"Would you turn me in
When they say I'm on the loose?
Would you hide me when
My face is on the news?
'Cause I killed someone for you"

if i killed someone for you - alec benjamin

CHAPTER FOUR

The stars were eternal. They dropped over the blanket of darkness akin to minute droplets of hoarfrost in early spring, glistening with a spectacle of tones and hues— compelling and elite. There was the Moon that stood imperiously in the midst, encircled by the apollos as if it was a ruler over the night and its mystery, and its moonshine caressed Earth as it upheld against the Sun's empire.

Della Beauchamp had once loved the night sky.

Now, it only reminded her of the tyrant that was Tom Riddle. He, too, much like the Moon, thought himself to be the personification of midnight, and his thoughtless Knights fenced his sides as they encompassed darkness and terror. In their totality, they were a phantasm of allurement, elegance, and enigma, and they deceived watchers into overpassing the endless blackness that surrounded them. After all, even the most remarkable poets paid homage to the Night Court over the sable tone of the universe they found themselves in.

Her candle flickered on the window frame as the night zephyr played with its flame, and it illuminated her once iridescent eyes that had been stomped to nothing but a fusion of murky hazel. Della felt her shoulders sag as the slight coldness of the night enveloped her body, and her skin covered in goosebumps through her silky nightgown.

"Sad, little dove?" a suave female voice verbalized through the chamber, and the Ravenclaw prefect turned to face the dark-haired girl with irritation etched on her features.

"Sod off, Ophelia," she uttered with acidity, "I have no time for your pestering today."

Ophelia Winterbour stalked through the room, her emerald floor-length dress dusting the ground as heels clicked against the marble. Her bountiful chestnut hair fell in luscious curls, shaping her delicate face, and lips coated in carmine pulled in a taunting smirk. Even now, away from Hogwarts' intimidating dungeons, she still had the slytherian haughtiness in her step, much as any other follower of Tom Riddle.

"That is no way to treat your roommate, is it now?" she answered with sham hurt, then touched a strand of Della's hair and twisted it around her finger, "Especially when I have been so kind to you."

The Ravenclaw stood up from her spot, then moved away from the other girl with inconvenience in her features, "You know, they say when someone is condescending, they are compensating for their own insecurities. I assume you have many to trade for by your behavior."

"Feeling inferior, Beauchamp?" her smirk was daunting, "Why must you always be so stiff? I was merely playing with you for our amusement. Darling, you are quite the bore."

"Go play with someone else," Della spat at her, pulling the covers off her bed and throwing them to the side, "Perhaps, your fiance. Oh, but he does not want anything to do with you, does he?"

Ophelia's eyes narrowed, and the younger witch knew she had hit a raw wound, "Nicholas only needs time—"

"We both know it is not time Avery needs," Della snarked as she sat herself down on her mattress, letting her muscles relax on the soft fabric. At least one good thing had come out of her stay at the Malfoy Manor, "What he needs is for a sane family that does not arrange marriages for their son."

"You would not understand the trading and doings of the bourgeoise, so stop trying to fault us as if you can comprehend the sheer heaviness on our shoulders. Blood purity is only one concern."

"And I find it to be puny," Della mussed, her attention somewhere else entirely. She was glancing at the broken mirror on her desk, one that had been shattered long ago during one of her espionage trips with Abraxas. Her soul twisted with grief, and she could only hope that her father was still alive.

A knock sounded on the door, and with a roll of glinting eyes, Ophelia marched towards the entrance, swinging it open to reveal Abraxas Malfoy. He stood in front of her dressed in all-black, much as he always appeared, and his platinum hair was gelled back as pure azure stared at her with monotony.

"Is Beauchamp here?" he demanded sternly, hands clasped behind his back as eyes danced over Winterbour's shoulder to watch the muggle-born witch squirm in her covers and avoid his gaze. He shifted in his spot slightly, jaw tensing at her behavior.

Ophelia glanced back as well, her lips pulled in ridicule, and then she tilted her head at Della, "Well, I suppose you have your own blood purity issues to solve," her voice was sardonic, and then she stepped to the side to let Abraxas in, "Beware, she is feisty tonight."

With that, she sauntered back into the hallways of the Malfoy Manor, heels echoing as servants bowed and parted for the witch. Her presence was undoubted in the house and had become imperial amongst the other Knights, for she was the daughter of a Lord in Northern England, and that made her a strong suitress for the prestigious Avery family.

Abraxas stood woodenly in the door frame, his eyes trained on the girl that hid her face behind a curtain of sienna locks, her nose barely visible as it uncovered from it. Eventually, he cleared his throat and stepped inside, making sure to leave the door slightly ajar as a courtesy.

"Has nobody taught you that it is inadequate to visit a lady's chamber well past twilight?" her voice ricocheted off of the tapestried walls, falling on his ears as a sonorous roulette of anguish, and his fingers clenched behind his back.

"It is my house," his tone was brass, and it left little room for argument much as it always did.

She still found a way to counter it, "No, it is your parent's house, and even if you will one day inherit it, it gives you no right to invade my privacy."

Della pulled her covers until everything was covered to her neck, and only then did she glance at him through moistened eyelashes. Her heart churned the moment she met his eyes, and all righteousness in her dissipated into a pit of endless suffering as she probed the remorse in his elegant face. But it was not guilt she wanted to see from him— it was a worthless coin of bargain after what they had experienced.

"My apologies," he stated without sincerity, although the tightness in the room was enough to make him doubt his decision in visiting her, "Riddle asked me to—"

"Oh, well, of course! And here I thought you had the decency to show your face and, perhaps, apologize for what you have done!" she exploded with fury, "But no, as always, you are a mere lackey of his, and you are chained by your endless thirst for power."

Abraxas' face stiffened with irritation, and he bit down the curses that he wanted to hurl at her, knowing nothing would come of his insults any longer, "We agreed it was nothing but a mistake, and—"

"You kissed me!"

Silence fell over them as they stared at each other with rage in their eyes, uncertainty transferring as they fought against the apparent barrier of mistrust and classism that had put them in such an entanglement. The symphony of the night chimed in from the open window as the moonlight rays struck through and cascaded over Abraxas' figure, making him seem similar to a phantom.

And a phantom he was— untouchable and fleeting, a figure that slithered through the cracks of life and faced no consequences for his actions, as his name thundered and lightning struck all tongues who dared raise against him. More so, he was a vision, and nothing more, royalty amongst wizards and witches, and not even the noblest houses dared entwine themselves with the Malfoy name.

He said nothing of her outburst, and as always, swiped the repugnant attachment to her under the rug, knowing better than to let it evolve into something meaningful, something primordial. She was not a pureblood. Merlin's sake, she was not even a half-blood, and that was enough for him to suppress any sort of emotion that might have boiled over his being.

"I—" Malfoy started, soul burning at the way the girl glanced at him with watering eyes, and fuck, he knew he was hurting her endlessly. But he just could not be what she wanted him to be.

A scream resonated through the Manor, and they both snapped their heads to the door right as the sound of metal slashing through the air echoed through the hallways. Then, something thudded against the wall across from them, followed by multiple tunes of destruction, and Abraxas frowned— who was causing such chaos in his Manor?

"Varya! Bloody Hell, what are you doing?" A voice blasted through the corridor, and Della felt her body quiver as light cascaded from every corner of her psyche, clashing against the perpetual despair that she had faced in the past few months.

And hope was reborn out of its ashes as she pushed the duvet to the side, then slid trembling legs into night slippers and grabbed her coat from the nearby chair, throwing it over her body. She dashed past Abraxas, who stood in his spot bitterly, and pushed the door open before running into the hallway.

There they were— her friends from Hogwarts, Varya, and Felix, and they shined in sheer brilliance as if they were a blessing sent from above to alienate her unending agony. They stood in the frame of one door, Varya holding an ever-present knife in her hand and wearing a blood-covered dress, and Felix following closely behind.

It was him that saw the other Ravenclaw first, and for a second, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him as the boy gazed at his dear friend, the woman he had come to care for so deeply it was the breath in his lungs.

"Della?" his voice carried out, and it was as if the glass of imaginary shattered, and then, they were both present in a reality where they could see each other again. Of course, the girl had had her brief visits in the beginning, yet they had all stopped when Grindelwald had become too aggressive. It had been months since they last saw each other, perhaps close to a year— he still felt the same way about her.

Della's hand flew to her mouth as she bit back a sob that clattered her bones to their marrow, and it was so peculiar for the two of them to see her in such scenery, beyond the corrupted walls of the Malfoy Manor. Even so, she clutched her abdomen as Felix moved eagerly across the hallway before swooping her up and twirling her in protective arms, the smile on his face the most radiant it had been in months, and everything almost seemed right.

He let her down to the ground, and then his hands flew to her cheeks as he held her face, "Merlin, what are you doing here, Beauchamp?"

Almost as an answer to his question, Abraxas stepped out in the foyer, hands crumbling an envelope before he cleared his throat and got the attention of the group. His steps were forced, yet his face remained stoic as he extended his arm to the girl, "As I was saying. Riddle sent me to give this to you. Congratulations, you have been selected as Head-Girl."

The tension between the two boys was evident, although it came mostly from Parkin, who gripped Della's arm and pulled her away from Malfoy, "Bloody Hell. Of course, you are here. Varya knows you have been using the girl to extract information on us."

Beauchamp stiffened at that, and her eyes darted to Abraxas, who was now wearing a daunting smirk. Her eyes almost begged him to say nothing, and the boy felt his nerve flatten at that, before he shifted uncomfortably and glanced around the room at the rest of the faces, "I see. Well, no time to waste on trying to change that narrative."

Parkin turned to the new Head-Girl, "What do they have on you, Della? There is nothing we cannot protect you from; you know that. Just tell us."

"I—" she managed to croak out, sweat already forming on her hands as her heart beat erratically, and she wondered how she could spin the truth. Perhaps, Felix would eventually forgive her, understand why she had been such a coward, but Varya?

Della glanced at her friend, who was still silent as she continued to stare at her with mistrust, and it was almost as if she could sense the lies that had entangled themselves. Had Malfoy not insisted on training her in Occlumency, her secrets would have spilled out undoubtedly, and even now, she felt the slight pang as Varya tried to enter her mind.

No. Varya would not understand.

Fortunately, Abraxas sighed with discontent before stepping forward and giving Parkin a condescending stare, "She is under an Unbreakable Vow. You will get nothing out of her. Surely, you did not believe we would just let her talk about any of our secrets so easily?"

The witch felt the tension dissipate from her body, and although she knew eventually her friends would find out of her betrayal, Malfoy had just given her enough time to enjoy their presence one last time before all would crumble.

She was not sure what Felix said next as he took her into a hug, nor of Varya's words as she finally built enough trust to come and give her a small smile, because as they all came to embrace her, her pupils only observed Abraxas' emotionless face before he turned around and strolled down the corridor. Della only closed her eyes when he was out of her view.

***

Varya walked side by side with Scarlet as they ventured into one of the chambers, her eyes scurrying over their surroundings to find the Knights. It seemed that they had vanished into the night, and the witch had let most of her group rest after their straining day. Scarlet, on the other hand, had insisted on accompanying her through the Manor, reasoning that Varya should not be walking alone at night.

"Pretty boy has a nice home," she whistled before pushing open the doors to the main salle de séjour, exposing an airy room with walls made of windows, and curtains that fluttered from the midnight breeze as the chandeliers twinkled in luminescence.

The wind tousled their hair, and they moved into the salon slowly, relishing the countless portraits that hung on the walls and stared at them with evident repugnance in their painted features. Varya drove past one of the mirrors and grimaced at her state before her cheeks flushed with embarrassment— the witch had not realized she looked quite so bad. She flicked her wand around, her wrist snapping forward, and then her dress turned back to pure white, and her hair finally settled, the dirt and blood vanishing before her eyes.

Then, she turned towards the open veranda door, glancing at the small lights that buzzed through the courtyard, and before she knew it, she was pulling Scarlet out into the open air. The night of the month of July was forgiving on their exposed skin, the faintest warmth circulating the atmosphere in cyclons, and they walked through the grassy opening with squinted eyes, trying to follow the dazzling lights that kept distancing themselves.

The lamps stopped moving, and two figures were barely tangible through the dark night as they stopped in front of a bench and sat down. One of them pulled something out of its pocket; then, a slap sounded through the garden.

"Will you stop drenching your brain in such poison?" a creamy female voice articulated, followed by a grunt of irritation.

"Elladora, you either shut up or go back inside."

It only took a few more steps before the clouds of darkness vanished, and the two figures revealed themselves to be Renold Rosier and Elladora Selwyn, who, as per usual, were engaging in their daily dose of bickering. The witch's cherry hair sparkled underneath the lonesome lamp post that flickered alive from one of her spells, and then her eyes fell on the ghostly girls that stalked through the night towards them.

At such a later hour, her lips were not coated in their usual carmine. Yet, they were still sensual as they pulled in a familiar smirk, "Well, look who cleaned herself up," Elladora said slowly, then grabbed Rosier's chin and turned it to face Varya's approaching figure.

His eyes lightened up, and he promptly jumped from the bench, hands waving to signal the girl, "Hurry up, will you? I might even hug you with how excited I am."

Sure enough, the moment the two witches were in arm's reach, Renold grabbed Varya and pulled her in a tight embrace, hand messing her hair much as a parent would to a child, and the Slavic girl only groaned with an impediment, biting back the ghost of a smile from taking over her mouth.

She should have been frustrated with the Knights, much as she was with Riddle, yet her mind only attributed their wrongdoings to their immoral leader, and saw them as collateral damage. And when she stepped away from Rosier and took in his figure, it all seemed to be true— he had lost a ridiculous amount of weight. He was now a roaming skeleton with sunken cheeks and sleep-deprived eyes, and no matter how much he tried to cover his wearied expression with radiance, morbidity still slid through. The war had not been forgiving on the boy, and she wondered if that is why his parents had decided to pull him out from Hogwarts.

Varya's gaze fluttered to Elladora, who seemed to be less disheveled, yet the girl knew that the heir would never let anyone see weakness in her appearance. That could only mean one thing— her trauma manifested on the interior, and the Eastern witch pitied Elladora's undoubtedly wrecked mind.

War did things to people. And all of them had been on the frontlines for months now, scheming and manipulating their way through courts to gather information, and the massacre that plagued the wizarding world was undoubted. Creatures of the night now ran rampant against Europe, and the Daily Prophet had started a section dedicated to the peculiar beasts alone, amply criticizing the lack of response from Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Last year, the only one that had not committed murder amongst the Knights had been Maxwell Nott, and although Varya had not spotted him yet, she could not help but wonder if that still held true. What had they gone through in the past year?

While away, it was easy to imagine that the Knights had hidden at Hogwarts and turned a blind eye to what was going on. But she knew them better, and the girl should have at least recognized their undoubted thoughtless ambition. Surely enough, they must have been playing the field much as she had, making moves from the dark against the apparent attacks, because if one thing was undoubted about their alliance, it was that they would not stand by and watch another Dark Wizard take on what they thought to be rightfully theirs.

No, the Knights thought the wizarding world belonged to Tom, and perhaps that was the biggest reason their Lord had offered his help— it was a mutual interest for him and Varya to defeat Grindelwald, and the girl now understood that their combined powers might work against the Alliance.

"I have so many questions for you," the boy started, then his eyes fell on the Blood Witch as she stood behind Varya, hands drawn beneath her red robe, and glanced at the strands of auburn that peaked through. His eyes darted from Scarlet to Elladora, from Elladora to Scarlet, and then down at the flask he was still holding, "Did I have too much?"

Varya patted him on the shoulder reassuringly, then picked the drink from his hand and passed it away to Norberg, knowing that Rosier indulged in destructive behavior whenever the world became too much to handle, "No, Ren. This is Scarlet Norberg, the Blood Witch. She is one of my friends and has fought with me diligently."

The mentioned witch opened the boy's flask, sniffing the contents, then scoffed, "Weak."

Rosier's eyes enlarged, and he shook his head in confusion before sitting back down on the bench, trying to fight through the haziness that had taken over. Selwyn clicked her tongue against her cheek, then glanced at the other red-headed witch and scrutinized her.

"I adore your robe," she stated with a saccharic note, yet Varya winced at the undoubted fakeness that she had come to understand so well. It was Elladora's defense mechanism— appear as a winsome, welcoming girl and trick everyone into believing she was an angel that only happened to be dressed in the Devil's color. She had done the same to Varya, when they had first met, and for a while, had been her closest friend.

It all seemed so far away, almost as if it were another reality she was referencing. Now, they were more than friends and yet not even acquaintances. They had fought each other; they had helped each other; they had defended each other.

And it might have been Tom Riddle who Varya was soul-bonded to, but she shared an unexplainable connection with all of the other Knights. They were not her family, but for a period of time, they had been the closest thing she had ever had to one, and perhaps that was the reason that she always seemed to circle back to them. And much like any other royal court, their bond came with endless manipulation, backstabbing, two-timing, and deceit.

"Thank you," Scarlet answered eagerly, and then she sat down on the frosty grass and let herself fall back on it, eyes gazing at the wonderful stars that reminded her so much of the North. The Malfoy Manor was far away from any city, and that made the dark sky glisten alive with galaxies and nebulas, swirling into one Renaissance painting of infinity and possibility.

Varya sat down as well, yet her gaze remained on Earth, too much of a pragmatist and pessimist to indulge in star-gazing and daydreams. Her pupils scattered from one Knight to another, and Elladora crossed her legs before leaning back into her seat.

"How have you been?" she inquired sincerely, and perhaps their time away from each other had made the devilish witch grow fonder of her, "You seem...different."

"I assume you know of Riddle's doings, so let us save the pretense of not understanding what has happened," Varya had not meant to come off harsh, yet the bitterness in her voice made the other's eyes narrow, "I would say I have been well."

"And I would call that a lie," spoke Rosier as he stretched his arms in the air before letting them fall on the bench's edge, ignoring the look of annoyance that Elladora shot him.

"Do you prefer I admit to my insanity?"

"I prefer we skip the empty chatter and ask the questions we really want to know— where have you been? Riddle was the only one that had an idea of your address from the letters, yet he refused to share it with any of us."

Varya hoisted her eyebrow, "So, he did receive them?"

Elladora groaned in irritation, "Will you ever stop accidentally spilling information, Rosier?"

"That seems entirely implausible."

Scarlet snickered from the ground, her eyes finally drifting to the group, and she took in the way they all seemed to fit like puzzle pieces amongst each other. Varya seemed less jittery than she had been in months, almost as if her soul had rested in familiarity, and Norberg was delighted to see the slightest sparkle of animation in her eyes.

"We have been in a secluded location," answered the Blood Witch, then leveled herself to their posture, "You are already aware of what we have been assembled to do— track the Deathly Hallows. Now that we have found them, well..."

She stopped and glanced at Varya with confusion knotted in her eyebrows, and a question passed through the two of them. Now, what? They had completed their mission in locating the Hallows, although one would only fall in their hands later on, but both were secure and away from Grindelwald.

"Now, you prepare for battle," spoke Elladora, and when silence fell over the group, she pursed her lips, "Well, did it not cross your mind? It is the obvious consequence of everything that has happened. There will be a confrontation, although it is hard to tell when. Weeks, months, perhaps years. But it is coming, and you have to be ready."

Rosier nodded from her side, and suddenly any heedlessness faded from his features as he shifted back into the knowledgable boy that occasionally sparked through his defense, "Riddle is having a meeting tomorrow night to discuss our plans before we return to Hogwarts. I suggest you attend."

"Return?" asked Varya, dumbfounded, "I thought it had closed."

"It did," retorted Rosier, "But the Ministry insists on reopening regardless of the threats. They are truly acting as if nothing is wrong; it is sickening— Dumbledore has been fighting with them endlessly, even Dippet agrees that Hogwarts should stay closed, but at the end of the day, it is not their decision. Of course, students can simply not come back, but many have no other place to go with the World War still ravaging their home towns. It becomes a matter of what seems least fatal— getting a bomb dropped on your head or praying that the defensive barrier will not drop and the castle will not be overthrown by the endless creatures that roam its surroundings."

"Merlin," whistled Scarlet. Hiding in the Alps had somewhat disconnected all of them from the reality of the war, and hearing such stories brought goosebumps to her skin.

Varya frowned, "Why not just go back to their estates as you and Avery did? Or hide in the wizarding villages?"

"Hogwarts has hundreds of students, but there are only twenty-eight pure-blood families in England, and even with cousins and brothers, that would still not be enough to fill the school. Most are half-bloods or muggle-borns, and that means they come from areas affected by the German troops," explained Rosier, and Varya found herself impressed by his awareness.

"Not many have the privilege of hiding," continued Elladora, "And the pureblood families? Some have sided with Grindelwald and believe no harm will come to them— fools, nothing more. The rest are too prideful to cower. Only Rosier's parents are sane enough to refuse to send him back, but we have been trying to find a way to combat that."

"They really do not want me at Hogwarts next year, and have argued that a transfer to Beauxbatons would serve me well," he groaned, obviously not delighted by being separated from the people he had grown up with, "But I will convince them."

"What about Avery?" inquired Petrov, who recalled Della mentioning his absence in her letters.

"Oh," chortled Rosier, hands clasping in delight as amusement swiped his features, "Now that is a fascinating story. They did let him come back, but under one condition—"

"He is engaged," Elladora cut to the chase, "And Nicholas is not happy about it at all. He is not the type to settle down, and his parents know that, so they told him you either put a ring on Ophelia Winterbour's finger or you are going to Beauxbatons."

"Who is Ophelia?" Varya had never heard of that name.

"Only the most pretentious bitch you will ever meet," snorted Renold, "She is not terrible, to be fair. But her accent throws me off— not British, yet not American either. Weird for a girl that is a descendant of the Winterbour's. The witch is feisty and has a knack for manipulation that rivals Selwyn and Riddle, but she is very resourceful and enjoys stirring trouble wherever she walks. Never a dull moment with that one."

"Personally, I dislike her," bit Elladora as she recalled the pestering witch, "She was the roommate I got assigned after you left, and Ivy— anyhow, she occupied Trouche's bed and immediately started clinging to Avery."

"You will not be surprised that Selwyn tried poisoning her in the first month."

Varya's eyes snapped to the herb handling witch, who carried no remorse as she glanced at her manicured fingers with disinterest in her eyes, and Rosier rolled his eyes at her behavior.

"Nothing short of deserved."

"That is not how you go about with making friends," then he turned to the Eastern witch, eyes darting to Scarlet, who had taken to braiding a crown out of the grass, "I will have her behave around your friends, no worries."

Elladora rolled her eyes, yet an uncharacteristic smile graced her features, and she made to cover it with her hand before glancing at the Manor, where the Moon had barely reached the middle of the sky and now stood above the high towers.

"Anyhow, a lot has changed in the past year, but Riddle will certainly explain everything tomorrow if you all decide to join us in the dining hall," Rosier got up to his feet, stretching them before he fixed his rumpled vest, "They are serving pie, but the good kind. I would join for that alone, but I suspect you might find it more delightful to stab Riddle with the pie fork than eat it."

Varya smiled knowingly, "Indeed, I would."

Ren snorted, then ran a hand through his wavy hair and yawned loudly, "Now, excuse me, ladies, but my bed awaits me. It was a pleasure seeing you again, Petrov, and I am sure looking forward to breakfast tomorrow, and the disaster it will entail. And Scarlet, I will make sure the next flask I pass to you will have something of your preference. Good night, darlings."

With that, he hoisted Selwyn from the bench, and offered her his arm before they bid farewell to the two foreigners, and sauntered off into the gardens and to the estate, leaving the two witches in the company of the night.

***

Varya could not sleep. Whenever she shut her eyes, all she could see was the image of the corpse dangling from the ceiling printed on her eyelids. It swayed from side to side as the rope pulled at its skin, and the faceless being gawked at the girl despite having no pupils.

The bags under her eyes had become so protruding they were part of her features now, and none of her friends bothered pointing out her lack of sleep anymore, or the way she trudged through the house most days when she could not even catch a wink.

The witch tossed and turned in her silk sheets, gripping the white material before stuffing her face in a pillow to muffle her scream of frustration. The bed was comfortable; the room was airy, the curtains were thick enough to prevent even the smallest ray of moonlight from escaping— yet, sleep never came.

So, she tossed her blanket to the side, feet slipping in her boots before she grabbed a tie from her nightstand and pinned her hair up. Varya glanced through the room, taking in the somber decoration, and had she been a lively girl, she might have found herself scared of the dark furniture made of intricate swirls and wood sculptures. Her fingers trailed the serpent engraved on each pillar of her baldachin, tracing its prominent fangs, and she wondered how easy it would be to injure oneself of the sharp edges.

Soon enough, the girl was pushing the door to her chamber and promenading in the obscure hallways, ignoring how the wood creaked with intonation under her boots, or how the umbrae danced on the walls as the Moon snaked through the open windows. She hummed herself a macabre tune, hands picking at the patches of skin that were coming off of the end of her fingers from gripping the blades too tightly, and that is when she heard it— the harmonious sound of a finely-tuned piano.

Ears perked and eyes alert, the witch wandered into the Eastern Wing, following the morose tune of the instrument, almost as if notes of melancholy formed a path to the exquisite pianist. That is how she found herself standing in front of one of the extravagant studies on the third floor, hands trailing the patterned door before she pushed it gradually and peeked inside.

A figure stood at a piano, shoulders stretching the material of a white blouse that clasped around the man's elbows with glistening cuffs. A tie was thrown over the desk nearby, dark and long, and the study itself was pristine and orderly. The muscles in his back moved as careful hands played over the keys of the piano fastly, and his foot moved to press against the petal ever-so-often.

He did not have to turn around— Varya knew it was Tom Riddle.

Perhaps it was the way he looked as he worked the instrument, so entirely absorbed by the partiture, serene and lost in notes of Chopin's masterpiece, or maybe it was that the girl had missed him regardless of his crudity. Still, the witch found herself pushing the door open and stepping inside the room.

Tom sensed her presence almost immediately, and fingers clashed against the keys in an out-of-key note before he spun in the chair to face her, eyebrows furrowed in irritation and confusion. Yet, when he saw that it was only the Eastern girl, his face twitched into something else, something she could not detangle and analyze, as she had never seen the boy regard anyone else with such eyes.

"What are you doing here?" his voice carried through the empty chamber, and it was lower than usual, a mixture of raspy and quietness that sent a shiver down her spine. They stood on opposite sides of the room, eyes locked in a swirl of intimacy and peacefulness neither truly understood.

And she should have run out of the salon. She should have slammed the door and stalked back to her room and thrown herself under comfortable covers, because he had manipulated her one too many times and had brought her there against her wishes. Varya was not sure if it was the two nights without sleep or the way he was gazing at her right then and there— no wrath or haughtiness whatsoever— but she stepped further into the study, closing the door behind.

"I could not sleep," she revealed, hands in front of her as she continued to peel at her skin, nervousness encompassing her body as if she was not one of the most powerful witches of their generation.

But Riddle, descendant of Salazar Slytherin, bloodline of Cadmus Peverell, and the only alive heir of the ancient pureblood Gaunt line, was terrifying and imperial in his own right, and although he hated his blood and name, the magic that sailed it was undeniable.

He nodded briefly at that, then blinked lethargically before turning back to the piano, and perhaps that is what shocked Varya the most. Tom had not booted her out of his study, out of his privacy and safe space, and that was as much of an invitation to stay in each other's company as she was ever going to receive.

So she strolled over to the leather couch in one of the corners of the room, dropping her body on it with an exhausted groan as she felt her body ache everywhere. Petrov had not realized how genuinely draining her day had been.

Her eyes fell on Riddle again, who was staring at the keys blankly, almost as if all skill had vanished from his memory and he was a novice touching an instrument for the first time, and she could not help but wonder why he was hesitating.

"What do you want me to play?" he inquired, earning a bewildered glance from her.

She almost stuttered, "What was the song before?"

Of course, she knew it, but she could not ask him outright to play it for her. It felt too personal, too intimate— that was not something that belonged to them. They should have hated each other; they should have murdered each other. And this? It almost felt as if he was serenading her.

"Chopin, Nocturne," Riddle muttered, curls falling over his forehead as he leaned over the piano to grab the partitures and scramble through them for a new melody.

"I did not know you played," the witch admitted, grabbing a strand of her raven hair and twirling it between trembling fingers.

He stopped moving, and then foreign uncertainty passed over his face as he peered at her from the corner of his marine eyes. Tom cleared his throat, "I learned at the orphanage. They had a piano in the main foyer, and I— there was nothing else to do."

She understood his hesitation, then. Riddle never talked about his past. Hell, he never frankly spoke about himself, and for an egotistic and prideful boy, that was indeed a contradiction in character, yet the girl could understand why. She felt much the same. Talking about what they had experienced, the loneliness, the abandonment, the misery— it made everything real again.

More so, it made him vulnerable, and that was something he despised most, yet he had only ever admitted such a thing to her. His mother's name, his blood purity, and now that piece of information that might have been infirm coming from anyone else. Not from him, though, because he was a sealed silicified rose, and nothing ever thrived in his garden of being.

"Do you?" he then asked, expression going back to impassiveness as he selected a piece of Chopin's music and placed it on the tray in front of him.

"Do I what?"

"Play any instrument?" Tom continued, exasperation passing his face as he gave her a condescending glare.

Varya scoffed, "Violin."

He nodded shortly, then one eyebrow hoisted in a flash of surprise, "It suits you."

"Why?"

"It is depressing."

Her mouth slammed shut, and yet she took no offense to it, almost found his boldness and frankness amusing. He never held back with his opinion, at least not when it came to her, and that was invigorating. Too many people had started walking on glass in her presence, but Tom never did.

Tactunity shattered the night, and her body rested on the softness of the couch as she grabbed one pillow and stuffed it underneath her head, watching as he began to play another piece.

Moonshine fell through the pulled curtain and served as the only light source in the room as it descended on the spotless white of his blouse, reflecting against the darkened tapestried walls in intricate patterns. They swirled with each move of his hands, almost swaying to the melodious harmony that brought somnolence to her eyelashes, and his pallid skin glistened such as the Moon in darkness.

Tom was rhapsodically beautiful, a chipped fragment from an eminescian volume, and as some part of Chopin's Nocturne reverberated through the chamber, he appeared to be a dream in a dream. Sable curls clashed with the lustrous chroma of his irises, and at that moment he was not a beast of nightfall, but a prince of dawn, reborn from dulcet keys and lunar warmth. He was the moon, and the stars, and the sun, and everything in between, almost as if grace akin to his did not belong to Earth's mundane fauna.

And the two of them, while they clashed like water and oil in the outside world, they became one homogenous substance inside the protective walls of Riddle's study, a piece of their own paradise where they could finally co-exist in reticence.

She fell asleep to the vibration of him playing the grand piano, and for the first time in months, the demon that plagued her dreams was not frightening. It was him.

***

Can you believe that it is not Varya and Tom being problematic for once?

Thank you for reading, as always!