NOTE: From now on, I am attaching youtube Harry Potter soundtracks that you can play while reading the chapter. I believe it will help you enjoy the story more.

TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF BLOOD AND MAGIC CREATURE DEATH, KNIFE USAGE!

MAXWELL NOTT - THE ARCHIVIST

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tales of Beedle The Bard.

It was almost half-past the sixteenth hour of the clock, and to anyone who passed by the castle's iced gardens, nothing would seem out of the ordinary. The white landscape was much as it had always been, with stone benches lining the castle's wall, blackened trees standing against the violet horizon, and the icy lake reflecting the dusky rays of light that escaped through the clouds. The only unusual thing was, perhaps, the sickly figure of a pale girl scurrying through the trees, but her skin had lost all trace of vitality, and her white robe made her blend in with the snowy surroundings.

There was a book in her hand, and it seemed to be as dull as the December day. A fairy-tale volume, at that, and besides scanty commentary on the odd reading topic for her age, no person would suspect that something was amiss. Her face was stoic, as it had always been, but her soul was in turmoil, and her eyes betrayed the dread that had taken over her mind.

She knew that time was not on her side and that her foolhardiness could cost her significantly, especially while casting such dangerous spells on school grounds. However, the girl's vanity had been hurt recently, and she wanted to prove to herself that she was still capable of such ancient magic.

How she was so composed, nobody would know, the only telling being the faint tremor in her hands and the way her ears were slightly peaked as she carefully listened to her surroundings. But then again, it was unusual for someone to have such mobility in their ears, which in some way added to her strangeness.

More so, could nobody tell that she was supposed to attend her last class of the winter semester, or perhaps, take one of her exams? Indeed, she was not supposed to be out in the chilly nightfall wind, wandering around like a lost deer.

So why did nobody notice her as she entered the Forbidden Forest, and why did nobody try calling out for her once the blizzard hid her shape behind a swirl of vicious snowflakes? Well, perhaps they just did not care, barely registering her moving figure against the flattened horizon, or maybe they were too frightened to stop her.

She was a witch, after all, and not just any kind. The girl had grown far away from this land, and because of that, many of her peers feared her. There were whispers about her skill, fantastic tales about the dragons she had encountered, and the black magic she had performed. And to every fable, there was a planted seed of truth.

***

The ticking sound of the clock that stood on Professor Herbert Beery's desk was infuriating to Maxwell Nott, and although he had finished his exam, he was going over his answers one last time. He threw a meaningless glare at the inanimate object, wishing he could make it shatter into pieces with a simple Reducto curse.

Fine wooden clock, perhaps created circa 1867 by the emblem on the side, and it has golden speckles in the numbers, so either it is magical, or Herbert Beery enjoys spending unnecessary money on muggle devices.

Maxwell scrunched his nose; he would not put it past his irritating teacher to do such a thing. After all, he had an odd affinity for the arts, perhaps even more so than magic, and his character was weak.

Made of beech wood, however, so whoever had it designed must be wise. Nevertheless, they could just also be a pompous arse who wants to appear intellectual. Hm, it fits Herbert Beery then.

The Slytherin boy thought back to his own wand, made of the same tree, and a shadowy smirk rested on his lips. Of course, the wand had been extremely submissive to him, but it would rarely work to its full capacity if owned by a narrow-minded wizard. He would not doubt that the clock was simply a reshaped wand, a desperate attempt of a failing wizard to conceal his shame.

Maxwell got up, then, and went over to the desk to hand in his exam. The Professor peered up at him, glasses almost sliding off of his chunky nose in surprise, and he scrambled in his chair to pull himself together.

"Done already, Nott?" he asked, grabbing the boy's paper and skimming it over.

Maxwell nodded.

"Very well, you can leave then, although there is still at least thirty minutes left of the exam, so if you wanted to look over it once again..."

The boy was not paying attention; however, his eyes had been caught by something moving outside of the window, a figure skitting through the harsh blizzard and heading for the forest. He recognized the awfully coiled hair, and his mouth turned downwards in displeasure—Varya Petrov, the bothersome little vixen that had ruffled everyone's feathers.

Maxwell Nott did not like her. As a matter of fact, he found her presence to be insufferable, and alongside Abraxas Malfoy, he was the one who had been the coldest to her. They had never truly spoken, and he did not mind it one bit, too preoccupied with his studies to pay Varya much mind. He found it ridiculous how infatuated Icarus Lestrange was with her, and Maxwell did not understand how the boy could let himself be so distracted from their conquest. That is why Nott had decided not to entertain any of the girls that followed him around the library; he had better things to do.

He shot a glance at the front of the class, where Tom Riddle was scribbling the last few answers on his exam. He admired the boy greatly, as he was an excellent match for him academically, the two always competing against each other. Shamefully, Nott had to admit that he was always coming in second to the boy, because no matter how much time he spent studying, Riddle was just ahead of everyone else. However, Tom was only interested in magical subjects, whereas Nott thirsted for knowledge of all sorts.

Then, Varya Petrov came, and Maxwell Nott had a newfound competitor, which made him despise the girl even more. She was a thorn in his side, always inserting herself in equations she was never meant to be part of. She stuffed her nose in everyone's business, to the point where she had even managed to distract Tom Riddle.

And that, to Nott, was worse than anything, because without Riddle focusing on his ascension to power, the corrupt wizarding world would continue thriving. Maxwell had associated himself with Riddle for multiple reasons, and one of them was their shared opinion that the world was in need of reform. And he thought their leader would be the perfect catalyzer, so ruthless and objective in his ways.

As soon as Varya had made her appearance, however, Riddle had been obsessed with figuring her out, finding a way to use her powers to his benefit. He had even made Maxwell look into her past, her school, and try to determine why she had moved institutions. The search came back empty.

Another reason for which she was infuriating.

Tom Riddle caught his gaze, and when Maxwell nodded towards the foggy window, his eyes followed, widening slightly as he saw Varya Petrov enter the forest. He sent Nott a look, and the boy nodded, knowing very well what it meant.

Maxwell turned to the Professor, who was waiting for him to answer whatever it was that he had asked, holding a feathered quill in his hand.

Peacock feathered, which means that it came from a male bird, and by the distinguishable traces of green that start at the base of it, most probably sold by Garrick Ollivander. He owns a peacock that loses feathers a lot. Professor Dumbledore has a similar one.

"Thank you, Professor Beery," with that, he headed out of class, not caring for what the actual question had been.

Maxwell was to follow Varya into the woods, and until Tom would finish his exam, he had to keep a careful distance as he observed whatever it was that she was doing. Frankly, he was not the one to usually take on such tasks, Tom preferred others when it came to spying, such as Avery, or even Rosier, but both were at least half an hour away from completing their exam.

He was the one that was supposed to spend his days in the library, collecting all necessary information for whatever scheme they were working on and then report back to Tom, who would then revise the information and determine its value.

Now that he thought of it, he should have realized something was amiss when he did not see Varya taking her exam, but, to be fair, he had never cared for her presence much and had just assumed she was late.

Maxwell went down the moving stairs quickly, his taffy brown hair bouncing, and his eyes, the color of the green moss that grew on the oldest and most robust trees, so protruding and deep, caught the light of each candle that he passed. His clothes were immaculately styled, with his tie so tight it squeezed against his trachea, and gray sweater tucked tidily in dark pants. He made sure to press his robes every night, a technique he had learned from reading so many muggle literature books. For research, of course.

As he reached the first floor, he stopped in front of the girls' bathroom, and a sly sneer made its way to his lips.

The Chamber of Secrets, constructed by Salazar Slytherin, contains a basilisk. Basilisks are dangerous creatures, born from a chicken's egg, hatched underneath a toad. They are the King of Serpents—information found in the Most Macabre Monstrosities volume.

A small scoff went past his lips as he thought about what they were plotting, about Tom finally opening the Chamber and releasing the monster, implicitly terrorizing every muggle-born witch and wizard in the school. Soon.

However, Maxwell did not care for it, not as much as Riddle or Malfoy, anyhow. Yes, he valued his pure-blood status, and he thought that muggles were inferior and dimwitted, and just as they had terrorized and burned witches for centuries, they would eventually get back what they had given. However, he could care less about muggle-borns. After all, they did possess magic, and as bothersome as they were with their disgusting muggle tendencies, there were other pressing matters.

Of course, he would never bring that up to Tom Riddle.

"Gallopin' gargons, it is cold," Maxwell muttered as he reached the gardens, making his way through the snowy surroundings, one hand to shield his eyes, the other one pulling at his sage green scarf. He scouted out the area, and when he did not see any human in sight, he strolled to the Forbidden Forest.

The trees were dense, crowded, and as he made his way through them, his foot would sometimes get caught in roots that stuck out from the ground, grabbing at his ankles. He stopped and looked around, wondering in which direction the girl could have gone, as the falling flakes had long covered her footprints.

Maxwell had once read in a book, Navigating the Vast Oceans, that sailors tended to always sail along with the wind, and although Varya was no sailor, she was a witch. And witches followed magic, so by deduction, her instincts would have her follow the most vital trace of magic.

For Nott, he sensed it coming from the left, and although he was aware that different types of magic attracted different types of people, he suspected that the faint pulsating dark magic would also attract Varya.

So he took a left, and he followed an old, beaten down trail that led to a small clearance, where trees were more scattered. Sure enough, he saw a frail girl kneeling in the snow, back slightly arched, almost as she was leaning over something.

Maxwell did not notice the blood until he was standing right behind her.

Yes, Varya Petrov was leaning over something: the corpse of a Thestral. The horse-looking creature was sprawled on the ground, deep, murky blood pooling from its cut neck. Its eyes were open, bulbous, almost in agony, and its dark reptilian skin clung to its bones even harsher than usual. The girl was howling, shaking the creature with one arm, and almost hysterical as she screamed at it.

"No, no, no—wake up, please," she whimpered, her wail echoing through the silenced forest. It made Maxwell's skin crawl, her hoarse voice filling the air with anguish, the cry of a helpless soul that had just witnessed the death of a magnificent creature. The boy looked at the ground, finally noticing the gory dagger, its sinful color contrasting against the pureness of the snow. It had been Varya that had killed the Therestral.

She cut its jugular furrow and let it bleed, effectively cutting all blood circulation from the brain to the heart. It was messy; commonly, one knife is used to cut the skin, another to cut the veins. Moreover, she should have gone for the carotid artery; it bleeds faster. She made it suffer, presumably not deliberately.

"Please, please— wake up!"

The stillness of the forest was deafening, the only movement coming from the girl's shaking figure and the angry snow that swirled in the air. Her cry came out raw, grieved, like a hurricane wreaking havoc on the American east coast, tearing down everything in its way. It was soul-splitting, leaving a hollow space where your heart should beat, almost as if it had plunged a ferocious hand into your chest, trailed the edges of your blood pump, and then pulled it out mercilessly.

Varya's body curled in pain, and her hand flew to where her heart should have been, but instead, she felt a pit so empty and black it made her tremble with agony. It was torturous, and the girl did not understand why it felt like her whole being was pulled in different directions, and why her breathing had stopped fueling her body. It was almost as if every single bone in her body was being broken all at once, and her throat could no longer handle the excruciating terror.

Her sooty tangled hair clung to her face, and her tears had solidified against the harsh wind that blew around the small clearance. Her breath came out worn, shaky, and she gasped for air, her lungs never quite filling. Her trachea was closing swiftly, then opening back again, a cramping sensation in her throat. The world had blurred, and she sensed no smell, heard no voice. The only thing that she saw was the dark blood that lacquered her hands and dress, so achingly striking against the white scenery. Her ears whirred with a newfound frequency, and her head spun, brain tired from the lack of oxygen. Everything was muffled.

Strong arms wrapped around her, and she felt herself being lifted from the ground, but Varya trashed in the person's hold, frantic hands reaching out to grab at the creature's body. It burned, everything burned, and she imagined this is what the fiery pits of Hell that awaited her would feel like. Varya wanted to be dead, gone, forgotten. She wanted the gut-wrenching pain in her body to stop tormenting her. 

"No, let me go," she pushed against the stranger's body, limbs flying everywhere, and her vision clouded with tears. "— He is in pain; I have to help him."

"Breathe, Varya," said Tom, as he tried pulling her away from the deceased creature. He gave Maxwell a look, and the boy headed over to the cadaver, pulling out a wand. With a swift motion, the body burst in flames, the dark smoke rising to the sky, to Heaven.

"What are you doing?" Varya's voice was rough as she continued struggling, now reaching out to Maxwell with hatred in her eyes. "Stop! I have to bring him back."

"It is gone, Varya. You have to calm down." Tom grabbed her shoulders, spinning her around to meet his eyes, and lowered both of them to the ground, and in the snow. The girl had stopped screaming, eyes locked with the Slytherin prefect, but she was still shaking heavily. The pain was unbearable, and yet, when Tom Riddle touched her, it was as if her whole existence was numb, and the only thing she felt were his hands on her shoulders.

"I did not mean it, Tom. You have to believe me," she wailed, hands grasping his arms, her eyes puffy and reddened.

Tom threw a glance at Maxwell, who had picked up the bloody dagger, and was now scrutinizing it.

Made of silver, one of the few things that can kill magical creatures regardless of their origin. The markings on the handle indicate that it was forged in the Eastern part of the continent, although it is hard to indicate where. Varya Petrov is probably the owner, and it was most likely given to her by her school as a defense against the monsters they encountered.

Tom drew in a deep breath, trying to shake off the irritation at having to deal with the mess of emotions in front of him. He did not like facing something he did not understand, and Varya's regret at killing the creature was baffling to him. He could not comprehend her reaction and found it awfully dramatic. The dagger indicated that Varya had stepped into the forest intending to kill something and that she had not acted out of self-defense.

"Why did you kill it?" he asked, his arms burning where she touched him. He felt as if he was holding a fragile vase in his hands, something that he had the power to break and torture, and it gave him an indescribable thrill.

"I did not mean it, Tom. I did not kill it, I just..." her words were mumbled, almost hard to understand, and Tom had to bit back a remark at how she should not use his name. He hated it, and his blood boiled when she uttered it, but he did not want to have to deal with more tears. He was repulsed as it was.

"You what?" he asked, trying his best to modulate his speech.

"I— I was testing my magic, I was supposed to bring it back—" Varya sobbed, turning to look back at the dead Therestral, but Tom grabbed her head and spun it back to face him, holding her chin with force and staring in her petrified eyes. "Why is it this weak, Tom? Why can I not perform magic?"

Maxwell approached them and tossed a book at the two, hitting Varya's leg. Tom grabbed it, then looked at the title— Tales of Beedle The Bard.

His jaw clenched, realization setting in. In a desirous attempt to prove that her magic was still alive, Varya had come into the forest and executed a magical creature, hoping that she could revive it. However, she had failed because her magic was not what it once was, as her mind had declined. And Tom knew exactly what had caused it.

Now. Now was the time to act.

Tom's grip on her head tightened, almost forceful, and the girl's hands flew to his, trying to pry them away. His stare was aloof, detached, as he looked into her orbs. His pupils dilated, a black storm taking over the aquamarine ocean, and he pried into Varya's mind. He saw the crumbling walls, falling as they were stricken by the mighty sword of despair and anguish, and with a final push, he entered her fenced mind.

"Stop, stop it hurts," she breathed, trying to fight against the invasion, doing her best to keep her mind locked. However, she was weak, Tom had made sure of it, and her mind was a mess of shattered remnants, a shell of what it had once been.

He dived in deep, looking through her memories one by one, and he analyzed, he memorized. He saw her grief, her fury, her panic. There was no love, and he could barely see any happiness, most of her memories clouded in black dust.

Sorrow, resentfulness, loneliness, abandonment, terror, trauma, hurt, betrayal.

Then, he finally saw it, the memory that he was looking for, the one that he had been intending on extracting this whole time.

Varya was opening the doors of what seemed to be a cathedral, but it was almost as if God had turned its back on it, letting it turn to a room full of evil and immorality. She walked towards the front, passing multiple portraits that watched her with remorse in their eyes, an unspoken admittance of iniquity.

Two men stood at the front, one of them was drenched in black, and Tom felt her despair, her distress at his presence. His face was repulsive, aged by corruption and sin, and it carried a hideous sneer.

"And why would I send her to your tainted school?" his voice was uncivil, a slight creek in each of his words. "Have you all not taken enough from us? Have you no shame in corrupting the true dark power of our Lord?"

Then, Varya turned towards the other man, and Tom's blood went cold. Albus Dumbledore.

"Do you really wish to go against me?" He asked, voice as displeasing as it had always been, and it made Tom want to shatter him from Varya's memory. "Must I remind you what is to happen if I let a word slip of your true practice, Dalibor? I do not believe the Ministry of Magic would take kindly to your experiments."

"Petrov, I would like to introduce to you the great Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts." Tom did not miss the sarcasm that drenched the foul man's timbre, and he admired it. Someone was standing against the person he detested most. "He is making quite a demand, you see. He thinks that he is beyond the reach of our Lord and wishes for you to negate your power by attending his school."

Tom's whole being was filled with repugnance when he felt her hope, when he saw the colorful threads that connected Varya's body to Dumbledore's. He was shining of pure white because of her emotions— hope and confusion.

"Varya Petrov, I have heard a great deal about your family." The fear was back. "Do not worry, young one. I am not here to reprimand you. I am here to offer you a chance at retribution." And then it was gone.

The other man, the one that Tom did not recognize, let out an enraged snarl, then marched out of the door, slamming the door behind him.

"How?" It was Varya that was talking now, and her voice was very different from her normal one. It was beaten down, yes, and timid, but it was more animated than Tom had ever heard it.

"What do you know of fate, Varya?"

The memory shattered, and Tom felt the girl go limp in his arms, closing her mind to him. His wrath bubbled, and he almost felt the need to grab the dagger from Maxwell's hands and put it against her throat, torture her until she regained consciousness.

He got up, dragging Varya's body with him, and then he picked her up, letting her legs dangle to the side. Maxwell watched as the boy turned around and started his way out of the woods, and he stood in his spot, frustrated out of his mind. He knew that Tom was using Legilimency on the girl, but why had he stopped? Even is she had passed out, he could still dive in if he put enough stress on her physical body.

Mercy. Defined by the dictionary, this word is usually associated with the act of compassion or forgiveness towards someone when the other party can punish or harm them. Synonyms: pity, leniency, humanity.

***

Hi! This is going to be a double update just because I am impatient as hell, so the next chapter should already be published as you are reading this. Please remember to leave comments and votes, because it truly encourages me! And I read all of them! But yes let me know what you thought of this.