CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

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The tie was snug around Tom's neck, pressing on his veins as he moved fast hands to loosen it. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, took in the sunken eyes and lilac patches blossoming underneath blanched skin—an unfortunate consequence of sleep deprivation. His curls toppled over as he felt his muscles cement, and Riddle pressed a clammy hand against his forehead, dabbing the slight perspiration away. The sickly nuance of his bloodshot irises haunted him from the mirror, but he paid little attention to it, too focused on the way Icarus Lestrange struggled with his polished black shoes.

"Shit," the soldier cussed, stumbling backward against his bed and pushing his foot inside the shoe, "Have my feet swollen or something? Bloody Hell, we cannot be late for the funeral ceremony."

Across the room, Abraxas stood by the window that looked out towards the Black Lake, watching sirens bang against the glass panel with a flurry of enraged fists. The Death Eaters had returned to Hogwarts a week after the slaughter in London, voices hushed and minds whirring with agitation. Each day seemed to be on borrowed time as if the clock had begun melting and scalding their hands, craving for conflict and bloodshed. Tom knew that he had smothered the ticking seconds, accelerating Grindelwald and Dalibor's arrival, yet seven days strolled by, and the universe was silent.

    The first warning of danger had always been silence.

Still, that did not mean that Tom had allowed the moments to pass by meaninglessly. He had been scheming, trying to make a chess game out of his Knights, each one a valuable pawn that would help crumble the other King. The only problem was that, with the empty space that had been allowed for grief between the Death Eaters, there had been no moments for Riddle to have Varya alone by his side.

He glanced down at his finger, toying with the ring as if it almost burned through his flesh and to his bone. For a second, his mind performed a trick on him, and he saw veins of necrosis elongate from the jewelry and up his arm. The boy promptly banished the imagery from his psyche. The curse could not affect him. It was only a jest from the soul that had nested in his nightmares, demanding payment for her services. Ivy Trouche had always been a thorn in Riddle's side, but the dark magic that had bound their pact had allowed her to torment him until he paid his dues.

Tom drew in a sharp breath, feeling the pinch of pain inside his chest. He had not been sleeping well, not with a demon of his past haunting the cathedral of his sins, delving deep within his psyche and triggering unwanted dreams. Ivy had been tormenting him slowly, and although she could not harm him physically, she had sure managed to affect his daily routine.

After Tom had failed to find a moment of solace to give Varya the ring, he had been obliged to nest Ivy's soul inside his Horcrux. That had given her ground to work with, and the wizard knew he had only so much sanity left before he dissolved her spirit into nothingness. He had to find a way to talk to the Petrov heir today.

"I find it pointless," spoke Icarus again, not picking on the tautness of Malfoy's shoulders or Riddle's lack of care, "They buried Beauchamp in London, Indra's body shattered into sunlight, and as far as Ananke goes, her corpse was never found."

Tom's eyes skimmed the nightstand that nested between his bed and Malfoy's, separating their work areas. On top of the oak surface stood a dark envelope that bore the four Hogwarts houses' sigil, and near it, an invitation to attend a ceremony for the three parted souls. Headmaster Dippet had invested funds into raising a cathedral in honor of their sacrifices, the only thing he could do as long as the Ministry insisted that their deaths had been unfortunate accidents.

It made Riddle's blood boil. Not because they continued to endanger the student body, he could care less for the infirm lives put at risk.         Nevertheless, how dare they reduce their power and achievements to mere accidents? Tom knew Albus Dumbledore was behind it, trying to shelter their reputations, but Riddle cared little for it. He wanted to be feared. He wanted the Ministry to know that his ascensions had begun, and that they should count their days before he would start undermining them.

Nonetheless, the old fool continued to intervene, and it came as no surprise when he appeared in the doorframe of the Great Hall, marching up to Newton Scamander as if his name had not been disgraced. Riddle had watched him from the Slytherin table with caution, sensing something amiss in the way he carried himself. Ears reddened, back hunched, jaw tense—it seemed as if he had come back to cause trouble for Tom.

The door opened and slammed against the wall, and in walked Renold Rosier, his eyes void of any sentiment except the lacquered layer of a heavy drink. The waft of pure vodka transversed the room, and it indicated his wrecked state long before his steps stumbled. Icarus launched forward, catching Rosier's forearm and attempting to stabilize him.

"Merlin's beard! You are shit-faced, Renold," grunted the duelist, using his weight to hold his friend upwards, "We cannot possibly bring you downstairs in this state. You have to sober up."

"What for?" Rosier wailed, and only then did Tom notice the burst veins on his sclera and the puffiness of his eyes, "Her body is not even there. It is an empty casket that I shall stand before and pretend that I get to say goodbye to the only person I have ever truly loved. What is the worth of such hassles? Elladora has pestered me enough, so spare me the disdainful tone and fill up my flask. I know you have been hiding that awful Romanian drink under your bed for months now."

"I am not endorsing your self-destructive behavior," muttered Lestrange as he sat his friend down on the opposite chair from Malfoy.

Rosier waved his hand around in the air, and Tom frowned at his dismissive behavior. The socialite continued, "How does a walking corpse even self-destruct? Am I not past such a point? Tell you what—you give me that drink, and I might attempt to behave."

"Highly doubt that."

Rosier narrowed his eyes, although they appeared as two swollen pearls from the hours he had surely spent lamenting. His blouse was rumpled, sticking out of his dark cotton pants, and his collar hung loosely as he stared up with a defiant gaze. A flat gray cap rested over his disheveled curls, no doubt an attempt to cover his lack of care, yet the choice of accessory was hardly appropriate for such an occasion. His vest clung to his form, the shadowy color and grainy texture making the sunken portions of Rosier's cheeks stand out even more, and they only accentuated when he pulled out a cigarette, placing it between bristled lips and lighting it with a quick spell.

"Put that away," grunted Malfoy from the window seat, eyes still battling with the sirens. One pressed her hand against the glass, hair flowing around her pointy face and pupil-less eyes gawking at the platinum-haired boy.

Rosier huffed, a spark of irritation hastening across his face, and then he pressed his lips against the filter and took a deep inhale. He breathed out slowly, his gaze never leaving Abraxas in an almost challenging way. The smoke made Malfoy turn his head, and in his eyes thundered vexation, so much so that he flicked his wrist and stumped out the cigar quickly.

"This is unbecoming," Malfoy sneered, "even for you."

"As if I were to take criticism from a wallowing boy that still holds onto his mother's skirt. At least, I dared to love without guilt, and perhaps it ravaged me and brought me to ruin. But I know that I was consumed by something worthy. Tell me, do you sleep better at night knowing that you let Beauchamp slip through your fingers?"

The taciturnity that settled over the foursome was pounding against Riddle's temples, and the wizard felt Malfoy's eyes settle on him, as if waiting for an outburst. Tom might have been blindsided by love before, but he was no fool—he knew that his right-hand had carried feelings for a decaying flower, each petal sculpted from mud. It might have been tempting in essence, but at the end of the day, when Armageddon had brought its downpour of war on their vessels, the flower had melted into clay. It had returned to the dirt it had blossomed from.

Tom had no time to waste on muggle-borns and his acolyte's ill-fated love affairs; they were feeble matters that did not concern him. So, he only scowled at Malfoy, ignoring the astonishment that struck his face at not being reprimanded, and twisted to leave the room. He had to find Petrov before the funeral and chat with her about what was to come.

Before he stepped over the door frame, Riddle threw one last glance at the mirror, feeling the weight of his body and the whine of his bones. His wrists were still scarred from the force that had been used when he had been captured, and the boy could almost feel the weight of the manacles. He had covered the scars with a dark suit jacket, his cuffs constantly sliding across the reddened skin. Tom could not bring himself to care—he barely felt pain, regardless.

The Slytherin Common Room was a jaded nuance of emerald, and the flames flickered in the fireplace, shadows dancing across the walls and circling around the tall boy that stood by the grand clock, eyeing the limbs that moved to indicate the time.

Lev Myung, despite losing his sister, was in a much better state of mind than Rosier. He seemed somewhat composed, although Riddle could almost savor the desperation that plagued his mind. He had opted for a black turtleneck that wrapped around his frame like his own obscurations, along with dark pants and a raven coat. The accentuating piece was the eye-patch that covered his scarred eye, the sign of the wound peeking from underneath.

The boy looked more like an executioner than a grieving brother, but if what Selwyn had told Riddle held true, perhaps that had been his intention.

Before Tom could even mutter a brief greeting, Lev twisted to shoot him an agitated look, almost as if he had been caught doing something he should not have been doing.

Myung cleared his throat, then pressed a heavy hand against his chin, scrubbing as if wondering if he should speak. "Has—" he stumbled with his words, "has Nott left already?"

Riddle scowled, unsure what the shadowmancer would have to do with his archivist, then shook his head, not caring to talk to the boy.     Bitterly, Tom had to admit that Myung's powers were highly exploitable, and would have been a great addition to his team. However, his vigilante tendencies and compulsive need to mend all that was broken made Lev highly unstable. He was controlling, but not in the same way that Riddle was. Myung was ridden with guilt and felt that it was his duty to fix those around him, to untangle situations.

A pang of jealousy almost made Tom want to twist and hex the shadowmancer's good eyeball out. Lev had extended the courtesy of his fixation to Varya on numerous occasions, attempting to settle her internal battles. As if he had any right to trespass on such territories. Riddle glanced down at his hand, noticing how it had tightened around the balustrade, knuckles whitening with indignation. He let the tension dissipate at once, shooting a stare to the stairs that led to the girls' dormitory.

"I suppose I shall wait for him, then," muttered Lev, although primarily to himself. Tom could not care about his internal monologue, and happened to find it quite irritating.

Not sparing the shadowmancer another glance, Riddle pushed into the open corridor, mind turning as he wondered where Varya could be. The castle was grand, but there were few places gloomy enough for the witch.

Almost as if his body had a compass that directed him to her, Tom found himself entering the owlery, then watching as the wall extended to make way for the Ravenclaw Salon entrance. The wooden door stood in front of him, and he did not bother knocking before opening it and stepping inside.

As he had expected, Varya Petrov sat on one of the divans, head resting in her palms and eyebrows furrowed in an ever-vexed expression. An inky gown covered her form, sleeves running down frail arms and wrapping around fingers that had ripped hearts out of men's chests. The skirts were abundant and layered, lace covering the silky bodice and extending upwards to meet a tight corset. Her locks framed her pointy face, features almost elvish as darkness blossomed in the hollows of her cheeks.

Her head snapped forward, and the abhorrence that fused in with the wonder made Riddle's chest tighten. Varya glanced at him as if he was an apparition, and he discerned then that it was the first time they had been alone together since the attack. He supposed their bond had turned sour long before, as the truth behind Ivy's death had slashed at the ropes that had entangled them in a devilish dance, and the boy could only hope that some part of it could be redeemed.

"I was searching for you," he admitted, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled inside. The flames whirled in the fireplace, warming up the cold tiles and crackling with endurance. There was a grieving ballad to the sound, though Tom supposed it might have been the vibrant dread that pulsated from the Eastern witch as she dipped her head back, scrutinizing him.

"Were you?" she gave a sardonic smirk, perhaps meant to unravel him.

There was something different about the girl. Tom discerned that the morbidity suited her darling features, making her resemble a precious, haunted doll. Beady eyes glanced with subtle macabre delight, and the threat of a smirk adorned her features as if there was some big jest that only she was part of. Varya straightened, the silk of her dress dragging on the floor as she stood up and moved across the room.

"Indeed," confirmed Tom, narrowed eyes watching the witch as if she would pull out her wand at any moment and they would duel. His nerves settled when she stopped by the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw, gazing with intent at her features. "I was hoping to have a chat with you before the event."

"And what would there be left to discuss between the two of us? I believe we are well past being civilized with each other. After all, you have made your intentions quite clear since the beginning, and I was the foolish one to believe that you had meant your little speech. Eternity? What an awful joke," her tone was bitter, and she refused to glance again, "Then again, I suppose you were right when you told me I ought to worry more about the days I have left before I lose my mind."

Tom's hands clenched around one of the chairs; his lips pressed as he tried not to show the turbulence he felt inside, "I am trying to amend for my mistakes."

"How?" snapped Varya, "By endangering all of us and launching an unplanned attack? Are you sure it was not simply another way of displaying your powers in order to satisfy your ego?"

Tom snarled, "The massacre had nothing to do with my pride, Petrov. I was seeking vengeance for you."

"Next time, let me be the one to have the heads roll."

"When I killed Sylvia Carrow, you told me that not everyone wants revenge. You said that you had no interest in it."

Petrov clenched her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest as she regarded him with some struggle, "Things have changed."

Indeed, they had. Tom sensed it in the way she moved, how she conversed with him with a poignant voice. Varya stood on the other side of the room, and although she was the same dainty girl that had come to Hogwarts to seek a new life, there was newfound calamity inside. Her eyes carried most of it—made of alloy and powdered poison, as if whatever gods had created her had spilled scorpion venom in her pupils instead of color.

"Then what is it that you want from me, Petrov? This is what I know. Destruction. Carnage. Power. I—," he glanced around, skimming azure eyes over the chamber as if to seek answers in the portraits. Tom shook his head, then settled his stare on her. "They hurt you. I avenged you. I protected you. Is that not what I am supposed to do?"

He was seeking approval from her, Varya realized. Tom craved validation for what he had discerned to be a good deed, something he had never received growing up, and a whim that presented itself in his grown form. She pursed her lips, part of her soul thawing at his words, and the frustration that latched on his features seemed sincere.

However, Riddle was a good actor, and that always made her wary of his sincerity. Still, the witch felt the heaviness of his stare and wondered if Tom had genuinely thought that he was doing her a courtesy.

His decision has been foolish, so uncharacteristic of him. When Riddle had sent out the signal through the Death Mark, he had also alerted Ophelia Evergreen, who had taken the tattoo before her betrayal. That had allowed the witch to escape, therefore announcing Dalibor of their attack. It was only a matter of time before they retaliated, and Varya knew they would come with all of their forces.

They would make a cemetery of Hogwarts.

She felt her heart drum underneath her corset, and unfocused eyes browsed the chamber, trying to find something to distract her from the troublesome thought that had been gnawing at her psyche for the past few days. Varya had not realized it initially, not in the center of the deadly hurricane that had been Evergreen's betrayal. Now, as her hand trailed the empty space in the hollow of her collarbone, the dread seemed to consume her.

"My Horcrux is gone."

The admittance of her negligence was scalding, and Tom's whole body stilled with something he could only describe as fear.

When he said nothing, Petrov continued, "I suppose Ophelia snatched it when we were all together at the townhouse. I was foolish to take it off; I should not have been so careless with the one thing that held me from disintegrating as the Obscurus took over. Nevertheless, I did not care for it at the moment. I did not want to live forever, not with you. I wanted to—"

Her words died on her lips like decaying promises, and although Varya averted her eyes from Tom, she could feel his ardent stare. He understood; there was no need for words to explain her intent—she had hoped it would hurt him. The witch had desired to instigate some sort of emotion in Riddle by not wearing his gift and dismissing it as nothing more than another jewelry piece.

And she had been right in believing that, even if Tom would have the world crumble at his feet before admitting such atrocity.

"You are vulnerable," concluded Riddle, eyes taking in her tormented form.

Before Tom knew what he was doing, he moved across the room and pulled his wand out. He waved it as he cast a spell and gathered an array of objects on the table. In a matter of seconds, he was by her side, hand on her back and pulling her close as if he could shelter the girl from whatever was to come. Tom peered down at her, pushing a strand of hair away from her face before letting his finger skim the heightened part of Varya's cheek. The wizard's skin ached from the touch, as if it had longed for it for far too long.

Riddle grasped her chin, then moved it so that she could stare at the objects. Varya recognized some promptly—the Ravenclaw diadem glistened imperially in the low light of the chamber, the leather journal that Petrov had gifted him sat neatly on top of the table, a golden cup glimmered as Tom moved to stand behind her.

His hands rested on her hips, then slowly trailed upwards as he breathed against Varya's nape. Tom's fingers skimmed the material of her funeral gown until he circled around her shoulders and touched her collarbones. The witch barely registered his lips susurrating a chant, too focused on the way her pulse quickened underneath his cold fingers.     Then, Salazar's Slytherin necklace materialized around her neck, pendant dangling from a silver chain.

Varya's eyes widened, "How did you do that? I placed multiple defense spells around it. After getting it back from the spirit, I had to make sure you would not simply steal it."

"That is the wonder of practicing your dark magic, Petrov. You should, perhaps, consider brushing up on your skills and relying less on your Obscurus."

Chagrin rippled across her skin in a scarlet nuance, but the witch scowled, "Remember who taught you the ropes of it, Riddle."

"How could I ever forget?" He hummed against her skin, hands unclasping the necklace swiftly. Tom detached himself with ease, yet the witch felt the coldness of where he had been.

She observed him place the four artifacts in a row before taking off his ring and adding it to the pile. Varya gazed with astonishment at them, knowing that what stood before her was the fruitful effort of years of scheming. Riddle had been collecting them for a long time and had even required her assistance with some.

"What is the meaning of this?" the girl asked, lifting her eyes to meet his.

Tom gestured towards them, "I once collected those to turn them into Horcruxes. I understand now that it would be foolish, for dividing my soul into endless pieces would make me lose my abilities. That does not mean, however, that they are of no use. All of those objects have the quality of withstanding dark magic, being channels or amplifiers of power."

Varya watched him pick up his ring, analyzing it with a domineering smirk on his face. Tom opened his palm, eyes focused on the piece of jewelry, and it soared upwards, levitating a few centimeters above his hand. It twirled leisurely, emanating an obscure glint as if spreading poison around it, and the smokey light cascaded around Riddle's long fingers.

"If your Horcrux is indeed in Evergreen's hands, then there is a chance that she might destroy it before the battle. We know little of her plan, so it is better that we proceed with caution." He placed the ring back, then waved his hand over all of the objects, having them darken, "Now, we can tie our powers to those artifacts. It will allow you to amplify your magic by channeling mine, should you find yourself in trouble. We will be bound."

Varya frowned, eyeing Tom with skepticism as she placed her hands on the table, "That seems dangerous."

"It could be," he confessed with such nonchalance it almost made her shudder.

"How do I know this is not another one of your plans to tie me to you? What if I agree to this, and suddenly I find that you have taken my power for your control?"

Wariness was poisonous ivy, and it encompassed Varya's soul, preventing her from fully trusting Tom. He had betrayed her too many times, and even if he had confessed his wish to amend for his sins before her, the word of a murderer meant little. Riddle's resolve was fickle, and it had singed her more than once.

Still, paranoia had strewed in her psyche, and if once she had wished for an early grave to rest in, now her plans were formidable. Varya wanted power; she wanted to be the one that seized control over the lithe world, having it bend at her will. Riddle was only a dismissable piece of a bigger puzzle, but right now, he was the one she needed to move forward.

The witch leaned against the table, glancing over the objects before letting her stare linger on the journal. It had been her that had bought it for Tom, and it did surprise Varya that he had kept it. More so, for it to become an object that could hold his dark magic, it had to be tied directly to the soul of the wizard. She knew that the journal she had burned had been important to the boy. Regardless, what made the one before her so significant?

Was Varya a fool for hoping that Tom valued it because it had been a gift from her?

"Because I do not want to hurt you, and I have not wished for that since your return," admitted Riddle, his eyes as steady and focused as always. They burned traces along her expression, turning her skin scarlet.

"That does not mean you have not."

Riddle huffed with irritability, then dragged a hand across his face in exasperation. His efforts were going unnoticed, and he did not take well to it. Could the witch not see that all he had done, good or evil, had been for her?

It was his nature to be volatile, vindictive—his character would not miraculously change because she loved him. Nevertheless, Tom was sure that if he had ever been meant to care for someone, that person was her, and that made Varya valuable to him. He had deeply rooted issues that he had to face, his need for control and power, but he was not the temperamental boy he had been two years ago.

More so, Tom could not bear the thought of losing her, not when she was the only person that could ever care for him, the only one that was vigorous enough to stick by his side. He had become infatuated with the idea of Varya caring for him; he felt as if he would wither without her devotion.

Inside him, his soul had long ago been fractured, and from the cracks had arisen rotten intent and putrefaction. Amongst the sullied cemetery of his sentiments, there was an empty grave that had been abandoned by his heart, and there was nothing beyond his ivory rib cage except hollowness. And yet, it was a place for her own heart to lay.

Varya's forehead creased with thought, and again paranoia took over. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, thinking, before finally giving an answer, "I shall think about it."

Tom opened his mouth to say something, but a knock sounded at the door, and they both turned to find Albus Dumbledore standing in the frame. Squared glasses framed his mid-aged face, and he glanced over them with suspicion, eyeing the artifacts on the table. Riddle waved his hand, having them disappear, before letting his expression fall into something humane, mundane even.

"Professor, I was not aware that you knew of this room."

Dumbledore did not answer for a few seconds, allowing the silence to weigh down on them, and then cleared his throat, "You will find, Tom, that I know most of the castle's secrets."

The charming smile that Riddle forced almost made the young boy queasy, "I see," he peered at Varya cautiously, then back at Albus, "Is there anything we can help you with?"

"I wish to speak to Petrov, if you do not mind."

Vexation engulfed Tom, sizzling underneath his skin like cobra venom, yet his face remained stoic. With a nod of his head and a quick bow, the boy pushed past his Professor, making sure that his footsteps were accentuated then light—he wanted to give the illusion of walking away.

Then, he twisted his body and pressed it against some of the owl cages, flicking his wand to cast a charm that allowed him to eavesdrop. The circular room of the owlery proved helpful as it amplified the sound of the conversation.

"You must know why I am here, Petrov," stated Dumbledore, his voice daunting as he moved across the room.

From where Riddle stood, he had no view of the two, but he could hear them clearly. His eyes rested on the opposite wall of him, glancing at the few birds that were still perched on wooden beams, sizing him up with curiosity.

"Grindelwald is approaching," concluded the Eastern witch, and her dress dragged on the floor, followed by the sound of a chair being pulled, "You think they will attack."

"Yes."

"How soon?"

A beat of silence, and Riddle held his breath, not wanting to let his presence be known.

"It is hard to say, but I suspect it is only a matter of days. When Grindelwald does arrive, though, I want you to be prepared. It shall fall upon me to defeat Gellert, as it should have been long ago. My friend, Nicolas Flamel, has managed to unwind the Blood Pact after Newt Scamander managed to secure the blood vial. That being said, I will request your assistance in something else."

Wrath pulsed inside of Tom, and he inhaled deeply to prevent himself from barging in and telling the old Transfiguration teacher that he ought to stop using Varya to carry out his nefarious tasks. The young boy knew that, in the end, Dumbledore would claim all laudations for himself, letting the Death Eaters become a forgotten name.

"What is it?" inquired Varya, and Riddle did not miss the spark of irritation in her voice.

"Grindelwald and Dalibor will attack at the same time, and unfortunately, I might not be able to handle both. After I defeat Gellert, I will bring you the Elder Wand, and you will reunite the Hallows, as has always been expected of you."

"You want me to fight Dalibor," concluded Varya. A moment of contemplation passed before she continued, "I would have it no other way. It is I who must kill him, for I was the one he tortured."

"It will not be easy; he is powerful and skilled."

"Perhaps, but I was raised to win wars. I might have shied away from my fate once, but I will become what you all desired me to be and more."

    A monster, thought Riddle.

Still, his mind whirled with something else. Tom's throat clenched, and the only thing that could satiate his thirst was power. The Elder Wand. If Varya became the Master of the Hallows, that meant that, should she tie her magic to his artifacts, they would be connected, and he could desiccate her of magic and take it for himself. It would not kill the witch, but instead put her asleep for years, decades, centuries. Petrov was immortal as long as the Horcrux was intact, which made her a better source of magic and invincibility than any fragmented piece of Riddle's soul.

And just like that, his previously chaste intent covered in wickedness, and a new plan formed in his head. A possibility.

Tom inhaled, feeling once again the sharpness of his fatigue, and the morbidity of his body almost overwhelmed it. A sense of paranoia, of fear, overtook his mind, yet he tried to fight against it. He tried to reason with himself that he was better with Varya by his side than with her magic pulsing through his veins.

Nevertheless, she was an Obscurus, and if Dumbledore's plan were to succeed, she would hold the Hallows.

Before anyone could sense his presence, Tom Riddle slithered back into the adumbrations, and the possibility of betrayal sewed itself in his mind no matter how hard he tried to fight against it.

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The aroma of sage seemed to adhere to the back of Varya's throat as she stood before three empty coffins, her ears vibrating with the sound of endless lamentations.

By her side, Scarlet Norberg had an ever-present red handkerchief pressed against her face, and her hand clutched the material of her raven dress, as if the gesture itself offered her stability. Auburn hair had been pinned back, exposing a Nordic structure and sincere eyes, yet the oddity of seeing her wear something other than red was enough to unsettle the heart.

Petrov gawked ahead with vacant eyes, gaze focused on her companions' three portraits that hung above a floral adornment. The pleasant fragrance of narcissus had turned astringent after Ivy's funeral, and now it prickled Varya's eyes with a lousy sensation.

    Ananke, Della and Indra.

The newly constructed cathedral had been filled with students of all years, and the sea of black attire that gathered around the empty space was devastating. In front of it all, a priest was finishing a ceremony that Varya had not cared for, as her mind was stuck on what happened after the funeral was open.

    After they finally said goodbye.

She knew it would be the most challenging part, for it was then that the violence for their death would be replaced by pure grief, and they would become a memory and nothing more.

The priest finished reading from his sacred book, and invited Headmaster Dippet to say a few words. The man glanced around the room, his usual purple robes replaced by darkened ones, and his face contorted in distress.

Varya had never thought Dippet to be much of a presence at Hogwarts, not when he was invariably asking Dumbledore for assistance and advice. He had never stepped up to fight, but he had not prohibited the students from training either. The Ministry had made a puppet of him, and although Petrov wanted to blame him for everything, she could not.

Tom had been right in saying that some people were just meant to be followers.

It certainly made her plans of sizing control much more manageable.

Still, Dippet was a good Professor, a good man. The witch could sense the sorrow in his eyes, the guilt at not having protected his students better. He indeed blamed himself for it. After all, everyone was aware of the target that had been placed on Varya's back, as well as the other Death Eaters.

He cared for Hogwarts. He was a fool that had thought that no student could ever bring harm to another, and that had been a delusion.

"I wish to extend my condolences to every student that has lost a friend, a sister, or a loved one," the Headmaster began, his vociferous discourse the same one that had greeted Varya on her first day at Hogwarts.

Now, his speech carried a different meaning, and his intonation was that of failure.

"When I first got this job as Headmaster, I thought I would serve the students, the teachers, and the parents well. To bear my title was an honor, and to see such joy each year as students began their magical journey was a reward. Nevertheless, that has not been the case in the past few years. Darkness has descended upon our castle, and I fear that it has already taken too much from us," his voice was strained, and he looked as if he had barely rested. "Because of that, and because Albus Dumbledore has informed me of Grindelwald's threats, I will be arranging carriages for all students who wish to evacuate immediately. For those of you who do not have a safe place to go due to the ongoing muggle war, we will be offering shelter in secluded locations, as we should have done from the start."

Whispers began running rampant, and the air droned with frenzy as the Headmaster's speech turned into a warning of war. Varya glanced around, her fists tightening around the pamphlet that had been handed out at the entrance, and resentment flourished at the display of cowardliness.

She knew it was her egoistic wish for the students to stay by her side and fight, for even with the training that the Death Eaters had offered, there was a strong likelihood that they might die in battle.

However, she was terrified of being alone in her campaign, and Varya worried that this was a sign that she was not meant to be a leader. If she could not even inspire the students to defend their school, how was she supposed to seize the Ministry once it was all over?

Her plans seemed absurd, and with hostility, she skimmed the crowd to look for the one person that had always had the answers, the one who had built himself out of nothing.

Petrov's eyes met Riddle's like magnets, always searching for each other in a sea of turmoil. She discerned that he had been watching her throughout the whole speech, his gaze filled with intent, as if he had only been waiting for her to look at him too.

There was something in his eyes that she could not decipher, a riddle of its own calamity, although the witch discerned it was not entirely crude. If anything, it was an emotion that she had never truly seen before, a mixture of turmoil and longing that made the hair on her arms rise.

Tom's stature was still imperial, unmoving, lagoons of inferno saturating her worries, and his hair was sculpted from waves of inky darkness. There was something villainous about the slight upturn of his lips. Even with the way his sincere gaze made her heart drum against her rib cage as if it would burst out and find solace in his own abdomen, Riddle remained a statue of cruelty.

Then, as the crowd had started to settle, one of the windows burst, shards flying around the chapel and making students duck their heads and scramble. A streak of light pushed through, its emerald form pulsating before Ophelia's shape materialized in the middle of the chamber; a daunting smirk stamped on her ethereal visage.

A knife darted through the space as soon as her face was recognizable, yet it passed through the translucent form, sticking itself in a portrait of a Saint that Varya could not remember the name of. The witch turned in the direction that the weapon had come from, spotting Avery's infuriated expression emerging from the crowd. He had not hesitated to fire the shot at his former fiancee.

Evergreen's lips coiled in a satisfied smirk, "Always the volcanic temperament," she tutted as if she were scolding a child, eyes skimming the crowd as her smokey silhouette neared. Students stumbled out of her way, even though it was merely an enchantment that allowed her to be there.

Her feline eyes settled on Dumbledore, and she twisted her head sideways to scrutinize him. The man held his own, "You are not welcome here."

"Unfortunately, I have always been inclined to believe that the events one is not invited to are the most thrilling. Although this one is quite dreadful." She turned to glance at the portraits of the fallen, apathy on her face. "They must be rolling in their graves. Myung would have condoned the mixture of black nuances. Have you no shame in dishonoring the dead?"

An angry call rang through the chapel, and the crowd parted as Lev Myung darted towards her sly form, intending to wipe out the infuriating smirk off, even if it meant skinning her face altogether. Nott grabbed the shadowmancer's sleeve, pulling him back and holding him away from the apparition.

Ophelia tsk-ed, then shrugged with nonchalance, "Always one for the dramatics and outbursts. Worry not, my visit is brief," she pivoted to meet Varya's stare, "I only come to give a warning. We shall arrive in two days. I suggest you leave the tombs open, for no mass grave will be able to hold the bodies we leave behind."

Varya snarled, "It will be your own corpses that we bury."

Unfazed, Evergreen blinked lethargically, "So you say, but we have an army, and you are alone. Beware, Petrov, your numbers fell short before Dalibor butchered your acolytes, and now you are only more susceptible to attack. It will be a pleasure to butcher you and hang your body for the world to see."

With that, her body disappeared into nothingness, and chaos ensued. Screams of panic and terror erupted as students scrambled out of the chapel, trying to run to their dormitories and pack their belongings as fast as they could. The movement of the crowd caught Varya's gown, pulling her to the ground as feet almost stomped her face.

Dippet's voice barely held over the commotion, and the church's bells rang out loud as the hour of the dead dawned upon them. Varya hissed as someone stepped over her hand, crushing one of her fingers underneath their soles, and tried to gather herself upwards. An arm snaked around her waist, pulling her upwards and dragging her to a safe corner. Through the mayhem, she could barely see Alphard Black's side profile as they attempted to escape the panic.

Once outside, the harshness of winter bit at her exposed skin, and the two pushed through until they stumbled into an empty corridor on the second floor. Alphard stopped to catch his breath, dark azure eyes filled with apprehension as he shot Varya a questioning look.

"Merlin, they almost trampled you back there," he managed to rasp out before straightening and inhaling deeply, "It would have been unbecoming of the mighty Obscurus to die of such a mundane cause."

Varya supposed he was right, yet did not feel inclined to join his jest, mind swirling with agitation.

Ophelia was right—Varya had nothing. Not even on their best day could the Death Eaters alone take on an army of hundreds, not when Dalibor had managed to take control over half of the dark creatures. It was a losing battle; they stood no chance, not this unprepared.

    Two days.

Two days and everything would unfold, the moment that she had been training for her whole life. It seemed unimaginable—the idea that it would all end felt draining, and an enormous wave of anxiety crashed into her, drowning the witch in her own despair.

Petrov raised her hands before her, watching them tremble as they had never before. Her chest squeezed, and everything seemed to distort. It was hopeless. Years of torment were reduced to nothing.

"Petrov," Alphard's panicked voice was muffled, and her ears barely picked it up over the ringing. She felt his hands grasp her shoulders, and they were the only thing that prevented the witch from falling to the ground. Her eyes watered, her breathing halted, and Varya felt a sudden urge that she had not felt in months. The need to cry was almost unbearable, yet she sizzled it out and glanced with teary eyes at the other Slytherin.

"We are all going to die," she whispered, but Black shook his head, the movement almost comical.

"Varya, listen to me. This is exactly what Ophelia wants; this is how she plays at things. I would know, after all, I spent quite some time with her. She wants to psych you out, to get inside your head, and you are letting her."

"But I am scared," rasped out the witch, her voice breaking and the tears finally coming in as she gazed up at Alphard. For a moment, looking at him brought her peace as she remembered the numerous times they had hung out in their fifth year as Ivy dragged them to her Quidditch practices. "Why do I not get to be scared? Why do I always have to be strong? I am terrified as well; I am human too. Everyone forgets and expects me to hold it together, but I do not want to die either. I want to run too, but I cannot."

As the words tumbled out of her mouth, she wanted to grasp them and ram them back in. Varya had learned to hate expressing herself; she had bottled up everything in an attempt to let others grieve, to let them hurt, to let them whine and complain. For if she cracked, they would as well. Her Virtues looked up to the witch; they saw her as a symbol of something they fought for, which made her feel pressured.

Alphard gave her a look she hated—pity. "I am so sorry for everything you have been through."

But Varya did not want to hear that; she wanted people to stop being sorry and instead support her. Her back slid along the wall, feeling overwhelmed.

"I cannot face them alone," she admitted, patting her face dry as a few students passed by, giving her disturbed looks.

Black shook his head, "You will not be. They are all scared, but I will manage to turn them around. I will get Malfoy and Parkin to come with me, and we will try and persuade them."

The promise seemed empty, wasteful, but Petrov managed to nod slowly.

The sound of shoes squeaking against the tiles made both of their heads turn, and they watched Tom Riddle come around the corner in a hurry, eyes scanning every bit of the hallway with panic until they settled on Varya. Relief washed his face, and he marched over to Petrov, jaw tightened in wrath. She could tell Ophelia's announcement had him livid.

Alphard retreated, telling the witch once again that he would try and solve everything, and Riddle took his place, kneeling in front of the witch as she pulled her knees underneath her.

"I will have her head," Tom snarled at once, his eyes burning with rage. "I will slowly decapitate her, leaving her enough awareness that she feels the wound with every nerve in her body. I will tear her apart limb for limb until her emotionless brain fuzzies over."

"Not if Avery gets to her first," mumbled Varya, letting the apex of her head touch the wall as her breathing regulated.

Tom extended a hand towards her, and she eyed his long fingers before accepting it. Riddle drew her close, one arm snaking around her waist as he pulled the witch towards a balcony and away from the prying eyes of the students that still ran by.

The last patches of twilight hooked themselves around the dismal clouds, falling upon the Earth like ribbons of blood and fire and illuminating it vividly. The Forbidden Forest seemed tranquil as the night approached, and the unrelenting wind tousled Tom's curls as he gripped the balcony. His dark suit jacket had come undone, exposing the silk blouse underneath, and the smoky color of the material made the redness under his eyes even more prominent. He had not been getting enough sleep, Varya realized, and she wondered why.

"I think we should go with your plan," she admitted at once, glancing up at him and feeling the weight of his stare, "with the objects."

A spark of turmoil flared in his eyes, and Tom turned his head to glance out into the horizon, not meeting her gaze. His side profile was that of poetic beauty, with fine strokes and harsh edges, and Varya watched his jaw set as if he was in deep thought.

"Are you certain?" his voice was ominous, as if something was bothering his conscience. Varya supposed he felt at odds with tying his magic to objects when his future had looked so bleak after his Horcruxes.

"I must. It is the only way I can ensure my safety."

Riddle felt the sweet tang of irony as it dribbled down his throat in bitter drops, but he said nothing before glancing at her again. He did not want to hurt her, not when she gazed at him with such expectant eyes, as if he was the last coast of faith for a capsized vessel. However, that was who he had always been—a traitor, a rascal. He needed power. He yearned for it.

Tom only wondered if he was still cruel enough to take it and the expense of Varya's life.

"We will bind our magic tonight," the wizard murmured, and he tried to argue with himself that proceeding with the plan did not necessarily mean that he would harm her.

It only meant that he could, should he desire to do so.

Petrov nodded, folding her arms over her dark gown before twisting to face the balustrade of the balcony. Her obsidian locks flowed in the breeze, and the light of dusk caught in the curve of her face, making her features seem mythical. Tom discerned that he had always thought her to be above the human realm, or perhaps below—a creature akin to him, something that hid onyx horns behind a faux corona.

A beat of silence passed before Riddle stirred, and Varya shot him a questioning look. Tom grabbed her hand, pulling her closer before slowly lifting it to his lips. He placed a chaste kiss on it, eyes never leaving the girl, and his lips pulled in an arrogant smirk against her skin.

The witch raised her eyebrows in bewilderment, then felt a metallic object in her palm. With wonder, she pulled her hand away and opened it to reveal a ring. In its center stood one object that made her heart thud—the Resurrection Stone.

"What is the meaning of this?" the words tumbled out of her mouth quickly, and she glanced at Riddle, a stupefied expression on her face.

"I am keeping my end of our initial bargain," Tom explained, his face unreadable, "and I am letting you have peace."

"Peace?"

With a curt move, the boy held her wrist, fingers skimming over the ring. He rotated the jewelry piece in her hand—one, two, three. Then, somber eyes settled on Varya's perturbed expression, and they made her insides twist with apprehension and longing. The twilight zephyr caressed their figures, making the heaps of silk flutter slightly, and Tom gave her one last look before leaving her alone.

Still, it was not the chilling weather that made a shiver run down her spine, but the low mist that surrounded the witch, then formed into multiple figures watching her from the doorframe of the balcony.

It was Ivy she recognized first, with her spirited eyes and golden locks. The rays of tangerine caught in her complexion, passing through her translucent form as they did through the ocean waves. Her clothes were the ones she had passed away in, the Slytherin robes still fitting her like a tailored costume, the prefect badge nested on them. Varya felt her body freeze, her abdomen spasm, and she bit back a choking sound as her hand flew to her mouth.

"Merlin! They raised a chapel for us!" called out a luminous voice from the side, and Indra leaned over the railing, pointing to the building as Della's nose scrunched up in excitement. Their figures stood side by side, elegant and graceful in their movements; eyes lit up with amusement.

Ivy's head snapped towards them, eyebrows furrowing in irritation, "Why did I not get one?"

A puff of smoke passed over her shoulder, and Lopheus leaned in to stare at her with the characteristic wittiness and relaxation that he had always possessed. A cigarette dangled from his lips, although it served as more of a decoration than a vice. "Perhaps, you ought to have put in more effort. My parents held a ceremony that lasted for days, and my portrait was hung up at Ilvermorny. A dutiful student, a loving brother—though I think my sister would have a few words to say about that."

Trouche moved away from the unfamiliar boy, undoubtedly feeling that her space had been intruded, before glancing at Varya. The witch was gripping the ring between her fingers so harshly her skin had turned white, and her frame quivered with disbelief as she let her gaze slide from one spirit to another.

"This—" the Eastern witch managed to choke out. She shook her head, placing a cold hand against her forehead, "Am I haunted?"

"Haunted? Not quite," chimed Indra while sliding towards the witch. Her white hair seemed purified in its half-living form, with light bursting from each particle and making her seem more of a seraphic image than a ghost. "Terrific that you called us, truly. Your nightmares—blaming yourself for our deaths will do you no good, Varya. When have I ever been spiteful enough to be capable of such cruelty?"

Varya let lustrous eyes fall upon Della, who gazed at her with so much regret it became almost suffocating. Her face had remained the same, although the last time Petrov had seen her body, it had lost all traces of color. Tawny waves fell around her small visage, bushy eyebrows raised in empathy, and her freckled face remained honeyed and pleasant.

"It was not your fault," Beauchamp confirmed, her voice a pitched melody that soothed something in Petrov she had never felt before.

"I am quite confused as to why I am here," mumbled Lopheus, marine eyes scrunching in thought. He twirled the cigar between his fingers before pushing it behind his ear.

Varya found that he did not take the same horrifying form that had haunted the broken vessel of her nightmares. He seemed serene, a pleasant smile on his face as his eyes scurried the surroundings. She wondered then if the man in her dreams had been nothing more than an illusion.

"Surely, you do not take Ophelia's misjudgment upon yourself. Everything she did, it was because of herself and because of what the asylum put her through. That sister of mine, she is quite deranged, is she not?

His eyes twinkled as his lips pulled in a beam, and Evergreen glanced at Della with subtext. The witch sighed profoundly, agreeing with him.

Varya held onto the railing, her heart hammering as the noxious river ran down her cheeks, building ducts in her makeup and staining her face. She wanted to pull them closer to her, perhaps even hold them and fight off Death as he returned to collect his souls, yet only seeing them and finding serenity in their words brought light upon her being. The witch glanced down at her hand, trembling fingers loosening their grip on the ring as a painful sob wracked her body.

They looked peaceful, as if they had found happiness outside of the torment of war, and she wondered if it was better for them. How would Indra have fared seeing her brother and soulmate about to risk their lives in a losing battle? How would Della have reacted to the bodies that would pile in the courtyard they had spent their youth in?

"I am sorry," Petrov murmured eventually, although she was not sure whom she was apologizing to. Was it to them—the young souls that had withered in never-ending bloodshed? Or was it for herself, as she knew that she had lost herself amongst grief and pain?

Trouche settled calm eyes on her, "It is not your fault. If anything, I say we blame Riddle! That selfish bastard—look at the mess he has made! I knew that he was a repulsive serpent from the day I first saw him. To tell you the truth, I—"

Indra interrupted promptly, "What she is trying to say is that there is no changing what has happened. The only thing you can do is put an end to all of this, Varya."

Petrov shook her head, straightening herself and glancing at their fading figures, "How am I supposed to defeat an army with a dozen students? I am alone."

Then, right before the magic of the ring wore off, Indra pointed her finger towards the horizon. The four figures disappeared in a specter of shadows as the sun finally settled beyond the forest. Varya felt her throat tighten, the emptiness of the balcony suddenly feeling too overwhelming, yet there was a slight easiness in her moves, as if chains had been broken down by something imperceptible. With a slight twist, she followed the direction that Myung had pointed towards, eyes trailing the edge of the forest with confusion.

Then, she saw it. The piddling movement in the shadows, a figure pushing through the branches as her skirts dragged through the mud, fawn hair twisted in two braids and bandages wrapped tightly around her right arm and leg. Topaz eyes glistened with fervor, and Ananke raised her head to stare directly at Varya as she pushed forward, her injuries making the walk more strenuous. The Eastern witch felt the wind settle in her lungs, and she wondered if her friend had truly survived or was just another apparition of the Resurrection Stone.

However, she was not alone.

Behind Ananke, bodies apparated out of thin air, their colored robes making them resemble surging galaxies. The empath clan followed behind their Heiress, each movement refined and yet uncertain. Women and men all bore the same leathered gloves that Navarro had always kept around, their hands covered and their minds buzzing with unnatural power. Their march was almost unanimous, a synchronized dance of delightful movements and elegance, a true dying dynasty of unearthly magic. After decades of hiding, they had decided to return to the battlefront, their sorcery a weapon unlike any other.

The slightest nuance of red shimmered in the distance as hunters and scavengers ran out of the forest, some riding Thestrals, some bearing bows and weapons on their back. The Blood Coven mark held on each armor, their fur-lined coats making them the ablest soldiers in rough terrain. Locks of auburn and fiery red caught the moonshine that fell from the stars that Scarlet had always associated with her home, and now the witches and wizards of flesh and bones had followed their Blood Witch to spill the liquid they worshipped.

Unmistakably, shadows and light specters pulsated through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, and the few surviving fae-folk magic bearers accompanied the other groups, their steps tentative. After centuries of being labeled as blood traitors and threats to the wizarding society, the half-breeds marched towards what they thought to be a better future—one where they could become as respected as Indra Myung had been, as powerful as Lev Myung was. United by nothing more than a promise and a tendency for loyalty, they aimed to fight alongside each other for the first time in centuries.

A roaring sound cascaded through the valley, making the earth shudder as a mythical beast took to the skies. The mighty dragon of the Transylvanian mountains turned heads from passing students, and a handful of past acolytes of the Scholomance Dark Arts Academy clung to its scales. It soared through the clouds, circling the moon as if it could open its jaws and sink fangs into the celestial body. Its wingspan covered the stars, and it caused the wind to pick up as it settled on the highest tower of Hogwarts, bowing its head to reveal the weathercaster. Lydia Dimitrov glanced towards the few pupils that stood behind her, the victims of Dalibor's experiments that had managed to survive the fall of their school, and her eyes carried the bloodlust that they all felt.

Varya gripped the railing of the balcony, her midnight dress pooling around her as she glanced down from her spot at the people that had come to fight, the ones that had associated their loyalties through her through the Virtues. Her hair fell around her face as onyx eyes stared down at Ananke, reading the determination etched on her face.

Navarro nodded her head at once, and the reason behind her absence suddenly became clear. She had disappeared after the massacre, realization dawning upon the empath that the war could not be won without an alliance. As such, she had apparated back home with desperation in her blood, trying to gather forces for what would undoubtedly be the end of the wizarding world as they knew it. Then, throughout the rest of the week, she had traveled across the globe, encouraging undermined populations to stand up and unite.

Varya stared down at the people that had gathered, and they glanced up at her with something that she could only describe at faith. And at that moment, she knew that she had found her army.

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two chapters left and an epilogue <3

you all already know how I feel about this chapter but I hope you liked it!