CHAPTER SIX

Varya heard him before she saw him. The clashing of metal against metal, the vibration of emphasized footsteps and saltos as Icarus skidded in the dirt, fencing the enchanted mannequin with vigor and stamina. His armor, plates of silver that glinted in the scrooching rays of the midsummer sun, clinked with each twist of his body before he disarmed his opponent, sending the sword clattering to the ground.

It coasted to her feet, and her eyes traced the sharp edge before she bent down to pick up the weapon, and then the witch sat up to face the boy who had still not noticed her presence. The sword was heavy in her hands, a different feeling to her usual stealthy dagger, and Petrov discerned she would hardly be able to fight with such a weapon.

"A bit barbaric, is it not?" her accent sounded through the clearing, and Icarus' head immediately snapped to her figure. Honey eyes enlarged with astonishment, and the boy instantly pulled the armor off his body, jumping on one foot as he tried to take off his heavy boots and advance towards her. The Lestrange boy slightly stumbled on his feet, yet still managed to come back up with a handsomely disheveled look as he marched eagerly, a smile on his face.

Icarus' broad shoulders were covered in a dark tunic, fastened with a leather belt to keep it from catching in his armor undoubtedly. He had unbuttoned the first clasps over his chest, and he pulled at the collar as he moved across the estate, feeling the heat of his training clash with his presentation.

"Bloody Hell," he muttered as he halted in front of Varya, peering down at her with delight in mousse irises, "I was wondering when I would see you around the house. I would embrace you, but I fear I am drenched in transpiration right now."

"You could have come to look for me," Varya taunted, and the boy only rolled his eyes before starting to walk with her around the training grounds, "I see you have been keeping yourself busy."

She gestured to the endless rows of mannequins, clad in defense gear and twirling with malevolence at their proximity. The garden was spacious enough for dueling, the only thing that occupied it besides the weaponry being a small shed in one of the corners, bricked and shut with heavy chains. The witch made a note of it.

"Yes, well," Icarus gestured around, his chest still racing from the training as he tried to catch his breath, "Maxwell did this for me when we realized what was coming. He worked on every puppet himself, made them from haystacks and wood, then charmed them using some spell he created specifically for this. Genius, that kid."

"Indeed he is," agreed the Eastern girl, then peered at the boy by her side with a questioning look. Once, they had been lovers, and he had seen the moon and the suns in her eyes, yet the girl had not appreciated it enough. Selfishly, she wondered if that still held true, or if it had dissipated along with the string of time.

As she analyzed the way Icarus moved around her, careless and absentminded, Varya could only assume that whatever feelings he had once held for her, they had dimmed into pure affection and nothing more. The wizard no longer carried the same love-struck gaze around her, nor did he give her his undivided attention as they walked side-by-side.

And that pleased her as it upset her, because although she knew Icarus was worthy of the world and nothing less, her pride had always been flattered by his constant attention, the idea that someone would undoubtedly cherish her regardless of circumstances. It was a natural reaction on her side, and she acknowledged it for a second before letting it wander away. Icarus Lestrange deserved much more than to be strayed along.

"What have you been doing since I left?" she asked eventually.

"Training, mostly," Icarus admitted, pulling at his sienna roots and dragging them back his scalp, then shaking his head roughly and letting the slight waves fall wherever they so desired, "All day, every day. Sometimes I help the others with their weapons too, or even magic dueling, although they do not come here as often as I would want them to."

"Is that not a bit too much?"

"No, there is no such thing. Not with what is coming. I am trying to master all— knives, throwing daggers, swords, arrows. My martial magic has also been lacking. Nothing ever seems good enough, and sometimes I have dreams that Grindelwald attacks, and I get defeated because I was not good enough."

Paranoia. Where Rosier had started dealing with his trauma by poisoning his body relentlessly, and Elladora had undoubtedly let her mind crack and covered it in layers of silk and expensive perfume, Lestrange had started letting fear crumble his self-assurance. Now, he found himself lacking regardless of how hard he strived to better his skill.

"You are doing well, Icarus. There is no need to stress yourself."

He gave her a smile that she had subconsciously missed profoundly, "I am glad you have returned. I know I should not be, not with how Riddle manipulated you so terribly, but it feels as if we might finally stand a chance with all of you here."

Neither spoke on the fact that the future was bleak, and uncertainty passed over the horizon in soft hues of trepidation and awareness. A battle, a massacre, a slaughter— that is what awaited them.

"Vixen!" called a voice out from the house, and Varya turned to see Nicholas Avery waving out of an open window, his eyes scrunched as the harsh sun glared in his face, and his dark hair ruffled by the breeze of summer, "Get your arses back inside! Riddle wants to have a meeting."

Icarus whistled back at the boy, his eyes disappearing as a fortune smile took over his face, and laughter sounded from his chest when Avery raised his middle finger at his figure before disappearing behind the dark curtains.

"After you, mademoiselle," he stated graciously as he opened the door to the glassed veranda, then followed Varya inside the long corridors that extended themselves through the maze that was the Malfoy Manor.

The central staircase bifurcated in the main foyer, and down the steps ran Nicholas Avery, followed by a morose Maxwell Nott, who had seemingly only just come out of the shower by the wet hair. He shook it vigorously, splattering droplets around and paying no attention to the revolting murmurs that came from his companions.

"I thought we were not having dinner until eight, is six not a bit too early?" he grumbled with abhorrence, then glanced at Icarus, "You did not even have time to shower."

"Well, if Riddle is impatient, that means he has something to announce," explained Lestrange before pushing the door open to the dining hall, where the table had already been set by servants. The Malfoy Manor operated with a mixture of human servants and House-Elves, especially when it came to helping the ladies and gentleman of the house pamper themselves in the mornings and play to their extravagant needs.

One maid had insisted on running Varya's bath when she had gone back to the room to change, discerning that it was her duty to ensure her stay was as pleasant as possible, but the girl had felt uncomfortable with someone doing such mundane tasks for her. She could turn her faucet on, and infuse the water with whatever fragrance Tom had instructed the maid to send her.

She sat herself down at the far end of the table, noticing how the Knights hesitated before placing themselves in their chairs on the opposite side. Now, Icarus sat on the left of Riddle's usual designated spot. He sent her a whimsical beam, then turned to face Nicholas, and they fell into endless chatter on strategies they had been training on.

It seemed to be all they ever talked about— murder, strategy, dueling. It fell past their lips sonorously, efficiently, and it almost sent a shiver down Varya's spine, because this was not supposed to be what teenagers their age experienced. She had barely passed eighteen herself, and as far as she was aware, Maxwell Nott and Indra Myung were not even of legal age, yet all of them had seen enough murder to last them a lifetime. Maybe an eternity.

The doors pushed open, and in walked the Myung siblings, like fire and water, like darkness and light. Indra's white hair glistened in the soft glow of the chandeliers, and her loose pants hung to her hips while her blouse ended right below her belly button. Fashion that might have been outrageous in any other circumstances, yet the way it molded on her body served her well in combat— loose and tight right around her range of motion, allowing the former gymnast to battle with fluidity.

Lev was dressed in all black yet again, his dress-shirt open to allow the turtle-neck to poke through and pressed down until there was no crease in it, then stuffed in black trousers. He sat down on Varya's right, pulling the chair for his sister by his side. He glanced at the Knights, then nodded courteously, always showcasing proper manners.

Indra's eyes enlarged as they fell on the group, then she peered at Varya and whispered, "You did not tell me they were all so handsome."

The Eastern witch choked on air, "Excuse me?"

"Yes! Very much so, I mean, look at them," the lightbender turned to her brother, "What do you think, Lev?"

The boy, who was very open about his vast preferences regardless of gender, narrowed his eyes, "Yes, I will agree with you. But think nothing of it, Indra. You are too young to date, and regardless, were you not just weeping to Scarlet about Felix wandering around the gardens with that Beauchamp girl?"

"Yes, she very much was," a voice called out from nothingness, and the Blood Witch stepped into their visual realm and out of her illusion, letting her red hood fall down around her neck. She sat down at the table, then pursed her lips at Lev, "Stop telling her she is too young to date just because you believe it to be a waste of time."

The shadowmancer puffed at that, crossing his arms in defense, "It is not that I believe it to be a waste of time, just—"

"Oh, do not tell me you are waiting for the right person, you prude!" Scarlet snorted, although there was no judgment lacing her voice. Varya could tell she merely wanted to pester Lev for being too overprotective of his sister.

"Did you ever date, Scarlet?" asked Indra with innocent eyes, widening them in curiosity as her body leaned over the table softly.

The witch smirked, "I do not kiss and tell," she began, but when the lumomancer flashed with disappointment, she back-tracked, "And yes, I did date briefly in my coven, although the details are sparse. Good ol' Alexander and his sweet, sweet kisses."

"Stop telling her that!" raged Lev, gripping the table with irritation, and Varya smirked from the side. His deep voice had slightly cracked, and his cheeks were flushed with the slightest embarrassment. Lev's eyes flashed to her immediately, and the blush deepened before he scrunched his nose in distaste and slipped back into his facade of calmness and apathy.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and then the rest of the Malfoy Manor residents strode in, save for Della and Felix, who were still probably in the gardens. Varya frowned at that, her eyebrows knotting in judgment, and she bit back venomous thoughts of scrutiny. This was not the time to miss gatherings, not with the war looming over their heads.

At the same time, she acknowledged that the next following days or weeks might be the last semblance of normality her group would face, and perhaps moments of escapism were precisely what they needed. Varya had been feeling overwhelmed herself, especially with the constant bursts of anger and rage, and she wondered what could possibly have her escape the cage of her psyche.

"Pleased to see you have joined us, Petrov," Tom Riddle's voice filled the room, and the witch glanced up at him, "Although, I regret to see that a few people are missing. Selwyn, where is Rosier?"

Elladora flitted dark eyes towards her leader, pressing cherry lips distastefully, and then she answered slowly, "At the church."

With supercilious arrogance and a hint of indignation, Tom replied fastly, "That is ridiculous. I expected him to be back by dinner."

"You called it two hours earlier," muttered Maxwell underneath his breath with a bitter note, and his eyes flickered to his leader, who only sent him a sneer. A long time ago, he would have tortured him endlessly for daring to speak back, but times had changed. Tom Riddle needed their service just as much as they needed his guidance.

The topic was dropped as soon as Varya replied to him, "So, what is the plan?"

It was in Tom's nature to ruffle his feathers like an arrogant peacock when people asked him for guidance, and the fact that Varya now relied on his ingeniosity to move forward only accentuated the ravenous need for acknowledgment.

There were moments in his life where Riddle had been severely underestimated by his peers due to his upbringing. After all, no pureblood normally bats an eyelash at a young orphan with a muggle name. During his first year at Hogwarts, Tom had lied to many about his ancestry, drenching in mystery and encouraging Malfoy to help him find his true lineage. Of course, after the revelation of him being the heir of Salazar Slytherin, the wizard had had no problem in recruiting the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Still, for those who did not know, they tended to pity him, and that made his blood boil unlike anything else.

"There are many things we must attend to," then, the leader turned his eyes to Ophelia Winterbour, who glanced at him with curiosity, "Winterbour, documents."

The witch almost rolled her eyes, but bit back the disappointment of being handed such mundane tasks. She knew they did not trust her, and that was only fair, for they had known each other for less than a year. Even so, it was frustrating when the girl had to handle the paper-work.

"Firstly, we will handle the issue of Finnegan Nagel," announced Tom before sending a few papers Maxwell's way, "Nott, investigate as much as you can on the symbol. By the design, it could be some sort of emblem. Definitely not associated with Grindelwald, but I watched his facial expression when Varya noticed it— it is no meaningless tattoo."

Nott scrutinized the paper promptly, his eyes twinkling with delight at the mystery. Then Varya noticed his face move in a manner she had never seen before— Maxwell was smiling, "A Celtic symbol," he announced proudly.

"Do you recognize it?" inquired Abraxas, whose eyes had turned gloom, and dark circles stood underneath. The Eastern witch wondered what was bothering him.

Maxwell shook his head, "I do not know the specific name for it, nor its meaning. But I can get it done."

"How fast?" asked Riddle.

"Two days at most," then, the archivist glanced at Abraxas again, "Assuming you stocked your library on mythology and history the way I asked you to."

When he received the nod of confirmation, his lips turned upwards again in a pleased smirk, and he stuffed the drawings underneath his coat before settling back in his chair. His feet tapped impatiently on the ground, and Nott's eagerness to leave the room and go research was stamped onto his face.

"Next task on the list is for you, Selwyn," declared Tom, "How fast can you make a truth serum?"

The witch scrunched her nose, glossy lips moving downwards, "I have to go to the market and get Jobberknoll feathers. We ran out since Rosier insisted on using mine to create his Memory potion," she glanced at the empty spot beside her, "He kept forgetting where he put his rings."

Tom's displeasure was apparent, and he glanced out the window to settle the fury that was building underneath his skin, "Have it done by tomorrow night. We must interrogate the suspect efficiently; otherwise, we risk losing the only advantage we have had in months."

There seemed to be a consensus amongst the acolytes, and Elladora decreed she would finish everything on time. That settled Tom, who was now glancing around the room and taking in the assembly of elite wizards and witches, wondering what step should be taken next.

"We have our own task," announced Varya, then gazed at Ananke, who had just informed her of a letter she had received from Newt Scamander, "We are to return to the Alps in a fortnight, and meet with Dumbledore and the Scamander brothers. Apparently, the situation has evolved unexpectedly, and they want to discuss with us."

"What do we tell them," Indra pitched in, "about the Stone?"

Varya and Tom interlocked their gaze, a silent conversation passing between the two. If Dumbledore knew that they had all of the Hallows, he would want them, and Riddle was not one to merely hand the Resurrection stone over. At the same time, it would be the catalyst they needed to launch an open defense against Grindelwald, the opening of an on-going war.

Suppose the witch told her former Professor that she was being blackmailed by the boy. In that case, it would not only divulge the order of the Knights of Walpurgis, but also their endless meddling with the Ministry of Magic's investigations. Murders, fraud, torture— perpetual crimes plastered on the front of every newspaper—the ultimate downfall of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Perhaps, Varya could grant herself and her team a pardon for assistance, and the slaughter they had committed would be considered an act of defense. Many would be saved, Tom would never fulfill his future, and the end would cease being a biblical apocalyptic scenery.

As she glanced around the room, analyzing the faces of those who had once been her classmates and connections, she debated the option for the slightest second, before her selfishness blasted the idea into pieces.

Riddle had been entirely right in assuming she was doing everything for her own interest, and as twisted as it was, she did not want the Knights to be locked up. Not when they were fighting against a common enemy. That, however, was something Tom would not know, and therefore, she could easily bluff.

"It is up to you, Riddle," answered Varya, one eyebrow hoisting as her face remained stoic, "Do you want him to know that you are manipulating us, or do you want to hand over the stone?"

"Neither, dear," he mused, then leaned forward, "I want you to tell Dumbledore that you have the Stone, but that there is a curse placed on it, and that I am actively working on reversing it."

"He will see right through you, Tom."

"No, he will not. Not when you tell him about how you asked for my help specifically, and that is how our paths intersected. Here is the story, Petrov— you figured out the last Hallow, you little clever witch. And you came to the Malfoy Manor to beg me to give it to you. Terrible, is it not?"

"You arrogant little cockroach," the witch fumed.

He only smirked at her, "Then, I will explain about the brief visit I paid to the Gaunt home after their death. How I found the ring amongst the ruins, and that it reeked of dark magic, a curse that only allows direct descendants to wear it."

"And if I do not cooperate?"

"Then, you are not getting the Stone. And since it is attached to my Horcrux, you will find it not only extremely difficult to kill me, but you cannot destroy me without wrecking the Hallow as well," his arrogance was infuriating, the real root of a psychopathic nature as his.

She gripped the edges of her tunic, her nails sinking in the material as she fought back the wrath that bubbled over her wrecked soul. Varya felt the way her eyes flickered; the change always brought a slight tingle to her face, almost like something was squirming underneath the surface, clawing at her interior and begging to be released.

"You are taking such pleasure in toying with me, do you not?" she replied through gritted teeth, "Acting as if this is some sort of competition of who can outwit the other, who can be one step ahead."

"It is a competition, Petrov," was the reply she got, and tension spread through the table, as the acolytes watched their leaders squabble, "And when you will start realizing that, that is when you will start winning."

"Why are you doing this?"

"It is the comparison that makes you proud: the pleasure of being above the rest. Once the element of competition is gone, pride is gone— C.S. Lewis," his timbre resonated, and Tom's words fell on soft ears, "As a matter of fact, to ensure that you are following my order, I will accompany you back to the Alps."

"Outrageous!" spoke Ananke, her eyes flashing at his boldness, "The location is secluded and secret for a reason. If people that are not part of our alliance find of it, who knows who else will?"

Tom paid her no attention, too focused on his goal.

"Fine," agreed Varya, not seeing the point in arguing about such a demand, "We know your base, you know ours— you can accompany Lev, Indra, and I when we travel back. We will take the Port Key, and they will not know the location."

"Varya, surely you cannot agree to this," argued Navarro, her dark curls falling around her round face, and she glanced at the rest of the team for help.

The Eastern witch shot the girl a look, almost an invitation, and Ananke glanced at her with understanding. She tapped into Varya's emotions, and only then did she realize— the Obscurial had a plan. Opposing Tom's demands would not do them any good, not when his resourced could be so fruitful in their combat.

One threat at a time— Grindelwald was much more pressing right now.

"The last item on the itinerary," Riddle carried on, and then he stood up from his seat, promenading around the table until he was sitting right behind Elladora. Only then did he grab her wrist, placing it on the table, and with his other hand, he lifted the sleeve of her dress and exposed the marking on her arm, black and shadowy, "The Dark Mark."

Varya's hands slammed on the surface before her, and she hoisted herself up to glance at the symbol that had been imprinted on Selwyn's arm with vexation. The audacity, the absolute nerve of Tom Riddle. It almost toppled her over as her face pulled in a sneer.

"How dare you mark your followers with my symbol?" she thundered, and the swatted at the table, sending her utensils to the ground in anger, "How dare you claim it as your own?"

The Knights exchanged glances of perplexion, yet Tom only smirked with knowledge. Of course, the rest of them would have expected the witch to be flattered that her mark was granted such power, such meaning. But the boy knew that would not be the case, not if it symbolized his own alliance. Yet, he did not want to insult the witch outrightly, so he dropped Elladora's hand and sauntered towards Varya.

"I did not claim it as mine alone," he purred, then blinked monotonically, the feigned innocence in his features utterly infuriating, "It is the symbol we both unite under— your mark as an Obscurial, and the power I grant it."

"What are you even talking about, Riddle?"

"Death Eaters," his reply was simple, yet intricate, "The name under which we will all fall, my meaning, but your design— those who fight against Grindelwald's ambition to become the Master of Death."

An alliance between Heaven and Hell, between sins and virtues, all under one device designed by their leaders. And there it was, an organization that, in history, had been destined to instigate fear and terror through violence and murder. Now, it had gained a new meaning, a different reality of consequences and opportunities.

And although Varya Petrov would have no idea of the significance of the conversation that had been carried out on that day in the Malfoy Manor, time would. Because Tom Riddle had changed his order's purpose, and now, there was only one goal to unite all Death Eaters.

The Eastern witch stared at the boy as he extended one hand towards her, devious lips pulled with such arrogance, and it was a request for peace and collaboration. Under the mark, all of them were equal.

"You will respect me," Varya ordered, then clasped her hand in his, shaking in symbolically, and trying to ignore the way her skin buzzed with flammability, "You will see me as your equal, and if you dare betray me, Riddle—Oh, you do not want to hear the ending of that."

Tom smirked with serpentine flare, the personification of venom and slitherous movements, the King of Vipers himself. He had devised a jeweled crown out of emeralds dug dip from mountains of torment and anguish, and although his hands had dirtied with blood and dust from years of searching, they were the only spot on his impeccable presence.

His intentions, reptilian of origin, would have it that promises were unequivocally impossible, and whether his words carried any meaning would be a tale told by time and time only. The threat loomed over his head with delight, and Riddle rather enjoyed seeing the witch's ruthlessness and dangers.

"I would never, Petrov," he said with saccharine notes, so strikingly forced he almost gagged.

"That is fucking bullshit, and I dare you to try because I will burn you at stake. After all, you are so desperate to associate yourself with purebloods, why not have the same ending as many of them during the witch hunts?" Varya answered just as dulcet, almost as if her words did not carry an outrageous threat.

"Watch your words."

"Make me," she challenged, then pulled her hand away with an infuriated glance at the boy, and sat back down in her seat.

Tom puffed his chest out, then pivoted on his feet and made his way down the table and back to his seat, not wanting to discuss the matter any further. Only when he sat down, did the boy continue, "All of the Knights have been marked, and your followers are invited to do the same. Meanwhile, let us focus on our tasks— Nott, find the symbol; Selwyn, make the truth serum; Petrov, try to figure out the transportation situation. Dismissed."

Chairs scraped against marble, and one by one, all residents left the dining hall, until the only people that were left were Varya and Tom. They stared at each other across the table, unsure how to address the other. She moved first, and she got out of her seat promptly before approaching him slowly.

"I see you still refuse to wear your necklace," the boy mused, fingers tapping on his chair as he leaned his head in one hand, gazing up at her figure through brunette eyelashes.

"Why did you play for me last night?" Varya questioned directly, refusing to fall into his trap of deceit.

Bewilderment flashed against his face for the slightest second, almost as if he had not expected her to bring up his gesture, but he collected himself promptly, "I was practicing anyway; there was no bother to it."

"There is always a bother with you. You do not make gestures out of convenience or anything of the sort. Only ever for your benefit."

"Well, are you not the little profiler," scoffed Riddle before trying to get up from his seat, but the girl placed a hand against his chest, pushing him back promptly, "What is this about, Petrov?"

Varya looked at him as she leaned over his chair, face above his own, and her hand rested on his chest as she gripped at his shirt with uncertainty. She felt it, then, the way the boy's heart raced at their proximity, the way his pulse quickened just the slightest.

Her locks fell around, tickling his face, and yet Tom could not move despite the agitation it brought to his mind. The wizard had found himself frosted, almost as if immobilized by a spell of her choice, and his throat clenched with dread as his receptors picked up her familiar smell.

The boy had sent the maid to Varya's room in the morning with endless bathing fragrances, had explicitly instructed her to prepare the bath and douse it with any sort of perfume that might hide the girl's natural scent, for it was mildly disruptive to Tom's coherent thought process.

"Why did you do it, Tom?" she urged again, her other hand making to rest on the handle of his chair as she supported herself.

He glanced away from her, shifting his face so that he would look at anything except her fucking eyes, and a half-hearted smirk of feigned nonchalance plastered itself on his face, "I do not answer aimless questions."

"Aimless?" she chortled, then grabbed his chin and made him face her, "You once told me that acting daft wastes our time, so quit pretending, Riddle. Playing the piano, being worried about the necklace, and now this meeting? My, I think we both know exactly what it is."

The boy shuddered at that, trying to push himself away from her, yet the chair was a cage, and his mind served as the bars, as Tom Riddle could not escape Varya Petrov, not ever since he had tried to kill her. He rarely used to dream, and now whenever he closed his eyes, he was repulsed by the way his subconscious had taken over his realm of imagination—soft touches, panted obscenity, her skin, and her name.

Curses often backfired on their caster; he supposed the warmth he now felt in his chest was his punishment.

But Tom Riddle was not a frail mind, and he ruled over his psyche with an iron fist, and therefore suppressed any sort of rose-tinted nuance that flashed across his world in her presence. He had a goal, a purpose, and he would allow no flaw nor weakness to derail him from the ultimate achievement. Tom wanted power, and he wanted it now.

"You are delusional," he smirked as his eyebrows hoisted, and yet the girl did not flatten, "What you think—"

"Yes, what I think. You want to hear it, Riddle?"

She lowered herself until their eyes were on the same level, soil and water, the Continents and the Oceans, and whether the earthquake would shatter everything or the tsunami would prevail, it mattered not. Her breath fell in silent patterns, and only in his presence did the storm in her mind settle, so she closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment of serenity.

"I think you have feelings for me," she shattered the tranquility by rattling them both with the truth neither had dared face in their early years, "Not just that you care for me, because I care for Felix, I care for Scarlet, but it is not the same as what I feel for you."

"Cease your babbling," he growled, his temples pulsating and his feet feeling less stable than they had ever been.

Feelings. Stupid fucking feelings.

"Cease your struggle, first," she bit back, "When will you understand that it is not a weakness to care for me, Riddle? I am not an idiot, I see what is in front of me, and I know you care, so stop pretending you do not."

"Petrov, I will gauge your eyes out if you ever dare imply that I have— that I would ever lower myself as such," Tom breathed fire and wrath, but Varya only pushed herself off and straightened her back, rolling her eyes.

"Riddle, I am tired of this. I am tired of your switches, your endless conflict. You do not want to feel? Very well, but stop daggering Lev with your eyes whenever he as much as looks at me. Because I am allowed to be with whoever I choose," she pivoted around, heading for the door as he watched her retreat. Only when she was standing in the frame, did she glance back, "Man up, Riddle. Because I am done dealing with boys."

***

Rosier wanted a drink. And he wanted it now.

It had been torturous, almost frightening, to walk inside the church and pretend he believed in anything the priests were singing about. He was appalled by himself, even, or by them— the lines often blurred in his mind, and the boy could not distinguish where the hate ever came from.

Either way, his judgment was clouded with a storm of darkness, and it spread through every single cell that made his body, so much so that Ren now assumed he was made of nothing but sorrow and despair.

He hid it well. He had gotten the knack of deceiving by imitation, by surrounding himself with enough parties and alcohol that people only ever saw his wildest nature, the way he danced and twirled to melodious tunes. But the war— it made everything fade away, the celebrations and the ballrooms. Nobody ever seemed to attend such events now.

More so, there was the constant plotting and scheming, it melted his brain into a puddle of thoughts that entangled themselves in liquid form, and no matter how hard he pulled at the ends, the middles never uncovered.

Alcohol made everything quiet; it soothed his psyche with undoubted poison. Rosier had tried everything else, drugs of all kinds, yet nothing ever worked. They only ever tackled his magic, made him hyperaware, and he plunged deep in everything he wanted to avoid. A good glass of whiskey was his only escape.

As he headed back to the Malfoy Manor, the boy watched its somber figure stand against the twilight, and he took the path that led through the gardens and to the backdoor. He did not want to encounter Elladora Selwyn and her all-aware nature, nor Tom Riddle with his admirable people-reading skills. No. Not today.

So, he pushed through the branches, not minding as they scrapped at his figure, because everything had gone numb anyways. Eventually, he reached the line of trees that stood between him and the garden, and that is when he spotted it— the slightest trace of white hair dangling from one of the trees above him.

Rosier glanced up and met gray eyes, enlarged at being caught, and he just knew the girl was Indra Myung, one of Varya's followers.

"Why are you up in a tree?" he muttered slowly, voice fatigued and mind unsettled. His eyes scanned the perimeter, and only then did he notice Della Beauchamp and Felix Parkin promenading down the cobblestoned path, "Ah."

Indra's face flushed with embarrassment, and she propelled herself off of the branch, landing neatly right in front of the boy, who took a few steps back in surprise, "I was not spying."

"Sure," he snorted, then gazed back at the former Hogwarts student and his friend, "Merely observing the area, am I correct? Ensuring no threats come around."

Her eyes flashed, "Yes, precisely," then, she gestured to the belt of knives on her waist, "Even brought my weapons."

"Merlin, did you plan on killing Della or something?"

"What? No!" indignation laced her voice, "I never go anywhere without my daggers; they make me feel safe."

The boy nodded slowly, not bothering to understand the unusual girl, and pivoted around before marching down through the gardens. Dawn was upon them, flares of tangerine infusing with soft pinkish hues, a cascade of warmness and golden. The last birds twittered in the atmosphere, their songs invading the auditory realm, and Rosier groaned at how they scratched his hearing.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him, and he frowned before glancing back. Indra Myung was trailing him, hands clasped behind her back and eyes focused on him. There was something inquisitive about her stare, almost prying.

"What is it?"

"I see no light in you," her answer came quickly, nabbing the boy, "I see it in everyone, except you."

His scoff was scornful, "I hardly doubt that. Especially when Tom Riddle exists."

"No, he does have light," the lumomancer's quartz voice, slightly nasal, pushed through, "It is faint, and it only sparks when he looks at Varya, but it is there. You, however— I see nothing. Bleakness."

"I am hardly evil," Renold stopped in his tracks, then turned towards her, "As a matter of fact, I would say I am the least malicious out of all of the Knights. If you do not recognize me, then I will have you know I am Renold Rosier, the person that helped Varya—"

"Yes, Renold Rosier," she chirped, "Varya has told me all about you. But darkness, it does not make you evil. Being surrounded by it does not mean you have vicious intentions, only that you lack happiness. Light."

"How gracious of you to equivalate your own power with euphoria."

"It is not me that says so," she whispered, then approached him with tentative steps, "But history. My powers come from a long line of wizards that bred with magical creatures, and I know what my witchcraft means."

"Well," Ren puffed, frustrated by her chatter, "Tell your ancestors to fuck themselves, because I am so graciously blessed and delighted by my life."

The sarcasm did not go by noticed, and Indra only continued to follow him when he entered the Manor, shadows crawling at his sculpted face as long curls fell and bounced to the rhythm of his steps. His features were made of porcelain, almost like a lovely china doll that someone had cradled, yet despite the unblemished appearance, cracks had plagued the boy's interior.

"Running away from the truth does not make it go away," she called out when the boy sped up his walk with a grunt.

"Running away from you makes my irritation go away," Renold replied with uncharacteristic acidity. But he was tired. He had purposely avoided the main entrance to be alone, yet the girl would not cease disturbing him.

Indra snorted, "Grief. Sorrow. Pain. Those are things you have to face head-on to heal, not drown yourself in poison to distract the underlying problem."

Rosier opened the door to his room, then briefly glanced at her, "You have no clue what you are talking about."

With that, he slammed the door in her face, and Indra stared at it with a determined look on her face. She would find the light in him.

***

By the way, I started a new Tom Riddle fic called the Arsonist's Manifest if you ever want to check out my work.

I used a website to make portraits of the characters and how they would look based on my imagination. Of course, you can imagine them as the actors, but they only loosely fit the descriptions.
(Tom is obviously Christian Coulson to me)

Also, sorry for the long wait! I only have a final for Calculus II and one for Physics with Calculus I, then I am done for the semester.