|Full name||Viola Minako Ross (née Vane)|
|Born||11 June 1924|
|Education||Hogwarts, Gryffindor (1935-42)|
|Skin colour||Light Olive|
|Other Family Members|
|Wand||Black walnut, 10 1/4", dragon heartstring, fairly bendy|
|Occupation||Resistance Taskforce Member (Codename: Kitsune; 1945- )|
Viola; violet. A flower.
Never have I felt so out of place than within the confines of my own name.
"Just call me Vi," I correct them, my smile forced but convincing, plastered on lips stained bright red, a warning these virtual strangers have failed to heed.
"But Viola is such a pretty name!" they declare, as if I haven't heard it a thousand times. As if it should still surprise and flatter me to hear it. "You should use it more often." I continue to smile, and say nothing.
All my life I have been told, directly or not, that I am here to look pretty and serve others and not much else. My name is only the first of many pieces of evidence I have collected in support of this fact. I must speak only when appropriate. I must act as a lady. I must not throw mud at boys who threw it at me first.
(He deserved it.)
Still, I learned to behave myself when it mattered. I learned to dress myself for my own benefit, and no one else's. I learned when to argue and when to let things go, most of the time. I still have trouble with that one.
I learned it all without my father. Perhaps I did it for his benefit.
Perhaps I did it to distract myself from his sudden absence.
Mudblood, come the whispers around me in the halls of Hogwarts, once I am old enough to go, though I am not a mudblood. "It's a common misconception," I say, pointedly, bluntly. "I am only half mud." I pretend the words don't sting, don't immediately bring up memories of my father. I think if they were bad memories, it would be easier.
Mother never talks about Father, and I wish she would. Instead she teaches me to perform the tea ceremony and to cook properly. She insists that I perform well at school, though there is not much there that holds my interest for long.
I straighten up as if on instinct, to prove that I am capable of being more than mud. As if I have anything to prove to these children with old money and ties to the Ministry.
Don't get angry, I tell myself, and immediately begin thinking of how to get revenge. I am a walking contradiction.
I stand in front of the mirror with my favorite red lipstick, smiling at the the imposing face on the other side of the glass.
Sometimes the prettiest flowers have the sharpest thorns.