𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐭 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 | 𝐑.𝐀.𝐁

1.2

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Those last three weeks of freedom passed extremely slowly. Violet wanted to ask Sirius what had happened that night. She wanted answers. All she knew, was that someone may have used the forbidden curses to torture him. She didn't know who, she didn't know why, hell—she didn't even know if that's what really happened.

She'd brought the case her mother had asked for down to the living room and planned to stay by her side, passing her salves and potions as her mother asked for them.

Violet had stood in the room all of five minutes when Sirius roused, blinking slowly and taking in short, shallow breaths. He'd been conscious for just enough time to spot her and beg for her to be removed from the room before promptly losing consciousness once again.

He'd failed as a big brother once already that night, he refused to fail twice.

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A couple of days later, Sirius had hesitantly confessed the severity of his situation to Euphimia and Fleamont, as well as confirming whatever suspicions James may've had. That much was clear from her brother's frantic shouting behind the closed—and locked—guest room door Sirius had made his own.

"Why didn't you tell us? You said that would've been crazy! That we were wrong because it would be insane for that to happen!"

The three older Potters had talked the beaten boy into confessing the full truth, one he would only agree to give if Violet were to stay outside.

She was too pure, too sweet, and miles too protective for him to feel safe telling her. He was already conflicted about sharing with James, but he knew the boy would find out eventually—he could be smart when he wanted to. But Violet? He feared the little Potter would march her way right up to Grimmauld place herself to return the favor to his parents—and as much as he would love to see it happen—he couldn't sit by and allow her to jeopardize her safety like that.

So, Violet stayed oblivious to the cause. She'd asked once, but resigned not to bring it up again after watching Sirius' joints lock up and mind freeze at the question. He'd tell her at some point when he was ready, she had to have faith in that. For now, she'd just have to settle for being a steadfast shoulder for the breaking boy.

She'd be there whether he wished to talk or if he wanted to sit in silence. She'd be there to flip his records to the b-side when his legs were too weak and shaky to carry him across the room. She'd be there when his wounds—too severe to be healed completely by the tonics—needed redressing. She'd be there when he lay motionless in his bed, staring at the blank plaster ceilings, tormented by memories unknown to her.

She'd be there for him when he woke up in the middle of the night, shaken, and unable to return to sleep.

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The night was still and picturesque when the young Potter girl woke from her calm sleep. It was still late—somewhere along the lines of one or two—and she wasn't quite sure what woke her but she did know one thing.

She was thirsty.

Squinting her eyes, she scanned the small, cluttered surface on either side of the bed for the glass she'd usually kept nearby for nights like these. Eventually, she found the glass—but it was empty.

"James" she hissed, grinding her teeth in the pure unadulterated irritation reserved only for siblings, as the events of earlier that evening became clear in her sleep-muddled mind.