The Years of Riddle

Chapter Sixty-Six | Scotland, January 1998

                 

Chapter Sixty-Six

Scotland, January 1998

On a windy, tree lined lane, Violet Lacroix had made her home. She had married a Scottish man, raised her two children on fresh air and quidditch, given them contés rather than crayons.

The day Violet got married, Silas had stepped outside the quiet little church in their village and sobbed. He couldn't have stopped even if he tried; he had seen her, wearing white, flowers in her hair, cheeks rosy. Her smile had made him weak in the knees, simply because he had worried that he would break the promise he had made to Gwyn, on her death bed – that he would look after her, she would find someone who loved her, no one mean spirited or selfish.

The day her son was born, he had wept. Gwyn had never really gotten to see Violet as a young woman, an adult; she would always be seven years old, a child whose mother was dying. And now Violet was a mother herself. Her daughter was born three years later, and Silas had cried again – because he knew Violet had been scared of having a daughter, as she had so little experience being one herself.

Today, Violet was a forty-five year old woman. She had a home and a family, made a living as an illustrator. He walked around the side of the house, knowing she would be in her studio, cups of tea and paint water in mugs that looked too similar. He could see her in what had once been a shed, the panes of glass a bit warped; the aged glass smoothed her face, still young in Silas' eyes. She waved from within, stepped out, wrapping her sweater more tightly around her. A deep orange watercolour pencil was sticking out of her bun.

"Hullo you," she whispered as he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her frame – like Gwyn's. "Come in, I'll put the kettle on. Stuck my paintbrush in my current cup anyway."

Chuckling, Silas shook his head and followed her into the house, an old cottage well loved and worn. Violet moved about her kitchen, setting a plate of cookies in front of him, along with a series of sketches of her husband, Ogden, reading a newspaper, or napping on the couch. "He's lovely to draw," she smiled through her words, softly, "even after all these years I never tire of drawing his face."

"Hasn't been that many years, Vi." He found a sketch of Anthony and Hal in the pile, holding hands, sat on the living room couch of their childhood home. "This one is nice."

"Hm, yeah – I was thinking of doing a bigger version, giving it to them for their anniversary."

"I'm sure they'd love that." He studied it for a while longer, looking at the lines in Anthony's face, the way he held himself – and was startled to see that it was just how he, Silas, held his own body. It was such a shock, to see his own mannerisms in his father, that Silas felt tears come to his eyes.

"Silas?" Violet leaned down, worried gaze casting over him. "What's wrong?"

"I just...we sit the same." He choked out, a tear dripping down his cheek, falling onto his pants. "I never noticed."

"You walk the same too." Said Violet gently, sitting in the chair beside him. "Have you really never seen it, how similar you are?"

Silas looked up, into the face that resembled Anthony's – all he'd ever wanted as a kid, to look like his father. And he had all along. "Never."

"Oh Sy." Violet hugged him fiercely, and he felt her tears on his neck, and let out a sob. Grown people, crying in a kitchen, over something as simple as posture – this was what years of war and secrets did, weighed down on you until you broke.

"I have something to show you." She said, standing. Taking his hand, she led him back into the garden, into her studio. "What do you think?" she asked nervously.

Silas could only let out a deep breath. Violet stood nervously next to a painting, of a woman, sitting in a window seat; she had eyes the colour of lightly steeped tea, of sunlit amber, chestnutty curls falling out of a loose braid, a book half open in her lap. She had Silas' smile, a twist to her lips, freckles aged by sun and sadness. Silas could see himself in her, could see the Gwyn he remembered.

"That's Mamma." He said finally. "How...you captured her perfectly."

Violet shrugged lightly. "Pictures obviously, one in particular...but mostly memories, and you. Whenever I look at you...I see her."

Silas wanted to look at the painting forever, but he turned away, walked out the door, into the garden that turned into forest and moor and hills, water and wind. He closed his eyes, tilted his head to the sky. He felt Violet behind him, nervous.

"Violet?" Silas opened his eyes, looking at her in the afternoon light, still made up on gold and light, curls and laughter. He couldn't look at her when he said it – why now, he didn't know. Maybe it had just gotten too heavy to bear any longer. In the cold January garden, he let it go, closed his eyes again.

"Tom Riddle, Vol...Voldemort is my biological father."

Her mouth turned up every so slightly, she tucked her hair behind her ear. "I know Silas."

"The man terrorizing the Wizarding world, killing our friends – is my father."

He heard her step forward, and she took his hand. "Look at me Silas."

Silas opened his eyes. She was smiling at him.

"Anthony is our father, you are my brother – that man is nothing, and this means nothing to me. Okay?"

Silas nodded slowly, and the siblings hugged once more, the portrait of their mother smiling at them through the warped windowpanes.

A/N: that was a big moment for Silas. I was going to make this a bit more chatty? but I just sort of wrote and this happened. Hope you like it.

My last exams are tomorrow, and then I am freeee to write, write, write!

Question: as the culmination of the war draws closer...what is in store for Silas?!

Rose