NOTE BEFORE YOU READ: This chapter contains a brief history of Vlad the Impaler, the one you might know as Dracula. To fit this story, I have used the general history of his time as ruler of Wallachia, and changed many things because I felt like it. So, just be aware that this is not real history for the most part (aka he was not an actual satanist).

As always, thank you for your comments and votes! They make me happy.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WARNING: Be advised—this chapter contains graphic mentions of gore and blood

Scholomance was the school of the Devil—that was the conventional truth of the pitiful magic academy that resided in the peaks of Transylvania.

Founded in the old Chapel of the Order of the Dragon, one of the most ancient and powerful lines of sorcerers ever to rule Wallachia, it was the solely out-of-land residency that the family had had. It had been, at first, a hallowed place of prayer, but everything had changed once the Ottomans had attacked.

Vlad Țepeș, the original Count of Dracula, and the Riser of Strigoi.

He had been the prince of Wallachia once it had been struck and had tried to battle against the army of invaders bravely, but his country was not as well prepared as the Empire. Thus, he had turned his faith to something else, to something far, far more wicked—the Devil.

He had converted the church into a worship place for the horned god, rising altars and statues as places of offerings, all to connect himself to the purest form of dark magic—Hell. Sorcery had multiple origins, and as such, each country naturally had different practices, but the Principalities of Romania were known for their cruel methods.

So, when the Devil finally answered Vlad's call, his request was as grotesque as the nine realms of the underworld, and besides the circle of Limbo, all were ruled by the Seven Deadly Sins and the Forgotten Sin. Satan had demanded a massacre of innocent and sinners alike, of men, women, children, and elders.

When the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire returned to Târgoviște, where he had laid camp, he came back to find over twenty thousand people impaled on stakes, their bodies decaying to the elements as crows nibbled on exposed flesh.

Vlad was imprisoned for almost fourteen years, a time in which he dabbled with the darkest forms of magic in his cell, so much so that no records had been kept of the former ruler during that time. But tales were ample, anecdotes of the wailings of the Visegrad castle, changing staff every few weeks, for servants disappeared in the darkest nights, never to be seen again.

When he came out, he had become the most vicious sorcerer that Wallachia had ever seen. The Hungarian army had tried to have him convert to catholicism, but it had only ever been writing on paper, for Vlad's heart no longer resided with God. Many died at the hands of his impaling, offerings to Satan's magic, and a showcase of devotion.

He perished fighting the Ottomans, and right before his early demise, he had blessed magic on the lands on Transylvania near Scholomance, raising the corpses of the ones he had impaled to protect the lands—not as inferi, not as the undead, but as something else entirely.

Vampires. Strigois. Strzygas—and many more.

That was how the territories of the Principalities of Romania had become infested with the creatures of the night, and now even the bravest western magizoologist feared to travel to those parts of the world.

Varya's stake drove well into the ground as she set up one of the tents, ignoring the way perspiration trickled down her temples. Her eyes browsed their surroundings, listening attentively for any movement of the branches, any unnatural sonority of the forest, and when none of it came, she nailed the stake into the earth.

"This is entirely frightening," whistled Indra from where she was pouring salt around the perimeter of their camp, "Will the wind not blow the barrier?"

"Not if you seal it properly, no," answered the Eastern witch, straightening her back and cracking her neck, "No demon will step over that during our sleep, although we might wake up with them hanging in the trees."

"Wicked," whistled Scarlet as she finished installing another tent.

The men were busy carrying logs into their camp, setting up a small fire that would not only keep them warm and allow them to brew their food, but also keep away any ghouls or strzyga that might wander too far from the mountains.

They were barely a quarter deep into the trees, for they had taken some time to get accustomed to the iniquity that crawled through branches like the mist of Hell, and as such, they had been entirely precautious with their travel.

"How are we sleeping?" probed Indra, glancing at the three tents they had set up. Not enough for all of them to stay alone, and with the fact that each tent only held two people, it would mean splitting into duos.

Varya glimpsed around with her eyebrows furrowed, vaguely aware that the current group was terribly unfavorable. Indra would not sleep with anyone that was not a girl, for Lev would certainly feel it through their bond, and would be idiotic enough to follow them into the woods alone only to correct their arrangments.

Similarly, Icarus could not be in the same tent as Varya, for it would have been incredibly awkward considering their past, and Tom would murder any of the witch's friends in their sleep.

"You are with Scarlet," pronounced Varya, then gazed at Tom as he approached her, "What is it?"

"You are sharing a tent with me," his voice was supreme, almost as if it had been a command, and he grabbed her wrist before dragging her inside one of the tents.

It might have appeared small on the outside, but the inside had been charmed with a wooden bed on the side, a small desk in one of the corners, a bathroom, and a small rug on the ground. Varya drew in a sharp breath, but to deny the fact that the idea of being in the same bed as Tom was exciting would have been stubbornly useless.

"And why is that?" she challenged.

Tom stopped in the middle of the tent, analyzing the interior quickly before turning to face her, "I am not letting you sleep with Icarus."

"He is entirely harmless."

"You have history with him," continued Tom, "You might—"

He stopped himself then, almost as if the realization of what he was implying was a striking iron against his soul. Riddle was jealous, the witch realized. Envious because Icarus had been perfect for Varya in too many ways, because he had treated her like the moon and the stars, and what girl could shun that away if it continued persisting?

"I will not," she was not sure why she reassured him.

Perhaps, it was because he was a man that had had everyone give up on him from the start. Perhaps, it was because nobody had ever cared for him, not truly, and that had had him disintegrate on the inside until his heart was as putrified as the cadaver of his mother.

And Tom Riddle was no insecure man; he valued his own intellect and enchantment above anything, thought he might charm the pants off of the Queen if given the opportunity. But he was a python, and the most terrifying monstrosities were the ones that knew how utterly despicable and unlovable they were.

But her love for him had always been as destructive as a viper's bite, and as absolute as the unrelenting winter of the solstice, for it had taken root in unsullied earth and grown like weeds of spring. It was a parasite that infested her inside out, and no matter how harshly she pulled on the stems, it seemed to grow right back up.

Until it collapsed her lungs, and her breath fastened whenever he gazed at her. Until it capsized her heart, and it thumped loudly whenever he was near. Until to live without him was not to live at all.

But his affection welcomed maggots to feast on her sanity, and her love had made her become a monster as vile as him.

That was not love; it was self-destruction.

Tom glanced away, then, scared of the promise in her eyes, and cleared his throat before pointing to the bed, "There is only one. I suppose we shall see who strangles who first while we sleep."

The witch crossed her arms, amusement flashing in her eyes, "Was that a joke I heard?"

"Do not get used to it," he murmured before placing his bag on the desk and opening it to take out his sleepwear.

"I would never dare such thing," chimed Varya, "After all, I doubt you can shove your hand up your arse far enough to fully pull out that stick that someone elbowed up. My bets are on Malfoy, but well, it could be anyone really."

She saw the way his fists clenched around his clothes, and he swallowed harshly, probably trying to diffuse the tangible anger that invaded him at her jest. Still, Varya only smiled wickedly, for poking Riddle with her jeering was as entertaining as the finest plays on Greek stages.

"Why must you be such a rough-cut?" he queried then, barely turning to glance at her with irritation dancing in azure irises, "I have hardly met women that are as vulgar as you."

Her merriment was the sound of bells in summer zephyr, and she made her way to the flap of the tent, pushing it open to step outside and let him change, "Do not hang out around Scarlet too much, then."

Varya stepped into the summer breeze of the Carpathian mountains, glancing around promptly to assess the safety of their settlement. With the fire burning vividly due to their magic, the salt surrounding their camp, and the sigils she had drawn, no creature should be able to get close enough to cause any harm.

They were not deep enough in the woods yet, for only tomorrow would they venture through the absolute obscurity, and then they might hear the howling of beasts unlike Hogwarts had ever seen.

There was a moment when her breath held; then memories of earlier years overran her like soldiers desiring to blaze down an Empire, and she tried to bring up shields and build walls around the fortification of her mind. But trauma was a vicious thing; it bit down on psyche and gnawed at resolve until what was left was a quivering girl that felt suffocated in the endless world.

She had walked those paths before, had laid hands on the trees that now seemed entirely different, as if she was glancing at monstrosity through bloodshot eyes, and the macabre blurred itself. Varya relished in thinking she was not the terrified sixteen-year-old that had waltzed out of Scholomance so long ago, thought she had learned a lesson or two along the way.

But truly? It wrecked her all the same—because back then, she had been oblivious to the truth, and the darkness of the world had seemed to reside entirely in deformed creatures that sauntered the night and prayed on innocent children.

She knew now that those beings would never carry half the ferocity that men did.

"You seem entirely lost in your thoughts," mumbled Icarus from behind, stepping into her view and distracting her from whatever blackness might have invaded her spirits.

She gave him a brief smile, unsure of herself, "Sometimes they are less terrifying than the reality we have found ourselves in."

"Is that so?" he mused, then clicked his tongue against his cheek, "I do not believe that. I feel like your mind must be quite the dark place, especially from what I have heard as of late."

"And what is it that you heard?"

"Dozens," Icarus said acutely, "You have murdered dozens. More than any of us, maybe."

She shifted on her feet, glancing at the boots that she had received from Della's mother almost two years ago. They were worn now, either from their ample traveling or from the rough terrain of the Alps, just like her.

"So, then I am powerful enough to—"

"Power," began Lestrange, circling her until they were standing in front of each other, "does not make you deadly. Cruelty does."

The luminescence of the moon was a zealous candle that struck through saturated, darkened branches, invading the obscuration realm and perturbing their profound slumber. Nothing ever seemed to croon anything other than a cradlesong of unearthly frights in the forest, as crows tolled and owls whined, inundating the scenery with cryptic musicality.

"Are you implying that I have become cruel?" Varya derided, trying to appear unbothered by his perception of her, yet her hands had started pulling at the skin around her nails nervously.

Once, Icarus had seen her to be the sunrise in his aimless tunnel of darkness, where Riddle had drawn him in with cloying fables of rebellion and restoration. He had seen the girl as a symbol of unbanishable holyness when there had only been nihilism in his life. Yet, now that had all shattered, a perception that had never been anything more than a mirage of ivory ends.

The glass of illusion fragmented at once, exposing the true nature of a tortured mind, and whether Varya had always been somewhat twisted was a question that burned his psyche endlessly. Now, perhaps he understood why she had never believed his love to be sincere. Because he had fashioned himself a version of her, as if she was a rescue ship and he was a marooned survivor on an island of solitude.

"I do not know, Varya. Have you?" his accusation was piercing to the girl, "Because I must say it is terrible to think that you have let this get to you."

"How could I not?" her tone was bitter, "After being endlessly tormented by so many, is it truly that unbelievable that I grew to resemble their wickedness? Your hypocrisy is striking, by the way. You have been murdering for years, Icarus, but you stand before me acting as if I am in the wrong for destroying those who have done nothing but hurt me. Hurt us!"

He gripped her hand, trying to stop her from trembling from nerves, "I am not judging you, understand me. But I am concerned; that is all there is. It is true; I should not be the one giving you a lecture, not after everything I have done to you. You can call me a hypocrite, a fraud, but I know you are better than this. Bloody Hell, you barely talk to Della or Felix anymore, and they used to be everything to you."

She could not refute that; it was entirely accurate—yet, how could she ever talk to her friends as she once had, knowing that their lives had wholly changed because Varya had dragged them into a war? The guilt was nested in her closet of bones, and it peeked from the keyhole at her, an eye of judgment that tormented her sleep.

And her nightmares—the witch was yet to figure out what they meant. Was it a deadly premonition that someone would succumb due to her? Who was the corpse that aridly swung from side to side in the antechamber?

It was easier to push them away somehow, for her own mental strength, and for their safety as well. Perhaps, if she ignored them long enough, they might find closeness with each other and forget her ultimately. Then, they would not get hurt, and if they did, it would not wreck her.

Selfish.

"Icarus, please—just let me be," whined Varya, and her voice almost broke.

He let go of her hand, but stayed close, "I know we did not work out, but you will always be someone I care for, because whether you accept it or not, you have changed me and everyone else. I do not want you to lose your light while fighting against our darkness."

What if there had to be a trade? What if the Knights being illuminated by good meant that Varya fell in pits of darkness, until she was a demon and nothing more.

"I lose myself," she admitted, "I am fully aware that I—it eats me alive, but what can I do? In the moment, it feels right, as if killing everyone that dared hurt me will somehow take the pain I feel away. Do you know how absolutely suffocating it is, Icarus? I do not get to grieve; I do not get to stop; I do not get to allow myself moments of weakness because everyone just depends on me."

"Does it work?"

She stopped for a second then, "It does not heal the scars I have, but it sure as hell prevents new ones from forming. So call me cruel, call me a murderer all you want, but at the end of the day, I kill to survive. You all did it because you were prejudiced and wanted to ascend to power."

The witch pushed past the boy at that, not wanting to hear it anymore. Everyone had told her that she was falling, and even if they had good intentions, Varya found it suffocating. Deep down, she knew that they were entirely right, but why should that matter when doing the wrong thing felt so blissful?

Pushing the flap of the tent open, the Slavic girl stepped inside, suddenly stopping in her tracks when she caught a glimpse of Tom Riddle sitting in their bed, another psychology book in his hand. Slender fingers flipped the pages as eyes rapidly trailed the paragraphs, and even from there, she could tell that his reading skill was far beyond those of even the brightest minds.

How much intelligence could a man possess before it became unfair to the gods?

She had no energy left in her to change, only slightly aware that her dress was not entirely suitable for sleeping, but as she headed for the mattress, her footsteps flattened. Tom glanced up at her, curls falling around his head freely, no gel to hold them back from being completely enamoring.

"Hello," his voice was fainter than it should have been, and his hands gripped the edges of his book rigidly. What was he thinking of?

Varya placed one hand on the bed's wooden pillars at the end, vaguely aware of how painfully awkward this was. They had slept together only once, and it had been due to the activities they had been consumed by the previous night, yet this felt entirely different.

It felt strangely intimate, as the times would have had it that most women only slept in the same bed as their husbands. The girl almost let out a low chuckle at the thought—as if there was such a future for them.

"Hi," her voice was strained, part because he was looking at her with hooded eyes, part because of the conversation she had just had with Icarus, "I have to, uh—I have to get in."

"All right," he said quickly, then hurried over to the right side of the bed, placing his book on the small nightstand that held the lonesome lamp.

Varya got into the bed, pushing the duvet down and then sliding under. Tom was close to her, so close that there was an indistinct warmth that caressed her body, having it boil underneath her skin, and she fought back the youthful nervousness that whirled in her abdomen.

On the other side, Tom was absolutely frozen—this was unbecoming of him. The awareness of her proximity was smothering, so much so that the only thing that kept him breathing was the fluttering of wings that scraped against his abdomen, and how could one girl have him breathless and be the air in his lungs all at once?

"I am going to close the light," he announced, wanting to move, almost to test as if his muscles still functioned.

So, he leaned over her, hand reaching out to the lamp, and only when he made to move back and let his eyes wander to her face did he realize his grave mistake. Tom stood over Varya, one hand on the side of her head and the other still gripping the lamp, and she glanced at him through fluttering eyelashes, her cheeks coated in achingly-beautiful melon. There was tightness in her face, almost as if she had iced over at his presence, and her lips trembled.

How much longer could he fight against the way his soul ached for her?

The wizard moved away rapidly, letting his back fall against the mattress as a breath left his lips, and the self-hatred that bubbled inside him was so profound it almost pained him. What had become of Tom Riddle? He had once thought himself a master manipulator, a man who swayed others' feelings while being glacially cold-blooded. And now, here he was, unsure on how to approach the only person he had ever cared for.

He glanced at the witch from the corner of his eyes, noticing that she had turned her back to him, and yet the tremble in her body was apparent. Despite the summer extending itself over the mountains, the high altitude made the night fairly breezy, and Varya had not changed into her thicker sleepwear, favoring her breezy dress instead.

"Varya," his throat stung when he called out for her, but perhaps Tom could convince her to change. Her teeth-chattering was endlessly irritating, anyhow.

She did not answer, yet the wizard could tell that she was not asleep yet, for her breathing was not as light as one would have it during moments of slumber. His eyebrows knotted in frustration, and he puffed before turning his back to her and trying to diffuse out the sound of her discomfort.

It did not help, and half an hour later, he still heard the Slavic girl trembling. Riddle missed the days when the sound of her suffering titillated his soul endlessly, when he wished nothing more than to ruin her and have her alone. Then, he would not have worried about her being fucking cold in the middle of the woods she had been traumatized in.

Tom twisted again, this time facing the back of her head, and he felt the way his hands tingled, aching to touch her skin. It was not lust that ruled him then, but an entirely different feeling, one he had never experienced before, not to this extent.

Could he...could he allow himself a moment of weakness?

If only to suppress the ache in his soul at seeing her quiver, regardless of how horrendous it was to want to bring anything but grieving ache to the girl. Tom could delude himself into thinking that selfishness fueled him, the need to trick the witch into being comfortable with him only to break her later, but what was the point of such deceits now?

So, he moved his hand slowly, the slightest hesitation making him stop right as he was about to place it on her waist. His fingers hovered, and his soul clenched with anticipation. It was foolish—what he was doing was entirely foolish, and Riddle was only throwing himself deeper into the grave she had dug for him, but Merlin, it felt right.

Varya flinched when he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close into his chest, and for a second, Tom felt her freeze. He wondered if she would move away from him, if he would have to deal not only with the self-disgust, but also the embarrassment at having his pride trashed yet again, but she did not.

And that was all he needed to fall asleep.

***

She was alone when she woke up, and for once, Varya did not let that surprise her.

There was no dawn to gently nuzzle her face until she stirred awake, nor were there any chirping birds that sounded like a symphony of fauna to bless her ears, for nothing of light ever thrived in the forests of Scholomance. Instead, the witch was awakened by a terrible scream, and she set into motion almost immediately, hand grabbing her wand from the desk.

Her feet touched cold soil, and she frantically glanced around the camp before spotting Indra scrambling away from the barrier of salt. On the other side of their safety measure, there was a strigoi rapidly banging against the invisible shield, bloodied fury making it ignore the way its decomposed body left traces of putrefied tissue on the invisible force.

"Fuck," rasped the witch, pressing palms against her eyes and trying to shake somnolence out of them. She squinted, then groaned before marching over to the maddened creature.

Indra got up to her feet with Rosier's help, then took a few steps away, "It tried to attack me out of nowhere! We were all standing here, trying to make some food by the fire, and it jumped and hit the shield. What even is it?"

"A strigoi," said Varya, "Romanian creatures, they are vampires that have lived long enough to lose all trace of humanity, and all they care for is drinking the blood of victims dry. Contrary to popular beliefs, it is them that shapeshift into bats, not vampires, for they are more animal than human."

She bent over to grab one of the stakes that held the tent Rosier and Lestrange had slept in, then broke it in two. Half of it, she stuck right back into the ground, whereas the other she approached the strigoi with.

The witch stared at its face, analyzing every bit of skin that had parched from the passage of time, clinging to ruptured tissue and exposing infected flesh. Inside, insects had built nests in the chipped bones, and had laid eggs into the putrified meat. The walking corpse stunk of death, and Varya's eyes watered despite herself. It flashed its teeth at her, continuing to pound broken bones against the shield in the blood-lust crave.

She had encountered such creatures before, as they sometimes tended to breach the walls of security of Scholomance and sneak in through doors that had been left open. They could not push the handles themselves, their brains far too decayed to function, and so it was reasonably easy to protect the academy from their infestation. That is why, when Dumbledore had come to get her, she had made sure always to close the entrance behind.

Turning to face Riddle, who was sitting on one of the logs and watching the creature with some sort of disgust, she pointed at it, "You see this?" she asked, then glanced at the strigoi, who was now licking the shield with ravenous need, clawing at it to reach Varya's digit, "That will become of you if you do not cease your endless pursuit of immortality."

The boy shifted in his seat, uncomfortably, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she began, then twisted her body to strike the wooden weapon into the creature's chest. It stopped moving. "That this is what happens when humans become immortals. Our bodies and minds are not made to withstand the passing of time, and although we can find ways to prolong it, they eventually are affected by the elements. Your skin rots because of humidity; it loses texture due to wind erosion, your mind shatters because lucidity slips away when you witness the cruelty and death of Earth for so long. Sure, it might take hundreds of years, maybe thousands, but it does happen eventually."

Tom stopped moving, his eyes focused on the carcass of what had once been a human. He wanted to argue with the witch, tell her she was entirely wrong, "My books say nothing of that."

Her laugh was obnoxious, almost condescending, and it infuriated him, "Fuck your books, Riddle. I have real proof right here."

To prove her point, she stopped outside of the barrier despite Ren's protests, and kicked the corpse of the strigoi. It shattered into piles of bones, and she clicked her tongue against her cheek, almost like a challenge for it to raise back. It did not.

"If immortality was so easy to achieve and there were no consequences, more people would have known how to do it," her tone was final as she stepped back into the camp, "Now, eat and let us clear all of this up. We have to start heading North in half an hour if we want to cover enough ground by sun fall. And believe me, you do not want to be out and about after that."

They ate quickly, scurrying to finish their meals beside the fire as Scarlet told tales of the Scandinavian woods, and how entirely different they were from what they were encountering now. There were many beasts, she had explained, but they were benevolent, and in a mutualistic relationship with the inhabitant covens of the peninsula.

After that, they cast fast spells to stuff everything back into Rosier's bag, and although the boy complained at having to carry it himself, Icarus quickly stomped out the protests with a slight smack over the head.

Tom did not talk much to Varya, and whenever the witch peeped at him, he seemed entirely lost in his thoughts. She frowned at that, for the boy had been shutting himself more and more, almost as if there was a losing battle he had to conquer inside his psyche before returning to civilization. Part of her wished there was, because if he was conflicted, that meant her endless attempts at having him give up his pursue were fruitful.

She thought back to the demand he had had of her almost a month ago—fight alongside each other, then bring him the Elder Wand before joining his self-destructive plan to achieve domination over the wizarding world.

Truthfully, sometimes the girl felt embarrassed at how she chased him endlessly, admitting her feelings one too many times for her comfort, but it was better than the option of failure. If Varya had to mute her pride to manipulate Tom into unchaining his soul, then she would do precisely that, regardless of how it infuriated her at times.

The group started their journey in the early morning, pushing through the long branches of darkened trees carefully, always on the look-out for whatever creatures might loom in the bushes. Varya had packed enough antidotes to prevent a disaster like the Rosier Manor, but to deny that trepidation still ruled her soul was to lie shamelessly.

Crack!

The sound came from behind them, the sonority of a bone shaping into two, and then leaves ruffled as something seemed to drag itself through the bushes closely. The forest had fallen entirely quiet, almost as if nature was holding its breath to witness whatever were to happen next.

Death rattled its rancid smell in the air, and Varya heard Scarlet let out a small gasp of perturbance. From the corner of her eye, she saw the auburn-haired witch almost turn to face whatever monster was waiting for them, but the Eastern girl shot a hand to stop her.

"Do not dare look back, any of you," she said, the warning in her voice apparent, "It will try to attract your attention, for it cannot assault you unless it lures you near a pond or a wood clearing, far away so that nobody could hear your screams."

"What do we do?" puffed Icarus, hand already on his daggers.

Varya shook her head, "You do nothing, keep walking. Do not dare look back, no matter what you hear, especially if you are a man. It will target you first, and its eyes will be so enchanting nothing will lift its spell besides it drowning you."

"Shit," breathed Rosier, visibly disturbed, "What is it?"

They heard it crawl further, and the bones rattled as the creature pushed itself up, slowly morphing into something less sinister, and more alluring. Varya saw it from the corner of her eyes, watched it as it made its way to Tom, who remained remarkably calm despite all. It lifted one boney finger to trail his jaw, but the boy closed his eyes before it could do much.

"Do you have a comb for my hair, young one?"

The Eastern witch drew in a sharp breath, feeling an unsettling sensation in her osseins as she recalled the same touch on her face all those years ago. She shifted her eyes to Ren, then said soundly, "A mavka. Now, the rest of you just keep walking, and Icarus—throw me a dagger of yours. Slowly."

"I can help you," argued the duelist, but Varya shut him quickly.

"I can handle this; I have done so before," she half-lied. Varya had never killed a mavka before, she had merely run away from it, but now there was no castle to protect her from its grip, only a two-day journey through an endless forest that was infested with hideous beasts.

The rest of them nodded, admittedly unsure, before moving away from the two Slytherins and the creature. It was growing impatient now, repeatedly asking Riddle about her comb, and dragging her nails against his neck as to leave bloody marks. The wizard showed no sense of pain, as he had resisted the torture curse with stubbornness, and instead focused on his breathing, trying to remain calm.

Varya moved backward slowly, unsure of whether the mavka would be as harmless as the one in the Forbidden Forest had been, or would immediately try to drag her to the nearest pond and drown her. The girl moved behind it, hand steady around the dragon-glass blade, and only in the last moment did the turn to glance at it.

Its back was exposed entirely; skin pulled apart to reveal flesh and bone marrow, whereas its profile appeared to be that of a youthful woman. Its epidermis was of a faded blue nuance, a sign of drowning, and parts of it were missing, as aquatic bacteria had feasted on the most vulnerable spots. Bones struck from its back, broken and shattered, and they were akin to spikes of vengeance.

It had not noticed the witch yet, too focused on wailing in Riddle's face, and suddenly it wrapped claws around his bleeding neck, squeezing tightly to get a reaction out of him. The boy did not panic, although his hands flew to grasp hers away, and he flinched when he felt the putrified exposed meat and the rigidness of her muscles.

"Open your eyes!" it screeched right as Varya drove the glass dagger through its ribs, nailing its frozen heart. The cry of disturbance was potent, and it made to turn and attack the witch, but Tom grasped its head and held it in place, allowing Petrov to twist the knife better.

It desiccated in front of them, turning to nothing but sand and bone fragments. Tom snapped his eyes open, grimacing when he noticed the sanguine that had coated his collar. He pulled out his wand, then quickly cast the Tengo charm, the one that Nicholas Avery commonly used.

His pupils flashed to the witch, who was breathing heavily while staring at the mess between them, "Thank you."

Varya snapped her face to him, still astonished whenever he showed gratitude for her help instead of dismissing it. A small smile rested on her face, "Of course."

Riddle scoffed at it, then pushed past to catch up with the rest of them, and Varya shook her head in amusement at his behavior. Always so twisted, always so conflicted—it was arguably entertaining, admittedly a bit heart-breaking.

The witch followed behind softly, waving over the rest of them, and when Scarlet turned to face her, the worry in her face faded away aridly, "Oh, Merlin! I am glad that ended well, not that I doubted you," her eyes flashed to Icarus, "Although, he did,"

Lestrange threw his hands in the air, "I only asked what we ought to do if we hear her scream."

"You said when! Not if!"

The duelist groaned and pushed past the two women, feeling outnumbered and outwitted, taking Riddle's side as they continued to stroll through the trees. He glanced back at Scarlet from time to time, and the witch flipped him off repeatedly, relishing the way it hurt his pride.

Up ahead, Rosier spun on his feet, walking backward to face Indra. She hoisted an eyebrow at him, not pointing out his peculiar sudden fascination with her, or how he abruptly appeared less hostile.

"What?" she inquired, tilting her head to the side. He copied her movement.

Rosier did not answer.

"You are being weird," Indra frowned, then pushed her hair behind her ears. Ren did that as well, "Merlin, are you copying me? That is entirely childish."

"That is entirely childish," he parroted, making his voice high-pitched.

"I do not talk like that!"

"You sort of do," the boy mused, then turned again to fall into step with her, "Your voice is similar to candy, or perhaps honey. There is something oddly satisfying about it, although I cannot tell what."

Indra threw her head back, laughing, "Are you truly flirting with me in the middle of a haunted forest?"

Rosier turned rouge at that, spluttering on his words as he slightly tripped at her forwardness. He had not thought of it that way, had merely been sincere about his thoughts, as he was with most women in his life. He always told Elladora how beautiful she looked whenever she allowed herself to smile; he randomly complimented Varya when she let the permanent frown fade from her face.

"I was not!" he mumbled shamefully, yet it felt to be somewhat of a lie.

"Do not stress; I was merely teasing you," spoke Indra, shaking her head in amusement.

For some peculiar reason, Ren could not deny that complimenting the lumomancer felt undoubtedly different from his friends, and so he mustered up the courage to blurt out his thoughts again, much as he always did.

"But if I was," the socialite began, tentatively sneaking glances at the witch, "Would that be such a horrible thing?"

It was Indra's turn to have her face coated in carmine, and her lips parted softly as she briefly turned her head to face Rosier, before snapping it and staring right-ahead. Her heart fluttered with possibility, and to the inexperienced girl, the moment felt undoubtedly colossal.

So, she was unsure what to say, and preferred silence over the wrong thing, sending out an entirely wrong signal to the boy. Ren frowned, then let a small sigh past his lips, curling his fingers around the hem of his robe in disappointment.

They continued walking for another half an hour as Indra's mind spun, and she fidgeted with her fingers as she noticed the dampened mood she had set with her foolish taciturnity. So, eventually, she mustered the courage to speak up.

"It would not be horrible," her voice was soft as she turned to look at the surprised boy, "Not at all."

The smile Renold Rosier gave her was mesmerizingly intoxicating.

***

You all expected someone to die and so far I gave you fluff in the weirdest setting, meanwhile, I had attacks while people were making out. My mind works in such ways.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter and early Happy New Year! The next update will probably be after the 1st day of 2021, but we all know I always publish faster than I promise. Meanwhile, check out my other Tom Riddle fanfic maybe! I am greedy for support yes.