Things greater than us
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."