CHAPTER TWENTY

WARNING: Be advised that this chapter contains blood, knife usage, descriptions of battle and slight torture, as well as mature scenes

The sound of metal slicing through the air permeated the extensive clearing of the woods. The dagger nailed the target in the center, having it swing slightly from the branch with a faint creak. Varya picked up another blade from the basket behind her; then, with wrath throbbing in her veins, she turned around and launched it without checking the perimeter first.

Elladora barely managed to stop it from piercing her skull with a small spell, and porcelain features scrunched with aggravation before she flicked her wrist and had the knife pinned in the soil between them. Cherry-hair was braided in two tails, and she had renounced her uniform and skirts for something more appropriate for dueling.

"You are in a sour mood," she asserted as a matter-of-fact, earning a scoff from Varya, who sat down on the grass to catch her breath, "Riddle still refuses to speak to you?"

The Eastern witch pressed her tongue against her cheek, eyebrows raising in a jeering manner, and she reached out to her bag to pull out her water flask. The liquid soothed the burning in her throat, and she closed her eyes, trying not to think much of Selwyn's words.

Two weeks had passed since Tom had brought her to the Chamber, and he had not reached out to her once since his slip. As a matter of fact, the boy had submerged himself in work in an attempt of appearing too busy to be reachable—compiling lists of the pupils they would train, taking on responsibilities from Dippet, dissecting their textbooks.

Varya had refused to find him first—her dignity would not have her do the chasing again; it was too frustrating. Instead, she worked on her magic, overthinking everything that had been established of their teams.

"When is Felix bringing the students over?" inquired the Eastern witch, changing the subject entirely.

Elladora took notice of it, but let it slide out of courtesy. Instead, she pulled out a pocket watch from her training jacket and frowned at the time. It was noon, and the Death Eaters had decided to set training every Saturday around such times. Around thirty students had agreed to sign up after Rosier had persuaded them with his unnaturally developed socializing techniques, but most of Hogwarts was still reluctant.

Right then, the sound of rustling leaves invaded the clearing, and quaint chatter pulsated through branches as the Death Eaters instructed the students to watch their steps. Most of them were reluctant to train in the Forbidden Forest, but Varya had drawn enough sigils to keep any unwanted visitors away and secure the spot.

"We have arrived," shouted Rosier, curls falling around as he pranced to the two witches, throwing an arm over Elladora and giving her a greeting peck on the cheek, "Delightful as always, my friend. Varya, I brought you your little lambs; I believe you should do the grand welcoming speech and have your lack of social skills make it as painfully awkward as possible."

Petrov shot him the middle finger, then raised herself from the ground and walked over to where everyone was standing, eyes trained on Felix and Tom as they instructed the students on how they would proceed. The school's colors pulsated brightly, green scarves, yellow robes, blue emblems, and red ties—there was no house that dominated over the other, and they all side-eyed each other in the crowd.

Varya recognized a few faces—Frederick Weasley stood tall above everyone else from his growth-sprout, red hair so contrasting to those around him, and his Gryffindor tie was done unproperly as he awkwardly tried to not bump into the younger students. A scrawny witch, with ruffled hair and dubious glasses that Petrov recognized to be Pamela Trelawney, who was often made fun of for her interest in Divination.

All were mostly fifth-years and upwards, as Scarlet had insisted that they were not to endanger young children and have their hands bloodied before they even hit puberty. Varya, who had only ever grown around murder and sin, was unsure why that was a necessity, but had agreed regardless.

"First of all, we thank everyone who has made an effort to come here today," began Felix, hands clasped behind his back, "As you might have figured out from the letters that were sent to each Common Room and attached to the post-it boards, the intent of this organization is to prepare ourselves in case of an attack. Grindelwald has set his eyes on Hogwarts for a long time, and so, the best thing we can do is be aware of the imminent danger and train ourselves."

He peeped at Varya, trying to encourage the witch to continue, but she simply shook her head. She was not the type of person who could talk to a crowd, rile them up and give them something to believe in. That is why Felix had been so helpful in the past months, often collaborating with her and completing each other's flaws.

Parkin sighed and continued, "Through this, we will cover four main skills that we have decreed as essential. Today, you can think of this as our preliminary meeting—we will show you duels, healing spells, and magic, unlike anything you have ever seen. After this, we will have each of you try out for the different factions, and based on this; you will begin your training."

The students glanced at each other, unsure of themselves, and Varya knew that was the exact reason why they needed to show them how they dueled and dealt with magic. So that they could find reliance and security in the fact that they were not lost, they were not defenseless.

Riddle twisted on his feet to head to Abraxas and Icarus, eager to begin the showcase of their superior magic, yet his steps lagged when he met Varya's hardened stare. The boy paused for a second, his breathing suddenly halted, and his mind became unsteady before he continued his marching. His skin throbbed underneath her eyes, and he felt the way his abdomen squeezed, but Tom could not bring himself to talk to her.

It was wrecking, as if she had driven a sword through his chest repeatedly, and there was now a blazing inferno where there had once been nothing but frost, a tornado of flames that outrooted the foundation of his being. His hand unconsciously went over his chest, digging nails into his skin as if attempting to rip his heart out of its hollow and crush it in his palms until there was nothing but morbid tissue and sanguine.

"Is everything all right?" mumbled Abraxas, concern flashing over his face as he took in Tom's sunken face, but the Head-Boy only shot his an acid look that made his lips sew shut.

Petrov flicked her gaze back to her friends, and watched as Rosier lifted his wand into the air, then waved it around elegantly before he conjured sixteen small pieces of paper, having them spin into a spherical motion. He was to select the names of those who would showcase the appropriate battling tactics. Then, his face shifted into a whimsical smile, and his hand extended to grab two pieces of paper.

"Oh," his voice rang out, and he turned to face his friends, "Would you look at this? It ought to be fascinating. Ophelia and Nicholas, the field is yours."

It was peculiar to see the Winterbour Lady clothed in something other than her fashionable dresses. Still, as she advanced, legs clad in satin pants and blouse tucked into them, she appeared more harsh-edged than Varya had expected. Her hair, usually curled in bouncy waves, was stuck in a high ponytail, and there was a sinister smirk on her face that made the Petrov descendant frown.

She twisted to face Elladora, who was watching the two forcefully engaged students take their beginning stances, "I suppose this should end fast," Varya stated absentmindedly.

Selwyn shot her a look, then the corner of her lips twitched into a bemused expression, "Yes, Avery ought to be out cold in a few minutes."

"What?"

"Ophelia is a very peculiar witch," mumbled Ella, "I suppose that is why Tom let her join. She has a twisted mind, although I am not sure in what way—her magic is overall powerful, but she excels in mental magic. Telekinesis, Legilimency, endless barriers to guard whatever she thinks or feels. I hear that Ananke cannot even sense her emotions or distress, almost as if she is a bottle of shut secrets."

Varya frowned, somewhat unsure of what to make of it. People with such tactics were often characters who had a lot to hide or had been in suspicious circumstances. It was expected of the daughter of a Lord, she supposed—many opposing agents would have given anything to overtake the Winterbour estate.

Still, the fact that she did not know everything about Ophelia, the idea that she was a wild card that could turn at any point—it made her uncomfortable, had her anxiety coiling inside her mind until onyx eyes interlocked with Winterbour's grey ones, and the royal witch gave a daunting smile.

"She reminds me of you in many ways," continued Elladora, "Or at least the firecracker version of you. Ophelia is dynamic, yet everything people know of her has come from her own mouth, so that makes me wonder if she is to be trusted."

"What does Riddle believe?" inquired Varya. If one person understood the human mind and easily picked on intentions by dissecting body language, it was Tom Riddle.

"That she is an incredible asset to the team and that her mental magic makes her a wonderful spy and a devastating killer," pronounced Selwyn, "Although not in as many words."

The Eastern witch turned her gaze to the field again, where Nicholas had unfastened his knife belt, exposing silver to the dim light of the ending days of September. His dusky hair blew in the autumn zephyr, and his robust features had twisted into something prime, almost crude. Dark eyes carried an ominous luminosity that was nuanced with blood-lust, and one corner of his lips twitched upwards as he hoisted a challenging eyebrow to his fiancee, the one he so intensely despised.

"If I send you back to your pompous father in a box, perhaps he will let me out of this arrangement," he sneered, and then he set into motion.

Nicholas was there one second, and then he was not. It was almost as if he had become stealth itself, using the nearby trees and rocks as covering. As an assassin, he had always been trained to lurk amongst shadows, and knew that the element of surprise was the greatest weapon of any ruthless killer.

Ophelia twisted on her heels, granite irises swirling viciously as she listened to the sounds of the forest, trying to tune out the rumblings of the students that watched them from afar, and the wind that blew through thick branches. Her ears twitched as she heard a shift in the breeze from her right, and that was the last moment of awareness before a set of ferocious daggers slashed her way.

The witch bent backward, letting them soar past her high cheeks, and her face contorted in a sneer before she kicked the dirt beneath her and launched forward, ponytail slashing against the air. It took the slightest twist of her hand to have trees bending forward, their stems breaking with a loud crack, and Avery fell to the ground from above, groaning loudly as his head hit a large rock.

Even so, he was back on his feet in a matter of seconds, already used to the terror pains of duels, and he whipped his wand out, sending a flare of sharp rocks her way. Ophelia merely raised her hand, having them stop mid-air before she narrowed her eyes down on the boy and had them spin around and attack him.

Nicholas slashed his wand, having them all burst into nothing but dust, and he used the momentary distraction to disappear from her visual realm yet again, taking to the nearby rocks to shelter his body. From the security of the darkness, he unfastened the poisonous daggers from the hidden compartment of his shoes, and he waited for the right moment to pounce.

Dueling mental magic was always a strenuous task, as the advanced wizard habitually blocked most offensive spells without much effort. As such, the element of surprise was essential in defeating Ophelia, and that made Nicholas a fantastic sparring partner.

"Well, come out, then," she called out, her fists clenched by her side as rocks swirled around her figure. Telekinesis was a gift that could be obtained through countless hours of practice, by exercising spells such as Wingardium Leviosa until their magic was permanently stamped into memory-muscle and the mind, having it extend to the surroundings without a proper casting.

There were other spells that could be used as such—Reducto was one, for instance. The perpetual practicing of it until it became a power of its own. Most wizards never dedicated their time to such magic, for it was incredibly strenuous, to the point where some placed themselves in solitary chambers for months for their focus to be accentuated.

And that was one of the main reasons Riddle had recruited Ophelia, for there was one particular spell he was interested in mastering.

The rocks in front of her rattled, and she frowned and leaned down, placing a hand on the territory and concentrating until her mind sensed the patterns of the air around her. Winterbour flashed eyes to a boulder ahead of her, and with a mischievous smile, she knew that Nicholas Avery was hiding behind it, for there was uncharacteristic weight placed on gravity there.

The sharp rocks swirled around her, and she dashed to it, legs digging at the mud as she slid, then used the boulder as a stepping stone and catapulted herself into the air, ready to pounce with her attack on the boy. Eyes dropped on the ground as she soared, and her face fell as she gazed at the piles of wood the boy had transfigured behind the hiding spot to throw her off—Nicholas Avery had tricked her.

Something hard slammed against her body, and Ophelia bit back a cry of wrath as Avery pulled on her locks harshly, their bodies twisting on the grass until they stopped. He stood over her, heels dug into the soil, and before the witch could process, brought down a poisonous dart and stuck it in her neck.

"Shit," mumbled Elladora, running down the field and pushing Nicholas off of the girl, "Are you fucking insane? If you stick it in the neck and she does not get the antidote in the next few minutes, she can die!"

Nicholas glanced down at Ophelia with his jaw set, and a vein drummed against his temple as absolute hatred swirled in his irises, an influx of aversion and repugnance. The witch began coughing blood aridly, and it painted her teeth cardinal as she gave him an ambiguous smirk while Elladora quickly mixed her herbs in an effort to save the heir.

The poisoner crushed lily leaves in her small bowel, then added rose water and thymine before swirling them together and pouring them down Winterbour's throat. She raised a hand to signal to Rosier that everything was in order, and the boy twisted to face the students, who had horrified expressions on their faces.

"As you can see, we take our practices very seriously here," he tried to diffuse the tension, then scratched his neck before turning back to the sphere of names, "Anyhow, next up! Exquisite pairing—Icarus Lestrange and Scarlet Norberg!"

The Blood-Witch pushed through the crowd, her Gryffindor classmates cheering her on and encouraging her. By then, the whispers of the peculiar powers of Varya and her friends had begun circulating, and most were undoubtedly curious to see them in action. Scarlet stopped in the middle of the field, and her bow materialized in her hand almost immediately as she clasped her red robe around her neck.

Icarus pushed himself off from where he was leaning against a tree's bark, earning an encouraging pat on the back from Malfoy before he waltzed over to the dueling meadows, left hand already prepared to draw out the needle sword on his hip. He wiggled his metal fingers, still uncertain over how to handle them, then drew out his wand, prepared to take on the girl.

"Well," he began cheekily, "I would say I ought to take it easy on you, but you do not strike me the sort of person that would appreciate that much."

"Take it easy, eh?" Scarlet sniggered, "Lestrange, you must have forgotten I was by your side when you were all pale and whimpering from your blood loss. Tell me, did those metal fingers make you more of an arrogant arse, or have you always had such a dragonic ego?"

Nicholas Avery whistled from the side, whereas Rosier hid his snickering in the sleeve of his blouse, body shaking rapidly. The duelist merely smiled back, taking no offense to such words before bowing to begin the fight.

It was her that moved her fist, bow bending and fingers pinching its string almost instantaneously, and Icarus swung his sword, slicing her magic away with ease. His weapons were all made of dragon glass, the only powerful enough material to destroy any kind of sorcery. He twirled it between able fingers, cutting down on all arrows and advancing forward one step at a time.

Then, in the brief moment that Scarlet changed her weapon, he pulled out his wand and sent out a blasting spell towards her, having her body fly through the air before it hit a tree and plummeted to the ground. Auburn hair cascaded over the soil, and when the Blood-Witch raised her eyes, a faint crimson line dripping down from her eyebrow, she saw another flash of color before she threw herself to the side.

Angered, Scarlet used the trees as a protection method from the duelist's highly aggressive magic. She clicked her tongue against her cheek, knowing that she had to draw blood if she wanted to use her talents against Icarus. With that thought pulsating through her neurons, she raised the hood of her red cape, knowing it made her almost untraceable and passable to the human mind.

Norberg slithered through the trees, trying to make as little noise as possible before she used her strength to climb into one. Then, she used the Leviosa spell to raise a rock from the ground and to her hand, being the only common western sorcery she had learned in the past week. Scarlet grabbed onto a branch, then used the rock to rattle the bush underneath the tree.

Icarus' eyes snapped to the commotion, and he smirked capriciously before slowly approaching the area, sword flicking from one hand to another. Then, right as he was about to strike the bush, Scarlet threw herself from the tree and onto his back, fighting against the boy as she struggled to keep herself stable.

"Bloody hell, get off!" shouted Icarus as she began scratching at his skin, trying to draw blood, and one hand covered his eyes as he dropped his sword in a moment of panic. Large hands moved to grab at her cloak, but Scarlet seized his fingers, then began tugging at the metal digits brutally.

Lestrange screamed as the tissue tore, blood slipping from the slight breakage between the metal and the flesh it was attached to, and he used the impulse of pain to grasp Scarlet's cloak and throw her over his head.

"Shit!" he thundered, glancing down at how one of his metal fingers was slowly dangling, and then honey eyes focused on the Blood-Witch, who had a pleased expression on her face.

"You are done for," is what she said before she grasped his sword from the ground and swung it at him, eager to draw more blood. Until it covered him, until it belonged to her, until it had her magic sizzled on her skin.

Icarus used his wand to create a shield of earth as the iron edge came down to strike him, then took the moment to kick at the witch's stomach, having her stumble backward. Scarlet let out a small yelp, clutching her abdomen as pain pushed through, having her muscles spasm in protest.

When her eyes raised back to the boy, she saw that all traces of amusement had faded, and instead, there was the ruthless drive and power of a mighty general, one who was prepared to take on Grindelwald and his army. Icarus' face faded behind a veil of concentration, and Scarlet gasped as she felt strigs of magic clasping around her wrists, dragged her through the ground as she trashed against their hold.

Lestrange walked forward leisurely, grabbing his sword from the ground and clutching it incredibly tight before swinging it at the girl. Scarlet twisted on the soil, having the metal strike the spot where she had previously been, and then kicked her foot into the boy's shin harshly, having his intensity momentarily shatter.

With the bounds gone, the Blood-Witch disappeared between the trees again, red cloak having her locations obscured as feet had leaves crunching behind. She glanced back, and her eyes widened when she saw Icarus dashing after her, his concentration making him able to track her.

Then, he lagged in his steps, and Scarlet's heart beat loudly as he took a fighting stance and held his sword like a spear before hauling it at her. It caught in her cloak, nailing the witch to a nearby tree, and her back slammed against the bark painfully, having her bones pound with agony.

Norberg drew in a sharp breath—she had underestimated just how ruthless was Icarus was, his fighting nature hidden between a screen of good-natured joviality and a flirty persona. But there were no fluttering feelings or comfort in battle, and Lestrange became a machine of war.

"Running away will do nothing," he spat viciously, and then he halted his steps, feeling something pounding against his skull.

In his effort to throw the sword at the witch, he had ruptured a vein on his palm, the blood slipping through the wound he had acquired earlier. That had been the last dash of hematic liquid that the witch had needed, and when Icarus glanced back at Scarlet, she saw her mouth scurrying as she susurrated chants of blood magic.

"Stop it," Lestrange groaned and made to move forward, but he fell to his knees as a sharp pain invaded his chest.

Panicked pupils focused on Norberg, and her spell continued as she had popped the vessels in his lungs, having his muscles spasm and his throat constrict as the duelist choked on his own life serum, which was slowly drowning him from inside out.

"Surrender," Scarlet hissed, not wanting him to continue with the agony, but Icarus had never been one to tap out of a fight.

Then, she took control of his hand and slowly had it reach out to his neck, metal fingers clasping around it and squeezing tortuously until he had blued in the face.

He plummeted to the ground, knocked out cold, and that is when Scarlet finally let her spell go and rushed to his side, cursing as she waved her hands over his body, promptly having the blood that had colored him crimson slip back into his body until he was warm again.

"Someone carry him!" she screamed out to the Knights, and then saw Abraxas and Avery dash down the field.

Varya drew in a sharp breath, still feeling a slight itch of discomfort when the Blood-Witch took control over a human body, almost as if she were a master puppeteer, and everyone else resembled dutiful marionettes.

"Varya!" she heard Rosier call out to her, and she twisted to face him with a hoisted eyebrow, "You and Lev are up next."

Astonished eyes darted to the mentioned boy, who was also frowning terribly. Up until now, all duels had been from opposite sides, but to actively try to hurt her loyal friends was not something Varya relished. As such, her steps towards the clearing were edged, reluctant, and her lungs felt tighter when she turned to face the shadowmancer.

He was standing on the other end of the clearing, the wind blowing his hair from the side, eyes slit from the light, and black clothes clinging to his figure. Lev had some hesitation on his expression, yet the shadows had begun gathering at his feet, swirling fiercely before crawling up his feet and covering him in dark umbrae.

Although both made of darkness, their powers were slightly different—Varya's Obscurus was raw force; it was magic that had been suppressed and darkened until it had turned into a violent torrent of blackness. On the other hand, Lev was a soul born from shadows and obscurations, and his magic was much less explosive, as it pulsated through his bloodstream, infusing cardinal with obsidian.

The Eastern witch knew it had begun when the veins underneath his eyes had turned back, and his sclera had flickered to absolute onyx. Lev's arms flicked to the sides, and shadows accelerated until his limbs appeared to be made of pure charcoal. Then, he dashed in an aggressive sprint towards the witch, and with each step, his surroundings faded to gloomy darkness.

Varya kicked the dirt from under her feet and began running head-on, her irises flashing white as sable locks caught in the furious zephyr that had started picking up as her magic bloomed. Her hands clenched as the Obscurus flicked against the ground, sending specks of dirt behind, and her body appeared a mirage as her atoms began their shifting.

Both of them catapulted into the air, and darkness clashed against pure adumbrations, two blackened forces exploding with magic as the Obscurus enveloped them and Lev's shadows became tentacles of torture. The witch struck the boy first, the blow of her sorcery having him plummet to the ground rapidly before he used his obscurations to ameliorate his fall.

Myung's back hit the ground painfully, but he immediately grabbed at the girl's throat from behind her veil of magic, using his shadows as a whip that wrapped itself around her neck, then threw her to the side. Varya crashed against the trees, and the stem broke due to the impact. Panicked eyes flashed upwards as the last thing she saw was the tree falling over her head.

"Varya?" called out Lev, suddenly aware that he could not see her body underneath the fallen trunk, and he held his breath as he debated running to check on the witch.

The ground rattled beneath his feet, and the shadowmancer wobbled slightly before he heard the sound of rocks splitting in two. When he glanced up, he saw the Obscurus soar into the air in its full non-corporeal form.

Students gasped behind him as they stared at the cloud of blackness, and the sky cracked of granite, the wind aggressively having the trees' branches swing against each other, as if they were bows against strings of a melancholic violin. Nature ravaged akin to a full-blow orchestra, and the instruments accentuated in a sadistic chord as the Obscurus dove down with force.

Lev gasped, and barely had time to register and duck before it slashed against the spot where he had stood. Black locks fell in his face, and he twisted from his location, irritation flashing in his eyes as methodological patterns of attack started surging in his mind.

With as much strength as he could gather, he flicked his hand towards the Obscurus as it made to blow at him again, trying to grasp the edges of its darkness and control them. The power that invaded his system was surreal, an overflow of magic that he could barely handle, and he screamed cruelly as he felt the blood drip from his nose. Right as Varya's sorcery was about to strike him, Lev pushed one last bit and seized it.

The Obscurus suspended into air, and shadows swirled as if rabid, pulsating in every direction as Varya undoubtedly fought against the shadowmancer's control. Lev slowly turned his hand, fingers clenched as the blood dripped to his lips, and he felt the metallic taste right as the Obscurus shattered and the witch's body began falling to the ground.

Varya screamed, then flicked her wand and stopped herself from crashing a few inches above the soil, so close that the grass tickled her nose. Fuck, she could not fight Lev by using her Obscurus, not when he could easily take control over it by using his powers.

"That is unfair," she thundered at him, eyes ablaze with irritation at his impassive expression.

"Nothing is unfair while dueling, love," Lev said, and then his skin covered in darkened veins again as he dashed to her.

Varya grabbed her dagger from her belt, then quickly slashed her hand, knowing that dark magic was her only shot, and her lips moved aridly as she chanted and used her blood to draw a sigil on her forehead. Her lungs spasmed as her body fought against the unnatural demonic surge, but the witch pushed further, ignoring the stinging in her eyes as she connected her mind to his.

Lev halted then, almost as if he had become an aimless puppet, and he watched with horror as the witch raised an arm and he copied her move, almost as if they were made of the same wave of thought, as if his body responded to her neuronal impulses.

The girl brought her dagger back up, then sliced her forearm, a hissing sound coming from the boy as he watched his skin break open, blood oozing to the ground as if it had been him that the blade had struck.

"It will hurt you just as it hurt me," he shouted, pain radiating from his hand yet again as the witch sliced her skin.

"Perhaps we test which one of us can endure more torture," Varya's face twisted into something harsher, darker, as if blood-lust had corrupted her thoughts until carnage was the only whisper of faith for a corrupted soul such as her.

Then, she started approaching him, Lev's body responding to her commands, moves a mirror of her own, and Varya only stopped once they stood face to face. Her breath almost hitched as she glanced up at the boy, saw the terrible fight in his irises as he attempted to shatter her control. But it was useless; her sorcery could not be controlled as the Obscurus would be.

Varya raised her dagger to her own neck, "Tap out."

"You would not dare do it," hissed the boy, although there was hesitation in his eyes.

Because the witch standing in front of him was shattered, a mere vessel of insanity and sacrilege, and in her dark eyes floated macabre intentions, as if there was no humanity behind it all, only a pulsating need of revenge. Lucifer had anointed her with sadism, and God had blessed her with absurd righteousness, to the point where she would go to any ends to achieve her goal, to prove that every breath that Lev continued to take was because she allowed it.

"Are you so sure?" Varya hummed, then began dragging the knife against her throat, making a small incision on one end, almost threateningly, "Surrender to me."

"Stop it," mumbled Lev, eyes trained on her as blood dripped from his neck, yet his own stubbornness refused to back down.

"Surrender."

With a shaky breath, the shadowmancer settled his eyes on her umbra, and with as much power as he could, he clutched onto it and blasted the witch, sending himself flying as well. Although she had control over his body, he could easily manipulate her obscurations.

Varya groaned as her figure slid on the grass, effectively wiping away the sigil on her forehead, and she winced at the stinging feeling of her wounds opening harshly from the impact. Still, she pushed herself up, and was ready to pounce again before Rosier stepped into her vision, putting himself between the two.

"That is it, that is the end," he decreed, eyes shifting to the horrified students behind him, "It is a tie."

"A tie?" Varya thundered, "No! If everyone got to finish their duel, then I have to finish mine as well."

She marched after Ren, who attempted to ignore her wrath, but she grabbed his shirt and dragged him back, turning him to face her. Renold took in a sharp breath before clutching her shoulders.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Varya?" he whispered, "You were willing to slit your own throat to prove a point; you used dark magic in front of dozens of students who could easily go report us to a teacher."

Her chest slowed down as the adrenaline slipped out, and the fogginess of her mind started clearing as her sense came back in. Varya had been rendered speechless, and her eyebrows knotted in bewilderment at her own actions, at how she had lost control over her temper.

"I—" she struggled to say something, shaking her head, "I am not sure."

With that, they both walked back, and the witch barely registered Felix trying to calm down the students and have them arranged into four factions, did not even care for the whispers and rumors that circulated the air. She dashed a hand through her locks, cringing as she felt how they had clustered together from the dirt.

Without another word, she pushed through the crowd, walking towards the castle regardless of Lev's calls to see if she was fine, or Scarlet's concerned gaze. Varya was only vaguely aware of the still bleeding wounds, and she remembered muttering something about cleaning herself up, although the only reason she was leaving was the burn she felt in her chest.

Guilt. Absolute, terrible shame as she started to admit that Icarus had been right about her submerging herself into darkness, slowly allowing it to inundate her thoughts until what was left was a ruthless being. Cruel—she was cold, vindictive, merciless.

And worst of all—she did not mind it.

The next time the witch could string a coherent thought, she had already barged into her dorm, fingers scraping at the muddy clothing and pulling at her hair in frustration, as if they burned her skin. Varya twisted to face the mirror, and her eyes widened as she took in the open, slicing wounds on her arms and neck.

Some had dried blood trails down her epidermis; others still poured slowly, making her light-hearted. With an easy spell, she cleaned herself up; then, she was about to begin healing her wounds when a voice sounded from behind her.

"Do you need help?"

Her lips parted with a gasp, and she pivoted on her feet to face Tom Riddle, who was standing in the threshold of her room. Varya cursed at herself for leaving the door open, and she blinked rapidly before shaking her head.

"No," she spat, then added bitterly, "You can go back to ignoring me, Riddle. I am fine."

But she was not, and he knew that. Tom marched over, assessing her injuries quickly before grabbing her wrist and dragging her to him, regardless of her ample protests.

"Let me go," she breathed, cringing at how her voice cracked.

Varya was slowly losing herself, and feeling his touch on her skin only reminded her of the flames of Hell, burning vivaciously as they consumed her psyche and her body, until everything that was left was darkened ashes, a memory of the witch she had once been.

"Varya, stop it," he warned her, marine eyes focusing on her with such turmoil in them that her mouth snapped shut, and she let herself be guided by him until her legs hit her mattress.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, wrist still between his slender digits, and her lips parted when he kneeled before her, eyes not leaving her own as Tom took his position. With a swift motion, he brought out his wand, and it flared brightly as he hovered over her wounds, slowly closing each point where the witch had sliced her arms.

Then, Riddle slowly leaned in, one hand grabbing the back of her neck as the other brought out the wand and sewed the injury. A small scar was the only thing left behind, right underneath her old one, from when she had done the same thing to Tom.

The jealousy that bubbled in the pits of his abdomen was almost unbearable—the thought that she had nearly sliced her throat for another man, just as she had done for Riddle. Varya felt the slight twitch of the boy's fingers on the back of her neck, and then his thumb moved to the front, grazing the bone under her skin.

She could have sworn she felt Tom's fingers hurriedly squeezing her throat, as if he were reprimanding the witch for something she had done, but it had been so brief she wondered if it had only been her wishful thinking instead.

"Are you involved with Myung?" he rasped, and something in Riddle's voice sounded menacing, as if he had spoken from his most resonant register.

She did not answer for a second, relishing in the slightest squirm of his face at her hesitation, and then his other hand rested on her thigh, harshly digging his fingers in, almost as if it were a warning.

"No," Varya stated, and the smirk that overtook Riddle's face was infuriating.

He took pleasure in it, she realized. Pleasure not only that she was still devoted to him regardless of everything he had done, as if Petrov were destined to be with him and only him, but also that others sought after her, and she refused them. Tom relished having things that were valuable.

Riddle leaned in, lips trailing the edge of her neck, slowly raising up as his thumb began caressing the inner part of her thigh underneath her skirt. Varya drew in a sharp breath, and felt her legs open slightly to allow him to press against her.

"Good girl," he murmured in her ear, then bit down on it as he raised his palm to her underwear, slowly pushing it to the side, then trailing the skin where her leg met her core, having tingles pulsate on her surface, "I enjoyed seeing you so ruthless, so driven to show him that you could dominate over his powers."

Varya parted her lips, a silent moan coming out as Tom began kissing her neck, one finger grazing her as his other hand squeezed her throat, having her clammer up. His tongue swirled against her scars, feeling the roughness of her skin, and he almost groaned at the thought of what she had done, his abdomen tightening.

Then, he dragged her underwear down to her ankles, and his hand trailed back up her leg, as he watched her try to move closer to him. Tom found it delightful, knowing that he so easily had her spreading herself out in front of him, and that it was him she always chose despite the advances of others.

His mouth continued moving against her throat, slowly making its way down to the small dip of her collarbones, where he bit on the skin until she whimpered and trashed, until her hand pulled at his hair to have him move away. Riddle took that moment to begin rubbing his palm against her, pressing harshly and in circular motions, then lowering his mouth further and kissing her breast over her clothes.

A knock sounded at the door, and Varya gasped and made to move, but Tom stopped her, devious glint in his eyes.

"Varya?" called out Lev from the other side, "Are you all right? I am sorry if it was too much. We should not have gone all out during practice."

The witch drew in a sharp breath as Riddle pressed his tongue against her clit, swirling it around the focal point as her legs hyperextended, and she drove a hand in his hair, pressing herself against his mouth as he glanced up at her from where he stood, daring her to speak.

"Hello?" Lev asked again when she did not answer, then tried to push against the handle.

"Do not—do not come in!" the witch almost screeched, "I am changing, sorry."

Her lower body vibrated as Tom chuckled darkly against her, and he then brought his hand back down, inserting one finger harshly and almost making her scream out from the fusion of pain and pleasure. She rotated her hips to meet his movements, too greedy to push him away and deny herself the feeling.

"I just wanted to make sure you were fine," spoke the shadowmancer, "Is someone in there with you? I feel the sense of more shadows."

Tom pulled his mouth away, twisting to glance at the door with irritation, and then he raised to his feet and started undoing his belt. Varya fell down on the mattress, bringing her palms to her eyes to press against her face in frustration, unsure who she should tell to piss off.

"I am fine," she croaked out as Tom climbed in the bed, twisting her with her back against him and pressing his lips to her jaw. He began unbuttoning her shirt, then opened it fully and pressed cold hands over her bra, moving his hands up and down her chest, "My Obscurus is just acting weirdly because of what happened. I swear, Lev—everything is great."

Her back arched as Riddle pressed himself against her back, slowly grinding, and he grabbed her chin and turned her face until her eyes met his in the mirror. He looked mesmerizing, darkened eyes gazing at her as he moved, trying to find release in the simple motion, and he bit down on his lip and let his forehead fall over her shoulder.

"Look at yourself, Varya," he mumbled in her skin, "Realize who you always chose, who you always want. And watch as I take you for myself completely."

With that, he slid himself in, and Varya threw her head back, feeling the stretch as he moved in and out rhythmically, one hand darting to grab onto her tie and pull, while the other slid down to her hips, having the witch meet his motion.

"Do you want me to wait for you?" inquired the shadowmancer, and there was something odd in his voice, almost as if he suspected something was going on.

Fuck. "No," she managed to say, her voice shaky as she felt something cold thump against her throat, "I will be back shortly, I promise."

"All right."

With that, he walked away, and Varya gasped audibly as Tom picked up his pace, moving fast and deeply enough that all she could register was the palpable pleasure and the way he was pressed against her back. Her eyes opened, and she whined as she realized Riddle had taken out her dagger and placed it against her neck, having it scrape against her epidermis and her body bounced.

Through the mirror, Varya took in the sight of him—his head slowly thrown back, curls hanging as he scrunched his eyes from the feeling of being inside her. His hand grabbing her breast to hold her in place, and squeezing tightly as the other had the knife. A deep groan bubbled past his lips, and then he raised his head, eyes opening and immediately glancing at her.

"Fuck," he breathed as he watched her, and a veil of reverie clouded his irises, dark red lips swollen from how he had bitten them. Tom pushed himself deeper there, earning a hiss of pain from the girl, and he changed his pace to a slower one, so that he could drag out against her walls until he felt every bit of flesh.

The dagger dug deeper into her skin, and she felt warmth trail down the side of her neck at the small incision he had made. She realized then what he wanted—to be the only one that would ever have her bleed, the one that would be able to have a blade in such a sensitive point.

"Tom," the whine slipped past her lips without her even realizing as his fingers trailed down to her core, pinching and rubbing as he aimed to get her to finish first. The pleasure that inundated her as he went back to his harsh strokes was surreal, to the point where her vision blurred and tears trailed down her cheek, mixing in with the slightest blood on her neck.

"Look in the mirror, Varya. Look at yourself as I do this to you and understand that nobody else will have you so vulnerable in front of them," he ordered, and his eyes met hers in the reflection again. He grunted as he grasped her hair and pulled at it, his thrusts getting more aggressive with each second.

Her climax rippled through her as the boy smirked through the mirror, and she watched her face flush, and her body quiver under his hold as she moved against him. Tom turned her head to bring her mouth to his, as if he could feel the way he undid her on lips, as if the way she cried his name against him was a taste of Eden.

Tom followed swiftly, and he pulled out just in time, finishing against the back of her skirt as his head fell in the crook of her neck, lips mumbling her name repeatedly as he rode out his high. Varya's breathing was irregular, and she picked up her wand from the side and moved it swiftly to clean themselves up as Riddle struggled to become coherent again.

She leaned back into him as she fastened the buttons of her shirt, and the boy let himself fall over her pillows, the witch between his legs and with her head on his chest as it calmed down. Tom's hand went to play with her hair, and he glanced down at her face, taking in the harshness of her nose as it curved slightly upwards.

Varya twisted to glance up at him, and he hoisted an eyebrow, "What is it?" his voice had a rasp to it, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

"Do not think this makes up for avoiding me," she narrowed her eyes, and her nostrils flared when he smirked at her.

"It does not?"

"No," she said decisively, "Tom, I understand that you are recalcitrant when it comes to admitting that you are not an emotionless being, but truly, there is no weakness in such thing."

Riddle clenched his jaw in irritation. He had hoped that giving her enough time would have her forget about the stupid dialogues over their emotions, yet it seemed that she was stubborn enough to persist in every single affair.

There was a whirl in his abdomen then. Something scarifying against his insides that his mind automatically decreed to be the sense of danger, and a feeling he commonly recognized around the witch. It was as if the pointy edge of a rock was being pulled down his tissues, scratching and tearing with agonizing slow motions, and then everything whirled into a tornado of awareness.

"I have little to say, Petrov," he spoke slowly, expecting her to have an outburst at his words.

Varya shot up from the bed, twirling to gaze at him with morbidity in her eyes, and she scoffed before grabbing her robe from the bed and ramming her hands inside the sleeve. She seized the wand and stuck it in her pockets, then picked up her dagger and wiped it on Riddle's robe before placing it in her leather belt.

As soon as she started moving towards the door, Riddle was up from the bed and following her. He reached out over her shoulder and slammed the entrance shut, before grabbing her hand and turning her around.

"Where are you going?" he inquired, voice menacing as he placed one hand on the side of her head.

"Are you serious?" the witch scoffed, "You will not even let me leave? Riddle, you have made it pretty clear that you have no interest in being honest with me, yet you do not even let me leave. Tell me, what is it that you want from me? Do you want me near or not? Because I am tired of your fucking mixed signals."

He glanced at her, the way Varya's eyes held such defiance, and the boy drew in a sharp breath, pupils swirling around the room to try and find an escape. Tom was not sure how to explain what he felt—it was as if someone had taken a ball of yarn and placed out the string along his soul, then knotted it and crossed it over until the path that it took was uncertain and difficult to follow.

His lips parted, and the words Tom had thought about for the past fourteen days, so much so that they had drilled into his skull, did not make it past. And now, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw them swirling on his eyelids.

There were many twisted things about Tom Riddle, an unfathomable trail that had been shattered by lightning leading to his innermost thoughts, so much so that even he struggled in taking it sometimes. He was a boy that had never much experienced love, and as such, he had found himself resenting it deeply.

Not only because it had been the weakness that had taken his parents away, but because throughout his childhood, Tom had understood one thing—he was a man that nobody had ever loved, and nobody could love.

But Varya did, so much so it drove him mad, and no matter how harshly he shoved against her constant devotion, she always seemed to persist stubbornly. Because that was her character, and she had endured more than anyone he had ever known, yet still sprung right back up when knocked down.

The idea of him returning it made his guts boil with agitation, as if someone were dragging a knife through his insides, and it sped up his pulse and quickened his bloodstream until Tom felt as if he were dying. Love was horrendous, a flaw, a fault in his character.

More importantly, his affection for her would never fix him. It was not some miraculous cure that would drench away the darkness, stomping out the hellfire that ravaged his mind endlessly. But it would have him less lonely in his despair and trauma.

And when the world crumbled around them, when they surmounted the mortal realm as their souls continued existing against every law of the universe, defying the gods and outrunning the demons that had plagued their minds, they would be together. Because Varya would be the one to pluck out the weeds of wickedness that corrupted his soul until matter itself would stop existing, and Tom knew that he did not want to outlive time by himself.

So, he could not tell the witch he loved her then, because such feelings were foreign and unwanted to the boy—still, Tom Riddle could say something else.

"You are my eternity," Tom said slowly, unsure as the uncharacteristic words stumbled past his lips, "I do want you here. I want you by my side through everything I do—even when I push you away, even when I act against you. Perhaps, I had always sought out this, with the obsessive need to have you depend on me when I thought you would choose someone else over me. Or the way I found excuses to bring you back, claiming that I desired to cut our connection while constantly deepening it."

Varya felt herself go numb, every ounce of anger dissipating from her soul.

"I told you I did not want you, but that I needed you. Now, I stand corrected—I want you by my side, and I need you by my side," he confessed, and the turmoil in his irises was apparent, "But you have to know, I am not Icarus, nor Myung. I will not be tender, affectionate, or kind to you. If something happens to you, I will not avenge your name by helping the darkness fade. Instead, I will burn the whole world down until there is nothing left behind."

The witch struggled to answer, "If I wanted kindness, I would not have looked at you."

"You are looking for heartbreak here, I hope you are aware, because I will never be able to give you a sane life, and there will always be something twisted about me," he continued, "You see, I have no intention of dotting on you or being romantic. I want a partner by my side, someone who will rival me in darkness and cruelty—a monster of terror. Can you be that?"

Varya was not sure what to say or how to explain that she had no intention in corrupting the world. Still, she had to grasp Tom and hold him close if she wanted to prevent the terrible fate he would bring upon the world. And while she could not agree with him, she also could not deny him.

"I will not rival you, I will destroy you and out-power you."

Tom stared at her, face stern and body tense, almost as if every muscle was contracting with the need to dash down the corridor and never see the witch again. Then, he leaned in and pressed harsh lips to hers, bringing her body to press against his. Varya whined, mouth still sore from their earlier activities, yet responded just as eagerly, tangling hands in his hair.

Their bodies were flush against each other, as if they did not want ever to let go, for they were each other's whole world, the only thing that mattered in infinity and eternity. His lips moved against her with newfound understanding, and although they were both too dysfunctional to carry out a relationship, their affection entangled into a deeper bond, one that connected the psyche and body.

When Varya had first arrived at Hogwarts, she had been told that she and Tom were alike, two sides of the same coin, but while the other prevailed in solitary darkness, she consumed it to bring out light around her. As such, her time with the Knights had brought out humanity and understanding amongst the group, even reaching out to the leader, and strangling the nightmare of his soul.

However, the problem was that when a coin got flipped and one side finally faced light, the other submerged in eternal darkness.

***

I think we are halfway through this sequel? Something like that anyhow. This chapter was so long, oh my god.

Thank you for all of your wishes and kind words regarding the recent passing of my family member! Instead of updating daily, my schedule will probably slow down a little. And do not worry about me! My family had been expecting this for weeks now, and we have all come to terms with it a long time ago.

As always, your support means a lot to me and brings me joy. Thank you SO much for tagging me in TikToks and recommending my book. The way it has been growing lately is insane, and I am glad to have found a somewhat healthy coping mechanism in writing.