CHAPTER FORTY

WARNING: SLIGHTLY MATURE/MATURE

Tom Riddle's lips fell upon her in a harsh kiss, and he pulled at her hair to bring her face closer as he wanted to taste every tear that had fallen on her face, feel her sorrow and agony. Varya whimpered and threw her hands around the boy's neck as she pulled him down until their bodies were utterly flushed, and her head spun, and everything buzzed.

He pulled her off the bed and slammed her against the wall, hands immediately going to her waist as he hoisted up her legs to circle his hips. Tom pressed himself against her as he continued to move his lips in absolute fury, biting down on the lower one until he felt metallic on his tongue, and heard the girl whine softly. God, he wanted to hear more of that.

Her nails clawed at his neck and scalp, and then the witch twisted a hand in dark curls and pulled at his roots until he broke away with swollen lips and wild eyes. Tom looked at her with a gaze filled with the most sinful desire, wide and responsive, and he made to dive back in mashing of lips and pants, but the girl stopped.

"My neck," she breathed, and he immediately pressed wicked lips against her collarbones, hands hoisting her up and trailing her thighs up and down, slipping devilishly under the cotton fabric of her skirt. He traced smooth fingers on the inside, then immediately gripped her flesh, so hard Varya let out a yelp and threw her head back in intoxicating pleasure.

Riddle pulled at her stocking, letting the elastic band slap against her legs in a painful tug, and he smirked against her neck when he felt her shiver in pain, then let out a soft groan as the girl moved against him.

"Stop that," he panted and restricted her movement with a steady hand. No, she had to work for it more; otherwise, how could he enjoy her torment as she squirmed underneath his hold? He looked at her and his breath caught in his throat. Her lips were parted in a circle of opalescent reddish nuance, and her onyx eyes carried a dazed mixture of pleasure and defeat that he wanted to relish in. So he pulled at coiled midnight locks and brought her lips to his own yet again, moving frantically as they tried to consume whatever passion was between them— love, hate, it did not matter at that moment, all just a foggy cloud of heightened pulse and roaming hands.

Riddle's skin burned everywhere, and like the wicked arsonist she was, Varya only struck the match against it more as she let one hand slip on his chest and fumbled with his buttons, opening them without even training her eyes on him. And when the last one stood stubbornly between his skin and her palm, she ripped at it with force and trailed nimble fingers everywhere.

Tom had never felt something like this, he had never experienced a black flame in his chest, and the goddamned witch had come and set fire to his whole soul, to the point where he could care less if she made him weak between the walls of his room.

The witch sucked on his bottom lip, and her mouth muffled his hearty groan, and he only pressed himself against her more, until every atom clashed against the other, and the friction drove him to the point of despair. His hands flew to her neck — goddamn it, he wanted to see her struggle — and gripped tighter as she moved again, forehead against him and face contorted into something it had never quite shown. Her eyebrows were raised in absolute bliss, and her cheeks coated in the dirties crimson — she looked so docile it drove him mad. No, he wanted her to fight against him.

Tom let out a low growl as he buried his head in her neck, and then one of his hands pulled her roots until her head lifted off the wall, only to slam it right back with sadistic pleasure, and his toes curled as he heard her whimper.

"What the fuck?" whined the girl, and yet she tapped into the pain with a sickening satisfaction. Merlin, he was so utterly macabre even in his desires, and she was a masochist for allowing him to explore such things. Varya did not mind; she much preferred it to her other experiences.

"Shut up, Petrov."

If Icarus had been the plucking sound of a violin string, Tom Riddle was a whole fucking orchestra, and devious hands played Chopin's Marche Funebre against her skin as they scratched and pinched and twisted.

His breath fell in another key, and his hum of satisfaction was an ode to the demons that had tempted them into sinning like this. Nevertheless, his lips on her skin were divine, and if this is what Lucifer was all about, then the girl would fall in front of a different kind of altar.

He grabbed her waist and held it still as they moved against each other and touched everything and everywhere, and his lips trailed downward on her neck until they reached her collarbone, where he sucked and nibbled furiously. Then, her hips rotated against his, and the moan that left his lips made the girl go light-headed, and she kept moving in want and desperation, trying to make the best of the situation and the layers of clothes.

She wanted more, and perhaps he did too, and yet teasing hands only trailed the edge of the lace underneath her skirt, tugging on it before releasing, and the girl could see the satisfied smirk on his lips at the way her whining increased.

"Any problem, Petrov?" he murmured as he trailed his lips down from her chin to her collarbones, then pressed a kiss right in the middle, slow and torturous. Varya bit her lip and held her breath— goddamn it, could he just do it already? His hands raised her sweater over her head, and then he lowered his face until he was right in front of her stomach.

Tom peered up at her from his position with mischief, and his lips pulled in a smirk as the witch grabbed at her locks in frustration, before her hands made their way to her own buttons. He stopped her, then clicked his tongue against his cheek in disapproval.

"Who needs who now?"

She was about to kick him in the face, she really was, and her frustration was building up to the point where it consumed her entirely; and the Eastern witch lowered herself down to his level, then pushed him to the ground, climbing over his and straddling his hips.

His chest was muscular, and she scratched at it before placing kisses from the middle down to the edge of his belt, where she blew a soft breath that made him buckle up. Tom groaned and grabbed her hair; then he hesitated— he did not know what he was doing.

Varya sensed it immediately, and made to take his belt off and unzip his pants in a swift motion, then trailed her hand over the part of his boxers that had raised.

The boy saw stars as she placed her lips right on the hem of his underwear— an exponential universe of pleasure Riddle had never quite known before, and somehow he doubted anyone else could show him galaxies the way she did.

Then, she placed her lips right where he ached, and she licked and sucked with the dexterity of an experienced woman. He tried not to think of her and Icarus, as it only made his wrath grow, and he grabbed at her hair before making her go down on him completely, moving her head furiously at the thought of her having been with someone else. Varya felt her eyes water, and yet the sensation of choking was not unfamiliar.

Riddle had a posh voice, and the way it sounded now, so grave and raspy as low growls left his lips, and made the girl go insane. His face was scrunched, and he started moving his hips along with her in a synced wave.

Their breaths grew heavier, their sounds needier, their hands trailing up and down in loathing and pleasure, and then she felt it coming like a wave on his features, the way his jaw twitched, and his eyes closed tightly, lip between her teeth and movements frantic. Then, he pulled her up and pressed a rough kiss to her lips as he moved his hips against hers in need of friction. His face fell in the crook of her neck as they both let the ultimate pleasure glide over them like a blissful storm, hands gripping clothes harder.

"Fucking hell," he rasped against her skin, chest moving up and down rapidly, "God, fucking— what are you doing to me?"

They had calmed down now, still feeling buzzed from the high, and the world was muffled as they went limp against the ground, still holding onto each other. Tom had lost all clarity, and he let her citric perfume intoxicate his senses, breathing it in as he regained lucidity.

What had he just done? He was growing furious with himself, with how easy it was to fall underneath the Eastern's girl delicate fingers, and Tom found he did not understand the reason behind all of it.

"I could ask you the same," her voice was croaky, and only then did she realize she must have been pretty loud for her throat to hurt like this. Embarrassment flew to her face, and she bit back a wince of shame.

Tom pushed himself off the ground and glanced at his pants briefly— ah, fuck. He did not have time to worry about it, because when he peeped up at Varya, his breath stilled. Her socks were at different heights, revealing bruised skin on the inside of her legs, and he saw the trace of his hand marked on her flesh. His ego swelled with pride, and he knew it was a sign— she was his. Although he did not know in which way he wanted her, if any except the priorly mentioned experience, it was undoubtful. Her skirt was slightly lifted, dangerously so, and Tom walked over to the witch.

She watched with admiration in her eyes as he kneeled before her, and then his hand darted out to her stockings, and he pulled them up with feathery fingers, then arranged her skirt carefully. He pressed a sinful kiss to her thigh, then peered up at her with catastrophe dancing in his eyes, and got up to face her.

Tom looked around the room, and cursed as he realized it had been completely trashed, with books and paper thrown everywhere, and shelves that were half hanging off the wall. Somewhere along all of it, they had also managed to dent the wall slightly.

And then reality swiped back in, and they both remembered why they were here in the first place— she had almost killed him, he had lied to her. The tension settled back in, and Tom cleared his throat as he turned away to look at the ashes of his journal. He had had grand plans for it, and she had ruined them.

She was dying.

Varya breathed slowly as she pushed herself off the wall, then gulped, almost unsure if she should leave or clean the mess she had caused. Worried eyes cast on the man she loved, the girl wondered what he was thinking about her at this moment. She sure did not know what to make of him.

"I think—," she started, then stumbled on a torn book as she tried to fix her hair, and the boy was still looking at where she had burned his diary, "I should go."

The witch stood by the door, hand on the handle, and shifted her weight from one foot to another, waiting for him to say something. He only turned away and sat at his desk, completely ignoring her presence as he started rearranging whatever was left of his belongings.

"All right, then..."

She slammed the door behind her, then put her back up against it and ran frustrated fingers through her hair, pulling at her roots. God, what had just happened? Varya's hand flew to her mouth, and she bit back a painful sob— had he just kissed her out of hate? She loved him, and it was becoming so painful she just wished it would go away, or at least he would stop playing with her mind like this.

No, he did not care for her. After all, Tom would have just used her to get what he wanted and had not even bothered letting her know about her own expiry date. Furthermore, the things he had said— how she was weak and pathetic, although they were covered by something else, had still hurt her more than she would admit.

Varya walked down the stairs with rheumy eyes, and thanked all the deities in the sky, and below, that the Common Room was empty. She did not want to go back to the room, not when Elladora would be there with judgmental eyes, and after her outburst today, Varya knew the girl would be even more pestering.

So she walked into the dark corridor with sunken shoulders, feeling as if everything had been ripped away from her, and she could care less if a Professor would find her wandering around in her deplorable state. After all, Varya had nothing to live for anymore, and no time to live for anything.

Her legs carried her around aimlessly, and the portraits whispered to each other with worry as they watched the solemn girl walk around. She sunk to her feet somewhere in the fourth corridor, and rested a heavy head on her knees. One of the portraits disappeared from the frame, and the witch laughed bitterly as she thought that not even fictional beings wanted to be around her right now, much less Tom Riddle.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Felixius Parkin strode over to the fallen girl with hurry in his steps, eyebrows cast down in concern as he took in her figure.

"Thank you, Dolores," he whispered to the portrait that had called for him as he was patrolling around Hogwarts' corridors, and then he kneeled beside Varya Petrov. "Come on, get up."

"Sod off, Parkin," the girl grumbled as she felt her body being pulled up. Varya groaned as Felix threw one of her arms around his neck, then supported her as they walked towards the Ravenclaw tower, taking the stairs to the fifth floor.

She said nothing until they reached their Common Room, and the boy yelled for Della despite the odd night of the hour. A door opened in the distance, and then small legs stepped eagerly against the staircase, and it creaked like a little squeaky mouse. Then Beauchamp appeared from the doorframe, and when her eyes set on Varya, her heart stopped.

Varya had always been a gloomy presence, with smiles that never reached her eyes and always scanned the room frantically as if checking for danger. She walked stiffly, and before every hug, there was the slight flinch of instinct, and yet she had learned how to adapt herself to Hogwarts.

Even so, the girl in front of Della's eyes was utterly broken, nothing but empty irises and sunken face, and the Ravenclaw inhaled deeply before sitting next to her friend. Felixius looked between the two, then glanced at the clock.

"I must finish my rounds, but I should be back in an hour or so," he mumbled as he fumbled with his wand and made for the door. Then, he stopped and turned to give them one last look, "Keep her here overnight; I have a feeling this might have something to do with those Slytherin pricks."

Della nodded to her friend, then grabbed Varya's hand in hers and gave it a small squeeze of reassurance. She picked her up and dragged her to her room. Thankfully, her two roommates were out for the weekend, god knows where, and they could have some privacy. She set Varya down on her bed, then covered her with a few blankets and let the girl rest. Della pulled a chair for herself and sat by the witch.

"What happened?"

Varya debated telling her everything— Scholomance, Dumbledore assigning her with a task, the creatures, her fate. Nevertheless, she did not want to scare the girl, as Della was the only person she still truly felt connected to.

"I kissed Riddle," she said, and then her nails dug into her hands as she blinked away tears of frustration, "He hates me."

Della drew in a sharp breath, "What do you mean?"

"Tom simply hates me; he said so himself. And I do not think I can live with myself if that is true because I love him, I truly do. It came unexpectedly, like the soft breeze of the first day of spring, when you have been used to cold and harshness for a whole season —your whole life, really. And then there is him, and for the first time in a while, you feel good, kind of. There is warmth amongst a vast glacier ocean, and you cling to it because, well, what else is there to do? You do not want to sink in his depth of absolute torment because, frankly, you have had enough in your life. But God, Della, when he kisses, he makes me see stars and lights my skin on fire with the kind of passion that should not be talked openly about, and my heart simply shatters in his hands despite all."

She looked at her friend, who was still silent and watched her with curious eyes. When a response did not immediately come, Varya kept going.

"It might be because I have been raised as a self-destructive being, but I am completely captivated by him. I know I should not be falling for a serpent, but his venom is addictive to the point of madness— am I even making sense? And I tried to keep him away, look at someone else and maybe feel the same warmth. Nevertheless, Icarus was not spring, he was barely autumn, and I tried to find comfort in the beautiful colors of fallen leaves and the aroma of pumpkin, but it was always one step away from winter. In the end, I could not do it, and I had to break it off. Tom Riddle brings out the worst in me, and it is around him that I am always at my weakest— Merlin, I have never had someone destroy me quite as he does. And I love every second of it."

Della hummed, then gazed out the window with the kind of look she did not usually carry— quizzical and focused, and right there was the Ravenclaw prefect that the House was so prideful of. Then, she tilted her had to gaze into Varya's muddy eyes, rimmed by darkness and deceit, and she finally found an appropriate answer.

"I think," she said, tongue rolling her words with intention, "No, wait— I know he is lying when he says that, Varya. Tom is a peculiar person, and yet he has managed to charm everyone in this castle with pleasant smiles and gallant gestures, so much so that he has had a trail of girls surrounding him for the past five years. Now, have you noticed that they barely approach him anymore?"

Varya hoisted an eyebrow, then shrugged.

"He has told all of them off since you came," Della continued, her lips barely flinching in an upturned position, "And yet never you. I have never seen Riddle spend time with a girl, and yet wherever you go, he is always two steps behind you. I would like to think that is not hatred."

"He has his reasons," Varya tried, and although she could not tell her friend about her Obscurus and how Riddle has been trying to manipulate it for so long, she hoped Della understood.

But the girl shook her head, "If you were merely a mean to an end, he would have sent one of his devoted friends to do his job, but I believe he much prefers to be the one to approach you."

Varya groaned, then threw a silky pillow over drowned eyes, and she breathed into it, not knowing what to do. There was a knock on the door, and then it swung open to reveal Felix, who was standing there with a few sweets he had undoubtedly stolen from the kitchen. The boy's eyes flickered between his two friends, and when Della gave him a look that said nothing and yet everything, he entered the room and shut the door with his foot. It would be a long night of comfort food and tear-stained pillowcases.

***

"This is a terrible idea," mumbled Varya as Nicholas Avery invited her to come along with him in the Forbidden Forest. Lately, he had seemed to find an equal partner in her, and the boy enjoyed provoking her anger with mindless adventures.

At first, the girl had felt too ashamed even to look him in the eyes, but apparently being knocked out by her had earned some kind of odd respect from the boy, and now he wanted them to be devious together. Perhaps, it was also a way of checking her into her place, but Avery seemed to truly not care about the fact that she was a time ticking bomb.

He would appear out of nowhere, ask if she was "up for something wicked," then drag her along some patchy road in the surroundings of Hogwarts, and they would train— throwing knives, blasting curses at whatever tree stood in their way, and even use arrows and bows. The man was incredibly sneaky in his way of fighting, and would often tell Varya that surprise was the best weapon a warrior could use.

That is how Varya found out a few interesting concepts about some of the knights, specifically Icarus Lestrange. He was direct in his fighting; he enjoyed overpowering his adversary, rather than outwitting them — as Avery would — and had been assigned multiple tasks by Tom.

"Once, I believe it was last summer; he sent us to this secluded village to extort information from this old man. Merlin, it smelled like piss and cow dumping, and we had to stay around for a few days and wait for him to be alone," Avery recalled as he threw a knife at a target, smirking when it hit the bullseye, "Then, Lestrange got terribly annoyed. Burst through the door and simply knocked out his son, and he tied to the man to a chair and tortured the information out of him. Fun to watch, definitely not my style though, ha!"

It was weird to think of Icarus in such a way, as he had always been nothing but gentle with her. Even so, she supposed every person that fell in Riddle's ranks had some kind of monstrosity in them. Varya did too, and she could not bring herself to judge what they were doing anymore, almost as if that compassion had been taken away from her.

She knew the reason behind it— her memories were resurfacing, and she was finding that she grew somber by the day as she remembered the years of torture in the castle. Varya had been having nightmares, and whenever Ivy Trouche would wake her up to help her calm down, she would have to lie and say she was dreaming of her parents.

In a way, it was true— just not the way one would have expected. As soon as she had opened her mind to the flow of memories, there had been a crack in the magic that had preserved her Obscurus, and with each day, the fissure grew, and more darkness corrupted her mind. Her temperament had grown to be quite unstable, and once, she had blasted Malfoy into a wall for complaining about Della's painting skills yet again.

It was the crack of dawn, so early in the morning that not even the animals of the forest had awakened, and the damp coldness of Scotland's March had settled over the lands, covering them in the thinnest layer of frost. The sky had turned a dark color, a spectrum of grayness with the faintest traces of orange breaking through the cloud's cracks.

"Riddle wants you trained," said Avery eventually, and the girl let her unfocused eyes gaze on his movements for a moment. He picked up a dagger from the opened tray in front of him, then tossed it in the air and caught it by the handle with a cocky grin.

The muscles in his back moved as he threw his shoulder back to gain momentum, and then, with a fatal blow, he sent the dagger to the tree in front of him, hitting the bullseye— Elladora Selwyn's picture. "For motivation purposes," the boy had told Varya, and she found it quite amusing.

The subject of Riddle still touched a tender spot on Varya's soul that had not quite healed since their last meeting, and she found herself pulling her eyebrows in a downcasted look, "I doubt he cares much."

Avery gazed at her out of the corner of his eyes, analyzing the way her fingers glazed over one of the knives, then grabbed it reluctantly. She was afraid of herself, of what she could do, and that was precisely why Tom had sent him to train with her— get her to break down the barrier she had suddenly built up.

"You are leaving with him in less than two weeks."

She did not want to be reminded of that, and Varya already knew that it would be utterly painful for her to be in his presence for that long. And what of him? He had been delegating all of his followers to send her messages, and had wholly avoided her since their kiss. Tom had even taken to sitting in the back of the class for some of their shared courses, and that had earned a fair share of off looks.

"I do not imagine why you all think that is a good idea after what happened," Varya continued, then she threw the knife at the target. It perforated Elladora's brain, not her eye. Still, a killing shot. "I want to use the arrows."

He threw her the bow, then gestured towards the sky, "Might rain soon," he breathed, then Avery gave her a look, "And as long as you unleash that cloud of anger of yours at the creatures you will most likely encounter and not at Riddle, I am sure you will manage just fine."

But he did not know what had happened between the two, that fiery moment in Tom's room, and the girl wanted to curse the skies for putting her in this situation. She picked up an arrow and set it on the string of her bow, then aimed at the target, sensing the wind and correcting her posture. She shot. It missed.

"Bloody hell," she snarled, her mind too dazed to focus on her training right now. So Varya threw everything to the ground, and then sat on the damp soil, head thrown back against the bark.

The storm came from the East, and the wind had started picking up and rustling the newborn leaves of early spring. Moisture settled in the air, and the girl felt herself sweating through her gear in the forest's dampness. The thrilling sound of birds rippled through the vegetation, the dulcet tune of the sunrise hours, and nature's awakening— there was peace. She let the breeze ruffle her ashy locks, and closed her eyes as she listened to the muffled sound of thunder in the far distance, the way it echoed and soared through the trees, accompanied by the metallic resonance of knives hitting the tree's stem.

Nicholas wiped his forehead that had covered in perspiration from the strenuous movements, and he breathed heavily as he turned back toward Varya. The girl was sitting down, eyes closed, and yet she looked more serene than he had ever seen her. His hands darted to his backpack, and he pulled out something he had meant to give her.

"Petrov," he called for her, and she opened her eyes to look at the murderous boy, who handed her a package, "For you."

Varya hoisted an eyebrow, then took the wrapped gift and placed it in her lap, opening it with curiosity. The metal caught the faint sun, and it reflected a beam of light that hit her eye, and a sincere smile covered her face for the first time in days— her silver dagger.

She looked up at the boy, who was wearing a pleased smirk, "Why are you giving this back? I thought it was payment for the...trouble I have caused."

Avery had taken the dagger from her after the witch had killed the Thestral, and had even used it to torture Elladora Selwyn with it, cutting off her earlobe due to her nasty mouth. He had seemed quite fascinated by the silver blade, and had been carrying it around for a while.

He shrugged, then clicked his tongue against his cheek, "Too dainty for my collection, little vixen." A lie and they both knew it— the dagger fit right in. But perhaps it was some sort of gesture between them, something that symbolized that they were no longer foes, but accomplishes, and trained assassins enjoyed sharing their weapons.

A long time ago, Avery had found the girl as infuriating as a killing target that died before he could play with it, and had been vehement on annihilating her, or at least making sure she stayed away from then. That is why he had suggested to Tom that they keep Slug Club a secret. Then, Rosier had gone babbling despite it— damned socialite. Now, Nicholas thought he did not mind it anymore, and he actually found himself enjoying her presence.

They were more alike than he would have wanted to admit, as they both shared the same macabre tendencies and rivaled each other in spite. However, sometimes it was better to keep those who bested you close, and as arrogant and wretched as the butcher was, he knew that they could learn a lot from each other.

"There is something else in there," he said proudly, crossing his arms over his chest as the girl's hands reached for the package, pulling out a knife belt made of the finest leather, "Thought it might be useful on your trip."

Godamn it, Varya had to stop letting every gesture of kindness bring tears to her eyes, and with a shaky breath, she said, "Thank you."

It felt good — knowing that he did not hate her for almost killing him — and that Avery saw her as something more than just another pawn in their schemes. Perhaps she had started growing on them, and now there was this weird...connection between them. She could not have called it friendship. It was something more than that, and yet something less as well— the kind of bond shared by blood. Not a family, but the content of knowing that someone would die and battle for you. A messed up entanglement of blind devotion and familiarity.

"Do not go soft on me," the wizard retorted, scrunching his face in sham disgust, and yet his eyes twinkled with the same type of understanding.

Varya laughed, then felt something drip on her nose. She looked up to see droplets falling from blotchy graphite gray, and the sound of them hitting the surrounding vegetation brought newfound tranquility to the two of them. It was a cascade of small twinkles as water fell on baby leaves and hit the already sodden soil, and her hair grew fuzzy as humidity started rising.

"We should head back," she said and grabbed Avery's extended hand to get up from the ground, knees cracking at the sudden movement. Varya wrapped the belt around her waist, sliding the knife in its place, then drew her long sweater over it and closed her robe. The leather rested nicely on her skirt, and the extra weight of the weapon made her feel more whole.

They walked side by side, making small conversation about things neither truly cared about, and yet it felt pleasant in a way they were both unfamiliar with. Avery had only genuinely bonded with one person in his whole life— Maxwell Nott. They had grown up together, as his family would often visit the Rosier Manor and bring their youngest son. Initially, Avery had taken to bullying the Nott heir, as he was extremely sensitive. Then, Nicholas had brought it a dead carcass of a fox to play with in the yard, and he used it to scare Maxwell. When their parents came and saw the dead animal, they immediately assumed it had been the notorious sociopath, and yet Nott had covered for him and said he had brought it to give it a proper burial. Ever since, the two had had each other's backs.

Varya and Nicholas reached the Dungeons, and the boy quickly muttered the password to the Common Room before they stepped inside the salon. Tom Riddle stood by the fire, poised, and his hands were clasped behind his back in a fashionable manner. His ocean eyes immediately flashed to the girl, who halted in her stop and held her breath. They had not seen each other in a while.

And there it was again, the nauseous feeling that crawled in his abdomen, almost like an uncontrollable serpent poisoning his guts with something he could not quite describe in words, and yet felt like expressing through pointless touches and lips against her skin— the kind of primal need that he had never imagined would fall on him.

His mind and soul twisted as she walked past him and up the stairs, and he could only stare at her as she slammed the door to her room, almost cursing himself for not reaching out to her. Tom Riddle had never been the type of person to hesitate in approaching a woman, and yet Varya had surprised him again.

Avery threw himself on the couch with a groan, and it was enough to catch his leader's attention, "I am completely exhausted."

Tom nodded— he himself had felt quite weak in the past few days, almost like he had lost some sort of vigor, and it repulsed him. Part of him knew that it was because of the witch, and that he felt out of sorts due to her inexplicable absence, but he had come to the conclusion that it was best they stay away from each other, lest he ends up being distracted.

It was better like that. After all, he had been wearing himself out to solve the biggest enigma— how could he make Varya Petrov survive?

***
This is my first time writing anything remotely mature so if it's not good do not hate me hshshs. But yes, let's see where we go from here.