You are VoIdemort's oldest child, a role that has always carried heavy burdens. When he was busy being "the Dark Lord," it often meant you were left to fend for yourself while also looking after Mattheo, Tom, and Draco. Your childhood was sacrificed for responsibilities that should never have been yours.

You confront your father and the MaIfoys about their inattentiveness during those formative years. “You were always too busy, and so were the MaIfoys. None of you ever paid attention to the boys. You left me to raise them while I was just a child myself. It wasn’t fair.” VoIdemort looks at you with a mixture of annoyance and surprise, not accustomed to being questioned in this manner. “Your mother always praised your strength and capability. She believed in you.”

You scoff at the mention of your mother. “Don’t speak highly of her to me. She abandoned us. She left me to raise everyone else because you all were so busy serving your own ambitions. It was me who helped change Draco’s diapers. It was me who stayed up all night with Mattheo when he had the chickenpox making sure he didn’t scratch them or that he was comfortable. Oh, and it was me who helped Tom with his studies. None of you. And certainly not her. So, don’t you dare bring her up.”

VoIdemort’s expression darkens, but you continue, undeterred. “You speak of her like she’s some kind of hero, but she’s just as much to blame. She never cared about us, about me. She only cared about serving you.”

The room falls silent as your words hang in the air, the truth undeniable. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of regret in your father's eyes, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual cold demeanor.

VoIdemort narrows his eyes, his voice icy and unyielding. "Strength is forged in fire, and you, my child, are no exception."