i shall add edits until i run out
as always excuse my grammar mistakes, it is 8AM for me lmao

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ananke pressed a cold cloth against glazed cheeks, wiping away the slight transpiration that had come due to the endless agitation of the night. Hazel eyes surveyed her surroundings, taking notice of her friends scattered across the Three Broomsticks Inn, enjoying themselves after months of work.

Her feet were sore from running around and trying to ensure everyone followed the safety precautions, and she took off her shoes and wiggled her toes freely, letting a small groan past her lips.

A chair scraped at the table near hers, and she turned her head to glance at Abraxas Malfoy, who seemed to be completely wrecked by alcohol. His face had gone beetle red, lines of cardinal extending themselves across his cheeks as he fought back the noxious substance, and his eyes were lacquered by obliviousness. Platinum hair was as messily crafted as always, and he had popped open a few buttons of his dress shirt and given up on wearing his sweater, which he now carried on his shoulders, tied with the sleeves around his neck.

Feeling eyes on him, he turned to face her, and Ananke felt the hazy skepticism vibrate through her empath bond. Then, it faded into something darker, something that she thought to be as cold as pulverized bones, and his jaw tightened before he turned to his glass of fire whiskey and downed it in one go.

Malfoy's face did not even scrunch from the burning sensation; he merely licked pinked lips with his tongue before leaning back into his seat and glancing around the room. Suddenly, Navarro felt an overwhelming amount of resentment from him, so much so she placed a hand on her abdomen and winced before following his line of sight to—oh.

Felix was twirling Della Beauchamp around, her skirts a circular motion of ruffles as her giggle sounded through the room, and then the boy pulled her to his chest, raising an eyebrow before dropping her on one of his arms and pressing a kiss to her lips. Her yelp of surprise sounded above the music, syncing with the fine fiddle tune.

Ananke faced the boy, "Well, that is fascinating," her tone was sardonic, edged just the right way to irk him yet have him inquisitive.

Malfoy gave her a recalcitrant stare; nose scrunched almost as if he were talking to someone well below him, "Whatever do you mean by that?"

Her chin raised, and she flickered condescending eyes to him, "I find it implausible, is all," Ananke sighed, a small smirk on her lips, "That the most prejudiced heir to have ever lived happened to find it in himself to care for a muggle-born. Who, even more ironically, is dating someone else."

She felt his verve, the way he wanted to reach out and slam her head against the table, but Abraxas only turned bitterly and played with his glass, legs sprawled out and tongue pressed against his cheek, "I would watch my words if I were you. Especially if you spread such lies."

He was lying, and it was hilarious.

"I am an empath, believe me when I say I sense your emotions better than you understand them," Ananke said, "And I find it incredibly funny that you are hiding this."

"You know, people that find others suspicious are normally the ones that are hiding something themselves. So, what are you hiding, Navarro?"

She stayed silent at that; pretended to be far more interested in the thread that was coming off of her blue robes, picking at it absentmindedly as she bit down on her lip. There was heaviness in her chest, almost as Abraxas was the one that could sense her lying and not the other way around.

The boy scoffed with satisfaction, then got up from his chair, slightly wobbling on his feet before gripping the table and scrunching his face from the dizziness. A hand shot up to his face, pressing against his temples, "Fuck, I am plastered."

And that was simply an interrogation opportunity that Ananke could not miss.

She waved her hand over to one of the innkeepers, telling them to bring her some water, then passed it over to the boy, "Here."

"Why are you helping me?" mumbled the boy, accepting the glass regardless. He parted his lips, throwing his head back as he gulped on it with thirst, then slammed it on the table and bowed his head in irritation.

"I am simply fascinated," stated Navarro, playing at his hubris, "I mean, how does one such as you even end up with a witch such as her?"

"What would you know of what it is like to be in my position?" he derided, eyebrows hoisting in ridicule before he tried to stand up again, only to fall right back down. Ananke felt his frustration, yet behind all, there was some hint of self-hatred that struck her chord with a chip.

"I am from an important family myself, so I understand the requirement of the high society."

"Truly?" there was curiosity now, as well as doubt, "Why did you leave, then? I cannot imagine a life on the run is better than the comfort of the bourgeoisie."

"Well, why did you join Riddle? Because we both believe we are destined for other things, to carry on the name of our families through war and peace until we triumph. Now, I understand why I mingle with people such as Della, but why would you?" the words were weighty on her tongue, like razored candy that she chewed on until her cheeks were bloody and shredded.

Ananke hardly thought herself superior because of her heritage, yet to deny the fact that the coven she came from was one of the most respected in the Andean Mountains would have been a filthy lie. They hardly mingled with those of tainted blood, mostly due to the fact that the empath gene was recessive and independent of the standard magic gene, meaning that it was tough to find a match amongst muggle-borns. It was one of the reasons that Ananke had left.

Malfoy felt some understanding towards her, and with his intoxicated state, he opened his mouth, "I am only talking to her because Riddle assigned me to it."

Part-truth. Part-lie.

"Tom Riddle finding use in a muggle-born does not seem plausible to me. Why not simply admit that the pureblood monarch is interested in the mudblood?" pushed Navarro, eyes darting around to make sure that nobody heard her.

Abraxas grunted threateningly, "Hard to believe as it is, it is the truth. He is the one that had me sent on so many missions with her to ensure that she did not slip our secrets to the opposition," with that, he seemed to have had enough of the conversation, pushing himself up and grabbing his coat from the chair, "I have no personal interest the witch, so do not go around spreading lies."

He stumbled away then, face pinched with frustration and eyes vile, yet the empath sensed the torment in his soul, the way barbed wire scrapped at the edges, painting the golden boy in bloodied affection. The same color as the liquid that pulsed through Della Beauchamp's veins, and the reason that prevented him from acting out on his inclinations.

Still, Anake's lips lifted with satisfaction, and she dissected Abraxas' words carefully, contemplating on the way he had phrased his sentence—it did not seem as if the pureblood had been referring to Varya's ensemble as an "opposition," but rather something else entirely. And Della had hardly visited the Vila, so what missions would he be accompanying the witch on?

With trepidation nesting itself in her soul, the empath realized there was only one other answer—Della Beauchamp was working for Grindelwald.

Her pulse quickened, and she did not want to believe it. No, no, it could not be true. Yet, it made sense entirely—why she had been so different from her first visit until they had returned to Hogwarts, why Grindelwald and the Knights knew so much about Varya's plans. Ananke had suspected some breach of security, but this was entirely surreal.

Bitterness and betrayal clouded her, so much so that she had to shut all empathy channels for fear of spreading it around the room, and clouded eyes turned utterly emotionless, the faded hazel now a murky color of vengeance. Why would the witch do this?

Della, as far as Ananke could tell, was a sweet girl that had been entirely clueless of Varya's magic for the better part of their friendship, always being there for the witch in moments of uncertainty regardless of the little understatement she had of the Obscurial's emotions. She was as saccharine as marzipan, with blushed cheeks and timeless curls, her skin kissed by the Sun and her eyebrows stuffier than most.

Then again, the empath had not known her entirely, and had only heard words of praise from Petrov and Parkin. Still, she had never felt anything malicious from the witch, only stormy guilt, as if a granite cloud perpetually loomed over bouncy curls, bringing despondent rain onto Della Beauchamp. If she had, in fact, betrayed them, there had to be a reason for it.

And Ananke had to figure it out before telling her friends.

So, she marched over to Lev, who was leaning backward in his chair, seemingly deep in thought as the shadows pulsated behind, slowly reaching out appendages and floating on his face. Raven eyebrows were knotted in frustration, and the chair across him was already pulled out for Ananke. She sat down, then gave him a severe look that had him clenching his jaw.

"You found something," his voice was factual, not even a question. "And by the way your shadow screeches, it is not entirely good."

Navarro lowered her voice, then leaned in, "She is working with Grindelwald."

Lev's eyes widened, and he stopped tapping his fingers against the table impatiently, his hand suddenly clenching, and his face contorting into absolute wrath. He twisted to glance at Della, who was still enjoying her time with Felix, and made to lash out at her, but Ananke grabbed his arm.

"Not here, not until we know why she did it," she ordered, and Lev grunted in irritation.

"Does it matter why she did it? Betrayal is betrayal."

"I am not saying her motives might excuse it, but if we do not find proof of it, then how can we even raise the problem? They have known each other for longer than we have, and Felix is completely smitten with her," murmured Ananke, "Not knowing the facts gives her room to make them up."

Lev was displeased by it, but understatement passed over his face, and he settled down as the darkness retracted from his face, black veins fading into his skin. He stood still for a second, unsure of what to do next, before realization passed over his face.

"You are roommates with her," he remembered, "So, whenever she is out, simply snoop through her things. There has to be something that we can find and bring back to Varya."

Ananke's nose scrunched, "I do not like the idea of invading someone's space, but I suppose it is the right thing to do in this circumstance."

With that, they both agreed to a plan, not knowing that they had just signed a pact on the destruction of everything.

***

Rosier's feet were chaotic, restless, as if ants had crawled up his pants and were now invading his skin, pinching and twisting until he moved around like a lunatic. He kept shifting, tapping, walking around the room with his eyes trained on Lev—fuck, would he just go to the bathroom or something already?

It was almost as if the shadowmancer knew that the heir was trying to get some alone time with his sister, and was insistent on brooding in the corner over Varya's departure instead of growing a pair and making his feelings clear. Merlin, how tired Rosier was of cowardly men. They surrounded him—Lev, Tom, Abraxas, even Icarus as he awkwardly tried to make conversation with Scarlet while the witch danced around with her friends.

But Ren? He had no intention of ignoring the way he felt about Indra; it was merely too surreal to pass upon. The idea that she had encouraged his advances regardless of his initial skepticism of her, or the fact that they represented such opposite things. He slapped a hand over his mouth to wipe off the absurd smile, briefly rehearsing a poker face.

Now, if only Lev Myung would fucking leave.

"Oh, thank Merlin," breathed Rosier when he saw the empath sitting down with Indra's brother, and he took that opportunity to pace over to the lumomancer, tapping on her shoulder without hesitation.

She twisted to face him, intoxicating simper stamped on plum lips, and her heart-shaped face glistened with sweat from the dancing, yet the wild glint in her eyes made her seem more alive than ever. The kind of alive that Rosier so desperately craved.

"Come with me?" he invited, cheekily extending a hand out to her and doing a reverence.

Her laugh was the sound of crystal, stainless and burning, as if they had sculpted her vocal cords from pure diamond, and her white hair flew around as she turned to bid Scarlet goodbye, who pouted, yet had some sort of encouragement in chartreuse eyes. Indra placed her hand in his, and she giggled as he dragged her away, gaze flicking to Lev, who was still chatting with Ananke.

The air was chilly, the stars bright as the two Hogwarts students ran down the road that led back to Hogwarts, screaming in excitement as if they were being chased by an overly protective brother, even if they knew that they had not been spotted. Indra jumped over rocks, and Rosier had his curls fluttering in the wind as they kicked at the dirt with the soles of their feet.

Light sprawled out from windows as locals heard the commotion, and Indra laughed soundly as she felt Ren pull her through the shadows, leading them to one of the paths that had a secret passage to their school. The boy knocked on the bricks until he found the loose one, then pulled it out and pressed against the handle behind it, watching as the door swung open.

"After you, my lady," he told the witch, and she took no time to step inside before turning around and walking backward as they made their way back.

"So, what is the meaning of this? Where are you taking me?" Indra questioned, smile wide.

Rosier hummed for a second, unsure—he had acted out of impulse, and had had no actual plan of where he was taking the girl, as the only thing he knew is that he wanted to be around her; only the two of them.

Then, an idea flashed through his mind, and he smirked before pushing the other end of the tunnel open and stepping into one of the towers before grabbing Indra's hand and pulling her up the stairs. The trap of the Astronomy Tower took some time to open, but he carefully cast a spell and then hauled them to the half-open chamber.

The room was marvelous, with constellations sprawled over the cupola as lightbulbs shifted according to the night sky, and archways covered what had once been walls, giving the impression of a pavilion. Telescopes were stuffed in some of the corners, gazing up towards the lunar realm, and some divans and pillows had been left behind on the floor by the astronomy club.

"Marvelous," whispered Indra, who had only ever been there during class, when the gazebo was retracted away to allow better observation of the stars, "This is entirely wonderful! Look at the stars; they are so alight tonight."

She reached out a hand into the midnight air, letting the luminescence cascade down on silky skin, and it caressed her gently before catching the small glint of the knife she had stuck in her belt. A little gasp left her lips, and she stuffed it behind her cloak better, knowing that weapons were not allowed around Hogwarts during classes.

"You like it, then," said Rosier from behind, hands in his pockets as he approached her.

She turned around to face him, and inhaled deeply when she realized how entirely close he was to her. Her lips parted, yet nothing came out except a squeak as he stood at least fifteen centimeters above her, curls shaping his head as they fell over his forehead, whereas his locks were shorter in the back. He was wearing a coat over his dark green sweater, so contrasting to her yellow uniform, and had a white-collar poking from underneath.

"I do," Indra mumbled while watching him.

Rosier smiled, then glanced upwards to the stars, seemingly lost for a moment as he struggled to piece his words together. He pushed a hand through his hair; then it trembled slightly as he hesitated on touching her. Even so, Ren placed a tentative arm on her waist, drawing her closer as the witch turned red.

"Hello," he mumbled when they were almost pressed against each other, so much so that they could almost feel each other's heart drumming in their chest, "I have something to tell you."

"Well, tell me. Do not keep me waiting," she tried to jest, but her voice was frail as Rosier lowered his head, lips hovering.

Her psyche malfunctioned then—butterflies thundered in her abdomen, tender wings brushing her insides as they brought comfort to the inexperienced witch. She felt the tip of her nose heat up, and her cheeks blazed as her blood raced. The veil of peace that settled over her in his presence was entirely mesmerizing, and Indra felt cherry trees blossom in her heart, making it squeeze to prevent petals from spilling through her veins and collapsing her lungs.

Because Rosier was breathtaking to her, he was the epitome of a great romance, something worth of Dante Aligheri's acclamations, where the undeniable string of affection rejuvenated the novel of one's life with newfound chapters of adventure. And the way he touched her, sensitive and aware, as if she were a gentle porcelain doll he feared might break, or a sky-free bird that might turn her wings and soar into the horizon.

The boy himself felt at a loss of words—he feared of scaring her, of how he had become entirely engrossed by her radiance that soothed the tentacles of obscurity she had seen on his physique. Ren had never thought himself to be one for mindless infatuation, yet there he was, his heart open towards a woman that went against his own nature.

Indra, a girl that caressed the coldness of shadows with her blazing warmth, as if she had taken the sun and claimed its ray of compassion and understanding, only put on Earth to be the illumination he needed. She was strong-wielded despite her sizzling personality, with complete control over her own choices, something Rosier lacked entirely—she relied not on the effects of alcohol or jamborees to soothe her soul, but her willingness to see beauty in life even in the darkest hours.

"When you look at me," he began, "I know you once saw only darkness, and I sincerely doubt much has changed, but tell me—is there any glimmer of light?"

The witch, somewhat confused, took a step back. She watched him shift his eyes to the sky, and gazed at his being, seeing the way darkness crawled from within, spewing like poison around Rosier. Then, he glanced at her, and her breath caught in her throat—it was small, but it was there.

The faintest trace of light, tickling his skin and being overwhelmed by the obscurations. It was small, it was weak, but it was there. And Indra had had her gift for long enough to know that some people never climbed out of their bit of blackness, fully succumbing to the cold ground as they stared at the starless sky above them.

"Well?" he questioned, somewhat fearful that he was foolish.

She stumbled forward, grasping on his hands and bringing him close, and then that damned smile, "Oh, I believe you might have a little crush," Indra teased, "And I fear it might be returned."

The way his body relaxed was humorous—because it was her that should have been scared. Indra and her poetical definitions of love, her hopeless romantic mentality that never seemed to be satisfied by reality, her time spent reading words of novels that were entirely fictional and unrealistic. Yet, there he was, acting as if he was the one that had been blessed by truth.

Rosier cupped her face then, and brought his lips down upon hers eagerly, surprising the witch that had never had her first kiss. Even so, she fluttered her eyes almost immediately, hands going into his hair as she pulled the boy close.

She might not have had experience, but she had read enough to understand how it was supposed to work.

His lips were delightful; they moved swiftly as his hands moved to her waist, fingers slightly trembling as if he had never experienced such emotions before. Perhaps, he had not, at least not this pure, not kisses that meant something to him. And she tasted of milky chocolate and morning waffles, the breeze of summer on the coast of French, and something Rosier might have considered home, but he was not sure, because he had not had one in years.

It was her that pulled away fast, innocent and astonished, and then her eyes crinkled into semi-lunas before she laughed out loud, "Oh, you are the one explaining this to my brother!"

Indra had never seen someone turn so pale so fast in her life.

***

Varya felt him as if he were an umbra on her side, an incubus that was guiding her among the bifurcations of Hell, presenting the sacrilege of his nefarious ways and cackling in the face of God. The moon fluttered down on his face, having its shapes stand out imperially, and his edged jaw was made of heliotrope and sculpted by the finest artists. Stygian curls had started peeling out from the coiffure, and they scattered around aimlessly, making Hogwarts' Head-Boy appear more human, and less of a demigod crafted with angel utensils.

Darkened eyelashes fluttered as sunken eyes trailed the far image of the castle, where most lights had been closed, except for a few dormitories that probably rattled with teenage euphoria. There was tautness in his features, as if he were contemplating something of grave proportions, his brilliant mind whirling as thoughts clashed and burned.

She wanted to ask, but she knew not to—Tom was rarely sincere in such moments, when there was the slightest hint of vulnerability that transversed the spaces between them, closing in until her fingers clasped around his arm burned his skin, or when here fragrance brought the slightest dizziness to an otherwise lucid mind.

He staled for a second, as if he was about to say something, then let the idea pass, and the silence gently return. The wind was harsher now, rough against Varya's blazed skin, almost as if piercing needles stuck to her cheeks, and she brought a hand to pat at them.

Tom's eyes fell on her movement, "You are cold," he stated, then stared ahead, "Should have brought a coat."

Frustration bit at her psyche, a scalding sensation of irritation mixed with astonishment, and she almost scoffed at his judgment before glancing down at her clothes. Frankly, it was her fault for refusing to wear her sweater on such a night, as if she did not know that being intoxicated made her susceptible to the weather's harshness.

She felt something over her shoulders, a thick material, and with a surprised face, she glanced up to see that Tom had taken off his robe and put it over her. Varya had not even registered him pulling away from her grasp, for it had been weak, as she was afraid of clinging to him harshly.

"Oh," she breathed, "Thank you."

"I was getting hot," Riddle answered, not even sparing her a glance, "You might as well carry it."

She bit down on her lips to prevent the slightest smirk from infringing her stoic face, yet her hands had gone numb from the overwhelming sensation of his proximity.

"You are thinking too much about it," grunted Tom, evident frustration passing his face as they entered the passage to the castle.

She ducked inside, pulling on his robe until it covered her body, and she found it amusing how the sleeves dangled over her hands. Habitually, it would have reached somewhere above his ankles for the boy, yet it pooled around the witch, dragging through the dust of the tunnel. Varya saw the struggle in Tom's eyes as he observed it.

"I am not thinking about it; not at all," her lie was swift, a faint smile on her lips that she only allowed due to the darkness of the passage.

They reached the other edge, and then took the stairs to the dungeons, Varya trying to keep up with the boy as they returned to the Common Room. Her mind was still wobbly from her drinks, spinning undoubtedly fast as her filter cracked to the ground, so when they reached the stairs that separated the girls and boys' dormitories, she stopped and glanced at him.

"Are you going back to your room?" her inquiry somewhat caught him off guard, and Tom raised an eyebrow.

There was hesitation in his answer, and perhaps that is what stunned him—of course, he should have left her, for it was a school night, and they had class the next morning. Riddle was not one to stay up at night before an important day unless it involved some scheming. But for conversations? Never.

Still, he glanced at her, and found that his robe suited her horribly. Varya looked as if she were an imp dressed in clothes three sizes up.

Yet, they were his clothes, and they reminded him of the sweater she had borrowed on their trip to Albania, of the time where he had wanted nothing more than to own her, have her depend on him entirely. With her vicious senseless eyes, and her hair that fell around her shoulders in chopped patterns, and the lanky limbs. Tom found it was a different sort of possessiveness that overwhelmed him, a shade more cordial than it should have been, and then repugnance struck him like a bullet.

As if spiders of loathing had begun squirming up his arms, multiple legs scratching against his skin as they overwhelmed his body, having the hair on the back of his neck rise with trepidation. And there was awareness—some unmistakable sensation of only ever feeling right by her side, as if she were an answer to the pit of voidness that nested in his soul.

"Come with me," Tom announced shortly, then proceeded to pivot on his feet and walk back out into the hallway, hands clasped behind his back.

Varya raised an eyebrow, yet followed his steps as they took the moving stairs, watchful irises guarding for possible patrollers, as it would not have been kind to the eye to see the Head-Boy breaking the curfew. He marched into the hallway of the second-floor before stopping in front of the girl's lavatory.

"A bathroom?" questioned the witch, her mind conjuring impure thoughts before she watched him go inside, holding the door open for her.

She passed through the threshold, then Tom walked to the central sink, before speaking something in what she recognized to be Parseltongue. The ground clattered before her feet, and she caught onto one of the doors as the sink seemed to transfigure into a set of spiral stairs, leading to the underground tunnels.

Varya's eyes widened, and she shot Tom a disturbed glance, "Is this..." her voice trailed off, almost as if she could not comprehend why the boy was showing her this.

"The Chamber of Secrets," Riddle mumbled, then extended his hand out to her again, "We will go down this set of stairs, then walk through tunnels before arriving in front another door. Once we pass it, keep your eyes on the ground, and do not lift them until I tell you to do so."

The humidity that ricocheted off of the walls was bewildering, and with each step, Varya found that her skin buzzed with grotesque intrusiveness, as if she were entering a skeleton closet, witnessing something so depraved and immoral. She knew what it had been constructed to do, and was aware that Tom had opened it a long time ago for reasons that were not for the faint-hearted, yet there was giddiness in her. Inexplicable and peculiar.

The tunnels were obscure, the only brightness coming from faint torches that Tom lit up as they strolled through. Her skin pinched as she felt the temperature that radiated around, something she would not have expected, yet made absolute sense—the basilisk was a reptile, and cold-blooded beings preferred warmth.

She wondered what made Tom hate it so much.

They stopped in front of the door, and Riddle tensed beside her and shot her a quick look, as if to make sure she was still with him, take in the expression showcasing on her face. When Varya made no sign of protest, he flicked his sliver tongue again, the sonority of hissing low and vibrating.

The Chamber of Secrets—one of the four rooms that belonged to the founders, and the only one that had been unexplored to her. With high walls, the rattling of pipes was a flush of perturbance, and the pathway that led to the Zeus-shaped engraving on the opposite wall was fenced by burning torches. Statues of vipers created a corridor, and the stone underneath her feet had been placed carefully, as if the stability of the chamber was subtle.

She heard it crawl behind the walls, a sensation that brought trepidation to her soul, and her lungs clenched as she held her breath. Varya had encountered many creatures, yet a basilisk was still vaguely horrible, for she could not banish it with sigils or burn it with salt. It was a monster of life, and it slithered through the openings of the walls, scales gleaming in the viridescent light.

"Stay here," mumbled Tom, "I will close the opening to the statue, and it will not come out."

Varya stopped him, "Can I see it first?"

The wizard appeared flabbergasted by her request, as if he had not expected her to say such things, "It is not a pet, Petrov. You cannot simply have it obey you."

"But you can," insisted the witch, "So just have it sit still while I look at it."

The incredulous scoff that passed his lips was humorous, as if he could not believe his ears as he heard such words. Tom gave her a grim look, "Have you considered that I might have brought you here to kill you?"

"And fail yet again?" she jested, "Do you plan on trying to assassinate me in every founder chamber in the castle? If so, you might find it hard to explain to Dippet why you require the Headmaster's Office for your affairs."

"Witty," he remarked monotonically, no trace of amusement in his face. The witch found herself hilarious. "I did not bring you here to have you gawk at the basilisk. It is a murder weapon, not a circus animal."

He walked down the corridor, and she followed, eyes focused on the stone as she tried to avoid any immediate danger. She was not sure how her Horcrux preserved her vitality, but assumed that her vessel would still be susceptible to the attacks of others, and that the necklace around her neck was a method of resurrection.

"So, why did you bring me here?"

Tom closed the basilisk entrance, then turned to face the girl and approached her. Suddenly, he was standing in front of her, towering as he grabbed her arm and stuffed his hand in the side of the robe she was wearing. He pulled out a volume—a leather-bound book, with pages that had been yellowed by time, and no apparent title on the cover.

"This is where you and I will be training our magic," replied Riddle before passing her the volume.

She gripped it in tight hands before flipping to the first place, and her body froze—Necromancy, a complete guide to summoning and resurrecting.

"You cannot be serious," Varya breathed, fury bubbling underneath her skin as the boy took the book away from her, "Did you take that from Scholomance? I wanted it to burn Riddle, along with everything inside, so that such magic could never see the face of the Earth again."

Absolute disappointment flashed on his face, and the boy scrunched his nose in disgust, "Do you hear yourself? This is the key to everything—I have been reading it endlessly ever since we returned, and it is not the low-level necromancy that you performed on animals. It talks about raising armies, about resurrecting the dead through the dark arts and having the inferi bow to your command."

"Have you not seen what happens to the creatures of the dead?" she argued back, not believing her ears, "Besides, necromancy is not as easy as you might believe. To raise an army would require power unlike anything else, and Grindelwald needs the Hallows to do so. And it requires a balance—every soul you bring back is a piece of your vitality."

"What is vitality to an immortal, Varya?" he questioned, and it was a cold river of realization to the witch.

She had never thought much about it—her dabbling with necromancy had been brief during her four years at Scholomance, methodically resurrecting animals and watching as they hopped around aimlessly, their brains desiccated of any cognition. When Dumbledore had told her of the effects it had on the lifespan of the wizard, Varya had vowed to never return to her practices.

But Tom Riddle was entirely correct. With their immortality, there was no drainage of the soul; there were no secondary effects.

Still, she thought it ridiculous. Regardless of her power, controlling so many beings at once was far above their level of experience. And as much as Tom considers himself invincible, they would have years before they reached the level of magic that they needed.

"We are not capable of raising an army," Varya concluded, refusing to agree with the boy, "Dumbledore would—"

"I do not care about what Dumbledore has drilled into your thick skull, Petrov!" thundered Riddle, "He is nothing but the facade of righteousness, and he has exploited you and left you to fend for yourself against whatever is coming your way. Tell me, how does he expect fourteen students to face an army of creatures and bloomed wizards?"

"So this is your solution?" she shouted right back, pushing at his chest as her mind spun from the last bits of alcohol, "Raising the fucking dead? That is why we are training the students, Riddle!"

"Students? Do you hear yourself? Half of them cannot even cast a disarming spell successfully, and yet you believe you will make fighters out of them, have them on the level of my Knights and your acolytes who have trained their whole lives?"

He scoffed then, twisting away from her and dragging a hand over his face in frustration, trying to tame the serpent of wrath that poisoned his resolve, having walls of indifference tumble down like Roman amphitheaters in a siege. Tom faced her again, raising the book in the air.

"This is your answer to everything! I am trying to have you understand that you do not have to endure such a burden on your own, yet you continuously shut out my ideas out of your own fears," Riddle's veins had started drumming against his skin, "Tell me, Petrov—is it me that you are scared of succumbing to the allure of darkness, or yourself?"

Varya drew in a quivering breath, refusing to have his words unnerve her as she stood haughtily in front of the wizard, hand already on her wand. No, she could not chase dark magic, not when it unsettled the balance of nature.

And perhaps Tom was right. Perhaps, the witch feared she would fall into the pit of blackness, where veins of Hell rose to surround her limbs and pull until the torturous pain had her unravel the wickedness inside. The Obscurus had already had her thread the edge of insanity, her tongue finding the taste of murder as dulcet as marzipan, and she did not want to indulge such cravings further.

"So go ahead, Petrov! Sacrifice yourself for those who have never cared for you, who have sent you in harm's way repeatedly while they sat their arses comfortably in elegant chambers and debated what suicide mission to send you on next," Riddle's voice had become tumultuous, so resonant it disturbed her ears, "But excuse me if I do not sit by and watch you tear yourself to pieces for a cause you do not believe in. All because you think it will earn you the acceptance you so desperately crave."

Varya's pride suffered a bloody cut, and her scoff was sardonic as she shouted back, "And I suppose you care for me, no? That is why you have endangered me repeatedly for your own benefit by constantly trying to kill me or have me break?"

Tom marched up to her, grasping her arm forcefully as lunatic eyes peered down at her with sheer wrath inundating marine irises—a storm that seized the shores of his insanity, scrapping against the boy's psyche as pure unsettlement engulfed him.

"That is where I am different from them—I might harm you, yes. It is my nature. But I would never let anyone as much as raise a blade against you," his voice had gone low, threatening, as if her words had insulted his intentions greatly.

"And how lucky I must be! Oh, your kindness has no ends, does it? You protect me only so that you can be the one to savor the dulcet taste of seeing me break, so that you can be the only one to see me weak!" she tried to pull out of his hold, feet scurrying as she stumbled backward and away from Tom.

"That is not true, and you know it," he argued, yet the rasp in his voice proved insincerity and doubt—in himself or her words, he was not sure.

Varya snarled, "I would rather leave than ever feel like I owe you any gratitude for the scraps you have given me."

With that, she pulled off his robe, letting it crumble to the floor before she pivoted on her feet and started marching down the corridor, nails sinking in her palms as she tried to calm the sizzling of her Obscurus. Fuck Tom Riddle. Fuck him and his meaningless words.

The wizard watched her slowly move away from him, his throat parched and fingers clenched as he held the volume to his chest, heart hammering fastly as dread seized him by the throat until he could not breathe. Was she truly leaving? Tom felt an indescribable ache inside as she pulled away from him, and the abandonment that clouded his mind suffocated aridly, dragging claws against his psyche and having his barriers melt into puddles.

"Fine, leave!" the crack in his voice was subtle, "Fucking leave me, Petrov. And see if you can find anyone to love the monster that you are except me."

Varya stopped in her tracks.

Her breath halted at the iron gate of her defense, and nimble fingers trembled by her sides as her mind fought to comprehend his words. It was as if an antarctic glacier had settled over her bones, having it quiver and numb until reality no longer felt agreeable, until the state of reverie was an escape from ill-fated mishappenings.

Except me.

She turned to him slowly—saw him fuming on the other side of the room, facer reddened and eyes blazing with vile thoughts, things that slipped past cracked pieces of souls as strings of fate interconnected and pulled them both to each other, refusing to be traumatically stretched beyond reason while they continued to push each other away.

Leave, Varya. Do yourself a favor and leave.

The witch had never felt her heart thump against her ribcage so vividly, and the more she stared at him, the more she understood he was entirely oblivious to the implications of his words—not a reality, but perhaps a promise of what could be.

What alarmed her wholly was that she was entirely sure he was not trying to manipulate her. Tom was not using empty hope to have her cling to him, not as he had once had. Because the boy would never admit to being capable of loving her, he would never allow anyone to think so lowly of him, as if he were on the same level with beings made of earth and water.

It took her whole courage to speak up again, "What did you just say?"

He appeared perplexed, mind not registering the slip, and eyebrows knotted as the fury dissipated from his expression—Riddle had always been caustic, a volcano that vented aridly before sizzling to the darkness of obsidian. His wrath towards her was never prolonged.

"That nobody would ever love you," he repeated, now more of a question than a statement.

"No," Varya said, walking back to him slowly, "You said nobody would ever love me except you."

There was bone dust clogging his throat—skeletons ripping at his abdomen and daggers piercing his mind. Tom's lips parted to voice out his thoughts, to ridicule her for hearing what she wanted to hear from his mouth and twisting it to her narrative. But he had said those words, they had fallen from his lips in a moment of panic, and now his eyes widened as his heart began to collapse to its weight.

"I—" he mumbled, but Riddle was unsure how to backtrack, how to stop his mind from absolutely crumbling down.

No.

No, no, no, no.

The idea of opening himself to the possibility, acknowledging that she had been right of his capacity to experience such weakness and indulging in human emotions— it was ridiculous. Unheard of, even.

He pushed past her, quickly marching away from the scene, for he had no words of defense nor manipulation to get past the admittance. It felt as if his vertebrae were rupturing, as if his cerebellum was succumbing to the erosion of time, slowly being inundated by dizzying lack of lucidity, and this was entirely unbecoming of him.

Tom heard her steps behind—he was not sure if she was following him to talk or merely going back to their Common Room, too preoccupied with the way his hands trembled and his mind swirled and his world collapsed. He only hurried his pace, breaking into a jog to run away from the witch that had destroyed everything.

His plans, his future, his ideologies, his emotionless being—she had sunken fangs of infection into everything that had once made him a dictator and corrupted it with orange-scented perfume.

She was the viper. She was the fucking python, not him.

Tom did not remember himself muttering the password to the Common Room, did not register the squeak of the stairs as he ran to his room, did not know if Abraxas or Icarus had been in the chamber when he had pulled his sweater over his head, cringing at the way his dress-shirt stuck to his skin from the perspiration. He was not sure if he fell asleep, if he stayed awake until sunrise, if the birds sang, if Abraxas asked him if something had happened or if he made it to his bed.

The only thing Tom Riddle was sure of was that he was fucked. Entirely, unreasonably, and thoroughly fucked.

***

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