CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Della's embrace was tender as she almost smothered Varya Petrov on platform seven at the King's Cross station, telling her that she had enjoyed spending so much time together, and to make sure to send an owl as soon as possible. Varya detached herself from the girl, giving her a sincere smile, then picked up her luggage. She waved to her friend one last time, before stepping on to the train that would take her to Paris, and eventually, to the Rosier establishment.

The train was much like the Hogwarts express, fueled by magic rather than an engine, and it strode over the vast oceans, connecting the British capital to French territories. It was ingenious, really, and many wizards frequented it, not wanting to rely on the troublesome Floo Network. It was much faster than the Night Ferry, although more expensive, but Varya had a fear of the ocean, and she could not bring herself to step on a boat.

She walked along the corridor, her fashioned skirt reaching just below her knees, and her black boots clicking against the floor. Her heart was cloudy, as she had enjoyed her time at the Beauchamp house, and she knew that whatever her future reserved for the next week, it would be much direr.

Varya opened one of the compartments, and dragged her satchel in, setting it against one of the leather seats. She took off her scarf, then her gloves, and patted her frozen face to heat it up. The December blow had cracked her skin a bit, and she sighed at the way her bones ached. The train's inside resembled the Hogwarts' Express even more, and she felt a tug at her heart, wishing she could return to her school soon.

She had barely slept, mind still on what had occurred the previous night, and she did not know what had alarmed her more— Tom's proximity or the grievous squeals of the pet she had tortured and killed. Varya was nauseated with her actions, especially when she realized how natural it had been for her to perform such atrocious acts.

It should not have been that easy, she should have fought against it, but a part of her had been curious as to what the spells would feel like, how their darkness would pulsate through her.

Terrifying, she thought, but enchanting.

Now, she understood why so many wizards fell prey to their temptation, and although she had cast many dark spells along her life, there was something so gruesome and shattering about murdering a creature with the killing spell that felt almost empowering.

And yet, the girl could not help but be troubled with herself. At Scholomace, they had always been taught how to communicate and appreciate animals, perhaps, even more so than humans, and yet four months around Tom Riddle had made her forget everything.

She did not understand what was happening to her mind, to her magic, it felt as if she was constantly switching between good and bad, almost as if there were two parts inside of her at conflict. Truly, Varya had never felt more lost, and she did not like what she was becoming while at Hogwarts.

And she had no control over it, was the thing. It was almost as if whenever she was around Tom, he completely took charge of her soul, and had it do its bidding. It was toxic, and yet she could not step away from it.

There was a rap on the door of her compartment, and Varya shifted swiftly to meet the profile of Icarus Lestrange, who was beaming at her as brightly as ever. She opened the door and let him pass the threshold. His bags were trailing behind him, enchanted as always, as no Sacred Twenty-Eight heir would do something as mundane as carrying his own trunks. They flew above their heads, settling in their desired places.

"What a splendid surprise," he mused, as he sat down on one of the seats across from her, "just the person I was so eager to see. Would it be ridiculous to say that your absence left my soul a little shriveled?"

His joke passed right by Varya, who continued to stare at the boy with a passive face, "Yes, it would be incredibly ridiculous considering you have been avoiding me."

Icarus smirked, then clicked his tongue against the roof, "I have not been avoiding you, my dear, but there are times when a certain friend of mine likes to assign me ludicrous tasks, and the timing always seems to be unfortunate."

Varya cleared her throat, trying to compose herself at his allusion to Tom Riddle. It was already frustrating to be in each of their presence; the last thing she needed was for them to start talking about each other with her. There was some fault crawling its way up her throat, and under Icarus' gaze, she felt dirty, almost as if she had done something terrible to him.

But her fascination with Tom Riddle was purely platonic, was it not? The electrifying sensation of being on the brink of death in the presence of a sociopath, the alluring pull of macabre and monstrosity.

"So, no hard feelings?" she quipped, trying to lighten the mood, but something in the boy's face stirred, and he peered at her with a gaze that cut her breath. He sighed, then gave her a soft, melancholic simper. Icarus thought about his words carefully, and considered the situation he had found himself in. He was smitten for her because there was something so exquisite and ambiguous that had arrived with her appearance. Somewhere along the way, he had found himself cherishing every moment spent with her, every hand placed on her back, and the soft touch of her skin.

Despite everyone he knew warning him against falling for Varya Petrov, he had found his heart plummeting directly in her hands, and now it belonged only to her.

"Feelings? Perhaps, but never the bad sort for you, Varya."

There it was, the words that Varya was not sure she wanted to hear, a confession with a deeper meaning. She had expected it, to a certain degree, and yet it still rendered her speechless. His feelings were out, and like Pandora's box, there was no way to stuff them back inside, and something about that terrified the girl. Perhaps, if they had been muttered a few weeks back, when he was the only person that paid her mind, she would have swooned and fallen for them, but now, her connections to other people had deepened—specifically, one with a certain Slytherin prefect.

As a friend and as a man, she admired Icarus, and he had been the first boy to give her butterflies, to have her wonder if desire was a possibility for her. Varya should have responded, and perhaps, admitted that he was not indifferent to her, but when she tried to open her mouth and tell him, no words came out, almost as if something was stopping her.

The boy noticed her silence, and the hurt that flashed across his face was evident, but he tried to mask it, just as he always did, and play the role that had been assigned to him— the trickster, the comedic relief of the group, someone who was always in a cheerful disposition, and never had any profound emotions to him.

And, for the most part, that had been true, as Icarus Lestrange had spent most of his adolescence chasing the rush of adrenaline, living like tomorrow was not guaranteed, and then, a girl appeared in his life. A girl that, unbeknownst to him, would completely change his view on life and its meaning. He wanted to court her, awe her with his practical anecdotes and humorous temperament, and then settle down if time was good with him. Yes, they were young, and he had known her for a few months, but to someone like him, who lived in the present, there was no use for planning or contemplating. There was only now, and now, he wanted her.

"Icarus," she began, tentative, almost as if feeling out his reaction, but the boy composed himself and shot her a wink, completely shutting down the cascade of emotion that had fallen on him. That was his burden, and she did not have to suffer through it.

"All good, Petrov," he breathed, then threw his feet on the couch, back resting against the compartment's wall, "Take your time, I will be here."

Varya knew that he meant it, and that was what terrified her the most, because she was not only afraid to love, but also to be loved. In her mind, earning someone's affection meant that you were important to them and that they valued their perception of you, but the girl was not sure how well Icarus truly knew her, and she was scared of shattering his impression. If he ever hated her, she knew she could not live with herself, because the boy was a gem, and he deserved to be with someone that could see his shine.

Here she was yet again, with another conflict, almost as if her personality had been split right in the middle, and the two sides clashed against each other ferociously, much like the currents of an ocean pulling her in different directions.

"You are my date for the ball," she said, and that was enough for now, the most she could do to share his affection, the most she could say. Moreover, even if it was nothing compared to his words, they smoothened the boy's aching heart, and he managed to give her a sincere smile. He would always be there for her, despite all.

"Yes, the ball— which reminds me, is it true that you have no prior experience of dancing? Pitiful, such a young lady and yet so little training in socializing," he said, changing the topic to something less serious. Then, he jumped up and extended a hand to her. "Do me the honor, miss?"

Varya giggled, a sense of playfulness spreading through her, and she accepted his hand. He hoisted her up, then pulled her flush against his chest, one hand sneaking to her waist, and the girl blushed madly, avoiding his gaze. He started humming quietly, a song that she was not familiar with, but it was soft, and his timbre made it entrancing.

It was moments like this when she could see herself loving him, when Varya could think of Icarus and picture a life away from Hogwarts, from the darkness, from Tom Riddle. But it was nothing more than that— a dream. And each morning brought back the painful feeling of her reality, where she had been burdened with the task of stopping something terrible.

They swayed in the middle of the moving train, paying no mind to the passengers that stole quick glances through the compartment window, squealing at the two teenagers experiencing the small sparks of romance on their way to Paris.

Varya's mind drifted to porcelain features, dark eyelashes, and azure eyes, and she found herself wondering if Riddle had ever danced with someone like this, if he had ever let a woman get so close to his own body.

She should not have been thinking of the Slytherin prefect at that moment, especially after what he had done, and yet his peculiar behavior was exactly what made him such an interesting object to analyze.

Icarus twirled her, and Varya's skirts caught in her legs, almost sending her to the ground, but he grabbed her waist and straightened her back up as he threw his head back in a hearty laugh. Varya smiled, although her cheeks were flamed from embarrassment, and watch the traces of joy invade his face.

It was a sight — seeing one of Riddle's men so alive with happiness, dancing in the middle of the train with no worry of what was to come, and she let herself wonder what would become of Icarus Lestrange if Tom rose to power. Would he follow him, wreak havoc on everything, be the general that Tom expected him to be? Would he bloody hills in battle, his wand exhausted from the corpses that would fall in his path, eyes maddened with anger? Furthermore, if he ever had kids, would they devote themselves to the dark wizard, just as he had, and continue his empire?

It was hard to imagine the lively boy in such situations, but Varya had seen the future, and she knew that if she did not change fate, that would be how he would end up. That, or dead. So at that moment, as she watched the mischievous Icarus Lestrange light up like the night sky in a thunderstorm, she made a vow— she would do anything in her power to stop Tom Riddle from becoming the monster he was destined to be, and she would save every one of his followers from their tragic fate, no matter the cost. They would all live, they would smile, they would enjoy the world for all it has to offer, and they would grow old with their families.

***

Halfway through her ride, the two students were sprawled on the train's floor in an intense card game, when they felt the train slow down to a stop, its wheels screeching against the railroad. Varya frowned and shot Icarus a look of dismay, but the boy only shrugged, trying to peek at her card deck.

The girl got up leisurely, dismissing the game, and glanced out of the window into the snowstorm that had taken over the realm. They had reached land, it seemed, but Paris was still a few hours away, and yet the train had stopped its journey in an obscure valley, where trees lined the horizon, and the wind howled as it glided through them. The scenery was stagnant, and nothing moved across her vision, almost as if the world had stilled in momentary terror.

Goosebump covered her skin, and a sense of tremendous stress permeated her whole being. There it was again, the spirit of her darkness pulling at the edges, alert and swarming, almost like a sounding drum. No, something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Varya? What happened?" Icarus was by her side in a matter of seconds, and her hand seized his shirt subconsciously, pulling at it in a frenzy. His arms went around her waist, and he spun her to face him. A small gasp went past his lips when he saw the mortified look on her features, and the perspiration that had begun pooling on her eyebrows, the way her eyelashes fluttered rapidly, almost as if she was disoriented.

"I do not know," she responded rapidly, but the feeling of horror grew exponentially, and she gulped harshly as she looked around in a stupor. Something was amiss. "I feel— My heart is hammering, and my guts are twisting, I feel as if every second now I will be struck down by lightning."

"Varya, calm down," the boy tried, but she squirmed in his grasp and broke free, pacing to the hanger that stood above one of the seats, and searching her coat's pockets for her wand. She pulled it out.

The train's lights flickered, then everything went dark. They sat in reticence, trying to adjust their eyes to the blackened surroundings, and Varya felt Icarus' hand reach out blindly to her, and pull her in his arms. The only sound they could hear was the incensed wind, hitting the windows harshly, making them outcry, and the impatient drum of their synced hearts. There were no howling owls, no crickets of the night playing melodious tones, almost as if everything in a radius of a few miles had perished.

Something splattered against the window, and Varya spun around in fright, looking at the blood that was now trickling from it, covering the scenery before her in a dark carmine. She pressed her face against the window, and saw the raven that had struck the glass, slowly twitching in agony on the ground. Its wing was twisted at an odd angle, and a bone had protruded its skin. Her heart twisted, and she felt the need to end the bird's suffering, but her hand did not move as she watched the last thread of life snap.

Its craw resonated through the twilight, a dark omen of death and horror, and the girl raised her eyes to the sky, where hundreds of other birds were swirling, their maddened shrieks rippling through the blizzard. It was a hurricane of darkened wings, an apocalyptic vision of biblical proportions, and the heavens had turned into a wave of clashing birds, almost undulating as they soared around. A few of them started plummeting to the ground, some even hitting the train, and wherever they landed, it was a mess of dark feathers and blood splattered against sinless snow.

"What in Satan's name?" she whimpered, her voice quivering with apprehension, and she turned to look at Icarus, who was just as appalled as her. His eyes carried distress that she had never seen on the boy, and his chest moved up and down at a brisk tempo.

"Is this your doing?" he inquired, pointing toward the deceased birds that were slowly covering the snowed fauna. He had started associating her with death.

"No," she gasped, although a part of her told her it could have been, as ravens had always been her favored bird, and recently, she had been surrounded by the passing of creatures. It was almost as if she could not escape it. Or, perhaps, death could not avoid her.

The train was still soundless— the two wizards shared a look before casting a Lumos spell and heading toward the door. As soon as they stepped in the corridor, Varya's skin was hit by an undulation of cold and absolute terror, and her eyes watered in fright, although she was unsure why her body was reacting that way. There was something in the shadows, although everything stood still, and she felt watched, almost as if something was ready to pounce. It could have been a whisper of fear, an umbra of doubt.

Varya waved her wand around, and its light caught something slumped against the train's wall, legs sprawled out in front, and even from afar, she could sense the putrid odor of death. She approached the body, Icarus a few steps in front of her, and when they were close enough, she bit back something between a shriek and a cry that threatened to spill out.

A woman was leaning against the wall — a very lifeless, ripped to shreds woman, and her eyes were open in paralyzed torment, mouth agape in a frozen wail. Her intestines had been tarnished, flung against the walls, splattered across the floor in a haze of liquids that could no longer be distinguished. One of her limps had been torn off, exposing the amalgam of flesh and bones beneath her ashen skin, and the blood was still dripping to the floor in sluggish, disturbing drops. It was an atrocious sight, something so medieval in nature it was almost surreal.

Icarus and Varya shared another look, both disturbed by how composed the other was, but it was not their first time seeing a dead body, and it surely would not be their last. As the witch opened her mouth, the boy raised a finger to his lips, a silent plea of silence, then pointed to the fresh blood.

Whatever it was that had annihilated the woman, it had done so recently, and that caused a wave of nausea to overtake the young woman, as the realization hit her. This lady had been killed before the train had even stopped, and somehow, neither of them had heard a thing. Even more so, the creature — because yes, this was no doing of a man — had been just outside their compartment, and had probably gazed in at their game, waiting to pounce. However, the woman, perhaps, had distracted it. It had been running rampant in the wagon, moving back and forth around their window, and it could have been so close to ending them both.

Then, Varya did something out of despair; she broke down the barriers of her mind, an open invitation for Icarus to gaze in, to communicate while maintaining their muteness. She passed on a thought to him, and the boy's eyes widened as he heard her.

This was the work of a beast, she thought out to him, her wand pointing at the way the woman's meat had been ripped off of her body, a ligament slowly dangling in the air.

Icarus nodded; it has to be close, the blood is still fresh.

Varya looked around, eyes trailing their surroundings, then she caught sight of something unusual on the floor. Bloodied hoove marks. She pointed toward the open door that connected to the next compartment; it headed that way.

They both moved in unison, but deliberately, trying to make as little fanfare as possible and not divulge their location. The next compartment was worse than the previous one, with multiple witches and wizards scattered over the couches, dead. Some of them had missing limbs, or masses of their faces ripped apart, and so whatever creature it was, it probably feasted on human flesh.

It moves fast, Icarus sent her, it went through four adults before any could even raise a wand to stop it.

That is terrifying, answered Varya. The back door is open, I think, there is a breeze going through the wagon, let us head there, and stay close.

They reached the door, and sure enough, it was wide open, leading into the misty night. Before they stepped out, however, Varya grabbed Icarus' hand and pulled him close, then put something in his hand.

A coin? he asked, confused.

I charmed it; it should protect you against whatever darkness is out there, and if it gets too close, toss it in the air, and it will help you teleport out of its grasp. I do not have time to do anything more, but it might help you, she thought quickly, eyes scanning the outdoors with dread.

Icarus nodded, then he stepped outside, the girl right behind him, still holding his hand. He twirled his wand in his hand, shutting off its light, then gripping it in a position he often used for battle. Varya dismissed her light as well, then put her wand in her pocket, knowing that she worked better without it.

The wind wailed in the duskiness, and it sent her locks fluttering in all directions, slightly covering her view. It was cold, and dreadful, and the stink of deceased birds had started imprinting in the atmosphere. They walked around their corpses, but it was hard to avoid all of them, and Varya winced as she felt a bone crack underneath her shoe, covering it in murky blood.

Then, she heard it.

It sounded almost like a howl, something between a goat and a rapacious brute, and it resonated through the air, reverberating in the night. Varya recognized it promptly, and if she had been alarmed before, now, she was utterly terrified. The Drekavac's screech could be heard for miles, so animalistic it rivaled the lamentations of Hell.

Varya glanced at Icarus, wondering if it was best he stay in the train, or if he should come with her so that she could watch over him. The boy had grown uneasy, as the distress on his face had started becoming more potent.

It is a Drekavac, a demonic creature of the night, and I cannot phantom how it has reached French land, because it mostly wanders around Slavic forests, she explained, trying to ease him, but the information only agitated him more. It is exceptionally bloodthirsty, with a craving that cannot subdue, and unless we kill it, it will rip everyone on that train to shreds.

Icarus was about to answer, tell her that they should apparate somewhere else, leave the train to its faith, but he never managed to, as the creature pounced him out of nowhere, shredding at his face with maddened hunger, trying to tear him to bits. A chunk of skin flew into the snow, terrifying the girl, and the blood oozed as the creature bit into the boy's cheek and pulled at his flesh.

"No!" shrieked Varya, and grabbed the Drekavac by its neck, sending it across the field and letting him hit a tree. She looked at Icarus' crimson figure, then turned towards the monster, watching as it started running in their direction again.

The Drekavac was an incubus, and although most books described it as a deformed person, with skin withered and stretched over its bones, there was nothing human to the creature, as it ran on all fours and shrieked with savageness. Its ears were flat against its naked head, eye sockets empty, and ashen skin flashed in the luminescence of the moon, the look of a corpse.

Maddened creature that it was, with joints so mobile it swung its limbs in directions that no human would be capable of, and its sharp teeth flashed as it thundered into the night, a hail of battle. A mouth that could never be satiated, it opened to the point its tongue hung, and despite feasting on more than five people already, it was so famished it could have ravaged a village.

Just as it made another jump towards the girl, Varya sent out a blast of fire at it, enveloping it in a tornado of black flames, letting them ripple at its skin. It fell to the ground, trashing in agony, enraged, then rolled on its back. It got up, this time with legs bend backward, and it started crawling at her with its stomach facing up, neck bent to look at her with voracious eyes.

Icarus fluttered his eyes, moaning in anguish as he felt his own blood pool in his nose and mouth, and he knew the dammed thing had torn off a good piece of his cheek, face pulsating in agony. He had no time for that, however, as he saw it head to Varya, and he gripped his wand, sending a powerful blast its way.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The curse hit the being, and it sent it flying backward once again, barrelling at the ground. Only for a few seconds, though, as it slowly got up again on its crushed members, and started making its way back to the two sorcerers with more wrath than before.

"Bloody hell, Lestrange, it is already dead! What is that curse going to do?"

Icarus felt Varya grip his hand and pull at him as she started running through the snow and into the woods, his vision getting blurrier with each second, clouded with red and spots. His legs were growing weaker as his blood pressure decreased, and he felt the metallic liquid soak his clothes. He did not have much time left, not with the way he was bleeding out, and he felt his ankle twist as it got caught in some twigs.

"Varya," he wheezed, shooting her a desperate glance as they ran through the trees, hearing the creature approach rapidly. "I cannot run for much longer."

The girl stopped and shot him a hopeless look, then glanced past his shoulder, where the creature was still trailing them. They could not outrun it endlessly, and the demon was so malicious that it never gave its prey up; it always chased it until it drove it mad. Varya seized Icarus' chin, looking at how it had almost been clawed off, and pushed him to the ground, against a tree.

"Icarus," she said, cupping his face and forcing his exhausted eyes to look at her, "use the fucking coin if it gets near you."

With that, she was gone, running straight at the demon, and Icarus fell to his side as he reached out to her. Varya ran until there were only a few meters between her and the beast, then sent a powerful shockwave through the woods, bombarding it once again.

It screeched, landed on its back, then got up.

"Bloody hell," she blasphemed, trying to think quickly and remember the paragraphs she had studied while at the academy. She knew that it was scared of light and hounds, but could not remember anything that genuinely killed the deathly devil. Her only option was sending it back to Hell, but with so little time, she did not know if she could chant the incantation fast enough.

She gripped at her hair, cursing the skies for sending her this omen of death, then grabbed the knife that she always carried with her, and cut her palm deeply. Her incantation was swift, rushed, and some of her words were jumbled, but she had no time as the figure approached.

"Mitte ad daemonium ad infernum. Adolebitque illud," she chanted, painting a soul eater sigil with her blood. It was getting closer; she had no time; she had to hurry. "Mitte ad inferos, Hoc est iens ut daemonium moriar."

She raised her eyes, her ghostly, white eyes, as the magic pulsed through her, the blood sigil glowing the same color as the pits of Hell. Her locks floated around her in turbulent motion; her eyes fell in a poisonous glower as her speech grew guttural, almost as if possessed. She felt it once again, the smokey veil of her sorcery, the darkness that had pulsated in her blood since the day she had been born. Varya was no ordinary witch, and her magic was as terrible as the creature she was trying to banish.

Just as the Drekavac flew in the air, its claws extended to gut her, the symbol captured the beast, imprisoning it in its grasp.

Then, it ignited up with the flames of Hell, iniquitous and disastrous— the demon's screech filled the forsaken forest, and it turned to ash, before vanishing altogether. In its place remained nothing but smoke, and the scent of burned bones and flesh filled the forest.

Varya fell to her knees and wheezed, the magic slipping out of her, and she panted as her eyes converged on the dried blood in the snow, where she had drawn the soul eater symbol, the only incantation known to banish demons back to Hell. It was darker than usual, almost too coagulated to be healthy, and there was a weird odor to it.

She slowly got up, ignoring the way her figure still vibrated, adrenaline starting to rush out, and ran back to where she had left Icarus. The boy was still conscious, although barely, and his weak hand flew out to her immediately. He had seen her witchcraft, he had felt its sinister power as it resonated through the woods, and his heart had leaped in his cavity.

"You are a vicious witch, Varya," he said, timbre so hoarse it pained the girl, and his eyelids started to flutter shut. She placed her hand on his cheek, quickly sealing the wound, then conjured some water for him to drink, although the boy barely managed to part his lips.

She hauled his body up, ignoring the way his weight almost crushed her, and they started making their way out of the forest and back to the train, dreading the explanations they would have to give. Alas, they were safe, for now, and that is what mattered.