CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Her eyelashes fluttered open as she felt the first ray of sun hit her face, and her body was shivering all over except for where Tom's hand was around her naked waist. Varya bit back a gasp as clarity settled in, and her legs pulled together as she remembered the previous night.

She was insane, truly, and wondered what the boy would make of it when he woke up. Her tar eyes carried the glow of galaxies as she watched his sleeping figure. Tom seemed peaceful, collected, and dark eyelashes stuck together and covered reservoirs of marine blue. His lips were slightly parted, and soft whistles came from his mouth as he breathed slowly. His arm was still around her, and for a second, she allowed herself to nest her forehead in his chest, and his grip tightened.

His scent was invading, and it wreaked havoc against her pulse as it plunged, and his face nested in the shoulder for the briefest moment before his eyes shot awake, and he pushed himself away from her groggily.

Tom got up from the bed in a hurry, and he pulled a towel from the nightstand to wrap around himself, avoiding her eyes altogether. His hair was a mess of tangles, and she could spot the few marks she had left on him.

"Morning," Varya spoke shyly, then dragged the duvet over her body to hide. Tom grabbed his clothes from the wardrobe then dressed himself quickly, not sparing her a glance as he ran to his bathroom and slammed the door behind.

He was so crude, the girl realized. And her heart ached as she remembered how Icarus had treated her after they had spent their first night together. The Lestrange boy had made sure that he had not been too harsh with her, had helped her dress as he pressed soft kisses to her cheek, and then had sneaked into the kitchen to get them some treats. Varya missed the boy, even as a friend, and the way he had treated her. Even so, it was better for his mental state that they stayed away from each other for the time being.

The shower stopped running, and a few seconds later, Riddle was out in the room with damp hair that he dried with a white towel. He was wearing a white dress shirt and black pants, and he fumbled to pick a tie from his collection, yet jittery hands could not seem to knot it properly. He turned towards her, then approached without saying anything else, and pointed at his tie, almost like a command.

"Um," she began as she pulled the duvet closer, "I am not wearing anything."

Riddle scoffed, then grabbed one of his sweaters off of the desk and forced it down her head as she yelped. Varya fought against him, but he continued to press it down, "Just take the bloody sweater!"

The girl yelped, and eventually poked her hands through the openings, then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to his feet. The attire almost reached her knees, and covered enough that she would not feel shy. The top of her head barely came to his chin, so she stared at his chest to avoid his stare, and saw the way it rose and fell in rapid motions. Was he just as nervous?

"All right," the witch mumbled, and tried to hide her flush by looking at the boy's tie as she worked with the material. The sweater smelled of mahogany and fresh soap, and her lips pursed as her cheeks seemed to be on fire now. Suddenly, his hand went to her face, and she girl threw herself back in a mess of splutters, "Why would you do that?"

Tom looked at her, perplexed by her off behavior, "You are extremely red; I thought you might have a fever. Our journey back is long, and I do not want to be around you if you have a cold."

"You are such an arse, Merlin!"

"For taking care of my own health? Hardly—"

The girl picked his belt from the floor and lashed it at him, earning a growl as it hit his waist, and then he grabbed it with his hand and pulled at it until her body slammed in his. He grabbed her hip to steady her, then pressed his hand in her face to get the witch to look at him.

"Stop that."

His voice was raspy, that of an early morning, and there was still some sleep in his eyes as he looked down at her. Varya felt his thumb press against her hip and swallowed grimly.

"I do not take orders from you."

"You sure did last night."

She slapped him.

Varya gasped as Riddle's hand flew to his cheek, and he stared at her in astonishment. There were a few seconds of silence before the boy tried to grab her, and she slipped underneath his hand and ran to her room, bare feet shuffling on the cold floor. The Eastern girl shut the door right as Tom made way to grab her, then locked it with a spell and backed away as he pounded angered fists against it.

"Open the door, Petrov!"

But Varya only stared at it with wide eyes, then pivoted around and grabbed a few garments. She turned on her shower, drowning out the boy's screams. The innkeeper would surely tell him to quiet down soon enough. Her body passed the mirror above her sink, and then she stopped to look at how her skin had been covered in bruises. Some of them had come from the explosion of the fortress' wall, and some were in the shape of hands and lips.

As the boiling water scalded her skin, Petrov let her mind wander to what had happened last night— she had murdered MacDuff and Pichler in cold blood. Her eyes watered at the memory, and her hand flew to her mouth as she bit back a pained sob. This was not who she was supposed to be; she could not let herself fall into the black pit of darkness that was her Obscurus.

And yet, she felt no remorse at having butchered them, regardless of how grotesque it had been. They had turned her into the monster that she was today, and it was only fair that they felt the consequences of their actions. In a way, they had come full circle.

Varya Petrov had never wanted to be a killer, and yet her destiny had made her precisely that, and her hands shook as she glanced at them. For a moment, they were covered in nothing but blood, and she bit back a scream of terror as she looked at the running water— liquid red.

It pooled at her feet, and she stared blankly at the way it contrasted against her skin, slowly filling the tub as her body shook. Varya had been covered in it the previous night, in blood, and her mind seemed to crack.

She shook her head, then the image reverted back to normal, and her heart stilled as she regained clarity—enough of that. The girl stepped outside into the cold air, then wrapped herself in a tour, and pinned her wet hair in a ponytail.

As she dove into her suitcase to pick up a dress for their train back to Paris, she stopped and glanced at the green sweater Riddle had given her. Without thinking about it twice, she pulled it over a dress shirt and her black skirt, and smiled at the peacefulness it brought to her heart.

Her luggage got packed with a quick charm, and she dragged it out of the room and downstairs, where Riddle was standing against the doorframe of the entrance. His eyes were dark, and she could tell he was still upset at the slap, so she made her way slowly, testing the waters.

Tom turned his eyes to her, then huffed and walked ahead and through the market, eyes on the train station that they were supposed to reach. Varya ran after him softly, and yet her lips turned upwards at his gloomy mood.

They embarked the train swiftly, and Riddle grabbed her luggage and dragged it to their compartment without saying a word. Once inside, he threw his small bag on the top bunk and climbed upwards before taking his usual position— feet dangling over the edge, book in hand, silent.

Varya placed her belongings on the lower one, then glanced up at him, "Are you going to Nott's place?"

His eyebrow furrowed in irritation, but his pupils remained on the pages of his book, "No, you are not coming with me."

"Yes, I am," she said with finality. "I have nowhere else to go— I told Della and Felix that I had business to take care of in Romania, and besides, I am sure Maxwell would not mind my company. He has taken a liking to me."

Tom glanced upwards at that, "Has he?"

She was wearing his sweater, he realized, and his lips almost twitched upwards at that. Good, as it should be. Varya should always wear his clothes so that everyone knew she belonged to him only.

"Of course, he is quite the sensitive boy— say, how did he end up with the likes of you anyway? I can understand Avery, Lestrange, Malfoy, and Selwyn, but the other two have always been a mystery to me."

"Each league must have its representatives for each skill. They approached me, and I welcomed them for their unique achievements and prestigious names. No Knight is useless, and each of them has been pushed into their beliefs by their experience," Tom explained, then glanced outside. The train had taken off. "I would not have surrounded myself with brainless baboons, and although none of them can reach my achievements, they are all skilled in their own departments."

"You are so arrogant," huffed the girl, and yet she had to admit that Tom was brilliant, and she had never seen a man as devoted to his cause as him, "And that is so vague. What pushed Nott and Rosier into joining you? They are not prejudiced like the rest, nor do they have a taste for torture and murder."

"Nott is a visionary in his own way, and my idealism was something that attracted him. He knew he would never be able to handle the crudeness of reality. Still, if he joined me, he could stand by my side as I conquered everything," Tom flipped a page of his book in an effort to appear disinterested in the girl, yet his eyes kept flicking to her face, "Rosier...I could never quite figure it out. He is a bit, say, unstable, and has a wish for danger. I believe that his mind is a very dark place; that is why he drowns everything out by carrying a flask of fire whiskey around."

"You could always achieve what you want through politics— power comes in many forms, and all of you are charming enough to make your way to the top without murdering people," Varya said, and her spine chilled at the way such a macabre conversation flowed so smoothly between them.

Tom leaned over the railing and looked at her, "Perhaps, but all of us have a craving for darkness, for blood, and surely you do not believe it can be satiated by mundane means. We want total control, and none of us will stop until we achieve it."

Varya fell in silence, and his gaze was heavy on her as she avoided it, "I am still coming to Nott's place."

With a roll of his eyes, Riddle went back to reading his book, and let the girl fall back into her daydream— or nightmare, whichever sounded more appealing.

***

Maxwell Nott waited for them at the entrance of his family's Manor, dressed in a ravishing suit and with his hair styled neatly. He screamed of refinement and an ode to the intellectualism of the 19th century, so posh it was almost sickening. He was the archivist, the sixteen-year-old genius that collected every bit of information for Riddle, and because of that, his chartreuse eyes glistened with a cosmos of knowledge and broodiness.

A car approached the entrance of his yard, and he walked to the front to greet his guests, making slight note of the vehicle's origin— a 1938 Mercedes-Benz 770 Grober, launched in 1930 at the Paris Motor Show, and yet only a small number of them were produced, 770 to be exact. They were made in Germany, and the war affected their export to surrounding countries, but the owner of this car did not care.

Rosier opened the door to his car, then stepped outside and threw his head of curls back in the dim rays of the Nottingham sun. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and as he let them slide down his defined nose, Nott spotted the telling of one too many drinks.

"I hope you did not drink and then drive; that is reckless," Maxwell said blankly as Ren threw an arm around him and dragged him closer to the car.

"Of course not, sweetheart," the Rosier heir laughed in his ear before opening the back passenger seat and letting Varya Petrov step out into the open, and then Tom Riddle came out from the driver's side with irritation gracing his porcelain features.

The girl beamed at Nott, and the boy gave her a courteous nod back, only to be taken by surprise as she threw her arms around him, pulling him in a tight hug. Maxwell shot his friend a perplexed look, but Renold only shrugged, "Found them in London at the train station, and asked them if they wanted a ride up to your place. Riddle is grumpy, by the way. Try not to piss him off."

Then, he extended his hand to Tom, who placed the car keys in with a grunt, and stormed off inside without saying much else. Renold snickered behind his back, and Nott shot him a glare— he had been testing the waters with their Lord too much lately, and he was lucky that the only thing that came out of the "twat" remark had been a stinging hex cast in the confinement of the Ravenclaw Salon.

Ren shrugged then made his way to the house, tossing the set of keys to a nearby valet and throwing his hands up as he screamed in excitement. The Nott Manor had always been his favorite place to come to during the vacations, as the boy's parents were always on some trip for the Ministry.

Maxwell had been a very secluded boy, as the Nott Maison was deep into the woods and off the regular track, which meant that not many visited his place. With his parents gone most of the time, the boy had fallen between pages of books as a source of comfort, and that had given birth to his insatiable need for knowledge. It was not until he had met Nicholas Avery that the boy had started socializing, and now, the Knights gathered at his place each spring break.

"I hope my presence does not disturb," remarked Varya, who had suddenly become self-conscious of the fact that she had invited herself to his place. However, the girl honestly had nowhere else to go, and part of her did not want to be away from Riddle either.

"Of course, you are not disturbing. It completely slipped my mind to invite you, as Riddle never mentioned your plans after Albania. I will have the maidens clean up a room for you; meanwhile, you can find everyone else in the main salon," said Nott as he instructed his house-keeper to taker her luggage, then extended his arm as an invitation. Varya grabbed it eagerly; then, they walked towards the Nott Manor.

"Everyone else?"

"Yes, they have all made a habit of visiting during spring break, although I must warn you that such times are, well— you will see."

The Nott estate was less impressive than Rosier's when it came to extravagance, and yet it was still a reputable house amongst the Knights for the freedom that it had. The inside was darker than the French one, more of Victorian architecture, and yet Varya found it suited her taste much more.

The walls were made of reddish stone, and woody sidings held an imposing design that seemed to glisten in the rays, towers dominating each corner of the Manor. It had asymmetrical designs that decorated the outer area, and the entrance was fenced by superfluous pillars.

As soon as they walked into the main salon, multiple pairs of eyes darted to them, and Avery let out a whistle as Varya approached, "I was wondering when you would join."

The girl sat herself on one of the couches, right by Elladora, who nodded in acknowledgment and made no sarcastic remark at her presence. A muggle magazine was between her delicate hands, and yet when Varya glanced at it, she saw intricate texts of poisons and ointments.

Selwyn, with eyes as watchful as a hawk, promptly made a note of her attire, "Is that Riddle's sweater?"

That immediately made Lestrange tip over in his chair, and he plummeted to the ground with a loud thud before scrambling to pick himself up. Hurt eyes dashed to the clothing, and he recognized that sweater immediately. Riddle did not have many clothes, so it was easy to distinguish between them.

The witch felt herself grow hot, "I had to borrow it from him. My shirt was, well— I killed someone!"

Silence fell over the group, and Varya covered her mouth in shock. They all exchanged nimble glances, before Avery scoffed and got up to his feet, "Welcome to the club, young one. Now only Nott has clean hands, it seems. I actually thought he might crack before you, but perhaps that was mistaken on my part. After all, you are an Obscurial."

The Eastern witch was astonished as she realized that she was amongst a group of sociopaths, murderers, and she could only wonder what their stories were. Elladora spoke first, "I poisoned one of my cousins after she threatened to tell my mother about my practice. I only meant to burn her vocal cords, but my skill was not as refined as it is now."

Varya blinked, unsure how to respond, and the next one to speak was Rosier, "Did you know that muggles run trials on psychedelics? Well, they do, except apparently, I go on murder sprees when I take LSD. Something about—"

"Your vices no longer being inhibited!" chipped Avery from the sides.

"Yes, that...Nasty thing to cover, but good old Malfoy here had my back, did he not?"

Abraxas scoffed from the fireplace, where he had sprawled his legs over a dark carpet, and yet he did not bother to add to their fascinating stories. Rosier was a babble mouth, and Elladora was too nonchalant to care about such things being discovered, but he was more reserved. Varya had assumed, at least subconsciously, that the rest of them had had some sort of dark encounter with death considering their positions in Tom's brigade, and yet she had never dwelled on it.

Her heart rested at that, in a wicked way above all— she was no odd piece amongst their collection, and they were all children of Hell in their own way, almost as if Satan had kissed their foreheads and bestowed them a thirst for rampage. Crude, devious little demons that they were, the off-springs of the damned and the corrupted, and above all of them reigned one soul darker than the rest.

Tom Riddle walked into the salon, and every single Knight straightened their posture and bowed their head in acknowledgment. Varya was the only one that frowned at the mechanic behavior, and wondered if this connecting string of ovation and admiration had always been there.

"Did you find it, Riddle?" asked Malfoy, and Tom nodded before placing a beautiful diadem on the coffee table. His eyes darted to Varya for the briefest second; then, he turned towards his Knights.

"It was in the woods, as we expected. Lestrange, you did your job well," Tom acknowledged the boy, and Icarus smirked in satisfaction, "We encountered some issues along the way. I assumed you have all received the letters I have sent on the matter and are aware of where we currently stand."

"Yes, my Lord," said Elladora, her voice serpentinous as she placed her magazine down, then raised to her feet and approached the diadem. Varya saw her in her proper form then— a girl with fire in her soul, with autumn hair nesting the face of a crude witch, "Do you still wish for me to prepare it for your ritual?"

Tom's body stiffened as he felt Varya's judgmental stare on him, almost as if she decried his plan and sent waves of skepticism to his mind. But he could not back down, not when everything was almost in his grasp, and especially not for a girl, regardless of her position in his plans. No, some things were more important.

"Not yet," he found himself saying, and he let out a breath as he saw Petrov's body relax, "We will discuss this later. Right now, I am too exhausted to deal with such things. I prefer to rest and think about our next move when my mind is clear."

"My Lord, what of Grindelwald, though?" questioned Rosier from the couch, and although he still stood on it lazily, his voice was much clearer as he addressed Tom.

Varya did not like how they addressed him as "lord", and she thought that Tom was trying too hard to have superiority over the clique of purebloods. With a distasteful sneer, she recognized it might be something that could crumble easily if Riddle loosened up.

"I suspect he will make a move soon, especially once he realizes Varya murdered some of his most trusted companions. But that will not happen for a while, anyhow. He must only regroup before moving another piece on this chessboard, for he risks losing everything if he is not careful."

Quietness fell over the group, and then Maxwell walked in with a bottle of wine and a tray of glasses, placing it in the middle of the chamber. Rosier was the first to jump to his feet and grab one, popping the bottle open and pouring everyone some of the liquid with a mischievous smirk on his lips.

For the rest of the week, there would be no scheming allowed, not unless it involved too many glasses of champagne and soft touches between sheets. Ren would not allow it.

"Now, as you all know, the next week marks one of the few moments we allow ourselves to live our lives as normal teenagers— drunken nights, courting ladies and gentlemen, throwing an extravagant ball just to flaunt our wealth. I believe that Nott has already sent out the invitations," Ren spoke as he passed all of them their respective glass. Then, he stopped in front of Varya, "And look, we now have a new bird amongst us. How fine that I stumbled into you in London, or Riddle might have tried to keep you away from such a sinful week. But worry not, we will find you a good boy to spend the night with."

Lestrange scoffed at that, and downed his drink before pursing his lips in discontent, "I do not think she would enjoy your parade of unscrupulous behavior," then, honey eyes fell on Varya, "He is filthy, and every year he throws this wretched party of sorts, and drags us all into it."

"Well, you see— I do not remember you objecting to it that much when that pretty young lady had her hand in your—"

"Rosier!"

Varya's eyes twinkled as Lestrange darted to his feet and chased Renold out of the room, and the boy cackled madly at stirring up chaos. Maxwell stood stiffly in the center of the room, his glass barely touching his lips as he frowned.

"Avery?" he asked out of nowhere, then his eyes darted to the uninterested boy that was admiring one of the old axes on the wall. His finger was skimming the edge, a sadistic look on his face. Nicholas pivoted on his feet to face his friend, and his features softened.

"Yes, Nott?"

"Did I agree to this?"

"Of course you did. At least, we assumed that you would when we sent out the invites," Avery smirked with devilry, then he walked over to Varya and sat down next to her, "Now, tell me about this little murder that you committed..."

***

Elladora held onto her elbow as they walked amongst the vast gardens, glancing at the graveyard that stood below Varya's bedroom window. It was odd, the two of them together, but the fiery witch had insisted on promenading the estate during sundown, saying that they had to have a chat.

Varya bit back the repulsion at her presence— they were not friends, she much enjoyed it that way, and yet something told her that the other Slytherin had much to say to her. Even so, the confession was astonishing.

"I love Icarus," Elladora admitted as she watched the sun burn itself out over the horizon, darling birds trailing the sky as the night threatened to spill over the land. Her eyes darted to the Petrov descendant, who frowned deeply at the thought.

It was disturbing how much the idea of Icarus and Elladora unsettled her. It felt wrong, and despite the fact that she did not love the boy, she felt as if someone was stepping in on her territory. Her throat clenched with irritation, but she pushed through the barrier of mild annoyance and thought of something to say.

"Explains why you were such a bitch to me," Petrov mumbled, averting her eyes to the house, where the boys were using their magic to terrorize a rat by swinging it in the air. It was only Rosier, Lestrange, and Avery; meanwhile, the other three were sitting on the veranda and discussing the recent happenings in the wizarding world.

"You did not deserve him, not in the slightest. Despite what you believe, he does love you beyond self, and it is hurtful to me," confessed the girl, "He treated you with nothing but kindness, and had I thought that you would make him happy, I would have done nothing. Yet, it was easy to tell your heart belonged to another."

"I have no clue what you are talking about."

"Spare me the lies, Petrov. Riddle would not give a girl his sweater regardless of how bloodied she was," Elladora scoffed as they continued to walk amongst the flowers. She bent over and plucked a daisy, then set it on fire and watched as it turned to dust. The witch blew it in the wind, and smirked as it scattered away, "I admire you for doing it, though."

"Doing what?" Varya hoisted an eyebrow at the girl, then glanced to Riddle, who was now scanning the horizon with his eyes— his hair ruffled by the soft breeze, collar unfastened as he leaned over the table and sipped on his coffee, arctic irises alive with the speckles of forest green.

"I am not sure myself, but you did something. He used to be more of a tyrant, if you can believe that. Rosier's recent behavior would not have passed last year. Perhaps, he is finally maturing and allowing himself to see those around him as more than accessories. Still, I do not think his psychology would allow him to do that naturally."

"I doubt I had much to do with it; he always reminds me how little he cares for me."

"Well, maybe he does not care for you," Selwyn's words stung her, "It does not matter, though. All he needs is someone to care for him, to show him that he is worthy of it. He thinks the only way he can earn attention by acting out. Childish, is it not?"

"And you let this child guide you, then?"

"Do not be mistaken, his incapacity to function as a normal human being, to let feelings sway him, that is exactly what I used to look for in a leader when I came to Hogwarts. Most of us never had parents who were affectionate with us, so we looked for those qualities in a ruler. Riddle is a brilliant man, truly, and I will stand by his side until Hell breaks loose, even after. But..." Elladora stopped, her throat constricting with dread. If Tom ever found out about her words, she would be dead on the spot, yet her instinct told her to trust Varya, "I want a family at some point, I want to someone to fall in love with me like every other stupid girl in our year, and that will never happen if he stays like this. Do you think he would allow us to pursue our happiness? Never. He has so much potential, but he needs a guiding hand."

"Why must a woman fix a man?" blurted Varya, irritation bubbling at her skin, "Why should I care for any of your lives when you have done nothing but play with my mind since I came here? I owe nothing to you, nor him."

"But you love him, and that is enough for you to want what is best. You are not fixing him, per se, just showing him that he is worthy of someone's admiration for who he is, and not the terror he will bring to the world."

Varya sighed, then closed her eyes in an attempt to calm herself down. She did not want to take on such a burden, and yet what Elladora said was right— she loved Riddle, and the idea of him becoming the monster fate wanted him to be made her eyes tear up. The way he had kissed her, the way he had held her that night as her mind crumbled between their bodies, there was something so sinister about the way she cared for Tom.

"You are devious to betray him like this," was the next thing that left Varya's mouth, and Selwyn frowned.

"I only do what I must to look out for myself. I am a woman, and unfortunately, that matters least to most, and so I have devised my own mechanisms of self-preservation. I associate myself with what I believe will get me further in life," Elladora confessed, her tone fallen to a speech, "Poison, like me, is stealthy, untraceable if done correctly. I cannot battle men, but I will always outsmart them. You must learn a few things in a world run by men, and you cannot pity them when you stomp on their graves, because they would dig yours with no bother."

"That is a gruesome train of thought."

"Perhaps, but it is the truth. They get away with much more than we do, so we scheme and we betray to advance, because our minds are the most powerful weapon," then, they started walking back to the rest of the group, "I poisoned you, and I was villainized by you, and yet you turned a blind eye to what the rest of the group has done, because it is easier to excuse the wrongdoings of a handsome face and devilish smile."

"And you think me making Riddle more susceptible to emotions will change that?" scoffed Varya, although part of her admired Selwyn's defiance and self-reliance. She was a woman that would go far.

"I believe that using your femininity to tempt him into reforming his doings will benefit the both of us. But I must warn you; Riddle is no emotionless being. Behavior like his is actually fueled by a barrel of explosive, and if you set light to his fuse, he might blow you both to bits."

"What are you trying to get at?"

"He could become infatuated, obsessive, he will think of you as a possession and a way to relieve his constant ache—image finally seeing the light after years of darkness, would you want to let that go?"

"No," whispered the Eastern witch as her heart plummeted to her hand at the realization. Yes, she had seen the first signs in Riddle's obsessiveness come forward during their trip. It was only rational that he would turn to such behavior. Tom did not understand love, so he would never recognize the feeling, and simply admit to it. If there were even a trace of happiness in his world of constant anger and despair, his soul would cling to it desperately.

"So, tread carefully."

Almost as if he had heard their conversation, Tom got up from his table and headed their way, hands clasped between his back as he reached the two young women. Elladora bowed her head silently, before flashing her roommate a knowing look, and marched to join Malfoy and Nott in their debate on the on-going muggle war.

"I did not think I would ever see the two of you together without your wands pointed in each other's faces," the boy said as he towered over her, and Varya took a moment to appreciate his mesmerizing beauty.

He was wearing a ruffled dress shirt, a semblance of aristocracy, and medieval royalty. His hair, made of webs of darkness, blew in the wind as his soft waves skimmed his forehead, and his irises carried poetic melancholy in Egyptian blue. The last few rays of sunlight caught on his blanche skin, and he turned his head to gaze at the horizon as it painted in soft tangerine of twilight hours. His profile was breathtaking, and yet his features always carried the sadness of a lost soul, so painstakingly chilling, so romantic in nature.

Riddle had once said that he had made a cloak of mist and a crown out of his pain, and that he wore it proudly as he became a prince of the damned. Oh, how true it was, as he stood against the effervescent scenery, made of macabre shadows and painful memories. He was a man that had used his torment on a spindle, and had fashioned himself his armor against the world.

Varya's breath caught in her throat as the wind rumpled their clothes, and they stood on green grass looking at each other with a symphony of unspoken words passing between them, "It surprised me as well."

"You seem flustered," he admitted, then his hand flew to pick a strand from her hair, and he pushed it behind her ear, "I hope last night did not make things awkward."

He savored the rouge that coated her cheeks, and his wicked soul twisted at the control he had over her, at how easily the witch reacted to his touches and affection. He immensely enjoyed toying with her, "No," she spluttered, then tried to make sense of her thoughts, "I— it felt nice. I..."

"Did it?" his timbre fell into something lower, raspier, and he gazed at her with a devilish smirk, "Glad to know, I would have thought so as well by the sounds you made."

Varya gasped, then made to push past him in embarrassment, but he pulled her back with a click of his tongue against his cheek.

"I was not quite done talking; it is rude to interrupt me," Tom responded, "As you might have heard, Nott is throwing a ball in three days, and I reckon you do not have a partner yet, no?"

"I do not."

"Then, perhaps, we should go together," he proposed, and Varya bit her cheek to prevent the scream of delight from spilling out. Of course, she always thought he had the best intention, unaware that it was only the boy's way of making sure Rosier did not parade her around to other men, "It is only suitable that we do so. After all, we will be the most powerful wizards in attendance."

"Is that the only reason you are asking me?"

Tom's face almost slipped in wrath, but he bit back the irritation and slipped on a mask of allure and charm, his smirk dangerous and eyes tentative. It seemed that the girl never fell for his lies easily, and he despised that. It also thrilled him.

"As I said, I find it natural. So, what do you say?"

"Fine," she scoffed, knowing nothing would come out of this conversation, and Tom made a pleased sound before he nodded her way, saying that he would see her the next day at breakfast. He turned around and strode over to his group, leaving Varya to her thoughts.

She stood in her spot and watched him walk away with gallant steps, and her heart flipped at his elegance and imposing stature. He was simply mesmerizing, and his brilliance simply made him stand out more amongst a crowd. The way he carried himself, the superiority, it should have come off as arrogant, and his age should have made him seem childish— and yet sometimes she wondered how much of his actions were truly immature, and how much he simply feigned to stir reactions out of those around him.

He had such a diabolical mind, and Tom played everyone around him like a master of instruments, creating his own ode from somber notes and composing a ballad to the wicked. Even when she thought she was at an advantage, he plucked another string of sweet manipulation, and Varya found herself dancing to his pleasure.

In the end, all she could do is hope her feet held her until the spectacle was over and the curtains closed shut.