Cold tenderness
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.