Whom to trust?
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.
