Stranger

Chapter 22 - Overdrive

"I've been searching, desperately, for something—anything—about them. But there's so little left."

Violet's studies progressed, and with them, her research into Legilimency. Yet despite her efforts, she still found no trace of the Whitmores or any clues to unravel her grandmother's truth. Each day felt like she was slipping further away from understanding why her grandmother had done what she did.

At night, she would lie awake, wondering if her grandmother had been a Rowle through and through. Despite the letter and her apparent stand against the Dark Lord, had she eventually succumbed to Athius's plea to join them? Was that why she had obliviated her daughter and husband—because she couldn't escape the darkness that consumed her family? Violet's research into her other half of family had hit a wall. Her mind had started picking up pace this week. She felt the need to know. So she tried to push as much as she could. And It seemed her only option now was to speak with the teachers—someone who had been at Hogwarts when her parents attended. Snape had been her first thought, but their strained relationship made her hesitant to approach him. Instead, she had settled on Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, hoping she might offer some clarity.

Violet's steps were quiet as she entered Professor McGonagall's office, her fingers idly brushing over the edge of her cloak. The usual bustle of students and noise from the hallways seemed distant here, muffled by the stone walls and the soft ticking of a clock in the corner. McGonagall was seated at her desk, her quill scratching rhythmically against parchment. The professor barely lifted her gaze, but there was a sharpness in her demeanor that told Violet she had been noticed the moment she stepped inside.

"Yes, Miss Whitmore?" McGonagall's voice was measured, precise. "You're quite early for your lesson. Not that I mind punctuality, of course."

Violet stood by the door, uncertain for a second, then walked further into the room, her boots making soft clicks on the stone floor. "I had a question, Professor," she said, her tone clipped, masking the deeper questions swirling beneath her words.

McGonagall placed her quill down carefully, her eyes narrowing with interest. "And yet it doesn't seem to be about Transfiguration, does it? You excel too much in the subject to need additional help. So, what is it that troubles you?" There was a slight tilt of her head, an indication that she had already anticipated something more personal from Violet.

There was a pause. Violet's mind raced through the different ways she could phrase the question, her usual confidence momentarily shaken by the weight of what she was about to ask. "It's about my mother," she finally said, her voice colder than she intended, but there was no disguising the unease beneath it.

McGonagall's face softened slightly, the sharp lines of her features betraying a hint of surprise. "Rose Whitmore," she said, the name rolling off her tongue with a distant familiarity. "Yes, I remember her quite well. 1972 to 1979, if memory serves. An exceptional student." There was a brief moment where McGonagall's expression shifted, something almost nostalgic passing over her features.

Violet's heart thudded once in her chest. She had expected McGonagall to know something—after all, she was a teacher here during that time. But there was something in the way McGonagall said her name that made Violet's stomach tighten. "What was she like?" Violet asked, her tone deliberate, though there was an undercurrent of something more—something almost desperate for answers.