CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

"Petrov..."

The window pushed open slightly, a deep creek resonating through the hazy room, and the bony hand clutched on the edge as it pulled itself up, dragging its severed body through the opening. A trail of dirty blood graced the side of the Nott manor, but whether it was a nightmare or reality was uncertain, and yet the torn ligaments that caught in the ajar window stuck tenaciously.

A crow's poem amplified and rippled through the midnight, right before the creature seized its neck and crushed it. Hard...hard...hard. Its horrifying outcry permeated the air, and its umbra danced in the moonlight as it grappled in its final moments, right before its head was pulverized into a puddle of cerebrum matter and cardinal liquid, spilling from long claws.

It feasted on the bird's flesh grotesquely, gore pooling from fangs as it gnawed on bones and swallowed them all together. Its whalebone skin was hanging open in patches, and its muscles were exposed to the darkness as they moved toward the hallway.

The old wood rasped under Varya's bare feet, and the girl trudged along the cryptic corridor, shadows spilling from each corner onto the floor and then slinking through cracks. Her nightgown pooled around her knees, white as the snow of December, and sooty locks fell in heaps on her back. She stopped in front of the mirror by one of the large portraits and leaned in to look at herself.

It was her skin she saw, her eyes, and yet she felt more a phantom than a human— her epidermis was translucent, and she saw pulsating veins underneath as they pressed against the soft barrier, almost as if begging to burst open at the high pressure; her eyes were bloodshot, cardinal irises of madness and sanguine. One of her eyes no longer had eyelashes, and it moved on its own erratically, scanning the room in a panic.

Somewhere along the hallway, something moved, and she saw a figure dart through the shadows, but as Varya tried to grab at it, it vanished into nothingness. A door stood ajar at the end of the corridor, and her legs moved towards it slowly, surely. A being trailed behind her, or above her— it mattered not. All she knew is that it was watching her.

A spirit, a demon, regardless, an evil presence neared, and Varya pinched at her skin, trying to wake herself up, yet she felt the pain with exquisite force. Was it real? It could not be, and yet she felt everything as it radiated around her.

The witch's hand rested on the door, and she pushed it open before stepping into the covered room. It was obscure, and yet the foulness of death clung to the particles of air, and she fought back the bile that raised to her throat.

Obsidian eyes watered at the sight of more than a dozen cadavers, some she knew, some she did not, and her breath came in shallow sounds as her hand reached out to Ivan's decapitated form, trying to grasp at the ragged clothes in despair, cling onto the semblance of her childhood. Ecaterina's skin clung to her bones, and she was barely recognizable by the sunken cheeks and void stare. Lopheus was leaning against a wall, eyes gouged out, and tongue cut in pieces. There was Miss Pichler, Richard MacDuff, Sylvia Carrow, and many others that she could not make out, but knew they were employees of Grindelwald's castle.

One thing hung in the air— guilt.

The souls she had damned along the way, some of them were her own killings, some she bore on weak shoulders. As she stared at the mess or organs, flesh, and sanguine on the floors, she could not help but sink to her feet, sorrowful tears draining down the witch's face.

Varya crawled through the mess of internal tissue, ignoring the way her white gown covered in stormy blood, the way it clung to her frail figure, and she bit back her despair before trying to grab at the souls through rheumy eyes. And then she saw it.

The body of someone who was not dead yet— an omen of the future.

Just as Varya Petrov was about to scream, the creature's hand covered her mouth, and then she was pulled back into the hallway, door shutting before her, and claws ripping at her skin. She felt its breath on her ear, and the blood from its mouth drip down her collarbones.

"Wail for the dead," it susurrated, rattling her cochlea with its high pitched shriek, "And know they are coming to take even more from you."

The witch shot up in her bed, hands clasped around her throat as she fought back against the nightmare. Her mystified eyes glanced around the room in confusion, and she kicked the duvets to the side as she fell from her bed and onto the ground, throwing up the previous night's dinner.

Varya's mind fogged over, and she tried to remember whose body she had seen, yet found nothing but blankness, and her face covered in tears of anguish as she struggled to stand up, gripping her night stand's edge.

Her hands wiped at her face, then she sat back on the bed and pulled her knees up to her chest, balancing back and forth, and she mumbled to herself, "It was just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare."

Yet the blood on the window frame begged to differ.

***

He avoided her.

Varya had not seen Tom since they had kissed in the night field, and she wondered if it had been a figment of her imagination. It had seemed surreal. He had looked at her as if he wanted to flee, yet kissed her as if she was the air that he was breathing.

Regardless, the boy had kept his distance, and as Nott's gala approached, Varya only grew more worried. Riddle had asked her to be his date, yet now that seemed to be uncertain. Even so, she did not want to go out looking for him out of fear of looking desperate.

So on the morning of the event, she walked outside into the yard, feet bare, and sat down on the grass with a pot of tea by her side and a basket of sandwiches, hellbent on enjoying herself and taking a moment to breathe. Her mind had been focused on everything but her well being, and after what had happened in Albania, the girl knew she needed a moment to breathe.

Petrov had been...seeing things. Things that should not have been there, almost as if they were an illusion. It had started with the blood in the shower, then the nightmare that had felt almost like a premonition.

Perhaps, everyone had a tipping point, and Varya was nearing hers. For so long, she had thought that the only way to stay sane was to remain neutral. And, perhaps, if she had still lived in Romania, that might have been an option. But the scales had been changed as her attachments grew, and now she was pulled in two completely different directions.

There was Tom, the Knights, and their voracious ascendance to power, a conquest of time and endurance. Then there was Ivy, Della, and Felix, people that promised a life of normalcy and optimism. Always in the middle, never entirely fitting in, ambiguous, Varya, the stranger.

"You are standing outside by yourself?"

Varya turned to glance at Rosier, who threw himself to the ground with a groan before kicking off his shoes and laying on his back in a star position. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the warmth of the early Sun, then opened one eye to look at her.

"You seem quite upset," he said, then twisted to lay on his side, head resting on his hand, and Varya gave him a soft smile, "I want to hear all about what made that pretty face of yours turn so dull."

The girl scoffed as he pushed her forehead with a finger, then swatted at him, knowing well she could not tell him about the spirits, nor the necklace. Varya frowned and poured him a cup of tea, extending it to the boy.

"I am surprised you have the stomach for it," he chuckled, and hoisted an eyebrow when she threw him a glare.

"Yes, well," she took a sip of it, then patted her lips dry, "I am in no position to be queasy about such things. If I let every single thing that you all have done to me affect me, I would have jumped off of the Astronomy Tower long ago."

Her voice was brittle, and she hid quivering lips behind her cup as her raven eyes darted to the forest line and stayed there, unmoving. Ren's forehead creased in worry, and his tousled curls fell around his ears as he shifted in discomfort.

The boy had always had a problem with upsetting people, and felt like he had to please those around him and chatter their ear off to be liked. He had always been a free spirit, and yet his insides were so infected and dead that he felt the need to drown them in expensive liquor and puff away at tobacco sticks between raw lips that had kissed too many boys and girls during long nights. He was a man of midnight, and his lost soul wandered strange corridors and always found himself in places he should not have been.

That is how he had found his sister hanging.

And when he could not have saved her, he made a vow to please those around him, to have them depend on his fruitful conversations and polite gestures. Renold Rosier was a rotten apple that had been placed in a jeweled box, and when his mind wandered to the shadows and the ghosts, he found himself pulling out a metal flask to forget.

He treated life as a joke, because it was the funniest thing he had ever seen. A world so corrupt where parents forgot their dead children and replaced paintings in foyers so they would not scare the guests, and threw enough parties to present themselves as a happy family regardless of circumstances.

Well, some could not forget. The guilt was heavy on his shoulders, and as much as he tried to run away, she always whispered terror in his ear. But Varya, that was something he had control over, at least slightly. And Rosier had seen her break multiple times, so he had made an effort to keep an eye out for her and prevent her from falling to Tom's manipulation completely.

He told her about the Slug Club and accepted the punishment. He warned her about Icarus' insincerity and tried to push her away. Regardless, her love for Riddle had been something not even Ren could change, and as much as he wanted to protect her, some things were just meant to be.

There was one last thing he could warn her about, though.

"Varya," he began, voice low, and it was disturbing to see the boy so serious, "I have been visiting the Hufflepuff room recently, you know?"

The girl gave him an incredulous look, "So I have heard. You found yourself a lady?"

"Yes," he huffed, "But no. At least not as you might think. You remember when you went to Diagon Alley, to the store that Maxwell sent you to?"

"Of course, although it was futile in the end. Barely found anything of use, and Borgin and Burkes was not the most pleasant trip I have had, I will not lie."

Rosier bit back a curse, and tried to send her a mental push. Connect the dots, Varya! Think about it! But the girl only sipped on her tea and played with the hem of her skirt, earning a frustrated sigh from him. He could not say it outright, not until the girl figured it out herself.

"That play was quite a catastrophe, was it not?" he continued through gritted teeth, and Varya laughed out loud.

"Merlin, Rosier! You jump from subject to subject; I cannot keep up with you."

"But let us talk about the play," he said with an impediment, "It was odd that only Gryffindors and Slytherins were cast."

"I mean, Naramir was the narrator, so I could hardly say—"

Ah, there it was—the flicker of recognition.

Varya dropped the cup from her hand, and the hot tea spilled all over her lap, yet the burning was less of a worry than the utter terror that had taken over her being. Yes, the narrator. Naramir Borgin. The granddaughter of the owner of the shop, the same shop she had stolen Salazar's locket from. And if Rosier was going to the Hufflepuff room, that could only mean that Tom had started sniffing around, and there was only a matter of time before the truth came out.

She glanced at Ren, who gave her a knowing look, "Does he know?" asked the girl, her voice shaking slightly. This could not be good.

"I have not told him anything, and he has not asked because he has been focused on the diadem, but Varya," Rosier leaned in, making sure he could whisper, "Naramir told me that they know the necklace is gone, and although they have not been able to track you, it is only a matter of time before Riddle goes there himself. And he will get it out of them, even if he has to use torture or bring Nicholas along."

"What do I do?"

"You cannot give it back to him," stated Ren, "He is planning on making seven Horcruxes, and we both know that is six too many. Now, you have been quite a dent in his plan with that little journal scheme of yours, and so far, he only has the diadem."

"I thought you were loyal; I thought you wanted to support his cause just like the rest of them," spluttered Varya, unsure what to make of this. Was Rosier toying with her?

"I joined Riddle during a time where I had lost myself. I was angry at the world, and I wanted revenge," he admitted shamefully, "But none of us knew what it would turn to at the time, and we were children."

"Are you saying you want to stop him?"

"Precisely."

"That might cost you your life; I hope you are aware."

"Never cared much for it to begin with," he smirked, and despite the odd light in his eyes, Varya could tell that the boy was incredibly unstable, "Besides, I believe it is time you had an ally of your own."

It was as if flowers bloomed in her lungs and something heavy lifted off of her shoulders, then she turned to him with moistening eyes. He gave her a smile that screamed of insurgence and instability, yet there it was— the first person who would ever understand her.

Although the Ravenclaws were excellent friends, they did not know half of what Varya was going through, and she could only wonder what would happen if they were to find out about the horrible things that she had done.

But Ren? His loyalty to her would mean something new entirely, and her body trembled as she almost broke down. He hugged her as she sobbed on his shoulder, and Varya gripped at his vest as he held her tight, and fuck, it felt as if the dust in her soul was finally settling. It was so foreign to her, but it felt right.

"We need to come up with something," he whispered in her ear, "He might ask me about the necklace, or he might go to the shop directly. Either way, Riddle will not let this die."

Varya sniffled and glanced up at him, "Can you just not say anything? Pretend that Naramir did not tell you anything?"

"If he finds out I lied, then it might cost me my head, and it would be a waste of a pretty face," he said, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, but Varya saw the way his eyes darted around in paranoia, "Realistically speaking, our best option is to bide our time out. Deny everything for as long as you can, and when the time comes, pray that his wrath will not destroy either of us."

Her breath came in firmer now, and she felt her throat cramp in fear. Riddle would not hurt her, would he? Not after last night, not when it had seemed that something other than hatred had finally broken through. But then again, she knew that betraying his trust could easily wreck the boy who was so used to being alone, and she could curse herself for not thinking her actions through.

"That sounds like a terrible plan," she mumbled as Rosier slowly got up, scrunching his nose at the dirt patch on his trousers.

"So far, it is the best that we can do," his tone was final, and he extended an arm out to the girl, who latched onto it as she rose to her feet. With a flick of her hand, her meal was packed, and she picked up the basket as they made their way back to the kitchen.

As soon as they walked in, they saw that Lestrange was talking to the house-keeper about what the decorations should look like, and Ren bowed to Varya before saying that he had to go get dressed. Now, the girl probably should have done the same thing, yet part of her did not want to attend any sort of party anymore, not when Tom continued being so hot and cold with her.

She made her way up the stairs, eyes passing the multiple portraits that were hung on the walls, and then walked to her room on the third floor, feeling utterly depleted. One house-elf was arranging her bed, and another one was hanging her gown on the door, yet both scrambled away once they saw her approach.

Varya sighed as she sat down at the vanity mirror, looking at her reflection with disgust. The radiance of her smile, the glow in her eyes, gone, and for what? It would all come back to haunt her, it seemed.

What she was worried about most was losing Tom's trust, however little she had earned, because the witch doubted Riddle was a man of second chances. And he would never understand that what she had done was for his own benefit, not unless Varya showed him everything, and that was not an option.

If Tom ever became aware of his future, everything would descend into chaos. His ambition would have him restless while trying to find a solution, perhaps even crueler in nature than before, and many would die. She doubted Tom was at a point in time where he could give up his stride for power. Perhaps, he never would, and Varya would have to always stay by his side and ruin his plans.

The knock on her door was loud, and her head snapped as she yelled for the guest to enter. Icarus Lestrange stepped in with utter flair, his lips in a tight smirk as he made his way to her and hopped to seat on the vanity.

"Do you have a partner for the ball?" he inquired, fluffy hair falling forward, and Varya raised an eyebrow.

"Riddle asked me," she said honestly, knowing there was no point in denying it. If they did end up attending together, then Icarus would find out either way.

The poison in his golden tinted eyes was evident, and he shifted uncomfortably on the mirror, remembering the position they had been in last time they were around a vanity. The girl made notice of it too, and a soft blush coated her cheeks as she powdered her face to hide it.

Varya pulled out the makeup that she owned, although not a lot, and set it on the table. Maxwell had offered to get her a helping lady, but she refused, as the girl thought they always made her look too pompous.

"If he does not show up, I can always escort you," he proposed while avoiding her stare, and the girl's heart broke. Why could he not stop trying? Could he not see that he had someone else to love him the way that he deserved?

"That would not be very courteous of me. Besides, I thought you had asked Elladora."

"I did, but she would understand—"

"I am not sure she would," cut Varya quickly, fighting the grimace, "I know I would be upset if my date decided to stand me up for someone else. And anyhow, I keep my faith that Riddle will come back any time soon. Where is he, anyway?"

"He is out," mumbled Lestrange. He was irritated, but the girl was right. He could not stand up Elladora. Even so, Icarus could only wish that Riddle would treat the Eastern witch better, "None of us have seen him all day, but the servants said he went to town by himself. God knows what artifact he is searching for."

"I doubt there would be anything of significance in a town market," mumbled Varya, yet dread settled over her as she remembered the locket dilemma.

"The most valuable things are always hidden where you least expect them to be. Anyhow, at least let Nott escort you if Riddle does not come back on time, it might be the first time he actually has a date for an event."

"He never seems to be interested in romance," smiled Varya, thinking fondly of the Nott heir, who only ever had eyes for his pages. She applied the slightest shadows to her eyes, trying to make it as proportional as possible. Regardless of the amount of glitter she used, however, her eyes never seemed to be alive.

"Maxwell is innocent like that," told Icarus, then something else took over his face, "He does not deserve your love, you know."

"Nott?" Varya quipped, trying to avoid the conversation, but Lestrange shot her a look, and she frowned, "Maybe not, but I sure do deserve his."

"What do you mean?"

"Something that burns me alive, something that drives me insane just like I have done to many others. I am not a good enough person to want a love that is pure, and— no, stop it, do not say anything. It is true, I am selfish and slightly on the verge of madness, and I believe the way I have grown up has made me attracted to people like him. It is easy to love someone who will never reciprocate when you do not think you deserve love."

Icarus stared at her through the mirror, his heart pained as he bit down the misery inside his chest. He could have loved her regardless of how messed up she was, and the witch's words made him realize that she did not even consider him as an option. Selfish indeed, but that was her, and she did not have to change for anyone.

"You went quiet," remarked the girl as her eyes flickered to him. He was standing by the door now, shoulder against the frame as his eyebrows knotted in an amalgam of concern, and perhaps he thought she was deranged for her words. That is why they could not work together, because he would never understand how her childhood had affected her, whereas Tom was in a similar position.

Icarus was a good guy— and that was the problem. He was a symbol of everything the girl had been deprived of, all of the light that had been taken away from her, and despite the fact that he was still of villainous character, there was a stark contrast between the two. Everything that Lestrange did, he chose because his position of privilege allowed him to. Everything Varya did, she had to do in order to survive another day.

"I mean, I disagree with you. There is not much to say," he twisted and leaned his head on the frame, crossing his arms in a stance of defense, "I understand that what you have gone through must have been hard, but—"

"Hard?" the girl choked, "I watched my friends die and forgot about them, I killed dozens of people because someone decided my body was no longer to be mine, I lost my parents to a cult. I have seen more darkness than all of you combined, and yet at the end of the day, I still try to keep a steady mind. Do you know how hard it is to keep it all together right now? Have any of you bothered asking how I feel? Or, better yet, apologizing for everything you have done?"

"I am sorry," the boy confessed suddenly, "I am sorry for not telling you or helping you back then, but you must understand that standing against Riddle itself is dangerous, and we all thought that what he was doing was justified at the time."

"And what do you think now?"

Icarus bit on his lip, and he swallowed harshly at the question he did not quite know himself. Varya stared at him with unprecedented intensity, begging him to admit his insubordination with Tom, take her side and help her clean this mess, but the boy looked away.

"You are playing with fire," he mumbled, and his hands fiddled with the hem of his shirt nervously, "If Riddle finds out what you have been doing, if he even hears a whisper of you trying to instigate this, he will have no mercy. And I am worried about you."

The girl frowned, "I am not doing anything."

He gave her an incredulous look, and yet she kept applying her makeup with shamelessness, completely dodging his eyes, made of Earth themselves, as they carried some awareness she was not ready to face. Icarus cared for her, that she knew, and it felt odd to receive such warmth from someone.

"Anyhow," he said as he pushed himself off of the door frame, "I must go get ready. But, Varya?"

"Yes?" she half-turned her face to him.

Lestrange sighed, and it felt as if he was saying goodbye to something, although he knew they would see each other again, "All I want for you is to be happy, and if that is not something you can achieve with me, then so be it. But Riddle will ruin you because his love will never be sincere, only obsessive. He will manipulate you, and I just hope you are strong enough to fight past it."

He closed the door, and Varya leaned over her vanity mirror with astonishment etched on her face. She pulled at her chapped lips with trepidation, and her stomach twisted as if a storm was nearing, and she was on a sinking ship that was so close to the coast, yet too far for her to save herself. Was this what her feelings for Riddle were? A sinking ship?

She went to her wardrobe and pulled out the gown Maxwell had sent her. White, classic, sophisticated. He had exquisite taste, and the witch let her fingers skim the lacey material before she put it on. The sleeves were long, and a cape of lace fell from her shoulders down her back in intricate patterns. At the back, strings of a corset pulled it together, and Varya walked to her mirror, trying to pull at them and get them to shut.

"You need help with that?"

The girl jumped at Tom's voice, and he stood by the door with his hands behind his back, and focused eyes were trained on her figure as she made an effort to cover her exposed back. He stood there in a dark suit— black turtleneck, black jacket, black pants — and her breath stilled as he approached her slowly, the slightest smirk on his face.

She backed into the mirror, eyes up and wide as he tilted his head to observe her, and he felt the same depravity spill in his body. What a sight it would be to have her broken and docile for him, to own her mind and soul completely. Tom wanted to overpower such a force of nature, an Obscurial, have her at his feet, and enjoy all she had to offer.

"I, uh—" she struggled, then flinched as he placed a hand to her side, leaning into her, controlling her moves.

The wizard twirled her softly, then grabbed her hip before he pressed her back to his chest. Riddle's fingers skimmed her neck before he moved her hair to the side, and then he trailed fingers on porcelain skill— something he could ruin, something he could burn. His nails dragged at the epidermis, and Varya bit back a whimper, eyes watering at the mixture of sensations.

Then, he finally grabbed her corset and pulled at it, his touch a phantom on her being, and yet it made her lungs of frost and her heart of fire as everything in her withered and plummeted. He was godly, and his allure was divine and satanic at the same time, and the warmth that radiated off of his body made Varya close her eyes as she fell back in his touch.

"Where were you?" she mumbled, entranced as his hands trailed down from her shoulders and to her arms, and he leaned his face over, breathing on her throat as she let her head fall back on his shoulder. Riddle placed a kiss below her jawline, then bit down with possessiveness, marking her before she would go to the ballroom.

"In town," he continued as he trailed his lips down her shoulder. The wizard stopped, and his eyes fell on the girl's ears with a nasty sneer— Icarus' earrings, "Why are you wearing those?"

Varya opened her eyes in confusion; then, her hand flew to her ears to see what he was referring to. Oh, the earrings, "I do not have another pair."

She did not take them off, and that made the boy frown even more. Tom did not like how it infuriated him, almost as if something else was marking her as his, but he bit down further comments. At the end of the day, it was him that was taking her to the party, him that would touch her. And he thought it to be only right; after all, Varya Petrov was his.

He stepped back regardless, lips pursed in annoyance, and then he extended a hand for the girl to grab. Varya did so, ignoring the way her heart drummed in her chest, and her fingers numbed where they touched him. She had never been quite so nervous, at least not for a party.

But there was the threat of the locket looming over her head, and she could not help but wonder what the boy would do when he found out. How would she get out of that complicated situation?

They walked into the hallway, passing the restless House Elves as they scrambled to set the last few details, and Varya gave them grateful smiles, whereas Tom kept his gaze forward, not even acknowledging them as they parted to let the pair through.

The entrance to the salon was from the main staircase, and the girl felt queasiness settle in as they neared the door, part of her not ready to walk in with Tom Riddle. It felt more prominent than it should have been, as if it was a grand gesture to the world that they had formed some type of unspoken bond.

Riddle, on the other hand, thought nothing of it. He was callous, and he cleared his throat as he signaled the doorman to let them through. The doors opened, revealing a luxurious scenery beyond, made of the finest champagne and the most immoral flirtatious exchanges. This was no usual ball, Varya realized, but a parade on unscrupulous behavior, an example set by Renold Rosier, Nicholas Avery, and Icarus Lestrange.

As soon as the pair stepped in, Varya felt the unwanted gazes of the guests on her, and she saw multiple witches scowl as she clung to Tom's arm. It made her wonder if Riddle had ever interacted with other girls at such events, but when he placed his other arm over her fingers that gripped his arm harsher, she found it did not matter that much.

"Where is everyone else?" she mumbled, face red at the proximity, and the witch needed no glass of expensive liquor to feel light-headed. Varya glanced up at him, then frowned. The look in his eyes, the slight twitch of his lips, the way his cheeks hollowed as he bit down on them— Tom Riddle was scheming.

She was about to say something else, but the boy cut her off, "By the bar, as always," he turned azure eyes to her, "I will escort you to them, but then I am afraid I must mingle and find some information for myself."

Varya raised an eyebrow, "What are you planning?"

Rogueish smirk on his lips, he tilted his head, surprised by her questioning. She need not worry about his affairs, though, so he placed a soft hand on her face, and when delight swam in her eyes, he knew he had gotten her where he wanted. Distract her with touches, with the illusion of affection, and then the witch will not stand in the way of his plans.

Riddle had much prepared for the upcoming weeks, and for everything to work out in his favor, the girl had to fall under an illusion of security and normalcy, "Nothing, darling. I must only secure my connections by engaging in mindless chatter."

He pulled at her arm and guided her towards the rest of the Knights, who were circling a table, rowdiness spilling from their parted lips as they chattered eagerly. Rosier and Lestrange were trying to imitate some sort of Scottish dance, their arms around each other's shoulder as they threw their feet to the tune of the music, champagne spilling from their overflowed glasses as they moved eagerly.

Rosier yelled to the music, earning a few surprised glances from the guests, and it made Nott groan into his palm in embarrassment, "This is my house, Renold. Merlin, you need to stop for a second."

But Rosier continued to hop around impatiently, only stopping when his eyes landed on Varya, and he whistled, "Delightful! We were wondering when you would show," his eyes flickered to Riddle, and he bowed his head in respect.

Tom detached himself from the group swiftly, motioning for Malfoy to follow him, and then they got lost into the sea of attendees, Petrov letting her eyes trail on their figures until she could no longer see them. Then, she took a seat by Elladora, who was dressed in a beautiful black gown, her hair falling in curls around her face, and her red lips trailed the edge of a wine glass, whereas dun eyes scanned the crowd.

She flickered her gaze to Varya, and a smirk nested in her face, "You have a little something," she pointed to her own neck, and the Eastern witch's eyes enlarged as she covered the spot Tom had bitten earlier with a nervous hand, face flushing in embarrassment.

"Shit," goddamned possessive freak, he surely knew what he was doing. Petrov cast a quick spell to hide it, and doubtfully gazed at Icarus, thanking the skies he had not noticed. He was very sensitive to the subject, and she did not want him knowing that she and Tom had been intimate.

Selwyn hummed, then got up from her seat, flipping her blazing red hair down her back and glancing around the room until she found a man suited for her taste, "It seems both of our partners have abandoned us for other men tonight. I will find myself a sweet replacement, and I suggest you do too."

With that, she strolled through people as they parted to make way for the breathtaking girl, and she stopped in front of a gentleman, not much older than her, ere her eyes glazed over with seduction. Before Varya even knew it, the girl had bewitched her new target, and Selwyn shot her a wink as she grabbed the doe-eyed boy to dance.

Varya sighed, knowing well that there was only one boy she wanted to share a dance with, and her eyes trailed the room searching for darkness, for the styled ebony hair and marine eyes. She saw Riddle chatting away with a group of people and marveled at his stance.

It was as if watching an event of proportions unfold, a demigod amongst commoners. The way he held himself— such superfluous grace, the slightest lethargy in his eyes that resonated of superiority, and even in the dim lights of the ballroom, his skin glowed of royalty and the slightest hint of nonchalance. His hand in his pocket, clenched, indicated that he found the conversation distasteful. Yet, Tom hid a sneer behind a glass of champagne as his eyebrows raised in sham interest at whatever the group was discussing.

One of the women stepped closer to him, and he threw a charming smile, albeit bogus, and she swooned over his alluring nature— a boy with such melancholy from his past, yet he had fought his way to the top. He was the romantic tear-jerking story, the fight for supremacy, the rise from dirt to Heavens. And then, it mattered not that his name sounded muggle, nor that he had grown in an orphanage, because he had covered his identity with connections to the rich and powerful — Malfoy, Lestrange, Rosier, Nott, Avery, and Selwyn. Then, he was part of the top of the hierarchy by association, and his dominant nature made him stand out, so even the most prejudiced bowed their heads in respect at the sound of his name.

Yet he hated it, and for what? His name carried no resonance of displeasure; regardless, Tom found it an insult to his accomplishments, a tie to something that he had tried to escape. Varya reasoned that it was not all he made it to be— regardless of how much power his name would carry, he would never accept it because it belonged to someone that had abandoned him. That was the greatest sin of his life, the origin of such a dark tale, and perhaps Tom believed his father had turned him into the monster that he was now. Perhaps, he resented it in some way, although he never would admit it.

"Have a glass of liquor, dear," preached Nicholas Avery as he sat down beside her, hair tussled, and collar opened, and she saw the sweat on his neck from the strenuous dancing. Multiple ladies had paraded themselves around him, and he took the time to entertain all.

"Do not fall for his temptation," mumbled Nott from behind, and Varya turned to find him gazing over a book with boredom. He flipped another page, then sighed deeply and bit his lip in frustration.

Avery grabbed the book from his hands and replaced it with a glass of wine, and his friend let out a revolted groan yet could not be bothered to fight against the devilish assassin.

"Why? So she can bore herself to death such as you?" pronounced Avery, and then he tossed the volume over his head, not even caring that it happened to hit the head of a guest, "Nott, for the love of Merlin, enjoy yourself."

"I enjoy myself when I read, thank you very much. Some of us are not psychotic extroverts."

"A shame," chipped Avery, then he snapped his finger at the waiter, "A full glass for the lady, please."

Tom's eyes danced around the room, and then they landed on her figure, and he watched her just as she had watched him previously. Her body was slumped in a chair, and jittery hands played with the seam of her sleeves and pulled at threads as the witch watched the dancing crowd.

Nott and Avery were bickering by her side, yet Varya's face was fallen in distress, and she paid no mind to the pair of friends. She was out of place amongst the backdrop of extravagance, and regardless of what her name should have meant, it amounted to nothing in her eyes, as she did not associate herself with the bourgeoise.

Varya, to him, was something he hated about the wizarding world the most— powerful sorcerers that cowered in front of their true calling because they were scared of consequences. Yet, he could not bring himself to loathe her thoroughly. Call it fascination with her unbalanced being, the mixture of thoughtfulness and macabre, but the boy could not deny that she was the most interesting woman he had met.

The girl could only reach her full potential and raise up to the witch he wanted her to be if she detached herself from everything good in her life. if Varya wholly depended on Tom. And she was his, so it was only fair that he strived to cut all ties with those around her and spin her mind with lies and deceit of affection to earn her loyalty and trust.

And when his mind wandered to the kiss they had shared last night, eyebrows furrowed and fingers tingled. It had felt different, a shift in his being, and he hated it. He hated how she mellowed him out and distracted him from his true purpose.

So after the encounter, he had devised a plan— Tom would finally make his first Horcrux.

His lips fell in a pleased smirk, and he hid it behind his glass yet again, then let his mind wander to the possibilities. His father's murder would not do— Riddle refused to have his name attached to anything that belonged to him, and every other one was too insignificant. He had to commit the act again; he had to find a new target.

The bloodlust in his system drove him insane, and his fingers tingled with anticipation as his mind spun with such grotesque flashes of flesh and blood, and fangs of snakes in bodies of whimpering women and men. Yes, he had the perfect target in mind.

He glanced at Varya and smirked. Once he was done, she would have nobody else to rely on but him.

***

Hi! I made a TikTok for The Seven Devils, the account is called slthriddle, and I have already posted some edits for the story. Check them out if you want to!

Happy Halloween and stay safe!