1st November 1981:
Fire. Coursing through her veins.
Red. Clouding her vision.
Smoke. Contaminating her hearing.
She had screamed. She had shouted.
'Pain', 'Loss', 'Grief'. That's what he had said to her; told her what she was feeling.
"YOU TOLD ME THEY WERE SAFE!" That's what she had screamed back; that's what she had shouted as she threw his bowl of stupid sweets on the floor.
"They were supposed to be safe," that's what she had cried, as she collapsed to her knees, "they weren't supposed to die."
"I am truly sorry, Violet," that's what he had whispered to her, as he knelt down beside her, a single tear leaking from his eye, letting her head rest on his shoulder, as the pain, the loss, the grief overflowed from her eyes.
She had felt a part of her die that night, with Lily.
Because, she would never be anything without Lily.
1st January 1982:
A part of her had died that night.
She was different now.
She was angry all through the day, and sad all through the night.
She threw herself into work, because if she would need to protect Harry, she would need to do it properly.
Harry.
The one thing she was fighting for; the one thing she would keep fighting for.
9 years, 7 months and 30 days.
Then she would get Harry, and then maybe she would forgive herself.
Things got better.
She had tea and played chess with Dumbledore on Sunday afternoon, per his own request. She spoke to her friends again; it was nice, she decided, to mundanely chat and gossip, it took your mind off things. She began to eat properly again: it no longer made her feel sick; her hip bones no longer jutted out at unnatural angles. She could now look in the mirror without wanting throw up. She stopped obsessing over the dark arts and its defenses; she kept her books, though, the ones with scribbles and notes, the ones with analysis.
Sometimes, there were moments, when Violet would want to give in; give in to the abyss that had manifested itself deep inside her chest. Some days, Violet would have to fight to keep herself from falling, but some days, some days Violet would wander, wander what would happen if her foot just slipped.
There was something about darkness, something magnetic that drew you, but not everyone got drawn. It was as if darkness itself chose who to infect, who to corrupt. There was no cure, no potion to make it go away. Nevertheless, there was something that kept it at bay, something that reciprocated its horrors: hope. Hope was all she had now, all she would ever have; she needed to keep it safe.
Hope was a funny thing. It was a terrible thing. It was a dangerous thing. It was all these things, but most importantly it was a happy thing. It came in many different forms: in people, in words, in love, in happiness. Her hope though, her hope was Harry. And she made a vow to herself, that she would preserve her hope with all she had, because she didn't want to slip into that abyss, she didn't want to find out what was hidden in the shadows. She would keep repelling the magnet, she vowed, until her last breath.