CHAPTER FIVE

"I made myself at home
In the cobwebs and the lies
I'm learning all your tricks
I can hurt you from inside
I made myself a promise
You would never see me cry
Til I make you"

the devil within - digital daggers

Professor Horace Slughorn was not only in charge of Potions, but he was also Head of Slytherin. As soon as he had seen that Varya Petrov would join his students, he was incredibly pleased. The power of her bloodline, although weakened by the years, was undeniable, and her transcripts showed that her mind was as sharp as a unicorn's horn.

Varya, however, did not take to the man as kindly as he did to her, as he had bombarded her with questions the moment class started.

"-and, of course, what else must we add to our Draught of Peace before completing it?" he asked her, trying to test her knowledge. Varya sighed, hoping that, for once, he would direct his attention back to his favored student, Tom Riddle.

"Powdered moonstone," she said bitterly, but her professor took notice as he moved on to explain the potion's purpose. She looked to her right, where Tom Riddle stood at the neighboring cauldron. He took notes of every word that slipped past Slughorn's lips, not even bothering to look down at what he was writing.

It was unfair, Varya thought, that he was so brilliant. She had to admit, however, that she had given him a run for his money in Care of Magical Creatures, her knowledge undoubtedly being more extensive. The girl thought it had irked the prefect, who suddenly started raising his hand more ferociously, trying to answer faster than her.

She found Potions to be enchanting, but could not help her annoyance at the teacher. He seemed to see his pupils not as bright minds that ought to be thought, but rather as prized possibilities to show off.

"Now, please go and get your ingredients," he encouraged them, flicking his wand to open the cabinets that lined the walls. Each student made their way and collected what they needed before making their way back to the tables.

Varya looked at her roommate, Ivy, as she set everything on their table then opened her textbook. Ivy, Varya had come to realize, was a force to be reckoned with, as she was a prefect alongside Tom. She was very feminine, moving with grace as she smashed down the ingredients, and she knew how to use it to her advantage. Varya's eyes caught a few boys looking at Ivy's golden hair and plum face, radiating an uncharacteristic aura for a Slytherin.

Standing next to her, she felt quite insecure over her eastern features and tanned skin. Varya was by no means ugly, but she had to admit she had harsh edges that most men would not be inclined to admire.

Varya looked over at Tom, wondering what he found attractive in a woman, and how she could use it to her advantage. Unfortunately, she had never seen him show interest in any of the girls that followed him with their eyes.

Tom turned around, evident to her questioning stare. "Yes?" he asked, still cutting the valerian root. Varya shook her head, embarrassed at being caught.

"I was wondering if your offer still stood," at his bored look, she continued "to help me learn how to master my wand."

His calculating look made her want to shrink and hide, but she held her ground and refused to be embarrassed by her need for assistance. They had been taught different curriculums, pages of ancient grimoires that whispered of tenebrosity and iniquity, with rituals of tumultuous chants that shattered any barrier of holiness and sank the soul into perdition, lacquering it in blasphemous layers.

Tom added the root to his potion, then briefly motioned towards Ivy, who was now cutting the root as well. "You should help your partner, not interrupt me."

Varya glowered, her pride hurt by what he implied, but before she could answer, he said something else, "Yes, we can practice after the Quidditch game on Saturday."

"Do you play?" she asked, as she could not picture Tom being interested in such a game.

"No," he scoffed, confirming her thoughts. "Why would I ever be interested in such a silly practice?"

Ivy laughed, obviously having eavesdropped on their conversation, then turned to them. She handed Varya the syrup of Hellebore, then looked over her at Tom, who glared back.

"What he means by that," she said, bitting on every word. "Is that he is terrible at it, and we all know there is nothing that annoys perfect Tom Riddle more than not being good at something."

Varya felt the apparent tension between the two and understood it. If Tom was a broken piece of a tragic greek play, with melancholy caressing adonic features, and a ravenous need to be remembered, Ivy was the golden trinkets of temples and places of worship, scalded in grandeur since birth, with entitlement and inherited vigor.

"I would watch my words if I were you, Trouche." is the only thing he settled for, and Varya admired his composure. His features never indicated any of his vicious thoughts, they did not portray his debauched ideals or lack of empathy. Instead, every line of his face was a fine stroke of refined beauty, marble crafted with anointed utensils by brilliant sculptures. The Devil had been a breathtaking being, and Tom Riddle was in all ways seed of his obscurity.

"Is that a threat, Riddle?" Ivy poked at him once more, not caring if she angered the boy. "You might have half of this school wrapped around your finger, good for you, but you are a fool to think that I will ever quiver because of your wrath."

The tension grew thick, and Varya knew that Tom was already scheming to get back at the Slytherin sweetheart. He did not take well to defiance, and he had made sure that everyone knew that. Ivy, however, thought that her badge and blood status protected her, but oh, how wrong she was.

Petrov stepped away from the table, going over to the ingredient cabinet when she noticed they did not have enough powdered unicorn horn. She also felt that her anxiety was getting worse, a premonition of Tom's deteriorating patience, and knew that the best way to avoid what was to come was to find trouble elsewhere. 

As she made her way to the back of the class, someone stepped in front of her. Icarus smiled mockingly, his hand going up to touch a misplaced strand of hair. Varya fought back the need to swat his hand away.

"Ah, my darling, what has gotten you so flustered?" he said as he followed her towards the cabinets. Ever since their duel, Icarus had taken to teasing her relentlessly. He looked back at her table, noticing the stiffness in Tom's shoulders. "Pissed off Riddle, did you not?"

"No, Ivy did, and I did not want to stand in the crossfire," she admitted, although Varya did not know why she was honest with the boy. She supposed he was entertaining, his constant mischief always keeping her on edge.

"Look at you! Only two weeks in, and you have already learned how to shelter yourself," he said, earning a bemused look from the girl. "Yes, as you will see, Riddle is not one to be messed with."

She knew that already, of course, perhaps even better than Icarus did, but she did not say anything as he continued trailing behind her before stopping at his table. He waved her goodbye cheekily, but the girl just rolled her eyes.

As she approached the table, she noticed Ivy had a pale glare to her skin, her hands gripping her desk. Just as she was about to fall, Varya dropped the jar she was holding, letting it smash to the ground, and caught her.

Slughorn paced to them quickly, followed by a few curious students that he tried to shoo away, but to no avail. He took a look at Trouche's unconscious body, then signaled another Slytherin student to pick her up, "Take her to the infirmary, quickly. She seems to have been knocked out by the fume of her potion, which was done improperly."

He then turned to their cauldron and cleared it quickly, as the student carried Ivy out of the room. Varya sat back at her desk, confused, as she had seen Ivy work with the ingredients and had not noticed any mistakes.

She looked at Tom, who had a stone-cold face as he watched the door slam behind the two students. He turned back to his cauldron, which had a perfectly brewed potion, then looked at Varya.

"Pity, I think she might not be able to compete on Saturday," he said mockingly. He looked at Varya, and she could see in his gaze that he dared her to say anything about what had happened. Of course, who would believe that prefect Tom Riddle had slipped something into Ivy's potion when she was not looking? Who would believe that he had purposely stopped her from competing when she was part of his own house's team? And more so, who would believe traitor Varya Petrov over him?

***

The Great Hall sang with the sound of Hogwarts students' chatter, every table filled with delicious meals after a long day of classes. Varya sat at the Slytherin table, Elladora beside her, but had no appetite.

She had heard that Ivy Trouche would be kept in the infirmary for two nights, missing the first Quidditch match of the season. This angered many of her peers, who could not admit that they would lose the game to Gryffindor with their best chaser out cold. Some even conspired, suspecting that it had been the adversary team that had messed with her potion. Varya knew better, though; she knew that the betrayal had happened from the inside.

"Stop brooding," chimed Elladora, placing a piece of chicken on Varya's plate. "She is not dead."

Varya wondered at her words, detecting slight animosity in them. She had figured out that her two roommates did not see eye to eye and that her presence was usually a welcome buffer. For what reason, however, she could not tell.

"I guess," she mumbled, picking at her potatoes with her fork. On the other side of the table, she could see Alphard in a similar state, his face filled with worry.

The Great Hall's doors opened once more, and in walked Tom Riddle and his group of misfits, one more wicked than the other. On his right, as always, stood Abraxas Malfoy, a coy smile rested on his lips and a terrific glint in his eyes. He carried himself with great importance, not even sparing anyone else a look. On the other side was Icarus Lestrange, his wicked jovial nature obvious as he jinxed an unknowing first year that passed by him, making him stumble and land with his face in a plate of porridge. Curiously, two other boys walked behind. Varya had not had the pleasure of meeting them yet.

"Who are the guys that are trailing behind Riddle?" she asked her roommate, watching as he took another bite of her chicken. Elladora followed her gaze, then her eyes went back to Varya, analyzing her.

"The one with the dark hair is Maxwell Nott, he is in our year, and his family is one of the Sacred twenty-eight, perhaps one of the oldest," Elladora answered, as Varya analyzed him. Perhaps, he was the most similar to Riddle in his attitude, looking around with a bored gaze. He was less authoritative, being the most detached from the group. His brown hair was messier than the rest.

"The other one," her friend continued. "Is Renold Rosier. At least by his family name, he is of French descendant, and probably the least fitting to Riddle's group. For one, he has manners, but I suppose all of them share the same thirst of power."

The second boy had much curlier hair, maybe even more so than Tom - why has she comparing everyone to him? He had a calmer nature than the rest, walking elegantly amongst the tables. Varya could not help but notice that he was almost as adored as Riddle.

She scoffed. Had Tom purposely only surrounded himself with attractive men? Then again, he never showed any genuine interest in girls. Nevertheless, they all shared something else in common: they were all, except for Riddle, part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Tom kept good company, it seemed.

Her gaze met his, and she immediately went back to her food. She still carried resentment towards him because of the Potion class and tried to ignore how her heart hammered against her ribcage because of her anxiety.

Even so, the group made their way towards them, much to her displeasure, and sat down, with Riddle right across from her. Malfoy and Lestrange planked his sides, whereas Rosier sat next to Elladora, and Nott placed his bag next to Varya.

"Good evening Varya, Elladora," Icarus greeted them, winking in their direction. Varya scoffed, earning an amused glance from Malfoy.

"Oh, this one does not quite like you," he teased Icarus, at which the other boy only rolled his eyes.

"What are you talking about? Petrov is obviously just denying our inevitable attraction," he laughed loudly, only to be silenced by Riddle's glare.

"You are loud," he mumbled, annoyed at his energy. Had it not been for his status, he would have sent Icarus away ages ago.

Varya stayed silent, her eyes trailing to Elladora and Rosier, who seemed to fall into a casual conversation. Then, Renold Rosier stopped and looked at her, extending his hand over Elladora's shoulder.

"Renold Rosier, a pleasure," he said gallantly, shaking Varya's hand. "Most call me Ren, as I share my father's name."

The girl smiled at him, although somewhat fake, and introduced herself too. On her other side, Maxwell Nott stayed silent, too preoccupied with reading the newspaper. Very well, she thought, refusing to acknowledge him first.

Varya looked at Tom Riddle again, and they made eye contact, some unknown challenge in his eyes. Of course, he wanted to know if she had said anything about the Potion's class. Scowling, Varya shook her head, ignoring the pleased look that she received.

She noticed, however, how easily Elladora Selwyn fell in with them, almost as if she was an extension of their group. Her fiery red hair was pulled in a half-up hairdo, making it easier for Varya to notice the knowing look that she threw Malfoy. Then, as if nothing happened, they all went back to eating in silence.

It seemed as if Varya had underestimated her roommate's ties with Tom Riddle.