FROM EDEN | Mattheo Riddle

iii. Letter by the Water

The mystifying green glow that hung like a thick fog traversed each corner of the Slytherin common room. The place was quiet save for the crackling of wood. The aroma of charred bark invaded her senses while its orange flame cast an enigmatic silhouette over the objects it touched.

Violet took a deep breath, shoulders relaxing at the comfort it provided. A frayed book was perched upon her lap as her polished shoes rested on the wooden table. She had always loved reading, especially novels written by muggles. Perhaps it was their own kind of magic, the gift to create fictional characters and bring forth tides of emotions that washed upon its readers. A fantasy knitted into reality beneath their fingertips.

If her family were to ever find out about this notion, she would be deemed a blood-traitor, a degenerate filth that would face the scorn of pure-blood elitists. She knew the consequences of such treason, an Unforgivable.

Violet could still feel the excruciating pain that coursed through her veins, painting white streaks in her vision. Her elder brother, Rodolphus, had thrown the curse at the young girl after a heated argument. As soon as the words left his mouth, she had wished for death.

A shiver rose up her spine, her eyes glassing at the thought. Violet was envious of the men in her family, perceived as sovereigns destined to carry the line of purity and power. And what was she? What will become of her? A mere pawn in the game of marriage within pure-blood families. Her intellect and magical prowess reduced to a dam with a pedigree, awaiting to be auctioned to a worthy sire.

And if she were to produce heirs, her children would be theirs. Her previous person forgotten, a new persona along with a title that has replaced her surname. Why couldn't her husband take her name? After all, it were women that ensured the future of their line. Oh, what a laughing stock they are, Violet pondered.

"Violet," She groaned, recognizing the arrogant pitch of his voice anywhere. "Yes, Draco?" She murmured, not bothering to look at him.

"Professor Dumbledore wants to see you." He said impatiently, his left shoe tapping on the gravel.

At his name, the young witch had stiffened. What business did the headmaster have with her? Had she done something wrong? Surely it did not concern her grades; she took pride in her stellar marks.

"Why?"

"Why? Why don't you ask him yourself? I'm not your assistant, Lestrange." Draco drawled. Violet didn't miss the agitation in his voice, her gaze easily piercing through his turmoil.

She took this time to observe her capricious colleague. His face had assumed a gaunt appearance, and below the dim lights, the contours of his face looked skeletal. Gray crescent moons marked the thin moonlight skin under his eyes, he resembled a ghost.

"Are you alright?" The question left her lips in an odd tone.

"That's none of your business." He sneered. She expected the response, they were never friends.

She ignored his insolence, not wanting to add fuel to the fire. She'd bother him another day.

Violet begrudgingly stood up from the chair and protectively gripped the book in her hands. She walked past the blonde boy and outside the warmth of their common room, cold air hitting her cheeks as she journeyed towards the Headmaster's Tower. Numerous paintings lined the halls of her academe, its inhabitants giving the witch a drowsy stir as she walked by, paying no attention to the rogue loitering their halls at this ungodly hour.

As soon as she had reached the gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office, she was hit by the realization that she had not been given a password. She stood there, utterly depleted of energy, wanting nothing more than to pass out under her quilted sheets.

She took her wand out, flirting with the thought of blasting the damn griffin in front of her to gain entry. But before she could even mutter a spell, it had spun, and she quickly took a step on the platform.

She paused behind the door, anxiety rising like bile upwards her throat. A soft knock was made, and in return, she was greeted by a warm, jovial voice from the other side. "Come in."

"Professor, you asked for me?" Violet inquired politely, her stomach caged fluttering butterflies.

Dumbledore examined the young witch as she
walked towards his desk, his white beard stretching down his face like stratus clouds.

"Please have a seat, Miss. Lestrange," He told her as he handed out pieces of lemon drops.

She let her eyes waltz around the venue. More paintings adorned the tall wall of his office, the previous headmasters heartily snoring. Shelves covered the walls and were stacked with books, the leather bounds remaining intact despite their antiquity. Behind his desk was Fawkes, staring at the young witch inquisitively.

"Your parents have sent an owl for you." Dumbledore's voice rang out, and the butterflies in her stomach have withered. Her parents had never sent an owl for her, uncaring about her academic endeavors or sentiments. As long as she does not soil her surname, she was safe from their ill treatment.

And as Dumbledore conjured the violet envelope with their family insignia embossed on the wax, she knew her fate was just as sealed.