NOTE: THIS WAS A DOUBLE UPDATE, MAKE SURE YOU READ THE LAST CHAPTER

ELLADORA SELWYN - THE POISONER

 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Shaded spots everywhere, whirring, stirring around uncontrollably. The noise of an antique radio that is not quite finely tuned to the proper station, its frequency just slightly missing the precise spot. The conscious mind being somewhere between alert and asleep. Muffled sounds that cannot be pieced together, and voices that should be familiar, but are just blended in a sturdy bouquet. The incapacity to feel one's corporal being, and yet, a vague tingling dancing across the skin, stimulating nerves that are working overtime to get the body to feel something again. Then, the light starts slipping in, and the room is almost a Renaissance oil painting, so blurred and disfigured that one might think the painter was just throwing his brush at a canvas, thinking, "I will just make something of it later." The sound comes back in.

"Albus, you know, just as well as I do, that this would not have happened if it was a scanty intake," the voice was pistillate, although it had an edge to it, which indicated that the person speaking must have been well over thirty.

"So what are you saying, Madame Aduddel? That she exposed herself to it repeatedly on purpose?" asked Dumbledore, skepticism in his voice, but also a slight nuance of concern.

"Teenagers these days enjoy experimenting, reasonably, Miss Petrov—"

"That is not what happened here, rest assured, and it is best to ask the student what transpired than make such outrageous claims," his voice was final.

Varya's eyelids fluttered open, then shut back immediately when the fluorescent light bounced against her retina, setting her nerves afire with distress. A groan left her mouth, attracting the attention of the two adults, who immediately rushed to her bed.

"Miss Petrov, are you all right?" came the voice of the Matron as she grabbed Varya's hand, trying to get to sit up straight slowly. "Easy now, too much motion will make your breakfast end up on the floor."

Varya did not remember eating breakfast. As a matter of fact, her mind was so disorganized that she had no idea what had happened. Her eyes took in the room, a chamber with tall ceilings and copper-colored walls, a chandelier dangling in the middle, illuminating the rows of infirmary beds. She was in the Hospital Wing.

"How did I end up here?" she asked, memories still foggy, and Dumbledore exchanged a look with Madame Aduddel that the girl did not miss. "What is it?"

"We were hoping you could answer a few questions for us, darling, if you do not mind," said the woman, handing her a cold glass of water and instructing her to take tiny sips. Varya nodded, then gulped on the water ferociously, earning a disapproving glare.

"Varya," started Albus Dumbledore as he approached her bed. "What do you remember?"

"Not much," she admitted, trying to untangle her thoughts to her best ability. "I was in the forest—"

She gasped. The wave of horror that struck her was unimaginable as the clouds that flooded her brain moved to the sides, allowing the shine of truth to pass through and hit her right in the face. The forest, the white snow covering the vegetation, the Therestral she watched from afar, amazed by its majesty, the blade slashing against its neck, and, finally, its lifeblood on her hands.

"Yes?" probed the Matron, but Varya shot Dumbledore a despairing look through her watering eyes, breath unsteady, that made the Professor take a step back. The girl looked as if she was about to erupt at any second, grief radiating across her face, and the man signaled Madame Aduddel to let them speak in private. The woman was not pleased, but obeyed the instruction, leaving the Hospital Wing.

The second the door shut, Varya started sobbing loudly, resting her head on her knees, locks falling around her. Her body shook with each cry, and Dumbledore sat across from her, watching as she broke down.

"What happened, Varya?"

She raised her gaze to meet his, orbs already painted with crimson, and in this state, the gray underneath her eyes was more noticeable than ever. Varya did not know where to start or how to explain the situation without getting herself in trouble. Dumbledore had made it clear— she was not to practice dark magic, and yet she had not listened. Not only that, but Tom had gazed into her mind, and she did not know what the boy had seen. Ultimately, she had messed up.

"I killed a Therestral," she eventually admitted, wincing at the Professor's disgruntled look. "I wanted to bring it back with necromancy and—"

"Necromancy?" his voice thundered, making the girl's back hit the bed's heading in shock. "Varya, do you have any inkling what that implies? You have said it yourself, nature requires stability, so what makes you think you can play with that?"

"Of course I know!" she argued back, her voice cracking. "We were thought such rituals at school, and as long as I am taking a life, I can also give it back. The balance is in my hands."

"Is that what they told you?" the Professor chuckled, dragging his hand across his face. "I knew Dalibor was a vicious man, but to lie like this, to endanger the life of his disciples..."

"What do you mean?" the girl asked, forehead creasing with apprehension at his warning.

"Varya, if you give life back, you have to pay the price for it, and usually, it takes away from your vitality. It breaks a part of you, and you can never get that back." Dumbledore explained, sitting down on the bed across from her, stroking his short beard. He was a man in his forties, but his eyes betrayed knowledge beyond his years.

"But— is that why my magic was weakened?" she breathed, dread setting in. That was improbable, was it not? She had not performed a successful ritual. She was already depleted of her power, and the incantation used to call upon the ghost of Martha Flamming was not resurrection. It was spiritualism. Sure, it was still perceived as black magic, but it was not necromancy.

"Have you been performing it?" his steely eyes fell on her again, and Dumbledore did not know how to react to her words.

"No," she shook her head rapidly. "Never succeeded since I came to Hogwarts. I did it in my third and fourth year, three times, always on little birds that had been slaughtered for practice. Nevertheless, I never felt my magic sink like this."

Albus got up quickly, heading to the table where the Matron kept most of her vials and herbs. Varya watched him mess around the drawers, then pick up a jar of something, and head back to her. He handed it over, analyzing her reaction, but the girl was just confused. She opened it, slowly sniffing in the scent, her mind going a little woozy. It was familiar.

"What is this?" she asked, picking up a dried leaf and twirling it around her finger. So familiar.

"It is a common herb used for potions called Belladonna," he said, and Varya looked up at him, wondering where she had heard the name before. "You have used its essence in class before. It is known to be extremely poisonous when ingested, causing hallucinations, delirium, and in extreme cases, death."

The girl still showed no reaction, but her mind was gradually turning, slowly piecing the puzzle together. Dumbledore pursed his lips, hands clasped behind his back, then he continued.

"It can be very harmful, but reckless teenagers have used it before for its...psychoactive proprieties, and if taken over a long time in micro amounts, it has been proved that it can reduce a witch's strength," he finished, then looked at her with intent. "Now, you must be very honest with me, Varya— have you been taking it as a hallucinogen?"

The girl gasped, shocked at what her teacher was implying. "No, Professor! I would never do such a thing, I swear. I have never heard of this—"

A small pause, then realization kicked in.

"Witch's berry," she whispered, then looked up at him with wide eyes. "Witch's berry! My roommate, Ivy Trouche, is allergic to it! She had been complaining about her allergies acting up, she thought it was because of cat hair, but perhaps, it was this."

"You believe that Ivy Trouche has tried to poison you?"

Varya frowned. No, that did not make sense, Ivy had nothing to gain out of doing it, and if she had been the one to harm her, she would have picked something that she was not allergic to, as that would immediately give the girl away. It had to be someone else...

She thought back to when she had begun feeling sick, and a memory flashed before her, a clear image of the Great Hall— Elladora Selwyn brewing her tea. Then, Slughorn's party, Abraxas Malfoy handing her a golden cup of cloudy liquid. Finally, the Common Room, and Nicholas Avery and his jar of tea herbs, their intricate scent so distinguishable it was hard not to remember it.

Varya let out a bitter chuckle, wrath building up inside her like a force of nature, ready to unleash its chaotic energy against the world. They had been poisoning her, trying to exhaust her body, and, like the sweet effect of a domino arrangement, mess with her spirit and magic. Once again, she had been outwitted by Tom's scheming and had let her guard down around him, allowing the boy to enter her mind.

The despair that had plagued her mind for months, it had been caused by him, and when he watched her fall to her knees in that abandoned house, Tom had known the reason behind it. He had called her pathetic, his deceitful intention so clear to her now, using his words to shatter her hope and pride. And when he had waited outside, she thought it was out of courtesy, that he did not want her to walk alone in the winter night. That was flawed on her part— she had known Tom was a ruthless python, a man who cared for nothing except quenching his thirst for glory. No, Tom Riddle had waited for her, walked behind her, only to test if she had let her guard down enough.

Then, when her soul had been split in two after murdering the innocent creature out of desperation, he had come out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, allowing her to cling to him as she indulged in her suffering, trying to fill out the bitterness that the killing had left in her with Tom's warmth. But he was a reptile, and reptiles were cold-blooded.

Suddenly, Varya though back to Icarus, to the boy that had seemed so infatuated with her, and that had made her question her feelings. Had that been a charade as well, a way to mellow her out? If Tom had not succeeded in the forest, would Icarus have shattered her heart, leaving her with no physique, no mind, and no soul?

"—he plays with your mind just to break you because when he does, it will be him to pick up your pieces and mold you into whatever he desires."

A part of her wanted to let herself believe that Lestrange had tried to warn her. However, the betrayal had been like a dagger to her skin, slowly ripping at her epidermis as he trailed it around her body, and as much as her heart yearned out to the trickster, and, in some way, even to the Slytherin prefect, she felt cold.

They had lied, they had toyed with her like she was not even a human being, and had not cared if they would scar her for the rest of her life. And, perhaps, they had, as Varya felt emptier than ever, almost drowning in the loneliness that surrounded her.

Furthermore, Elladora, the person whom she had always regarded as her first friend in this miserable castle, had been the one to continually manipulate her, to the point where she did not know if any of their shared moments were real or merely a show that the cherry-haired girl had put on. When had she started playing her game, the moment they met in their shared bedroom? Or, was it later, during all of the early breakfast meals and nights spent awake, giggling about whatever crossed their mind.

The poison had to be hers, although Varya had no clue how she had procured it, because Ivy had been allergic to it, and the two often shared clothes despite their mutual hatred. In fact, the jar of herbs should still be somewhere in their room, Varya realized.

"Varya?" Dumbledore asked, concern stitched to his face as he watched the girl's fallen appearance, almost as if she had suffered the greatest heartbreak in the history of humankind. She looked up at him, then patted her eyes dry with the white sheets on her infirmary bed. No, she would not shed any more tears for those conniving serpents.

"I am sorry, Professor, but there is somewhere I must be," she said, then got up from the bed, ignoring the way her legs wobbled and her surroundings spun. She walked out of the Hospital Wing, not caring if, at that moment, Dumbledore would find her turbulent.

Varya wandered down the corridors, her march filled with fury, and she ignored the Ravenclaws that looked at her passing figure with judgment, hellbent on confronting those whom she had once seen as—

As what? Had she ever been friends with the group? As much as they talked to her on every given occasion, she did not think that this was friendship. Although she had never experienced it, Varya knew that whatever relationship she had with her housemates was much more complicated than that.

The Common Room was cold, and Varya's figure trembled, still weakened by the poison and the traumatizing experience she had had — but that was something she would think about later — and walked to her bedroom.

Much as she had expected, Elladora Selwyn was laying in her bed, hanging upside down from the bed's edge, and skimming over a glossy muggle magazine with loathing on her face. Varya shut the door forcefully, and her roommate got up at the sound, cascade of red being tossed over her shoulder.

"Oh, Varya, you should see the ridiculous fashion these muggles— is everything all right?" she asked with concern, noticing the angry glare her roommate was throwing her. Varya pulled out her wand quickly, pointing it at the girl, which shot her hands up in the air. "Merlin's beard, Varya! What are you doing? Is this about Ivy, again? Because I did not mean—"

"Where is it?" Varya's voice was so controlled it sent a shiver down Elladora's spine, and in the somberness of the room, she could not help but notice how her menacing glower resembled that of Tom Riddle.

"Where is what?" she asked, bewildered, although a quailing sensation of trepidation had started making its way down her throat, gripping at her lungs.

Elladora took in her friend's appearance— her tangled hair had been pulled back in a distasteful low ponytail, and untamed strands were jabbing out in all directions. It stuck to Varya's face in some parts, almost as if the perspiration had glued it down. Her eyes were enraged, and the girl looked like she would mean whatever curse would slip past her bristly lips. It was then that Elladora noticed the hospital gown that she was wearing, a wrinkled robe thrown over it in a hurry, and that her feet were bare. Varya looked as if she had lost her mind.

"I swear, Selwyn, if you lie to me one more time—" she huffed, approaching her roommate violently, her significant steps stationing her right in front of the wide-eyed girl, "where is the stupid jar of witch's berry that you hid in here, you arrogant wench?"

Elladora felt herself go still, knowing that she had been caught in the act, and for a moment, she let herself curse whomever it was that had slipped up. Then, her gaze went cold, and a malicious sneer fell on her lips, pulling out her wand to match Varya's stance.

"So you finally figured it out?" she taunted, her shoulders swinging in derision as she cornered the Slavic girl. "Was it Icarus? We all doubted how long he could watch you suffer before he went rabid. Or, perhaps, it was Rosier, the nasty dog, always barking his mind away. He has no filter, that one, and it will get him killed one day."

Varya's scowl deepened as the two of them circled each other, ready to blast a curse or deflect it just as quickly.

"You poisoned me for months, made me slowly lose my mind, and for what, Elladora? So Tom could acknowledge your presence in the room?" she said incensed.

"Riddle? Well, of course, it was him that gave the order, but if you believe that I did it out of anything other than loyalty, then you are just as obtuse as the likes of Trouche," she cackled sinisterly, then sighed, "Do you not understand, Petrov? Change is coming, and it is already too late."

"You can go to hell, Selwyn," Varya spit her words at her with hatred, but she could not ignore the knife of betrayal that twisted at her soul.

"Now, do not be so harsh, darling," laughed Elladora, suddenly drawing her wand back and placing it in her robes. She sat down on the edge of her bed, relaxed, with her head turned defiantly, almost as if taunting Varya and letting her know that she was not afraid of her. "You are so talented, Varya, and it would be a shame for you not to listen to Riddle's words. His vision is magnificent, so bewitching, he will cleanse this school, and once we get him everything he needs, he will reform the wizarding world."

"Do you truly believe that I will join you after you have made me suffer so greatly?"

"Suffer?" the girl derided, eyes narrowed in aversion, "If that is suffering, then perhaps we have all overestimated you. Consider it hazing, at most, a way to test you. We have great plans for you, Varya, and despite everything, I do see you as a friend."

"Do you poison all of your friends?" Varya scoffed, repulsed by what her roommate was suggesting.

"Only some," she said it so smoothly it almost sounded true, "and you can deny it all you want, you can drive yourself mad and claim that you hate darkness, and that you are not intrigued by our schemes, but I know the truth. Heck, even Malfoy knows it! You are dark, impulsive, a reckless witch with too much power for her own good, but you are also clever, and your devilish mind is up to no good."

Varya thought about her words, her hands grasping her wand tighter, and she lunged forward, pressing it against Elladora's neck with brute force. Petrov swallowed harshly, trying to bat away the part of her mind that was inclined to agree with the pure-blood witch, that screamed at her to dive into the sinfulness that surrounded the group of Slytherins.

It ate at her brain, almost begging and tugging, her magic pulsating through her system, looking for a dark release. She had grown up surrounded by devilry, up in the mountains that many believed covered the entrance to Hell, where Satan felled up those who had wronged in their lives, then stirred them in a gruesome cauldron. Varya understood it better than anyone; she followed it wherever it went and studied it carefully, attracted to its morbid sneer. Perhaps, that is why she was so curious about Tom Riddle, always letting her gaze trail to him.

However, Varya had been assigned a task, and as much as she wanted to abandon it, her moral quality not being the best, she had seen what would become of the world, of Tom, if she did not act. The monster that would kill mercilessly, would turn wizards and witches against each other, and instead of reform, he would bring Hell down on the magic world.

In their own way, the seven little devils that made up the group thought that they were righteous, and that they would bring salvation on the world that had been corrupted, seeing themselves as idealistic villains who had to be wicked for the greater good. Somewhere along history, however, they would lose themselves, corrupted by the power that they would achieve, always in need for more, and their ideals would be tossed to the side.

Varya could not let that happen, and as much as she resented what they had done, she could not help herself in caring for them. Even for the godforsaken Malfoy, who had been nothing but an arse to her, she felt some sort of responsibility. She was always walking the line between corrupt and just, and she hoped that, if her pull was strong enough, she could bring them all with her on the better side.

However, she could not do that if she opposed them. They had crushed her once, and although Varya though herself to be intelligent and resourceful, they could probably do it again. They came from pure-blood families, owned wealth beyond the imagination, had connexions worldwide, and had a leader with an iron fist. Varya had nothing.

So as much as she wanted to jinx the snarkiness out of Elladora Selwyn, Varya knew that she had to play their game in order to win, and so she lowered her wand, taking in a deep breath to settle the flame that still burned beneath her skin.

Elladora smirked, "Good girl."

"If any of you ever do this again, I will bring hellfire down on you, and I will not stop until your wailings plague the nightmares of every villager in Hogsmeade," Varya's voice was grim, her tone carrying no hint of hesitation as she openly threatened her roommate. Elladora's eyes enlarged, and she let out a nervous laugh, ignoring the way dread settled in her bones.

The door of the room opened, and both of them turned to see a panicked looking Ivy standing in the doorframe, her cheeks crimsoned, and her eyes filled with distress. Her breath came out in heaps, almost as if she had run up to them, and her blonde hair fell over her shoulders in an uncharacteristic mess. Ivy considered her roommates, noticing the tension, but her brain was too fogged to care.

Terrible news spread like wildfire, and to the peaceful castle, the happenings of the last day of classes before vacation were catastrophic.

"Have you not heard?" the sandy-haired girl asked, docile eyes alight with a mixture of horror and panic.

"Heard what?" asked Varya, perplexed, but when she turned to Elladora, the other girl carried a judicious look on her face.

Ivy came closer to them, shutting the door behind her, then walked in a rush to her desk. She picked up her wand, then stuffed it in her pocket. She looked spooked out, a hint of tremor in the prefect's hands. The news had, of course, terrified her, but some part of her mind, her subconscious, screamed at her that something more sinister would come to haunt Hogwarts soon.

"They found a petrified student in the hallways," she breathed out, looking Varya straight in the eyes, "We have all been called to the Great Hall."

Thus, it had begun.