Chapter 35
The attic was suffocating, not just from the dust that clung to every surface but from the weight of silence that pressed upon them all. The small, cramped space above Primrose's old shop was their sanctuary and their prison. They had been here for two weeks, waiting—waiting for word, for a sign, for anything that would tell them they were not completely abandoned. But none had come.
The windows were covered with tattered sheets, letting only the faintest slivers of light seep through. A single cracked pane in the farthest corner gave them a view of the outside world—a world that no longer felt like theirs. From there, Violet had spent countless hours staring down at the streets below, watching shadows move between the ruins of Diagon Alley. The once-vibrant heart of the wizarding world was now a ghost town. Shops were shuttered, their signs swinging lifelessly in the wind, and the cobblestones were slick with filth and dried blood. Death Eaters roamed like wolves, their black robes billowing, their eyes hunting for prey.
Inside, hunger gnawed at them all. The food they had brought was long gone. For days, they had stretched what little they had—rationing bits of stale bread, a few dried beans, a single apple split five ways. But now, even the crumbs were gone.
Molly, her face pale and drawn, sat against the wall, her hands protectively resting on her stomach. She was only a few months along, but the stress of hiding had taken its toll. Arthur sat beside her, an arm around her shoulders, whispering soft reassurances that neither of them believed. Kingsley paced in the small space, his fingers tightening into fists every time his eyes flicked toward the covered window. And Slughorn, once so grand and proud, sat hunched in the corner, muttering to himself, his mustache twitching with nerves.
Violet sat apart from them, her knees pulled to her chest, staring blankly at the floorboards. Eve was gone. The words rang in her head like a death knell. The Death Eaters took her. Barty Crouch Jr. took her.
She clenched her fists. Barty.
Once upon a time, she had called him a friend. A good friend. Eve had too. Before the war, before the world had split into light and dark, before he had chosen his side. Had he hesitated when they took her? Had he looked at Eve and remembered their childhood, their laughter, the long nights spent in the common room whispering about the future?
Or had he simply raised his wand and done what was expected of him?
Violet wanted to believe there had been mercy. But Death Eaters spared no one.
She exhaled shakily and looked around. They had spent two weeks in this attic, too afraid to leave, waiting for a word that never came. Dumbledore was gone. The Order was scattered. The Ministry had fallen silent.
And they were starving.
"We need food," she murmured.
Everyone looked at her.
"We can last another night," Arthur said carefully.
"No, we can't," she said. "We haven't eaten in days."
Molly opened her mouth as if to argue, but her silence spoke volumes.
"I'll go," Violet said.
"No," Kingsley said immediately. "It's too dangerous. The Death Eaters—"
"They won't kill me."
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Everyone knew it was true. Tom Riddle would never kill her. He wanted her too much. He was obsessed with finding her, with bringing her back to him. The entire wizarding world knew it. Every Death Eater he sent out had orders to hunt her down. But they had failed. She had remained hidden.
She stood, pulling her hood over her head. "I can move through the streets. No one will suspect me if they don't see my face."
Arthur looked unconvinced, but Molly's eyes were pleading. She's pregnant, Violet thought. She needs to eat.
"I'll be careful," Violet promised. "I just need to get some food. I won't be gone long."
Silence.
Then, finally, Kingsley exhaled and handed her a handful of sickles. "Buy from someone desperate," he said. "Someone who won't remember your face."
She nodded, tucked the coins into her pocket, and turned toward the attic door.
She had barely touched the handle when Arthur spoke.
"If you're caught—"
"I won't be," she cut him off.
But they all knew that if she was, she wouldn't die.
She would be taken to him.
***
The air outside was thick with the stench of fire and rot. The streets were nearly deserted, save for the occasional Death Eater sweeping through the rubble, wands drawn, looking for survivors. Some buildings still stood, but many had been reduced to ruins. The Leaky Cauldron's windows were shattered, its door left ajar as if its last visitor had fled in a hurry.
Violet kept her head down, her hood casting shadows over her face. Every step felt like a risk, but she moved with purpose, heading toward a narrow alley where she knew desperate traders gathered in secret.
She had only taken a few steps when she saw it.
A crumpled pile of newspapers on the ground, the pages fluttering weakly in the wind.
She hesitated, then bent down, fingers shaking as she picked one up.
The Daily Prophet.
Her eyes scanned the front page.
"A New Era of Purity: The Dark Lord's Vision Unfolds"
By Bernard Hilliard, Senior Correspondent
The article was sickening. It painted a twisted picture of Tom as a savior, a revolutionary who had brought "stability" to the wizarding world. It celebrated the removal of "unworthy bloodlines" from society, hailing the new restrictions placed on Muggle-borns as necessary for the preservation of wizarding purity. Words like "cleansing" and "reformation" were used with horrifying casualness, their meanings razor-sharp beneath the surface.
Her stomach churned as she read about Hogwarts—her Hogwarts—now a fortress of fear. The castle had become a place of indoctrination, where students were no longer taught to think freely but to serve blindly. The curriculum had been twisted, focused on the glorification of the Dark Arts and the supremacy of pure-blood ideology. Those who dared resist were dealt with harshly, their disappearances whispered about in terrified tones.
She stopped at a certain line, her stomach twisting.
The Dark Lord has expressed great interest in locating a certain student who has unfortunately gone missing. Those with any knowledge of Violet Alas's whereabouts are encouraged to report to the nearest authority immediately.
She clenched her jaw.
He was still searching for her.
Violet's fingers trembled as she folded the newspaper and slipped it beneath her cloak. The words burned in her mind—Hogwarts, under Voldemort's rule. The Ministry, failing. Her name, in print, hunted.
She pulled her hood lower, blending into the shadows. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, an ache she had long since stopped acknowledging. Two weeks without proper food, surviving on what little they had managed to scavenge in the attic. Molly was growing weaker, her pregnancy making the hunger more unbearable. Kingsley was restless. Arthur tried to keep their spirits up, but they were all starving.
Violet had no choice—she had to find food.
She moved cautiously, footsteps barely audible against the stone. The cold bit at her skin, but she welcomed it. It kept her awake, alert. Her fingers clutched the few coins in her pocket, their weight far too light for what she needed. Prices had skyrocketed; merchants either fled or hoarded their supplies, unwilling to sell to just anyone.
A flickering lantern revealed a lone vendor near the ruins of an old apothecary. His cart stood shrouded in tattered cloth, the smell of stale bread and dried meat drifting from within. He was hunched over, cloaked in rags, his beady eyes scanning the street as if expecting trouble.
Violet approached carefully.
"How much?" Her voice came out hoarse from disuse. She gestured at a loaf of bread, small and hard as stone.
The man eyed her, suspicious. "Five Sickles."
Too much. Far too much. She swallowed, her fingers tightening around her few remaining coins.
"Three," she countered.
His lip curled. "Four. Final offer."
Violet hesitated—then a shout rang through the alley.
She stiffened, whipping around.
Two figures emerged from the fog, their black robes dragging against the damp street. Death Eaters.
She turned back to the vendor, but he was already retreating, snatching up his wares and disappearing into the shadows.
Her breath hitched.
The figures strode closer. One of them, a man with slicked-back hair and cruel, dark eyes, murmured something to his companion. A hooded woman nodded.
Violet took a slow step backward, heart pounding.
They're looking for someone.
She knew that stance, that deliberate way they scanned the alley. They weren't just patrolling. They were hunting.
They were hunting her.
She needed to move. Now.
Keeping her head low, she turned sharply down a narrow passageway, the walls closing in on either side. The alley was suffocating, wet stone pressing against her as she quickened her pace. She knew these streets—had wandered them countless times before—but now, they felt foreign. Twisted.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
Violet forced herself to stay calm, to keep moving.
But then—a voice. Low. Commanding.
"Stop."
She froze.
A shadow stepped forward from the alleyway, detaching itself from the darkness as if it had been part of it all along. The glow of a distant streetlamp caught the edge of a familiar face.
Julius.
Her breath hitched. He wasn't in his Death Eater robes, nor wearing a mask—just a high-collared black coat, perfectly fitted, the way it always was. His dark eyes met hers, and for a fleeting second, she saw something in them. Amusement? Satisfaction? Or was it something far worse?
She turned to run.
He was faster.
A hand gripped her wrist before she could take a single step, fingers tightening with a bruising force.
"Little sister," Julius murmured, voice low, smooth—dangerous.
Violet jerked against his grip, but it was useless. He was taller, stronger, and she had no wand in her hand. He had planned this. He had been waiting.
"Let go," she hissed, trying to mask the panic in her voice.
"Let go?" he repeated, tilting his head. "I thought you'd be happy to see me. You have no idea how much effort I've put into finding you."
Violet clenched her jaw. "So you can drag me back to him?"
A smile played at his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You say that as if I have a choice."
He was toying with her. He always did. Even when they were younger, before the war, before the madness. But this was different—this was now, and Julius was no longer just her brother. He was a monster with her blood in his veins.
"I don't belong to him," Violet spat.
Julius exhaled sharply, almost laughing. "Don't you?" His voice was soft, as if he was speaking a truth too obvious to deny.
She stiffened.
"Tom wants you back," he continued, "but I wonder—do you really think you can stay hidden forever? You look... hungry." His eyes flicked to the empty sack in her hand. "You must be starving. Tell me, little sister, how long has it been since you've eaten?"
She said nothing.
Julius reached into his coat, withdrawing something wrapped in brown paper. He didn't speak as he held it up, letting her smell it. Bread. The scent of it twisted something inside her stomach.
"Take it," he said simply.
Violet hesitated.
"Come now," he chided, voice honey-smooth. "It's just food. And if I wanted to turn you in, I wouldn't have bothered with this little game. I would have taken you straight to him."
She knew better than to trust him. But her hunger clawed at her insides, blurring the edges of her fear.
She reached for the food.
Julius let her take it.
But the moment her fingers brushed against his, he tightened his grip—just enough to make her realize she wasn't free, not really.
"You'll never escape him," he murmured. "Or me."
Violet wrenched her hand back, stepping away. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes never left her.
She turned and ran.
Julius didn't stop her.
But she knew, as she disappeared into the night, that he had let her go.
For now.
For now