All right, I was not going to post today because I have an exam tomorrow and honestly I have been feeling pretty discouraged about my writing. But I really wanted to address this because it was eating at my mind— I know this story is extremely slow burn. And recently more people have started reading it from the beginning, and have made certain comments about the fact that it is very slow. I get your frustration, I really do, but please keep in mind that I also update daily, so, despite the fact that it is evolving slowly, nobody is ever left on a long cliff-hanger.

Besides that, Tom is a sociopath. He will not immediately fall for a girl, and even if he does, he will not admit it to himself when love was the thing that killed his mother. It takes time, and that is my view on his character. You do not have to agree, and I am sure there are other stories that have different versions, but this is mine.

On top of that, I am very focused on plot building and dynamics. I could have made all of the Knights mindless followers that only bullied those around them and that would have made everything easier, but I wanted something else— it only makes sense that Tom would surround himself with people that are intelligent and gifted, not just any purebloods. So that also takes time to explain and frankly, my writing style is very metaphorical and dragged so yeah! I tried to give an experience of more than just romance, and it is completely fine if you do not like that, but it does slightly hurt and discourage my writing when people are snarky. And I promise you that their relationship will start building faster from now on.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

"—but Felix and I really want you to come!" Della whined as she dragged Varya outside the castle, their luggage floating right behind as their shoes stepped against fresh grass and frost.

Varya gazed at her from the corner of her eye, and smiled at the way her friend threw her bag in the carriage with her lips in a pout. She would be going back to her family over spring break, and had invited both Felix and Varya to her house. The Eastern witch had a different kind of plan in mind, and although she could not tell her friend, she expressed her apologies for not being able to attend.

"I wish I could, you know I do. Even so, I have to go back to Romania. There are things I must take care of," she tried to reason, but Della let out a sham cry at her answer.

"Why are you always so cryptic? It is like you are constantly on some secret mission," the Ravenclaw prefect complained, and she hopped into the carriage eagerly, sitting down near the Thestral and petting it. Varya had her reluctance about getting on, but did so nevertheless.

"I simply do not like talking about things that related to my past; you know that."

"Yes, trauma and all— it still sucks, though."

Another bag was thrown in, and they watched Felix hop into the carriage with a smile on his face that crinkled his eyes. He had always been such a happy boy, and intended to enjoy life at its fullest capability. He was the right mixture between classy and entertaining and knew how to carry himself with a surreal appeal.

"Look, whom I found wandering around— thought he might want to join us."

Varya turned to look at Renold Rosier as he flashed her a charming smile before sliding in the carriage next to her. The girl looked away— she was still hurt by what he had been hiding regardless of their intention of eventually saving her. He nudged her with his shoulder, then leaned forward to look at her face as she hid it behind a curtain of black hair.

"Still upset, I see," he quipped, then pulled something out of his backpack and handed it to her, "This might help."

Varya eyed the flask of fire whisky and contemplated her choices— she could drink it, and it might help her endure the painful ride that was to come, or she could refuse and deal with things head-on.

The girl grabbed the flask and sipped on it eagerly, relishing in the way it burned her throat and left an odd after-taste in her mouth. Then, the boy took a swing himself before passing it on to Felix, who hoisted an eyebrow.

"Is it not careless to be handling alcohol on school property around your Head-Boy?"

Rosier clicked his tongue against his cheek, then looked at the castle that was retreating as the Thestral pulled them through the spring scenery. The hum of nature was everpresent, and the birds chirped away the early morning. The pleasant sun fell over the castle's stone walls, and a few students were standing by the windows and watching the tumult of carriages as they passed the horizon. Ren turned his head and gave a lopsided smirk, then hoisted his eyebrows before downing another gulp of liquid.

"We are no longer on school grounds, Parkin."

Felix laughed, then accepted the flask and took a sip, face scrunching in disgust as he felt the taste. Varya had never seen the boy drink much, and she assumed this newfound desire to do so as part of his "experience everything before leaving" agenda.

"What are you doing over the break, Rosier?" asked Della politely, trying to strike a conversation with the boy she did not quite know.

"I am going to London; I have a few tasks to carry out there. Then, I do not know. I was thinking of spending my second week in France, but I do not feel like dealing with my family— might just crash at Nott's place," he said as he took another sip from his flask, and his words still carried surreal clarity despite all.

By the time they reached the train, Varya was thoroughly buzzed, and was clinging onto Rosier for dear life in a mess of giggles and missed steps. The boy kept giving her amused looks— he had long outgrown the effects of alcohol, and would have to keep drinking in order to reach that level of tipsiness.

At her constant insisting, the boy ended up joining their compartment, and he found himself enjoying the company of the power trio, laughing at the way Varya was babbling nonsensical things about her classwork, Felix was scolding Della for only bringing sweets on the train and not food, and Della kept sneaking in chocolate bites when he was not looking.

"You know what," mumbled Varya from her seat, head squished against the window as sluggish eyes wandered between the other three. "I think I should find Riddle; I think I want to see him."

"Oh, Merlin," mumbled Della, "Varya, I do not think you should—"

She was out the door and stumbling in the hallway. The witch waved a hand in front of her face, trying to control her expression into something close to broodiness. Yes, just like that. She stared at her deep frown in the reflection of the glass. Yes, that is just how Tom always looked.

Varya walked along the train wagons until she reached the end, knowing he would be in there. Perhaps, he would be sitting with the rest of the knights, making evil schemes about how to conquer the world, or torturing each other's pets for fun. She did not even knock on the door, she simply barged in, and Tom's eyes snapped to her in astonishment.

He was alone, feet up on the train's seat, and stretched in front of him as he was leaning his back against the wall, and he was wearing casual clothes now. He had put on a dress shirt made out of a thicker material, and had a nice pair of pants that fit him well. Tom's hands were holding a book, and for the first time, it was not a textbook.

"What are you reading?" The Eastern witch asked as she plopped herself on the opposite seat. Her mind spun, and yet she smiled at the boy.

Tom narrowed his eyes, but his lip twitched upward, "Will Durant, The Story of Philosophy," he answered, then trained his eyes on the book.

"Why are you reading muggle philosophy?"

"It helps me understand what I am conquering— the mind is a fragile thing, and understanding behavior and mannerism is half of the task. Once you can easily figure out how a person works, you know how to get them to break."

But that was not all. Tom Riddle had always been a master of deceit, and he wore many masks that he interchanged according to circumstances. And yet, how could the boy know how to materialize such emotions and charm out of the void of his soul?

Imitation. Mimicry. Tom read books not only for the knowledge, but also as a source of scheming and manipulation. Sometimes, he endured torturous pages of foolishness only to be able to make a note of the mannerism people used in situations, and he would try to imitate their emotions and actions. That is why many thought him to be such a surreal boy— because he was not real; he was an amalgam of characteristics he had copied from his studies.

"I assume by your current state that you have been spending some time with Rosier."

"You would be correct," Varya said, and then she threw her legs underneath her, making sure to place her skirt well. "But then I thought I should see you."

"Why?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and gave her the kind of look that made her legs go weak.

Varya was at a loss of words, unsure what to tell the boy. Even in her intoxicated state, she knew she was nearing dangerous ground, and yet her heart beast faster as he looked at her with those stupid azure inquisitive eyes, and for a moment, she just wanted to admit everything to him.

"I do not know."

She never really did those days.

They looked at each other, and he regarded her for a second in a way he had not before. Her obsidian eyes were trailing the ceiling, and melon-pink lips were parted in the slightest hint of wonder— she was very much drunk, and yet part of him enjoyed seeing her as carefree. The girl had been getting more somber by the day since she had found of her predicament, and he immensely enjoyed it when she had fight in her.

Riddle closed his book and put it to the side, then swung his feet off of the train couch and leaned as he rested his elbows on his knees. He tilted his head, analyzing her with the kind of gaze that made her know she was being scrutinized.

"What?" she asked, pushing herself in the couch more. Had he always been this intimidating?

Varya was the kind of beauty that not many possessed, Tom realized. She was delicate, frail, and yet her eyes always held such defiance that she moved like a storm against a deserted coast. There was something so terribly wicked about her, but not in the usual way. Perhaps it was the Obscurus shining through translucent skin, but the boy was inclined to believe it was her own spirit that rivaled the moonlight.

"You look nice today."

Oh, bloody Hell. Her heart went insane at that, and she felt like bashing her head against the train wagon.

"Anyhow," Tom says, and he breaks their stare before his mouth opens again, and he says something else that he should not, "We are getting off at the London station, then we take the Floo Network. We will be spending a night in Paris; Lestrange could not use his brain to get us train tickets that arrange well, so we have to wait a few hours. Then, we head straight to Albania. No detours."

Her brain somewhat processed that, and yet she knew everything would be out of her mind by sundown. All Varya could care about at that moment was the way the tangerine rays fell on his pale face, and the way he scrunched his nose when they got in his ocean-deep eyes, making the pools of dark blue stand out more. Tom's eyes had always been fascinating, a mixture of spectral marine with the slightest hint of algae, and yet they were glossed over with the glow of madness.

They sat in silence for a while, and yet it did not feel strained. It was never awkward with the two of them, and Varya found some comfort in his presence, as one would around those one yearns for. She stole fugitive glances at him, as he had gone back to reading his book, and she could have sworn Tom's eyes were trained on her from time to time.

"What did they do to you...there?" he asked suddenly, and doubt tangled around his vocal cords. Tom knew that the girl was still sensitive over the project, but his curiosity was astronomical, and the boy wanted to know.

Varya had stopped breathing, and her eyes scanned the compartment for nothing in particular as she closed in on herself. Her irises turned darker, and she looked at him with pain, "Bad things. Very bad things."

He felt his wrath bubble underneath. For the first time, not at her, but at the way her eyes carried shadowy grief, and he opened his mouth to say something, but the girl continued.

"You know what the worst thing is? They took away not only the bad memories— the torture, the abuse. They also made all of the happy ones vanish, and replaced them with illusions that never quite made sense, and yet I accepted blissfully because it had been the only source of comfort I had had," she breathed, and Tom would have thought the girl would cry. Instead, she had fury in her features, "I had people I cared about there, and they took away my right to grieve them, to get accustomed to the thought of losing them. Now, it all comes back, and I am experiencing everything over again. And it is killing me. I do not know how to make sense of everything, and my whole body just hurts all the time— I do not expect you to get it, though."

He did not. Tom could not understand how someone else's death could affect her this much. Lopheus Evergreen had just died, and yet he was going on with his day just like before. Perhaps, if he genuinely lost someone he cared for, he would feel the pain. Nevertheless, he cared for nobody but himself.

"So that is how they trapped the Obscurus? By taking away the feelings that it clung to?"

Disappointment pilled in her guts as she realized that yet again, Tom Riddle only cared about one thing— her power. Varya wanted to laugh at herself for believing otherwise for a second, for being so foolish into thinking that anything had changed. However, it had, because a kiss, regardless of what fueled it, always loomed over those who engaged in it.

"Yes," she answered, avoiding his gaze. "That is why whenever you pushed me over the edge, it broke through and drove me mad. Parasites like tormenting their hosts, do they not?"

Tom hummed in approval, fascinated by the notion, and then he noticed her fidgety state and frowned. What was upsetting her? He never quite seemed to understand what fueled her emotions, because where he was filled with apathy, the witch let herself be dominated by emotions.

Varya laid down on the train seat, hand underneath her head, and she closed her eyes as everything spun around her. God, she had forgotten how much alcohol messed with her mind. The witch wanted to sleep in an attempt to get Tom to stop talking to her, and yet she found herself twisting from side to side restlessly.

"Would you stop that? I cannot read if you keep distracting me."

She opened one eye to look at the boy, who was not holding his book again, and yet he was only looking at her, "I cannot sleep."

"That sounds unpleasant, but not my concern."

Varya huffed, and turned to lie on her back and stare at the ceiling with a frown etched on her expression. She could not understand why the boy was so recalcitrant at all times.

"Science tells us how to heal and how to kill; it reduces the death rate in retail and then kills us wholesale in war; but only wisdom—desire coordinated in the light of all experience—can tell us when to heal and when to kill," he began reading out loud, and when Varya shot him a look of astonishment, he raised an eyebrow, "You said you could not sleep. Perhaps, this will help— it is ridiculous, really. Some of it is extremely idealistic of humans. It does help you understand how those around you function, though."

Varya gave him a smile, and her abdomen fluttered as she realized that this was his way of trying to help her— have her listen to his reading. His voice had always been calming, and so she told him to proceed, then placed her head back down on her hands and closed her eyes. She fell asleep to Tom Riddle's voice.

***

He had been unequivocal with her— Varya was to wait on the platform for him until the train emptied, as nobody could see them leaving together or questions would arise. The girl found him to be extremely dramatic in his requests, and yet part of her understood the need for secrecy. She would not know how to answer if Felix asked what was going on.

Maxwell Nott ran to her, Avery trailing right behind, and he waved a set of tickets in his hand. Initially, it was supposed to be Lestrange that would deliver them, and yet the boy was keeping his distance from the girl after their most recent conversation.

Nott was wearing a funny-looking hat on his head, and it was slightly hanging off and touching one of his ears as he struggled to carry his bag of textbooks forward. He did not trust magic to bring it around, and preferred to have them on him at all times. His sandy hair was ruffled underneath, and his forest eyes were as focused as always.

"There you go," he wheezed as he handed her the tickets, "Everything is set; all you have to do is say your name is Claudette Rosier— Ren said that is his cousin or something, and it is best you keep your name hidden."

He did not say it, but the girl understood. It would be her first time she would be leaving Hogwarts after Grindelwald had become a significant threat, and although they still had no proof Lopheus Evergreen had been targeted, they all considered him proof of what was about to come.

"You have the knife and belt, yeah?" asked Avery as he stood in front of her, arms crossed and features pulled in a frown. Once, she had thought him to be extraordinarily evasive and secluded. However, the witch had discovered it was quite the contrary— he made himself appear as such only because of his tendencies. Varya nodded, "Good, keep it close. I have told this to Riddle as well, but he will not listen. My family is spread throughout Europe, and they have all told me that the Ministries across the land are trying to handle all of the attacks."

"I am sure we can handle it, but thank you."

Riddle came out of the train in his black spring coat, and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck that swayed in the wind as he walked toward them with his hands in his pockets. He nodded towards the two boys, who bowed their head swiftly before scrambling to the car that was waiting for them outside of the train station.

"Ready?" asked Tom as he grabbed a trolley and moved their luggage on it. He extended his elbow to her in a gallant gesture, and the girl let her fingers cling to his hand. Varya's head was slightly pounding from the drinks, and yet when she touched him, all seemed to fall into place.

They walked down the station's platform and passed through the wall, then went outside of the station and called for a cab. The driver immediately helped them put their bags in the trunk, and Tom opened the door for Varya before sliding in next to her.

"—attacks continue on the border of Switzerland, and many believe that the peculiar happenings are a new intimidation tactic by Hitler's resistance. With Private Reginald's disappearance in the Alps, the British army assures that they have nothing to do with the disappearing children in the village and that it is only propaganda."

"Turn that up, please," Tom leaned over and told the driver, then gave Varya a knowing look.

"The stationed unit reports that after discovering the soldier's body in the cave, which they continuously shot at, surrounded by half-eaten children, they have assumed this to be some sort of dementia induced cannibalism. More reports will follow on the incident as the messages rely on this station."

Varya's whole body chilled with repulsion at the image that had formed in her head, and she could even see some sort of disturbance in Tom's impassive features. She cast a quick charm around them and made the driver utterly oblivious to their conversation.

"You remember when I asked Nott to look into those books I needed?" Varya inquired, and when Tom nodded in affirmation, she continued, "A long time ago, I was dragged in the Forbidden Forest by some sort of creature— a mavka. And it told me, or threatened me, about this diabolical force coming to destroy everything. Then that ghost in the shack said the same thing. Ever since, I have been looking into reports of attacks and trying to piece it together."

"Why are you telling me this now?" asked the boy, who had always been wondering about the situation that had happened in December, and why the girl wanted to know so many things about magical creatures. He had tried getting it out of her multiple times, and yet she never budged.

Varya shrugged, then considered it for a moment, "I think at this point you might as well know, and besides, it is time we stop competing against each other and realize that Grindelwald is a threat to both of us. Perhaps, if we work together, we have a better chance of coming out on the other side without too many scratches."

Tom looked at her as she leaned back in the seat, and the scenery of dreary London flashed behind her at a fast rate, contrasting with her green overcoat and face blazed by the fire whisky. The witch was more lucid now, and yet her face still reddened as the enzymes in her body tried to break down the alcohol.

He did not trust people, not in the slightest, and there was definitely reluctance in accepting her waving white flag as they had both been at each other's throats ever since the beginning. Nevertheless, Riddle acknowledged her in ways he did not for other people. It had taken a near-death experience, but the girl had earned his respect. After all, not many people could best him, let alone half of his Knight.

And then there had been the kiss— he was still angry at himself for succumbing to her apparent seduction plan, and Tom could not understand what the girl could have gained from making him act like that. In his mind, it all seemed to be part of some sophisticated plan of manipulating him, as the wizard could not imagine anyone ever genuinely loving him.

"Very well," he mumbled, looking at his watch. They had to go to the Floo Network in Diagon Alley soon, "And what do you make of this? You think it is the work of a creature?"

"Ghouls," she explained, "Originated in the Middle East and extended to Europe in the eighteen hundreds, and they go by various names. They are similar to wendigos, except those are of Canadian origins. Not the most delightful, they disguise themselves as humans and prey on children; they are cannibals, and often appear when humans feast on flesh. I am assuming the soldier did just that, and then went crazy. Alternatively, perhaps, an already existing ghoul took his shape and attracted the children into the woods."

"Is Grindelwald behind this?"

"Yes," she started, "And no. You remember how I told you that creatures could easily be controlled or bought using negative emotions as payment? Well, I think he is doing that somehow, but not through him. The souls he has enlisted— they are wicked in ways you cannot imagine, and he needs someone more macabre for that."

Tom was looking at her with a newfound admiration as she talked about something she was so familiar with, and yet he was not. He did not know many people that excelled at things that he did not, and it only made him thirstier for knowledge.

The car stopped suddenly, and Varya released the charm as the driver turned to the two, "We have arrived."

They got out steadily, and as they made their way to Diagon Alley, heads turned to look at the two poised students, who were dressed in beautiful attire and seemed to absorb every bit of darkness to them. Just as they were about to head toward the brick wall, someone called out Varya's name.

"Well, look who it is! Pleasure, as always," said William cheekily as he strode over to the pair, lips turned in a pleasant smile as he bowed before the two. "'ave not met you before, sir! You do look familiar, though— oh! Are you not from that orphanage down the street that burned last week? Wool's? Pity to 'ear that, mate."

Varya threw a quick glance at Tom, who was growing restless due to Parker's questioning, and her heart slummed at the thought that the boy might have had something to do with it.

"Burned down?" inquired Varya, despite Riddle trying to pull her away from the boy and on with their way. "How?"

"Oh, nobody knows, really...they suspect a malfunction with the central system, but 'ave not quite figured it out. It 'appened over the weekend too. Poor children, many did not make it out."

William took down his hat in respect as he made a cross with his fingers over his chest, then placed it back on and looked at Varya. The girl was trying to keep her composure, and yet her blood boiled at the thought of Riddle being at fault. She had not seen him over the weekend, that was true, and she was sure the boy knew of ways to evade Hogwarts if needed. After all, all he had to do was take one of the secret passages to Hogsmade's train station, and he would disappear into the night.

She looked at him and saw it— not guilt, not secrecy. He was proud. He was proud of having burned a whole building down, and killing multiple children out of spite. Perhaps he had not had the most comfortable childhood, and Varya knew he had been mistreated and outcasted, but some part of her had hoped Riddle had begun to change his course of action.

No, he was only growing darker because of her.

Her mind went to the memory Dumbledore had shown her in August, and Varya stiffened as she realized that the future might still be gloomy and macabre for Tom Riddle. But she had to stop him, no matter what the cost was, and had to stay by his side and make sure that even as he rose to power, he would only be fueled by his ideals and not his fascination with death.

The girl turned to William, and before he could even blink, she Obliviated any memory the boy would have of Tom. It was best he was not remembered amongst the Londonese streets, lest someone ended up connecting the dots. Dumbledore would surely start questioning the boy. Then, she dragged Riddle to Diagon Alley, leaving poor Parker behind in a state of confusion.

"You did it."

"I did not," he lied so smoothly it almost sounded like the truth, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed him. She knew his vicious side too well.

"Do not insult my intelligence by thinking I cannot see straight through your lies," she sighed, and yet could not bring herself to resent the man. After all, she would burn down Scholomance just as well, "Let us just go; we do not have time for your temper tantrums right now."

Riddle smirked, and they made their way to the building that they would take the Floo Network from, before disappearing in a burst of green flames.

***

Paris had changed under the nazi occupation. It was no longer the blooming city of romance, nor did the streets vibrate with melodious songs that made the heart tingle. Now, they rumbled as the machinery of war paraded the concrete boulevards, trying to squish the resistance from gaining momentum. The government had fallen almost three years ago, and now few cars circulated as the gas had been rationed. Even so, Lestrange had managed to secure them transportation around the capital, as he knew that traveling by foot in such a barrel of powder would be dangerous for the two students.

The hotel they were staying at was as extravagant as times allowed, and that meant they had all meals included, and the rooms were decorated in fine silk and paintings. It almost made Varya sick to the stomach how some socialites such as the Rosier and Lestrange family allowed themselves to relish in gluttony and luxury during such hard times, where food itself had been reduced by war.

In later years, historians would describe the biggest shock of fallen France as the "superficial normality of wartime Paris," and the way that the city still shined like a diamond amongst coal. There was some sense of normality to it, and yet the air felt so different from Scotland, even England.

Varya's room was in the same complex as Tom's, and they shared common living space and bathroom, but a long hallway separated the two chambers. As soon as they had arrived at their reservation, Riddle had immediately locked himself in the room doing Merlin-knows-what, and the girl had taken her time in exploring the apartment.

It had a balcony that overlooked Notre-Dame Cathedral in all of its beauty, and the girl sighed dreamily as she stood at the small dainty table in her obsidian dress, hair blowing in the Parisian wind. Lestrange had left them some treats, and she fancied herself a glass of wine as she overlooked the city.

"Back to drinking, already?"

She turned to look at Riddle, who stood at the balcony entrance, shoulder against the doorframe, and had something similar to a map in his hand. Twilight rays fell on his face in celestial fire, and his lips were pulled in a coy smirk as his eyes bared the semblance of mild amusement.

A cascade of smoke rippled his refined features as he carried his usual devious attribute like a crown on his head, and perhaps Tom Riddle was noble in his own way— a monarch of absolute despair and anguish. But it pleased her nevertheless, and while others might have seen chiseled features of the aristocracy and the mannerism of a posh man, Varya found she quite like the redness of devilry in his eyes.

Tom had rolled his sleeves upwards, and had loosened his collar and abandoned his ever-present tie— no need to play pretend behind close doors. His hair was still stilled as neatly as always, and yet the wind ruffled at the few curls that had broken through during the day, and when he saw across her at the table, one of them fell in his eye. Varya drank her wine to prevent herself from reaching out.

"If I am to be in your presence for so long, I find it only fitting that I let my nerves swim in poison," she quipped, then offered to pour him a glass, but the boy refused.

"I make you nervous?"

She tilted her head in bemusement at his straightforwardness and wondered when the boy had gotten so comfortable with asking such questions, "Not the good kind, dear."

"That would be boring, would it now?" Varya had never seen his eyes twinkle with so much challenge and amusement, and she wondered if this was Tom Riddle finally letting his guard down around someone.

A scream resonated through the plaza below, and they both looked at the man that was now being dragged by the police. However, he did not seem to be at fault, and the girl spotted his daughter crying as she watched her father being carried away. Collectors, most probably. Criminal activity had increased since the Germans had occupied the city, and something told Varya that the men in uniform had fallen prey to the black market too, and had started accepting offers of harassment from the druglords of the city.

How ironic that sometimes those who wore the badges that symbolized protection succumbed to corruption and turned weapons against civilians— such scum of Earth they were, with a mind so easily swayed by power and greed.

Varya flicked a finger in their direction, and watched as one of the cops fell flat on his face, attracting the attention of the other one and giving the father enough time to grab his daughter and run between the buildings of Paris.

Tom hoisted an eyebrow, "Now, why would you do that? He was obviously a muggle."

"A muggle, not a muggle— at the end of the day, I prefer to fight against those who use their power to harass the innocent. After all, is that not your goal? Fight against corruption in the wizarding world?" the witch asked, then narrowed her eyes at the sky as she noticed the storming clouds approach, "Say— would you enjoy dinner right now? The alcohol is less enjoyable on an empty stomach, makes me queasy."

Tom looked at the watch on his hand, then nodded and got up from his seat. He opened the door for her, and they walked downstairs to the reception. Varya stood in the hallway as the boy asked for directions to a restaurant that would serve dinner at such hours. Her eyes trailed the pictures on the walls— some were muggle celebrities attending parties in the ballroom of the building; some were founders of the chain as they shook hands on the inauguration. All dated years ago, when city life was still booming.

The wizard came back to her, and she grabbed on his arm as they walked down the boulevard, passing soldiers and citizens alike, and yet the girl kept her eyes forward and tried not to attract attention.

The restaurant was in a secluded part of the city, somewhere further from the german centers, and the music still sounded through the streets as Varya passed various shops. She smiled at the way Tom let his eyes linger on the architecture, and of course, she should have known he would be fascinated by the Parisian allure just as she was.

"I always thought the Renaissance to be a wonderful period of time," he said eventually as they stopped at the restaurant, and the waiter led them to a table outside in the gardens. The perfume of blooming flowers danced in the air as a violinist played quietly in the corner.

The girl snorted, "Of course— rebirth. You would find that fascinating, would you not?"

Riddle hoisted an eyebrow at the jab, an allusion to his plan for immortality, "It had more to do with the architecture, but I guess you are not wrong either. Except I do not want rebirth, I want immortality. Rebirth implies dying."

"What is your obsession with death?"

"It is ignominious, a weakness saved for muggles and weak minds. I am not alike to them— why not take the opportunity to expand your universe and mind infinitely by allowing yourself to defy nature's biggest obstacle. I have the means to do it if I desire, so why would I not do it?"

"Fate requires balance," Varya said as she looked him in the eyes, "There is always a price to pay for things like this. For necromancy, whatever you bring back no longer resembles the person that was lost. They are cold, empty, and many documented accounts say that those revived often experience existential paradox—they go mad and either cannot accept that they are dead or that they are alive."

"The book on Horcruxes never said anything about secondary-effects—"

"That does not mean they do not exist," the girl answered, thinking of the reptilian face that the boy would transfigure too, and of the way he had let a teenage boy best him. That was not the Tom Riddle that was standing in front of her right now, "How many do you want to make?"

He stilled for a second, unsure of what to say, "Six."

"Seven with yourself, then."

"One for each Knight to safe-guard," he finally revealed. "That is one of the reasons I recruited each of them. Six Horcruxes, six knights. With me, always seven. It is my preferred number."

"I thought you recruited me as well, though?" the girl suddenly answered, remembering the conversation that had had in the forest before they had almost killed each other.

Tom had forgotten about that; it seemed. Furthermore, as he looked at her, he realized something ticked him the wrong way about it. It was almost as if an external force had unsettled his plan, and although he could not explain the meaning behind his paranoia, it was eating at his brain.

He did not know, however, that Varya was always meant to be the failure of his empire, the one thing that would shatter his perfect illusion.

She was the eighth deadly sin, which had been forgotten by history— despondency—the one who brought despair, hopelessness, and doubt in fate. Varya Petrov had always been a girl that was ruled by instinct, and her existence itself had taught her never to put her fate in anything, but there was more to it than that.

Varya would be the one to bring this sin into their lives, to make them doubt their faith in their Lord, and to eventually lead to the dissolution of their attachments to Tom Riddle. She had once wondered if she would be Tom Riddle's downfall or his savior.

Perhaps, one came with the other.