CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

London had grown more morose over the few months Della Beauchamp had been away from home, and now, Varya watched her aghast face as they walked down Euston Road, her teary eyes glancing back and forth between the fallen buildings and the homeless people that cradled themselves underneath whatever cover they could find, trying to shield their bodies from the harsh winter wind.

The Blitz had happened two years ago, and the city was still recovering from the terrible bombings, many families having been displaced, their homes destroyed. It was the winter of 1943, and Hitler had just started retracting from the Eastern Front. The Western side, however, would still have years of suffering ahead of them, and the Teheran Conference was still deciding on when to oppose the nazi forces on the French territories.

Varya watched as a group of soldiers passed them, and was astounded to find them smiling as they chattered eagerly amongst themselves, patrolling the streets. They could not have been much older than her, their faces still carrying the youth of teenagers, and yet they had been ripped from their families' comfortable homes to fight against the heinous greed of their world leaders. Even those who survived were victims.

Almost as if hearing her thoughts, one soldier turned towards Varya, a hint of a grin still stitched on his face due to the lively conversation he had just had. He met her eyes, and Varya held her breath at his intense stare. He was a handsome lad, around her age, and his uniform fit him snuggly. He carried a gun on his shoulder, and Varya gazed with wonder at it, pondering how it would feel like to shoot a bullet instead of a spell.

"Excuse me," she heard him mutter to his friends, then watched as he made his way towards her with prideful steps. He stopped about a meter away from her, maintaining a respectful distance, then he bowed slightly. "Hello, m' lady."

His accent was viscid, and despite her lack of knowledge of British dialects, she could tell it was not Londonese, too dense and too rushed. It sounded almost rural, as he ate at the vows in his words. Varya gave him a slight nod, unsure of what to say. She had never spoken to a muggle so directly and had never found herself to be so nervous in one's presence.

"Could not 'elp but notice your staring, and I must admit, found it to be quite flattering. The name is William Parker, at your service," he bowed once again, this time making sure his gun was placed on his hip, not on his shoulder. A courteous gesture for a maiden, but Varya was not accustomed to muggle manners, so she only returned the bow awkwardly.

"Varya Petrov," she said, suddenly insecure of her Slavic intonation, which made her English feel butchered compared to the flattering tone of the boy.

"Petrov? Russian name, I see— or Slavic, nonetheless," he continued, cheekily smiling at her as he watched Della approach them again. He bowed to her as well, ignoring the faint blush on the woman's cheeks.

"I am from Romania, actually," she stated, although she knew it was not her actual nationality. She had never looked into that, too scared to see her family history sprawled out in front of her.

The boy frowned, suddenly, and spat at the ground, "Cowardly traitors, they 'ave fought along with the Axis, and 'ave doomed the world. Unfortunate to hear about the bombing, though, and I fear the soviet army will soon make them surrender by force. Your marshal 'as had his time of dictatorship, and the Allies plan to support the royal family in their rise back to power; I have 'eard."

Varya frowned, sending a confused look towards Della, who gave her one of understanding. Had her home been bombed, and she was not even aware of it? Noticing her confusion, William blanched and muttered a string of apologies.

"My bad, m' lady, did not know you were not aware. I pray for your family, despite whatever belief your country holds. I can tell you are not of bad seed."

The irony in his statement hurt because Varya's parents had also been on the wrong side of the war, and now they were dead. She did not correct him; however, only plastering on a fake smile, and reassured he had not offended.

"William! Get your arse back 'ere and leave the ladies alone, will ya'?"

The young soldier turned towards his friends, who were now grinning at his humiliation, and then he muttered a small goodbye, face reddened by his misfortune. The two girls watched his retreating back, both sighing in awe at the muggle's charming appearance.

They continued their journey, time in which Della explained her family's situation. Her father had been drafted in the war the previous spring, and it would be her first Christmas without him, so her heart hurt more than usual. Varya was surprised by the confession, as she had not even thought about the witch's muggle parents being affected by the war. She suddenly had a newfound respect for the Ravenclaw, who had always managed to keep a smile on her face, despite the threat of her father's demise looming over her head.

Della had also managed to convince her mum to celebrate Christmas on the twenty-third, the day before Varya was to leave, so that she could truly experience the warmth of a festive holiday. It made the Slavic girl feel guilty, as she had lied to her friend that she had to return to her estate before Christmas and ensure that it was still in good shape. Truthfully, Varya had not visited her parents' house in years, and it had probably been turned to rubble by now due to the bombardments.

Eventually, the car they had taken stopped in front of a modest home, and Della hopped off with excitement, running to the back and taking out their trunks before the driver could even open the door for the young ladies. She grabbed Varya's hand and dragged her towards the entrance.

The Beauchamp house was not the most luxurious Varya had ever seen, but it was definitely the most cordial. The reddened bricks had been chipped in places, and the dark wooden door had a few Christmas branches stuck to it, red bows tied at the bottom. Looking to her right, Varya saw a few muggle children constructing a snow-man, sticking the orange carrot right in the center of its face.

"Mama!" Della's screech gained her attention, and Varya watched a small, round woman open the door. In her youth, she would have been, perhaps, beautiful just like her daughter, but time had not been forgiving with her, and her hair had lost its shine. Even so, her eyes sparkled with glee, the joy of a beautiful soul, and Varya knew it was a trait in the family.

"My little joy!" Annie Beauchamp beamed, hugging her daughter with an incredible amount of motherly love. Then, she turned to her guest, her smile still as stretched, and it made Varya feel hesitant. "And you must be Varya, I have heard so much about you— ah, let us talk inside, it has gotten quite chilly, has it not?"

Varya trailed behind the two as she stepped over the doorframe, eyes widening at the extraordinary Christmas decorations that ornated the living room and entrance. It was an open space, the hallway leading into the brown-walled sitting area, and it was modest but warm-hearted. A towering Christmas tree stood by the fireplace, its lights twinkling against the soft glow of the room's lightbulb, and it was decorated with a multitude of red, golden, and white.

A mahogany carpet was sprawled on the ground, and a medium-sized dog was chewing at an odd-looking toy.

"Archie, look at you!" yelled Della, throwing herself on the ground as the dog started barking with excitement, rolling on his belly, then jumping over the girl. It started licking at her face, and as much as Della giggled and pushed him away, he would not budge until Annie Beauchamp called for him.

Della raised to sit on her elbows, then waved Varya to come inside. The girl did so shyly, taking her shoes off first, as was expected of Slavic countries, and dragged her suitcase beside her friend.

"Girls, go to your rooms and change quickly, dinner is almost ready, and I am excited to learn about that...odd school of yours," Annie's voice rang from the kitchen, and Varya felt herself be hauled once again and up the stairs.

"We do not have a guest room, rent in London is already pricy, and we could not afford it, I hope it is not a bother. My mum bought a small mattress, and you can take the bed—"

"Nonsense, Della, you have already been so welcoming. I will gladly take the mattress," smiled Varya as her friend opened the door to her room.

Della's room was the imagery of her character. It had shelves of stacked books, most of them of muggle literature, and some were even in messy piles on her floor. Her walls were Ravenclaw blue, and Varya almost snorted at the irony, with her ceiling having oddly painted stars. At night, they glowed, Della explained, and it had been her father who had drawn them for her because she had always enjoyed stargazing. Ever since the start of the war, it was not safe to stay outside at night, and every falling star could be an approaching enemy aircraft.

Her bed was in the corner, sheets clean, but the girl laughed, saying it had been her mother that had washed them, as Della had left in a rush on the 1st of September. Next to it, a small mattress was on the floor, but it had so many pillows it was undoubtedly more comfortable than the bunk beds Varya slept on at her old school.

The girls changed quickly, and Varya had to borrow a sweater from her friend, as most of her clothes did not belong in the muggle world. She was appalled when her friend pulled out a pair of cotton pants for her, as she found it ridiculous to wear such attire, but after persistent begging, she dressed with them. Varya had to admit, they were extremely comfortable, and wearing them could quickly become a habit.

They went back down quickly, giggling as they bumped into each other along the small staircase, and as soon as they entered the kitchen, Varya's mouth watered at the sight of the food that was laid on the table. For the first time in months, the girls would be able to eat chicken, as Hogwarts had stopped serving it for a reason unknown to them. Students had just assumed they were in shortage due to the ongoing war, as most foods came from muggle farms, and now they were supplying their combat troops.

"I am telling you, mum, if Varya were not a transfer, she would have surely been a prefect as well! She is second in most of her classes, but we might as well say she is first, because only Tom Riddle manages to beat her constantly, and we all know he was more machinery than man."

Varya choked on her hot chocolate, laughter bubbling in her chest at Della's complaints, her tone carrying rejoinder that she would have never shown in front of the Slytherin prefect.

"Is he as bad as Della says?" Annie asked her guest, eyes radiating at her daughter's stories.

Varya thought for a second about the serpent boy, then let a small smile rest on her lips, "No, not really. Misunderstood, perhaps."

Della scoffed, then rolled her eyes, "She only says that because she is in love with him or something—"

Varya struck her friend over the head, ignoring the heavy wince that left her mouth, and tried to cover her reddening cheeks with her hands, embarrassed at the idea. She was horrified by the words, not even allowing herself to think she could carry such feelings for the boy whose throat she had placed a dagger against only hours ago.

And yet, her heart beat faster.

"And what about you and Malfoy, then?" Varya stuttered, ignoring the pleading gaze her friend shot her. She heard Annie gasp; then, a flying shoe was sent their way, both of them ducking just in time to avoid the collision.

"Della Beauchamp!" the woman screeched, mouth open in shock. "Boys at the age of seventeen? Wait until your father hears about this—"

The mother stopped herself, suddenly painfully aware of the sorrow in Della's eyes. She missed her father greatly, and it was slowly killing her not to know what was happening to him. She had told Varya that they could only send correspondence once a month. However, because of the approaching threat of german resistance, they had been too preoccupied with keeping themselves alive.

"Honey..."

"It is fine," Della smiled, blinking her tears away rapidly, "It is not your fault, mum, I just— I want to know that he is all right, that is all."

Varya looked at her with furrowed eyebrows, not used to seeing her friend sad. The Ravenclaw prefect had only ever smiled around her, and it was unusual to see her in any other way, but also calming. It made her human.

Suddenly, an idea struck Varya, "Wait here."

She ran up the stairs, opening the door to the room she had left her bag in, then started searching in it until she found a medium-sized, compact mirror. Varya then opened one of her pouches in which she had brought some potion ingredients, knowing they would suffice until she could reach Diagon Alley.

She made her way back down and noticed the two women were still sitting at the table, Annie gently patting her daughter's back as she sobbed silently. "Do you have anything that belongs to your father?" asked Varya, and Annie nodded, making her way to the living room.

"Varya, what are you doing?" Della asked, eyeing the bag of ingredients as the Slavic girl settled everything on the table. "We cannot do magic outside of the school, the Trace—"

"The Trace does not work on me, Della, I am a foreigner, and the Ministry has not put the charm on me yet," Varya explained, "and believe me, the Romanian Ministry could care less about tracking our spells when they openly let us practice dark arts."

She did not miss the way the girl winced at the mention of back magic but ignored it as she placed the mirror on the table, circling it with moonstone powder, then drawing a symbol on its back with phoenix feather ash. Annie came back into the room, and handed Varya an old-fashioned hat, that the girl placed in front of her setting.

She closed her eyes, right hand on the mirror, then started whispering the incantation, feeling the prying eyes of the muggle woman in the room. Varya was surely breaking dozens of rules by doing this, but she knew the Ministry would not be able to track it back to her, especially since she was not using her wand.

Varya stopped when she felt the mirror sizzle in her hand, and she cracked her dark eyes, staring at the heated object, relishing in the way it burned against her skin. She opened it slowly, and surely enough, she saw a man that carried Della's eye color and gracefulness in a camp, resting on his bed as he was reading what seemed to be a newspaper.

She passed the magical object to Della and saw her eyes flood rapidly, Annie letting out a gasp behind her. Della started wailing loudly, resting her forehead against her palm, and then she looked up at Varya with the most gratitude the girl had ever received.

"Varya," she breathed between cries, struggling to piece her thankfulness together as she looked at her friend through foggy eyes, "You have no idea how much this means to me— to us."

Varya headed to her side of the table, embracing her friend as she cried in her shoulder, this time with relief and happiness. She squeezed her hand, massaging circles in her palm, and muttering words of reassurance.

"My Christmas gift for you," she said, slowly stroking the girl's hair, "You will always be able to watch over him, and I placed a good luck charm on his hat, it should keep him safe."

For the rest of the night, she stood by Della, finally understanding what it felt like to be kind to others.

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Hi! This is going to be a double update because this chapter is short and only a filler. By the time you read this, the next chapter should have already been published or is still being edited one last time!