NOTE: This was a double update, so make sure you read the last chapter as well. Enjoy!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Her limbs were shivering from the brisk December blow as she stepped outside of the Beauchamp residence, Della's mother telling them to be back before sundown. The girls bobbed their heads eagerly, berets plopped on their heads and old-fashioned cloaks wrapped around them, then headed down the London roads. Varya Petrov's spirit was charged with some unexplainable burden as she passed collapsed neighborhoods, ravaged streets, and outrooted trees, her eyes lingering on each dreary face that she saw across the street.

They were headed to Diagon Alley, as the girl had managed to convince the Beauchamp women that the two scholars needed to refill their supplies, and with half-a-heart, Annie had accepted. Varya's pocket burned with the weight of the address Maxwell Nott had given her, and her brain devised how to get away from Della so that she could fulfill her mission, eager to see what Caractacus Burke knew about her predicament.

She reminisced back to the night in the Forbidden Forest when she had mercilessly killed the innocent Therestral, and her skin covered in goosebumps. It had been soul-splitting, almost as if she had felt the creature's torment, suffering, and melancholy that Varya had never endured before, and she knew it was strange. It had been almost as if she had connected with it, and while Varya was aware that her training at Scholomance had given her incredible inclinations with creatures, she knew there was more to it.

They turned the corner before Diagon Alley, and Varya watched Della knock on the bricks in the same manner Dumbledore had, waiting for them to part and let them enter the wizarding world. As soon as the bricks moved, Varya was surrounded by the sense of familiarity, and the giddiness she had felt on her first visit was still there.

The block was filled with hurried sorcerers, and the magic droned in the wind as the two Hogwarts students strolled around the shops, pointing to random windows and marveling at the mystic objects that were on display.

"We ought to stop by Rosa Lea Teabag, they produce the most divine brews," wheezed Della, facing one of the dainty shops by the end of the road, but Varya's stomach churned at the thought of tea herbs. She had not savored their sweetness in a few weeks, too fearful of trusting they had not been meddled with.

"The shop's fragrance makes me squeamish, how about we get our supplies from the Apothecary, and then you go without me while I visit the nearby market?" offered Varya, and her friend nodded at the idea, although reluctant to separate.

They headed to the Apothecary, and when they opened the scabby door, the two girls instantly stifled at the rancid odor of the store, something between stale eggs and putrid herbs. Even so, the stinging scent of composture was no match for the endless shelves of potion ingredients, varied in commonness, and Varya found herself mesmerized by the newfangled objects arranged behind some of the glass cases. One of them seemed to have some kind of refrigerated eggs behind it, and as she tapped against the glass, she saw it budge slightly.

"Ashwinder eggs, very flammable, do not touch," read Della, then gave her companion a droll glance, "Glad you obey rules, Petrov."

"They look quite devious," said the Eastern witch, still fascinated by their transparency and texture.

"They ar' used in love potions."

Both girls turned in harmony, alarmed by the adenoidal whine of the shop owner, a prickly chap that had to have some giant blood in him. He towered over the two witches, and as he made his way to them, he managed to knock over a few pots. He cussed, then picked them up and placed them in their spots, only to knock some more as he stepped. Once he stood in front of them, Varya could make out a nametag on his old vest— Barbaros Maxime.

"Are you the storekeeper?" asked Della, her British dialect contrasting against his.

"No, ma'am, I am only a worker," he responded, then gestured to his nametag, "how may I help ya'?"

"We are only here for the basics," stated Varya, and she followed him as he paced back to the front counter, catching a vase that had almost plummeted to the ground.

The presumed half-giant went to the back and searched around for specific packages that he always kept at hand for Hogwarts students, before placing them on the desk.

"Anythin' else?"

"Let us look around," said Varya, then she pulled her friend behind some shelves, and they started roaming around curiously, almost as if competing for the most appalling finding. They did not even register the bell-chime as the door opened once again.

Varya walked over to Della, holding up a jaw of what seemed to be octopus eyes, and wiggled them in front of her friend's displeased face. She shoved them away in repulsion, ducking underneath Varya's hand and sailing to the other end of the store. She chatted enthusiastically over her shoulder, and the Slavic witch followed closely behind.

"You never told me, by the way, what happened with you and Lestrange," said the girl, eyes sauntering over the potion cupboards.

"Lestrange?" Varya inquired, eyebrows furrowing, "I do not know myself, he is keeping his distance, and I cannot understand why."

"I think I might know," said Della, then she turned to face her colleague, eyes looking around the room "—Riddle!"

Varya derided, "What does Riddle have to do with this?"

"No—" Della spoke, seizing her shoulders and twirling her around, "Riddle, right there!"

Hearing his name being called, Tom threw a jaded glance in their general direction, breath hitching when his sight fell on the Slavic witch. Of course, she was accompanied by her mudblood friend, and it provoked him terribly that she kept such flawed company. He hurriedly scanned the salon, before leisurely making his way to the two ladies, who were exchanging nimble glances. The Ravenclaw prefect whispered something to her friend, then sped out of the room, leaving the two Slytherins in each other's presence.

"Fancy seeing you here," grumbled Riddle, almost jeering at the way her cheeks coated in a rich rouge.

"Yes, I am staying with Della, as I said in the carriage," she explained, although her eyes were looking anywhere besides at him, and that bothered the boy.

"Is that so?" he purred, slowly approaching her, until the shelves hid them completely. He enjoyed their game, the charade of two soulless beings, and he wanted to test the limit of her wits and see just how resistant she was to his bewitchery. He had noticed her fluttering eyelashes, the way her breath stopped just for a second whenever he would pass her in the hallway, and Tom wanted to know how much it would take for her to break.

"Piss off, Riddle," she groaned, pushing him to the side as she beelined towards the shopkeeper, slamming a few galleons on the table before she picked up her packages.

Tom watched her, a mix of snarling and hatred, then trailed behind Varya as the girl exited the shop, suddenly forgetting the reason for which he was visiting the store in the first place. He watched her hat slowly drift from her silky hair, which batted in the wind like tall prairie grass, and reached out a hand to push it back to its desired position. The girl shot him an incredulous look, then halted in the midst of the streets.

"Hold this," she said, dumping her packages in his arms, and Tom barely managed to keep them from slumping, as he growled at how she was commanding him. The girl pulled out a tiny piece of paper from her pocket, and looked at the street signs, before turning back to him. "Come with me to this strange shop, will you?"

Then she continued her walk, not even bothering to take her ingredients back from his grasps, and the boy only followed her mutely, prying as to what the foxy witch was up to. Last he remembered, Maxwell had given her a street address in Diagon Alley that she was supposed to visit, and Tom could only assume that was where she was heading.

They entered a clouded shop, eyes scanning the stuffed room, and Tom's eyes ignited at the vast objects advertised along the shop, immediately feeling the foreboding throb they emitted. He put Varya's packages on a table at the front, and proceeded to wander around the room, scanning the counters.

His eyes stopped on a necklace, a caution sign that told him it was cursed rested on the glass, and it almost made him want to rip it down, then trick the witch by his side into touching it. It would have been suitable vengeance for the treatment he had received in the train, he supposed, and he was still wondering how to get back at her for that. He had debated hexing her, perhaps, even using an unforgivable curse, but as unfortunate as it was, Petrov was a crucial piece in his master game of chess.

Tom needed her at the party; he wanted her to dig up as much information on Grindelwald as possible, uncover his tactics and secrets, then report them back to him. If his plan were successful, Riddle would soon have information on some of the most important families in the wizarding world and their alliance.

The back door opened with a screeching sound, and a tall, rangy wizard made his way to the main room. Riddle regarded him with apprehension, the way his thin mustache covered his upper lip with a swirl, and when the man smirked at Varya Petrov, his sneer was as sleazy and insincere as a ravenous brute. His attire was snobbish, but he was no Malfoy. No, this wizard screamed of new money status, decked in the daintiest silk, so pretentious he looked foolish against the dreary backdrop of the store.

"Yes?" he asked, and even his timbre resembled that of a conniving fox, "What brings such young people in Knockturn Alley? This is not the place for the likes of you..."

"Are you Caracatacus Burke?" asked Varya, walking up to the man despite his apparent conniving nature, watching him with recalcitrant eyes. Even so, her beret and fuzzy coat took away from her usual stance, and to the old wizard, she looked like a child who was about to throw a tantrum.

"Young lady, it is discourteous to question your elders in such manners. Have your parents not taught you anything?"

"They are dead," she said, face not moving an inch, and the man puffed at the information.

"My apologies," he said insincerely, gradually heading to the front of the store, "To answer your question— yes, I am Caracatus Burke, and you are sitting in my store right now, Borgin and Burkes."

Tom nodded, having been aware of the name as soon as he entered, as he had heard Malfoy and Avery discuss it countless of times. Indeed, Borgin and Burkes was not the sort of shop that Hogwarts classmates frequented, as it sold mysterious trinkets and objects, as well as books that would not grace any school library. The boy bit his cheek, then clasped his hands behind his back as he made his way to stand by Varya's side.

"I am seeking a book on demoniac creatures and affinities," declared the girl, placing her frail hands on the desk, attracting the owner's attention. He raised an eyebrow at her, before his lips curled in a furtive leer.

"I do not market my collection to just anyone, miss, and I do not think your age makes such readings suitable."

Then, the girl thumped something against the table, followed by a sealed bag that shone against the flat surface, and gawked at Burke with an indifferent grimace. The man gave her a prompt glance, before picking up the small object with a jittery hand. He brought it to his eyes, then used his monocle to take a more meticulous inspection.

"Hm, I see..." he muttered, placing the item back on the table, and only then did Tom examine the small golden button, the roaring lynx craved carefully on it.

The boy had seen it before, and deduced that the badge belonged to the gown that Varya had worn at Slughorn's Christmas gathering. He had apprehended how it suited her, and Tom thought that slytherian green was a blood-chilling look on her. Of course, he knew that the lynx was a symbol of her family line, as he had asked Maxwell to investigate her past during the early days of their first week. Even so, he had thought her heedless to wear the emblem in a room full of wizards that opposed Grindelwald, and he did not know why she had added the detail to her dress.

Then, the shopkeeper upturned the bag, letting a dozen galleons fall on the table, and Tom's eyes widened at the girl's flaunt of wealth. He had assumed Dumbledore had given her some access to her family assets, but he had forgotten just how impressively wealthy her family had been.

"Perhaps, that will make you look past my age," Varya said, her tone having an absolute finality to it.

Burke nodded, already stuffing the coins in his pocket, "Very well, head to the back of the room, and you will find all that your heart desires."

Tom stood in his spot as Varya passed him eagerly, citric fragrance hitting his senses. His head whirred because of it, and he furrowed his eyebrow in bewilderment. Was the smell so sickening? It was not unpleasant, yet he felt himself grow restless whenever he was close enough to catch it.

He snapped out of it, not wanting to dwell on such thoughts, and then, his eyes fell on something unique. It was another necklace, elegantly built, and it was displayed at the front counter, glowing bright green. This one was not cursed, Tom apprehended, and as he examined the engravings, his mind twisted with frightful devilry. No, this was no doomed locket, but it would become something terrifying.

He smirked, then glanced at Caractacus Burke as he approached him, "Sir, do you know the origins of this locket?".

The wizard looked at the display, then nodded with a prideful leer, "Well, of course, it is the locket of Salazar Slytherin, I have had it in my collection for many years, such an antique artifact. A gal brought it, stupid child, sold it for ten galleons. I could tell she was frantic, dressed in ripped garments and stained hands. She looked like a lunatic if you ask me." Then, he turned rapidly, walking in another direction, "But you cannot afford it, child, so go your way."

Tom clenched his jaw, glowering at the man's back, ruminating about how easy it would be to strike him. He felt a clot of agitation pump through his bloodstream, and with each heart stroke, it metastasized, doubling, then tripling. Before he knew it, Tom was pacing rapidly toward the elder, sight obscured with barbarian ferocity, and he could almost feel his hand clasped around the man's windpipe, squeezing vigorously. He was enraged beyond magic, to the point where he wanted to watch the life essence spill from Burke's eyes gradually, naturally.

He felt a palm on his shoulder, and he spun to stare at Varya, the girl being taken aback by the animalistic madness in his orbs, and her eyes goggled, "Are you good, Riddle?".

He huffed, then waggled his body away from her touch, almost as if it had electrified him, too painstakingly aware of her proximity. There it was again, the phantom aroma of citric mixed with a tinge of mint, and he felt his head murmur. He took another step backward, cursing the way it rattled him, and his nostrils flared.

"You are still here, boy? I told you, the medallion is not for sale," came the voice of the shopkeeper, and Varya glanced at the enclosed locket, cherishing its alluring radiance. It was terrific, and she could feel the foreign temptation that it pulsed. Is this why Riddle was irate?

"I found what I needed," she suddenly interrupted and watched Tom scowl at the man before exiting the shop in a fury. Varya thought he was about to leave, but he stopped at the entrance, waiting for her.

Caracatacus Burke urged her forward, and she placed her books on the desk, stealing glances at the locket. It was enclosed in a vitrine, made of sturdy glass, and probably had multiple charms placed on it, and yet her sly mind started whirling, conceiving, contriving.

She beamed pleasantly at the man, "Sir, do you have any newer editions of the volume on poltergeists?".

The man grumbled, running a frustrated hand through eclipsed hair with silvery streaks, and Varya watched as the oil at his roots spread through his strands, sleeking back his hair. He swerved on his feet, then headed to the back door, and the girl knew she had to act hastily.

Why was she doing this? She had seen Tom look at it, and something pushed her to act out of character. She pulled out her wand, tapping it against the glass. Indeed, it had some defensive spells, but she broke them apart promptly, then opened the glass box, carefully slipping the locket in her robe. She placed back a pin from her hair, then transfigured it to look like the necklace. Varya knew the spell would not last long, but they would hopefully both be far away by then.

She returned to the desk just as Burke came out again, hands carrying a few volumes, and she slammed another bag of gold on his register, picking up her books and muttering a few grunted apologies of mistaking the number on the book's binding. The man barely registered the girl picking up her books and potion ingredients, as she dashed out of the door.

Tom Riddle watched her come out in a fluster, and raised an eyebrow at her, but he had no chance to assume anything as she continued walking back to the main road, books bouncing on top of her ingredient boxes, and he had to catch one of them as it fell from the pile. He huffed at her pitiful figure, covered by the stacks of heaviness, then stopped her.

"Give me your bag," he ordered, and Varya scowled as he pulled at her rucksack, then her eyes widened when he pulled out his wand, silently casting a charm on it.

"The Trace-" she said, much as Della had to her.

"There are so many wizards here they would not be able to tell I was the one to cast the spell," he complained, then gave her a satisfied smirk, "Nevertheless, I found my way around it years ago."

Then, he started stuffing her acquisitions in her bag, and the girl gasped as she saw everything disappear in it, almost as if her books had ceased to exist. Tom passed her the bag, and she heard the volumes hitting against each other. Undetectable Extension Charm.

"Thank you," she said, giving him a grin, and the boy taunted at it, pivoting on his feet and walking ahead. She ran after him, wondering what the boy was up to next. "Where are you headed?"

A few passing moments of reticence, then, his speech broke through, barely above a whisper, "The orphanage."

Varya glanced at him and grimaced. His empty hands were perplexing, and she wondered what the boy had even come for, because he had not bought anything, nor had he expressed genuine interest in anything but the necklace. They stopped in front of the tea shop, and Varya saw her friend, Della, coming out carrying a huge jar of teabags.

"I found the ones my mum likes— oh, hello Riddle."

Tom nodded at her, eyes barely skimming over her face before he stared off into space, at nothing in particular, a brooding look taking over his features. Varya smiled, then linked herself with Della's arm, ignoring the way her friend cast her a troubled look. They continued to walk side by side, Varya painfully aware of the locket she still held in her robe, and she wondered if giving it to Riddle was the better option.

Eventually, they passed the brick wall, heading into the crisp London air, and Varya drew in a sorrowful breath as she looked over the fallen city once again, so contrasting to the beauty of the wizarding world. Nevertheless, she could not bring herself to think of helping those muggles, but rather, she prayed that such monstrosity would never be bestowed upon her world.

She glanced at Tom Riddle, a man of great power, who would one day bring bleakness over the magic lands, who would butcher with a bitter heart, the blood of his foes sprawled on the pavement of every battle. A maestro who would inspire many, but not in the right doings, bring down hellfire, unleash demonic hounds to roam the Earth, and enslave every dark creature in his schemes.

Her heart ruptured with admiration, as one would in the presence of someone with destiny for greatness, and for a second, Varya let her darkness reach out to his own, stroking its margins, almost trying to grasp and intertwine. As if he had felt it, Tom's moonish eyes rested on her, and her pulse racked like a blacksmith's hammer, completely entranced by his aura. It was Varya's elusiveness at his stare that made him lift an eyebrow, and when her lips slightly parted, he waited for words that he presumed would render him speechless, as they often did.

But the girl turned her head, and they parted ways once again.