Heiress of Evil by voldiexx
Summary: Whew, those thirteen years were nasty, but Voldemort's back and better than ever. He's got plenty to do, consolidating a power base, punishing traitors, and not letting the haters get him down, but he's spared some time to look over the custody agreement he signed fourteen years ago...

Annabel Curry wanted to spend the summer getting a tan, perfecting her Cheering Charms, and ensnaring Terry Boot. Instead, she's spending it with her dad the mass murderer and his unshaven goons. Oh yeah, and the shower doesn't work, AND NO ONE BUT HER SEEMS TO CARE.

First dates. Sparkly nail polish. Magical plumbing fiascos. Some heartwarming father-daughter moments. And some not-so-heartwarming ones.
Categories: Humor Fics Characters: None
Warnings: Alternate Universe
Challenges:
Series: None
Chapters: 4 Completed: No Word count: 5004 Read: 13853 Published: 08/03/11 Updated: 03/30/14

1. Chapter 1 by voldiexx

2. Chapter 2 by voldiexx

3. Chapter 3 by voldiexx

4. Chapter 4 by voldiexx

Chapter 1 by voldiexx
Author's Notes:
Voldemort checks out the scene at Platform Nine-and-three-quarters.
The sun shone brightly over Platform Nine-and-three-quarters. Wizarding parents stood in bunches, talking animatedly and shading their eyes to check their watches (or, for the flashy, their floating grandfather clocks). An unattractive Muggle couple stood to one side, looking uncomfortable and annoyed. "Rank incompetence," the male said loudly every few minutes, jabbing at his watch and blowing out his mustache in poorly restrained aggravation. Occasionally the female looked at the family nearest her – two parents, three kids with runny noses, all wearing bright tartan robes and singing "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" in marvelous five-part harmony – and quickly averted her eyes, as if in pain.

A tall, blond man strode in through the wall and was greeted enthusiastically by a group of wizards whiling the wait away with Firewhiskey. "Lucius Malfoy!" bellowed a shiny-faced wizard. "You old hippogriff! Fancy meeting you here, eh?"

"At Platform Nine-and-three-quarters, where I meet you every single July," said the blond man. "Fancy that."

"Like a coincidence or something!" boomed the shiny wizard delightedly. "Come over here, Lucy, have a gulp! Ogden's finest Firewhiskey, just in time for seeing the kids again!"

"My apologies," said Lucius, with a small, faint shudder. "I must meet Narcissa. She arrived before me."

"Won't take no for an answer!" said the shiny wizard.

"Excuse me," bowed Lucius, and moved on. The male Muggle looked over at the Firewhiskey rather wistfully; his wife looked disgusted.

"Mrs. Dursley!" exclaimed a voice very near her ear, and she recoiled, her hand flying to her heart. Her husband stepped in front of her with an air of heroism and threateningly brandished his car keys. A red-headed man reached out and shook them enthusiastically.

"So nice to see you again, Mr. Dursley!" he said. "I don't know if you recall, we met earlier this year—"

"Weasley," spat Mr. Dursley venomously. His wife, cowering behind him, squeaked.

The red-headed man was joined by an equally red-headed wife. “Oh, Mrs. Dursley!” she said, bustling forward; Mr. Dursley swung the keys around in her direction. “How very lovely to see you here. I’m so glad to have a moment to speak with you. You see, Harry’s had rather a hard year.”

Mrs. Dursley let out a low moan.

“You-Know-Who is back, you know, the man who killed Harry’s parents.”

Mrs. Dursley grabbed her husband’s arm.

“And he broke into Hogwarts and tried to kill Harry too—”

Mrs. Dursley screamed faintly and hid behind her husband, who began to swell alarmingly. “How dare you speak to us?” he shouted, his face purpling. “How dare you come right over and start frightening my wife—”

“Vernon!” said his wife from behind him.

“Don’t worry, my love, I’ll get rid of them—”

“No, Vernon! Look up! What on earth is going on?”

Clouds rolled in above them. The air darkened and thickened, and the smaller children screamed as thunder cracked and boomed. The wizard holding the Firewhiskey bottle gazed at it in horror as the liquid bubbled and hissed. Black birds flew overhead, shrieking in harsh tongues. Families clutched each other, backing away from the platform wall.

A violent wind blew bits of litter up from the platform, and the terrified onlookers shielded their faces. Then a single bolt of lightning scorched the earth, and Lord Voldemort swept in, glancing at his watch.

"When does this bloody train arrive?" he asked Petunia Dursley.

She screamed. Everyone screamed. The platform was silvery with Patronuses galloping, hopping, swooping and slithering to warn the ministry. The red lights of Stunners shot through the crowds, but Lord Voldemort, looking annoyed, deflected them (and the Jelly-Legs Jinx from the Firewhiskey drinkers) with a dirty look. He raised his voice. "Can you all just calm down?"

"NO," yelled the crowd, in one voice.

"Sonorus," muttered Voldemort, pointing his wand at his throat. He addressed the crowds once more. "I AM SIMPLY HERE TO COLLECT MY DAUGHTER. PLEASE RESPECT MY FAMILY'S PRIVACY AND LET US HAVE OUR MOMENT IN PEACE. THANK YOU."

He lowered his wand and looked around. His eyes lit up red when he saw the Firewhiskey. "Here, can I get some of that?"

"Sure," stammered the shiny wizard. "My – my pleasure."

Lucius, standing with Narcissa not far away, was visibly uncomfortable. "Is he looking at us?" he hissed. Narcissa peered over his shoulder. "I don't think so," she said.

Lucius edged further away. "God, this is awkward," he said.

"His daughter's in fourth year now," a portly man was saying knowledgeably. "Got a son in that year, but he's in Hufflepuff, 'course. Surprise, the little Voldemorette is in Slimy Slytherin. No one knew 'til this year who her daddy was. Quite the shocker all round."

"She's been raised by her mother?" breathed his neighbor, a weedy-looking wizard in a loud checked suit.

“Dahlia Curry, remember her? She was in Hufflepuff, maybe fifteen years back? After your time, but maybe your sister knew her.”

“The Dark Lord had a kid with a Hufflepuff?”

“Makes you wonder, eh? Some combination. My Ernie says she’s quite a nice kid, considering. Keeps to herself and so on. I believe she won some kind of Charms prize last year.”

“The Dark Lord’s kid won a prize for making feathers twinkle?”

“Fathered by evil incarnate, raised by a Hufflepuff. Nature versus nurture. Like I said, you’d never know half her blood is black as a Dementor’s cloak. That’s what my Ernie says, anyway.”

“Amazing,” said the weedy wizard, eyes shining.

The portly wizard cocked an ear. “Hear that?”

“Sounds like the kids are here.”

The strident sound of the whistle came, and the train rolled in as the clock struck one. The doors opened, and children streamed onto the platform, running into the embraces of their waiting families. Lord Voldemort stood alone in the center of a wide space.

The crowd parted before a scruffy black-haired boy making his way to the Muggle couple. “You’re back,” Mr. Dursley said bad-temperedly. “They told us you’d been injured.”

“I suppose you people have some kind of health care,” Mrs. Dursley sighed. “I hope they’re not expecting us to pay any medical bills.”

The portly wizard clasped the hand of his portly son. “It's good to have you back, boy,” he said gruffly.

He stepped back as a blond girl brushed by him. “Excuse me,” she said.

“Not at all,” returned the portly wizard courteously. His son tugged his sleeve urgently.

“That’s her, Dad! That’s her!”



Lord Voldemort sighed, and tapped his foot. He looked up as the noise from the crowd around him suddenly dropped to hisses and murmurs.

“Hello, Annabel,” he said.

“Hello, Dad,” his daughter replied.

Chapter 2 by voldiexx
Author's Notes:
The shortest path from Platform Nine-and-three-quarters to Death Eater Headquarters is twisted and crooked if you're a Dark Lord...
Chapter Two

Red eyes met blue. The Dark Lord and his daughter stood for a moment, eyeing each other.

Voldemort broke the fraught silence. "Have you got any luggage?"

Annabel gestured behind her, where two large trunks were stacked. "As you see."

Voldemort snapped his fingers. Two huge Death Eaters stepped out from behind him, cloaked and hooded. Each moved to a trunk and hoisted it effortlessly.

Annabel looked at the shadowed face nearest her and smiled awkwardly. "Thanks," she said. There was no response from under the black hood.

"Social graces will get you nowhere with Crabbe, I'm afraid," said Voldemort. "Dog biscuits, on the other hand, will get you everywhere – here, boy!" He fished in his pocket and tossed each man a biscuit. Crabbe caught it in his mouth and smiled proudly.

"Thanks, Master," he said.

"Fine boys, fine boys," said Voldemort briskly, leading the way to the exit. "A bit thick up on top, but even thicker in the biceps, and that's what really matters. Spent their time working on their pectorals instead of their times tables, and who can blame them? Goyle can crack a walnut with his thighs, can you believe it?"

"Can you?" asked Annabel, looking meaningfully at Voldemort's scrawny arms.

Voldemort looked shy. "Actually, I've been taking a real interest in that kind of thing since I got my body back," he admitted. "Having a body is so amazing, it kind of makes you want to take care of it, you know? I only eat whole wheat these days, lots of yogurt, that sort of thing. And I installed a really nice gym at Death Eater Headquarters, and I did fifteen situps last week."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it felt pretty good. Healthy body, healthy mind, ekcetra. And I got this tattoo!" He turned and pulled down the collar of his robes. On the back of his neck, in blood-red Hebrew characters, was the word "Shalom."

"Do you like it?" he asked casually. "The guy at the shop said it means 'Death to Muggles.'"

Annabel sighed. "Really nice, Dad."

Voldemort beamed as they neared the platform wall. His attention was drawn to a commotion nearby. The Dursleys were jumping up and down, yelling and pointing, "HE'S OVER HERE!" Harry was sitting on his trunk with his eyes closed, massaging his temples.

"Sorry!" called Voldemort, grinning. "Can't do anything! I promised Dumbledore!"

Harrry looked up, scowling. Annabel hesitated a moment, and blew him a kiss. After a startled instant, Harry grinned and waved back.

"Sayonara, Muggles!" Voldemort shouted, and breezed out. Annabel sighed and followed. He hadn't even seen.

"That means goodbye," Voldemort confided on the other side of the wall. "It's Japanese. I learned quite a few languages when I was wandering around without my body. German, Arabic, French, Italian – I spent some time in Italy, I should go back now that I can eat at all those little cafes. And Albania – you should hear some of the curses I picked up in Albania! But you won't," he added sharply. "I promised your mother."

Annabel smirked. She hadn't been privileged to hear the two of them conduct their negotiations, but judging by the way her mother's behind had jumped around as it stuck out of the fire, she had spoken her mind with vim and vigor. Dahlia Curry had an impressive temper for a Hufflepuff. Or even not for a Hufflepuff.

"Mum says you were very reasonable about the arrangements," she offered.

"Reasonable," Voldemort muttered, heading down an alleyway. "Your mother doesn't know the meaning of the word."

Annabel looked curiously around. "Where are we going?" she asked. "And how are we getting there?" she asked. "I don't fly—"

"I know, you don't fly, you don't Floo, you don't Apparate. I stole you a Porsche, okay? It's the smoothest ride there is, your stomach should be fine."

"You stole a car?"

"What did you expect me to do, march into a dealer and pay for one?"

"Yes! You've got plenty of money."

"Yes, but Muggle dealers don't accept Galleons! And the exchange rate at Gringotts is horrendous, it's criminal! And finally, I'm a criminal! This is how I get cars! I take them!"

Annabel folded her arms. "I'm not getting in."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not getting in a stolen car!"

Voldemort sighed. "Crabbe? Goyle?"

The two huge men approached, looking sheepish. Annabel clenched her teeth.

"I'll be sick!" she said.

Crabbe and Goyle stopped in their tracks. Voldemort's jaw dropped.

"You'll what?"

"I'll be sick in your Porsche!" she announced with relish.

"In my Porsche?" Voldemort whispered.

"Yes! All over the leather bucket seats!"

"You wouldn't."

She met his eyes. "Watch me."

His gaze dropped after a minute. He turned away. "Fine."

"Fine what?"

"Fine, I'll return it!"

"As soon as we get back?"

"Immediately."

"With a note of apology?"

He rounded on her. "Don't push it!"

"Okay, okay."

He kicked a tire moodily as they got in. Annabel glared.
Chapter 3 by voldiexx
Author's Notes:
Family time with the Death Eaters.
.

Annabel clutched the leather arm rest and dug in her feet. The violent inrush of wind from the open window whipped her hair across her face and made her eyes water. She raised her voice over the noise of beeping, cursing, and Lord Voldemort’s joyous cackle.

“I’m going to be sick!”

“I don’t care!” Voldemort called back. “I’m giving the car back to its owner!”

Annabel gritted her teeth as her father darted in and out of his lane with merry disregard for traffic laws, societal conventions and basic human decency. Brakes screeched, horns blared, and maddened drivers choked on their own sputtered imprecations.

“Check this out, Annabel,” said Voldemort cheerfully. “My left blinker’s on! It’s been on for the past eighteen miles! And I haven’t turned left once!”

He deftly cut off a Corvette that was struggling to merge.

“I love this! I love driving! Who knew Muggles could come up with something this good?”

“Hur hur,” said Crabbe, who had his hands in the air and an expression of childlike glee.

“Hur hur,” said Goyle, who was staring expressionlessly at the back of Voldemort’s headrest.

“You’re sick,” said Annabel weakly.

Encouraged, Voldemort drove faster.

A siren swelled behind them. “Now you’re going to go to jail,” said Annabel with satisfaction. “You’re behaving like a lunatic and you’re endangering a minor. You’re going to be locked up for ten years, minimum. I’ll come visit you on Sundays if you buy me a Firebolt.”

“I’m sorry, were you speaking?” said Voldemort, swerving across four lanes. Without pausing, he drove through a fence and off the highway. They bumped gently to a halt in the middle of a grassy meadow.

Voldemort turned off the car. Everything was suddenly very quiet. They were close enough to the highway for Annabel to see the disaster they had left behind, cars pointed in all directions and two policemen struggling to restore order, but the noise of the road was far away.

“Welcome,” said Voldemort, “to my humble abode.”

As they got out, an enormous, decrepit mansion loomed suddenly over them. A flag bearing the Dark Mark and the words, “Welcome to Death Eater Headquarters” streamed overhead. Affixed to the peeling door were a bunch of yellow balloons and a sign that said, “Welcome, Annabel!”

“Home sweet home,” said Voldemort happily.

The door opened with a maximum amount of creak to reveal a dusty entrance hall. “Your room is the first door up there,” said Voldemort, pointing up the stairs. “Dinner will be in one hour. You’ll meet the whole gang. It’ll be great!”

********************************************************************************************************

Dinner was awkward.

It was in the dining room, in Annabel’s honor. The Dark Lord was enthroned at one end of the dusty mahogany table, and Annabel sat uncomfortably at the other. The Death Eaters lined the sides, faces freshly scrubbed, trying not to pick their teeth or belch.

Not even the streamers Crabbe had hung could lighten the atmosphere.

“For what we are about the receive,” Lord Voldemort intoned, “may we be truly grateful.”

“Amen,” chorused the Death Eaters.

“And may the day when Muggles no longer walk the earth come soon.”

The Death Eaters thrust their fists in the air and fell to.

“So you’re in Hogwarts,” Crabbe said to Annabel. “What year are you in?”

“Sixth,” she answered, looking at him curiously. He was a huge man, shiny and balding, and he seemed to be actually interested in her.

“Sixth!” said Crabbe, delighted. “So you must know my son, Vincent. He’s in Slytherin.”

“Yeah, I know him,” said Annabel casually, not feeling the need to add that she had in fact hexed him at the end of the term, sending him home with teeth where his eyebrows should be and hair growing out of his gums.

“Hey,” said Crabbe excitedly, “Gorm and Ted have got kids that age, too! Gorm!” he hollered down the table. “Annie here knows Greg!”

Goyle, a few seats down, seemed to try mightily to process this. He gave up after his eyes crossed, and, after staring at his upraised spoon of pudding for ten seconds, managed to remember that it was supposed to go in his mouth.

“Yeah, and Draco’s that age too!” continued Crabbe, who had found his topic and was sticking with it. “Luscious! Annie knows your boy!”

The plae blond man beside Goyle continued calmly to spoon mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“Luscious! Luscious!”

The man on Malfoy’s other side, broad-shouldered and menacing, elbowed him. “Crabbe’s wanting you,” he grunted.

“That is not my name,” Malfoy said evenly, and reached for the pumpkin juice without looking up.

“It’s not?” said Crabbe, forehead creasing.

A low laugh came from Annabel’s right. She turned and saw, to her shock, the greasy visage of her Potions Professor. “Isn’t he luscious though?” Snape said sardonically. “All that luscious golden hair.”

“What are you doing here?” gasped Annabel.

“I work here,” Snape said smoothly. “Surprised?”

“I always knew you were evil,” she said. “I just didn’t know it was official. And what are you going to do now that I know? You think that just because I’m Voldemort’s daughter I won’t tell Dumbledore and the Daily Prophet?”

“We’ll work something out,” Snape said vaguely. “Maybe I’ll modify your memory, maybe I’ll tie your tongue...or maybe it’s time for me to come out into the open. I’m getting old for this dodgy stuff. And teaching is a real pain.”

“So is being a student,” said Annabel feelingly.

“It’s pretending to like Potter that really takes it out of me,” Snape continued, ignoring her, as was his custom with students.

“But let me say, sir, that you do a superb job,” said Annabel, in case he came back to Hogwarts after all and marked her latest essay. Snape seemed to pick up on this. He snapped out his self-pitying reverie and glared at her.

“Dealing with Potter is job satisfaction itself compared to dealing with trolls like you,” he said irritably. “Considering the level of intelligence displayed by your poisons essay, I’m amazed you managed to figure out with side of the quill does the writing.”

Annabel winced. Troll. She’d hoped at least for a Dreadful.

Nice one, Sev, thought Snape. He wondered if he could get away with using that line on another student, maybe write it in bright red on someone’s test -- maybe a Hufflepuff, Annabel probably didn’t talk to them much...

“I’m sorry, what is this?” said a squat man near the head of the table, regarding a serving dish with suspicion.

His neighbor elbowed him viciously, but it was too late.

“You have a problem with your food, Amycus?” said Lord Voldemort with deceptive calm.

“Not at all, Your Lordship,” Amycus said hurriedly. “I was just--”

“You were just--what? Stuffing your face with red meat? Or, as I like to call it, heart attack on a plate?”

“No, Your Lordship, I’ve just never--”

“Never seen a whole grain before? It’s quinoa, Carrow. The gold of the Incas. It has nine amino acids, Carrow. All nine. You know how many amino acids Nagini would get if she ate you?”

Amycus cast a nervous glance behind his back, where Nagini was twined around a pillar. “No, Your Lordship.”

“Maybe two. That’s because you’re a sorry sack of gelatin with no nutritional value.”

Amycus looked extremely heartened by this.

“But I’m going to change that. I’m going to make all of you into real men and women, something Nagini would take pride in eating, something that would bring a redness to her eyes and a shine to her scales. And that’s why the quinoa is on the table.”

As one, the Death Eaters drew away from the fatal bowl.

“Well, Carrow?”

Amycus looked sick. He spooned some quinoa onto his plate and pushed it around with his fork.

Voldemort drew his wand.

Closing his eyes, Amycus brought the fork to his mouth and swallowed hard.

“That’s better,” said Voldmort. He did not lower his wand. “Now I want to see everyone have some.”

The bowl was reluctantly passed from hand to hand. One by one, the Death Eaters ate their quinoa, some filtering it through a mouthful of Firewhiskey to mask the taste.

Annabel politely passed it on when it came to her. “I don’t have to have any,” she explained to Voldemort. “I’m not a Death Eater.”

“It goes double for you. You’re too skinny.”

“That’s okay, thanks. I’ll have an extra dessert instead.”

“Eat your quinoa!”

“I’d rather have Nagini eat me.”

Nagini looked up hopefully. The Death Eaters held their breaths.

Voldemort stuck out his jaw. “That’s fifty push-ups for you, Annabel. I’ll see you at dawn.”

Annabel shrugged.

“And no dessert for you!”
Chapter 4 by voldiexx
Author's Notes:
Standoff, correspondence, compromise.
Dear Terry, Annabel wrote.
How are things? It’s pretty boring here. No one my age for miles around. Hope you’re having fun at your aunt’s.
I looked up that rune when I got back and I was right, it means ‘Danger.’ So now I’ve saved your life if you’re ever wandering in an abandoned crypt, and you owe me an ice cream. Come by and pay up any time - we’re on the Floo. Like I said before, my schedule is totally and miserably free.
Annabel.


She folded the note into a neat square and placed it on the bed beside her. Her owl, Callipygia, looked up hopefully. “Hang on,” Annabel said. “I’ve got to write a couple more.”

Dear Mum,
--help--come--save--aargh--
Okay, just kidding. I’m doing fine here. Dad and the goons are treating me well. They decorated my room just for me, it’s really --


How to describe the room? It had started off as a standard Death Mansion bedroom: bruise colors, indiscriminate taxidermy, torture apparatus. Someone (probably Crabbe) had apparently been ordered to go up and make it fit for teenage female habitation, and had accomplished this by turning everything in the room pink, with a light blanketing of glitter. The general effect was executioner chic: Barbie Townhouse meets Guantanamo Bay. The owl stand on which Callipygia was distastefully perched was a severed human hand, with each of its horny fingernails painted a cheery bubblegum pink.

--interesting, she finished. Please send me sweets disguised as something else, he’s turned out to be a complete health weirdo and wants me to eat quinoa. How are Batsy and the pups? Tell them I say hi. Love, Annabel.

She hesitated before picking up the pen again, not just because it had a dead Pygmy Puff bobbing on its end but because she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted to say in this letter. After a minute she wrote,

Dear Harry,
How are you? I hope your holiday is going well. As you know, I am spending mine with someone whom I believe you would be interested in tormenting a bit. I think it would be very entertaining if you came over here to take me on a date this Friday.
What do you think?
Annabel Curry.


Callipygia, seeing Annabel roll up the third piece of parchment, hopped off the hand with every evidence of relief. Annabel had never known that her owl was such a design critic, or that a face that was mostly beak could express such disgust, but it was clear that Callipygia could not wait to shake the glitter of this room from her talons. She was aloft almost before Annabel finished clipping Harry’s note on.

“Fine!” Annabel shouted after her. “Go without your Owl Treats!”

Better a dish of herbs in the open air, Callipygia’s parting hoot implied, than Owl Treats in a room with an Iron Maiden wearing a plastic tiara. Annabel supposed she couldn’t blame her.

Annabel sat back down on her four-poster bed (each post was topped by a long hank of human hair, apparently for her braiding pleasure) and thought about how living with her evil dad was bringing out her latent evil genes. Lying to your mother was the definition of evil, and Annabel had lied so much in her letter to her mother she was surprised her hand hadn’t fallen off.

Poor Mum. Poor worried Mum, sitting in her flat with one hand on her wand and the other on her broomstick, just waiting for that letter from Annabel that would tell her whether or not she would have to fly over to Death Eater headquarters and invert her ex-boyfriend's face. "Owl me," was the last thing she'd said to Annabel, urgently. "Owl me first thing to let me know you're okay. And if you're not, so help me, I'll give that sorry hippogriff a nose job that will make this one look professional."

This was important to her mother. Annabel was important to her mother. And what had she written? No worries, Mum, I'm doing fine. Fine! LIES LIES LIES.

Voldemort had cheerfully burst into her room at 5 that morning, wearing sky blue running shorts and a skimpy singlet. "Boundaries, Dad!" Annabel had shrieked, but he had torn open all the curtains and started singing army songs while jogging in place. It had emerged that he was here for her morning workout, and when she had flatly refused to put in trainers and go down with him to the Death Eater gym, he had scowled fearsomely and stormed out. Four hours later, when she'd felt more ready to face the day, she'd discovered that the door was locked. She was a prisoner in the Barbie chamber.

At some point, the quinoa had appeared on her dresser. An accompanying note said, "Eat this or starve. Love, Dad."

She'd been locked in for two hours now. She still hadn't touched the quinoa, but she was beginning to seriously consider eating the note.

But, in a way, she was doing fine. This was what too many wizards these days were missing, a chance for quiet reflection and stock-taking. To get to know oneself, maybe contemplate the beyond. What with the Floo, Patroni, and the new smartOwls, she really should be asking someone to lock her in her bedroom for an hour or two each morning.

Besides, what was she missing out on right now? Cards with Crabbe? Potions review with Snape?

The lack of an en suite bathroom was really becoming a problem, though.

“Alohomora!” she shouted, just in case anything had changed in the past five minutes. The nail-studded door leered at her. “Conflagio!” She could have sworn she heard the blasted thing snigger.

Wait -- she had heard something. But it wasn’t a snigger, and it wasn’t the door. Someone out in the hall was whispering, “Miss Annabel?” as loudly as he could.

She went to the door. “What?”

The blackened wood warped open into a kind of service window. Crabbe’s big, dumb worried face looked through. “Shh!” he hissed.

“I didn’t say--”

“Here.” He shoved something through the window into her hands. “Don’t tell your dad.” The wood snapped back into place.

Annabel looked down. She was really touched. The overgrown lout had baked her a pie with a file in it.

She ate the pie. She wiped off the file. She went over to the door and shouted, “Crabbe!”

Feet pounded outside her door, and the service window reappeared. “Not so loud!”

“Thank you for the pie,” Annabel said. “I was starting to eye the Owl Treats. But I can’t file the lock off; it’s on the other side. Can you do it for me?”

“Of course,” said Crabbe paternally. “We can’t have a little girl like you locked up on a bright day like today.”

“Thank you,” said Annabel, ignoring the “little girl,” because she really did like Crabbe, and passing him the file. Then she sat on her bed, wincing occasionally at the sounds of rasping metal coming from the other side of the door, and thought about her morning’s correspondence.

She had first noticed Terry Boot in Potions second year. There were not a lot of bright sparks among the Slytherin second-years, so it had been a real pleasure to meet someone who knew the difference between a bezoar and a Bludger. They had been casually friendly for a while, and then this year, after months of sitting next to him in Ancient Runes, she had come to the decision that this was the future Mr. Annabel. He was cute. He was smart. He was not an idiot. (Plenty of the smart boys she knew were unfortunately also idiots.) He was IT.

Taking a kinda-friendship to the next level is never easy, and bikinis had featured largely in Annabel’s master plan. That, of course, was back when she had been expecting to spend the summer in her mum’s flat, next door to Terry’s aunt and just minutes from the beach. But her evil father had killed that plan, as was his wont, and now she had to ensnare Terry without the benefit of propinquity.

That was item number one on her to-do list for this summer. The only other item on it was to make Voldemort miserable, which would be a lot of fun as well as a service to humanity. She didn’t know Harry well, but she had high hopes about an alliance with him. Voldemort would rue the day he hauled her off to the Death Mansion.

There was a loud bang outside her door, and a cry of pain. She heard Voldemort shout, “What do you think you’re doing, you overdeveloped protein pack?” She quickly took the bowl of quinoa and emptied it out the window.

“Dad, stop!” she called. “The quinoa is gone.”

The door banged open. Voldemort looked suspicious. “You ate it?”

Annabel lifted her chin. “I forced my owl to eat it.”

Voldemort’s lip curled. “That’s evil,” he admitted.

“Thank you,” said Annabel, and swept past him into the hall.
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