CHAPTER TWELVE

The Vila was a decently sized Manor in the midst of the Slovenian Alps, buried between monstrous piles of rock that offered a geological sanctuary barrier. Nature seemed to nest it in its core, covering it with endless arbores of marvelous viridescent, having the susurrating of the nearby stream create a sonata of fauna and earthly sensations.

It had first been constructed during World War I as a safety outpost for muggle-born students of Hogwarts, who had been evacuated from their habitual locations and had decided to spend their summers learning magic by enrolling in a wonderful curriculum of sorcery.

During the intervallic period, however, the school of witchcraft and wizardry had decided to better spend their resources on developing programs that would take place at the academy itself. Therefore, the Vila had since been used by the professorial concilium as a place of residency for summer scholar meetings.

When Dumbledore had formed an alliance with Newt Scamander, he had offered the Vila as a gathering spot for their order—the Order of Virtues. As such, it had become a designated training spot for young bright witches and wizards that had devoted their unusual powers to defeating Grindelwald's constant bombardments. Equipped with multiple battling grounds and enough dormitories to host more than a dozen students, the house had become a safe place for the seven acolytes that had begun leading the military defense.

In the end, they had become a symbol of hope and prosperity, the promise of renaissance and encouragement. The seven virtues had no holy presence to them, they were machines of war and battle, yet they carried in their soul the need for justice and righteousness—at the end of the day, it mattered not how bloodied their hands were, as long as they had come one step closer to ending Grindelwald's massacre. There had never been any Heaven in war, and there would never be. There were only soldiers with excuses and reasons.

Synonym for effective, eleven letters, Latin origin.

Maxwell stared at the crossword puzzle as he had for the past hour, hand gripping his pen tightly as he struggled to recall the word. He had known it once, he was sure of it—it was right on the tip of his tongue, but whenever he tried to remember it, he felt as if he was plunging into darkness.

On the other side of the table, Varya watched the boy with scrutinizing eyes, dissecting every twitch of the face and every frustrated puff of air as a sign of inconvenience. She had thought it too early for the wizard to travel to the Alps, but Tom Riddle had been right in decreeing that Dumbledore would arrive shortly, and there were more stressful things at matter.

So, the day after Nott had woken up, Varya had divulged the location of the Vila to the Knights, paying no mind as to how it might affect them in the end, for there was no possibility of them traveling by common means—they needed to apparate, and none of her companions knew how to do that except Felix. It would have been too strenuous for the former Ravenclaw to carry them all.

"I cannot do this," groaned the boy, pushing the crossword puzzle away with frustration, and then he blinked his eyes rapidly, almost as if they stung. Varya thought they probably did, as Nott had not taken well with the news of his injury.

He was much the same, except for his incapacity to recall his studies and make connections between the areas of knowledge, as his long-term memory had been affected. The frustration he felt was apparent, as if it had drenched him completely, and the entangled depression waltzed on Maxwell's expression whenever he raised morose eyes to those around him.

He would get confused sometimes—would forget where he was, how to get to his bedroom, or events that had happened in the past. During the first dinner after he had awakened, he had been entirely confused as to why they had to fight Grindelwald, and why he could not recall the last book he had read or how the feathered quill scratched against parchment sonorously.

All that mattered, however, was that he was alive—at least that was what Varya said. Nicholas Avery, on the other hand, had been entirely displeased with the situation, because he knew Maxwell more than anyone, and continuously argued that the boy would only last a few weeks before the inability to process and retain information would have him as miserable as possible.

"You have to," Varya encouraged him softly, trying to reach out for his hand when Nott pulled at his hair with a lonesome sob quivering his body. He held it in after that, showed no grief at having lost what he once thought to be his greatest ace in the deck of cards that life had gifted him with, but they all knew it was slowly ripping his to shreds.

When he glanced up at her, there was the momentary blurring that now always lacquered his strikingly handsome face—like the dew of morning springtide, when everything that should have been relishing greenery was peculiarly polished by a thin layer of ice.

"You look better, at least," he pronounced, although he seemed unaware of exactly why she looked better.

It had not been evident at first, not with the way her skin had glistened with fever-induced sweat, and her eyes had been dulled by pain, but with each passing day, the curse the spirit had once placed on her seemed to loosen, and many of the Death Eaters had taken notice. The Virtues had remarked it, for they had only ever known Varya as she was after, and had never appreciated her for her allure.

Rosier had commented on it first, a passing remark on how her glow was ever-present, and her hair no longer hung in shineless fizziness. Then, the girls had begun noticing her reddened lips, which had faded to a grayish-pink after the curse, yet were now blossoming as they had once. Soon enough, all the Knights, Della, and Felix had attributed her metamorphosis to her recovery, yet one person seemed mildly confused by all.

Tom had taken no notice in it. Not in the forest, nor after—it had been perturbing silence, and to say that Varya had expected at least some sort of acknowledgment would have been an understanding. Yet, the boy had only piqued an eyebrow at the aimless praises that had been thrown at her, shaking his head before turning back to his cup of sweetless coffee.

Some part of her understood that the curse was meant to affect those who had appreciated her beauty above all. Although she wanted to fault her friends for taking notice, she understood that when the curse had been placed, they had not known each other well enough to appreciate anything else. Yet Riddle was different, and she could not figure out why.

"So do you," the witch returned half-heartedly, although they both knew that was not true. Maxwell was a mess, but pointing him out would do him no good.

The door slammed at the end of the hallway, and footsteps decorated the sonority of the living room as four figures emerged from the study—Tom Riddle, Abraxas Malfoy, Nicholas Avery, and Felix Parkin. They marched up to the witch as she stood by the fireplace, cover draped over her still weakened body and lips chapped, and their expressions were a cocktail of various emotions.

"We do not believe you should go to Scholomance," begun Tom, and the protest was immediately apparent on Varya's face. He cut her off before she could even voice it out, "You are still recovering from your injuries, and the risk is terrible. Even with five other people accompanying you, there is still a great chance of being overwhelmed."

Varya pursed her lips to stop herself from commenting on his behavior—she had not addressed the fact that he had been the one to continually send Elladora to help her after she had been injured, nor had they discussed their kiss. Chatting had merely ended abruptly, and even to the oblivious, it was pain strikingly apparent that Riddle was avoiding her.

"I am going," her tone was final, and she flicked warning eyes to the rest of the men, "Do not sit there and believe you know what is better for me because I am a hurt woman, and you are the intellectual men doing me a favor. I am going to Scholomance; I have a duty to fulfill and a task to carry out."

"It would help if you told us what it was," chirped Felix, although his voice was less boisterous than Riddle's, almost as if he feared that Varya would have an outburst, "It seems maddened that you want to return to a place where you have suffered endlessly, and considering recent events—"

He stopped then, eyes trailing around the room as the words stuck in his throat, but the witch narrowed her eyes.

"Say it, then," she encouraged with a caustic voice, "Tell me I have gone insane, Felix. Merlin knows that is what you all believe."

"And are we wrong?" inquired Abraxas, resting his shoulder against the frame of the doorstep, and his platinum hair fell around his face freely. He no longer bothered to gel it outside of the Malfoy Manor's quarters—he looked less of a machine, more of a human, and the way strands of hair interlocked in untidy patterns made him appear flawed, no longer the unreachable aristocratic prince that he had been, "How many have you murdered?"

"That is beside the point—"

"How many?"

Her eyes scrunched in irritation, but she bit her tongue from lashing against the sovereign boy, knowing better than to engage in his deceitful games. Abraxas manipulated people in such a way; he never tried to hide his condescending attitude, nor appear less than what he actually was. Malfoy orchestrated those around him by showcasing just how much better he was than them, by gaslighting them until his word felt akin to scripture.

Varya wondered if Tom had learned that from him, or Malfoy had learned from Tom.

"Too many to remember, no?" Tom pushed, then slowly approached her, "Or, perhaps, you just never cared to count, because life had become meaningless to you, and why bother with the quantity of something of low quality?"

"I preferred it back when you did not talk," responded the witch with vexation in her tone.

The smirk he gave her was less malicious and more rewarding, almost as if he had taken her words as a compliment, "You are unstable, and you only care for those you have deemed worthy of your protection. Petrov, let us be honest with each other and admit that you are not in this for benevolent reasons, but rather the selfish urge to survive."

"You are no different," she bit back, not relishing the way his words were a dagger against her mind, "So stop lecturing me, and let me do what I am best at—being the machine everyone made me to be. After all, that is what you all wanted from me anyway, correct?"

Riddle was illuminated by the dim flare of the fireplace, and as shadows transversed his rigid features, he appeared as a monarch commanding his royal guard, fenced by able soldiers that would have sacrificed their lives for him.

"Victimization will get you nowhere with me. As a matter of fact, it is the weapon of the cowardly, and I see no point in discussing this further," his tone was so calm, almost as if the decision was out of her hands entirely.

But Varya had long ago fashioned herself a map of Riddle's psyche, and had uncovered the tracks that led to treasures and those that led to punishment. There were things that made the boy tick akin to a broken clock, and the witch had crafted her manipulation with the spindle of mistrust that he had given her. Therefore, she knew how to play him like a fiddle.

"Why do you care what I do with my health and life, Riddle?"

It was a juxtaposition of amusement and pity that clouded her mind when Tom's face morphed into that of a vicious creature, almost condemning her for accusing him of having such feelings around his devoted followers. The vein that drummed against his blanche skin was a serpent of her creation—its teeth sunk themselves in Riddle's mind, and her poison of deceit decayed his resolve.

"Foolish of you to believe I do," he tilted his head arrogantly, glaring at her with such devious eyes, "I am merely interested in preserving my own acolytes, for you have already ruined one, did you not?"

The accusation was piercing on her skin, the nasty burn of a cigar that had ached to its filter, and he stomped it out right against her epidermis, leaving a scorching wound behind. The witch gripped her chair's edge, and pupils flew to Nicholas, who let out an incredibly distasteful scoff.

"Is there a problem, Avery?" murmured Felix from the side as he stepped by Varya, glancing at the boy that had been incredibly vocal in the meeting room.

Nicholas rolled his eyes almost immediately, "Well, Riddle is right, is he not? Nott got hurt because he accompanied the witch to get back a locket that she had stolen, something that was not rightfully hers."

"Sod off, you little roach," replied Felix, puffing air through his nose as he shook his head slowly, "It was your leader who ordered Nott to come, not Varya. She would have never had any of you join her on any of her tasks. Merlin knows you have tried to kill her more than you have tried to save her."

"Watch your mouth, beast-boy," threatened Avery as he pulled out a knife from his boot and advanced threateningly, only to be stopped by Malfoy, "Your little magical creature books will not save you from bleeding out when I slit your throat."

The animosity between the two sides pulsated in the common area, a grave that had only been dug deeper once all had tried to put the fault of what had happened to Maxwell on someone. Nicholas had grown extremely frustrated with those he considered intruders, refusing to collaborate with them much, as his wrath always seemed to have him act out against anything they supported.

It was peculiar how his friendship with the Eastern witch had been wholly devastated once he had gotten it through his head that she was at fault, and no longer did the silver dagger that she had strapped underneath her dress symbolize their unity.

Scarlet had called it meaningless pettiness, and although Varya did not appreciate being faulted for something she had no control over, there was still disagreement with that statement. Part of her understood the boy's reaction, as she had done much worse to them when they had seemed to be behind Ivy's death.

Regardless, the witch refused to be held responsible for something she did not do. While others might have folded and taken on the blame, Petrov knew that Maxwell's unfortunate situation was a consequence of the war, and not something for one person to shoulder.

"I suggest you calm down, Nicholas," intervened Riddle at once, although reluctantly. His grip tightened on his acolyte, a warning to cease the bickering.

"Why?" blurted the boy with exasperation and grief lacing his voice, "Why should we ignore that we are all in this mess because of her? That Grindelwald would have stopped harassing half of the world if only she surrendered? It is becoming ridiculous, truly, and one should wonder how many more would die protecting someone that has little sense of loyalty in her."

The sting in Varya's eyes was prominent, but she fluttered eyelashes until the moist drenched them and not her face, for she could not afford to appear bothered by the hurtful words that were hurled at her by someone the witch cared for. It would only give Avery satisfaction, thus enabling his behavior only more, so she dug her nails in her skin and suppressed the urge to tear up, as it was no longer a privilege she allowed herself.

Tears were reserved for the dead and the wounded, not her pride.

"I believe you have forgotten who unleashed this all, to begin with," she stated promptly, not letting him have the last word, "Had it not been for your perpetual attempts at uncovering my powers and destroying my mind by brute force, this would have never happened."

"Bullshit, I say. It was only a matter a time before a barrel like you burst, and we were unlucky to be caught in the blast. Admit it, Petrov. You are uncontrollable, and you need to stop endangering people and dragging them in your misfortune!" thundered the boy, pointing his blade at her face as she continued to meet him with insubordination.

There was a seed of truth to his story—the witch had involved people in her affairs, ultimately putting them at risk because she was too much of a coward to face it on her own. Perhaps, Avery expected Varya to admit to her sins, to act upon salvation, and develop some unthinkable hero-complex, where she pushed away any help and instead sacrificed herself.

Nicholas would end up terribly disappointed, then.

If Varya was a coward, then so be it. If she were selfish, she would not think much of it. Because what Grindelwald represented was terrifying to her, and she would be damned if she had to face it all alone. To believe that she was mentally strong enough to conquer all on her own was a fable, a fallacy in human psychology. Varya needed their help, and she was not too proud to admit that the idea of being alone scared her.

"Will you both just shut the fuck up?"

They all turned to face Maxwell as he scrubbed his hands against his face in exasperation, bloodshot eyes peeking from between scrawny fingers, and his disordered hair had entangled and lost its briskness, no longer the mesmerizing nuance of fresh wheat. Now, there was deadness in his features, the dragging sachet of the Grim Reaper threateningly close to his neck.

"Do you realize how absolutely stupid you both sound? You are making everything about your own feeling of what has happened, of who to blame, so you do not feel guilty. You talk about me as if I am some burden that has been passed around. Now nobody wants to take responsibility for the broken pieces," his words were vented out of frustration. Nott pushed himself upwards, slamming his hand against the puzzle he had been working on, "I am trying to finish this bloodsucking crossword, and instead of helping me, you are too busy passing on the fault."

He crumbled the piece of paper in his hands angrily, and then threw it in the fireplace. It burned rapidly, consumed by the fluttering colors of tangerine and yellow. Maxwell pushed past the group, ignoring the odd stares he was receiving.

The boy only turned when he was one foot out the door, "Grow the fuck up and be thankful we are all still alive. Many do not have the privilege to say that about those they care about."

With that, reticence blasted against their eardrums, as they were all left speechless by the boy that left the room. Avery seemed to settle then, and there was fault and shame in his eyes as he glanced at Varya, almost as if whatever benevolence he felt for her had been brutally woken up. Still, he made no apology for his words—only mumbled something about meeting them for dinner before he pivoted on his feet and headed in the opposite direction of Nott.

Felix scratched his head awkwardly, then slowly backed out as well, leaving Varya in the presence of the two seemingly annoyed partners. Tom scoffed at the display of irritation, not caring much for the exchange between the Death Eaters, for he had little to say on the topic of affection and blame. He rarely felt remorse as it was, and could not find it in himself to put his mind on their level.

The witch shot him a decisive look, "I am going to Scholomance—alone or not. If you have the courage to accompany me, then so be it, but I will not have anyone making decisions for me." With that, she left the room, trying to subdue the dull ache in her soul.

***

When Albus Dumbledore stepped into the foyer of the Vila the next evening, fenced by the Scamander brothers, Varya almost felt some sense of accomplishment in her. It seemed as if they had managed to at least achieve one goal, and they were now going to report on their—more or less—successful findings of the Deathly Hallows.

She led them to the room that Riddle had arranged for the meeting, trying her best to cover the way her body sometimes lost balance from its weakness. Varya had still not fully recovered, and her wound still ached whenever she moved a little too much, regardless of the numbing potions she had been begging Elladora to brew her.

With a slight tremor in her hands, she pushed open the oak doors to the meeting antechamber, where Tom Riddle and Ananke Navarro waited patiently, completely ignoring each other's presence and only bothering to glance up when they heard the sorceress walk in.

"Quite a surprise to see you here, Tom," stated Dumbledore, sitting at the head of the table and opposite of the boy, "Although Varya's letter explained the reason for your...contribution...to our cause, I must admit I did not expect you to be so fully submerged in it that you visited the Vila."

There was a slight twitch in Tom's jaw, yet that was the only giving sign of the annoyance he felt at the older wizard's presence. The Eastern witch took to his right, settling herself on one of the leathered chairs and giving him a look.

Marine eyes met hers as they swirled typhonically, and the faintest trace of irritation faded away to awareness as Riddle felt the repugnant tingle of her presence. He dared not glance much at her; he ignored the way his throat tightened when her moves were limited by her injury, for there were more incredible things at risk that the blossoming seed of summer that nestled in his soul.

His mind had not rested, not since she had revealed the truth about the love potion, and Tom wondered—there had to be some misconception in her words, and although her fact was a cold blade against his exposed his skin, he refused to acknowledge the way it sliced away at his skin, revealing deeper layers than anyone had ever seen.

"Since the stone is a family heirloom, I thought it only fitting that I be informed on its purpose and how it will be handled. Surely, you understand my curiosity, professor," Tom's honeyed words were as striking as they had ever been, a golden syrup of saccharine, made to please even the most bitter of all.

Ananke barely contained her snigger at his insincerity, not wanting to let the boy know how ample and contrasting his words were to the voidness inside him.

The empath had never felt real coldness until she had met Tom Riddle. It was as if he was a vacant place in the universe, a spot that had missed the Big Bang, and nothing ever flourished from his aura, always a steady onyx. Yet, her experience with emotions had her understand past his carefully manufactured feelings, for even the darkest obsidian had once been the striking red of scorching lava.

"Dumbledore, I believe we must cut straight to the point with these children," interrupted Theseus, who seemed restless as he continuously shifted in his seat, cotton pants pulling against the leathered surface, "There are less than two weeks left until the beginning of the academic year starts, and they still have not acquired any of the necessary instruments. So much to discuss, so little time."

His words did not pass by Varya's ears unnoticed, and suddenly a lump seemed to clog her throat, and the slightest glisten of transudation formed on her forehead.

"What is this about?" her voice almost vibrated because no. No, no, no. This could not be, surely they did not mean—

"We want you to return to Hogwarts on the first of September."

Glacial—an abyss of calamity in which she consumed herself endlessly, and the sinking feeling only predominated and overwhelmed her senses. When the room spun with her, it did so effortlessly, like the force of a merry-go-round, and she almost heard its sinister lullaby song echo in her psyche.

Varya had loved Hogwarts, it had been a home when nothing else had, yet the disturbing feeling of being asphyxiated by the endless hallways and the depth of the Black Lake was enough to have her hesitate.

Her fingers went numb, and she drummed them on the table while biting down on her lip anxiously, and her flight instinct kicked it effortlessly. Here, in the Alps, Varya could submerge herself in carelessness, knowing that her friends were powerful enough to withstand her tantrums. Back at Hogwarts, she would have to control herself, and she was not sure she wanted to anymore.

Besides, had she not left because her presence had been a threat? If so, would her return not make it even more dangerous for the students? There were dozens of beasts already knocking on the defense shields that had been put up by Dumbledore, and if the Rosier forest was proof of anything, it was that Grindelwald would not hesitate to hurt others to get to her.

"I just—" she stumbled to find her words, an acidic taste in the back of her throat, "I thought I was a threat to the school. That was why you sent me away, was it not?"

Theseus shot Albus a discouraging glance, but then continued with hesitation dripping from his voice, "It is true that Grindelwald will be entirely focused on Hogwarts if your return is officialized, and it might pose a threat to the students. However, times have changed—fourteen months ago, war seemed nothing but a fable, something that we could prevent by subtracting the stressor from the situation. We no longer believe that."

Varya shot Ananke a glance, and the witch nodded at the question in her eyes, palpating the men's emotions—they were sincere for once.

"I fail to understand," continued the Eastern witch.

"The Ministry refuses to close down Hogwarts," pronounced Dumbledore, leaning back in his seat and locking his eyes on her, "That means that students have two options—drop out or transfer, but with the ongoing muggle war and the small number of wizarding schools in Europe, the latter seems a feeble option. Which means that starting the beginning of September, almost one thousand students will be returning to a school that might be attacked at any moment."

The witch felt Tom stiffen beside her, almost as if he had understood where the older sorcerer was getting at, but Varya still felt her mind fogged by panic. Why would they want to have her back if the danger had already thrived? Would it not metastasize?

"My return would only make Grindelwald more vehement on destroying the castle."

"Unfortunately, I believe that due to my involvement with the resistance and refusal to join his ranks, Grindelwald has set himself on destroying Hogwarts regardless," explained Dumbledore, "He has a personal vendetta against wizarding schools, you see, as he was expelled from Durmstrang. As such, we believe that the best decision is for you and your group to return to Hogwarts for the beginning of the year, and protect the school and the students."

The witch drew in a sharp breath—she was not sure she wanted that, and to be cornered by three men and compelled into doing so was nerve-wracking. How could she say no? It was the right thing to do, after all. Thousands of students would be at the mercy of a Dark Wizard due to the incapacity of the Ministry to acknowledge their failure in preventing the spread of black magic and their flawed logic.

"What of Felix, sir?" questioned Ananke, "He has already graduated, and with all due respect, we believe it is best that all of us stick together."

"Due to the unfortunate happenings at the play we held almost two years ago, we have decided to put Professor Kettleburn on temporary hiatus, therefore leaving the post open. Newt Scamander has gracefully decided to fill it in until we can assure that Kettleburn will continue his job with the necessary safety precautions."

Newt cleared his throat before shifting in his seat. When he talked, he avoided eye contact, blinking rapidly, "I will offer mister Felixius Parkin a seat as my class assistant, therefore enabling him to apply for room and board within the castle," he stated.

The Slavic girl drew in a sharp breath, and her eyes fled to Tom, who was staring at her intensely, almost as if analyzing her reactions and plucking them into equations of her behavior. Yet, his presence was somewhat calming; the same way death was a peaceful end after immeasurable suffering.

"I think you should go," he almost answered the question in her eyes. Tom was not sure what had urged him to tell her that, perhaps the selfish need for her to be around her, the greediness of a parvenu that cherished wealth above all, except his richness was her, and that was entirely humanizing.

Varya glanced at Dumbledore, knowing that regardless of her decision, war was coming. Like an obnoxious landlord, it was knocking at their door, fenced by his great companions—death and despair. And the girl knew that if she did not pay their due, they all might be painfully exiled.

"I will have to talk to my friends," she explained, then took a short pause, her reluctance sparking through, "But yes, I will return."

Albus nodded, a pleased smile gracing his face, then glanced at the ring on Tom's finger, "You must protect the Hallows," he continued, "And know that those you meet at Hogwarts might not be as loyal as they were once."

"Should we return the Invisibility Cloak?"

"No," his answer came quickly, "I believe it might be useful for your further affairs."

Varya thought so too, and her mind quickly flashed to the plan she had for Scholomance. She could only hope that everything would go accordingly, and that her acquaintance could have them sneak in unsuspectedly.

With that, the older men sat up from the table, shaking amicable hands with the Death Eaters, and informing them that they would send letters of any information that would be made available by the Ministry.

As far as they knew, the Dark Wizard was still in Northern Germany, waiting out for Hitler's forces to capitulate. Once they did, Dumbledore suspected that Grindelwald would take the momentary relief of muggles to unleash his power.

Varya hoped that there was enough time for her to teach the students of Hogwarts how to prepare for battle.

***

She was not sure who had established the team that was to accompany her to Scholomance, nor did she care much for it—Varya only saw her one goal, and it mattered not who chose to provide assistance.

So, when she came downstairs the next morning, backpack over her shoulders carrying every supply that they had bought in the French market, the witch barely blinked at the group assembled at the front gate.

Tom scarcely met her eyes, yet the smile that graced her features was bright, and she strolled over to him, her braided tail swinging sideways before she stopped in front of him. With his hands crossed over his chest, and his figure leaned into the brick wall of the gate, he peeped down at her with irritation in his eyes.

"What?" his voice was rough, cold, but she knew better by now.

"You are coming with me, then? I thought you were against it."

He was, exceptionally so—Tom thought it heedless to navigate Eastern Europe with Grindelwald's forces so vehement on capturing them, and Scholomace would be under his close watch. But if Varya insisted on going, then he had to accompany her, even so, only to make sure she did not perish from her recklessness.

And then there was the other side of the coin—he wanted to see the damned school, wanted to feel the dark magic that pulsated through the grounds, banishing anything of pious nature, and perhaps that would rejuvenate his desperation for darkness. Then, the dormant demon in him would be awakened, and he would strangle the butterflies in his chest, collect their daggered wings, and nail them on the renewed walls of his soul.

"I do not trust you not to end up destroying everything we have achieved so far," with that, he eyed the cloak that peeked from her backpack, "Bringing the Hallow with you is foolish."

"But essential," Varya argued, "It will be useful."

She turned around, eyeing the other people that had gathered at the front gate—Icarus was engaging in trivial chatter with Scarlet Norberg, undoubtedly flirting with her by his body language. The girl seemed unfazed; however, her eyebrow hoisted in mockery at whatever flattery the boy might have been spewing.

By their side, Rosier and Indra were stealing fugitive glances at each other, but refused to talk to the other. The boy had reduced eyebags, seemingly less dominant than they had been a few days ago, and Varya was glad for that—sometimes Ren had a tendency of losing himself. She cared for him enough to wish that he would sometimes open up about the undoubted conflict he felt inside instead of gluing his pieces with poison.

"Varya!" exclaimed Scarlet, delighted to head on another adventure with her friend.

The two had an undoubted close bond, and being separated from each other often made the other cranky. She pushed past Icarus, ignored the disappointment that flashed in his eyes, and headed to the witch.

"How are we going to go at this? Felix would not shut the fuck up last night about how much of a terrible decision we were making, but hear me out, yes? I think it is brilliant that we face this problem head-on; I think that a rush of adrenaline is exactly what we need."

Her excitement at heading straight into danger never ceased to surprise Varya, and she threw a hand over the girl's shoulder, pulling her towards the well they had bewitched for transport in and out of the safety of the Vila.

Scarlet was the spirit of the woods, the sound of the hurricane, and the wisdom of the stars. She was a girl that was lead by curiosity and enthusiasm of venture, and had a sense of intrusiveness in her that made her adore mysteries.

Footsteps sounded behind as the rest of the group followed, and Scarlet chatted eagerly as they approached the last stop before they would find themselves into the deep woods of the Transylvania.

Varya turned to face the group, her eyes suddenly turning solemn, and she licked her lips before trying to think of how to let them know of what was to come. She knew, however, that nothing could prepare them from the darkness of Scholomance.

"We are going to take the well—it is bewitched to be a source of transport, but it only works one way, so once we are transported to the forest, there is no turning back. We will be taken to the outskirts of the forests that surround Scholomance, and it will take us three days to pass through it. Now, keep in mind—those woods are not the normal sort, and to survive, you will have to be extremely careful," she began, and the veil of seriosity fell over their heads soundly.

"Why can we just not take it directly to your odd school?" inquired Rosier, apparently confused.

"If we get too close to the school, they will sense the magic of our appearance, but if we come from the forest, it will not be as obvious. The magic will seep in naturally, instead of being like an explosion," she chattered fastly, pulling up the bucket of enchanted water from the well.

"This sounds entirely dangerous," murmured Icarus, and he glanced down at the dragon glass knives he had strapped to his belt—enough to kill the wickedest demons, for he would not be caught lacking. Not again.

"However dangerous you think it is, make sure to triple it, and even then, you might not be prepared," Varya announced, "There are many rules you ought to follow. Firstly, whatever you do, do not leave your tents after sundown. The creatures roam freely at night, and they will murder you, but they will not enter your tent, as I have bewitched them with sigils. Which brings me to my second point—do not break any of the sigils; they are your only protection, the only rope of life you must cling to."

Tom glanced at her backpack, noticing the marks that had been scattered all over—intricate signs he might have assumed to be biblical, but were actually markings of the Devil, for only he could hold back his wicked monsters.

"If you hear something call for you, do not answer, not even when they sound like people, many creatures have learned to mimic human sounds. If you feel an indescribable amount of paranoia or fear take over, know that they are watching you, but do not react nor let it rule you—they feed on your fear."

She pulled out the bucket, then picked up the cups that had been stuffed in a small compartment of the well. Without any grace in her moves, she poured them all a cup of the liquid.

"Which brings me to my last point, and perhaps the most important—do not start being paranoid, do not glance over your shoulders continuously, do not pray. Merlin, do not dare pray, because they take it as an offense, and leave any God you believed in behind because it will not hear your calls. The moment you start letting your mind trick you into panic, it will be impossible to dull it."

Varya raised her cup upwards, then demonstrated how to drink the liquid in one go.

"Now, bottoms up, and remember—fear feeds them," came her voice, and then her eyelashes fluttered shut.

The next time she opened her eyes, the black trees that extended to the skies were as demonic as they had ever been. And she was back in Romania.

***

QUESTION: what house would Scarlet, Indra, Lev, and Ananke be in? I already know where I am placing all of them, but I am curious what you all think.

Also, I am trying to find a fanart artist to commission for a drawing of Varya and Tom, but the only one I know of asks for like 150$ and I am a broke college student, so if you know any names, please do let me know!