CHAPTER SEVEN

The breeze was cashmere on her fissured skin, silky yet irritating all at once, and her hair blew in numerous directions as she pushed through the endless crowd of townfolks in the market square. Stands were scattered everywhere, covered with dyed plastic of carmine, azure, golden, and many more, protecting the locals from the scorching sun of late July.

The heat made the back of her tunic stick to her skin, and Varya pulled at the material to air herself, ignoring the odd looks the people around her were hurling. A trail of transpiration dribbled down the sides of her temples, and she felt as if the rising temperature was boiling her alive.

The roads were covered in grime and dust—it stuck to her soles that were exposed by cheap sandals, and the houses around her were made of red bricks, with white stripes framing the windows, and a few even had pots of roses hanging outside. The perfume of flowers transversed the market, and bees flew around with a resounding buzz, making young girls squeal with squeamishness.

Women dressed in garments of their time walked around on their husbands' arms, examining the trinkets exposed on white tables, and haggling with the sellers for a better price. Some were coquettes, with neatly painted nails and rich coiffeurs; others wore skirts that had loose threads hanging on the margins, and their hair was merely pulled in a bun.

Varya trailed her eyes over the scenery until she spotted locks of the sun, and she walked towards Elladora with quick steps, pushing through the vibrating crowd and trying to tune out the communal chatter. The other witch was sitting in front of a stand, arguing with the seller over the Jobberknoll feathers.

"I do not want the goddamned bird!" she screeched, throwing her arms up in frustration and earning a few glances from passing customers, "Only two feathers."

"Cannot do that, ma'am," the clerk said, his mustache moving capriciously as he spoke, "I 'ave the bird, you pay the full price, and it is yours."

"What on Earth would I do with a bloody bird?" Elladora's accent resonated with poshness, accentuating her vowels in irritation. Her red hair had been clasped behind her ears, then braided down her back until it reached the middle of her abdomen. She was dressed in a loose, violet dress, puffed around the arms and tight around the waist, only to flow downwards before it reached her knees.

"What are you gonna do with the feat'ers?" the clerk mumbled, his rural words making the witch stand out even more. Many were sneaking peeks at her, admiring her soft skin and the way it glistened in the Sun. Everyone else seemed to be simmering in the unnaturally hot weather, but Elladora was as collected and spotless as always.

"I will shove them up your—"

Varya grabbed the witch's arm, dragging her away from the cup-eyed owner, who was indeed debating calling the local police by now. She did not stop her steps, not until they reached a bench near one of the central fountains, where a tree shaded the area.

"Bloody muggles," the poisoner decreed, then snatched her arm away in frustration. She sat down on the bench, then glanced back at the stand, "I need the feathers; otherwise, Tom will have my head for it."

"He will not sell them to you after you caused a scene," mumbled the Eastern witch, pupils flying to the market, where people were still whispering and glancing at the pair.

The door to a nearby store opened, the bell ringing effervescently, and out stepped Lev Myung with his arms full of brown packages, so much so that only angled eyebrows peaked from behind. Long legs strode over the grass until he reached the two witches, and he let everything fall on the bench before straightening his back and cracking his neck, almost as if the labor had stiffened his body.

Onyx eyes trailed him fastly, and Varya thought it was the first time seeing the boy dressed so casually— fitted dark pants, paired with a plaited button-up that stopped mid-arm-length. His dark hair was getting longer after months of traveling, and strands now fell over his forehead, so much so that his hand had to move them out continually.

"I got everything we needed for the Alps," he announced, then gestured to the packages before resuming his regular militaristic position— impeccable posture, hands behind his back, face void.

The witch nodded, "Can I ask you for a favor?"

"Of course, Varya."

"Elladora could not convince the seller to give her two feathers, so we need you to go over there and buy the bird," explained the witch, and when Elladora groaned in irritation, she merely shot her a look.

Lev nodded dutifully, then turned around and walked straight to the stall. Women turned to watch him, hands flying to pick at their lips and fix their windy strands, and their eyes trailed his figure. He paid them no mind, only focused on fulfilling his task, always the diligent soldier that he was.

"He has taken a fancy to you," sounded Elladora from behind, and Varya twisted in a hurry to give her an astonished look, "Do not look at me like that, Petrov. We both know he glances at you for his every move, and quite literally would break his back to fulfill your orders."

"That is only because he sees me as a leader," argued the witch, eyes drifting back to the shadowmancer as he chatted with the clerk, his face suddenly masked in uncharacteristic pleasantry.

When the owner nodded and went to the back to get the cage, Lev immediately turned his head to the two girls; dark eyes settled on Varya with intensity. Not the way Tom regarded her, as if she was a delicacy he was prohibited from, but with absolute interest and expectancy. Hands stuffed in his pockets, hair ruffled by the wind as the sun set behind him, illuminating his figure. When he turned his head back to the clerk, his jawline as sharp as the horizon, Varya caught her breath and looked away.

The boy had been a source of comfort during her strenuous months of leashing her Obscurus. It had had a mind of its own after she had created her Horcrux by accident, feeding on the newfound vitality and unleashing at the slightest frustration— shadows and darkness that crept through broken pieces of a shattered girl. But Lev controlled them quickly; he chained her forces whenever they breathed hellfire and brought her back to normalcy.

Still, nothing had ever happened between them. He was a respectful boy, who never cared much for women or any sort of vice, only ever wanting to carry out his tasks accordingly and achieve success. Varya, as much as she despised to admit such truth, had her heart in another man's hands, regardless, and after almost destroying Icarus' psyche with her selfish attempts to distract herself from Riddle, she had no interest in repeating that narrative. Especially not with Lev, who had only ever been loyal to her.

"I do not believe so," continued Elladora, red braid twirling in her hands as she watched the boy and scrutinized his behavior, "And besides, he is a well-educated man. Respectful, at that, and easy on the eyes. Why would you be so dismissive?"

"You know why."

The Selwyn heir rolls her eyes with flare, "Will you stop your endless chase for Riddle's affection? The only person he will ever be devoted to is himself."

"I am hardly chasing him," argued Varya, dark eyes sending a silent threat to the witch, "And as if you are one to talk— how long have you been swooning after Icarus Lestrange in secrecy?"

"Besides the point."

"Exactly the point."

Lev's reappearance was the only thing that settled the bickering between the two former roommates as he came with a birdcage hanging from his hand, a blue Jobberknoll chirping inside as it hopped from one side to another. Elladora frowned at the animal, obviously displeased with the fact that he purchased it, and merely opened the gate of that cage and plucked out a few feathers.

"Not a fan of birds?" inquired Lev, his face expressionless as he glanced at the witch.

Ellladora pursed her lips, "Bloody hate them."

With that, they started heading back to the Malfoy Manor, walking through the market and taking in the muggle world as it unfolded so close to their base. It was a spectacle— seeing people do such mundane things without a worry in the world, unaware of the lingering threat that would soon destroy everything in its path.

Varya wanted that innocence back, the capability to remain ignorant and sheltered instead of carrying the fate of the wizarding world on her shoulders. It completely suffocated her at times, almost as if her throat was clogged with lies she had told to herself— no, I am not scared; no, I do not need to rest; no, I do not miss my old life.

But she had no moment to breathe, always caught in a tornado of dynamism that required action on her side, almost as if she was the only person capable of doing such tasks. Perhaps, she was, but she had never wanted to be. And to send an eighteen-year-old girl out to fulfill such a mission was another sort of cruelty.

When they reached the Malfoy Manor again, they walked the path fenced by endless greenery, taking in the glowing rays of dawn as they settled over the estate, and breathing in the faint scent of fauna, mixed in with the revigorating sounds of nearby fountains.

As soon as they opened the door, however, all tranquility was shattered by a resonating scream that sounded through the Manor, and then Malfoy's body flew through the air as it burst through the door that led to the dungeons, undoubtedly bombarded by a catapulting spell.

He hit the wall opposite of the door with a loud thump, and groaned as he fell to the floor, body twisted as he attempted to hoist himself up. Elladora immediately sprung into action, dashing over to her friend's side and helping him stand straight.

"What on Earth?" Lev began but was silenced by the appearance of Tom Riddle, whose face pulsated with violence, and he raised his wand again to attack his right hand's form, only to be stopped by Varya as she stepped in front of him.

"Riddle, what is going on?" she demanded, her voice tumultuous as his midnight azure eyes landed on her, whorls of irritation sparking in his irises.

Tom growled lowly, a sound that resonated from his lower pitches, "Nagel is gone! And we have no fucking clue how he managed to escape because Malfoy here swears he locked the door after delivering his breakfast."

Varya twisted her body in panic, glancing at the boy who was holding his dislocated shoulder with obvious pain striking his features, and she felt Tom move again to torture Abraxas. Her hand flew out and grabbed Riddle's forearm, pulling him away from the Knight, "If he says he locked it, then let it go, Riddle! There is no point in reprimanding him for something he did not do."

"Well, then who is at fault?" Tom yelled, pulling himself out of her hold as if scorched, "He could not have escaped on his own; there were defensive spells on his cell. Someone with knowledge of them would have helped him."

"And out of bloody everyone in this Manor, you think it was me?" fought back Malfoy, earning a bewildered glance from Elladora, who tried to quiet him down.

But Abraxas had defiance in his eyes, striking brightly like the match of an arsonist that was about to bring a battalion down with him, and at that moment, he could care less about what Riddle would do to him. Because if after all this time, after all his devotion, his leader would still think so lowly of him, then it was all pointless.

For too long, he had been silent, watching as Tom ruled with an iron fist over the Knights, vehemently destroying their minds until he could make puppets out of them. And he had said nothing at first—Abraxas had obeyed every command because he was too much of a coward to take the front line and be what his family expected him to be.

He was loyal to Riddle; he believed that they could achieve great things together, but being treated as a brainless buffoon when he was the heir of the most powerful family in the wizarding world was a calamity.

Riddle's eyebrows knotted together, and the silent threat in his irises was obvious, a riptide of indignation that covered the sandy shore of his patience. Both males stared each other down, reluctant to take their wand out first and strike each other. And Tom should have attacked him the moment he had dared snap a vicious tongue against him, yet there was a dull ache in his temples that held him back from it.

Something unfamiliar, unprecedented. He had never had any trouble in reprimanding his acolytes when they dared speak against him, for there was no room of argument or contradiction in their dynamic. Tom was their leader, and they were to obey his wishes regardless of circumstances.

But that had been months ago, maybe years. Now, there was this hesitation in him, a need to stop his hand from grasping the wand and muttering a curse before his mind could process past the fit of wrath. Because he had done it before—had cast a curse that had wrecked his soul unlike anything else.

He had felt remorse, and now it plagued every decision he ever made. Not due to the fact that he felt it, no. But he feared it. He feared that absolute suffocation of fate being beyond his reach, of being one second too late to fix his mistakes.

Tom glanced at her—his downfall, his catalyst, torn between cursing her out and letting the feeling in his chest spread like wildfire. Varya had managed to survive his regret, but what if Malfoy did not? What if Tom tried to torture him, and the horrifying feeling returned?

"Who else had access to the dungeons?" questioned Varya, hand still gripping Tom's forearm, and if she let it linger a second too long before letting go, then nobody had to know.

The dark wizard glanced at Abraxas again, taking in the hatred in his eyes, and he almost smirked at the way it thrilled him. Being at the receiving end of such animosity—that he was familiar with, that he could handle. Not the explosion of razor wings that nested in his abdomen whenever he glanced at her.

"The maids," Abraxas sputtered, and then revelation passed over his features in a swift motion. He looked back at Riddle, and Riddle looked at him—then both minds connected, and all tension dissipated as the two read each other's thoughts.

"You think there is a mole," Tom's answer was a statement, not a question. He always seemed to understand how Malfoy functioned.

His nod only affirmed it, "I do."

With that, he detached himself from Elladora, then glanced at his dislocated shoulder. His frown deepened, and he took one arm out from his coat before stuffing the sleeve in his mouth. Malfoy popped his arm back into place, biting down on the cloak to resist the pain, and Varya grimaced.

A few seconds later, the redness of anguish faded from his face, and Malfoy was back to the stone-cold numbness he always carried himself with, as if there was nothing in the world that could catch his attention.

Well, there was one thing. He just could not have it.

"Question the staff promptly," ordered Riddle, then glanced at Lev's hands, where the birdcage was still swinging back and forth, "Now, that will be useless."

"What am I to do with it?" questioned Elladora.

"Fry it for all I care," answered Riddle, irritated by the aimless question. Then, he glanced at the many boxes and bags they were carrying, eyeing the tents with suspicion, "Do you plan on sleeping on the ground when visiting the Alps? I assumed you had a house there. Or could Dumbledore not even be bothered in offering you that?"

Varya scoffed, "Those are not for the Alps."

She gestured Lev to carry everything upstairs, and the boy nodded, completely ignoring the way Tom glanced at him with vexation as he took to the stairs. Varya continued her walk until she reached the main salon, very much aware of Tom as he trailed behind her.

"Then, for what?" he questioned again.

"After we are done with our visit to the Rosier Manor, and then to the Alps, we have another stop that we must attend to."

"Where?"

The witch glanced back, the slightest smirk on her face.

"I am going back to Scholomance."

***

Varya tarried patiently in Riddle's study, waiting for the boy to return from his meeting with Malfoy over the staff interrogation. It was taking too long, and that was not a good sign. It meant that they were no closer to finding out what had happened with Nagel, or how he had managed to break past their defense.

She bit on the edge of her thumb, pulling at the dead skin near her nails anxiously, and her gaze fell on Maxwell Nott as he sat on the floor, surrounded by ample books and notes, a pen stuck between his teeth, and another tucked behind his ear. His hair, the color of a week-old wheat plant, had grown longer at the edges. Now, he had pulled the few strands at the top in a knot, ensuring that no locks would obstruct his reading view.

The symbol they had discovered a few days ago was drawn out on his sketchbook neatly, and notes were scribbled in every corner—his hand-writing was neat. Still, the placement made them hard to read from Varya's spot, almost as if he had printed the spinning thoughts that crawled through his mind like well-wrapped balls of yarn.

"Any luck on that?" the witch asked, earning his attention, and when forest-ground eyes fell on her, astonishment passed through. Almost as if the boy had not sensed her presence, too lost in his word of encyclopedias.

His nod was brief, stiff. Maxwell Nott was known for many things, but being easy-going was not one of them, "I found some information to go on, when Riddle gets here—"

The door swung open, and Tom marched in, his nose scrunched in obvious irritation. Renold Rosier dawdled behind him, his face slightly sunken. Not a good sign.

"Nothing," Tom voiced out his frustration, then slammed his hand on the table, making Maxwell flinch, "Bloody nothing. None of the maids admitted to anything, no matter how much pressure we put on them."

"Why did you not read their minds?" asked Varya, frowning at the notion.

"All of the staff members of the Malfoy Manor are trained in Occlumency to prevent any leaks from spreading to the press," explained Rosier, taking a seat on the sofa by the right wall of the room, "And most have been working here for ages, which means they have been loyal to the Malfoys for some time."

"That means shit in the real world," mumbled Tom, throwing himself on the desk chair and extending his long legs in front of him. He let the back of the chair incline with his weight, forehead facing the ceiling with impediment.

"Abraxas will not let him torture the staff," continued Ren, attempting to justify the leader's moodiness, "His parents cannot know what we are doing. They are currently residing in London to deal with the war, although Abraxas suspects they could care less about righteous morals. They are mostly against Grindelwald's belief that all magic is equal, which means that purebloods and muggle-borns are alike."

Varya narrowed her eyes, "And what do you think, Rosier?"

A question that should have been asked ages ago, for most of the heirs were part of bloodlines of prestige, and raised by blood supremacist and fanatics. The incident from two years ago with Arthur Thompson was still imprinted in Varya's mind, and the Knights had once tried to open the Chamber of Secrets against the muggle-borns of Hogwarts.

Rosier hoisted an eyebrow, "I believe it is not something worthy of our time as of now. We have different priorities."

An avoidant answer to a direct question, and while it was not what Varya had wanted to hear, it was undoubtedly an improvement from the people that had mocked Della in the Hogwarts train during their fifth year.

"Riddle," Maxwell spoke up, dragging up from the floor and dusting his pants. He picked up his sketchbook and notes, "I managed to collect some information on the symbol."

Tom lifted one finger, then gestured Nott to approach him. He grabbed the sketchbook, then urged his follower to explain his findings as he flipped through the pages.

"It is called the Triquetra symbol and is part of Celtic culture. Pagans and witches also use it for multiple reasons, such as representing the Triple Goddesses—the mother, the maiden, and the crone. It can also refer to the three realms of life—Earth, Heavens, and the Underworld," explained the boy, denoting various underlines passages in his work.

Tom frowned, using his digits to trail the symbol, "Nagel does not strike me as one to engage in religious practices or spiritual motivation."

"There is more to it. The Triquetra is so widespread amongst various cultures that it is hard to pinpoint an exact meaning, and when taking out the factor of magic, its history grows exponentially. Religion, tradition, rituals—it is a symbol older than the cross," Maxwell continued, and his moves became frantic as he let himself dive into the historical connotations, "But one thing always holds true, and that is that it defines a relationship of three, whether it be deities, objects or ideologies. An endless cycle that repeats itself, an entangled loop that fulfills its end."

"I am not following," groaned Renold from the couch, legs sprawled over the edge and head dangling over the other.

"It goes against Grindelwald's belief of change," stated Nott, flashing an irritated glance towards the boy, "Whatever Nagel used it for, it has no association with the Alliance. This means that there is something else going on, another side of the story that we have not heard. Some sort of force that has been dictating the turning of events without us even realizing."

"Great," puffed Ren, "So, what you are saying is there is more trouble to come."

Tom leaned over the desk, mind focused as he tried to connect the strings between everything that had happened. His eyes snapped to Varya, "The mavka."

The girl shuddered, having pushed those memories aside for so long, suppressing the way boney fingers had cradled her face with such derangement, "What of it?".

"She warned you about something," Riddle began, "Said that He was coming, that something was looming over the edge. And then the ghost—it warned you as well. Told you that whatever it was, it would shatter your soul."

Her heart sped up, her throat closed, and her hands began to sweat, "Yes, well," Varya's voice cracked, "I thought it had something to do with Grindelwald, some force he had acquired over the creatures in order to control them against Hogwarts. You think there is more to it?"

It was Maxwell that moved next, eyes glossing over with something she could not quite understand, "Of course," he breathed, then glanced at Riddle, "Grindelwald must have struck some sort of deal with someone who could take control over the darkest monsters, ultimately inviting the force inside the Alliance. Then, it spread, and it reached his most devoted followers, turning them faithful to this new...order."

"You think that He is the person he struck a deal with?" questioned Varya, eyeing the two boys that seemed to be connecting all the dots with their vast knowledge of symbolism and religious fanaticism.

Tom shook his head, "No, the spirit seemed to talk about him as if he had not already arrived. If it were the one who managed to control the mavka, then they would not have been using the future tense. It would have said that he had already arrived."

The witch stood in her spot, arms crossed and eyebrows creased as she glanced at the symbol. Something tickled at her mind, some sense of familiarity that she could not pinpoint exactly, yet there was this awareness that almost screamed at her from behind a shaded screen.

"This symbol, it belongs to some sort of cult," concluded Riddle, grasping the sketchbook in his hands, "It is used to worship something normally, so my best guess is that the leader of this cult preaches to his followers about some sort of authority, a He that will bring them salvation."

The trepidation that nested into their souls was apparent from the way shadows crept on their faces, almost as if danger had rooted its nefarious seeds into their existence, and no matter how much they uptore the soil of their beings, it grew around them like parasitic plants. There was no escape, there had never been, and all they could do was attempt to cut its stem again and again, until their hands calloused from the heavy gardening.

"What does it have to do with me?" probed Varya. The last thing she needed was a group of cultists trying to end her life as if she did not have enough on her plate.

Tom's hands crumbled the paper, frustration trespassing the edge of his mind, "I do not know," then, he glanced at her with reassurance, "But I will find out. Nothing will happen to you."

And she should not have felt safe, not when Tom Riddle had been the cause of her undoing one too many times, with intricate schemes of manipulation and deception. He was the emblem of everything that had ruined her, the beginning of her torment, and all that had been taken from her.

Yet, the way he glanced at her—an enraged mixture of possessiveness and respect, it soothed the fear that admixed in her soul. And Varya believed his words to be truthful. Tom would not let anyone harm her, not unless it was him. It should not have been assuring, but it was.

"Thank you," she breathed, a small gesture of gratitude to the first person that had ever sworn to protect her safety.

Because Dumbledore had not. He had never assured her that she would come out alive of it all, had never given her certainty that the battle could be won. The Virtues ( Death Eaters, she supposed ) had not made such a promise either. They had sworn their devotion to her, had put their lives on the line to fight alongside Varya, but never had they vowed to protect her. No, they all chased one goal—to defend the world regardless of the consequences.

Tom nodded briefly, ignoring the tightness in his abdomen and the sparkle of affection in her eyes, the way it twisted his mind with such blatant awareness. His guts swirled as disgust and self-hatred struck his being. No, he had to focus.

"We are leaving in three days," continued the Dark Wizard, getting up from his chair and extending the crumbled documents back to Maxwell, who glanced at his work with downcast eyes, "Rosier and Nott will be accompanying me."

Varya's eyes widened, "We only packed for four people. I thought you were coming alone."

"Why am I coming?" inquired Rosier from the couch, and he suppressed a groan of irritation. He did not want to see his parents, not now, right as his sister's death anniversary had passed.

"Because it would be strange if we showed up on your doorstep without you," muttered Riddle, then glanced at Nott, "And you are coming because we will be using the Rosier library to dig into this symbol deeper."

Neither commented on the order, merely taking it with pursed lips and irritated expressions. Their leader was right—their skills and connections were needed for the trip. Bleak days lay ahead, and it was time for their journey to start.

***

Felix glanced at the baggage that was packed on the front step again, a deep sigh resonating from his lungs as he let the sensation of guilt slip through his being. Lev was dragging the last trunk outside, packed with provisions, tents, and all other necessities for their journey.

"I do not like this," Parkin muttered to the boy, and Lev glanced at him swiftly with question dancing in his eyes, "I should be going as well."

The shadowmancer rolled his eyes, "I can take care of Varya. You need to be here to guide everyone that stays behind after we leave."

"But if something happens, if she loses control—"

"I will take care of it, Parkin," continued the boy, ignoring the daggers that Felix shot his way. The former Ravenclaw still could not bring himself to trust Lev, and that irritated the shadowmancer, who had done nothing but fulfill his duties in an orderly manner.

Indra bounced through the entrance, jumping on the trunk that her brother was pushing and smiling as it skid on the ground. Her white hair had been clasped into two buns, and a mint tunic was trapped over her body, loose pants accompanying it as her dagger belt held them.

"Is this not exciting?" she inquired, light almost radiating from her smile, "An adventure. I was growing tired of this bleak house, with curtains so stiff that darkness crawls where light should rule."

Lev glanced at the Malfoy Manor, "I think it is quite lovely."

"Of course you would."

The sibling exchanged a glance of contradiction—Indra's luminous laugh and Lev's shadowy frown, and then turned their eyes to face the three figures that stood by one of the fountains, dressed in expensive trench coats and wearing elegant hats on their heads. The girl felt her mind whirl when Renold Rosier turned his face towards the Manor slightly, their gazes interlocking, and then he scrunched his nose in irritation before facing Tom Riddle yet again.

"What was that?" asked Lev, always so observant. His rugged voice had a silent threat to it.

His sister smiled sheepishly, "What was what?"

"That glance! That—you know what I am talking about!" his exasperation pulsated on his face, "You were looking at Rosier."

"I was not!"

"Was too!"

"Cease the bickering," mumbled Varya as she passed through, nodding to Felix in acknowledgment as he gazed at her with some sort of conflict. She could tell he was bothered due to not being chosen to assist her on their journey, but he was the only one she trusted to guide Ananke, Scarlet, and Della.

The boy glanced at all of their luggage, then nodded with half-a-heart, "Good luck and stay safe."

The trio sent their gratitudes, and then Parkin walked back into the house, shutting the door to the entrance behind him swiftly. Varya waved the three Knights over, and they all marched down the cobblestone to meet them. She placed the Port Key on the ground, then instructed everyone to grab their luggage.

"Why can we just not apparate?" inquired Rosier again, eyes hooded ever as he gazed at the old book placed on the grass.

"I never took Apparition lessons, neither did Indra or Lev, so just grab the bloody volume at my signal and hold on tight."

With that, they all reached out, and the familiar feeling of being hooked on a string and dragged back invaded their senses, pulling them apart and swirling them in the continuum of time and space until their heads revolved from the sensation.

Their feet landed on soil soon enough, right in the middle of the forsaken village that was Beaumont-en-Verdunois, the forgotten piece of history and human evilness. It was much as she remembered from her brief visit with Icarus, except that instead of snow, the perimeter had been covered by outgrown vegetation as nature reclaimed what was rightfully hers.

Vines extended over the vestiges of what had once been a lively village in northeastern France, ruined by the German troops that had bombarded many of the surroundings, plaguing the forests with vengeful and trickster spirits. The roads were covered by filth, barely peeking through the weeds that had outgrown their capacity, and the pavement had split as grass had peeked through.

The cathedral in the town square was the only building that still carried some semblance of normalcy, vitrails of spectral opalescence barely cracked by time, and light caught in the metal crosses that covered the nearby graveyard. Heatwaves rose from the asphalt, dancing in the atmosphere as the group walked through the sweltering sun, ignoring how their coats made their skin feel heavy.

"Why did you wear robes?" questioned Indra, whose breathy clothes made it easy to move through the high temperature.

Maxwell glanced back at her, "The high society standards are very peculiar about the means of traveling. Wizards are rarely seen without their robes."

"Pretentious," she chimed, ignoring the bothered look Rosier shot her.

They reached the house that marked the entrance to the Rosier estate, and one by one, they passed through the threshold, holding tightly on their luggage as the illusion shattered around them, and they faced the impressive gates that fenced the Manor.

They swung open, revealing the house, and Varya felt her breath catch in her throat. It was as marvelous as she remembered it, so grand amongst the courtyards that were surrounded by the vast forest, and memories clouded her mind as she dwelled on them for a few seconds too long.

Her eyes rested on the balcony, and she envisioned the moment she had seen Tom Riddle stand there all those years ago, gripping the balustrade tightly as their eyes locked. It felt so distant now, so foreign, and neither of them was the person that they had once been.

This house had marked the last few days of normalcy in her life, right before everything had shattered as the truth uncovered, and the Knights began poking at her mind until all fell into the pit of Hell. If she closed her eyes and blinked fast enough, part of her could still see Icarus standing by her side, face covered by the newly acquired scar, or Elladora Selwyn resting on the stairs as she waited for their arrival, probably infuriated by the rumors of their escapade.

Varya was back at the Manor that had ravaged her, and she could only wonder what irony had brought her here yet again, right before meeting with Dumbledore and revisiting Scholomance. What did fate have planned for her?

"My parents want us to dine with them tonight," mumbled Ren, and then he started leading towards the quartz stairs, gesturing for everyone to follow him. The acidity in his tone was evident, and Indra managed to pinpoint it as soon as his words left his mouth.

"Why do you not get along with your parents?" she questioned eagerly, watching as the boy snapped his head back towards her. Varya frowned at the exchange— did Ren not like his parents?

The boy snorted, "Who said I did not?"

The nervousness in his voice was apparent, and Indra noted it with interest. She would investigate the truth behind his behavior later.

"We are staying here for one night only, so please do get the necklace sometime after we dine," explained the heir, and when he opened the doors and let all of them come inside, he smirked at the way Lev and Indra's eyes widened at the extravagant interior.

Varya nodded, pupils darting to Riddle, who had a voracious expression on his face, and she could already tell that he was craving ownership of the locket. His face had darkened over with something menacing, almost bloodthirsty but not entirely, and his hands were fidgety by his side as Rosier explained their rooming arrangements. She was not sure what his intentions were with it, but one thing was certain—she would not let him craft another Horcrux.

***

This shit is about to get so complicated I swear.

I am done with my finals! So I will not take a bloody week to update anymore. Also, I posted the giveaway thing on my tiktok, and it is open until January if you are interested!