CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

WARNING: graphic death, slight gore maybe, mature

The Inn's staircase creaked as Varya Petrov made her way downstairs, rubbing her eyes in an attempt to converge her vision. Sleep had not come easily last night, not after Tom had left in a hurry once he had finished applying her medicinal lotion. The girl had felt empty without his presence, and had stirred all night in bed from one side to another as her mind burned alive with one thing— him.

Her locks of shadows and ash were pulled in a delicate braid that she had pinned in a bun, and she wore dark trousers and a cotton blouse, so oddly looking for a woman of her times. Varya knew that they would be heading into the forest that day, and so she did not want to spend her time walking in a dainty skirt.

The pub hummed even in the early hour, with some guests eating breakfast, and she spotted Tom Riddle at a table in the far corner. He was reading a newspaper as his fork scrambled his eggs absentmindedly, and he had fashioned himself a marine sweater and belted pants, which made his azure eyes stand out even from across the room. His hair was made of the darkness spun by night spiders, and it fell in soft curls around his head, a mess of waves.

Varya saw a young woman approach him, barely older than her, and she stood by him with a flushed face and dreamy eyes, muttering something in English by the way his face moved in recognition. The Eastern's witch's abdomen tightened as the boy flashed the girl a charming smile, eyes moving slowly as he took her in— it was odd to see his facade after having been around his true self for so long.

The girl giggled at something he had said, then made to sit down across from him, and that was enough to make Varya march toward the table, "Excuse me, but I believe you are sitting in my seat."

The Albanian girl gasped, then her cascade of blonde hair ruffled as she hurried to move away, "I am so sorry— I did not know, oh! I apologize, miss!". Then, she ran away to another table, face red as she was surrounded by her friend's titters.

"You have always looked dashing in green, but I have to say jealousy is an interesting look on you."

Varya's head snapped to Riddle, who had an eyebrow lifted in a mocking attitude at her obtrusive display of possessiveness. She sat down in the chair, then pulled his plate of food toward her and dove her fork in it, "Jealousy? You must have me mistaken. I simply do not want you to be distracted by other women when we have other things to attend to."

"Other women?" Tom said cockily, then sank back in his place as his eyes trailed Varya from her toes to her head, "Recognizing your possessiveness is not a fault, Petrov. After all, I must admit that my own blood does boil when I see men admiring you. I am territorial, you see, and I do not appreciate others lusting after my...toys."

The girl choked on her breakfast, "I am not your toy Riddle. Merlin! You sure do struggle to see me as a human, do you not? First, a weapon, now...whatever it is you are picturing."

Tom huffed in annoyance and looked away, displeased at her refusal to admit that she belonged to him. But, of course, she did— why would the girl engage in such things if she was not his to enjoy? Attraction, that is what she had called it, and the boy was still trying to understand the mechanics behind such a thing.

His whole life, Tom had only known one thing— violence. So whenever the witch managed to stimulate some reaction of him, his mind immediately thought he was reacting out of hatred. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that he was a boy of circumstances. His life had been a joke, a mess of abandonment and pain, and his mind had closed itself to all possibility of love and affection. In Tom Riddle's twisted mind, the only way he had ever had people pay attention to him was through power and fear— better to be feared if they cannot love you.

His psychological clock also made him extremely possessive. He had not had many things to claim as his during his life, having shared everything with the other children from the orphanage. He was still childish, an uncultivated seed, and had found something to entertain himself with.

It was a dangerous game he was playing at, as Varya Petrov was anything but a submissive being. She had learned through her life that attachments ended in persecution, and that she had to be self-reliant in order to survive. The witch had grown up treated as some sort of object, and Tom's attitude made her queasy with each day.

"When are we heading out?" she asked unobtrusively, eyes shooting to the table of girls that were still watching Tom. The boy flitted them a smile, and Varya scowled. Although it was artificial, he had never bothered pretending to be a gentleman with her, not since he had found out about her school.

"As soon as possible. It should take us a few hours to head through the forest, and after last night I believe it is best we go during the day," he turned his abdomen around, looking out the window at the gray sky, "It seems that a storm is approaching. Terrible timing. Alas, we proceed with caution."

Varya nodded, then stabbed a strawberry with her fork in exasperation. She did not enjoy feeling like this, as if his attention was not on her entirely, and so turned her head to glare at the women terribly. They gasped, then went back to eating their food quietly, stealing quick glances at the Eastern witch that seemed to be plotting their murder.

Tom paid no mind to it as he removed the napkin from his lap and folded it carefully before placing it on the table. He twisted his neck to relieve the tension, then gave the witch a brief nod as he headed upstairs to pack their necessary provisions.

After finishing her food, Varya headed into the crisp air of April, and stuck her hand out to feel the slight drizzle of rain on her skin. A smile ghosted her lips, then memories flashed to the night they had spent in Paris, and her heart twisted at the memory. She yearned for the boy to share her feelings, and yet was aware of the fact that he was only seeing her as a means to relieve tension and frustration.

"Are you ready?" questioned Riddle as he marched outside and passed her a bag to carry, "It should be a hike through the main road, and then we stray away and head North. Helena said something...something about a fortress of sorts. She had been staying there, hiding, and then when the Baron came, she ran into the woods and threw the diadem so her mother could not find it."

Varya nodded, recalling the story he had told her on the train, and then proceeded after him as they sauntered into the forest and beyond the impressive oak trees. Her nerves were still high-strung after what had happened last night, and although her wounds had mostly healed, there was a dull ache in her body.

Tom led the way effortlessly, and despite having a map of the tracks, he barely used it. It was almost as if he had spent hours memorizing each bifurcation, the way the roads twisted and split in complicated patterns. With his obsessive behavior, it was not hard to imagine the boy doing such, and the girl scoffed at the thought.

He peered back at her with narrowed eyes, "What is it?"

"Nothing," she mused innocently, and Tom wanted to bash her head against a tree in frustration. He did not like it when she lied, "What do you want this diadem for, anyway?"

"I am surprised you are only asking this of me now. It is rather stupid that you came with me regardless of my motives. What if I tried to lure you here and murder you?"

Varya gasped, "Do not call me stupid!" She chucked an empty water flask at his head, and he adapted quickly and flung a spell her way, sending her to fall on her back. The witch keened as she felt the ache in her spine, and glared at the Slytherin prefect.

Tom stared at her impassively, before swirling around and continuing his journey, not even bothering to wait for her. It was an interesting dynamic that they had, and notwithstanding the constant banter, Varya liked to think that most would not have escaped only with a bruised tailbone after tossing a metal flask at Tom Riddle's head.

She got up and ran to catch up with him, "So? What will you use it for?".

The boy sighed deeply. He was getting thwarted by her endless chatter. They stopped in front of a bifurcation, and Tom investigated the sign. This is where they would head off-track, "Horcrux."

Varya's eyes winched, and her lips squeezed in uneasiness. She did not say anything, but the boy felt her condemnation hit his back in waves— the girl was glowering at his figure, obviously displeased by the fact that he was pursuing such endeavors. Yet, he could not bring himself to care. At the end of the day, his cause came above all.

"What is Lord Voldemort?" she inquired suddenly, and Tom's gaze snapped to her in a daze of fierceness and surprise, "You engraved it into Carrow's arm."

The boy paused in his tracks, then took out his wand and spelled out his name into the air. Varya watched as the letters rearranged themselves to spell out new words, "Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future," his whisper was terrible, a snake of darkness that pulsated in the air, and then he half-turned his face to look at her.

"You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Petrov- I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

"That is ridiculous, Tom. Your past is what made you into this person, and a name is nothing but the meaning we have it be," the girl said with exasperation, marching toward him in anger, "Do you know what my name means?"

Tom gave her an inquisitive look, and yet it was merged in with the rage that was growing at her unimpressed expression, "No."

"Petrov comes from the biblical name Peter, the apostle which Christ believed would be the rock on which he built Christianity, just like Grindelwald believed me to be the setting stone to his empire. Varya itself means stranger, foreigner, but not to those around me. No. Only ever to myself— the stranger that lives inside of me, the parasite." the girl bit back sternly, her heart contorting with despondency as she thought about it. After realizing her fate, multiple things had started setting themselves into place, and the witch had had a different perspective of her life.

"But your name comes from power-"

"No, it does not!" she thundered at him, "It comes from people that only ever saw me as a vessel, as something that carried a weapon inside me. Nevertheless, do I run from it, Tom Riddle? No, because that makes me nothing but a coward! I will not be the stone he builds his world upon, I will be an immovable rock in front of his aversion, and I will not be named after a parasite that he has infested me with. I will be something he does not recognize anymore— never the girl he tortured in the walls of his castle. That is strength, Tom! Not building up a persona just to run away from the truth."

"Do not talk to me in such a way, Petrov," the boy spat, pushing past her and walking ahead of the track. Varya marched after him in fury, prepared to draw her wand if it came down to it, "I am not running around from my past; I am embracing my future. Regardless of how you were treated, you still grew up in the shadow of a spectacular name, whereas I have only ever been lived with a muggle name. Something even you did not fail to remind me."

The woods had turned darker, denser, and as the sun faded between the branches, the surroundings turned into a dim gray despite it being so early. Varya bit the inside of her cheek in annoyance, and pushed at the twigs that the boy would let snap in her face. Yes, she had alluded to his name and status multiple times, and yet the girl had only done so to irk him. Now, she understood that it might have been a mistake on her part.

"I never meant anything with it, Tom. You think your name or bloodstatus are things that matter to me?" she groaned, pulling at her hair in frustration, "What matters is the actions you take, and believe me when I say this— nobody liked a dictator."

The boy scorned her as he threw his bag underneath a tree, ruling that this was a place as good as any to rest. They had been hiking for more than an hour, and he could tell by the way the witch hunched her back that last night's antics had wrecked her. Very well, she could rest while he went over the maps again.

He sat on the grass, ignoring the ardent stare, and spread out his papers in front of him. Then, he took out his journal — the one she had given to him — and started jotting down notes eagerly, making sure he had not missed anything.

Varya's eyes darted to his hands, to the way he cradled her gift, and every ounce of anger dissipated from her body and was replaced by the softness of affection. She threw herself to the ground opposite of him and watched as he bit his lip in concentration, writing down whatever thought passed through his mind. She picked at a strand from her shirt, playing with it shyly as she stole glances at Tom.

Crack!

Riddle's head snapped towards the sound, and Varya stilled as her nerves untangled in a heap of emotions and panic. Merlin, it could not be the ghoul, right? The witch had let the mine fall back on it, thus ensuring that it would stay trapped until someone reponed the mine. Her dread continued to rise as she watched the line of trees, waiting for whatever horror loomed the forest to pounce upon them.

Then, a white rabbit jumped out and into their clearing, whiskers sniffing at the ground with interest, and Tom growled at it in irritation. He was apprehensive due to the recent events, and had no time for such creatures. As he glanced at Varya, however, he felt his features fall into a frown. The girl had teary eyes as she watched the animal hop around with innocence and wonder.

"I used to have a toy," she began slowly, trying to fight against the memories that were spilling in her mind, "I used to have a white rabbit toy. It was the only happy thing I had in the castle, everything else was dark and somber, and I carried it around with me everywhere. It probably still is somewhere between my old stuff at Scholomance."

Tom nodded, and yet he felt uncomfortable at the way she was spilling with emotions, unsure how to react to such a naive confession. Quite frankly, the boy could care less about her pet toy. Then, rheumy eyes that swirled with chaos and grief met his, and the boy's breath hitched.

"Do you believe in omens?" Varya asked, her mind swirling as she connected the dots.

"Somewhat," Tom admitted, "Although not many wizards are skilled in Divination, and most just strive to make a penny off of complete bogus."

The girl shook her head, "No. Not those omens— black magic symbols. They are objects that manifest themselves in our lives and have deep connections to our past, present, and future. For instance, you go along the street, and then suddenly, you see a man wearing the kind of trenchcoat that your favorite teacher used to bring to class. And the next day, you find out your teacher is dead. Odious things, really, but very much true. Fate always send out signals to those in distress, warning when they mess with their own destiny."

"What are you getting at?"

"I killed the rabbit," she breathed with agony, "At Wool's orphanage, I killed the white rabbit. The only happiness I was allowed during my childhood, and then the next day, everything changed— you found out about the Obscurus, and you wrecked my mind until it unleashed, and now I barely have any time left."

Tom slammed his journal shut, "You are not dying, Petrov. All you have to do is make a Horcrux, and everything would be solved, and yet you refuse to do so despite never carrying much for anyone but yourself. You do not want to kill? Such lies...admit it to yourself that you are not scared of dying, but of living. You do not know how to tame the Obscurus, so part of you believes it is better to succumb to something as weak as mortality."

Varya gaped at him, wrath piling in her heart, and yet when she opened her mouth to fight back, she found herself mute— he was right. The girl had no problem in being selfish, and she could kill whichever acolyte of Grindelwald's without remorse. However, the thought of doing such a thing terrified her. Not because she was afraid of murder, but because the witch did not know how to handle a life of immortality. She would have to watch the world crumble, see everyone die before her eyes.

Everyone except him.

It twisted with agony, her heart, as she realized that eternity with Tom Riddle was more terrifying than death— a never-ending loop of torment at his hands, controlled by his manipulation and mind games in hopes that perhaps, one day, he could come to love her as she loved him. But that was nothing more than a fantasy.

The white rabbit.

She had killed it at his demand, and in a way, it had been a symbol of her innocence perishing at his hands in more ways than one. It had been an avalanche of torment afterward— her love for him surfacing, his discovery of her powers, Grindelwald's secret, her memories being broken. That day in Tom Riddle's room at Wool's Orphanage, Varya Petrov had broken the last thread of naivety and virtue that had tied her to her past.

Now, she was a mess of fragmented pieces, and no matter how fast her hands scurried the ground to put them together, the edges never fit. He had made sure of that. In the end, Tom had been her undoing.

"We should keep going," her timber quivered with desolate sound, and the boy surveyed her as she got up to her feet and dusted the grass off of her pants. Tom could tell that she was upset at him, and he bit his cheek in frustration at her ill temperament.

In his mind, the boy was not doing anything wrong. As a matter of fact, he was offering her something most would bow to him for, a chance to stand by his side as he conquered the world, and to be the two beings that defied time and space. Yet, the girl seemed to have no interest, and his heart twisted with a feeling he did not quite recognize. Hurt.

Even so, Riddle packed everything up with a simple charm, and followed her through the woods as they continued their journey. It took them a while to get past the trees, but when they did, they saw the fortress dominating over the mountains.

It was an ancient building, and in some way, it reminded the girl of her academy, yet the walls were made of antiquated stone, and it watched over the village from rocky edges. It was of medieval times, and perhaps, once there had been lords and ladies residing behind its security. Now, it was a ghost tower.

"You said it should be somewhere around here?" the girl asked, and then Tom turned to her quickly.

"Yes, but..." he glanced back at the fortress, "I do not think you should come with me."

"Are you serious? You think I would betray you or something?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do." He admitted eventually, at the girl scoffed at his audacity before throwing her hands up in the air, "This is something I must do for myself. It seems the forests are clear now that we have dealt with the ghoul, and I would much prefer to be left alone."

Then, he turned and headed into the opposite side of the woods alone, not even giving the girl a chance to retort.

"Fine, you bastard!"

But Tom was long gone, and if he heard the insult, he only ignored it. Varya huffed, then glanced at the fortress before making her way to it. The rain had started coming in, and she was not about to wait for him outside. If he wanted to be paranoic, then fine, the girl would simply let him risk his own life. Perhaps, she should free the ghoul and give him a scare.

The climb to the stone building had been rough, but the girl had gotten used to pushing her body beyond her limit, so when the witch entered the main lobby, she did not even feel the strain.

The inside of the fortress was grim, and the walls had been covered in spider webs and dust, making it seem like some sort of ghost castle. Portraits hung on dented nails, and their unmoving faces stared at the girl with boredom craved on their faces. Varya neared on of them, and analyzed its expression— it seemed to be in pain.

The corridors extended to the main chamber, where a dingy wooden table stood in the middle, surrounded by chairs that had been pushed to the side, almost as if whoever had stood there before had left in a hurry, probably to defend the land against an attack.

Varya used a spell to clean the sitting area, and then sat at the table with an upset look. It seemed that whenever she got close to the boy, he tended to push her away, almost as if he was trying to keep her at arm's length at all times. It hurt her, and her hopes were slowly fading, yet she could only try holding on onto the edge as she dangled above a nasty fall.

Tom Riddle— a unique character in his own way, with trauma that had locked him inside his own mind and destroyed his soul, a boy who had never seen love, and because of that could not recognize it around him. Intelligence beyond his years, and yet the emotional maturity of a middle school child. She wondered what it would take for him to break.

A door slammed in the distance.

Varya got up to her feet, and although the idea of Tom Riddle coming back was on the top of her head, something told her this presence was no acquaintance of hers. Her hand gripped her wand tighter, and she adjusted her knife belt better before slithering to one of the walls. Her hands gripped some of the stones that stood out, and she found herself climbing swiftly until she reached the woody beams that held the roof together. They creaked as she stepped, and the girl had to hold tightly not to fall, but she was out of human view.

"I lost sight of them in the woods, MacDuff is still trailing after the boy, but the girl vanished into thin air! They found Sylvia's body in Paris, and one of her bodyguards said that it had been him that had killed her— those little rats. They used magic on him; I am sure of it! Percival would have never betrayed us," the woman growled as she barged into the room, and Varya stiffened as she recognized her— Miss Pichler.

The Eastern witch's heart saturated with wrath as she watched the woman that had made her childhood a living hell advance into the room, a young scribe trailing behind her as she barked orders at him.

"If we fail to capture her here as well, Grindelwald will not be pleased and—," the woman stopped and looked at the clean sitting area. Varya almost cursed at herself for the mistake, "Reginald, have you dusted the tables?"

"No, ma'am," the scribe responded promptly, then looked around in a frenzy. His eyes flashed upwards, and then they widened as he saw the girl on the wooden beams, but Varya raised a finger to her lips.

If her assumptions were right, then this boy would be just as mistreated as she was, as Pichler was not the nicest woman, and the girl doubted she had newfound love for children in her heart. Reginald blinked at her in confusion; then, his eyes darted back to the woman. He stayed quiet.

"The Obscurial must be around here, then. Go and find MacDuff, bring him back here, and tell him to kill the boy; Grindelwald said nothing about keeping him alive," the woman chuckled sadistically, and then she took out her wand, taking a battle stance.

The boy nodded and ran out of the room. If he knew what was good for him, he would not come back. Varya debated her next move, unsure what to do with the woman. If anything, Tom would be able to guard himself, perhaps even kill MacDuff, and yet something told her his obsession with the diadem would have him too focused to notice he was being tracked. Fuck, she had to get out of here.

Pichler had never been a great dueler, and yet her voice was enough to make the witch's mind break, as she represented the most horrific moments of her childhood. With that advantage, it would be hard to tell what approach was best, and the mere idea of being in her presence was sending Varya over the edge.

The girl felt her soul crack as she watched the older woman walk around the chamber, eyes darting from each corner, and a cloud of anxiety nested itself in her mind. It was as if her lungs could no longer function, and her skin buzzed with uncharacteristic terror. No, no, no. She could not face Pichler— she was not ready; she probably would never be.

Her breathing accelerated as the rain hit the stone walls harder, and the wind picked up its speed as the witch fell into a hurricane of violence and despair, and her skin covered in goosebumps almost as if bugs were crawling all over. She could not breathe.

She needed Tom. Where was he?

Almost as if on cue, the doors opened, and Richard MacDuff pushed Riddle inside, who was holding something to his chest almost as if his life depended on it. It glistened in the light, and Varya concluded he had found the diadem.

Nevertheless, how had he been captured? He was too smart for it, and could have easily killed the old wizard on the spot.

Tom groaned as he was pushed to the ground, and had to bite down his anger from slipping through his pores, knowing he could well destroy both wizards on the spot. His eyes trailed the room, and when he could not spot the younger witch, he stilled— had he come too late?

No, they would not kill her, and they would have tried to discard of him if they had known where she was. He wanted to twist their heads on the spot, make them scream out in agony as their flesh sizzled under his Hellfire, and let their wails be a song he hummed in content.

Then, he felt something knocking at his temple, almost as if someone was trying to read his mind or, perhaps, send a signal. Varya. He glanced upward out of the corner of his eyes and saw midnight hair move in the shadows, and he stilled when mortified eyes met his. She was panicking.

"Where is the girl?" taunted Pichler as she came closer to the boy, grasping his face in her hands, "Ah, a pretty one she has found. No wonder she followed you into the woods so aimlessly, must have been quite the easy prey, huh? After all, I made sure to break her long before you ever laid eyes on her."

Then, the boy felt something around his wrists, and his eyes enlarged in panic— magic bounds, "That should keep him controlled. No point in ending up like Sylvia," stated Richard bitterly, then he flicked his wand and brought a chair to them, dragging Riddle to sit down. The diadem was still in his bag, and he wrestled against the old man as he tried to take it away from him, "This one has a few screws loose, I reckon."

"Speaking of Sylvia," Pichler muttered, then lowered herself until she met his eyes. Tom did not recognize her from any balls, with features fallen in wrinkles and madness, and gray hair pulled in a tight bun above her head crest, yet she reminded him of the Matron at Wool's Orphanage, "What did you do to her, you little rat?"

Tom gave her a taunting smirk, then hoisted an eyebrow defiantly, "I cannot recall."

The slap was brutal, and Varya's hand flew to her mouth as she watched Pichler strike Riddle. Tears pooled in her ducts and overflow like a tsunami of grief, and her body froze completely as memories of brutal mistreatment haunted her to insanity.

The darkness crawled to the surface and sizzled in her fingertips, and her breathing fell in an amalgam of patterns as the anxiety and terror spilled in her rotten bloodstream.

Her limbs felt lifeless, as if she had no control over them, and she could not move as she watched Pichler raise her wand toward Tom's face, who, despite all, was as calm as the surface of a lake during summertime.

"You will talk, you fool! Or Merlin help me, I will torture you into breaking," she bellowed, and then with one more defiant eye-lock, Macduff waved his wand, "Crucio!"

Tom Riddle rattled against the chair in immense pain, his body convulsing as his mind broke down under the torture, and despite all his ocean-tide eyes filled with the water of the Dead Sea, and betrayed nothing of importance with uncharacteristic loyalty and composure. In twenty years of battle, MacDuff had never seen anyone stay utterly silent under the unforgivable curse, and yet Riddle remained an impassive stone statue, the only telling being the way his body twitched as his nervous system betrayed him.

It was horrific, and the older sorcerers exchanged a look of uncertainty— this boy must have been some sort of sociopath to bite back such agony, and yet neither knew that physical pain could not break a soul like his, one that had been tormented beyond recognition by years of loneliness and depression.

Varya cried silently, and cursed her own body and trauma for making her unable to move. She fought against her barriers with all might, her heart splitting at the sight of Tom's torture, and her shadows whipped against the walls fiercely as something cracked inside her— it was coming out in heaps of macabre silence, and slithering through the air as it enveloped the building. Nevertheless, nobody noticed the dimming light, nor the fury of the wind as it tore down the surrounding trees.

"Speak!" Pichler's voice resonated through the chamber, echoing and following the whirl of the wind and expanding, and yet Tom only threw her a pained smirk. Just a little longer, a little longer, and his plan would have succeeded.

MacDuff then took notice of the wind, and he glanced outside at the apocalyptic scenery, the clouds of absolute black that had circled the estate and the hurricane that had destroyed the vegetation, "Shit, Pichler. Her powers—"

The woman glanced outside, then back at the boy who was still convulsing, "You absolute roach! You knew what you were doing; you had us trail after you intentionally just to— oh, oh! Such a devious little devil, are you not? Very well, perhaps it is time for someone to put you out of your misery. Avada—"

The inner wall of the castle blasted to bits, and a chunk of the wall hit MacDuff instantly, splattering his organs all over the floor in a mess of liquids and tissue. Tom gasped as his nerves relieved him of pain, and he kicked himself back, breaking the wooden chair against the stone floor. His ties came undone, and he plucked the bag off of the floor and slid beneath a table. Now, all he had to do was watch it unfold.

Pichler screamed as she felt a cold hand against her nape, and then her body flew through the room before hitting a chair and blasting it to bits. Her dark eyes raised to the ground, and fell on the petite body that stood in the center of a tornado of dark mist, a wind of fury and emotions.

The wind was unforgiving, and the Obscurus lashed against the pavement, cracking every stone on the floor, so much so that it looked as if Hell was finally rising, and demons would spawn out of the darkness that circulated in the room.

"There we go," Pichler cackled madly, "At last, you are the same pitiful vessel that destroyed Nurmengrad Castle all those years ago, unable to control that parasite as it eats you alive. Do you feel it? Do you feel the way it is melting your insides as we speak?"

Varya's figure raised its hand, and yet the girl had been lost behind a screen of obscure identities, and the shadows of darkness extended to the woman, clamping against every limb and raising her in the air. It approached slowly, menacing, and white eyes darted to the witch's figure as the black mist started pulling at each extremity.

The caretaker's scream ricocheted off of every wall as she felt her tissue start breaking and tearing, and the force was slow, teasing the pain before applying another lash of torture as it tried to break her into pieces just like she had broken the girl.

Blood started splattering against the walls, the pavement, and it hit Varya's form with a resonating note. Pichler's wails continued to fill the room, and her face grew red as the blood vessels in her eyes popped due to the intense torment, and then Varya's lips twitched upwards in a macabre smile. All it took was the flick of a finger, and the eyes burst completely, retina hanging from the socket and reddish liquid pooled from the open wounds.

It was not enough; it was not a fair trade for what she had done, so Varya took out her knife and advanced towards the witch, then she slowly inserted it into the open wound before twisting it painfully, watching as the flesh scraped off of the insides and onto her knife.

Pichler's cried were so sonorous the crows darted to the sky, and they flew in the hurricane of madness that she had brought. The lightning struck the nearby trees, and all was a swirl of viciousness as sixteen years of trauma bubbled to the surface.

She laughed so chillingly, and Tom only watched in excitement as the Obscurus ripped off one arm from the woman, sending it against the stone in a daze of ripped flesh. Each limb came off, the tissue and tendons dangling from the open wounds, and the Pichler's torso fell to the floor, her nervous system already shutting down to the immense torture.

Death covered her in a painful veil, and the scene was so grotesque that all seven captains of Hell would have denied the witch entrance, and then the light flew from Pichler's eyes, and a death mark covered her face. Each Obscurial left a mark on their victim's body, and Tom crawled closer to glance at it— her own imagery, a picture created by her torment, a skull, and a snake.

The shadows shattered, and retracted themselves into the fragile body of Varya Petrov as the girl fell to her knees, wailing as clarity settled back in. Her breath came in pants, and when her tasmanian eyes took in the mauled body in front of her, bile rose in her throat, and then her mouth opened in a soul-splitting scream.

She had killed someone.

Her frantic hands pulled at her bloodied clothes, and she whimpered as the metallic smell filled the room. Varya raised to her feet, and her vision was clouded by a storm of resentfulness and self-hatred. Her mind collapsed in on itself, and the emotions ate her raw with a rotting cascade of nothingness.

Tom's arms grabbed her, and she gasped at the way his warmth seemed to soothe her cold heart somewhat, and that was when the last piece of her soul clung to his in a desperate attempt for comfort, an intertwining of anguish and despair, "I killed her— oh my god, I...no, no, no."

Her words jumbled in an incoherent speech, and the boy pulled her close as he sheltered her eyes from the gory surroundings and proceeded to lead her shaking body out of the room and into the hallway, "You have to calm down, Varya."

And yet she could not. Not as he dragged her through outrooted trees, not as she saw carcasses of animals that had fallen to her hurricane on anger, and the only thing she prayed for is that the village had been far enough to avoid the damage.

Tom covered her bloodied clothes in his coat, and then pulled her through the back door of the Inn and up the stairs quickly, hand pressed against her mouth to repress the pitiful wails that fell in sonorous droplets.

He pulled her into his room, then shut the door behind and let the girl's trembling figure fall on his bed as she clung to his shirt in utter torment. Varya could no longer see nor feel anything around her, nothing except the way he held her, and so she pulled him closer in a desperate attempt to salvage the last of her mentality.

"Tom," the way she cried his name made his insides twist, and if he had been able to feel guilt at her state, he would have. A part of him told him he should not have left traces of his magic back in Paris, should not have let Grindelwald's army follow them to Albania in an effort to have her Obscurus unleash against someone and kill them. And yet, it was the right thing to do.

It was the only way he could save her.

But was it worth saving a broken being?

She crashed her lips against his in a desperate need of comfort, and he responded just as eagerly, trying to hide the way his mind was slowly dissipating into a mess of nothingness and uncertainty. He was a devil, he had hurt her beyond comprehension, and his whole being screamed with self-disgust despite Tom's attempt at justifying his doings.

His hands went to her buttons, and he struggled to take off the bloody clothes, the admittance of her murder, and he threw her shirt in a corner as he rose over her and placed lips against the dried red liquid on her chest. Varya whimpered and bit back a cry, mind unsure if it came from a place of pleasure due to him or of hurt due to herself, and yet as everything tangled together; she found herself numb to anything except his touch.

The blood on her body felt cold, wrong, and it burned. She closed her eyes and saw death with a lunatic beam as he brought his sachet down on her, and if he had azure eyes and soft curls beneath the dark hood, Varya spoke nothing of it.

Her nails dragged themselves up to his neck and into his hair, and the witch pulled at shadow curls until the boy let out a painful groan, and yet something in him twitched with excitement at the feeling. Tom's eyes met hers, and a silent promise transpired between the two— they were each other's niche, a safe place outside of their worlds of trauma.

"Make me forget," her timber cracked as he placed cold lips against her breast, and circled it with need of something he had not quite figured out, and his hands scrubbed at the blood she was covered in, almost as if painting his own apocalyptic image.

Hands imprinted on her body, and they covered in erythraean pigment as he tried to get the source of madness off of her, yet some part of him like her as such— bloodied, pained, the face of a killer. Just like him.

She felt her Obscurus crack through, and the wind picked up, and shadows danced above their bed as Tom unbuckled his pants. His tongue darted upwards from her core to her collarbones, and she whimpered as he bit down on her skin before pulling down her lace and exposing her completely. He inserted one finger, and Varya threw her head back in absolute ecstasy as everything faded into nothing but his touches, and her soul spat out the last few coherent thoughts.

Riddle's mouth flew to her ears, and he bit down on her lobe before asking in a raspy voice, "What do you want me to do?"

"Everything," the crack in her voice made his mind implode with pleasure, and he liked her just like that— vulnerable and needy under his control. So he positioned himself eagerly, and took no time as he slipped himself inside.

Tom groaned at the foreign sensation, and bit down on his lip as the girl moved her hips against his length with a needy sound, then grabbed his hands and placed them around her neck. His lips fell in a glistening red mess of wonder, and he tightened his grip and kept eye contact as he thrust into her for the first time. Then, almost as if possessed by something, his moves became ravenous, and he slid in and out with absolute need and moaned as she tightened around him and gasped for air.

Varya's eyes sparkled with defiance, and yet her lips were open as she felt the boy move into her with force, and then he pulled out and grabbed her by the hair to meet his lips fiercely, "The blood," she whined against his lips, and Tom looked around in panic before grabbing a glass of water from the table and his shirt. He drenched it inside, then turned the girl around and flush against him, and continued pressing kisses to her as he scrubbed the redness from her body in a rush.

Varya threw her head back as she felt him pull at her skin, taking away the admittance of sin with rough strokes, and then she felt him slide back into her core harshly, before he groaned against her neck, "Fuck. It feels good."

He rotated his hips and threw the rag to the side, then grasped at her chest as he made her move along him rapidly, enjoying the way her head bobbed as he continued controlling her. How could she say she was not his? How could she say so when he had complete control over her body?

Riddle pushed a hand on her spine, and the girl fell to her hands in front of him, and then he grabbed her hips as he quickened his pace, eyes closing in utter pleasure as he felt her tremble underneath, and her walls constricted as her mind drowned in bliss. The world around them faded into nothing but obscurity, and he pumped himself with a frantic desire as he felt the coldness of her shadows trail his figure.

She moved to face him, not caring as he growled at the defiance, and pulled him in until their bodies had nothing between them. His face fell in the crook of her neck, and she moved her hips along with his, nails scraping against his back as she felt her climax near. The muscles of his arms swelled as he gripped her waist and groaned against her, and then he grabbed her knee and put her leg above his shoulder, trying the new angle.

One of his fingers trailed her thighs and then played with her bundle of nerves, and that was enough for Varya to feel her climax ripple through everything, and stars danced around her as the pain and torment fell into oblivion, rapture taking over her features like a tsunami. Tom grabbed her chin and forced their eyes to meet, needing to see the way he made her feel, the poison swimming in her scorpion eyes, the way her lips parted into a whimper.

Then, he continued thrusting in her, his moves more grave now as he tried to find his own release, and the girl groaned at her sensitivity, yet the pain mixed with the pleasure and, frankly, the only thing that mattered was watching his eyes scrunch in madness and his jaw set as he felt the wave of blissfulness touch everything in him.

Such a gentleman to the world, and yet he pounded her with animalistic need, and his groans grew raspier as he threw his head back and enjoyed his nerves light up the sky behind his eyes, and he pulled out just in time to feel his climax ripple through his body.

Varya watched him, heart pounding as she realized that she had been the one to take this first moment away from him, the first girl he had been intimate with, and so she straightened up and kissed him deeply as he moaned against her mouth, trying to taste his pleasure. His hands gripped her as if she was the only thing keeping him alive, and perhaps she was, and then they fell beside each other in bed, gasping for air.

They belonged to each other.