NOTE: I have attached a song to this chapter because I believe it will set the mood well. Do not start it at the beginning, but later in the chapter (if you want). You will know exactly when.

God, I hope you all like this chapter because it has to be one of my favorites.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Tom watched her come down the stairs in her moonshine gown, hair pulled back as her noble face was on full display. Her eyes carried an intellectuality he had never seen in another woman, and her body moved with royal presence. In another life, she could have been one of the Graces, so effortlessly beautiful that it could drive any man insane, and in this one, so wickedly talented that she could have anyone gravel at her feet.

Her beauty was spun by the spindle of anguish, and it was rooted from a soil that allowed nothing to grow from it— the grief in her eyes, the way they dulled in the light of the chandelier, and yet carried wisdom that spluttered above the waves of darkness and desperation.

Varya was on the arm on Icarus Lestrange, and as they walked down the stairs, the rest of the group patted the boy on the back like rapacious hyenas watching a sacrifice. It irritated Tom, and he wondered if any of them genuinely saw how bright the witch was, how she was far superior to any other girl in the room. He stood by the bottom of the stairs and waited for her to come down.

He felt impatient, almost as something was pulling at him, and he frowned when he felt a sensation in his chest, something fiery that he had only felt in his most profound moments of hatred. Tom glanced up at the girl in confusion— did he truly despise her this much? Enough to feel like flames were completely engulfing his whole body. He did not understand.

When Varya reached the marble floor, her eyes immediately went to him. The boy carried a perplexed look in his eyes, but then immediately composed himself, and nodded, a signal that the objects had been planted. Varya looked at his suit, the first one that fitted him like it had been designed on his body, and the way his hair was slightly pulled back to reveal the diamond-edged face.

The girl bit her lip, then turned her face away from him swiftly, not wanting the boy to have the same reaction as Icarus to her diminishing appearance. A part of her knew that Tom could appreciate beauty objectively, and that he might find himself disappointed in her look of dismay, and her heart could not take the throb of rejection.

She stepped with Icarus into the ballroom on the ground floor, and her eyes widened to the size of teacups when she saw the grandeur of the event. High ceilings were covered in chandeliers that dropped of crystal, and they had been charmed to display swirling galaxies and stars. The room was decorated with extravagant ornaments, long swirls of snowflakes, and icicles. Waiters walked across the room, with platters full of delicious appetizers, and an orchestra played effortlessly in the corner of the room.

"Lovely, is it not?" stated Elladora as she stopped by the pair, looking at them with jealousy from the corner of her eye. The girl was wearing her signature devil red, hair pulled in a tight bun with flowers dangling from the center. She gave Icarus a small smile while completely ignoring Varya, then proceeded to walk forward, Nicholas Avery by her side. The boy gave the Eastern witch a taunting smile as he passed, so volcanic in nature, and Varya barely caught a glimpse of the knife in his boot as he walked.

There was a sense of finality taking over Varya as she scanned the room, and she knew that tonight things would change for her, she just did not know how yet. She glanced at Icarus, who was serene and composed, and wondered if the boy would still be by her side at the end of it all.

"I ought to find Lopheus Evergreen," said Varya, and detached herself from Icarus at once, suddenly being able to breathe better. The boy gave her a confused look, probably having expected at least a dance before his date succumbed to her masochist tendencies, but besides a frustrated sigh, he did not try to stop her. There were things he could not control, and the hurricane of Varya Petrov was one of them. Sometimes, it was better to let forces of nature just run their course, and wait patiently to clean up the mess.

Varya walked the floor eagerly, eyes scurrying over every corner until they found a boy sitting by himself next to the glass doors that led to the garden, champagne flute in his hand. And when their eyes met, she knew she had found the notorious Lopheus.

He was around her age, perhaps a few years older, and he had striking blonde hair, although nothing compared to that of a Malfoy. He was skinny, exceptionally so, and was wearing his dress shirt with a few buttons open, no tie whatsoever, carrying a devious smirk that all of Riddle's followers seemed to have. His arrogance was more evident when he pulled out an unlit cigarette, and with a swift motion, let it burn as he dragged from it aggressively.

"I do not think the Rosiers would appreciate if the smell of tobacco stuck to their walls," said Varya as she approached him pridefully, arms clasped before her.

Lopheus puffed his cigar, then blew the smoke towards the ceiling, smirking as it flew upwards. Then, he gave her a once over, "Varya Petrov, I presume, such a delight to finally meet you. That boy, Lestrange, has been going on and on about your lovely self. I must agree with him, although I will say this— you are no delicate flower, and it is actually your sadness that brings you admiration."

Varya gave him a smile, although it was not the sincere kind, then took the cigarette from his lips and crushed it on the floor, "Have you Americans no manners? It is impolite to smoke in the presence of a lady. Perhaps, you will find the gardens to be a more suitable space."

The boy understood her message— they needed to talk in private. He gestured for her to walk ahead once he opened the door, and they stepped outside in the December air, closing the entrance behind them. They put some distance between themselves and the party, and only stopped walking once they were sure they were beyond everyone's hearing capability.

The gardens were vast, and Varya could imagine that they bloomed effervescently in the spring, and that the perfume of flowers traveled across the estate in peaceful breezes, the kind of calmness and beauty one would contemplate over.

"I managed to slip the marbles into the pockets of Carrow, Wilkins, Bellchant, and MacDuff. Now, we know that the Carrow and MacDuff family have had members openly support Grindelwald, that is beyond doubt, but the people attending today are in a different branch of the family tree," remarked Lopheus as he pulled out another death stick, putting it between his lips. Such a vicious habit, but the boy was a walking memory at this point, and he had seen enough not to fear death, but regard it as eternal rest.

Varya frowned but ignored the reek of tobacco and continued his idea, "And Tom wants to know if the whole family is loyal to Gellert or is it was just a fluke, I presume. Very well, I will talk to them."

The witch stared out into the forest, heart thudding as she remembered that she had hidden the locket in there only a few hours earlier, and she hoped that the vow would not be broken. There was still the possibility of Tom finding out. By now, Burke should have noticed that it was missing, and although he could not accuse Petrov of anything, it would be quite evident that it had been one of the two Hogwarts students. Moreover, when Tom returned for the necklace, and Burke told him...

"Wilkins and Bellchant are odd," continued Evergreen, sitting down on a bench beneath a statue that showed Salazar Slytherin, "You will have to be more forward with them, but it should not be a problem with the curses you have placed— impressive magic, by the way, unlike anything I have seen before."

"Thank you."

The boy looked at her and let a small sigh escape past his lips. Varya Petrov reminded him of someone he once used to know— his sister. A terrible and brilliant witch, one that had made the wrong choices in her life, and had found herself locked up in a mental asylum up in the Sweedish mountains. They shared the same fiery eyes; the maddened need to prove themselves and stand out as powerful women. He could only hope the similarities ended there.

"Well, I will let you enjoy your night, Petrov, and if you find yourself in need of assistance, you will most likely find me by the alcohol. It was a pleasure meeting you, and I hope to see you around more," said the boy, before he slightly bowed to the girl and left her alone in the cold air.

The night extended in time and space, and so many twists were put in place, some that could change the future beyond repair, and some that could potentially brighten it. It was almost as if the air pulsed with electricity, and the alternate dimensions clashed against each other, making a mess of the current timeline.

Varya closed her eyes, and for the first time in a while, she took a moment for herself. She breathed in deeply, feeling the air expand her lungs, and push against her cavity. She felt her mind lighten, and the tremor in her hands disappeared as she let calmness take over. She exhaled.

The eastern witch pivoted on her feet and headed back to the party, where the first dance had only just begun. Multiple couples paraded the floor, twirling and bowing, exchanging flirtatious glances and soft touches. Nicholas Avery had ditched Elladora Selwyn at a table, preferring to engage in discussion with Lopheus Evergreen by the bar. Maxwell Nott stood right behind them, although he was staring off into space, feet slightly tapping to the rhythm of the classical piece. One could tell they were scheming, and Varya noticed the way Nott casually let his eyes wander around the room, almost as if looking for a target.

Abraxas Malfoy was sitting beside his parents at a table, the only ones of the group who had managed to attend, and right next to him was Tom Riddle, who was engaging in ample dialogue with the adults.

The girl scanned the salon with her eyes until they fell on a stern woman by the buffet, who was so stiff that she could have passed off for a statue— Sylvia Carrow. Varya cleared her throat, and headed toward her rapidly, briefly letting her eyes meet those of Abraxas Malfoy's as he nodded at her with encouragement.

Sylvia Carrow noticed her, and her eyes narrowed at her figure once she stood in front of the woman, "May I help you?".

She was looking down upon the girl, almost as if she was a nasty roach that had bothered her presence. Her voice was screechy, and it carried a note of arrogance in it, something that Varya could attribute to her curse, but much preferred to assume it came naturally for the rigid woman, "Pleased to meet you, I am Varya Petrov."

The lady's eyes doubled in size as she heard the name, and her champagne glass slipped from her hand, only for Varya to easily make it hang in the air with a spell. She brought it back up to the woman's hand, then gave her a condescending smile. If all went according to plan, Carrow would be a babbling mess before her in no time, as the marble toyed with her thoughts, making her ill-tempered and boastful. All the young witch had to do was light the fuse with a bit of defiance, and the pureblood would crack.

"Petrov— that is impossible; they are all dead," she gasped in sham innocence. However, as her eyes landed on the lynx on Varya's earrings, she pulled her eyebrows in a stupified expression, "You have been hiding, you impertinent child."

"Impertinent?" Varya charged, mocking confusion and hurt, "Oh, you make it seem as if my disappearance rattled your plans."

The woman's face contorted in fury, and she found herself sending a small signal to someone across the room. Varya tried to turn around and glance, but she felt a firm grip on her arm, and then she was pulled back to face Carrow's crooked nose. The lady had grown livid, and dread started to settle in Varya's guts. Something was wrong.

A man that Varya recognized as Richard MacDuff made his way to them, trying to settle the two women down, as they had started attracting quite a few stares, "What in Merlin's name are you doing, Sylvia? Release the girl."

"No, Richard, I do not think you understand, this girl is the Petrovs' child."

The man seemed to pale, and then, his features morphed into something evil, "Is that so?" he asked, smirking at the child. "My, my, what a surprise. We have been looking for you."

He towered over the teenager, with a neck so long it was almost comical, and a hairline that had started falling back ferociously. His suit jacket was tight on his body, the buttons barely holding it closed, because his shoulders were so broad Varya doubted any tailor could possibly design a vest correctly. MacDuff had a strong Irish accent, and his blue eyes were filled with atrocity as he gazed at the young lady.

"What are you talking about?" gasped Varya, trying to pull away from Sylvia's hands, but the witch was stronger and had sunk her dirty nails in her skin to keep her in place. The girl looked around the room desperately, but the second dance of the night had begun, and she saw most of the Knights twirling around the dance floor.

Had they not said that they would help her? And yet they had started mingling freely, barely paying attention to where she had disappeared. Even Icarus, who had repeatedly expressed concern for her safety, was now twirling Elladora around the floor, her dress a tornado of carmine.

"Do not act daft, you little wench," spat Carrow, then pulled at Varya's hair slightly, making her eyes meet those of Sylvia's, "Words of your reappearance had begun circulating months ago, the wicked little witch, and when we heard you could be at this event...but we did not dare believe...No, there was no way the skies had blessed us as such."

Richard pushed them behind a pillar, then pulled them into an empty hallway, obstructed from the public view, and placed his wand to Varya's neck, pushing it against her artery, "When you disappeared from your academy, Grindelwald was not so pleased. He had sent you there for a reason, you see, and yet you managed to escape from his sight. So devious, alas, we have found you."

"What are you going on about? Grindelwald thought me dead-"

"Are you truly that stupid?" laughed Sylvia, and Varya winced as she felt her nails dig deeper. The witch could have easily escaped, blasted them into pieces, and yet she wanted to hear what they knew, as the curse had made them spill all of their secrets, and she knew an opportunity like this might not reveal itself again.

"Look at her, so clueless, MacDuff barked as he grasped the girl's face, "She knows nothing, Sylvia, is that not pitiful? Better so, Grindelwald will surely be pleased to find out you have grown up so well."

"Little slaughter pig! Little slaughter pig!" Sylvia sang in her ear, and Varya felt a wave of nausea overtake her, and there was something picking at her brain, almost like a needle trying to perforate through silk.

"And when we awaken it..."

"When we do!"

"There will be nothing of you left, no— just terror and blood, and we will continue right where we left on, child," challenged MacDuff, alluding to something the girl did not understand.

His tone made Varya feel queasy, and she knew she had heard enough, so she kicked the man between the legs, then twisted her body to smash her head against Sylvia's. The woman yelled out, and her hands flew from Varya's to her forehead. The eastern witch took this opportunity to punch her square in the nose, enjoying the physical sensation of inflicting pain through a mundane method.

Before Richard could regain his wits, Varya elbowed him in the eye, sending him stumbling back. It was only then that she took out her wand and cast a curse on both of them, "Petrificus Totalus!".

Their bodies fell to the floor, and Varya slumped against the wall, breathing harshly from the adrenaline, but a pleased smile took over her face. With a flick of the wand, she sent their petrified bodies to one of the broom closets at the end of the hallway, letting the janitor deal with it.

Now, she let her mind wander to the words the two acolytes had uttered— Grindelwald had been the one to send her to the academy. However, that made no sense to the girl, as she vaguely remembered the tales of how she had been brought into the school. Every maiden in the castle had said the same thing— she had been taken in by a lady named Magdalena, a poor muggle that had raised her as a daughter. Yet, when she took notice of the young one's witchcraft, she had sent her to her death, and it had been the Dark Priest that had rescued her.

Unless they lied, Varya thought. However, she had vivid memories of the woman, of the house she had grown up in, and the fairies that had welcomed her in their small forest clearing. She remembered the smell of Magdalena's cherry pies, and the pain she had felt when she was taken away.

Nevertheless, Macduff had implied that after her parents' death, it had been the Dark Wizard that had sent her to the school. Then, why had he never reached out to her? Why had he left her there for years, and then only begun looking for her once she had disappeared? He must have known she was at Hogwarts, if anything, and yet he had waited for her to resurface into the wizarding world.

It was almost as if he was a puppeteer, and she had been strung along her whole life, always one step behind the Dark Wizard. Varya had never been safe, not for a moment in her life, and he had waited for the right moment to get to her.

Varya grabbed at her head and shut her eyes, as it had begun throbbing painfully, and slammed her fist against a wall, trying to redirect the pain to somewhere else. There it was again, the knock on her temple, the same one she had felt all those months ago whenever Tom Riddle would ask her about her early years, almost as if something was missing.

The girl's eyes flew open, and a gasp of realization hit her at an incredible force. Her memories had been altered.

She grabbed at a flower pot nearby and emptied her stomach contents in it, dizziness clouding her mind. Varya wiped her mouth in distaste, then winced at the odd sensation in her throat, hating the way it was so tight. Her life, at least most of it, was a lie, and now she felt an existential crisis looming over her head. What was real, and what had been toyed with?

There was only one man that could help her, but he was far away now, still in the Scottish fields— Albus Dumbledore. There was at least a week before Varya could return to the castle, and her only hope was that she would not go insane before that.

She needed to know what was going on; she had so many mysteries surrounding her that never seemed to clear. What was Tom Riddle planning? Why had dark creatures been moving more towards the West? Who was the dark presence they were muttering about? And why had Grindelwald sent her to Scholomance? Somehow, they were all connected to each other, and yet whenever she picked at the threads, they disappeared before she could reach the other end.

Varya hoisted herself off the floor, dusted her silver dress, and then rapidly headed back to the room, where the ball was still in full swing. She scanned the room until her eyes landed on a figure standing alone in the corner.

Tom Riddle was staring at the dancing crowd with an impassive face, head rested in his palm as his fingers tapped against his temple impatiently. He resembled a bored prince watching over his court as they engaged in idle doings, not caring for their ordinary nature or mindless gossip. He was detached, superior, and had no time for what common people preoccupied their days with.

His eyes were darkened, but they still held the force of a typhoon as it crashed over the coast, a maddened swirl of ocean blue and foam, and when they landed on Varya, the girl felt her breath leave her body.

The boy was beautiful, undeniably so, and Varya was exhausted from denying it. He had taken over her mind for the past months, so much so that it had become a fixation, and wherever she went, he was always right behind. She had seen his childhood home, something she doubted many had the opportunity to experience, and had also been on the receiving end of his terrible mood swings many times. He had made her crumble beneath him, only to prove that he could break her, and had had her perform atrocious acts.

So why did her heart fill with warmth when he got up from his seat and started making his way to her, eyes filled with purpose, and why did it shrivel when Icarus Lestrange blocked his way, standing right in front of the girl?

"Care to dance?" he invited, delighted that his partner had resurfaced in the party scene after her disappearance. His eyes flickered to the gashes on her arm, and his soul throbbed with the dullest ache knowing that she had been hurt. He had sworn to protect her, and yet he relentlessly cowered in the face of Tom Riddle and his schemes.

Varya tried to peek over his shoulder, catch a glimpse of the fierce eyes that she knew were still on her, but the boy was too tall, and she did not want to be impolite. After all, he had been the one to ask her to this event, and so the witch found herself placing her hand in his.

"Of course."

He took her to the main stage, and they bowed politely to each other, but as Varya made her way back up, her eyes drifted to Tom Riddle, who was standing at the edge of the dance floor, arms clasped behind his back and a stoic look on his face as he watched her. They were emotionless, almost slightly annoyed, and the girl knew he wanted to send her back to investigating the guests.

The orchestra began to play a song that plucked the thin strings of her heart, and as the violins picked up their pace, mellifluous notes ricochetting off of the grand walls of the Rosier Manor, the atmosphere fell in a soft hush of melancholia and tragedy. The pairs of dancers bowed to each other, and then hands raised in the sir— the softest touch of comfort. Icarus circled her, the admiration in his eyes so overwhelming, and he felt that his life had amounted to this moment— to be with the girl he loved.

"Just like we practiced on the train," Icarus quipped, then pulled her close against him, so much so that Varya felt his perfume, a soft mixture of tangerine and sea salt, and she found that she much preferred mahogany, with its biting woodiness and the promise of a complicated entanglement. Yes, they danced just like on the train, with the clumsy steps of two eighteen-year-olds that belonged to a world that they were never meant to be part of, and yet, it felt so excruciatingly different.

No longer did Varya feel the soft butterflies of affection, nor did her skin heat up where Icarus placed his hands on her waist. And if she had ever looked at the boy with a soft heart, now she could no longer feel what was once there. Not because her feelings had changed, but because something else had grown more substantial, a storm of passion and desire that outrooted the tree of stability.

Icarus twirled her, and their hands met in an awkward pose, neither being skilled at dancing, but the boy did not mind as they continued gliding over the floor. Varya, however, had her mind somewhere else, as she continued to observe Tom with each spin that Icarus made her do.

Once upon a time, she had thought Lestrange to be the man that would take her heart, and show her emotions that she had never experienced before. Varya had truly believed that something would come out of their interactions, and had let her mind trick itself into believing that all this time, it had been him that had given her butterflies. Icarus Lestrange was supposed to be the one that would have tamed her soul.

And yet, it had been Tom Riddle.

Varya bit back a small gasp, and as she swayed in the arms of another man, she let a wave of cold reality take over her being. She looked at the Slytherin prefect, who was still watching her from the salon's shadow, and marveled at the way her heart calmed, and yet her mind swirled. He resembled a demigod amongst commoners, with an intellect beyond some of the brightest minds, and the beauty worthy of Aphrodite's affection.

He was a perplexing being, a paradox of darkness and light. Darkness because he was a macabre being, someone who enjoyed tormenting others to further his agenda, and believed that he was an idealistic anarchist. Light because he was like her other half, someone that understood her pain, and had experienced the same things as Varya had. Someone that could be mended with the right push.

Nevertheless, where were his faults in her eyes? There had to be a reason behind her constant willingness to excuse his wicked behavior, the way she always sought out the faintest hope that one day, perhaps, he could become someone else.

She was falling in love with Tom Riddle.

Furthermore, it was the kind of love that consumed her ruthlessly, drove her to the brink of madness because it never seemed to be enough. It burned like the pits of Hell in her chest, and messed with her temper and resolve. It twisted her insides, smothering her lungs until the only air that sufficed her panting was the one he breathed.

It had come at her in the smallest moments of silence they had shared in the Room of Requirement, in the faint feeling of his fingers as he traced the back of her neck and the feeble moments where they exchanged forbidden looks in the hallways. It had sneaked up on her until the feeling bubbled like scalding water in a small pot, bursting over everything, and burning ferociously.

There was never a moment where her love began, and it was almost as if it had been something that had bloomed on itself, despite her best attempts at loathing the boy. He was so absolutely wretched in every way, to the point where she graciously acknowledged that the man had probably murdered before, and yet he was the calling to her heart. In a way, it had never been up to her, and her psychology had predetermined that she was to love a sadist man who could never reciprocate.

Because that is what she thought she deserved — not the sincere heart of the Lestrange boy, nor the naive affection of the soldier William Parker. No, only the wholly twisted and malevolent passion of Tom Riddle. Something that burned and consumed itself until there was nothing but ash and smoke, like a beautiful greek tragedy, an odd to the weak-hearted.

She once thought that he would burn in Hell, and that he would rule over the land of the damned with an iron fist that never entirely loosened, and yet she had come to realize that they would dance amongst burning flames together. Both sociopathic in nature, with the unstable mind of children who had faced their own torment, and the unyielding connection to the obscure, the flickering shadows of darkness.

And the song of tragedy hummed by her heart only brought pain with the newfound clarity, because to her soul, Tom Riddle was the missing piece that had been broken off. And yet, it would never be completed, because the man would never be able to understand her feelings.

She had put a dagger to his neck without the intention to kill, and that should have been the moment Varya Petrov realized that Tom Riddle meant more to her than anyone else, because she would not have hesitated to slit anyone else's throat.

"Are you all right, Varya?" asked Icarus, and the girl looked up at him with watery eyes, finally understanding that she would never be able to give back to him what he had offered.

However, she wanted to— she wanted it to be him whom she had fallen so. In an idealistic world, he could have been everything she wanted, the calmness in the center of a hurricane, a boy who was reckless with the world, but so gentle with her. Varya wanted to be consumed by his passion, no— she needed it. Nevertheless, her heart would not follow her mind despite the way it screamed until its throat was bloody.

She needed it so badly that, when Icarus lowered his head towards her, and their lips met in a velvety promise that she could not keep, she did not allow herself to tremble with the sobs that bubbled in her chest. Furthermore, when his arms surrounded her petite waist, pulling her closer in an embrace of passion, she bit back the instinct of pulling away, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Icarus' lips molded to her like the last piece of the puzzle, and yet Varya preferred the mystery of not completing what could have been the most extraordinary love story of time. She craved something else, always wanting what she could not have.

She pulled him closer, wanting to suffocate in tangerine, so contrasting to the softness of mahogany, and kissed him back with fierceness. Their lips moved eagerly, and the other couples danced around the pair as they entangled in a clash of passion— desperation, and love.

But when the girl pulled away, and for a second, her mind tricked her into seeing Egyptian blue instead of the caramel softness of Icarus Lestrange's eyes, Varya Petrov knew that she had been doomed from the start.