Doomed...
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.