THE ANATOMY OF ALEKSANDER DOLOHOV — THE SEER

CHAPTER THIRTY

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Nicholas Avery pushed through branches, ignoring the way they pulled at reddened skin as the cold turned his limbs frigid. His breath fogged his surroundings, and he spun on his heels, scrutinizing the shadows that swirled through darkened trees. The moon swapped over the forest, silver traces of blessing glistening in the ominous woods, tinting the turbid snow a fluorescent hue. The blood thickened underneath his skin as he gripped his dagger, the faintest tremor in his wrist all the more irritating as he scanned the perimeter for sienna curls and blazing irises.

The sound of clashing swords perturbed his focus, muffled by the depth of the forest, and he drew in a sharp breath and slithered between two trees as a group of acolytes passed him, trailing a fresh set of footsteps in the snow that undoubtedly belonged to one of the Knights. Avery made to move behind, but right as he was about to startle them, he caught sight of something moving towards the West.

Like a silhouette of smoke, eddying from one spot to another, her feminine contour basked in moonshine. From afar, Nicholas discerned something feline about her, as if she bore bloodied fangs behind a swindling tug of her lips, sadistic flicker in ore eyes. He tarried her form, accelerating through shadows as he had been trained all along. Every movement was a calculated risk, a balance between peril and advancement, so disturbingly addictive for a person such as him, who prevailed in the thrill of the night.

The scenery molded as he followed Ophelia into one of the outskirts of the woods, where bricked buildings bloomed from within the town square, fencing the streets like red-caped soldiers. The witch snuck through the plaza, and Nicholas knew she was trying to escape the scene. He gripped onto one of the sooty pipes that hung on the edge of the homes and dragged himself up slowly, escalating the sides until he reached the rooftops.

"Scrawny little bitch," he cursed as his eyes fell on the traitor again, and he set into motion, jumping from one root to the next, gripping on balustrades and smashing pots as his feet slid on the icy edges. Avery used all of his strength to catch up with the girl, ignoring the way winter zephyr gashed at his face with such wrath that the smallest touch would have drawn blood. There was one purpose he had in mind, and it was tightening his hands around Ophelia Evergreen's slim neck until he left bruises.

Beneath the high tops of Londonese townhouses, the witch pushed through the harsh weather, cloak over her face as to hide away delicate features and dreary eyes. Nicholas eyed her movements from above, and like a rapacious hyena, waited for the exact moment to pounce and rip out her throat, plummeting from the sky akin to a fallen seraph with severed wings. The thick snow ameliorated the impact of their bodies in the obscure alley, and the wizard barely felt the painful rattle to his spine, too focused on the way Ophelia's skin felt underneath his—softness he wished to slice with his most beloved dagger.

With a slick hand movement, he twirled the weapon and made to bring it down on the witch, but she was fast. Ophelia rolled from underneath him, using Avery's balance to push the boy sideways and into the trashcan. Her eyes wavered with the hint of astonishment, but she took no moment to breathe or wonder before jumping into a kick, her heel colliding with the boy's chest.

Nicholas sneered as he tumbled backward, then caught onto the metal of a set of emergency stairs. His muscles contracted, and he used it to launch himself towards the witch, leg clashing with her jaw. Ophelia yelled out from the pain and stumbled into the bricked wall, barely having any time to register the dagger that the assassin threw her way. The tremor had it slightly miss the target, and it only managed to cut her cheek instead of nailing the traitor in the eye socket. Blood dripped down her skin, and Nicholas felt something surge in him with delight. He would have more of that.

Evergreen raised slender fingers to the wound, smudging the vermilion against her numb skin, and Avery's eyes trailed her movement, savoring the way the color painted her in sin. At last, he spoke, "I suppose you were never meant to be blue-blooded. Should have smelled the insanity off of you."

Ophelia's gaze bounced from her hand to him and hardened, "We will see if your blood fanaticism is justified when I cut your throat."

Her fingers seized the dagger from the wall, then rotated it around her wrist for a better grip, holding it downwards in a hunting posture. Drops of carmine fell into the tainted snow, and she took in a deep breath, focusing her psyche on her magic. Nicholas gave her no time to attack, already fast on his feet, and sent out a blasting spell to the wall behind her.

Like an avalanche, bricks fell into the narrow path, and Evergreen barely managed to move out of the way, her reflexes somewhat rusty. Avery took the distraction as a moment to pounce again, knocking them into the barrels behind, and they squabbled before falling back into the snow. Ophelia's head hit the pavement, turning the world a darker shade for a few seconds, but she pushed back the ache and barely managed to twist her head out of the way as Nicholas brought another dagger down.

"Fuck off, you prick," sneered Evergreen as Nicholas attempted to stab her again, his hands holding the blade only to be intercepted by hers. She held onto his wrists, pushing against his force with all her might, and thanking the stars that the creature had nicked his nerve, slightly taking away from his strength.

Nicholas' hair fell over his face, and the untarnished pulsation of malice in his eyes was splendid as it dipped down in muddy lagoons and caught onto the sand around his pupils. Jaw set with aggravation and eyebrows pulled in a leer, he only pressed harder, until the tip of the blade was set against Ophelia's chest. It sliced through her dress and barely touched her skin, making small droplets of blood bubble from underneath.

The witch acted fast—she headbutted him, taking the risk of driving the knife further into her chest. It dug deep enough that if her heart sped up, it would be pierced, yet Nicholas groaned and lost focus for a second, allowing Ophelia to kick him between his legs. She got up to her feet and pulled all of her focus in channeling her magic as she lifted threatening hands towards the boy. Nicholas hissed at the throbbing pain below his navel but pushed it away before collecting himself.

"I do not want to scratch your face, pretty boy."

"I would return the compliment, but my mother raised an honest man."

With that, he flung another dagger her way, which Ophelia banished to the side almost immediately, nailing it into a poster of a wanted criminal. Her curls blew in the wind as both killers stood face to face, each waiting for a twitch of a muscle to betray their next strategy. The moon brightly hung over their heads, making their surroundings turn eerie as crows chortled over London's empty streets. The houses around them had been long ago abandoned due to continuous bombing threats to the area, most nothing but ruins and dust.

Nicholas gazed at Ophelia with the deepest form of hatred he had ever felt, and the boy knew she was at fault for hurting all of his friends. She had undoubtedly been the one who had freed Nagel all those months ago, letting the man return to Grindelwald and spill the involvement of the Knights. Perhaps, Dalibor and the Dark Wizard had fallen into an agreement of targeting them and had put in all of their resources, from poisonous gloves to bewitching creatures into doing their horrendous tasks.

He moved to attack again, but Ophelia was faster, and with a simple hand flick, she had him plastered against the wall, using sharp rocks to nail his clothes into the bricks. Avery trashed against her hold, but the mentalist only smirked with sickening pleasure. She lifted one finger, and the boy felt almost paralyzed, his body so rigid from her spell that for a second, he panicked his heart had stopped beating at Evergreen's command.

"Play nice," she purred, boots moving against the snow until she stood a few feet in front of him. "We both want the same thing. We want to see Riddle rise to power."

"I am nothing like you, you absolute traitor," rampaged Avery, face red from his mental struggle of moving against her.

"Hm," she tilted her head in a condescending manner, something nobody had ever done to the privileged boy, and that made his blood flow faster with wrath. "Are you not? How many have you killed and tortured at Riddle's orders? If he told you to bark, you would. I merely did what I had to in order to survive, in order to see greatness return to our land."

"You hurt all of them!"

"Everything is fair in war, love. I will do what I must do to reach my goals, as would you. Had this story been told from my perspective, you would be the villain for opposing my desires. Subjectivity is a surfeited thing—there is no right side between abnormities, only an association of interests," each word was spoken in a strange tone as she held her hand outstretched towards him, eyes twinkling alight with amusement, or whatever imitation of the emotion her brain had conjured.

"You are a sick fuck is what you are," Avery snarled, "Everything we were good at, you took away. You weakened the leader you worship, and for what? So he could join your side. Riddle had always done best when we were with him; it is a symbiotic relationship. Mutualism, if you must. He needs us, and we need him."

Ophelia smirked, "And it is you who will bring him doom by not destroying the threat under your nose. You let that witch twist him around her fingers, and you do not even know it. She will be the end of him, Avery. Not the other way around."

"Ridiculous," puffed the boy, although his soul twisted at the threat, and his tone was not confident.

"Not at all," mused the girl, "Aleksander saw it all. He saw the end. Tom Riddle will become the Dark Wizard he desired to be; he will make the world bow at his feet. Your descendants will follow him into battle; they will die for him, they will ensure that in fifty years, no living wizard or witch will be able to mutter Riddle's name without fear. But that will all be taken away if you do not make Varya leave. Grindelwald cannot have her; your Lord cannot control her. She cannot change the future; we must not allow her to do so."

"And what exactly is your plan? Kill her? Foolish to believe you could ever defeat Petrov. Even if you somehow manage to destroy her current body, her Horcrux will be enough to revive her. She is immortal, and you know that."

Ophelia smirked, and that made Avery pale.

"What did you do?" he wheezed, attempting to move again, but all efforts were silenced when Ophelia twisted her hand, immobilizing him at once.

"My plans are not for you to worry about," her tone carried some criticalness to it, as if there was a hidden ace up her sleeve, one she had not revealed yet. "Anyhow, I have had enough of this conversation."

The mentalist witch approached slowly, her hand still facing the boy as a curse chant fell past her lips, tongue lashing like that of a true serpent, and Avery felt his body spasm as whatever sorcery she was using took into effect. He felt liquid dripping down his face, and he barely caught sight of the droplets of carmine that fell into the white snow, tainting it with lewdness. Erratic heartbeats drummed against his ribcage as the fluttering of massacre took over, and the wizard felt something in his insides twist. Still, he fought against it, knowing that his last minutes would not be spent in the grasp of someone he wanted to shred the throat out from.

An arrow flew through the air, pushing all the way through Ophelia's hand as her scream of wrath and vexation burst in the atmosphere, that of a dragon that had had its scales ripped from its tail. She almost blew fire of destruction, her eyes so livid and inhumane that Nicholas felt his breath hitch when she cradled her hand, looking at the puncture wound with uncharacteristic aversion.

In the opening that led to the street, a figure stood holding a bow with trembling fingers—a novice in battle. Maxwell drew in a sharp breath, sandy hair sticking to his forehead as the transpiration of his terror trickled down his temple regardless of the strong wind. Viridescent eyes were bulbous as he shifted his gaze from Ophelia to Avery, then back to the witch.

"Do not—do not move," he rasped, holding the bow out again. His mind whirled at once. It would be best if you remembered elbow alignment—imagine your horizon to be a horologe; one elbow should be placed precisely at 9 o'clock, the other at 3 o'clock.

Nostrils flared, Evergreen sized him up before a caustic smile took over her face, "Your little boyfriend taught you well, I see," she straightened her back, then marched towards him slowly, "But you are no killer. You have never had blood on your hands because Avery has protected you your whole life, and even if I stand still, you will never shoot to end me."

Maxwell wavered when she took the point of his arrow, then straightened it until it stood right in front of her forehead. Lips quirked upwards, she hoisted a challenging eyebrow, daring him to pluck the string. The air in his lungs seemed not to be enough as his digit trembled to shoot, and his brain thumped with restraint as bile rose to his throat. Grey irises stared at him, fixation and determination swirling and clashing against his uncertainty.

Behind them, Avery stumbled to the floor, coughing up blood onto the ivory blanket underneath his body, and everything trembled as he attempted to get up to his feet and reach his friend. Aimless eyes searched around until they landed on Lev Myung's body slumped against one of the walls, wooden pivot right through his socket, and a pulse of shock ransacked his psyche.

"Do not dare touch him!" threatened Nicholas, pulling himself forward on the ground regardless of the way everything hurt. He could not let Ophelia get to them. He could not let her hurt anyone else. "I will chew on your spine if you lay a finger on him."

Curls slashed as the witch faced him, Maxwell's arrow scratching her skin slightly, and she shot Avery a demented smile, "If you want to put your lips on me, Avery, you must only say so."

"You crazy fucking bitch."

"Impolite," she mused, then with a simple flick of her good hand, sent him back up against the wall. She heard the sound of a string tensing, and felt the press of the arrowhead on her temple. Ophelia glanced back at Maxwell, who held the same uncertain look as he aimed the weapon at her face, "Nott, I always had a soft spot for you, you know? I believe we are very similar."

"I have nothing in common with you," muttered Maxwell, yet his eyes flickered with something she recognized well.

"I had never killed before they drove me insane. My hands were luster, and I might have been demonic enough to join a Dark Sorcerer because I hated the wizarding world, but do you think I wanted to turn up like this?" she pressed herself against the weapon until the point dug in her forehead, opening a small wound, "They took my mind, and so I became cruel with my hands, and I spilled blood because I wanted revenge."

Neither said anything for a few seconds, letting Avery's screams of revolt muffle in the background. It was Nott that broke the silence, the discomfort in his chest flowering, "And did you get it?"

Ophelia smirked, "No," she sighed deeply, "I never will. There is no crawling yourself out of darkness for people like me, those who enjoy it too much. The only thing I can do is drag others to the pits of Hell and savor the moment their fingers let go of the edge of the crater, when they sink into desperation."

"You are a monster."

"Maybe."

"And you are proud."

"Certainly."

Maxwell Nott analyzed her, scrutinizing every snowflake that clung to her long, dark eyelashes, every drop of blood that dripped from her arrow-struck hand. Ophelia raised one finger to touch his forehead, and the boy flinched. Regardless, he did not feel as if he was in danger.

"What are you doing?" his question was strained as he trembled, yet the boy attempted to keep his composure.

"Do you know one way to devastate those who corrupt others?" she questioned, tilting her head sideways as her finger pushed away a few strands from the boy's face, "It is by making it entirely difficult for them to get what they want. You had almost figured it all out, Maxwell, the symbol, the truth behind Lopheus' death. That day at the Rosier Manor, you were so close that Aleksander got a vision, and then when Grindelwald and Dalibor were alerted of your location, they sent out the strzygas. And they took it all away."

Then, with a sudden movement, she slammed her fingers against his temples, sending a voltage through his mind as she rewired broken pathways until a scream pierced from his lungs, and Maxwell fell to his knees. A tsunami of letters and words whirred before him, and he tried to grapple at them, make them stop from twisting so aridly, but they turned to dust between his fingers then sizzled inside. It burned; everything burned as if he had been scorched by the burden of knowledge.

"Well," Ophelia took in a sharp breath, "Knowing that you could have prevented everything is its own way of torture, I suppose. Consider this a gift, Nott. I never had the opportunity to make another choice, but now, you get a second chance. Your mind is yours."

With that, she twisted on her heels, ripping the arrow stuck in her hand in two and pulling it out with a wince. Avery continued to scream out in frustration as he watched Evergreen walk away into the blizzard, "Walk away today, and I will hunt you. I will hunt you down until you fall off the face of Earth, and then I will dive into whatever dark hole you crawled into and break every single bone in your body. I will make sure your physique is charred beyond recognition and that your grave is defaced every single day."

She disappeared into nothingness, and the spell finally wore off, having the assassin stumble to his feet.

"Shit," he cursed before pulling himself up slowly and stumbling towards Nott. He grabbed the groaning boy by the shoulders and turned him until he scrunched his nose in agony, "Maxwell, are you okay?"

"Piss off," wailed Nott, pushing away Avery's concerned face as he took in a deep breath and settled his thoughts, "My head is pounding, and your shrieking is making everything spin."

"Oh, thank Merlin, you are still sane. I thought that lunatic broke you."

Maxwell pushed himself up on his elbows, shaking his head as snow fell from his locks, and shot Avery an irritated glance that, for the first time in months, carried the wittiness of an overly-gifted boy, "I am fine, you pestering rat. How about you go help the one with a large stick coming out of his eyesocket? For all we know, the stab wound might have damaged his optic nerve, resulting in a traumatic injury that could affect his sight. We would be lucky in that context, regardless. I once read a journal from Saint Mungo's Hospital that suggested that not even healers can cure penetration injuries, as they cause injury to the nervous system, which operates on electrical impulses. If you did not know, magic cannot alienate a change in—"

His rambling stopped as he felt his friend's arms wrap around him, and Avery sighed in absolute relief as his worry settled in its own grave, letting the ground crumble around it and sink the emotion into oblivion. Maxwell continued to grumble in dissatisfaction, never having been a man of affection, before he eventually accepted the gesture with a snarky remark and an eye-roll.

A groan sounded from behind, and the two friends turned with curious eyes to glance at Lev Myung, who seemed to awaken from his injured state slowly. The shadowmancer took in a deep breath, sucking in a painful cry as he felt the wound pulsate. With a steady hand, he flicked a shadow around the wooden stake and yanked it out with precision, splattering blood over the pavement in front of him.

Maxwell kneeled in front of the boy, then hummed, examining the wound, "Can you see me?"

"Yes, with my good eye," grumbled Myung, trying not to blink and scratch against the open flesh, "Can you close the wound?"

"It will most likely not bring the function back. I can repair the tissue and reconstruct the eyeball, but the scar will be very much visible," grumbled Nott, pushing Lev's chin up to glance at his face.

Nicholas snorted from behind, "We will get him a chic eye-patch. Might make him look even more like a ruthless shadow bender."

"Shadowmancer," corrected Myung, scrunching his nose.

"Same thing," whistled Avery, leaning his back against the wall and sprawling his legs in the ivory snowflakes. He grabbed a fistful of snow, then used it to scrub the blood away from his hands, humming himself an idle tune before glancing out into the street, "We ought to go find the rest. Hurry up."

Something broiled in the air, almost like beams of sunshine splitting in two, and a blast rang out through the atmosphere. Nicholas stumbled into the street and gazed back at the forest, watching something similar to a nuclear explosion as light cascaded in waves, striking against the stars. A vertical beam of luminescence roared against the thunder, and all at once, the cerulean blanket covered in spikes of lightning, as if Zeus had decided to return and declare war against the humans. The boy covered his eyes weakly, then felt something pull at his collar, and he was dragged back into the alley.

A wave of shadows fell upon the group, surrounding them just as the tsunami of holy light ransacked the side of London's margins. Avery's eyes snapped open, and he shot a look around, catching the moment realization dawned upon Lev's face. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, the change from usual impassiveness to absolute terror as the obscuration field drew closer to protect them. His scarred eye had been healed by Maxwell, although its iris had now faded in color to something more of a grey tint.

Lev's body began convulsing all at once, eyes void of anything but fright, and the two Knights each grabbed one arm and one leg, trying to pin the boy to the ground as the light wave passed them, booming against the shadow shield and cracking it in places. There was something inhumane, something terribly broken that spilled from the fae descendant's mouth, similar to a mourning cry that shattered mountains.

"Bloody hell," cursed Nott, pressing harder against Myung's limbs to immobilize him. He shot his friend a perplexed look, but Avery seemed just as confused.

The light passed, the shadows retracted, and Lev fell limp against the snow, skin pale as if he had been dug out of a grave. The wizard's eyes remained open, staring at the darkened sky before him as the first rays of Christmas morning spilled into the horizon, but they were void of any lucidity. His chest trembled at once as he took in a shaky breath, and Lev's face fell into something utterly torn.

The boy parted his trembling lips, "Indra," the name spilled like a eulogy, and Nicholas felt his soul crack, "she is dead."

Avery thought he had never seen someone so thoroughly devastated. Lev stood on the ground, unmoving, so still the assassin wondered if he was still breathing, and on his face was coated in harsh strokes the most shattered portraiture of a grieving brother. Nicholas sniffled, then slowly let go of his arm and leg, gaze switching between the unmoving boy and Nott.

"How would you know that?"

"Her—" his voice cracked, "Her presence would always be with me, like a foreign feeling in the back of my head that allowed me to sense her. It is gone."

Lev blinked, taking in a sharp breath as if he was drowning.

"She is gone."

"But maybe—"

The shadowmancer shook his head, pushing a hand against his face and gasping. His form started malfunctioning, spasming as if anointed by some depraved psychedelic that overtook his senses. A few seconds and the tears started pouring, astringent and cold on his bloodied face, and Lev felt his vision cloud—shadows turned against him, and he felt smothered, as if the world piqued in darker shades, and everything swirled. An implacable feeling of daunting terror crawled beneath his skin, dragging needles up his spine, infesting his marrow with poison.

All at once, the world stopped making sense, and there was nothing but the vague tremor in his being, as if the shadows had turned to a different frequency and spiraled, attacking their master's soul. Lev rose heavy hands and thumped his chest, pulling at his clothes to try and tame the obscurations. He could not breathe. He could not see. Darkness was turning on him.

"He is having a panic attack!" called out Nott, widened eyes settling on Myung as he grabbed the boy's upper body and pulled it close, wrapping arms around Lev's neck and trying to have him stand up straight.

Avery reacted in a domino effect, grabbing Lev's face and trying to keep his head up and his eyes aware. "Myung, breathe in. Take a deep breath. Lev—Lev, listen to my voice."

A painful cry rang out from the shadowmancer's lips as he lurched forward and called out his sister's name, trembling and weeping in a moment of frenzy. His chest contracted, his lungs spasmed, and although there was no physical trigger of pain, Lev felt as if someone had just stabbed him in his chest, twirling the blade so achingly that only death would have alienated his suffering. His stomach churned, and nausea settled in, a sensation so surreal that the boy felt as if he has disconnected from his world. Like wildfire, a numbing sensation overtook everything, and his ears began ringing as his blood pumped faster. Spots whirred, sound faded, and his surroundings became a deformed picture on a television tube.

Nicholas and Maxwell continued talking to him, trying to bring him back into the realm of consciousness, words muffled by the grieving symphony of Lev's cries. The blizzard continued ransacking the ruins as dawn peeked from the edge of the world, blinking at the carnage that had colored the woods a tinted ruby-nuance. And as some families woke up in the earliest hours to paddle socked feet down wooden stairs and squeak at delightful Christmas presents, others found themselves submerged in the terrors of war.

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Malfoy's body hurt. Regardless of the spell he had used to keep it from fading into hypothermia during the riptides of cold current, as soon as he had come to the shores down the river, everything had started pulsing with an indescribable ache. His clothes were drenched as he struggled to pull Varya's body out of the water and drag it next to Ren's, and his feet slipped in the mud, having him fall onto his elbows and knees. Black suit was tarnished and rumpled, and Abraxas threw himself onto the ground, not even able to care for the state he was in.

His bones had solidified almost, sticks of ice beneath his skin, and even breathing was like puffing on an awfully strong cigar, having the lungs spasm from the pollutant. Everything was so unbearably cold that not even death could cure him. The wizard scoffed acoustically, letting the irony of the mud that covered his reputable suit be a lesson and a satire to his sins.

"Hm," he mumbled, eyes trained on the sky, then coughed against the crook of his elbow. Abraxas groaned loudly, then shot irritated eyes to Ren's unconscious form, "I am not capable of dragging you to warmth. We will freeze out here slowly."

Perhaps his sanity had started cracking. He was talking to himself.

A galloping sound reverberated through the corridor of darkened trees that haloed the stone-street across from the river, and the sound of a soldier shouting orders. Malfoy barely managed to push himself up and gaze out into the opening. He spotted a green-dressed boy pulling on the hem of his horse, having it stop as curious eyes trailed the group. Abraxas knew what it looked like—a half-unconscious boy standing near two supposedly dead civilians in a time of war, and with his blond hair and blue eyes; assumptions might have run quickly.

His hand tensed over the spot under his blazer where his wand stood, and the heir drew in a sharp breath as the soldier stepped down from his saddle, boots sinking into the muddied snow. From underneath his cap, one curl poked in an insubordinate manner, a sign that the boy had been too invested in the war to care about regulation.

"And what do we 'ave 'ere?" inquired the soldier, walking over to Malfoy with a rigid posture. His eyes trailed the group, but when they nested on Varya, they widened almost comically, "My, what happened to the lady?"

"You know her?"

"Good gracious I do," puffed the soldier, kneeling by Petrov and grimacing at her face, "What is this mask she is wearing? Why is she drenched?"

"How about you worry less about that and get us out of here instead?" criticized Malfoy, pushing himself up, "We were ambushed by road thieves a few yards up the stream, and took the only way out. Unfortunately, my two partners were not so lucky and were knocked unconscious. Do you know where the nearest Inn is? I ought to get them somewhere warm."

The soldier's face morphed into something strange, suspicious, and viridescent eyes glimmered with caution as he pressed his hat harder on his hair. His uniform was crisp, and Malfoy felt suddenly aware of his deplorable state.

"Very well," agreed the soldier, then gestured to his horse, "I only have one of those good pals. Put the lady and the gentleman on there and hold them. I will walk by. Name is William Parker—delighted to be at your service. I s'all assist you to one of the few open Inns in such times. You see, war is not forgivin' of the Crown's economy, as a matter of fact—"

Abraxas let the young soldier lose himself in his own glorified views of his battle, paint himself as a martyr or some savior for future generations. Perhaps, he was right in believing such an ideology, that he was on the virtuous side of the altercation, guns blazing and taking away lives that sought to eradicate his comrades. What a pretentious train of thought he had. Malfoy discerned he was a foolish young boy who knew nothing of the real atrocities behind battle. Indeed, even if they were the lesser evil, that did not make them saints nor heroes. In the end, they still killed millions of collateral victims in their efforts to save themselves.

War did not allow for righteousness, and only the winning side ever decided who was to be considered a victor. Abraxas could only hope that Tom Riddle would succeed in the end, that history would be written from his perspective, as a savior from a corrupt government, a leader of anarchy that developed the potential of blasphemous magic. Malfoy would have gone to the extent of calling their ideology magnanimous, such a lenient reform that would allow the cowardly to run behind them, and only punish those who were insubordinate.

Indeed, the alliance of the Knights might have shifted their view to a less prejudiced take, no longer caring much for the muggle-borns of the world, but they were still tyrannical at the core, set on demolishing everything the Ministry had built in hundreds of years of corruption. They were the vitality that the wizarding society needed, an iron fist that would, in the end, serve for greater things. Riddle had devised a political system based on authoritarianism, and with his loyal brigade, he would size control and create his own government in the British wizarding society—a devious coup that would weed out the weaklings that had used their privilege to destroy Merlin's powerful legacy.

Abraxas smirked triumphantly—they were the order that would crumble the world.

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Varya blinked lethargically as Malfoy removed another piece of animal skin from her face, using a green-tinted paste to scrub away the curse that had been placed on her. The witch had stopped sniffling a few clock-turns ago, yet her chest still ached for the terrible losses that had occurred. She shifted her eyes from Abraxas' face to Ren's form in the corner, cramped in on itself as his head bobbed and his chest pulsated with each painful sob. Indra's death had destroyed the wretched boy, turning him into a mush of everything he had become due to her.

The Eastern witch wished she could have mustered the courage to shed more tears, but it would have felt undoubtedly selfish to cry over something that had been entirely her fault. If only she had not let herself be bested, if only she had listened to Riddle when he had told her that she had to train her dark magic above her Obscurus. Varya had let herself grow weak in sorcery, had assumed that Ariana's powers would always sizzle inside her like terrible wildfire, but it was not enough anymore.

Tom had told her that they were at war, that she did not understand the gravity of the situation. Perhaps, he had been right in his own twisted way. It was easy to imagine herself undefeatable when all of her sparring partners had been less experienced wizards, but Aleksander Dolohov and Ophelia Winterbour bled and cried with dark magic. They had mastered their own gifts, whereas Petrov had thought a parasite to be her own.

So, she could not cry for Indra Myung. She could not grieve Della Beauchamp. Not with an open heart, not with fragility—they wanted her tears, but all she had left was anger.

Anger at Albus Dumbledore for not protecting them. Anger at the Ministry for turning a blind eye to the massacre that happened outside their golden doors. The virtuous side had let them fall into darkness on their own, had sacrificed their childhood, and had weaponized them all. There was no cordiality in their agreement, for adults had used their nativity regarding the true crimes of war to propel their own agenda.

Perhaps, they had taken a page from the muggle book of war crimes, where the nazi forces had made it mandatory for all boys between the age of ten and eighteen to join the junior organization Hitler's Youth, only to be fed propaganda and have fanaticism drilled into their influenceable skulls. What an atrocious sight it had been—young children used as reserve troops to win a repulsive war based on prejudice, taught that their mindset was justified and raised to be slaughter pigs in battle. Adults rarely had care for the youth in such times, when all that mattered was bloodying the terrain of the opposing forces, and having them wave a surrendering flag.

Malfoy sighed as the last piece of rabbit fur clinked in his metal tray, then gave the witch a once-over, "I took it all off, but your skin is still slightly reddened around the cheeks. You might feel it irritated for a while."

"Thank you," rasped the witch, too tired to muster more than the bare minimum of gratitude. Abraxas had saved her life. He had put aside any devastating emotions that he might have felt due to Della's death and had compartmentalized his grief in order to push them all forward. His magic had been drained to keep the three of them warm in the icy currents of the river, and he had done his best to get them to safety before even sitting down to analyze his own turmoil.

"Of course," Malfoy mumbled, setting the tray to the side and stretching his back. The dark circles under his eyes were evident; he had not slept in the past twenty-four hours and had taken care of his two companions, "It is no problem."

With that, he turned around to head to the bunk-beds he shared with Rosier on the other side of the room, but something made Varya stop the boy.

"You are the reason we are all still standing, I hope you know," she rushed, words tumbling out before she could catch them, "We would all be dead if not for you."

Perplexed, Abraxas twisted to give her a strange look, "What do you mean by that? I did not do anything—"

"Special?" finished the witch, pushing herself slightly upwards in the bed to look at him, "I know you always thought yourself to be merely passable amongst the Knights, with surprising raw power but no special gift to offer. But that is not true, Malfoy. You have been essential to Riddle, and were it not for your constant faith in him; he would have never made it this far. From connections to loyalty, you have been the person he built his empire on."

Malfoy scrunched his nose, unsure how to respond. He was not one for candor and gentleness, much less gratitude, yet Varya's words settled some raging storm in him that had tormented the boy for years. "I hardly doubt people will thank me much when Riddle rises to power and annihilates half of the Ministry."

"The Knights will," continued Petrov, "Perhaps, even I will find myself grateful to a certain extent. You have been the one that has kept everyone together, from your constant words of unity to your rational thoughts in moments of high intensity."

"Well, hopefully, my insisting on everyone sticking together did not result in half of us getting murdered," snarled the boy at no one in particular, then shot his eyes to the ground, "We ought to find Riddle. Set out on horses in the morning."

"He might be half-way across the world; we have no lead and no way of figuring out his location."

"They would not take him far, no," theorized the heir, "Keeping him too far would make him less accessible to their main base. I suspect they would still hide him somewhere in London, away from the wizarding society. And as far as tracking Riddle goes—"

He trailed off, lifting his arm slightly. With one swift motion, he revealed the drawing etched on his skin, pulsating as if made from smoke and ash, swirls of dark magic—the Death Eater mark. Tom had branded his followers long ago and had devised a means of figuring out each other's location through a simple tracking spell fused in with the symbol. It was a matter of time before the Dark Wizard would call upon his order and generate chaos out of void.

"Who is to say they will even let him move around freely? After all, he was captured," scoffed Varya.

Abraxas had a condescending smirk on his face, "Was he?"

"What are you implying?"

"Riddle always has a plan."

"Such blind faith you put in him."

"Well, he has never failed me, after all," sighed the right-hand, catching onto the metal bar of the upper bed and hoisting himself up, "Now, let me sleep, will you?"

With that, he shut the light around them, letting everything fall into darkness. The only sound that reverberated through the night was Rendol Rosier's muffled cries.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Selfishness—a constricting notion that determined whether an individual was entirely useful to the mass or not. Varya discerned that to be selfish was not to allow others to benefit from your standings, to know that self-preservation was entirely justified on certain occasions. Her life had had it that the young witch had endured harshness at a fragile age, making her unable to understand many social requirements that children of her stature had. Those who had grown without gentle adult supervision often ended up lacking communal traits. They were lone wolves, with bloodied fangs ready to strike any offense or predator that might have endangered them. In such circumstances, hesitation might have meant death, and each second spent worrying about others was a second of endangerment, where self-sufficiency was ignored in favor of a general need of the community.

There was a difference, however, between selfishness that arose from the state of danger and that which came from hedonism, an inclination of humans to seek in pleasuring themselves in order to decrease pain. The eternal race against agony turned the pleasure seeker into a self-absorbed individual, who acted in a petulant manner and often invalidated those around them for their own benefit.

Therefore, when Varya woke up in the middle of the night to Renold Rosier trashing the common area beneath their shared room drunk out of his mind, she wondered if the boy was acting selfishly to survive, or to outrun his grief.

Her nightgown clung to her figure as she entered the salon, eyes swirling with somnolence and skin still irritated. Onyx eyes settled on the boy as he took another swing from a half-empty bottle, then stumbled backward onto a leather couch, face carmine from alcohol and lips parted in a soft sob. A wailing tune left from his parted lips like a heart striking ode to the dead, and he rose trembling arms to the sky as if to beg whatever governed above to return his love.

Ren turned his head towards her, a pained smile on his face, "Ah! The Obscurial came to gave me a lecture," he took another swing, then gestured around, "Have a seat if you can still find one with all four legs."

Varya sighed, pushing herself to walk in the room and take in the damage—nothing that magic could not fix, but they could not afford to leave traces behind, not when Dalibor's men might be around the corner. So, the witch grabbed an armchair from the side, pushing it by the fire, then dusted the velvety material and sat down. By her side, a table had been shattered into multiple pieces, wood striking like a pivot. She shuddered, remembering suddenly of Lev's faith, and took in a deep breath to calm her anxiety.

No, the boy would be fine. He had to be fine. Petrov could not afford to think about losing the shadowmancer, for it would drive her entirely insane. He was so absurdly precious to her, to the point where she would not hesitate to destroy half of London to protect Lev. The wizard had simply helped her through so much that Varya owed him her life.

"You cannot do this, Rosier."

"What a wonderful thought—to dictate what I must and must not do, what I can and cannot. I believe I am made to be chaotic, an entirely demonic being when not subdued. And as you might have noticed, I find myself to be wholly alone in this world, save for the ghosts of my past and whatever demon lies within."

Varya pursed her lips, "Grief is not something unfamiliar to me. I know what—"

"Petrov, save your sentimental discourse and let me be what I was always meant to be. A sad, pathetic excuse of a son, a blind brother, and a weak lover. There is nothing to me but this flask right here and whatever bottle I might encounter next. A shallow, languorous boy who indulges in the sins of life," Ren pushed his curls back, making his tear-stained face stand out even more against the dim light of the shattered chandelier, "I have failed enough people that I know there is no worth to me except to drown my memories in alcohol until the numbness is a perpetual state. To live, and for what? There is nothing worth celebrating in my life; I have become a skeleton, or a ghost if you must. Yes, a wandering ghost, only there to collect secrets for the eternal."

Rosier leaned over, lurched until Varya thought he might have started throwing up, or perhaps crying his eyes out to the ground that they would never bury Indra in, but then he came back up in a sadistic laugh, features stretched so painfully that even the dark witch held her breath for a few seconds. And he laughed. He laughed until his howling edged the realm of crying, until his breaths were lagged and heavy, and some more after that. Ren tried to find humor in the misfortunate that had dawned upon him, only if to push away the absolute devastation that made his soul disintegrate.

And then he sat up, swinging the bottle at the wall opposite them, and watched the glass shatter in dozens of smaller shards, liquid painting the tapestry a darker color. Ren stumbled on his feet, trying to find balance as he clutched his hands on a chair, knuckles turning white. Then, he took in a breath, not too deep, for he feared that the exhale would come back as a weeping sound, and he did not want to feel the sorrow anymore.

He wanted numbness. Perhaps, he wanted to feel as cold as Indra. Stuck in the eternal slumber of existence, everything muted to nothing but static sound, or whatever awaited them on the other side. Rosier needed it even—some promise of escape from whatever life had thrown at him. For what was wealth if he had to watch everyone he cared for die, if his parents abandoned him in a war he no longer wanted to be part of?

He had never been one to agree with the idea that money did not buy happiness. It did. Money allowed him to asphyxiate in the most expensive liquor; it enabled him to throw jamborees so ravishing that he disengaged from existence, and it paid for the most costly delights the world had to offer. All so that agony could be muffled. And maybe it had never made him happy, but it sure fucking extinguished the demon that loomed over him, cloud of catastrophe and wretchedness.

"Existence," continued Rosier, "Is nothing but cruel torment. We are put on this Earth naked and confused, forced to make something out of ourselves. For the longest time, I thought that maybe there was nothing for me to do. Everything that should have been invented had already been invented. The world functioned, and I was nothing more than a pebble in a rose garden. But then Riddle came, and he promised things—he might be a fucking lunatic and a half, but he is one convincing demagogue. And I put my faith in him if only to try and see if this world was actually made for me."

Ren took in a deep breath, his body shaking as he shot Varya a pained look.

"I thought it was enough at the time. But then I fell in love and fuck, Petrov. It is one painful sword in my chest to know that was not meant for me either. Indra was something I had never thought possible; she gave me hope and made me see the world in colors for the first time in years. And then they took her away. The worshipers of the same man I thought would be my salvation. They took her away from me and made her body hit the ground and turn cold."

Varya felt something clog her throat, "Do you blame Riddle?"

"No," puffed Rosier, "Riddle is what he is, and I knew what I was getting myself into when I joined him. The problem is that back then, I had nothing to lose. I was living on borrowed time because every day felt like I was drowning. This sensation in my chest that I was suffocating even when I inhaled so deeply that my lungs hurt. But then? She came, and she was my everything. It was never meant to be part of this complicated equation, but she was, and I was glad for it. And now I lost her."

Petrov was unsure how to answer his claims; there were few words to offer to a living man who had already died multiple times.

"I thought because I was darkness, I never deserved light," mumbled Ren, "But Indra proved me wrong. And she proved you wrong too."

"What do you mean?" asked Varya with bulbous eyes.

"You told me once that you deserve Riddle's affection because of what you have become, but that is not the truth. It is the truth that you do not deserve someone that will plunge you out of the darkness because such a person does not exist," answered Rosier bitterly, caustic smile on his face as his eyes twinkled with tears, "In the end, we only have ourselves. To put our faith and salvation in someone—that is only doom. A relationship will not fix you; it is a weak bandaid to a wound that needs sutures. Varya, you must drag yourself out of whatever crater you fell into. Darkness is a self-inflicted wound that reopens every time you deny yourself light."

"But I have murdered and—"

"Sure, you did. Make of that what you wish, say you find thrills in it, that does not change the fact that love will never heal your trauma. That is something you are entirely responsible for."

"Do you think Indra would not have healed you?"

"Indra is the love of my life," concluded Rosier, "She is the person I wished a future with, someone who balanced me out well and made me see the world in different hues. She helped me, but in the end, it was up to me to pick myself up. And I did not. I thought that changing for her was enough when in reality, it was me that I should have been doing it all for. I was motivated by her radiance and her love, but now that is gone, and here I am—back to my immoral ways because at the core I remain unchanged."

Silence fell over them, and Varya watched Rosier stumble across the room, twisting and turning on his feet as he sang a slothful tune to himself, something she could swear she had heard Indra hum on long nights in the Alps. There was nothing that she could have said to comfort him—Rosier was a man of self-discovery and indulgence, he had long ago fashioned himself a reality in which he plunged, and as he had said, it was him that had to swim against the waves of sin that drowned him. The boy turned again, eyes falling upon the rising Sun in the distance, and something shattered in him as he watched light inundate everything.

He could have sworn that the sky was brighter that day as if part of Indra had strewed in the universe, her body reverberating into sorcery and immersing the universe in its own frequency, making everything more golden. Or, perhaps, part of her had clung to him, and Rosier was now forced to endure reminders of her existence in every corner of his life until her lullaby of warmth called him into an early grave.

"I will burn them all."

Varya drifted away from her thoughts, eyes snapping to Rosier, who stood by the window, eyes harsh and hands in fists. His curls fell over his forehead, making his furrowed eyebrows fade between locks of taffy, and bleu-marine irises carried an unmistakable ravenous desire for revenge. At once, he shot her a look that perturbed the dark witch to her core, something that made Varya question if, deep down, Renold Rosier had always been what he appeared as now—a bloodthirsty reaper.

"What did you say?"

"Even if it is the last thing I do," he reinforced, "I will douse the world in gasoline and let her light burn it into the ground."

With that, he twisted on his feet and pushed the golden doors open, leaving Varya behind in the destroyed salon, flames crackling in the fireplace. The witch drew in a deep breath, feeling her chest tighten with remorse and fault, and she gazed out the same window that Rosier had stood in front of.

The darkness that writhed inside of her was indefinable, terror that compelled her to release wrath against everyone that had betrayed her, have her ascend from the ashes, and open widespread phoenix wings to surge into the skies before diving her beak through throats. She felt her hands grasp the edges of her chair, sitting in it with her chin held high like a combatant queen in her throne made of bones and ligaments of those she had annihilated. Her head felt heavy as if it now bore a crown that had been trusted into her hands by her disciples, those who begged her to save them from whatever threat loomed over the horizon.

Her skin itched. It itched where Aleksander Dolohov had stitched rabbit skin to her face to mock her, to diminish her pride, and turn her into nothing but a scapegoat of an ongoing war. They wanted to dehumanize her, have the witch feel completely worthless and defeated, but she only found candied paradox in their actions. The same animal that had been a symbol of probity in her childhood, the toy she had left behind at Scholomance to signify the last day of ignorance before she had left for Hogwarts. The pet she had killed at Riddle's request, unleashing the cataract of secrets that had led to her becoming a demonic being. The omen that had presented itself to her before her first murder, marking the destructive path that Tom had forced her down on.

And then, in the forest, the carcass of the rabbit, her last chance at survival deep into the mud she had been sinking it. She had carved out its heart and used it for her dark magic, and now Varya understood. She understood that she had sacrificed her own humanity, had held her innocence like an offering to the darker deities in order to survive the war, and they had answered her calls without hesitation.

Finally—the mask. The mocking of her weakness, of her brittle state that still clung to outmoded dogmas that made her a human being, a fault which dictators such as Dalibor and Tom Riddle had let go of. Aleksander had ridiculed her for it; he had tried to slash at her pride and have her decay like a hanged corpse before him. What people such as him did not understand, however, was that her Achilles heel was what had made her different from them, the thing that had pushed the witch to success regardless of circumstances.

"What a foolish bastard," Varya hummed as her eyes trailed the fire blazing, burning vivaciously as a new craze took roots in her heart, one that had been towering over her head for years, but she had not allowed to bloom. Not until Rosier had told her that she was her own salvation.

Because now, the witch knew what she had to do. The world would never thrive under the cold hands of men who allowed their complacency to smother any rational thoughts which might have otherwise plagued their fragile intellect. They would bring carnage upon carnage, always allowing their egos to dictate their actions, clashing swords instead of devising ingenious plans. Dumbledore was too weak, Grindelwald was too fanatic, Dalibor was too cowardly, and Tom Riddle was too inhumane.

Therefore, from the abstrusest cavities of Hell that they had attempted to toss her in, from the muddied grave they had dug for her in the back of her old academy—a Dark Lady would rise.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
hi! thank you for all of the nice comments i received after the announcement about taking a break.

please look in the comment section of this sentence and read my explanation regarding the future of this fic and everything that happened.

have a wonderful day!