Chapter Text
GRIMMAULD PLACE 2000
“You regret it, don’t you?”
Harry’s voice cut through the low murmur of bubbling cauldrons, an unwelcome interruption that echoed off the damp stone walls of the basement in Grimmauld Place. Violet didn’t turn. Her focus remained fixed on the six potions simmering before her, each one demanding her attention. She worked with the steady rhythm of habit but the weight of her brother’s presence curled tight in her chest. Harry always had that effect on her, pricking at wounds she thought she’d stitched closed.
The silence festered between them, yet Violet refused to meet his gaze. She didn’t need to look at him to feel his frustration. It radiated off him, filling the room like a Howler threatening to erupt. She’d known he was angry before he’d even reached the basement. His heavy footsteps carried the same restless energy he always had after one of his plans went awry, energy that seemed to crackle and spiral until it burst into chaos.
Three years into a war that now felt impossible to win, that chaos was all too familiar. The Order of the Phoenix, once a beacon of defiance, was crumbling under the sheer weight of Voldemort’s control. Their numbers were thinning, their resources stretched to breaking point and the trust that had once bound them together was starting to fray. Missions were planned in haste and riddled with mistakes, their outcomes often measured in lives lost rather than ground gained.
Violet couldn’t ignore the truth that no one wanted to say aloud.. the Order wasn’t winning, it was barely surviving. Every day felt like walking a thin line between defeat and outright annihilation.
“Regret what?” she said finally, her voice cold and distant. She stirred the cauldron, her eyes fixed on the way the potion thickened, shifting into the precise texture she needed.
Harry had always been terrible at silence, unable to let things lie. It was one of the many reasons she didn’t like being around her brother. His face, those round glasses, the unruly black hair always dragged her back to Privet Drive, back to those years trapped in a life without magic, without escape.
She imagined it had to be the same for him. Maybe that was why he couldn’t look at her for long without getting angry, why he didn’t care where she spent Christmas or whether she was left to fend for herself. He’d found his escape in the warmth of the Weasleys, surrounded by love and laughter she could never match. She didn’t blame him, not really but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.
Harry’s voice broke the quiet, “Regret siding with me. All you do is hide down here, meddling with dark magic while the rest of us are out there, risking our lives. You’re putting everyone on edge. Thinking you’re one dark spell away from joining the Death Eaters.”
Violet’s grip on the stirring rod tightened but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see her irritation. Her attention focused on the cauldron instead, watching the potion bubble and shift. His anger was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability.
They always brought out the worst in each other. Two dysfunctional children who didn’t know how to love, who had grown up learning that anger was easier than vulnerability.
Violet knew her cold, detached nature only fuelled Harry’s rage. She could see it in the way his fists clenched, his words sharpening when she gave him nothing to grasp onto. But she didn’t know how to soften. It wasn’t in her nature. Vulnerability had always felt dangerous, a chink in her armour that she couldn’t afford.
“If I regretted joining the order, I wouldn’t be here,” she said evenly, as she adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted.
Harry stepped closer, his frustration rolling off him in waves. “Then why do you have to be like this?” he demanded. “You say you want to end this war but all you do is shut yourself away down here. Do you even care what’s happening out there? Do you have any idea what they’re capable of, what we’re up against?” His words came out brittle with anger, rising in volume as if speaking them louder might force them past the walls she kept so firmly in place.
The edge in his voice sparked something in her, a flicker of that old fight-or-flight instinct she could never quite shake. The thought of Vernon rose unbidden, his shouting, his towering rage, the way his anger filled the house until there was no room to breathe. Even now, years removed from Privet Drive, the memory made her chest tighten, made her fingers twitch with the urge to either lash out or run.
“I don’t have time for this,” she hissed. Finally, she looked up, her gaze meeting his with an icy precision. Their green eyes, so alike yet worlds apart, clashed in the tense air between them.
Despite their matching green eyes and dark hair, the Potter siblings couldn’t have looked more different. Harry’s hair was a wild, untameable mess, sticking up in every direction as though it had a mind of its own. His face, framed by round glasses that always seemed slightly askew was open and boyish, with a softness that clung to him despite all he’d endured.
Violet, on the other hand, wore her sharpness like armour. Her hair, though the same jet-black shade was long and lifeless, falling in a heavy curtain down her back. Where Harry’s face was all warmth and animation, hers were cold and emotionless. Her features sharped by age, the softness having long deserted her.
“I don’t have time to constantly reassure people that you’re not going to switch sides, yet here we are!” Harry snapped.
A sharp, humourless laugh escaped her. “You? Defending me? Don’t make me laugh. Let’s not pretend you’d ever waste your energy defending me. And when things go wrong, you always have me to blame. Isn’t that right, brother?”
The words struck a nerve, and Violet felt a twisted satisfaction at the reaction, even though she knew it would make everything worse. It was inevitable. Harry’s fury was like a storm, always waiting to break. His hand shot out and in a blur of motion, he knocked over the nearest cauldron with savage force.
The crash was deafening, metal clanging against stone and the blood red potion splattered across the floor, hissing and smoking as it spread across the ground. The acrid scent of burning herbs stung her nostrils, but it barely registered in her mind.
Before she could react, Harry was in her space, his hands shoving her hard against the workbench. Violet stumbled back, her palms slapping against the edge for balance. The anger in his face was visceral, the tension in his body coiled and ready to snap.
For a moment, they both stood there locked in that charged silence, her breath coming in quick bursts, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his fury. She could feel the heat of his rage, thick and suffocating. It pressed against her but she didn’t flinch. She never did. He wasn’t the only one who could react, the only one who carried anger like a blade in his hand. They had both learned to strike first, to bury their pain in bitterness and sharp words. They were locked in this cycle, neither knowing how to break free. The destruction, the rage, the push and pull.. it was all they knew.
The silence stretched, thick with years of unresolved tension. The spilt potion began to burn through the stone floor, the cauldron still smouldering, adding an eerie red glow to the darkened basement.
“Do you think this is some game?” he snarled, his voice raw with emotion. “Do you even care how many people we lost today?”
Violet’s fingers twitched, her jaw tight as she resisted the urge to snap. If it wasn't for the urgent list of potions the hospital wing had demanded, she would have punched that snarl off his face. Instead, she kept her voice steady and cool even as the simmering anger within her threatened to break free.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” she replied, her words clipped, a sharp contrast to his outburst. She flicked her wand and with practised ease, summoned a jar of scarab beetles. She tossed them into the cauldron, watching as the potion shifted from a dull slate grey to a vibrant, poisonous yellow.
She didn’t look up as she spoke again, her voice sharp, each word a calculated strike to hurt. “If you want someone to blame, start with Kingsley for signing off on your bloody suicidal missions. Or maybe, take a good look at your own mess before you come barging in here with no care for fact I have potions to brew to save the soldiers you were responsible for.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the ruined cauldron he’d knocked over, the potion seeping into the floor in a glowing crimson stain. “Oh, and while you’re at it, go tell Hermione the blood replenisher won’t be ready for another five hours, courtesy of your little tantrum.”
Violet gestured toward the cauldron Harry had sent crashing to the floor, its contents ruined. Harry’s fists clenched, his entire body tensing with barely contained fury. For a moment, his glare burned into her, and she braced herself for another outburst. But instead, he spun on his heel, his anger rippling through the space as he stormed up the stairs. The door slammed behind him, the violent thud echoing through the basement.
Violet let out a slow breath, her shoulders tight with residual tension. She flicked her wand again, cleaning the spilt potion from the floor and righting the fallen cauldron.
The bubbling of the remaining cauldrons filled the silence, their rhythmic sounds soothing in their familiarity. She returned to her work, letting the motions calm the anger still simmering inside her.
FLASHBACK 1992
“SLYTHERIN!”
Violet couldn’t help but let a frown grace her features as she replayed the Sorting Hat’s decision once again in her mind. It had been all she had thought about in the days after the horrible encounter with the Sorting Hat. Her stomach twisted as she remembered the moment after the Sorting Ceremony when she had spotted her brother across the hall. Harry’s face had been a mix of disbelief and disappointment - no, that wasn’t right, it was worse than that. He hadn’t even looked at her when she made her way to the Slytherin table. He’d just turned away, like someone who had just been told the worst news of their life.
Slytherin.
Being seen as strange and unwanted was nothing new for her. Growing up with the Dursleys had made her intimately familiar with the sting of ridicule. The unspoken rule that she never belonged anywhere. Bouts of accidental magic had only made her a target for bullying in primary school as if the world already had enough trouble with her mere existence.
But her brother… he had been her constant, her only ally. He’d always taken the brunt of it for her, always standing between her and the harshness of the world.
And now?
Now he wasn’t even looking at her.
The sound of murmured conversation and laughter surrounded her, but it felt like she was encased in a bubble of isolation. The students around her, the Slytherins, were all giving her sidelong glances, clearly unsure of what to make of her. Was she like them? Or was she… different? She wasn’t sure. It was easier to pretend to be invisible than to figure it out.
A week had passed since the Sorting, and Violet had kept mostly to herself, retreating into the quiet corners of the library whenever she wasn’t in class. So far, no one had bothered her.
Until now.
The only sound was the soft rustle of turning pages as she hunched over her book, the world narrowing to ink and parchment. Suddenly a floorboard creaked. Her head snapped up.
A figure stood leaning against the bookcase, robed in dark green, his arms crossed and a smirk playing on his pale, freckled face. Bright green eyes met hers with unsettling directness.
Theodore Nott.
He’d been sorted into Slytherin just before her. With most classes arranged alphabetically, they’d often ended up side by side. He hadn’t seemed to mind the silence she offered him, if anything, he seemed to thrive in it.
For a moment, she couldn’t tell if he meant to walk past or stop. His footsteps were light but intentional, bringing him closer until he stood just beside her table.
He didn’t sit right away. He lingered, assessing the scene like he was weighing whether it was worth disturbing her sanctuary. Then, with fluid confidence, he slid into the chair opposite her.
He didn’t speak, his eyes moved over the clutter of books and notes strewn across the table, his gaze thoughtful.
“You’re a hard witch to track down,” he said at last, voice low and edged with dry amusement. “I thought I was good at vanishing into the shadows. But you’re something else.”
Violet blinked at him, unsure what to make of the unexpected attention. Of all people, she hadn’t imagined him seeking her out. She glanced back at her book, trying to ignore the strange weight of his presence but it was no use. His gaze lingered, filling the quiet space between them.
He smirked, clearly amused by her silence, like he’d expected nothing less. Then, without waiting for a response, he slid something across the table - a small, unmarked glass jar. The faint scent of lavender drifted up from it, light and clean, out of place in the dusty library air.
Violet blinked at it. Narrowed her eyes. The jar looked harmless enough, but there was something about the casual way he offered it that immediately made her suspicious.
“What?” she asked, her tone more warning than question.
Theodore glanced around the library, scanning the shelves and nearby students before leaning in slightly. His voice dropped, conspiratorial.
“For your wrist,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Her whole body tensed. Instinctively, her eyes darted to her left arm. Her sleeve was pulled low, as always, but she could still feel the bruise beneath it, the dark, hand-shaped shadow Uncle Vernon had left behind. She wasn’t even sure what had set him off this time. He rarely needed a reason.
“My wrist?” she echoed, sharper than intended. Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles white.
Theodore raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Unless you’d like to roll up your sleeve and prove me wrong,” he said, with the lazy confidence of someone who already knew he was right. “Don’t worry, I’m not asking for anything. Just take the salve.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him, her wariness only deepening.
“My house-elf made it,” he added with a shrug, like that explained everything. “Works better than anything the Pomfre hands out, and doesn’t smell like mouldy lemons.”
He nudged the jar closer. His signet ring caught the light as he moved, along with the pale scars across the back of his hand. Four small dots in a straight lines, neat and white against his skin.
She noticed.
“Oh, that?” Theodore said, catching her staring. His voice dipped into mock seriousness. “Tragic accident. Attacked by a four-fanged snake while saving a helpless puppy. Very heroic.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “It was a fork.”
He blinked, thrown off his script. Then laughed, quick and surprised, like no one had ever called his bluff.
“How’d you know?”
Violet hesitated, then shifted in her seat and tugged up the hem of her skirt just enough to show a faint, silvery scar across her thigh - four matching dots.
“My cousin,” she said dryly. “He doesn’t like sharing food.”
Theodore’s brows lifted, but he didn’t make a joke. Didn’t offer sympathy either. Just gave a low whistle.
“Fork fight veterans,” he said at last, tapping the back of his hand like it was a badge of honour. “We should start a club. Strict no cutlery policy.”
Violet let out a quiet huff of air that might have been the beginning of a laugh.
“Hey,” he added, nudging the jar again, “I’m not trying to pry. Just figured you’d rather use this than keep flinching every time you pull your sleeve down too fast.”
She didn’t respond. Just stared at the jar, conflicted. After a long moment, she reached for the jar. Her fingers brushed his briefly. The contact was nothing, but it settled something between them.
Violet never asked how Theodore got his scar. Or who left it there.
But over time, as the years passed and their friendship settled into something deeper, something that felt like family. Like siblings forged in the same storm. They became nearly inseparable. She learned how to tend to the wounds he never spoke of. The visible ones, first. Then the kind that left no bruises, but hurt all the same. Two sharp-edged kids who knew what it was to grow up in houses where the walls didn’t protect you. They learned to look out for each other. To stitch each other back together when the world tore too hard.
And Violet, who had always been better at damage than repair, started learning how to heal. Starting with him.