CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

As soon as they had reached the train, Varya had been swarmed by Ministry officials, barking in hurried French, interrogating her on what had happened. She barely spoke the language, but she did catch on a few words such as "dark magic", and a few profanities— it seemed as if they were suspecting her. She swung at them, pointing to the half-dead boy hanging off of her neck, and it was then that they gave up persecuting the girl.

They had gone back on the train, and it took a few hours for the officials to clean up the mess before it resumed its journey. The occasional officer passed by her compartment, an accusatory glance sent her way, but she paid no mind to them, her spirit focused on the limp body of Icarus Lestrange.

He had lost much blood, and Varya was no physician, but she knew that was a dilemma. His skin was pale as the flakes that tumbled from the azure, and she tried her best to mend his torn cheek fully, alternating between spells and cold compresses on his forehead. He had acquired a fever, his body fighting against the strain the creature had caused, and Varya was genuinely concerned. Eventually, there was nothing more the girl could do, and so she sat next to him, his head in her lap, and stroked his whiskey locks that had been drenched in perspiration.

He would recover, that was what she hoped, but he would always have the scar to prove the tale, and in a way, he would always have something that reminded him of her, and that was something she could not face just yet.

She knew it was her fault; she could not explain how or why, but there was this staggering sensation that told her she was the cause of all this madness. And now Icarus had paid for it, and Varya wondered how many more would follow suit.

The girl was fatigued, and she tried her best to stay awake for the rest of the night, eyelids almost fluttering shut, but she had to watch over the boy— there was no time to rest, not until his fever broke.

The rest of the journey took three hours, and when the train pulled in Gare Saint-Lazare, a sigh of comfort escaped Varya's lips. She cast a charm, helping Icarus' body levitate, as well as all of their bags, then stepped out on the wizarding platform. Around her, sorcerers stole inquisitive glances at the two Hogwarts students, so tortuously foreign and peculiar, but nobody approached them.

She walked to an unoccupied bench on the side, and let Icarus' body fall on it, which rattled the boy awake.

"Where are we?" he stammered as he broke out of his sleep, cringing at the heavy ache in his face muscles. He hastily conjured a mirror and gazed in it at the oddly scared cheekbone. Varya had done her best, but the boy's face would forever carry the memory of their encounter.

He glanced at the girl, who was staring off into space, looking at the passing trains, and noticed her deplorable state. Her hair had coiled yet again, and dusk crawled underneath her eyes, a sign of sleep-depravation. It was not the same as it had been when she was poisoned; no, this was mental exhaustion, and he queried what was gnawing at her thoughts. Icarus eyes darted to the signs on the walls, and he understood they had reached Paris, his consciousness still a little murky.

The last thing he remembered was the coldness of the snow pressed against his skin, the thundering vibration of Varya's magic, and her consumed eyes, void, and white, as she burned the demon alive with a ritual Icarus had never seen before. He glanced at the girl and wondered if she knew what she had looked like at that moment, so devoured by the glorious macabre, so fitting for the trickster's taste.

He got up, then reached out for the girl, but stopped suddenly. She needed space to come to terms with what had happened, with almost watching the boy die, and seeing so many corpses scattered around the wagons.

His back hurt from the fetal position he had slept in, and he vaguely remembered trembling fingers darting through his hair, pulling at his roots, and he felt himself heat up despite the chills that ran his skin from his fever. Icarus' face turned crimson, and he found himself pulling at the collar. Nevertheless, this was not a time to think about the girl.

He was still wobbly on his feet, but no general ever surrendered because of a battle wound, and if anything, Icarus would consider this a preparation for when the actual moment of truth came— when he would stand by Tom Riddle to conquer the world.

Icarus started dragging her trunk, and Varya followed closely behind as they passed the threshold of the station, entering a bubbling waiting room for wizards and witches. Once again, eyes followed as the two disheveled teenagers passed through the crowd, some even puffing at the red gash on the boy's face and the dried blood that covered his shirt and part of his pants.

"You should change your shirt," were the first words Varya told Icarus, as she pulled at the bloodied material with an apathetic face. He looked down, then swiftly cast the Tengo charm, immediately siphoning the liquid. A serviceable spell taught by Nicholas Avery after his multiple surreptitious affairs.

Varya hummed, then pointed to the door that read "Floo Network," and they made their way inside. As soon as they stepped in the chamber, they were greeted by a hale wizard, short in stature but very brawny, and his green robes hung below his ankles as he scrammed to reach them. Behind him, an abnormally large fireplace that glowed with green flames, sparks crackling as other magical beings come and went.

"Where are you headed?" He demanded, French dialect so heavy it was barely understandable, each "y" turning into a soft "z."

"Beaumont-en-Verdunois," answered Icarus, perfectly pronouncing it, and Varya blessed the skies for his presence because her lacking French skills would have had her end up in a completely different city.

"Follow me," stated the wizard, and gestured for them to head into the direction of a fireplace that read "Domestic Travels."

Then, the bright grassy flares sized up as Icarus passed into them with their luggage, completely disappearing, and Varya followed his lead. It was a novel feeling, something that would definitely require time to accustom to, but before she could even blink, Varya found herself walking out of a different fireplace and into a desolate room, similar to the abandoned house in Hogsmeade.

She grimaced, slightly puzzled at her surroundings, then dawdled behind Icarus as they stepped outside and into the pristine snow. The sun was blazing now, and the morningtide predicted a pleasant, blithe Christmas Eve.

The outside was similar to the room she had traveled to, as the landscape was filled with structures engulfed in vegetation, vestiges of what seemed to be an ancient cathedral, and roads that had seen better days. There was no breathing soul nearby, almost as if every villager had perished in a whirlwind of enigma, leaving behind ruined havens and lost automobiles. On the side of the trail, Varya could see the shape of what seemed to be a stuffed animal, almost as if a child had lost it while fleeing. Beaumont-en-Verdunois was a ghost town.

"Icarus?" the girl called after the boy that had started taking a beaten road to another fallen house, "Are we in the right place?"

Icarus turned to her, frown on his face, then quickly realized this was the girl's first time visiting the Rosier Manor, "Of course we are, darling, we are in Beaumont-en-Verdunois, but surely you did not think that the Rosire family would merely live in the open? They are a renowned lineage, and that brings many foes, so when the village was destroyed, they charmed their manor to disappear from the prying eyes, and now only those whom they welcome into their house can find it."

Varya scowled at the obsessive mindset, and questioned who exactly the family had upset that they needed to hide from the outside world, "What do you mean the village was destroyed?"

Lestrange pushed open the door of the house, but did not pass the threshold as he turned to look at her, "Yes, Beaumont-en-Verdunois used to be a spirited place, until the German troops tried to take it during the first World War, and when the french opposed, they simply bombarded most of northeastern France, exterminating everything in sight."

"But why did nobody come back?"

"After the bombings, most of the area was inhabitable, and the government labeled it as the Red Zone. They gave up, saying that the damage was too colossal, but there are other tales..." he drifted off, eyes cast over the forest that spread across the hills.

Varya followed his gaze, eyes trailing the forest, and that is when she saw it. The small head peeking out from the trees, eyes so sunken they were barely there, and skin so ghastly it could not belong to a living being. The creatures roamed the linings of the woods, watching them with prying eyes, "Spirits?"

"Yes, thousands of lost souls that haunt the area, and they do not take well to muggles trying to demolish the houses that were brutally stolen from them— naturally," responded Icarus, unsettled by the spirits that were gazing at them.

"So, the French government is aware of their existence?"

"Most powerful men in the world are aware, muggle or not, and after the exponential growth of magic during the war, the Ministry of Magic had to step up. If the spirit world gets exposed, the wizarding world follows closely. In the end, it was for the better."

"That makes you wonder what will happen after this war has ended," said Varya, as she watched the little ghost of a young girl drag her toy through the murky snow, and despite being dead, she still carried the joviality of a child— one that had gone too soon, "Not all spirits are malevolent."

Icarus gave her a peculiar look, baffled by her statement, especially after the previous night's happenings, but perhaps Varya Petrov had a few screws loose. After all, she had grown surrounded by monstrous beings, and it was only logical.

Nevertheless, he grabbed her arm and dragged her through the threshold, and before Varya knew it, she was standing before an imperial mansion, with lands so widespread that the Rosier estate could be its own small village.

Grand pillars fenced the entrance of the Rosier Manor, and its Baroque architecture stood boastfully against the sky. The amalgam of windows was traced with utmost details, so much so that it must have taken years to build. The dramaticism of the construction was striking, with multiple statues depicting some of the most celebrated wizards of all time in chivalrous battles. Some of them moved, some of them stood still, but all of them carried Slytherian repletion, the undoubted house of any Rosier.

The entrance was marvelous, with quartz stairs leading to a set of two doors, each of them painted with obscure swirls and patterns. Elladora Selwyn stood outside, her legs resting on the stairs as she sat down, and her flowy red dress contrasted against the creamy beige of the spectacle. Her feline eyes rested on the pair as they slowly approached, and she found herself standing up in excitement, but also some frustration.

"You were supposed to be here hours ago! We were all troubled," she announced as she ran to Icarus, giving him a soft embrace, but the boy only pushed her away.

"I smell rancid, Elladora," he grumbled, exhaustion suddenly hitting him as he had arrived at his destination. The girl glanced at the other witch in the courtyard, and a flash of resentment passed her eyes. Even so, she walked to Varya and petted her ruffled hair down almost condescendingly.

"What ever happened to you, have you not slept in days? Poor thing, look at you."

Varya gripped her hand, shrugging it off of her, and sent her the nastiest glare that the girl had ever received, "Touch me again, Selwyn, and I will make sure it is not just your ear lobes that are disproportional."

Icarus cackled madly behind them, "This ought to be the most interesting Christmas I have had in a while. Well, then, let us move on girls, I need a bath, and you are standing in my way."

Elladora jeered at the girl, but did not retort anything as she twisted around and followed Icarus to the house. Varya picked her trunk, and made her way to the stairs, but her eyes caught onto something.

A solitary figure stood on the central balcony of the manor, staring at her with an inquisitive scowl, and his lips were pulled in his uttermost treacherous sneer. His eyes carried the soul of the twilight, and unlike last time she had seen him, he was wearing a formidable attire that made him look almost sovereign. Tom Riddle, the prince of the damned and the nefarious, stood gripping the balcony's railway as his eyes sauntered the estate, before landing on Varya Petrov.

The dark witch held her stance, insubordinate before the eyes of the Dark Lord, and she cared for nothing but her own pride. They had seen each other only recently, barely more than a day, and yet it felt so far away in her mind. He had thought her weak multiple times, had ridiculed her power, but what would the boy have thought if he had seen her fight against the demonic creature from Hell?

How many times had Tom Riddle plagued her nightmares? His venom had slipped into her bloodstream, spreading to every organ, and taking over everything that she was made of. He was Lucifer's son, so disastrous in nature that he would have no trouble ruling over Hell when he inevitably reached it.

And, how many times had he plagued her most concealed dreams, with delicate hands and hushed words, something the girl would never admit to herself? He was temptation, and he was sin. This was the clashing mind of Varya Petrov, who had not quite figured out what the boy was to her.

"Varya!" came the excited call of Renold Rosier, and the girl broke her gaze with Tom as the heir of the estate pulled her in a tight hug, swinging her around with excitement. "We were all troubled when your train did not arrive on time, and we were close to placing a tracking spell on you. Avery thought you and Lestrange were off in some secret rendevous; you should have seen how close Riddle was to hexing his brain into a puddle!"

It was odd, the way the man was so friendly toward her, almost sincere in his behavior, and yet he had had no problem snooping around her past and reporting back to Riddle. Some part of her knew it was only duty, and that nothing would ever top the loyalty they felt towards each other, and yet she was resentful at the multiple masks the boys always wore around her.

Varya scoffed, "Why, he thought his plan was forsaken?"

Rosier gave her a smile as he guided her inside, "Something like that, I suppose."

The inside of the house was just as impressive as the courtyard, with chandeliers swooping over the marble tiles, and a sumptuous staircase stood in the middle of the large foyer, extending to two different wings of the manor. In all their splendor, the walls were covered with portraits of people the witch could just assume belonged to the Rosier line, and where the two staircases met, stood a marvelous portrait of Renold Rosier and his parents.

"Knuck will show to your room," stated Rosier, then gestured to the House-Elf that had appeared out of thin air on the expensive table beside Varya, giving her a fright. The Elf bowed politely but did not speak as it snapped its fingers, making her luggage disappear.

It hopped off the table, and Varya found herself trailing behind it, sending Ren a shy glance as she rounded the corner. Walking the hallway, the girl let her eyes analyze the chamber, stopping on every portrait or artifact. The Rosier family enjoyed extravagance, she concluded.

The House-Elf opened a door, then gestured for her to walk in, and Varya gasped at the exquisite furnishings. A king-sized bed stood in the middle of the room, dressed in the finest silk, a thick baby blue duvet covering it. There were more pillows that the girl had ever seen, and each corner was fenced by a Victorian pillar that raised to the ceiling, a baldachin standing over her mattress. A fireplace was in the corner, with two comfortable sofa chairs and a miniature table, and small bookshelves above it. The chandelier was more modest than those in the foyer, but its diamond drops still twinkled in the flame's light.

The door shut behind her abruptly, and Varya frowned at the House-Elf, who was not nearly as gentle as the one in Hogwarts' kitchens. She made her way to her trunks, and opened them up, rummaging for a change of clothes. She pulled out a dress that blended in with the night, so dark it seemed to suck in the air around it, and she threw it on her bed with other garments she would need.

Her bathroom was attached to her room, and she immediately jumped in the bathtub, cherishing the warm water against her skin. She could have been inside for a whole hour, maybe even more; it was not until a knock sounded at her door that she bothered to get out.

"Give me a minute!"

Varya dried herself quickly, then put on her clothes and shoes, and hurried to the door. She opened it, only to be greeted with the roguish smirk of Tom Riddle.

"Your hair is wet," he mumbled, and he felt himself reaching out to touch a loose strand that fell on her face, pushing it to the side. Varya Petrov looked weary, and yet she still stood firm, opposing him with every fiber of her being.

"You interrupted my bath," the girl muttered, turning her face away from him and allowing Tom to enter the room. His eyes darted around, then settled on her open luggage, where the girl had put various ingredients and charms on display. He tried to reach out for them, but Varya got in his way, "You have a death wish? Do not touch any of those, or you will find yourself cursed."

"So you have finished the enchantments, then?" he inquired, taking a seat by the fire as he watched her pat her hair with a towel. Small drops trailed from her jaw all the way down her neck, and her face was still flushed from the heat of the water's vapor.

"Almost," she sighed, then grabbed a pair of gloves and put them on her hands before carrying the objects to the table in front of Riddle, "I charmed each marble and made it a dark object, which itself is quite dangerous, but I have yet to cast the actual curse because..."

"Speak up," he demanded, and the girl shot him a glare.

"Because, Riddle, I was busy fighting a fucking demon," she said harshly, and the boy clicked his tongue at her bad manners. It was uncommon for a lady in their time to curse so openly, and yet Varya never seemed to hold herself back around him.

"So I have heard," he hummed, gaze on the way her fingers moved with the tiny marbles, "I also saw that it gave Lestrange quite the nasty scar, I suppose he would have been done for if you were not there. Perhaps, I should consider you for his position."

"Position?" the girl questioned, "Are you all in a cult or something? I mean, I knew you were all quite the exclusive clique, but you make it sound so official."

Varya, of course, knew that there was more to it, and that the boy had bigger plans than extorting information from a few party attendees, but she could not let that show. As far as she knew, Tom had recruited her for a mission without giving her a reason.

Tom, however, did not appreciate the elusiveness, "You and I both know that you are well aware of what my group is, Petrov. We are not a mere school clique, but an organization of future leaders and powerful sorcerers."

"Really?" she mocked, "And what is this after-school club of yours called?"

"The Knights of Walpurgis."

And there it was, another piece of information that she had managed to extract from him. Varya's skin twinkled with excitement, and she wondered if Tom realized that after so many months of him manipulating her, the tables were starting to turn. Tom Riddle was slowly opening to her.

"Funny name," she replied, turning her back to his exasperated expression to focus on her dark objects. She had chosen marbles specifically because they could easily be slipped into the pockets of unsuspecting guests, and once placed on a person, the curse would take in full effect.

She had bewitched them with a spell that wound render the cursed person unable to lie, even more so that they will feel immense pride, and would openly brag about their achievements. Ego was the self-made dagger that every man pierced their own chest with.

Of course, there was always the possibility of them having some sort of protection, but dark objects were more challenging to detect than poison, mostly when they were so small.

Varya sat beside the table, legs crossed, her back towards the fire so her hair could dry faster, and took out her occult book, skimming through the pages that she had underlined while on the train. Her judicious fingers read over the words, then she placed the book to her side. She pulled out a chalk piece, and drew a small symbol on each of them, then placed a small bowl on the table.

"Wait."

Varya gazed up at Tom Riddle, who was now watching her with a peculiar expression that even the girl could not understand. He got up from his chair, then sat at the table right across from her, legs pulled to the side. He picked up a scarf that Varya had placed on one of the chairs, then transfigured it in a pair of gloves, putting them on his hands eagerly.

He looked at her with an emotionless look, but his eyes shone with pure determination, "Teach me how to do it."

Varya's face flashed with surprise, and she found herself put on the spot. Teach Tom Riddle more dark magic? Was that not against what she was supposed to do? Even so, she found herself passing him the book, pointing a finger to the Latin words inscribed on the page.

"This is not your usual wand magic, it is a ritual, and for it to work, you have to prepare the objects," the witch picked up a marble, then showed him the small symbol she had scribbled on it, "this is what we call sigils, we use them for dark rituals, and they are a connection between our realm and Hell."

"Hell?" he said, surprised, toying the small marble in his hands.

"Yes, magic was never supposed to belong to humans. In most religions, you will find that it goes against scripture, and so, it is only natural to assume that it originated from down below, especially dark magic. Back in Transylvania, villagers believed that witchcraft was the Devil's gift to the sinners, and that only the families that had forsaken God would be gifted with it," she explained, then took out a few roots of plants that would not be found in any ordinary store, but that she had brought from her old academy, "this is rowan root, you might find that the wood is used in wands that offer strong protection, but the bulb itself is actually used by muggles to ward off witchcraft. So, when casting a curse against a wizard, it can be compelling."

She handed it to him, and somewhat it felt like giving a mad man a bomb to light up, but the boy simply looked at it, fascination in his eyes. Varya instructed him to cut it in circular shapes, then in small bits.

"Rooster bones," she continued, placing them on the table and preparing to smash them with a hammer, "a prideful animal, and pride is the sin of all wizards, so when added to a mixture, it makes them succumb to it, and that leads to many secrets being exposed. It is quite a powerful bird, at that...have you ever heard of basilisks?"

Tom's hand froze, then he turned his head cryptically to look at her, "Excuse me?"

The girl did not notice the weird tension in his body, thinking it was just his displeasure at not knowing something, "Yes, basilisks, they are part of Romanian folklore, giant serpents born from a chicken's egg hatched by a toad, they are deadly. And yet, the song of a rooster is fatal to them. Quite poetic, really, the mother gives birth, and yet the father can easily kill it."

Tom kept his eyes trained on the girl who was now focused on hammering down the bones, and for a second, he let himself plan out the many ways he could kill her on the spot. He could take her hammer, bash it against her skull until it was nothing but powder, and her blood stained the Arabian rug on the floor with crimson, splattered across the fireplace and the tapestries. He could push her face in the fire behind her, keep it down until her screams faded into the satisfying sound of flesh sizzling, and the room caught an odd odor that would remain for years to come. He could pull his wand, and cast the unforgivable curse on her, having her hit the ground before she even turned her head to him.

She knew too much about things that Tom wanted her to be ignorant about, and that was potentially hazardous. He did not want to harm her, she was a valuable asset to his team, but she was not loyal and could easily go babbling to Dumbledore like the child that she was.

Rosier had told him about the lie that she had made up, how Dumbledore knew her family. Such a calamity, and he should have tortured her for it until her screams resonated in every corner of the manor, but he had to play it out to his advantage. The girl did not know that her secret had been exposed, and right now, it was her Achille's heel.

"And then," she continued after she had finished smashing the bones into a soft powder and took the root that Tom had chopped, "you mix them in a bowl with the smallest amount of cattle blood, but that is just for consistency really. And you deep the marbles in— oh, do you want to do it?"

Tom nodded, shaking the murderous thought away. Even if the girl knew about the basilisk, he doubted she would ever connect it to the Chamber of Secrets, especially without the Most Macabre Monstrosities book, and there were more significant issues at hand.

He picked up the marbles, dipping them in the grayish liquid that the girl had stirred, and then he watched her as she started reciting another Latin ritual, eyes flared with sadism, and waved her hands above the bowl.

Then, something unusual happened.

Tom had seen her perform magic before, and, although it had been weakened by his meddling, he had assumed that casting the spell itself was similar. And yet, he watched the girl's eyes flash white, pupils disappearing as the magic consumed her with each chanted words, hair flying in all directions and voice lowering an octave.

She chanted faster, aggressively, and raised her hands to levitate the dark objects above the table in a circle, her eyes trained on them even if they were blanked. Her lips parted in a sinister smile, then, the marbles dropped to the table, and Varya returned to her usual delicate self.

Tom frowned, and it threw the girl off. Was this normal?

"What?" she asked once she noticed his aloof stare, almost as if he was breaking her into pieces and analyzing every single part of her. It was something that would happen very often between the two them— Varya would do something unexpected, and then Tom would contemplate over it for hours, mind only filled with her.

"Nothing," he muttered, getting up swiftly and dusting his pants off, "I will see you at dinner."

Varya watched him exit the room with a confused look on her face, not understanding his sudden change in behavior. Had she done something wrong? She had thought that Tom was slowly opening up to her, and yet again, he had pulled those walls back-up. It was a game of cat and mouse, and she did not know which animal belonged to both of them, as the roles seemed to frequently switch.

She looked at the marbles that were on the table, and with a flick of her wrist, sent them in a small saddle bag that she had brought for the event, and had charmed to trap dark magic. Varya was still thinking about how she was going to plant every object on the guests, as she could not be seen wandering around each of them like a lunatic.

She had to get Rosier on board, as he would be welcoming the attendees, and could easily slip the marbles in while exchanging pleasantries. Varya took her gloves off, then easily transfigured them in a pair that would fit a male, while charming them with a protective spell.

Her hair had dried, although it was quite a mess still, and she pulled it in a tight braid on one side of her face, which she brought to her other cheek and clasped it with a pin, creating the illusion of a crown. Her midnight dress was stoically beautiful, and she paired it with some comfortable shoes and long, white gloves.

She opened her jewelry box, reaching out for pearls, and suddenly saw the green locket that Tom had been fascinated with in one of the compartments, pulsating magic. She picked it up, then let it dangle from her palm, twisting the chain with her fingers.

Varya had, for a while, debated giving it to Riddle, as the boy did not know that she had stolen it from the store, and would probably go back for it as soon as he was back in London. However, she wanted to know why he craved it, and before she was able to find that out, Riddle would not lay his fingers on the locket.

The girl hid it in a secret compartment of her jewelry box, picking out the marvelous pearls, and then got up from the vanity, making her way downstairs. It was sure to be an eventful evening.