Daughter of Shadow

A girl of seven was climbing a large oak tree. It was old, ugly and gnarled, but to the girl, it seemed beautiful. In its crown, she felt safe, protected by its branches. She climbed up and up, until she could climb no more. She found a comfortable sitting place, and sat there, looking at the world below. It looked so peaceful, all around, little people, Muggles obviously, milling about on their fields, little houses silhouetted in the distance, little trees swaying in the wind. And above it all, a large blue dome. She could sit there for ages, just watching, her green eyes filled with wonder and her red curls blowing in the wind. But from below, a voice called out to her.

'Lady Asenath, please climb down, or I will be forced to Summon you.'

But the girl just shook her head, look at the beautiful world around her.

'Lady Asenath,' cried and exasperated voice.

'I like it here,' she called back.

'Accio witch!' commanded the voice, and Asenath felt herself being thrown off the tree and drifted in a graceful arch onto the ground. As soon as she hit the muddy earth, she got up stubbornly and made a beeline for the tree again, running as fast as she could, but was stopped by a full body-bind. She felt hatred seep through her body, infecting her mind. Pain shot through her head as she hit the ground, and she woke up.

Asenath stared around her, clutching her wand. She had just dreamt about a story from her own life, something she had long forgotten. She sat up, covered in sweat. She didn't know why this hit her so powerfully, but she remembered that hatred pervading her and it made her shiver. It had been a stupid thing, really - refusing to climb off a dumb tree. But somehow, Asenath knew it had a significance of some sort, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

She performed the drying spell on herself and got up. She had found a room about half a mile from where her captives were, and fashioned it with heavy, deep red tapestries, a black carpet, and a large, four-posted bed. A few meters from her bed was a sofa, and she collapsed onto it, feeling weak. A tree... and a guardian. It made no sense. She was loosing the meaning of the dream, she could tell. It was slipping away through her fingers. Tree-climbing... and pain. Pain in her head. And hatred.

She sighed heavily. It truly did make no sense. She pulled on her black robe, and for a moment just sat there, her breath and heart calming down, becoming steady. Then, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a large pile of wands. She lined them up in front of her, on the small coffee table.

The willow was Weasley's, ordinary but still quite powerful. It was a wand of an average wizard, yet one meant to fight things that surpassed him by far.

The ash one, much shorter, definitely belonged to Hermione Granger - the girl was intelligent, very much so. She was learned, too - she had been the only one of the group to actually know what the Labyrinth of Terror was, and it was definitely not part of the Hogwarts curriculum. Asenath couldn't feel anything but respect for her.

Weasley and Granger - the two wands told their owners were meant to be. Wisdom and bravery, combined, made a strong combination. Granger would always be the dominant element, but she would wait for Weasley to grow up. She would wait for him.

The birch belonged to the younger Weasley - not much of a character there, an ordinary girl - not an outcast but not a leader. But then again, the wand was old (and battered), and things might have changed over the time.

The last, made of holly, was Potter's. It was a powerful wand, yet filled with selflessness, bravery, and foolishness. Familiar foolishness. The same foolishness that had made Asenath climb that oak tree.

Asenath smiled to herself - people were so easy to read by their wands. It was an art she had learned from Theresa, and it had proved useful on numerous occasions.

Asenath herself had four wands, three of them installed in the Chinese combat formation. Her newest, which she had received only several weeks ago, was made of yew, with dragon heartstring core. It had been a gift from her father. Asenath pulled it out. It still shone with newness.

The next wand was one she had obtained when she first arrived to England. She had used it throughout her training, and it had proven very useful. It was a good wand - oak, phoenix feather. It was well worn, although Asenath polished it regularly. She preferred it, of all her wands.

Her sycamore wand came next - foreign, with the tail hair of a Graphorn. She had had it since she was seven - the wand she had first killed with. The wand she had used to maim Muggles for the sake of knowledge and defend herself when Auror raids became frequent. The wand she had had in her pocket when she had climbed that oak tree...

When she was very small, Asenath had had a wand she could now hardly remember. She had rarely used it once she got her sycamore one, and she hadn't seen it at all for over two years. It was made out of whitish, light-green wood. Asenath didn't remember a time when the unicorn hair was still covered - it had been poking out for all her life.

Asenath flexed her right arm, feeling it grind against her muscles and bone. Lord, she had gone through so many transformations over the last three years.

...

Harry sat leaning against the wall, unable to fall asleep. He was, in fact, trying to think of a way to get his friends back to safety. Or at least make sure they would once they all got out of this horrible place. Harry had seen the look on his captor's face as she sunk into the labyrinth, and it was a look of someone unafraid, but still shocked. This hadn't been part of the plan, or at least not part of her plan.

However, though Harry couldn't fight this Labyrinth, he could try to fight the young woman, and decided that if anything, he will free his friends from her grasp.

This was somehow his fault - Voldemort wanted to kill Harry, and this Death Eater had kidnapped Harry for him, and brought his friends along so they won't be able to bear witness. If it wasn't for him, Ron, Hermione and Ginny had been completely safe.

As usually, Harry got in trouble and accidentally pulled his friends down with him. It painfully reminded him of the Department of Mysteries. And just then, the voice of Bellatrix Lestrange ran through his mind: 'Let him watch while we torture the little girl.' ... 'Now, Potter, either give us the Prophecy, or watch your little friend die the hard way.'

Harry cursed under his breath as this occurred to him. One failed attempt to escape, and their captor wouldn't hesitate to use Harry's friends to keep him hostage. It would be sheer blackmail - the option would be to either get killed or never forgive himself for making his friends suffer. And the fanatical glow in the woman's eyes as she killed that spider told Harry she wasn't above the Cruciatus curse.

There, Dumbledore, though Harry wryly. My 'power the Dark Lord knows not' will probably be the cause of my death. The irony of this hit Harry powerfully, and he cursed again.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep, but just then the door opened and the dark-hair woman walked in, waking them all up merely by her presence.

...

'Now, try to disarm me again.'

Asenath stood in a dueling circle, facing her trainer. He was an old, ugly man, toughened by wars. He was a mercenary - working for the side that paid the most. And that was Lord Voldemort's, of course

Naturally, the Ministry had also noticed the abilities of this man - why, he was one of the deputy heads of the Auror department. What the Ministry had failed to notice was that Scrimgeour had been working for Voldemort since his rise in June.

'Expelliarmus!' she screamed. Her head was spinning at the force the spell required. Having a wand fastened to one's forearm with little leather straps was completely different from holding one in one's hand.

Scrimgeour was pushed back slightly, but it wasn't enough to rid him of his wand, let alone throw him off his feet.

'You're not concentrating hard enough,' he snarled. Asenath knew why he was pushing her so hard. Her father had threatened him with Cruciatus if Asenath didn't learn to work with the new... arrangement soon.

'Concentrate, Idril, concentrate,' he snarled.

'I am!' screamed Asenath, her voice laced with a tint of raging insanity.

Lord, she hated Scrimgeour. He always brought out all her faults. She felt as if he, alone, saw right through her, and, though remaining polite, saw her as what she was. No, what he thought she was, Asenath corrected herself. And she wasn't that. She was the Dark Lord's daughter!

Asenath ran a hand through her hair, and found herself shaking uncontrollably. Her bottom lip was bleeding from being chewed on constantly, and there were drops of cold sweat on her forehead.

'I will duel you,' he informed her, and it was the look he gave her now that made her loathe him, loathe him enough to kill him, loath him as much as the first man she had killed. The man who had taken away her innocence. That phrasing of that thought was laughable, too, in a way. Had Asenath ever been innocent? Had she ever been weak enough to be what fools called "nice, kind, loving"? Surely not. Not her, Lady Asenath. She had always been powerful.

'I will duel you' was what Scrimgeour had said, but his eyes gave away, quite plainly, that what he meant was: 'I will teach you a lesson, and let you see what it looks like when scum like you tries to boss me around. Prepare to lose, Mudblood.'

'Noooooo!' The look drove Asenath up the wall. This was too much.

'Expelliarmus!' yelled Scrimgeour.

Asenath was thrown off her feet, but the fastenings around her forearms held her wands in place. She got up again, her head throbbing painfully, reeling slightly. The two wands were fastened to her arms my magic, and the only way to unfasten them was using a wand. She was defenseless. Asenath looked Scrimgeour squarely in the eyes and brace herself for whatever would come

'Vingardium Leviosa!'

Asenath felt herself rise in the air, and knew this could mean nothing good.

'Rotatus!'

Oh, no.

Scrimgeour gave her a satisfied, twisted smile as he pronounced the last words: 'Finite Clothes Incatatem.'

Shit!

Asenath's robes and underrobes fell over her head, the charm the kept the hem near her knees in all positions being shattered. She was suspended in midair, wearing nothing from her neck down (or up, in reality), offering quite a view to the present Death Eaters, who were, as far as she could tell, getting out of their tents for a better look, laughing.

Laughing.

Nine-year-old Asenath felt hands under her robes, the smell of stale breath in her nose. Being recently hit by the Confudus spell, she did not realize what was happening, except that she felt nauseous.

'Oh, don't fidget, lady,' breathed a voice into her ear, pronouncing the last word with mocking irony. She felt her robes pulled off her, and almost at once felt an instinctive desire to get them back.

'Oh no you don't,' replied the same whispering voice, and Asenath smelt alcohol again, only this time much, much stronger. 'My, you are the prettiest thing I've had in ages,' continued the voice. Despite her hazy state, Asenath knew there was something wrong with that statement.

She didn't remember much afterwards, except for feeling really, really sick and eventually throwing up. And she cried. She didn't know why, but she knew she was being hurt, and she cried.

And the fury. Asenath felt it blind her, so that all around her was whiteness. He had left her lying on the floor, and after what may have been hours or seconds of being curled up in a ball, dissolved in sobs, with the Confudus spell gradually lifting, she realized what had been done to her. Then, Asenath got up, and pulled out her wand. As if following orders, she crossed the room, and opened the door.

He was still drunk, lying on the sofa, and squinted at her as she entered.

'So, how does it feel like?' he asked gruffly. He was completely drunk. 'Our little Lady Asenath had been deflowered!' And he laughed at this, as if he had made a particularly amusing joke. No, he wasn't laughing at what he had said - he was laughing at her, he was gloating because she was miserable, because he life was shattered.

'You're a woman, now,' he called out between his guffaws. 'How does it feel like, being a woman?'

Asenath didn't reply.

'Aww, c'mon, it has to feel like something.'

'Powerful.' Her voice was measured. Emotionless. That was the first time Asenath had used that voice, ever.

He snorted. 'Oh, c'm'ere...'

But Asenath ducked his hands. It was than that he noticed the wand she held. It must have been quite a sight. A girl, aged nine, but looking around six, with long, curly reddish blonde hair and wide green eyes... eyes filled with hatred that could rarely be seen in the eyes of an adult. She was trembling, but her wand hand was steady.

Asenath felt there was power in her. She stared at Steve, her guard, and this power seized her... or maybe she seized the power, she didn't know.

'Oh, look, the baby has a wand,' he mocked. 'What are you going to do? Send bubbles at me?'

'No,' replied Asenath, still in the horrible emotionless voice. 'Avada Kedavra!'

Asenath was glad that the robes were hanging over her face, because her eyes had gone strangely wet at the memory. Weakness. Asenath cursed herself for it.

She felt her arms moving without meaning to do so. Before she knew it, her left hand was lifting the robes at allow her to see while her right hand was pointing down at Scrimgeour. She felt her head pumping, but her voice was detached as she shouted: 'Expelliarmus!"

Scrimgeour was blasted backwards by the force of the spell, and fell into a crumpled heap at the edge of the dueling circle. The laughter stopped abruptly, and Asenath found herself falling to the ground. She turned in the air, catlike, and landed on both feel, hastily (but trying to restrain herself from looking as frantic as she felt) pulling her robes back over herself while keeping an eye on Scrimgeour. The Death Eaters all around were backing away slightly, as if hoping she didn't notice them yet.

'What is happening here?' asked an imperative voice over the crowd. Asenath looked up to see her Lord looking strait at her. 'Why are you undressed?' he asked, his voice now rather harsh.

'Ask Scrimgeour,' spat Asenath angrily, though inside she was smirking. Serves him right...

Voldemort wheeled to face the wizard, who bowed low, probably realizing he'll pay for his little moment of fun.

'You have brought disgrace onto my house,' snarled the Dark Lord.

'But my lord, I did noth-'

'Silence!' barked Voldemort. 'He's yours, my Lady.'

Asenath felt a smirk tugging at her lips as she stepped forward, looking strait at Scrimgeour, who was trying very hard not to give her the satisfaction of seeing fear in is eyes.

'Does he have to be alive when I'm finished?' she asked, facing Voldemort.

The Dark Lord seemed to consider the matter for a moment. 'I no longer need him,' he said finally. And, with a slight nod in Asenath's direction, he strode away.

Asenath pointed her right hand to her left forearm and muttered the counter-spell. At once, the leather straps fell on the ground in a heap, her wand tumbling on top of it. Asenath picked her wand up, and with a few well-chosen words suspended Scrimgeour in the air only inches from the ground. By this time, most of the Death Eaters around were minding their own business. Asenath retrieved her other wand, and held them both in her hands, no longer restraining the smirk that was now distorting her fine features.

'Oh, we're going to have some fun now, aren't we?' she asked in a whisper, looking down at the face of her ex-trainer. She was delighted to see a flicker of fear in his eyes. 'Aren't we, Scrimgeour?' she spat the name out, but her voice was still fake-sweet. And then, her face deformed into an ugly scowl, and at the top of her lungs, with all the furry she felt, she shrieked: 'Crucio!'

...

Where are we going?' panted Harry after a few hours of walk. He felt tired and hungry, but his anxiety didn't allow him to drop his guard. He felt particularly apprehensive because of the lack of a wand in his pocket - he was defenseless, and it bothered him.

'Don't ask questions,' she snapped, reminding Harry strongly of Aunt Petunia.

Harry sighed inwardly. If he wanted to escape, he and his friends would need their wands, and for that they would need to somehow disarm their captor. Harry still remembered the occasion when she threw him off her in their fight above ground, seemingly without a wand. The situation seemed unsolvable.

Harry turned around automatically to help Ginny climb up the staircase they were now climbing. It seemed the labyrinth had many floors, unlike the maze Harry had to get through during the Triwizard tournament.

'Oooh, aren't you two the cutest couple,' cooed the black-haired woman, but her voice was biting with cold and dripping with sarcasm.

Harry shook his head slightly to stop Ginny from snapping back, and instead gave her hand a quick squeeze as he pulled her up. Hermione was climbing rather defiantly by Harry's side, while Ron hung a few steps back. They all looked quite out-of-breath.

Their captor stopped by the end of the stairs and held her hand up. The four Gryffindors held their respective breaths.

'Chimaeras,' she whispered, and drew her wand. Harry grabbed Hermione and pulled her towards the wall. Ginny and Ron flattened themselves to the opposite wall. Never had Harry wished this much he had this wand.

'Expelliarmus! Stupefy!'

Within moments, Harry could see four outlines moving ahead, where the staircase became wide. He could distinctly make out the sound of roaring, and see the spells that missed the three animals by inches. Chimaeras were very fast.

The dark-haired woman leapt high into the air as a dragon's tail swept by, and sent another spell at the animal. It seemed as if she were using both hands.

Jets of light emitted from the dark figure as she moved up and down the stairs, and then, one by one, she killed the animals. Two of them, that is. She approached the last one, which looked almost uncertain if it should attack or not, she pointed her wand at it, and pronounced, clearly, the word echoing through the space: 'Crucio.'

The yelps and screeches of the chimaera sounded odd and almost frightening, but at the same time pitiful. They filled the air, and along with them came laughter - not insane laugher, not hysterics, but high, cruel, mocking laughter. And then, after what seemed like hours, the yelps stopped, and became some sort of odd howls and barks. The chimaera was robbed on the little mind it had had.

Before Harry knew it, he was running up those stairs, oblivious to Hermione's attempt to snatch at his robes. He only stopped in front of the dark-haired woman, and faced her, wand or not. 'Stop it,' he said, surprised that his voice sounded calm, although he himself was shaking with rage.

And she looked at him. And Harry nearly fell as he took a sudden step back.

'You're ridiculous, Potter,' she said coldly, pronouncing every word of it. 'The thing would have loved to rip you into pieces if it had the chance.'

'Still...'

'Chimaeras don't deserve to live, unless there is a purpose to it. There was no purpose to keeping it alive.'

'Why the Cruciatus Curse, then?'

'Practice.'

She smiled at Harry, but it was a cold, cruel smile. 'Speaking of practice...' she pointed her wand at Harry, who took another step back, lost his balance, and fell backwards down the stairs. He rolled down the staircase, pain shooting through his body at each step. He rolled down several meters and stopped at a landing, rolled up in a ball, his whole body searing with pain.

He heard the sound of running, and then felt two hands shaking him. 'Are you all right, mate?' asked Ron. Harry squinted at him through the blood in his eyes. He felt dizzy and he couldn't breathe properly.

'Oh, he's such a mess,' came Hermione's high-pitched, frantic voice from the right. Ginny came rushing up the stairs a few seconds later, but the moment she saw Harry, her face contorted with furry.

'I hate you!' she shouted towards the top of the stairs. 'Do you hear me? I hate you!'

'I can hear you very well, Weasley, but that doesn't improve the situation,' came a reply. The dark-clad woman was descending towards the group. Harry saw her as if through mist. Everything was going blurry.

'Is he alive?' she asked sternly as she came within the range where she could be heard without having to shout.

'Shut up,' came a reply from Ron.

'I don't take commands from the likes of you, Weasley. Is he alive?' she asked again.

'Yes,' replied Hermione, before anyone could interfere. Harry was glad she did so.

'Then step away.'

Harry wished Ron would obey, but instinctively knew he wouldn't.

'You'll have to kill me,' Ron replied heatedly. Harry waited for the insult, or the curse, but it didn't come. Instead, he saw the woman sink to her knees by his side, grabbing his wrist and checking for pulse.

'He's fading away,' she said softly, and perhaps Harry alone could hear her. Then, she drabbed the collar of Harry's robes and pulled hard. The hard fabric ripped apart, and she frowned.

'Broke ribs and punctured lung. You must have been doing gymnastics while falling, Potter. I would have normally been more worried about kidneys.' She smiled slightly - it was a sarcastic, mocking smile, but a smile nonetheless.

She drew her wand and slowly traced it along his wounds and broken bones. Harry felt warmth spread through his body, and the pain lessened. Harry opened his mouth, perhaps foolishly, to thank her, and just then a fist appeared out of nowhere and hit the woman in the back of her neck. She started and gasped, and then crumpled on top of Harry. Just before she blacked out, she drew her wand and cried, with her last strength: 'Petrificus Totalus!'

Three jests of light left her hands and found three respective bodies. Ron, Hermione and Ginny went stiff as boards and fell over, lucky to be on a landing of the stairs, and lay there, motionless. Harry glanced at them, and then at the unconscious form of a dark-haired woman who lay on top of him, her hair fastened to her head by magic, her breathing faint. Harry watched her, not strong enough to get up, let alone lift her off him, and feeling that this attempt to escape had gone as awry as it could. And then he lost his own consciousness, too.

...

Asenath woke up to find herself lying on top of something comfortable, warm and heaving, something that smelt strongly of sweat and faintly of blood. Something masculine.

At that last thought, Asenath opened her eyes and to her horror found out that that something was Potter's bare chest. She pushed herself up and away from it, and winced as pain seared through the back of her head and neck. Weasley. She hated him.

She performed a healing and pain-relieving spell on the epicenter of pain, but she knew it might take hours before it would heal entirely. Cursing, she bent over to check on Potter. He was breathing, which was a good sign. His pulse was still rather weak, but he'll be better soon.

It was actually a miracle he was still here. Not too chivalrous of the Weasleys and Granger, was it, leaving him behind? Asenath sighed - there was no point looking for them. The labyrinth was vast, and if they had their wands... Asenath plunged her hand inside her pocked. No, all wands were still there. That was odd. And then, she remembered, as if in mist, how she had spun around with her last strength and sent a curse in their general direction. But it couldn't...

It could. Asenath bent over the three bodies. The Weasleys were sleeping, but Granger was awake - Asenath saw her eyes follow her as she bent over the youngest one, performing the counter-curse.

She didn't really blame any of them, not now her neck stopped aching and her mind was overpowering her instincts. She would have done the same in their place. Only she wouldn't have made a mistake.

'Never underestimate the Lady Asenath,' she whispered as she shook the younger Weasley awake.

'What?' asked the disoriented girl. And then she saw Asenath. Her eyes widened in horror and she attempted to beck away, but Asenath held onto the front of her robes. 'Stay here,' she commanded, and went to undo the spell on the other two.

...

'However, I've made the decision that as much as you deserve the Cruciatus curse, you will not be receiving it just yet. You all know I'm quite capable of it, so consider yourself lucky I decided against it.'

Harry blinked. The whole world was blurred, and what he heard made no sense.

'That doesn't mean I'm not furious. I hope the Dark Lord will find some worthy punishment for you before he kills you.'

Harry tried to sit up, in vain. His back ached horribly.

'Firstly, Weasley, how dare you touch me! I don't allow people anyone within the diameter of three feet of me. Is that understood?'

That voice was familiar. Harry tried to remember where exactly he had heard it, but thinking hurt.

'Second, the other Weasley, if you don't keep your mouth shut, I'll curse your voice away forever.'

'I hate you,' came a quiet reply. Ginny. Harry wondered whom did Ginny reserve that tone of absolute hatred for.

'Then the feeling must be contagious,' replied the other voice with a cruel laugh.

'Now, as for you, Mudblood, you've been wise to not cross lines with me. If you weren't a Mudblood, the Dark Lord would maybe spare you.'

Harry tried to focus on the source of the voice. Whom did he know that would call Hermione that?

And then she swam into view, the proud, black-haired woman, her black eyes glinting with evil. Harry shivered as she lifted him gently onto an airborne stretcher. The evil seeped out of her very skin.

And as Harry floated a few feet behind her, cautiously watched by Ron, Hermione and Ginny, he realized it was up to him now. The other three had shown their true colors to their captor already. Their only chance was if Harry could earn the dark woman's trust, if he could somehow stop her from seeing him as an enemy and a threat, and get close enough to her to disarm her. And at the prospect of this seemingly impossible task, Harry drifted into uneasy sleep.