THE ANATOMY OF RENOLD ROSIER - THE SOCIALITE

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It had taken days for Varya's magic to heal, and it had been a torturous process, for nothing was more damaging to a sorceress than losing her strength. She had excused herself from most classes, some part of it because she felt that she could not perform at her best, the other part because she did not want to face Tom Riddle in such a deplorable state.

After their escapade to the wizarding village, Hogsmeade, the two had arrived back at the castle in absolute silence, each going back to their chambers and trying not to wake up their roommates. They had not spoken since, and Varya did not know if it was her distress at what had happened or his recalcitrant nature; alas, they kept their distance, only stealing fugitive glances in the Common Room.

Now, she was back in the magical classrooms, scribbling down every word that passed the lips of her Care of Magical Creatures professor, Silvanus Kettleburn. He was a docile man, and he loved his profession, but Varya could not take him seriously. His recklessness with the creatures they studied was blatant, often not taking necessary precautions when bringing them in for observations.

"Chimeras, yes!" his voice permeated the room as students struggled to write down his rapid words, almost a river of inconsistency and rambling. "In your textbook, you will find me credited for the information, as I helped Newton Scamander with it, ah. Great times, indeed, such a remarkable young lad. Terrifying what he is up to nowadays, his constant fight against Grindelwald."

Varya felt the pairs of eyes that turned to her, but she disregarded them, gripping her quill harder and gawking at her desk. Although the buzz of the Petrov witch had died down drastically, she still felt the obnoxious stares of her classmates whenever there was news of Grindelwald's army. Some even speculated that she was a spy, that her parents had never actually been killed. They just lived in retirement, they said, the Dark Wizard's generals, and had sent their blasphemous daughter to corrupt Hogwarts, find allies.

"They look at me much the same," said Renold Rosier from her right. She turned her head to him, taking in his luxurious appearance.

Renold Rosier was an aristocrat, a mighty name in the European scenery that implied allurement, sparkling chandeliers that towered over french marble in ballrooms and extravagance. However, the spectacular name had been tainted by a black sheep. Vinda Rosier, a beautiful french witch, had allied herself with Gellert Grindelwald, sharing his fanaticism and eventually indulging in his corruption.

"Do they?" Varya said bitterly, and with a glance around the room, she noticed that not one student was glowering at the French descendant. "Or has your father thrown so many balls, popped so many expensive champagne bottles and bribed so many ministers that, perhaps, everyone has forgotten?"

She knew that she was rude, but her tiredness made her irascible, more so than usual, and she already had something against Rosier, as he failed to tell her the truth about what had happened before Slughorn's gathering. Much like Tom had explained, the boy claimed that he had tried to free the serpents in the woods, but they had been so aggravated by the Gryffindor fourth-year that they attacked him. Their venom was potent, he said, and it had taken him a week to recuperate, but he was fine.

To Varya, it all seemed so clearly rehearsed that she could not help but grimace. The story was not just similar; no, it was almost identical, a sign of manufactured details. She let it go, however, as Renold's loyalty was firm.

"Uh, not very friendly, are we?" he asked, azure eyes mixed with the slightest shade of forest green, so colored that they seemed to carry an exponential cosmos of mystery in them. His natural elegance was radiating, head tilted at just the right angle to showcase his strong jawline.

Varya scoffed, eyes trained on their professor, who was now drawing an odd-looking sketch of a Chimera in the air, his wand sloppy and lines harsh. "I do not know what makes you think such. I am quite a sweetheart."

Rosier chuckled, eyes trained on the girl's darling face, "Well, does this sweetheart fancy dancing?"

Varya raised an eyebrow at him, then ridiculed his statement, "Ah, yes, the fine dancing taught at Scholomance Academy of The Dark Arts. Every Thursday, we gather in the catacombs, and use skeletons as partners."

"Sounds delightful," the boy mused, then placed his arms on the desk, leaning in to better look at her. "What I am asking, however, is if you would be interested in joining me for my family's gathering this winter break. We are all attending, you see, the whole group of...what is it that you call us? Mischiefs, yes, and dear Icarus would be delighted by your presence."

The girl was intrigued; she had to admit. An open invitation to attend a party organized by one of the most famous pure-blood families was not something to be turned down quickly. However, she sensed there was more to it; there was something that Rosier was hiding behind his invitation.

"And I am presumed to believe that this invite is only made out of courtesy for your friend?" her accent was dense, and it made her words sound jumbled, but she got her point across.

"Well, yes, that is exactly why I am asking," the boy sighed in sham hurt. "And if it was not, do you truly expect I would admit my reason? Varya, you know us better."

She did not miss the plural word in his sentence. So, this was to the interest of all of them; they were planning something. Varya did not know if it was a trap, but her curiosity had been piqued, and she wanted to know what they were plotting.

"Very well," she said, nodding slowly, "but I get to bring a friend."

Rosier scoffed, "You are not bringing Trouche in my own home, Petrov."

"Fine," she bit back, "then I am bringing Della Beauchamp."

"A muggle? Are you insane, or do you just want the poor girl to die?" he scoffed, voice aggressive.

"I refuse to be the only girl there," said Varya.

"You will not be, Elladora is in attendance, her family is close-knit with mine." was the answer she received, and Varya frowned at the notion. She had not seen the two of them spending much time together.

Their attention was caught by the professor, who had the awfully drawn Chimera run around the room, scaring some of the students as it slipped from his control. He was chasing it around, his robes getting caught in his own feet, and then he stumbled to the ground, face first. Varya grimaced, then shot Rosier a look, and he nodded before taking out his wand and casting a spell at the outline of the beast, blasting it to bits.

The room was hushed, and as the professor got up in humiliation, Varya let a small giggle fall past her lips. His clothes were dirty now, and his hat was half plopped downwards. He called the class off, and Varya was delighted at the early break.

As soon as she entered the Great Hall, she felt Rosier's presence beside her, and she shot him a curious look, to which the boy only smirked. They sat down at the table, eager to eat their lunch and drink their tea.

Exams were to start this week, and it was evident by the multitude of students that had brought their textbooks to the table, not caring if they dirtied their pages with fingerprints of sauce or spilled small crumbs in the bindings. As the last two weeks of their first semester had started, Varya's peers had begun discussing their holiday plans, excited for the joyful festivities that were to come.

Varya had not quite figured out what she wanted to do. She could return to her hometown, visit her classmates at the academy, or even travel around Europe, but she did not have the heart to go back. Her stomach lurched at the idea of setting foot in her old academy, and so she had just assumed that her holidays would be spent in Hogwarts' empty library.

Then, Rosier had invited her to attend his family's Christmas festivities, and she thought it might fill in a few days of her vacation, perhaps until New Year's Eve, but Varya knew that she could not spend more than a week there, or she would go insane. She was worried; she did not know how the other families would react to a Petrov descendant attending, as so many had turned their backs to the lineage once they had joined Grindelwald. Moreso, those who did not betray them, and had continued exchanging correspondence with her parents, attracted by the notion of the dark wizard's power, were to judge her for betraying the cause.

For the greater good, they said, but Varya could not imagine the pure-blood families aligning with this ideology, as it included not only them but also muggle-born wizards and other creatures that had magic coursing through their bloodstream.

An owl entered the grand room, soaring over the students' heads, and landing on the Slytherin table, right across Varya. It had a purple letter in its beak, sealed with the emerald emblem of her house, and she recognized it immediately. It seemed that Professor Slughorn had given up on having Tom deliver his mail.

The girl took it from the bird's beak, opening it with anticipation, and just as she had expected, it read the next date of the club's meetings. It was to be a Christmas party, and the attire was festive. She glanced towards Rosier and saw him looking at the letter out of the corner of his eye, a greenish shade taking over his features. He immediately turned away when he noticed her staring.

Curious.

Someone sat down across from her, and Varya met the eyes of Icarus Lestrange, the boy whom everyone thought had taken quite a liking to her. The girl did not know what she felt for him; she was perplexed. He was a lovely boy with a habit of mischief, and one would seldom get bored in his dynamic presence. Furthermore, he was gorgeous, with voluminous hair that seemed to be soft to the touch, and plump carmine lips.

Alas, Varya did not know if she had time for such things; the concept of love and relationships was foreign to her. Although they would never admit it, the Scholomance Academy was much like a cult, and in a cult, you ever only love one person. Your leader.

Nevertheless, now, when his fiery eyes met her mahogany ones, she could not suppress the fluttering in her stomach, delighted by the notion of sharing such feelings with another person. He smiled at her, such effortless diablerie in his nature, and with his disheveled look and loosened tie, he almost had a promise of adventure and recklessness on his lips.

"You two are disgusting," said Rosier, eyes watching them over a warm cup of tea. He placed it in front of himself, then turned to Icarus. "And I asked her about the party, you dimwit. Perhaps, next time you will have the balls to do it yourself."

"What do you know of my balls, Rosier?" taunted Icarus, eyebrows raised in naughtiness.

"I know you lack them," the other boy scoffed.

"Do you?" Lestrange said, then hopped over the table to sit next to his friend, leaning towards him, then feigning a flirtatious look. "Have you been peeking at me while I shower, Renold?"

Ren pushed his face away from him, a horrified look flashing across his face. "Die, you little cockroach!"

"You kiss your mum with that filthy mouth, Rosier?" laughed Icarus, following Renold with his eyes as he got up from the table and collected his books. The French wizard shot him a glare, then marched away from him, eyebrows triangular in anger.

Icarus turned to Varya, who had been watching the exchange with a faint smile, delighted to see the friendliness that passed between the two of them. Although Riddle might not have shared a meaningful bond with the boys, they all saw each other much like brothers, and their loyalty was beyond doubt. Blood ran thicker than water, many said, but they did not know the full proverb.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

"I was going to ask you myself, that pompous rat is just a control freak," said Icarus, carrying a hint of regret in his voice. "Are you going to attend?"

"Yes," said Varya, smiling at his excitement.

"Good, good," he said, then scooted closer to her, and Varya could feel the warmth of his thigh pressed against hers. "Because I wanted to ask if you would accompany me?"

"As a date?" the girl raised her eyebrow at him, heart swelling at the idea.

"As a date," he confirmed, resting his hand against her lower back, much as he had done at Slughorn's gathering.

"I would love to," she said, head dizzy at his precautions touch, almost as if testing her reaction. Her ribcage hurt as the small butterflies danced their way around her abdomen, the fluttering of their wings ticketing her insides and making her a mess of collywobbles and giggles. She had accepted his invitation, but her heart was somewhat torn, unsure of it.

The notion of young love was frightening to the novice heart, and while Lestrange had had his fair share of dabbling with the affection of women, Varya was as innocent as could be. She did not know what to make of her sentiments, and she struggled to understand the way her body reacted to Icarus' touches and looks, a mix of infatuation and appreciativeness. Was this what it felt like to fancy someone, or was it just her egocentrism being stroked by a charming boy's affection, a natural human reaction when exposed to romanticism?

Regardless, Icarus was sure of his passion as he regarded the young witch. Even in her most vulnerable moments, she was a phantom star in the cloudy night, a source of light in the macabre world that he had found himself to be part of. Her nose, arched upwards with elegance, was always sticking itself in trouble, and he valued that venturesome behavior in a partner. She was ruthless. Although his heart churned watching her in her current state, she was one of the few that had managed to beat him in the dueling class. Varya Petrov was a hurricane, and she perturbed everything that stood in her way, scattering them to bits and pieces, but at her core, she was as peaceful as the sea before a storm, gentle like a blooming flower.

That is how Icarus saw her; however, he could not have been more wrong.