13.7 k words because i did not want to separate this into two chapters. take your time reading it if it is too long.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

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TRIGGER WARNINGS: Be advised that this chapter contains graphic descriptions of death, gore, and a bunch of birds dying (sorry).

There was a proverb that before every storm ravaged the holy lands, there would be blissful peace.

As her sinister eyes trailed the courtyard, Varya wondered if whoever had first come up with that idiom was an outright fool. There was no peace on the faces of those who sharpened their swords, nor was there bliss for those who ran through the gardens to disperse healing potions for the soldiers. Terror was an ever-present mask—a nasty scar that ran down the gentle visage of the youth. Alphard Black had kept his promise in recruiting several Hogwarts students for the upcoming battle, and now, in the first rays of dawn, they had gathered at the front of the castle.

There was a certain tranquillity in nature, the witch discerned. Snowflakes paraded down towards the sullied soil, covering the withering flora in ivory rapture. The coldness of January seemed ruthless, and the sky eclipsed in casts of violet and lapis as the sun peeked from its nest. Amid a moribund scenery, Scarlet Norberg instructed her family on the archer positions they would take. She had devised a strategy on protecting the Viaduct and had arranged the Blood Coven as a defense barrier on top of the stone walls.

"I found something," sounded a raspy voice from behind Varya, and the witch turned to face Tom Riddle's impassive expression.

They had barely slept through the night, flipping pages of old grimoires to find the best linking spell. An inky mess of waves made the boy's appearance seem rumpled, yet his features carried no sign of lethargy. Tom Riddle managed to suppress any indication of humanity, from slight discomfort at not having eaten since the previous day, to the lack of lilac patches underneath his eyes. He sat at the head of the table, surrounded by stacks of books that fenced his figure, and Varya's mind suddenly flashed to the first day they had met at the library.

His back was arched forward over the cover of an ancient volume, a finger trailing the name with interest as he read the words out loud, "Dark Artifact and Methods of Conjuring."

Varya pushed herself from the window panel, striding over to the boy and watching him flip the pages until he found what he was looking for. The witch eyed the spell, glossing over the incantation and directly jumping to the possible side effects, loopholes, and threats of such sorcery.

She winced, "It seems dangerous."

Tom furrowed his eyebrows, "As most dark magic usually is."

Petrov sighed profoundly, and let her stare land on the five artifacts scattered over the wooden table, each glowing an uncharacteristic aura. Riddle had told her they were all virtual objects, made to sustain powerful sorcery, save for the journal that Varya had given to him. He argued it mattered little that it was a simple notebook, as he had filled it with words of wickedness and had therefore corrupted its nature.

"If we do this," began Tom, avoiding her eyes as he dragged the grimoire to the objects, "then we can ensure that, even if Evergreen destroys the Horcrux, your Obscurus will not have you perish. Even more, by channeling your magic to mine, you make it impossible for Dalibor to spell your sorcery shut, as he did in the forest."

A wave of nausea overtook the witch as she thought of their last encounter with Dalibor. He had blocked Varya's magic channels, the ones that connected her to the Obscurus, and had led to Aleksander almost killing her. Even with the Horcrux, the vessel remained fragile, and resurrection did not seem to be a pleasant ritual.

"Yes, you have told me the advantages multiple times," bickered Varya, her tone bitter. "I am worried about the disadvantages. The loopholes you could use to have this turn in your favor somehow."

"You do not trust me," he hummed. A remark, not a question—they both knew that as much as Tom had helped her during the past year, he was still an opportunistic villain.

"A self-explanatory statement."

The wizard bit the inside of his cheek, drawing in a sharp breath before shaking his head. "My magic will be tied to yours as well. You have told me multiple times that should I ever betray you again; you would not hesitate to end me. So, how do I not know you will make a premature decision? Perhaps, you will want to ensure that after all is done, the world will crumble at your feet instead of mine."

Varya grabbed the chalk from the side of the table, drawing a pentagram over the surface as Riddle eyed her movements. Her eyes skimmed the ritual again, and she grabbed each artifact, placing them in the corner of Lucifer's star and completing the set-up. The sight was magnificent—such power nested in the Devil's cocoon, empty vessels waiting to be anointed with the blasphemous sorcery of two corrupted wizards.

She shot Riddle a determined look, "Perhaps, I will. Grindelwald might not harm you. Dalibor might not best you. But since the start, I have been your one weakness, and I do crave power. You have born such thirst in me, and I will have it satiated."

The boy grabbed a dagger, bringing it to his palm. As he sliced his skin, his eyes never left hers, a defiant smirk on his face, "You give me too much credit, Petrov. I have simply helped you face your deepest desire, but I never made you yearn for something that was not already there. You see, the two of us—we are more alike than we would love to admit. The world had underestimated us because of our childhood and had stripped us of the rightful titles we should have acquired. Both fallen dynasties, both orphans, both darkness in plain sight."

His words stopped, as if he pondered over the meaning of it all. Tom passed the blade to Varya, scrutinizing her every move as she nicked her hand.

Vibrant eyes settled on her, "It makes one wonder, though."

Varya did not feel like indulging his jests, and whatever Riddle was trying to get at, she knew it was nothing good. Still, the mischievous spark in his irises made her join him, "About what?"

"Which one of us was meant to be the villain of this story all along," discerned Tom. "After all, when a coin gets flipped, and one side finally faces the light, the other one submerges into eternal darkness."

With that, he grabbed her hand, bringing his lips to the bridge of her knuckles. The kiss was chaste, yet sublime, a teasing of a seraphic face, and even when Tom trailed down the side of her palm, Varya felt dizzy. He grabbed the injured side, glancing down at the cut before placing his mouth over it and repeating the gesture. When he lifted his head, his lips were stained crimson and depraved, and his tongue trailed them as he tasted her blood. The witch stiffened, trying to focus on the fact that it was part of the ritual.

Still, the moment seemed strangely intimate. As if after years of torment, Tom Riddle had finally tasted her blood, using it to channel the powers he had desired since the start.

With a tilt of his head, Riddle mused, "Your turn."

He brought his hand to her mouth, his other arm grabbing her waist to pull her closer. Petrov felt the coldness of his skin underneath the sheer textile of his blouse, and the hotness of his breath on her neck as Tom stood behind her. She placed her lips on the sanguine, the metallic aroma carrying a certain tartness that she attributed to his dark magic. Such sorcery imprinted the being, and through the mind baffling ecstasy it offered, Petrov felt the linking spell wrap like shackles around her wrists.

Riddle placed his head in the crook of her neck and one hand on her stomach, allowing her to finish what she was doing. His fingers dug into her sides, and for a second, the witch thought they were two puzzle pieces that settled into one. Heart drumming against her ribcage, willing to shatter into a mess of tissue and heresy if only to reach him, Varya could only hope that whatever Tom was planning on doing, he would reconsider.

She removed her mouth from his skin, twisting her head until her nose touched his disheveled locks. Riddle raised his face, leaning his forehead against hers, then moved to stand in front of the witch. Hands still on her waist, he advanced until her back was against the edge of the table.

"Now," he murmured, "the chant."

Latin had always been an arrow nested in her throat, a forgotten language used by the witches of the West and officialized as the sacred tongue of sorcery. Tom's incantation was nearly perfect, his tongue hissing the words with acidity, and Varya followed his pattern closely. The spell's power increased tenfold, extending to the objects behind her as the boy kept his eyes focused only on her. Always on her.

"That should do it," she breathed once the room's light dimmed as if darkness had taken a step closer towards her. Varya sneaked out of Tom's embrace, suddenly entirely aware of the heaviness of his stare.

The boy said nothing, though there was a spark of irritation marring his forehead. With dexterous fingers, he traced the contour of the pentagram, narrowing his eyes, and detached the Resurrection Stone from the hollow of his ring.

"The rest must stay as they are. If they are moved, the spell will be unbalanced and open to manipulation. It is a good thing that we performed this in the Ravenclaw Salon. I suspect your friends will not be interested in betraying you, and few other people have access," Riddle said, handing the Stone over to Varya.

"Which makes it easier for you to slither in without being spotted, correct?"

An infuriating smirk was etched on Riddle's face, something that spoke of terrible intentions. Obscurations swirled around his lapis irises, sinking deep into whatever rotten soul had been sculpted by his dark sorcery, a mockery of humanity.

"I suppose so," he derided, somewhat triumphant, somewhat conflicted. "After all, if that is what you think of me, then why should I not meet your expectations? Now, if you excuse me, I must find the Knights. That shield will go down any minute."

Varya did not miss the subtlety of his voice, as if there was a decision on the verge of being made, something that tethered the edge of reality. If Tom was at an impasse, the bifurcation between destruction and sanctification, then that meant he was still debating. As such, any impulse from her could be detrimental.

The girl watched him grab his robes from the divans, along with a silver mask that she had also seen on Elladora's bed that morning, and she wondered if that was the Knights' way of keeping their involvement unknown. After all, the battle would undoubtedly require them to use spells that the Ministry had prohibited, and as the descendants of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they still had a reputation to uphold. Tarnishing their legacy would do them no go.

"Wait," spoke Varya, an overwhelming urge to stop Riddle overtaking her.

Tom turned towards her, eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

"I might not trust you, but that does not mean that I have lost faith in you," stated the witch, hands clasped in front of her as she toyed with the skin around her nails, ripping it in turbulence. "Since the start, I have been the fool that thought you could be more than a cruel bastard, more than a tyrant that would destroy the world. And I am not certain you love me, not in the way I do, because perhaps you will never be able to. I do not expect you to say those words to me, or for us to be like any other couple that promenades around Hogsmeade. But I do know that you care for me the best that you can, in your own twisted way."

The warmth coming from the fireplace seemed to smother them, though it was nothing compared to the intensity of the wizard's stare, scalding in all ways that mattered.

"Yes," admitted Riddle. "You are right that I do care for you, but I care for my destiny just as much, and so choices have to be made. Besides, I do not want to be the one you settle for just to punish yourself for everything you have done."

"Is that what you think I am doing? Punishing myself by loving you?"

"That is what you told Rosier, that night in Hogsmeade. I had been listening," admitted Tom. "You believe that you do not deserve better than me."

The idea of being eavesdropped on made Varya's cheeks burn with mortification, her drunken words a faded memory, yet she pushed it aside. She straightened her back, trying to mimic confidence, although Tom Riddle had always managed to strike a reaction of uncertainty out of her.

"That was true, but—" her words seemed friable on her tongue, as if she wanted to say so much, yet no speech could carry the truth of it. "I did believe, at some point, that I loved you because I did not deserve more. I pushed Icarus away; I pushed Lev away, all so that I could come back to you and end up hurt. I know better now. I do deserve better. I deserve more than what you give me."

She wondered if, underneath the apathetic appearance, her words hurt him. Tom continued staring at her, one hand on the doorknob, ready to walk out and leave everything to chance. His body was half-turned away from the girl as if any mistake would chase him away.

"But I do know that, at every single step, you have been there. When I thought I had lost at Scholomace, you carried me and tried to bring me home. When the mavka had attacked me, you took me to the cave and healed me. When I almost killed you for hiding Ivy's death from me, you found a way for me to have peace." Varya talked fast, her heart speeding up which each word as she looked at him. "So, yes. You do not deserve me, but perhaps you have been working on that. I do not think you will ever be a hero, and I do not think you will give up your desires, yet you have not been the villain in my story for a long time."

The rumble of the sorcerers outside building defense posts was shattering against the reticence that fell between the two, and it made it easier to pick up the way Tom Riddle's breath had ceased coming out. Varya had never seen such rawness on the boy's face, as if she had managed to strip him of every layer of defense he had acquired through years of torment.

He blinked a few times before taking in a deep breath, trying to gather his wits. "How do I not know you are lying?"

"Because I chose you. Again and again, I always chose you," confessed Varya, pressing clammy hands against the material of her long skirt. "I am hoping this time you can choose me too."

Another few seconds ticked by, each of them pricking Petrov's resolve, weighing down on her ivory-padded shoulders. She had not changed from her breakfast clothes, and suddenly the exposed skin on her legs was entirely sensitive. It was covered in goosebumps as Riddle gazed at her. His eyes swirled with a mystifying awareness, one that would have the boy be Varya's undoing and her salvation all the same.

Her ribcage fluttered with a buzzing sentiment, something she had become entirely familiar with in his presence. Razor-winged butterflies. A furor of warmth crept along her linings, something that stung her and yet remedied like a blissful ointment. They sliced at her lungs, taking her breath away, before gliding to her abdomen, having the racket of vibrating wings mesh into the echo of a storm.

Then, Tom let his hand fall from the doorknob, and with rapid steps, he approached her. His hands gripped Varya's face, and for a moment, he stopped, eyes scanning her face as if to find a sign of deceit. The girl's arms found their way around his waist right as he lowered his lips onto hers.

He tasted as he always did, though the lingering tang of her blood was present. It was a mixture of something deadly and malicious, as though every blasphemous spell had been forever imprinted in the cherry skin of his mouth. With each movement of Tom's hands, Varya felt the snare tighten around her neck, daring her to take the plunge and the risk of falling for him further—his kiss was almost lethal.

For a woman to be held the way she was, with such possessiveness and desperation—something was marking in it. Almost every part of her was flush against him, and restless hands trailed the curve of her hips before knotting in her hair, pulling the witch closer. Desolation. Need. Desire. All fused in one indescribable sensation of everlasting sorrow, bitter-sweet angst, or perhaps an orchestra dipping in a minor key unexpectedly.

Though there was no emotion to summarize it, as Riddle tugged on her hair again, Varya thought about a few moments to describe what kissing him felt like. Socked feet on icy marble titles during a drizzly morning. A sweater that carried the fragrance of magnificent fantasies. Trailing hands over the page of a yellowed grimoire. The scent of burning after extinguishing a candle. Gawking up at a cupola covered in Renaissance paintings.

He let go of her, and that, too, felt like forever.

Tom glanced at her as if she was made of smoke, and though he might hold her for a few seconds, she would eventually fade into the shadowy light of the candles that adorned the walls. He lowered his head, glancing at her hands on his chest, before clearing his throat.

"The Knights are waiting for me," he stated, voice raspy, before stepping back. She felt cold all over.

"Go," she nodded, knowing that they could not be selfish with their time when a battle was coming. "I have to find Felix, anyhow. I gave Rosier the ring last night, and he was able to gain some closure. I suppose it is Parkin's turn."

Perhaps, Abraxas too.

Tom nodded, yet he said nothing, lips tight as he grabbed his mask again and turned to leave the room. Only once the door shut after him did Varya realize one thing.

He had never promised to choose her.

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Maxwell Nott could not recollect the last time he had felt so entirely hollow. Though, as he gazed towards Scarlet and Icarus and noticed them stealing fugitive glances while instructing the Blood Coven, there was an underline of bitterness that he could not shake off. He pressed his lips in a thin line, trying to focus on the weapon at his feet—a bow and arrows. Its presence seemed heavy, but not in a burdening way.

He had never murdered anyone before.

But as dawn continued to spread over the Viaduct, catching onto the tall turrets and casting shadows over the restless wizards and witches, Maxwell concluded that the act seemed not to be an option anymore. For years, Avery had protected him, taking the responsibility off of his shoulders and bloodying his already sullied hands. To the butcher, another head that rolled was as weightless as a feather.

Nevertheless, with the recent injuries the group had sustained, they needed all the power they could harness, and the Knights always functioned well when all of them worked together.

They had started as seven. There would always be seven.

Supporting each other through monsoons of viciousness, working like a multi-pieced horologe. Anything one lacked, another had—that is what Tom Riddle had seen in them, potential and sustainability. However, there was often discord amongst the ranks, as with any power-based group, especially amongst Elladora Selwyn and Nicholas Avery. The assassin had gone as far as cutting one of the poisoner's earlobes, and he had taken delight in it. Regardless, at the end of the day, they were united by something that pushed past human animosity.

Sometimes, Maxwell wondered if they were friends, though the word seemed meaningless compared to everything the seven of them had been through. Family did not quite cut it either, and though his vocabulary was extended, Nott found that it was almost impossible to describe their connection.

The twin doors that led to the Grand Hallway opened, and Maxwell spotted Tom Riddle striding through the crowds of students that Alphard had convinced to stay behind. They parted for him as if he were royalty amongst commoners, and the archivist almost smirked at the irony. Riddle might not have been the pre-defined image of an aristocrat, but he was a ruler in all ways that matter. Nott supposed that is why he had eagerly joined the Knights.

They shared the same insatiable thirst for knowledge, as if no sea nor land could stop either from finding the deepest workings of dark sorcery. Grimoires, artifacts, curses—they were all pieces of information. And while Maxwell rarely used them himself, Tom had no problem in succumbing to the immoral. Nott preferred collecting the knowledge.

Without as much as a glance, from all corners of the courtyard, the Knights stepped forward, dark robes dragging in the muddy snow as they followed their leader to one of the balconies that overlooked the rocky edge of the lake. With the natural light still low, they slithered through without attracting much attention, and in their hands, they all held one thing—a silver mask.

"Keep those on during the fight," instructed Riddle as soon as they surrounded him, his height well above the rest. The only one who competed was Rosier, though he was at least one inch shorter. The rest of them, except for Elladora, stood at 6 feet and two inches, something that Lestrange often complained about.

Abraxas frowned, "When do you expect that they will arrive?"

"As soon as the sun has appeared fully. The creatures should come first, taking the opportunity of the passing darkness. Grindelwald will come with them, though Dumbledore has assured us that that is a matter that will be handled," stated Tom, his voice as demanding and authoritative as it had always been. "I expect that the archers will manage anything that flies, and that means it is our duty to take on anything that crawls. Selwyn?"

"Yes?" Elladora answered fast, though there was something in her stare that threw Maxwell off. He could describe it as uncertainty, though what was eating away at her mind, he could not tell.

"Have you managed to finish the explosion brews?"

"They have been packed and sent to the front lines, archers and wizards. The healing potions were also distributed and placed strategically. Although," she frowned, "the quantity was sparse. With Beauchamp's demise, there was one less coordinator, and my injuries..."

Her words trailed off, and Elladora's face shifted in the distinctive way it always did, something between quizzical and judgmental. She despised admitting to weakness, even more so when it was to Riddle. As the only girl amongst the seven, the witch had always taken it to herself to work harder, to be better, crueler. Long eyelashes batted with culpability, awaiting to be reprimanded by Tom for not doing her part.

Instead, the leader nodded, "That will have to do, then. Try not to have a finger cut off, I suppose."

Selwyn's face flushed with surprise, and she flung her braided crimson hair over her shoulder, a gesture that Nott had observed on many occasions and attributed to nervousness.

Tom was not one known for forgiveness, nor for letting his disciples get off without a scolding. Although he did not terrorize them with torture too often, he had a way of disciplining them in other ways, some of which required a heavy load of training or preparation to make up for their mistakes. Few were the instances where he had tortured them himself, and if he did decide in doing so, it was Avery carrying the task. The assassin found it entertaining, to say the least.

Nevertheless, today there was something else bothering Riddle, and Maxwell noticed it in the habit of biting his cheek, or how he constantly let his eyes fly behind them. As Tom continued instructing them on how they would be placed along the castle perimeter, Nott allowed himself a moment to glance over his shoulder and follow his leader's line of sight.

In the doorway of the castle, Varya had gathered her own disciples, her frown deepening with each word that Ananke muttered. The empath clan had not been the most cooperative, not when they were not used to being surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces after years of seclusion. On her other side, Lydia Dimitrov conversed with Scarlet over something Nott could not read off of their lips.

And then Maxwell's eyes settled on him.

Lev looked much as he always did—the same brooding expression engraved in a marble-like visage. He had opted for a beige cardigan, though it was barely fitted, and Maxwell wondered if he had stolen it from Indra's drawers, trying to cling to the perishing fragrance she had left behind. The archivist knew that Rosier used one as his pillowcase.

A dark eye patch covered the eye that Maxwell had healed, though the scar peeked from underneath, marking his cheekbone. Still, his stare immediately found the archivist, almost as if his shadow had betrayed the gawking. Could shadows do that? Nott would have to research.

The eye contact lasted for a few seconds before Myung glanced away, suddenly far more interested in the sleeve of his cardigan. Maxwell almost snorted. He had never thought Lev to be the easily flustered sort.

"Nott?" Selwyn asked, suddenly attracting his attention. Maxwell shot her a questioning look, noticing that only she and Rosier had stayed behind, the rest of the Knights dispersing through the courtyard like phantasms.

"What is it?"

"We are stationed in the hallways," explained Rosier, and there was color in cheeks that had been sunken the previous day. Varya had given him the ring the previous night, letting him say his goodbyes. Nott had never seen Renold cry, but the chamber they shared had been rumbling with sobs, and though the archivist had moved to the Common Room, the wallowing carried through the echoing dungeons.

The boy looked back at the doorway. To his disappointment, Lev was no longer there, probably having faded into the darkness in an effort to oversee the arrangements on Varya's behalf. Maxwell's heart squeezed at the thought. Was it a selfish desire for him to want Myung to come to him? He was a reasonable person, and he knew the shadowmancer was grieving, but by sunrise, they could all be dead. And Maxwell wanted to hear what the boy had to say.

The sound of a piercing bird melody reverberated through the castle, and the three turned their head to see a raven plummet to the ground, its small body bursting in a mess of feathers and flesh upon impact. In its agony, one of its legs twitched with a parting tremble. Rosier winced before striding over to the animal and picking up a rock. He brought it down on its head, putting it out of its misery.

"Bad omen," mumbled Elladora, eyes trained upon the sky. "Am I the only one that is feeling quite nervous?"

Renold glanced up from his kneeled position, lips pursed, "Only those who fear death would be nervous."

"And you do not?"

"Death comes and takes as it pleases," his eyes glossed over, and the rumble of his sea-like irises carried sorrow. "Why fear the inevitable? I shall leave that to Riddle."

Nott snorted, extending a hand and helping his colleague up. He tried not to ponder over the way his form had thinned, or the way his steps stumbled—Renold was grieving, and he tended to be a destructive person. But he always bounced back. They always brought him back and anchored him to the world.

"I just—" Elladora shook her head, slowly pushing the dark hood off of her head, "I want to grow old; I want to have a family. And every day, I risk my life for something that, although I believe in, seems out of reach. A reform of the wizarding world? Sometimes, I forget we are still in our teenage years, yet I have spent most of my youth brewing potions for torture or an easy discard of witnesses."

"That is your anxiousness talking, Selwyn. We both know that as soon as this is over, you will be back to yapping at Riddle about the next strategy," sniggered Rosier, pushing back his dark curls out of his darkened eyes. "Let us be frank—it is not dying that you are worried over. Rather, you are concerned that Lestrange will be harmed without knowing of your feelings."

Flabergasted, Elladora spluttered, "That is not it at all!"

Maxwell shrugged, inclining his head towards Rosier as if to agree, "But it is. Should any of us die—"

"Do not say that!" The witch screeched, grabbing his arm before eyeing the raven. "It is not us who die. Never us. "

"Just go tell him, Selwyn. Merlin's sake, this conversation has been going on for decades," groaned Ren, throwing a hand over her shoulder and pulling her towards the ladder that led to the top of the Viaduct.

Maxwell allowed them to leave, his eyes scanning the gardens again before he spotted a corner darker than usual. The boy cleared his throat, then marched over, hands in his pockets as he tried to appear nonchalant. He saw the shadows try and slip away the moment he reached the pod of the walls, and with a quick flick of his hand, he shattered the illusion. Lev stumbled forward, face prickled with mortification.

"Running away?" Questioned Nott, lethargic stare taking in the boy. Lev straightened, dusting his cardigan with a quick sweeping motion, before focusing his good eye on the archivist.

He shook his head, eyebrows furrowing in a characteristic scowl, "Not quite. Merely trying to be of use by keeping tabs on our progress." Myung stiffened as Nott shot him an irritated look. "And perhaps, I have been relying on this job keeping me busy to avoid talking to you, yes. But it is for a good reason."

"And that is?"

"I have decided that, after all of this is done," he began, and the way he avoided Maxwell's eyes made the archivist's forehead crease, "I will be going back home, to my mother."

The world stilled for a second, though Nott wished it would have stopped for a few more, if only so he could keep his heart from crumbling like sand between his fingers. How foolish had he been to believe that Lev would stay? Even if Varya were to succeed, the shadowmancer would not continue lingering in a place that his sister had perished in.

And, perhaps, Nott should have had more empathy, but his following words were bitter. "So, that is your decision, then? You are leaving?"

The taciturnity that encompassed them seemed enough of an answer, and Maxwell wanted to grab Lev and make sure his other eyeball suffered too. Still, despite the bubbling resentment that seemed to tarry their relationship, there was some suffocating sentiment that the archivist had never experienced.

Heartbreak. A word that describes an overwhelming emotion of sadness, most likely attributed to the loss of something one might consider important. The noun is often associated with an almost physical sensation of pain.

For the first time since he had picked up the dictionary and tried to memorize definition after definition, Nott thought the clarification came short of the actual feeling. It was not physical pain that he felt in his abdomen, but something far more detestable. If he had to associate it with anything, it would be sinking despair, as if latches had wrapped around his limbs, slowly dragging him into the waves of heartbreak. It was suffocating, drowning in one's own misery and loneliness, two things Maxwell had grown tired of.

"You have some nerve, you know," he spat, trying to ignore the voice of reason that told him not to hurt Lev. But Nott had never wanted something like this; he had never been selfish enough to ask for anyone's heart. "You are—"

His tirade died on his lips, because Myung looked at him with such culpability that he could not stomach talking to him anymore. He pivoted on his heels, attempting to contribute to the growing distance between them, but Lev grabbed his forearm, stopping him. The shadowmancer moved like an obscuration, made of equal darkness and smokiness, and stopped in front of him.

"Wait. Maxwell, hear me out," he mumbled, low voice only deepening as he gazed down at the other boy. "My mum does not know—I could not tell her about Indra through an owl letter. She is expecting a brother and a sister, and I have to break it to her. I cannot think of anything else right now, not until I make sure she makes it through. Mother did not attend the funeral. She would have been overwhelmed. I wanted her to grieve in peace."

Maxwell felt like a fool.

"I—," he stumbled, "I am sorry. I did not know. I thought you were—"

"Leaving you? I am not. But I will be gone for a while, however long it takes for me to make sure that my family is all right. I only have my mother, and she only has me. It was not supposed to be like this, but it is my duty as a good son to be there for her," explained Lev, suddenly hyperaware of how his fingers were gripping Nott's arm. "And I do not want to give you an answer and make you feel as if you have to wait for me to get myself together."

It made an awful lot of sense, though it was an upsetting situation. Maxwell knew it was out of their hands, and he could only hope that Lev would be able to heal, and, perhaps, return.

"You said I have a terrible habit of fixing people, and you were right. I am manipulative, though not in the same way as Riddle or Avery, but that does not mean I am free of fault. And I am extremely sorry for what I did to you, truly," Myung took in a deep breath, his speech growing extensive. "But when I come back, I will be better, and then we can talk everything through."

Nott crossed his arms, glancing over Lev's shoulder as if contemplating over his words, even if he knew he would have never refused the boy. Snowflakes dribbled from the clouds above, turbid and unforgiving, and they caught in Myung's dark hair. The cold turned his pale skin a fragaria nuance, though Maxwell supposed it might have also been the infatuation that colored his onyx irises.

He wanted to answer, and tell Lev that, should they both survive and make it back home, their paths would intersect again. But just as he opened his mouth to reassure the other Slytherin, Maxwell spotted something plummeting from the skies.

Much like the previous one had, the raven smashed against the pavement, sanguine a painter's splatter on the ivory snow. Nott frowned, wondering what might have caused such a coincidence, and pushed past Myung to glance at the sky. From above, another bird crashed down, inky plumes scattering in the air.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Then, the trumpets of Armageddon sounded. They had arrived.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Elladora could almost spot him, teething around the edge of the forest with his wintertime hair and unmatched eyes. Grindelwald stood elegantly on the brink of horizon, fenced by acolytes that held like smoke figures in the bashing zephyr. Even from afar, the witch could sense the arrogance that clung to him as he stepped one foot through the protective shield, hands clasped behind his back.

The girl gripped the edge of the Viaduct, the make-shift balustrades that had been built by the fae folk holding her weight as she tried to lean forward and get a better look at whatever sauntered beyond the tree line. The structure wobbled, certainly not made to withstand such pressure, and she almost felt herself tip over before someone grabbed her forearm, pulling her back to the cemented over-bridge.

"Careful," muttered Felix, stabilizing her regardless of the awful stare she sent him. A bow was strapped over his shoulders, along with an arrow pouch. His light hair blew in the harsh breeze, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to keep them from watering. "Can you work an enchanted bow?"

"Wrong redhead," snarled Elladora, eyes sliding to the Blood Witch that stood by Icarus' side, muttering her last of encouragement to the Cover. If only she would be the one to fall over the edge. The poisoner twirled to shoot Felix's weapon a curious look.

"No," warned the boy, rising the bow above his head and out of her reach.

Elladora rolled her eyes, clasping her robe around her neck, before turning away from Parkin's infuriating face and striding over to Lestrange. The duelist's eyes were focused on the horizon, trying to keep track of the enemy's movements. Grindelwald had not moved again, as if waiting for something to fall—the shield.

The wind ruffled honey curls, and the boy bent over to pick an enchanted arrow. It had been Maxwell's suggestion—charming the dragon glass tips with a spell that would set the creatures on fire upon impact. It would work against the strzygas, but not with much else. Any terrain monsters would have to be handled by the students downstairs. Then, the acolytes would be taken one by one by the fae folk and empaths, as they did not want Hogwarts students killing actual people.

"Icarus," called out Selwyn, her leather boots pounding against the stone roof of the Viaduct.

Lestrange's eyes immediately went to her, and he shot the witch a pleasant smile that could have meant everything. Her heart thudded, but Elladora kept an impassive face before stopping by his side.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Jested the boy, dragging a hand through untamed curls regardless of the constant wind. The snow had somewhat settled, though it made it difficult for the spotters to track the movement of the woods.

Icarus was restless himself, nervous even—though he had slain monsters wearing the faces of humans, dark creatures had bested him before. There was proof all over his body. The scar that covered half of his cheek, one that Elladora had wanted to trace multiple times with dainty fingers, and feel the rough skin underneath as it contrasted with the softness of his lips. The two missing digits, which Tom Riddle had replaced with metal, could have run through her wine hair. She would not have minded the coldness.

Ideals and nothing more. Even now, standing before him, she felt like a foolish girl seeking comfort in imagination. That is what her story had been, after all—proof that love was not fair, and sometimes, regardless of intensity and devotion, two people simply would not click.

And so, she wanted to let it go, to rip the bandaid and move on. To better things. Or worse. Whichever soul decided to accept a ruthless siren with a temper, most would be considered improper for a lady of their time.

"I care for you," her lips moved fast, though each word came out clearly.

His smile was exalted, "I care for you too, Selwyn. We have known each other since forever and—"

"Not like that," Elladora cut him off, hands suddenly gripping the silver mask tightly, "I mean, I care for you in ways that poets want to write about. And I have done so for a long time, even if it hurt. Even if you constantly chose someone else and pretended I was not an option."

Lestrange stopped moving, and at that moment, she could pinpoint every freckle scattered over his features, punctured spots that traced maps to the sublime curve of his cheekbones. He glanced at her, face fallen, and she could see every concern that marred his forehead, emotions tracing his face like cursive writing. She had learned to read him in the years they had spent together.

"Elladora," his voice carried a warning that broke her heart.

Locks of red flew around as she shook her head and stepped back, eyes glistening with treacherous tears. Selwyn had told herself that she had smothered hope a long time ago, and that she had only come to find solace in the truth. What a wonderful jest—hope never truly left; hope was an invasive plant that seeded in the souls of the senseless, and Elladora Selwyn happened to be their monarch.

"Do not," the warning was vague. Do not break her heart more? Do not look at her as if she were a stupid girl seeking warmth in an already occupied bed? "I know what you are going to say."

"You cannot simply drop this on me and not expect me to answer. Besides, I feel as though I should at least give a proper explanation as to why I have never shared your feelings, if only so that you do not believe that you were not good enough," he inhaled deeply. "Because you are truly wonderful, Elladora. But we would tear each other down; we would drive each other up the walls."

She scoffed, "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"I have always needed love that was pure," Icarus tried to explain, taking a step towards her. "Someone that could ground me, and make me come home after whatever atrocity Riddle would have me commit. I thought Varya would be that once—a terrible mistake on my part. I murder people for a living, and frankly, I do not think I could ever let that go. It terribly corrupts you, and I always crave for more conflict, more violence. With you by my side, we would both cling to each other, and dive deep into whatever obscure crater the world designed for people like us."

"People like us?"

"Murderers. Liars. Manipulators." Icarus stated, lips pressing in discontent. "We need souls that are not like us—partners that would hold us back from becoming full-fledged monsters. Because if we renounce the last bit of light we have, then nothing will be able to save the rest of the world from us."

Elladora pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying to bite down on the flurry of words that she would have wished to throw at him. Even if he were correct in his assumption that they would ruin each other, he had thought the worst of her and her nature. Perhaps, Selwyn was indeed a woeful and vicious being, a serpent that would sink poisonous fangs in the weaker sort. That did not mean that she could not bring out the best in others.

A splashing sound caught her attention, and the poisoner tilted her head to glance at the bird that had impaled itself of one of the turrets, blood dripping to the floor. Icarus scrutinized it before scanning the welkin. A flock of ravens swirled in the highest point of the tinted sky, shrieks of terror reigning over the Hogwarts castle, and eyes of hundreds raised to see the moving swirl of blackened feathers.

Recognition flickered over Icarus' face, "Shit," he cursed. With a swift move, he grabbed the hilt of his blade before tossing Elladora another dagger. "The shield has fallen."

Agitation broke through as the birds started falling from the sky, coloring the ground in decaying colors, and the clouds darkened with death. Selwyn cast a shield over their heads, protecting them as they moved through the bloody top of the Viaduct. All around, members of the Blood Coven moved to grab arrows and bows, the hematic liquid that colored their faces barely distracting them from the tasks they were handling. Icarus loitered behind, honey eyes taking in the sight that suggested that the creatures had arrived.

A wallowing screech broke through, something so metallic that multiple students stumbled in their steps to cover their ears. It was animalistic, horrifying, and it made every hair on Selwyn's nape rise with trepidation. Through the commotion, she spotted something in the distance—like deformed hounds, running at their fast speed on all fours; the drekavacs' ghostly stretched skin seemed to almost break from the insatiable desire for blood that pulsed through their flesh.

Black smoke cascaded from the surroundings as Tom Riddle apparated at the top, his eyes glossed by something sinister. He stopped Icarus and Elladora with a raised hand, "The protection spells have been deactivated. Apparition works on the castle's perimeter."

One by one, the rest of the Knights appeared by his side, all dressed in funeral black—as if they were prepared for whatever terror might await them on the other side. Abraxas' face carried the usual irritation he was known for; Maxwell's eyes twinkled with the faintest agitation; Avery held one dagger in each hand; Rosier had a trickster smirk nested on his face. They all gathered together, their dark garments fluttering in the harsh wind, and Riddle's voice barely held over the whooshing sound of the breeze.

"Masks on," his order was swift, and they followed, covering any trace of their identity with a silver ornament.

Through the holes meant for her eyes, Elladora analyzed the group that surrounded her. She could still tell them apart, even with their hair covered by the hoods and the features hidden—that is how well she knew the Knights.

"Remember to keep them on at all times. Even if they figure out it was our group that cast those forbidden spells, they will not be able to pinpoint who exactly committed the crime. Should we find ourselves in front of a jury, they will never be able to place the blame on one of us, and will be forced to let us go." Tom began walking ahead, and they all followed behind, steps fast to get to the ground. "When Aleksander comes, even if he does get a vision of who will attack, he will never be able to tell which one of us he saw. By sparring him together, we keep the element of surprise. That Seer will not best us again."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The courtyard buzzed as witches and wizards prepared for the first attack, wands held in clenched fingers and faces impassive. Scattered amongst them, the few Scholomance students that had come pushed forward, hands slashing their skin and letting blood drip as they painted runes and sigils all over the walls. Lydia Dimitrov stood at the beginning of the bridge, palms facing the sky as she chanted rigorously, tousled dark locks covering a beautiful face. The torches that illuminated the sides flickered and rose, flames burning vividly as the structure rumbled.

The drekavacs broke through the first pillars, their bodies tumbling over the obstacles and pikes placed by the fae folk. Like rabid hounds, they foamed at the mouths, delirious and terrifying. The human-like bodies were twisted in all sorts of positions, some walking with their knees bent backward, others crawling like spiders over the structure.

From above, Scarlet Norberg's prominent voice rang out, "Fire!"

Like a wave of mist, arrows pulsed through the surroundings, the sound of slicing rivaling the wailings of the creatures as they punctured their rotten skin. Another round fired almost immediately, postponing the advance, but few of them managed to slither through and reach the courtyard.

A fire-like spell of dark flames caught them right as they attempted to pounce on Lydia, her eyes still mystified as she tried to have the structure collapse. Varya's figure emerged from the smoke; fear etched on her expression as she looked at the withering beasts. They turned their ravenous eyes to her, and she counted at least five of them that began running simultaneously. The Eastern witch pivoted on her feet, dashing through the covered potions of the courtyard, trying to have them focused on her.

One by one, the Scholomance students appeared through the window-like openings, their lips susurrating banishing spell after banishing spell, trying to capture the monsters. Varya heard the sizzling sound behind her as the drekavacs' bodies burned in hellfire, only one of them managing to push through and jump on her back.

She crashed to the floor, her forehead colliding with the cold pavement right as the creature slashed at her back, tearing the robe and drawing blood. Pushing the pain away, the witch turned and gripped it by its neck, pressing until it began trashing in her hold. Eyes flickered to white right as black viscosity emerged around her, hooks of her Obscurus sinking deep into the creature and tearing, slashing, cutting. It dismembered it limb by limb, and Petrov's ears rang with a grotesque cry.

Varya moved backward on the ground, gasping at the dark stickiness that coated her shirt, and she cleaned the creature's blood with a quick spell before flashing panicked eyes to the body that had already started reassembling. Right as it got back to its feet, a blade pushed through the drekavac's chest, and flames captured its moving body. It fell at Petrov's feet before pulverizing into ash.

Lydia moved forward, tall boots squeaking as she kneeled down and offered Varya a hand, "The bridge collapsed, but a few creatures managed to infiltrate the castle."

Pulling herself upward, Varya nodded before pushing forward, eyes drawn to the skies, where strzygas circled the highest towers, claws digging in the titles and having them topple over the fae folk that scaled the structures to cut their wings off.

She turned toward Dimitrov, "Bring the dragon."

With that, she ran towards the surrounding walls of the courtyard, gripping the ladder that led to the upper part of the Viaduct, and climbed slowly. At the top, the wind was rough, almost making her stumble in the make-shift balustrade. Varya narrowed her eyes, robes flapping around as she moved through the wizards that dashed around her, reloading their weapons before firing to the sky. Towards the end of the wall, she saw Scarlet's red cape right as a strzyga sunk its claws in her shoulders, throwing her over the fence.

"No!" The shout came through from Varya, and she glanced over the railing, expecting to see Norberg's corpse splattered over the pavement.

Instead, darkness enveloped her form, and two bodies tumbled to the ground in an ameliorated fall. Lev groaned as his back hit the edge where the bridge had fallen, and Scarlet clung to his body, holding for dear life. She scrambled away, before shooting eye daggers at the brute that swooped down to attack again.

"You little shit," Scarlet spat, grabbing the bow from the ground and aiming a fire arrow right in the beast's heart. It plummeted right into one of the windows, sending shards everywhere right as Lev's shield of shadows encompassed them, making the glass ricochet around.

From the top of the Viaduct, Varya clung to the edge, trying to avoid the aerial assaults. A strzyga grasped a man from behind the witch, and his scream sounded through as he was carried towards the sky. A pack of beasts surrounded him, sinking fangs in his flesh and ripping. They shredded him piece by piece, throwing chunks in the air before catching them in their mouths.

Magic pulsed underneath Varya's skin, a ticking clock of destruction, as she ran down the path of the roof, crumbling ruin resonating behind her as the creatures dove into the sides, capturing humans and tearing them apart. The edge of the top was a few steps away from her, and she sped up.

Then, she jumped.

For a moment, the falling motion turned her stomach, right before the surroundings exploded in darkness and the Obscurus soared into the air. Her body stood in the center. An eddying figure and white irises could be spotted through the haze of blackness, and tentacles of shadows sliced the atmosphere.

The strzygas screeched as limbs of obscurity caught against their forms, crashing them into the walls of the castle. They squeezed and sliced until every bit of the creatures had been cut, and then the Obscurus gathered them into a sphere of shadows. The snow below had been covered in dark spots of blood, a blanket of sinister mortality, and Petrov's magic dove down, crashing the strzygas into the pavement until they were nothing but liquified flesh.

The darkness soared back to the towers, clinging to the tiles of the castles and trashing around. A magnificent roar of thunder and lightning covered the horizon as granite clouds stomped out the sun like the meaningless end of a cigar, and the uproar of the wind whirled by as Varya's body reappeared on the roof, hand holding onto the pointed end of the structure. Her eyes scanned the horizon, where winged creatures emerged from the woods like a battalion of demons, and then below, where bodies had already started pilling up.

Through the fallen, she spotted a few familiar faces. Trelawney, a student that had begun training under the Death Eaters months before, was a broken vessel in the yard, her limbs shattered as a drekavac dug into her abdomen, rummaging for more to feats upon. Three pillars down, one of Della's former roommates had been impaled on a pike by a strzyga, and they were currently circling her body like vultures.

The ground rumbled, and Varya's feet skid down the roof as she toppled. Her nails dug into the tiles, bloodied and ruptured, trying to cling to it as the Romanian Longhorned Dragon emerged from the rocky edge of the cliff. Its wings spread wide open, slamming into the bodies of the strzygas right as it breathed fire into a flock that neared Hogwarts. Lydia clung to its back, sneer on her face as she held a dragon glass blade in one hand, decapitating a strzyga that had approached the dragon's back. Its tail flicked at the ones that had surrounded the dead body of students', sending the creatures flying backward, and then the dragon landed on the ground, fire breath scalding the demons until they were nothing but ash.

Varya slid down the roof before shifting into her Obscurus form and slithering through the bridge that connected the towers, plucking every monster that had started banding on the windows and trying to invade the castle. A glass panel erupted from the right, and a fae folk was flung over the edge, plummeting to his death. In the opening, a ghoul howled, crawling on the top as it spotted the Obscurus.

It launched itself forward, the cannibalistic human-turned-monster slashing claws to grab at Varya, but the blackening tentacles reached for it and smashed it against the Astronomy Tower. It hit the middle of the half-open room, broken bones snapping into place as it shot the witch another demented look. Right as it prepared to dive for her again, a fire spell hit from behind, and though the beast attempted to run, it crumbled to the floor in a pile of ash.

Varya landed on the balcony, eyes locking with Tom as she took in the confident movement of his wand. He wore his mask, but she could tell it was him. His stare settled on her, "There are ghouls in the castle. It is carnage."

"How did they even get in there?" Petrov inquired, already moving past the boy and down the stairs.

Riddle followed closely behind, and it was undeniable how her magic seemed to increase in his presence, the linking spell entirely potent. She felt that, if she touched him, Varya might let her dark magic control her instead of the other way around, as if two halves would meet in the destruction of everything.

The corridors echoed with sounds of spells and screams of terror, along with the muffled screech of something inhumane. Candles flickered as Varya and Tom moved through the passage, and the witch took notice of every portrait that had been slashed by the creatures. Students ran up and down the stairs, pushing and shoving as dust from the broken balustrades tumbled from above.

A ghoul jumped over the edge of the moving staircases, a limb dangling from its bloodied mouth as it stopped a few feet away from Varya and Tom.

Translucent skin was stretched oddly over enlarged bones, and as the being stood on its two back heels, the girl noticed its impressive height, somewhere at eight feet. Sunken eyes had burst blood vessels surrounding a hollow that should have been the iris, a marking of the beast's blindness. Its spine could be seen through the thin skin, and putrified portions of skin dangled from its face.

"Do not move," whispered Varya as the creature crawled forward, sniffing around the air to find another pray.

A fire spell would have sent the surroundings up in flames, as the open windows allowed more oxygen to fuel the burning, and the curtain provided splendid material for arson. They had to evacuate the castle or isolate the upper floors before even thinking about destroying the ghouls.

The creature moved past them, not sensing their presence as it dashed down the corridor after another student. Varya breathed out, though her hands were shaking. Doubt started to encompass her mind. The castle was infested with monsters, and Grindelwald had not even arrived.

Right on cue, the structure seemed to rumble in an earthquake-like manner, and Tom caught Petrov, stabilizing her and pulling her near a window. "Something is happening to the bridge," his voice was soothing, familiar, and she wanted to sink into it.

Outside, the bridge that Lydia had managed to destroy began reassembling itself, stone by stone. Footsteps tarried behind the motion, calculated and precise, and dozens of acolytes dressed in their most delicate garments marched down the structure in an arranged pattern. Amongst them, Gellert Grindelwald walked haughtily, eyes lacquered with an indescribable amount of power. He seemed more myth than human, a ghost that haunted Varya's memories, tormenting her until queasiness consumed her whole. His robes were elegant, pressed, and though he moved amongst creatures and beasts, they made no move to attack. They served him in Dalibor's name.

At the other end of the bridge, draped in his ever-present beige vest and with his hands clasped behind his back, stood Albus Dumbledore, waiting for a duel that would indeed be written down in history volumes. There was confidence and arrogance in his demeanor, a flare for something wicked.

Varya frowned, "I have to get there and take the Elder Wand."

Tom's eyes seemed dazed by greed underneath his mask, "I shall clear the path for you."

His movements were absurdly refined, a coordination that Petrov had never seen in another wizard. Riddle glanced down the corridor, spotting the few creatures that clogged the path, dashing up the stairs to attack another wandering student or devoted fae folk. The wizard spotted a pixie-like fae girl trying to push a strigoi off of her, and he flicked a spell in their direction, blasting them both into the wall. The witch got knocked out, but the strigoi shattered into bits.

Tom rose the blade up before bringing it down onto his palm and cutting deeply. Crimson stained an otherwise unblemished skin, seeping through the cracks that would have made fortune tellers quiver with awe, and sanguine dripped down to the flooring.

One by one, every strigoi in the hallway turned its eyes to Tom, ravenous for darkly tainted blood. They got up from the cadavers that they had desiccating, turning towards the sorcerer, who only hoisted a ridiculing eyebrow at them. At once, they strove into motions, throats rasping with screams of need, of hunger. They were demented creatures, and their vivacious desire would never cease.

Nevertheless, Riddle's spell was faster, and abyss began burning at the edges of the corridor, as if something had started eroding the universe, opening portals to voidness. A blasting wind ravaged the Hogwarts' halls, and the candles extinguished with a lethargic move of Tom's hand. In the darkness, something abnormal occurred—a wailing sound drummed against Varya's eardrum, having the witch press hands against her head. Something slithered through the shadows with serpent moves, though it could not possibly be a basilisk.

A hissing sound echoed, and then the screeching sound of the strigoi slowly dimmed as they fell down one by one. Tom extended his hands, and the candles flickered back to life. Through the returning light, Varya could only spot the black tail of something disappearing through a portal-like structure.

"What was that?" Petrov inquired, moving towards the boy.

"A zmeu—mythological serpents that emerge from the underworld when called upon by a selfish sorcerer," he hummed, voice laced with fascination. "Common in Romanian tales, they often feed upon greed, and I supposed blood-lust might do the trick."

"You supposed?"

"There was not exactly time to ponder over the mechanics, and the translation is up to interpretation, Petrov."

With that, he began descending the stairs, trying to find another creature to test his dark magic on. Varya followed behind, running through the castle to try and reach the bridge. She pushed the main doors, the cold air of the courtyard turning her limbs frigid. The waft that transversed the clearing was potent—a mixture of blood, dirt, and something repugnant that twisted the stomach. Grindelwald's acolytes had moved through, and the empaths had finally joined the battle, hands ungloved and eyes wary.

The western magic proved to be a weakness point for them, and Hogwarts students had had to join as a protective addition, casting counter-course after counter-course. They were tired—it was visible of their faces, covered in carmine and mud, clothes shredded and eyes lacquered with fierceness. Varya thought she had never seen her classmates like this, so devoted to protecting something that they had determined to be their home. With most of the creatures down or being held back by the dragon, they seemed to be gaining more and more terrain, though the worst had not come yet.

As if she had summoned them, two figured emerged in the midst of the chaos, twin flames of the corrupt nature. Aleksander Dolohov seemed terribly bored, yet Ophelia Evergreen was entirely focused on the disaster around her, as if she could not quite believe the image before her. The castle that had been the only normal part of her teenage years was up in flames, creatures dangling from shattered windows and bodies piling around the outer fields. Still, there was a deadness in her stare, as if no emotion ever fazed her much.

Petrov felt her feet rooted in her spot as Aleksander settled malicious eyes on her, his lips pulling in a dominant smirk before raising a mocking eyebrow. The memory of his hands spelling the rabbit skin to Varya's face burned and vexed the witch, even as a shudder of terror ran up her spine. Evergreen had disappeared into the crowd, and as Varya tried to find her and stop her from whatever destruction she was about to cause, Dolohov intercepted her path.

"Not so fast, my dear old classmate," Aleksander mused, his jeer scratching against Varya's patience. "I came back to finish what I started in those woods. Reckoned I should try my hand at stitching that pretty face of yours with an actual needle this time."

Infuriated, Varya cast a curse his way, though it was easily intercepted. Every move she made to advance, he made two to push her back, his hand quick to banish anything that might have harmed him. Then, both of his hands slashed forward, sending a wave of sorcery that made Petrov fly through the courtyard, her back hitting one of the pillars that held the Viaduct.

A groan escaped her lips as her vision dimmed, and there was pain everywhere, as if Aleksander had somehow managed to fire up every nerve in her body. Something burned intensely in her abdomen, sorcery that seemed to boil her inside out, and Varya felt a dribble of something wet from her eyes, nose, and ears. She reached out with a shaking hand, touching her darkened blood and feeling its texture—a curse.

"Now, as soon as Ophelia manages to find the Gryffindor Sword and destroy that cheap necklace of yours, this curse will do more than just have you weakened," Aleksander moved towards her slowly, each step deliberate.

Although Varya knew that her magic was tied to the dark artifacts and therefore would not destroy her, she would still be susceptible to whatever Aleksander had done to her. She had to find Scarlet and ask her to reverse the blood curse. She would be the only one strong enough to do it.

But Dolohov crowded her like a hyena, his smile demented and his moves lethargic, and Varya barely managed to stand to her knees before he kicked her back down again. She whimpered, trying to wipe the blood tears from her face and stand up, but her vision became unclear, and there was pain everywhere. The Obscurus sizzled underneath her skin, but each time she tried to unleash it, Dolohov kicked her in the stomach again.

She grabbed a rock from the ground and tried to maul his face, but Aleksander caught her wrist and put pressure on it until it broke. Varya cried out, and he tutted, "You cannot surprise me, witch."

"But I might be able to."

The Seer turned to face the masked figure that stood behind him, a shadow of flickering malice, and there was mischief swirling in azure eyes, something lazy and insidious. In his hands, the boy twirled a wand, though it seemed to be more of an accessory than anything, and long fingers skimmed the wooden hilt.

Aleksander scoffed, "I am about to have you scream for the gods' mercy, boy."

"I am an atheist, do your best."

With that, the masked figure moved backward, having Dolohov follow him from the shadows and into the clearing. The sound of boots stomping in the snow attracted Varya's attention, and she noticed six other silver beings move forward as if they had been birthed from void and obscurations. All of them were identical, with robes covering any strand of hair that might have suggested color, and their features hidden beyond a silver ornament.

They circled Dolohov, making the Seer frown as he took in the spectacle of seven demon-like forms surrounding him. He twirled in his spot, taking each of them in with a lopsided grin. The boy could not tell them apart, though his arrogance persisted, a veil hiding the quickening of his pulse.

Even as identities remained concealed, the vigor beneath was undeniable, as if sorcery bowed before the group of skilled mages. Varya discerned the Knights had gathered to take on the Seer, and she used the pillar as support to her weight, which attracted Aleksander's attention. He tried to turn towards her, but one of the figures raised their hand, stopping him from advancing.

"Hurt her again," Tom's voice broke through, "I dare you."

Dolohov crooked his head, "Sensitive, are we?"

"Not as much as your nerves will be once we are done with you."

At once, Varya understood why Riddle had come up with the idea of the masks. She had thought that it had been to hide their identities, but it had been for something else entirely. In unspeakable ways, the Knights wanted to harm Dolohov, to torment him in plain sight with spells that should have only been muttered in the darkest hours. They had reserved the worst for him.

Not Dalibor, who had declared war upon Hogwarts.

Not Ophelia, who had injured all of them to weaken their powers.

No—only Aleksander, because it had been him that had tortured Varya in that forest, turning a battle into something far more personal. He had tried to ridicule the witch, to harm more than her body. Therefore, the Knights would do the same to him. Except, they were far more terrible than Aleksander Dolohov could ever be.

"Crucio."

Dolohov tried to pivot and fly out of its way, expecting it to come from the right. Instead, he was blasted with the curse from the left, and he fell to the ground upon impact, thrashing like a maddened creature. The agony was evident from the way saliva gathered down his chin, and bulbous eyes stared at the sky in a pleading manner. Another person cast the torture curse, amplifying the terror, and Varya had to turn her head away. The sight was nauseating, though there was little pity in her mind.

The Knights pointed their wands at Aleksander together, and ropes wrapped around each limb, as well as his torso and torso. Only Riddle stood by, watching with a vulture-like greed for flesh and vengeance. The tilt of his head was paradoxical, as if he was dissecting some small specimen for his own curiosity. Immobilized and under the torture curse, the Seer would never be able to focus on whatever his powers would bring.

Tom stepped forward, "I would have extended this episode of torment, but time seems to be pressing today, as you have so graciously cursed Petrov. And now I have to deal with that as well. So, farewell."

Then, with a slice of his wand, he decapitated the boy, putting an end to his misery.

Varya gazed at the corpse, and she swore there was recognition in Aleksander's eyes as his head rolled toward her feet. Vengeance was a pyrrhic thing—fragile and frivolous. She stumbled forward, gripping onto one of the figures who, by the chosen perfume, might have been Abraxas.

"Ophelia is looking for the Gryffindor Sword to destroy the Horcrux," she mumbled at once, "And I must find Scarlet to get rid of the curse."

"I heard her voice around the Dungeons," pipped in Rosier, moving to help Varya stand up, "I will help you find her."

Riddle nodded, though reluctantly, "Avery and I will find Evergreen and stop her."

"Do not kill her," spoke Petrov, earning a bewildered look from Tom, who had taken off his mask.

"Why not?"

"Take Ananke with you—she has a better plan for Evergreen," the Eastern witch managed to get out before Renold pulled her to the entrance.

The castle was dusky, broken. The joyous radiance of youth no longer submerged Varya's worries in marmalade euphoria, replaced instead by a capsizing sensation of desperation. Each step forward felt like a funeral march as the curse made everything double, her ears whirring with a ringing echo. Buzzing numbness overtook everything, and the blood under her fingernails had dried. A knot formed in her throat. Her heart drummed. She felt light.

A dream in a dream—the world spun to a melody she could no longer hear, though the notes caressed her skin to a blissful slumber. They passed hollow portraits, destroyed classrooms, burned tapestries, and everything seemed to move in bullet time. Hogwarts was a carcass, and they tripped on its bones with each set of stairs they took to reach the Dungeons.

"Stay awake," muttered Rosier, worry creasing his forehead. "You still have a long fight ahead."

"I am tired."

"I know you are, but we cannot stop. Not until we find Scarlet."

The quietness of the catacombs was unnerving. It felt the same way being buried alive might have—deep into the womb of silence, an unforgiving mother. Scratches colored the stone walls, deep indents leaving markings that should have served as a warning, but were pushed aside by Varya's dizziness. Arched steps led further down until they reached the main corridor, a dim space with austere portraits that had been emptied.

Nothing moved in the faint light, though the shadows were a hiding cocoon for an iniquitous larva to evolve into a terrible nightmare. A slight movement caught Petrov's eye, but spots were promenading around her vision everywhere, which made her uncertain. Her blood tainted the floor, sipping through the crack of the triangle pattern that reached the end of the corridor. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Silence.

"Are you certain Scarlet is here?" Varya whispered, feeling the hair on her nape rise as if something were watching her from above. She tried to raise her head and glance upwards, but the motion was inhibited by the pounding in her ribcage as the surroundings spun.

"Yes," muttered Rosier, though his eyebrows creased in suspicion, "I heard her."

Varya stopped breathing.

"You heard her, or you saw her?"

Renold seemed to consider the question for a moment as if Petrov was crazed for distinguishing the two in such a manner. Then, the blood drained from his face right as another voice cut through the empty dungeons.

"Petrov! Rosier! I am here!"

The voice sounded almost like Norberg, though it carried a certain airiness that made it seem a blossom plucked from a dream—or nightmare—and Varya shot Rosier a desperate look. She had assumed that the ghouls had stuck to the upper floors, but they had always preferred damper, darker places. The sound of something dragging along the ceiling made the witch's breath catch with fear, and she avoided moving for a second before realizing that, even with their blindness, they could still find her.

She was covered in blood, and they could smell her.

"Run," Petrov rasped, barely managing to push Rosier forward and cling to his robes, "Run, now!"

They started dashing down the hallways, screeching sounds bellowing and echoing until it was hard to determine where they were coming from. Something almost caught onto Varya's robe, and she discarded it, not wanting to give them anything to claw at. Her feet felt heavy, and even as Rosier pulled her forward, she felt as if every step was torment. There was the pestering sensation of being in a carousel, a merry-go-round that made her insides twist with a pang of anguish. Her hands tried to hold to the metaphorical twister, clinging for dear life, yet finger by finger, the witch began to slip away.

Above them, to the sides, and behind—the creatures pounced from wall to wall, deformed and broken members leaving trails of cardinal on the stone, and as they neared, the pungent stench of cadavers seemed to catch up with the two Slytherins. Rosier turned the corner, dragging Petrov after him and trying to drag her to cover, but a ghoul grabbed her by the hair, pulling her backward.

Renold cast a fire spell, though it singed Varya's shoulder as well, making the witch scream with agony before the boy managed to haul her away. Through her pain, Petrov cast a spell down the corridor, causing all doors to slam open and hit the ghouls. It slowed them down, but they recovered almost immediately before springing into action again.

They would not make it back to the staircase, not with her curse slowing her movements as her heart began to feel the pressure of having to beat harder to keep her conscious.

"You have to go," shouted Rosier as they passed the portrait of Elizabeth Burke, who watched them with terror a moment before her canvas was ripped to shreds by a passing monster. "You have to find Scarlet and then get the Elder Wand from Dumbledore, Varya."

Through huffs and puffs, the witch managed to argue, "My Obscurus cannot kill them, only fire can. And there have to be at least six or seven—I cannot take on that many. They are catching up with us."

"I know," the way he said it seemed ambiguous, "That is why I will distract them while you run up the staircase."

It might have been the way her world was starting to slip away, or the continuing thudding of her heart in her chest as if it would burst out, but the witch felt utterly perturbed then. Apprehension overwhelmed her, and she shot Rosier a pleading look as his marine eyes locked on her.

"That is ridiculous. If I cannot take them then—"

"I know."

"Stop it, Rosier. Please," her voice broke as the boy pushed her away. She stumbled in her steps, clinging to a tapestry to support herself. Her eyes watered, and she paled entirely as Renold gave her a determined look. "You are grieving, but this is not the end for you. I promise, Ren—you can be happy. Please."

The ghouls screeched down the corridor, and Ren shot another spell down the path, illuminating the monstrous faces that approached. Fangs glistened in the faint light as an echo of mortality ravaged the surroundings. A know twisted in Varya's stomach, and she gasped as the world muffled for a few seconds, her blood pressure falling too low. The curse would have her immobilized any moment.

"Go!" Ren yelled as his wand trembled in his hands—he was afraid too, even if he tried to seem composed. "This is not about merriment, Varya. It is not about me thinking my life is worthless, because I do not. Indra showed me that, and she also showed me that there was hope in this world, so this is not me giving up. Do not think I am giving up, Petrov."

"Rosier, please," Varya wailed as a ghoul catapulted itself towards them, and Renold cast another fire spell, having it blow up in smoke and flames.

He shot her a desperate glance, "You promised me," his words were pleading. "You promised they would pay for that they did. You have to get out of here, and if I distract them, you might make it."

Backing up in fear, Varys tumbled over something, and as she glanced down, she saw multiple corpses scattered over the floor. They had been torn limb by limb, chunks ripped until ivory shone from underneath, and their Hogwarts robes glistened in the fading light of Rosier's spells. The creatures were gaining ground with each passing second, ravenous desire to add to the cemetery that had once been a school hallway. The corpses' faces were twisted in agony, a last cry for whatever hope they had had for salvation, but the Ministry had given up on them. The wizarding world had turned its back to the massacre. Their deaths would be in vain, should Petrov not make it out of the dungeons.

The blood seemed to fall down her cheeks faster, though Varya discerned there were tears of grief for the wizard that continued to fight across from her. Renold Rosier—a melancholic boy that had suffered at the hands of his parents' carelessness, a brother who had lost, a lover who had mourned. He had spent nights awake, eyelashes brushing his cheeks as sleep never seemed to come, for though his words were usually filled with jests and ridicule, his mind was wise beyond measure. Rosier had been the first to show Petrov compassion; he had been her first ally.

"Thank you," her nose seemed stuffed, the surroundings dimmed. Rosier barely shot her a look, too preoccupied with the creatures.

Varya got up, though every muscle fought against the movement, not wanting to leave the boy behind. Everything seemed to slow down, and even as the curse weakened her powers, she managed to cast one last spell—a chain ritual, something that would allow her to take on the pain from Rosier as he met his fate.

He shot her a look, "She is waiting, Varya."

Ren might have been talking about Scarlet, but the witch doubted that.

With one last look behind her, Petrov cried and managed to move forward, the staircase at the end of the corridor seemingly too far for her. She heard Rosier's fight behind, incineration after incineration as the ghouls tried to approach. The world twirled, it contracted and expanded as color seemed to fade, and Varya continued weeping, raven locks clinging to a wet face as her steps wobbled. A screech roared through the dungeons as a ghoul seemed to break through Ren's continued defense finally. Pain bubbled in Varya's leg, as if something was tearing apart her limb, though she knew it was not her that was getting attacked.

She screamed, but he did not.

Petrov fell to her knees at the beginning of the stairs and crawled upward using all the strength she had left. The rotting smell of the corpses behind seemed to fade, and her throat rasped with shouts of agony as she moved forward. The door was a hand's reach away when another sensation overwhelmed her, this time in her arm. Varya gasped, sweating all over. She wanted to give up, but she could not. She had promised.

The taste of nightmare plagued her tongue, and through delirium, she felt her consciousness shift to a long-forgotten memory of another hallway, one of Nott's Manor. Now, the face of the last victim seemed clear as daylight.

Her jaw clenched, and though blood, sweat, and tears fused in, determination pushed her to the last step. She opened the door, not daring to look back, for she felt it all. The pain started to dull, and she knew. The corridor of the upper level was cold, though the absence of agony was numbing. Varya pulled herself upward with a struggle and closed the door behind.

There should have always been seven, but fate had its ways of punishing the wicked.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

i wont make a joke about this one because it hurt a lot.

btw please stop reposting the fanart for TSD without crediting avendell or my story <3 and do not put filters over the drawing, it is so disrespectful.

have a great day!