess, was what unnerved people the most about me.

To put it bluntly, my eyes had no pupils. My father explained it was a tragic discoloration, but I

knew better. I knew I could see things no one else could see. Things that, however realistic they

seemed, hadn't happened yet, but it was only a matter of time before they did.

I don't really know what pushed me over the edge. Or what event finally transpired that

made up my mind for me. What was it that made me run away and never look back? With

existence conspiring against you, it's hard to tell sometimes. Especially with a name like Ebony

Riddle. Especially when you're the daughter of a certain He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Especially when nobody understands.