CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nicholas Avery was not a noble man, far from it. He had grown up different from most aristocrat heirs, diagnosed in his early years with relentless anger management problems and a flimsy tendency to psychopathy.

That made him eccentric amongst the well-educated bourgeoise, always one step away from imploding and absolutely annihilating any witch or wizard in sight. There had been many instances where the boy had reached his culmination of madness, seconds away from slitting the throat of anyone who dared send him a disagreeable flash.

His parents were more than vaguely dissatisfied with their son, unsure how to restrain his sheer mania and outlandish behavior. It had started with small animals at first—the boy would bring corpses of road-kills in their backyard, play with them as if they were toys that he had discovered, frightening any children that might have otherwise befriended him.

Few dared approach him, out of fear of the wizard's atomic fury, which commonly manifested in erroneous recreations of ghastly trials and tasteless morbid humor. He had learned how to throw knives at the age of nine, had mastered the bow and arrow when he was ten, and had even dabbled with torture during his first years at Hogwarts.

Nicholas Avery was a volatile man that hid behind the myth of a supremely charming bachelor. He was the murmur of duskiness, a tuneful incantation of deceit and tumult, the raven's sonata of despair—an assassin hidden in plain sight.

He had met few people that shared his need for blood in his early years—Maxwell Nott had been the first, followed by a toothy Icarus Lestrange and a pig-tailed Elladora Selwyn. The four of them had started an unusual alliance two years before Hogwarts, and although there had been a fair share of bickering and momentary hatred amongst the years (especially involving the cunning poisoner), Avery considered them to be the family he had chosen. Said tight-knight group had only extended once they had attended their magic school, and with each year, it grew into a reasonably odd entanglement.

So, when Rosier barged into the Manor, eyes wide and hands trembling tensely, Nicholas had simply known that something had happened.

"Who is it?" he urged impatiently, pushing himself out of the comfortable chair he had taken by the fire. He wielded a knife in his hands, a token he rarely missed, and strolled to the other Slytherin with critical steps. "Who is hurt?"

He had almost felt it in his bones, the flimsiest twinge of pain that ordinarily came with the summer rainfalls. When Nicholas was fourteen, he had broken his right arm while trying to wrestle one of the older children in the small village near his grand estate. He often snuck out during the night, engaging in petty fights only to prove superiority.

Avery grasped his wrist, massaging it softly as the faint memory faded to the back of his head. A fair price to pay for the savoring of what had come after the duel—at least Nicholas made it out alive.

"I need Elladora," announced Ren, pushing past the assassin and making his way into the glassed veranda, where the poisoner was spinning a strikingly mauve liquid in her cauldron.

As soon as she had heard her name, the sly witch glanced up with cat-like eyes, her cherry hair falling down her back in bouncy tides. Cardinal lips pulled in a sneer, obviously displeased at being disturbed during her potion-making, but her senses immediately recognized the distress in Renold's face.

"Maxwell is hurt badly," blurted the boy, and Avery widened his eyes before grasping his arm.

There were few people the boy cared enough for to devote his power to protect them absolutely, and Maxwell Nott happened to be at the top of that list. He had been Avery's first friend, the only person that had taken his knack for cruelty with such dignity, swatting away the psychopathic tendencies and indulging in the assassin's behavior.

What was peculiar amongst all was that their dynamic had been painstakingly simple—Maxwell was the brain of the operation; he devised ingenious escape plans and collected enough knowledge of human anatomy to educate Avery on the most lethal tissue spots. And Nicholas, although admittedly bright in his own right, had the bloodied hands that asphyxiated anyone who dared imperil any of the Knights.

So when one of them got hurt, Avery tended to put the blame entirely on himself, and fuck—the guilt was disintegrating him on the inside as hands trembled with the liquefaction of vengeance and dread by his side.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he is bloody hurt, you buffoon, and we have no idea how to heal him. We have to take Varya's books and search through them for the cure for the bite of a strzyga," Rosier amplified his words as he started walking up the stairs, the other two Knights following closely behind.

Right as they reached the third floor and turned the corner, they met the concerned gaze of Icarus Lestrange, who still had his weapon belt strapped to his chest. Messy curls fell around in heaps and stuck to his skin from perspiration, yet the boy barely flattened as he took in Ren's words.

"Did something happen to Varya?" he inquired, and then followed the rest of them into the girl's room.

Rosier wanted to curse himself—this was exactly what Tom had wanted to avoid, yet the hysteria of the attack coupled with the fact that Ren had a tendency of blurting information out turned to be a cocktail of disaster.

He immediately darted to the witch's luggage in the corner, hands popping the trunk open and searching the endless amount of books and parchments until he could find something of use. Behind him, the Knights continued to discuss amongst themselves aridly.

"Why were you attacked?" questioned the duelist, focus back on the Rosier heir.

"My parents," Ren answered with acidity, "They were perplexed at having Varya in their home, as well as two half-breeds, or whatever Indra and Lev are. They alerted Grindelwald, probably thinking he would merely come to take the newcomers and the rest of us would surrender them willingly. Instead, we were ambushed by an endless amount of dark creatures."

"Merlin, that bastard is using grotesque tactics," bit Elladora, kneeling before the Eastern witch's belongings and starting to rummage through.

"So we strike back twice as ruthless," said Icarus, teeth gritted with frustration as he felt his blood go cold.

"You bloody fucking fool, what are you going to do? Sneak into Grindelwald's castle and obliterate him?" groaned Rosier from his spot, throwing another book over his shoulder, "We are powerless until we understand how he is controlling everything so carefully."

"Well, it would help if Maxwell stayed alive for that, so how about you all cease your aimless chatter and help Selwyn and Rosier search," decreed a voice from behind, and they all turned to see Abraxas Malfoy walk into the room, chin held high and clothes of regal admiration, "Send Beauchamp to pack everyone's belongings, we are to accompany the rest of the group to the Alps."

"Riddle told me not to—," began Rosier, but was promptly cut off by Abraxas.

"Riddle is out of his mind if he thinks we can stay here, Rosier. If word has reached the Alliance that your family was sheltering fugitives, how long before they come inspecting the Malfoy Manor? And I would rather not be put in a similar situation—so, pack your things, and tell the guests to do so as well. We are leaving in an hour."

With that, Malfoy strolled out of the room again, likely to instruct his staff on how to handle any brigades that might be sent to inquire on their whereabouts. Lestrange sniggered darkly, "Oh, the right-hand has grown rebellious."

"Yes, because what we need right now is conflict amongst us," dug Selwyn at the boy, sending him a frustrated look that made him shut up.

The horologe on the wall ticked fastly, and seconds seemed to pass agilely when survival hung to the last jiffies of sand in the clepsydra of fate, slowly sinking into the endless abyss and misconception that was death. Figures moved aridly, their reflections mere shadows dancing on the clock's sumptuous glass, engaging in spectral gyrations as the Knights of Walpurgis fought against their most capricious enemy, the sealer of their destinies and misfortunes—time.

***

To lose a brother was to lose a piece of your soul, and as Maxwell Nott quivered in the bed of the grimy Parisian motel, clinging to his sanity with clenched fists, each Knight felt their psyche crumble under a tremendous amount of grief and agitation.

Elladora Selwyn drenched another rag into the bowl of icy water that someone had brought her—she no longer distinguished between the footsteps that came in and went out of Maxwell's room, too fatigued to register faces or names; in the end, it was all a mayhem of concern. The witch placed it on his burning forehead, hoping, praying, begging, that tonight was the night the boy would break his fever.

"Still unconscious?" mumbled a distressed voice from behind, and Elladora turned to glance at Nicholas Avery, who had just awakened from his one-hour nap in the corner of the room. Besides her, he was the only other person that never seemed to eat, sleep or leave the chamber until Maxwell recuperated.

If he did at all.

It was hard to fantom losing one of them—seven was a number that had been engraved in their history, and would continue pulsating through the continuum of time as their destiny wrapped in entangled fate.

Maxwell Nott had to survive, if only so Elladora could absolutely murder him for being so careless with his life.

Two nights had passed since the attack, two nights since Selwyn had stumbled into the death-stinking French quarter near Avenue Victor Hugo, hands clinging onto the book they had found in Varya's trunk, and the fighting of the resistance still sounded every dusk, so much so that the witch had had to compel the owner of the motel to close down the building, then pack up his bags and leave the business. After that, Tom Riddle had hidden the inn with a camouflaging spell of sorts. Either way, the German troops nor the French battalions would find them.

The antidote to the bite had been the hardest potion Elladora had ever had to brew, and it had taken a full seven hours for it to catch, time in which Maxwell had wailed enough to disturb the most tranquil souls. The pain had to be excruciating, and the witch swore his face was still puffy from all the sobs that had clattered his body as nerves seemed to wither and die from the venom. She knew hers still was.

To listen to his cries, to the sounds he made as the girl struggled to brew the potion faster, it had been so mentally exhausting that Elladora simply felt void now—Maxwell's pain, Nicholas' anger at her not being fast enough, Tom's orders to heal Varya as well. Exhausting, exhausting, exhausting...

What had been most heart-breaking was when Maxwell had almost threaded the edge of darkness as the tissue around the bite had started to rot, and in a brief moment of clarity, he had grasped Selwyn's hand with force, and through damp eyelashes, had looked at her with so much desperation it had twisted the girl's heart. His words had been most crushing.

Please, please do not let me die. I am not ready.

"I am hoping today is the day," the witch spoke, and her lips fell odd, dry, almost as if she had been defiled of her vitality, a fading red-striking rose. She grasped Maxwell's hand, "Come on, Nott. All we need is a bit of lucidity."

And she wondered what would become of him—would he still be the same? Or could he become so broken death might prove to be more fruitful? Regardless, Elladora had warned the Knights to prepare themselves.

Someone pushed the door open, and the witch twisted her head to glance at the entrance, muscles clamping from the lack of sleep. Tom Riddle shot her an assertive look, and she knew he wanted her to change Varya's wound dressings.

"I will be back," Elladora managed to rasp to Nicholas, who only nodded, head held in his hands as fatigue consumed him all the same.

She walked up to Riddle, who held the door open for her, then continued strolling until they reached the other end of the room. Pushing the entryway, Elladora stepped into the dimly lit room, and noticed how Tom stopped right outside the chamber. She almost shot him a look of disapproval, but the wizard grimaced before walking away.

He always did this—loomed in the shadows right outside the witch's door, ticking like a broken clock, and whenever twelve hours passed, he called for someone to help the Eastern witch, clean her wounds, or bring her food. Tom never visited her, however. He never let his presence be known.

Selwyn turned her head to the girl sleeping in the bed soundly, and she almost envied her for a second, because Varya got to rest, and Varya got to have people who cared for her. Elladora had nothing.

But she shook away the thought as quickly as it came—envy had brought her emptiness, and she still remembered the way Ivy's badge had always felt heavy on her robes during their sixth year, when the cherry-haired witch had taken her position and filled it. Elladora was almost glad that she had not been chosen as Head-Girl, as everyone always seemed aware it would have been Trouche to achieve the goal, had it not been for her early demise.

Instead, the position had gone to Della Beauchamp. Delightful irony.

"Wake up," the witch spoke, shaking Petrov awake, and pulling the curtains open despite ample protests, "I have to change your bandages."

Varya pushed sable hair out of her face, picking at the strands that clung to her morning face, and then groaned in distress. Although the witch had sustained minor injuries compared to Nott, the pain had still been present, burning away at her flesh and having it turn black around the edges of the wound.

The Eastern witch had taken it all soundlessly—no complaint nor cry, only the ever-present knitting of eyebrows and scrunched eyes as she fought back the urge to overpower Maxwell's cries. But some part of her knew it would have been too much to handle for her companions, and so she bit down on her lips until they turned bloody and scabby, and constantly dulled the ache by meditating.

Elladora picked away the bloodied bandage that she had wrapped around Varya's arm the previous night, promptly inspecting the stitches before gently patting them with a soapy rag. They had to be cleaned every few hours, and although the Eastern witch insisted on doing it herself, Tom would always send Selwyn.

"Where is Felix?" inquired the Obscurial, then glanced at the door, and despite her question, it was another figure she searched for. Yet, Tom was never there, he had not come to see her once, and Petrov only concluded that he cared little for her injuries, probably deeming her weak for being in need of assistance.

Right as the words left her lips, Parkin and Beauchamp walked right in, each holding a different plate of delicacies. Felix's smile was whimsical, and he almost looked like the boy he had once been, deep inside the castle walls and wearing the Ravenclaw tie around his neck. Della, on the other hand, was a withered version of herself, taking in the demeanor of a scorned cat, always skimming eyes around the room as if inspecting for danger, and Elladora thought she knew exactly why.

Della made Felix happy, but Felix did not make Della feel safe.

"We brought you food," chirped Parkin, handing a plate to a frustrated Varya, who grunted out a response and pushed the container away, "No, you have to eat. Stop that."

"It tastes like paper."

"Everything will taste like paper until the venom leaves your system entirely," he said, and then set the portion of pastries on her bed as he fumbled with his robe and took out a volume on magical creatures. His eyes shone as he flipped the pages, and it was easy to forget that he had once been so passionate about his Care for Magical Creatures class.

"Strzyga venom, although extremely fatal, can be combated with an antidote made of dragon scales and oak root, boiled at precisely 123 degrees Celcius in a ceramic cauldron. Suppose the victim makes it through the third night. In that case, it will slowly begin seeping out of the blood system as the tissue gets repeatedly oxygenated, effectively breaking down the bonds that compromise the poison."

"God, this again?" whined the witch.

"Until then, the patient will find themselves to be in an inexplicable amount of agony as the venom slowly rots their tissue from inside out, and in some cases can even affect neuron synapses and cause nerve death. As such, victims will find that their senses will work improperly until they fully heal."

With that, Felix shut the book close, his face a little too ecstatic considering the situation, but the boy had an undeniable passion for mythical creatures, and as such, had taken to dissecting Varya's volumes word by word. It had proved to be extremely helpful in creating the antidote, which had to be administrated every twenty-four hours to promote cell growth and healing, as the boy had carefully explained the process to Elladora.

"This is for you," said Della quietly, handing a plate to the Selwyn witch, who had taken to rest on a chair, trying to ignore the muffled ache in her muscles.

Elladora hoisted an eyebrow at the muggle-born girl, who had rarely spoken to anyone ever since Malfoy had been assigned to accompany her on her espionage missions. On multiple occasions, Grindelwald had requested the witch meet up with his acolytes in secluded locations, and Abraxas had always been her shadow in the dark, perpetually on edge and ready to strike whoever endangered them.

But the rest of the Knights? They barely acknowledged her existence—she was a thorn in their side, another baggage to watch over while waiting for fate's train to station and for Riddle to decide their next move.

"Thank you," mumbled Selwyn, taking the plate from her hands and nodding in courtesy.

Elladora bit into a croissant, eyes analyzing the witch in front of her, and she almost pitied Della, for she seemed to be a stranger even amongst her peers. It was a consequence of her secret, as the girl was too benevolent to deceive her friends without her conscience corroding under gargantuan pressure.

The poisoner almost felt a tingle of sympathy cascade through her, but she quickly crushed it under a mountain of repulsion. What was becoming of her, of the Knight's cause? When had they started empathizing with mudbloods instead of vehemently trying to eradicate them? Times had changed, perhaps, and now other goals mattered in the grand scheme of things.

"How is Maxwell?" queried Varya, eyes lacquered with fault, and everyone knew she blamed herself for continually endangering the lives of so many. It was her that Grindelwald wanted, yet they all seemed to fall into the cauldron of peril.

Selwyn swallowed her food harshly—her throat was parched, and her body barely resisted against the harshness of the situation. "Still asleep, but the pain has lessened."

Petrov's nod was curt, sharp, almost as if her muscles had atrophied, and now spasms were the only movement allowed. She raised her hand to her mouth, biting down on her nails anxiously, something she seemed always to do.

"Tonight is the third night," began Felix, all joviality faded from his features, "And we will know."

Part of Elladora did not want to cling to hope—Maxwell's behavior was entirely different from Varya, and there were barely any signs of recovery. But she feared the whip of death; she was scared it might strike her friend if she stopped hoping, almost as if her thoughts dictated the outcome of things.

But that was human nature, was it not? The vague self-awareness, the egotistical view of the world, where one's own sentiments and thoughts shaped the consequences, almost as if loss of belief could be the cause of Nott's demise.

"I am going for a walk; call for me if I am needed, but if it is only for health spells, then call for Icarus," mumbled Elladora as she pushed herself up from the chair.

With that, she left the room, pressing palms against her eyes as her footsteps wabbled, and there was almost a buzz of fatigue that drummed through her body, clogging her throat as queasiness overwhelmed her.

Selwyn quickly grabbed a nearby bin, emptying her stomach into it as the bitter taste of vomit plagued her tongue. She clutched it tightly, blinking away tears of frustration, then simply hoisted herself up and pulled out her wand. With a simple wave, the bin was empty, and her mouth was refreshed.

After months of pretending not to be affected by the war, her body was finally aligning with her broken mind, failing the girl continuously. Her hair had started breaking with the slightest combing; her lips no longer carried her dark lipstick as they had once, skin no longer brisky and hydrated.

"Are you all right?" came Icarus' voice from behind her, and Elladora sniffed achingly, using a handkerchief to clean her mouth and her nose.

She shot him a perturbed glance, then pushed past him, ignoring the tug of her heart when their bodies were close enough, "As good as I can be considering all," she said, and suddenly her weak voice was covered by her unyielding perfectness.

Because that was what was expected of her—a perfect porcelain doll, always available for her parents to flaunt around, boast about her achievements in the public eyes, then reprimand her for not being good enough behind closed doors.

And that was why she had joined Riddle, was it not? To prove to them that she could be exactly who they wanted her to be, that their values were something she attended to with care and integrity.

Fuck them, fuck their values, fuck everything—Elladora was merely tired.

"You know, nobody will judge you here if you drop that faultless facade, let people past the barricade of foxiness and maliciousness," mumbled Icarus, pulling a chair for her in the common sitting area.

When they arrived at the motel, it had been a dining hall, but Riddle had transfigured everything into comfortable seats, as they often needed a place to discuss their next tactic. Dumbledore and Scamander were arriving in two days in the Alps, and Varya was still wobbly on her feet.

Selwyn sat down, closing her eyes for the slightest second, then opening them again when she felt Lestrange's hands on her shoulders, pressing deeply against her aching tissue. Her breath caught in her throat for a second before she let go of the tension, and reminded herself that they had been friends for years. His touches meant nothing. They never did.

"I do not have my guard up," she argued torridly, but there was little verve left in her.

Icarus hummed in disagreement, long fingers still pressing in her shoulder blades, "Nobody can be perfect, Elladora. Not even you."

But sometimes, she wanted to be; she needed it.

"And how would you know that?"

His laugh was so crystalline, and even after so many years of being by his side, the witch still felt it so agonizingly, like it ripped her to shreds then mended her back together, making whatever he wanted of her, "I have been one of your closest friends for years, Selwyn."

Right. Friends.

She had no fight in her left to sham a smile, so she let a heavy breath pass between quivering lips, and god fucking damn it, Elladora was tired, she was lonely, she was breaking. How many times can a porcelain doll be dropped before it shatters completely?

And yes, she had been entirely envious of Varya, of Ivy, even of blasted mudblood Della Beauchamp, because there was the truth about the human world—you could try your best in everything, you could study hard, and you could make sure your face is angelic. But sometimes, it will not be enough, and it would tear you to pieces as you thought of what you could have done differently, what you could have improved. But there was no such thing—some things were meant for other people.

The poisoner stayed quiet, eyes teary and lips bitten to suppress a sob, because the man she loved entirely and could never have was behind her, and Icarus knew her well enough by now that the slightest rumble would let him know she was crying. So she stuffed it inside, she bottled up whatever emotions had threatened to spill, and she stayed god damned perfect and pristine.

Because that was who Elladora Selwyn was supposed to be, even when she hated it so much that bandages no longer covered her cracks.

***

Varya woke up at the sound of a knock, and with half a heart, she puffed and cracked her eyes, staring at the entrance as a figure pushed it open, and heels clicked in her room before she could register the face properly.

Ophelia Winterbour walked in with such elegance it was almost nauseating, and Varya felt her eyebags sag in her polished presence, so much so that her hand unconsciously went to her locks to tame them down. The Lady was a sight—imperial and demanding, with such allure that clung to her figure she might have been a piece of a constellation blessed on mortal realm, and each step was so calculated it made her seemingly float.

She had opted out of her ordinary dress, now wearing a plain skirt of the times that reached her knees and clung to her thighs, paired with a buttoned vest that simply reeked of British monarchy.

"I believe it is time we properly acquaint ourselves," she stated, and her accent was something Varya could not quite place.

The Eastern witch pursed her lips. She did not trust Ophelia. "And why is that?"

"Because I am a curious person, you see," she began, then dragged a chair right by Varya's sickbed, "And you, darling, happen to be the most peculiar thing I have ever encountered."

"I am not a circus animal for you to stare at," the witch scrunched her nose in distaste.

Winterbour's laugh was as refined as her, and it sounded so familiar, yet Varya could not quite figure out why, "I do not believe in the cruelty of circuses, worry not. Besides, being peculiar is not such a bad thing now, is it? You have talents many would kill for, or get themselves killed for. I can understand Riddle's fascination with you, although I suspect there is a little more to that than meets the eye."

Varya almost wanted to scoff at that—a distasteful joke. Riddle had done anything except visiting her. He had been the only person not to come and check on how she was faring, and although the witch did not need anyone's concern, it was only natural for her to desire his attention. She had fooled herself into believing him to be sincere in the Rosier forest; she had put too much faith in the way he had kissed her.

And Merlin, how he had kissed her. As if she was the essence of his life, his one goal in his totalitarian regime, and Tom wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything. His hands in her hair, the way they had pulled at roots with such urgency, frantically trying to search for divinity in blasphemy, for salvation in damnation.

How foolish could the witch be? Why did her heart beat for him even now, when he had abandoned her, and how much would she allow him before she ultimately cut their strings of existence from each other?

It felt as if barbed wire had ensnared her heart, gradually tearing away shreds little by little, and it twisted so achingly, sending tremors down her spine, having her hands go numb. Foolish, foolish witch.

"I sincerely doubt that, but the thought is appreciated," she bit with sarcasm dripping from her tone, and perhaps she was revealing too much of her to a stranger. Still, part of Varya knew every Death Eater was aware of the complication between the two leaders.

Ophelia bent her head like a flabbergasted pigeon, "Why would you doubt that? I hardly see him ordering Selwyn around for anyone else," a small scoff fell past her lips, "I mean, Merlin—his commands are driving everyone insane. Bring Varya this, get Varya that."

Astonishment passed through her like a riptide of a full moon cycle, inundating her soul and drowning her resolve, and Petrov found it hard to breathe as she clutched the sheets of her bed.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, he has been patrolling in front of your door for the past hour like a dutiful guard-dog, and I only managed to sneak in because Malfoy called him for a meeting."

There were many words Varya thought of, offenses welded with appreciation, because she knew Tom Riddle was not a caring soul; he was not someone who recognized that devotion was a two-edged sword, a thread connected between two beings. As such, he rarely gave pieces of himself to others through appreciation and tenderness, and although it was the bare minimum, it felt like a sky when it came from him.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Felix burst through the door, eyes wrinkled with panic, and his words were a barely coherent rumble, "Maxwell is awake."

That sent them all into motion, and Parkin grabbed Varya's right arm, whereas Ophelia reluctantly offered hers for support, and the three of them sauntered into the hallway. At the other end, a crowd had formed around the door, and a dozen people tried to peep inside. With a quick order from Felix, they all moved aside, letting the Eastern witch pass through.

In the bed, Nott lay awake, eyes bulged as he stared around the room, and by his side, Nicholas Avery was as translucent as a ghost, gripping the wall harshly to support himself. The assassin swallowed harshly, and then his eyes traveled the room until they reached Varya, and she just knew—she knew something was wrong.

She felt someone shift by her side, and her eyes quickly flew to Tom Riddle, who was gazing at her with such intensity in his eyes, her legs almost trembled. The slightest hint of relief passed his face as his pupils switched from Maxwell to Varya, and that nearly sent the girl over the edge, because what had happened to the boy that had everyone so relieved to see her standing and breathing?

Nicholas slowly walked to them, licking his lips and then pulling on them with his teeth in distress. He drove a trembling hand through darkened hair, and his locks fell right back in his eyes, "He is not—" he started, and the way his voice quivered made Varya's heart sink. Avery raised a finger to his head, pointing at his temple, "There is something wrong, and I—"

"Let me talk to him," said Della softly, pushing through as she peeked at Maxwell, "My mother assessed multiple traumas; she served as a nurse in the local station in London during the first World War."

"As if your bloody muggle medicine is going to fix him," snarked Avery, too distressed to care about being polite.

"Let her work," stepped in Abraxas, gazing at Nicholas with warning in his eyes.

Nicholas scoffed, then pushed past everyone, marching to his chamber and slamming the door behind him with wrath. The taciturnity that fell after was heart-breaking, and everyone grappled to piece together words of compassion, come up with some sort of motivational discourse, but one glance at the confused boy in the room had them quiet down.

Della stepped in eventually, shutting the door behind her to avoid prying eyes, and the rest of them gathered in the common area. The wait was excruciating; it was as if every second extended to infinity, a limit that no mathematician could decipher, and not even Scarlet's motivational words could dull the trepidation that settled akin to dust in their souls.

When the muggle-born witch came back, her face was solemn, and her words were even more regretful, "Neuron damage from the poison. His cognitive functions have been affected—it took him a while to remember us, to remember himself, but he is lucid."

"So, what is the problem then?" inquired Rosier from his seat, hands gripping the edges forcefully.

Della shifted nervously, "Maxwell has—had a photographic memory. Memories themselves are retrieved by the connections between neurons; think of them as pathways, and there are little crossroads that connect them. Those are synapses, and without them, we cannot cross from one road to another, therefore limiting our cognition capability."

"You are speaking a foreign language right now," mumbled Ren, pushing himself into his seat.

"What I am trying to say is that those crossroads have been demolished for him, and that has him struggling to recall things that he has learned, to make connections between them. He is himself, but at the same time, he has lost his capability to recall what he has studied."

"So bloody repaint the crossroads or something," continued the boy. "How can you reverse this?"

"Through exercise—having him train his brain and body through activity stimulates the synapses to reform, but that also depends on the brain area that was affected. The research on it is limited; all I know is my mother always had the soldiers work through it. Sometimes they recovered, sometimes they did not," concluded the witch.

Icarus threw a pillow to the floor in aggravation, his face having gone rouge with fury, "Fucking Hell," he grunted quietly, turning to face the window as he stared out at the morose streets, "That kid based half of his value on his intelligence, this will destroy him."

"So you help him," spoke up Lev, who had been sitting in a shadowy corner, eyes watching the room, "You help him recover slowly, because Merlin knows you need him. The books he collected on that sigil of yours, I am not sure what it was that he discovered, but right before we were attacked, he told me he had figured it out."

Varya could only stay silent as the conversation passed by her ears, because it all seemed surreal, as if Satan had bestowed Hell upon them for daring raise from their graves of sin, for muting out the carnage. Or, perhaps, it had been God, angered at them for engaging in such demonic practices.

Either way, they had been doomed, and to see one soldier fall was to wound a whole battalion, and a brief survey of the room told the witch that they had taken a colossal blow to their cause. Because Maxwell Nott, regardless of his snarkiness and hostility, was a good friend, a good companion.

Worst of all, Icarus Lestrange was absolutely right—the notion of having lost his ability to recall his knowledge would ultimately break the archivist. And his downfall would be as morbid as any biblical depiction of the Armageddon.

***

Maxwell is my favorite character, this is painful, but it all has a reason. It probably is not obvious yet, but all will be cleared eventually.

Thank you to everyone who has been promoting my book on TikTok again, I might reach 150k on TSD by Christmas, and that is the best gift ever, truly.

Merry Christmas and see you next time!