Before you read, I just want to say that this chapter is so lame compared to all of your theories. Enjoy reading it though!

***

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

TW: mentions of death

The Killing Curse.

A spell as ancient as time, a curse that was considered, by most, unforgivable. Such crude magic had been born in the pits of Hell, where the Devil had used darkness unlike any other to give life to such a blasphemous charm.

When magic had first appeared with the formation of the universe, there had been no distinguishable line between good and bad— in Hell, only despair ruled, and everything else mattered less. Around the time of the Medieval Ages, Lucifer had grown tired of the way God proclaimed that magic belonged to healers and miracle makers, and he had set on a quest to prove that humans would abuse its power if given a chance.

Therefore, he sent out three scriptures— The Three Unforgivable Curses, one for each part of the Holy Trinity, in order to mock the Heavens that had banished him. That had been the first distinguishable difference between dark magic and good magic.

Even so, it was hard for wizards to perform such spells at first. The Unforgivable Curses, especially the Killing Curse, required a rotten soul, a need for vengeance and macabre that rivaled that of Hell, their birthplace. Because of that, only the Darkest Wizards were able to use them in duels.

It was not only a great skill that was required but also a deep understanding and intent. To take a life was no easy task, and using magic to do it was even more challenging. For people who felt no guilt, no remorse— it was to those that it came quickly—sociopaths that burned the world to the ground, the scum of life's cigar, the misfits.

And sometimes, being evil was not enough. After all, there was a reason Elladora Selwyn used potions. There was a reason Nicholas Avery used daggers. There was a reason Icarus Lestrange used tricks and schemes.

Now, Tom Riddle— he was purely catastrophic, he was Lucifer's son in all ways, with such deviousness that even the demons that roamed the Earth murmured his name in terror. He had the intent; he had the power; he had a lack of remorse.

Or, perhaps, he had had them once upon a time.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Tom's heart pumped as his body quivered, and the curse fell between his lips as it had never before. His eyes, closed, awaited the flash of virescent light that he knew too well to glide over his eyelids, for the rushing sound to fall upon his ears, and his hands clutched the wood of his wand firmer.

Varya's cry filled the room, and then everything was silent.

For a second, he dared not open his eyes, and instead, he imagined a world where he had just murdered Varya Petrov, arguably the most powerful witch that he had ever met. He had expected a feeling of proudness, of achievement, yet this fictive place his mind had conjured was not that— it was cold, empty, sullen. Things he should have relished, yet found to not be of his taste any longer.

His books had taught him of this one experiment that had always fascinated him— Schrodinger's cat. Almost ten years ago, a muggle Austrian-Irish physicist had designed a trial that would present a paradox of life and death, and in turn, explained the need, or lack, of observation in reality. He had placed a cat in a box with a decaying radioactive substance and a mechanism that would kill the cat upon completion of the decay. Until an observer opened the box and checked, the cat would be both alive and dead.

And until Tom Riddle opened his eyes, Varya Petrov was both alive and dead. That specific moment of paradox allowed the boy to weigh out the options and understand which one he preferred.

The tumultuous feeling in his chest was unequivocal— a terror of losing the only person that had ever cared for him, an endless loop of his mother's death, and it wrecked him to his core. His lungs constricted as he braced himself for the reality of a world without Varya, and regardless of his affinity for the subtleness of the macabre, he found it to be uninviting and barren.

He wanted to take the spell back.

"Tom," a weak voice whispered from a distance, and reality collapsed in on itself.

His sable eyelashes fluttered open, and when he met Tasmanian black, with just the faintest hint of golden dust, Tom Riddle fell to his knees in utter disbelief. Varya Petrov was still alive and well.

His curse, one that he had used numerous times in previous years, no longer worked. The darkness that it required was no longer present in Tom Riddle, at least not in the grand proportions it had once been. His monstrous nature had been subdued by a factor he had never taken into consideration.

It disgusted him beyond wits, and he grasped his shirt as the boy's face scrunched in misery. His thoughts surged with fanatic rage, and he wanted to destroy everything that stood beyond him and Heavens, then rip the wings off of every angel that had considered the girl to be a blessing to him.

Fucking Varya Petrov, always messing things up for him. And now, she had welcomed his downfall into his life.

Varya sobbed on the floor, the utter terror that coursed through her bloodstream making her breathing come in brutally, and she fought to inhale as her throat cramped in fright. Tom had tried to kill her. He had wanted to end her, and for some reason unknown to her, it had failed.

The wizard, however, knew very well why it had not worked. Riddle glanced at the girl in front of him, and he struggled to piece his mind back together, to look inside for the hatred he had once felt, yet it all bloomed in vivid colors and delicate patterns. He had hated her laughter, her scent, her everything.

Now, he could no longer bring himself to do so, and Tom did not want her dead, either. He was a man of apocalyptic connotations, and his fate had long ago been sealed as a future emperor of destruction, a demigod that gripped Death by its neck and laughed in its face— Lord Voldemort, he who flyes away from death.

Lord Voldemort had been less of a man and more of a beast, a person who had been corrupted by the coldness of the world, and it had all started in the early days of his existence, when he had been abandoned to the harsh streets of London. He was a being of circumstances, and as fate would have it, each action that he had made had led to his rise as the Darkest Wizard of all time. He was a brute, an utter maniac that felt no empathy nor remorse and had never done so.

But that was not Tom Riddle. At least, not as long as Varya would be in his life.

And that disgusted him so much. He loathed the way his chest collapsed in on itself as he glanced at her; he despised the way his hand wanted to reach out to her face and grasp her chin until Varya's lips met his.

The wizard was on the verge of falling into insanity as the thought of failure kept invading his mind, and he wanted to shout profane words and everything above and below. How dare they? How dare they send her to him and change his fate?

He wished nothing more than to bring back that murderous rage that had almost had him slit her throat so many times, and the boy wanted to lie to himself and say that her death would mean nothing to him.

But it would, it would mean so much that he thought it might make his fight no longer worth striving for. His epidermis covered in goosebumps of absolute disgust. So repulsive, so weak, so faulty. Stupid fucking tenderness and an idiotic witch that had ruined everything.

Tom had felt the remorse of almost murdering the one person he had grown to care for, his heart had hurt at the idea of no longer holding her, and as much as he tried to deny that reality of it, in the end, the boy had cracked the door open to his soul— Lord Voldemort no longer existed in the same dimension as his affection towards Varya.

"You absolute monster," the Eastern witch screamed as she scrambled on the floor, her face wet with the flood of tears that fell down her cheeks. Her back hit the wall, and she clutched the necklace as her Obscurus pulsated on her skin.

Tom's eyes enlarged as he saw her shadows dance on the walls, and he hurried to his feet, unsure what to say or do as the girl screamed painfully on the other side of the room. No, no, this could not be happening. A stupid girl could not have diminished his powers.

He picked his wand back up and tried pointing it at her, tried muttering the spell again, yet he found that he could not even cast it. Not as long as the boy looked in Varya's eyes, where betrayal overflowed like the Danube River into the Black Sea.

"Fucking Hell," Tom spluttered, and then he turned around to hide the astonishment on his face, the weakness. Could the girl tell, then? Was she aware that Tom cared for her? If so, perhaps, she would start exploiting it.

No. Tom could never show weakness. He could never succumb to such faults as affection.

"Look at me, you bloody bastard!"

He felt something hit his head, and he turned around to glance at the book that Varya had just thrown at him, then at her. Riddle tried to find words to say, but "sorry" was too vulnerable, and perhaps not enough, yet anything else would be meaningless to the girl.

The wrath that the girl felt at his betrayal was astonishing, and it mixed in with the agony of a broken heart, and that was all it took for her to move across the room and knee the boy in the stomach before pushing him in one of the chairs at the table. She gripped his hair and pulled his head back, and then, through a vision clouded by Poseidon's waves, Varya placed her silver dagger to his neck and pressed harshly.

"I hate you," she lied through gritted teeth, "I hate everything you are. I hate your superfluous arrogance, the way you walk inside a room as if you already knew your intelligence shone above the rest before even knowing the attendees. I hate the way you betray and manipulate me as if I am worth less than most."

Tom had never experienced his heart breaking, but he supposed this is what it felt like— being abandoned to nighttime darkness when the only star he ever saw finally stopped shinning. As macabre as it sounded, Riddle fell into that feeling, much preferring it over the fluttering in his cavity, as it was familiar. He knew what disappointment was, he knew what pain was, but the nuance of affection? That he would never understand.

And losing her would be shattering— his being was too obsessive to function if she ever left entirely, yet it was the exact poison he needed to combat her cure. It was such a paradox of situations, where he wanted nothing more than to kiss her face raw, hear her breath his name unlike anyone else ever will, yet also push her away until he broke his mind and returned to darkness.

"But I hate myself more," her brittle voice cracked, and she looked so fragile at that moment, nothing like the witch that had destroyed an Albanian fortress out of anger, "Because how stupid must I have been to fall for someone like you? A disgusting python that will choke on its own venom, a vermiling that refuses to open his heart to anyone. I knew what I was signing up for, one would say, and to that, I must agree. Regardless, I do not deserve this, Tom."

The repugnance that pooled into his being as his body reacted to her words almost choked him, and Riddle tried his best to fight against the natural want of her and everything that made her. The realization of his feelings had been like a shower of cold water, and he discerned that it had taken roots months ago.

His mind, fuzzed over by something that repulsed him, tried to conjure moments that had made him feel like this, and he wondered if a memory altering charm might help him forget about such tenderness. Yet, his affection, just like hers, had never had a start nor a finish; it only existed in his realm of being.

Once, he had thought her to be a star of possibility against a sky of realism, and she was a drop of venom in his cup that he unknowingly drank with each touch, each exchanged gaze, each trail of lips on heated skin. She tasted sweet, and he was sour, yet when they infused each other, it became the soft tinge of citric.

He had been foolish not to realize the signs— the way he had started eating oranges more after drowning in her citric scent, the way apologies seemed easier when they were addressed to her, or how his go-to weapon had become a dagger (her dagger) whenever magic was not acceptable. And, perhaps, all he had done— the scheming, manipulation, the deceit— was because Tom never thought she would stay if he did not play her like a harpe.

Forgetting Varya, he scoffed mentally; that would never be a possibility.

She was his ideal, a woman that was ruthless and macabre, yet still carried the faintest breeze of summer in her sable locks, and the golden dust of twilight in scorpion eyes, a mixture of demonic and angelic that made her easy to underestimate, yet deadly. Varya was made of shadows and despair, and the swirl of sagaciousness and astute brightness that made her invincible.

But Tom did not want this; he did not wish to carry any tenderness towards her, not when his future was blank, not when his cause would fail. No, Tom Riddle had to put his mission above else, and as long as Varya would be around to temper him, he would never become the iron-fisted leader the wizarding world needed.

"Please, please, just say something," the girl begged, stupefied by his absolute silence, his blank stare. Had he no remorse for trying to kill her out of spite? How pathetic she was— trying to grapple at a man that had no use for her in his world.

When Tom continued to stay silent, Varya's sobs grew louder, and she pulled the knife away from his throat and twisted it in the air before gripping its handle harshly. She bit the inside of her cheek painfully and tried to suppress the burning dark mist that had begun pooling at her feet, trying to go for the boy that had been the cause of her fear and anguish. The witch continued to stare at the boy, waiting for him to say something—anything—yet, his silence was the wickedest torture, and it showed no sign of remorse. He did not care.

Then, with a swift move, Varya brought her knife down on one of his hands, the one he always held his wand with, and stabbed it fiercely, earning a hiss of pain from the broken boy that bit down on his lip to keep from screaming.

"What in Merlin's name?" Tom growled and tried to grab the knife out of his bleeding hand, yet his temples pounded, and he found himself unable to move. Frantic eyes glanced at the girl, whose lips were moving in a susurration motion, and he could tell by her mystified eyes that she was placing a curse on him, "Varya— Varya, stop it right now!"

The girl pulled her lips in a sneer, and she watched with delight as the boy bled from every single opening of his face—eyes, nose, lips, ears, "Choke on your own venom, you serpent," she spat, then twisted around to leave the room, her soul a little colder, a little darker.

"Wait," he screamed after her, trashing against the lock the witch had placed him in, "Varya, do not dare leave me here!"

"Or what?" the girl smirked, "You will try killing me again? Have fun with that, Riddle. Come at me with everything you have, but consider this a warning— this is the last time you cross me and live to tell the tale."

And with that, she sauntered out of the room, leaving Riddle to choke on his own blood until he passed out. Then, her curse would wake him up, torture him to stay awake until he could no longer take it, and he would fall back into unconsciousness. And nothing would stop the cycle except someone finding him there, which at this time of day was unlikely. Until then, Riddle would have to face everything he hated most in the world— his blood, proof of his heritage, and mortality.

***

Her clothes were rumpled, and she struggled to take them off in the Slytherin dorm, throwing them on her bed with a disgusted face. Varya's mind was in shambles, and a nauseating feeling overtook every time she thought of the numbness, the fear that she had felt when Tom had uttered his curse.

How could he do this to her? Regardless of how little he cared, he had been ready to discard her at the slightest chance of turmoil, and over what? A necklace? It was unpardonable, it was downright horrifying, and the girl found herself seizing the pendant of the skull and the snake with uncertainty, ready to throw it as far away as possible.

She should have ripped it from her throat, even let it burn in the fire, and yet it was the only gesture of kindness the boy had ever shown to her. How insidious love was— so encompassing that even in hopelessness, one sought out to numb anguish by believing their significant other had once had some redeemable qualities. But Tom Riddle was made of Hell Fire and basilisk poison; nothing could ever brighten up the void; it only inundated everything that touched it.

The door swung open, and in stepped Elladora Selwyn, a tornado of verve and vitality, and Varya could not help but envy her. How was she so collected, so utterly sane, when Icarus had loved everyone but her? Undoubtedly, the boy had not tried to kill the Selwyn heir, yet was it not even more painful to watch your loved one cherish others?

When the vermilion haired girl saw her roommate resemble a wrecked ship in the Dead Sea, she pursed her lips in discontent, and her astute mind immediately flew to a boy of heinous tendencies. She marched over to Varya, then took one hand between hers, and immediately felt the pain radiate off of her skin. Heartbreak was a nasty, nasty thing.

"What did he do?" she asked, the note of her voice aggressive, and Elladora could tell from the way Varya's eyes darted to the ceiling that she was fighting back more tears. Of course, nobody enjoyed showing weakness.

The Eastern witch stayed silent, uncertain on whether she should let it spill. Selwyn had never been loyal. She was her own battalion, and her alliances swayed in the wind like a flag of blood-red deceit. Yet, it had been her that had told her to pursue Tom, and in the department of heartbreak and unrequited love, Elladora Selwyn had the master key to every door.

"He tried to use the Killing Curse on me," breathed the witch eventually. Damned be everything, what else could they do to her?

Elladora's eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected that. "Then, how are you alive?"

"I—," her words caught in her throat as Selwyn dragged her to the bed, then sat her down on the margin and grabbed her potions bag from the trunk, "I have no clue. He said the words, loud and clear, yet there was no flash of green, there was no sound. But there was this...coldness. Almost as if it were a veil of something so dark—and I know darkness. I know it well. But not like that, never like that."

Elladora stopped in her tracks, and her hands trembled over the edge of the trunk. Holy crap. Was this what she thought it was? She had heard of killing curses being countered by many things, such as sacrificial love or blood pacts, but this was something else entirely. Neither of them had died. No. The price had been something else entirely.

"Cold?" she croaked, then covered it with a cough, "Cold as in...as in freezing, or?"

"Numbness, almost," explained the other girl as she pulled at her sweater sleeves, "And then this suffocating feeling of hollowness as if every emotion in my body had been drained into the void. It is still here; I can sense it—something so terribly devastating and wretched."

"What do you believe it to be?" inquired Elladora, testing the waters.

"Is it not just my disappointment with Tom? I never thought him to be so cruel. Foolish, I know, but—"

"Varya," Elladora interrupted, and then, with tentative steps, she approached the girl before kneeling in front of the bed. She grabbed her hands and squeezed them tightly, unsure of whether she should tell the girl the truth. It would be better to go to Tom, to alert him of what had happened, yet the boy would surely deny everything. He would not admit to such a thing.

"Yes?" the Eastern witch asked.

"When you went to Riddle, what was it that you were feeling?"

"Desperate," Petrov answered immediately, "I had just had a conversation with— with someone. And I realized Tom was the only person that could help me with my situation, so I was desperate for him to tell me how to survive. But he knew about the locket, and he got so terribly furious and told me I had been lying to him. Then, well, you know what happened."

"And he failed."

"Yes, he could not kill me. Why is that?"

Because he cares for you, that damned fool, Elladora thought silently. A wizard cannot kill his lover with the Killing Curse, not unless he undividedly means it.

But that was not her place to say, so she stayed tight-lipped, and instead explained it in another way, "To kill someone, you have to mean it entirely. You have to completely believe that your target no longer deserves to live, that their time on this Earth has ended. But that is not what is important right now. There is something else that concerns me."

"Tom did not mean to kill me?" Varya breathed, and her eyelashes fluttered in dismay, her heart beating louder. "I mean, of course, he thinks I am some almighty weapon. Idiotic boy."

Selwyn fought back the need to roll her eyes at her obliviousness, then her eyes fell on the necklace around the girl's neck, "May I see that?".

Perplexed, Varya unclasped the collier fastly, then handed it over to the dexterous witch. She immediately held it up in the green light of the room, turning it around eagerly and analyzing it from all points of view. Then, she grabbed some poison from her bag and popped open the bottle with the flick of a finger. She raised the bottle in the air, then let a few droplets fall on the pendant. It sizzled, yet it stayed intact.

"Fascinating," Elladora gasped, and her eyes twinkled almost as if enchanted. She placed it in her palm, then trailed the edges with caution.

Varya raised an eyebrow, "What is?". Elladora threw the bottle at her, then she caught it clumsily, almost spilling its toxic contents all over her lap, "Bloody hell."

"That is one of the most erosive potions known to the wizarding world. It melts away everything, and it can only be stored in the glass made from a dragon's breath of fire," she gave the pendant back, helping Varya tie it to the back of her neck, "As you might assume, your pendant is made of cheap metal, and it should have disintegrated in seconds."

"So why did it not?" asked Varya, still not understanding what the witch was getting at.

Elladora smirked with wickedness; then, her lips parted to let out words that Varya would never forget, "Because that, my dear, is your Horcrux."

Varya anthracite eyes spasmed with ambivalence, and a storm wreaked havoc against the lifeless pupils that stared at Selwyn with astonishment. Her breathing had halted completely, and a suffocating sensation of intricate complexity invaded her lungs— delight and sorrow mixed together in a cocktail of vagueness that left her light-headed. Her lips of carnation pink parted to let out the smallest gasp, and thorns squeezed against the girl's heart as it seemed to drum against her ribcage.

"But," her cynical voice was strangled, "How? I never knew the spell, and I never..."

Petrov's voice trailed off as she clutched the pendant, and her eyes fell on the symbol with wonder. Perhaps, she should have felt repulsed at the idea of a piece of her soul breaking off, yet there was some admiration in her that mortified the girl.

"You went there with the intention of surviving no matter what, and a part of you had already accepted the idea regardless of how frightening it was," explained the experienced witch, "I have heard Riddle talk of it for months, and I know that there is an incantation that one usually says, but magic is not stagnant. It pulses through your being in its dormant form, and sometimes it protects you in desperate moments."

"So," the witch tried to understand, "I thought Tom was going to kill me, and my magic tried to save me by creating a Horcrux and attaching itself to my necklace?"

"Yes, exactly. That pendant, I assume it was given to you by Riddle, and that made it meaningful to you. The soul has to latch on to valuable things, almost like a survival tactic, because they are harder to destroy or lose. You did not know that he would not be able to kill you, so you assumed that it would be your end."

"Then, why does this not happen to everyone?" asked Varya, still unsure.

"Most people do not know of Horcruxes, so their magic is not aware of it, per se. Besides, not all wizards are powerful enough to perform such spells, especially subconsciously, but with your Obscurus and birth-given power, I assume you are one of the few."

"Bloody hell."

"That is one way to react," snorted Elladora, and then she took out some calming droughts from her collection and handed them to the girl, who was still visibly shaken by everything. She handed them over to the foreigner, then marched to her trunk and started rearranging it.

"I am immortal," gasped Varya, and her shoulders fell in complete astonishment, "He tried to kill me, and he made me immortal."

"Riddle has a way of getting the things that he wants— natural talent," Elladora's cheery nose scrunched in displeasure, "For someone so malicious, the universe sure did bless him with incredible luck and talent, did it not?"

Varya could not help but agree, and as she clutched onto her pendant, some sort of uncertainty settled over her. It seemed that one of her biggest problems, her perishing at the hands of the parasite, had been blown to bits by Tom. Yet, some part of her resented that. Immortality was terrifying— it was an eternal pain of watching everyone you loved die. The Knights, unless they all somehow managed to make their own trinkets, would all die as she watched. Felix, Ivy, and Della— they would die too. Everyone would, everyone except her. And, with the new information Riddle had found about his future, who knew if he would still pursue this path?

She trailed the symbol, scrapping at the engraved edges, and then smiled, "Little death eater."

Elladora turned to face her, "What?"

"The snake is eating the skull," Varya mused with affection, "And now it is a Horcrux, so it quite literally is the mark of a Death Eater."

Her roommate snorted, "Riddle would surely share your fascination with that, but unfortunately, immortality is not something I would ever consider," her eyes traveled to her friend, "Good for you, though."

Varya's heart shriveled at the mention of Tom, and she cleared her throat before standing up from the bed and heading to the door, needing some time alone to clear her head. Elladora nodded her way in acknowledgment, then pulled out a set of books on herbology and threw herself on the bed.

The Eastern witch walked into the Common Room, where quietness had fallen over, as most students were in the library. The castle buzzed with the sounds of the night, and there was something oddly sinister yet calming in the air.

She walked the hallways with a newfound hum in her step, and her body vibrated with ultimate strength as she felt utterly unstoppable. As disgusting as it should have been—using murder to achieve immortality— there was also some security in it that the girl had never felt. Varya was safer than she had ever been, and not even Grindelwald's wrath would touch her as long as her Horcrux was kept a secret.

At that moment, part of her finally understood Tom's obsession with death— he had grown up almost as she had, and had watched the people who had been supposed to care for him succumb to such weakness. And this blanket of security was the only way to stomp out the coldness they had faced.

As soon as she turned the corner towards the staircases on the fifth floor, Varya spotted a rush of blonde curls ruffle past her, and she turned to see Ivy Trouche hurrying to the steps, probably coming from the Ravenclaw Common Room. The witch bit her lip in uncertainty; then she turned to face her roommate, who had stopped to glare at her.

"Ivy," she started, unsure, "Why do you hate me so much?"

Trouche shifted from one foot to another; then, her eyes flickered to Varya's swollen eyes. She had been crying, it was painfully obvious, and the blonde's heart twisted painfully at the idea, then her gaze softened, "I do not hate you, Varya. I just hate what you are becoming when you are around those Slytherin arses."

"You do not know them," Varya tried to defend them weakly.

"Are you so sure?" inquired Ivy, hand gripping the balustrade, "I grew up with them, Petrov. You seem to forget that I have seen them in every possible corner of my life. And look, I will admit that some of them are not completely wicked— Nott, Rosier, maybe even Lestrange on a good day, I could see why you would be inclined to believe they are good people. But, listen to me, as long as they take whatever order Riddle barks at them without even questioning it, they will stay dark and twisted."

Varya could not look her in the eyes and disagree, knowing very well that it would be a laughable lie, and as much as Ivy could be coldhearted, she knew her too well, "I just do not want this to get between us. I value you and Della, and I know my actions might have hurt you, but—"

"I am not asking you to choose," stated Ivy immediately, "For some horrible reason, you have decided to love Riddle. But please, Varya, wake up. See them for who they are, and stop putting your trust in them, because you will end up hurt."

They had already shredded her soul to ribbons, Varya discerned, and yet she felt that she only ever truly belonged with the Knights, as she was just as malicious as them. After all, she had made a Horcrux instead of accepting death, had she not?

"Where are you going?" asked Varya suddenly, trying to avoid the topic. Ivy's lips fell downwards, and she sighed before accepting that the girl would need time to see what was right in front of her.

"I was trying to find Della before dinner," she mumbled, then took out a pocket watch from her robe and frowned, "We were supposed to meet half an hour ago, but I cannot find her in the Ravenclaw Common Room. Odd, am I right? She is always so punctual."

Varya glanced towards the entrance to the other House's dormitories, "Is Felix in there? I must talk to him."

Ivy shook her head and frowned, "No, he is not. I thought he might be patrolling, but I saw the Head Girl in the library when I checked for Della," she took a step down the stairs, "Regardless, I will keep looking for her and— hey, listen. We will talk more about this at dinner, yes? I do care for you, and I hate seeing you suffer because of that pompous dickhead."

Varya nodded and gave her a small smile, then the blonde jumped down the steps eagerly, trying to look for their friend. The Eastern witch frowned, and her eyes darted to the corners, where shadows had started swirling and twisting at the trepidation that had settled in her stomach. Where had Della and Felix gone, and why did something feel so unnerving about their disappearance?

***

Tom Riddle had never quite been so livid with another, and yet Varya Petrov had managed to twist every nerve in his body with absolute wrath. He had stood in the Ravenclaw Salon for almost two hours, his mind fogged due to the loss of blood, and it had all made him feel a puddle of weakness and despair. The witch was smart— the curse she had placed was not one meant to kill, but rather torture. He bled enough to pass out, and then when he would wake up, his blood would flow from the ground and back into his system. Then, the cycle would repeat itself, until his body had lost all sources of vitality.

Abraxas Malfoy had entered the room at some point, and had cussed out against the skies before scrambling to help Riddle off of the chair and into their shared room, ignoring the trail of sanguine that slithered like a serpent behind his leader. After a few minutes of panic, he had managed to find a book about Eastern curses in Tom's trunk and had flipped the pages until he could find some sort of solution.

It had taken some time for the Slytherin prefect to regenerate, and when he could feel his fingers and toes again, he had thrown the duvet in his bed to the side, then grabbed his wand from the desk and stormed past Abraxas with no words.

Malfoy was not sure what his Lord had in mind, but he could tell it was not of sane quality, and when Tom came back almost an hour later, he had a sadistic grin on his face, something so strangely macabre that it chilled his follower to the bone.

"Where have you been?" asked Abraxas, hand pulling at his platinum roots with discomfort. He was the one that had always seen Tom in his demented moments, when something in him snapped with vicious cruelty, so fatalistic he could burn the moon in the sky and cover the world in the darkness of eternal night.

The heir of one of the most sacred wizarding families had been the one to pick up the remains after one of Riddle's moments of uncharacteristic lack of control, when he had broken too many bones, had tortured too many people. Malfoy had mastered illusion charms, cleaning spells, and, of course, the pinnacle of all deceit— the Obliviate charm.

"Places," the Lord's voice was guttural, and then he took off his tie and placed it on their desk, knowing that he had to change his shirt, lest he smelled of blood and death— his own or another's.

Tom unbuttoned his shirt, then threw it to their pile of clothes, and grabbed a sweater that he had not worn in a while. As soon as he put it on, though, his soul twisted, and he recognized it to be the one Varya had worn in Albania after they had spent their first night together.

His Adam's apple went up and down, and the boy blinked at the fragrance that enveloped him and reminded him of what had come to be of his soul. Even so, he pulled it all the way down, then let her scent invade him.

"Cryptic," declared Malfoy, then he threw on a shirt as they dressed out of their uniforms and into something more casual for dinner.

Then, his eyes snapped to his leader's shoes, where a patch of murky blood glowed effervescently. And how odd it was, as Abraxas remembered cleaning the blood off Riddle when they had arrived in the room.

"You will find out soon enough," sneered Tom, and then his lips pulled in a menacing smile, "What was that name of the mudblood that had been pestering you for weeks?"

"Della Beauchamp?" asked Malfoy, unsure of what to say of the girl. She had been pronounced in her interests, a mess of giggles and blushes, and regardless of his crude behavior, the girl would not get the message that he was not interested.

Tom gestured widely with his hand, "Yes, that one. She was running around the gardens like a headless chicken. I followed her, but then—"

The door to their room opened, and in walked Lestrange with a groan before he threw himself on the bed, head pounding for the countless of hours he had spent in the library, engulfing information that he barely had any interest in. Tom's words got stuck in his mouth, and he glared at his follower for his loud movements.

"Are you joining us for dinner?" asked Malfoy in a heavy accent, and Icarus threw his hands in the air before letting them fall by his sides.

"I am too tired," he mumbled, but Tom immediately cast a charm that had him right up on his feet.

"We will all be attending dinner," he ordered in a daunting call, loud and imperial. Then his eyes twinkled at the flash of fear that flickered in Lestrange's irises, "Lest you end up incriminating yourself by your absence."

"Incriminating?" Abraxas queried, eyebrows furrowing at Riddle's words, and all boys exchanged a glance of secrecy— Tom knew something, and regardless of what was to happen at dinner, they were to keep their lips sealed and put on their best astonished faces.

Riddle said nothing. He only marched towards the door, before turning to his followers and inviting them to walk with him. He made his way to the room that Nott, Avery, and Rosier shared, and opened it without hesitation. The three rascals snapped their eyes to their leader, and then, by the severity of his gaze, immediately understood something had happened.

Jumping to their feet, they proceeded to follow Tom into the Common Room, where Elladora Selwyn was waiting for them patiently, legs crossed, and lethargic eyes glancing at them with irritation.

"You are late," she announced, and Tom gave her a smirk. He stopped when her eyes carried some awareness he was not familiar with, and a hoisted eyebrow from the girl made him understand that Selwyn knew something. Riddle blinked at her monotonically, and then Elladora made a gesture that suggested they would talk later.

The seven of them marched down the hallways, each imperial in their own nature, and students parted as they made way for the uncharacteristic appearance. The Knights were rarely seen together in all of their glory, preferring to trek around in lesser numbers. It was easier to carry out their surreptitious affairs in such instances.

Now, however, they were standing out in the open, and that itself was a statement of time— they needed an alibi, and whatever Tom had done, they had to make sure nobody suspected their location. How absolutely nerve-wracking it was, the fact that they all followed him without as much as a whisper of doubt, and that was a monument of faith and devotion.

As soon as they stepped into the Great Hall, they knew the news had already spread amongst the teachers, and Tom smirked as he saw them trying to have the students sit at their tables and wait until all of their peers had gathered.

The moment Tom caught sight of a breeze of raven locks and translucent skin, his heart sped up with anticipation and repulsive affection, and he walked faster to the end of the table before sitting down between Nott and Avery. He watched Varya Petrov parade into the Hall, frowning at the tension in the air, and then their eyes met, and her face blanched at his fiendish smirk.

Varya felt suffocated under his stare, and she hated the way her skin buzzed with awareness as his eyes trailed her up and down, before his mouth settled in a smirk that made her blood go cold. There was a spark in them, an emotion that screamed of superiority, almost as if he knew something she did not.

Someone grabbed her arm, and Varya turned around to face Felix's troubled eyes, "What—"

"Varya, you need to sit down," he managed to stutter our, and then he dragged her away from the Slytherin table, and to the Ravenclaw one, his steps fast and his grip firm, "They alerted me first as Head Boy, of course, but you— oh my god, I cannot believe this."

Panic settled in her stomach as she watched Felix tear up, and Varya's words tumbled out in stutters, "Felix, what happened?".

His gaze drifted to something behind her, and Varya turned and followed it, only to be directed yet again towards Riddle. No, no, no, what had he done?

The Headmaster rose from his seat, and with a wave of his hand, he silenced the buzzing crowd. Varya sat down next to Felix, and her eyes stayed on Armando Dippet as his sorrowful gaze trailed the students. Then, he sighed, and glanced down in shame.

"Today, we have gathered you all here to bring some terrible news. With my greatest misery, I must announce the death of one of our beloved prefects," his voice carried out throughout the room, and Varya's being went numb as her eyes danced across the room, trying to look for her friends. Where was Ivy? Where was Della?

She turned to Felix, her mind broken and her eyes moist, "Felix, no. No— do not tell me—"

The boy only turned away, and Varya bit back the sob that rattled her body, and her hands flew around her abdomen as she desperately clung to her own clothes, mind too fogged to process the Headmaster's words. It was a cascade of torment, and her lips turned blue as she stopped breathing. Yet, she could not die. But those she cared for? They could, and they would.

Her black eyes darted to Riddle, who was now staring at her with a devilish smile on his face, and she just knew. She knew that he was taking pleasure in watching her break. Tom savored it effortlessly, and he could almost feel the saltiness of her tears on his buds; and he licked his lips with absolute proudness before leaning in on the table, his gaze focused and determined.

He wanted to watch, he wanted to see her crumble at the news, and Tom would enjoy seeing such a beautiful thing he adored be destroyed by something she could not control. His heart beat as he took in her disheveled appearance, and the boy let himself be intoxicated with the way her shoulders shook. Because, goddamn it, he would give anything to make her leave.

Her absence would be the only way Tom could ever regain his darkness, and as much as every atom in his body called for her, Varya Petrov had to leave Hogwarts. And this? This would drive her out of the castle with her bags packed right behind, and regardless of whether he was guilty or not, the girl would believe he had been the one to commit the act.

The Eastern witch's eyes darted back to the Headmaster, who had taken off his hat in respect, "A deceased person was found by the bottom of the Astronomy Tower, and after careful inspections, we have realized who it belonged to."

And that is when Varya saw her— standing by the end of the Ravenclaw table with a horrified look on her face was pure-hearted Della Beauchamp, and her face covered in tears as everyone realized who had died.

"With our deepest condolences, we must announce that we have found Ivy Trouche's body."

Then, the lights flickered before the chandeliers exploded. And the Great Hall fell into darkness as Varya Petrov's scream transversed the night.

***

I really said I am not killing Varya but someone has to die.

Also, just know that I have had this death planned since before the prologue, and it is so weird to finally write it. I have been posting for almost three months now, and there are so few chapters left of this book. I hope you will read the sequel though! Because I promise it will be much more interesting than this volume.