CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Salazar Slytherin's locket swayed in the hazy glare of the early dusk as Varya Petrov stood on the Beauchamp's veranda, chin rested in one palm, and she gawked at the eccentric object, not knowing its origin. Once again, she was donning comfortable pants, having given up on wearing her refined skirts and ruffles, and a few older men bizarrely glanced at her. She wanted to hex their revolted expressions off of their faces, but there were certain spells even the Eastern witch could not get away with.

Della Beauchamp was across the street, helping a few children construct a snow fort, and Varya was reminded that the Ravenclaw prefect was only seventeen, and much more wholesome than she was. A small yawn left the witch, and she found herself sinking back on the steps and looking at the sky.

The sun had just fallen and was now standing above some of the snowed rooftops of the nearby houses, its pale beams hitting the spectral girl's face. They barely carried any warmness, but they were delightful, as the typical London climate had iced Varya's bones.

The girls had woken up early, as Della had been remarkably enthusiastic about opening the presents, and their morning had been filled with merry celebrations. To the Slavic girl's astonishment, Annie had gifted Varya a hand-made sweater, a muggle literature book, and a pair of black boots, which the girl was currently wearing proudly.

She had felt ashamed at not purchasing anything for either Beauchamp women from Diagon Alley, her mind too distracted by Tom Riddle's presence. However, they had both assured her that the mirror had been more than enough, the kind of gift that stood above everything else.

Varya peered at the book in her lap, Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy, and felt something akin to allegiance rise in her heart, as the novel described Imperial Russia, and it had awoken in the girl something that she did not know she had. The need for closure, the need to look into her family's past.

Perhaps, Rosier's party was where she should start, as many of the attendees would have known her parents, but a part of her still dreaded the event. She was scheduled to take a train from London to Paris tomorrow, and then, from Paris, she would take the Floo Network, as most of France was still under German occupation. Ren had sent her a letter a few days ago, and Varya had thanked Satan that she recognized his majestic owl, as Della had not gotten a chance to see it.

She felt shameful to deceive her hospitable friend in such a way, especially after having spent the first week of her Christmas break in her company, eating her food and sleeping on her floor, but in a way, it was for the better. The less Della knew, the less likely she would get hurt, and Varya could not bear to lose her.

"That is a marvelous necklace," Della gasped as she neared her, eyes trained on the locket. "And it is quite suited for a Slytherin."

Varya glanced at it again, holding it up, and grinned. Indeed, it was suited for a Slytherin, and the girl knew exactly which one. Even so, a part of her told her not to give it to the boy, almost like a gut feeling, and she was a girl that easily trusted her impulses. Instead, she found herself clasping it against her own neck, and grinned at how it stood against her protruding collarbone.

She looked up at her friend, who had a bit of frost in her hair, and whose cheeks were colored with a profound crimson from the cold and excitement of another winter day. "Fancy going for a walk to a nearby pub?"

Della did not have to be told twice, as she grabbed Varya's hand and dragged her across the street, not caring that it was too early in the day to drink, or that they were both well below the legal age. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and Varya was only in town for a couple more hours, and so it required a fitting celebration.

The pub was not as shabby as the girl had anticipated, as a matter of fact, it was quite pleasant, with various designs scattered across the walls, and the scent of alcohol mixed with that of pine, already sending a buzz through the girls' system.

They sat at a tall table in the corner, giggling to themselves, and wondering if any of the waiters would ask for some certificate that proved their legal age. However, as one of them came, they simply ordered two beers, the only thing on the menu that they knew.

"So," Della began, placing her hands on the table and giving Varya a sham glare, "What is it with you and Riddle?"

Varya drank from her glass, unsure how to explain once again that there was nothing between the two of them, and that the connection she felt to him was purely cerebral and out of intrusiveness. The girl felt that Tom Riddle understood her in a way nobody else at Hogwarts did, and, because of that, she often found herself disturbingly content in his proximity. Well, at least when he was not endangering or poisoning her.

"Nothing," she responded, then glowered when her friend slapped her over the shoulder.

"Nothing, my arse! You should have seen how the two of you looked at each other as you walked side by side yesterday. I pride myself in having a fantastic love radar— I can tell when two people have tension!"

Varya shuffled her feet, eyes trained on the ground, pupils slightly dilated, "Yes, is that why you are so terribly oblivious to the fact that Malfoy does not want anything to do with you?"

Half of her was joking, but the other half had meant it, as the girl had noticed the slight distaste in the boy's eyes whenever the muggle-born witch approached him.

"My father is in the army; I need male reassurance."

"That is disgusting—"

"— only slightly!" said Della, twirling a strand of chestnut hair in her fingers.

She bit her lips, a slight giggle falling past her lips, and Varya felt absolutely sickened, as she had a firm conviction on the Slytherin pure-blood, especially since he had been one of the students who had been least welcoming to her. However, she saw the rapture on the seventeen-year-old girl's face, and bit back her words of repulsion, chugging on her beer instead.

"Oh, wha' a pleasure to see you both 'ere, ladies!" came a shout from behind them, and they both turned to see the soldier they had met a few days ago heading their way, dressed in red attire. He had a Santa Claus hat on his head, and an outrageously scattered bogus beard.

"What brings you here, William?" inquired Varya, fluttering her eyelashes at him without even realizing. The boy flushed, then gazed away from her appearance, cheeks turning cherry-red. He scratched his head, then mumbled something incohesive. "What was that?"

"I am— as you mig't know, well — it always 'appens around this time, but—"

"Are you bringing gifts to children?" Della's lovely voice sounded, as she hopped off of the stool and beelined toward him, jabbing at the red sack he was dragging along. It seemed to carry small presents, probably donations from the army, as a few of them were young enough to have their old toys still around.

"Yes," the boy sniffed, thanking the girl silently for saving him from turning into a complete buffoon, "I am scheduled to go to a nearby orphanage and deliver those presents, ya' see? And well, decided to squeeze in some refreshments, all tame, o' course."

Della squealed, then grabbed Varya's hand and dragged her out of the booth, slapping a few muggle pounds on the table to pay for their beers, "Varya, let us go with him!"

The girl was not very sure, as she did not do well with children, and even more so with those who had been abandoned, having been one herself. Nevertheless, Della's eyes were playful, determined, and she found herself agreeing to the reckless plan, knowing very well she would feel uncomfortable.

The Ravenclaw prefect grabbed the muggle's hand as well, and lead them both out of the pub, ignoring their protests, "But, my drink—."

***

The wind wailed through the broken window of room number seven in Wool's orphanage, and Tom Riddle turned on his side, covering his ears with his dirty pillow as he tried to fade out the bothersome sound that had kept him up all night. When that did not work, he threw it violently at the wall across from him, although it was not that far, considering the size of his room.

It was confined, all right, and once he had started growing in inches, it had become even more so, to the point his head almost touched the ceiling, and if he laid out on the dusty floor, he could probably touch two opposite walls.

His rage grew, and he found himself fantasizing about tearing every wall in the building down, lightning it on fire, then cackling like an enraged arsonist as he watched the flame engulf the residency, along with every soul that haunted it. He would feel no remorse towards the lost lives, only satisfaction, and he would hear their hellish screams of agony, flames consuming their corporal at an alarming rate.

Tom could not do that, though, at least not until he got his plan running, and perhaps, graduated Hogwarts. After the boy would ascend to power, supported by many descendants of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he would be unreachable, well above the wizarding law, and nobody would care for the massacre.

He rubbed his temples, enjoying the dull throb of insomnia, the way his eyes tinged with every ray that passed his drawn curtains, and he slowly got up, stretching and almost touching one of his walls. He let out a small yawn, then cracked his neck, and slipped on his shoes groggily.

It was well past noon, and yet he had spent all day in bed, not bothering to mingle with the repulsive muggle children in his building. They stared at him with repulsion that made his blood boil, and in his sleep-deprived state, he feared that he might have cast an unforgivable curse toward them.

Would not be a loss, who would miss them? He thought, a sneer covering his face.

Tom headed to the small desk that he had in the corner of his unit, covered in cryptic papers, all of them codded with a secret sigil that only his knights knew how to decipher, and as he picked up a letter, he let a finger skim over the beautiful wax stamp that read R.R in cursive writing. He opened it with a small knife he had hidden in the floor panels, knowing very well that the Matron did not allow him to keep any weapons.

As if he needed them.

He skimmed over the information in the letter, humming to himself as he turned and sat on his bed, back slumped forward and hand gripping at his chin.

Riddle,

I collected all of the names we needed, but we mustn't be in a rush with them; otherwise, we might find it hard to discover the location of the items without raising suspicion. Some of them have declined attendance, as you might have expected, but do not worry, for I will have my parents reach out to them.

Besides this matter, I have arranged the rooms, and have set apart a lounge for us to discuss important business, charms already in place. Selwyn says she has her ingredients in place if needed, but I expect Petrov will handle the interrogation.

Speaking of the witch, Nott and I have looked into her records, and there is no mention of Dumbledore knowing her family, but I have found something else that is quite interesting. I should not mention it through a letter, though, as it is sensitive information.

We await your arrival,

Renold Rosier

Tom bit his cheek at the last paragraph, then put the letter back on his desk. He had expected Varya's story to be a lie, her open elaboration, and abundant details giving her away, but he had let her believe otherwise, as he needed her in place for his plan to work.

He did not trust her, neither did the rest of the Slytherins, but he needed her skill and her infamous name; otherwise, he might as well give up on finding the location of everything he needed. The advantage of having a Petrov witch on your side was that, in the European court, it was as if bringing a Malfoy back from the dead, and with half of the attendees expecting the line to have perished, it would surely stir a bit of trouble.

The kind of distraction that Tom Riddle needed.

A soft knock sounded on his door, and his gaze snapped to it. Stamping his feet, he made his way to it and swung it open, revealing the gray face of the Matron on the other side. Oh, how he wanted to shred that smug smirk off of her face, boil it off even, and watched her choke on the heated water.

"Yes?" he inquired, voice so tedious it should have startled the elderly lady. Yet, she had grown so accustomed to the teenager's freak behavior that she did not bother to hide her displeasure, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him out of the room.

"Have I not told you to come to la salle de séjour, you impertinent child?" she said, French accent irking his ears, and then she slapped the boy over the head, pushing him to walk ahead, and Tom had to keep himself from butchering her right then and there. She would be the first to decay six feet buried when he was out of here.

Tom was pushed into the main salon, and he let out a muffled grunt as he watched the Matron call on to the children to gather around the fire, saying they were in for a surprise. The older boy rolled his eyes, watching over the animated faces, and he blasphemed whatever God had stuck him with such mindless baboons.

He must have been the oldest in there, as it was uncommon for a boy his age not to be adopted early on, but the war had been unforgiving on the orphanage, and no mother would adopt when the husband was drafted off to war. Besides, his early hooligan behavior had not earned him any brownie points with the leadership, as he had managed to harass multiple children that had annoyed him, and that meant that he was brought in to less and less family meetings, until the Matron had just given up on him, hiding him upstairs whenever there was interest from a new couple.

A well-known fragrance filled the room, so enchanting and heavy, and his body unconsciously relaxed, mind clearing from the violence that had swelled in his muscles, and he slumped against the wall, mindlessly searching the room for the source of the scent.

It was her laugh that he heard first, so pitched and obnoxious that he recognized it immediately as it filled the opening, resonating from the dull walls of the orphanage like a melodious tinkle, and then she walked in through the central door, arms linked with her mudblood friend, and exuberant eyes cast on an awfully young pretense Santa Claus.

Her combed obsidian hair was curled softly, falling in waves over her shoulders, and her smile was more luminous than Tom had ever seen it, which made the boy clump his eyebrows together. Her etiolated body paraded itself across the room, dressed in a fine coat and polished dark boots. She had placed a small, rouge bow on top of her neat hair, contrasting against her locks.

Tom looked down at his attire and recoiled, as he had not had time to change out of his outrageously worn sleepwear. Out of his school uniform, he was painfully aware of his social status, and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, suddenly self-conscious. Without the magic of Hogwarts that surrounded him, his wand tightly pressed against his thigh, he did not look like a mighty wizard that many would fear.

So he stepped back into the obscurations, watching from the corner as the girl dawdled behind her friend and the boy Tom did not know, shifting her weight from leg to leg and biting her lip anxiously. She looked terribly uncomfortable but kept giving the other two reassuring smiles as they passed down small gifts.

"Where is Tom?" questioned Mrs. Cole, and Riddle felt the need to hex her eyes out of their sockets when he saw Varya blench, bother creasing her face. Then, she loosened, almost as if a summer cloud had passed over her being for the haziest moment.

A child shrieked, then pointed to the wall Tom was slumped against, "He is right 'ere, ma'am!"

Tom had never wanted to fracture Billy Stub's skull open more, and the thought of garrotting the boy's rabbit from one of the building's rafters traversed his mind— stupid, sickening pet. It would make him weep for days certainly, and he would make sure the boy would see it before the Matron would be able to take it down.

"Riddle?" breathed Varya, and he looked askance at her as she neared him with cautious strides, hesitant if it was truly the wizard. Della was still conversing with the boy, not even regarding as her friend slipped into the nearby corridor, following the phantom umbra of Tom Riddle.

He marched down the hallway, neglecting her footsteps behind him until he reached his room, and then he opened the door. Tom stepped inside, and studied Varya's advancing figure as it crossed the dreary hallway.

"So it is you," she spoke as she moved into his room, eyes taking in the shoebox-size, but if she was nauseated by it, the girl disguised it well. Tom slammed the door.

"What are you doing here?" he groused as he observed the girl soar her eyes over his heap of letters, eyebrows fastening together at the fragmentary markings on the paper. She surely recognized the sigil, but could not understand the words.

"I came with Della and William," she returned, shifting her absolute attention to the boy. In the tattered garments, with the untidy hair, he looked almost defenseless, and it weakened her heart in a way she did not fancy.

"Is that the ooaf's name?" he derided as he shifted on his feet, unsure of where to stand, so he held his rigorous stance.

"He is a soldier, Riddle."

"A muggle, nonetheless, scum."

Her judgmental eyes scrutinized him, and she approached him nonchalantly, positioning herself right in his view. Varya tipped her head, and studied at the man in front of her, standing in the bedroom had grown up in, and abruptly queried if Tom Riddle had always been a insidious monster, or if he had been forced to become one.

"Was your mother a witch?" she challenged, suddenly heading to his bed and plopping herself on it, disregarding the way the defective springs jabbed at her back, and the way the breeze of the cracked glass hit right against her left ear. "Because Riddle is a common muggle name, as I have said before."

His jaw tensed, and his eyes divulged aggravation beyond mild irritation. So she was correct, then, and the boy was not proud of it.

"What was her name?" she inquired, fixating her gaze on him.

Tom remained soundless for a few moments, before he heard himself speak without even realizing, "Merope."

"Merope Riddle," Varya singsonged, eyes trailing the fissures in the ceiling. "Lovely name."

"Her last name was not Riddle," Tom spluttered, feeling his fists clench behind his back as the girl almost ridiculed him with her simper, provoking him with her callous observations. "And she was weak."

"So, are you not only a muggle, but also a bastard?"

She cackled as the wand thumped her throat, Tom's fiery eyes trained on her with brutality, and she felt the tip press against one of her pressure points, making her pants come in raspier. Varya peered at him, catastrophe floating in her eyes, and knew that she had finally gotten a proper reaction out of him. His vanity was hurt, and the boy was raging, envisioning all of the ways he could annihilate her on the spot.

"Easy, Riddle," she played with fire, enunciating his name like a jeer, but she had grown exhausted of his eternal manipulation, and when she had read the message that Rosier had sent him, her blood had boiled with indignation.

He was so tight-lipped, and he did not trust her at all, which was ingenious in its reasoning, but tedious for the girl that had been trying to gain his favor for so long, to the point where it was pushing her to the edge of insanity. Varya felt foolishly connected to the boy; she was inquisitive about his purposes, and frequently found herself musing about approaches to get him to open up to her.

Even now, as he was gazing at her with a lethal glower, she felt her heart sweep with confusion at his closeness, something so unfamiliar she could not place, and had not even felt in Icarus' proximity despite his relentless devotion.

So how had Tom Riddle messed with her mind so horribly? Why was it that despite his consistent manipulation and impassiveness, she pursued him around and served his orders?

"You are walking on thin ice, Petrov, and I would not want your body to go cold as you sink," he susurrated, voice so serpentine it almost sounded like a snake's hiss.

"Do not underestimate my power, Riddle."

"Maybe once you prove you have any power at all, I will stop."

They gaped at each other, Tom standing in front of the bed, tilting her chin up with the wand, and her sitting on the edge, looking up at him with conviction.

"And how do I go at doing that?" she requested, gently moving his wand from her neck, and releasing a breath she did not know she was holding.

Tom smirked, then kneeled before her, so that they were face to face, eye to eye, and his character transformed into something roguish as he regarded her, thinking of all of the ways he could taint her innocence. He hummed, then instructed her to wait for him as he stepped out of the room, leaving her to question what he was up to.

She took this as an opportunity to snoop around, and promptly went back to the desk, fingers going through multiple encoded messages. The cipher used a mixture of Slavic alphabet and runes, something the boy should have expected that she would be able to crack, but she had to give it to him— it was brilliant. He was not using the alphabet in a way that would make sense to many, as he was not spelling out Russian words, but rather, he was using the alphabet to spell out runes, that would then be translated to English. Perhaps, Varya would not have decoded it had she not done the same thing for certain writings of hers ages ago.

They had caught her in a lie, and Varya doubted how long it would take before the boy tried rereading her mind, or tortured the information out of her. That made her uneasy, and she knew that she had to act fast, cover it up somehow, because Tom Riddle detested Albus Dumbledore— he would go to great lengths to uncover the truth.

Then, she wondered about the last paragraph in Rosier's letter— what had they found about her past? Indeed, there were more than enough enigmas that the girl was hiding, but nothing that they would find so impressive that they would need to discuss in private. Varya had the upper hand, for now, she knew something that she should not have, but if she did not act quickly, it would all be for nothing.

Tom Riddle's footsteps reverberated in the corridor, and the girl made her way back to the bed, posing to be interested in the broken window. Why did the boy not repair it, especially since he was able to use magic? Perhaps, he did not care all that much, or he did not want to be questioned on how he had repaired it.

Tom opened the door, and when Varya glanced at him, her eyes enlarged at the fleecy white rabbit that he was carrying. He let it bounce around the room, looking at it with revulsion, then turned her face to her.

"I want you to use the unforgivable curses on it."

Varya choked, then sat up straight, appalled at the thought. Yes, Tom Riddle was a man that cared for no being, and yet he would not torture things just for the mere pleasure, right?

"Riddle, you have gone mad," she gulped, walking up to him slowly, then glimpsed at the rabbit.

"Quite the contrary, my dear, consider it as an act of devotion toward me," he responded, bowing his face in until it was only a few inches away from hers. He used his hand to grab at her face forcibly, one thumb on her cheek, the rest of his palm on another, and he made Varya gape at him. When his eyes met hers, he saw the turmoil inside, but also a form of sensitivity that he had never seen on anyone else, and he grimaced as he felt something pull at his abdomen. "Do as I say, and you will achieve things you had never dreamt of."

It was a murmur of seduction and power, it enthralled the girl ultimately, and when she inhaled, Varya felt rose thorns scarifying her insides. Riddle made her forget about everything else; he was a demonic presence, so intriguing and immoral. She craved it to let it ravage her, that was how potent it was, and she fretted that if she submersed herself in his allure, she might completely give up her morals.

Her mind fogged over, almost as if something else had taken the wheel of her control, and at that moment she did not care about anything else except the temptation of the unforgivable curses. 

The girl swallowed— it took her whole being to turn away from the boy's mesmeric gaze and study the animal that had started chewing on Tom's bedsheets. When she raised her wand, she felt no repentance, nothing but the warmth radiating off of Tom's body.

"Crucio."

The squealing was revolting, and she observed the animal trash around in misery, unaware of why every nerve in its body was fully awake, responsive, and detecting injury. Its shrieks filled the bedroom, so much so that the boy cast a silencing charm around his chamber, and Varya watched as the rabbit tried to squirm underneath the bed, its legs rearranging at grotesque angles. She could not take her eyes off of it; she watched it suffer, and yet she did not feel an ounce of fright or fault as she had with the Therestral.

There was an emptiness in her, something that she had not felt before, and it was almost as if her soul had died right then and there, and every emotion she had ever felt left her body. Was this what Tom Riddle felt when he committed atrocious acts?

She lifted her wand again, her lips moving gently as she enunciated her next curse. "Avada Kedavra."

The rabbit stopped moving, lifeless, with half of its body underneath Tom's bed, and its legs dangling outside. The fur was white, so chaste, and yet it had had its life stolen away from it without much choice. She had not killed it to end its suffering, but rather to feel the sick pleasure of being able to take away a life.

 Varya swallowed firmly, and tried to hinder her mind from whirling at high speeds, her thoughts mayhem. She mopped the sweat off of her forehead, and let her wand-holding hand fall by her side with a tremble. Was this the same person that had cracked in the forest?

Surely, she had killed small animals before, at Scholomace, she had done dark spells, and yet never like this. Never only for the sake of doing it, over having power over another being.

Varya felt Tom's ghostly touch on her throat as he moved her hair away from her nape, fingers trailing just above the necklace's chain. She stiffened, then felt his breath come closer to it, until its warmth made the hair on the back of her neck rise, and then Tom placed a caustic hand on her shoulder, trailing it up until it reached her chin. He turned her face toward him, and Varya met a typhoon of Egyptian azure, infused with the coldness of the night. She drew in a sharp breath, soothing the drumming in her chest.

"Excellent, little witch," he purred, his voice below a rasp.

Then, he took a step back, scowling at the pitiful corpse in his room. He was to hang it on a raft, then watch wretched Billy Stub fret his heart out for his wretched excuse of a companion. He went, grabbed it by its legs, and threw it on his bed as he conjured a tight rope around his neck. A symbolic gesture— anyone who dared oppose the future Dark Lord would pay for their disobedience, and he would take everything they cherished.

Varya Petrov was still stiffened in her spot as she fought her mind, the shadows that had begun surging in the boundaries of her vision, scratching at the entrance of her soul, begging to be let in. She shook her head rapidly, hands going to her temples, then took a few steps back as she tried to regain composure. What had she just done?

Tom gave her a glance, eyes studying every inch of her profile, "I suppose I will see you tomorrow at the Rosier Manor."

He stepped outside, dragging the rabbit behind him, and slammed the door, leaving Varya's soul to crumble on his floor. The girl raised a trembling hand to her neck, clinging onto the locket as if it was the last thing keeping her sane. At least she had been brave enough not to give Tom Riddle the necklace.