FINAL CHAPTER

The Great Hall was soundless, and few dared snigger and waltz around as they would habitually. Almost all were dressed in black, and Varya let her eyes trail the room with some aversion— most had not even known Ivy, yet they paraded themselves around with a grief-stricken expression as if they had been the ones that had lost a beloved friend. It was all a pretense, a vanity of tenderness to plead for attention and consolation, yet none would lose sleep over her death.

"Stop gripping your fork so tightly," muttered Felix from beside her as he grabbed her hand and unclenched her fingers from her utensil, "You look as if you are about to stab someone."

Varya sighed and let her body loosen, although the tautness never quite seemed to fade the way, and she watched from the Ravenclaw table as Headmaster Dippet discussed something with Elladora Selwyn. Then, he pulled out a badge from his pocket and handed it to the girl.

The Eastern witch stabbed her steak, earning a surprised yelp from Parkin, "Holy marbles, you scared me!"

"He made Elladora a prefect," Varya remarked bitterly, nodding to where her roommate accepted the badge. She had the decency to appear unsure, at least, almost as if she had not waited for her moment to outshine Ivy for so long.

Felix followed her gaze, then sighed, "I dislike that red-haired throat-slashing siren as much as everyone else, but you cannot blame her for that. They had to fill in the position, and with you leaving Hogwarts, Elladora was the obvious choice."

That was a reasonable way to address the issue, yet Varya still felt cold. It should not have been done so soon, not when Ivy's body had just been carried out of Hogsmeade and was not even six feet underground. It felt premature, almost as if some part of her could return and retake her rightful place.

Even so, Felix's words rang with truth— regardless of Selwyn's previous intentions, the witch was not at fault for what had happened, and if anyone could fill in Ivy's shoes, it would be the tornado of fire and vexation that was Elladora Selwyn.

The Headmaster rose to his feet, then cleared his throat as he gazed over the remaining body of Hogwarts students, then spoke in a low timbre, "With recent events, it is hard to believe that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will ever stand as it once has— a safe place for ingenious minds of all backgrounds and one of the few schools that have always had their arms open to any sort of ancestry and magic."

Varya saw Della tense over the table, and she almost scoffed at the obliviousness of their Headmaster, who had never believed that any Hogwarts student could mean harm. And how wrong he had been.

"At the beginning of this week, the Ministry had decided to close our school until further notice," whispers and shouts of astonishment passed through the crowds, yet Dippet silenced them with the wave of his hand, "However, one student has stood bravely and confronted the terror that had plagued our sacred grounds, and has collaborated with Professor Dumbledore to elucidate the mystery surrounding Ivy Trouche's death and the attack on the Great Hall. It has been revealed that multiple dark creatures had been migrating West in the past few months, and apparently, one had broken in and ran rampant against our students."

A scoff fell past Varya's lips, and she shook her head in disapproval at the pitiful cover-up. Ivy's parents would never know the real beast that had killed their daughter, and Grindelwald's name would not be tarnished in the public eye, yet again out of fear of retribution.

"With that being said, it is my pleasure to award a Special Award for Services to the School to none other than one of the greatest minds that Hogwarts has produced— Tom Riddle."

Varya chewed on her steak to bite down the aggravation that crawled up her throat as the Hall erupted in cheers for the fraud that Tom Riddle was. She let her eyes trace his figure as he walked gallantly to the front of the tables and accepted the trophy, shaking the hands of each Professor as they congratulated him for something he did not deserve.

Regardless of the fact that he had coordinated his Knights, Tom had not done much to stop her Obscurus and had instead relied on communal magic to prevent the disaster. Yet here he was, accumulating the laudations by himself, almost as if he had acted alone.

The rest of the Knights did not seem bothered. As a matter of fact, they all applauded with distasteful smiles on their faces, and something churned in Varya's abdomen at the weird mixture of sensations— on the one hand, she cared about all of them despite the constant fire games they had all engaged in; on the other hand, she knew they would always be wicked little creatures that fed on the despair of others.

The seven devils that had tormented the school for so long and would continue to do so, the cruel and misleading elite clique that had drowned themselves in extravagance and wealth to hide their true macabre inclinations, and had gloved their hands in fine silk to plunge their bloodied hands into darkness. They were, to the untrained eye, the perfect representation of aristocracy and intellectualism, cultivated minds that had been trained to perform at fast capacities, the crème de la crème.

But to Varya, they had shown their true intentions— sociopaths, murderers, poisoners, schemers. There was nothing refined about the harsh edges of their souls, and something so foul had been packaged in such a superb wrapping paper. The phrase "do not judge a book by its cover" had attained a completely different meaning.

Almost as if they had felt someone watching them, they all turned their heads to face her simultaneously, yet the girl refused to cower under their intimidating gazes. And with seven pairs of monstrous eyes on her, Varya stood proudly, her chin held high as she hoisted an eyebrow to ridicule their gawking, and Avery snickered before sending her a kiss and telling everyone to resume their chatting.

It was only when the clock struck the twentieth hour that Varya stood up from the table, wishing Felix and Della a restful sleep, and headed to leave the Great Hall. She stepped into the open hallways, then made her way down and to the Dungeons, when she felt a hand on her forearm.

Varya twisted around to meet the eyes of Tom Riddle, and he towered over her, arrogant all-knowing look on his face as he held the trophy lazily by his side, and lowered his chin until his eyes were on the same level as hers.

"What?" she asked with irritation lacing her timbre, yet her breath hitched as he smirked at her recalcitrance.

"I had forgotten how wonderful you look when you defy me," he spoke slowly, then straightened up and tilted his head, almost as if he was trying to figure her out.

Varya felt her face heat up, then half-turned it away from him, unsure what to make of his compliment, "What do you want?"

"When do you leave?" he inquired, then extended his elbow to her. She raised an eyebrow but accepted his offer only to feel somewhat closer to him, and they strode down the hallways together.

"Tomorrow after Felix's graduation ceremony," she stated truthfully, "He got scouted by some wonderful Quidditch team, so he leaves as soon as he gets his diploma, and I want to bid my farewell properly."

Tom answered nothing to that and tried to dismiss the rage that grew inside him as she mentioned another man, yet found that the flame burned brightly, and he pursed his lips in discontent.

He was not sure what else to say or how to explain the agony that was devouring his insides, almost as if her abandonment had petrified him beyond recognition, and he dreaded the moment the witch would walk out of the castle. Riddle struggled to piece together his thoughts, to form a sentence that would explain why he had done what he had done, yet he lacked such words in his vocabulary. Instead, he stayed silent, and he reprimanded himself by denying the one thing that would soothe the ache that had built inside for years— her devotion and love.

They reached the Slytherin Common Room, and then cruised to the stairs that led to each of their dormitories, the silence a burden on their shoulders. Varya sighed profoundly and glanced at Tom as he continued to regard her with dispute in his eyes.

"Is there anything you wish to tell me before I leave?"

Yes, there were many things the boy should have confessed, yet he could not bring himself to do so. Not now, when his future was bleak with failure, and he had to pick himself off of the ground before allowing himself any sort of warmth.

"As I have said before," he began, voice detached as he maintained an impassive face, "I wish you a safe journey."

The girl sighed deeply, then nodded her head slowly, disappointment obvious in her watering eyes, and her heart broke as she spent the last few minutes in the presence of the man she had grown to love unlike any other.

He was breathtaking, the finest piece of art in a collection of renowned canvases, and he stood against the backdrop of Slytherian green with the utter power that only the heir of Salazar would have. His veins glowed of emerald against his pale skin, almost as if his blood was made of the House's essence, the poison of a serpent.

Moreover, he was vicious beyond reason, and that was the exact trait that made Tom Riddle such an incomprehensible being— the right mixture of mortal Adonis' beauty and immortal Hades' furor, almost as if he had seized what made them both efficacious, and had fashioned himself to be a demigod that strove to escape death much as the Greeks had.

"Very well, Tom," she responded bitterly, then glanced at him one last time before pivoting on her feet and going up her stairs, hand gripping the railing to prevent her knees from collapsing underneath her weight.

Riddle observed her disappear beyond the walls on the girls' hallway, and for the first time, it was her that was leaving him, and not the other way around. Then, the boy finally understood how utterly crushed the girl had been each time he had left her.

***

Tom Riddle had been tossing and turning around all night, his dreams a never-ending series of onyx eyes and raven locks that moved through the breeze of spring. Whenever he closed his eyes, Varya's face was the first thing that he saw, and he felt almost as if something was smothering him.

Words. Unspoken words were strangling him to the point where he could not sleep, and he knew there were things that he should have told the girl, yet he had not done so out of concern of making her stay.

But now that her departure was imminent, they constricted around his esophagus and squeezed, then clogged his air pipes as they tried to plummet from his lips and seek out the witch. Tom pressed his hand against his mouth and cleared his throat, trying to push back the sensation, yet it remained there.

He clutched his duvet tightly, staring at the ceiling as he ran a hand through his bed hair, and then yawned loudly before grabbing his pocket watch from the dresser and checking the time— barely past three in the morning. The day that Varya Petrov would be making her departure from Hogwarts.

Riddle tossed his blankets aside, then let his feet touch the cold stone and sneered at the sensation against his soles. Regardless, he grasped a pair of shoes and threw on his Slytherin robe before opening the door to the Common Room and marching down the stairs.

The only person standing in the room was Elladora Selwyn, who had her body thrown over the couch, cascade of fire falling off of one of the ends while her feet dangled on the other, and a glass of wine was in her hand as she held in dangerously close to tipping. The other hand, however, had the prefect badge against the dim light of the fire, and she twirled it in her fingers feverously.

"Why are you not sleeping?" inquired Tom, although he did not care much for it besides his curiosity. He took a seat on one of the chairs opposite her, and Selwyn clicked her tongue against her cheek in disapproval.

Weakly, she pushed her body halfway up, forest eyes locking with marine, and then she gestured to the stairs that led to the girl's dormitory, "You try sleeping in the same room where you grew up with your now deceased roommate."

Tom did not see the problem with that— many children at the orphanage would perish during long winter nights, when the flu would sweep through the building and take the lost souls back to nothingness. He had never lost sleep over it.

"You did not like her," Riddle reminded Elladora, and his eyes flickered back to the badge, "That symbol in your hand was one of the many reasons you hated her."

"Oh, I did hate her for it, all right? That does not mean I wanted her dead," scoffed the cherry-haired girl, "We had known each other for years, even before we came to Hogwarts, so while I might not be crying over it, I definitely feel—"

"Haunted?"

"Of sorts," snarled the girl, "I half expect her ghost to appear in my bedroom and choke me in my sleep. Make me swallow this stupid badge or something akin to that. Varya did a ritual before bed though— checked for traces of her spirit, but she said she had passed through."

At the mention of the Eastern girl's name, Tom's eyes snapped back to the staircase, and his eyelashes fluttered in wonder.

"She went to sleep with Della," stated Elladora, sensing the question in his mind.

"I did not ask."

"You did not have to," replied the witch, then sipped on her wine calmly, ignoring the murderous glare that Tom was sending her way. Her hand went to her earlobe subconsciously, and she felt the rugged texture where Avery had once cut it at Riddle's command.

Regardless, the girl was too hot-tempered to be as submissive as the rest of the boys, and although most of the time she slithered through their words and twisted things in her favor without anyone noticing, Riddle had an affinity for sensing when someone was dishonest.

"She was upset when she came to the room," continued Selwyn, playing with fire as she irked her leader, "Well, that would be expected considering the circumstances, but there was more to it— heartbreak is quite the obvious color on a girl our age. You sure did your number on her Riddle."

Tom continued to glower at his follower, almost wishing he could reprimand her for her insubordination. Yet, the sensation of suffocation came back, and so he pushed himself to his feet and stormed out of the room, completely ignoring Elladora's pleased smirk as he wandered away.

As he strolled around the hallways, he pressed his palms against his face in an attempt to temper the burning sensation, his feet automatically moving towards the Salon, and Riddle tried to rip apart at the threads that kept his soul together. He wanted to unleash his fury, yet the agony of losing Varya suppressed any other feeling.

When he shouldered the door open to the Ravenclaw Salon, he half-expected the witch to be there, and his chest twisted with repulsive frustration when he did not see her face. Tom had never been so disgusted with his behavior, and he wanted to curse himself for allowing such weakness to invade his system.

Because now, he only ever thought of her, he only ever cared for her; he only ever glanced at her. It was so unfamiliar, so foreign, almost as if he was the one that had welcomed a parasite into his body, and it was spreading its poison through all of his organs, having them fail one by one until Tom Riddle would no longer be the man he once was.

The worst part of it? Tom could not bring himself to cure it. It was as if he had become some sort of lunatic, a masochist that relished in his own destruction as the disease spread through his bonemarrow and devoured his saneness. There should have been spells to combat such feelings, to break bonds as theirs, yet he had never bothered researching them.

The reasoning behind it was simple— in his own twisted way, he wanted Varya to be his, and he knew that if he pushed the only humanity he had in him away, that would never be a possibility. At the same time, he loathed how weak it made him feel—mortal, above all— and his eyes dashed around the room in confusion as he tried to understand such conflict.

There had to be some universe in which his affection for Varya and his creation of chaos could co-exist, where one did not have to annihilate the other, and they could entangle in the momentum of catastrophe.

He would be damned if such suffering would be his burden alone to face, and whatever curse the bloody witch had placed on him, Tom would ensure that it haunted her to her metaphorical grave.

Words continued to clog his being, and he clawed at his throat as veins rammed against his skin, and with a dizzy head, he plucked out the journal from his robe and ripped out one lonesome page. Then, he placed a quill on it, and he scribbled fiercely as his mind finally broke against its rusted lock of seclusion.

***

"You should try to sleep," whispered Felix in the darkness, tired eyes darting to both of his friends as they stood on Della's bed. He had taken the floor, as Beauchamp's roommates had ceded the room to the trio, but had been very clear about nobody using their beds.

"I cannot," replied Varya, then twisted herself until her head almost hung off of the bed, and she gazed at her friend with an empty stare, "We are both leaving in a few hours, and it feels wrong— it feels abrupt, and I cannot imagine a life outside of those walls, away from—"

"From Riddle?" quipped Felix, and he felt the fabric of a pillow as the girl threw it at his face, "Of course, I understand that."

"And the fact that she still has two years left," mumbled Varya as she glanced at Della, who was frowning deeply in her sleep, "We are all going our own ways."

Parkin stayed quiet, a soft sigh leaving his lips. He stood up, then rested his back against the wall, and let his head fall against the cold stone. It did seem surreal, and almost unfair, especially for the younger witch whose hand had been forced by others.

"Has Scamander told you where you are going?"

"No," she confessed, "And with Dumbledore's task, I believe that I will not accompany him as much as I had intended to."

Felix nodded, then slowly got up to his feet. Eyes dancing around his room, he smirked before dashing to where Della was sleeping and then tried shaking her awake. The girl's eyes snapped open immediately, and her body shot up in bed as she clutched her chest with fear. Panic eyes darted around the room, and she only loosened up when Felix placed a comforting hand on her back, encouraging her to breathe slowly.

"What is it?" she asked suddenly, dragging her feet to the floor, and she accepted the boy's hand as he raised her to her feet. They stood by each other closely, and Della's soft eyes snapped to his, where the terrible affection swam with sincerity, and the girl had to take a step back to collect herself.

Ever since their kiss, her skin had tingled whenever he touched her, yet the world had shifted, and now there was no place for Felix in her heart. It would be too dangerous for her to associate herself with him, not when Grindelwald already had one man that she cared for, not when she had already betrayed her friends so profoundly.

Hurt flashed across the boy's eyes, but he flickered it away with dark eyelashes, and then he forcefully smiled at his two friends, "Well, there is no point in sitting around and not doing anything! Come up, come around— our last night at Hogwarts should not be so gloomy."

So he grabbed their hands and forced them out of their room, not even regarding that they were all in their sleepwear, or that their feet were bare against the cold titles. The Parkin boy pulled the two girls across multiple hallways until they stood at the entrance of the Great Hall.

He yanked his wand out, and with the smallest gesture, he unlocked the doors and stepped inside, revealing the darkened chamber. His arms rose upwards, and every candle flickered alight with vigor as Felix walked down the center of the room— it was easy to forget that he was brilliant, and as Head Boy, he had magic that most only dreamed of.

Once he had revigorated the salon, he turned to the two girls, and in his eyes twinkled joviality that Varya had not seen since before the spring break. He pulled off a button from his shirt, then threw it in the air and transfigured it into some sort of violin.

"Parkin, get back here!" exclaimed Della, eyes darting to the hallway, "Someone will surely catch us. What if the caretaker finds us? Do you want to face Apollyon Pringle's cane?"

As if on cue, one head snapped over the frame of the door, glancing inside with intrusiveness. Maxwell Nott grimaced as he watched the three students stand in the center of the room, and clicked his tongue against his cheek when he observed the Head Boy charm the violin to play an idle melody, snapping his feet to the rhythm and twirling with bare soles on the Slytherin table.

"A party?" rang a voice behind him, and then Nott found himself to be pushed inside by Nicholas Avery. The eyes of the latter twinkled with misbehavior before he darted down the middle path of the tables and greeted an overly cautious Della and an amused Varya.

Maxwell sighed in displeasure, then marched into the room and cast a silencing charm around the perimeter, ensuring that nobody would be able to find them unless they were specifically searching for them.

"Petrov, I heard you are to leave in a few hours," announced Avery, throwing a hand around the girl's shoulders and dragging her to one of the tables, where he hopped on and then extended an arm to her, "Did not even care to say goodbye? Hurtful! But I will take one dance as an apology."

Varya crossed her arms in exasperation, not understanding how everyone could pretend that there was room for any celebration. But then, she glanced at Nicholas' face, and something odd struck her in her soul.

When they had met, he had been ferocious. He had disliked the witch endlessly and had done everything in his power to ensure that she would stay away from the group, even going as far as poisoning her for Riddle's benefits. Avery had appeared, at first, to be a very withdrawn person. He rarely spent time with the rest of the group out in the open, much preferring to hide in the darkness and lurk around like an enigmatic assassin. Yet, as soon as Varya had shown him that she was worthy of his presence and time, a matched adversary in viciousness and cunningness, he had undoubtedly opened up more.

Nicholas Avery was relentless, a legionnaire of dark magic, and even as he extended a hand with allure and sophistication, Varya could still feel the fumes of metallic that radiated from then, and no matter how much the boy cleaned his skin, it would always taste and smell of the gore he had spilled.

However, Nicholas Avery was also an honorable man, who had always stood by those he cared for, and had protected them against the cruelty they would have faced otherwise. In some twisted way, he was a paternal figure to the group and had always taken on the burden of murder to lessen the darkness of the Knights' souls. A trickster in his rightfulness, and with a tongue so vulgar it made maidens gasp, Avery had become a mess of sharpness and spikes to shelter the friends he had grown up with.

"Very well," the witch sighed, then cradled the margins of her dress as she rose up on the table, the feeblest smile on her lips as she let the boy twirl her around before pulling her close, "Hands above the waist."

Avery smirked, then leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Of course, would not want Riddle to cut them off, would I?"

Varya scoffed, then rolled her eyes and struck the boy gently over the arm, earning a snigger from him. They moved rhythmically to the tune, smiling as the wooden table creaked underneath their feet, and with each turn, her heart grew heavier at having to leave in such a short time.

"Rosier told me that Grindelwald was behind Ivy's murder," the lie slipped through his lips so easily he almost believed himself, and while Ren had announced that Varya no longer blamed the Knights, they had all known the true motive behind the girl's death, "You must be delighted that Tom was not the one doing the killing, for once."

The witch frowned at his distasteful humor— she could not join in on his jest, not when regardless of who had done it, Ivy was still dead, "I suppose so," she said dryly as Avery continued gliding with his hands on her waist.

His eyebrows furrowed, and then he lowered his voice, and said in a severe timbre, "He will pay. Lopheus and Trouche will both be avenged one way or another, and their deaths will not be in vain."

Of course, how could the girl have forgotten that he had lost a dear friend to the Alliance just as she had? And while the circumstances were different, and the amount of resentment was not proportional, Nicholas had experienced such pain before.

"Does it get easier?" Varya inquired, and the violin stopped playing for a second as the tune changed. They took that moment as an opportunity to sit down, faces morose as they watched Felix pester Della and Nott into joining him on the Slytherin table, "Knowing that Lopheus died— did it ever get easier?"

"No," Nicholas replied truthfully, "Not until I find the person that did it and rip their throat out. Not until I see the Daily Prophet announce that the Alliance has crumbled."

Varya nodded to that, and then gazed at the boy, "I am sure you will find the person that was responsible."

"Damn right, I will," growled the boy, and his bright eyes lit up with absolute sinister fury, "They will show their face eventually— killers always come back to their crime scene. And when they do? I will make sure they suffer as much as he did."

Tactunity fell over them— the comfortable sort— and Varya was glad for it. She had not had much of it lately, not since her Horcrux had formed. With that thought, she clung to her necklace, and her chest squeezed as she thought back to Riddle. No. Enough of that— he had made his choice with his silence, and she could only accept the truth that the boy did not care for her departure.

To distract herself, the witch glanced at Maxwell Nott, who had succumbed to peer-pressure and was now awkwardly trying to follow Felix's dancing steps, his stiffness earning the slightest giggle from Della Beauchamp. He was the only Knight the muggle-born had ever felt slightly comfortable around, and even when he had shown up at her door, demanding that she follow him, the boy had not been as aggressive as the rest of them.

Maxwell Nott, when Varya had first met him, had been the stillness of the night, a person that hid behind the cover of a book to avoid striking conversation with strangers. She still remembered the first time they had sat together in the Great Hall, when he had not even introduced himself, too busy reading the Daily Prophet to acknowledge her presence.

Somewhere along the way, the boy had somewhat come out of his shell, to the point where he could dance on the table with Felix Parkin and have a ghost smile on his lips. He had stepped up during their confrontation in the Forbidden Forest, and despite the fact that the Knights had never failed to remind him that he was not a warrior, he had tried to help them with his magic.

But above all, Nott had learned that his worthiness did not stem from Tom Riddle's approval, but rather from his undeniable intellectual capacity and resourcefulness, and he did not have to compete with the rest of the Knights, nor with Varya, to prove himself— he only had to continue using his bright mind to unsolve the mysteries that they faced.

Eventually, the Sun began to rise, and phoenix feathered rays clashed against the high windows of the Great Hall, dancing on the glass surface as they passed through it and caressed the faces of the young students. Nott helped Varya hop off the table, and Felix hoisted Della up from where she had fallen asleep on one of the benches, carrying her bridal style out into the hallway.

With a bittersweet feeling, the Eastern witch approached her two Ravenclaw friends, and Della slightly raised her head from Felix's chest to turn watering eyes to her friend. Her feet touched the ground, and she clashed against Varya as she embraced her greatly, comprehending that only fate knew when they would see each other again.

"I am so sorry," the younger witch cried, clutching her chest that had once held a golden heart, now cracked by the heat of Hell's fire, and her apology carried a nuance neither Varya, nor Felix, would understand.

The Slavic girl squeezed her petite body back, "Nothing to apologize for, Della."

The girl made no comment— she did not explain that there were, in fact, many things that she should have apologized for. Not when Avery and Nott were standing in a corner, watching her with falcon eyes as she wiped her runny nose and blinked away the tears.

She cared for Varya, she truly did, and regardless of her past actions, Della wanted to be there for her. But for now, all she could do was help the Knights outwit Grindelwald, and after all, the girl did not know half of what Petrov had gone through.

"I just," she began again, patting her eyes dry, "It will be appalling here without you...without the both of you, really. And who will I sneak into the kitchens with? I feel as if everyone is moving on, and yet here I am, suffocating and stuck in the same place."

"We are not leaving you behind, darling," replied Felix from behind her, then approached the two witches and encompassed them both in a tight hug, "We will write to each other, we will keep in touch no matter where we end up."

"Exactly," encouraged Varya, grabbing Della's shoulder and smiling at her brightly.

"When all of this is over, we will be a proper family. You'll see," quipped Felix, yet his words resonated through the three classmates, and they glanced at each other with compassion in their eyes.

Then, one by one, they placed their hands over each other, and at that moment, a promise of time and faith had been struck— they would all see each other again.

***

Ivy's bed was still undone from the last morning she had woken up. Her belongings had been packed up in boxes, yet her parents had left them all in the room, too grief-stricken to carry them back to their manor.

Varya stood in her corner of the room, onyx eyes trailed on the empty bed, and it all felt so wrong. It felt as if part of her life had been outrooted and taken from her, as if there was something missing from her soul, and she could not just bring herself to accept the fact that Ivy was truly gone. It was an odd sensation— the fact that she could never talk with her friend again, that she would never be able to attend Slughorn's celebrations with her roommate.

Losing someone— it never quite healed, not the right way. It was akin to breaking a bone and letting it heal naturally, and while on the outside it appeared the same, the mechanics were never right. And with people so young, it was even more of a tragedy.

"I could not sleep in here either."

The raven-haired girl turned around to face Elladora Selwyn, who sat in the door frame with her head hanging on the wooden part, and miscellaneous eyes were dancing across the multitude of boxes with despondency Varya had never seen them carry before.

"Where were you, then?" inquired Varya, and she observed the posh witch move across the room with elegance even in her disheveled state, hands scurrying to pull her locks in a tight bun.

Elladora threw herself on the bed, yet her face refused to turn to the empty corner of the room, where shadows swirled with decadence, and even light seemed to fear it, "Malfoy let me use Riddle's bed since he never came back to the Common Room."

That certainly got Varya's attention, "Where did he go?"

The red-haired witch shrugged, her mind somewhere else altogether, and then her eyes seem to focus as she glanced at Varya's packed trunk. She had not expected the feeling of melancholy to encompass her soul, yet her eyes lacquered over with despondency as they darted back to her roommate's face.

She had detested Varya at first. The moment she had seen her at the Slytherin table during the Sorting Ceremony, Selwyn had resented the girl without a substantial reason. There was something in how she walked, as if cut from a rough stone, and how she dressed that just made her seem so foreign, so peculiar.

Elladora had been taught since an early age that there were specific ways girls were supposed to act, always prim and proper, an amalgam of perfume and refinement that, to the teenage girl, screamed of nouveau riche. The war had slightly altered the perception of femininity, with many women taking on a more prominent household role with the absence of their husbands. Yet, young witches were still educated to be feminine, respectful, disarming.

But the heir had never intended to do so. She was very much aware that her constitution did not allow her to overpower men physically, yet manipulating them seemed to come easily, and soon enough, she had found herself using the stereotypical behavior of an interbelic woman to attain her needs— flutter her eyelashes, smile gently, flick her wrist— and men were at her feet. Nevertheless, her core was rougher, greedier, and she wanted to prove that she could stand amongst men and still be brilliant and assertive.

Her parents had never allowed her to be anything but a proper-lady, and they had been very severe about it growing up, but Varya? She had the freedom that Elladora had always wanted, the roughness that made men like Tom Riddle and Icarus Lestrange respect her, and that was so utterly infuriating to the rogue witch.

Even so, over the couple of months they had spent together, Elladora had come to appreciate Varya's abrasiveness, and had understood that there were many layers to the girl. Indeed, her freedom had come at a great price, and there was nothing to envy of the witch's situation. More so, Selwyn had been glad to have another girl on the team, even if only by association, and had started liking the Eastern witch. More importantly, Elladora respected Varya, and that was not something that was easy to earn.

"I cannot believe you are also leaving," confessed the red-haired girl, sighing deeply as she pursed her lips in discontent, "I am not one for emotions, nor sappiness, but I have to admit, Petrov— I will miss that terrible accent of yours."

"Sod off, Selwyn," rasped Varya, although her lips carried a wan smile, and she revived the early days of the year when the girl had been the one she had considered to be her closest friend. How odd it all seemed now, to think that their relationship had oscillated so much. She was unsure if she could call Elladora a friend, yet there was an unspoken bond between the two.

"Sincerely, who will knock me out with their dagger?"

"Oh, so you know about that?" quipped Varya as she packed her boots in a box before stuffing it inside her trunk, and Elladora scoffed.

"I woke up in the snow with a nasty bruise on my temple. Now, there are only two people who carry around daggers like a bunch of lunatics, and Avery happened to be taking his sweet nap at the time," she replied acoustically, then changed her timbre, "With you and Ivy gone, this room will certainly feel empty."

"I am sure they will assign you new roommates to poison and terrorize."

Elladora smirked, "Yet they will be no match for me, not as you were," her answer was sincere, almost flattering, "I am not sure when I will see you again, but I do wish for it to be during better times."

There was a soft knock on the door, and they both turned to face one of the older Slytherin girl, who informed Varya that the carriages had pulled outside. The Eastern witch nodded, then hauled her trunk upwards and dragged it to the door.

"I will leave you to it," declared Elladora, and then she strolled out of the room and left the Eastern witch to have a moment to herself.

Her darkened eyes trailed the chamber, glancing at every detail she had come to memorize over the past few months— the way the window above Ivy's bed had a small crack near the edge, and on stormy nights it kept the girls awake as the Lake slammed against the glass with more vigor, making them wonder if it could break; how the chandelier in the middle had a few parts missing from when Ivy had thrown a pillow at Elladora in anger for borrowing her clothes without asking, or the way Varya's bed was more raised than the rest because it had been replaced after her Obscurus had broken it during a terrible nightmare.

She still cherished the first day the Slytherin emerald had danced on her face after Tom Riddle had escorted the transfers and first-years to their dorms, his stature imposing and his timbre laced with allure, yet Varya had sensed the way darkness crawled around him as spiders in the dusty corners of their Common Room.

There would surely be a lot she would miss, and leaving Hogwarts would hurt more than her departure from Scholomance had, yet the future called for her bravely, and the witch knew it was time to move on. So, she grabbed the handle of her luggage and stepped into the hallway, gazing inside her dormitory one last time before she let the sturdy door fall closed.

She walked downstairs, where a few of her classmates said their goodbyes despite never bothering to talk to her much, and she nodded shyly before stepping out into the vast corridors and marching up the stairs to the Main Entrance.

Albus Dumbledore stood there, brown vest wrapped tightly around his chest, and his robes hung to the ground as he waited for her to approach. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood with his chin held high, a glorious and renowned sorcerer.

"Good morning, Varya," he greeted before opening the door for her and leading her to one of the carriages that stood out front, "I expect that Newton will meet you right as you arrive in London. I have informed him of your task, and he has assured me that he will give you the means to achieve it. You will be staying at a secluded location that he will guide you to, and you can begin tracking down the Hallows there."

Varya nodded reluctantly, then glanced at the Hogwarts Towers as they clashed against the tangerine horizon, flocks of birds soaring past their impressive heights before plunging in the air and twirling in a swirl of feathers. Then, she turned to her Professor, and replied to his statement, "How will I be able to reach you if needed?"

The sorcerer frowned, then patted the Thestral that was dragging the carriage, who had grown restless in Varya's presence, "Hogwarts will, unfortunately, be off-limits for the time being. With Grindelwald's advances, I have discussed with Headmaster Dippet that it be best we close our gates to any visitors. However, I believe that Newton, Tina, and I will be meeting regularly to assess your progress and Gellert's move," he stated, then nodded, "You will not be alone. I have assembled a team that will help you fulfill your task."

"A team?" inquired Varya, flabbergasted at the notion. She had thought that she would face everything alone, yet it seemed as if Dumbledore had had something else in mind.

"Certainly, you did not believe you would be doing this alone. That would be unheard of— not even I would carry such a task singly, and with Gellert's intent of capturing you, it is safer for you to be surrounded by competent people," he hoisted an eyebrow, almost as if he could not believe the girl had thought him cruel enough to give her such a heavy burden to shoulder simply.

"But, who could help me? I do not understand."

"For the past few months, the Scamander brothers have been working tirelessly to create an Order of extraordinary young witches and wizards— a collection of peculiar magic holders, such as yourself, who have devoted their unusual powers to fight against the Alliance. From all over the world, they have come to ensure that magic will remain a secret, and believe me, they are of all sorts. Their magic is unlike anything you have ever seen, and I believe you will fit right in."

The girl was at a loss for words, and Dumbledore took that moment to raise one hand in the air, and wave someone down. Footsteps echoed through the empty garden, and then a boy with light hair and a radiant smile threw his luggage in the carriage— Felixius Parkin.

"Felix, are you not supposed to be by the boats already? The ceremony should start any minute, and we have already said our goodbyes," began Varya, yet the boy shook his head.

He gave her a sincere smile, then threw an arm around her shoulders before dragging her to the carriage and hopping on it, "Surely, you did not believe you would be doing this alone, right Petrov?"

Her soul fluttered with gratitude, and light burst through her being as she watched him with teary eyes, "You mean to tell me—"

"Once I explained to Professor Dumbledore why my presence would greatly assist you on your journey, he understood that partnership is a vital part of success, and only so he allowed me to accompany you," Felix answered as he stood upon the seats, his hair ruffled by the spring wind as he glanced down at her with adventure in his eyes.

The girl grabbed his hand; then, she was brought up onto their vehicle as the two friends embraced each other in a promise of security and understanding. Their friendship was proof that time did not matter when it came to soul bonds, and unity like theirs had been crafted by the most loyal angels of Heaven.

"What about your Quidditch practice? And Della, she will—"

"I explained to my parents that I have been recruited to work under Professor Dumbledore for another year or two until I gain enough experience with my magic, and after a demanding letter from him, they had no choice to agree— Quidditch will be there for me whenever I decide to return, but I cannot play in a destroyed world, now can I?" he quipped, then continued, "As for Della, she will be our eyes and ears at Hogwarts. I informed her of the situation as much as I could, and she seemed to take it pretty well."

"You are unbelievable," gasped Varya, yet her beam was extended to her eyes, and for the first time in months, it shined regardless of the spirit's magic in the Rosier forrest.

Dumbledore moved towards the carriage, then gave them both a nod of acknowledgment, "I wish you the best," is all he said before he turned around and left for the castle, his shoes clicking against the stone floor before he disappeared behind the doors.

Varya shifted to Felix once again before giving him a grateful smile. They sat down in the carriage as he continued to stroke the Thestral, assuring it of safety, before the carriage started moving across the grass-covered ground, taking them further and further away from Hogwarts.

"Wait, Varya!"

They turned to see Abraxas Malfoy by the entrance, and stopped the Thestral from advancing before the boy started moving towards them, his long legs striding and covering ground at a fast rate. Then, he stopped by the side of their vehicle, and saluted the boy before facing the witch.

"Came to say goodbye?" she asked cheekily, and Abraxas only scoffed before setting his face in a monotonous expression, eyebrows elongated and eyes slightly hooded.

"Somewhat," he explained shortly, before reaching to his pocket and pulling out an envelope, "He asked me to give this to you."

"He?" questioned Varya, yet when Abraxas gave her a knowing look, she understood very well what it meant— Tom Riddle had one last thing to say to her before she left Hogwarts. "He could not just come and give this to me himself?"

"You know he likes—"

"Delegating, yes," she cut him short, eyes blazed with fury and hurt, "Only ever when something is not important for him enough to do."

Malfoy shifted on his legs, then his eyes skimmed back to the castle and upwards. Varya followed them, and that is when she saw them— standing on one of the balconies, the Knights had gathered to watch her carriage take off. Her eyes immediately fell to the envelope, refusing to catch Tom's gaze.

"I do not—" Abraxas began, and then gestured weakly to the envelope, "Sometimes people do not face things they fear."

"Why would he fear this?" the girl scoffed, then shook her head, "You know what, nevermind. I am glad you stopped by, and it is quite funny that you are the last one I say goodbye to."

The wizard raised an eyebrow, "How come?"

"Because you were the first one I met," Varya smiled bitterly, her heart twisting as melancholy set in, "On the train, you were the first person I came across. And now you are the last one I say goodbye to. It feels as if I have come full circle."

Life worked in such peculiar ways, and indeed Abraxas had been the first Knight she had encountered, although at the time she was unsure of his ties to Tom. He had called her filth for her assumed bloodline, and had been inquiring about her origins to report back to Riddle undoubtedly.

Indeed, the first one she had spoken to— yet the one she knew least about, because if there was anything that would stand true about Malfoy even against time, it was that he was a man of silence, who never showcased his true intentions. And that made him dangerous above all, a boy with such raw force and talent that he had been recruited first by the future Dark Lord, and had acquired a seat by his right side. Malfoy— loyal, cunning, secretive— and a person who undoubtedly still had a lot of change to undergo as the most stubborn Knight.

The girl glanced in his periwinkle eyes, the way they contrasted against his signature platinum hair, and he stood against the scenery with long robes that he wore unlike any other student. The most powerful family in the British society, some would say, and the heir was a representation of that with the determined look that was always etched to his face, the sharp eyebrows that contoured eyes of resolve, and his prideful glow.

"I suppose so," he said, always a man of few words, a mystery in Varya's existence, and the girl wondered if she would ever have time to honestly figure him out, "Until next time, Petrov."

She smiled, "Until next time."

He saluted both of them, then turned around gracefully and marched down the garden as a monarch would in his own court, because even when Riddle would rule the world, Malfoy would still rule the upper-society.

The carriage began moving again, and Varya fell back into her seat with a soft sigh, knowing that her heart would always call Hogwarts her real home, where she had found out her identity and her true self. Her hands grasped the envelope yet again, and she gawked at it with uncertainty, her abdomen twirling with anticipation and dread, a homogenous mixture where nothing could be distinguished; however, everything exploded with a buzzing sensation.

"Well," began Felix, "Open it!"

She shot him a look, and then with a shaky hand, she pulled at the sigil, unclasping it fastly and pulling out a piece of paper that was marked in cursive writing. It went without a doubt who it belonged with, and every twirl of the letter screamed Tom Riddle's charm and wickedness, so she trailed a soft hand over the beginning, trying to find the courage to read it.

Varya glanced upwards towards the castle, where seven figures stood on one balcony, their robes swaying in the wind as they fenced their leader, imagery of authority and majesty unlike any other— the seven devils themselves.

Elladora Selwyn, the infamous poisoner, who relied on her intelligence to undermine men and women alike, and was as ardent as the blazing sun in the harvest sky, the accurate representation of self-reliance and the malevolent personification of red. Her hair blew in the wind as cherry lips pulled in the faintest smirk, and viridescent eyes dazzled with the suaveness of a true femme fatale.

Nicholas Avery, the assigned hitman, the one whose hands had mastered the craft of almost every weapon known to man, and drank red wine merely because it reminded him of how easily blood was spilled. A man of instability and macabre tendencies, that danced with shadows as he stealthy sneaked behind his adversaries before slicing their throat in a quick count.

Maxwell Nott, the archivist, the brain behind the sinister doings of the Knights, who worked nights to no end to uncover the mysteries they faced in every lunar cycle— a detective, a philosopher, an encyclopedia of all kinds of knowledge. His uniform, as polished and pressed as always, was the only armor he had ever needed, because his mind was as powerful as any sword.

Icarus Lestrange, the strategist, and duelist, who despite his constant heedless behavior, had a mind that whined like the engine of a well-oiled tank, and constructed the most devious plans of attack. Someone who even the Knights themselves feared in battle, as he was the antithesis of his usual character, which made him a nuclear catastrophe.

Renold Rosier, the socialite, a boy who had hidden his dark desires between a charming face and a fast-talking mouth, who twirled women and men alike on his slender fingers, always knowing what to say and how to do it. The charmer, the swindler, almost as if he played them like puppets and extracted information directly from their brain after one too many glasses of champagne.

Abraxas Malfoy, the prideful right-hand, a mysterious being that, much like a snake, hid in the tall grass of the prairie and assaulted with fervor in moments of vulnerability. He was an enigma of proportions, and his reticence made him impossible to understand. Ruthless, vindictive, prejudiced, yet with the appearance of a charismatic aristocrat. He was one you would least expect to stab you in the back, and that made him the perfect right-hand.

Lastly, Tom Riddle— the one who owned all, the curator of traits and vices, who commanded over his followers with an imperial way of leadership. An authentic portrait of artistic beauty, or a piece of literature that even Oscar Wilde would be fascinated with, Tom Riddle was a charmer and a conniver. His psychology, an intricate maze of darkness and trauma, was the absolute constitution of an idealistic villain, who saw himself as the righteous defender of wizarding supremacy.

Unlike his followers, the Dark Wizard was only ever made of the same substance that composed a black hole— nothing, and yet everything. And similar in nature, he was a paradox that not many could perceive, a silent threat of time and space. When he struck, it was chaotic, catastrophic, and his victims became a whisper in the wind as he dried his bloodied hands with a dainty handkerchief, then returned to the carefully crafted imagery of perfectness and gallant behavior.

Even now, as he gripped the balustrade of the balcony, Tom Riddle watched over the horizon with entitlement, as a ravenous emperor that believed the world belonged to him, and his hair fluttered in the wind as it lashed against his face, exposing Adonic beauty to the light. His jaw, crafted from marble much like a Greek statue, set in irritation, and his azure eyes twinkled with turmoil as he gazed at Varya Petrov.

He saw it in her lips first, the way they downturned slightly as her eyes read the last letter he had sent her, and then her delicate hand covered her mouth as sobs began to rattle her petite body. Tom could not see her eyes, the carriage had taken her too far, yet he knew what emotion they carried.

His own chest radiated with heartbreak, and the agony triumphed over every emotion he had ever felt. It should not have hurt like this, it should not have been so utterly devastating to watch the one woman he cared for walk away, and his throat constricted as his hands gripped the railway better, trying to find stability in the ruins she had left him in.

Tom, a boy who had never felt, found himself to stand in front of a typhoon of torture, and he could not even bring himself to care as it wrecked his mind and soul, twisting it unlike anything he had ever felt before. He was such a creature of terror, a depraved being that would only ever seek his own benefit, and Varya Petrov's departure was proof of that.

And he cared. Fuck, he cared enough to let her go.

So he watched as she traveled beyond the horizon, holding a piece of him that Tom knew nobody else would ever own, and how tragic and devastating it was when the carriage disappeared from his sight, and the last breath left his lungs as his chin fell downward. His hand flew to his chest, and he gripped it tightly, knowing it would be the last time his soul would be intact, because Horcrux or no Horcrux, it had been shattered unlike anything before.

Elladora gazed at his figure from the corner of her eyes, and she knew. All of them knew, really. Tom Riddle was not the boy he had been at the beginning of the year, and change had settled into all of their souls regardless of whether they accepted it or not.

So she did one last thing. One last thing to make sure that no matter what would happen in the end, Varya Petrov would always be someone that would be connected to them.

"Death Eaters," she announced, then felt all men glance at her with an odd look. She grabbed one of her small potion knives from her pouch, then engraved the symbol they all knew well into her skin, watching as rouge dripped down from the minor wound. Then, she took her wand out, and made sure to heal it enough to leave a scar, "We are Death Eaters."

And that was only their beginning.

***

One last update that was posted with this, and I will see you all for the sequel!