It's been a while, Love
Violet pressed on, her boots splashing in the wet streets, the cool rain drenching her to the bone. The city was empty, save for the occasional flicker of movement in the shadows, but the vast silence felt suffocating. The dampness clung to her skin, seeping through the thin fabric of her pajamas, but she couldn't afford to stop. Every step felt heavier, the weight of the journey pressing down on her with every mile. Her breath came out in quick, shallow bursts, forming clouds in the freezing air. The wind howled through the narrow alleyways, sending a chill that gnawed at her, but Violet pressed on, determined, driven by something she couldn't quite name but couldn't ignore either.
The sky seemed to reflect her unease, dark and ominous, clouds rolling over one another as the rain began to fall harder, drenching her hair and face. She wiped the rain from her eyes, blinking against the sting, but it was no use. She was soaked, but there was nothing to do but continue. Her mind was fixed on one goal: finding him. Whatever Tom wanted from her, whatever game he was playing, she would not be deterred. She had to know.
As she trudged along, the world around her grew darker, the shadows creeping ever closer as the city seemed to close in on her. Her footsteps echoed off the cobblestones, breaking the silence only for a moment before it swallowed her again. The only source of light now were the occasional bursts of lightning, illuminating the night for a fleeting second, casting eerie shadows that seemed to follow her.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached the Leaky Cauldron. The familiar sight of the small pub brought a fleeting sense of comfort. She stepped through the door, the warmth from the fire inside washing over her like a welcome embrace. The crackling sound of the flames, the clinking of glasses—everything felt so ordinary, so safe.
Tom, the barman, stood behind the counter as usual, his eyes meeting hers. He greeted her with a polite smile, though it never reached his eyes. The usual air of suspicion hung around him, but he was always cordial. "Miss, would you like to stay? Warm up by the fire? Drink something?"
The warmth of the pub tempted Violet, the fire crackling invitingly, but she couldn't afford to linger. She glanced at the clock on the wall, the hands reading 11:55. She was running out of time.
"No, thank you," she said, forcing a smile. "I must go to Diagon Alley."
Tom's brow furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his eyes. He hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, Miss. Keep an eye out there, though. It's not safe to be alone at this time. Dark times, you know."
Violet nodded gratefully, but the words barely registered. She was already focused on the path ahead, the weight of the clock ticking in her head. She stepped through the back of the pub, where the alley leading to Diagon Alley awaited. The night outside felt colder, the rain heavier, but she couldn't allow herself to hesitate now. The danger had already settled into her bones, but it didn't matter. She was closer now.
The narrow street ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, the darkness pressing in from all sides. She had to keep going, no matter how foolish it felt. Deep down, Violet knew how dangerous it was to wander around at this hour. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was something she had to do.
With one last glance at the Leaky Cauldron's lit windows, she stepped out into the wet streets once more, her footsteps quickening, as she approached Diagon Alley. There was no turning back now. The night was closing in, and Violet's search had only just begun.
***
Violet's steps quickened, the sound of her feet slapping against the wet cobblestones the only noise in the silent, oppressive night. The eerie quiet of Diagon Alley seemed to stretch around her like a suffocating fog, the flickering streetlamps casting long shadows on the empty storefronts. The feeling in her stomach only grew worse with each step, a tight knot of fear and excitement that made her question her decision. She had never been out this late, never ventured into the heart of Knockturn Alley alone before. But tonight, everything felt different. She could feel the pull of something deeper, an inexplicable need to find him—Tom. The thought of him haunted her, even now, even after everything that had happened.
As she walked further, she noticed the stark contrast between the normally busy, bright Diagon Alley and the unsettling quiet around her now. It was almost as if the street had been abandoned, left to rot in the damp night. The weather was unforgiving, the rain intensifying, but still, she pressed forward. Her heart pounded with every step, a drumbeat of uncertainty.
She turned left down a narrow alley, where the walls were plastered with posters that made her skin crawl. The familiar sight of Tom's face stared back at her. The poster was yellowed with age, corners curling as if it had been up for months—months of desperation from the Ministry. The words beneath his face were sharp, accusing:
"Thomas Marvolo Riddle, UNDESIRABLE"
She swallowed hard, her fingers brushing against the paper as she read the rest, her voice barely a whisper:
"The Ministry is asking for any information about the individual, he is dangerous and unpredictable. If you see him, do not attempt to make contact with him yourself."
Her breath caught in her throat. The man on the poster was not just a criminal in the eyes of the world; he was everything she had once loved and still longed for, despite the violence, despite everything he had done. She could almost feel his presence in the air, a shadow hovering over her.
Her heart raced, and for a brief moment, she thought about turning back. The weight of the warning sank into her chest, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Her feet carried her deeper into the street, the further she walked, the more anxiety crept into her bones. The cobbled path seemed to narrow, the darkness pressing in on all sides. Her legs trembled, the fear seeping into her body with each step, but still, the thought of Tom pushed her forward.
The noise around her shifted as she entered Knockturn Alley. The air was thick with the scents of incense, old wood, and something darker—something foul. The narrow alley was teeming with people, but they weren't the kind of people Violet was used to. Dark figures loitered around, some casting suspicious glances her way, others with eyes hidden beneath hoods or cloaks. The market was alive with trade—quiet, secretive, shady deals taking place in the shadows, while the shops, once hidden, now seemed open for business. This was where life thrived, where the criminals and dark magic practitioners came out of hiding.
Her heart pounded in her ears, and a sense of urgency grew within her. She wasn't sure where to go, what to do. Tom could be anywhere in this labyrinth of danger. But she had to try, she had to find him. She pulled her coat tighter around her body, trying to shield herself from the wind and rain, but the chill in her bones was already more than just from the weather.
Then, a thought struck her. The small tavern where Julius had once taken her, tucked away in one of the darker corners of Knockturn Alley—it could be the place. Her instincts told her that it was worth checking. She had seen it before, a dingy little hole in the wall, but the kind of place where deals were made in whispers, where secrets were traded for a price. It was the kind of place Tom would frequent, and it was where she had last seen him, in the company of his followers.
She moved with a newfound sense of purpose, weaving through the crowd and past the shops, ignoring the suspicious looks she received. The weight of her decision pressed down on her, but she refused to second guess herself now
Violet's heart skipped a beat as she approached the familiar round sign above the door, the white dragon emblem faintly glowing in the dim light. Beneath it, in bold, faded lettering, was the name: The White Wyvern. She stepped closer, her thoughts swirling. There was no turning back now.
A figure stood under the trellis, the smoke from his cigar curling around him like an omen. His dark curls and black coat blended into the shadows, and though his face was obscured by a hood, Violet knew immediately who it was. Tom.
Her breath caught in her throat, and her chest tightened. The rain soaked her through, but the chill didn't come from the weather. It came from the weight of his presence, the magnetic pull she could never escape.
Tom looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing as he spotted her in the dark. A flicker of recognition sparked in his gaze, followed by a slow, dangerous smile. He flicked his cigar aside, and without a word, he walked toward her, his movements deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. The rain fell around him, but he didn't seem to care, his focus completely on her.
Violet's body stiffened under his gaze, her chest tightening with both anticipation and unease. She couldn't move. Her feet were cemented to the ground, as though his very presence paralyzed her.
When Tom reached her, he stopped mere inches away, his gaze cutting through the shadows to drink in every detail of her. A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then, in that same low, controlled voice, he spoke, a trace of something darker threading through his words.
"Violet."
It wasn't the warm, tender tone she had hoped for. It was cold. Detached. The voice of a man who had learned to control everything—even his own desires. It was a statement, not a question. He was studying her, weighing her every reaction.
"I see you've come."
Her heart beat wildly in her chest, but she remained silent, caught in the storm of his presence. The anger she'd once held for him felt far away now—like something that no longer belonged to her. But so did everything else. All the feelings she thought she had buried—distant echoes of a time before she had allowed herself to follow him into this madness.
Without a word, Tom reached out, his hand curling around her wrist, pulling her into him with a force that was both possessive and merciless. His other hand moved to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her wet hair, holding her in place. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
"You're drenched," he said flatly, the words almost laced with a smirk. His tone held no concern—only the kind of cool, detached observation she had come to expect from him.
His face was close now, inches away from hers. He leaned in, and his breath tickled her ear. "You think this is a game, don't you?" he whispered, his voice soft but threatening, like a caress before a strike. His lips brushed against her ear, and the words were a challenge, daring her to deny it.
Violet's pulse quickened, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she felt his presence more acutely than ever. He had always been able to provoke something deep inside her, a stirring of emotions she couldn't control, no matter how hard she tried.
But there was something else now—a coldness that seeped into her very bones, something more unsettling than the rain, something far more dangerous than the dark. She couldn't tell if it was fear or desire, but she couldn't seem to look away.
Tom pulled back just slightly, his grip never loosening. His eyes searched hers, calculating, as if waiting for her to make the next move. A smirk danced at the edges of his lips, not playful, but triumphant, as if he had already won.
"You've been gone so long," he said, the words laced with something dark and possessive. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."
For a split second, Violet felt the sharp sting of something she couldn't place. He hadn't changed—still the same man who demanded everything from her, still the same man who twisted her heart with a glance. She opened her mouth to respond, to throw the anger back at him, but the words died on her tongue.
He made everything feel as if it were part of his plan, part of his world—her world, whether she liked it or not.
Then, without warning, Violet slapped him, her palm connecting with his cheek with a sharp crack that echoed in the night.
For a moment, nothing moved. The air hung still, heavy with the shock of what had just happened. Tom's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but his face remained cold. He hadn't expected it, but there was no sign of the hurt she had hoped to see. His expression shifted only slightly—darkening as his gaze turned sharp.
"So," he murmured, his voice colder now, cutting through the space between them. "We're still playing games, then."
Before she could react, Tom yanked her toward him, pulling her into a kiss that was rough and possessive. His lips were demanding, taking more than giving, as if he were trying to claim what he thought was rightfully his. Violet's pulse hammered in her ears, her hands moving instinctively to grip his shoulders as the kiss deepened.
It wasn't love she felt. Not the kind she had imagined. It was something darker, something tangled with need and anger, with fear and lust all mixed into one. A dangerous game they were both trapped in, and neither one of them was ready to let go.
He pulled away after a moment, his breath ragged, but his expression unchanged. He looked at her, and for a brief second, his gaze softened, just the slightest hint of something that could almost be described as tenderness. Almost.
"Better," he said, his voice low and rough, as though the words had cost him something. Then, he kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering for a second too long. "I really missed you," he murmured into her damp hair.
Violet's heart fluttered, the words slipping under her defenses when she least expected it. For a moment, it felt like everything else—the rain, the world outside—ceased to matter. It was just them, trapped in the storm, and she let herself forget everything. For that brief moment, nothing else was real.
But then, just as quickly, Tom stepped back, his eyes scanning her with a calculating look. He noticed the state of her clothes, soaking wet, and his lips twitched slightly, though his voice held no true concern.
"You came here dressed like that?" His words weren't angry, but there was something darker in them, a quiet disapproval mixed with amusement.
Violet's lips curved into a faint, rueful smile. "Yeah, well, I figured out your riddle half an hour ago."
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, dangerous and dark, his smile curling into something predatory. "Let's get inside, then," he said, his voice dripping with a knowing authority.
Without waiting for her to respond, Tom grabbed her wrist once more, his grip firm and unyielding as he led her into the tavern, the door creaking shut behind them. The world outside was forgotten now—just another shadow in the dark.
The pub was full of noise when they entered, a cacophony of drunken laughter and casual chatter filling the air. But as soon as Tom stepped inside, the room fell silent. All eyes turned toward him—some filled with terror, others with reverence. There was an unmistakable respect that followed in his wake, an awareness of who he was and what he could do.
Violet felt their eyes on her, too. She had never been in a place like this before, surrounded by people who had blood on their hands, criminals and murderers who bowed their heads to the man beside her. She couldn't help but notice that every table they passed had at least one person bending their head in some form of deference to him. Here and there, she could hear quiet murmurs of "Good evening, my lord," or "How was your night, my lord?" The respect was palpable, and it sickened her to her core.
Tom, for his part, seemed to relish the attention, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He drank it in, feeding off the fear and admiration like an addict. He enjoyed the power. Violet couldn't deny that, but something inside her twisted at the thought of him thriving off such cruelty.
They reached the back of the pub, where a small table in the corner awaited them. As they sat down, a young boy—no older than Violet—approached, his face pale and his hands trembling. "W-what would you like to drink, sir?" His voice was shaky, filled with a fear so obvious, it made Violet uncomfortable.
Tom didn't answer right away. He looked at the boy for a moment, his eyes cold and calculating. "Whisky, neat," he said finally, his voice steady, almost like a command. He turned to Violet. "And you?"
"Coffee is fine," she murmured, pulling off her wet coat and feeling immediately self-conscious in her thin, damp pajamas. She was suddenly very aware of the whispers growing louder, the stares that followed her every movement.
Tom took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. His fingers brushed against her skin for just a moment too long, his touch almost possessive. "I like the view, very much," he said softly, his voice laced with something darker, "but if you don't want me ripping out the eyes of every man staring at you right now, I'd suggest wearing this." His tone was light, but there was an unmistakable edge to it, a warning she knew all too well.
The drinks arrived soon after, and the silence between them became heavier, thicker with tension. Violet couldn't look at him, not completely. She wasn't sure how to act, how to feel. She knew she had to get information out of him, to understand where he'd been, what he was planning, but her thoughts were a mess. What was she supposed to say to him? How could she even talk to him after everything that had happened?
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words died on her tongue. She just stared at her drink, fumbling for some semblance of composure.
Tom, ever perceptive, broke the silence. "Where were you?" His voice was quiet but demanding. "These past months, you aren't at Hogwarts. I know that."
Violet's throat tightened. She didn't want to tell him the truth. She didn't want to tell him that she'd been avoiding him, hiding from him. That she'd been terrified of what he was becoming, terrified of what he would do next. "I... can't tell you that," she said softly, her hands twitching in her lap, betraying her anxiety. "I'm fine. I'm safe."
"Safe?" Tom's voice took on a hard edge. "Safe from what? From me?" His eyes flashed with irritation, and Violet could see the flicker of anger behind his controlled exterior.
"No," she said quickly, trying to backtrack, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean like that. I meant... I'm okay. I've been fine."
"Fine?" He repeated, his tone growing more cynical. "You meant safe. Why do you need to be safe from me? Do you think I would hurt you?" His words were sharp now, demanding an answer, but his eyes—those magical eyes—were cold, distant, as if he were studying her to understand her, not to love her.
Violet's heart hammered in her chest, her blood running cold. She tried to fight the anger bubbling up in her. "Well, you go around killing people every day. People are terrified of you, Tom. They're scared to even say your name."
Tom leaned in close, his voice suddenly low and venomous. "I'm doing that for a better world, for a pure world," he said, the words flowing easily from his lips. "We can't be controlled by the Ministry anymore. We can't be puppets to their games. We have to stand up to them. If we don't, then who will? I'm doing this for us."
Violet felt her stomach twist. She had heard these arguments before, seen the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his "pure world." But now it felt different, more dangerous, more real.
"And who is going to control this world, then?" she asked, her voice trembling with disbelief. "You? How is killing Muggle-borns making the world better?"
Tom glanced around, making sure no one could overhear their conversation. Then, with that chilling calmness he was known for, he spoke. "Yes. I'll lead our world to glory. I won't let Muggle-borns be our equals. They're not. They never will be. There are more of them than us, it's only a matter of time before they make us their slaves. And I won't let that happen. We will have our rights. A pure world." His voice softened, and his hand found hers, gently holding it as though the touch was meant to soothe her. "You'll see, Violet. We'll be on top. You'll be mine, and nothing will stop us."
Violet recoiled, pulling her hand away. "Tom, you're crazy. You'll lose. This is a suicide mission."
Tom's eyes flashed with fury, but he held his composure. "No, darling, I'll win. And you know it. I see it in your eyes. I see the fear in them. You're scared, but there's no need. You are mine. And that means no one can touch you."
Violet stared at him, her heart breaking. "I won't join you, Tom," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "I can't."
Tom's grip tightened on her hand, his fingers squeezing so hard it hurt. "But how long can your resistance last?" he whispered, his voice cold, almost triumphant. "Your forces will fall. They'll die. It's just a matter of time. And when that time comes, you'll realize there's only one side in this war. My side. And you'll join me."
The pain in her chest felt like a physical ache as she stared at him, the man she once loved, the man who was now a stranger. His words cut deeper than any physical wound. Her love for him, the love she had once thought unshakable, was being slowly destroyed by his very hands.
"I'll never join you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
Tom smiled then, a dark, cold smile that sent chills down her spine. "I'm a patient man, Violet. You'll learn that soon enough. I always get what I want. One way or another." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And trust me, you don't want to test my patience."
He stood up, pulling her roughly from her seat by her wrist, and for a moment, she thought she might collapse. He walked her toward the door, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist, and she followed without thinking.
"I wish to see you again, love," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, a tenderness that felt utterly out of place.
Violet pulled away, her heart pounding in her chest. "I don't think so. Coming here was a mistake."
Tom chuckled darkly, the sound filling the air around them. "It wasn't a question, love." He moved closer, his lips brushing against hers in a cold, passionate kiss. She didn't return it, but he didn't stop. He forced her lips open, and she struggled against him, trying to break free, but he held her tighter, unrelenting.
When he finally pulled away, she shoved him back, taking a few steps back. Tom simply smirked, blowing her a kiss. "I love you, doll," he mouthed, his words sending a shiver through her.
Then he turned, walking away with that same confident stride, disappearing into the dark alley, his smirk still visible, as if he were savoring the moment, enjoying the power he had over her
Violet stood frozen for a moment, her body trembling, her lips still burning from the unwanted kiss. It wasn't passion she felt—far from it—it was disgust, a hollowness that churned her stomach and made her knees weak. She pressed the back of her hand to her lips, as if she could scrub away the sensation of him, but it clung to her like a shadow.
This wasn't Tom. Not the Tom she once knew, the boy who charmed her with his wit, whose laughter could light up the darkest corners of her heart. No, that Tom was gone. What stood in his place tonight was something else entirely. Someone darker, colder, crueler. A part of her still wanted to believe it wasn't real—that this was a nightmare she would wake from. But the bitter taste of reality lingered on her lips, and it was undeniable.
As she staggered down the cobbled street, Violet felt like she couldn't breathe. Her thoughts raced, a cacophony of memories and emotions crashing together. She thought back to the beginning of the evening, to the way he had smiled at her, his eyes still holding that glimmer of something familiar. He had been like twilight then—dark, yes, but not entirely. There were still those fleeting shades of color, those hints of warmth that made her believe, even if just for a moment, that her Tom was still there.
But it had been a lie. A mask. And as the night wore on, that mask fell away, piece by piece, revealing the truth. The twilight was gone now, and in its place was the consuming blackness of midnight. He wasn't Tom anymore. He wasn't the boy she had loved.
Her hands shook as she furiously wiped at her mouth, her skin raw and red from the effort. It didn't matter. She couldn't get rid of it—the memory, the taste of his lips. It wasn't sweet like it used to be, wasn't laced with the affection that had once made her weak in the knees. No, it tasted like death. Like poison. Like a warning of everything he had become.
Like a warning of everything he had become