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Chapter Text

Her long, raven-black hair whipped and danced in the icy wind, an ethereal shroud framing her angelic face. She stood in the embrace of the night, her visage half-veiled by shadows, the pale light of the crescent moon spilling over her porcelain skin like liquid silver. Her eyes, glinting with a haunting curiosity, followed the arc of a falling star. She raised her arms, the sleeves of her dark dress fluttering like wings, as though she longed to soar through the cold expanse of the heavens, chasing the burning comet.

Perched precariously on the edge of the balcony, she gazed down into the abyss below—a yawning void of shadow and stone. The thought of what lay beneath tantalized her. Death. A single word, simple and unyielding, yet wrapped in layers of mystery. She imagined the plunge, her body surrendering to gravity, the wind screaming past her ears until all was silence.

Death, the unknown ocean that swallowed all. Its waters were infinite and suffocating, dragging even the strongest swimmers into its depths. No one could escape its cold embrace. It was a secret that she longed to uncover—a reunion with her parents, drowned in that endless sea long ago. She wondered what truths were hidden behind the veil, what lay beyond the final breath.

Far away, under the same starlit sky, he stood—his thoughts also drifting to that unyielding ocean. The firmament above him was a canvas of scattered lampions, millions of tiny fires illuminating the abyss. Yet his thoughts were defiant. He promised the stars, the night, and the darkness itself: he would never drown, never succumb. Death would not claim him. He vowed to stay above the waves, unyielding, eternal.

"Violet!" The sharp call tore through her reverie, a voice from the warmth she had left behind.

"Yes?" she called back, though her voice was softer, a distant echo.

A figure emerged from the house, stepping onto the balcony. The man was tall and lean, his silhouette cutting sharply against the silvered night. His black hair gleamed like a raven's feathers, and his dark eyes fixed on her with a mixture of worry and frustration.

"What are you doing again?" he demanded, his voice heavy with both tenderness and irritation. He stepped closer, gripping her hand firmly, as though afraid she might leap into the void she admired so intently. "How many times must I tell you? Don't sit here. You could fall."

"And how many times must I remind you," she replied, sliding off the cold stone ledge, "that I'm not a child? I won't fall."

His grip lingered for a moment before he released her, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "I have guests coming. Stay in your room. Understood?" He turned toward the glass doors, his reflection briefly catching the moonlight as he ran a hand through his sleek hair.

"Guests?" she asked, smirking mischievously. "What is it this time? A girl, finally?"

The corner of his mouth quirked into a faint smirk, the irritation melting slightly. "You're impossible, you know that?" he said, ruffling her hair as he moved toward the door. With one last glance over his shoulder, he added, "And lock these. Don't make me repeat myself."

"Bye, Julius," she said with mock innocence, waving him off.

Left alone, Violet turned her attention to the latest Daily Prophet sprawled across her desk. The bold headline screamed of yet another grisly murder—the fifth in the last month. Death Eaters, as they were called, were growing bolder. The Ministry's attempts to suppress the news had only made the chaos harder to ignore. This time, an entire Muggle family had been slaughtered. The details were scant, the Ministry tight-lipped, but the implications were horrifying.

As her eyes skimmed the page, murmurs drifted up from below. The voices were faint, muffled by the stone walls, but unmistakably male. Curiosity clawed at her resolve, stronger than the warnings of her brother. Quietly, she unlocked her door and stepped into the darkened hallway.

The voices grew clearer as she descended, her bare feet silent on the cold wood. Snatches of conversation reached her ears.

"...killed... mudbloods..."

The house groaned beneath her, the ancient wood aching under the weight of the night's secrets. Violet held her breath, clutching the banister with trembling fingers as the whispers from the kitchen below drifted up like venom. Shadows flickered against the walls, thrown into motion by the dim, wavering light of candles, their distorted forms twisting and clawing at the ceiling.

She crept to the edge of the staircase, her bare feet silent against the splintered wood. The scene below churned her stomach. The kitchen, once warm and familiar, was unrecognizable, corrupted into something dark and alien. A long, heavy table stretched across the room, its surface littered with decayed parchment and the remains of a half-burned map.

Around it sat figures cloaked in shadow, their faces obscured but unmistakably cold. Malfoy lounged in his chair, his smirk as sharp as broken glass. Nott leaned forward, his hands steepled under his chin, his eyes flicking across the room like a predator surveying its prey. Others she recognized from fleeting glimpses in the papers—Avery, Rosier.

But it was the man at the head of the table who pulled all the light from the room. His hood obscured his features, but his presence was suffocating, the air around him thick and stifling. Violet's chest tightened as he spoke, his voice a slow, deliberate rasp that felt like nails dragged over stone.

"Did you complete the task, Julius?"

At the man's left sat Julius, her older brother. His face was calm, his posture composed, but his eyes were hard, unfamiliar. The brother she knew had been a protector, a guiding hand, someone who had stood between her and the darkness. Now, he sat among it, a part of it.

"Yes, my lord," Julius replied, his voice steady and cold. "The Minister will soon step down. His parents' deaths were... persuasive."

The hooded figure tilted his head, his interest piqued. "And the message? Did they understand?"

"Oh, they understood," Julius said, his tone devoid of emotion. "The screams ensured it."

Violet's knees threatened to buckle. Her ears rang with the implications of his words, the image of blood and pain flashing behind her eyes. Julius couldn't have done this. He wouldn't.

But the room below told a different story.

She leaned against the wall, her chest heaving, her breath unsteady. A sudden creak beneath her foot betrayed her, the sound piercing the silence like a blade.

The conversation below stopped. Every head turned toward the staircase, their gazes predatory.

"Did you hear that?" Nott murmured, his hand drifting toward his wand.

Julius rose slowly, his movements precise and calculated. "I'll handle it," he said, his voice calm, but his eyes were sharp as daggers.

She scrambled backward, panic seizing her as his footsteps ascended the stairs, deliberate and heavy. Her back hit the wall as she searched for an escape, but there was none.

The moment he appeared, his eyes found her instantly. There was no surprise, no hesitation. Only cold certainty.

"Violet," he said softly, his tone almost gentle, as though addressing a child caught sneaking sweets.

"I—" Her voice cracked, her throat dry. "I didn't mean to—"

Before she could finish, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her into the shadows. His grip was iron, unyielding.

"How long?" he demanded, his voice low, dangerous.

"I didn't hear anything," she whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

"Don't lie to me," he hissed, his face inches from hers. The warmth of his breath was a cruel contrast to the cold in his eyes.

Her gaze darted downward, catching a glimpse of his arm. The fabric of his sleeve had shifted, revealing the edge of something dark. Without thinking, she grabbed his wrist, shoving the fabric higher.

Her breath left her in a ragged gasp.

There it was. The Dark Mark.

The skull and serpent twisted together, black and seared into his flesh, a permanent brand of allegiance.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "No... no. Tell me this isn't real. Julius, please."

"It's real," he said, his voice steady, unyielding.

"You—you're one of them," she stammered, her words trembling like fragile glass. "You're a Death Eater."

Chapter Text

One Month Later...

The streets of London thrummed with life under the warm, golden light of a late-August afternoon. The summer heat lingered in the air, blending with the earthy scent of rain-soaked cobblestones from a storm the night before. Julius walked with Violet at his side, his tall frame moving with a measured grace beside her smaller, sprightly figure.

The city felt alive, yet distant. People passed them, chattering, their lives humming with purpose. Julius didn't envy them. He found it easier to remain an observer, especially when Violet spoke, her voice filling the spaces between them with lightness.

Her laughter rang out, drawing a faint smile to his lips. She had her mother's laugh—a sweet, unburdened sound that seemed foreign in his world. Her long, silken hair shimmered as it swayed with each movement, cascading down her back like a silver river. Violet was happiness personified, untouched by the shadows that clung to him.

"Julius, you're staring again," she teased, her tone pulling him from his thoughts.

He blinked, realizing too late that he'd been caught. "Just listening," he replied with a smirk, his voice soft but warm.

Her brow arched in playful skepticism. "Yeah? Then what did I just say?"

He hesitated, chuckling under his breath. "Let's go," he said, redirecting the moment as they reached the Leaky Cauldron.

Violet rolled her eyes but let the matter drop, skipping ahead of him as they entered the pub. Inside, the room was alive with the hum of voices and the clinking of glasses. Julius held the door open, stepping aside to let her through.

For a moment, standing before the familiar threshold, he felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The Leaky Cauldron was a place he avoided whenever possible. It was too public, too open—a place where whispers followed him like shadows. Yet here he was, for her.

Pushing the thought aside, he followed her through the hidden archway into Diagon Alley.

The cobbled street unfolded before them in a spectacle of magic and charm. Brightly colored shop fronts lined the alley, each one bursting with life. Children darted between parents, clutching wands, cauldrons, and other school supplies, their excitement palpable. Violet's eyes lit up, taking in the scene with an almost childlike wonder.

"It never gets old," she said, her voice brimming with excitement.

Julius gave her a small smile, though his eyes scanned the crowd warily. He never liked Diagon Alley, even when he was younger. The charm others found here only deepened his disdain. People in this place were quick to judge, eager to whisper.

As they walked, the murmurs began.

"Orphaned at seventeen...what a tragedy," someone said, their voice low but not low enough.

"A thief," another muttered. "He stole from my shop years ago."

Julius's jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge them. He'd heard it all before—every insult, every rumor. He could handle it, but not in front of Violet. She deserved to be spared the ugliness of his reputation.

"Violet," he said, stopping near Flourish and Blotts. His voice was calm, but there was an edge of resolve. "You go ahead and get your things. I need to finish some business."

Her smile faltered slightly, her brows knitting together in faint worry. "Business" had become a loaded word between them. She knew what it meant and where he was going.

"Alright," she said after a moment, her voice quiet but accepting. She turned, disappearing into the crowd with a backward glance.

Julius waited until she was out of sight before slipping into the shadows, heading toward the darkened entrance of Knockturn Alley. The transition was immediate. The lively buzz of Diagon Alley was replaced by an eerie stillness. The air here was heavier, the light dimmer, and the cobblestones slick with something unidentifiable.

This was his world.

Here, no one whispered behind his back. In Knockturn Alley, respect was earned through power, and Julius had carved out his place with blood and grit. People greeted him with nods and wary glances, acknowledging his presence without question.

Julius stepped through the door of Borgin and Burkes, the faint chime of the bell above announcing his arrival. The air inside was stale, carrying the scent of old wood, dust, and something sharper—like iron. The dimly lit room was a chaotic display of the macabre. Shrunken heads sat on shelves, their hollow eyes seeming to follow his every movement. Glass cases held cursed trinkets, their auras palpable even through the barriers. A gnarled hand, preserved in a jar of cloudy liquid, seemed to twitch as Julius passed by.

Behind the counter stood Burke, a gaunt man with gray, oily hair hanging to his shoulders. His face was as creased as the parchment he often scribbled on, and his sunken eyes darted toward Julius the moment he entered. Burke straightened immediately, his expression twisting into a grin that was more snake than man.

"Ah, Mr. Alas!" Burke exclaimed, his voice a little too loud, a little too eager. "A pleasure, as always. What brings you to my humble shop this fine day?"

Julius didn't waste time with pleasantries. "I'm looking for something. Something the Dark Lord might find...useful."

Burke's smile faltered for just a second before he covered it with an exaggerated laugh. "Oh, but of course! For the Dark Lord, I'd give my finest treasures. Let me see..." He turned, rummaging through a chest behind the counter.

Julius's eyes roamed the shop as Burke searched. A set of blackened tools sat on a table to his right, their edges gleaming ominously. They looked like they had been used for something far more sinister than potion-making. Nearby, a shelf sagged under the weight of ancient books bound in cracked leather, their titles written in faded runes.

Finally, Burke reappeared, holding a small vial in his trembling hands. The liquid inside was a deep, viscous black that seemed to shimmer faintly, as though alive. "This," Burke said, his voice low, "is a poison extracted from the venom of an Acromantula. Extremely rare, nearly undetectable, and lethal in a matter of seconds."

Julius took the vial, holding it up to the dim light. The liquid moved sluggishly, as if reluctant to obey gravity. He tilted it slightly, watching it cling to the sides of the glass like it had a mind of its own.

"How much?" Julius asked, his tone cold and measured.

Burke hesitated, his face paling. "For the Dark Lord...it is a gift. Of course. A small token of my loyalty."

Julius's eyes narrowed. Burke's fear was almost palpable, but there was something else—a flicker of greed that even terror couldn't suppress. The man was hedging his bets, hoping to curry favor while still keeping himself alive.

Before Julius could respond, the bell above the door chimed again.

"Filthy half-blood," came a sharp, drawling voice. "A gift? It should be payment for sparing your miserable life."

Julius turned to see Abraxas Malfoy stride into the shop, his platinum hair gleaming in the dim light. His robes, impeccably tailored and adorned with silver embroidery, swept behind him as he moved. His lips curled in a sneer as his emerald-green eyes locked onto Burke.

Burke's smile evaporated, replaced by a look of pure terror. He opened his mouth to stammer a response, but Abraxas was faster.

Without breaking stride, Abraxas reached the counter, grabbed Burke by the front of his robes, and hoisted him into the air with surprising ease. The shopkeeper let out a strangled yelp as Abraxas held him aloft, his knuckles whitening with the effort.

"You should remember your place, half-blood," Abraxas hissed, his voice venomous. "You exist because we allow it."

Julius watched silently, his expression unreadable. He'd seen this side of Abraxas countless times—the cruelty, the arrogance—but it never failed to leave an impression.

Burke's feet kicked helplessly, his hands clawing at Abraxas's wrist. "P-please," he choked out. "I meant no offense!"

Abraxas sneered, his grip tightening for a moment before he unceremoniously threw Burke to the floor. The older man crumpled in a heap, coughing and wheezing as he scrambled to his knees.

"Pathetic," Abraxas muttered, brushing off his hands as if ridding them of filth.

Julius stepped forward, his voice breaking the tension. "Subtle as always, Abraxas."

Abraxas turned to him, his sneer softening into a smirk. "Subtlety is for the weak, Julius. Fear precedes respect—you'd do well to remember that."

Julius ignored the jab, turning his attention back to Burke, who was still trembling on the floor. "The poison," Julius said, his voice calm but commanding.

Burke scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking as he placed the vial back on the counter. "A-as I said," he stammered, "a gift for the Dark Lord."

"And the rest?" Julius asked, his eyes flicking to the shelves behind the counter.

Burke hesitated, glancing nervously at Abraxas before pulling out a small, intricately carved box. He opened it to reveal three more vials, each containing a different colored liquid.

"This one," Burke said, pointing to a vial filled with a faintly glowing green liquid, "induces hallucinations so vivid they can drive the victim mad." He gestured to the second, a deep crimson. "This is a blood-binder. A single drop mixed with a person's blood will render them completely susceptible to the caster's will."

"And the third?" Julius asked, his voice unreadable.

Burke hesitated, his fingers brushing over the final vial, which held a clear liquid that shimmered like sunlight on water. "It's...experimental," he admitted. "Extracted from an unknown magical creature. I can't guarantee its effects, but I suspect it amplifies magical power—temporarily, of course."

Julius reached out, taking the box and inspecting each vial carefully. He knew better than to trust Burke's claims entirely, but the items were intriguing nonetheless.

Abraxas watched with mild interest, his arms crossed. "Satisfied?" he drawled.

Julius closed the box with a snap, slipping it into his bag. "For now."

As the two men turned to leave, Burke called after them, his voice trembling but eager. "Do let the Dark Lord know that Borgin and Burkes is always at his service!"

Abraxas let out a derisive laugh as they stepped back into the alley. "Groveling worm," he muttered. "One of these days, someone will put him out of his misery."

***

Abraxas wasted no time. The moment Julius stepped into the dimly lit parlor, Abraxas was already seated by the fireplace, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp as a blade. The flickering light cast shadows over his face, accentuating the smirk that played on his lips.

"You missed the last meeting," Abraxas said smoothly, swirling the glass of firewhisky in his hand.

Julius didn't sit. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, his tall frame taut with tension. "I had more pressing matters," he replied curtly, his voice devoid of emotion.

"More pressing than the Dark Lord's summons?" Abraxas's smirk widened, his tone teasing, but there was an edge beneath it.

Julius's eyes narrowed. "I was in Albania, following his orders. You have a problem with that, take it up with him."

Abraxas chuckled, setting his glass down. "Relax, Julius. I'm not questioning your loyalty. But while you've been off chasing ghosts, things have changed." He leaned forward, his expression darkening. "He's taken a position at Hogwarts."

Julius froze. His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Abraxas continued, savoring Julius's reaction. "Can you imagine it? 'Professor Riddle.' It's almost poetic."

Julius's stomach churned. His carefully constructed world, the delicate balance he had fought so hard to maintain, was threatening to collapse. "Why?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

Abraxas tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "I assume he wants to mold the next generation. Or perhaps he's just bored. Who can say?" He paused, his gaze sharpening. "But I couldn't help but think... with him so close to Hogwarts, it's only a matter of time before he learns about your little secret."

Julius's jaw tightened. "Leave her out of this."

Abraxas's smile was venomous. "Oh, I've always admired your devotion, Julius. Stealing food, going hungry so she could eat, keeping her hidden from all of this. It's almost... touching." He leaned back, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "But you can't keep her in the shadows forever. If the Dark Lord finds out—"

"He won't," Julius snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a whip.

Abraxas raised an eyebrow, unfazed by the outburst. "Won't he? He has a way of discovering things, you know. And once he does..." He trailed off, letting the silence speak for itself.

Julius's fists clenched at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to shut Abraxas up, to wipe that smug expression off his face. But he couldn't afford to lose control. Not here. Not now.

"You've kept her safe this long," Abraxas continued, his tone mockingly sympathetic. "But now? Now she's practically in his backyard. How much longer do you think you can protect her?"

"As long as I have to," Julius said coldly.

Abraxas smirked, rising from his chair. He crossed the room, stopping just inches from Julius. "I wonder what the Dark Lord would think if he knew you'd been hiding a sister all this time. Lying to him. Betraying him."

Julius's hand shot out, gripping Abraxas by the collar and slamming him against the wall. The smirk finally vanished from Abraxas's face, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear.

"Say her name," Julius hissed, his voice low and deadly, "and I'll kill you myself."

For a moment, neither of them moved. The room was suffocatingly quiet, the only sound the crackling of the fire.

Then Abraxas smiled again, a shadow of his earlier arrogance. "I don't need to say her name," he murmured. "Sooner or later, he'll find out. And when he does... you'll wish you had prepared her for what's coming."

Julius released him with a shove, turning away to hide the storm raging in his expression.

Abraxas straightened his robes, smoothing them as though nothing had happened. "You've always been sentimental," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "It'll be your downfall."

Julius didn't respond. His mind was already racing, formulating a plan. He had kept Violet safe for years, sacrificing everything to give her a chance at a life untouched by the horrors of war.

But now, that life was slipping through his fingers. And if he couldn't find a way to protect her...

Chapter Text

 The Hogwarts Express loomed before her, its scarlet engine steaming like a living beast. The platform was a chaotic swirl of laughter, shouts, and the hiss of engines, but Violet moved through it like a ghost. Her dark eyes flicked to the train’s windows as she hoisted her trunk, scanning the faces pressed against the glass.

Inside, the narrow corridors were alive with chatter and the clatter of feet. Violet passed several compartments already brimming with students. She paused at one, only to recoil when Walden Macnair’s smug face turned toward her. His smirk widened as their eyes met, but she quickly moved on, her shoulders tense.

Finally, she found an almost empty compartment near the end of the train. There was only one occupant—a man whose face was hidden behind a book, its leather cover worn and cracked with age.

Violet hesitated in the doorway, clutching the strap of her bag. “Sorry,” she said softly, her voice barely audible above the hum of the train. “Is it alright if I sit here?”

The book lowered slowly, revealing sharp, aristocratic features and a pair of dark, calculating eyes. The man’s gaze lingered on her, as though peeling back her layers with a single look. Something about him sent a shiver down her spine—an unsettling familiarity she couldn’t place.

“Yes, of course,” he said finally, his voice smooth and composed, yet carrying an undercurrent of menace.

She nodded and slipped inside, settling into the seat opposite him. Tucking her legs beneath her, she pulled out a book from her bag, determined to avoid further interaction. The silence between them was thick, but it didn’t last.

“The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” the man remarked, his tone neutral but pointed. “An unusual choice for someone your age.”

Violet glanced up, her grip tightening on the worn cover. “It’s one of my favorites,” she replied, her tone clipped.

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. “An original edition, no less. Those are quite rare. Only old wizarding families tend to have them.” He leaned back slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. “You must be from an interesting lineage. Who are you?”

“Violet Alas,” she said, lifting her chin. Her voice was steady, though her heart raced under his scrutiny. “And who are you? You look too young to be a professor but too old to be a student. Perhaps a particularly well-dressed janitor?”

The man’s laugh was low and soft, curling around the space like smoke. “Tom Riddle,” he said, extending a hand. “Your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor... Violet Alas,” he repeated, his tone tinged with amusement. “Are you, by chance, related to Julius Alas?”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she felt as though the air had been sucked from the compartment. Teasing her professor had been one thing, but the mention of Julius—her ever-watchful, secretive brother—brought her world to a screeching halt.

“How do you know my brother?” she asked cautiously, her fingers gripping the edge of her book.

His smile deepened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We were at Hogwarts together. He was... intriguing. But he never mentioned a sister.”

Violet swallowed, her mind racing. Julius had warned her—cryptic words about new faces and unfamiliar smiles, about the dangers of speaking too freely.

Riddle continued, his voice deceptively warm. “What’s even more intriguing is how little I knew about you until now. Tell me, Violet, do you share your brother’s... talents?”

The question hung in the air, and though his tone was light, there was something in his gaze that unsettled her—a predator’s curiosity.

“I’m just a student,” she replied carefully, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I don’t have anything remarkable about me.”

“Don’t you?” he murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly.

The conversation ebbed and flowed as the train sped through the countryside. Riddle’s questions, though polite, were incisive, prying into her family, her studies, her interests. She answered sparingly, her unease growing with each passing moment.

When exhaustion finally overtook her, she drifted into an uneasy sleep. In the dim light of the compartment, Riddle’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, his expression inscrutable. Then, with deliberate care, he lifted his book again, its title obscured by his fingers.

***

When Violet awoke, her body felt cocooned in warmth. Blinking groggily, she realized she was lying on the seat, wrapped in a heavy coat. The fabric was smooth and carried a faint, intoxicating scent of cologne, woodsmoke, and something unidentifiably sharp.

Her gaze darted across the compartment. Riddle sat opposite her, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean, sinewy forearms. A faint sheen of light reflected off his skin, emphasizing the taut muscle beneath. His attention was absorbed by the book in his hands, his posture as composed as ever.

“You’re awake,” he said without looking up, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Violet scrambled upright, hastily pushing the coat off her shoulders. “Good morning… Professor.” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying her nervousness.

Riddle finally lifted his gaze, his dark eyes locking onto hers with unsettling intensity. The faintest smirk curved his lips as he closed the book with a soft thud.

“We’ll be arriving shortly,” he said, his tone smooth but edged with authority. “I suggest you gather your belongings.”

Her hands fumbled as she repacked her bag, feeling his gaze linger on her like a physical weight. She dared a glance at him but quickly looked away when she found him still watching her, an unreadable expression on his face.

When the train screeched to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, the platform was a chaotic tangle of students, luggage, and stern-faced Ministry officials. The air was heavy with tension, the sound of raised voices cutting through the cold. Violet stepped off the train, clutching her bag tightly, only to freeze as she saw officials inspecting trunks and questioning students.

Riddle appeared at her side, his presence both a comfort and a threat. His hand closed around her arm, firm yet controlled, pulling her out of the crowd’s path.

“Come with me,” he commanded, his voice low but impossible to disobey.

She followed him as he strode through the crowd, cutting a path straight to the source of authority: Argus Filch. The caretaker was barking orders at students, his wrinkled face twisted in irritation as he waved his gnarled hands toward the luggage.

Filch turned as they approached, his scowl deepening when his gaze fell on Riddle. “And who might you be?” he growled, his voice gravelly.

Riddle didn’t flinch. If anything, his presence grew more commanding, his voice even smoother. “Tom Riddle. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.” He gestured to Violet without breaking eye contact with Filch. “This is one of my students. I’ll vouch for her.”

Filch’s suspicious eyes darted between them, his lips curling as if preparing to protest. But then Riddle stepped closer, lowering his voice, though the words remained just audible to Violet.

“I suggest you focus your attention elsewhere, Filch,” he said, his tone laced with dark persuasion. “There’s no need to delay us.”

Filch blinked, his demeanor shifting almost imperceptibly. His shoulders hunched as though some unseen force weighed him down, and he gave a jerky nod. “Fine. Go on, then,” he muttered, stepping aside begrudgingly.

Violet stared at Riddle as they passed, her mind racing. “How did you—”

“You’ll find,” he interrupted, his voice carrying a faint, sinister amusement, “that I can be… very persuasive.”

The weight of his words settled over her, their meaning as inescapable as his gaze. She couldn’t tell if it was a threat or merely an observation.

When they reached the castle, the students were ushered inside, the warmth of the Great Hall spilling into the chill of the evening. Riddle stopped just short of the doors, turning to her with a ghost of a smile.

“I trust you’ll find your way from here.”

His eyes lingered on hers for a moment too long before he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. Violet remained rooted to the spot, her heart pounding.

The memory of his dark smirk and the subtle power he wielded clung to her, an unsettling prelude to the year ahead—a year that would undoubtedly bring shadows she wasn’t prepared to face.

Chapter Text

Few days before

Heavy footsteps echoed through the silent halls of Hogwarts, each step reverberating off the ancient stone walls. The air was thick and cool, almost suffocating, as a cold breeze whispered through cracks in the castle's old structure. The stranger's eyes were fixed on the intricate details of the walls, every painting and every subtle shift in the shadows that marked time's slow passage. Tom Riddle, or as he had come to be known—Lord Voldemort—had returned to the very place that had shaped him, to the very heart of his long-buried ambitions.

There was a strange feeling here. Hogwarts had once been the setting of his youth—an age of potential and, as he now recognized, an age of naivety. He had dreamed of wielding its power, of bending its greatness to his will. But now he stood at its threshold not as a student, but as a professor, invited by none other than Albus Dumbledore. And yet, despite this seemingly benign role, he felt an unsettling excitement rise within him. It was the excitement of a man who had already begun to see the chessboard, who had already plotted the next moves, who had set the pieces in place.

His fingers twitched nervously under the dark fabric of his black coat. The hood was drawn low over his face, the shadows hiding his pale features. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—scanned the corridor with a predator's focus. The footsteps slowed, the silence pressing in as the time drew closer. Dumbledore had not yet arrived, and Tom was growing impatient. The weight of the years he had spent in hiding, the years of searching for the right moment, made the air feel even heavier.

Finally, the door creaked open, and the figure of Albus Dumbledore emerged, his tall form gliding through the space with the grace of a man who had known more victories than defeats. Tom stiffened, his hands clasping together before him as he waited for the Headmaster's words.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said, a smile spreading across his face, warm and full of false cheer. "I'm delighted to inform you that you can begin your teaching duties next Monday."

The words were soft but laden with layers of meaning. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but there was an edge to his voice—a sense of unreadable calculation. Tom returned the smile, but it did not reach the depths of his icy blue eyes, eyes that hid the swirling darkness within him.

"Thank you, Professor," Tom replied, his voice smooth and dark, like velvet dipped in poison. "I assure you, I will not disappoint you." His tone was perfect, measured. It was the voice of someone who had learned how to hide everything—his desires, his ambitions, his hatred—for the right moment.

Dumbledore's smile widened, though his eyes seemed to narrow ever so slightly, a fraction of suspicion threading through the air. He extended a hand, and Tom took it, his grip firm but cold. "I have no doubt, Tom. No doubt at all. You were always... exceptional, even when you were a student here."

The words stung, though Tom didn't show it. Dumbledore had always spoken of his potential, of his brilliance, but there was a patronizing tone beneath the compliments. To Dumbledore, Tom had been nothing more than a promising student, a mere tool to be used for some greater purpose. It was a slight Tom had never forgotten, one that had festered in his mind over the years.

As Dumbledore excused himself, Tom stood still, his eyes fixed on the older man's retreating figure. A sense of satisfaction coursed through him. This was all part of the plan. The Headmaster might have seen him as a future ally, but Tom knew better. He had been biding his time, learning, growing, preparing. Now, the time was almost upon him. He would not be Dumbledore's pawn any longer.

Once alone, Tom made his way to his new office. The room was far more modest than the lavish chambers he had grown accustomed to in his youth, but it would serve its purpose. It was spacious, with two large windows that looked out over the castle grounds and the dark lake below. The lake held a strange pull on him, as it always had. It was a reminder of his time as a student here, a time when his dreams of power had taken root. And though his office was close to the library, it was the hidden secrets beneath the castle that truly intrigued him.

A part of him had always been fascinated by the Chamber of Secrets, the secret room hidden deep within the castle. It had been a mystery for years, a myth that Tom had uncovered in his youth, a place where only the true heir of Salazar Slytherin could unlock its doors. The memory of his sixteenth year, the year he had opened the chamber for the first time, still lingered in his mind like a faint whisper. A part of him wanted to return to it, to revisit the place where he had first embraced his destiny as the heir of Slytherin.

But that could wait. There were more pressing matters at hand.

As the evening drew on, Tom made his way to the Astronomy Tower, his coat billowing behind him in the cool night air. The castle was eerily silent, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. The rain had started to fall lightly, misting the air and making the castle seem even more otherworldly. From the tower, he had an unobstructed view of the lake and the darkened grounds that stretched beyond it. He stood there, gazing at the moon, his mind lost in thought.

The moon, full and cold, hung in the sky like a watchful eye, casting a silvery light across the world below. It was a symbol of everything he had become—alone, powerful, unyielding. The moon ruled the night, just as he would soon rule the wizarding world. It was a king among stars, a leader of the darkness, just as Tom intended to be.

He stood there for what seemed like hours, the chill of the rain soaking through his coat, the droplets clinging to his hair, but he didn't care. The feeling of isolation was something he relished. There was no one in this world who understood him. No one who could even come close to comprehending the depth of his desires.

But there was one more place he needed to visit tonight—the library. The very place where his journey into the dark arts had truly begun.

The library, as he had expected, was deserted. The rows upon rows of bookshelves stood like ancient sentinels, watching over the castle's secrets. He wandered through the aisles, his fingers grazing the spines of the books, remembering the many nights he had spent in this very place, searching for knowledge—dark knowledge—knowledge that would elevate him beyond the confines of mortality.

It was in this very library that he had first discovered the forbidden book, the one that had changed everything. The book was still there, tucked away in the Forbidden Section, just as he remembered it. Its pages were tattered and worn, but the knowledge it contained was as dangerous as ever. He carefully removed the book from the shelf, feeling the weight of it in his hands.

Flipping through the pages, he found himself drawn to the familiar spell—the one he had used to create his first Horcrux. His fingers brushed over the pages, remembering the dark rituals, the forbidden incantations, the sacrifices. Each one had brought him closer to immortality, each one had brought him closer to the power he now craved.

The feeling of triumph surged through him. He had mastered the darkest magic known to wizardkind. And soon, the world would know his name—no longer as Tom Riddle, but as the one who had risen above death itself. Voldemort. Lord Voldemort. The name would strike fear into the hearts of all.

And as he stood in the heart of the castle, holding the book that had begun his transformation, Tom knew that it was only a matter of time before he would reclaim everything that was his. The world, the castle, the legacy of Salazar Slytherin—everything would bow to him.

He turned to leave the library, the book clutched tightly in his hands, the weight of his destiny pressing down on him like a second skin. The dark arts had given him everything he needed, and now, he was ready. Ready to destroy anyone who dared stand in his way.

The castle was silent once more, but within its walls, a storm was brewing. And Tom Riddle, soon to be known as Voldemort, would be its master.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin dormitory had always been Violet's sanctuary. Nestled beneath the lake, the green-and-silver decor reflected the cool, serene depths of the water above. The soft glow of enchanted lanterns cast rippling shadows across the walls, mimicking the movement of the lake, and the ever-present hum of the castle's ancient magic provided an oddly soothing backdrop. Despite its underground location, the dormitory was surprisingly cozy. The emerald curtains on her four-poster bed were heavy but soft, blocking out the world when she needed to retreat.

Violet sat cross-legged on her bed, unpacking her trunk with meticulous care. Books were the first items she unpacked, each one placed carefully on the small shelf by her bed. Their spines were a mixture of leather-bound tomes and worn paperbacks, a reflection of her love for poetry, fantasy, and the occasional treatise on the dark arts—a shared interest with her brother, Julius.

"Still hoarding books, I see," Eve Trawers teased, flopping onto her bed with a dramatic sigh. Her auburn hair was tied in a loose braid that trailed over her shoulder, and her cheeks were still flushed from the brisk walk to the castle.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Violet replied with a faint smile, folding a scarf and placing it neatly in her trunk.

Eve laughed, her bright hazel eyes dancing with mischief. "Not bad, just predictable. Speaking of predictable, did you hear about the new DADA professor? Apparently, he's not some old codger this time."

Violet glanced at her friend, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I heard," she murmured, her voice careful.

"Handsome, too, or so they say," Eve continued, leaning over to prod Violet's arm. "Did you see him yet? Maybe you'll be the first to confirm."

Before Violet could respond, Bella Lestrange sauntered into the room, a glass of firewhisky in one hand and an assortment of silk ribbons in the other. Bella was magnetic, with her wild curls and piercing gaze that could cut through any room. She was the kind of person who didn't need to demand attention; it simply gravitated toward her.

"Who's handsome?" Bella asked, tossing the ribbons onto her bed before flopping onto it with practiced elegance.

"The new DADA professor," Eve said, grinning. "Apparently, he's quite the sight."

Bella scoffed, reaching for one of the ribbons. "I'll believe it when I see it. Last year's was supposed to be 'decent,' and he looked like a wrinkled old toad."

"He's young," Violet interjected softly, her voice barely cutting through the chatter. "Maybe thirty. Dark hair, sharp features..." She trailed off, realizing she might have said too much.

Eve raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "And you know this because...?"

Violet hesitated, the heat rising to her cheeks. "We... shared a compartment on the train. He sat with me."

Bella's head snapped up, her curiosity piqued. "The new professor sat with you? What did you talk about?"

"Nothing important," Violet said quickly, trying to downplay the encounter. "He just asked about my family, my interests..."

"Family, huh?" Eve teased. "I bet he knows Julius. That's probably why."

At the mention of her brother, Violet relaxed slightly. "He did mention knowing Julius. They were at Hogwarts together."

Bella tilted her head, studying Violet with an amused glint in her eyes. "You're blushing, Vi."

"I'm not!" Violet protested, though her flushed cheeks said otherwise.

"Don't worry, darling," Bella said with a smirk, twirling a ribbon between her fingers. "Professors are fair game once you graduate. Until then, though, hands off."

Eve burst out laughing, throwing a pillow at Bella, who dodged it with ease. "You're terrible, Bella."

"I'm realistic," Bella replied, leaning back with a satisfied grin.

The conversation drifted to lighter topics—upcoming Quidditch matches, the latest gossip about the older students, and the strange tension brewing among the staff. But Violet's mind kept wandering back to Professor Riddle.

***

Later that evening, the common room buzzed with the usual chaos of students settling in, catching up, and discussing their first day back at Hogwarts. Violet sat near the window with her friends, Eve and Bella, listening half-heartedly as they laughed and joked. But her mind kept drifting. It wasn't the usual chatter that held her attention—it was something far darker, something that unsettled her in a way she couldn't quite explain.

Tom Riddle.

The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. There was something about him, something about the way he moved, the way his eyes studied everyone with that icy, calculating precision, that left a weight on her chest. His charm wasn't like others—he didn't need to try. He simply was. His presence demanded attention without asking for it.

She had been aware of him all throughout the day. His quiet authority, the way the students around him fell silent at his mere presence. It was almost as if he was used to being the center of the room—without lifting a finger, without so much as a word.

When he walked into the common room, it was as though the air itself shifted. Conversations stalled. The murmurs began immediately:

"Did you see him? He's... perfect."
"He's not even that old—how is he so put together?"
"Do you think he's single?"

But Violet didn't join in. She couldn't. Despite the compliments from her friends, the girls who fluttered around him like moths to a flame, she felt a tension building inside her. He was a professor. A professor.

She knew the risks of being drawn in, the danger of allowing herself to get caught in his orbit. It was clear the others didn't see it—not the way she did. They saw his looks, the way he spoke with such calm confidence, the almost effortless charm he exuded.

She, however, saw something more. Something darker.

And then, her heart skipped a beat.

Tom's eyes met hers across the room. For a split second, the noise around her ceased. The world narrowed to just the two of them, and she felt it—the quiet command in his gaze. He wasn't just looking at her. He was looking into her, peeling back the layers she hadn't realized she'd put up.

Without a word, he began to move toward her.

Violet's breath hitched in her throat as he approached. The crowd seemed to part for him, instinctively, without anyone realizing they were doing it. His steps were measured, deliberate, but it was the way he walked that caught her off guard—there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Tom Riddle was a man who never doubted his place in the world.

He stopped in front of her. The others didn't seem to notice—too absorbed in their own excitement. But Violet felt the shift. Felt his gaze on her, felt the magnetic pull of his presence.

"You're still here," he said, his voice smooth and dark, almost as though he were reminding her of something.

Violet swallowed. "Yes, Professor."

His lips curved into something like a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I hope I didn't disturb your fun," he added, with a faint note of irony.

Her heart thudded in her chest. "No, you didn't. Just... catching up." She wasn't sure why she was still speaking so casually. Maybe it was the tone of his voice that left her feeling slightly off-balance, or maybe it was the fact that he didn't look like a professor. He didn't act like one either.

Tom's eyes lingered for a moment longer before he leaned in just slightly. "I need to speak with you. In private."

Violet's breath caught. There was no room for argument in his words, no space for refusal. She nodded stiffly, gathering her things with a little too much force.

Tom led her out of the common room, through the quiet corridors of the dungeons. The castle felt cold tonight, like the walls themselves were closing in on them. Violet kept her gaze trained ahead, her pulse quickening, but she didn't dare speak. She wasn't sure what to say.

They stopped in a quiet hall, far from the students and the noise. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on the stone walls, making the air feel thick and suffocating. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Tom leaned against the wall, his posture casual but somehow predatory, as if he were waiting for something—waiting for her to break. He studied her with that unnerving, unreadable look, his eyes dark, and almost expectant.

Violet opened her mouth to ask what this was about, but the words caught in her throat. Tom had a way of making her feel as though she were the subject of some test, some experiment. He wasn't just a professor, she realized. He was a manipulator—his every word, every look, calculated to provoke a response. To see how far he could push her.

Finally, Tom spoke, his voice low and velvety. "You were quite reserved today. Don't tell me you're already bored of me, Miss Violet."

Her stomach twisted at the way he said her name—so familiar, so intimate, and yet he wasn't using it in the way a professor should.

"I'm not bored," she replied stiffly, trying to maintain some distance. "I just... didn't expect the day to be so intense."

He took a small step closer, his figure looming in the dim light. "Intense?" he repeated, his lips twitching upward as though he found her answer amusing. "You've only just begun, Violet."

Violet glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. "What do you want from me, Professor?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Tom's eyes flashed, dark and piercing. "I want to hear the truth, Violet. I want to know what you think."

Her chest tightened, and for the briefest moment, she could've sworn she felt his breath against her skin. Then, with a movement too swift to react to, he slid his coat from his shoulders and draped it over hers. The fabric was warm, like he was leaving something of himself with her, a piece of his power.

The scent of vanilla, books, and something darker—something more dangerous—lingered on her skin as he stepped back.

"You're cold," he said, his voice still low, but now with an edge of something deeper.

Violet's heart raced, and she suddenly felt trapped—like there was nowhere to go. "I... I don't understand," she admitted, swallowing against the growing tightness in her throat.

Tom's smile was faint but calculating. "You will. In time."

He was already moving, turning his back on her as though she were of no more consequence, yet every part of her screamed that she was far from irrelevant to him.

"You should return to your friends," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "Let them think you've been a good girl."

For a moment, Violet stood there, caught in the pull of his words. His coat felt like it weighed more than it should, like it anchored her to this moment, to him. She forced herself to step away, the unease still swirling in her chest.

"Goodnight, Professor," she said, her voice almost trembling.

But as she turned to go, he spoke again, and this time his voice was softer, more intimate.

"And Violet... Call me Tom."

Her heart skipped. It was the first time he had used her name without the formality of "Miss." It was a command—subtle, yet undeniable.

She nodded, her breath catching in her throat, before disappearing down the corridor.

Tom remained where he was for a long while, staring after her, his expression unreadable. His coat was still draped over her shoulders, and in that moment, he couldn't help but feel the strange weight of it, the sensation that she had already left her mark on him, even if he had been the one pulling the strings all along.

But as much as he tried to ignore it, the image of Violet—of her fragility, her uncertainty, and yet that sharpness he couldn't quite define—lingered in his mind, something he couldn't push away.

It didn't matter. She was just a student. But for some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was more than that.

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle stood before the mirror in his office, meticulously adjusting his dark curls and fastening the final button on his shirt. The reflection staring back at him was the epitome of composure, charm, and control—exactly as he intended. His cold, calculating eyes scanned his reflection with precision, ensuring that not a single thread was out of place. First impressions mattered, and tonight, his plan demanded perfection. The feast, the Sorting Ceremony, the attention of hundreds of eager, naive students—all of it was a stage, and he the star performer. But underneath the polished exterior lay something far darker, a roiling abyss of malice that he concealed with practiced ease.

He paced the length of his office, the walls lined with carefully chosen artifacts—books on the Dark Arts, rare magical relics, and a single, shadowy tapestry depicting a coiled serpent. He allowed himself one final glance around the room before stepping out. Tonight would set the tone for the year, for his conquest, for his domination.

The Great Hall was alive with the hum of students returning to Hogwarts, their voices echoing in the vaulted ceilings, their laughter tinged with excitement and nerves. Tom's gaze swept over the hall as he made his way to the staff table, his movements graceful and deliberate. He greeted familiar faces with polite nods, pausing only when he reached his old mentor, Professor Slughorn.

"Ah, Tom, my favorite student! You've grown up so well," Slughorn beamed, his voice warm and jovial. "Bit nervous about tomorrow? First day as a professor, eh?"

Tom's lips curved into a practiced smile. "A little excited, perhaps. I hope the students will find me agreeable."

Slughorn chuckled, his round face flushed from the wine he was already indulging in. "Agreeable? Nonsense, boy. They'll adore you, especially the young ladies. Tell me, is there someone special? A young lady who—"

Tom cut him off smoothly, his tone polite but firm. "Not yet. My focus remains on my work."

"Well, you're still young, lad. What is it now, thirty?"

"Turning thirty-one this year," Tom replied, his patience wearing thin as he took a sip of his goblet. He masked his irritation with a slight incline of his head. "And I'll always consider you my mentor, sir."

Slughorn's laugh boomed again, and Tom's smile tightened imperceptibly as the Sorting Ceremony began.

Professor McGonagall's voice rang out clearly as she welcomed the new first-years. Tom leaned back in his seat, his eyes scanning the nervous children filing into the Great Hall. Their wide-eyed wonder brought a faint smirk to his lips. The Sorting Hat, the traditions, the naive excitement—all of it was a quaint prelude to his ultimate goal. His hand rested lightly on the table, but beneath it, his fingers tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm. The ghosts floated through the hall, drawing gasps and giggles from the first-years. Tom's gaze lingered on the Fat Friar, a specter he had eluded countless times in his youth.

As the Sorting began, Tom feigned polite interest, his expression neutral but attentive. Inside, he evaluated the faces, the names, the bloodlines. He noted the whispers from the Slytherin table as they eyed him with curiosity, the girls already nudging each other and giggling. It amused him how easily they fell into his trap, how predictable their reactions were. They saw only the charm, the grace—never the snake that lay coiled beneath.

When Dumbledore introduced him, Tom rose with a graceful bow, his dark eyes sweeping over the sea of students. The applause was polite but curious, and Tom felt their attention, their trust, sinking into him like roots into fertile soil. It was intoxicating.

At the Slytherin table, Violet Alas sat with her friends, her dark eyes flitting toward the staff table. She caught glimpses of the new professor—his calm demeanor, the way his presence commanded the room without effort. She wasn't alone; the other girls whispered about him incessantly. Even her usually apathetic friend Eve seemed intrigued.

"He's indeed handsome, isn't he?" Eve said with a sly grin. "Bet he's got a dark past. Mysterious types always do."

Violet rolled her eyes but couldn't deny the magnetism. "He's a professor, Eve. Not some Quidditch player."

The conversation shifted as Dumbledore gave a grim warning. "Be careful whom you trust and love. The one closest to us can betray us in ways we cannot imagine."

A chill settled over the hall, the jovial atmosphere dimming momentarily. Tom's smirk returned as he sipped his pumpkin juice. "Wise words, old man," he thought, his gaze sweeping over the students. They would never suspect the truth. Not yet.

At the Slytherin table, the atmosphere was charged with a mix of chatter and barely-contained tension. Theo Nott's voice rang out above the noise, his smirk wide and smug as he made a comment about the food. "I swear, every year the roast beef gets more like chewing on a brick."

Violet couldn't help but roll her eyes as she shoved him playfully. "Shut up, Theo," she muttered, though there was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You're the one who eats it like you're starving."

Theo, ever the dramatist, clutched his chest and winced. "How rude," he mocked, giving her a wounded look. "I thought we were friends. You wound me, Violet."

The others at the table chuckled, but the sound of their laughter felt distant, as if Violet was only half present. She stood abruptly, excusing herself from the table without another word. Her stomach churned with unease, the weight of her thoughts too much to bear in the crowded, noisy hall.

As she made her way through the dark corridors of Hogwarts, her mind wandered. Her brother Julius, the meeting she'd overheard, and the chilling words spoken about Nobby Leach—it was all too much. But it was the figure of Tom Riddle that lingered in her mind, unsettling her like a shadow she couldn't quite shake. She hadn't wanted to admit it to herself, but there was something dangerous about him. Something too magnetic.

She barely noticed when Eve fell into step beside her, but the soft voice calling her name brought her back to the present.

"Violet?" Eve asked gently, her concern clear. "You're not yourself tonight."

Violet gave a tight smile, but her eyes remained distant. "Just... a lot on my mind."

Eve raised an eyebrow but didn't push. They continued walking in silence, eventually finding themselves in the library, where the usual buzz of student chatter had quieted into hushed whispers. The dim light from the torches flickered off the stone walls, casting long, stretching shadows across the room. Eve spotted a cold stone ledge by the window and led Violet to it, sitting down with an easy grace before patting the spot beside her.

"Come on," Eve said softly, unwrapping a small dessert from her bag. "Have some chocolate, or I swear I'll personally hex that frown off your face."

Violet's lips quirked slightly as she sat down beside her, though her shoulders remained tense. Eve's smile was infectious, and the familiar comfort of her presence was enough to make Violet's guard slip, if only slightly. Eve handed her the chocolate, and Violet took it, feeling the warm sweetness melt against her tongue.

"Don't let Theo get to you," Eve said, her usual energy tempered with the gentleness of her concern. "You know how he gets. A complete prat, especially when he's trying to impress Rodolphus."

Violet let out a soft laugh, the weight on her chest not entirely lifted, but lessened. "Thanks, Eve. Violet without sugar is pretty insufferable." She shifted uncomfortably, the smile on her face flickering as she lowered her gaze to the floor. "I'm just... distracted."

Eve gave her a sideways glance, her expression turning serious. "Distracted by what?"

Violet's fingers twitched at the edge of the stone as she tried to push the unease out of her thoughts. "It's... it's not Theo. Or the banquet, even though Dumbledore's 'warning' was a bit much, wasn't it?" Her laugh was hollow, echoing against the stone walls.

Eve nodded, her brow furrowing in concern. "Yeah, that speech about betrayal and murder? Not the ideal dessert conversation." She let out a soft huff before nudging Violet gently with her elbow. "Come on, what's really bothering you?"

Violet's gaze drifted to the window, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe he's right, though. Maybe everything's about to go wrong."

Eve's expression softened, her teasing smirk fading into genuine concern. "Vi, what's going on? You've been off since we got back." Her voice dropped an octave, urging Violet to open up. "Is it about the murders? I know it's been... a lot. But—"

"No," Violet interrupted, her voice sharp but quickly softening. She shook her head, her fingers gripping the edge of the stone ledge as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. "It's not that. It's... something else." She hesitated, glancing around the library as if expecting someone to overhear. Then she took a breath, lowering her voice to a whisper. "A month ago, I overheard something... something that's been eating away at me ever since."

Eve's eyes narrowed, her concern growing. "What happened?"

Violet paused, eyes flashing with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. "I heard Julius meeting with some of his friends in the hall. It seemed like nothing at first—he was just being Julius, charming and commanding, but then..." She trailed off, her voice faltering as she felt the weight of her own words. "This man appeared."

Eve shifted slightly, her heart beginning to race. "What man?"

Violet swallowed hard. "A masked man. I heard them talking. About killing Nobby Leach. They said if he didn't resign, they'd make him. They'd already targeted his family, his friends. Eve, it was..." She blinked back tears, the weight of the revelation crashing over her. "It was so cold, so deliberate."

Eve stared at her, the realization sinking in slowly. "Wait, Leach... he resigned last week."

Violet nodded, her voice cracking. "I know. And now, I can't stop wondering. How far did they go? What part did Julius play in it?" She covered her face with her hands, fighting the tears that had started to form. "He's my brother, Eve. I love him. But... what if he's a part of something worse? What if he's already crossed a line he can't come back from?"

Eve's heart broke for her. She reached out, pulling Violet into a hug, her arms wrapping around her tightly. "Vi, don't—don't think like that. We'll figure this out, okay? We'll get to the bottom of it together. You're not alone in this, I promise."

For a moment, Violet just held onto her, letting the comfort of Eve's words wash over her. The weight of her emotions was overwhelming, but Eve's presence was a small balm against the storm inside her. After a while, Violet pulled back, wiping her eyes quickly.

"But," Eve said, her voice lightening as she raised an eyebrow, "let's talk about something a little less heavy, okay? Like, oh, I don't know—Professor Riddle and his coat? Because if you think I didn't notice, you're delusional."

Violet felt the heat rush to her face as she flushed crimson. "Oh, shut up, Eve. It's not what you think."

Eve leaned back with a smirk, crossing her arms. "Not what I think? Vi, the man is a literal god, and he gave you his coat. That's basically a proposal in wizarding terms."

Violet couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her. "No, absolutely not." She turned away, but her blush only deepened. "He's a professor. A professor, Eve."

Eve tilted her head, her teasing look turning into one of genuine curiosity. "A professor with a mysterious charm and a gorgeous face. What's so wrong with that?"

Violet sighed, but her smile faded as she thought of Tom Riddle. "I don't know. There's something about him... He's charming, yes, but... I don't know. I can't shake this feeling like there's something... dark about him."

Eve raised an eyebrow, now less amused. "Dark? Like what?"

Violet shook her head, trying to dismiss the thought. "It's probably nothing. Just my nerves, with everything going on. It's nothing."

Eve stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "Well, dark or not, if he ever gives you trouble, I'll hex him. Professor or not."

The two girls laughed, the sound warm and easy. It wasn't much, but for now, it was enough.

Violet gazed out the window, letting the moonlight bathe her in its pale glow. Her reflection stared back at her, but for a split second, she thought she saw a shadow move in the corner of the glass. When she whipped around, no one was there.

Her heart skipped. The feeling of being watched crept up her spine.

"Did you see that?" Violet whispered, looking around the library.

Eve glanced at her, a bemused expression on her face. "See what?"

Violet shook her head, but the unease lingered. No matter how many times she tried to push the feeling away, she couldn't escape it. Not tonight. Not with everything unraveling around her.

***

Back in his office, Tom Riddle closed the door with a calculated click. The quiet click of the lock echoed in the room as if sealing away any last remnants of civility he had left to pretend. He stood in the middle of his darkened office, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him like a suffocating fog.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, turned toward the mirror on the far wall, the only source of light in the room reflecting the pale glow of the moon from the small window. The reflection that stared back at him was an unsettling blend of calm authority and cold, ruthless ambition.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he approached the mirror, his gaze unwavering. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply look. The face that stared back was one of striking beauty, yes, but it was also the face of a man who had learned the art of control. The art of manipulation. He didn't just want power—he craved it.

Tonight had gone exactly as he had planned. The students, the whispers, the subtle play of charm and authority—it was all part of the game. The pieces were already moving, and soon, they would all fall into place. The students, the faculty, even the headmaster—none of them would suspect what he was truly after.

"Let them trust me," he whispered to himself, his voice a soft, dangerous murmur that barely made it past his lips. His eyes narrowed as a cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Let them adore me. It will make their fall all the sweeter."

He ran his hand over his jaw, feeling the sharpness of it beneath his fingers. There was something so intoxicating about the idea of being worshipped, adored... but more than that, it was the control he would hold over them that stirred him. The power of bending others to his will, of knowing their every move before they made it. The thought sent a thrill through him, as though the darkness within him grew more powerful with every breath he took.

Chapter Text

The sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, slicing through the shadows that clung to the ancient stone walls. The golden rays cast long, intricate patterns on the worn floor, but to Tom Riddle, they only served to highlight the sterile emptiness of the room. His robes were immaculately arranged, each fold sharp and perfect, every movement executed with the precision of a man who had spent years honing his control. This day, he knew, was yet another calculated step in the grand scheme he had spent his entire life preparing for.

As he adjusted his tie, his gaze lingered on the chair before him—the one he had once occupied as a student. The memory of the day he had carved into it the words Here sits the future Dark Lord flooded his mind. He smirked, the image of his younger self laughing at his own audacity now almost laughable in its naivety. But now, those words no longer seemed like the delusions of a boy; they fit him perfectly. He was what he had always known he would become.

Returning to his desk, Tom ran his fingers across the parchment of his schedule. His first class was set to be a volatile mix of Slytherins and Gryffindors—always a dangerous combination, but one that would provide ample opportunities for testing his control. His dark eyes scanned the names, his fingers tapping absently on the desk. One name caught his attention, and his gaze lingered on it with a depth of interest that was foreign even to him. Violet Alas.

Her name stood out among the usual mix of students. Violet. A curiosity. There was something about her—something both unsettling and captivating. She didn't quite fit into the mold of the typical Slytherin, her defiance hidden beneath a layer of politeness that made her all the more intriguing. Tom hadn't expected her presence, but now that she had made her mark, he found himself unwilling to ignore it.

He tapped the desk again, lost in thought. Violet Alas. A piece of the puzzle he hadn't foreseen, yet one he would be sure to manipulate. But there was no time for indulgence. The game was far too large to be distracted by one student's behavior.

A soft knock at the door snapped him out of his musings.

"Come in," he called, his voice smooth and controlled, though there was an unmistakable edge to it.

The door creaked open, and there she stood—Violet, holding the black coat he had given her the night before. She was as poised as ever, her presence calm but striking. She stepped forward with quiet confidence, her movements deliberate. Tom watched, his eyes narrowing slightly, though his expression remained indifferent.

"Sorry, Professor," she said, her voice soft but unmistakably steady. "I wanted to return this. And... thank you for lending it to me last night."

The coat was placed on his desk, the fabric cool and smooth beneath her hands. When she withdrew, their fingers brushed. For the briefest of moments, a spark passed between them—electric, fleeting, yet intense. Tom caught himself before his breath hitched. His hand remained still, fingertips brushing the fabric, as though he was savoring the brief touch.

"Think nothing of it," he said coolly, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed a different story. He could feel the lingering warmth of the contact in his veins, but he didn't allow himself to acknowledge it. It was nothing, just another passing distraction. He was in control.

Violet moved to sit in the front row, her back straight and her eyes scanning the room. She unwrapped her books with casual grace, but Tom's attention never left her. There was something magnetic about her—something that begged to be understood. The way she held herself, the way her eyes flitted between the others and him, as if she was always aware, always calculating. It was precisely that quality that drew him in.

"What are we learning today, Professor?" Violet's voice cut through the tension, playful but with an edge of defiance.

Tom leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. The soft smirk on her lips told him that she knew she had his attention. And she wanted to keep it. "Inferi," he replied, his voice quiet, low.

She chuckled softly, though there was a flicker of discomfort in her eyes as she looked up at him. "Such a cheerful topic for the first lesson."

His smile widened ever so slightly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "This is Defense Against the Dark Arts. It's not meant to be cheerful."

Violet raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering on him for a beat too long. "No, I suppose not," she said, her voice softening as she turned her attention to her books. But her eyes—her eyes stayed on him for just a moment longer than necessary, her thoughts unreadable.

Tom could feel the pull of her gaze, the unspoken challenge in it. She wasn't like the others. She wasn't easily manipulated. And that made her all the more interesting.

"You'll want to pay attention," he said, his voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial. "Inferi are not something you can simply forget about."

As the students filed into the classroom, their conversations hummed with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Tom Riddle stood at the front, exuding a calm, almost imperceptible authority that quelled the room's chatter as if by instinct. His presence alone commanded attention.

"Good morning," he said softly, but the words cut through the air like a whip. "I am Professor Riddle. This year, we will explore not only how to defend against the Dark Arts, but also how to understand their true nature."

He let his words settle, the weight of his tone hanging in the room. A deliberate pause, meant to remind them who was in charge. They would know his expectations quickly.

"Now, to begin, I want each of you to introduce yourselves," he continued, his voice low and smooth, but deliberate. "Your name. Your house. And something that interests you about this subject."

There was a subtle tension in the air as he surveyed his class, waiting for their responses. One by one, they introduced themselves: some shy, some eager, but all ready to follow his lead. When the time came for Violet, his gaze lingered. She was sitting in the back, arms crossed in an almost defiant posture, her eyes gleaming with curiosity and perhaps a hint of challenge.

"And you," Tom said, his voice effortlessly commanding attention. "The girl at the back. Your name?"

Violet stood, the slightest smile playing on her lips as she looked at him with a mix of amusement and calculation. "Violet Alas, Professor."

The way she said his title intrigued him—too casual for someone who didn't know the weight it carried. His lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smirk, but he quickly masked it, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied her.

He turned back to the board, where the word Inferi was written in clear, flowing script. His wand flicked subtly, and the words became even more prominent, as if demanding attention.

"An Inferius," Tom began, his voice dropping slightly in pitch, adding a layer of mystery, "is not a living creature, though it appears to be. It is a corpse, reanimated through Dark magic. A puppet, under the absolute control of its master."

The students leaned forward, captivated by his every word, though his eyes never left Violet. She was watching him intently, her gaze unwavering as she absorbed every syllable.

"The Inferi do not feel, they do not tire. They do not question, and they do not stop until their creator bids them to. To face one is to be reminded of your own fragility, your own mortality."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. The room was unnervingly still.

"Now, why do you think Inferi were so effective in past wars?" He scanned the room, his gaze briefly sweeping over Bellatrix Black and the others, before returning to Violet. He could sense she was already formulating a response.

Several hands shot up, including Violet's. But he ignored her for now, choosing to call on Bellatrix, whose eager hand was raised high.

"Because they are relentless," Bellatrix said, voice brimming with fervor. "They never stop, never hesitate. They will kill without mercy, and they don't question commands."

Tom gave a slight nod of approval, his eyes flashing with an edge of satisfaction. "Exactly. Inferi are tools, not bound by the moral questions that plague the living. They execute commands with deadly precision. And that makes them valuable."

He began pacing slowly across the front of the classroom, making sure every student could feel his gaze. "But the true terror of Inferi lies in the fact that they exploit our most primal fear—the fear of death. They are the ultimate reminder of our mortality."

The students remained rapt, but Violet's eyes were sharp, calculating. She raised her hand again, this time more insistent.

"Yes, Miss Alas?" Tom's voice was smooth, though there was a subtle undercurrent of mockery beneath it. He enjoyed her challenge, knowing she wouldn't let things go unquestioned.

Violet stood tall, unflinching. "What's the difference between an Inferius and a zombie? Aren't they essentially the same thing?"

A murmur of nervous laughter rippled through the class, but Tom's gaze didn't waver. He considered her question carefully before answering.

"A valid question," he said smoothly, though the way he said it suggested it was anything but. "The difference, Miss Alas, is in control. A zombie is often a mindless creature, animated by crude magic—its actions erratic, unpredictable. An Inferius, however, is a masterpiece of Dark magic. It is completely subservient to the will of its creator. It is the difference between wielding a sledgehammer and a finely crafted blade."

There was a sharpness to his tone as he let the metaphor sink in. He could feel the energy in the room shift—this was no longer a lecture. It was a display of power, of control.

Tom turned to the board, flicking his wand once more. Diagrams appeared, showing the skeletal figure of an Inferius in grotesque detail.

"Now," he said, his voice taking on a matter-of-fact tone, "let us examine their weaknesses. Inferi cannot think for themselves. They are bound to their creator's will. But they are not invincible."

He paused, allowing the tension in the room to build.

"Their greatest vulnerability is fire," Tom continued. "It is the only force capable of destroying the enchantment that binds them."

He turned to the class, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed them, one by one. "Why fire, Miss Alas? Care to enlighten us?"

Violet didn't raise her hand, but Tom called on her anyway. She hesitated for a moment, considering her answer, but when she spoke, her voice was steady.

"Because fire purifies," she said, her eyes meeting his with a defiance that sent a ripple of approval through him. "Fire represents both life and destruction, which are opposites to the unnatural existence of the Inferius."

Tom's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It wasn't approval. It was something far more calculated, something more dangerous. He inclined his head slightly. "Correct. Fire is the ultimate cleanser. It reduces the unnatural to ash, leaving nothing behind."

He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, before turning to the rest of the class. "But don't be fooled. Inferi are not so easily defeated. They are many, and they are relentless. A single mistake could be fatal."

After the theory session, the room buzzed with nervous energy. Most of the students filed out, eager to leave the unsettling atmosphere behind. But Tom's eyes caught a few lingering figures—Bellatrix Black, Theodore Nott, Evan Rosier, and a few Slytherins.

"Stay," he commanded softly, his tone leaving no room for objection.

They hesitated, but ultimately obeyed, gathering near his desk.

"I'm offering you something," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "What you learn here will not be discussed outside this room. If you choose to stay, you will gain knowledge far beyond what Hogwarts can offer. But be warned, this is not for the faint of heart."

Bellatrix's eyes gleamed with eagerness, the others nodded. Tom's lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile.

"We will meet every Wednesday night," he continued. "Tell no one."

As they filed out, Tom remained seated, his mind already calculating the next steps. He wasn't here just to teach. He was here to build something. To claim power. And Violet Alas? She was just another piece in the game.

Chapter Text

Julius adjusted his tie with trembling fingers, his eyes fixed on the face of the gold watch in his hand. The intricate timepiece had been his father's—a gift for his acceptance into Hogwarts. Its weight always seemed heavier in moments like this, as though it carried the burden of expectations and memories. The hands ticked closer to midnight: 11:47.

"Of course, midnight," he muttered under his breath. "How original, Tom."

The iron gates of Malfoy Manor loomed ahead, and waiting there was a man with long, silver hair, his aristocratic features marred only by the worried crease in his brow. Abraxas Malfoy leaned casually against the gate, but his anxious tapping of the cane in his hand betrayed his inner turmoil.

"You're late," Abraxas said, his voice tinged with unease.

"Still early by thirteen minutes," Julius countered, though his heart wasn't in the jest.

Abraxas straightened, placing a firm hand on Julius's shoulder. "It'll be fine. Just say the truth, Julius. He'll know if you lie."

Julius laughed bitterly. "He's going to cruciate me, and you know it. Tom hates being kept in the dark."

Abraxas hesitated before nodding grimly. "He does. But I told him months ago."

The words were barely out of Abraxas's mouth when Julius's fist connected with his face. Abraxas stumbled, clutching his bleeding nose but made no move to retaliate.

"You traitor!" Julius hissed. "You told him?"

Abraxas straightened, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief. "I told him to save you. He'd have found out eventually, and it's better he heard it from me than someone else."

"You had no right—"

"I did what I had to," Abraxas snapped, his voice sharp but not unkind. "Now, pull yourself together. We're already late."

The walk to the manor's towering front door was short but felt like an eternity. The dark wood seemed to absorb the moonlight, standing as a foreboding barrier to the world within. Abraxas pushed open the heavy door, revealing the opulent but shadowed interior.

Julius's heart sank as they entered the meeting room. At the center was a long, gleaming table of dark wood, surrounded by familiar faces. Tom sat at the head, his expression unreadable but his presence commanding. To his right was an empty chair, obviously reserved for Julius.

"Nice of you to join us, Julius," Tom said, his voice silken but laced with menace.

Julius sat down, feeling the weight of every eye in the room on him. To his right loomed Fenrir Greyback, his hulking form barely contained by the chair. The werewolf's predatory grin revealed teeth in desperate need of cleaning, but the sheer menace in his yellowed gaze made Julius's skin crawl.

On the other side of the table sat Abraxas, offering a subtle nod of reassurance that did nothing to calm Julius's racing heart.

Tom began to speak, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence like a knife. "I see some new faces among us tonight, but rest assured, everyone here is loyal to our cause. They are too smart to attempt betrayal, for they know the consequences."

Julius swallowed hard as Tom's gaze flickered to him for a moment, a predator sizing up its prey.

The conversation turned to plans, strategy, and whispered atrocities. Julius drifted in and out of focus until Tom's voice broke through the haze.

"And now, Julius," Tom said, his tone deceptively light. "You were in Albania, weren't you?"

Julius hesitated, his mind racing. "I—yes."

A faint chuckle escaped Tom's lips. "And? Did you bring me what I asked for?"

Julius reached into his bag and withdrew a small, white box. His hands shook as he passed it to Tom.

Tom opened the box slowly, his expression unreadable. The glint of silver and the deep blue of gems caught the firelight, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

"Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem," Tom murmured, almost to himself.

The room fell silent as everyone stared at the artifact in awe. The object seemed to pulse with ancient magic, its beauty almost otherworldly.

Tom's voice shattered the silence. "Yaxley, what news from the Ministry?"

The meeting continued, with reports of crimes and whispers of plans for domination. Julius tried to focus, but the oppressive atmosphere and Tom's piercing gaze left him on edge.

As the meeting adjourned, Julius moved quickly, hoping to escape without further confrontation. But fate, as always, was not on his side.

"Julius," Tom called, his voice stopping him cold. "A word."

Julius turned, forcing a smile. "Yes, my Lord?"

Tom arched a brow. "Spare me that ridiculous grin. You look like a deranged clown."

The smile vanished instantly, and Tom smirked. "Much better. Now, we both know why I called you back. I'm not angry about your concern for your sister. But if you ever try to keep her from me again, you'll regret it."

Julius nodded stiffly. "Understood. May I leave now?"

Tom gestured dismissively, but as Julius turned, he called out again. "One more thing."

Julius stopped, dreading what would come next.

Without warning, Tom raised his wand.

"Crucio."

Pain tore through Julius's body, twisting him to the floor in agony. Tom watched impassively until the spell ended.

As the last of the cloaked figures filed out of the room, Julius made a move to follow. He was steps from the heavy wooden door when Tom's voice, soft yet razor-sharp, sliced through the air again.

"Julius."

He stopped dead in his tracks, sighing inwardly before turning on his heel. His hand tightened around his wand hidden in his robes, not for defense but for a sense of control.

"Yes, Tom?" Julius's tone was deliberately casual, his eyes steady.

Tom leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing the edges of the diadem now sitting before him on the table. The firelight danced across his pale features, highlighting the faint smirk that tugged at his lips.

"It's still my Lord to you," Tom corrected, his voice smooth as velvet but carrying an edge sharp enough to cut.

Julius raised an eyebrow. "You already cruciated me tonight, Tom. If you're going to kill me for skipping formalities, let's get it over with."

Tom's eyes narrowed, though the smirk remained. "Such bravery. Or is it stupidity? I can never tell with you, Julius."

Julius crossed his arms, forcing himself to meet Tom's piercing gaze. He knew the man well enough to recognize the faint flicker of amusement behind the threat.

"What do you want?" Julius pressed, his patience wearing thin.

Tom rose slowly, his movements deliberate, and circled the table. He stopped inches from Julius, his presence almost suffocating.

"You've been distracted tonight," Tom said, his voice low and almost intimate. "I don't tolerate distractions."

Julius didn't flinch, though his heart hammered in his chest. "I'm not distracted. I brought you what you wanted, didn't I?" He gestured toward the diadem, which still seemed to glimmer with an unnatural light.

Tom chuckled softly, though the sound was devoid of warmth. "You did. But your thoughts betray you." He leaned in, his dark eyes locking onto Julius's. "Your sister... Violet. She's been on your mind all evening."

Julius clenched his jaw. "She has nothing to do with this."

"Oh, but she does," Tom said, his smirk widening. "She's fascinating. So full of fire, so... naïve. She reminds me of someone."

Julius's hands curled into fists. "Leave her alone."

Tom tilted his head, as though considering the request. "And why would I do that? She's a natural fit for our cause. Or are you worried she'll outshine you, too?"

Julius bristled but didn't take the bait. "She's just a girl. She doesn't belong in this world."

Tom stepped back, his expression cooling. "Perhaps. But that's not for you to decide. You would do well to remember your place, Julius."

Julius's lips parted to retort, but before he could speak, Tom added softly, "I'm not going to hurt her. Not yet. But if you continue to interfere, I might change my mind."

The threat hung in the air, suffocating and final. Julius's gaze hardened, but he gave a curt nod.

Tom studied him for a moment longer before gesturing toward the door. As Julius turned to leave, Tom's voice called after him once more.

"And Julius," Tom said, his tone almost playful, "do try not to brood too much. It's dreadfully predictable."

***

Back at Hogwarts, Violet tossed and turned in her bed, unable to sleep.

She slipped out of bed and wandered toward the library. She froze when she saw a familiar figure in the corridor—Tom Riddle, striding purposefully away from his quarters.

Curiosity overtook her caution, and she followed at a distance, shivering in her thin pajamas. The cold stone walls pressed in around her, amplifying the sound of her footsteps.

Suddenly, a spider crawled across the wall beside her. She let out a startled yelp, immediately cursing herself for the noise.

The sound of footsteps halted, then resumed, moving away from her. When she peeked around the corner, the corridor was empty, as though he had vanished into thin air.

"Where are you going at this hour, Professor?" she whispered to herself, a shiver running down her spine—not from the cold, but from the growing sense that she was stepping into something far more dangerous than she could imagine.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew she'd seen him only moments ago, his black cloak sweeping the floor. The hall was eerily silent, save for the faint rustling of the wind outside.

As she turned to leave, her blood ran cold.

"Miss Alas."

The voice came from behind her, impossibly close. She spun around, and there he was—Professor Riddle, standing mere feet away, his expression unreadable.

"Out of bed, wandering the corridors past curfew," he said, his voice as smooth as silk. "How... disappointing."

Violet opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She felt like a mouse caught in the gaze of a snake.

"I—" she stammered. "I couldn't sleep."

Tom's dark eyes flicked over her, assessing, calculating. "So you decided to follow me?"

Her stomach dropped. "No! I just—"

"Don't lie to me, Miss Alas," he interrupted, his tone now edged with danger. "It's unbecoming. And quite futile."

She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment and fear.

"You will report to my office tomorrow evening," Tom continued, his voice cold and final. "For two weeks of detention. Perhaps that will cure your insatiable curiosity."

Violet's heart sank. "Yes, sir," she murmured.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "And Miss Alas," he said softly, leaning down so that his face was level with hers, "if I catch you out of bed again, the consequences will be far more... severe."

She nodded quickly, her pulse racing. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he turned and disappeared into the shadows as though he'd never been there at all.

Violet stood frozen, the echo of his voice lingering in the corridor long after he was gone.

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle left the imposing gates of Malfoy Manor, his long cloak trailing behind him as the crisp night air bit at his skin. His footsteps were deliberate, his mind a storm of calculations. Hogwarts was a fortress of secrets, and even as a professor, he treaded carefully. Dumbledore's suspicion lingered like a thorn in his side—a persistent reminder that his every move was under scrutiny.

He Apparated to the edge of the Forbidden Forest and made his way toward the castle. The stone corridors stretched before him, dimly lit by flickering candles affixed to the walls. Shadows danced like specters, and his soft whistling echoed hauntingly through the empty halls. The sound reverberated back to him, mocking, as though the castle itself whispered his name.

Tom's sharp instincts prickled. Someone was watching.

He stopped mid-step, his hand brushing against his wand tucked in his robes. Slowly, he turned, scanning the corridor behind him. Darkness met his gaze. Nothing moved, yet he felt the presence linger like a breath on the back of his neck. He continued forward, more cautious now, his senses attuned to the faintest disturbance.

The path led him to the Astronomy Wing, where the Room of Requirement awaited him. Its ever-shifting walls held treasures, memories, and the weight of his darkest deeds. He approached the blank stretch of stone, his mind focused on the door he needed to appear.

But just as he was about to open it, a faint scream pierced the silence.

A girl's voice. Brief, restrained, but unmistakable.

He didn't need to see her to know. Violet Alas.

A flicker of irritation crossed his face, quickly replaced by curiosity. His dark gaze searched the corridor until he spotted her faint silhouette near a tapestry. She looked startled, her hand clutching the fabric as if to steady herself.

"Miss Alas," he called, his voice soft yet commanding.

She froze as he stepped into the light, his expression unreadable. After a brief exchange, where he issued her detention with cold precision, he turned back to the wall. With a single thought, a dusty wooden door materialized before him. Without another glance at her, he opened it and slipped inside, the door vanishing seamlessly into the wall behind him.

The Room of Requirement stretched out before him, vast and filled with relics of the past. Towers of broken furniture, forgotten books, and tarnished treasures loomed in the dimness. The air was heavy with the scent of dust and decay, and the absence of windows made the space feel claustrophobic.

"Lumos," he murmured, his wand-tip igniting to cast a ghostly glow across the room.

He wandered through the labyrinth of discarded items, his steps slow, deliberate. In the corner, he found a worn couch near an old fireplace. The sight brought a flicker of memory—himself as a student, hunched over forbidden texts, plotting the steps that would carve his path to immortality.

With a flick of his wand, the fireplace roared to life, its warmth licking at his cold cheeks. He sank onto the couch, brushing the dust from the cushions, and watched the flames dance. The fire consumed the wood with an unrelenting hunger, reducing it to ash with brutal efficiency. In its glow, the reflection of the flames flickered in his dark eyes, a mirror to his own nature—destructive, consuming, merciless.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the white box Julius had given him. He opened it carefully, revealing the diadem. Its beauty was haunting, the artifact now holding a piece of his very soul. He ran his fingers over its delicate edges, marveling at the power it represented.

But something gnawed at him, a thought he couldn't suppress. Violet. Her face, her voice, her presence.

She was a child, barely seventeen, yet she plagued his thoughts with a ferocity that unnerved him. He despised the weakness she evoked in him, the primal need to touch her, to possess her. It was a vulnerability he couldn't afford, a crack in the armor he'd spent years perfecting.

She's just a girl, he reminded himself, though the words felt hollow. Innocent. Pure.

The very qualities that drew him to her repelled him as well. He wanted to break her, to shatter that purity—but the idea of her splintering beneath his hands filled him with dread. She was like glass, fragile and irreplaceable.

Tom shook his head, disgusted with his own thoughts. He had no time for such distractions. Carefully, he buried the diadem beneath a pile of books and peculiar objects, ensuring it would remain hidden.

The next morning, Tom made his way to class, his movements brisk and calculated. He'd fallen asleep in the Room of Requirement, a lapse he didn't intend to repeat. His first class was with Violet's year.

The students filed in, and he felt her gaze on him immediately. He turned just enough to catch her eyes, smirking slightly before winking at her—a subtle act no one else noticed. He began the lesson, his deep voice commanding the room.

"Today, we'll have a verbal quiz," he announced. "You will come to the front and demonstrate a spell of my choosing."

The class stiffened. His quizzes were infamous for their unpredictability.

He called names, each student coming forward to perform their assigned spell. His favoritism toward Slytherins and disdain for Muggle-borns became evident quickly.

"Oliver Fray," he called, gesturing to the Gryffindor boy. "A Stunning Spell, if you please."

Oliver hesitated, his hands shaking as he stammered, "I—I don't know it, Professor."

Tom's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Then learn faster, Mr. Fray. You're wasting everyone's time."

From the back, Violet whispered to her friend, Eve. "He's doing it on purpose," she hissed. "He's targeting Muggle-borns."

Tom continued to call on students, his questions growing more difficult for those of "weaker" bloodlines. When it was Violet's turn, he leaned against his desk, his expression sharp.

"Miss Alas. A simple question for you. The spell to make an object unbreakable."

She rolled her eyes, answering with a flick of her wand. "Duro."

He raised an eyebrow. "Finding this amusing, are we?"

She smirked. "Only the simplicity of your question, sir."

His smile darkened. "Very well. A Patronus Charm, then."

Her heart sank. Happiness wasn't something she could summon so easily. She stood there, wand poised, until the bell rang.

"Seems you can't do it," Tom said, his voice a mix of triumph and something softer.

Violet hesitated. "Give me a moment, Professor." She tried again, but the spell faltered.

Her disappointment was palpable, and for a fleeting moment, Tom's expression softened. He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"Detention at eight," he said, his tone cold once more. "Don't be late."

As he returned to his desk, Violet left, her thoughts tangled in confusion and fury.

Chapter Text

Violet moved through the dim corridors of Hogwarts, her footsteps soft against the cold stone floor. The flickering torchlight painted eerie shadows that danced around her, as if the castle walls themselves whispered secrets. Theo trailed behind her, as usual, yapping about something inconsequential. His energy, so boundless this early in the day, grated on her nerves—but it was also oddly comforting. He had been her companion since their second year, an unrelenting force of chaos that had glued their friendship together. Theo had introduced her to the rest of their tight-knit group, a cluster of Slytherins whom others referred to as "the Slytherin gang." The boys relished the moniker; it fed their egos and reinforced their reputation. Violet, however, found it burdensome.

She never sought power or authority. She never wished to see fear flash in the eyes of first-years as she passed by. Yet, her family name and her associations left her little choice in how others perceived her. She was Violet Alas, a name whispered with both admiration and trepidation. She sighed, her thoughts churning as she pushed open the heavy door to the Potions classroom.

The room was dimly lit, filled with the earthy smell of brewing ingredients. Violet slid into her seat beside Oliver, the quiet boy Professor Riddle had humiliated not fifteen minutes ago. Oliver greeted her with a warm, tentative smile, adjusting his glasses nervously.

"You okay?" she asked, pulling her books from her bag.

"Yeah," he replied, his voice tinged with determination. "I'll show him next time. I'll learn every spell and every potion to perfection. Then we'll see who's arrogant."

Violet smirked. At least I'm not the only one who sees Riddle's arrogance. Before she could reply, the ever-cheerful Professor Slughorn swept into the room, his booming voice breaking the tension.

"Good morning, class! Today we'll be brewing Alihotsy Draught. Beware—its fumes can induce hysterical laughter. Harmless, but terribly inconvenient if you're unprepared. You'll be working in pairs. Off you go!"

Violet barely registered his words. She flipped through her book, making meticulous notes in the margins. Potions came naturally to her, a rare skill in a world where many students struggled to follow even the simplest recipes. She preferred working alone, which suited Oliver just fine. While he chopped ingredients, Violet found herself stirring the potion in a trance, her mind wandering to darker places.

Her thoughts drifted to her brother, Julius. She hadn't written to him in a week. What could she even say? Should she confront him about the whispers of his involvement with the Death Eaters? Should she warn the Ministry? Her quill scratched against the parchment as her inner turmoil deepened.

"Violet?" Oliver's voice cut through the fog of her thoughts. She blinked, realizing he had been speaking for some time.

"What?" she asked, startled.

"I think it's done," he said gently. "And... are you okay? You've been distracted all year, like you're carrying some kind of weight."

She met his gaze. His concern was genuine, and it disarmed her. He was kind, despite the relentless bullying he endured from their classmates. Violet often told her friends to stop tormenting him, but they rarely listened. Slytherins respected power, and Oliver didn't fit their mold.

"I'm fine," she lied, her voice steady. But inside, her thoughts churned.

Later, Violet found herself walking to lunch, a book clutched in her hand as always. She was so engrossed in its pages that she didn't notice Theo until she collided with him. His hands caught her by the waist, steadying her. His trademark smirk spread across his face.

"Should watch where you're going, Alas," he teased. "Next time, I might not be here to catch you. Though I wouldn't mind you falling on me again."

She rolled her eyes, pushing his hands away. "Come on, let's eat."

As they walked into the Great Hall, the buzz of conversation surrounded them. Theo's presence drew jealous glances from other girls. He basked in their attention, but Violet was unfazed. They sat at their usual table, and her eyes instinctively drifted to the staff table. There he was—Professor Riddle, seated between Slughorn and McGonagall, speaking animatedly. His blue eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to pierce through the room.

Their gazes met.

Her breath hitched. His stare was unflinching, predatory. She broke the connection, turning away quickly. She hated how he unsettled her, how he seemed to see through every facade she carefully constructed.

,, So about the party tonight, what are we wearing?" Eve was excitedly asking the girls breaking Violet from her thoughts.

,, I don't know something provocative surely, something that if my mother saw me in it she would kick me out while yelling whore" Bella's relationship with her mother is too complicated to even call it complicated, it's the major subject of Tuesday, when Druela's weekly letter arrives.

Violet opened her mouth to say something but Bella just pushed the pumpkin pie into them,, Sush, eat and let me take care of it" If Bella is taking care of something it's not good ,, Can't wait to see you tonight" Barty said while winking, a small smirk appearing on his full pink lips. ,, Fuck off Crouch" Belle barked back.

,, Do you think he wants us to get back together?" she asked as Barty strolled away, Violet shrugged ,,Who wouldn't want to get with you?"

Belle smiled at the comment before looking up at professor Riddle ,,Well.... I know who I'd like to get with"

That evening, the girls gathered in the dormitory to prepare for the party. Bellatrix was already pulling out dresses from her wardrobe, each one more revealing than the last.

"Choose one," Bella commanded, laying them out. Violet grimaced. None of them were her style, but she finally settled on a black dress that clung to her like a second skin.

"Perfect," Bella purred. "You're going to make an impression tonight."

Violet's legs wobbled slightly as she made her way down the corridor, the echo of her heels striking against the cold stone floor filling the silence. The classroom door loomed ahead, its dark wood faintly glimmering under the dim torchlight. She adjusted her green jumper nervously, pulling it lower over the indecently short dress Bella had insisted she wear. With a deep breath, she knocked on the door, her knuckles grazing the aged surface.

The silence that followed felt eternal before a low, composed voice beckoned her in. "Come in, Miss Alas."

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Professor Riddle was seated at his desk, quill in hand, his eyes not lifting from the parchment in front of him. The flickering light from the torches cast sharp shadows across his features, making him look even more severe than usual. Violet hesitated at the threshold, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

"Take a seat," he said, his tone even, though there was a subtle undertone of command that left no room for argument. "Next to me."

Her stomach churned as she scanned the room for an available chair. She spotted one and dragged it closer to his desk, positioning it across from him.

"I said next to me," he repeated, his eyes finally meeting hers. They were like icy storms, their intensity freezing her in place. She muttered an apology and reluctantly moved the chair to sit beside him. The proximity was suffocating. She could feel the heat radiating off him, his presence both magnetic and overwhelming.

"You'll be helping me grade these," he said, sliding a stack of papers toward her. His long fingers brushed hers as he handed her a quill, and the brief contact sent an unbidden shiver down her spine.

Violet focused on the parchment before her, determined not to let her nervousness show. She tried to concentrate on marking the tests, but her mind kept drifting to the man seated so close to her. She was hyper-aware of his every movement, the faint scratch of his quill on paper, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Tom, on the other hand, found himself equally distracted. He tried to read the words in front of him, but they blurred together as his gaze kept flickering to her. The hem of her dress rode up slightly as she shifted in her seat, revealing more of her pale thighs. His jaw clenched, and he forced his eyes back to his parchment. He could smell her perfume—a delicate blend of vanilla and something sweetly floral—and it was intoxicating.

"How do you grade these?" Violet asked, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft but steady, though she avoided looking directly at him.

He reached for her quill, his fingers deliberately brushing against hers again. "I'll show you," he said, his voice low. He leaned in closer, their knees touching beneath the desk. "Thirty points is the maximum. Deduct two points for each mistake. Every three points lost lowers the grade."

She nodded, her throat dry. The closeness was unbearable, yet she didn't move away. Her fingers trembled slightly as she continued marking the papers, the quill scratching against the parchment in uneven strokes. She could feel his gaze on her, heavy and unrelenting.

"What's the dress for?" he asked suddenly, his tone casual but his eyes anything but.

"A party," she replied, not meeting his gaze. "It starts at nine."

He leaned back, smirking. "You could have asked to reschedule detention. I'm not unreasonable, Miss Alas."

She swallowed hard. "I didn't want to inconvenience you."

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "How considerate."

The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows deepening as the silence stretched between them. Finally, she mustered the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at her since summer. "Professor?"

He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Yes?"

She hesitated, her heart pounding. "Are you still friends with Julius? I mean, he's still in contact with some of his old classmates, so I thought..."

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, and her stomach twisted in knots. "Why do you ask?"

She struggled to maintain her composure under his piercing gaze. "Just curious," she said, though she knew he wouldn't buy it.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he studied her intently. "We parted ways after Hogwarts," he said smoothly. "I sought knowledge abroad while he remained here to... take care of you."

There was something unsettling in the way he said it, and Violet couldn't shake the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. She bit her lip, her thoughts racing. Did he know about Julius's involvement with the Death Eaters? Was he involved too? The idea sent a chill down her spine.

"Looks like our time is up," he said suddenly, glancing at the clock. "You should go. Enjoy your party."

She stood quickly, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

As she turned to leave, she felt his eyes on her back, the weight of his gaze lingering long after she'd disappeared into the corridor. The air outside was cold and sharp, but it did little to dispel the heat that had risen to her cheeks. Her thoughts were a tangled mess, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just played a game she didn't fully understand—and that Tom Riddle was always one step ahead.

Chapter Text

Violet paced away from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, her chest tight as if her lungs had shrunken. She couldn't breathe properly, the weight of his presence still suffocating her. Professor Riddle's dark gaze lingered in her mind, haunting her thoughts. It wasn't how a professor should look at a student—it was wrong, inappropriate, forbidden—and yet, she liked it. She craved it. She wanted him to look at her like that again, his eyes pulling her in like a magnetic force.

She shook her head fiercely. No, she couldn't think that way. He was her professor, and worse, there were suspicions that he was involved with Julius and the masked men called Death Eaters. Violet resolved to ignore him, to avoid him at all costs. Her thoughts raced as she headed toward Gryffindor Tower, her goal to lose herself in the chaos of a party. The music grew louder as she ascended the stairs, and the energy of the gathering thrummed in the air.

Violet pushed through the throng of students, the heavy bass of the music reverberating in her chest. The Gryffindor common room was a kaleidoscope of chaos—scarlet and gold banners swayed above the mass of sweaty bodies, enchanted lights flickered like fireflies, and someone had charmed butterbeer bottles to float lazily across the room.

She spotted Molly and Gideon near the fireplace, a cozy little gathering of Gryffindors surrounding them. Molly's radiant smile lit up the space around her, and Violet couldn't help but envy the way Arthur looked at her, his gaze dripping with adoration. The soft affection between them was almost painful to witness—a kind of purity Violet felt she could never have.

"Hey, Vi!" Molly greeted her warmly, though her attention was clearly still on Arthur.

"How's the party so far?" Violet asked, forcing her own smile.

"It's brilliant," Molly replied, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks as Arthur brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You should grab a drink! There's punch—or something stronger if you're feeling adventurous."

"I'll leave you two lovebirds to it," Violet teased, earning awkward chuckles from both before she ducked back into the fray.

The heat in the room was stifling, the mingling scents of alcohol, sweat, and cheap perfume making her head spin. She navigated through the crowd, dodging the occasional flailing arm of a dancer. Spotting Theo and Eve slouched on a couch in the corner, she felt a surge of relief and made her way over.

"Well, look who finally made it," Eve drawled, her grin mischievous. "How was detention with Professor Riddle? Did he admire your dress?"

Violet rolled her eyes, sinking into the seat beside them. "I wore a jumper over it. Not that it's any of your business."

Eve's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Shame. I was hoping for a scandal."

Theo groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. "Can we not talk about Riddle? I'm still recovering from my own humiliation."

"What happened?" Violet asked, taking a sip from the drink Eve handed her.

"He tried to kiss a Ravenclaw," Eve interjected before Theo could reply, her tone dripping with mockery. "She slapped him. Hard."

"That's not what happened!" Theo snapped, sitting up straight. "I—she was playing hard to get."

"Sure she was," Eve said, barely containing her laughter.

Violet smirked. "Well, at least you're consistent, Theo."

He muttered something under his breath before reclining again, clearly done with the conversation.

"Come on, Vi," Eve said, grabbing her arm. "Let's dance before the punch runs out."

The music grew louder as they moved to the center of the room. A fast-paced beat vibrated through Violet's veins as she threw herself into the crowd. Eve was already spinning, her hair whipping around her face as she laughed, carefree and wild. Violet followed suit, letting the rhythm take over.

A floating tray of shots hovered nearby, and Violet grabbed one, downing the fiery liquid in a single gulp. She winced as it burned down her throat but quickly reached for another. The warmth spread through her chest, and the room seemed to glow brighter, the edges of her worries blurring into nothingness.

By her third shot, the world around her was a dizzying whirl of laughter, music, and faces. She and Eve sang along to an off-tune rendition of the Weird Sisters' latest hit, their voices lost in the cacophony. Violet didn't care—didn't care about Julius, or Riddle, or the dangerous allure of his dark eyes. For once, she felt free, untethered by the weight of her own thoughts.

As the night wore on, the room grew even more crowded. Someone had conjured colorful sparks that rained down like a miniature firework display, eliciting cheers from the crowd. Violet found herself pulled into a circle of dancers, spinning and swaying until she could barely stand.

Eventually, the heat and the alcohol became too much. The walls seemed to close in, and she stumbled toward the exit, gasping for air. The cool night hit her like a slap, and she leaned against the stone wall outside, letting the crisp breeze clear her head.

She hadn't realized how far she'd wandered until the noise of the party faded into the distance. The dark corridors of the castle stretched before her, and somewhere deep in her chest, a strange sense of foreboding stirred. But she brushed it aside. The Astronomy Tower was calling her, its solitary height offering the escape she craved.

As she neared the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, her heart sank. The door was ajar, candlelight flickering from within. She hesitated, her drunken mind grappling with indecision. But her curiosity won. She peered inside, catching a glimpse of him.

Tom Riddle sat at his desk, immersed in a thick tome. His sharp features were softened by the golden glow of the candlelight, making him appear almost angelic. Violet's breath hitched. She darted past the door, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone as she ascended the stairs to the tower. She was halfway up when her foot slipped. She braced for impact, but it never came.

Strong arms caught her, steadying her trembling form. She looked up, her heart pounding as she met his piercing gaze. Professor Riddle's face was inches from hers, his breath warm against her chilled skin. His eyes flicked briefly to her lips before locking onto hers.

"Miss Alas," he said smoothly, his voice a low murmur. "Out for a stroll at this hour? Barefoot, no less?"

Violet's cheeks burned. "I... slipped," she stammered, her words slurred. "You caught me."

"Indeed," he replied, a faint smile playing on his lips. His hand tilted her chin, his thumb brushing away the smudged lipstick. The gesture was intimate, lingering. "You're drunk, Miss Alas."

"I like when you call me that," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

His smile deepened, though it remained enigmatic. "Is that so?" he murmured, his tone almost teasing. But his gaze was intense, as though he were searching for something within her.

For a fleeting moment, the world stilled. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. Then he stepped back, his expression unreadable.

"It's cold," he said. "Let me take you to your dormitory."

Without waiting for her protest, he scooped her into his arms. She rested her head against his chest, her eyelids heavy. For the first time, she felt safe. But beneath the surface of his composed demeanor, Tom's thoughts churned. He despised weakness, yet something about Violet unsettled him. She occupied his mind in ways he couldn't ignore. He wanted to possess her, to understand her, to control her—and it infuriated him.

By the time they reached the Slytherin common room, Violet was nearly asleep. Tom watched her disappear inside, lingering longer than he should. He clenched his fists, irritated by his own vulnerability.

***

The next morning, Violet woke with a pounding headache. Memories of the previous night were hazy, like fragments of a dream. She recalled the Astronomy Tower, a fleeting warmth, and... him. Groaning, she dragged herself out of bed, her reflection in the mirror a chaotic mess of smudged mascara and tangled hair.

She arrived late to Divination, her tie askew and books hastily stuffed into her bag. Professor Bashiri greeted her kindly, offering a cup of tea for the day's lesson on Tasseomancy. As the students read their fortunes, the room buzzed with curiosity and trepidation.

When her turn came, Bashiri's brow furrowed as she examined Violet's cup. "I see danger," she said solemnly. "You will lose many you care about because of the one you love most. He will be your undoing."

Violet's stomach dropped. The one she loved most? Her brother Julius came to mind, but doubt clouded her thoughts. She resolved to meet him, to demand answers face to face. Scribbling a brief note, she sent her owl with a message to arrange a meeting.

As the day dragged on, Violet's resolve faltered. The weight of her professor's gaze lingered in her mind, his voice a haunting echo. She couldn't escape the sense that something dark was stirring, something inevitable. And no matter how much she tried to deny it, she knew Tom Riddle would be at the center of it all.

Chapter Text

Winter had nearly wrapped its icy fingers around Hogwarts. Slowly, students swapped their autumn robes for winter ones, scarves tucked tightly around their necks as they trudged through the frosty grounds. Violet much preferred summer, but every season at Hogwarts had its charm. The crunch of warm red and orange leaves under her shoes softened her mood as she made her way to the Black Lake.

The cold hadn't yet seized the lake in ice, and its inky surface reflected the cloudy sky like a dark mirror. She absently kicked a small stone along the shoreline, her thoughts as heavy as the slate-gray water. In her hand, she carried a blanket. Finding her favorite tree, she spread the blanket against the thick trunk and sat, pulling out a well-worn book.

A few unruly strands of hair fell across her face, and instinctively, she brushed them back, her mind betraying her with a memory. Tom's hand had once done the same, tucking her hair behind her ear with such tenderness it had left her breathless. She'd tried to stay away from him as much as possible since that night in the Astronomy Tower—alone, tipsy, and vulnerable.

The hazy memory gnawed at her, frustratingly incomplete. Had she said something foolish? Confessed something she shouldn't have? His gaze hadn't been the same since. Warmer. Gentler. But it wasn't just his eyes. She noticed the subtle tension in his posture, his usual composure slipping. The perfection he prided himself on seemed to fray slightly whenever their paths crossed.

It had been two weeks since she'd last attended his class. Surely, he had noticed her absence.

Rumors swirled through the school, whispers slipping from one curious ear to another. Tom Riddle had secret meetings with select students—gifted ones, the elite of Slytherin. Every Wednesday night, a handful of them would vanish from their dorms, gathering in a hidden room to discuss forbidden knowledge and practice spells shrouded in darkness.

Spells that were dangerous. Curses.

Her friends were keeping secrets. She could see it in the way they huddled together, their whispered conversations cut short whenever she approached. They left the castle grounds on mysterious errands, spoke of a "greater world," and their disdain for Muggles grew louder with each passing day.

Violet was furious. She was just as talented as they were—if not more. Why wasn't she included?

She felt it again. The distinct, unnerving sensation of being watched. Her muscles tensed, her grip on the cigarette tightening as she scanned her surroundings. The wind rustled the brittle leaves above her, and for a moment, she thought she'd imagined it. Then, a low, mocking laugh cut through the quiet.

"Violet Alas, a smoker now?"

Her head snapped toward the sound, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Barty Crouch Jr. stepped into view, his hands tucked lazily into the pockets of his robe, a sly grin plastered across his face.

"You nearly scared me to death," she said, her voice sharp.

"Did I? Didn't mean to," he replied, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. But the glint in his eye betrayed him.

"Right," she muttered, taking another drag from her cigarette.

"When did this start? Yesterday?" he teased, crouching beside her.

She shot him a glare. "August, actually. So shut it."

"August, huh?" Barty smirked, plucking the cigarette from her hand before she could protest. He twirled it between his fingers like a wand. "Well, you've been doing it all wrong. Here, let me show you how it's done."

He brought it to his lips, the smoke curling against his face as he inhaled. For a moment, he looked older, the sharp angles of his face accentuated in the dim light. Violet watched him, her irritation melting into curiosity.

"Wish that was you?" he quipped, the cigarette still between his lips.

The spell was broken. She punched him in the shoulder, though a laugh escaped her despite herself.

"Maniac," he muttered, rubbing the spot where her fist had landed. "You've got a mean right hook, you know."

"You've got a big mouth."

"Fair point."

Barty flopped down beside her, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his elbows. He glanced at the cigarette still smoldering in his hand. "You know, I thought you were Dumbledore for a second. Nearly prepared myself for one of his legendary life lessons."

She rolled her eyes. "He's not that bad."

Barty sat up abruptly, a wicked smile spreading across his face. Stroking an imaginary beard, he stood and began pacing dramatically.

"Miss Alas," he intoned in a deep, authoritative voice. "I am dearly disappointed in you. Such a bright young witch, smoking! A shameful influence of your Slytherin friends, no doubt. Bad, bad Slytherins!"

Violet couldn't help but laugh as he continued.

"You must set a better example," Barty went on, puffing out his chest as he adopted a holier-than-thou demeanor. "Perhaps you'd do well to spend more time with my beloved Gryffindors, the true heart of this school."

"That's enough," Violet said, shaking her head. "You're terrible at impressions."

"Am I, though?" Barty asked, dropping the act and flopping back down beside her.

"You are," she said firmly. "And besides, Dumbledore would never admit to preferring Gryffindor over the rest of us."

Barty snorted. "Please. He'd let us rot if it meant saving one of them."

The humor drained from his voice, leaving an uncomfortable silence in its wake. Violet shifted, unsure how to respond.

Barty broke the quiet. "You know," he said, his tone lighter, "you're going to miss me when I'm gone."

She frowned. "Gone? What are you talking about?"

"When I leave. Next year, it'll just be you and the younger ones. Eve, Theo, Bella—they're all decent enough, I guess, but they're not me."

"You're awfully full of yourself," she said, trying to mask her unease.

He shrugged. "Well, you'll see. Maybe you won't be here either."

Her stomach twisted at his words. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Barty hesitated, his playful grin faltering. "Just... things are changing, Violet. Around here. Out there."

She turned to face him, her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

He bit his lip, as though weighing his next words carefully. Finally, he spoke. "Something bigger than us. Something great."

She didn't like the way he said it—like a secret he couldn't share. "Barty, what are you getting yourself into?"

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the lake. The fading light cast long shadows across the grounds, and the first stars began to glimmer faintly in the sky.

"Don't worry about me," he said finally, his voice soft. "I can take care of myself."

"That's not what I'm worried about," she muttered.

He patted her on the back, his usual smirk returning. "You think too much, Alas. It's going to give you wrinkles."

She shoved him, but the unease lingered. Whatever Barty was involved in, it wasn't harmless.

The sun dipped lower, its golden glow swallowed by the horizon. Shadows stretched across the grounds, and the chill deepened. They cast Lumos and began gathering their things.

Barty was the first to break the silence. "Don't let Dumbledore catch you with these," he said, holding up her pack of cigarettes.

She rolled her eyes. "Go to dinner, Barty. I'll see you tomorrow."

He gave her a lazy wave before turning toward the castle. Violet watched him go, her thoughts swirling with unanswered questions.

The lake, once so calm and steady, seemed darker now, its surface rippling as though disturbed by something unseen.

The creaky door of the Three Broomsticks groaned as Violet stepped inside, the warmth of the tavern enveloping her in stark contrast to the biting chill outside. The hum of conversation, the clinking of mugs, and the crackling fire created a lively atmosphere, but Violet couldn't shake the unease that had settled deep in her chest.

Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Julius. He sat at the table closest to the fireplace, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering flames. He wore all black, his coat draped over the back of his chair, and his wand rested casually on the table beside a nearly empty tankard of butterbeer. His posture was relaxed, but there was something guarded in his expression.

As she approached, he stood and wrapped her in a tight embrace. For a fleeting moment, she felt safe, but the warmth of his hug didn't reach his eyes.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice low and steady. "How are things at Hogwarts?"

Violet pulled back, looking up at him with furrowed brows. "Good, I suppose," she said, her voice carrying an edge. "We have a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Your friend, Tom Riddle."

Julius's expression shifted immediately, his jaw tightening. "Riddle? That's... interesting," he said carefully, sitting back down.

She slid into the seat across from him, her gaze never leaving his face. "You didn't know? Strange. So he's not involved in... your clan?"

The word hung heavy in the air. Julius's fingers curled around his tankard, his knuckles whitening as he forced a casual chuckle. "Clan? What are you talking about, Violet?"

Her lips curled into a bitter smile as she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The clan you had a meeting with in our home. The one you discussed murdering Muggles with. Does that ring any bells?"

Julius's eyes darted around the room, his body tensing. "Keep your voice down," he hissed. "Are you insane?"

"Insane?" she echoed with a dry laugh. "No, Julius, I'm perfectly sane. But I've had enough of the lies. I want to know everything."

He leaned in, his face mere inches from hers, his tone sharp and urgent. "First, you need to tell me what you know. What did you see? Who did you see?"

Violet didn't flinch. "I saw your friends," she said, her voice steady. "You gathered around a hooded man, talking about Nobby Leach and killing innocent Muggles. Does that jog your memory?"

His grip on the tankard tightened, but his face betrayed nothing. "Did you see who the cloaked man was?"

She shook her head. "No. But I know you're involved in something dangerous. Does Riddle have anything to do with this?"

The question hung between them like a storm cloud. Julius's silence was damning. His eyes dropped to the table, his jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might snap.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "No. He doesn't. He's just your professor, Violet. Nothing more."

She didn't believe him. The conviction in his voice was paper-thin, and his refusal to meet her gaze only solidified her doubts.

"Why?" she pressed. "Why are you doing this?"

Julius leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply as he ran a hand through his dark hair. "For a better world," he said, his tone almost pleading. "A pure one."

Her stomach churned. "A better world?" she repeated, her voice trembling with anger. "Julius, people are dying. Innocent people. Do you even hear yourself?"

"It's necessary," he said firmly, his gaze hardening. "You're too young to understand."

"Don't patronize me," she snapped, her voice rising. "You're going to get caught, Julius. You'll be sent to Azkaban, or worse. I can't lose you too."

His expression softened for a moment, and he reached across the table to grip her hand. "You won't lose me," he said quietly. "We're too strong to be defeated."

She yanked her hand away, disgusted. "I'll make sure you get caught if I have to. I won't let you keep doing this."

Julius stood abruptly, pulling on his coat. His movements were sharp, his expression unreadable. "There's no stopping this, Violet," he said, his voice cold. "There's no stopping him."

He didn't wait for her response. As he turned to leave, she called after him, her voice shaking. "Julius!"

He paused but didn't look back. "You're on the wrong side of history," she said, her tone bitter.

Julius hesitated, his shoulders tense. "And you're too naive to see the truth," he muttered before disappearing into the crowded tavern, leaving Violet alone.

She sat there, staring into the fire, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest. She felt like the world was closing in around her, the flames in the hearth flickering like an omen.

The next morning, the library was unusually quiet. Violet sat hunched over the day's Prophet, her trembling hands gripping the edges of the paper.

"Another Attack," the headline screamed, accompanied by a gruesome description of masked wizards and mutilated bodies. A photograph of the Death Eaters stared back at her, their soulless eyes barely visible behind their skeletal masks.

Her stomach churned as she traced the names of the victims, one by one.

A familiar voice broke her trance.

"Miss Alas," Tom said smoothly. "You've been avoiding me."

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle's wicked smile played across his sharp features as he strode down the castle corridors, his polished shoes echoing in the stone halls. Girls' eyes followed him, their giggles rising in his wake as though he had graced them with some unspoken acknowledgment. He didn't bother to hide the contempt in his mind. Foolish little brats. Their transparent admiration disgusted him.

He didn't have classes today, which suited him just fine. The weight of his authority at Hogwarts was a power he relished. The respect he commanded, the fear he cultivated—it all came naturally to him. His classroom was a kingdom of obedience, a place where his words were law and his probing mind could pluck the darkest secrets from his students. The fear in their eyes when he leaned close, when they realized he knew, was intoxicating.

Arriving at his office, he shrugged off his heavy coat and tossed it carelessly onto the battered couch in the corner. With a practiced motion, he rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing the ominous Dark Mark etched into his forearm. It wasn't just a symbol; it was a promise—a mark of ascension.

Tom stared into the mirror hanging on the wall, his reflection illuminated by the flickering candlelight. His expression hardened as he studied himself, his angular features cast in shadow. He took a slow, deep breath. The castle around him felt heavier tonight, as though the very air had been drained. He knew why.

Her.

She had a peculiar way of unsettling him, and Tom hated being unsettled. Women, to him, were tools—pliable, malleable. But Violet wasn't like the others. She was quiet but not timid, sweet but not submissive. There was an edge to her, a flicker of defiance that she tried so hard to hide behind her polite demeanor. It amused him. It intrigued him.

It terrified him.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. He smoothed the faint trace of irritation from his expression, replacing it with the calm, commanding demeanor he wore so easily.

"Enter," he said, his voice measured.

The door creaked open, and there she was. Violet stepped inside hesitantly, her hands clasped in front of her. She avoided his gaze, her wide eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

"Miss Alas," Tom said, his tone deceptively mild. "You've been avoiding my class."

She flinched at his words, her cheeks flushing. "I—I wasn't feeling well, Professor Riddle," she stammered.

"Lying doesn't suit you, Violet." He rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, his imposing height making the space between them feel smaller. "You are one of my brightest students. Skipping my lessons is... disappointing."

She swallowed hard, her eyes finally meeting his. There it was—the defiance flickering behind her nervousness. "I didn't mean to offend you, sir."

"Offend me?" He chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in the sound. "No, Violet, you didn't offend me. But I can't help but wonder... what could possibly compel you to stay away? Fear, perhaps?"

Her silence was answer enough.

Tom allowed the corners of his mouth to curl into a faint, serpentine smile. "There's no need to be afraid of me," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I only want what's best for my students. For you."

Violet shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her robe. "I... I just needed time to think."

"To think," Tom echoed, as though the concept amused him. "Tell me, what were you thinking about, Violet? Or would you prefer I find out for myself?"

Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched. "You wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't I?" he interrupted smoothly. "You know I can. You know I will."

The air in the room seemed to thicken, the oppressive silence pressing down on her like a weight. Violet's pulse quickened, her thoughts a jumble of panic and defiance.

"Enough," Tom said abruptly, his tone sharp. "Sit."

She obeyed without hesitation, sinking into the chair across from his desk. Tom resumed his seat, his piercing gaze never leaving her.

"You're going to make up for your absence," he said, sliding a stack of papers toward her. "You'll help me grade these tonight. Think of it as... a lesson in discipline."

She nodded mutely, reaching for the first essay. The room was silent save for the scratching of quills, but Violet could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move.

Tom's thoughts, however, were far from the mundane task of grading. He was studying her, dissecting her in his mind. She was fragile, yes, but there was strength buried beneath her surface. He would enjoy unraveling it.

The knock at the door shattered the tension.

"Professor Riddle," came a familiar voice. "May I have a word?"

Tom's expression flickered, annoyance flashing in his eyes before he schooled his features into polite neutrality. "Of course, Professor Dumbledore. Come in."

The door opened, and Dumbledore stepped inside, his sharp blue eyes taking in the scene with quiet scrutiny.

"Miss Alas," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "A moment, if you please."

Tom's gaze flicked to Violet, his expression unreadable. "Go," he said, his voice smooth. "We are done here."

Violet rose from her seat, clutching the stack of essays as if they were a shield. She followed Dumbledore into the corridor, her heart pounding in her chest.

Dumbledore turned to her, his expression softening. "Are you all right, my dear?"

"Yes, Professor," she said quickly, though her voice lacked conviction.

He studied her for a moment, his gaze penetrating. "Tom Riddle is a brilliant young man, but brilliance can be... blinding. I trust you'll remember to keep your wits about you."

Violet nodded, unsure of what to say.

"You are strong, Miss Alas," Dumbledore said, his tone more solemn now. "And strength is often tested in ways we do not expect. Should you ever feel... uncertain, you know where to find me."

"Thank you, sir," she said quietly.

As Dumbledore walked away, Violet felt a strange mix of relief and unease. She glanced back toward Tom's office, the door now closed, and shivered.

Inside, Tom sat at his desk, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He'd seen the look Dumbledore had given him, felt the unspoken warning in the old man's gaze.

It didn't matter.

Dumbledore might suspect him, but suspicion wasn't proof. And Violet... she was already halfway under his spell. The soft glow of a single lantern illuminated the room, casting long shadows across his sharp features.

She fascinated him.

It wasn't fascination in the crude, sentimental sense that lesser men might feel. Tom had no use for frivolous emotions like love or affection—those were distractions, weaknesses he had transcended long ago. No, what he felt for Violet was something far more complex, a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and the faintest twinge of irritation.

Violet Alas was unlike anyone else he had encountered at Hogwarts. She wasn't loud or sycophantic, didn't fall over herself to please him as so many others did. Her intelligence was formidable, almost rivaling his own, and there was a quiet defiance in her that intrigued him. Most importantly, she was useful—a pawn that could be cultivated, shaped, and molded into whatever role he required.

But there was something else, something that unsettled him in ways he couldn't quite define.

Tom despised unpredictability, and Violet had introduced a small, irritating measure of it into his carefully ordered world. He could see it in her eyes, the way they sometimes betrayed glimpses of thoughts and emotions she tried to keep hidden. He could feel it in the tension that crackled between them during their conversations, a tension that left him both exhilarated and frustrated.

He leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he let his thoughts wander.

She was a challenge, and Tom relished challenges. Violet's mind was sharp but unguarded, her thoughts easy to read if he focused. And what thoughts they were—filled with contradictions, desires she didn't dare voice aloud, fears she barely understood herself.

He had watched her closely since she first entered his classroom, had studied the way her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked, the way she bit her lip when deep in thought. She was beautiful in a way that was almost incidental, her allure a byproduct of her quiet intensity rather than any deliberate effort.

Tom's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile.

It wasn't her beauty that interested him—though he was not blind to it. What intrigued him was the potential she represented. She was strong, though she didn't yet realize it, and her strength made her dangerous.

Tom liked dangerous things.

There was, of course, the matter of her defiance. Her recent avoidance of his class was unacceptable, a breach of the control he maintained over his students. But it was also... amusing. She thought she could resist him, could distance herself from his influence.

She was wrong.

Tom Riddle did not lose.

Her defiance would be short-lived. He would bring her back into line, but he would do so carefully, subtly. There would be no overt displays of power, no threats or punishments. Such tactics were beneath him and would only serve to fracture the fragile connection he had begun to cultivate.

No, he would use a softer approach, one that would make her think she had a choice, even as he guided her every step.

She would come to him willingly.

Tom's thoughts turned to their earlier meeting, the way she had fidgeted under his gaze, her nervousness mingling with something else—something darker. He had seen the way her pulse quickened, felt the undercurrent of her emotions as they spoke. She was drawn to him, though she would never admit it, not even to herself.

It was inevitable, really.

People were drawn to him, captivated by his charm, his intelligence, his power. Violet was no different, though she liked to think she was. That was what made her so fascinating—the illusion of resistance, the belief that she could maintain her independence.

Tom rose from his chair and moved to the window, staring out at the moonlit grounds below. His reflection in the glass was pale and sharp, a ghostly figure in the darkness.

He thought of Dumbledore, of the knowing look the old fool had given him earlier.

Dumbledore believed himself to be a guardian, a protector of the weak and vulnerable. He saw Violet as someone who needed saving, someone who could be guided away from darkness.

Tom chuckled softly, the sound low and cold.

Dumbledore didn't understand.

There was no saving Violet, no guiding her away from the path she was already on. She was his, though she didn't yet realize it, and he would shape her into something extraordinary.

She would be a weapon, a queen to his king, if only she could be made to see her place.

But he would have to tread carefully. His fascination with her was a weakness, and Tom Riddle did not tolerate weakness—not even in himself.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to focus. Violet was not an equal, not a partner. She was a tool, nothing more.

And yet...

Tom turned away from the window, his expression hardening.

She would bend to his will.

One way or another.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight spilled over the frosty grounds of Hogwarts, but Violet had hardly slept. She lay awake long after her roommates had drifted off, her mind tethered to the events of the previous night. Every time she closed her eyes, Tom's dark gaze loomed in her thoughts, suffused with both menace and allure. She felt trapped in a web of her own making, and though she knew it was wrong, she couldn't stop replaying the way he had smirked at her, as if he already owned her.

The Great Hall buzzed with the lively hum of morning chatter. The long tables were laden with gleaming platters of eggs, toast, sausages, and pitchers of pumpkin juice, their warmth battling the chill that seeped through the ancient stone walls. Snow fell softly outside the high arched windows, and the enchanted ceiling mirrored the overcast sky.

Violet sat among her Slytherin housemates, poking absently at her scrambled eggs. Her appetite had waned with her thoughts tangled up in the events of the previous night. The memory of Tom Riddle's dark eyes, sharp and unwavering, sent a shiver down her spine. Every glance, every word he spoke seemed laced with an intent she couldn't quite decipher—and that terrified her as much as it thrilled her.

"Who are you drooling over this time?" Eve's teasing voice snapped Violet out of her thoughts. Her friend sat across from her, smirking as she slathered jam onto a piece of toast.

"No one," Violet replied hastily, stabbing at a sausage in an attempt to look nonchalant.

"Uh-huh," Eve drawled, clearly unconvinced. "Your face says otherwise. Whoever it is, stop fantasizing and eat before your food turns cold. At least food has a purpose."

The corner of Violet's mouth twitched, and a reluctant laugh escaped her. "You're insufferable."

"And you're transparent," Eve shot back, grinning.

Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of Theo Nott, Barty Crouch Jr., and Bellatrix Black. Theo slid into the seat beside Violet with a theatrical groan, while Barty and Bella jostled for space across the table.

"Morning, ladies," Theo greeted, his brown eyes sparkling mischievously as he immediately snatched a piece of bacon off Violet's plate.

"Morning, thief," Violet said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Get your own food."

"But yours tastes better," he quipped, grinning as he popped the stolen bite into his mouth.

"Better watch it, Nott," came a voice from the Gryffindor table. Gideon Prewett, tall and broad-shouldered, was smirking at him. "That new broom won't save you tomorrow. Prepare to lose."

Theo turned in his seat, raising an eyebrow at the Gryffindor. "Bold words for someone who'll be eating dirt after I fly circles around your pathetic Keeper."

"Oh, please," Gideon shot back. "We'll crush you so thoroughly you won't even make it to the goalposts."

The exchange escalated quickly, with taunts flying back and forth across the Hall. Violet tuned them out, her mind wandering again. Her gaze drifted upward, almost against her will, to the staff table at the head of the Hall.

And there he was.

Tom Riddle sat composed as ever, his black curls framing his pale face like a shadowed portrait. His dark suit was immaculate, the silk of his tie catching the faint light filtering in from the enchanted windows. His plate, as usual, remained untouched, and he sipped leisurely from a goblet of red wine. His manner was calm, poised, yet there was something unnervingly magnetic about him.

He was speaking with Professor Sinistra, his expression pleasant but unreadable. Whatever he said made her laugh—a soft, nervous sound that drew attention to how enthralled she was by him.

Violet's stomach twisted. She knew she shouldn't look, shouldn't let her thoughts linger on him, yet she couldn't stop herself. Her eyes traced the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his long fingers rested lightly on the stem of his goblet. He was unnaturally perfect, as though sculpted by some vindictive deity.

And then he looked at her.

Violet froze, her breath catching in her throat. Their eyes met across the Hall, and she felt as though the world had tilted off its axis. A slow, deliberate smile spread across his lips, and he gave her the faintest wink.

Her heart stuttered. There was a playfulness to the gesture, but beneath it lay a darker undercurrent, one that sent a shiver coursing through her. She quickly averted her gaze, her cheeks burning.

"Violet," Theo said, pulling her attention back to the table. He was grinning at her like he'd caught her in some great secret. "What's got you so distracted this morning?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, her voice sharper than she intended. She picked up her goblet of pumpkin juice and took a long sip, hoping to mask her flustered state.

Eve arched an eyebrow, exchanging a look with Bella, but thankfully neither said anything.

Eve's voice broke her trance again. "Soo... detention with Professor Handsome last night. Spill."

"It was boring," Violet said quickly. She wasn't about to share the truth—that she'd spent half the night alone in his office, grading papers while his voice coiled around her like smoke, warm yet unsettling.

"Sure, boring," Eve teased. "Meanwhile, we made a second-year sprout a tail. Belle's got detention for a month, but it was worth it."

The laughter around her table was distant to Violet. She still felt Tom's gaze lingering on her, even as she left for class.

From his place at the staff table, Tom watched her leave the Great Hall, her figure vanishing into the sea of students. His expression betrayed nothing, but his thoughts were turbulent, his mind dissecting every glance, every interaction.

She had avoided his class the previous day—a deliberate move, no doubt. It amused him to think she believed herself clever enough to evade his notice. Violet Alas was as predictable as the rest, her resistance as transparent as glass.

And yet, there was something about her.

Tom wasn't blind to the pull she had over him, though he would never admit it aloud. She fascinated him in ways he could not quite control. She was stubborn, with a spark of intelligence that set her apart from the mindless adoration of his usual followers. She was drawn to him, of course—everyone was—but she resisted him too, as though trying to maintain some semblance of independence.

It was infuriating.

And intoxicating.

Watching her sit with that insipid Nott boy, laughing and smiling, had ignited something sharp and ugly in him. Jealousy was not an emotion he often entertained, but the idea of someone else laying claim to what was his was intolerable.

Tom's fingers tightened around his glass. He didn't need to act rashly; that would only undermine his control. Patience was his weapon, and he wielded it masterfully. Violet would come to him willingly.

***

The snowfall was steady as Violet walked alone toward the Three Broomsticks. She tugged her scarf tighter around her neck, the cold biting at her exposed cheeks. Despite the beauty of the winter twilight, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

She turned, scanning the empty path behind her. Nothing.

"Get a grip," she muttered to herself.

Inside the pub, the warmth and chatter were a welcome reprieve. She spotted Theo almost immediately and smiled as he greeted her with a hug. For a while, she managed to lose herself in their conversation, laughing at his jokes and sipping her butterbeer.

But then, the door opened.

Tom entered with his usual poise, his dark presence drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the room. He strode past their table, his eyes brushing over her like a phantom touch.

"Evening, Professor," Theo said casually.

Tom's smile was thin, his voice smooth. "How sweet. A date, is it?"

"Yes, we—" Violet began, but his gaze pinned her in place, and her words faltered.

"What day is it, Miss Alas?" he asked.

"Friday?" she said, confused.

His smirk deepened. "Indeed. Detention. My office. Eight o'clock."

The color drained from her face. She had forgotten.

"Yes, Professor," she mumbled.

Tom inclined his head and moved to a table near the bar. He sat alone, nursing a glass of Firewhisky and reading the Daily Prophet. Violet tried to focus on Theo, but her eyes kept straying to Tom. The tension in her chest tightened like a vice.

From his vantage point, Tom watched her laugh with Theo, her smile bright and unguarded. The sight infuriated him. She had no right to look at anyone else that way.

He had seen enough.

She would come to him tonight, and he would remind her who truly held control.

***

The warm glow of the Three Broomsticks seemed to fade as Violet's mind replayed the tension between her and Professor Riddle. She barely registered Theo's voice until he tapped the table in front of her.

"Do you want to?" he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly in mock frustration.

"Huh? I- what did you say?" Violet stammered, blinking herself back to the present.

Theo sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Do you want to meet up with Eve, Bella, and Barty? Or should I leave you here to keep daydreaming about... whatever—or whoever—has you so distracted?"

Violet flushed, cursing inwardly. "Oh, shut up, Nott. Let's go," she replied, grabbing her things. A warm smile softened her tone as she added, "Sorry for zoning out. Lead the way."

As they walked toward the Shrieking Shack, snow crunched softly beneath their boots, and their breaths misted in the chilly air. The night wrapped around them like a velvet cloak, the glow of the village fading behind. The twisted silhouette of the infamous haunted house loomed ahead, its weathered wood and gnarled edges like something out of a dark fairy tale.

"You'd think we'd pick a cozier hangout spot," Theo muttered, shivering slightly.

"Oh, don't be a baby," Violet teased, nudging him with her elbow. "It's atmospheric. Perfect for us."

"Perfect for Barty's terrible ghost stories, maybe," Theo shot back with a grin.

When they pushed open the creaking door, the Shack seemed eerily quiet, the kind of silence that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"Hello? Guys?" Violet called, her voice echoing faintly in the empty space.

No response.

Theo frowned, glancing around. "This isn't funny!" he yelled, though the slight waver in his tone suggested he wasn't entirely at ease.

Violet's pulse quickened, a small knot of unease forming in her stomach. What if something had happened? The world outside Hogwarts wasn't safe anymore, not even for purebloods.

Suddenly, the closet door burst open, and Barty leaped out with a roar.

"Barty!" Violet shrieked, jumping behind Theo so quickly she nearly knocked him over. Theo let out a strangled yelp, raising his hands as though surrendering to an unseen enemy.

"You absolute git!" Theo bellowed, his voice cracking slightly in indignation. "You'd let me die, wouldn't you?"

Violet, shaking with laughter, clung to Theo's arm for support. "Oh, stop whining, you weren't even in any danger," she managed between giggles.

Barty doubled over with laughter, clutching his stomach. "Admit it! That was brilliant!"

"I'll hex you, you bloody moron!" Violet yelled, lunging at him. Barty scrambled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet as she chased him around the room.

"Violet! It was just a harmless joke! Have some humor!" he pleaded, dodging her attempts to grab his arm.

"Harmless? My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, you lunatic!" she shot back, finally catching him and shoving him to the floor. They rolled around in a tangle of limbs until Violet pinned him, her triumphant smirk firmly in place.

"Punk," she declared, poking him in the chest.

Barty looked up at her with mock innocence. "Yes, princess?"

Violet snorted and punched him lightly in the arm before standing, brushing dust off her robes.

The rest of the group emerged from the shadows, laughing uncontrollably. Eve, leaning against the decrepit wall, clapped sarcastically. "Well done, Violet. You've single-handedly restored order to this deranged group."

"You should've expected this from them," Eve added, hugging Violet briefly as the laughter subsided.

"I don't know why I ever think they'll act normal," Violet said, shaking her head.

Bellatrix, who had been sitting cross-legged on the rickety floor, smirked. "Normal is overrated. Now, who's ready to make the night interesting?"

The group settled into a circle near the cold hearth, pulling out snacks and a contraband bottle of Firewhisky. The flames of their wands illuminated the room, casting flickering shadows on the warped wooden walls.

They started with stories, each one more outrageous than the last. Barty recounted a tale about a cursed cauldron that allegedly turned its owner into a toad, embellishing the details so wildly that Violet couldn't stop laughing.

Eve, ever the skeptic, rolled her eyes. "If you think I believe a word of that nonsense, you're mad."

Barty grinned. "You're just jealous you don't have my gift for storytelling."

"Gift for lying, more like," she shot back.

Theo, meanwhile, took on the role of the group's self-appointed bartender, pouring Firewhisky into mismatched cups. He handed one to Violet with a flourish. "For you, our fearless ghost hunter."

"Oh, shut up," Violet said, laughing as she took the cup.

Hours passed as they experimented with harmless spells, turning the room into a chaotic but oddly cozy haven. Violet felt her earlier worries melt away, replaced by the warmth of camaraderie and the comfort of being with people who felt like family.

For a moment, it was as though the outside world didn't exist—no Death Eaters, no wars, no forbidden tension with a certain professor.

Violet realized with a pang that she'd completely forgotten about her detention with Riddle. A sinking feeling settled in her chest, but she pushed it aside. Tonight had been worth it.

For now, at least, she was free.

Chapter Text

Violet woke to the sensation of icy air biting at her skin. Her fingers were numb, and her cheeks stung with the beginnings of frostbite. She blinked groggily, her breath clouding in front of her face, and realized she was lying on the cold, uneven floor of the Shrieking Shack. A woolen jacket had been draped over her shoulders, its coarse fabric rough against her neck.

As she stirred, groaning softly, she became aware of the soft sounds of snoring around her. Her friends were sprawled in various states of disarray, Theo's arm flung over his face, and Eve curled up like a cat with her cloak pulled tight around her. Belle and Barty were entangled in an awkward heap near the hearth.

She nudged Theo first, his face scrunching as he blearily opened his eyes. "What the hell...?" he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his temples.

"We fell asleep," Violet whispered, her voice hushed as the reality of their situation sank in. She glanced at her watch, its hands trembling slightly in the early morning cold. "It's six. We've got three and a half hours before class starts. We need to get back to the castle—now."

Eve bolted upright at the mention of the time, her perfect Head Girl composure cracking for a moment. "Six? Oh, Merlin, we're doomed! We'll be caught for sure!"

"Relax," Theo muttered, stifling a yawn. "We've got time. No one's up this early."

"That's what you think," Eve shot back, already pulling on her boots. "Filch and Mrs. Norris live for moments like this. Get up, all of you. Move it!"

As the group groggily rose, Theo approached Violet, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets. "Yours?" he asked, nodding toward the jacket still draped over her shoulders.

"Oh!" Violet flushed, suddenly aware of its warmth. "No, of course, it's not mine. It's yours, isn't it?"

He shrugged, a hint of bashfulness in his expression. "Keep it if you're cold. It's fine."

Violet hesitated, her fingers gripping the edges of the jacket. Theo was never like this—usually, he was cocky, sharp-tongued, and unbothered by anyone's feelings. This moment of unexpected sweetness caught her off guard.

"No, no," she said quickly, holding it out to him. "Here, take it back. I'm fine now."

Theo accepted it without protest, but the exchange didn't go unnoticed by the others. Belle and Eve exchanged knowing looks, their eyebrows raised in silent commentary. Violet rolled her eyes. Whatever they thought, it wasn't like that.

After shaking off the last traces of sleep, the group slipped out of the Shrieking Shack through the secret passage under the Whomping Willow. The tunnel was damp and cold, and their breaths echoed faintly as they hurried toward the castle. When they emerged, dawn was breaking, casting a faint golden glow over the frost-covered grounds.

"This part is easy," Violet murmured as they reached the castle's shadow. "Now it gets tricky."

"How do five of us get past Filch, Mrs. Norris, and McGonagall?" Eve asked, her voice tight with worry.

Barty grinned, his mischievous nature surfacing. "Leave that to me."

"What are you planning?" Violet asked warily, already regretting the question.

"Don't worry about it," he said with a wink. "I'm prepared to sacrifice myself for the greater good."

Before anyone could stop him, Barty took off toward the dungeons, his voice echoing through the halls. "MINNIE! Where are youuuu?"

The rest of the group froze, staring after him in disbelief.

"He didn't," Eve whispered, horrified.

"He did," Theo confirmed, smirking. "Come on. While he's distracting her."

They moved quickly and quietly, darting through shadowed corridors and avoiding the most well-trodden paths. From a distance, they could hear McGonagall's sharp voice shouting after Barty.

"MISTER CROUCH, STOP THIS INSTANT!"

Violet couldn't help but laugh, though her heart pounded with the thrill of nearly being caught. By the time they reached the common room, Barty was already there, lounging on a sofa and grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Made it," he said smugly, winking at Theo.

"You're impossible," Eve muttered, shaking her head as she climbed the stairs to their dormitory.

Once they were safely inside, Violet let out a long breath, sinking onto her bed. Belle had already collapsed onto hers, pulling the covers over her head, and Eve was muttering something about a hot shower.

As Violet shifted to get more comfortable, she felt something crumpled beneath her. A small, folded piece of parchment. She frowned, smoothing it out.

The words were scrawled in dark, deliberate handwriting:

Come to my room. Now.
—Riddle

Her stomach tightened. She stuffed the note into her pocket, her mind racing. Why was he summoning her so early? Surely, it was about the detention she'd missed—but why the urgency?

Quietly, Violet slipped out of the dormitory. The castle was beginning to stir, the early risers making their way to breakfast, but the corridors were still mostly empty. Riddle's quarters weren't far, and she reached them quickly, though her nerves grew with every step.

When she reached his door, she hesitated, raising her hand to knock. Before her knuckles met the wood, the door swung open.

He stood there, his usual composed appearance conspicuously absent. His dark hair was unkempt, curling slightly over his forehead, and his tie hung loose around his neck. His shirt was wrinkled and partially unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of pale skin. His eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

"Morning, Professor," Violet said, her voice steadier than she felt. "You called me?"

Riddle didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept over her, as if assessing every detail. "Where were you last night?" he asked, his tone low but edged with irritation.

"I... I forgot about detention. I'm sorry," she admitted, feeling small under his scrutiny.

"That's not what I asked," he said sharply, stepping closer. "Where. Were. You?"

Violet hesitated, unsure why it mattered so much. "At the Shrieking Shack. With friends."

"Nott?" he asked, his voice cool but laced with something she couldn't quite place.

"Yes," she said cautiously.

His jaw tightened, and he turned away, pacing the room. The air between them crackled with tension, unspoken words hanging heavy.

"I don't want you spending time with him anymore," he said finally, his voice firm.

Violet bristled. "You can't tell me what to do."

He stopped, his dark eyes burning as he looked at her. "Oh, but I can, doll."

He got closer to her, and as he took a step toward her, she instinctively stepped back. It was a dance of hesitance and dominance until her back met the cold, unforgiving wall. Tom loomed over her, tall and imposing, his dark eyes capturing hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. She had to tilt her head to look up at him, his face unreadable yet magnetic. He slowly placed a hand on her waist, his touch both firm and possessive, drawing her closer. The space between them diminished until only inches remained, the tension almost unbearable.

His fingers brushed over her lips, sending a shiver through her. The longing between them was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the forbidden desire that tied them together. For Tom, this yearning was unlike anything he had ever known—raw, unrelenting, and wholly consuming. He had always lusted for power, but this... this was something deeper, something he couldn't control, and it infuriated him.

As he closed the distance, his lips grazing hers in a fleeting, teasing moment, he bit her bottom lip gently, as though testing her resolve. Violet froze, her mind racing. This was wrong—so, so wrong. But when his lips claimed hers with a fierce, unyielding hunger, she melted into the moment. Her hands found their way to his thick curls, tangling in them as he lifted her effortlessly against the wall. His body pressed against hers, commanding and relentless, as if he wanted to imprint this moment into her very being.

Time seemed to stretch as they lost themselves in each other, their boundaries dissolving into the intensity of their connection. But as Violet's trembling hands clung to him, she felt the weight of their reality crashing back. This couldn't happen—it was dangerous, forbidden. Yet, as she pulled back slightly to speak, he silenced her with a finger against her lips, his voice a low whisper.

"Shh," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "It'll be our little secret."

Tom carried her to the bed, their passion reigniting, but as the minutes ticked by and dawn approached, a change came over him. He disentangled himself from her with an abruptness that left Violet confused and yearning. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, the warmth in his expression replaced by a cold detachment.

"Doll, as much as I would like to indulge this... distraction," he said, his voice clipped and sharp, "I have responsibilities. And so do you."

She blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift. "Tom, I—"

He cut her off with a raised hand, his gaze piercing as he turned to face her. The warmth she had seen moments ago was gone, replaced by the calculated iciness that defined him. "You need to leave," he said bluntly. "We both have appearances to maintain."

The words stung more than they should have. Violet scrambled to her feet, fumbling to straighten her clothes. "Was this all just... a game to you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

His lips curled into a smirk, but it lacked humor. "Do you think so little of yourself, Violet?" he replied, standing to his full height, his presence overwhelming. "I don't play games. But you need to understand that what happened here does not change who I am—or who you are."

She stared at him, searching for any trace of the man who had held her so tenderly just moments ago. Instead, she found only the cold, unyielding professor—the man who had a plan for everything and let nothing, not even his own desires, stand in his way.

"I don't want you around Theo anymore," he added suddenly, his voice like ice. "I won't repeat myself."

Her brow furrowed, anger flaring within her. "You don't get to tell me who I can or can't spend time with," she shot back, her defiance breaking through her confusion.

Tom stepped closer, his expression darkening. "I do," he said simply. "Because you belong to me now."

The weight of his words hung in the air, suffocating and undeniable. Violet opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a look that made her blood run cold. He reached for her face, cupping her chin with a gentleness that belied the steel in his gaze.

"You'll understand soon enough," he said softly, his voice almost tender. "Now go."

Violet hesitated for a moment, her emotions warring within her. But the intensity of his stare left no room for argument. She turned and left his quarters, the echo of the door closing behind her feeling like the slam of a cage.

As she walked the empty corridors back to her dormitory, her mind raced. What had she gotten herself into? And why, despite everything, did part of her crave the fire she had just escaped? Tom Riddle was a dangerous man, and she had just willingly stepped into his world.

And she wasn't sure she'd ever find her way out.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet in the dim light of early evening, the echoes of students' chatter and footsteps fading into the distance. Violet walked briskly, clutching her books close to her chest, her mind restless with thoughts of Tom. He had been distant these past days, his warmth flickering like a dying flame. It left her unsettled, yearning for clarity in the tangled web of emotions he stirred within her.

As she turned the corner near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, a hand shot out from the shadows, gripping her wrist with enough force to halt her stride. She gasped, her books tumbling to the floor with a thud. Before she could react, Tom Riddle's cold, commanding presence enveloped her. He pulled her into the empty classroom and shut the door with a quiet click, the sound sending a shiver down her spine.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the high windows.

"What—what are you doing?" Violet stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She tried to steady her breathing, but her pulse raced as he stepped closer.

Tom's expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on her like a predator's gaze. He didn't answer, instead letting the silence hang heavy between them. He reached up, his fingers brushing a stray strand of her hair away from her face. The gesture was deceptively tender, but his touch lingered, cold and possessive.

"You've been spending too much time with others," he finally said, his voice low and smooth, though a dangerous edge undercut his words. "It's... distracting."

"Distracting?" Violet blinked, her confusion evident.

"For you. And for me." His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile, and before she could form a response, he stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between them. His hands came to rest on her arms, firm but not harsh, holding her in place as though she might flee.

Violet's breath hitched. She should have been angry, should have demanded answers or pushed him away. Instead, she stood frozen, her heart betraying her with its rapid beat.

"Tom, I—"

Her words were cut off as his lips crashed against hers. The kiss was far from gentle; it was demanding, almost punishing, as though he needed to remind her who she belonged to. Violet's books lay forgotten on the floor as her hands instinctively gripped his robes, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.

His lips moved with a fervent intensity, his hands sliding up to cup her face, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. The cold wall pressed against her back, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to sink into the storm of his touch. But as quickly as it began, it was over.

Tom pulled away, leaving her breathless and disoriented. He didn't say a word, didn't offer an explanation. He simply straightened his robes and turned on his heel, leaving her standing there, her lips tingling and her heart aching with the void he left behind. The door closed softly behind him, the sound echoing in the empty classroom like a final punctuation mark.

The next morning, Violet sat in the front row of Tom's classroom, her hands trembling slightly as she arranged her parchment and quill. She couldn't focus, her mind replaying the events of the previous evening in an endless loop. Tom entered the room with his usual measured stride, his expression a mask of cold authority. He didn't spare her a glance as he began the lecture.

"Today, we will discuss the theoretical applications of nonverbal spells in dueling scenarios," he announced, his voice smooth and commanding.

As he spoke, his gaze roved over the students, lingering on Violet for the briefest moment. It was a flicker of acknowledgment, so subtle that no one else would have noticed, but it sent a shiver through her. She felt as though he were stripping her bare with that single look, exposing her secrets to the empty air.

Throughout the class, Tom's interactions with Violet were precise and deliberate. When he approached her desk to review her notes, his hand brushed hers for an instant—a fleeting, deliberate touch that sent a jolt through her. His voice softened fractionally when addressing her, the tiniest trace of warmth slipping through the cracks of his cold exterior. These gestures were so minute, so expertly woven into his otherwise impassive demeanor, that Violet found herself questioning whether she imagined them.

Near the end of the lesson, Tom's sharp gaze settled on her. "Miss Alas, stay behind after class," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The rest of the students filed out, their chatter fading as the door closed behind them. Violet remained seated, her heart pounding as Tom moved to the front of the room, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the desks.

He stood in silence for a moment, regarding her with an intensity that made her feel small and exposed. Finally, he spoke. "You're distracted," he said, his voice low and measured. "That won't do."

"I'm not distracted," Violet protested, though her voice betrayed her uncertainty.

Tom's lips curved into a faint smirk, one that didn't reach his eyes. He moved closer, his presence oppressive as he leaned against the desk in front of her. "Lying doesn't suit you, Violet."

Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I need your focus. Your loyalty," he murmured, his voice like velvet laced with steel.

Violet nodded, unable to find her voice. His hand lingered for a moment before he withdrew, the loss of his touch leaving her colder than she expected.

"Good," he said simply, straightening and moving away. "You may go."

The dismissal was abrupt, leaving Violet feeling as though she had been pulled into a whirlwind only to be unceremoniously cast aside. As she gathered her things and left the classroom, she couldn't shake the sensation that Tom's gaze followed her, a ghostly presence lingering even in his absence.

The door to the classroom clicked shut behind her, but the weight of the moment she'd just endured pressed against Violet like a storm she couldn't shake. She hurried down the dim corridor, her footsteps echoing as if mocking her racing thoughts.

His lips had been on hers again. His hands had steadied her trembling body, pulling her closer as if she belonged to him. And then, just as quickly as he had consumed her, he had stepped back into his mask of cold indifference, dismissing her like she was nothing.

Violet's fingers brushed against her lips, still tingling from his kiss. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin as if it had seared her. The way his dark eyes had looked at her, like he was on the verge of devouring her and abandoning her all at once—it terrified her. But more unsettling than her fear was the truth she couldn't deny.

She wanted more.

Her legs carried her automatically to the library, a refuge she often sought when the world felt overwhelming. But even surrounded by the familiar scent of parchment and leather-bound books, she couldn't focus. Every word blurred into meaningless shapes on the page as her mind replayed his touch, his voice, the brief flicker of something unguarded in his expression before he turned away.

Was she imagining it? Or had he felt it too?

The rest of the day dragged on in fragments of awkward smiles and half-hearted conversations with her friends. Belle teased her about being distracted, and even Barty asked if she was feeling well. She brushed them off, her thoughts too consumed by the enigma that was Professor Riddle.

When she finally retreated to her dormitory that evening, Violet curled up by the window, the frost painting delicate patterns on the glass. She gazed out at the dark grounds, wondering if he was still awake in his office, pouring over some ancient tome or plotting whatever it was that occupied his mind.

"Why does it feel like I'm losing myself?" she whispered to the silence of her room.

But the silence offered no answers, only the steady beat of her heart and the aching pull that refused to let her go.

Hours after Violet had left his classroom, Tom stood by the tall window in his office, his hands clasped behind his back. The fire had long since burned out, and the chill of the room was a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered in his veins.

She had no idea what she was doing to him.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was just another pawn, a young, impressionable girl who could be molded to his will. Yet, every time she walked into his classroom, the world seemed to shift slightly on its axis.

Her presence was like a quiet storm—subtle, unassuming, but impossible to ignore. And when she looked at him, her eyes full of trust and something dangerously close to adoration, it stirred something deep within him that he didn't understand.

Tom turned sharply, pacing the room as his thoughts warred with one another. He had spent years eradicating the softness in himself, crushing anything that resembled humanity in pursuit of power. Empathy, affection, love—these were chains designed to shackle great men.

But Violet Alas was slipping through the cracks he hadn't realized existed.

The memory of her lips on his haunted him. The way she yielded to him so completely, so willingly—it ignited something primal and possessive in him. He wanted her in a way that defied logic, and that terrified him. Because wanting her meant she had power over him, and power over him meant she could destroy him.

Tom sank into his chair, his fingers digging into the armrests. He couldn't allow himself to feel this way. Not for her. Not for anyone. But the harder he tried to push her from his mind, the deeper she burrowed in.

His control was slipping, and it infuriated him.

Yet, amidst the fury and confusion, there was a small, traitorous part of him that longed for her. A part of him that wanted to feel her warmth again, to drown in the softness of her voice, to taste the innocence that had no place in his dark world.

He let out a slow, measured breath, his expression hardening. This was dangerous. He was dangerous. And Violet Alas didn't belong in his plans.

But even as he resolved to distance himself, he knew it was already too late.

The frost on his window shimmered faintly in the moonlight, and for the first time in years, Tom Riddle felt something he couldn't name.

And it terrified him.

Chapter Text

The cold December air hung heavy over Hogwarts, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and the tang of snow, yet beneath the festive atmosphere lurked an air of unease. The Great Hall was adorned with glittering garlands and towering Christmas trees, each decorated uniquely by the professors and students. Candles floated overhead, their warm glow contrasting the frost-covered windows. The smell of cinnamon and freshly baked mince pies wafted through the castle corridors, blending with the earthy scent of burning logs from the common room fireplaces.

Yet, despite the festive cheer, a shadow loomed over the magical world. News of the Death Eaters' growing attacks spread like wildfire. The most recent massacre in a small village near Hogsmeade left the community rattled. Thirteen dead, their bodies discovered in various states of terror, and a handful of survivors too broken to speak coherently. The Dark Mark had lit the night sky, a foreboding omen that left no doubt about who was responsible.

Night before

Tom Riddle stood on the outskirts of the small village, his dark robes blending seamlessly with the night. His pale face was illuminated by the faint moonlight, giving him an almost spectral quality. His followers surrounded him—Rosier, Nott, Julius, and a young, eager Barty Crouch Jr.—each wearing masks to conceal their identities. They awaited his command, their wands gripped tightly, their breaths visible in the cold air.

"Tonight is not simply about death," Tom began, his voice smooth and commanding, slicing through the silence like a blade. "It is about sending a message." He turned to the group, his sharp gaze piercing even through their masks. "Fear is our greatest weapon, and we will wield it masterfully. Make it known that resistance to purity is futile."

His followers nodded, eager to please. With a wave of his wand, Tom led the charge. The wedding festivities were in full swing, laughter and music spilling out from the grand marquee erected in the village square. It was a celebration of love, of unity—everything Tom despised. He'd chosen this event deliberately. It was the perfect stage.

Rosier and Nott struck first, sending explosive hexes that tore through the marquee's fabric, plunging the gathering into chaos. Guests screamed, tables overturned, and the bride and groom stood frozen in horror. Tom stepped forward, his presence commanding, his voice ringing out above the din.

"Silence!" he hissed, amplifying his voice with a flick of his wand. The crowd stilled, their fear palpable. "You have gathered here in defiance of the natural order. Bloodlines tainted, traditions discarded. This is your reckoning."

With a cruel smile, he turned to the bride. "Such a pity," he said softly, raising his wand. "Avada Kedavra." The bride crumpled, her lifeless body hitting the ground with a dull thud. Gasps and sobs erupted from the crowd as Tom's followers moved swiftly, targeting those who dared resist.

Julius's face was set in a grim mask of determination as he carried out his leader's orders. Barty, however, was almost gleeful, his spells crackling with overzealous energy. Tom observed them all with cold detachment, ensuring their actions aligned with his grand design. He moved with precision, eliminating targets that posed the greatest threat, but never engaging more than necessary. His presence alone was enough to instill terror.

When the massacre was complete, Tom raised his wand to the sky, conjuring the Dark Mark. The skull and serpent illuminated the night, a chilling promise of what was to come. He turned to his followers, his voice low but resolute. "Leave one alive. Let them tell the tale."

***

Back at Hogwarts, the air was heavy with the news of the attack. Violet, unaware of Tom's involvement, found herself increasingly drawn to him. His presence was magnetic, his words a salve to her growing fears. They spent hours in his office, the dim candlelight casting long shadows on the walls as he worked and she watched him with a mix of admiration and longing.

It was late afternoon, and Violet found herself once again in Tom's office. She sat on the armchair by the flickering fire, her legs tucked beneath her, watching him as he leaned over his desk. The room smelled of aged parchment and faint traces of his cologne. He'd rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms that flexed with every turn of the quill in his hand. She didn't realize she was staring until he spoke.

"Are you going to just sit there all evening, doll, or do you plan to contribute to my work?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of amusement.

"I'm not sure how I could contribute," Violet replied softly, her voice steady despite the slight blush rising to her cheeks. "You're far better at all of this than I could ever hope to be."

Tom's gaze lifted from his parchment, locking onto hers. For a moment, he said nothing, as if weighing her words. Then, a rare and faint smile curved his lips. "You're smarter than you realize. You just don't trust yourself yet."

The compliment caught her off guard. Tom Riddle was not the kind of man to dole out praise lightly. She bit her lip, unsure how to respond, and settled for a quiet, "Thank you."

He turned back to his work, but she could feel the shift in the air between them. It wasn't much, but it was enough to remind her of the man she thought he could be—someone who was more than the cold, calculating exterior he showed to the world.

"What are you thinking about, doll?" Tom's voice broke the silence, pulling her back from her thoughts. He was standing now, leaning against the edge of the desk, his arms crossed as he watched her.

"The murders," she admitted quietly, her gaze dropping to her hands. "The Death Eaters, everything feels so wrong. It's like the world is falling apart."

Tom's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He stepped closer, crouching in front of her so they were at eye level. His hand reached out, brushing a stray tear from her cheek.

"Why waste your thoughts on something you can't control?" he asked, his voice low and soothing. "You're safe here. I'll make sure nothing touches you."

***

As the Christmas break approached, the castle buzzed with excitement. The halls were filled with laughter and the sound of students packing their trunks. Violet, however, felt a pang of sadness at the thought of leaving Tom.

On the morning of her departure, she made her way to his office. She found him seated at his desk, poring over a stack of parchment.

"I came to say goodbye," she said softly, stepping inside. He looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. For a moment, he said nothing, then rose and approached her.

"Already?" he murmured, his voice tinged with an emotion she couldn't quite place. "I thought I had more time with you."

She blushed, her heart racing. "I'll... I'll miss you," she admitted.

Without warning, he leaned down and kissed her, a slow, lingering kiss that left her breathless. When he pulled back, his expression was unreadable.

"Go," he said softly. "And don't forget me."

She nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and left the room, the scent of him—a mix of parchment and something dark and intoxicating—lingering on her skin.

***

As the Hogwarts Express sped through the snowy countryside, Violet sat in a compartment with her friends, her thoughts consumed by Tom. Barty's chatter faded into the background as she stared out the window, the landscape blurring past. She clutched the small locket Tom had given her weeks ago, a talisman of his presence.

For now, she was safe. But the world outside the train was changing, and she couldn't shake the feeling that her life—and her connection to Tom—would never be the same.

Chapter Text

The train lurched to a halt, its screeching brakes tearing through the stillness of the station. The rhythmic chugging of its engines echoed through the cavernous emptiness of Platform 9 ¾, a sound that once spoke of adventure, now merely a harbinger of something darker. Violet stirred groggily, her eyelids heavy from the sudden wakefulness that had been thrust upon her by Barty. She blinked, adjusting to the dim light that flickered from the tired old lampposts, their glow casting long, jittery shadows across the station.

Once bustling with families and the excitement of young students embarking on their journeys, the platform now felt abandoned, eerily quiet. The cold seemed to hang in the air, and the faint smells of cigarettes and alcohol mingled, giving the place a rank, forgotten aura. The wind kicked up, swirling crumpled newspapers and discarded wrappers like ghosts of happier days. Only a few parents stood in the distance, huddled under the shadows of the station's arches, waiting for their children's arrival. But there were fewer of them than Violet had expected, and their silence was as unsettling as the lack of sound from the station's usual lively chatter. It felt as if the very essence of joy had been sucked from the place, leaving only the cold grip of something sinister behind.

Barty left to retrieve his luggage, muttering something about business in the city. He told Violet to leave without him, and after a brief, terse goodbye, she was alone. She wandered further into the darkened station, her footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness. Her gaze darted around, searching for him. Julius.

Her heart quickened as she saw him, standing near the far corner of the platform. At first, she didn't recognize him. His figure, tall and impossibly thin, seemed to stretch into the shadows. The sharp angles of his face were even more pronounced than the last time she'd seen him, his gaunt cheeks casting long shadows under his pale skin. His dark hair was disheveled, falling in unruly waves that framed a face that could have belonged to a model—handsome, but in an unsettling, almost eerie way. His pale blue eyes, cold as the winter night, scanned his watch with an intensity that sent a chill down Violet's spine.

His hands were trembling slightly, and a faint wisp of smoke curled from the cigar in his mouth, blending with the mist that seemed to rise from the ground around him. There was a restlessness to him now, an edge of tension that hadn't been there before. He was different. The last time she'd seen him, he was a brother she could depend on, someone who cared for her, even if he was distant. Now, he looked like something else entirely. He looked like a man who had seen the other side of the world—a man who had already walked through the gates of death and come back, changed forever.

Violet felt her breath catch in her throat as she stood frozen, unsure of how to approach him. She knew what he had become, who he really was now. He was no longer the brother who had taken care of her when they were children. He was one of them—the death that stalked the streets of London, a harbinger of darkness and destruction.

She could feel the weight of her knowledge pressing on her chest, the gnawing question of whether she should tell Dumbledore about Julius. The lives she could save, the people who would be spared, if only she acted. But could she? No matter what he had become, Violet loved him. He had raised her, fed her, protected her from the world when she was too small to understand it. She owed him everything.

But even love had its limits. And she prayed, desperately, that he wouldn't cross that line.

"Hey..." Her voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper. Her throat felt dry, her heart hammering in her chest. "...I'm here."

Julius's eyes lifted from his watch, and for the briefest moment, Violet could see the flicker of recognition in his gaze. His lips curled into a smile, though it was not the warm, affectionate smile of the brother she once knew. It was a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, one that seemed rehearsed and cold.

"Hey, little sister." His voice was smooth, laced with something she couldn't quite place. "Won't you give your big brother a hug? Surely you missed me."

He stepped forward, his movements graceful, almost predatory. He enveloped her in his arms, pulling her close. The hug lasted a moment too long, the tension between them palpable. It lacked the warmth it should have held—like a gesture he was required to perform, but one that he had long since emptied of its meaning.

Violet pulled back slightly, her eyes darting over him, searching for any clue that might explain the unease swirling in her gut. His coat was drenched in water, yet there was no rain outside. It was odd—unnatural. But as she watched him, she began to notice other things. His eyes, the way they flickered as if they were calculating something, sizing her up. His fingers, gripping her shoulder with a strength that almost felt like it could crush bone.

Then, as he spoke again, his hand raised in a fluid motion, and Violet caught sight of it. A dark stain on his sleeve. Blood. Fresh blood, dark and sticky, smeared across the fabric of his right arm. It trailed down his hand as he gestured, a faint crimson streak marking his pale skin.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she took an instinctive step back, her mind racing. The blood, the tension in his posture, the unnerving way he spoke—it all pointed to one thing: Julius had changed. And the person he had become was not someone she could easily recognize, or trust. The person before her was someone dangerous, someone she could no longer ignore. And Violet had to decide, in that moment, just how far her love for him would carry her.

"I have a few things to do and then we'll head home," Julius said, his voice cold, detached. He didn't even look at her as he spoke, his eyes focused somewhere far off, lost in thoughts that Violet didn't understand. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he grabbed a pinch of Floo powder and tossed it into the fire. The flames roared to life, swirling green, and in a moment, they were swept away from the station.

They stumbled out into Diagon Alley, but it wasn't the bustling, vibrant place Violet remembered. It was empty—eerily so. The usually crowded cobblestone streets, teeming with children rushing to buy their school supplies, were now quiet. Silent. The shops that were once colorful and inviting had fallen into a strange disrepair. Half of them were boarded up, thick layers of dusty newspapers covering their windows, while others were completely destroyed. Some had burned down entirely, their blackened shells still smoldering faintly. The air was thick with the lingering scent of ash, and there was a sense of abandonment hanging heavily in the atmosphere.

Violet's heart sank. This was not right. Diagon Alley had always been a place of comfort, a symbol of magic's lively pulse, but now it felt like a ghost town. The flickering street lamps cast long shadows, stretching across the deserted street like fingers creeping out from the darkness.

Julius was ahead of her, striding forward with his long, confident steps. He moved with purpose, barely acknowledging the few figures they passed, some of whom had their heads down, avoiding any eye contact. He quickened his pace, stepping nimbly around people who crossed his path, and then turned sharply into a small, narrow street to the left. Violet hesitated for a moment, her instincts screaming at her to stop, but she followed him, her curiosity overwhelming her fear.

The alley they entered was dark and suffocating. It was so narrow that she had to pull her arms in close to her body, brushing up against the walls as she walked. The temperature dropped noticeably, and she could feel an unnatural chill seeping into her bones. The air seemed heavier here, as though it carried a weight, a danger that lingered in every shadow.

Violet's heart beat faster, and a feeling of dread settled in her stomach. She had never been down this part of Diagon Alley, but somehow, she knew exactly where she was. The realization hit her like a slap across the face. Knockturn Alley. The very name sent a shiver down her spine. A place where only those who walked in the dark side of magic ventured—wizards and witches who dabbled in the darkest of arts. Black magic. Forbidden magic.

The passage was more crowded than the eerily empty streets of Diagon Alley. The shops were open, their windows bright with gaudy lights, and the people who passed by wore expressions of cold indifference. No one here seemed to care about the crumbling world around them. They all greeted Julius with respect—some with a subtle nod, others with a polite bow. Every one of them spoke the same words as they passed, their voices laced with reverence and fear. "Mr. Alas," they would say, their heads bowing slightly. "Mr. Alas," a few of them would whisper as they hurried on their way, clearly not wanting to linger in his presence.

Julius walked through them with the air of someone who belonged here, his gaze unflinching as he ignored the pleasantries. He was at home in this place, his every movement oozing authority, power. Violet had never felt more out of place in her life.

Finally, they stopped in front of a small, old shop with a sign hanging crookedly above the door: Cobb & Webb's. The building looked so ancient that Violet half-expected it to collapse under its own weight. It had the kind of neglected charm that only time could create—a place forgotten by the world but still clinging on, like a relic from a darker past.

Julius turned to her, his cold eyes meeting hers for the first time since they'd entered Knockturn Alley. "Wait here and don't go anywhere," he commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding. Without giving her a chance to respond, he pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside, disappearing into the gloom of the shop.

Violet stood frozen for a moment, her mind racing. She glanced through the grimy glass window, trying to catch a glimpse of him inside. Through the fogged-up glass, she could make out the shape of Julius speaking to an older woman. She was short, with thin, gray hair and a face that seemed as if it had been carved from stone. Her skin was pale, almost sickly, and her eyes gleamed with a strange, hungry intensity, as if they were constantly searching for something to devour.

She looked angry, her wrinkled face twisted in a permanent frown, her mouth moving rapidly as she pointed at something on Julius's arm. Violet strained her eyes, trying to see what they were discussing, but the glass was too fogged up, the view too obstructed.

Frustrated, Violet shifted her attention and noticed a crumpled page on the floor just outside the shop. She bent down, picked it up, and straightened it. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the headline:

"The Minister of Magic is Dead." The date in the corner was 11/12/1970—ten days ago. Violet's stomach twisted into knots. If this was true, why hadn't she heard about it? Why wasn't this news everywhere? And why hadn't Dumbledore said anything? This should have been a major event, something everyone at Hogwarts would have known.

Before she could process any further, a voice spoke from behind her, sending a jolt of fear through her body.

"Dumbledore didn't want you to know," Julius said, his voice dark and distant, almost cold.

Violet spun around to face him, her shock clear on her face. "What?" she whispered, unable to comprehend what he was saying. "Why would someone kill their Minister?"

"He wanted to isolate Hogwarts from everything," Julius continued, his expression unreadable. "He forbid letters from being sent to you while you were there. He wanted to keep you from knowing the truth. He liked the power he had, knowing something the rest of you didn't. Though he claimed it was for your own good, like he always did."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grasp hers. The touch was cold, and she felt a shiver travel up her spine as he led her deeper into the darkness of the alley. "Now you understand why I do what I do. It has to change. This world is getting out of control. Dumbledore is leading us to ruin. He and the current Ministry of Magic. We are going to make our world a better place."

Violet's eyes locked onto his, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. "You're doing that by killing people? Someone killed the Minister, and you call that a better world?" she whispered urgently, trying to keep their conversation private, away from the curious ears of the people passing by.

Julius's gaze hardened, and a strange, almost fanatical gleam lit up his eyes. "For every good outcome, there has to be a great sacrifice. We are killing those who are unwilling to cooperate. Those who join us will be spared."

With that, he turned and walked toward a pub that looked as if it had seen better days: The White Wyvern. The door creaked open as he pushed it, vanishing into the shadows beyond. Violet stood there for a moment longer, trying to make sense of everything, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest.

***

The pub was filled with a heavy, oppressive atmosphere. Every table was occupied, and Violet could feel the weight of the eyes around her. She recognized nearly everyone in the dimly lit room, their faces flickering with familiarity, but none of them were people she would have ever expected to see in a place like this. Dolohov, for one, sat at the far end of the bar, his eyes darting around the room as he exchanged whispered words with a few shady-looking characters. Violet's heart sank at the sight of him—she remembered seeing his wanted poster plastered on a wall just a street over, a constant reminder of his crimes. Her gaze swept across the room, and she noticed several other figures—criminals who had once been locked away in Azkaban. Their dark pasts were unmistakable.

What was even more disturbing was the pattern she began to notice. Every single person in the room bore the same tattoo—one she recognized instantly. A snake and a skull, etched onto the left arms of each person. The sight of it sent a shiver down her spine. It was the Dark Mark. A symbol that Violet had grown up hearing about, a mark that would rise into the sky after each killing committed by Lord Voldemort's followers. Each time a death was carried out, the Mark would burn across the sky like a twisted beacon. And now, she saw it on every single one of these criminals. They were Death Eaters.

Violet didn't need any more proof. The whispers, the silent nods of recognition, the fear and reverence they all held for Julius—it all made sense now. Julius was a part of this world, and he was connected to them. This was more than just a bad decision. This was a dangerous, insidious path he had chosen.

While Julius was at the bar, engaged in a low conversation with the bartender, Violet quietly pulled out a piece of crumpled newspaper from her bag. She unfolded it carefully, her hands shaking slightly as she compared the image of the tattoo she had seen in the room to the one printed on the paper. It was exactly the same. The snake coiled around the skull, its menacing eyes watching her every move. This was the mark of a Death Eater, of a follower of Voldemort. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks—every Death Eater bore this mark, and Julius was one of them.

Julius returned to the table with two butterbeers in hand, his usual confident smile plastered on his face as he slid one toward Violet. He didn't seem to notice the change in her demeanor, the way her eyes now looked at him with a mix of fear and disbelief. He sat down, taking a long sip from his drink, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her.

Violet's mind raced, but she couldn't keep the question inside any longer. "And what about the Muggles? What will happen to Muggles and Muggle-borns in your perfect world?" Her voice was strained, though she kept it low to avoid drawing attention.

Julius froze for a second, his eyes narrowing. It wasn't the question he had expected, not from her. "Muggles do not interest us," he replied, his tone dismissive. "Their world and ours shouldn't mix. They are beneath us, and we're not to bother with them." He paused, taking another slow sip from his bottle. "Muggle-borns are dirty, Violet. When are you going to understand that? Their blood is tainted. Their power is impure. Our blood is more important than theirs, and it always will be. But we won't kill them... if they recognize their place."

Violet recoiled slightly, the words cutting through her like a knife. The hate in his voice, the casual dismissal of an entire group of people, made her stomach churn. It was as if he was speaking about an entirely different world, one where hatred and blood status were the only things that mattered. She knew Julius hated Muggles, and especially Muggle-borns, but hearing it out of his mouth, seeing how casually he spoke of their fate, was a shock she wasn't prepared for.

He was caught off guard by her question, and for a brief moment, she saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes. He was trying to soften the blow, to make her understand that what he was doing wasn't as terrible as it seemed. That it was all for the greater good. But Violet wasn't so easily convinced.

Julius quickly shifted gears, a practiced smile curling his lips as he leaned forward, attempting to change the subject. "Eve is coming on Friday, like always," she said, trying to distract herself from the dark conversation they were having.

"No, she isn't," Julius replied, his voice suddenly cold, his expression hardening. "Tell her not to come."

Violet frowned, confused. "Why?"

"Because I said so," he snapped, his voice laced with authority. "We're going to celebrate Christmas with the Malfoys. End of discussion."

His tone brooked no argument, and the finality in his voice made Violet's stomach tighten. She hated when he was like this—dismissive, controlling, as though her feelings didn't matter. She had promised Eve she would spend time with her, but Julius was insistent. He never liked when she spent time with her friends outside of their family. He didn't care about their bond.

"Look, I'm sorry, I promised Abraxas," Julius continued, his voice suddenly softer, more convincing. "It won't be the end of the world if you don't see each other for two weeks. Don't be mad, okay?"

Violet took a deep breath, her frustration bubbling just below the surface. She didn't want to argue, not now, not when so many other things were weighing on her mind. "It's fine," she muttered, her voice tight. "I just... forget it. Let's go home."

Julius smiled to himself, clearly satisfied with how he had handled the situation. He stood up, signaling that their time here was done. But before they left, he made a subtle gesture, sliding a small note onto the table in the far corner of the room. The figure seated there was hidden by a large hood, but Violet could tell by the aura of power and menace radiating from the shadow that this wasn't just any ordinary wizard.

The man in the corner, cloaked and unseen, was no one other than the Dark Lord himself.

***

Violet stood motionless in front of the grand, aging house, her heart heavy with memories that flooded her thoughts. She loved it. Despite its decay and the way it seemed to sigh with every gust of wind, this house was her home. She loved the chill that lingered in the air, the quiet, cold corners that seemed to echo with the sounds of forgotten footsteps. It never felt warm, never felt like a place where family gatherings would happen, and the holidays were always ignored in favor of silence. The house was as much a part of her as her own skin, a reflection of the life she'd grown up in, strange and unsettling, yet comforting in its way. The endless rooms—most of them unused—held their own mysteries, and the eeriness of walking through them at night, with the faint creaking of floorboards beneath her feet, was oddly familiar, as if the shadows themselves knew her. It was her sanctuary, a place where everything, no matter how strange, felt just right.

She pushed open the door, the heavy wood creaking in protest as she stepped inside. The cold air from outside hit her, but the chill inside made her shiver as she closed the door behind her. She slipped out of her coat and left it draped over the couch before she moved toward the fireplace. With a flick of her wand, she summoned a small fire and held her hands near the heat, wincing slightly as the warmth stung her fingers. The house smelled like dust and neglect, a faint mustiness that clung to every surface. Julius had certainly not bothered to clean since she left.

She walked into the kitchen, where the table was untouched, save for a few scattered papers and empty cups. The grim reality of the place settled in—this table was not for casual meals. It had become a place for meetings, whispered conversations, and plans made in the dead of night. Violet had never liked this part of the house. The sense of secrecy that hung in the air was palpable. It made her uncomfortable, but it was also inescapable.

"Do you want me to make tea?" she called through the window, where she saw Julius stepping outside, carrying firewood.

"Yes, that would be nice," he shouted back, his voice echoing slightly.

Violet turned back to the stove, setting the kettle on to boil. But as she moved, her hand slipped, and the tea spilled over the edge of the pot, splashing onto the floor. She cursed under her breath, hurrying to clean it up. When she went to the bathroom to change her clothes, the sight that greeted her nearly stopped her heart. There, submerged in the bathtub, was Julius's shirt, soaked through with blood. The water had turned a dark shade of red, and Violet's breath caught in her throat. Her body froze, her heart pounding in her chest.

He killed the Minister.

The thought crashed into her mind like a tidal wave, suffocating her. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. It felt as though the air itself had been sucked out of the room. Violet stared at the bloody shirt, her thoughts spiraling. She had always suspected—deep down—that Julius was involved in something far darker than she could comprehend. She had always made excuses for him, convinced herself that he wasn't the one to carry out the bloodshed. She had told herself that maybe someone else had done it, that Julius wasn't capable of murder. But now, with the proof right in front of her, the truth couldn't be denied. He had done it. He had killed the Minister.

Her heart hammered painfully in her chest, and the room seemed to close in on her. She couldn't move, her body locked in place by the overwhelming fear and disbelief. She had always hoped that Julius was still the brother she had once known, but now the truth was undeniable. She had known the darkness was creeping in, but she never thought it would consume him completely.

She heard the door open behind her, the sound of it scraping against the old floorboards. Quickly, she stepped back from the bathroom, her hands trembling as she closed the door behind her, hiding the evidence. Julius's voice rang out through the house. "Hey, is the tea ready? I'm freezing."

Violet quickly composed herself, trying to push away the gnawing fear in her chest. She forced a smile, her voice shaky as she called back, "Yes, it's almost ready." She moved into the kitchen, her movements slow and deliberate, as if nothing had changed. Julius entered the room, his coat dusted with snow, his arms full of firewood.

"Has something happened? You're acting strange," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he set the wood down.

Violet swallowed, her throat dry. She had to act normal. She had to keep him from seeing how much she knew, how much the truth was crushing her. "No, I was just thinking," she replied, her voice quiet. "Sit down, I'll bring you some tea."

Julius smiled, settling into one of the worn chairs at the table. "How nice you are," he said, his tone light, but his gaze lingering on her face, reading her carefully. He knew her too well—too well for her to hide anything from him. But she would play along, for now. If she didn't, there was no telling how he would react. There was no telling what he was capable of.

"Abraxas is organizing a gathering, you know," Julius said casually, his words drawing Violet's attention back to him. "Something like a ball. I bought you a dress. It's in your room."

She set the teacups down and sat across from him, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup absentmindedly. "Thanks. I'll try it on later. Who will attend this ball?"

"A lot of people," Julius replied with a sly grin, sipping his tea. "I'll introduce you to most of them. You'll be on your best behavior, right? No talk of Mudbloods and that nonsense."

Violet nodded quietly, drinking her tea in silence. Her mind was far from the conversation. Her thoughts were still racing, still processing the horrible reality she had just uncovered. The radio in the background crackled with static, the only sound that filled the void between them. If only their parents were still alive. They would never have allowed Julius to fall so far into darkness. They would have never stood by while he became this... thing.

But they were gone. And now, Violet was left to pick up the pieces, to decide what to do with the knowledge she had. She couldn't just ignore it, couldn't pretend everything was fine. She couldn't stand by and let this go on. But what could she do? What choice did she have?

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating. Violet couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change—something irreversible

Violet couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change—something irreversible

Chapter Text

The next day crawled by with an unbearable slowness. Violet lay wide awake through the night, the tension in her body so thick that sleep was impossible. Each time her eyelids fluttered in the dark, she could feel the weight of the unspoken truths pressing down on her chest. Every thought she had seemed tangled, pulled into knots that kept her restless. Not a minute of sleep came to her, and when the sun finally began to rise, the day felt like a continuation of her troubled thoughts. The quiet of the early morning only made the darkness inside her feel louder, more consuming.

She skipped the breakfast that Julius made for her, unable to stomach any food. Instead, she slipped out of the house for a walk, the cold winter air biting at her skin. The streets were empty, save for a few stray figures hurrying about their business. The world felt distant, as if she was walking through some dream where everything was just slightly out of reach. The days were growing shorter, and the nights stretched longer. It was only 3 pm, and yet the sun was already dipping below the horizon, casting the world in a dusky, muted light. Violet didn't feel like going to the ball. The thought of mingling with those people made her stomach twist. She would rather hide away in her room, curl up, and shut out everything. She couldn't wait to return to Hogwarts, to the sense of normalcy that still clung to that place despite everything that had changed.

Frustration surged through her like a violent tide. With a clenched fist, she grabbed a stone from the ground and hurled it angrily into the distance, watching it skip across the frozen ground.

"Take it easy, Miss Alas, you could kill someone with that kind of throw. Who disturbed you?" A calm voice broke through her frustration, and Violet turned to see Mr. Crouch, dressed neatly in a suit, a briefcase in hand. He looked every bit the part of a distinguished wizard—middle-aged, a kind smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The lines of his face spoke of a life filled with hard work, loss, and quiet pain. He was probably coming from the Ministry, and Violet guessed he had been busy, probably working on the investigation into the Dark Lord's followers. He had been appointed a judge in the Department of Law not long ago, a position where he oversaw the convictions of those tangled in dark magic.

Violet forced a tight-lipped smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside. "Julius, a little. Nothing serious."

She wanted to say more. She wanted to scream at him, tell him that Julius was one of them—that he was a Death Eater, or at the very least, an accomplice to those who followed Lord Voldemort. But the words stuck in her throat. She couldn't do it. Not yet. The reality was too painful to confront, too twisted for her to untangle. So she kept her cool, burying the truth deep inside, away from prying eyes.

Mr. Crouch gave her a knowing look, his eyes flicking to the ground briefly before they met hers again. "That's rather normal, Miss Alas. Brothers and sisters fight all the time. Nothing to worry about. I won't bore you with the details. I'm rather tired."

He began to walk away, but Violet stopped him with a question she hadn't quite planned on asking. "How's the search going?"

Crouch paused, his face flicking through a brief moment of surprise before he turned to answer her. "Fine. A few suspicions... Nothing too concrete. But don't worry your pretty head with these things." His eyes softened, and his tone shifted, as though he wanted to protect her from the gravity of the situation. "Think about marriage, Violet. You'll be turning 18 soon."

Violet blinked, a slight frown creasing her brow. It wasn't the first time someone had mentioned her age, but the implication of his words felt more significant now. Marriage? She wasn't even sure she wanted to think about that kind of future. She nodded slowly, trying to hide the wave of conflicting emotions that surged in her chest. The more she listened to him, the more she could understand Barty's hatred of Crouch. There was a strange warmth to the man, a care in his words that felt both sincere and distant. It was as if he tried to soften the blows of the harsh world, but all the while, he was part of it.

Violet continued her walk, her steps slow and measured. The first snowflakes began to fall from the sky, delicate and fragile. She watched them as they drifted down, floating through the air before melting into the cold concrete below. They were so beautiful, fleeting like the thoughts in her mind, here one moment and gone the next. She could see them for just an instant, but then they disappeared, as if they had never existed.

The weight of everything felt heavier in that moment—the truth about Julius, her growing doubts, the life she had once known now slipping away from her like those snowflakes. How much longer could she keep pretending? How much longer could she stay in this world, with Julius so entangled in darkness, and the people she once trusted now working toward something so different from what she believed in?

She pushed the thoughts away, trying to focus on the simple beauty of the snow. But the darkness loomed just out of reach, threatening to catch up with her at every step.

Julius had bought her a gown, not a mere dress. If it hadn't been black, Violet would have sworn it resembled something from a bridal collection. The gown was breathtaking, though a bit more extravagant than her taste preferred. She was never one for standing in the spotlight, and this dress, with its dramatic corset and lacing, seemed designed to demand attention. The fabric itself was gleaming, shimmering under the faintest light, and it clung to her form in a way that made her feel almost as if she was wearing a suit of armor—not in strength, but in the sheer force of its presence. The corset was tight, restricting her breath just enough to make her feel light-headed with each inhale, but she didn't dare complain. Julius had made it clear that appearances were everything tonight.

He had told her to be ready by seven, but, of course, they had to be fashionably late. Half-past seven felt much more fitting. She couldn't help but feel a flutter of nerves as she made her way down the grand staircase. The house felt oppressive, silent except for the echo of her heels on the marble floor. As she reached the bottom, Julius stopped, his eyes sweeping over her with an intensity that made her breath catch. For a moment, she wondered if he saw her as a little girl or if he saw her as she was now—a woman, grown and poised. His eyes lingered for a moment longer, and then he extended his hand.

"You're perfect," he said, his voice almost too soft, like he was caught in some strange spell. For a fleeting second, Violet felt as if the world had tilted slightly. She took his hand, and together they stepped out into the night.

The walk to the Malfoy manor was brief, but the sight of it never failed to awe her. The manor loomed before her, an opulent structure that seemed to breathe wealth and power. It was even more magnificent than she remembered—tall, imposing, and bathed in the soft glow of thousands of twinkling lights. The Christmas tree in the yard was a towering masterpiece, its branches heavy with silver tinsel and ornaments that caught the light in a thousand different ways, as though each one were a tiny star. The whole scene was ethereal, like something from a dream, but also cold and calculating in its perfection.

Violet had always admired the beauty of Malfoy Manor, but tonight it seemed to reflect something darker—an elegance that hid a darkness underneath, like a jewel with a hidden flaw. Abraxas Malfoy, with his penchant for excess, had spared no expense. But then, this was Abraxas, and excess was what he did best. It was his signature, his mark on the world.

As they entered the main hall, Violet's gaze swept over the crowd. House-elves scurried about, taking coats and offering drinks. The guests were all impeccably dressed in the finest robes, their conversations hushed and laced with subtle power. Violet recognized many faces—some famous, others notorious. Among them were those from the Sacred 28, the oldest and most powerful pure-blood families in the wizarding world. There were hardly any half-bloods, and certainly no Muggle-borns. It was the kind of gathering she had been raised to expect, where bloodlines were everything and status could be measured by the cut of one's robe or the weight of their family's name.

Her heart skipped a beat. This was more than just a lavish party—it was a display of power, a showcase of the kind of wizarding world Julius and his associates were fighting for. And there was one presence she felt almost certain would be here. The Dark Lord.

Violet's mind raced. This was her chance, perhaps her only chance, to find out what was truly happening. She had to figure out their plan, to understand what Julius and the others were planning. How could she stop them if she didn't know what they were truly after? The gathering buzzed with laughter and the clinking of glasses, but to Violet, it all felt distant, like she was watching everything unfold from behind a pane of glass.

She didn't trust any of them—Abraxas, the Malfoys, the dark forces that had clearly gathered here. But she had to play along. She had to act the part, pretend to be just another guest at their sick celebration. In the corner of her mind, she wondered if Julius could see the hesitation in her eyes, if he knew that every step she took in this manor was a step further away from him, from the world he wanted to create.

Violet squeezed his hand tightly, her grip a silent declaration to herself. Tonight, she would learn what she could. Tonight, she would gather information, even if it meant risking everything.

As the hours dragged on, Violet felt her patience wearing thin. The evening had become a monotonous blur of meaningless conversations with old, pompous wizards who prided themselves on their supposed superiority. They spoke of family bloodlines, the purity of magic, and their expectations for Violet's future—particularly about her marriage prospects and how many children she should bear. It was as though they couldn't see her as anything but an object to be passed along in the name of tradition. In her mind, Violet entertained dark thoughts, imagining ways to strangle the life out of their conversations, to silence them for good. But she was stuck, trapped in this gilded cage.

She cast her gaze around the room, desperate for some distraction, some escape from the suffocating atmosphere. That's when she saw it—the door. It stood ajar, leading to the darkened hall beyond, an exit, a way out. But she wasn't quite sure if she could slip away unnoticed. Just as she thought about making her way over, her attention was drawn to the figure standing near the entrance.

A crowd had gathered around the person, their heads leaning in, hanging on every word, their attention rapt. Violet's curiosity piqued, and she straightened up, suddenly alert. She tried to peer through the crowd, but it wasn't long before the person at the center of the group turned, their gaze locking onto hers.

It was him.

Tom.

He stood with an air of quiet confidence, lean and elegant, his presence so commanding that it seemed to make the entire room bend to his will. He spoke with a deep, melodic voice that flowed like honey, drawing people in, charming them with every syllable. His words had a way of cutting through the air, making it feel as though nothing else mattered except for him. The women in the crowd hung on every word, their eyes glazed in admiration as they fawned over him.

Violet found herself frozen for a moment, her heart thudding in her chest. She couldn't look away from him. There was something about him, something magnetic, that made her feel both drawn to him and utterly captivated. His dark eyes, glinting with a mixture of power and mystery, swept across the room and landed on her. The briefest flicker of a smirk tugged at his lips, as though he knew exactly what effect he was having on her.

Before she could stop herself, a small, involuntary smile curled at the edges of her own lips, a reflex she couldn't suppress. It was as though some invisible thread had pulled at her, connecting her to him in a way she couldn't understand but couldn't deny. For a brief moment, everything else in the room faded into the background, leaving just the two of them locked in a silent exchange.

Julius, who had been watching his sister with quiet intensity, noticed the shift in her expression. His gaze flicked from Violet to the man who had captured her attention. His eyes narrowed, the realization hitting him like a cold wave. He understood the look, the spark that had lit between them—something forbidden, something dangerous.

In that instant, Julius knew. He knew what it meant, what it could mean, and a surge of possessiveness and protectiveness rushed through him. He couldn't allow this, couldn't let his sister be drawn into the orbit of someone like him. He had plans, ambitions, and none of them included her getting tangled up with someone who could undo everything he had worked for.

But it was too late.

Chapter Text

"Why are you looking at him like that?" Julius's voice was low but laced with venom, and his fingers tightened around Violet's arm as he pulled her away from the crowd. His dark eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach churn.

Violet's heart skipped a beat, panic rising within her like a thick fog. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a split second, she froze. What was he talking about? Her mind spun, racing with a thousand thoughts. Like what? Her eyes darted nervously to Tom, who was still speaking to a group of wealthy wizards, his smooth, melodic voice flowing effortlessly through the room. Did Julius notice something? Was he suspicious?

"Like what?" she repeated, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to sound calm, though the tension in the air was suffocating.

Julius's expression darkened even further, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Violet, I'm not stupid. And I know you're not either." He leaned in closer, his words cold, almost accusing. "Whatever you're hiding behind those eyes... it needs to stop. Because if it doesn't, even I won't be able to save you."

Her heart pounded in her chest. What was he really saying? Was he worried about her? Or was he worried about Tom? She could feel the pull of her brother's gaze on her, the desperation in his voice, but at the same time, the fear and the fascination she felt for Tom swelled within her, completely overwhelming her. It was as though two opposing forces were fighting for control of her thoughts and actions.

Violet swallowed hard, her mouth dry as she tried to collect her thoughts. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, though she already knew the answer. She could feel the connection between her and Tom like an invisible thread, taut and unyielding. She didn't understand it. How could she? It was absurd. She barely knew him, yet she couldn't ignore the undeniable pull he had on her.

Julius seemed to sense her hesitation, his expression softening just for a moment. "Violet, listen to me, for once," he said, his tone now pleading, something she rarely heard from him. "I'm trying to protect you. Please—just stop. Whatever this is, it won't end well. For you. For him."

For a brief, fleeting moment, Violet felt guilt stab through her heart. Julius, the brother who had raised her, cared for her—he was desperate, but the invisible tie between her and Tom could not be severed. No matter how hard she tried to ignore it, no matter how much she wanted to listen to her brother, there was something inside of her that had already chosen.

"I will," she lied, her voice barely audible, the words coming out mechanically. She knew it was a hollow promise, but it was enough to quiet Julius for the time being. She could see the faint flicker of relief in his eyes before he turned away, clearly unconvinced.

But Violet wasn't listening anymore. She was already looking for him—looking for Tom. Her eyes scanned the crowd, desperate for a glimpse of the one person who made her heart race, who pulled her in like a moth to a flame.

And then, she saw him.

Tom wasn't with the group of pure-blood elites anymore. His presence had shifted, and now, amidst the grand hall filled with the richest of wizards, he stood alone, isolated in his own world. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, met hers, and she felt a surge of electricity run through her. It was as if he had been waiting for her to find him, to notice him in the sea of faces. The briefest of smiles flickered across his lips, and it was enough to make her heart flutter.

Without thinking, Violet excused herself from the conversation she was trapped in and made her way to the door leading outside. Her breath hitched with anticipation. She needed air. She needed him. The cold night wrapped around her like a cloak as she opened the door, stepping out into the snow-covered yard.

The night air bit at her cheeks, but she didn't care. The snow fell gently, its purity making the world feel still and alive at the same time. She could see the outline of the garden ahead, its beauty stark against the whiteness of the snow. It was full of bright red roses, their color vivid against the snowy backdrop—like blood against the ice, a stark reminder of the world she was entering. A world of danger, of secrets, of temptations she didn't fully understand.

Violet's footsteps echoed softly against the old marble path, the cold night air kissing her cheeks as she made her way toward the small fountain at the center of the garden. The snow crunched underfoot, each step a reminder of the stillness surrounding her. The garden was quiet, peaceful, yet there was a tension in the air, an unspoken anticipation. It wasn't the kind of night one could walk alone on without a sense of something hanging in the balance.

And then, there he was. Tom.

He stood by the frozen fountain, his tall form a silhouette against the pale moonlight. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, the fabric glistening with small droplets of snow that had settled on his dark hair. He exhaled a puff of smoke from the cigar he held between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the icy water before him. The sight of him, standing so still and commanding, made her heart beat faster.

"You know, I heard you since you opened the door," his voice broke the silence, smooth and deep. He turned slowly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You don't know how to be quiet, doll." His eyes gleamed in the moonlight, mischievous yet predatory.

Before she could respond, he closed the distance between them and kissed her, his lips meeting hers with an urgency that left her breathless. The kiss was long and passionate, as though he had been waiting for this moment for an eternity. It was as if he couldn't get enough of her, and she couldn't bring herself to pull away.

"Well, I wasn't trying to be quiet," Violet whispered softly against his lips, her words barely a murmur. "I wanted you to hear me."

Tom didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him, as if afraid she might slip away. She was so small in his embrace, so delicate, so young. He couldn't help but feel a need to protect her, to shield her from the dangers of the world that lay outside their shared bubble. His arms tightened around her, a subtle possessiveness that only seemed to grow stronger with every passing moment.

The dress she wore was perfect on her—dark, elegant, and undeniably stunning. He'd chosen it for her, made sure it was exactly what he wanted, and it fit her as though it had been made just for her. The rich black fabric clung to her curves in all the right places, and for a moment, Tom felt a flicker of pride—she was his, and no one else could compare.

Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her bottom lip trembling slightly, and Tom's heart clenched. Without a word, he removed his coat and wrapped it around her fragile shoulders, pulling her closer into the warmth of his embrace. The gesture stirred something in him, an old memory creeping into his mind. He recalled the first time he had given her his coat, that night in the corridor at Hogwarts when they had shared their first conversation.

It had been a moment he couldn't forget, because it was the night he realized something about her—something that no one else had ever made him feel before. She had awakened something inside him, something he couldn't quite name but could no longer ignore.

As he brushed his fingers gently over her porcelain skin, his thoughts were momentarily consumed with the past, the path they were on, and the future that seemed to pull them forward, regardless of how dangerous it might be.

"I—Julius knows... about us," Violet's voice broke through his thoughts, barely above a whisper. She stared out at the night, her gaze fixed on the snowflakes drifting through the air, the weight of her words sinking in.

Tom didn't flinch, didn't look surprised. He had known this was coming. "That's no problem," he said, his voice calm, measured, as if it was the least of his worries. He adjusted his grip around her waist, pulling her closer as though she might vanish if he let go. "He's a friend of mine, as you know. I'll reason with him."

Violet's heart sank as she looked up at him, concern flashing in her eyes. "But Tom, you don't understand," she said quietly, her voice filled with worry. "He said that this has to end, or something bad will happen." The words felt heavier now, as though the danger that loomed in her brother's warning was finally starting to make sense.

Tom sighed softly, as if he were weary of the same concerns she'd raised time and time again. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke. "Do you trust me?"

Violet's heart fluttered in her chest. She had no words, only a small nod in response. She wanted to believe in him, wanted to trust that he could make everything right. His calm demeanor, his confidence—it made her feel safe, even when the world around them seemed to be crumbling.

"Then trust me," he whispered again, his voice firm but gentle. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it at all."

Violet went to speak again, but before she could, Tom's hand moved to cover her lips, silencing her with a gesture that felt both possessive and tender. "Shh," he murmured. "I said I'll take care of it, doll. Don't worry."

She pulled him closer, wrapping her arms around him, her body melting into the warmth of his embrace as she breathed in the scent of him—strong, masculine, and somehow comforting. His presence was like a shield around her, keeping the cold, the uncertainty, and the looming threat of her brother's disapproval at bay. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to drown in the moment, to forget everything except the feeling of his arms around her, the sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear, and the way he made her feel.

In that embrace, she felt as though nothing else mattered.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt truly safe.

***

Tom looked down at Violet, his dark eyes searching hers. There was something about the quiet of the night, the falling snow, that made the world feel still, as though time itself had slowed. Violet's voice broke the silence, a soft and tentative question hanging in the air.

"You know, I realized... I don't know that much about you," she said, her words hesitant but filled with genuine curiosity. She tilted her head slightly, watching him, hoping he would offer a glimpse into the mystery that surrounded him.

Tom raised an eyebrow, the flicker of amusement in his gaze. "What do you want to know?" he replied, his voice low and smooth, a hint of teasing in it as his fingers brushed lightly through her hair, a gesture of care he rarely offered.

Violet bit her bottom lip, a slight frown pulling at her features. "Well... I don't know much about your childhood. Did you like your time at school, is that why you decided to teach at Hogwarts? You know, the little things—like what's your favorite color? We never really talked about those things." She paused, her eyes searching his for any sign of vulnerability.

Tom's fingers stilled in her hair, his expression becoming distant for a moment, as though he were weighing something in his mind. He had never been one to talk about his past. It wasn't out of distrust—he would give everything for her, trust her with his life without hesitation. But his past was dark, filled with shadows he wasn't sure she needed to see. He didn't want to taint her innocence with his own misery.

Violet noticed the shift in him and leaned closer, her voice soft and understanding. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she added, almost as if she sensed the hesitation within him. "I just wanted to know you better."

Tom's eyes softened slightly, and he exhaled a quiet breath before he finally spoke, the words heavier than usual.

"So, I grew up in an orphanage," he began, his voice laced with a quiet bitterness. "It wasn't a very nice or wonderful childhood... though the experience taught me more than I'd ever want to know. I'd like to tell you there were good things there, but there weren't. You're lucky, Violet. At least you had Julius. He may not be perfect, but you had someone."

Violet's heart clenched at his words, her hand instinctively reaching for his. There was something about his vulnerability in this moment that stirred her—Tom Riddle, the powerful and enigmatic man she had come to know, had once been a boy left alone in the world.

He continued, his gaze distant as if lost in the past. "I was the best student in my school days. I loved it, actually. Always learning, always pushing for more. That's what inspired me to become a professor, to teach others what I knew, so they could be better than I was."

He paused for a moment, and Violet could see the flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or a painful memory—cross his face. "And finally, the color black," he said softly, his eyes meeting hers again. "Darkness. It's the color of your eyes, you know."

Violet blinked, the weight of his words settling over her. The idea that he saw her eyes as a reflection of the very thing he embraced—darkness—was strangely fitting. It made sense, and yet, she wanted to resist it. She didn't want to be defined by the shadows, not when she still had so much light left in her.

She smiled faintly, trying to lighten the mood. "You didn't have to answer like I was interrogating you, you know? I just wanted to know more about you. You're like this great mystery, Tom Riddle. You know everything about everyone, but no one knows anything about you."

Tom's lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile, a rare warmth flickering in his eyes as they locked with hers. "Well, you know more than others," he said, his voice lowering, a tinge of sincerity in his tone. "I guess that makes you special."

The world seemed to halt as their eyes met—an invisible force pulling them closer. In that moment, everything else faded into the background. The cold wind, the snowflakes falling around them, the distant sounds of the manor—they all disappeared. It was just the two of them, suspended in time, caught in the pull of something neither of them had fully understood but both felt undeniably.

"I guess it does," Violet murmured, her voice soft, almost as if she were speaking a secret only they shared.

Chapter Text

The moment was shattered by the door swinging open with an abrupt force, and a man entered, his presence immediately drawing Tom's attention. He whispered something into Tom's ear, and the casual, intimate atmosphere that had just enveloped them evaporated. Tom's expression shifted, his previous warmth replaced with a steely, serious look.

"Doll," he said quietly, but with a firmness that made Violet's chest tighten, "I have to meet up with some people. We'll see each other again soon, alright?" His voice was a calm command, almost as if he were trying to protect her from something she didn't yet understand.

Violet nodded, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "Yeah, sure," she responded, though her mind was already racing, wondering what was going on. Tom had always been one to conceal his true intentions, and she knew better than to trust the smooth, calm façade he wore in front of her. There was something he wasn't telling her, something more dangerous than he let on.

Tom turned and strode back into the crowd, vanishing among the sea of elegantly dressed figures. Violet stood there for a moment, watching him go. Her suspicions were on high alert now; something was off. She had come to this ball with one goal in mind—to find out what Tom and the others were truly up to, and she wasn't about to let him slip away from her sight so easily.

With quiet determination, she followed him inside, keeping a safe distance as she maneuvered through the grand hall. She knew exactly where he was going—upstairs, to Abraxas's office. Violet had seen the older Malfoy's name mentioned in hushed conversations before, and she had no doubt that the meetings happening behind those doors were far from innocent.

She took her time, careful to remain unseen, as she made her way toward the staircase. Tom had just entered the office and disappeared inside. She lingered at the top of the stairs, waiting for the perfect moment.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough for her to press her eye against the crack and glimpse what was happening inside. Her heart raced in her chest as she saw several familiar faces gathered around the room, their voices hushed but intense. Julius was there, as expected, standing with a few other notable figures—some old acquaintances from his days at Hogwarts, others high-ranking officials from the Ministry. But it was Tom who seemed to command the conversation, his voice smooth and persuasive.

"We are doing well," Tom said, his tone chilling in its calmness, "the best so far. People are afraid of us. Terrified. The cowards will succumb to fear and join us. The brave ones... we'll bribe them with our wealth, and for those we cannot convince, we'll kill them."

The words sent a cold shiver down Violet's spine. The room was filled with power, ambition, and a sinister promise of violence. This wasn't just a political game. This was something darker, something she wasn't sure she could stand idly by and let unfold.

She shifted slightly, trying to catch more of the conversation, but then she heard someone else speak.

"Where's Crouch?" the voice asked. "He was supposed to tell us the situation at Hogwarts."

A small knot of dread began to form in her stomach as Dolohov answered, his voice cool and measured, "He should be here any moment."

Violet's eyes widened. Crouch was part of this. That meant he, too, was involved in whatever twisted plans Tom and his associates had in mind. She took a slow, steady breath, realizing she needed to act quickly. Crouch was coming, and she couldn't risk being seen.

She turned to leave, but before she could make her escape, she found herself face-to-face with Barty himself. His tall figure loomed over her, and a knowing smirk crossed his lips as he observed her.

"You know, V," he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp with amusement, "it's not okay to snoop."

Violet's stomach dropped. She hadn't expected to be caught, but there was no escaping the situation now. "I— I wasn't snooping," she stammered, trying to play it off. "I was looking for Abraxas."

Barty's gaze narrowed, and she could see the amusement in his expression turn to something more calculating. "I know when you lie," he said, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm your best friend, remember?"

Violet swallowed hard, her mind racing for a way out. She could feel the walls closing in, but there was no way around this now. Barty had seen her, and it was only a matter of time before someone else would, too.

"I admit it," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was curious about what everyone was doing in there. I wanted to know what was going on." She met his gaze, her voice pleading. "Please don't tell anyone you saw me. I'll leave now."

Barty watched her for a moment, his eyes scanning her face as if weighing his options. The silence stretched on, and just as she began to wonder if he might betray her, he spoke.

"Fine," he said, his voice low, but there was a certain seriousness in it that she hadn't expected. "But on one condition."

Violet nodded quickly, desperate to escape this without causing a scene. "Fine, whatever you want."

Barty's gaze softened slightly, but his expression remained serious. "Promise me you'll never poke your nose into our business again."

Violet's heart thudded in her chest. Our business. It was a simple statement, but it made everything suddenly much clearer. Tom, Barty, Dolohov—they were all involved. She had suspected as much, but hearing it out loud made the reality all the more terrifying.

"I promise," she said, her voice almost a whisper.

Barty nodded, his eyes studying her one last time. He gestured toward the door, his face softening for a brief moment. "Good. Now, move," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "I'll cover for you."

Violet breathed a quiet sigh of relief as she stepped back into the shadows, her heart still racing. As she watched Barty open the door and slip inside, she realized just how deep she was in, and how dangerous this web of secrets truly was. But there was no turning back now. She had to learn more—had to find a way to stop whatever it was that was unfolding in that room.

Violet sat by the window, her fingers pressing against the cold glass as she stared out at the snow falling gently over the garden. She had never felt so... stupid. The night had been full of promises—of secrets to uncover, of mysteries to solve—but now she found herself alone, frustrated, trapped in the stillness of her own thoughts. How had she been so careless? How had she let herself get caught eavesdropping on that meeting? She'd thought she could stay hidden in the shadows, remain unseen, but that had clearly failed. What would Barty do now? she wondered. He had warned her, after all.

She could feel the weight of her mistake settling in her chest. All her life, she'd been protected, kept in the dark, sheltered from the dangers lurking in the world of dark wizards and those who followed the Dark Lord. But not anymore. That illusion of safety had shattered the moment she met Tom Riddle, and now she was deep in the heart of a web of deceit and danger. There was no turning back. If she wanted to uncover the truth, she would have to take risks. No more hiding.

She looked down at her hands, her nails digging into her palms. She wasn't sure what she was even hoping to achieve tonight. She had no one to talk to, no one to confide in. All she wanted was to be close to Tom, to feel like she was part of something real—something she could understand. But every time she thought she had a grasp on it, everything slipped through her fingers like sand.

The music from downstairs floated up to her room, but she couldn't bring herself to join the others. The laughter and conversation felt like a mockery. She wished she could dance, but she had no one to dance with.

Suddenly, the door to her room creaked open, and she looked up, startled. Tom stood there, tall and confident as always, his presence commanding the space. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, though it wasn't quite playful—it was knowing, almost mischievous.

"Need a partner in crime?" he asked, his voice low and inviting, holding out a hand to her. His eyes locked onto hers with a warmth that seemed to pull her in, irresistible as ever.

Violet felt a spark of something—maybe hope, maybe longing. She smiled, her frustration melting away for a moment as she rose to her feet. "Yeah," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Without another word, Tom pulled her towards the staircase. The music grew louder as they descended into the grand ballroom. The chandeliers above them glimmered like stars, and the polished floors gleamed underfoot. The guests seemed to part for them as they made their way to the center of the dance floor, leaving them standing in the middle, as if everything else had faded into the background. Violet's heart raced, and she couldn't decide if it was from the excitement of the moment or the intensity of being so close to him.

As the soft melody of the orchestra began, Tom took her hand in his, guiding her with ease. The room seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of them, swaying together under the watchful eyes of hundreds. Violet could feel the warmth of his hand against her back, pulling her just a little closer. The tension between them was palpable, and she found it difficult to breathe, not because she was suffocating, but because the closeness was almost too much to bear. She felt exposed, vulnerable—but at the same time, she felt alive in a way she never had before.

"Tom, what if someone sees us?" Violet whispered, her voice laced with both excitement and anxiety. She wasn't sure whether she was more afraid of being caught or being too consumed by the moment.

He smiled, the slightest curve of his lips, and his grip tightened just a little. "No one would dare utter a word, my doll." His voice was like silk, soothing, but carrying an unspoken promise of power. With those words, she felt a sense of security wrap around her. She was safe with him, at least for now.

As they continued to dance, the world outside their bubble seemed to disappear, the music, the voices, the eyes—everything but Tom and herself. Violet lost herself in the rhythm, letting the music take her, letting him guide her as if they were the only two people who mattered. Her heart beat in time with the music, and for once, she felt as if she belonged—like she was part of something bigger than herself.

Breaking the silence between them, Tom leaned in slightly, his voice soft but earnest. "I got you something for Christmas," he said, pulling a small box from his pocket. She looked up at him, curiosity flickering in her chest.

He opened the box slowly, revealing a delicate necklace inside. The crystals on the chain shimmered in the soft light, and Violet gasped in awe. It was breathtaking, the way it caught the light and sparkled as if it held some kind of magic within it.

Tom looked down at her, his gaze deep and intense. "If you ever miss me," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "just hold onto it, and it will be like I'm with you."

Violet felt a rush of warmth fill her chest. The gesture was so intimate, so personal, and it made her heart swell with emotions she couldn't quite name. She reached out to touch it, fingers brushing against the cool metal, then turned her gaze back to him.

Violet hesitated for a moment before holding out the small package, her hands trembling slightly. "I... I got you something too," she said softly, her voice laced with both excitement and nervousness. She could feel her cheeks warming despite the cool air around them. "I thought you might like this."

Tom's dark eyes flicked down to the package, curiosity sparking in their depths. He reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he took it from her. The touch was fleeting but electric, sending a shiver through her. Slowly, deliberately, he began to unwrap the gift. The crisp sound of paper tearing seemed amplified in the stillness between them.

Inside was a sleek, leather-bound journal. The material was smooth and rich, exuding quiet elegance, and embossed in silver on the cover were his initials: T.M.R.. The corners of Tom's lips curled upward in a small, genuine smile, a rare sight that softened the sharp angles of his face.

"Happy birthday, Tom," Violet said, her voice barely above a whisper, but it carried a tenderness that made the moment feel even more intimate.

Tom stared at the gift for a moment, running his fingers over the embossed letters. His expression was unreadable at first, but then his gaze lifted to meet hers. There was something in his eyes—something raw, vulnerable even—that she hadn't seen before. "Thank you," he said, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it, almost reverent.

He stepped closer, his presence enveloping her like a shadow. One hand reached up, his fingers brushing her cheek. His touch was gentle, yet it sent a surge of warmth through her that made her heart race. "You're full of surprises, aren't you, doll?" he murmured, his voice carrying a note of quiet wonder.

Violet smiled, her lips curving upward shyly. She couldn't find the words to respond, so she simply stood there, letting the moment stretch between them. Tom's hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb tracing small, absentminded circles against her skin. The journal still rested in his other hand, but his attention was fully on her now, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

"You didn't have to," he said finally, his tone low and intimate, "but you did. You always find a way to surprise me, Violet."

"I wanted to," she replied, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest. "I thought... maybe it could be something for you to write in. Your thoughts... or even just something to remind you that someone cares."

Tom's gaze softened, the corners of his lips lifting slightly in a way that was neither his usual smirk nor the calculated expression he wore around others. It was something else—something real. "You have no idea how much this means to me," he said, his words carrying a weight that Violet didn't fully understand, but she knew they were genuine.

The music from the ballroom drifted faintly into the room, and for a moment, Violet felt like they were the only two people in the world. Tom's hand fell from her cheek, but not before he let his fingers trail down to her chin, lifting it slightly so their eyes met again. "I don't say this often," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "but... thank you. Truly."

And then, without another word, he slipped the journal into the pocket of his coat, his expression shifting back to the composed, enigmatic look she had come to know so well. But Violet could still see the glimmer of something softer beneath the surface—a glimpse of the man behind the mask.

As they stood there, the snow continuing to fall softly outside the window, Violet felt a strange mix of emotions—pride, happiness, and a growing sense of connection to the man before her. It wasn't just the gift; it was the moment, the understanding that had passed between them, unspoken but deeply felt.

And in that moment, she realized she had given him more than a journal—she had given him a piece of herself.

Later that evening....

Tom stared at the gift, his mind momentarily blank. A notebook. So simple, yet there was an odd weight to it. Not in its physical presence, but in the fact that someone had thought of him enough to choose something so... personal. He ran his fingers over the leather, feeling the texture beneath his fingertips. It was practical, yes, but also strangely thoughtful. She had gone through the trouble of finding out his birthday—an act he found both perplexing and... touching.

Tom frowned. Touching. That wasn't a word he welcomed in his vocabulary. He closed his hand over the notebook, holding it tightly as though doing so could suppress the unbidden warmth spreading in his chest.

He stood, pacing the room, the notebook still in his grasp. The gesture reminded him of the vulnerability he had seen in her—the softness she extended to him so freely. It was the kind of thing he should have dismissed as weakness. And yet, with her, it wasn't weakness; it was... disarming.

Sitting back down, he opened the notebook to its first page. The blankness stared back at him, inviting him to fill it with whatever he chose. For a moment, he let himself imagine what Violet had hoped for when she selected it. Did she think he'd write poetry? Reflections? Or perhaps it was her way of asking for a piece of him, something he could put into words and share.

His lips quirked into the faintest shadow of a smile—not the cruel, calculated smirk he often wore, but something softer, something unguarded. He closed the notebook and set it aside, placing it carefully on his desk as though it were something precious.

She's a fool, he thought, but there was no malice in the words. No hatred, no disdain. Only a quiet acknowledgment of her audacity to care for him, and an even quieter admission that he might not hate it as much as he should.

The candle flickered, and the snow continued to fall outside. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Tom didn't feel entirely alone.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Tom didn't feel entirely alone

Chapter Text

A few days after Christmas, Violet found herself slipping into a familiar rhythm, one that echoed the life she and Julius once shared. Yet, it was different now, shadowed by a heaviness she couldn't shake. Julius was home most of the time, his presence a constant companion—but he felt more distant than ever. He had always been an enigma, his very nature contradictory. Quiet but loud. Calm but seething with fury. It was as if two opposing forces lived within him, locked in an eternal struggle.

She had grown used to his strangeness over the years, but this time, it felt more pronounced, more ominous. Julius was haunted, she knew that much. His past loomed over him like a specter, shaping the man he had become—a man she barely recognized anymore. If only things had been different. If only the world had been kinder to him.

Julius spent most of his time locked away in his study, surrounded by stacks of books and scattered papers. He rarely spoke, his focus fixed on whatever mysterious pursuits occupied his mind. Violet had expected him to confront her about Tom the moment they returned home, but no words came. The silence was deafening, oppressive, and she found herself growing more anxious with each passing day.

The house itself seemed to conspire against her peace of mind. From the moment she stepped through the door, a sense of unease had settled in her chest, a gnawing nausea that refused to leave. It was subtle at first, like an itch she couldn't scratch, but it grew steadily worse. She tried to brush it off as nerves, as leftover tension from the term, but deep down, she knew better.

When Julius left the house on one of his rare outings, Violet seized the opportunity to investigate. She had always been curious, but now her curiosity was tinged with desperation. She needed to know what was wrong, what had changed, what Julius was hiding. But the house seemed to resist her at every turn.

Doors that were usually unlocked wouldn't budge. The air felt thicker in certain rooms, almost suffocating. In his study, she found nothing out of the ordinary—no cryptic notes, no strange artifacts, nothing to suggest that anything unusual was happening. And yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that the walls themselves were watching her, keeping her at bay.

The unease festered, curling around her like smoke, growing darker with each day of the break. Julius remained silent about Tom, about everything. His presence became a shadow, looming but unreachable. When he did speak, his words were clipped, his tone distant, as if he were somewhere else entirely.

Violet tried to distract herself, pouring her energy into reading, sketching, anything to drown out the oppressive atmosphere of the house. But the nausea in her stomach only grew, a constant reminder that something was wrong.

She began dreaming strange, fragmented dreams. In them, the house seemed alive, its corridors stretching endlessly, twisting into shapes that defied logic. She would hear whispers in the dark, voices that sounded both familiar and foreign. Sometimes, she would catch glimpses of Julius in the shadows, his face unreadable, his eyes filled with something she couldn't name.

Julius often admired his sister, there was a weight to his gaze, something darker than affection, something that made his thoughts twist in ways he refused to name. In the shadows of the night, when the world was silent and the house stood still, he would linger outside her door. Tonight was no different. With his back pressed against the wooden frame, he listened to the soft cadence of her breathing, each shallow inhale pulling him closer.

Eventually, he pushed the door open just enough to slip inside. The dim light of the moon spilled through the curtains, casting silvery streaks across her sleeping form. She lay on her side, her face half-buried in the pillow, and her brow furrowed slightly as though troubled by her dreams. Julius stood there for a long moment, his heart heavy with emotions he dared not voice.

He moved silently to her bedside, lowering himself into the chair he'd dragged there countless times before. Her face twitched in her sleep, a faint grimace crossing her features as she drifted deeper into a nightmare. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying her as if she were a puzzle he could never quite solve.

The house would be empty again tomorrow, he thought bitterly. She would return to Hogwarts, leaving him alone with his shadows, his demons. The walls would close in on him once more, pressing against him with memories he couldn't escape. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch achingly gentle.

"Stay," he whispered under his breath, his voice so soft it was almost swallowed by the room. "Don't leave me again."

But she would. She always did. And soon, she wouldn't have a choice. Once Tom's plans unfolded, everything would change. The world would bend to their will, and Violet wouldn't have to leave him ever again.

Leaning closer, he placed a kiss on her forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the faint warmth of her skin. She stirred slightly, her lips parting as she mumbled something unintelligible, lost in the haze of her dreams.

"Wake up, little sister," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, brushing against her consciousness like a feather.

"Julius?" she mumbled sleepily, her voice slurred as her mind struggled to claw its way out of the fog of sleep.

"It's time to leave," he said, his tone carefully neutral, though the words felt like poison on his tongue. He stayed seated as she slowly pushed herself upright, leaning against him instinctively. For a brief moment, she rested her head on his shoulder, her warmth seeping into him, anchoring him to the present.

"No... five more minutes," she murmured, her voice muffled as she nuzzled closer.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, though his eyes remained dark. "No, up you go," he said softly, his hand sliding through her hair again, the motion unconscious, almost possessive. Reluctantly, he stood, his absence leaving a cold void where his warmth had been.

"I'll make us some breakfast," he said, his voice low as he turned toward the door. "You pack up what's left."

She yawned and nodded, rubbing her eyes as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. He paused at the threshold, glancing back at her with an expression she couldn't see, one filled with longing and something far more unsettling.

As he descended the stairs, the silence of the house wrapped around him like a shroud. The shadows in the corners seemed to twist and stretch, mirroring the darkness coiling inside him. He moved through the motions of preparing breakfast—cracking eggs, slicing bread—but his mind was elsewhere.

Upstairs, Violet packed in a half-asleep haze, unaware of the storm brewing within her brother. As she folded her robes and gathered her books, she thought of Hogwarts, of the safety it provided, and of Tom. She didn't know why, but the thought of leaving the house filled her with a sense of foreboding. Something felt unfinished, unresolved.

When she finally came downstairs, Julius was waiting for her, two plates set neatly on the table. He smiled at her, the gesture easy and practiced, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of darkness that made her pause.

"You've barely eaten the past few days," he said, motioning for her to sit. "Eat something before you go."

She nodded, sitting across from him. The meal was quiet, punctuated only by the soft clink of cutlery against plates. Julius watched her more than he ate, his gaze steady and unyielding.

As the morning light filtered through the windows, the house felt colder, emptier. Julius walked her to the door, his hand brushing hers as he helped her with her coat.

"Be safe," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

"I will," she replied, offering him a faint smile.

But as she stepped out into the snowy morning, the weight of his gaze lingered on her back. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that Julius was hiding something he would never share.

Inside, Julius stood by the window, watching her until she disappeared from view. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as the house fell silent around him once more.

***

The train rattled and hummed as it carved its way through the snowy landscape, but inside Violet's compartment, the silence was stifling. The frost on the window distorted the outside world into a blur of white and gray, a fitting reflection of her own stormy thoughts. She was alone for the first time since her return to Hogwarts—completely and utterly alone. The train was half-empty, the usual chatter and laughter of students replaced with an oppressive quiet, a testament to the growing fear that gripped the wizarding world. Parents were too terrified to send their children away, afraid of shadows lurking around every corner and whispers of a rising dark force.

Violet sat back against the worn velvet seat, staring at the passing scenery without really seeing it. She wasn't afraid—not like the others. Fear wasn't something she allowed herself to feel, not when her brother was one of them. Julius's power and influence were a shield she hoped would keep her safe, but it was a fragile hope, like a flame flickering in a cold wind. Even so, the thought of her brother's protection offered little solace when the darkness pressing in around her came not only from the outside world but from within.

Her bag lay open on the seat beside her, a collection of newspapers spilling out like a twisted mosaic of despair. Headlines from The Daily Prophet screamed words like Death Eaters and Muggle Murders. The articles were smudged and wrinkled, evidence of how many times she had pored over them, searching for a pattern, a clue—anything to help her piece together the truth about Voldemort. But no matter how many hours she spent scrutinizing the details, she always came up empty-handed. Voldemort remained an enigma, a phantom lurking in the shadows, and with every dead end, her frustration grew.

The compartment door slid open, jolting Violet from her thoughts. Her wand was in her hand before she realized it, her heart thudding against her ribs. But it was only the trolley witch, her expression weary as she pushed her cart past without even glancing in Violet's direction. Violet sighed and lowered her wand, her pulse still racing. The atmosphere was suffocating, the kind of quiet that made every creak of the train sound like a scream.

She had barely settled back into her seat when her thoughts turned to Eve. Her best friend might not return to Hogwarts this year; her parents were too terrified to let her. The thought left Violet hollow, the absence of Eve's laughter and warmth already a tangible ache. Hogwarts felt emptier than ever, and for the first time, Violet wasn't excited to be back. She didn't want to explore the corridors or lose herself in the library. She wanted to be home, curled up by the fireplace with her favorite book, safe from the cold and the shadows.

When the train finally pulled into the station, Violet disembarked with a heavy heart. The air was icy, the platform eerily quiet. Students trudged toward the carriages in small, nervous groups, their voices hushed. Violet pulled her cloak tighter around herself and followed suit, her thoughts still spinning.

Arriving at the castle didn't feel the same as it used to. The towering spires and warm glow of the windows felt more imposing than welcoming, the grandeur overshadowed by the knowledge of what lay beneath. As Violet lugged her suitcase through the corridors, the familiar scent of parchment and wax polish did little to comfort her. She paused by her dormitory to leave her things, only to be greeted by Filch's perpetually scowling face.

"Headmaster Dumbledore wants to see you," he growled, his voice like gravel. "Right away."

Violet blinked, taken aback. Dumbledore? Why would he want to see her so soon? Her mind raced with possibilities as she trudged toward the headmaster's office. Had Julius done something? Had her own secret investigations been discovered? Or was it something entirely different—something worse?

When she reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance, it moved aside without her saying a word, as though it had been expecting her. The spiral staircase carried her upward, each step heavy with anticipation. By the time she reached the top, her palms were clammy despite the cold.

Dumbledore's office was as she remembered: cluttered yet oddly serene, the warm glow of the fire casting dancing shadows across the walls. The headmaster himself stood by the window, his back to her, gazing out at the snow-covered grounds.

Dumbledore poured two cups of tea, the delicate clink of porcelain cutting through the silence. He handed one to her before settling into his seat.

"Well, Miss Alas, you must be wondering why I've called you here," he began, his voice as gentle as ever, yet carrying an undercurrent of something far more serious. "I won't keep you in the dark for long. You see, I may not say much, but I observe a great deal. I have seen the way Professor Riddle watches you from a distance, and the way you watch him. It is clear to me that you are seeing each other in secret."

Violet's heart skipped a beat. She gripped the teacup tightly, her knuckles whitening. Her mind raced, frantically searching for a response, but none came.

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his eyes meeting hers with a piercing intensity. "I am not here to cast blame, Miss Alas. But I am here to tell you the truth—for your safety and for the safety of the Wizarding world."

His words hung in the air, a stormcloud gathering over the room.

"I don't know how much you know about Tom Riddle," Dumbledore continued, his tone growing heavier, "but there are things you need to understand. Tom Riddle was conceived under the influence of a love potion—a potion that robbed him of the ability to truly feel love. That emptiness shaped him into the man he is today. However, when he came to me years ago for a job interview, I saw an opportunity to change that."

Violet's brows furrowed as she stared at him, the words seeming to come from a great distance.

"I brewed a potion," Dumbledore said, his voice soft yet weighted with regret. "A potion designed to restore his capacity for love. I offered him tea during that meeting, tea laced with this very potion. I believed that love—the most powerful force in our world—could guide him away from the darkness consuming him."

The room seemed to grow colder, the fire in the hearth suddenly dimmer.

"But I was wrong," Dumbledore admitted, the regret in his voice cutting through Violet like a knife. "I underestimated the depth of his darkness, and in my attempt to save him, I placed another in danger. That person, Miss Alas, is you."

Violet's grip on the teacup loosened. It wobbled precariously in her hands before she set it down with trembling fingers.

"What... what are you saying, sir?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dumbledore sighed deeply, his gaze never leaving hers. "Tom Riddle is not who you think he is. He is the leader of the Death Eaters. He is Voldemort."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Her chest tightened, her breathing shallow. She shook her head violently, as though trying to dislodge the notion from her mind.

"No," she stammered, her voice rising. "That's not true. You're lying!"

"Miss Alas," Dumbledore began, but she cut him off, standing abruptly from her chair.

"No!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "Why would you say something like that? Tom... Tom isn't... he can't be!"

"I know this is difficult to accept," Dumbledore said calmly, though his expression was lined with sorrow. "But it is the truth. I will give you time to process this, but I must ask for your help. Together, we can stop him before it's too late—before his darkness consumes everything."

Violet didn't respond. She turned on her heel and fled the office, her footsteps echoing through the corridors. The walls of the castle seemed to close in around her, the shadows stretching and twisting in ways that made her feel as though she were being suffocated.

When she finally stumbled outside, the cold night air hit her like a slap to the face. She gasped for breath, her hands clutching her chest as she leaned against the stone wall of the castle.

He's lying. He has to be lying, she told herself, her thoughts a chaotic mess. But what if he wasn't? What if Tom really was Voldemort? The idea was absurd—impossible. Yet, the seeds of doubt had been planted, and they began to take root, spreading their tendrils through her mind.

She felt as though the ground beneath her had given way, leaving her to plummet into an abyss of uncertainty. Who could she trust? Dumbledore? Tom? Neither?

The answers seemed as distant as the stars above her, and for the first time in her life, Violet felt completely and utterly lost.

The cold silence of the castle was oppressive, each of Violet's soft footsteps on the stone floor echoing as though the walls themselves whispered her betrayal. She clutched the small key tightly in her hand, her heart pounding in her chest. It wasn't just the fear of being caught sneaking into Tom's room that made her tremble—it was the gnawing uncertainty that had taken root in her soul.

Was Dumbledore telling the truth? Could the man she trusted, the man she loved, truly be Voldemort?

The corridors felt endless, twisting shadows clawing at her resolve. The chill seeped through her robes, biting at her skin, but she pressed on, her determination stronger than her fear. She reached the door to Tom's quarters and hesitated, her breath visible in the frigid air.

He hasn't arrived yet. He won't know.

Sliding the key into the lock, she turned it slowly, wincing at the faint click as the mechanism gave way. She pushed the door open, just enough to slip inside. The room was dark, the only illumination a faint silver glow from the moonlight seeping through the curtains.

It was immaculate. Every object was perfectly placed, every surface devoid of dust. The air carried a faint, familiar scent—Tom's scent, a blend of cedarwood and something darker, more elusive. As she stepped inside, she felt an overwhelming sense of unease, as though she were trespassing in a forbidden sanctuary.

Violet moved toward the desk, her fingers trembling as she reached for the first drawer. She opened it, her heart racing as she rifled through its contents. Blank parchment. Quills. Ink bottles. Nothing.

She moved to the next drawer, then the next, pulling out paper after paper, scanning them with growing desperation. Each was as mundane as the last—lesson plans, notes, letters she didn't recognize.

Nothing here.

Her frustration grew with each passing second. She dropped to her knees, searching under the bed. Dust-free. She scanned the shelves, her eyes darting over rows of neatly arranged books.

Then she saw it.

On the top shelf, slightly apart from the others, sat a black notebook. It looked old, the leather cover worn and cracked with age. The golden letters embossed on the front glinted faintly in the moonlight: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she reached for it, her fingers brushing the cover. It was eerily similar to the diary she had gifted him, but this one exuded a different energy—older, darker, as if it carried secrets she wasn't meant to know.

She opened it carefully, the pages crackling softly under her touch. Her eyes scanned the first page, then the next, her anticipation mounting with every turn.

Empty.

The notebook was completely blank.

Disappointment flooded her, but something about the emptiness felt wrong. This wasn't an ordinary notebook—she could feel it. It seemed to hum faintly under her fingers, as though it were alive, waiting for something to awaken it.

She placed it back on the desk and stared at it, biting her lip. What was it for? Why would Tom keep an empty notebook, especially one that seemed so personal?

A faint creak from the corridor outside made her freeze. Her heart thundered in her ears as she quickly closed the drawers and smoothed the papers she had disturbed. The sound of the lock turning sent Violet's heart racing. Panic surged through her veins as she shoved the notebook into her bag and scrambled to the bed, forcing herself to appear nonchalant. Her breath was quick and shallow, and she clenched her hands tightly to stop them from trembling.

The door creaked open, and there he was. Tom's presence filled the room immediately, the weight of his gaze almost unbearable. His expression shifted from surprise to warmth as he saw her sitting there.

"Hey, doll. What are you doing here?" His tone was smooth, but Violet noticed the faint flicker of suspicion in his eyes.

She forced a smile, her voice steadier than she felt. "I missed you, so I decided to wait for you to come back."

His lips curled into a smile, soft yet sharp, like the edge of a blade. He approached her, his dark eyes studying her intently. For a moment, she thought he might call her bluff. But instead, he leaned down, brushing a kiss across her temple.

"Oh, doll, I missed you too," he murmured.

He sat beside her, his presence overwhelming, his scent intoxicating. Before she could react, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, his hand curling around the back of her neck. It was fervent, commanding, and left her breathless.

Tom didn't stop there. His lips trailed down her jawline, brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. Each touch sent shivers down her spine, and she fought to keep control of herself, to not melt completely under his touch.

"Um, Tom," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's late, and maybe I should go..."

Her cheeks burned, her skin flushed crimson. Tom tilted his head, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he studied her reaction.

"Why leave so soon, love? I just came back." His voice was low and teasing, the weight of his words making her heart race.

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Or is it that I make you so nervous you can't think straight?"

Her blush deepened, and she tried to look away, but his hand on her chin gently guided her back to face him. His eyes bore into hers, dark and knowing.

"I-I'm just tired," she managed to say, her voice faltering. "I have class in the morning..."

Tom's grin widened, a dangerous edge to his expression. "Why can't you just admit it? I make you so wet you can't take it, don't I?"

Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs. She shook her head, standing abruptly, her legs shaky beneath her. "I'm leaving. Goodnight, Tom."

But he wasn't going to let her escape so easily.

Before she could step away, his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back with ease. She gasped as she found herself in his lap, his hands possessive, holding her firmly in place.

"Not so fast," he whispered, his voice velvet-soft yet commanding. His lips hovered over hers, his dark eyes locked on hers. "I'm not done with you just yet."

Violet's resolve wavered under his gaze, a storm of conflicting emotions swirling within her. Fear, desire, and doubt warred within her, leaving her helpless against the spell he seemed to cast over her.

But somewhere, deep in the recesses of her mind, the truth she had learned earlier flickered like a warning flame.

Was he Voldemort? Could this man she loved and feared in equal measure truly be the one behind so much darkness?

For now, she could only submit to the moment, her thoughts tangled and her will unraveling as Tom claimed her with an intensity that left her breathless.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the room shifted, heavy with unspoken tension as Tom loomed over her, his dark figure commanding yet intimately close. His kisses were deep, slow, and deliberate, his lips tracing patterns on hers as though committing every inch of her to memory. His hands roamed over her delicate form, his touch both possessive and tender. Violet's trembling hands cupped his sharp jawline, her fingertips brushing the edges of his cheekbones as she pulled him closer, her body pressing flush against his.

Their breaths mingled, shallow and quick, each exhale betraying the desperate longing that consumed them both. His hands slipped under the hem of her shirt, fingers gliding across her skin like silk. His touch left a trail of fire in its wake as his lips moved to her stomach, the heat of his mouth marking her with lingering kisses.

A quiet moan escaped her lips, her voice betraying her conflicted surrender. Tom froze for a moment, his lips curled into a satisfied smirk against her skin as he heard her reaction. He traced a path lower, the tip of his nose grazing her hip bone as he tugged at her skirt with deliberate intent.

"I want you, doll," he whispered, his voice breathless, deep, and laced with hunger.

Violet's heart raced, her mind clouded by desire yet pierced with doubt. Her body ached for him, craved the sensation of his touch, but her thoughts screamed warnings she couldn't ignore.

He's Voldemort. The Dark Lord. A murderer.

His piercing blue eyes met hers, smoldering with an intensity that left her breathless. The weight of his gaze bore down on her, expectant and raw with barely restrained control.

"I—I..." Her voice trembled, caught between surrender and resistance.

She wanted him, needed him, but the words of Dumbledore echoed relentlessly in her head. Violet shook her head, the conflict tearing her apart from within.

"I—I can't do this," she whispered, her voice breaking as she pushed him away with trembling hands.

Tom's expression hardened, a flicker of surprise followed by frustration. He sat back as she scrambled off the bed, grabbing her bag with clumsy urgency.

"Wait, Violet!" he called after her, his tone firm but laced with something softer. He rose to his feet as she darted to the door.

Her hand fumbled with the handle, her heart pounding in her ears. "Did I do something wrong?" Tom asked, his brow furrowing, his usual mask of confidence slipping for the briefest of moments.

But Violet didn't answer. She couldn't bring herself to turn around and meet his eyes, not when her own emotions were a storm she could barely control. She fled, her hurried footsteps echoing down the dark hallway.

Tom stood frozen, staring at the door as it swung shut. His jaw tightened, and he clenched his fists at his sides. His thoughts spiraled, an unfamiliar mixture of worry and anger battling within him.

His mind lashed back, venomous and mocking. You, Lord Voldemort, worrying over the whims of a girl? Have you fallen so low? Weakness is unacceptable. She will come back. If she doesn't, so be it. You don't need her.

But the thought of her absence gnawed at him, the unfamiliar sensation unsettling and infuriating. Tom moved to his desk, hoping to distract himself with something else, but his sharp eyes quickly noticed the subtle disorder.

He frowned, running his fingers across the desk's surface, his piercing gaze scanning the room. Papers were out of place, drawers slightly ajar. Someone had been here.

And then he saw it. Or rather, the lack of it.

His diary.

The worn black notebook that held a piece of his very soul—gone.

His chest tightened, and his anger flared, cold and calculating. It had to be her.

Tom's mind raced. Why would she take it? What did she know? His thoughts turned darker. If she had seen even a fraction of what the diary contained, it could unravel everything.

He inhaled deeply, forcing his frustration into a simmering undercurrent beneath his composed facade. No, she will come back. She always does. And when she does, she will explain herself.

His lips curled into a dangerous smile, his blue eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and menace. She was clever, his Violet, but she didn't understand the danger she was playing with.

For now, he would wait. But not for long.

Because no one stole from Tom Marvolo Riddle without facing the consequences.

***

Violet's hurried steps echoed through the empty corridors, the shadows twisting and stretching under the faint moonlight spilling through the tall windows. Her breathing was ragged, her heart pounding against her ribcage as if it might burst. She chewed on her bottom lip, the metallic tang of blood sharp against her tongue. It's a lie, it has to be, she told herself over and over.

Her thoughts refused to settle, a maelstrom of fear and doubt. Tom isn't a monster. He's not—he can't be. But the fragments of doubt clawed at her resolve. His secretive absences, the late-night wanderings through Hogwarts, his calm demeanor in the face of darkness. And then the memory struck her like a blow—a shadowy figure seated at her family's kitchen table, the hooded man on that warm August night. Could it have been him?

Her legs moved almost of their own accord, carrying her toward the library. If she couldn't quiet her thoughts, she could bury them in books. She needed something, anything, to ground herself.

The library was silent, eerily so, the cold January air seeping through the ancient walls. A sliver of moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, illuminating motes of dust floating in the air. Violet shivered as the chill wrapped around her, but she didn't stop.

Finding a shadowy corner near a window, she dropped her bag and folded herself into the chair. Her teeth chattered, and she rummaged through her bag, looking for something to warm herself. That was when her hand brushed against the smooth leather cover of the notebook.

The golden engraving glinted faintly in the moonlight: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Her fingers traced the letters, her brow furrowing as a surge of anger welled up inside her. That stupid notebook. The one thing that might prove Dumbledore's wild accusations right.

"Stupid notebook! Go to hell!" Violet yelled, her voice cracking against the oppressive silence. She hurled the notebook across the room, watching it collide with a hollow thud against the stone floor.

For a moment, she sat back, trembling, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. But as she glanced toward the fallen notebook, something strange caught her eye—the pages were turning.

She froze, her heart skipping a beat. The notebook lay open, its pages flipping as if caught in an unseen wind, though the air around her was still. Swallowing hard, Violet crept toward it, her footsteps soft against the worn floorboards.

"What the—" she whispered, leaning over the notebook.

The pages were blank, just as they had been earlier, but something about them felt alive, almost expectant. Violet hesitated, her fingers trembling as she lifted it off the ground and carried it back to the table.

Her curiosity burned hotter than her fear. She pulled out her quill and ink, the feather trembling in her grasp as she scribbled a single hesitant word: "Hello?"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the ink disappeared into the paper, as if it had been absorbed. Violet gasped, recoiling slightly.

She slammed the notebook shut, her pulse racing. The cold air seemed to thicken, pressing in around her. Before she could think, a brilliant flash of light exploded from the notebook, blinding and searing. It was warm, unnaturally so, like standing under a summer sun, yet it roared past her like a gale.

The next thing Violet knew, she was on the floor, her limbs sprawled awkwardly, her head throbbing from the impact. Slowly, she pushed herself up, wincing as a sharp pain shot through her side. The familiar scent of parchment and wood filled her nose, but something was... different.

Her eyes darted around the library. The tables were polished and newer, their surfaces free of the years of scratches and ink stains she had grown used to. The bookshelves were sturdier, less crowded, their contents pristine. The air itself felt lighter, though still thick with dust and age.

The notebook was gone.

Her breath caught as realization struck her like a cold splash of water. This isn't the library I was in moments ago.

"Where am I?" she murmured aloud, the sound of her voice barely cutting through the oppressive silence.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for her bag, as if clutching it might tether her to something familiar. She turned slowly, her gaze scanning the room for any clue, any sign of what had just happened—or where she was now.

Violet stepped out of the library into the dimly lit hallway, her footsteps echoing faintly in the emptiness. The castle was eerily quiet, the familiar corridors stretching out before her like a labyrinth of shadows. Yet something about it felt off—uncanny, wrong. The air seemed lighter, fresher. The walls glistened faintly as if the stone had been polished only yesterday.

The Hogwarts she knew was ancient, steeped in history, its stones worn with the passage of time. But this... this castle felt younger, vibrant, and alive in a way that unsettled her deeply. She ran her fingers along the cold stone, her pulse quickening.

As she wandered, the eerie silence was broken by the faint sound of footsteps. Her heart leapt. Finally, someone. She turned sharply, her voice ready to call out, but the corridor behind her was empty.

"Hello?" she called, her voice trembling slightly as it disappeared into the void. Nothing answered but the sound of her own breathing. Violet took a hesitant step forward, then another, glancing over her shoulder with every few steps.

Where was Filch? she wondered. By now, she should have been scolded for being out of bounds, or at least caught in the wandering beam of Mrs. Norris' lantern-like eyes. But the castle remained void of life, its stillness pressing in on her like a weight.

And then she saw him.

At the far end of the corridor stood Dumbledore, but not as she knew him. His silvery hair was darker, streaked only faintly with gray, and his beard was trimmed neatly rather than flowing down his chest. He stood tall and poised, his piercing blue eyes filled with energy, almost youthful. He appeared to be in his forties, a sharp contrast to the wise, weathered professor she had come to trust.

"Prof—" she began, her voice breaking the silence. But before she could finish, a hand clamped over her mouth from behind.

"Shh. Come with me."

She spun around to face her captor, her eyes locking with those of a boy around her age. He had dark, curly hair that framed his sharp features and ocean-blue eyes that gleamed with something unreadable—danger, perhaps. He looked achingly familiar, like a half-remembered dream, but the resemblance struck her like a blow. He looked like—

"Tom?" she whispered, her voice muffled against his hand.

"Quiet," he commanded softly, his voice smooth but laced with an edge that sent shivers down her spine. His grip on her wrist was firm as he pulled her away, his strides long and confident.

"Who are you?" Violet demanded, trying to keep up with his pace, her words stumbling over themselves in confusion.

"That," he said, not breaking stride, "is precisely what I should be asking you."

He moved through the corridors with a familiarity that unnerved her, turning corners and slipping through passages as if he knew every stone of the castle by heart. The cold that had clung to her earlier seemed to dissipate, replaced by a strange warmth. Her mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening.

Finally, they reached a deserted hallway bathed in shadow. Tom spun around abruptly, pinning her against the wall with a suddenness that knocked the air from her lungs.

"Let me go!" Violet yelled, her voice cracking with both fear and defiance.

Tom smirked, a dark, knowing expression that sent a chill down her spine. "You can shout all you like," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "No one will hear you here. Now," he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting against her skin, "I suggest you answer me."

There was something about the way he spoke—calculated and sharp, as if every word was chosen for maximum effect. His tone wasn't just commanding; it was cold, almost cruel, yet alluring in a way she couldn't explain.

Violet froze for a moment, weighing her options. His eyes, those piercing blue eyes, bored into her, demanding her submission. Finally, she relented. "My name is Violet. Violet Alas."

His brow lifted slightly. "Violet," he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. "Like the flower?"

"Yes," she said, her voice tight with irritation.

He chuckled, rolling his eyes as if the answer was absurd. "And Alas... as in Julius Alas?"

Her breath hitched at the mention of her brother's name. "Yes," she said cautiously, "he's my brother. How do you know him?"

"Hmm," Tom mused, his expression unreadable. "A sister. He's my... friend." The hesitation in his voice made her stomach twist.

"And you are?" she pressed, her voice trembling despite herself.

He straightened, his smirk widening. "Tom Riddle."

Her heart dropped. "No," she said, shaking her head. "You're not Tom. Tom is... he's a man. And you're... you're a boy. You can't be older than me!"

Tom laughed, a rich, unsettling sound. "What year is it?" he asked.

"1971," she answered warily, her brows knitting together.

He chuckled again, and she couldn't help but notice how perfectly his hair fell into place as he tilted his head. "Well, darling," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "you're in 1944."

The words hit her like a thunderclap. Violet's legs felt weak as the hallway seemed to tilt around her. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "How? What... no, that's impossible!"

Tom stepped back, pacing leisurely. "Oh, but it's not. I'm a memory," he said casually, as if that explained everything.

Her confusion only deepened. "A memory? What are you talking about?"

He sighed, as if explaining himself was beneath him. "I'm a fragment of Tom Riddle, preserved in a diary for 26 years. Magic gone wrong, let's call it." He paused, his gaze narrowing. "I'm stuck here, useless. But I suppose you're familiar with feeling useless."

Violet bristled at his arrogance. He spoke with an air of superiority that made her want to slap him, yet his words carried a strange allure.

"You're lying," she said, glaring at him. "You're full of yourself, that's what you are."

Tom smirked, stepping closer once more. "Believe what you want, darling. But if you've found me here, then something has gone very wrong. And if you think this is strange..." His voice dropped, sending a shiver down her spine. "You've only scratched the surface."

Violet stared at him, her mind racing with questions, her body tense with fear. He was her Tom—yet not. And she couldn't decide which terrified her more.

***

Violet followed Tom through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, her gaze shifting to every corner of the castle. It was the same Hogwarts she knew, yet so much had changed. The walls seemed brighter here, the air less oppressive. Life buzzed in the castle—students laughing in the distance, portraits chattering amongst themselves—a stark contrast to the foreboding silence she'd grown accustomed to. Yet, despite the lively atmosphere, she couldn't shake the cold presence walking silently beside her.

Tom led her without a word, his movements calculated, his expression unreadable. He finally stopped at the stone steps leading to the entrance of the Great Hall, his dark eyes flicking toward her. "Sit," he commanded, his voice soft but carrying a weight that demanded obedience. Violet hesitated but complied, sinking onto the cold stone.

Tom sat beside her, his posture relaxed yet predatory, like a serpent coiled and ready to strike. "How do you know me from the future?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. He turned his head slightly, his sharp features catching the light, making him look both boyishly charming and unnervingly dangerous. "What am I like?"

Violet shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. She could feel his scrutiny, the way his eyes lingered as though peeling back layers of her mind. He was too calm, too still, and it unnerved her. "You... you're my Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," she said, hesitating. The words felt clumsy on her tongue. How could she possibly tell him the truth? That he would grow into a monster feared by all? That he would become Voldemort?

"A professor?" His lips curled into something that might have been a smile, though it held no warmth. There was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse that disappeared as quickly as it came. "Interesting."

"Yeah," she replied, her voice softer now. She glanced at him, and even here—even in this time—she felt the magnetic pull he seemed to exude. It was dangerous, intoxicating.

Tom tilted his head, studying her with unnerving intensity. "I'm more to you, though, aren't I? Back there, in your time, you didn't speak of me as if I were just your professor." His words were slow, deliberate, designed to ensnare.

Violet's breath hitched. How did he know that? She opened her mouth to deny it but found herself nodding instead. "You... you're right. We are more."

Tom's expression didn't change, but she could sense the shift in him. He stood abruptly, towering over her as he looked down, his gaze piercing. "Nonsense. You're lying. I don't have lovers. I have no time for such foolishness." His voice was sharper now, cutting through the air like a blade.

Violet flinched but didn't look away. "It's the truth," she whispered, unsure if she was trying to convince him or herself.

Tom began to pace, his long strides measured and deliberate. His hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed as if deep in thought. "Why?" he muttered, almost to himself. "Why would I allow someone like you to get so close? What makes you special?" He stopped suddenly, turning to face her. His gaze raked over her, scrutinizing every inch of her as though searching for an answer written on her skin. "I suppose you're attractive enough. I've seen better, but there's something... peculiar about you. Still, the age difference would be... inappropriate. Curious."

Her cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and anger, but she held her ground. "I don't know why you... care for me in the future. I don't even know if you do. You're so different there. Colder, crueler."

Tom's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. It was something darker, something that made her stomach twist. "Colder?" he repeated, his voice a low murmur. He stepped closer, leaning down so that his face was level with hers. "I haven't changed, my darling. This... this is who I am. I simply don't bother hiding it in your time."

Violet's heart pounded in her chest. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice trembling.

He straightened, his expression darkening. "You think you know me, Violet. But you don't. I am no mere human. I am more. Far more. And I will succeed. Nothing can stop me." His tone was calm, but there was an undercurrent of malice that sent shivers down her spine.

"Succeed at what?" she asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

He tilted his head, a mockery of curiosity flashing in his eyes. "Everything. You've already told me as much."

Her blood ran cold. "I didn't..."

"Oh, but you did," he interrupted smoothly. "You see, this is my world, Violet. My little domain. And here, I can do whatever I please. Including this."

Her mind reeled as his words sank in. "But... my shields. How can you—"

He smirked, his expression a cruel mockery of amusement. "Goodbye, my little flower. I've learned all I need."

Before she could respond, the world around her shattered into a blinding white light. She felt herself being pulled, her body weightless and helpless against the force. When the light faded, she was sprawled on the cold, hard floor of the library. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing.

The notebook lay untouched on the table, exactly where she had left it. But she knew it hadn't been a dream. The chill in her bones, the echo of his voice in her mind—it was all too real.

And now, she knew the truth. The truth she had tried so hard to deny. Dumbledore had been right all along.

Tom Riddle was the Dark Lord.

Tom Riddle was the Dark Lord

Chapter Text

The cold night seemed alive beneath a dove-grey woolen sky, its threads pulling tighter as snow blanketed the castle grounds. Violet sat by the window of the dim library, her breath fogging the glass as frost crept across it, weaving delicate, crystalline patterns. The stillness outside was a sharp contrast to the storm raging within her. The castle, silent and tranquil, appeared untouched by the sinister currents she now knew were moving beneath its stone walls. How could they all sleep so soundly? Didn't they sense the danger lurking in the shadows?

She exhaled deeply, drawing in the crisp, icy air that seeped through the ancient cracks of the castle. The night felt heavier with every moment, pressing against her chest, as though it could sense her dread. She'd been here for hours, trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts. The diary sat on the desk behind her, a silent sentinel to the truth she had uncovered.

Her mind churned relentlessly. Whatever crazy plan Tom had, it was doomed to fail, wasn't it? How could anyone—even someone as cunning as him—hope to challenge Dumbledore and the Aurors? The very idea seemed suicidal, but the gnawing uncertainty persisted. What if he was right? How many stood behind him? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? She couldn't fathom how deeply his influence might run, how many others might already share his vision.

But what disturbed her most wasn't Tom's lies or his plans—it was her own feelings. She couldn't hate him. She couldn't even bring herself to be angry. Instead, an aching worry consumed her. The thought of something happening to him felt unbearable. She had fallen for him, been blinded by his charm, ensnared by the calculated web he had spun. How could she still care for someone capable of such darkness?

She turned her head toward the desk, where the diary sat innocently. It seemed impossible that something so unassuming could hold so much power. The weight of her decision bore down on her like the encroaching dawn. She had to take it to Dumbledore. She had to tell him everything. She would have to stand beside the man she despised most in the world to stop the man she cared for more than she dared admit.

It was nearly four in the morning. The hours stretched long and oppressive, each passing second tightening the knot in her stomach. Waiting for the sun to rise only amplified her dread. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the pressure building unbearably.

She rehearsed the conversation in her head, her hands trembling as she imagined herself standing before Dumbledore. What would she say? How could she possibly explain? Why hadn't he already acted if he knew Tom's identity? Why hadn't he sent him to Azkaban? Why was Tom still alive, free to roam these halls?

The questions spiraled, each one more suffocating than the last. There had to be more to this than she knew. What was Dumbledore waiting for? The thought haunted her, and with every passing moment, she felt as though the castle itself were closing in on her, stone by unyielding stone.

And yet, through all her doubt and fear, she couldn't shake the memory of Tom's eyes—the way they burned with cold, calculated intensity. The way they seemed to see straight through her. A part of her whispered that this wasn't over, that she was still a pawn in his game, no matter how far she thought she'd come.

The snow outside fell heavier now, the world beyond the glass disappearing into a pale void. Violet's reflection stared back at her, pale and haunted, her dark eyes filled with questions she didn't yet have the courage to answer. The diary behind her felt like it pulsed with life, its secrets begging to be unleashed.

Finally, she stood, the chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. She flinched at the noise, casting a wary glance around the library. The castle remained silent, its ancient walls holding their breath. Slowly, she approached the desk, her fingers hovering above the diary's worn cover.

This was it. Her choice.

But as her hand brushed the leather, a shiver ran down her spine—a faint, almost imperceptible whisper brushing against her mind, as though the diary itself were alive, as though Tom were still watching her, waiting to see what she would do.

Violet froze. The snow outside continued to fall, silent and unrelenting, as the weight of her decision pressed down upon her.

***

The waiting was over. Violet's nerves churned in her stomach as she realized what she had to do. She had spent hours pacing in the library, thinking through every possible scenario. Now, there was no other choice. She gathered her courage, slipped the notebook under her cloak, and walked out of the library into the silent halls of Hogwarts.

The air in the corridor felt colder than usual, her breath visible in the dim glow of her wand. Lumos, she whispered, the light illuminating the darkened stone walls. Hogwarts, her sanctuary since her first year, now felt different—haunted by secrets she could no longer ignore.

Even in daylight, the castle had lost much of its warmth. It wasn't as full as it used to be; nearly half the student body had been pulled away by terrified parents. The rumors of dark magic, of disappearances and growing chaos, had cast a shadow over the school. Some students never returned, their absence a grim reminder of the world outside.

The gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office loomed ahead, its stone face blank and unyielding. Violet frowned, realizing she had forgotten the password. She hesitated, wondering if she should knock or retreat, but as if sensing her intent, the gargoyle stirred. The stone shifted, grinding loudly, forming a staircase that spiraled upward.

Her heart raced as she ascended the steps, every creak of stone underfoot echoing in her ears. The door at the top swung open of its own accord, revealing the Headmaster's office bathed in the soft, flickering light of floating candles. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and lemon drops.

Albus Dumbledore stood behind his desk, his long silver beard catching the light. He was waiting, his piercing blue eyes fixed on her as if he had known she would come.

"Miss Alas," he greeted, his tone kind but weary. "I was expecting you, though I must admit, not at this hour."

Violet took a step forward, her hand trembling as she withdrew the notebook from her cloak and placed it on his desk with a thud.

"This," she said simply, her voice quavering.

Dumbledore's brows knitted as he regarded the object. He picked it up, turning it in his hands, his expression darkening as he read the name etched on its cover.

"It... it took me to the past," Violet stammered, the words spilling out of her in a rush. "I met Tom there—he was about sixteen. He interrogated me about the future. He said he was just a memory preserved in the notebook."

Dumbledore's face was grave as he looked up. "You were not in the past, Miss Alas," he said, his voice steady but ominous. "What you experienced was not time travel but an intricately designed memory. A trap of Tom's making."

Violet blinked in confusion. "But he said it was magic gone wrong!"

Dumbledore chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "Ah, my dear, you will find that Tom Riddle is exceptionally skilled at two things: lying and manipulating. He will say whatever he must to achieve his goals." He turned the notebook over in his hands, as if weighing it. "This is a dangerous object. Tell me, how did you come by it?"

"I... I went through his things," Violet admitted, her voice small. "Your words troubled me, sir. I had to find answers, and this was all I found. I didn't mean to take it. It was an accident."

Dumbledore's sigh was heavy, his gaze distant. "You weren't meant to find this yet. I fear it is worse than I imagined."

Violet's heart sank. "What do you mean?"

Dumbledore sat down, placing the notebook on the desk. "This is no ordinary magical artifact. It is a Horcrux."

"A... what?"

"A Horcrux," he repeated, folding his hands. "It is a vessel for a fragment of a soul, torn apart through the darkest magic. Tom created this notebook to preserve a piece of himself, ensuring that if his body were destroyed, he could be resurrected. But such magic comes at a cost. Each time a soul is divided, the wizard becomes less human."

Violet's stomach churned. "He... he split his soul? More than once?"

"I fear so," Dumbledore said gravely. "This notebook is not just a memory; it is a piece of Tom's very essence, imbued with his will. Its purpose is to continue his work should he fail. That he entrusted it to no one but himself speaks to the depth of his ambitions."

Violet's mind reeled. "Why would he do that? What could drive someone to such lengths?"

Dumbledore sighed, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "Ambition, Miss Alas. Fear. A desire for power that consumes everything else. Tom Riddle fears death above all things, and in his quest to conquer it, he has sacrificed his humanity."

The room fell silent. Violet stared at the notebook, her thoughts swirling.

"This is my fault," Dumbledore murmured suddenly, his tone tinged with regret. "I allowed you to come too close to him. I should have known he would not let you go so easily."

Violet looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Tom cares for you," Dumbledore said, his words deliberate. "Or rather, he cares for what you represent to him. He will not let you go without a fight. He will want you to join him. And that, Miss Alas, is why I must ask for your help."

Her breath caught in her throat. "I would never join him," she said fiercely. "He wants death and destruction, and I—" She hesitated, her voice faltering. "What do you need me to do?"

Dumbledore studied her carefully. "Help me stop him," he said simply.

Violet clenched her fists, her resolve hardening. "I will. But only on one condition."

Dumbledore arched a brow. "And that is?"

"I don't want him to die," she said softly. "Send him to Azkaban if you must. But don't let him be killed."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "A reasonable request."

The tension in the room seemed to ease, though Violet's hands still trembled as she twisted them in her lap.

"Go to bed, Miss Alas," Dumbledore said kindly, rising from his chair. "At ten o'clock, meet me here. There is something I must show you. Avoid Professor Riddle in the meantime, and attend no classes today."

She stood, her legs shaky as she made her way to the door. "Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, Miss Alas," Dumbledore replied, his voice tinged with an unspoken worry.

As she descended the spiral staircase, Violet felt the weight of the notebook's secrets pressing down on her, the path ahead darker than ever before.

***

Dumbledore stood silently in his office, gazing out of the arched window into the night. Snow continued to fall softly over the grounds, blanketing the castle in an ethereal white. The tranquility of the scene stood in stark contrast to the storm raging in his mind.

The notebook lay heavy in his hand—a tangible manifestation of his worst fears. For years, he had harbored suspicions, pieced together fragments of truth, and chased whispers in the shadows. But until tonight, he had never been certain. Now, with Violet's testimony, he could no longer doubt: Tom Riddle and the figure he feared Voldemort would become were one and the same.

He turned the notebook over, the black leather smooth and unnerving beneath his fingers. The dark magic radiating from it was palpable, a bitter chill that seemed to seep into his very bones. Violet had seen only a sliver of its true horror, and Dumbledore had told her only as much as she needed to hear. To burden her with the full truth would have been cruel. Yet he knew her role in the coming storm would not be a small one.

"She found what I could not," he murmured to himself, setting the diary down on the desk. His usually calm expression was troubled, his sharp mind racing through possibilities.

Tom Riddle's obsession with immortality had led him to the darkest of paths, and it seemed his fixation on Violet Alas was no less consuming. That love—or whatever twisted version of it Tom was capable of—was dangerous, volatile, and unnatural. Dumbledore knew it wasn't born of affection or mutual respect; it was a need for control, a fascination with possessing something pure in contrast to his own darkness.

For all his cunning, Tom Riddle's emotions betrayed him. Tonight had confirmed it. He would have noticed the diary's absence by now—of that, Dumbledore was certain. Violet's bold move to take it had likely unsettled him. Her disobedience would not sit well with him, and Dumbledore knew Tom well enough to predict his reaction: he would not rest until he found her.

This thought brought a heavy sigh from Dumbledore as he crossed the room, his robes trailing behind him. The enchanted instruments on his desk whirred softly, one of them emitting a faint puff of silver smoke. His eyes flicked to it briefly—it was a charm he had placed on Violet's presence within the castle. A precaution.

And then he paused.

Tom had been here tonight. Dumbledore had felt it the moment Violet stepped into his office. The subtle tremor of dark magic in the air, the faint disturbance in the wards he had placed around his space—it had all pointed to one conclusion. Tom Riddle had followed Violet's every move, his presence like a shadow clinging to her. He hadn't entered the office, of course; he wasn't so reckless. But he had been close enough to hear, to see, and perhaps even to guess the nature of her visit.

This realization deepened the lines on Dumbledore's face. The game was moving faster now, the stakes higher. He could not let Violet remain in Tom's reach any longer. Whatever plans he had for her, they would only end in ruin.

The Headmaster sat back at his desk, pulling a folded letter from a drawer. Its contents were already written: instructions for Violet's next steps. He had prepared it days ago, anticipating the need for sudden action. Violet would be moved to a safe location, somewhere far from Hogwarts and Tom's influence.

But even safety was a fleeting concept when dealing with a mind like Tom Riddle's. Dumbledore knew Tom would search for her, and if given the opportunity, he would find her. Violet's only protection now was secrecy, and even that could be undone if Tom grew desperate enough.

He took out his wand and, with a whispered incantation, altered the time written in the letter. Instead of ten in the morning, it now read noon. It was a small adjustment, but one that might buy them the time they needed. If Tom anticipated their movements, he would arrive too late.

Still, Dumbledore doubted the Ministry would ever lay hands on Tom. By morning, Riddle would surely be gone. His departure would be quick, calculated, and untraceable. A man as clever as Tom always had an escape plan.

But Dumbledore's focus wasn't on capturing him. Not yet. His priority was Violet—her safety, her preparation. She had been thrust into a conflict far beyond her years, and yet, in her quiet strength, Dumbledore saw hope.

"Forgive me, Violet," he said softly, looking down at the notebook once more. "For placing this burden on you. But you may be the key to undoing what he has wrought."

As the clock struck five, Dumbledore extinguished the lights in his office with a wave of his hand. The castle fell into darkness, the snow outside reflecting faint silver light through the window. Somewhere out there, Tom Riddle was watching, waiting, scheming.

And Dumbledore, ever the strategist, was preparing the next move.

Chapter Text

Sleep took Violet quickly as she was desperate for it, her body and mind craving the rest that had eluded her for so long. The tension of the past few days—the uncertainty of the war, the whispers in the halls of Hogwarts, the cold stares from those who feared her proximity to the Dark Lord—seemed to dissolve into the stillness of sleep. She had no dreams that night. No nightmares clawing at her consciousness, no shadows creeping through her mind. It was the most peaceful sleep she had gotten in a long while. A deep, dark void, a place where her thoughts couldn't reach her, where the weight of everything—her fears, her guilt, her secrets—didn't matter.

She could have slept forever, lost in that darkness, but the clock didn't pause for her. At 11, the stillness of her slumber was broken, her eyes fluttering open against the quiet room. The faint grey light of early morning filtered through the heavy curtains, but it felt wrong. She should have been able to rest, to escape the gnawing questions swirling around her mind. But instead, she sat up in bed, blinking into the dimness, as if she were being pulled back into the waking world by an unseen force.

Dumbledore's words echoed in her head: "Pack your things, Miss Alas. I need you for something important."

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the chill of the stone floor seeping through her nightdress. Her hands trembled as she gathered clothes, throwing them into a suitcase with an urgency she didn't fully understand. What could he want with her? Where was he taking her? Was it for protection—or something darker? She hadn't been given much information, only that it was urgent and that she should be ready to leave at a moment's notice.

Violet packed nearly everything she owned, unsure of how long she would be gone. She didn't want to risk leaving anything behind—anything that might end up being useful in whatever twisted scenario Dumbledore had in mind. She kept imagining Eve's face, but Eve wasn't here. Eve was with her family, hidden away, tucked out of sight from the world that was growing darker and more dangerous by the day. Her father worked at the Ministry, and anyone with ties to the Ministry was increasingly becoming a target for the Death Eaters. It made perfect sense for Eve to be hidden, but Violet couldn't shake the fear that something—someone—was watching them.

As she finished packing, her gaze fell on a crumpled newspaper beside her bed. Violet's stomach twisted as she picked it up. The headlines were always the same now—More Deaths in Wizarding World. She scanned the list of names with trembling fingers, each one like a ghost to her, each one an echo of the fear spreading throughout the magical community. She let out a slow, shaky breath as she read the familiar names—people she had known, people she had grown up with, people who had trusted her. She prayed she wouldn't see Eve's name, hoping it was still safely tucked away with her family, but her hope shattered as she read the final name on the list. Trawers, E. — Ministry Worker. Body Found. It was Eve's family, but it was Eve's last name.

Violet's breath caught in her throat. Eve had been safe, hadn't she? Eve had been hidden. But there it was, in black and white—the unmistakable sign that no one, not even those hidden, were safe from Tom Riddle's wrath.

Violet's stomach twisted as panic crept up her spine. She had to focus. She had to keep her wits about her, even as the weight of that name pressed down on her chest. If Tom—if he—was involved in any of this, he could not know where Eve was. He could not find her. The secrets Violet kept were as dangerous as any weapon. She was the secret keeper now, the one person who knew where Eve was hiding, the one who could lead him to her.

She forced herself to stop, to breathe. You cannot let him find her, she reminded herself fiercely, her eyes closing as a wave of fear washed over her. She couldn't afford to make mistakes. She had to keep her shields strong—stronger than ever before. But could her shields hold against someone like him?

She had no answers, no guarantees.

Noon came. The castle hummed with the sounds of students going to and fro, but Violet felt like an intruder in a world she no longer understood. She slipped out of the dormitory, the heavy cloak she had thrown on a dark shadow against the stone walls. She moved carefully, aware of every step, every noise, every movement. She had to make it to the Astronomy Tower without running into Tom.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she moved through the empty halls, her footsteps echoing off the ancient stones. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so alone.

As far as she could remember, Tom was supposed to be in class, and it was a small blessing that she hadn't encountered him yet. But she could almost feel his presence, like a dark cloud hovering just behind her, watching, waiting for the right moment. She couldn't afford to be caught off guard.

And then, just as she reached the Astronomy Tower, she saw him—the tall, imposing figure standing by the door.

Her breath caught in her throat. Tom.

He turned, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes locked. His gaze was cold, calculated, like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Miss Alas," he said, his voice smooth, almost bored, as if he had been expecting her. He didn't smile, but there was something in his eyes—something predatory, something dangerous.

Violet's mouth went dry, and she struggled to find her voice. But before she could speak, she heard a familiar voice call her name.

"Ah, Miss Alas, there you are."

Dumbledore.

He stepped from the shadows, his kind eyes soft as he looked at her. "Come, my dear. There's no need to be afraid. I'm taking you somewhere safe."

Safe. The word felt hollow in her chest.

Her heart was still pounding, her body trembling as if in warning. But Dumbledore reached for her hand, and despite every instinct telling her to run, she placed her trembling fingers into his. The moment she touched his hand, she felt the pull—like gravity, like being torn from one reality and thrust into another.

And then, in an instant, they were gone.

In the blink of an eye, the Astronomy Tower, Tom's cold gaze, the dark castle walls—they all faded, leaving nothing but the cold, empty feeling of dread. Where was she going? What was Dumbledore planning? Was she truly safe? Or was this just another step deeper into the labyrinth that Tom Riddle had constructed, a maze with no way out?

***

Violet stood frozen in front of the tall, imposing black door, a sense of dread creeping up her spine. The air around her felt thick, the shadows stretching in odd directions as if the house itself was alive, watching her every move. She turned to speak, to ask Dumbledore what was going on, but there was no answer. The headmaster had disappeared. She was alone.

The houses around her were unfamiliar—tall, dark, and built of red bricks, each one looking like it had been weathered by decades, if not centuries, of history. The streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional distant sound of a carriage clattering over cobblestones. It felt like she had stepped into a forgotten corner of London, a place where secrets lingered in every shadow, where even the walls seemed to whisper.

Violet took a deep breath, steadying herself, then knocked on the door. The moment her knuckles touched the wood, it swung open, revealing a man with a serious expression. He looked to be about Dumbledore's age, his face lined with years of experience. Without saying a word, he called over his shoulder, "She has arrived."

The door creaked further open as he stepped aside to let her in, his eyes appraising her in a way that made her feel both out of place and strangely important. He reached out, grabbing her suitcase with a quiet efficiency. "Let me help you with that," he said curtly, his voice carrying an undertone of something darker, more calculated.

Violet hesitated in the dim doorway, the overwhelming sense of being an intruder pressing on her chest. She was just about to step further into the shadowed interior when a familiar voice broke through her thoughts.

"Molly?"

She gasped, her eyes locking onto the face she never thought she'd see again. Molly, standing in the dim light, a wide smile on her face despite the tension that hung in the air. Without hesitation, Violet rushed forward, pulling Molly into a tight hug. She hadn't seen her friend since December, hadn't had the chance to check if she was even safe. Molly had been one of the many who hadn't returned to Hogwarts after the break.

"Hey, I'm glad you made it," Molly said, pulling back slightly. Her eyes, though kind, held a flicker of worry as she looked Violet over. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone."

Molly led her toward a room at the back of the house, a large space dimly lit by the glow of a hearth fire. The scent of old wood and faintly burning herbs hung in the air. Violet's eyes adjusted to the dim light as she stepped inside, taking in the sight of the people gathered around the table.

Arthur Weasley sat at the end, his auburn hair slightly disheveled. Beside him were Fredrick and Gideon, Molly's brothers, their faces set in serious expressions, but their eyes kind, even though their lives were already marked by the war. At the far end of the table was Rubeus Hagrid, his massive frame hunched slightly as he leaned in to listen to something Arthur had said. His rough-hewn features were softened by a gentle expression, but Violet could still tell he was no stranger to the darker side of life.

Hagrid looked up at her, offering a wide, toothy smile. "Violet, good to see you. Been a while, eh?"

She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips in response. But it was clear that the atmosphere in the room was thick with tension. These weren't just friendly faces; these were soldiers in a war she wasn't sure she was ready to face.

As Molly introduced her, the room quieted, all eyes turning to Violet. She shifted uneasily under the weight of their stares, feeling out of place, as if she were the only one in the room who didn't belong. Molly led her to a chair, pulling it out between two boys—both of whom looked like they were barely older than her. Violet sat down, feeling their eyes on her.

"Hi," she managed to say, her voice small, unsure. She had never been comfortable in the spotlight, and she certainly wasn't now.

"Hi, I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt," one of them said, offering her a firm handshake. He was dark-skinned with a strong, noble air about him, his features sharp and serious but with a warmth that came through in his eyes. He was about two years older than her, and Violet felt an instant connection—a sense of familiarity, despite their brief interaction.

The other boy, sitting on her right, didn't shake her hand immediately. Instead, he gave her a look that was both confident and calculating. "Alastor Moody," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. His sandy hair was ruffled, his facial expression unwavering, and Violet couldn't help but notice the faint scar that marred his face.

"Nice to meet you," Violet said, her words barely above a whisper. She was trying to hold herself together, but the weight of everything was suffocating her.

Just then, the man from before reappeared, striding into the room with a sense of authority. He didn't waste time on pleasantries. His eyes locked on Violet, his voice harsh as he spoke, "So the missy is finally here, and I hope you explain to her everything she doesn't understand, because I won't. I'm here to finish the discussion from yesterday."

Violet flinched as he spoke, the venom in his tone unmistakable. He was clearly not here to make her feel welcome.

"We realized the connections in the murders," he continued, his eyes cold, "his targets are those with lower blood status, those who work for or have connections with the Ministry, and all who support Muggle-born equality. Each murder is a message. The last one was Eddie Mobius, and on the wall next to his body was written in blood, 'Join me or end up like Eddie.'" He spat the words out, almost as if the very mention of the Dark Lord disgusted him. "He wants an audience. And now we're supposed to be doing something to stop him and his followers, but instead, we're here babysitting his girlfriend."

The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to Violet, their gazes like daggers. Her blood ran cold as she tried to process his words. Everyone already knew—knew her connection to Tom. Knew about the Dark Lord she had loved.

"What can you tell us about your boyfriend's plans?" the man snarled, his voice filled with hatred.

Violet opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Her throat was tight, her mind a blank. She had no answers for them. She hadn't known Tom's plans. He hadn't told her. She hadn't even realized he was him, the one they were all so terrified of.

"I... I don't know his plan," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling. "I didn't know he was... him."

The man scoffed, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. "I know you didn't. But what is he like? What are his weaknesses?"

Violet squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall anything about him—anything that might help. She thought about his mannerisms, his quiet smiles, his occasional moments of vulnerability, but nothing came to her. She couldn't think of any weakness. Tom had never opened up to her like that, never shared his true self. And now, as she sat in front of these strangers, she realized that she didn't really know him at all.

Everyone waited for her answer, but she had nothing to give.

"Alright," Molly intervened gently, stepping in front of Violet. "She's just arrived. Let her rest."

The man shot them both an angry glare but said nothing more. Violet felt Molly's warm hand on her arm as she led her out of the room.

"It's okay," Molly whispered as they made their way up the old, creaky stairs. "Ignore him. He's just like that. It's nothing personal."

As they reached the second floor, Molly opened a door to a small room. It wasn't much, but it was a place to breathe. Molly sat down on the bed, offering Violet a small, reassuring smile.

"This is called the Order of the Phoenix," she said, her voice quiet but serious. "Dumbledore set it up a few weeks ago as the murders began to increase. We're here to fight Voldemort and his followers. We're helping the Ministry as best we can."

Violet winced at the name, Voldemort. She couldn't reconcile it. He wasn't Voldemort. He was Tom, her Tom. She couldn't understand why everyone was expecting her to know something about his plans when she knew nothing.

"So... this is all of us?" Violet asked, her voice faint.

Molly nodded, her expression somber. "No. There are a few more of us, but not many. Dumbledore offered us a place to hide, and we agreed to help stop this."

Violet felt the weight of everything pressing on her chest, but she didn't know what to say. She wanted to be strong, to fight back against this war that had consumed everything she cared about. But she wasn't sure if she even knew how.

"I'll leave you to settle in," Molly said softly, standing up. "If you need anything, Arthur and I are next door."

Violet nodded, but as soon as Molly left, she collapsed onto the bed, her emotions spilling over. She held the pendant around her neck, Tom's last gift to her, and felt the warmth of her tears as they stained her cheeks. The necklace, a symbol of their love, now felt like an anchor dragging her down into the depths of despair.

This isn't real, she thought. It's a nightmare. When I wake up, I'll be in his arms again. Tom will be here. This will all just be a bad dream.

But deep down, she knew better.

Chapter Text

The months passed in a haunting blur, a tapestry of gray skies and slow-moving days that stretched on endlessly. April was dying, its last breath slipping away in the form of tears that fell from the sky, mourning the passing of yet another cold season. Snowmelt ran in rivulets down the old stone walls of the house, as if the earth itself wept for the destruction that had ravaged the world. And Violet? She felt herself sinking further into the oppressive weight of it all, like the days themselves had begun to bleed into one another, each indistinguishable from the next.

Warmth, she thought, would never return. Not as long as Tom Riddle, or whatever version of him had become Voldemort, walked the earth. The days grew longer, but the warmth she yearned for seemed just as distant as the possibility of peace. It was as if time had forgotten the possibility of sunlight—forever wrapped in shadow.

She lived in a constant state of inner conflict, trapped within these cold, crumbling walls that felt more like a prison with each passing day. She had wanted to be out there with them—the Order, fighting the Death Eaters, standing alongside the only ones she could still trust—but she wasn't ready. Her hands trembled whenever she raised her wand, the images of the lives lost, the broken bodies strewn across the streets of London, flashing in her mind like scars that would never heal.

Still, she trained. Every day, she practiced. She studied every spell she could, read every book she could get her hands on, hoping to make herself strong enough to fight. Alastor Moody, who had become something like a mentor to her, had shown her the ways of the wizarding world in times of war—the blood, the sacrifice, and the darkness. He was unyielding in his instruction, brutally honest, but she had come to rely on him, even if his coldness left her with an ache in her chest. He treated her like one of the soldiers, not some fragile thing to be protected. That was what she needed. The world wasn't kind, and it never would be again.

Her resolve had grown as the months passed. She could feel the anger burning deep inside her, simmering beneath the surface. The more she learned about Tom's cruelty, the more she hated him—hated him for what he had done to people, for the power he had stolen, and for the lies he had wrapped around her heart. Every day she woke to new horrors. The dead piled up. The missing became too many to count. And she was stuck, helpless, a prisoner to the house, to the shadows that clung to her like a second skin.

There were times when she wanted to break free. The letters from Julius only made the desire to return to him grow stronger, like a siren's call pulling her toward a drowning death. His words haunted her—each letter, each sentence, like a whisper in her ear reminding her of the life she had lost. He had written to her so many times that the envelopes had become as familiar as the pages in a book. Each one arrived with a strange sense of dread, and every time she held them in her hands, her fingers trembled. She couldn't open them. She couldn't risk it. She knew the moment she read his words, she would collapse back into the lie, into the love that had once consumed her.

And yet, she couldn't escape it. She could feel his pull every time the letter came, and it took everything in her to shove them aside, unopened. To refuse to give in to the man she had once called her Tom.

Barty Crouch, the Minister of Law Enforcement, had granted the Death Eaters their fate without trial—no more courtrooms, no more public spectacle. Straight to Azkaban. The Ministry, overwhelmed and struggling to cope, had all but thrown up their hands in defeat. Voldemort's power was too vast, his supporters too numerous. And yet, the Ministry had done nothing but throw money at the problem, unable or unwilling to understand the nature of the war they were losing. They tolerated the Order only because it was the one thing keeping them from being completely overrun.

The war had begun, and there was no end in sight. There was no stopping it now. Only death, destruction, and the hollow victory of one side over the other. And Violet couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that her side wasn't going to be the one to win.

But she would fight. She had to. She just had to figure out how.

Her skills had improved. She could hold her own now. Alastor's lessons, blunt and painful as they had been, had transformed her into someone different. More ruthless. More willing to take risks. She had learned how to track, how to read the signs of an ambush, how to defend herself with lethal force if necessary. But despite her growth, there was always a gnawing ache deep in her chest, a hollow emptiness that nothing could fill. The world had shifted beneath her feet, and she wasn't sure if she would ever be able to stand on solid ground again.

And the worry—every time they left on a mission, Violet was consumed by it. Would they come back? Would they be safe? Would someone she had come to care about die today, fall victim to the endless wave of darkness Tom had unleashed? Every time they left, Violet stayed behind, clutching her wand as if it would give her the strength to stand alongside them. But they wouldn't let her. Not yet.

Instead, she poured herself into her studies. She learned the basics of healing, of caring for the wounded in case she couldn't be out there with them on the front lines. It wasn't much, but it was something. She had to be useful. She had to matter in this fight. And when the next mission came, and someone inevitably came back broken, bloody, and bruised, she would be there. She would be the one to fix them.

But for now, she waited. And with every passing day, as the sound of Death Eaters' footfalls grew louder in the streets, the feeling that she was running out of time pressed in closer and closer.

Violet sat in the kitchen, surrounded by a mess of old newspapers, their yellowed edges curling at the corners as they lay haphazardly across the table. She stared at the scattered articles, desperately trying to piece together some sort of understanding of Tom's movements. The weight of the task pressed down on her like a physical thing, a suffocating cloud of doubt that hovered just beyond her reach. Each page seemed to offer more questions than answers. Voldemort's circular statements were cryptic, his actions calculated and deliberate, making it impossible to find a single crack in his carefully constructed facade. He had planned for this, for everything—every move, every death, every choice. There was no room for error in his mind, and certainly no room for anyone to outthink him.

She rubbed her temples, the frustration building in waves. How many times had she read through these papers? How many conclusions had she written down, only to cross them out, finding they led nowhere? She was searching for something—anything—that would give her insight into him, into his mind, but it all felt futile. Every plan, every strategy she concocted, every theory she wrote down in the margins was as empty as the last. Tom was too perfect, too sharp, too aware. He had always been a step ahead of everyone, and it had been one of the things that had drawn her to him in the first place. His intelligence, his ambition, his cunning—he had a way of making her feel like she was the only one who truly understood him. But now, it felt like that understanding was slipping away from her, like the threads that had once bound her to him were fraying and unraveling in the cold winds of reality.

She could feel the emptiness growing inside her, a gnawing ache that she couldn't shake. Tom had always been the center of her world, the source of her heartache and her love. She had seen him in a way no one else had, had loved him in a way that no one else could understand. But now, as she stared at his picture—the one from the Daily Prophet, the one with the cold eyes that seemed to pierce through her—she couldn't help but feel the weight of the hate and fear he had brought with him. People called him Voldemort, and each time she heard the name, it felt like a dagger to her heart.

She missed him. She missed the man who had once smiled at her, whispered sweet nothings into her ear, made her believe in the future they could have had. Underneath the hate, underneath the venom she had grown to despise, there was still love. It was buried deep, hidden in the darkest corners of her soul, but it was there, pulsing like a faint heartbeat. A simple laugh from him, a gesture of affection, could bring it to the surface in an instant. It pained her to know that she would never hear that laugh again. It pained her to know that the man she had once loved had become something... monstrous.

She wondered where he was now. Was he still in the shadows, plotting, planning his next move? Was he happy with the power he had gained, with the destruction he had wrought? Or was there a part of him, deep inside, that regretted it all? Did he feel the same emptiness she did? Did he miss her? The questions gnawed at her, each one a jagged piece of glass slicing through her thoughts.

Violet could almost hear his voice in her mind, the smooth, soothing tone he used when they were alone. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand, the way he had touched her like she was something fragile, something precious. But those moments felt like a lifetime ago, and the person he had become—Voldemort—was so far removed from that man, it was almost impossible to reconcile the two.

She let out a frustrated sigh and threw the papers onto the floor in a fit of anger. She was tired, so very tired of trying to understand him, of trying to make sense of everything he had done. She had thought she knew him. She had thought that, despite everything, they could find a way back to each other. But now, she wasn't so sure. The man who had once loved her had vanished into the darkness, replaced by a monster who showed no remorse, no hesitation in his quest for power.

The clock on the wall ticked steadily, its rhythmic sound echoing through the silent kitchen. The world outside was darkening, the last vestiges of daylight fading as the evening crept in. Violet stared at the papers scattered around her, feeling the weight of each one pressing down on her chest. She had to stop. She had to let go. But it was so hard. The love she had once felt for him wasn't something that could just be erased, no matter how much she wanted to believe that it could.

She pushed herself away from the table, the wood creaking under her weight, and walked toward the window. Outside, the night was closing in, and the wind howled through the streets like a warning. There was no escape, no simple answers to the questions that haunted her. She would never have the answers she sought.

***

The cold wind whipped around Tom as he stood on the terrace of his manor, staring out into the empty, grey expanse of the forest that surrounded him. His eyes narrowed as he took in the oppressive atmosphere—the looming, dark sky that threatened to burst with rain, the withered trees that had long lost their vibrancy, and the dead, barren soil beneath his feet. It was a place devoid of life, much like the state of his heart. No flowers bloomed in this cursed land, and the air felt thick with silence, the kind of silence that smothered everything, suffocated it. Even the creatures of the forest had abandoned this forsaken place. He liked it that way.

The manor was a reflection of him: cold, imposing, and completely cut off from the world. He reveled in its isolation. No one could reach him here. No one could touch him. But it also made him feel the absence of her more acutely, the ache of her absence gnawing at his insides. Every day without Violet felt like a thousand years, a slow burn of frustration and longing. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, savoring the chill in the air, the sting of the coming rain against his skin. The storm was coming, and with it, he felt a new resolve forming inside him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft footfalls behind him. He turned slightly to see Julius approaching, holding a letter. The same letter he had sent again and again, each time returned unopened, each time a further rejection. His irritation flared as Julius laid it down on the table, his usual smug expression faltering as he spoke. "No answer again. She just returned the letter, unopened."

Tom's anger flared like a wildfire. His gaze snapped to Julius, his voice cold, almost mocking. "You can't even get your own sister to answer a letter, Julius. How pathetic are you?" He sneered, watching the man flinch at the venom in his tone. His fingers curled into fists at his sides as his frustration mounted. How dare she ignore him like this? How dare she refuse him, refuse the only man who truly understood her, who could offer her everything she could ever want?

"She's doing it on purpose," Julius said, his voice edged with frustration. "She knows I'll try to talk her into joining us."

Tom's eyes flashed with fury, the rage bubbling up again, this time more consuming than ever. "She's seventeen!" he hissed, stepping forward, his voice rising with each word. "You should decide for her! She has no right to decide! You've given her too much freedom! She doesn't get to make her own choices!" His hand ran through his hair, his fingers tangled in the dark strands in frustration. The blood was pounding in his ears, his mind racing with the need to have her—now. "She wouldn't do this herself. Dumbledore's put something in her head. He's forbidden her from writing to me. I know it. She would never ignore me like this on her own!"

He inhaled sharply, trying to calm himself. His body shook slightly, the rage threatening to overtake him. He had been patient. He had waited. But his patience was running thin. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't stand being away from her, not for another moment. She was his, and no one—not Dumbledore, not anyone—was going to keep her from him.

His eyes flicked to Julius, and the slightest glint of satisfaction danced in the older man's eyes. A smile tugged at Julius's lips, though it was hard to say whether it was genuine or simply a grimace. "I have some good news," he said, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

Tom's eyes narrowed, suspicion and curiosity swirling in his mind. "What?" His voice was low, dangerous.

"We caught him," Julius said, his tone laced with dark triumph.

Tom's heart skipped a beat, and for the briefest moment, he forgot to breathe. The smirk on his lips deepened into a cold, cruel grin. His gaze darkened, and his pulse quickened. Caught him.

"Well then," Tom murmured, his voice a dark whisper that sent a chill through the room. His smile widened, and a low, predatory chuckle escaped his lips. "Take me to him. There can be a good thing today after all."

Julius didn't hesitate. He gave a single nod before turning to lead the way. Tom followed close behind, the anticipation simmering in his chest, feeding his every step. There was a fire in his eyes as he moved toward the next part of his plan. The time was nearing. The war would soon tip in his favor. His power was growing, and every day brought him closer to his ultimate goal.

But there was still one more thing that consumed him. Violet. He needed her. He deserved her. And soon, she would understand that. Soon, she would be his again. And if she refused him? If she refused to see the truth? He would make her see it—make her understand the depths of his love for her, the power he could offer her.

***

The dim, cold room echoed with the man's pained screams, each one piercing the silence like a sharp blade, but Tom simply stood back, savoring the power he held. His lips curled into a smile, a grin that had nothing but malice and cruelty within it. He leaned against the stone wall of the room, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of his control, as Augustus writhed in the chair, desperate for relief.

"Come now, Augustus," Tom purred, watching the man squirm. "I'm not asking for much. Just a few answers. You've got so much to hide behind those closed doors, don't you?" He took a step forward, his voice cold, his tone dripping with venom. "I don't need to remind you that refusing me... is a mistake."

The man's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his chest heaving in a mixture of fear and pain. Sweat poured down his face, the bruises and cuts already taking their toll. But still, he defied Tom. Still, he held on to his loyalty, the oath that had bound him. Tom's grin widened. He was patient, oh so patient. The game had just begun.

Suddenly, the man's defiance crumbled. His eyes glazed with pain, his body trembled uncontrollably. The realization of the torment that awaited him if he didn't speak began to break through his walls.

"I gave an oath," Augustus croaked, his voice hoarse with the strain of the screams that had torn at his throat. "I won't tell you anything, you can kill me. It's better than betraying them."

Tom's eyes flared with anger, but beneath the fury, there was an almost amused edge to his voice as he stepped closer, his face inches from Augustus. "Kill you?" he asked with a low chuckle, tilting his head as though considering the thought. "I think I have far more interesting things planned for you, my dear Augustus."

He raised his wand, and the room seemed to darken with the weight of the spell he was about to cast. "Crucio."

The spell lashed out, and the man's body contorted in agony, his screams rising to a fever pitch. The sound of his pain filled the room, and Tom watched with detached interest, the cold glint in his eyes never faltering. Each second, each breath the man took, seemed to stretch longer, as though time itself slowed in the face of the sheer torment he was enduring.

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours, before the man's voice finally cracked, a desperate sob breaking through the pain. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything, just stop! Please..." His voice was barely a whisper, a broken plea.

Tom's lips curled into a satisfied smile as he lowered his wand. The screams ceased, leaving only the sound of ragged breaths and the faint echoes of agony. Tom stepped forward, his boots making soft echoes on the stone floor as he took a seat across from the man, watching with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Well, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" Tom mused, his tone far too casual for the situation. He leaned back in his chair, watching the broken man with amusement. "Now, Augustus, I do hope you understand that you don't get to keep any secrets from me. Tell me everything. Everything that lies behind those doors. Every little detail."

Augustus trembled, his face pale and slick with sweat, but he no longer resisted. The weight of his own weakness, his surrender to the pain, had rendered him a shell of the man he once was. His lips parted as the secrets spilled out in a rush, each word more revealing than the last, each one dripping with the knowledge that had been hidden from Tom for so long.

Tom listened intently, leaning forward as the man spoke, savoring each new piece of information, each secret that had been locked away for so long. The Department of Mysteries. The ancient artifacts, the experiments, the forbidden knowledge. The mysteries of the universe, hidden behind layers of wards and protection spells. Tom's mind raced with the possibilities. The power he could harness, the weapons at his disposal. The knowledge that had been kept from him for so long was now within his grasp.

His hand clenched around his wand, the power of it humming under his fingers as Augustus continued to speak, his voice weaker now, but the flow of information relentless. Tom's heart raced, not from the thrill of victory, but from the anticipation of what he would do with this newfound knowledge.

As the man finished, Tom sat back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He could almost taste the victory in the air. He had what he needed. And Augustus... well, Augustus had outlived his usefulness.

Tom stood slowly, his gaze never leaving the man's broken form. "I do hope you enjoyed your little chat, Augustus," he said, his voice silky and cold. "But I think it's time to send you somewhere more fitting for your... condition."

With a flick of his wand, the man's body was engulfed in darkness, and with it, any further resistance he might have had. The room was silent once more, save for the sound of Tom's quiet breathing. He looked down at the spot where the man had once been, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself a satisfied smile.

"One less problem," Tom murmured to himself, his eyes alight with triumph.

The next phase of his plan was set in motion. The Department of Mysteries was no longer a mystery to him. And with it, the war would take a darker turn.

***

Violet tossed and turned in her bed, the restlessness gnawing at her, like something dark pulling at the edges of her mind. She could hear the steady breathing of the others in their rooms, the low hum of sleep that filled the house. But she couldn't escape the weight on her chest, that nagging sensation that refused to let her rest. Her eyes flicked open in the dimness of the room, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm her thoughts.

The others had been on a mission, exhausted from the latest skirmish, and she had been left behind. They needed rest, but she wasn't as tired. Her energy was still full, and something else—something unsettling—kept her awake. She couldn't shake it.

Sighing softly, Violet pushed herself up, her feet brushing against the cold floor. The old house was alive with the sound of creaking wood as she moved. The long, dark hallway stretched before her, shadowed and oppressive. The old house had always given her the chills, and tonight it felt even worse—like something was watching her from the shadows. Every footstep echoed in the silence, the worn steps creaking under her weight, and the chill of the air nipped at her skin as she made her way downstairs. She hated this house, with its peeling wallpaper and dimly lit rooms. It was oppressive, stifling. She wanted to go back to Hogwarts, to be somewhere familiar, somewhere safe. But Dumbledore had advised her to stay. There was work to be done, and she was still too young to join the others in the field.

The kitchen greeted her with its familiar darkness. The old wooden table sat in the center of the room, papers scattered across it in a chaotic mess, some from the previous month, others just a few days old. Violet's eyes fell upon them as she sat down, feeling a strange pull to the papers, as if they were calling to her.

She glanced at the articles in front of her, the words blending together in a haze. But then something caught her attention. A picture on the cover of an article from January, showing a disturbing scene—the words "Join me" underlined. Her fingers traced the text, the small, inked symbols that seemed to jump out at her. She set the paper aside, her pulse quickening. There was something about it, something she couldn't explain.

Her gaze moved to another article, one that had come out a week after the events at Knockturn Alley, the infamous place where Mudbloods were said to die. The first two words stood out again—"Join me." The repetition of the phrase was too eerie to ignore. Violet's heart beat faster, a spark of hope lighting in her chest. Could this be it? Could this be the sign she had been waiting for?

She began sorting through the papers quickly, pulling each article by date, circling the same two words in each: "Join me." She was piecing together a message—Knockturn Alley, midnight, alone. It was all leading her to something, wasn't it? The last article was from this morning, and as she flipped through it, her breath caught. On page seven, an article about violets—her violets. Was this another sign?

Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. 11:35 PM. There was still time.

A surge of determination filled her, overtaking the fear that had threatened to hold her back. She couldn't tell anyone—she knew they would stop her. The others would never let her go, but this was too important. She couldn't ignore it.

Without a second thought, she grabbed her coat, pulling it over her pajamas as she stood up. The weight of the moment settled over her as she headed for the door. Tonight was different. She wouldn't be scared. She wasn't going to let fear dictate her actions. She had to find out if Tom—Voldemort—was really trying to reach her, and if so, why. She had to know what was hidden behind the words, behind the secrets that had been written just for her.

The door creaked open, and she stepped into the night, her breath rising in a cloud of mist as she ventured into the dark streets of London. The city was quiet, too quiet, as if it knew something was about to change.

Chapter Text

Violet pressed on, her boots splashing in the wet streets, the cool rain drenching her to the bone. The city was empty, save for the occasional flicker of movement in the shadows, but the vast silence felt suffocating. The dampness clung to her skin, seeping through the thin fabric of her pajamas, but she couldn't afford to stop. Every step felt heavier, the weight of the journey pressing down on her with every mile. Her breath came out in quick, shallow bursts, forming clouds in the freezing air. The wind howled through the narrow alleyways, sending a chill that gnawed at her, but Violet pressed on, determined, driven by something she couldn't quite name but couldn't ignore either.

The sky seemed to reflect her unease, dark and ominous, clouds rolling over one another as the rain began to fall harder, drenching her hair and face. She wiped the rain from her eyes, blinking against the sting, but it was no use. She was soaked, but there was nothing to do but continue. Her mind was fixed on one goal: finding him. Whatever Tom wanted from her, whatever game he was playing, she would not be deterred. She had to know.

As she trudged along, the world around her grew darker, the shadows creeping ever closer as the city seemed to close in on her. Her footsteps echoed off the cobblestones, breaking the silence only for a moment before it swallowed her again. The only source of light now were the occasional bursts of lightning, illuminating the night for a fleeting second, casting eerie shadows that seemed to follow her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached the Leaky Cauldron. The familiar sight of the small pub brought a fleeting sense of comfort. She stepped through the door, the warmth from the fire inside washing over her like a welcome embrace. The crackling sound of the flames, the clinking of glasses—everything felt so ordinary, so safe.

Tom, the barman, stood behind the counter as usual, his eyes meeting hers. He greeted her with a polite smile, though it never reached his eyes. The usual air of suspicion hung around him, but he was always cordial. "Miss, would you like to stay? Warm up by the fire? Drink something?"

The warmth of the pub tempted Violet, the fire crackling invitingly, but she couldn't afford to linger. She glanced at the clock on the wall, the hands reading 11:55. She was running out of time.

"No, thank you," she said, forcing a smile. "I must go to Diagon Alley."

Tom's brow furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his eyes. He hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, Miss. Keep an eye out there, though. It's not safe to be alone at this time. Dark times, you know."

Violet nodded gratefully, but the words barely registered. She was already focused on the path ahead, the weight of the clock ticking in her head. She stepped through the back of the pub, where the alley leading to Diagon Alley awaited. The night outside felt colder, the rain heavier, but she couldn't allow herself to hesitate now. The danger had already settled into her bones, but it didn't matter. She was closer now.

The narrow street ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, the darkness pressing in from all sides. She had to keep going, no matter how foolish it felt. Deep down, Violet knew how dangerous it was to wander around at this hour. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was something she had to do.

With one last glance at the Leaky Cauldron's lit windows, she stepped out into the wet streets once more, her footsteps quickening, as she approached Diagon Alley. There was no turning back now. The night was closing in, and Violet's search had only just begun.

***

Violet's steps quickened, the sound of her feet slapping against the wet cobblestones the only noise in the silent, oppressive night. The eerie quiet of Diagon Alley seemed to stretch around her like a suffocating fog, the flickering streetlamps casting long shadows on the empty storefronts. The feeling in her stomach only grew worse with each step, a tight knot of fear and excitement that made her question her decision. She had never been out this late, never ventured into the heart of Knockturn Alley alone before. But tonight, everything felt different. She could feel the pull of something deeper, an inexplicable need to find him—Tom. The thought of him haunted her, even now, even after everything that had happened.

As she walked further, she noticed the stark contrast between the normally busy, bright Diagon Alley and the unsettling quiet around her now. It was almost as if the street had been abandoned, left to rot in the damp night. The weather was unforgiving, the rain intensifying, but still, she pressed forward. Her heart pounded with every step, a drumbeat of uncertainty.

She turned left down a narrow alley, where the walls were plastered with posters that made her skin crawl. The familiar sight of Tom's face stared back at her. The poster was yellowed with age, corners curling as if it had been up for months—months of desperation from the Ministry. The words beneath his face were sharp, accusing:

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle, UNDESIRABLE"

She swallowed hard, her fingers brushing against the paper as she read the rest, her voice barely a whisper:
"The Ministry is asking for any information about the individual, he is dangerous and unpredictable. If you see him, do not attempt to make contact with him yourself."

Her breath caught in her throat. The man on the poster was not just a criminal in the eyes of the world; he was everything she had once loved and still longed for, despite the violence, despite everything he had done. She could almost feel his presence in the air, a shadow hovering over her.

Her heart raced, and for a brief moment, she thought about turning back. The weight of the warning sank into her chest, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Her feet carried her deeper into the street, the further she walked, the more anxiety crept into her bones. The cobbled path seemed to narrow, the darkness pressing in on all sides. Her legs trembled, the fear seeping into her body with each step, but still, the thought of Tom pushed her forward.

The noise around her shifted as she entered Knockturn Alley. The air was thick with the scents of incense, old wood, and something darker—something foul. The narrow alley was teeming with people, but they weren't the kind of people Violet was used to. Dark figures loitered around, some casting suspicious glances her way, others with eyes hidden beneath hoods or cloaks. The market was alive with trade—quiet, secretive, shady deals taking place in the shadows, while the shops, once hidden, now seemed open for business. This was where life thrived, where the criminals and dark magic practitioners came out of hiding.

Her heart pounded in her ears, and a sense of urgency grew within her. She wasn't sure where to go, what to do. Tom could be anywhere in this labyrinth of danger. But she had to try, she had to find him. She pulled her coat tighter around her body, trying to shield herself from the wind and rain, but the chill in her bones was already more than just from the weather.

Then, a thought struck her. The small tavern where Julius had once taken her, tucked away in one of the darker corners of Knockturn Alley—it could be the place. Her instincts told her that it was worth checking. She had seen it before, a dingy little hole in the wall, but the kind of place where deals were made in whispers, where secrets were traded for a price. It was the kind of place Tom would frequent, and it was where she had last seen him, in the company of his followers.

She moved with a newfound sense of purpose, weaving through the crowd and past the shops, ignoring the suspicious looks she received. The weight of her decision pressed down on her, but she refused to second guess herself now

Violet's heart skipped a beat as she approached the familiar round sign above the door, the white dragon emblem faintly glowing in the dim light. Beneath it, in bold, faded lettering, was the name: The White Wyvern. She stepped closer, her thoughts swirling. There was no turning back now.

A figure stood under the trellis, the smoke from his cigar curling around him like an omen. His dark curls and black coat blended into the shadows, and though his face was obscured by a hood, Violet knew immediately who it was. Tom.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her chest tightened. The rain soaked her through, but the chill didn't come from the weather. It came from the weight of his presence, the magnetic pull she could never escape.

Tom looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing as he spotted her in the dark. A flicker of recognition sparked in his gaze, followed by a slow, dangerous smile. He flicked his cigar aside, and without a word, he walked toward her, his movements deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. The rain fell around him, but he didn't seem to care, his focus completely on her.

Violet's body stiffened under his gaze, her chest tightening with both anticipation and unease. She couldn't move. Her feet were cemented to the ground, as though his very presence paralyzed her.

When Tom reached her, he stopped mere inches away, his gaze cutting through the shadows to drink in every detail of her. A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then, in that same low, controlled voice, he spoke, a trace of something darker threading through his words.

"Violet."

It wasn't the warm, tender tone she had hoped for. It was cold. Detached. The voice of a man who had learned to control everything—even his own desires. It was a statement, not a question. He was studying her, weighing her every reaction.

"I see you've come."

Her heart beat wildly in her chest, but she remained silent, caught in the storm of his presence. The anger she'd once held for him felt far away now—like something that no longer belonged to her. But so did everything else. All the feelings she thought she had buried—distant echoes of a time before she had allowed herself to follow him into this madness.

Without a word, Tom reached out, his hand curling around her wrist, pulling her into him with a force that was both possessive and merciless. His other hand moved to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her wet hair, holding her in place. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

"You're drenched," he said flatly, the words almost laced with a smirk. His tone held no concern—only the kind of cool, detached observation she had come to expect from him.

His face was close now, inches away from hers. He leaned in, and his breath tickled her ear. "You think this is a game, don't you?" he whispered, his voice soft but threatening, like a caress before a strike. His lips brushed against her ear, and the words were a challenge, daring her to deny it.

Violet's pulse quickened, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she felt his presence more acutely than ever. He had always been able to provoke something deep inside her, a stirring of emotions she couldn't control, no matter how hard she tried.

But there was something else now—a coldness that seeped into her very bones, something more unsettling than the rain, something far more dangerous than the dark. She couldn't tell if it was fear or desire, but she couldn't seem to look away.

Tom pulled back just slightly, his grip never loosening. His eyes searched hers, calculating, as if waiting for her to make the next move. A smirk danced at the edges of his lips, not playful, but triumphant, as if he had already won.

"You've been gone so long," he said, the words laced with something dark and possessive. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."

For a split second, Violet felt the sharp sting of something she couldn't place. He hadn't changed—still the same man who demanded everything from her, still the same man who twisted her heart with a glance. She opened her mouth to respond, to throw the anger back at him, but the words died on her tongue.

He made everything feel as if it were part of his plan, part of his world—her world, whether she liked it or not.

Then, without warning, Violet slapped him, her palm connecting with his cheek with a sharp crack that echoed in the night.

For a moment, nothing moved. The air hung still, heavy with the shock of what had just happened. Tom's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but his face remained cold. He hadn't expected it, but there was no sign of the hurt she had hoped to see. His expression shifted only slightly—darkening as his gaze turned sharp.

"So," he murmured, his voice colder now, cutting through the space between them. "We're still playing games, then."

Before she could react, Tom yanked her toward him, pulling her into a kiss that was rough and possessive. His lips were demanding, taking more than giving, as if he were trying to claim what he thought was rightfully his. Violet's pulse hammered in her ears, her hands moving instinctively to grip his shoulders as the kiss deepened.

It wasn't love she felt. Not the kind she had imagined. It was something darker, something tangled with need and anger, with fear and lust all mixed into one. A dangerous game they were both trapped in, and neither one of them was ready to let go.

He pulled away after a moment, his breath ragged, but his expression unchanged. He looked at her, and for a brief second, his gaze softened, just the slightest hint of something that could almost be described as tenderness. Almost.

"Better," he said, his voice low and rough, as though the words had cost him something. Then, he kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering for a second too long. "I really missed you," he murmured into her damp hair.

Violet's heart fluttered, the words slipping under her defenses when she least expected it. For a moment, it felt like everything else—the rain, the world outside—ceased to matter. It was just them, trapped in the storm, and she let herself forget everything. For that brief moment, nothing else was real.

But then, just as quickly, Tom stepped back, his eyes scanning her with a calculating look. He noticed the state of her clothes, soaking wet, and his lips twitched slightly, though his voice held no true concern.

"You came here dressed like that?" His words weren't angry, but there was something darker in them, a quiet disapproval mixed with amusement.

Violet's lips curved into a faint, rueful smile. "Yeah, well, I figured out your riddle half an hour ago."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, dangerous and dark, his smile curling into something predatory. "Let's get inside, then," he said, his voice dripping with a knowing authority.

Without waiting for her to respond, Tom grabbed her wrist once more, his grip firm and unyielding as he led her into the tavern, the door creaking shut behind them. The world outside was forgotten now—just another shadow in the dark.

The pub was full of noise when they entered, a cacophony of drunken laughter and casual chatter filling the air. But as soon as Tom stepped inside, the room fell silent. All eyes turned toward him—some filled with terror, others with reverence. There was an unmistakable respect that followed in his wake, an awareness of who he was and what he could do.

Violet felt their eyes on her, too. She had never been in a place like this before, surrounded by people who had blood on their hands, criminals and murderers who bowed their heads to the man beside her. She couldn't help but notice that every table they passed had at least one person bending their head in some form of deference to him. Here and there, she could hear quiet murmurs of "Good evening, my lord," or "How was your night, my lord?" The respect was palpable, and it sickened her to her core.

Tom, for his part, seemed to relish the attention, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He drank it in, feeding off the fear and admiration like an addict. He enjoyed the power. Violet couldn't deny that, but something inside her twisted at the thought of him thriving off such cruelty.

They reached the back of the pub, where a small table in the corner awaited them. As they sat down, a young boy—no older than Violet—approached, his face pale and his hands trembling. "W-what would you like to drink, sir?" His voice was shaky, filled with a fear so obvious, it made Violet uncomfortable.

Tom didn't answer right away. He looked at the boy for a moment, his eyes cold and calculating. "Whisky, neat," he said finally, his voice steady, almost like a command. He turned to Violet. "And you?"

"Coffee is fine," she murmured, pulling off her wet coat and feeling immediately self-conscious in her thin, damp pajamas. She was suddenly very aware of the whispers growing louder, the stares that followed her every movement.

Tom took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. His fingers brushed against her skin for just a moment too long, his touch almost possessive. "I like the view, very much," he said softly, his voice laced with something darker, "but if you don't want me ripping out the eyes of every man staring at you right now, I'd suggest wearing this." His tone was light, but there was an unmistakable edge to it, a warning she knew all too well.

The drinks arrived soon after, and the silence between them became heavier, thicker with tension. Violet couldn't look at him, not completely. She wasn't sure how to act, how to feel. She knew she had to get information out of him, to understand where he'd been, what he was planning, but her thoughts were a mess. What was she supposed to say to him? How could she even talk to him after everything that had happened?

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words died on her tongue. She just stared at her drink, fumbling for some semblance of composure.

Tom, ever perceptive, broke the silence. "Where were you?" His voice was quiet but demanding. "These past months, you aren't at Hogwarts. I know that."

Violet's throat tightened. She didn't want to tell him the truth. She didn't want to tell him that she'd been avoiding him, hiding from him. That she'd been terrified of what he was becoming, terrified of what he would do next. "I... can't tell you that," she said softly, her hands twitching in her lap, betraying her anxiety. "I'm fine. I'm safe."

"Safe?" Tom's voice took on a hard edge. "Safe from what? From me?" His eyes flashed with irritation, and Violet could see the flicker of anger behind his controlled exterior.

"No," she said quickly, trying to backtrack, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean like that. I meant... I'm okay. I've been fine."

"Fine?" He repeated, his tone growing more cynical. "You meant safe. Why do you need to be safe from me? Do you think I would hurt you?" His words were sharp now, demanding an answer, but his eyes—those magical eyes—were cold, distant, as if he were studying her to understand her, not to love her.

Violet's heart hammered in her chest, her blood running cold. She tried to fight the anger bubbling up in her. "Well, you go around killing people every day. People are terrified of you, Tom. They're scared to even say your name."

Tom leaned in close, his voice suddenly low and venomous. "I'm doing that for a better world, for a pure world," he said, the words flowing easily from his lips. "We can't be controlled by the Ministry anymore. We can't be puppets to their games. We have to stand up to them. If we don't, then who will? I'm doing this for us."

Violet felt her stomach twist. She had heard these arguments before, seen the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his "pure world." But now it felt different, more dangerous, more real.

"And who is going to control this world, then?" she asked, her voice trembling with disbelief. "You? How is killing Muggle-borns making the world better?"

Tom glanced around, making sure no one could overhear their conversation. Then, with that chilling calmness he was known for, he spoke. "Yes. I'll lead our world to glory. I won't let Muggle-borns be our equals. They're not. They never will be. There are more of them than us, it's only a matter of time before they make us their slaves. And I won't let that happen. We will have our rights. A pure world." His voice softened, and his hand found hers, gently holding it as though the touch was meant to soothe her. "You'll see, Violet. We'll be on top. You'll be mine, and nothing will stop us."

Violet recoiled, pulling her hand away. "Tom, you're crazy. You'll lose. This is a suicide mission."

Tom's eyes flashed with fury, but he held his composure. "No, darling, I'll win. And you know it. I see it in your eyes. I see the fear in them. You're scared, but there's no need. You are mine. And that means no one can touch you."

Violet stared at him, her heart breaking. "I won't join you, Tom," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "I can't."

Tom's grip tightened on her hand, his fingers squeezing so hard it hurt. "But how long can your resistance last?" he whispered, his voice cold, almost triumphant. "Your forces will fall. They'll die. It's just a matter of time. And when that time comes, you'll realize there's only one side in this war. My side. And you'll join me."

The pain in her chest felt like a physical ache as she stared at him, the man she once loved, the man who was now a stranger. His words cut deeper than any physical wound. Her love for him, the love she had once thought unshakable, was being slowly destroyed by his very hands.

"I'll never join you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

Tom smiled then, a dark, cold smile that sent chills down her spine. "I'm a patient man, Violet. You'll learn that soon enough. I always get what I want. One way or another." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And trust me, you don't want to test my patience."

He stood up, pulling her roughly from her seat by her wrist, and for a moment, she thought she might collapse. He walked her toward the door, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist, and she followed without thinking.

"I wish to see you again, love," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, a tenderness that felt utterly out of place.

Violet pulled away, her heart pounding in her chest. "I don't think so. Coming here was a mistake."

Tom chuckled darkly, the sound filling the air around them. "It wasn't a question, love." He moved closer, his lips brushing against hers in a cold, passionate kiss. She didn't return it, but he didn't stop. He forced her lips open, and she struggled against him, trying to break free, but he held her tighter, unrelenting.

When he finally pulled away, she shoved him back, taking a few steps back. Tom simply smirked, blowing her a kiss. "I love you, doll," he mouthed, his words sending a shiver through her.

Then he turned, walking away with that same confident stride, disappearing into the dark alley, his smirk still visible, as if he were savoring the moment, enjoying the power he had over her

Violet stood frozen for a moment, her body trembling, her lips still burning from the unwanted kiss. It wasn't passion she felt—far from it—it was disgust, a hollowness that churned her stomach and made her knees weak. She pressed the back of her hand to her lips, as if she could scrub away the sensation of him, but it clung to her like a shadow.

This wasn't Tom. Not the Tom she once knew, the boy who charmed her with his wit, whose laughter could light up the darkest corners of her heart. No, that Tom was gone. What stood in his place tonight was something else entirely. Someone darker, colder, crueler. A part of her still wanted to believe it wasn't real—that this was a nightmare she would wake from. But the bitter taste of reality lingered on her lips, and it was undeniable.

As she staggered down the cobbled street, Violet felt like she couldn't breathe. Her thoughts raced, a cacophony of memories and emotions crashing together. She thought back to the beginning of the evening, to the way he had smiled at her, his eyes still holding that glimmer of something familiar. He had been like twilight then—dark, yes, but not entirely. There were still those fleeting shades of color, those hints of warmth that made her believe, even if just for a moment, that her Tom was still there.

But it had been a lie. A mask. And as the night wore on, that mask fell away, piece by piece, revealing the truth. The twilight was gone now, and in its place was the consuming blackness of midnight. He wasn't Tom anymore. He wasn't the boy she had loved.

Her hands shook as she furiously wiped at her mouth, her skin raw and red from the effort. It didn't matter. She couldn't get rid of it—the memory, the taste of his lips. It wasn't sweet like it used to be, wasn't laced with the affection that had once made her weak in the knees. No, it tasted like death. Like poison. Like a warning of everything he had become.

Like a warning of everything he had become

Chapter Text

Violet awoke to the unrelenting cold that had seeped through the cracks of her modest room. The thin linen sheets tangled around her legs, their coolness biting into her skin. The air was thick, suffocating, as if the world outside had closed in around her, smothering her with its weight. She blinked, eyes still heavy from an agonizingly fitful sleep, trying to push away the images from the night before.

But they clung to her like ghosts, refusing to fade. Every detail of Tom's touch, his kiss, the cruel force he had used to take something from her that she couldn't give willingly—it was all there, replaying in her mind, refusing to let her escape.

She pushed herself up from the bed, a shiver running down her spine as her feet touched the cold floor. The room was silent, too quiet, a constant reminder of the emptiness she now felt. Her body ached from the tension, the stress of the past few months, but it was her heart that was the heaviest. How long could she keep running from the truth? The weight of it crushed her every time she thought about the path she had chosen. She couldn't deny it any longer. No matter how much she loved him, Tom Riddle had become someone else—something else. And that kiss, that forced kiss, had shattered whatever fragile illusion she had left.

With a deep, trembling breath, Violet forced herself to move. She dressed quickly, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. Her reflection in the mirror showed a girl she didn't recognize—a girl who had wandered too far into a dark world, a world where light barely pierced through the thick walls of her own regret. Her skin was pale, a ghostly hue under the dim light. She looked tired, drained of life, as if every decision had taken another piece of her soul.

The door creaked open with a soft groan, and Violet's heart skipped when she heard the gentle knock that followed. Her stomach twisted into knots. She knew who it was without even needing to see. Molly

Violet opened the door with a slow, hesitant motion. Her friend stood there, her face pale but composed, though the worry in her eyes was unmistakable. Molly's gaze flicked over Violet's disheveled appearance before her lips parted, but no words came at first. She stepped inside, her presence a silent reminder of the world Violet was trying so desperately to avoid.

"We need to talk," Molly said softly, her voice carrying an undertone of fear that Violet couldn't ignore.

"I know," Violet murmured, her voice thick with guilt. "I... I know you're all disappointed in me. You don't need to say it."

Molly's eyes softened, though a trace of anger still lingered. "It's not about being disappointed, Violet. We're worried about you. We know what you did last night. We saw you leave. The Order... they know too."

Violet flinched. She could feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on her, suffocating her from every side. But the worst part wasn't the disapproval—it was the part of her that already knew they were right. She shouldn't have gone. But there had been that voice inside her, that relentless need to see him, to feel something, anything, that made her take that step toward him again. That voice was still there now, even after everything. Even after seeing him—Voldemort—for what he truly was.

"I had to see him," Violet said, her voice breaking slightly, a soft sob threatening to escape. "I needed to understand... I thought maybe he'd change back. I thought..." Her words faltered, her hands trembling as she wrung them together in a futile attempt to calm herself.

Molly shook her head, stepping closer, her hand resting gently on Violet's shoulder. "Violet, you have to stop this. He's not who you think he is anymore. He's not the person you loved. He's become something darker. A monster."

Violet closed her eyes, tears welling up but refusing to fall. Tom... my Tom... But the more she thought about it, the more the cold truth settled in. The person she had kissed last night had not been Tom. He had been someone—something—else. Her heart ached for the person who had once held her, whispered sweet promises, and made her feel like she belonged. But he had been replaced by something far more dangerous. Voldemort.

"I know," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I know."

But it was too late. She had already felt the power of his words—his promises, his obsessions. His grip on her had only tightened, and she had allowed it, despite the dread that crept into her heart every time she thought about the future. There was no easy way out. He had marked her as his. And she was trapped.

The sound of a soft knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Molly's expression grew grim. "The Order," she muttered under her breath, and Violet knew this was it. There would be no more pretending, no more running away from what she had done. The truth had come to find her.

***

Meanwhile, in the shadowed corners of his lair, Tom Riddle sat alone. The flickering fire cast long shadows across his face, contorting his features into something dark and twisted. His thoughts swirled like a storm, as he replayed the events of the night before. The memory of her—the way she had stood there in the rain, so fragile, so willing to come to him despite everything. Her kiss, though cold and filled with resistance, still clung to him like a drug. She will be mine again. I will make her see the truth.

Tom's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair as he stared into the flames. His mind raced, calculating, plotting. The war was closer to his victory with each passing day. The Ministry was crumbling, the Muggle-borns were falling, and his followers—his loyal followers—were ready to carry out his every command. The world would soon bow to him, and Violet would be by his side. He would make her see that she had no choice. She would join him. He was certain of it.

"She's still mine," he whispered to the shadows, his voice soft, almost affectionate. "No one can take her from me. Not even her own conscience."

He smiled to himself, the coldness in his eyes growing. He knew where she hid now. He knew where to find her, and it would be only a matter of time before she would be forced to come back to him. The Order couldn't protect her from him. They were nothing compared to his power.

Violet sat in the dim room, the oppressive weight of the Order's presence pressing down on her like a stone. They were watching her, waiting for her to explain herself, to offer some answer that would make sense of the madness she had walked into. But she had no answers. Only questions. Only pain.

"What happened?" came a voice, sharp and accusing, pulling her out of her thoughts. It was one of the Order members, a man she didn't know well. "Why did you go to him? What did he say to you?"

Violet swallowed, her throat dry as she tried to find the words, but everything felt hollow. She couldn't bring herself to tell them the truth. That part of her still longed for him. That part of her still loved him, despite everything. I can't tell them that.

"They're going to kill you," Molly said softly, her words filled with sorrow and fear. "And worse, they're going to kill everyone you care about. You have to stop this, Violet. You have to stop him."

But Violet couldn't stop the war that had already begun, couldn't stop the darkness from swallowing everything she held dear. Not anymore.

Tom's voice echoed in her mind, We will win. You will be by my side, whether you like it or not.

As the Order was discussing their next move so was He.

***

Voldemort stood at the center of the dark, cold room, his pale face lit only by the flickering torchlight. His crimson eyes burned with malice and focus as he stared into the shadows, his thoughts swirling with cold precision. The room was silent, save for the occasional creaking of the old stone walls that held his most trusted followers—the ones who remained loyal to him, bound by fear or ambition.

His plan had been coming together flawlessly. His power grew with each passing day, and the wizarding world trembled beneath his control. Yet, he could feel the stirring of resistance, the whispers of rebellion beginning to rise. The Order of the Phoenix. A pathetic group of fools, led by a man who had outlived his usefulness—Albus Dumbledore.

The thought of Dumbledore made Voldemort's lip curl into a sneer. The old fool had always been a thorn in his side. But even now, with his forces spread thin and his victory nearly complete, Voldemort knew better than to underestimate the Order. They were weaker, yes, scattered, and lost without any true leadership to challenge him. Yet, there was something about them that stirred a sense of annoyance in him.

They would not stop him.

Voldemort's mind was sharp, calculating. He knew that he had to act before their feeble attempts at resistance grew stronger. Dumbledore's Order, though scattered and disorganized, had been a thorn in his side for years. They lacked the unity, the ruthlessness, to truly challenge him. But they had one thing he could not overlook: hope.

Hope was a weapon, and Voldemort had spent his life eradicating it from the world. But the Order had a fire within them—a fire that could never be fully extinguished, no matter how many times he struck. The belief that good could triumph over evil, that light could prevail over darkness. It was laughable, yet dangerous.

He turned sharply to face his closest confidant, Bellatrix Lestrange, standing in the corner of the room, her face twisted with fanatic devotion.

"Bellatrix," Voldemort's voice was low, but it carried a terrible weight. "The Order of the Phoenix thinks they can stand against me. They think they can hide in the shadows, waiting for the right moment. They will soon learn that I am the end of all things. There is no future for them, no hope to cling to."

Bellatrix's eyes gleamed with fervor. "What do you wish of me, my Lord?" she asked, her voice dripping with reverence.

Voldemort's thoughts turned cold and strategic. "I want them broken. I want them to feel that there is no escape, no salvation. They must see what happens when they challenge me, when they dare to hope. But we must be subtle. It is not enough to crush them all at once. No, I want them to see their own destruction, piece by piece."

Bellatrix nodded eagerly, understanding the dark and cruel game her master played. Voldemort continued, his mind already racing ahead. He knew the strength of the Order lay in its unity. That was their weakness, too. If he could sow distrust, if he could isolate them, he would destroy their spirit before they even realized it." They have to doubt each other, be insecure and scared, suspicious of one another"

Chapter Text

The tension in the room was almost palpable, a stark contrast to the crackling warmth of the hearth that cast flickering shadows against the worn stone walls. Grim faces surrounded the large wooden table, each illuminated by the soft glow of the enchanted lanterns hanging overhead. It was a rare gathering, one pulled together not by duty or necessity but for the fragile hope of camaraderie in a world increasingly consumed by fear.

Molly Prewett sat quietly, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her cheeks flushed in a way that had little to do with the warmth of the fire. Arthur Weasley sat beside her, his arm draped protectively over the back of her chair. His expression was a mixture of nerves and anticipation, his usual boyish smile tugging faintly at the corners of his lips. The two exchanged a glance, and Molly gave the smallest of nods.

Arthur cleared his throat, and the murmurs in the room died down. All eyes turned toward him, curiosity softening the edges of the worry etched into the faces around the table.

"Erm," he began, running a hand through his hair, "Molly and I have something we'd like to share with all of you."

The words hung in the air, a thread of hope in a tapestry woven thick with despair. Molly bit her lip, her hands trembling slightly as she placed one atop Arthur's. He gave her a reassuring squeeze, his fingers warm against hers.

"Well, go on, then!" Fabian Prewett said, his grin wide despite the tension. "Don't keep us in suspense!"

Molly let out a nervous laugh, and Arthur's smile grew a little steadier. "We've decided," he said, his voice growing stronger as he looked at Molly, "that we're going to get married."

For a moment, there was silence, as if the room needed a second to process the words. Then the explosion came. Cheers and laughter erupted from around the table, breaking through the gloom like sunlight through a storm cloud. Gideon Prewett whooped loudly, clapping Fabian on the back as if it were his own victory.

"Oh, Molly!" Violet exclaimed, rising from her seat to envelop Molly in a tight hug. "This is exactly the sort of news we needed."

"And there's more," Molly added, her voice trembling but her smile radiant. She looked around at the familiar faces, her family in all but blood, and felt a rush of courage. "We're also—well, I'm—we're going to have a baby."

The cheers grew louder, mingling with gasps of surprise and heartfelt congratulations. Even Alastor Moody, usually so grim and stoic, allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth as he raised a glass of firewhisky in their honor.

"A little one!" Violet cried, tears glistening in her eyes as she pulled Molly into another embrace. "Oh, Molly, that's wonderful, I'm gonna be an auntie!"

"But how on earth do you two plan to pull off a wedding in times like these?" Elphias Doge asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "Voldemort's reach is growing, and you know the Ministry isn't exactly a safe place anymore."

Molly's smile faltered for a brief moment, but Arthur stepped in, his voice calm and resolute. "We'll do it in secret," he said firmly. "No big celebrations, no public announcements. Just us, our closest friends, and family. We'll find a way."

"We always do," Molly added softly, her hand resting on her stomach. "There's not much room for joy in the world right now, but we're determined to make some of our own."

There was a pause, a solemn moment of understanding shared among them all. The darkness outside was unrelenting, and the shadows it cast were long and deep. But here, in this room, there was a spark of light—fragile, yes, but fiercely defiant.

"We'll help," Gideon said suddenly, his voice strong. "All of us. Whatever you need—whether it's planning, security, or just making sure no one gatecrashes."

"And you'll need a dress," Violet said with a twinkle in her eye, already lost in thought. "Something simple but elegant."

"Flowers, too," Fabian added with a grin. "I'll find some, even if I have to charm them myself."

Molly looked around the room, her eyes shining with gratitude. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice full of emotion. "Thank you all."

For a brief, fleeting moment, the weight of the war lifted, and they allowed themselves to dream of a future that seemed just a little bit brighter. It was a rebellion of its own kind—a quiet, stubborn insistence on hope, they had no idea what was coming for them.

***

The preparations for the wedding began in whispers, small and secretive conversations tucked into the corners of darkened rooms. It was a delicate operation, one filled with as much tension as joy. Every step, every decision had to be weighed against the growing threat outside their fragile circle of light. Yet, for Molly and Arthur, the wedding became a symbol of defiance—a declaration that even in the shadow of Voldemort's terror, life could still find a way to flourish.

The Order's safe house bustled with hushed activity, a stark contrast to the foreboding quiet that usually pervaded its walls. Violet had taken on the role of Molly's confidant and co-conspirator, her expertise in charmwork proving invaluable as she enchanted the simple white dress Molly had found to add a delicate shimmer of starlight to its fabric.

"I'm not sure I deserve all this," Molly said softly, watching as Violet adjusted the neckline with a flick of her wand. "It feels... indulgent, given everything."

"Nonsense," Violet replied firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You deserve happiness as much as anyone, Molly. Perhaps more. Don't let him"—she didn't need to say Voldemort's name for Molly to understand—"steal that from you."

Meanwhile, Arthur had taken to reinforcing their security measures, his face lined with worry despite the joyful occasion. He worked alongside Alastor Moody, double-checking every charm and protective ward surrounding the hidden venue—a modest clearing deep in the woods, shielded by layers of enchantments.

"We can't afford a single mistake," Moody growled, his magical eye spinning wildly as he scanned their surroundings. "If word of this gets out..."

"It won't," Arthur interrupted, his voice steady but grim. "We've been careful. Only those we trust implicitly know the details."

Moody gave a sharp nod, his approval gruff but genuine. "You're a good lad, Weasley. Keep that head on your shoulders."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, there were moments of levity. Fabian and Gideon Prewett had appointed themselves the unofficial entertainers, their antics lifting spirits as they scavenged for decorations. One afternoon, they returned with an assortment of wildflowers and branches, their faces streaked with dirt and their arms full of mismatched blooms.

"These'll do," Gideon announced triumphantly, holding up a particularly scraggly bundle of daisies.

"Hardly romantic," Fabian teased, but he grinned as he arranged them into something resembling a centerpiece.

The night before the wedding, the safe house was quieter than usual. Violet sat in the small bedroom staring out the window. The stars were faint, their light struggling against the thick clouds that loomed overhead. She couldn't help but think of Tom, of the last time she'd seen him.

The memory still haunted her—the way his lips had crushed hers, the darkness in his eyes. She shivered, shaking her head to dispel the thought. That wasn't Tom anymore, she reminded herself. He was gone, consumed by Voldemort, by his own lust for power. But the ache of betrayal lingered, a wound that refused to heal.

Alastor entered the room quietly, sensing her mood. He sat beside her "You're thinking about him again," he said, not accusing but understanding.

She nodded, unable to meet his gaze. "I can't help it," she admitted. "It's like he's always there, lurking in the back of my mind."

"Hey, no crying Alas, we have a deal" he said sitting closer a bit awkwardly. They have grown closer in these past months, Alastor was kind under his cold demeanor, even funny, he was still a kid even though he won't accept it.

"Yeah I know.... just" she sighed as tears formed in her eyes " I wish it wasn't like this" Alastor patted her back "I know... we all do"

***

The day of the wedding dawned gray and somber, but there was a quiet beauty in the muted light filtering through the trees. The clearing had been transformed overnight, the wildflowers Fabian and Gideon had gathered arranged in charming bouquets that dotted the space. A handful of close friends and allies stood in a loose circle, their expressions a mix of joy and vigilance.

As Molly walked down the makeshift aisle, her heart fluttered with a mix of nerves and excitement. Arthur waited at the end, his smile warm and unwavering despite the storm brewing on the horizon.

They exchanged vows in voices barely louder than whispers, their words private and sacred. The ceremony was brief but perfect, a fleeting moment of peace in a world spiraling into chaos.

Afterward, the gathering was subdued but heartfelt. They shared bread and wine, their laughter soft but genuine as they celebrated not just Molly and Arthur's union, but the hope it represented.

And yet, even in the midst of their joy, the shadows lingered. Outside the enchanted clearing, the world remained dark and uncertain, and everyone knew that the battle was far from over. But for this one day, they allowed themselves to believe in something brighter, something worth fighting for.

Violet stood near the edge of the garden, the fairy lights strung in the trees casting a soft glow over her as she looked toward the distant fields. The cool night air carried the sound of laughter from the tent behind her, but she hardly noticed, lost in her own world.

"Violet?" a voice called out, soft and hesitant, but achingly familiar.

Violet froze, her breath catching in her throat. She turned slowly, her eyes wide as they landed on a figure standing just beyond the gate of the garden path. Eve.

Her best friend stood there, her brown hair slightly disheveled, her dark eyes glistening in the low light. She was thinner than Violet remembered, her face sharper, the exhaustion of months in hiding etched into her features. But it was her. It was Eve.

"Eve?" Violet whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief. She took a tentative step forward, then another, until she was running, closing the distance between them.

Eve barely had time to react before Violet threw her arms around her, clutching her tightly. Tears streamed down Violet's cheeks as she buried her face in her friend's shoulder. "I thought... I thought I'd never see you again," she choked out.

Eve hugged her back just as fiercely, her own tears dampening Violet's hair. "I couldn't stay away anymore," she said softly, her voice breaking. "I've been watching from the shadows, waiting for the right moment. And tonight... I couldn't miss this. I couldn't miss you."

They pulled back slightly, enough to look at each other, their hands still gripping one another as if afraid to let go.

"You look... different," Violet said, studying her friend's face. "Tired, but still the same. Still you."

Eve laughed lightly, though it was tinged with sadness. "I could say the same about you. "

Violet nodded, wiping at her cheeks as a smile broke through her tears. "Come on. There's someone I want you to meet."

She led Eve back toward the main tent, where the wedding celebration was still in full swing. As they entered, a hush fell over the room, the familiar figure of Eve drawing curious and relieved gazes from the Order members who recognized her.

Molly and Arthur were the first to approach, their smiles warm and welcoming despite the surprise. "Eve," Molly said, her voice filled with genuine kindness. "It's been so long. We were so worried about you."

Eve smiled back, a little shy but grateful. "I've been... surviving. But I'm here now. And if you'll have me, I'd like to stay. At least for a little while."

Arthur, ever practical and kind, nodded without hesitation. "You're more than welcome to stay with us. We'll make space. The Burrow is always open to friends."

"The Burrow?" Eve asked, raising an eyebrow at Violet.

Violet grinned, the first genuine smile she'd felt in weeks. "It's their new house. Arthur bought it for Molly as a wedding gift. It's beautiful, Eve. You'll love it."

The rest of the night passed in a blur of introductions, laughter, and tentative moments of happiness. As the guests began to leave and the stars burned brighter in the sky, Violet and Eve found themselves sitting on a patch of grass near the edge of the property, away from the crowd.

"It's not safe for you, you know," Violet said quietly, her gaze fixed on the dark horizon. "You're still a target even if your father's... dead"

Eve shook her head. "It's not safe anywhere. At least here, I have you. And I'm tired of running, Vi. Tired of being alone."

Violet looked at her, her heart aching at the vulnerability in her friend's voice. "I missed you so much," she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Eve smiled faintly, reaching out to take Violet's hand in hers. "I missed you too. And we'll face whatever comes next. Together."

***

The wedding was over, and the soft hum of laughter and celebration faded into the night. The clearing was quiet now, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. Violet sat alone on a weathered stone bench at the edge of the woods, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the moon hung low, shrouded in a veil of mist.

Her fingers toyed absently with a silver necklace around her neck, the delicate serpent pendant cool against her skin. It was a gift from him—Tom. The memory of that night at Malfoy Manor drifted back unbidden, as vivid and sharp as if she were still there.

The ballroom had been opulent, its grandeur a gilded cage. She'd stood at the edge of the crowd, her heart racing as Tom approached her. His eyes, dark and enigmatic, had locked onto hers, and in that moment, the rest of the room had ceased to exist. He'd taken her hand, sliding the necklace into her palm with a rare gentleness that still managed to unnerve her.

"Hold onto it whenever you miss me," he had whispered, his voice a low murmur against her ear. It hadn't been a request—it never was with him. It was a command, woven with the subtle threat and intoxicating pull that only Tom could master.

Now, sitting in the cool darkness, Violet closed her eyes and clutched the pendant tightly, as if doing so might bring her some clarity—or perhaps, a fleeting connection to the boy he had once been. Her heart betrayed her, aching with a longing she hated to admit. Despite everything, despite the darkness he had become, she missed him.

The silence around her deepened, heavy and unsettling. And then, as if her thoughts had summoned him, she heard it. His voice.

"You miss me, don't you?"

It was a whisper, soft but unmistakable, carried on the wind yet unnervingly close. Her eyes snapped open, her breath hitching as she scanned the clearing. There was no one there. She was alone—or so it seemed.

"Don't look for me, love," the voice continued, smoother now, almost teasing. "I'm not there. But I am always with you."

Her grip on the necklace tightened, her knuckles white as her heart pounded in her chest. Was she imagining this? Was the stress of the day finally catching up to her?

"Tom," she whispered into the night, her voice trembling.

A soft chuckle echoed in her mind, dark and familiar. "Did you think I'd let you go so easily, Violet?"

She stood abruptly, the bench scraping against the ground as her legs shook. "You're not real," she muttered, shaking her head as if to dislodge his voice from her thoughts. "You're not here."

"Real enough," he said, his tone almost playful, though it was laced with that same undercurrent of menace she had grown to dread. "You summoned me, love. Or was it the necklace? You still wear it, after all this time."

She wanted to throw it away, to rip it from her neck and cast it into the woods, but she couldn't. Her hand faltered, the pendant resting heavily against her palm.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Why can't you leave me alone?"

The reply came softer this time, almost tender, but no less chilling. "Because you're mine, Violet. You always were. You always will be."

Tears welled in her eyes as she turned toward the woods, her fingers trembling against the necklace. "I don't want to be yours," she whispered, but the words felt hollow, her resolve cracking under the weight of his presence—even if it was only in her mind.

"You can lie to yourself, but not to me," he murmured, his voice closer now, as if he were standing right behind her. "Hold onto the necklace, Violet. Hold onto me. You'll find you can't let go."

Her knees buckled, and she sank back onto the bench, the cool night air biting against her skin. She sobbed quietly, her tears streaking her face as she clutched the pendant like a lifeline.

The voice faded, his last words lingering like a shadow in her mind.

"I'm always here, my darling. Always."

For a long moment, Violet sat there, the world around her silent save for the sound of her own ragged breathing. The necklace felt heavier now, a chain not just of silver but of something far darker—something she wasn't sure she could ever escape.

Chapter Text

The Burrow was silent, save for the faint creaks of the old house settling into the stillness of the night. Violet burst through the front door, her chest heaving as she clutched the serpent necklace in her hand. Her hair was windswept, her cheeks flushed from the cold night air. The living room was dimly lit, the dying embers of the fireplace casting flickering shadows on the walls.

Arthur, Molly, Alastor Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Eve sat in a small circle around the table, nursing cups of tea and murmuring in low tones. They looked up in alarm as Violet stormed in, her footsteps urgent, her expression hard.

"Vi? What happened?" Eve asked, standing quickly, concern etched across her face.

Without a word, Violet marched to the table and slammed the necklace down in its center. The sound of the metal hitting the wood was sharper than it should have been, reverberating through the room like a curse.

"This," Violet said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. "This is what happened."

Moody leaned forward, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the object with suspicion. "That's no ordinary trinket," he muttered, his tone grave.

"It's from him," Violet said, her voice quieter now but no less intense. She looked at the others, her gaze pleading. "From Tom. Or Voldemort. Whoever he is now."

The room fell deathly silent. Even Eve, who had seen the necklace before, seemed startled by the weight of Violet's words. Molly's hand flew to her mouth, her wide eyes darting from the necklace to Violet.

"What does it do?" Kingsley asked, his deep voice steady but edged with caution.

Violet swallowed hard, forcing herself to remain calm. "He told me to hold onto it whenever I missed him. At first, I thought it was just... sentimental. But tonight—after the wedding—I..." Her voice faltered. She clenched her fists, staring at the necklace as if it might come alive. "I heard him. His voice. Like he was standing right next to me.'"

Molly let out a sharp gasp, her teacup clattering onto its saucer. Arthur reached over to steady her hand.

"It's a connection," Moody said darkly, his face twisting in thought. "A bloody anchor. He's marked you, girl."

"What do you mean?" Violet asked, her voice rising.

Moody jabbed a finger toward the necklace. "Dark magic. He's tied himself to you through that thing. Might be a way to spy on you—or worse, control you."

"We need to destroy it," Arthur said firmly, his jaw tightening. "Whatever it is, we can't risk it."

Kingsley nodded in agreement. "It's too dangerous to keep. If it's a conduit for him, he might already know where we are."

"No!" Eve's voice cut through the discussion, sharp and determined. All eyes turned to her, and she met their gazes with fierce resolve. "We can't just destroy it. Not yet."

"Are you mad?" Moody growled.

"Listen to me," Eve insisted, stepping closer to the table. "If it's a connection to him, then we can use it. Maybe we can figure out where he is. Or what he's planning. If we destroy it, we lose that chance."

"That's too risky!" Molly exclaimed, her face pale. "What if it backfires? What if it hurts Violet?"

Eve turned to Violet, her expression softening. "Vi, I know this is terrifying. But think about it. If there's even a chance we could use this to find him, to stop him—wouldn't it be worth it?"

Violet hesitated, her hand drifting toward the necklace on the table. The cold metal glinted in the firelight, its serpent eyes almost alive. She thought of Tom—his voice, his promises, his threats. A shiver ran through her.

"How would we even use it?" Violet asked quietly.

Moody snorted. "We'd have to figure out what it does first. And good luck with that. Dark magic like this doesn't come with a bloody instruction manual."

Eve's brow furrowed in thought. "What about Borgin and Burkes?"

Arthur stiffened. "That's a cursed place. No."

"Think about it," Eve pressed. "That shop deals in dark artifacts. If anyone can tell us what this thing does, it's someone there."

"No," Arthur said again, more forcefully. "It's too dangerous. And it's crawling with Death Eaters."

"What about someone we trust?" Kingsley suggested. "There are still a few experts out there—people who worked for the Ministry before it fell."

"What about Professor Slughorn?" Violet blurted out.

The room went silent again. Slughorn. He was a known collector of rare magical objects and had ties to Voldemort's past. If anyone could identify the necklace's purpose, it was him.

"He's in hiding," Molly said, her voice uncertain.

"I know where he is," Kingsley said. "I helped him disappear a few months ago. He's in Cokeworth, laying low."

Moody scowled but didn't argue. "Fine. But we keep this quiet. No one else in the Order needs to know. If this goes wrong, it's on us."

Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "This is a mistake. But if it might give us an edge..." He looked at Violet. "We'll need your help to convince him."

Violet nodded, though her stomach churned with unease. The necklace seemed to pulse faintly under the light, as if it were alive, waiting.

***

The next morning, the plan was set. Under the cover of darkness, Kingsley, Violet, and Eve would make their way to Cokeworth, the necklace hidden in a protective pouch. Slughorn would be their best hope of unlocking its secrets—and perhaps, their only chance of using it against Voldemort.

As Violet packed her bag, she caught herself staring at the necklace one last time. A part of her wanted to throw it into the fire and be done with it. But another part—the part that still remembered Tom's smile, his voice—couldn't let it go.

She slipped it into the pouch and tightened the drawstring. Whatever came next, there was no turning back now.

***

The trio arrived in Cokeworth under the cover of darkness, the town eerily quiet save for the distant hum of factory machinery. Fog clung to the cobblestone streets, muffling their footsteps as they approached a modest, nondescript house near the river. Violet tightened her grip on the protective pouch containing the necklace. Its weight seemed heavier with every step, as if it sensed the journey they were taking it on.

Kingsley rapped on the door twice, his knock firm but not loud enough to draw attention. For a moment, there was no response, and Violet wondered if Slughorn had fled again. Then, the sound of locks clicking echoed from inside.

The door opened just a crack, revealing a cautious, watery blue eye peering out. When Slughorn recognized Kingsley, he sighed with relief and swung the door open.

"My dear boy! You gave me quite the fright!" Slughorn exclaimed, stepping aside to let them in. His large frame filled the doorway, his familiar walrus mustache twitching nervously as he looked around the street before shutting the door behind them.

"Horace," Kingsley greeted him with a respectful nod. "We need your help."

Slughorn frowned, his jovial tone faltering as he noticed Violet and Eve. "Ah, introductions first, I think. I don't do well with surprises these days. Can't be too careful, you know."

"This is Violet, and that's Eve," Kingsley said quickly. "They're part of the Order. Trustworthy."

Slughorn's eyes lingered on Violet, narrowing slightly. "You've got that look about you, young lady. A mix of bravery and recklessness. Dangerous combination. Now, what brings you here at this hour?"

Violet wasted no time, stepping forward and placing the pouch on the table in the center of the room. The house was cluttered but cozy, books and potion bottles scattered on every surface.

"This," she said, her voice steady despite the unease twisting in her chest. "It's a necklace. Voldemort gave it to me."

Slughorn froze, his face paling at the name. "You-Know-Who gave it to you?"

"Yes," Violet said firmly, untying the pouch and letting the necklace slide onto the table. The serpent pendant glimmered faintly in the dim light, its ruby eyes glinting like embers.

Slughorn took a step back, visibly unsettled. "That's dark magic," he muttered, wringing his hands. "Very dark. What's it doing here?"

"He told me to keep it, to hold onto it if I missed him," Violet explained. "But last night... I heard his voice. Like he was right there with me. We think it's some kind of connection, but we don't know exactly what it does."

Kingsley folded his arms. "We need to know if it can be used against him. Can it be tracked? Can it reveal anything about his plans or his location?"

Slughorn hesitated, his face a mask of fear and indecision. "This isn't just any dark magic. If it's connected to Voldemort... well, it's beyond dangerous. Tampering with something like this could have... unintended consequences."

Eve stepped forward, her tone sharp. "Professor, we don't have time for caution. If there's a way to use this against him, we have to try. People are dying out there every day while we sit and debate."

Slughorn's gaze flicked between them, finally landing on Violet. "You said you heard his voice?"

"Yes," Violet confirmed. "We talked, It wasn't just in my head—it was real."

Slughorn exhaled deeply, reaching for the necklace with trembling hands. He didn't touch it directly, instead using the tip of his wand to lift it from the table. The ruby eyes seemed to follow him as he examined it closely.

"This is no ordinary connection," he said, his voice low. "It's a binding object. A fragment of his will and power embedded into the metal. He can reach out through it, influence the thoughts of the wearer—or worse."

"Worse?" Violet asked, her throat tightening.

Slughorn looked at her gravely. "If he chooses, he could possess you, even briefly. Not fully, not like a Horcrux, but enough to see through your eyes. Enough to control you."

Eve swore under her breath, pacing the room. "Then we need to destroy it."

"Not so fast," Slughorn said, raising a hand. "Destroying an object like this isn't simple. And if we're not careful, it could backfire—release a curse or even alert him to your location."

"Can we track it?" Kingsley pressed.

Slughorn shook his head. "It's shielded. Cleverly. The enchantments are layered and interwoven with his magic. Tracking it directly is impossible."

"There must be another way," Eve said, her tone frustrated.

Slughorn hesitated, then sighed. "Perhaps there is. The magic is connected to him, yes, but also to you," he said, gesturing to Violet. "He gave it to you willingly, meaning it recognizes you as its owner. If you could learn to manipulate it—to send something back through the connection—"

"You're suggesting she communicate with him?" Kingsley interrupted, his voice hard.

"Yes" Slughorn clarified quickly. "Perhaps you could use it to gather information. Drop false leads. Or..." He hesitated again, then muttered, "Draw him out."

***

Slughorn's study was dimly lit, the glow of candles casting flickering shadows across the cluttered room. Violet sat stiffly in a high-backed chair, the necklace resting on a velvet cloth before her. The oppressive weight of the room's silence was broken only by the occasional scrape of parchment or the clink of potion bottles as Slughorn prepared various enchantments to analyze the artifact.

Kingsley had left hours ago, needing to report back to the Order, and Eve had fallen into a restless doze on a nearby couch. Violet, however, hadn't moved, her eyes fixed on the pendant as if it might leap up and strike her.

"You're sure you're ready for this?" Slughorn asked, his voice low but tinged with concern.

Violet nodded, though her heart thundered in her chest. "If this is the only way to understand it, I have to try."

Slughorn looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it. Instead, he tapped his wand against the edge of the cloth, murmuring a spell that sent faint ripples of golden light over the necklace. "I've muted its more... active properties," he explained. "But the connection should remain intact. Speak to it. Focus your thoughts. And whatever you do, don't let him into your mind."

Violet swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she reached for the necklace. It was cold to the touch, its weight unfamiliar despite how often she'd carried it. She closed her eyes, clutching it tightly, and thought of Tom—or Voldemort.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like a thread being pulled taut, she felt the connection snap into place. Her heart lurched as a familiar, silky voice echoed in her mind.

"Ah, my love. Missing me already?"

Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to stay calm. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

A low chuckle resonated through her thoughts. "Doing what, darling? You kept my gift, didn't you? I knew you would. It suits you, bound so tightly to me."

"I'm not bound to you," Violet said sharply, though the necklace in her hand felt like it was burning now. "You're trying to control me."

"Control you?" he repeated, amusement lacing his tone. "No, no, my sweet. I merely wish to remind you of your place in this world—by my side. You're the one who left. But you'll return. They always do."

Violet's mind swam, the weight of his words pressing down on her. She thought of her friends, of the Burrow, of everything they were fighting for.

"I'll never come back to you," she said firmly.

The air around her seemed to grow colder. "Never is a dangerous word, my darling. I'll give you time to reconsider. But rest assured, I'm closer than you think. I always am."

The connection snapped like a breaking string, and Violet gasped, dropping the necklace onto the table as if it had bitten her. Her hands trembled, and tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.

"Violet?" Eve's voice cut through the haze as she rushed to her side. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"I—" Violet began, her voice breaking. "I spoke to him. He's—he's watching, somehow. He knows too much."

Slughorn hovered nearby, his face pale but determined. "Did he reveal anything? A location, a weakness, anything we can use?"

Violet shook her head. "No. Just... threats. He said he's closer than I think."

Slughorn muttered a curse under his breath, grabbing his wand. "We'll try the tracking spells again. There must be something we're missing."

The next few hours passed in a blur of incantations and experiments. Slughorn cast spell after spell, from basic tracing charms to complex runic scripts, but the pendant resisted them all. It was as if the object existed outside the normal boundaries of magic, its enchantments woven with a complexity that even Slughorn struggled to untangle.

"It's shielded," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Far beyond anything I've encountered. Whatever magic he's used, it's ancient—and insidious."

Eve, pacing the room, threw her hands up in frustration. "So what now? We just give up? Let him keep his little spy in her pocket?"

"No," Violet said, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. "There has to be another way. If we can't track it, maybe we can find out how he's using it. There must be someone who knows more about this kind of magic."

Slughorn hesitated, his expression conflicted. "There's one person," he admitted reluctantly. "But it's a risk."

"Who?" Eve demanded.

Slughorn glanced between them before sighing heavily. "Borgin. Of Borgin and Burkes. If anyone knows about this kind of dark magic, it's him. But going to Knockturn Alley is... dangerous, especially now."

"We'll go," Eve said firmly. "We'll be careful."

"No," Slughorn said quickly. "I'll make contact. Borgin owes me a favor—or two. I can arrange a meeting, somewhere safe."

Violet nodded, though a sense of unease crept over her. The night had already taken so much out of her, and now they were delving deeper into Voldemort's world. But if there was a chance to use the necklace against him, to turn his own weapon into their advantage, she couldn't back down.

"Do it," she said, her fingers brushing the edge of the necklace. "We have to know what this thing is capable of."

Chapter Text

The cramped sitting room of the Burrow was steeped in tension. Rain lashed against the windows, a steady drumbeat that matched the unease in Violet's chest. The fire sputtered low in the hearth, its shadows licking hungrily at the walls.

Slughorn arrived, his round face flushed and beaded with rain, as he wrestled his cloak off with a grunt. "Well," he began, easing into a chair with the sigh of a man twice his age, "Borgin has agreed to meet."

All eyes turned to him.

"Where?" asked Kingsley, his deep voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Slughorn shifted, smoothing his damp robes as if buying time. "Knockturn Alley. Not in his shop, of course. He's chosen a private space nearby—a little too discreet for my liking."

Violet felt the room stiffen around her. Eve, seated cross-legged near the fire, leaned forward with sharp interest. "Knockturn Alley isn't exactly a safe bet," she said. "But if Borgin has information that can help us, we take the risk."

Arthur spoke, his voice heavy with concern. "Molly and I can't afford to lose anyone. If it goes wrong—"

"It won't," Kingsley interrupted. "Slughorn, Eve, and I will escort Violet. We're prepared."

Slughorn's uncertain expression betrayed his nerves, but he nodded. "This may be our best chance at understanding the necklace," he said.

Violet, quiet until now, broke her silence. "I'll go." Her voice was calm, but inside, anxiety coiled like a serpent. She had faced dark magic before, but Borgin represented the world of Tom Riddle—a world she had barely escaped.

Kingsley stood. "We leave at dusk."

***

The air in Knockturn Alley was thick with decay and secrets, the lantern-lit streets glistening from the relentless drizzle. The crooked buildings loomed overhead, their shadows crawling like specters. Violet stayed close to Slughorn as they wound through the labyrinthine alleys, her fingers brushing the necklace beneath her cloak.

At the far end of the street, they reached their destination: a derelict building with boarded-up windows and a sagging roof. The sign above the door had long since faded into illegibility. Slughorn hesitated, then pushed the door open.

The interior was dark and oppressive. A single lantern swung from the ceiling, its dim light casting grotesque shadows on the walls. A figure waited in the far corner, shrouded in a heavy cloak.

"Borgin," Slughorn greeted, forcing cheer into his voice. "A pleasure, as always."

The figure tilted his head, the hood sliding back to reveal his greasy, pallid face. His smile was sharp and hollow. "Horace," he drawled. "You've brought friends. How... trusting."

Kingsley's eyes narrowed. "We're not here to waste time. You know why we've come."

Borgin's gaze flickered to Violet, lingering with unnerving intensity. "Ah, the girl.... Intriguing."

Kingsley stepped forward, his tone ice. "She's not part of this conversation."

Borgin smirked, his fingers drumming idly on the table. "Very well. Let's proceed."

Slughorn produced the necklace, still swathed in its velvet covering. "We need answers," he said, placing it on the table. "What is it? How does it work?"

Borgin unwrapped the artifact with reverence, his fingers trembling as he traced the intricate designs. "Exquisite," he murmured. "Ancient. And dangerous."

The group watched as he performed a series of detection spells, each eliciting a deeper frown. Finally, he leaned back, his expression grim. "It's a Soul Tether."

"A what?" Eve demanded.

"A magical bond," Borgin explained. "Its creator has embedded part of their soul within the object, forging a link to the bearer. It's more than a connection—it's ownership."

Violet's stomach churned.

Kingsley's jaw tightened. "How do we sever it?"

Borgin hesitated, then shook his head. "You can't. Not without grave consequences."

"What about using it against him?" Eve pressed. "Turn the tether into a weapon."

Borgin's eyes gleamed. "Possible," he said slowly. "But dangerous. Tampering with magic this dark is unpredictable." He hesitated, his voice dropping. "If you fail, you'll suffer for it."

Before Kingsley could respond, the lantern above them flickered violently, plunging the room into darkness. Violet's heart lurched.

"It's a trap," Kingsley growled, his wand snapping up.

***

Two nights prior, the shop had been silent, save for the creak of old wood underfoot. Borgin was hunched over his ledger when the wards trembled. A shadow passed through the doorway, and he froze as a voice cut through the silence—smooth, commanding, and utterly chilling.

"Borgin."

The man turned, his breath hitching as Tom Riddle stepped into the dim light. His dark robes moved like liquid, his pale face serene yet terrifying. Those eyes—cold, calculating—pierced Borgin to his core.

"My Lord," Borgin stammered, bowing low. "How may I serve you?"

Riddle's smile was glacial. "You've been contacted by Horace Slughorn."

"Y-Yes," Borgin stuttered. "He seeks information about a... certain artifact."

Riddle's expression didn't shift, but the air grew heavier, suffocating. "And you agreed to meet?"

Borgin nodded, his knees threatening to give out.

"Good," Riddle said softly, his voice silk and venom. "You will proceed as planned. And you will deliver them to me."

Borgin's throat tightened. "My Lord, if I may... Slughorn and the others... they won't come unprepared."

Riddle stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "Do you imagine I require your advice?" he asked, his tone dangerous. Shadows twisted around him, responding to his unspoken command. "You will do as I ask, Borgin. Or would you prefer to see what remains of your soul torn to shreds?"

Borgin nodded frantically, the words choking in his throat.

Riddle's smile returned, faint and deadly. "Good. Let them believe they have the upper hand. They will learn otherwise."

As he turned to leave, the shadows seemed to linger, a lingering promise of what would come.

***

The lantern sputtered back to life, revealing the room now crowded with cloaked figures. Death Eaters surrounded them, their laughter echoing cruelly. Borgin had vanished, his chair empty.

Kingsley moved first, his wand emitting a blinding light that forced their attackers to shield their eyes. Eve's spells crackled through the air, precise and deadly. Slughorn fumbled but managed to raise a shield charm, his robes billowing as curses flew past him.

Violet's hand trembled as she raised her wand. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the weight of the necklace burning against her chest. A Death Eater lunged, and she deflected his curse with a burst of red light.

"Violet!" Kingsley's voice boomed, cutting through the clamor like a blade. "Get out of here!"

The urgency in his tone jolted her into motion. She spun on her heel, her hands clawing at the heavy wooden doors that now seemed fused into the frame. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she slammed her shoulder into the unyielding wood, panic surging as the lock burned hot under her touch, repelling her attempts.

A spell zipped past her ear, slamming into the wall with a deafening crack. Violet ducked, her wand clutched tightly in her trembling hand as she turned to face the chaos. Death Eaters swarmed the room like dark specters, their masked faces twisted with malice. She deflected a hex, the force of her counterspell throwing one attacker back, but another came from the side, forcing her to stagger toward the corner.

"Move!" she hissed to herself, her legs trembling as she fought against the press of her fear. She dove for the door again, this time aiming her wand at the seals. "Alohomora!" she cried, desperation thick in her voice. The spell fizzled uselessly against the shimmering barrier.

A cruel laugh echoed behind her.

Before she could turn, a cold hand wrapped around her wrist, yanking her back with an almost inhuman strength. She stumbled, her back colliding with something solid. The air seemed to freeze as a familiar voice, low and venomous, curled around her like smoke.

"Running already, Violet?"

Her blood turned to ice. Slowly, she looked up, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. Tom Riddle stood behind her, his pale, sculpted face illuminated by the flickering light of the cursed room. His dark eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger, his lips curling into a smile that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Did you really think you could escape me?" he murmured, his voice soft but laced with a terrible power that rooted her to the spot.

Violet tried to pull her wrist free, but his grip tightened, sending a sharp pain shooting up her arm. "Let me go," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Tom tilted his head, his expression a mockery of pity. "Oh, Violet. You know I can't do that. Not when you insist on throwing yourself into such... dangerous situations." His free hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a gentleness that was at odds with the storm of dark magic swirling around him.

"You planned this," she accused, her voice firmer now despite the fear twisting in her gut. "You knew we'd come."

He laughed softly, a sound that made her stomach churn. "Of course I did. Did you think Borgin would help you without a little... persuasion? Everyone has their price."

Her eyes darted to the others. Kingsley and Eve were locked in fierce battles with Death Eaters, spells lighting up the room in bursts of red and green. She wanted to scream, to fight, but Tom's presence was suffocating, his proximity draining her resolve.

"Violet," he said, his tone almost tender, as though they were the only two people in the room. "You don't belong with them. All this running, this defiance—it's beneath you."

"I'll never belong to you," she spat, fire sparking briefly in her chest.

His smile didn't falter. Instead, it widened, his eyes gleaming with something darker, more possessive. "Oh, but you already do. You've felt it, haven't you? The connection? The way the necklace binds us, drawing you closer to me, no matter how far you run?"

Violet's breath hitched. She tried to deny it, but the truth was there, coiling around her thoughts like a snake. The necklace—his creation—had been whispering to her, pulling at her mind, her emotions, since the moment she touched it.

"Get out of my head," she demanded, her voice breaking.

Tom leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "Why would I ever want to leave? You're mine, Violet. And soon, you'll understand that there's no escape. Not from me."

A surge of anger flared within her, momentarily eclipsing her fear. Summoning every ounce of strength, she raised her wand and aimed it at his chest. "Stupefy!"

The spell hit him squarely, forcing him to release her and stagger back a step. But instead of fury, he looked amused, almost impressed.

"Good," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Fight me, Violet. Show me the fire that made me choose you."

He raised his wand, and the room seemed to darken further, the oppressive weight of his magic pressing down on her.

The room descended further into chaos as more Death Eaters poured in through the shadows, their cloaks billowing like specters of death. Violet's heart sank as she realized the odds—they were outnumbered, and every spell cast only seemed to draw more enemies into the fray.

Kingsley and Eve were fighting fiercely, their movements swift and calculated, but even their skill couldn't hold back the tide. Slughorn was backed into a corner, his wand trembling as he barely managed to fend off a hex aimed at his chest. The air crackled with magic, the room lit by flashes of red, green, and blue, each explosion amplifying the suffocating tension.

"Fall back!" Kingsley bellowed, his deep voice cutting through the din. "We're overrun!"

"No!" Violet shouted, her voice breaking as she dodged a curse and sent a Stunner into the crowd. "We can't leave—"

"We have to!" Eve snapped, spinning around to deflect a Killing Curse aimed at her back. "There's too many!"

Violet's chest heaved as she struggled to process the chaos, her wand trembling in her hand. Her eyes darted to the door—still sealed—and then to Tom, who stood amidst the carnage with an unsettling calm, as if he were a maestro conducting a symphony of destruction. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and a chilling smile spread across his lips.

"You can't save them, Violet," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos as though it were meant for her alone. "They're already lost."

"Shut up!" she screamed, raising her wand. A powerful curse tore from her lips, but Tom deflected it with an almost lazy flick of his wrist, the spell ricocheting into the ceiling and sending shards of wood raining down.

"Is that the best you can do?" he taunted, stepping closer. "You'll have to do better than that if you want to protect them."

Violet's anger surged, but it was drowned by the hopelessness of the scene around her. Kingsley was locked in a duel with two Death Eaters, sweat pouring down his face as he blocked a volley of hexes. Eve had been forced to retreat toward the back of the room, shielding Slughorn, who looked pale and on the verge of collapse.

"Go!" Violet shouted, her voice rising above the chaos. "Get out of here!"

Kingsley's head snapped toward her, his expression fierce. "We're not leaving you!"

"You have to!" she cried, deflecting a curse aimed at Eve. "You can't win this! Just go!"

"Violet—" Eve began, but Violet cut her off, her voice filled with desperation.

"Please! If you stay, you'll die! You have to run! Apparate now!"

Kingsley hesitated, his jaw tightening as he fought off another attacker. "We'll come back for you!" he shouted, his tone heavy with the weight of his decision.

"Just go!" Violet yelled again, her voice breaking as tears stung her eyes. She turned back to Tom, who stood watching her with a cruel, possessive gleam in his eyes. She raised her wand, her heart pounding. "I'll hold him off!"

Tom's smile widened, his voice silky and taunting. "How noble of you, Violet. Sacrificing yourself for them. But do you really think they'll survive without you?"

"Shut up!" she screamed, firing another spell at him. He deflected it effortlessly, the force of his counterspell sending her stumbling back. She steadied herself, her resolve hardening even as her body trembled.

Behind her, the sound of Apparition cracks filled the air as Kingsley, Eve, and Slughorn disappeared one by one. Relief and despair warred within her as she realized they were gone—safe, but leaving her alone.

Tom tilted his head, his expression a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. "So brave," he murmured, stepping closer. "But now it's just us, my dear. Exactly as it should be."

Chapter Text

"What will you do now, Tom?" Violet's voice trembled, a mere whisper against the oppressive silence of the room. Her dark eyes burned with defiance, even as her hands shook at her sides. "Kill me? I defied you, didn't I? I defied the great and powerful Lord Voldemort. The punishment for that is death, isn't it?"

Tom's lips curled into a slow, calculated smile—a smile that didn't reach his piercing blue eyes. He stepped closer, his polished boots clicking against the stone floor with an almost predatory rhythm. He reached out, catching a strand of her dark hair between his fingers, twisting it lazily as if it were a mere trinket for his amusement.

"Cinnamon and vanilla," he murmured breathing in the smell of it, his voice as smooth as silk yet laced with an edge of something sinister. His gaze flickered down to her face, his expression softening in a way that seemed almost human—almost. "I could never kill you, Violet. Never."

The tenderness in his tone was a lie, she knew it, but it was a lie wrapped in a cruel beauty that left her breathless. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to fight, to do something, but her body betrayed her, frozen under his touch.

His fingers grazed her cheek now, the caress so delicate it might have been mistaken for affection. Then he leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead—a mockery of intimacy that sent ice shooting through her veins.

A cough from the doorway shattered the moment.

"My Lord," a voice drawled, tired but eager. Violet flinched, recognizing it instantly. Barty stepped into the room, his disheveled figure a stark contrast to the aura of control Voldemort exuded. The younger man's robes were frayed, replaced in parts by a battered coat that hung loosely from his gaunt frame. Dark circles shadowed his sunken eyes, but there was a fervent gleam there that made her stomach churn.

"The passage is secure," Barty announced, bowing his head slightly. "We can strike at Hogwarts in a matter of hours."

Tom didn't look at him immediately. His gaze remained on Violet, his smirk deepening as though he found the situation endlessly amusing. "Good," he finally said, his voice sharp as a blade. "Gather the others and await my command."

Barty lingered for a moment, his eyes darting toward Violet. His lips curled into a smirk that mirrored his master's, as though this were all some twisted joke only he understood. With a nod, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Tom returned his full attention to Violet. His smile was still there, but it had taken on a darker edge. "You see, princess, I'm winning," he said, his voice dripping with triumph. "It's only a matter of time before the Ministry falls. And when it does, I'll be unstoppable. Voldemort, Minister of Magic. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

Violet glared at him, her lip curling in disgust. "Dream on, Tom," she spat, her voice filled with venom. "Your sins will catch up to you. They always do."

His laughter echoed through the room, rich and menacing. He stepped closer, leaning down so his face was level with hers. His breath was hot against her skin as he whispered, his voice low and dangerous.

"We'll see," he said, his words brushing against her ear like a cold wind. "Muggles have a saying, you know. 'God will punish all the sinners.' But I don't fear God." He pulled back slightly, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her heart race. "Because I am Him."

The sheer arrogance of his words struck her like a physical blow. Her body tensed, her mind screaming at her to act. She felt the blade at her belt, her fingers twitching toward it.

And then, with a sudden burst of adrenaline, she lunged.

The blade sank into his stomach with a sickening sound, and his expression twisted into one of shock and pain. He stumbled back, a guttural groan escaping his lips as his wand slipped from his grasp.

Violet didn't hesitate. She snatched up his wand and spun on her heel, the sharp crack of Apparition echoing through the air as she disappeared.

Tom staggered, clutching at the wound as blood seeped through his fingers. His vision blurred for a moment, but the fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever.

"You can run, Violet," he growled, his voice a venomous promise. "But you can't hide."

***

Violet found herself standing before the Burrow, its once warm and welcoming silhouette now cloaked in an unsettling silence. A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying with it a metallic tang that made her stomach churn. She paused at the gate, an unease settling deep in her chest, yet something urged her forward.

The closer she got, the heavier her steps became, as if the earth itself was trying to anchor her in place. Her heart sank when she noticed the front door hanging ajar, its hinges swaying slightly in the breeze. There was a splatter of dark crimson staining the wood, and her breath hitched in her throat.

Her fingers trembled as she pushed the door open further, the creak echoing ominously through the house. She stepped inside, her boots squelching against the sticky floor. Blood. It was everywhere.

"Gods..." she whispered, her voice breaking.

Her gaze fell to the figure sprawled near the entrance. Gideon Prewett lay in a crumpled heap, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing. A jagged wound crossed his chest, and the crimson that pooled beneath him was still fresh. Violet's knees buckled, but she forced herself to move.

"Gideon..." she murmured, her voice trembling as she stepped over his body. She couldn't afford to stop—not now.

She made her way further into the house, her breaths shallow, her pulse thundering in her ears. Fabian was next. His body was slumped against the wall, his wand still clutched in his hand as though he'd gone down fighting. Violet bit down hard on her lip, the metallic taste of blood mingling with her rising nausea.

"Keep it together," she whispered to herself, though her voice wavered. Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to let them fall.

In the hallway, she stumbled over another body—a Death Eater this time. His mask was askew, revealing a young, familiar face. She recognized him instantly. He had been one of Julius's friends, a boy she'd seen at gatherings, laughing and boasting about the Dark Lord's favor. Now, his vacant eyes stared into the abyss.

Violet swallowed hard and pressed on, her gut twisting with every step. The living room was worse—a scene ripped from a nightmare.

Moody lay sprawled on the floor, his face barely visible beneath the blood and grime. His robes were torn and drenched in red, his breathing shallow and labored.

"Alastor!" Violet cried, rushing to his side. She dropped to her knees, grabbing her wand with shaky hands. "Stay with me, please."

His good eye flickered open, the other lost beneath a makeshift bandage that was already soaked through. "Violet..." he rasped, his voice barely audible over the pounding in her ears.

"I'm here," she said, her voice trembling as she began casting healing charms. The wounds were deep, too deep. She wrapped a cloth over the injury covering his damaged eye, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold the fabric. "What happened, Alastor? Who did this?"

"Death... Eaters..." he groaned, his words a broken whisper. "Too many... they... we didn't expect them.."

"Where are the rest? Molly? Arthur?" Her voice pitched higher with panic as she pressed harder against his wounds, trying to stem the relentless flow of blood.

Moody winced, trying to speak through the agony. "Molly... got a letter... something was wrong. She and Arthur went out... looking for you... and the others."

Violet's heart sank, a cold dread wrapping around her like a vice. "No... no, they split us up." Her voice cracked, her mind racing as the implications set in. Someone had betrayed them.

Her eyes darted around the room, her instincts screaming that they weren't safe. The walls, once lined with family photos and cheerful knick-knacks, were now smeared with blood and littered with debris.

"We have to leave," she said urgently, grabbing Moody's arm to help him sit up. "It's not safe here. Somebody told them where we were. There's a traitor."

Moody groaned in protest, but he didn't fight her as she helped him to his feet. His weight bore down on her, but she gritted her teeth and steadied him as best she could.

Her mind raced. Where could they go? Who could she trust? A memory surfaced, unbidden—a place she hadn't considered in years. It was risky, but they had no other choice.

With Moody leaning heavily against her, she Apparated, the sensation of being squeezed through a tube almost unbearable under the weight of their injuries and fear.

They reappeared on a quiet, unassuming street. She approached the door of a modest house, her knuckles rapping against the wood in desperation.

It opened moments later, revealing a girl with long, flowing white hair and wide blue eyes. Pandora Lovegood's face was a mix of surprise and alarm as she took in their battered forms.

"Pandora," Violet choked out, her voice trembling. "We need help."

"

Chapter Text

"Quickly, come in!" Pandora's voice was urgent but calm, her white hair flowing behind her as she led them inside. "Put him on the sofa!"

Violet half-dragged, half-carried Moody to the worn-out couch, his weight a staggering burden, but her determination kept her steady. His skin was pallid, his remaining eye fluttering shut. His breathing was shallow, each ragged exhale sounding more labored than the last.

"Alastor, you bloody bastard," Violet muttered under her breath, her hands trembling as she positioned him. "You can't die on me today."

She fumbled for her wand, casting a series of healing spells. Light shimmered over his wounds, knitting some of the torn flesh together, but her magic wasn't enough. The deeper gashes resisted her efforts, and the blood kept seeping through.

"Wait here," Pandora said abruptly, disappearing into another room without further explanation.

Violet stiffened, her senses heightened. Every nerve in her body screamed to stay alert, her trust frayed to threads. She clutched her wand tightly, her knuckles white, half-expecting Pandora to return with Death Eaters to finish the job.

But when Pandora reappeared, it was with a vial of amber liquid in hand, not a wand or a weapon. "This should help," she said briskly, kneeling beside Moody. "Hold his head up."

Violet hesitated, suspicion flickering in her dark eyes. "What is it?"

"Essence of Dittany," Pandora explained, her tone patient but firm. "It will help him—at least, I hope it will. We'll know by morning. But his eye..." She leaned closer, examining the gruesome wound with a clinical detachment that made Violet wince. "I fear it cannot be restored."

Violet's shoulders slumped as she let out a shaky breath. She eased Moody's head back onto the sofa, watching as Pandora carefully poured the potion onto his lips. It trickled down his throat, and though his breathing didn't improve immediately, there was a faint, fragile hope in the room now.

Violet sank into the chair beside the sofa, her gaze fixed on Moody's battered form. His blood still stained her hands, dried and dark beneath her fingernails. She felt a surge of guilt and helplessness, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on her.

"I thought you were dead," Pandora said softly, breaking the silence. Her voice was steady but carried a note of something raw—perhaps relief, perhaps sorrow. "You disappeared without a word one day. Then we heard..." She trailed off, her blue eyes flicking to Violet's face. "That Professor Riddle was—you-know-who. I thought he had done something to you."

Violet's stomach clenched at the mention of his name, a knot of memories and fear tightening in her chest. Her gaze flickered to Moody, then back to Pandora. "I didn't know where to go," she admitted quietly. "Or who to trust."

Pandora's expression softened, though there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "You still don't trust me, do you?" she asked gently. "But I assure you, I have no bad heart."

A faint smile tugged at Violet's lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I know that," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Pandora rose gracefully, moving toward the stove with practiced ease. "I have something to calm you, if you'd like," she said, her tone as soothing as a lullaby. "I'll brew us some tea with valerian roots. I grow them in my garden." She paused, glancing back at Violet. "Would you mind picking some for me? It'll give you a moment to breathe."

Violet hesitated, then nodded. She pulled her bloodstained sweater tighter around her shoulders as she stepped outside into the garden.

The sight that greeted her was breathtaking, even under the heavy weight of her thoughts. Pandora's garden was a masterpiece, a tapestry of vibrant herbs and delicate flowers that seemed to shimmer under the light of the full moon. The air was thick with the mingling scents of lavender, rosemary, and night-blooming jasmine, a stark contrast to the coppery tang of blood that clung to Violet's memory.

She wandered through the garden, her fingers brushing against soft petals and rough leaves as she searched for the valerian roots. The moon hung low in the sky, its silver glow casting long shadows that seemed to dance across the ground.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Molly and Arthur. Molly, pregnant and vulnerable. Arthur, steadfast but now likely in as much danger as the rest of them. Then to Eve and Kingsley—had they managed to escape? Were they safe, or had they met the same fate as the Prewetts? Even Slughorn, cowardly as he was, flitted through her mind.

The questions gnawed at her, each one heavier than the last. Where were they? Were they still alive, or had she lost them all?

Clutching the valerian roots tightly in her hand, Violet glanced back toward the house. The weight of her choices pressed down on her chest like a stone. Whatever came next, she knew she couldn't falter. Too many lives depended on her now.

***

Tom removed his coat with a sharp, frustrated motion as he entered the warmth of his manor. The air inside was a stark contrast to the biting chill outside, but even the heat couldn't ease the sting radiating from his wound. The fabric of his shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, damp with sweat and faint traces of blood. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the sharp pang in his abdomen as he cast a rudimentary healing charm. The magic was effective but cold, leaving a tingling numbness in its wake.

Crossing the room, he poured himself a generous glass of firewhisky, the amber liquid catching the flickering light of the flames in the fireplace. He stared into the hearth, the embers glowing like molten eyes, reflecting his own inner turmoil. The firelight danced across his sharp features, casting long shadows on the walls, giving him an almost spectral appearance.

The creak of the door broke his reverie. Without turning, he knew who it was.

"What happened?" Julius asked, his voice low as he closed the door behind him.

Tom's jaw tightened. "Not in the mood, Julius."

"You never seem to be, as of late," Julius remarked coolly, stepping closer but keeping a measured distance.

Tom didn't respond immediately, his gaze still fixed on the fire. The warmth seemed to sear his skin, yet it did nothing to thaw the ice in his veins. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and edged with bitterness. "She ran from me. Again. How can I possibly be in a good mood?" His tone sharpened, venom creeping into his words. "She's nothing more than a child, a brat who cannot fathom the consequences of defying me. And yet..." He trailed off, his expression hardening. "I cannot fathom why I care so deeply for her."

Julius ran a hand through his dark hair, his expression carefully neutral. "She'll come around, Tom. She just needs... a little persuasion."

Tom's control snapped. His glass flew from his hand, shattering against the fireplace. The flames roared as the whisky ignited, a burst of heat licking at his face.

"She stabbed me!" he roared, his voice echoing through the cavernous room. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling with the force of his fury. "I am impressed by her resistance—no one has ever defied me like this before. But I am enraged by it!" He turned sharply, his dark eyes blazing as he faced Julius. "I need her," he hissed, each word dripping with unrestrained intensity. "Like the blood in my veins. Like the oxygen I breathe. Like the power in my hands. She is... she is the final piece, the last fragment of the puzzle I must complete."

For a moment, his mask slipped. His voice lowered, almost to a whisper, as if he were speaking to himself rather than to Julius. "Without her, it's as if everything I've built remains unfinished."

The air in the room grew heavy, suffused with tension. Julius, ever perceptive, noted the rare crack in Tom's otherwise impenetrable facade. But he was careful not to overstep.

"No one will know what you've spoken to me tonight," Julius said, his voice calm and steady, a quiet assurance in his words.

Tom turned back to the fire, leaning heavily against the mantle. The flickering flames cast harsh lines across his face, making his expression unreadable. He waved a hand dismissively. "Leave. I want to be alone."

Julius hesitated for only a fraction of a second before obeying. He slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Once outside, he leaned against the polished wood, his mind racing.

He thought of her—his little sister, his blood, the one who had become the focus of Tom's obsession. He understood the allure she held; he felt it too. She was more than a mere pawn in their game. She was the keystone, the element that could tip the scales irrevocably in their favor.

But unlike Tom, Julius's ambitions were laced with something far darker. He wanted her to kneel willingly, to be deceived, to trust him. Julius loved her, it was a weakness, one he accepted to afford.

As he pushed away from the door and walked down the dimly lit corridor, he resolved to do whatever it took to bring Violet home.

***

Violet sat rigidly beside Moody, her back aching from the stiff position she'd held through the night. Her hands, calloused and trembling, hovered near his battered form as though afraid even the smallest movement might cause him further harm. Shadows clung to her pale face, accentuating the heavy bags under her eyes, stark reminders of sleepless hours spent ensuring he still breathed. Her bloodstained clothes clung to her as if they were part of her skin, the fabric stiff and coarse from dried blood. Her hair, hastily tied into a messy bun, had strands falling loose, framing her face with a disheveled weariness.

The faint sound of a door creaking open pulled her attention. Pandora emerged, her long white hair cascading like a river of light against the gloom of the room. She approached softly, her blue eyes assessing Violet with quiet concern.

"Did you even close your eyes for a moment?" Pandora asked, her voice gentle yet edged with worry. She placed a folded set of clean clothes on the table, the faint scent of lavender wafting from the fabric.

Violet shook her head, her voice hoarse. "I couldn't. What if someone showed up?" Her words were laced with paranoia, each syllable heavy with the weight of uncertainty.

Pandora sighed, her calm demeanor a sharp contrast to Violet's frazzled state. She crouched beside her and placed a hand on her arm. "We're safe here, Violet. No one will find us, not in this place. You need to take care of yourself, or you'll be no good to anyone."

Violet hesitated but finally nodded, exhaustion breaking through her resolve. She reached for the clean clothes. "Fine. But only for a moment. Stay with him."

"I will," Pandora promised, her tone firm.

The hot water from the shower cascaded over Violet's body, washing away the grime and blood but not the tension that gripped her. She closed her eyes, leaning against the tiled wall as the water poured down, her thoughts racing. Images of her scattered allies filled her mind—Molly, Arthur, Kingsley, Eve. Were they safe? Were they hurt? Or worse? She clenched her fists, the warm water doing little to ease the cold knot of fear in her chest.

When she descended back to the main room, her damp hair fell loosely around her shoulders. The clean clothes felt like a fragile armor against the chaos of the outside world. Pandora greeted her with a small, encouraging smile, handing her a steaming cup of tea.

"Pandora," Violet began hesitantly, her voice cracking under the weight of her words. "I know it's not my place to ask, but... can you take care of him? I have to leave. The others are out there, scattered and vulnerable. We're weaker like this. Easy targets."

Pandora reached out, clasping Violet's hand tightly. "Of course. I'll do anything I can to help. But you'll need supplies if you're going. Pack some extra clothes, and I'll prepare a few herbs and potions for you. They might come in handy."

Violet's lips curved into a faint smile, gratitude flickering in her tired eyes. The moment was interrupted by a low groan from the sofa. Moody stirred, his single eye cracking open, its gaze sharp despite the obvious pain etched into his features.

"What are you two plotting?" he rasped, his voice rough but laced with his trademark gruff humor.

Violet's breath hitched, and she was at his side in an instant, her hands gently brushing against his arm. "You bloody bastard," she muttered, a weak laugh escaping her. "I thought I'd lost you for a moment there."

Moody smirked faintly, a shadow of his usual self, his hand pressing lightly against his bandaged chest. "I'm not so easy to get rid of."

She narrowed her eyes at him, a flicker of her old defiance returning. "How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough," he admitted, his smirk widening slightly.

Pandora stepped forward, handing Violet a sturdy bag. "It's not much, but it should get you through for a while."

Violet accepted it, the weight of the bag a small comfort. "Thank you, Dora. Truly. I won't forget this." She hesitated, her gaze darting to Pandora's steady blue eyes. "If... if I don't come back, send a letter to Dumbledore. Let him know what happened here. He'll know what to do."

"Don't talk nonsense," Pandora replied firmly. "You'll come back."

Violet looked away, her shoulders tense. "You speak with hope, Dora, not a clear mind." She took a deep breath, the air heavy with unspoken fears. "Farewell... for now."

As she stepped through the door, the chill of the night greeted her. The moon hung heavy and bright above, its silvery glow casting eerie shadows over Pandora's garden. Violet didn't pause, her mind already set on the journey ahead. Somewhere out there, her friends were waiting—or fighting for their lives. Either way, she would find them. And she would bring them back.

Chapter Text

The night was bitterly cold, a sharp wind cutting through the streets of London and carrying with it an air of foreboding. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally, and every sound—no matter how small—felt amplified, reverberating in the eerie silence. Violet moved carefully, her black cloak billowing behind her as she kept her hood low, her face hidden. The fabric clung to her as though the night itself sought to consume her, and she embraced the darkness, blending into it.

Her breaths were shallow, visible puffs in the frigid air, and her heart beat erratically as she traversed the desolate streets. London, usually alive with noise and motion, now lay unnervingly still, as if holding its breath. She gripped her wand tightly, her knuckles white as she kept it at the ready, the polished wood warm in her hand. She had decided after much deliberation to head toward Slughorn's home, hoping—praying—that the others had apparated there after the chaos at Borgin and Burkes.

The quiet gnawed at her, a silence so complete it was oppressive, making her hyperaware of every step, every creak of leather boots against cobblestone. Her nerves were strung taut, and every shadow seemed a potential threat.

As she neared the house, her tension heightened. The yard was cloaked in darkness, and just as her foot touched the edge of the garden, the front door burst open with a deafening bang. The sound shattered the stillness, sending her heart racing. She darted behind a low wall, her back pressing hard against the cold stone as she tried to steady her breathing.

Peeking cautiously over the edge, her gaze fell on a man stepping out into the night. His face was obscured by a sleek, silver mask—an unmistakable mark of a Death Eater. But her stomach twisted as her eyes drifted to the figure following him. Her breath caught in her throat.

Julius.

She hadn't seen him in months, and yet he was just as she remembered—achingly handsome in a way that felt almost cruel. His tall, lean frame was clad in a dark suit tailored to perfection, the fabric sharp against the pale hue of his skin. His tousled brown hair fell artfully across his forehead, framing his piercing blue eyes that gleamed like shards of ice, cold and calculating. A cigarette rested casually between his lips, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light.

"They were here. I know it," Julius growled, his voice deep and commanding, laced with a venomous edge. He scanned the garden with a predator's gaze, his eyes narrowing. "Find them and bring them to me."

The Death Eaters around him stiffened, nodding wordlessly before dispersing into the shadows like wraiths. Only one lingered at his side, awaiting further orders.

Violet pressed her hand against her mouth, muffling her shaky breaths as Julius paced, his frustration evident. She leaned back behind the wall, her mind racing. He's leading them. He's the one they fear.

The crunch of footsteps on grass grew louder, drawing nearer. She felt her pulse in her ears, loud and frantic.

"There's no one here," Julius snapped, his tone seething with barely contained rage. "They're gone. We're wasting our time." His voice lowered, filled with icy finality. "Let's go."

Relief washed over Violet as the footsteps retreated. She allowed herself a shallow exhale, taking a cautious step back from the wall.

But then she froze.

Her back collided with a cold, solid figure.

Before she could let out a scream, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth. Her heart pounded furiously as she struggled, but the familiarity of the presence stopped her short. Trembling, she reached up and yanked the mask from the figure's face.

"Theo?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The pale face of Theo Nott emerged from the shadows, his gray eyes wide and panicked, darting around to ensure they weren't seen. "Shh," he hissed, pulling her deeper into the garden's cover.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice cracking with emotion. Tears pricked her eyes as her mind spun with confusion. "Why, Theo? Why are you with them?"

"I don't have a choice," he muttered, his voice low and filled with a quiet desperation. "None of us do." He glanced over his shoulder again, his paranoia palpable. "Listen to me carefully. The house in London—it's not safe. Elphias's home—it's a trap."

Violet's breath hitched. "Theo," she pleaded, grabbing the front of his cloak. "Tell me—are they alive? Please. Is the rest of them alive?" Her voice broke, and the tears she'd been holding back finally spilled over.

His expression softened for a fleeting moment, a crack in his guarded demeanor. "For now," he whispered. "But they won't hold on for long if this keeps up."

He turned to leave, but she gripped his arm. "Wait—"

"Don't," he said sharply, pulling away. His voice was low and urgent. "I've already risked too much."

Before she could stop him, he stepped back into the shadows, his form dissolving into a plume of black smoke that disappeared into the night sky.

Violet stood frozen, the weight of his words settling heavily on her chest. The garden seemed darker, colder, as if the night itself had turned against her. With shaking hands, she adjusted her hood, steeling herself.

She had to keep moving. She had to find them—before it was too late.

***

Violet crouched in the ruins of Slughorn's old home, the musty air thick with dust and despair. Broken furniture lay scattered across the floor, shattered glass glittered ominously in the dim light, and the air carried the faint metallic tang of spilled blood. The Death Eaters had been thorough in their destruction, leaving behind nothing but chaos.

Her hands trembled as she sifted through the wreckage, desperate for a clue—anything to guide her to the others. Then, tucked beneath an overturned chair, her fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of parchment. She unfolded it, her breath catching as her eyes scanned the words scrawled across the top:

Violet's Brew

Ingredients:

AconiteThistle leavesTreacle essenceIndigo extractCrumpet dust

The list seemed nonsensical at first glance, but something about it gnawed at her. She stuffed the paper into her pocket, not daring to linger in case the Death Eaters returned. The air outside bit at her skin as she walked, her exhaustion weighing heavy, but her mind racing. She pulled the note out again, rereading it over and over as she trudged through the empty streets.

It wasn't until the fourth or fifth time that the realization hit her. The first letters of each ingredient spelled out a word:
A-T-T-I-C.

Her heart skipped a beat. The attic. Was this a clue? A message left behind for her to follow?

But there was a problem. To brew the potion, she needed aconite, and her bag—packed hurriedly by Pandora—was missing it. She had no choice but to risk Diagon Alley.

Stopping at a small coffee shop to gather her strength, Violet sank into a corner seat, her cloak pulled low over her face. The warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the chill outside, but she barely felt it. Her hands shook as she stirred her cup, exhaustion threatening to pull her under.

On the table in front of her lay a folded copy of the Daily Prophet. She hesitated before picking it up, the familiar weight of dread pressing down on her chest.

The front page was dominated by a single headline, bold and unforgiving:

"HOGWARTS FALLS TO THE DARK LORD."

Below it, a smaller line sent chills down her spine:
"Riddle's Forces Take the Castle—Dumbledore Missing, Staff and Students Held Hostage."

Her breath hitched as her eyes flicked to the photograph beneath the words. Tom Riddle's face stared back at her, cold and unyielding, his dark eyes filled with triumph. He stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, the towering doors wide open behind him, his wand raised as Death Eaters flanked him on either side. The enchanted ceiling above him swirled with storm clouds, bolts of lightning illuminating the twisted smirk on his lips.

The article beneath was no less chilling:

"In an unprecedented and devastating blow, the Dark Lord has claimed control of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Sources report that Riddle led the siege himself, breaching the castle's defenses with a force of Death Eaters and dark creatures unseen since the days of Grindelwald. Witnesses describe chaos and destruction as the staff and students attempted to hold their ground against the invaders. Dumbledore's whereabouts remain unknown, and rumors of his capture have sparked widespread fear across the wizarding world. The Ministry of Magic has yet to issue a formal statement on the matter, though anonymous sources suggest that the Dark Lord's next target may be the heart of the Ministry itself..."

Violet's hands gripped the edges of the paper, her knuckles white. The world felt like it was closing in around her, the walls of the Leaky Cauldron suddenly too tight, the air too thin.

She folded the paper and shoved it into her bag, her thoughts racing. Hogwarts had fallen. Dumbledore was gone. And Tom...

Her grip tightened around her wand as she forced herself to stand. If she wanted to save them—her friends, her world—she couldn't afford to falter now.

***

The cold wind swept through the street, tugging at Violet's cloak and whipping her hair from her face as she clutched her bag tighter and hurried down the cobblestone path. Her breaths puffed out in uneven clouds, her heartbeat hammering in her chest. The little shop ahead was dimly lit, its crooked sign swaying on rusted chains above the door.

She stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling softly. The shop was cramped, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs and old parchment. Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with jars of ingredients, but her focus was singular.

"Aconite," she whispered urgently to the shopkeeper, a frail-looking woman with sharp eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her.

The woman didn't speak at first, simply watching Violet with an unsettling intensity. Violet felt her skin prickle under the weight of that gaze, but she forced herself to remain calm. Was it suspicion? Recognition? Or was she just being paranoid?

The woman finally nodded, her bony hands moving to fetch a jar of aconite. Violet handed over a few Galleons, barely waiting for the woman to wrap the herbs before tucking them into her bag.

As she turned to leave, the woman spoke softly, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves. "Be careful, child. Shadows follow you."

Violet froze for a moment, her pulse quickening. But she didn't respond, hurrying out the door.

The air outside felt sharper now, the streets darker. She pulled her hood lower, blending into the sparse crowd, her nerves on edge. Just as she rounded a corner, her breath caught—two Death Eaters strolled leisurely down the main street, their masks tucked under their arms, their dark robes billowing behind them.

Her heart pounded as she turned sharply into a narrow alley, her feet moving faster, the sound of her boots muffled on the uneven stones. The path was unfamiliar, winding deeper into the shadows.

She skidded to a halt when she came upon an old, weathered sign hanging above a forgotten shop:

Madam Primrose's Attic.

Her eyes flicked to the door, her pulse still racing. As she leaned closer, she noticed a small engraving etched into the wooden surface—a delicate violet flower.

Her breath hitched. This is it.

But before she could react, a pair of hands grabbed her from behind, yanking her inside.

"Arthur!" she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as she recognized him.

He stepped back, his face pale and drawn but relieved. "Took you long enough. We've been dying with worry."

The shop's interior was far from what she'd expected. The walls were lined with sturdy wooden beams, the furniture mismatched but cozy. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. She spotted Kingsley and Molly by the fire, their faces weary, and Slughorn pacing anxiously.

Arthur gestured for her to sit, but she shook her head, her words tumbling out. "Dumbledore prepared this place? What's going on? Where's Eve?"

Arthur hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Dumbledore set it up before he left. He's gone to—"

"To what?" Violet snapped, cutting him off. "To find a way to stop Tom? Meanwhile, Hogwarts is defenseless, and Tom's taken it! He could hurt everyone—our friends, the people we grew up with!"

The room fell silent, her words hanging heavy in the air.

"Violet," Molly said softly, standing and approaching her.

Violet's stomach twisted as she noticed the way they all avoided her eyes. A cold weight settled in her chest.

"Where's Eve?" Her voice cracked, her gaze darting between them. "Why aren't you answering me? Where is she?"

Molly placed her hands on Violet's shoulders, her own eyes glistening. "She's gone, Vi. They got her while we were making our way here. There was nothing we could do."

The words hit Violet like a blow, stealing the air from her lungs. She stepped back, shaking her head in disbelief.

"No," she whispered, her voice trembling. "No, you're lying. She—she wouldn't have been caught. Eve's too clever—she—"

"She fought," Kingsley said quietly, his deep voice breaking the silence. "She held them off so we could get away. But they took her."

Violet's knees buckled, and she collapsed onto a nearby chair. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, her vision blurring with tears.

***

The room was dark, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight to keep out any trace of moonlight. The flickering light from a single chandelier cast long, menacing shadows across the faces of those assembled. Tom Riddle stood at the head of the room, his tall frame casting an imposing figure as he leaned against a carved chair. His piercing gaze turned toward Julius as the man entered, flanked by a group of Death Eaters. Among them was Theo, his expression stoic yet strained.

"And?" Tom's voice was calm, almost conversational, but the menace beneath it was unmistakable. "Did you find them? Did you find her?"

Julius stepped forward, his face unreadable but his tone carefully measured. "No, my lord. The house was deserted when we arrived. They left only minutes before us—the lanterns were still warm."

Tom exhaled sharply, his frustration barely contained. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the arm of the chair, each sound echoing in the oppressive silence.

Before he could respond, another voice broke through.

"Don't worry, my lord," Barty Crouch Jr. said with a twisted grin, stepping into the room with a disheveled figure in tow. "I caught this one not far from Knockturn Alley. Her friends managed to escape, but she wasn't so... lucky. Were you, Evie?"

The girl he dragged forward stumbled, her wrists bound tightly in front of her. Eve Travers lifted her head, her dark eyes filled with defiance despite the smudges of dirt and blood on her face. Her long, auburn hair fell in messy waves around her shoulders, her breathing labored.

Tom's lips curled into a sinister smile as he stepped forward, his gaze locking onto her like a predator eyeing its prey. "Ah, Miss Travers," he purred, his voice dripping with mockery. "So nice of you to finally join us. Isn't it?"

Eve glared up at him, her jaw clenched, but her silence only seemed to amuse him.

"Yes, you had such potential," he continued, circling her like a vulture. "You could have been something great. But instead, you chose Dumbledore's pathetic little army. Such a pity. A real pity."

Her eyes flicked to Julius, who stood silently near the edge of the room, his expression unreadable. She had loved him once, as a child. Back then, Julius had seemed larger than life—handsome, mysterious, powerful. But he had never seen her that way. To him, she had always been Violet's companion, little more than a girl trailing behind her far more captivating friend. Even now, as a grown woman, standing bloodied and defiant in the enemy's clutches, Julius's eyes betrayed nothing but distant indifference.

Tom's voice snapped her attention back to him. "But don't worry, my dear," he said, raising his wand with deliberate slowness. "I know just what to do with you."

Her defiance faltered as a glint of cruelty flashed in his eyes.

"Crucio."

The curse hit her like a tidal wave of agony, and she screamed, her body convulsing as every nerve burned with unrelenting pain. The Death Eaters around her watched with twisted smiles, some chuckling under their breath.

Julius didn't move, his face a mask of indifference. Inside, he felt nothing for her—not guilt, not pity. She was a pawn in the game, just like everyone else. Whatever childish affection she'd once harbored for him meant little now, a relic of another time.

Tom watched Eve writhe on the ground, her screams echoing off the walls, but he didn't flinch. He only lowered his wand once she was reduced to shallow, gasping breaths, her body trembling as she lay on the cold floor.

He crouched down, his face mere inches from hers as she weakly lifted her head. "You're going to help me, Miss Travers," he said softly, his tone almost gentle, which somehow made it even more terrifying. "You'll bring them straight into my hands."

Eve's lips quivered, her gaze flicking again to Julius, seeking something—anything—in his expression. But there was nothing there.

"Take her away," Tom ordered, rising to his full height. "Put her somewhere... quiet. Let her think about her choices. And Julius."

Julius stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Yes, my lord?"

Tom's eyes narrowed. "You're in charge of her. Make sure she doesn't get any ideas of escape. And if she does... deal with her."

Julius gave a curt nod, his voice steady. "As you wish, my lord."

Two Death Eaters dragged Eve from the room, her broken sobs echoing in the hallway. Julius followed, his stride purposeful but unhurried. As he walked, he thought briefly of her—a fleeting image of a young girl, chasing after Violet, her eyes filled with hope. That girl was long gone.

And Julius had no intention of saving what remained.

Chapter Text

The attic was suffocating, not just from the dust that clung to every surface but from the weight of silence that pressed upon them all. The small, cramped space above Primrose's old shop was their sanctuary and their prison. They had been here for two weeks, waiting—waiting for word, for a sign, for anything that would tell them they were not completely abandoned. But none had come.

The windows were covered with tattered sheets, letting only the faintest slivers of light seep through. A single cracked pane in the farthest corner gave them a view of the outside world—a world that no longer felt like theirs. From there, Violet had spent countless hours staring down at the streets below, watching shadows move between the ruins of Diagon Alley. The once-vibrant heart of the wizarding world was now a ghost town. Shops were shuttered, their signs swinging lifelessly in the wind, and the cobblestones were slick with filth and dried blood. Death Eaters roamed like wolves, their black robes billowing, their eyes hunting for prey.

Inside, hunger gnawed at them all. The food they had brought was long gone. For days, they had stretched what little they had—rationing bits of stale bread, a few dried beans, a single apple split five ways. But now, even the crumbs were gone.

Molly, her face pale and drawn, sat against the wall, her hands protectively resting on her stomach. She was only a few months along, but the stress of hiding had taken its toll. Arthur sat beside her, an arm around her shoulders, whispering soft reassurances that neither of them believed. Kingsley paced in the small space, his fingers tightening into fists every time his eyes flicked toward the covered window. And Slughorn, once so grand and proud, sat hunched in the corner, muttering to himself, his mustache twitching with nerves.

Violet sat apart from them, her knees pulled to her chest, staring blankly at the floorboards. Eve was gone. The words rang in her head like a death knell. The Death Eaters took her. Barty Crouch Jr. took her.

She clenched her fists. Barty.

Once upon a time, she had called him a friend. A good friend. Eve had too. Before the war, before the world had split into light and dark, before he had chosen his side. Had he hesitated when they took her? Had he looked at Eve and remembered their childhood, their laughter, the long nights spent in the common room whispering about the future?

Or had he simply raised his wand and done what was expected of him?

Violet wanted to believe there had been mercy. But Death Eaters spared no one.

She exhaled shakily and looked around. They had spent two weeks in this attic, too afraid to leave, waiting for a word that never came. Dumbledore was gone. The Order was scattered. The Ministry had fallen silent.

And they were starving.

"We need food," she murmured.

Everyone looked at her.

"We can last another night," Arthur said carefully.

"No, we can't," she said. "We haven't eaten in days."

Molly opened her mouth as if to argue, but her silence spoke volumes.

"I'll go," Violet said.

"No," Kingsley said immediately. "It's too dangerous. The Death Eaters—"

"They won't kill me."

The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Everyone knew it was true. Tom Riddle would never kill her. He wanted her too much. He was obsessed with finding her, with bringing her back to him. The entire wizarding world knew it. Every Death Eater he sent out had orders to hunt her down. But they had failed. She had remained hidden.

She stood, pulling her hood over her head. "I can move through the streets. No one will suspect me if they don't see my face."

Arthur looked unconvinced, but Molly's eyes were pleading. She's pregnant, Violet thought. She needs to eat.

"I'll be careful," Violet promised. "I just need to get some food. I won't be gone long."

Silence.

Then, finally, Kingsley exhaled and handed her a handful of sickles. "Buy from someone desperate," he said. "Someone who won't remember your face."

She nodded, tucked the coins into her pocket, and turned toward the attic door.

She had barely touched the handle when Arthur spoke.

"If you're caught—"

"I won't be," she cut him off.

But they all knew that if she was, she wouldn't die.

She would be taken to him.

***

The air outside was thick with the stench of fire and rot. The streets were nearly deserted, save for the occasional Death Eater sweeping through the rubble, wands drawn, looking for survivors. Some buildings still stood, but many had been reduced to ruins. The Leaky Cauldron's windows were shattered, its door left ajar as if its last visitor had fled in a hurry.

Violet kept her head down, her hood casting shadows over her face. Every step felt like a risk, but she moved with purpose, heading toward a narrow alley where she knew desperate traders gathered in secret.

She had only taken a few steps when she saw it.

A crumpled pile of newspapers on the ground, the pages fluttering weakly in the wind.

She hesitated, then bent down, fingers shaking as she picked one up.

The Daily Prophet.

Her eyes scanned the front page.

"A New Era of Purity: The Dark Lord's Vision Unfolds"

By Bernard Hilliard, Senior Correspondent

The article was sickening. It painted a twisted picture of Tom as a savior, a revolutionary who had brought "stability" to the wizarding world. It celebrated the removal of "unworthy bloodlines" from society, hailing the new restrictions placed on Muggle-borns as necessary for the preservation of wizarding purity. Words like "cleansing" and "reformation" were used with horrifying casualness, their meanings razor-sharp beneath the surface.

Her stomach churned as she read about Hogwarts—her Hogwarts—now a fortress of fear. The castle had become a place of indoctrination, where students were no longer taught to think freely but to serve blindly. The curriculum had been twisted, focused on the glorification of the Dark Arts and the supremacy of pure-blood ideology. Those who dared resist were dealt with harshly, their disappearances whispered about in terrified tones.

She stopped at a certain line, her stomach twisting.

The Dark Lord has expressed great interest in locating a certain student who has unfortunately gone missing. Those with any knowledge of Violet Alas's whereabouts are encouraged to report to the nearest authority immediately.

She clenched her jaw.

He was still searching for her.

Violet's fingers trembled as she folded the newspaper and slipped it beneath her cloak. The words burned in her mind—Hogwarts, under Voldemort's rule. The Ministry, failing. Her name, in print, hunted.

She pulled her hood lower, blending into the shadows. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, an ache she had long since stopped acknowledging. Two weeks without proper food, surviving on what little they had managed to scavenge in the attic. Molly was growing weaker, her pregnancy making the hunger more unbearable. Kingsley was restless. Arthur tried to keep their spirits up, but they were all starving.

Violet had no choice—she had to find food.

She moved cautiously, footsteps barely audible against the stone. The cold bit at her skin, but she welcomed it. It kept her awake, alert. Her fingers clutched the few coins in her pocket, their weight far too light for what she needed. Prices had skyrocketed; merchants either fled or hoarded their supplies, unwilling to sell to just anyone.

A flickering lantern revealed a lone vendor near the ruins of an old apothecary. His cart stood shrouded in tattered cloth, the smell of stale bread and dried meat drifting from within. He was hunched over, cloaked in rags, his beady eyes scanning the street as if expecting trouble.

Violet approached carefully.

"How much?" Her voice came out hoarse from disuse. She gestured at a loaf of bread, small and hard as stone.

The man eyed her, suspicious. "Five Sickles."

Too much. Far too much. She swallowed, her fingers tightening around her few remaining coins.

"Three," she countered.

His lip curled. "Four. Final offer."

Violet hesitated—then a shout rang through the alley.

She stiffened, whipping around.

Two figures emerged from the fog, their black robes dragging against the damp street. Death Eaters.

She turned back to the vendor, but he was already retreating, snatching up his wares and disappearing into the shadows.

Her breath hitched.

The figures strode closer. One of them, a man with slicked-back hair and cruel, dark eyes, murmured something to his companion. A hooded woman nodded.

Violet took a slow step backward, heart pounding.

They're looking for someone.

She knew that stance, that deliberate way they scanned the alley. They weren't just patrolling. They were hunting.

They were hunting her.

She needed to move. Now.

Keeping her head low, she turned sharply down a narrow passageway, the walls closing in on either side. The alley was suffocating, wet stone pressing against her as she quickened her pace. She knew these streets—had wandered them countless times before—but now, they felt foreign. Twisted.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

Violet forced herself to stay calm, to keep moving.

But then—a voice. Low. Commanding.

"Stop."

She froze.

A shadow stepped forward from the alleyway, detaching itself from the darkness as if it had been part of it all along. The glow of a distant streetlamp caught the edge of a familiar face.

Julius.

Her breath hitched. He wasn't in his Death Eater robes, nor wearing a mask—just a high-collared black coat, perfectly fitted, the way it always was. His dark eyes met hers, and for a fleeting second, she saw something in them. Amusement? Satisfaction? Or was it something far worse?

She turned to run.

He was faster.

A hand gripped her wrist before she could take a single step, fingers tightening with a bruising force.

"Little sister," Julius murmured, voice low, smooth—dangerous.

Violet jerked against his grip, but it was useless. He was taller, stronger, and she had no wand in her hand. He had planned this. He had been waiting.

"Let go," she hissed, trying to mask the panic in her voice.

"Let go?" he repeated, tilting his head. "I thought you'd be happy to see me. You have no idea how much effort I've put into finding you."

Violet clenched her jaw. "So you can drag me back to him?"

A smile played at his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You say that as if I have a choice."

He was toying with her. He always did. Even when they were younger, before the war, before the madness. But this was different—this was now, and Julius was no longer just her brother. He was a monster with her blood in his veins.

"I don't belong to him," Violet spat.

Julius exhaled sharply, almost laughing. "Don't you?" His voice was soft, as if he was speaking a truth too obvious to deny.

She stiffened.

"Tom wants you back," he continued, "but I wonder—do you really think you can stay hidden forever? You look... hungry." His eyes flicked to the empty sack in her hand. "You must be starving. Tell me, little sister, how long has it been since you've eaten?"

She said nothing.

Julius reached into his coat, withdrawing something wrapped in brown paper. He didn't speak as he held it up, letting her smell it. Bread. The scent of it twisted something inside her stomach.

"Take it," he said simply.

Violet hesitated.

"Come now," he chided, voice honey-smooth. "It's just food. And if I wanted to turn you in, I wouldn't have bothered with this little game. I would have taken you straight to him."

She knew better than to trust him. But her hunger clawed at her insides, blurring the edges of her fear.

She reached for the food.

Julius let her take it.

But the moment her fingers brushed against his, he tightened his grip—just enough to make her realize she wasn't free, not really.

"You'll never escape him," he murmured. "Or me."

Violet wrenched her hand back, stepping away. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes never left her.

She turned and ran.

Julius didn't stop her.

But she knew, as she disappeared into the night, that he had let her go.

For now.

For now

Chapter Text

The manor was quiet. Too quiet.

Julius walked through the dim corridors, the heels of his polished boots tapping against the cold stone floors. He liked this place, its grandeur wrapped in shadows, its halls soaked in the unspoken horrors that happened beneath them. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that beneath the chandeliers and velvet-lined walls, something rotted in the darkness below.

In his hand, he carried a plate. The food on it barely qualified as such—stale bread, a piece of moldy cheese, and a half-filled cup of murky water. The dungeons didn't deserve more than this. His grip was loose, careless, as if he might let it drop just to watch it splatter on the floor.

With a slow breath, he pushed open the heavy wooden door leading to the lower levels. The air turned damp, thick with the scent of mildew and decay. The torches flickered against the damp walls, barely lighting the way as he descended.

The cells were silent, save for the occasional dripping of water from the ceiling.

Then, a rustling. A shift of chains.

He smirked.

"Still alive, I see," he drawled, stepping closer. His voice echoed, sharp against the stillness.

Eve.

She was curled against the far wall, her wrists shackled, her dark hair tangled around her face. She looked like hell—dirty, bruised, thinner than before—but there was still something sharp in her eyes when she lifted her head.

She didn't answer. Just glared.

Julius chuckled, crouching down just outside the bars, placing the plate on the cold stone. "I brought you something. You should be grateful."

She let out a short, bitter laugh. "What is it this time? Poison?"

"Tempting," he admitted, tilting his head. "But no. Just the finest cuisine the dungeons have to offer."

Her lip curled, but he saw the way her gaze flicked to the plate. Hunger was an ugly thing—it made even the strongest crack.

He leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice into something almost conspiratorial. "You know, I saw someone today."

Eve's expression remained unreadable, but he caught the slight tension in her shoulders.

"She looked... tired," he continued. "Exhausted, really. Poor thing hasn't eaten in days. She was hiding in the shadows, covered in filth, barely standing on her feet." His smirk widened. "And yet, still so..." the words died on his tongue but Eve guessed the end of the sentence rather quickly.

Eve clenched her jaw, her fingers twitching against the cold floor.

He laughed under his breath. "You should've seen her, Eve. Your dear, sweet Violet. She was desperate. I could see it in her eyes. She wanted to beg, but she didn't. Such pride." He clicked his tongue. "I wonder how long that will last."

"Go to hell," she spat, her voice hoarse from disuse.

Julius sighed dramatically. "I'm afraid I don't take requests."

She yanked against her restraints, the metal clanking against stone. "Why don't you just kill me?" she demanded, her voice rising, filled with something raw. "You've wanted to for weeks. So why the hell am I still here?"

Julius let the silence stretch between them. Let the weight of it sink in. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"Because Tom won't let me."

Eve flinched, just barely, but he saw it.

"He knows Violet would never forgive him if you died," Julius said, his voice soft, taunting. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

Eve's breathing was uneven, her hands tightening into fists. She looked like she wanted to lunge at him, to claw at his face, to scream. But she couldn't.

Julius exhaled, standing up, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "Eat. Or don't. It makes no difference to me."

He turned, walking back toward the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the silence. But just before he disappeared, he paused.

"Who knows?" he mused, voice dripping with amusement. "Maybe you'll see her soon."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Eve alone in the darkness.

***

The study was dim, the only light coming from the enchanted fire burning low in the hearth. Shadows twisted across the ancient stone walls of Riddle Manor, crawling like living things. Tom sat in the high-backed chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes dark and distant as they stared into nothing. The silence in the room was thick, but not even the stillness could mask the undercurrent of something feral in him tonight.

He had not spoken for several minutes. Bellatrix stood nearby, waiting patiently—or as patiently as someone like her could. Her dark eyes flicked toward him, studying the sharp lines of his face, the cold precision of his posture. There was always something deadly in the way Tom Riddle held himself, but tonight, he was brittle. Like something barely contained.

"She cannot hide forever," Bellatrix said, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was smooth, coaxing, but it failed to pull his gaze toward her.

Tom said nothing.

"She is only a girl," Bellatrix continued, her lips curving as if the word itself was an insult. "Not even nineteen. Alone. We have torn the Order apart. There is nothing left for her."

Still, Tom did not move. His crimson eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the stone walls, beyond Bellatrix's reach. He spoke quietly, and the sound of his voice was worse than his silence.

"She is not alone."

Bellatrix's fingers flexed at her side. "You speak of Slughorn." She sneered. "A coward. And the Weasleys. Weak. It is only a matter of time before they starve. If they do not, we will hunt them."

He turned his head, slowly, as if it were an effort to tear himself from his thoughts. "Hunt them?"

Bellatrix's heart thudded. She tilted her chin. "Yes, my Lord."

Tom's smile was faint. "And drive her further from me?"

Bellatrix's breath caught. "No. I meant only to—"

"You meant to kill what I need," he said softly. "What I want."

Bellatrix stilled. For a heartbeat, her mask slipped. She looked younger then, more human. But it vanished as quickly as it had come.

"You have us," she said, almost gently. "You have me."

Tom's gaze sharpened. "You are loyal," he said. "You are useful."

It was a compliment, in its own way. And yet Bellatrix's chest ached with the words he had not said. She wanted to demand more. She wanted him to look at her the way he looked when he spoke of her.

But Bellatrix Black knew better.

Instead, she stepped closer to his chair. "What will you do, my Lord?"

Tom leaned back. His fingers drummed against the carved armrest, slow and deliberate. "I will make Eve scream."

Bellatrix's eyes glinted. "And Violet will come running to save her."

Tom nodded once. "Violet always tries to save them."

"She is foolish," Bellatrix murmured.

"She is human," Tom replied. There was something almost reverent in his voice, but it was cold. He stood then, sudden and smooth, his black robes whispering around him. "I do not want foolishness from you, Bellatrix."

Her pulse jumped. "Never."

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, as if searching for any trace of doubt. There was none.

"Bring Miss Trawers here" he said. "She will not last long."

Bellatrix smiled then, a dark thing. "As you wish."

But as Tom turned from her, his mind already elsewhere, Bellatrix's fingers curled tight around the wand at her side. She watched him leave the room, his tall frame cutting through the shadows like a blade.

You have me, she thought.

But it was not enough......

The manor was silent when they brought Eve to him.

A heavy, watchful silence—the kind that thickened the air and made breathing feel like an intrusion. Outside the tall windows, the storm raged quietly, rain streaking like veins down the leaded glass, the night beyond fractured and black. Lightning flickered now and then, thin and pale, illuminating the sprawling grounds that stretched into nothingness. Not a soul out there. Nothing left but ruin.

Tom stood unmoving, his silhouette framed by the weak light. He didn't need to turn to know it was Bellatrix who entered first—he recognized the sound of her steps, quick but measured, the faint rasp of her breath betraying an eagerness she couldn't suppress. She was always eager, especially when it came to him.

There was a faint pause before the next sound came. A scrape of boots. A muffled gasp, rough with defiance. Tom didn't need to look to know it was Eve struggling uselessly in Bellatrix's grip. He imagined Julius had worn her down just enough to make her pliable but not enough to take away the edge of fear she was meant to carry into this room.

"Bring her in," he said, his tone smooth as still water.

They stepped closer. The rustle of Bellatrix's long black robes brushing stone. Eve's breathing was sharp, shallow, but determined. Tom let the sounds play out behind him for a few heartbeats longer before turning from the window.

The room was vast, cold in its emptiness. A high ceiling arched above them, its dark beams disappearing into shadow. The walls were lined with maps and charred parchments, the remnants of strategy long since played and won. And in the center of it all, at his feet, Eve knelt—her shoulders squared as if it mattered. There was dried blood at her temple, a bruise darkening her cheekbone. Her wrists were bound, skin chafed raw from the ropes Julius had clearly used with little concern for tenderness.

Tom stepped down from the dais with the silent grace of something inhuman, his gaze settling on her like ice. Bellatrix lingered close by, her fingers hovering near her wand, though not out of caution. Her dark eyes flickered constantly between him and Eve, hungry, watchful.

He let the silence grow heavy again before speaking, letting Eve feel the weight of it.

"Your loyalty to Violet is... touching," he said at last, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful. "But foolish."

Eve glared up at him, her chin lifting with stubborn pride. "You won't find her."

There was no anger in Tom's reaction. No flare of temper. Just a faint twitch of his mouth, something close to amusement. As if she were a child telling him stories to pass the time.

"Oh, but I will," he murmured. "And you're going to help me."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, color draining from her already pale face. Her pulse beat visibly in her throat, fast and frantic. She was holding it together—but just.

"I'd die first," she hissed.

Bellatrix laughed softly behind him, a low, sultry sound. "That can be arranged," she said, fingers curling around the hilt of her wand like she might enjoy making good on that promise.

But Tom didn't move. His gaze never wavered from Eve's face. He crouched slowly, elegantly, until he was level with her, his long fingers reaching out to tilt her chin upward. The contact was deceptively gentle, but it allowed her no choice but to meet his eyes.

"You see," he said, and his voice was lower now, "death doesn't serve me, Eve. It's life I need from you. Pain. Fear. The kind that echoes."

The firelight caught in his eyes, reflecting something cold and ancient, something that had forgotten how to be human a long time ago. He watched her flinch, barely perceptible, but there all the same. A tiny fracture.

"She'll come for you," he whispered. "Because she still believes she can save you."

Eve's defiance faltered for a single heartbeat. Tom saw it, sharp as a blade sinking through flesh. Bellatrix shifted where she stood, as if she'd caught it too—her breath catching softly, an exhale that was almost reverent.

"I'll make sure she knows you're here," Tom went on. "Hurting. Bleeding. Waiting."

Eve's fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms until they bled. He could smell it—the sharp, copper tang of hopelessness and pride cracking beneath the weight of inevitability.

"You think she'll walk into your arms willingly?" she spat, though her voice had gone quieter, thinner.

"I don't think," he said, rising to his full height again, towering over her. "I know."

Bellatrix stepped closer then, practically breathing him in. "Shall I spread the word, my Lord?" she asked, her voice smooth as velvet. "Let the right ears hear it?"

He allowed a slow nod, eyes still on Eve. "Whispers. Rumors. Let the Order hear. What's left of them."

"They'll tell her," Bellatrix said, smiling wide, baring her teeth. "They'll run to her with it."

"They won't have a choice," Tom replied flatly. "They've lost too much. She's all they have left."

Eve said nothing. She just breathed hard, trembling ever so slightly now. Julius had broken her bones; Tom would break everything else.

He turned away, his robes sweeping the ground behind him like a shadow taking shape. He crossed to the far wall where a great map of Britain hung, marked and tattered. Tiny red pins marked the places he had already burned. Circles of black ink where Death Eaters now ruled. Lines stretching out like veins, tightening around the last few sparks of resistance. It was almost over.

"She'll come," he said quietly, more to himself now. His long fingers traced the coastline, slow and methodical. "She'll come to me."

Chapter Text

Bellatrix Black moved like smoke, swift and silent, her dark cloak brushing against the cold stone walls as she ascended from the dungeons.

Her fingers trailed along the banister of the grand staircase, her nails—black lacquer cracked from battle—tapping lightly against the wood. She descended into the main hall, where dim candlelight painted everything in the manor's signature hues of decay: gold faded to brass, red dulled to rust. Her mouth curled at the corners. This was power. And soon, it would all belong to him.

And she would be the one to hand it to him.

Tom.

Her breath hitched in her throat as the thought crossed her mind. She could see him, sharp and cold and beautiful, like a god carved in marble. His eyes, like nothing on this earth. She could almost feel his gaze on her even now, burning through her spine. But he wasn't here. Not yet.

And that was the problem.

"Where is she?" His voice had been quiet, but Bellatrix knew the desperation behind it. Not panic. No. Tom Riddle did not panic. But he wanted Violet back. Needed her. And Bellatrix could see the cracks forming behind his mask.

And she would be the one to fix it.

Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she crossed the hall. Two cloaked figures waited for her there—Death Eaters whose names didn't matter. They bowed their heads at her approach, but Bellatrix didn't stop.

"You know what to do," she said, not looking at them. Her voice was sharp enough to cut through steel. "Every corner of Knockturn Alley. Whisper it. The girl is wanted. Alive."

"Yes, my lady."

The words tasted wrong on her tongue. She was no lady. She was his. And they would all know it soon enough.

She turned on her heel and made for the doors. Outside, the night was cold, biting through her cloak as she stepped into the courtyard. Another shadow peeled away from the wall, and this time, she did stop.

Barty.

Of course.

She sighed, almost theatrically, and arched a brow. "Come to gloat? Or sulk?"

He emerged from the darkness like he'd been waiting there for hours. His long black coat hung open over lean shoulders, his pale face faintly illuminated by the torches flickering behind her. His eyes gleamed—bright and restless, something wild just beneath the surface.

"Neither," he said softly, his voice smooth, but there was an edge to it, something a little too eager. "I was curious."

"About what?" Bellatrix's chin tilted upward, daring him to say it.

His mouth quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "How far you'll go to bring her back."

Bellatrix didn't answer right away. She let the silence stretch, thick and dangerous.

"I'll do whatever he asks," she said at last, her tone carved from steel. "That's the difference between us."

Barty took a step closer, boots whispering over the stone. "You think he asked for this?"

Her nostrils flared. "He wants her. He needs her."

"And you think he'll thank you for it," Barty murmured, head tilting to the side, almost curious, almost cruel. "How sweet."

Bellatrix's hand twitched at her side, itching for her wand, but she didn't move. "And you?" she spat. "What are you doing? "

His gaze sharpened. "I'm simply trying to get my Lord what he desires, which obviously isn't you.."

Bellatrix's lip curled. " Shut up."

Barty's expression didn't flicker. " You can deny it all you want but when she comes back and she will, he'll forget about you."

A silence settled again, coiled tight like a curse waiting to strike. Bellatrix stepped forward now, closing the distance between them.

"She won't come back," she said, her voice a dark whisper. "Not unless we drag her by her hair."

"And you want to be the one to do it." Barty's grin widened—sharp, knowing. "Because then you can say you did something he couldn't and maybe then you'll be important"

Her hand shot out, fast as a curse, fingers fisting in the front of his coat. She yanked him forward until their faces were inches apart, breath mingling, heat and fury crashing together.

"You think you know me?" she hissed.

He didn't flinch. "I do."

"You don't know a damn thing."

"I know you're jealous."

The words struck deep. For a moment, she didn't move. Then her grip tightened, and she shoved him back, hard enough that his boots scraped over the cobblestones. But Barty only laughed—low and quiet, like he'd won something.

"You're wasting time," he said. "She's out there. And the longer we wait, the more... difficult this gets."

Bellatrix straightened her shoulders. She didn't need him to tell her that.

Without another word, she turned and strode away, her cloak snapping behind her like a banner in the wind.

She had work to do.

The Leaky Cauldron was louder than it should've been for a war-torn world. Bellatrix's boots echoed as she crossed the threshold, drawing glances from shadowed corners. They knew who she was. They knew better than to meet her eyes.

Good.

She moved through the crowd like a predator among prey. A whisper here. A cold look there. It didn't take long. A few galleons slid across a sticky table. A threat murmured into an ear. Promises of favors... and punishments.

"The Dark Lord has her," Bellatrix said softly to a trembling barmaid. "Alive ...for now.."

She let the pause linger until the girl nodded so fast she nearly fell over.

By the time Bellatrix left, the room was full of whispers.

"Eve Trawers is captured by the Dark Lord."

"Alive."

Bellatrix drew a long breath as she stepped back into the night. It wouldn't take long now. Word would spread like wildfire.

And when she found Violet...

She would hand her to him.

And he would look at her the way he used to.

As she crossed the street, a figure stepped into her path.

Barty again.

He was waiting. Of course, he was.

"Busy night," he murmured.

Bellatrix didn't slow. "I told you. I'll do whatever it takes."

"I know," he said, falling into step beside her. "And I think you'll find... so will I."

She stopped walking. Slowly turned her head toward him. Their gazes locked—hers burning, his bright and wild.

"We're not on the same side," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

"No," Barty agreed. "But we both want the same thing."

Bellatrix smiled thinly. "Do we?"

Barty leaned in, close enough for his breath to ghost over her ear. "I want to end this chase so we can get back to our real purpose"

And then he was gone, melting into shadow.

Bellatrix stood still for a long moment, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

She would find Violet first.

And then they'd all see who he chose.

Primrose's Attic — Diagon Alley

The bread was still warm against Violet's chest, though it had been hours since Julius had pressed it into her hands. She held it tight, fingers stiff from the cold, as she wove through the narrowest veins of Diagon Alley. She moved like a shadow, slipping between streets that had become graveyards of the past. Empty storefronts. Shattered glass. Faint traces of spells scorched into brick.

Primrose's Attic loomed ahead, its top windows shuttered and dark, its presence swallowed by the night. It was the kind of place people forgot existed. That was why they had chosen it.

Violet ducked into the alley beside it, pressing her palm to the crooked door. One-two-three. A faint click answered. She slid inside.

The air was thick with candle smoke and the quiet rustling of movement. The attic was barely large enough to fit them all, but they had made it a home, of sorts. Molly sat near the boarded-up window, her swollen belly a heavy curve beneath her robes, knitting something that had long since lost its shape. Arthur hunched over a scrap of parchment, his face carved with worry. Slughorn sorted through empty vials, pretending there was still something left to salvage.

Their heads turned at the sound of the door shutting behind her.

"I got food," Violet murmured, lifting the bread slightly.

Molly gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. Arthur was on his feet in an instant, reaching for it like he wasn't sure it was real.

"Where did you—"

"Julius." The name lingered in the air, unwanted.

Arthur's face hardened. "And you're sure that's all he gave you?"

Violet's fingers dug into the crust. "It's not poisoned, if that's what you mean."

Slughorn muttered a detection spell anyway, watching as a faint green glow flickered across the loaf before fading. He nodded once. "Safe."

Violet broke the bread apart, passing it between them. They ate in silence, the candlelight casting their shadows long against the peeling walls. The taste was dry, rough, but it was food. The first real thing in days.

Then—

A knock.

Sharp. Unexpected.

Arthur was up instantly, wand in hand. Violet followed, her own grip tightening on her wand. They exchanged a look. No one was supposed to find them here. No one.

Arthur moved toward the door. "Who is it?"

A pause. Then—

"Arthur, for Merlin's sake, open up before I break the damn thing down."

Moody.

Arthur hesitated only a second before unbolting the door. It swung open to reveal Alastor Moody, standing solid and grim, his new magical eye which Pandora made him sweeping the room. His normal eye was just as sharp. Beside him stood a woman with wild, silvery-blonde hair—Pandora Lovegood. And just behind her, another figure: Xenophilius Lovegood, his face drawn with exhaustion but his eyes still bright with that strange, dreamlike curiosity.

Arthur let out a slow breath. "Bloody hell. You nearly gave us a heart attack."

"Good," Moody grunted, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. "Means you lot are still sharp."

Pandora pulled back her hood, her eyes sweeping the room. She smiled softly at Molly before looking back at Arthur. "We need to talk."

Violet's stomach twisted. "About what?"

Pandora hesitated. Then, "Alice and Frank"

The attic fell silent.

"...we leave at nightfall," Pandora said, glancing toward Arthur. "Frank and Alice are waiting for us at the safe house just outside Ottery St. Catchpole. We move quickly, and we'll have food, weapons, and—"

There was a sharp thud against the window.

Everyone froze.

Moody's eye snapped to the sound before the rest of him turned. Violet felt her pulse stutter as Arthur rose, wand out, and crossed the room in two swift strides. He peered through the cracked glass, then released a tight breath.

"It's an owl," he said, though the edge in his voice didn't ease.

The owl was sleek, dark-feathered, and unfamiliar. There was a crimson ribbon tied around its leg. Arthur opened the window just wide enough for it to hop inside. It landed on the back of a chair and stuck out its leg, waiting.

Arthur untied the letter and read the front. No signature. Just his name.

He broke the seal without a word.

Everyone watched in silence as his eyes moved over the page. Once. Twice. His hands tightened around the parchment, knuckles white.

"Arthur?" Molly's voice was low, but Violet heard the fear in it.

He looked up, his face pale. "It's Eve," he said softly.

Violet went cold. "What about her?" she managed.

"Death Eaters have her," Arthur said. "She's alive."

A silence fell so deep it was like the air had been sucked from the room.

"But they said—" Molly began, shaking her head. "They said she was dead."

"They lied," Arthur said grimly. He placed the letter on the table, smoothing it flat with both hands. "She's being held somewhere. My source doesn't know where, but... they're keeping her alive."

Pandora's expression tightened. "Why?" she asked quietly, though she already knew the answer.

Arthur looked straight at Violet. "They're using her. To draw you out."

Violet's mouth was dry. The single bite of bread she'd eaten earlier sat like a stone in her stomach. "And it will work," she said hollowly.

"They know it will," Arthur agreed.

For a moment, no one spoke. Moody's eye whirred, fixing on Violet. Pandora exhaled slowly. Xenophilius finally lifted his hand from the table, eyes distant.

Arthur's voice was low but certain. "We still leave tonight."

For a long moment, there was only the creak of the old beams settling overhead. Then Violet shoved back from the table so hard her chair scraped a sharp line into the floorboards.

"We can't wait," she said, her voice hoarse but rising. "We can't leave tonight. We have to go now."

Pandora's eyes flicked to Arthur, and Molly reached out instinctively, but Violet was already on her feet, pacing the length of the narrow attic, her boots thudding hard against the planks. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. She felt caged, like an animal pressed to the edge of its mind.

"They have Eve," she said again, teeth gritted, like saying it out loud would force them all to move. "We sit here making plans, and they've got her—alive—because they want me to come."

"They want you to come," Moody rumbled from the window, his deep voice even. His new electric-blue eye whirred in its socket as it swiveled toward her, the faintest crackle of energy tracing along its edge. "That's the point."

Violet rounded on him. "And you'd have left me behind if they had you?"

Moody didn't flinch. He'd never been one to flinch. "That's not the same."

"It's exactly the same!" Her voice cracked, raw from days of hunger and dust and fear. She took a step closer, jabbing a finger toward him. "You're only standing there because Eve risked herself to get me out of that safe house. She could've left me."

"And you think this is what she wanted you to do? March straight into their hands?" His eye glowed brighter for a beat, the magic inside it pulsing like a heartbeat. "You're thinking like a soldier, Violet. Not a strategist."

"I'm thinking like someone who doesn't leave family behind!" she shouted.

Molly's hands settled protectively over her stomach, as if instinctively shielding the life inside her. Arthur rose, steady and quiet, placing himself between them.

"Listen to us," Arthur said carefully. "This is exactly what they want. They've set a trap, and if we go storming in, we'll be dead before we reach her."

"She's alive, Arthur!" Violet snapped. Her throat burned, and she could feel her pulse hammering behind her eyes. "They said she was dead. They lied. We owe her."

"We owe all of you to stay alive," Pandora said softly, but her tone was iron beneath silk. "If we die, then who's left to fight?"

Violet's chest heaved. She spun away from them, pacing again, her hands shaking so hard she could barely think. She caught her reflection in the cracked window—a gaunt, wild-eyed girl with hair tangled from the wind, dust streaking her cheek, and her fists white-knuckled at her sides.

She slammed her palm flat against the wall, the old wood shuddering beneath the blow.

"She'd go for us," Violet muttered, her voice low and vicious. "If it were any of us, Eve would already be halfway there."

Xenophilius, still tracing his quiet runes, sighed. "And she would be dead."

Violet's head snapped toward him, fury in her gaze. But he wasn't looking at her. He stared at the wood beneath his fingertips like he was reading something none of them could see.

Moody shifted from his place at the window, stepping forward slowly. He rested a heavy, scarred hand on Violet's shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding.

"She's right about Eve," he said. "She would've gone. And we would've had to drag her back."

Violet's jaw clenched, but she didn't shake him off.

"We're not saying no," Arthur added carefully. "We're saying not yet."

"Tonight, we move to safer ground," Pandora said. "With Frank and Alice, we'll have numbers. And food. And spells worth something."

"And after?" Violet asked, her voice cracking.

Arthur met her eyes. "After, we plan to get her back."

Violet didn't answer. She just stood there, trembling under Moody's hand, until the tension in her spine finally gave out, and her head dropped forward, dark hair falling to hide her face.

But they all heard the quiet words that came next.

"We'll get her back," she whispered. "Or I'll burn it all down trying."

Chapter Text

Violet's hand hovered over the Portkey, her fingers brushing the frayed edge of the old leather glove Arthur had transfigured for their escape. Everyone was gathering around it now, pressing close, hearts pounding as the seconds ticked away.

"Grab hold," Arthur barked, his voice tight with urgency. Frank Longbottom was at his side, gripping Alice's hand. Molly Weasley, pale and exhausted, clutched the handle with trembling fingers while Pandora stood protectively behind her, her wand loose but ready. Alastor Moody's magical eye spun once before locking dead ahead, his good eye narrowed in suspicion. He was the last to step forward.

Violet's chest heaved. This was it. The plan was clear. Get out, regroup, stay safe. Wait for the right moment.

But there wasn't going to be a right moment.

Not for Eve.

She took a step back, unseen in the flurry of movement, her boot silent on the wooden floor. Her throat closed. Her fingers curled into fists. She couldn't drag them down with her. If anything happened to them—if Tom found them because of her...

"Three," Arthur counted.

"Two," Frank echoed.

Violet closed her eyes, her breath hot and fast in her lungs.

"One."

They vanished in a violent wrench of air and magic, the glove flashing bright before it disappeared into nothingness.

And Violet was left standing in silence.

Her hands trembled, then stilled. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

She was alone.

Her chest ached, but she pushed it away, tamped it down. No time. She had made her choice. There was only forward now.

Primrose's Attic - Moments Later

The attic was still warm from their presence. Their blankets were still rumpled. The crusts of bread from their last meager meal sat in a cracked tin plate on the floor. Violet stood for a moment, taking it in, committing it to memory.

She moved fast after that.

Her satchel was already packed, but she added what little was left: a dull silver knife Frank had pressed into her palm days ago, a single healing potion from Pandora, and a cracked map of the lower alleys of London. She tore a page from a battered book, scrawled a message with shaking hands.

Don't come after me. I'll save Eve. Love, V.

She left it on the bare floor where Moody would find it if he returned.

Her wand was already in her grip. She yanked her hood low over her brow, wrapped a scarf tight around the lower half of her face, and tugged her thin cloak closed.

Then she turned toward the door.

Diagon Alley - Night

The streets below Primrose's Attic were nearly silent. Only the wind howled, chasing scraps of torn paper and ash through the crooked cobblestones. Violet moved like a shadow, staying close to the walls, slipping between pools of darkness.

She saw them almost immediately.

Death Eaters.

Two of them stood beneath the flickering light of a broken streetlamp, their masks dull in the gloom. One smoked idly, the other picked at something beneath his nails. Lazy. Unaware. She kept her distance, slipping behind a sagging cart loaded with rotting vegetables.

She didn't falter. Not when one of them shifted, not when the faint glint of a silver mask turned slightly her way. She had done this before. She had walked through shadows darker than this. She slipped past them like mist, her wand steady in her hand, every step taking her further away from Primrose's Attic and closer to where she needed to be.

But the deeper she moved into the alleys, the heavier the air became. The Death Eaters had grown bold in these parts, and she felt their presence everywhere—hidden in the windows above, behind cracked doors, drifting through the gloom like smoke. Then, up ahead, another figure emerged, more polished than the others, his pale blond hair catching the faint light of a nearby flame.

Abraxas Malfoy.

He wasn't wearing a mask. He never did. He didn't need to.

His sharp features were cold as ever, his tailored cloak perfect even in the drifting ash. He spoke quietly to another masked man before dismissing him with a flick of his gloved hand. And then, as if he'd sensed her, his pale eyes flickered to the darkness where she stood.

For a terrible moment, Violet thought he saw her.

But Abraxas only straightened his gloves with slow precision, his gaze moving away again as he turned down a side street toward Knockturn. Violet let out a slow, measured breath. She'd known him since she was a child. Julius' old friend, older than her by nearly twenty years. He had held her in his arms when she was small. She remembered his hands, cold even then.

He was no friend of hers now.

She waited until he disappeared around the corner before she moved again, faster this time, weaving through side alleys until she reached the hidden Apparition point behind the ruined bookstore.

With a soft crack, she vanished.

***

There was a rumor that prisoners were kept in the old cellars underneath the old bookstore and she couldn't help but check it out.

Violet's heart thudded violently as she stepped into the dark, damp cellar. The air was thick, oppressive, almost suffocating. She had made her way through the store heart racing with every creak of the old floorboards, every whisper of movement. This was it. She had to find Eve, had to make sure she wasn't alone in that place.

The dim glow of a single lantern flickered weakly on the wall, casting eerie shadows across the cracked stone floors. Chains rattled faintly in the distance, but they didn't belong to Eve. The usual stench of sweat, fear, and blood was absent. Nothing.

Her breath hitched as she hurried toward the nearest cell. The bars were cold, slick with the dampness of the stone walls. Empty.

She forced herself to keep moving, stepping into the center of the room, scanning every corner. Where was she? Where's Eve?

The silence was deafening now. Too silent. Her pulse raced. Her fingers tightened around her wand. She turned in a circle, her eyes darting frantically.

And that's when she heard it.

A soft, almost imperceptible sound. A shuffle of shoes on stone. A breath that didn't belong to her.

Violet froze.

Then, from the shadows at the far end of the cellar, she saw her. Bellatrix. Her pale face gleamed in the dim light, her sharp features twisted into a predatory grin. Her dark eyes locked onto Violet with such intensity, Violet felt it like a physical blow.

"You shouldn't have come here, old friend," Bellatrix's voice was low, mocking. She stepped out from the shadows, twirling her wand between her fingers. "You must be desperate... or terribly foolish. Either way, it doesn't matter now."

Violet's heart skipped a beat. She should have known. This had all been too easy. The silence, the emptiness. She was walking straight into a trap.

"Eve?" Violet whispered, her voice barely audible. "Where is she?"

Bellatrix's grin widened, and she tilted her head to one side, studying Violet with cold amusement. "She's not here anymore," she said, her tone dripping with malice. "She's already been... moved. Taken care of. But you... you, dear, are exactly where you need to be."

Violet's breath caught in her throat. Taken care of. Eve wasn't dead. Not yet. But Bellatrix's words hung heavy in the air like a noose tightening around her neck.

Her grip on her wand tightened, her fingers burning with the need to act, to fight, to run—something. But Bellatrix was already advancing, slow, deliberate, like a wolf stalking prey with nowhere left to go.

"You've saved me the trouble of hunting you down," Bellatrix purred. "Isn't that sweet? He'll be pleased. And when he's pleased, everyone gets rewarded." Her black eyes glittered with something unhinged, something that made Violet's skin crawl.

Violet's breath came in short, sharp bursts. Her mind raced. She could still escape—maybe. Bellatrix was fast, but Violet had surprised them before. She stepped back, edging toward the archway that led to the stairs.

Bellatrix's grin sharpened. "Ah-ah," she sang, flicking her wand.

The iron door behind Violet slammed shut with a deafening clang, the sound echoing off stone walls like a death knell. The air thickened as the locking mechanisms clicked into place, ancient enchantments flaring faint blue. She was sealed in. Trapped.

"You think you can just come here and leave again?" Bellatrix tilted her head, her tone syrupy sweet, but her wand hand twitched with anticipation.

"You're wrong," Violet hissed.

Bellatrix's expression didn't waver. "Am I?" She took another step forward, her boots scraping against the stone. "You came back. You knew he was waiting, and still... here you are. Why do you think that is?"

Violet's fingers trembled, just a little. She hated that Bellatrix could see it. "For Eve," she spat. "Not for him. Never for him."

Bellatrix laughed—a high, wild, vicious sound that bounced off the cold walls. "Oh, you still have spirit. He'll enjoy breaking that." She licked her lips, as if tasting the idea.

And then, without warning, she struck.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell shot toward Violet like a bolt of red lightning. She ducked, rolling hard across the damp floor. The hex cracked against the stone wall where she'd been standing. Before Bellatrix could cast again, Violet fired back.

"Stupefy!"

The jet of light missed as Bellatrix sidestepped with infuriating ease. "Tsk, tsk," Bellatrix chided. "Sloppy." Her next spell came fast. "Crucio!"

Violet threw up a shield just in time, but the force of the curse slammed into it, driving her back several feet. Her shoulder hit the wall hard. Pain shot down her arm, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay upright.

"You should've run while you had the chance," Bellatrix said softly, stalking closer.

"I'm not running from you," Violet growled.

"No," Bellatrix agreed. "You're not running anymore at all."

Another curse. Green this time.

Violet dove left, scraping her knees on jagged stone. Her hood slipped off her head, dark hair spilling over her face as she shoved herself back up. Her lungs burned. Sweat slid down her spine. But she didn't stop. She couldn't.

She aimed again. "Reducto!"

The blast shattered part of the stone ceiling, sending debris crashing down. Bellatrix swore and leapt back. Dust clouded the room. Violet didn't wait—she ran.

She sprinted through the debris, slipping through the narrow archway that Bellatrix had left open in her smugness before slamming the outer door. Her heart hammered in her throat as she bolted for the stairs.

"VIOLET!" Bellatrix shrieked behind her, fury breaking through her polished cruelty.

Violet pushed harder, feet pounding the worn stone steps two at a time. She could hear Bellatrix scrambling after her, spells cracking through the air, searing the stone walls around her.

Up. She had to get up.

She burst through a wooden door at the top of the stairs into another hallway. The store was darker here, the corridors twisting and endless. She didn't know the way out—but she didn't stop.

A window. She needed a window.

Glass shattered behind her as another spell narrowly missed, blowing apart a nearby cabinet. She ducked low, rounded a corner, and there it was—a thin window half-covered by a rotten curtain.

She didn't hesitate.

"Bombarda!"

The window exploded outward. Shards of glass and splinters of wood rained down as Violet leapt forward, twisting her body through the narrow frame. Her coat snagged, ripping at the shoulder as she forced herself through. She hit the ground hard, rolling through dead leaves and mud.

Cold night air filled her lungs. She was outside.

"Get her!" Bellatrix's voice bellowed behind her. More figures appeared—Death Eaters pouring out of side doors and shadowed passageways.

Violet scrambled to her feet and ran. The edge of the forest loomed ahead. If she could make it there, she had a chance.

Spells shot past her, searing the air with green and red streaks. One grazed her leg, and she stumbled, biting back a cry. But she didn't fall. She couldn't.

She reached the trees and dove into the undergrowth. The darkness closed around her like a shroud as she pressed herself against the earth, panting, every muscle screaming.

Voices called after her. Footsteps thundered nearby.

But she was quiet. She was still.

And when they moved on, she slowly, painfully rose to her feet.

She wasn't done yet. Not even close.

She was going to find Eve.

And no one—not Bellatrix, not Tom Riddle—was going to stop her.

London - South Borough
The Fens

It was one of the last places left in the city untouched by the war. Far from the twisting alleys of Diagon and the decay creeping through Knockturn, the Fens was quiet, gray, and still. Muggles lived here, mostly, in old brick buildings with sagging rooftops. It was not a place for magic. That made it safer.

Violet pulled her hood lower as she crossed a cracked courtyard, passing a rusted swing creaking gently in the wind. The house she sought was narrow and crooked, its garden overrun with ivy and wild herbs. There was a faint light in the window.

She raised her wand. Gave the knock—three soft taps, then two short bursts of magic.

The door opened slowly.

Andromeda Black—no, Andromeda Tonks—stood there, wand in one hand, a baby balanced expertly on her hip with the other. Her dark hair was pulled back, streaked with premature silver at the temples. Her sharp, noble Black features were softened by exhaustion, but her eyes widened in recognition.

"Violet."

Violet pulled down her scarf.

"Andromeda," she said hoarsely.

Andromeda stepped back immediately. "Come in."

Inside, the house smelled of old wood, herbs, and something faintly sweet—honey maybe. A kettle hissed faintly on the stove, and the baby in her arms cooed, waving a chubby fist. Violet stared at her for a long moment.

"Dora," Andromeda said softly, brushing the baby's hair back with careful fingers. "She's seven months now."

Violet nodded wordlessly, her throat tight.

Ted Tonks appeared from the sitting room, tall and gangly, his expression immediately wary before it softened into something close to relief. "Violet," he greeted. "We heard you were... we weren't sure."

"I'm not sure myself," Violet said quietly.

Andromeda set the baby in a small wooden cradle and gestured to the old sofa. "Sit. I'll make tea."

"I didn't come for tea."

"I figured," Andromeda said dryly but brought the kettle over anyway, setting out chipped mugs. "But you need it."

Violet took a mug with cold hands. She didn't drink. Not yet.

"I need your help," she said. "I need to find someone."

Andromeda's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I thought you might."

"It's Eve," Violet said softly. "They have her. I thought... I thought she was here, but she's not. I need to know where they would keep her."

Andromeda's eyes darkened. "Riddle Manor."

Violet stilled.

"They took my sister there," Andromeda said bitterly. "Before... before."

Violet swallowed. "I need a way in."

Andromeda shook her head. "No one gets in there and lives. You know that."

"I don't care," Violet said sharply. "I'll find a way."

Andromeda stared at her for a long moment. Then sighed. "I'll get you a map. Ted's... well, he's drawn something. From when he was working at the Ministry. It might help."

Violet let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Thank you."

Andromeda gave her a tired, knowing look. "You always were reckless."

Violet almost smiled. "That's what Julius used to say."

Andromeda's eyes softened, but then darkened again. "Sirius has been asking about you."

Violet blinked. "Sirius?"

"My cousin," Andromeda said, her mouth twisting. "You'd remember him. Three years below you at Hogwarts. Always sneaking into places he shouldn't be."

Violet frowned faintly, then it clicked. "The boy with the leather jacket who hexed Mulciber in second year."

Andromeda gave a rare, thin smile. "That's the one. He's fifteen now. Wants to join the Order as soon as he can. Idiot."

"You're worried," Violet said.

"I'm worried about all of them," Andromeda said. "Especially him. He's too much like us. And not enough like us."

Violet nodded slowly. She understood that all too well.

Andromeda stood again, walking toward the writing desk near the window. She pulled out a thin scroll of parchment, careful, as if it might explode. "Here," she said, handing it over. "Riddle Manor. What Ted could remember."

Violet took it with steady hands. "Thank you."

Andromeda stared at her for another long moment. "You'll die if you go."

"I'll die if I don't," Violet answered simply.

Andromeda didn't argue.

Instead, she squeezed Violet's hand, and for one brief, flickering moment, Violet remembered being seventeen, sharing cigarettes on the roof of Hogwarts with Meda Black, watching the stars.

"You're not alone," Andromeda said quietly.

Violet nodded. But they both knew she was.

She tucked the map into her cloak and stood, pulling the hood back over her hair.

It was time to go.

Chapter Text

Violet stood at the edge of the old path, staring up at the silhouette of Riddle Manor.

The air was cold here, colder than anywhere she'd been. Not the sharp cold of winter, but something deeper, something that crept beneath her skin and into her bones. The trees around the manor were dead things, their skeletal branches reaching out like fingers. A sickness hung in the earth, a kind of rot she could feel but not see.

And yet, there was a strange stillness in her chest.

This was his place.

She was standing before the world he had built for himself—the world he had never shown her, not when she had known him at Hogwarts, not when his dark eyes had watched her across the classroom, not when his hand had brushed hers, just once, and lingered too long.

He had always been a mystery. A carefully closed book she had never managed to read.

Until now.

Her hands trembled as she adjusted her hood, pulling it lower over her brow. The map Ted Tonks had drawn was tucked safely into her pocket, worn from how often she'd unfolded it, memorized it, prayed it would be enough. She pressed her palm to the iron gates.

They groaned as they swung open.

She stepped inside.

The garden was long dead. A twisted sculpture of vines and brambles choked what might once have been roses. The gravel crunched beneath her boots, loud in the stillness. And the house loomed taller with every step. Its windows were black and staring. Its stone was cold and slick with something that gleamed like old blood.

But Violet walked on.

This is his home, she told herself. His sanctuary.

And now it's yours.

For a moment, she imagined him as he had been—professor Riddle. Always watching her. Always careful with her. His hands clean. His smile rare, but real. She had loved him then. Maybe she never stopped.

And now? Now, he was the Dark Lord. And still... she had come.

She pushed open the front door.

It opened smoothly, soundlessly, as if the house had been waiting.

Inside, it smelled of cold stone, dust, and something sweet beneath it. Death. Power. She stepped into a grand hall, the ceiling lost in shadow. The floor was black marble, veined with silver. Her reflection followed her, pale and ghostly beneath her boots.

Every surface gleamed. Every painting watched her.

She moved carefully. Her heart beat steadily, but her fingers ached from how tightly she gripped her wand. The map said the cellars were beneath the east wing. There was a hidden passage near the old library.

She found it quickly. A narrow door behind a torn tapestry. A flight of stone steps spiraled down into darkness.

As she descended, the air grew colder. The stone sweated. Her breath fogged before her, and her boots slid on the damp stairs. There was a hum beneath the silence—a deep vibration in the stone. Magic, old and cruel, woven into the bones of the house.

She reached the bottom. A corridor stretched ahead, flanked by doors of iron and rotting wood. Chains rattled softly somewhere distant. She followed the map, taking the turns exactly as Ted had drawn them. Left. Right. Left again. Third door.

She paused at the threshold.

The cell smelled of damp, metal, and old pain. Eve was there, hunched in the corner, chains around her wrists. Her hair hung over her face, matted and dark, but when she heard Violet's footsteps, she looked up.

"Violet." Her voice cracked. "No. No, you shouldn't be here."

Violet knelt beside her, her fingers already working at the locks. "I came to get you out."

Eve shook her head violently. "You don't understand. It's a trap. He knew you'd come."

Violet's throat tightened. She knew. Of course she knew.

"I had to," Violet whispered. "You're my family."

Eve's eyes shone with tears. "Violet, go. You can still get out."

And then—

A sound.

Soft, like silk brushing over stone. A faint, amused chuckle that echoed down the hall and curled cold fingers around Violet's spine.

She froze.

Eve's face drained of color. "He's here."

Violet stood slowly. Her wand was in her hand, steady now, even as her pulse raced.

From the darkness beyond the cell door, a figure emerged. Pale skin catching the faint light of her wand. Dark eyes gleaming with something that was not cruelty—but something far more dangerous.

Tom Riddle.

He looked tired but sharper. His face had lost its softness, his beauty honed to something deadly. But she knew him.

And he knew her.

He stepped closer, no wand in sight, no fear in his movements. His gaze was fixed on her like he'd been waiting for this moment for years.

"You always were predictable, Violet," he said quietly.

She couldn't move. Couldn't think. Her fingers slackened around her wand.

His voice was the same. Smooth. Low. Like the night sky just before the stars came out. She hated him. She loved him. She had spent 2 years telling herself the difference, and now she couldn't find the line.

"Did you think," Tom murmured, "that I wouldn't know the moment you stepped onto my grounds?"

Her legs buckled before her mind caught up. The world tilted, and his hands were there—catching her as she fell, strong fingers cold against her burning skin.

"Shhh," he whispered. "I've got you."

Her body betrayed her. She sank into his arms, breathing hard, her heart pounding against his chest.

The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was his face, close to hers, expression unreadable—but his eyes, his eyes were full of something she remembered too well.

Love.

Twisted. Possessive. Terrible.

But love, still.

***

When Violet woke, it was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made her chest tighten, as though the air was too still, too heavy to breathe. Her head ached with the dull throb of exhaustion and faint panic. She blinked, staring up at a ceiling of smooth, dark wood. It was carved with patterns—lines that spiraled out from a central point like the roots of some ancient tree.

The sheets beneath her were soft. Velvet and silk, deep green and black. The bed was large, canopy draped in gauzy black curtains, but they had been drawn back, leaving her in the open. Exposed.

She sat up slowly.

The room was vast and quiet. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with old tomes, scrolls, and things she couldn't name. A large fireplace crackled softly, the flames a strange, pale blue. Near it, a single armchair, dark and heavy, with something draped over its arm—his cloak.

And to the side, a desk.

Her heart lurched.

There it was.
The diary.

The one she'd given him. Almost 2 years ago.
Its cover was scuffed, the spine worn, as though it had been opened, written in, handled more times than she could count. She knew that diary like the lines on her palms, and now it sat there like a relic from another life. A life that felt both impossibly close and painfully far.

Her breath hitched.

"You're awake."

The voice came from the doorway, smooth as silk, dark as ink spilled across a page.

She turned.

Tom Riddle stood there, as composed as ever, dressed in black. His robes were simple, precise, without excess. But his presence was something far more complicated—like gravity, pulling her in whether she wished it or not.

He shut the door behind him with an ease that made her pulse quicken.

She swallowed. "Where's Eve?"

A faint smile curved his mouth, though it wasn't cruel. "Safe."

Her fingers clenched the blanket beneath her. "I came here for her. To trade places."

He was standing by the foot of the bed now, head tilted slightly as he studied her. "You came here because you belong here."

"No." She shook her head. "No, I came because I wanted her safe."

"I know." His gaze drifted over her, something unreadable in his dark eyes. "But I had this room prepared for you long before any of this. Since the last winter break at Hogwarts. After the ball at Malfoy Manor."

She froze.

Tom's voice dropped lower, almost conversational. "You wore a black sparkly gown that night. Do you remember? When we spent the good half of the evening by the garden full of red roses but none were nearly as beautiful as you were"

Her throat tightened. She remembered. Of course she did.

"I wanted you to stay then," he said quietly. "I would have kept you here, if I thought you were ready."

Violet forced herself to breathe. "I wasn't."

"No," he agreed. "But you are now."

He moved then, crossing to the chair by the fire, taking his cloak from its back. He laid it carefully over the armrest. Always careful. Always deliberate.

Her gaze drifted again to the diary on the desk.
"You kept it," she said softly.

He followed her line of sight. His mouth softened, almost imperceptibly. "I kept everything you gave me."

There was something heavy in the air between them. Not quite silence. Not quite breath.Her hands twisted in the blankets. "And now what? You'll lock me in here like some... some treasure you won't let out?"

"No." His answer was immediate, certain. "You'll stay here because it's where you belong."

"With you?" she asked bitterly.

"With me." His eyes caught the firelight, burning briefly gold before returning to endless dark. "The world is changing, Violet. It's mine now. It always was. And you—" his gaze swept over her, reverent, dark, possessive, "—you are the only one I ever wanted by my side."

She shook her head, but her pulse betrayed her.
"And Eve?"

Tom leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his long fingers steepled. "I'll release her."

"Just like that."

"No." A small, wry smile. "Not just like that. But I will keep my word."

"What do you want in return?" she asked, voice sharp now.

"You," he said simply.
"As you are now. Here. In this room. In this life."

Her stomach twisted. "You want me to stay."

"I've always wanted you to stay." His tone softened in a way that made it worse. "And now you will."

She stared at him. "And if I don't?"

"You already have."

His voice was almost gentle, but there was steel beneath it.

"You let go of the portkey. You walked through my door. You came down into my cellars." His gaze caught hers and held. "You're already here."

Violet's breath shook in her chest.

He stood then, moving back to the side of the bed, his fingers ghosting over the carved wood of the bedpost. "You'll stay in this room for now. It's ours. I had it prepared for us. It took time... and patience."

She glanced around again, seeing it differently now. The books she would read. The green silk on the bed. Her past, her heart, placed carefully in his world.

"I will let you see Eve," Tom said, drawing her gaze back to him. "But you are not leaving, Violet, I won't lose you again."

***

Violet sat on the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the velvet, heart beating in a rhythm she couldn't quite steady. She'd agreed. Or maybe she hadn't. Maybe this had been decided long before she ever walked through the manor gates.

And then she heard the footsteps.

Soft. Purposeful. A little slower than they should be.
The heavy creak of the door opening.

She rose without thinking, her legs weak but moving. She expected Tom—his quiet, calculated movements—but instead, another figure stood there. Taller, broader. Familiar in a way that made her skin prickle.

"Hello, little sister," Julius said, his voice all warm mockery, soft and rich like old velvet hiding something sharp beneath it.

Violet didn't answer him.
Because behind him, limping, was Eve.

Violet's breath caught painfully in her throat.

Eve was thinner, paler. Her clothes hung from her frame like they belonged to someone else entirely. There were dark shadows under her eyes, a split just beginning to heal on her lip. Her wrists were bruised where restraints had once dug in. In the darkness of the cells she hadn't looked so...broken.
But she was standing.

And when their eyes met, Eve managed a flicker of something like a smile. Brave, even now.

Violet crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into her arms.

"Easy," Eve murmured, though her voice cracked.

But Violet held tighter, hiding her face against Eve's shoulder, her lips finding the place just beneath her friend's ear where her tangled hair could cover them.

"There's more to the note," she whispered, her breath barely sound. "You'll understand when you find Moody and the rest."

She felt Eve tense, a sharp breath sucked in through her teeth. But she said nothing. Only pressed her hands harder into Violet's back, as if grounding herself.

Julius was watching.
Violet could feel it.

"How touching," he said, stepping inside. He didn't close the door fully, leaving it open just an inch—a sliver of shadow splitting the room. "It's always family reunions that get me."

Violet pulled back from Eve slowly, her hands lingering at her friend's shoulders as if reluctant to let her go entirely. "Is she free now?" Her voice was steady. Somehow.

Julius tilted his head, lips quirking. "As free as any of us."
His eyes gleamed with something darker. Something that hadn't faded since they were children running in and out of each other's lives, his madness growing roots while hers struggled to stay sane.

"She's going," Violet said, forcing the words out. "Tom promised."

"Tom always keeps his promises," Julius replied.
But there was a knowing in his voice, like he could taste the unspoken price on the air. And maybe he could.

Violet turned to Eve again.
Their eyes locked.

"Go," Violet said, louder now. "You're free."

Eve didn't argue. She was too smart for that. Too tired.
And Julius, strangely, didn't stop her.
He only leaned lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, as she walked past him and down the corridor, the sound of her steps growing faint and distant.

Violet stood there a moment longer, staring at the place where her friend had disappeared.

And when she finally turned back to Julius, he was smiling at her.
Not kindly.

"You've grown braver," he said. "Or dumber."

"Maybe both," she said coolly.

He laughed at that."I'm glad you're back...sister... so much to talk about"

A sound at the door made them both stiffen.

It opened without a sound.
And he stepped through.

Tom.

He moved like he always had—quiet, deliberate, as though the world itself would pause for him. His black robes whispered against the stone as he walked, his hands empty, his expression... unreadable.
But his eyes.
His eyes found her immediately, and the room seemed to narrow, as if everything else ceased to exist.

"Julius you're free to go"

His voice was calm, almost conversational. But beneath it was something tightly coiled.
"My Lord" Julius said without his usual confidence but still had a little grin on his face as he moved towards the door.

He walked towards her smoothly and extended a hand.
"Come."

She didn't move.

"You said I could rest."
"You can," he agreed. "After."

After what?

She took his hand.
It was warm. Steady.
There was strength in his grip, but it wasn't cruel.

He led her from the room.

They walked through long corridors lined with old portraits, though none of them moved. The eyes in the paintings stared forward, unblinking, as if watching something distant and terrible.

"This manor belonged to weak men," Tom said as they passed. "They thought blood was enough. That legacy mattered."
He glanced at her. "They lacked vision."

His voice was quiet, but it filled the space.
"This place was always meant to be something greater."

Violet didn't speak.
Not yet.

He showed her rooms filled with books, maps, artifacts from centuries past. A library so vast it was hard to believe it existed outside Hogwarts.
And always his voice guided her.
Explaining. Teaching. Claiming.

He stopped before a window that overlooked the grounds.
Dark woods stretched beyond the manor, thick and silent.

"They're afraid to come here," he said. "Even now."
He looked at her, something dark and hungry in his expression.
"They are afraid of me."

"You wanted that," she said softly.

"I did," he agreed. "And now I want you."

The words hung between them.

He turned toward her fully.
"You belong here, Violet. You always did."

Her breath was shallow. She could feel the heat of his focus, like standing too close to a fire.
But she held her ground.

"What do you plan to do with the rest of the world?" she asked carefully.

He considered her.
"The world will be shaped," he said. "It will become something better."

"Better," she repeated. "By whose standard?"
His lips twitched. "Mine."

Of course.

"You don't have to fight anymore," he said, stepping closer. His hand lifted, his knuckles brushing her cheek with disturbing gentleness.
"I can give you everything," he whispered. "All I ask is that you stand beside me."

She searched his face.
For lies.
For cracks.

But this was Tom. He believed everything he said.

"And if I say no?" she asked.

His gaze didn't waver. "You won't."

Because he knew her.
Because he was right.

She loved him.
She hated him.
And she had never been able to separate the two.

Chapter Text

The room was cold when she woke.

Violet stirred beneath unfamiliar sheets, her fingers clutching at pale linen as if anchoring herself to something real. It was quiet—too quiet. A silence that pressed in around her ears like the air had been drained from the world.

Her eyes fluttered open. The ceiling above was high and shadowed, its beams carved with ancient runes that glimmered faintly in the morning gloom. Pale light seeped through heavy drapes, streaking the room in long, thin bands of gray.

For a moment, she forgot where she was.

Then it rushed back—Eve. The cellars. The dark figure stepping from the shadows. His voice like silk slipping around her throat.

Tom.

Her breath caught in her chest, a pulse of something sharp and cold flooding through her veins. And yet... not fear. Not entirely. She sat up slowly. Her bare feet met icy stone as she swung her legs off the side of the bed.

The nightgown she wore was soft. Delicate lace brushed her collarbones, cool against her skin. It had been left there last night—fresh, clean, faintly scented with something she couldn't quite place. The thought made her stomach twist.

On the small table near the hearth, steam curled from a delicate cup. Coffee. Dark and strong. Next to it, a plate of food—her favorite, every detail exact. She hadn't told him this. Not recently. Hadn't spoken those things aloud since... since before.

He remembered.

Violet crossed to the table, her fingertips brushing the rim of the cup. It was warm. Real. She hesitated, then took a sip. Bitter, grounding. But it did nothing to settle the weight in her chest.

The room was silent. No sounds of footsteps. No murmurs of voices from the hall.

Riddle Manor was eerily empty.

She stood at the doorway, her hand resting on the ancient iron handle before she pressed it down. It groaned softly, opening into a vast corridor lined with tall windows. The floor was polished dark stone, cold under her bare feet as she stepped out, her nightgown trailing behind her like a ghost's shroud.

She walked slowly. Every instinct screamed caution, but she forced her breath to stay even, her steps silent as she made her way down the grand staircase. The walls loomed around her, lined with portraits whose painted eyes followed her every move. Some were blank. Others seemed to watch with faint smirks.

The manor was beautiful, in a brutal, elegant sort of way. Like him.

When she reached the main floor, the great doors leading to the gardens were open. Cold wind swept through them, carrying the scent of damp earth and something sharper beneath.

She stepped outside, blinking against the pale morning light.

And there he was.

Tom sat beneath the skeletal branches of a twisted yew tree, the only living thing in the gardens that hadn't withered entirely under winter's grip. A small wrought-iron table stood beside him, his long fingers curled around a white porcelain cup. His black suit was immaculate, the dark fabric stark against the pale stone bench. His posture was relaxed, yet utterly poised—like a man who had nothing to fear, because he already possessed everything he desired.

His eyes found her immediately.

For a moment, he only watched her. Silent. His gaze moved slowly, taking in the sight of her—barefoot, draped in the nightgown he'd chosen, her hair unbound and wild from sleep.

Something unreadable flickered in his expression. Admiration? Possession? Satisfaction? She couldn't tell. Perhaps it was all three.

"Good morning, Violet," he said softly. His voice carried easily across the garden, smooth and low. "I wasn't sure you'd come down."

She stopped a few feet from him, pulse quickening.

"I... woke up." The words were brittle on her tongue. Useless.

He tilted his head, lips curling faintly. "Clearly."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind picked up, whispering through the dead leaves at their feet.

Then he said, almost lazily, "Are you planning to escape, Violet?"

She stiffened.

"I wouldn't recommend it," he continued, as if they were discussing something trivial. His eyes gleamed faintly in the cold light. "There would be consequences. Severe ones."

Violet swallowed. "I wasn't—"

His brow lifted. A subtle, elegant arch that stopped her mid-sentence.

"No lies," he murmured. "Not between us. You know better than that."

He gestured toward the bench beside him. "Sit."

Her feet moved before she made the decision. She sat, careful to keep a measure of space between them. He didn't seem to mind. Or perhaps he did, and chose not to show it.

"You're free to walk the manor," he said, sipping his coffee with a kind of detached grace. "It's your home now, too."

She flinched. "It isn't."

"It is," Tom corrected gently. "You'll see."

His gaze slid away from her and toward the far edge of the garden. For a few moments, there was nothing but the hollow moan of the wind through the dying hedges.

Then his voice, smooth as velvet, broke the quiet.

"Mulciber."

A faint pop echoed in the stillness, and a Death Eater appeared at the garden's edge, disapparating with a sharp crack that made Violet flinch. The man was tall, masked, and bowed stiffly at Tom's command, Violet's friend he was, before.. now he spared no second glace towards her, he only looked at his master.

"My Lord," Mulciber said, his voice muffled behind the cold silver of his mask.

Tom didn't move at first. He simply regarded his servant with a faint, thoughtful expression, his fingers tracing the rim of his porcelain cup in idle circles.

"Bring him," Tom said at last, softly. "The traitor."

Mulciber straightened and disappeared with another crack. Violet's stomach turned. Her skin prickled with something like foreboding—dread, thick and suffocating—but she forced herself to keep her face blank. She wouldn't ask who. She wouldn't ask why.

But she already knew.

Tom remained seated for a moment longer, watching her carefully as if to measure her reaction. Then, with unhurried grace, he rose to his feet, smoothing his dark robes with gloved fingers. He was elegance incarnate—black tailored suit beneath rich wool, the silver clasp of his cloak catching the cold light like a shard of ice.

"Come," he said, his hand resting for a moment on her shoulder. His thumb brushed over the bone with an unsettling gentleness, almost like reassurance.

But there was nothing reassuring about what followed.

She stood, her legs stiff beneath her, and followed him across the frost-hardened grass. The gardens seemed to darken with every step they took, the air colder, thicker. Beyond the iron fence that bordered the estate, the sky was dull gray, rolling with heavy clouds.

Mulciber returned, dragging a man behind him by the scruff of his collar.

The prisoner stumbled as he was shoved forward, falling hard to his knees in the brittle grass. Violet stared at him, throat tight. He was young—no older than twenty, maybe. His clothes were torn, his face bruised and filthy. Blood caked his temple. His wand hand was missing two fingers.

"Jameson Pryce," Tom murmured, his tone almost reflective. "Muggle-born. Defector. Caught two days ago trying to leave the country with sensitive information."

Violet's fingers dug into the fabric of her gown. She remembered him. Jameson had been in Hufflepuff. A year younger than her. He used to sit under the beech tree by the lake on warm evenings, scribbling spells into a battered notebook. He'd once offered her a piece of chocolate when she'd fallen during a Quidditch match.

He looked up at her now, and she could see the spark of recognition in his swollen eyes.

But Tom was already moving.

Without warning, he seized Jameson by the hair, yanking him upright with brutal efficiency. The younger wizard cried out, his legs kicking weakly beneath him as Tom dragged him toward the iron fence that loomed like a cage in the gray light.

"Pay attention, Violet," Tom said quietly, his voice like silk stretched over a knife. "This is important."

She couldn't move. Her bare feet were numb in the frost, but she stayed rooted in place.

Tom stopped at the very edge of the property, his pale hand fisting tighter in Jameson's hair. The young man was gasping now, desperate, but no one made a sound—neither Mulciber nor the other masked Death Eater who had joined him. Only Violet's breath seemed to move the frozen air.

"This fence," Tom said, glancing back at her. "Marks the limits of my domain. No one crosses it without permission."

And then he shoved Jameson's head forward, past the threshold.

At first, nothing happened.

And then Jameson screamed.

Violet flinched. It was a sound she knew she would never forget—a raw, shrieking agony that cut through the cold like broken glass. His skin blackened in an instant, peeling back from bone, flaking away like ash in a windstorm.

Tom held him there, calm, impassive, as the man's face crumbled beneath his hand. Flesh turned to soot. Eyeballs burned dry and collapsed in their sockets. His screams faded into wet, choking gasps as his jaw disintegrated.

Violet couldn't breathe. She could only watch as Jameson's skull—now little more than brittle, charred bone—cracked and collapsed into nothing, spilling what remained of him into the frost.

Tom released what was left of his hair—only strands of it still clinging to the charred scalp—and dusted his gloved hands off on his cloak, meticulous as ever.

When he turned back to her, there was no triumph in his expression. No rage. No cruelty.

Only a steady, quiet certainty.

"So there is no confusion," he said softly, as if they were discussing the weather. "About what happens when someone tries to leave."

Violet's throat burned. She wanted to scream. To run. But there was nowhere to run to.

He stepped closer, closing the distance between them in two long strides. His hand cupped her cheek again, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen.

"You're safe here," Tom murmured. "As long as you stay."

And there was something terrifying in the sincerity of his voice. He believed it. He believed every word.

Mulciber cleared his throat, still standing a respectful distance away. "Shall I dispose of it, my Lord?"

Tom's hand fell away from her face. "Yes," he said smoothly. "And salt the ground."

Violet didn't watch as they vanished the remains. She stared at Tom instead. At the careful precision in his movements. At the man she had once believed could be good. At the man who, in some twisted way, loved her.

"You'll adjust," he said to her, not unkindly." After all, you have nowhere else to go"

***

The safe house was hidden in the countryside, nestled in the overgrown ruins of an abandoned estate. The air was damp with the scent of moss and old stone, and the group had barely begun catching their breath before they realized something was wrong.

Moody was the first to speak.

"Where the hell is she?" His voice was a low growl, rough and strained, as he turned sharply, his electric blue eye whirling in its socket, scanning every face.

Arthur Weasley's face paled. He looked down at the Portkey still clutched in his hand, turning it over as if expecting an answer from the smooth, harmless object. "She—she was holding it. She was with us, wasn't she?"

Molly's hands trembled. "She was. She was right next to me."

Frank Longbottom, standing in the doorway with his wand half-raised, took a careful step forward. "What are you saying?"

"She let go," Pandora whispered, her voice hollow. Her mind replayed the moment in slow, painful detail—the flash of movement, the way Violet's fingers had slipped away just as the pull of the Portkey had yanked them through space.

She had done it on purpose.

Moody slammed his fist against the wooden table, causing a cup to tip over, spilling what little tea they had left. "Damn fool girl! What was she thinking?!"

"She was thinking about Eve," Arthur murmured, his voice heavy. "She wanted to save her."

"But she knew it was a trap," Frank said, disbelief laced in his words. "She knew."

"Let's go back to the attic later, perhaps she had left something behind" Alice suggested,the rest nodded slowly while all in deep thought.

***

The attic was silent. Dust floated through the air, catching the dim light from the single lantern Arthur had lit upon their return. The space was cold, abandoned, just as they had left it. But something was wrong.

A shadow sat curled in the corner, hunched over something in her hands.

Eve.

She was shaking. Her fingers were clenched around a crumpled piece of parchment, her shoulders trembling violently as if she was about to break apart. The moment they stepped inside, she barely lifted her head.

Moody's wand was drawn before anyone else could move. "Step away from her."

Eve flinched, but she didn't let go of the note.

"Moody," Pandora hissed, but she didn't approach either.

Arthur's face was pale. "Eve?"

She let out a shaky breath, gripping the paper tighter. "She—" Her voice cracked. "She left this. For me."

Frank and Alice exchanged a wary glance.

Moody's magical eye whirled, scanning her, scanning the note, scanning the room itself for signs of treachery. "She left it?" he repeated, his voice dangerously calm. "Meaning she knew she wouldn't be coming back?"

Eve didn't answer. She only swallowed thickly and held the note out.

Pandora stepped forward first. She hesitated, then carefully took the parchment from Eve's trembling hands.

The writing was unmistakable. Violet's. The ink slightly smudged, as if written in haste, but steady.

"There's more to the note," Eve whispered, her voice raw. "She told me. Before I left. She knew I'd figure it out. She knew we wouldn't trust it at first."

Moody stepped closer, his gaze dark and unreadable. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Eve finally lifted her head. Her eyes were hollow, filled with something that looked dangerously close to grief. "It means... that she hid something in it."

A silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, slowly, Pandora raised her wand.

"Revelare."

The ink on the page shifted.

The letters bled, rearranged themselves—twisting, reforming, as though the words had only been waiting to be unveiled.

And then, beneath Violet's short message to Eve, a new sentence appeared.

A single, quiet breath passed through the room as Pandora read it aloud.

"If you want to defeat your enemy, you have to find his weakness.
His weakness is me.
Deal with his people, with his Death Eaters. Leave him to me."

The room was frozen.

Molly's hands covered her mouth.

Arthur closed his eyes.

Alice turned away, inhaling sharply as if the words had physically struck her.

Frank muttered a curse under his breath.

And Moody? Moody's expression didn't change—but his grip on his wand tightened. His electric-blue eye stopped moving, locked onto the words like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Bloody hell," Arthur finally whispered.

"She—" Pandora's voice shook. "She's going to fight him alone."

"No," Eve said hoarsely. "She's not fighting him. She's giving herself to him."

The realization hit like ice water.

Violet hadn't gone to kill Voldemort.

She had gone to be his weakness.

To become the weapon they could use against him.

Moody's face darkened. "We can't let her do this."

Eve met his gaze, something burning in her eyes. "Then we better figure out how to use it before it's too late."