"Some of us love you
Achilles, it's not much but there's proof
You crazy assed cosmonaut
Remember your virtue
Redemption lies plainly in truth"

achilles come down - gang of youths

CHAPTER EIGHT

Abraxas let the maggots gnaw away at the fault that nested in his putrified soul.

It made him feel numb, at least. Senseless as he regarded her beam on the other side of the table with another man, not even sparing him a glance as he downed another glassful of wine. His eyes fell on the engraving on the bottle that was set on the table, and he grimaced—Château Beauchamp Bordeaux. Bloody fucking irony.

Malfoy did not know what disturbed him more—the absolute disgust that slithered through his body like larvae, or the way her smile sent goosebumps all over his body. He thought it to be nothing more than a paradox, a penalty for everything he had done to her during their years at Hogwarts.

Filthy mudblood—it is easier to hate them when you do not know them.

When she did not stalk the halls of the Manor every morning, footsteps dull as to not rouse any of the purebloods up, because they might chew at her with brutality and viciousness. And then she strolled to the main balcony, pushed the glass doors open, and just sat by the railing, watching the sunrise that reminded her of home.

Or how she glimpsed at the stars a little too long sometimes, because her father painted her ceiling when she was younger, and now his life depended on hers. She gawked at them with crime and disgrace in her eyes, because she felt faulty for everything she had done. But it was they who had taken away her innocence, tainted her with blood and depravity.

And now Della only ever spoke with hatred of the stars and the moon, those symbols that had once represented home were now metaphors for Tom Riddle's court of brutes.

Her thoughts used to be so loud at Hogwarts. Abraxas would have trouble pushing them away when he first learned Legilimency, and they were on a frequency similar to his own. He had complained to Tom a few times—the mudblood thinks too loud, I swear to God I should just end her. Riddle had scoffed at his impatience then, mocked him for being so weak that he could not block a puny witch out.

"Ogle at her any longer, and she might actually pay you attention," snorted Ophelia from the side, gray eyes glancing between the two. Finally, she set her look on Felix, "They are perfect for each other."

Abraxas tightened his fist around the glass.

"Watch your mouth, Winterbour," he turned his face to the witch, who was smirking mischievously, "Do not think that your engagement grants you immunity."

"As if I would ever fear any of you."

"That makes you daft."

"Hardly," singsonged the overbearing witch, her fingers trailing her glass of wine, "Many things can kill me, Malfoy. You just are not one of them."

"And why is that?"

Ophelia placed her glass on the table, then peeped back at Della and Felix, who were actively whispering and laughing about something, "Do not ruin her happiness after you have destroyed every bit of hope she had."

Malfoy said nothing more, retracting into the darkness that hid his mind, trying to obstruct the sonata of her laugh that echoed through his psyche, jingling all the right emotions and all the wrong ones too. He thought it to be feeble—her presence was suffocating.

And part of him wanted her because he could not have her, for Abraxas Malfoy had grown up being spoiled with all of his heart's desires. To imagine an object that his parents could not afford had never been a reality for the young boy. Clothes, cars, brooms, luxury—he had it all.

But Della Beauchamp was not something that could be bought with money, but instead won over with goodness and gratitude, the kindness of a whole soul. Something Abraxas did not have, nor would he ever, because he was as corrupted as his father and as vicious as his mother.

Not only that, but she was not a pureblood, and that made any sort of feeling fade into nothingness, because to be with her meant to be denounced by his family, shunned by the wizarding world. He would lose his status in the bourgeoisie, and become nothing more than a blood traitor.

And Abraxas would never give that up. He simply could not.

The Malfoy Manor had a graveyard on the estate, somewhere close enough to the forest that few guests ever sauntered past it, and as was customary, every tombstone had an engraving on its surface—an adjective to describe a primordial quality of the deceased.

He supposed his would be simple—coward.

***

Her room at the Rosier Manor was just as she remembered it, with elegant silk draped over her king-sized bed, a baldachin from which curtains fell to the ground and surrounded the inviting mattress. In the corner, there was the fireplace and chairs that she had devised the cursed marbles at, and if she glanced close enough, she could still see the dent in the stone where she had accidentally let her hammer fall.

House-Elves had brought her luggage in, and she breathed in the static air of the room before marching to the window and pushing the glass open. The breeze of midday felt almost heavy as it transversed her chamber, and Varya extended one hand out to touch the rays on her skin.

There were still a few hours left before dinner, so she took her time to rummage through her luggage, picking out a silhouette fitted dress, somewhat militaristic, with padded shoulders and a length that reached her knees. She placed it on the bed, then picked out matching cream heels, knowing that the Rosier family probably expected her to wear proper attire.

Varya wondered what they would make of her reappearance during an open war with Grindelwald. Last time, Renold Rosier Senior had been very displeased with her presence, claiming that harboring a Petrov descendant was a stain on their reputation. Now, the whole wizarding world knew that she was one of the leading forces against the Dark Wizard.

All thanks to him, at that. He had made sure to have her name splattered all over the newspaper, a way of getting every witch and wizard to recognize her face, which made rumors of her locations travel much faster. The witch had paid little attention to the media, not dwelling too much on the articles that they had published, conspiracy theories of her involvement in the surge of attacks on wizarding villages, and whatnot.

Still, Scarlet liked to keep track of it—for research purposes, she had explained once. It was essential to keep track of the public opinion, for when they encountered wizards, they might face obstacles and aggression. Felix theorized, however, that Scarlet was somewhat narcissistic, and enjoyed seeing their names splattered on the front page whenever an insider claimed to have found more information on them.

But they had been hidden well, so much so that their home in the Alps had been secured by Dumbledore with the same magic that made Hogwarts disappear from the muggle eyes, except the Villa had been warded off from any kind of presence.

A knock sounded at her door, and when Varya told the person to come in, Indra pushed the wooden entrance open, stepping into the room with eyes as wide as teacups, "I thought the Malfoys were extravagant," she whispered, "But, oh my! The Rosiers are certainly flashy."

"They do enjoy flaunting their wealth, do they not?"

Varya greeted sincerely, hands still sorting out her outfit. The Myung siblings had struggled financially growing up due to their father being a heavy gambler. He had barged into many wizarding pubs during the intervallic period, right before World War II had started, and when both children were relatively young. The economy had crashed due to the First War and the Japanese occupation of Korea, ultimately leading to desperation.

Their father had had a bad leg from the war. Thus, he was unable to work for more than minimum wage. On multiple occasions, he had converted their national currency into galleons and knuts, then placed bets in local Quidditch matches, only to be scammed out of most of his salary. That had continued for years until he had fallen ill and perished during the night. Lev had been three years old, and Indra had only just passed her second birthday.

The older sibling had taken on the role of a provider for his family. He was too frightened even to let his mother work, for news circled fast of the nefarious scams that the Japanese lured women with. Offering jobs in restaurants or shops, only to abduct them and force them to pleasure the armies— the history of comfort women was one that would continue for years, and many turned a blind eye to the utter atrocities that had been committed.

Varya understood why Lev was so protective of his sister, never allowing her to think of men too much. Their history had taught them that during wartime, women became distractions, and the shadowmancer would rip throats before he ever allowed something to happen to Indra.

So, the boy took on the responsibility, and when the opportunity was raised for them to be snuck out of Korea and assist the Obscurial on her conquest, they had been more than willing to follow. Now, their mother was safely working in Yorkshire as a dishwasher in a restaurant. It was not much, but it was enough. Meanwhile, her children had all their expenses covered by Dumbledore's bargains with the Ministry of Magic.

"What are you wearing for dinner?" probed Indra, glancing over her friend's shoulder, then letting her eyes widen at the delicate dress, "Oh, I have nothing similar to that..."

Varya shot her a look before diving into her suitcase, throwing garments all over until she found another shirtwaist dress, navy blue with a keyhole neckline and puffed sleeves. She passed it over to the lumomancer, who squeaked with delight at the divine material.

"Keep it," stated the Eastern witch softly.

Indra peered at her shyly, "I could never," she said, yet her fingers had caught onto the hem with possessiveness. It was not ill-mannered, but rather the fascination with luxury of a girl that had grown up in a one-room apartment, sharing everything with her family.

And Varya had enough money and clothes to last her a lifetime—the one thing her parents had taken care of was to leave a vault at Gringotts Wizarding Bank full of galleons. Losing a dress and a few accessories would not hurt her, but it would thrill the other witch.

"I insist."

Indra nodded, then jumped on the bed with a squeal, white hair flying out of her clasped bun, and she gasped as it tickled the side of her face. Her hands flew out to fix it, eyebrows creased in frustration, but she could not tie the locks back up.

She shot Varya a pleading look, "Help me get ready?"

The witch nodded, inviting the younger one to sit at the vanity by the window, where the last sun rays slid through the glass, caressing the ivory chair. As Indra sat down, her hair flickered in the light, reflecting with such intensity that Varya squinted her eyes.

She picked up her hairbrush from one of the bags, then started combing through the girl's locks softly. They were as silky as Varya had imagined, and Indra seemed to be made of light itself, so tender and unsullied. But even holy fire could flare.

"I never asked you, but why is your hair white?" inquired Varya suddenly, mesmerized by the texture and color.

The lumomancer peeped at her through the mirror, "Because of my ancestry—Fae Folk often have distinguishable traits to their appearance. Our powers draw from the opposition of the Moon and the Bleakness, Light, and Shadow, so my features are morphed to represent the glow of the lunar cycle, whereas Lev is made with the darkness of the universe."

"Fae folk," breathed Varya, "I have never heard of wizards breeding with them."

"It is frowned upon in most European cultures due to blood fanaticism," explained Indra, watching as Varya picked up some ties from the drawers and began braiding her hair, "Purebloods do not want to taint their magic with humans, much less with creatures they believe to be inferior. Even if it means more strength, it is some absolutely repulsive fanaticism. It is for the better, though, because there are many downsides of being of Fae lineage."

"Such as?"

Indra stiffened, almost as if discerning that she had said too much, and then her fingers fidgeted on the desk with nervousness. The Eastern witch scowled at the unexpected behavior—the lumomancer hardly ever kept secrets, so what was so terrible to have her shut down like this?

"You do not have to tell me if you do not want to," began Varya, trying to soothe the girl's quivering figure.

"Our names," came a voice from behind.

Petrov turned to see Lev Myung standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a scowl painted on his face, and he puffed his chest with nuisance before glancing at his sister, who was avoiding his eyes knowingly. He peeped around the hallway, making sure that nobody was around, then stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him.

"Pardon?" said Varya, confusion bursting on her expression as the boy walked inside the room, eyes trailing the decorations.

He was not as fascinated with everything as Indra was, or if he was, he hid it exceptionally well. Perhaps, some part of him believed that such extravagance was only a means of compensating for the lack of courage or integrity, a scream of immorality or corruption.

"Our names are weapons," the shadowmancer continued, strolling to the window. He glanced outside, eyes trailing the horizon, "If you know our full name, you may have complete control over our magic."

"But I know your name," remarked Varya.

Indra laughed, "You know our aliases, love. Not our birth-given names—those are kept only for family, not even the government knows them."

The Obscurial glanced between the two siblings in astonishment, almost not believing their tale. But when she met Lev's solemn expression, she knew it was not a trick, but the truth. Her frown deepened.

"Do Lev or Indra sound Korean to you?" snorted Lev, and Varya blushed at that. "We have gone by multiple names since our birth, but after we left Korea, we finally got to choose our own meanings."

"What do your names mean?"

"Lev means Lion, and it is a Slavic name," chirped Indra as her braid was finished, hanging off of her shoulder and down until it reached the middle of her abdomen, "He thought it would be a sign of respect for you if he picked something from your ancestral origins."

The shadowmancer began coughing furiously, redness creeping up his neck as he turned away from the two girls. Varya watched him with a twinkle of delight in her eyes, her lips pulling in a smile as the habitually expressionless boy submerged himself in embarrassment.

"Is that so?" she jested, then her face crinkled with amusement, "Well, thank you, Lev."

The boy waved a hand in response, some signal of recognition, as he continued to cough on air, probably having choked due to bewilderment. He thumped his broad chest with a heavy hand, then stuck his head out the window to breathe in deeply.

"What of you, Indra?"

"Oh, my name means raindrops or she who possesses rain."

Varya hoisted an eyebrow, "Why?"

"I just really love the rain."

Perhaps, but it also symbolized her liberated essence, something that came and went like summertime rainfall in the morning zephyr, a force of nature that could not be restrained. Indra was a spirited soul, with enough loyalty and idealism in her to burst flowers in the Garden of Eden, and nothing ever seemed to hinder her from her journey.

Varya let the girl's braid fall down her shoulder, then gestured for her to bathe in the bathroom quickly and change into her dress. Dinner was to be served in less than an hour, and both girls still had to get ready. Indra picked up a towel, then dashed to the bathtub, delighted by how grand it was. She turned on every faucet, then sat by it and played with her hand in the water as she watched it rise.

With the lumomancer gone, only Lev and Varya were left in the room—the boy still red from the earlier conversation, his eyebrows were pulled in a frown as he stared out the window and tried to keep calm, and the girl with her mind infested by Elladora Selwyn's words.

"He has taken a fancy to you."

But that could not be true, could it? There had never been any signs, and he was just as devoted to her as the rest of them. Indeed, he would sometimes go the extra length of assuring her comfort or helping her, but that was because he was the only one of the group that understood the passing coldness of shadows.

"When are you going to get the necklace?" inquired Lev, and only then did the girl noticed that his eyes were trailing the forest. She approached the window too, then followed his line of sight until she saw them—spirits.

Invaders of the forest, scattered through branches like umbrae of the soul, bodies mangled due to their horrifying deaths and eyeballs glossed over by the macabre. They were of all sorts—some were atrocious, some were benevolent, yet they mingled amongst each other in the graveyard that was the woods.

The witch's hands seized the edge of the window, and she felt the way her eyes lacquered with reminiscence. The spirits had taken something from her. Something she intended on getting back.

"After dinner," she breathed slowly and then turned to look at the boy, who already had his anthracite eyes trailing her profile with intensity. Lev glanced at her with both uncertainty and confidence, an unbearable tension in his body, and then his lips parted, almost as if he were about to say something of great importance.

A knock sounded at the door.

The irritation that sparked in the girl's chest was potent; it burned brightly as she stomped over to the door, flinging it open with force, "What is it?"

Tom glanced at her with a heightened eyebrow, hands clasped behind his back as he peered down at her from his impressive height. He was wearing a formidable suit, although admittedly large around his waist, with a black turtleneck peeking from underneath. His inky curls had not been combed, nor gelled back today, but were framing his sublime face, angled and demonic all the same.

Whether it had been God that anointed him or Lucifer, it mattered not, because at the end of the day, he was as alluring as the apple that grew in the Terrestrial Paradise, and he was the viper as well—the blissful drone of depravity that lured her to sinfulness.

His eyes fluttered past her, whirling around her room before they landed on something, and his hand flew to the door frame almost immediately, supporting himself as the wreckage of pain jolted his psyche, and betrayal was deeply rooted in his core. Tom's eyes met the shadowmancer's in a brief moment, and his wrath cascaded through the shadows of broken trust.

Satan held his breath, watching the boy with precaution, and the world itself awaited the eruption of sadism that seemed to catalyze Tom Riddle, yet there was no movement on his side. Only stone-cold mirage, his body mummified by chaos.

The coldness that passed through his being mimicked death—acute loneliness drenching a boy that felt a little too much a little too late, and his hands clenched by his side as he fought back the ruination of his soul. It was a needle of poison stuck right in his heart; it burned vivaciously as it expanded, blazing down the forests and gardens that had grown from her rose of affection.

"What is he doing here?" Tom breathed harshly, not even daring look at her, for the twisting feeling in his chest only seemed to accentuate. And he felt her proximity like radioactive bits that singed his skin flamingly.

Varya glanced back at Lev, who was only gazing at Tom with disobedience, and her eyebrows knotted in confusion, "He is waiting for his sister."

"In your room?" Riddle growled, and then his hand grabbed Varya immediately, pulling her closely before shooting Lev an absolutely malicious glare, "Get out."

"Riddle, what on Earth are you doing?" yelled Varya, getting her hand out of his grasp before taking a few steps back, "Indra is in my bathroom!"

"Do you know what this looks like, Varya?" thundered Tom, and then he turned to Lev again, "I said to get out!"

Lev pushed himself from the window, hands crossed over his chest, and his face was as void as the darkness of a black abyss. He approached Tom slowly, then stopped right in front of him with the slightest raise of an eyebrow, "And I think I ignored you."

Tom's hands shook by his side, and he almost made to grab his wand, strike the boy down and have him thrashing around on the floor until his esophagus bled from the outcries of torment. He would have him beg for mercy like the pitiful half-breed that he was until his shame would inundate every neuron and every connection, a mess of sacrilege and terror.

His breathing came in quicker now, and his clock of patience struck its last hour, yet right as he was about to reach out to his wand and instigate the battle, Varya stepped in front of him, her heliotrope eyes glistening with irritation. She turned to glance at Lev, who was awaiting her signal, "I will deal with him."

The shadowmancer nodded, and as he passed Riddle, he made sure to not even look at him, knowing it would irritate the boy. Lev had had to deal with his fair share of lieutenants that thought a little too highly of their authoritative stance, using their position to oppress those beneath them.

Once he was out, Varya's eyes sparked with reticence as she glanced at Tom, "What the fuck was that?"

The boy was still fuming, "Do you know what people would say if they found him in your room?"

"What, Riddle?"

"That you are bedding him," he growled, clutching her forearm harshly before making her take a few steps back out of frustration.

Varya felt the need to scratch at his face, to gauge his eyes out with her bare hands until the blood would be a permanent imprint underneath her nails, and her hands would reek of metallic just as Nicholas Avery's did. Because how dare he? How dare he come in here, talk about tarnishing her reputation as if he had not had her scream his name in the Nott Manor.

"And if I am?"

The words left her mouth before she could even register what she was saying, yet the pleasure she felt at the sight of watching Tom Riddle explode with absolute vexation was intoxicating. His face had grown untarnished rouge, and his eyes had enlarged so much that she could count the number of popped blood vessels that had colored them claret.

"You are not," he breathed fire, advancing to her so rapidly she had to grip one of the pillars of her baldachin.

He gripped her throat tightly, having her chin raise to meet his, and then pressed himself so close that Varya felt the light dissipate from her visual realm. Her hand made to claw at his face, but he caught her wrist and pinned it above her head.

"I told you that if you cannot find courage and admit your feelings, then I am allowed to see whoever I please, Riddle," she choked out, smirking defiantly when a vein drummed against his temple, and his jaw set so tightly she thought it might break, "I thought you did not want me."

"I do not," he rasped, his fingers almost trembling on her throat, and Tom felt lightheaded from the way her perfume pattered against his being. The boy's mind was invaded by countless imageries from their shared night together, the way her skin had felt underneath his touch, her lips on him so achingly disturbing.

He wanted to let his fingers trail her thighs then, move north until his ears were invaded by her delicate whimpers, and her hands gripped his hair so tightly that his roots bled. Tom desired her in more ways than one, but most of all, he needed to have her in his control again.

"Then let me go."

Her argument was rational, and that was what almost sent him over the edge. Because if he did not want her, then why was he so adamant about controlling her? Tom's mind ravaged whenever she approached another man, whenever she made fleeting gestures of coquettishness that she had undoubtedly learned from Elladora. Fucking Elladora, Tom should have her beheaded for putting such thoughts in Varya's head, for teaching her such mannerism.

"I cannot," he breathed slowly, and every muscle in his jaw tensed as he fought back the way the words rolled from his tongue naturally.

"Why?"

The silence was malignant, it arose tumultuously between the pair, and with each transient second, it pulled against strings of connection as azure eyes sipped into obsidian, trailing her face as if the answer was in the way her anemone lips parted with her heavy breathing, or the slightest scar that nested right above her right eyebrow.

"I will tell you why, Riddle," continued Varya after a moment, and she felt the way her throat dried up when he glanced at her with a scorching flame in his eyes. Her pupils fell on his mouth, the way he was drawing in shaky breaths, and the flared back up to meet his stare, "Because as much as you claim not to care, your feelings consume you."

"How many times must I tell you?" he spoke through gritted teeth, his grip tightening on her throat, "I do not feel, Petrov. I am incapable of doing so."

"Lies," she choked out, moving against his hold, "Fucking liar."

"I was conceived under a love potion, you daft witch. I cannot love; I never will."

"A pathetic excuse for your cowardliness," Varya murmured, clearing her throat that had begun pulsating, "Being born because of a love potion does not make you incapable of emotions, you arrogant git. The potion does not replicate true love, only infatuation, so how can you expect it to suppress it?"

Tom drew in a sharp breath, "What are you talking about?"

"It does not suppress love, Tom. It suppresses infatuation. Every feeling that is superficial never fazes you. So when you finally pass the threshold, you always feel deeply. That is why your anger pulsates so strongly; that is why your jealousy has no ends. When something thrills you, you become obsessed. But because you have only ever felt negative emotions strongly enough, because you grew without any sort of love or warmth, there has never been anything potent enough to have you experience love."

Everything stilled—only the sound of the pendulum of the clock broke through, its monotonous ticks sending tides of distress down Varya's spine, making her flinch as she waited for Tom to process what she had just said.

It had taken a while for her to figure it out, to understand why the boy was as he was, and only after she had left had Dumbledore mentioned it to her. He had alluded to the idea on the first day they had met, saying that his "research had proven otherwise" as far as love potions were concerned, but had not guided her further out of fear of messing with the timeline too much.

But once Varya had left Hogwarts, her teacher had explained it to her. For that reason, the girl had confronted Tom about his feelings, about his need to act on them, because she wanted to stimulate him into breaking the barrier of his mind, the one that told him that he could never love her.

Because he could. If only he allowed himself to.

His grip tightened. It tightened so harshly that her lungs constricted, grappling at the last bit of oxygen to transport to her tissues and brain, hemoglobin pounding at the heart's door to carry out its task. Varya kicked her legs around, tried to spit out words at him to let her go, but Tom's eyes had grown void, and now there was nothing in the depths of his crystal sea, no creatures swimming behind his irises and whispering maliciousness. There was nothing at all. And that was far scarier.

A boy that felt too little.

or

A boy that felt too much.

Riddle watched her struggle; he watched the color slowly drain from her face as he continued strangling her, his fingers pressed right against her arteries, clogging them harshly, and if he pushed a little more, if he only endured watching her suffer a little longer—she would die. She would be gone, and all that consumed him would be extinguished with a paralyzing flare of nothingness.

"You—," he began, yet words clogged in his throat, clawing at it viciously, and he felt that if he parted his lips again, he would only choke on his own blood, almost as if hooks were fastening at his tissue, perforating and scratching until it all felt empty. Nothing.

Tom detached himself from her, his hand flying away from her neck right as the door to the bathroom opened, and Indra gasped as she watched Varya fall to the ground, gasping for air until her esophagus cried with agony. The boy stood petrified in his spot, completely still, utterly frozen—nothing.

And then everything, all at once—an awareness that there was truth to her words. That her rationale was a flawless coherence of words, yet it all sounded like blasphemous prose of carnage. A malediction that she had bestowed upon his voidness, flowering and seeding light in places where there had been an abyss. She plucked out weeds and replaced them with roses of vitality, and their thorns prickled at his psyche until it bowed to her truth.

His curse was not to be emotionless. No, the love potion had done something far worse. His curse was to feel so much it left him rotten.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" yelled Indra as she ran to Varya, her dress ruffling as she struggled to pick up her friend off of the floor.

Tom's eyes flew to Petrov, who, despite her struggle to find her breath, had a fatal sneer on her face as she observed the fright slip through his being. And the boy gazed at her, taking in every curve of her face, the way her tall nose peaked to the ceiling, how her raven hair fell in chopped patterns to her collarbones. There was bloodthirst in her eyes, a calling for a massacre of sorts.

She began thrashing in Indra's hold, feeling the fury that had been dormant for the past few days wake, the need to rip limbs and splinter bones until her hands were calloused from it. Her eyes flickered from white to pitch-black, and she continued smiling dementedly at Tom as he struggled to piece himself together.

When the boy looked at her, however, he felt corrupted and entranced. And terrified—not because of the way obscurations throbbed in the corners of the room, not due to the gruesome immorality that swirled on her face. But because he knew. He knew that if anyone could ever make him pass the threshold of emotions, it was her.

Her and the whirlwind of death that dawdled behind her. Her and the eternal nightfalls spent quivering in sheets as nightmares plagued the mind. Her and her consummate depravity, the way it sauntered the edge of her soul, then dived in deep until it putrified her nucleus.

"Lev!" called out Indra, and it only took a few seconds before her sibling burst through the door, eyes enlarging at the way the curtains had begun rippling despite the lack of wind in the month of August. The bed rattled and squeaked as the breeze picked up, and shadows began dancing in the place of light, encompassing the ceiling, and the floor, and everything.

"Get out of my way," the boy growled, pushing Tom aside before kneeling in front of Varya and grabbing her head, forcing her maddened eyes to focus on his, "Calm down!"

Riddle snapped out of it, and he glanced at the boy that was holding Varya with inflammation, feeling the burning inside his heart. Right as he was about to advance to them, he stopped, and he took in the arid sensation. It frightened him, the way he torched like a nebula in her presence, and how she affected his perception so fastly.

He made a choice then.

Tom could either satisfy his craving for her, risk the darkness that engulfed his soul.
Or.

He could let her go and dive deeper into his desire for power.

The last thing Varya saw before her eyes closed was the door slamming as Tom Riddle left the room.

***

Do not hate Tom too much, he is going through his emo phase.

If you have shifted to TSD universe before me, just know I am incredibly jealous. And drop your methods because I am TRYING.

Also, I am kind of proud of this chapter so I hope you liked it, although it was shorter than usual.