CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

TRIGGER WARNING: SLIGHTLY MATURE

Icarus' lips trailed the nape of her neck, pressing sinful kisses where her hair raised, and she trembled under soft fingers that played with the hem of her sweater, embracing her lustfully from behind as he pressed her against the circular table in Rowena Ravenclaw's study.

Varya turned around to face him, cheeks coated in carmine and lips plum and melon-pink, and she ran a hand through silky curls as she drew the boy closer to her body, hopping on the table and entangling her legs with his.

His lips were rough against hers, and he grasped at her waist with a want he had never felt before, tentatively sneaking a wandering hand on her pale stomach as he pushed her to lay on her back, and he dragged her from her feet until he could lean over her. Icarus held himself up with one arm, and continued to bite at her neck as the girl threw her head back at the new sensation.

"God," he murmured against her skin, and then he looked at her; robe was thrown on one of the chairs, midnight hair ruffled from the constant tugging and pulling, and he let his hand trail the inside of her thigh. He pulled at her knee-length black sock, exposing her legs to the cold air, and pressed a slow kiss on her skin, before peering up at her. There was nothing godly about their next kiss, and he gripped at her neck as he guided her mouth to his.

Varya's mind was engulfed by a burning she had never experienced before, and she wondered how their conversation about an Astrology essay had even ended up in this game of temptation and roaming hands. Perhaps, it was the atmosphere of Valentine's day, or the way he had looked so entrancing as he bit his lips in concentration over another paragraph in their textbook, but she had found herself straddling his hips in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness.

She did not know what she was doing, it was her first time experiencing such sensations, but it felt so blissful that at the moment, it did not matter that the witch did not love him; the only thing she cared about was how his raspy voice breathed her name as if it was the most sacred harmony on Earth. Lestrange kissed like a rapacious demon, and his hands trailed every inch of her over a rumpled uniform, but it was when he grasped her thigh so forcefully her pale skin dripped with purple that she allowed her lips to part in a small wail.

Someone cleared their throat from behind them, and the couple scrambled apart, pulling at their clothes in hurry and embarrassment. Maxwell Nott looked at them with the most amused face he had ever had, and then he strode over to a chair nonchalantly, throwing his bag on it and pulling out a leathered book.

"Here," breathed Icarus as he passed the girl his robe to cover her bare legs quickly, and Varya jumped off of the table and hurried to pull her sweater back down. Her face was now flushed for a different reason, and she avoided Nott's smirk relentlessly.

"I have heard that Valentine's Day has this kind of effect on couples, but I have to say, I did not expect to walk in on such a scene," he teased, eyes trained on Icarus, and Varya appreciated the way he respectfully avoided her disheveled figure as she composed herself.

"You better keep your trap shut, as usual, Nott. Do not start blabbering nonsense out of nowhere," threatened Varya, and she pulled her hair in a high ponytail, knowing that it was the most efficient way to cover up the tangles. She did not want anyone noticing her messy hair. Her breath had returned to normal, and her mind began to clear up as the realization of what had almost happened dawned on her.

Maxwell snickered, then pretended to zip his lips in secrecy before turning back to his work, ultimately letting the events flutter away from his mind. Varya was still rilled up and humiliated, but Icarus grabbed her hand and pulled her to sit down on a divan with him, then pressed a soft kiss to her forehead that helped her calm down.

She regretted having shown the study room to the other Slytherins, even more so when they had started using it for their regular meetings, and had pretty much taken over the area. Nevertheless, good things came out of it too, and she had noticed another shift in their behavior towards her. They were less secretive, less manipulative, and although there was still the usual wickedness to their behavior, it was not targeted at Varya.

The door swung open again, and Tom Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy walked in leisurely, chatting about something in hushed voices. Then, the leader turned to face Varya, who immediately tried to raise her head from Icarus' shoulder, only for her boyfriend to push it back. Tom hoisted a jaded eyebrow at the two, then continued his dialogue with Malfoy.

"What are your plans for tonight?" asked Icarus, as he ran a soft hand through her hair, untying it and letting it fall loose. Varya sighed and leaned in his figure more, closing her eyes as the boy stroked her hair.

"I am at rehearsals until eight or so, and then Kettleburn has us stay an extra hour to clean up the set," she mumbled, feeling the tiredness in her body. She had been overworking herself between her classes, her meetings with Dumbledore, rehearsals, and everything else in her life.

Sometimes, all Varya wanted to do was sleep.

"Well, it is Valentine's Day..." Icarus began shyly, and he halted his speech for a second, considering his words. He had never asked the girl out on a date before, despite the fact that they had attended events together. After building up the courage, he turned to look at her, but Varya was fast asleep. "Oh."

He grabbed her head and gently placed it on the divan, then took off his robe and put it over her body. It could get quite cold in the owlery, even if the month of February had brought a warmer climate.

Icarus sighed and straightened up, then went to sit by Nott as the boys gathered at the table.

"Everything is set for the trip to Albania, I assume?" asked Tom, eyes on Lestrange, "Or else I hope you did not prioritize your love life over our cause."

"Yes, my Lord," breathed Icarus. Tom had grown more relentless about addressing him with his proper title between closed doors, and although they still managed to slip a "Riddle" here and there, there was no denying that the boy's ascension to power had begun. "I have the coordinates of the forest, and I have purchased the meaning of transportation— the Floo Network to Paris, and then muggle trains only. Nobody will be able to track you."

"Good," nodded Tom, then he turned towards Rowena Ravenclaw's portrait, "What a peculiar thing, that the witch discovered Ravenclaw's hidden Chamber before us. I cannot help but wonder who helped her, or how she stumbled on it."

"But, my Lord," began Abraxas, "Do you truly believe that every founder had their own chamber?"

Tom smirked, then passed a brief glance to his followers. Educated minds, trained fighters, and yet sometimes they failed to see what was right before them. And that was another reason why they needed his guidance to see the truth.

"How could I not when I have been presented all the necessary evidence? We are now standing in Rowena's own study room, the one she used to send letters to her dearest daughter after she departed. Legends, they say, but after Rosier managed to ask for a few hints at the ball, I went to Helena myself," he begun, and arched over the table with his hands gripping at the edges, "Tragic story, she wanted her mother's wisdom, so she stole the diadem and ran to Albania. Rowena sent someone after her, the man Helena loved, and when she refused to come back, he killed her in cold blood. And then himself."

He stood by the portrait, looking at the beautiful woman that radiated knowledge and power— and yet she had been weakened by the love for her daughter.

"What about the rest?"

Tom looked at Icarus like he had just asked the dumbest question, "Nott, explain further."

Maxwell closed his textbook excitedly, glad to be given the opportunity to showcase his knowledge and usefulness. He was not the best at dueling, and was rarely sent on potentially dangerous missions, but he was the brightest acolyte, and Tom Riddle valued that.

"There have always been rumors that the Room of Requirement was Hufflepuff's creation— a room that serves those in need and provides aid in times of crisis. It has also been documented in some of the earliest scriptures of Hogwarts, although without a name, and nobody ever knew how it had appeared. It is safe to assume it had always been there," he blabbered, eyes open in concentration, "Then, the Headmaster's Office belonged to Gryffindor, and it is easy to figure out. After all, many believed that he was the first Headmaster of Hogwarts, and the Sorting Hat is his creation. As for Salazar..."

"Quiet," thundered Tom, suddenly, eyes darting to Varya's sleeping figure, who had their back turned to them. They all held their breaths— they had forgotten she was there, and yet the pattern of her breathing indicated that she was fast asleep. Even so, they could not risk it.

Tom knew that she had read about the Chamber of Secrets, the only legend of a founder hidden room that appeared in books, and the last thing they needed is for her to connect the dots. No, that would undoubtedly cause a lot of trouble.

"Scatter away," he ordered, knowing that classes were about to start soon. Maxwell packed up his books quickly, not wanting to be late for Divination, and Malfoy followed closely behind. It was Icarus that lingered for a second, unsure of whether he should wake up the girl or not. She did not have class, as she was not taking Divination, and he could let her rest after so many days of hard work. Eyes flickered to Tom Riddle's figure, who was jotting down notes in his diary, face trained on the way his quill scratched against the paper. Icarus had a certain doubt overtake him, something that told him not to leave the two alone again, and yet he wanted to trust Varya. He left the room in silence.

There was a clock on the wall that Varya was facing, and she had grown tired of staring at it as she stood still and listened to the conversation. Her years at Scholomance had taught her how to pretend to be in deep slumber, and it had never come in as handy as today. There was a daunting smirk on her face, a mixture of intrigue and delight. Oh, little schemers— they were at it again.

She wanted to knock at her head for not connecting the dots earlier— of course, the Heir of Slytherin would look for the Chamber of Secrets, and he would try to follow Salazar's footsteps. Her mind flew back to the passage she had read all those months ago, and goddamn it, she had been so oblivious to it all. There it was, the truth of Riddle's business; at last, he had opened the Chamber to clean the school.

Muggle-borns.

Arthur had been the first victim, the boy who had been petrified last semester, and his body was still in the Hospital Wing, waiting for the mandrake draught to be finished at last. It was coming to a close; the Matron was approaching the cure at a fast rate, which would surely make Riddle act rashly.

The clock chimed loudly as its tongue struck the precise hour, and Varya's breath fastened as she stood there, half-frozen, unsure what to do. Should she try to stop Riddle? However, she did not even know how he had petrified the boy, and it would be reckless to simply have a go at the Slytherin prefect without a plan. Varya had acted on a whim before, and it never seemed to work out.

She got up slowly, pretending to be groggy, and hoped that the boy would not notice the alertness in her. Tom's eyes shot to her as she yawned, and he frowned as he regarded her.

"Your socks are improper."

A blush coated her face, and she hurried to pull them back up her thighs, then winced as she saw the slight bruise on her inner thigh. Goddamn it, Icarus.

"I hit myself," she mumbled, unsure as to why she was trying to deny that she had been touched by her boyfriend.

"Right."

They fell in silence, but Tom was still looking at her with an expression of uncertainty, almost as if he suspected she had heard everything, but the boy was too arrogant to admit he could ever make a mistake and had a tendency to underestimate the witch. There was a certain trepidation in the air, an unspoken awareness of each other's secrets. Riddle knew more than he let on about her situation, she was sure of it, and the only way she could get him to open up was to scheme right back.

Tom Riddle moved quickly, like a slithering serpent, and in no time, he was by her side, curious eyes trained on her face as he held his chin high, "You have been meeting with Dumbledore."

She blinked at him.

"Yes. What is it to you?"

"My dear, I thought we had begun trusting each other more," he smirked, then continued, "I was only wondering why the late nights?"

"Riddle, one day you will stop believing me to be a fool, and it will save us both time on awful conversations such as this," she scoffed, then sat up and headed away from him, too aware of his proximity and how it spun her brain, "Stop meddling in my affairs, lest I end up returning the favor."

"I welcome you to try."

"Do you?" she said cockily, then her fingers padded the shelves of books, looking for something that would catch her eye, "Last I remember, you tortured Rosier for telling me about the Slug Club, and it was not the most pleasant thing. Snakes were involved, and all."

"A slip."

"So you admit it?"

Tom growled, realizing she had caught him in a mistake, and his mind had completely forgotten the incident or the excuse they had made up. Very well, it made no difference to him; she had already believed her own truth regardless of what they said.

"Serpents," she breathed, then her head turned towards the boy, "fascinating creatures, are they not? One wonders, though, how come they knew to attack the boy? But then, I remembered this enthralling conversation that we had had in the first semester when you got mad at me for possibly being a— what was it again? Oh, Parselmouth."

Merlin, Varya, what happened to not acting on a whim?

Tom narrowed his eyes in a fury, "I would think about my next words very carefully, Petrov."

"You are the heir."

How wonderful it would have been to hear her wails as he drove a knife through her chest repeatedly, or see her whimper on the ground underneath his torture curse. Something told him that her face would be beautiful as it radiated excruciating pain, as her whole body succumbed to despair and torment. Furthermore, the fact that it would be him that would have caused it only intrigued him more.

He should have killed her right there, and perhaps if he had, things would have turned out differently for him in the end, but he did not, and because of that, Varya Petrov only fell deeper in the endless pit that was Tom Riddle's future.

His silence only confirmed something she already knew, but it also surprised her when his face remained impassive, almost as if he did not care that she had figured out his ancestry. In some way, it probably had pleased the boy to have someone else acknowledge him for what he was, but it also underlined a different thing— he trusted that she would not tell anyone else his secret.

There was something else as well, though. Tom Riddle had long outgrown his need to terrorize mudbloods, and while the basilisk was still a weapon he hid for the right time, he had set his mind on another conquest, something far more critical in his aim for power.

"Thank you for letting me know," he said dryly, and the girl huffed through her nose in annoyance at his sarcasm.

An infuriating witch, with a flair for the subtle pleasure of macabre, and his eyes flashed with something akin to resentment as he looked at her across the room. She stood by Rowena's portrait, and her posture resembled her in some foreign way, but the girl was as Slytherin as the serpents in the desert, so much so that shadows wailed in her presence. And there was more to her than met the eye, the catastrophe behind a vanilla face and petite body.

Tom loathed her more than anything else in the world, and yet he could imagine her by his side once he took over. It was the sort of fascination one had with death, and he understood that better than anyone else— something he wanted to graciously avoid, and yet surround himself with it.

But she loved him in a deeper way, and she loved death too, in the opposite way that he did— Varya had grown tired of seeing it around her, but she welcomed the day it would strike cold fingers against her soul. Nevertheless, she pushed it away day by day, unsure if it was the right time or the right place.

"How did you petrify the boy?"

"Why are you chatting with Dumbledore?"

Secrets were not the best thing to have out in the open, even more so when the two were aware of their existence, and yet could not seem to figure them out. He strode over to her with elegant steps, dark shoes against the marble floor, and he reached out to grab her arm and drag the girl to face him.

"I am not playing, Petrov. My patience is growing thin with you," the sociopath said, and his tone was so calm it neared danger. Perhaps it was true, and Varya was only postponing her inevitable demise at his hands, and yet she was brave at heart and refused to fall in front of his threats.

"We both have our own niche; best not mess with each other unless you are willing to share the space," she answered, and did not even try to pull away from his grasp, only stepped closer with each word until he towered over her, and his nose almost touched her forehead. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and the boy recoiled. "What, Riddle? Scared of a woman's touch?"

Tom flared his nostrils, then stepped back and away from her, repulsed at what she implied because the boy had never truly thought about that— being touched. At least not in the way her words whispered, and he stopped his mind from wandering at the idea.

The girl frowned at his reaction, unsure why he looked as if she had just insulted his mother — not that he would much care about that — as she had not meant to provoke any profound thoughts. It had been a fleeting comment, and yet it had scorched the boy's ego.

Let her deprave herself if she wanted to, let Icarus cover her delicate skin in bruises and bites if that is what she desired, but Tom was far above the temptation of the body. A strong mind like his only ever lusted for what truly mattered — power. Nevertheless, the seed of the idea had been planted in his subconsciousness.

***

"Realistically speaking, there is no way for them to get together," said Felix over a cup of hot tea, the aroma of apple infused water floating through the room, and he chatted like an old eastern woman outside her front yard, gossiping with her neighbors about whatever she had just heard. "I mean, come on! Malfoy is one of the biggest prejudiced pricks in this school, your sweetheart following closely behind— no offense there."

Varya turned her head to where Abraxas was sitting in the third row of the theatre, reading a newly printed paper of the Daily Prophet, and yet his eyes continued to flicker with repulsion to where Della was trying to paint a set-piece manually. She had refused to use magic, saying that her mum had made her take drawing lessons when she was younger, and yet the green spring trees had turned murky.

Felix was not wrong— Malfoy was indeed an elitist, and he had grown up surrounded by people that had made him feed into the mentality that he was superior because of his blood, and yet as she had gotten to know the boy better, she understood that despite being wicked and prideful, he was a quiet and reserved boy.

He spoke less than the rest, and he only ever stepped up when Tom needed him to. Varya had a feeling that the boy was trying to find his footing in the world. Everyone had their own trade that they had mastered— Elladora was a poisoner, Icarus battled like no other, Rosier schmoozed people into submission, Nott had intelligence beyond comprehension, and Avery was a sadistic butcher. However, amongst all, Malfoy never really had anything except his pride.

In a way, it was funny how the seven of them seemed to be fragments of Tom Riddle, almost as if the boy had torn his soul into seven pieces and handed one to each Knight. He was the accumulation of all of their vices, a collector of traits, and a masterer of talents.

Varya supposed that if one were ever to bring Riddle to the right path, they would have to start picking at those things, taking out the Knights one by one, and condemning their sins with virtues. She had already sensed a change in Icarus, who had started straying away from the path Riddle had gotten him on, and the girl only hoped that he would continue like that.

Perhaps, the best way to redeem an immoral man like Abraxas was to show him that there were things that mattered more than blood purity, and the girl owed it to her friend as well. So Varya hopped off of the stage and made her way to Malfoy, who was still looking at Della's painting with disgust.

"Not a fan of art?" quipped the girl as she sat down next to him, legs set on the chair in front of her as her dusty shoes dirtied the velvety material.

Abraxas scoffed, then folded his newspaper and put it underneath his armpit, "Quite the contrary. I self-taught myself the concepts of drawing, and what that mud— what your friend is doing is horrendous."

Varya raised an eyebrow at how he bit back the offensive words, and she knew he most probably feared that she would knife him again, "So go and correct her mistakes; I am sure she would appreciate your guidance."

She was trying to pick at his pride, at his need to show off his superior skills and how his status had brought him better lessons and knowledge than Della's, and Malfoy fell for it almost immediately, a smug look on his face as he got up.

"I suppose so."

God, he was oblivious, and the Eastern witch smirked as she watched him near her friend. As soon as Della noticed him, she dropped her paint all over the floor and cussed as she scrambled to clean the mess with a few spells. Varya was too far to hear, but she could tell by her reddened cheeks that she was a spluttering mess.

The witch threw Felix a playful wink, and the boy only shook his head in amusement as he bit down on a tasteful scone. His Ravenclaw uniform was neatly pressed, and he had combed his taffy hair back to reveal a beautiful face. He had his Quidditch broom in a corner, just barely out of reach, and Varya knew that the minute they were released, he would be heading to the pitch for more practice. He was just as obsessed with the sport as Ivy.

Speaking of the witch, she appeared out from behind the curtain and called out to Varya to come and help her with her attire. So the Slavic girl ran up to her, and entered the backstage just as Ivy threw a garment to the ground in frustration.

"What is it?" asked Varya, frowning as the Trouche heir paced the room in a fury.

"I will tell you what is," breathed the girl, and Varya could almost see the flares come out of her nostrils as she picked up a letter from the table on the opposite said and passed it to her roommate, "Read it."

Varya gave her a quizzical stare before opening the envelope slowly, and pulling out a small piece of paper that was addressed to nobody in particular.

Meet me by the Astrology Tower tonight; I have something I have wanted to show you for a while now. I will be waiting.

A.B.

"Wait, is that not—"

"Alphard? Yes, it fucking is. And guess on whose table I found this! On Elladora's, that stupid witch, I knew she was cruel, but I did not believe she would go to such lengths." Ivy growled as she threw a vase at a wall, letting it smash with burning rage.

"Perhaps it is only a misunderstanding," tried Varya, as she had never seen the Selwyn girl approach Ivy's past lover, and it made no sense that they had started seeing each other.

"I doubt it. She has always been so envious of everything I have, and this is just her way of getting back at me."

"What are you going to do, then?" asked Varya, unsure of what to say to her friend.

Ivy stayed silent for a second and was about to answer when a knock sounded at the door.

"May I come in?" asked Icarus as he peeked his head through, and almost as if he was not aware of the growing tension in the room, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. His hand was behind his back, and yet the bouquet's tail was visible.

Ivy and Varya shared a look, and the Quidditch Chaser stomped out of the room, slamming the door with temper and leaving the other two Slytherins in each other's presence. Lestrange sighed, and mentally prepared himself as he approached the Slavic girl.

Varya felt her heart speed up with dread, aware that the boy was trying to make yet another romantic gesture that she would not be able to reciprocate. Sometimes, she wished all he could do was kiss her and distract her, but when feelings were involved, things tended to get complicated.

"I brought you this," Icarus' honey eyes twinkled with satisfaction as he extended her the bouquet of black roses. He had charmed them himself, knowing that the girl's dark heart would prefer a flower that looked dead before it withered and its petals scattered on her bedroom floor. His lips were pulled in the faintest smile, something so serene that it was surreal, and he looked more at peace than he had ever been.

Varya took them, reluctantly, but her heart still drummed at the affectionate gesture, as nobody had ever done something like this for her, "Thank you."

They did not know what to say as they stood opposite each other, Varya twirling the blooming flowers in her hand and ignoring the way their thrones scratcher at her palms, and Icarus trying to catch her eyes.

"I love you."

Varya dropped the flowers to the ground, panicked eyes flashing to the boy's as her mouth opened slightly in shock. Their dark petals scattered on the floor, and the girl felt herself grow dizzy.

"No, you do not," she whispered, still unable to comprehend what was going on. Her chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, and her eyes were watering fastly as Icarus gripped her face, "You do not love me, Icarus. You barely know me."

"Varya, I-"

The girl broke away from him, hand flying to her chest as she struggled to breathe, gripping at every piece of furniture that she could find. Lestrange could not possibly love her; nobody could. Nobody knew her, and if they did, they would only stay away from her.

Icarus hurried after her, then helped her sit on Elladora's desk as she composed herself, gently massaging her shoulders as he tried to instruct her how to breathe. Varya was panicking, and her vision was foggy with tears, and the need to prove to herself that he did not love her.

She grabbed his face and smashed his lips against hers, tangling her hands in his hair with so much need for stability she might as well have gone completely mad. Varya was shattering before the boy, and she needed to feel his touch, to convince herself that all there was between them was the voluptuous desire of teenage years.

Icarus tasted of peppermint and the faintest trace of mischief, and he grabbed at her figure with restless hands, trailing the curve of her waist up and down. His ravenous kisses on her collarbone left her light-headed, and he grabbed her leg and twisted it around his waist, pulling her close until their hips matched.

Varya pressed herself against the boy, and her thighs contracted at the heat that radiated off of Icarus, the smallest whimper leaving her mouth and buzzing against his lips like the delicate note of plucking a violin string. Her blood pumped faster, and her lips turned lava as she pressed burning kisses to the boy's neck, exactly where his veins pulsed against reddening skin, and he threw his head back with a tasteful groan. Her nails dragged at skin enough to leave marks, and she undulated her body to meet his better.

His eyes were closed in an obscene grunt, and lips were pressed so tight in an effort to bite back the dulcet sounds of pleasure that his jaw clenched, "My God, you are so—"

Breathtaking, surreal, majestic. There were no words to describe how much he wanted the girl, and so he showed her by placing a needy hand on her back and pulling her so close he could almost feel her through the uniform. Varya arched her body, then with trembling hands, she took off his robe and threw it over Elladora's chair, and then proceeded to take off his sweater too. His dress shirt was still on, but she drove a hand underneath it, feeling a strong stomach and smooth skin. He drove her skirt up with a light hand, and rested then on her exposed hip, gripping it with desire.

The boy grabbed her hair tighter, and pulled at her roots until her throat was exposed, where he trailed feathery lips in a teasing manner, then pressed his face in the crook of her neck and bit at it harshly.

"Icarus," she whined.

"I know."

With a roll of hips, she was a spluttering mess and her neck bent backward, and hand went over her mouth to cover the sound that threatened to spill and ricochet in the backstage room. Her cotton skirt rode upward, revealing milky skin that he had already marked once and would do so again. That goddamned hand on her thigh, squeezing painfully as his thumb dug on the inside, and he maneuvered her better, pressing her on the make-up mirror while his other hand supported them.

He left frantic fingerprints on the mirror as she wholly attached to him, not leaving any space between their bodies, and their panting fogged it as they moved against each other to the rhythm of their synced pulses.