Death meets the one it fears, the one it fears it not
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.