The game is about to change, isn't it?
The months passed in a haunting blur, a tapestry of gray skies and slow-moving days that stretched on endlessly. April was dying, its last breath slipping away in the form of tears that fell from the sky, mourning the passing of yet another cold season. Snowmelt ran in rivulets down the old stone walls of the house, as if the earth itself wept for the destruction that had ravaged the world. And Violet? She felt herself sinking further into the oppressive weight of it all, like the days themselves had begun to bleed into one another, each indistinguishable from the next.
Warmth, she thought, would never return. Not as long as Tom Riddle, or whatever version of him had become Voldemort, walked the earth. The days grew longer, but the warmth she yearned for seemed just as distant as the possibility of peace. It was as if time had forgotten the possibility of sunlight—forever wrapped in shadow.
She lived in a constant state of inner conflict, trapped within these cold, crumbling walls that felt more like a prison with each passing day. She had wanted to be out there with them—the Order, fighting the Death Eaters, standing alongside the only ones she could still trust—but she wasn't ready. Her hands trembled whenever she raised her wand, the images of the lives lost, the broken bodies strewn across the streets of London, flashing in her mind like scars that would never heal.
Still, she trained. Every day, she practiced. She studied every spell she could, read every book she could get her hands on, hoping to make herself strong enough to fight. Alastor Moody, who had become something like a mentor to her, had shown her the ways of the wizarding world in times of war—the blood, the sacrifice, and the darkness. He was unyielding in his instruction, brutally honest, but she had come to rely on him, even if his coldness left her with an ache in her chest. He treated her like one of the soldiers, not some fragile thing to be protected. That was what she needed. The world wasn't kind, and it never would be again.
Her resolve had grown as the months passed. She could feel the anger burning deep inside her, simmering beneath the surface. The more she learned about Tom's cruelty, the more she hated him—hated him for what he had done to people, for the power he had stolen, and for the lies he had wrapped around her heart. Every day she woke to new horrors. The dead piled up. The missing became too many to count. And she was stuck, helpless, a prisoner to the house, to the shadows that clung to her like a second skin.
There were times when she wanted to break free. The letters from Julius only made the desire to return to him grow stronger, like a siren's call pulling her toward a drowning death. His words haunted her—each letter, each sentence, like a whisper in her ear reminding her of the life she had lost. He had written to her so many times that the envelopes had become as familiar as the pages in a book. Each one arrived with a strange sense of dread, and every time she held them in her hands, her fingers trembled. She couldn't open them. She couldn't risk it. She knew the moment she read his words, she would collapse back into the lie, into the love that had once consumed her.
And yet, she couldn't escape it. She could feel his pull every time the letter came, and it took everything in her to shove them aside, unopened. To refuse to give in to the man she had once called her Tom.
Barty Crouch, the Minister of Law Enforcement, had granted the Death Eaters their fate without trial—no more courtrooms, no more public spectacle. Straight to Azkaban. The Ministry, overwhelmed and struggling to cope, had all but thrown up their hands in defeat. Voldemort's power was too vast, his supporters too numerous. And yet, the Ministry had done nothing but throw money at the problem, unable or unwilling to understand the nature of the war they were losing. They tolerated the Order only because it was the one thing keeping them from being completely overrun.
The war had begun, and there was no end in sight. There was no stopping it now. Only death, destruction, and the hollow victory of one side over the other. And Violet couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that her side wasn't going to be the one to win.
But she would fight. She had to. She just had to figure out how.
Her skills had improved. She could hold her own now. Alastor's lessons, blunt and painful as they had been, had transformed her into someone different. More ruthless. More willing to take risks. She had learned how to track, how to read the signs of an ambush, how to defend herself with lethal force if necessary. But despite her growth, there was always a gnawing ache deep in her chest, a hollow emptiness that nothing could fill. The world had shifted beneath her feet, and she wasn't sure if she would ever be able to stand on solid ground again.
And the worry—every time they left on a mission, Violet was consumed by it. Would they come back? Would they be safe? Would someone she had come to care about die today, fall victim to the endless wave of darkness Tom had unleashed? Every time they left, Violet stayed behind, clutching her wand as if it would give her the strength to stand alongside them. But they wouldn't let her. Not yet.
Instead, she poured herself into her studies. She learned the basics of healing, of caring for the wounded in case she couldn't be out there with them on the front lines. It wasn't much, but it was something. She had to be useful. She had to matter in this fight. And when the next mission came, and someone inevitably came back broken, bloody, and bruised, she would be there. She would be the one to fix them.
But for now, she waited. And with every passing day, as the sound of Death Eaters' footfalls grew louder in the streets, the feeling that she was running out of time pressed in closer and closer.
Violet sat in the kitchen, surrounded by a mess of old newspapers, their yellowed edges curling at the corners as they lay haphazardly across the table. She stared at the scattered articles, desperately trying to piece together some sort of understanding of Tom's movements. The weight of the task pressed down on her like a physical thing, a suffocating cloud of doubt that hovered just beyond her reach. Each page seemed to offer more questions than answers. Voldemort's circular statements were cryptic, his actions calculated and deliberate, making it impossible to find a single crack in his carefully constructed facade. He had planned for this, for everything—every move, every death, every choice. There was no room for error in his mind, and certainly no room for anyone to outthink him.
She rubbed her temples, the frustration building in waves. How many times had she read through these papers? How many conclusions had she written down, only to cross them out, finding they led nowhere? She was searching for something—anything—that would give her insight into him, into his mind, but it all felt futile. Every plan, every strategy she concocted, every theory she wrote down in the margins was as empty as the last. Tom was too perfect, too sharp, too aware. He had always been a step ahead of everyone, and it had been one of the things that had drawn her to him in the first place. His intelligence, his ambition, his cunning—he had a way of making her feel like she was the only one who truly understood him. But now, it felt like that understanding was slipping away from her, like the threads that had once bound her to him were fraying and unraveling in the cold winds of reality.
She could feel the emptiness growing inside her, a gnawing ache that she couldn't shake. Tom had always been the center of her world, the source of her heartache and her love. She had seen him in a way no one else had, had loved him in a way that no one else could understand. But now, as she stared at his picture—the one from the Daily Prophet, the one with the cold eyes that seemed to pierce through her—she couldn't help but feel the weight of the hate and fear he had brought with him. People called him Voldemort, and each time she heard the name, it felt like a dagger to her heart.
She missed him. She missed the man who had once smiled at her, whispered sweet nothings into her ear, made her believe in the future they could have had. Underneath the hate, underneath the venom she had grown to despise, there was still love. It was buried deep, hidden in the darkest corners of her soul, but it was there, pulsing like a faint heartbeat. A simple laugh from him, a gesture of affection, could bring it to the surface in an instant. It pained her to know that she would never hear that laugh again. It pained her to know that the man she had once loved had become something... monstrous.
She wondered where he was now. Was he still in the shadows, plotting, planning his next move? Was he happy with the power he had gained, with the destruction he had wrought? Or was there a part of him, deep inside, that regretted it all? Did he feel the same emptiness she did? Did he miss her? The questions gnawed at her, each one a jagged piece of glass slicing through her thoughts.
Violet could almost hear his voice in her mind, the smooth, soothing tone he used when they were alone. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand, the way he had touched her like she was something fragile, something precious. But those moments felt like a lifetime ago, and the person he had become—Voldemort—was so far removed from that man, it was almost impossible to reconcile the two.
She let out a frustrated sigh and threw the papers onto the floor in a fit of anger. She was tired, so very tired of trying to understand him, of trying to make sense of everything he had done. She had thought she knew him. She had thought that, despite everything, they could find a way back to each other. But now, she wasn't so sure. The man who had once loved her had vanished into the darkness, replaced by a monster who showed no remorse, no hesitation in his quest for power.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, its rhythmic sound echoing through the silent kitchen. The world outside was darkening, the last vestiges of daylight fading as the evening crept in. Violet stared at the papers scattered around her, feeling the weight of each one pressing down on her chest. She had to stop. She had to let go. But it was so hard. The love she had once felt for him wasn't something that could just be erased, no matter how much she wanted to believe that it could.
She pushed herself away from the table, the wood creaking under her weight, and walked toward the window. Outside, the night was closing in, and the wind howled through the streets like a warning. There was no escape, no simple answers to the questions that haunted her. She would never have the answers she sought.
***
The cold wind whipped around Tom as he stood on the terrace of his manor, staring out into the empty, grey expanse of the forest that surrounded him. His eyes narrowed as he took in the oppressive atmosphere—the looming, dark sky that threatened to burst with rain, the withered trees that had long lost their vibrancy, and the dead, barren soil beneath his feet. It was a place devoid of life, much like the state of his heart. No flowers bloomed in this cursed land, and the air felt thick with silence, the kind of silence that smothered everything, suffocated it. Even the creatures of the forest had abandoned this forsaken place. He liked it that way.
The manor was a reflection of him: cold, imposing, and completely cut off from the world. He reveled in its isolation. No one could reach him here. No one could touch him. But it also made him feel the absence of her more acutely, the ache of her absence gnawing at his insides. Every day without Violet felt like a thousand years, a slow burn of frustration and longing. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, savoring the chill in the air, the sting of the coming rain against his skin. The storm was coming, and with it, he felt a new resolve forming inside him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft footfalls behind him. He turned slightly to see Julius approaching, holding a letter. The same letter he had sent again and again, each time returned unopened, each time a further rejection. His irritation flared as Julius laid it down on the table, his usual smug expression faltering as he spoke. "No answer again. She just returned the letter, unopened."
Tom's anger flared like a wildfire. His gaze snapped to Julius, his voice cold, almost mocking. "You can't even get your own sister to answer a letter, Julius. How pathetic are you?" He sneered, watching the man flinch at the venom in his tone. His fingers curled into fists at his sides as his frustration mounted. How dare she ignore him like this? How dare she refuse him, refuse the only man who truly understood her, who could offer her everything she could ever want?
"She's doing it on purpose," Julius said, his voice edged with frustration. "She knows I'll try to talk her into joining us."
Tom's eyes flashed with fury, the rage bubbling up again, this time more consuming than ever. "She's seventeen!" he hissed, stepping forward, his voice rising with each word. "You should decide for her! She has no right to decide! You've given her too much freedom! She doesn't get to make her own choices!" His hand ran through his hair, his fingers tangled in the dark strands in frustration. The blood was pounding in his ears, his mind racing with the need to have her—now. "She wouldn't do this herself. Dumbledore's put something in her head. He's forbidden her from writing to me. I know it. She would never ignore me like this on her own!"
He inhaled sharply, trying to calm himself. His body shook slightly, the rage threatening to overtake him. He had been patient. He had waited. But his patience was running thin. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't stand being away from her, not for another moment. She was his, and no one—not Dumbledore, not anyone—was going to keep her from him.
His eyes flicked to Julius, and the slightest glint of satisfaction danced in the older man's eyes. A smile tugged at Julius's lips, though it was hard to say whether it was genuine or simply a grimace. "I have some good news," he said, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
Tom's eyes narrowed, suspicion and curiosity swirling in his mind. "What?" His voice was low, dangerous.
"We caught him," Julius said, his tone laced with dark triumph.
Tom's heart skipped a beat, and for the briefest moment, he forgot to breathe. The smirk on his lips deepened into a cold, cruel grin. His gaze darkened, and his pulse quickened. Caught him.
"Well then," Tom murmured, his voice a dark whisper that sent a chill through the room. His smile widened, and a low, predatory chuckle escaped his lips. "Take me to him. There can be a good thing today after all."
Julius didn't hesitate. He gave a single nod before turning to lead the way. Tom followed close behind, the anticipation simmering in his chest, feeding his every step. There was a fire in his eyes as he moved toward the next part of his plan. The time was nearing. The war would soon tip in his favor. His power was growing, and every day brought him closer to his ultimate goal.
But there was still one more thing that consumed him. Violet. He needed her. He deserved her. And soon, she would understand that. Soon, she would be his again. And if she refused him? If she refused to see the truth? He would make her see it—make her understand the depths of his love for her, the power he could offer her.
***
The dim, cold room echoed with the man's pained screams, each one piercing the silence like a sharp blade, but Tom simply stood back, savoring the power he held. His lips curled into a smile, a grin that had nothing but malice and cruelty within it. He leaned against the stone wall of the room, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of his control, as Augustus writhed in the chair, desperate for relief.
"Come now, Augustus," Tom purred, watching the man squirm. "I'm not asking for much. Just a few answers. You've got so much to hide behind those closed doors, don't you?" He took a step forward, his voice cold, his tone dripping with venom. "I don't need to remind you that refusing me... is a mistake."
The man's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his chest heaving in a mixture of fear and pain. Sweat poured down his face, the bruises and cuts already taking their toll. But still, he defied Tom. Still, he held on to his loyalty, the oath that had bound him. Tom's grin widened. He was patient, oh so patient. The game had just begun.
Suddenly, the man's defiance crumbled. His eyes glazed with pain, his body trembled uncontrollably. The realization of the torment that awaited him if he didn't speak began to break through his walls.
"I gave an oath," Augustus croaked, his voice hoarse with the strain of the screams that had torn at his throat. "I won't tell you anything, you can kill me. It's better than betraying them."
Tom's eyes flared with anger, but beneath the fury, there was an almost amused edge to his voice as he stepped closer, his face inches from Augustus. "Kill you?" he asked with a low chuckle, tilting his head as though considering the thought. "I think I have far more interesting things planned for you, my dear Augustus."
He raised his wand, and the room seemed to darken with the weight of the spell he was about to cast. "Crucio."
The spell lashed out, and the man's body contorted in agony, his screams rising to a fever pitch. The sound of his pain filled the room, and Tom watched with detached interest, the cold glint in his eyes never faltering. Each second, each breath the man took, seemed to stretch longer, as though time itself slowed in the face of the sheer torment he was enduring.
Minutes passed, though it felt like hours, before the man's voice finally cracked, a desperate sob breaking through the pain. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything, just stop! Please..." His voice was barely a whisper, a broken plea.
Tom's lips curled into a satisfied smile as he lowered his wand. The screams ceased, leaving only the sound of ragged breaths and the faint echoes of agony. Tom stepped forward, his boots making soft echoes on the stone floor as he took a seat across from the man, watching with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
"Well, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" Tom mused, his tone far too casual for the situation. He leaned back in his chair, watching the broken man with amusement. "Now, Augustus, I do hope you understand that you don't get to keep any secrets from me. Tell me everything. Everything that lies behind those doors. Every little detail."
Augustus trembled, his face pale and slick with sweat, but he no longer resisted. The weight of his own weakness, his surrender to the pain, had rendered him a shell of the man he once was. His lips parted as the secrets spilled out in a rush, each word more revealing than the last, each one dripping with the knowledge that had been hidden from Tom for so long.
Tom listened intently, leaning forward as the man spoke, savoring each new piece of information, each secret that had been locked away for so long. The Department of Mysteries. The ancient artifacts, the experiments, the forbidden knowledge. The mysteries of the universe, hidden behind layers of wards and protection spells. Tom's mind raced with the possibilities. The power he could harness, the weapons at his disposal. The knowledge that had been kept from him for so long was now within his grasp.
His hand clenched around his wand, the power of it humming under his fingers as Augustus continued to speak, his voice weaker now, but the flow of information relentless. Tom's heart raced, not from the thrill of victory, but from the anticipation of what he would do with this newfound knowledge.
As the man finished, Tom sat back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He could almost taste the victory in the air. He had what he needed. And Augustus... well, Augustus had outlived his usefulness.
Tom stood slowly, his gaze never leaving the man's broken form. "I do hope you enjoyed your little chat, Augustus," he said, his voice silky and cold. "But I think it's time to send you somewhere more fitting for your... condition."
With a flick of his wand, the man's body was engulfed in darkness, and with it, any further resistance he might have had. The room was silent once more, save for the sound of Tom's quiet breathing. He looked down at the spot where the man had once been, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself a satisfied smile.
"One less problem," Tom murmured to himself, his eyes alight with triumph.
The next phase of his plan was set in motion. The Department of Mysteries was no longer a mystery to him. And with it, the war would take a darker turn.
***
Violet tossed and turned in her bed, the restlessness gnawing at her, like something dark pulling at the edges of her mind. She could hear the steady breathing of the others in their rooms, the low hum of sleep that filled the house. But she couldn't escape the weight on her chest, that nagging sensation that refused to let her rest. Her eyes flicked open in the dimness of the room, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm her thoughts.
The others had been on a mission, exhausted from the latest skirmish, and she had been left behind. They needed rest, but she wasn't as tired. Her energy was still full, and something else—something unsettling—kept her awake. She couldn't shake it.
Sighing softly, Violet pushed herself up, her feet brushing against the cold floor. The old house was alive with the sound of creaking wood as she moved. The long, dark hallway stretched before her, shadowed and oppressive. The old house had always given her the chills, and tonight it felt even worse—like something was watching her from the shadows. Every footstep echoed in the silence, the worn steps creaking under her weight, and the chill of the air nipped at her skin as she made her way downstairs. She hated this house, with its peeling wallpaper and dimly lit rooms. It was oppressive, stifling. She wanted to go back to Hogwarts, to be somewhere familiar, somewhere safe. But Dumbledore had advised her to stay. There was work to be done, and she was still too young to join the others in the field.
The kitchen greeted her with its familiar darkness. The old wooden table sat in the center of the room, papers scattered across it in a chaotic mess, some from the previous month, others just a few days old. Violet's eyes fell upon them as she sat down, feeling a strange pull to the papers, as if they were calling to her.
She glanced at the articles in front of her, the words blending together in a haze. But then something caught her attention. A picture on the cover of an article from January, showing a disturbing scene—the words "Join me" underlined. Her fingers traced the text, the small, inked symbols that seemed to jump out at her. She set the paper aside, her pulse quickening. There was something about it, something she couldn't explain.
Her gaze moved to another article, one that had come out a week after the events at Knockturn Alley, the infamous place where Mudbloods were said to die. The first two words stood out again—"Join me." The repetition of the phrase was too eerie to ignore. Violet's heart beat faster, a spark of hope lighting in her chest. Could this be it? Could this be the sign she had been waiting for?
She began sorting through the papers quickly, pulling each article by date, circling the same two words in each: "Join me." She was piecing together a message—Knockturn Alley, midnight, alone. It was all leading her to something, wasn't it? The last article was from this morning, and as she flipped through it, her breath caught. On page seven, an article about violets—her violets. Was this another sign?
Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. 11:35 PM. There was still time.
A surge of determination filled her, overtaking the fear that had threatened to hold her back. She couldn't tell anyone—she knew they would stop her. The others would never let her go, but this was too important. She couldn't ignore it.
Without a second thought, she grabbed her coat, pulling it over her pajamas as she stood up. The weight of the moment settled over her as she headed for the door. Tonight was different. She wouldn't be scared. She wasn't going to let fear dictate her actions. She had to find out if Tom—Voldemort—was really trying to reach her, and if so, why. She had to know what was hidden behind the words, behind the secrets that had been written just for her.
The door creaked open, and she stepped into the night, her breath rising in a cloud of mist as she ventured into the dark streets of London. The city was quiet, too quiet, as if it knew something was about to change.