it is embarrassing how long this took and i still wrote it at 4am somehow. anyway, I missed everyone's comments <3

THE ANATOMY OF DELLA BEAUCHAMP - SACRIFICE

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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Be advised: From now on, this story will slowly become darker. I will not be putting trigger warnings anymore to preserve the plot, but if you have any worries that something might be too much for you, let me know.

Some people were not meant to be the heroes of the story, Varya discerned.

The glass was cold underneath her fingers. Rain drummed against the panel, drops ricochetting and gathering in the corners of the window, where they fused in with the snow, freezing over into nothingness. Her breath fogged it as she gaped outside, taking in the trees that stood like charcoal rods in muddied snow, swelling in the Londonese streets. Varya's mind swirled with foreboding as she watched another twilight hour chime by, bringing them closer to Christmas Eve.

"Are you trying to melt the snow with your scowl?"

She twisted to throw Rosier a side-eyed glower, her skin prickling at his proximity. He sat on the chair across the room, yet his presence was suffocating, drowning her in familiarity that had lead to treachery. Still, the amusement that passed his face settled her nerves—a reflex more than anything.

"No," she began, turning away from the window and crossing her arms over her chest, "But waiting for Riddle to drag his ass here is making me quite restless. Where is he anyway?"

Ren toyed with the small knife in his hands, one that Varya recognized to belong to Indra. It had her markings on the handle, small nebulas struck in the middle by an arrow of darkness, swirls of shadows encircling the blazing stars, yet never smothering it; a mixture of the Myung sibling's powers.

He shrugged, utterly disinterested, "Here and there, he has been keeping himself busy."

Varya had noticed, but she made no comment on how the boy had taken to avoiding her. As if he had the right to turn away from whatever it was they shared, as if he had been the one allowed to seek comfort in the distance. Had she not known better, she would have assumed it to be shame that positioned him away from her, yet the witch had come to know Riddle's schemes and gears. No, he was waiting for her to seek him out.

"I thought getting to the bottom of the current situation would have been a priority."

"Hardly affects him, so no."

"The possibility of one of his dead acolytes resurrecting and torturing all of you does not affect him?"

Rosier snorted, "Wishful thinking to believe it is a mere zombie that has it out for us."

"Then what?"

"If I knew we would not be waiting for Riddle, no?"

Her mouth snapped shut at the twinkle of charade in his irises. Varya drew in a sharp breath, leaning against the circular table and gazing around the meeting room. They had cleaned it, throwing away papers that had colored in the edges, dried ink pots that no longer served anyone, and any sentimental object that had been stuffed deep inside not to haunt the memory of whoever owned the house prior to their arrival. Lev had told her that Lestrange had not simply rented the place. He had purchased it, deeming that it was safer to own their hiding spot ultimately.

The door swung open, and in walked the shadowmancer, black sweater stretched over his chest as he yawned and pressed a hand against his face, trying to haul the somnolence away from dipping eyelashes. He had had the unfortunate luck of sharing a room with Lestrange, Avery, and Rosier, all rowdy boys who spent their nights chatting about the most obscure things. For a soldier like Myung, who woke up in the earliest hours, it had become a most terrible habit, exhausting him beyond reason.

"Tired?" murmured Varya when he took a seat by her, dark undercircles making him appear all the more a being made of tenebrosity. From inky strands hanging freely around his face, to the pulsating darkness underneath his skin, and the deep irises made of scorpion venom, the tightness and obscurations vibrated from the boy's aura.

"What an odd question," he mumbled, his voice raspy as he threw his head back, chasing away the umbrae from one of the corners in the room. They crawled to him like dutiful pets, caressing his skin and circling around his limbs, temperamental from their master's terrible state.

"You could always ask Felix to switch with you."

Lev let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes shut tightly, and contemplated over it. Indeed, he could ask Parkin to switch rooms, but the boy had suffered from terrible heartbreak due to recent events. He needed all the rest he could get, and while the two of them had never been the closest in the group, Myung respected him enough to suck up his complaints and let his companion have his space.

"I do not mind," he puffed, "Except for the terrible headaches."

Varya moved to stand behind him, then rose her delicate hands and placed them on either temple, making the shadowmancer shudder under her touch. His eyes opened in astonishment, and he drove away from her intoxicating presence. Still, the witch pressed in deeper, mumbling a village remedy she had picked up in her days in Romania. The incantation was swift, and she felt his pulse quicken under his skin, yet his shoulders relaxed, and he grumbled something inaudible.

"Well then," snorted Rosier quietly, more to himself than anything.

His eyes trailed the pair, observing the corner of the room grow obscure from their powers interlacing, a couple made from shadows and despair. It was as if witnessing a ballet of dark swans, feathered transits to a macabre tune, gentle and eerie as two dancers exchanged calculated and supporting movements. Varya's violin melody hit higher pieces as the shadowmancer's cello gravitated around profound notes, knitting in a somber piece that transversed the room, a frequency of their own sorcery.

The door swung open again, and in stepped Riddle, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the room with cold eyes, only for them to settle on Varya with crudity. Something passed over his face, an unfamiliar mask that the witch had never seen before, and with her fingers still on Lev's skin, she hoisted an eyebrow in challenge. Deadly charade.

"Petrov," his call was curt, poisonous, "I suggest you keep your hands to yourself in public spaces."

The acidity in his tone did not go unmissed, and Tom chunked his files on the table, dragging a seat for himself on the complete opposite of Varya. The witch sighed softly, then took a step away from Lev, not wanting to give the shadowmancer the wrong impression now that Riddle had put them under the lense.

When Maxwell came in, they all sat down, staring at each other and ravenous for answers. The Evergreen name had been akin to the mark of hot iron on their skin, a mystery that none of them could elucidate. They kept the information in the close circle of informants, only bringing socialite Rosier in, with his honeyed words and means of gathering information like fruits from the highest branches of a tree.

"Where is your right-hand, then?" inquired Varya, her mockery apparent, and the frown on Tom's face was all the more satisfying.

"He is off of any important duties until further notice."

Riddle did not give a reason, yet they all knew why he had dismissed Abraxas—he was disgusted that he had allowed his name to be tarnished by his association with Della Beauchamp, power dripping through his fingers like sand. It had not been his prejudice against muggle-borns that had determined the wizard to take such actions, but his disdain with the heir's unwillingness to fight the claims plastered in inky titles on every newspaper across the wizarding world.

Malfoy had many things that Tom craved for. He had the name, the old money, the reputation, something that Riddle could not acquire regardless of his endless attempts, for such traits were inherited, not earned. There had never been any resentment between the two, nor jealousy, yet to pretend that the Dark Lord was not disappointed in his acolyte would have been futile.

Varya found it bemusing how grouchy Tom had turned at not having his most trusted companion by his side. What an odd relationship they had, where neither would ever call the other a friend, yet Malfoy was the one person the wizard trusted with almost everything, who had proven his loyalty again and again. Not even the coldest reptiles were immune to the scorch of abandonment, it seemed.

"Rosier, what did you find?" continued Tom, shifting the topic as he straightened his back and leaned his elbows on the table, hands clasped in contemplation. Marine eyes burned vividly with desire for knowledge, for the truth, and the witch felt her breath halt for a second. He was most mesmerizing when she hated him.

Ren clicked his tongue, then pulled out a sealed envelope from his suit jacket, using Indra's knife to open it. The Eastern witch wondered how much it bothered him to hide their recent investigations from his girlfriend, claiming to go out on long promenades to clear his mind every time he had to investigate something for Riddle. She knew that Lev was not taking kindly to it, grumbling about transparency and trust whenever someone reminded him not to let anything slip.

Tom picked the contents from the table, gazing at the stills with apathy in his features. There was no sign of any turmoil in his eyes, and that made the Eastern witch nervous. She leaned in to get the documents from him, eyeing the boy's hands over the table, but as soon as she got close enough to get them, Riddle passed them over to Maxwell.

"He is most certainly dead, then," commented the dark wizard, marine irises swirling with vexation as he shot Varya a tired look. She scoffed, then leaned against her seat.

Maxwell twisted the photos so that Varya and Lev could see— Lopheus' cadaver was sprawled over a morgue table, gun wound straight in the middle of his forehead. His skin was sunken in, bruised in the extremities, and there seemed to be a certain stiffness in his muscles. The nuance of his epidermis was jaundiced, and meshes of blue struck from underneath, like veins scattering over his face.

He was most certainly dead.

"Then who got in using his name?" muttered Rosier, glancing around the room with apprehension.

"They would have asked for some sort of identification if it was a new face, so it ought to have been a forgery. More so, whoever did it must be involved in his death somehow. Grindelwald probably had one of Dalibor's men execute Lopheus and then snatch his documents," proposed Tom, hand on his temple as he leaned against the armchair, lethargic expression on his face. He seemed utterly disinterested in the subject, yet Varya saw the glint in his eyes—he was just as perplexed as them.

But Petrov felt that something was odd about his theory. The pieces did not fit in properly, as if someone had stuffed the edges together, bending them only to have some sense of the clues they were given. She tried to think back to the day Lopheus had visited her in the Hogwarts amphitheater before the play, hands clasped around a newspaper that had proven her memories had been altered. The witch leaned forward, dark eyes fixating on a swirl in the wooden table in front of her, and to her best ability, she attempted to recall the moment.

Until the realization stuck.

"Last time I saw Evergreen, he was visiting Europe on family business," she slashed eyes around the room, trying to avoid the Knights' stares, yet collect them all the same.

"Impossible," scoffed Tom, "His whole bloodline is American, you must have misheard."

"I did not, Riddle. I know what I heard," she snapped at him, then turned to glance at Lev, "It would all make sense. If he had family in Europe, then they would not have needed to steal his documents because the name in their own would match the one on the invite. A relative killed him, and Lopheus told me that he once lost a family member to Grindelwald's fanaticism. I thought he meant they had been killed, but what if that is not the case?"

The shadowmancer seemed to catch on, "So, Evergreen comes to Europe to visit a family member. He stops by Hogwarts to give you the newspaper and then vanishes into thin air to seek a family member. Next thing you know, the newspapers claim that he is dead."

Varya turned to face Maxwell, alertness in her fiery eyes, "Is there any possibility of that? Could Lopheus have had a sibling or an uncle in Europe?"

The archivist narrowed his eyes, trying to concentrate on his thoughts, but came back empty-handed. Frustration flashed against his face, and then he sighed, "I cannot recall."

"But is there anyone who could?"

"Avery was closest to him," mumbled Nott, then pressed a hand against his temple, "He would be the one to know most about Evergreen's family."

The witch was on her feet in seconds, Lev stepping closely behind as his shadows dashed back into the corners, and they both grabbed their coats from the hangers, stuffing eager hands into the sleeves. Rosier got up to his feet as well, getting the knife from the table and flipping it with dexterity in his hands, then saluted them and dashed out, probably to meet Indra.

Right as Varya was about to leave the room, she heard a voice stop her from behind, "Petrov."

She threw Tom a nasty glare, "What is it?"

His dull eyes twinkled with irritation at her attitude, but he merely crossed his legs and then lifted one finger, inviting her to come closer, "A word?"

The witch scoffed, "Riddle, we are trying to get to the bottom of things here. I understand you might be more concerned with washing the blood out of your white blouses, but this is no trivial matter."

"And as such, I will send Maxwell to accompany the shadowmancer in questioning one of my men."

Varya crossed her arms in frustration, sneer plastered on her face as she advanced in despite herself, posture threatening, "Is this how it is going to be? You will not let me near your men because you believe me to be some sort of threat?"

"I think you have a quick temper, and I would rather Avery remain intact in case this seems to be a dead-end," Tom motioned Maxwell to follow Lev, who seemed torn for a second before the archivist pushed him out of the room.

Varya watched them leave, her jaw tight, and then she strolled around the room, eyes anywhere but the Dark Lord, who sat in his wooden throne imperially, smirk wove from the most treacherous thoughts as gemstones cracked in his pupils, strikingly vicious. His chest was covered by a gray vest, dark emerald buttons tightly shut, and his white blouse struck a contrast, pushed in gray pants. Glistening shoes squeaked against the floor as he sat up, tall frame covering the space between them fastly, and then he stopped a few feet away from the witch, wonder in his eyes.

His voice had a tired rasp to it, "I see you took no time in finding another man to lay your hands upon."

She glanced at him, flabbergasted look at his audacity, and then her nose scrunched in disgust. Tom Riddle was the last person who should have had the insolence to talk to her in such a manner, as if she owed any loyalty or respect to him. Although their arrangement had been somewhat romantic, they had never been together, and he had no claim to her.

"Hardly your business."

His nostrils flared, "I do not enjoy when other people touch what is mine."

"Ha! You are a real joke, are you not Riddle?" she flashed angry teeth, snarling as she approached him. For a second, her hands moved to push him away, but then her muscles stiffened—she did not want to touch him. "Yours? Perhaps, you could have had me once, truly. But do you believe I could ever bear to look at you knowing that you sent Ivy's soul to purgatory?"

Her voice cracked, and she cursed the skies for raining down sorrow on her, a drizzling perception that sent shivers down her hands. Varya did not want to cower in front of Riddle, for she knew he could care less of the torment that wrecked her. No, Tom did not care for the guilt that had been gnawing at her psyche, sinking cold fangs into the edges and dragging until headaches were a pleasantry compared to what her mind felt like.

She was a prisoner in her own thoughts, and they whirled around her skin akin to barbed wire, then clasped around her throat until being around Riddle was triggering; it was suffocating. He had destroyed her, had annihilated her future by entangling their destinies together, and part of her wished she could be the sort of witch who did not care. She wanted to be someone who could walk away from him with a clean conscience, without feeling the need to fix something so broken, as if it would mend her in the end. But she was not. Varya was weak.

But Petrov saw herself in the boy, both as depraved and knavish, born out of a bed of withered roses and prickly thorns. They had never had it easy; they had gritted their teeth and pushed through the world's obscurations, young children with sooty faces and empty eyes. She had been a ghost in her childhood, a walking phantasm that never lingered nor made much of a fuss, so that her peers would stop associating her name with family traitors, and he had been a rowdy soldier, striking down everyone only so that he could be remembered, so that he would not be another faceless victim of abandonment.

Riddle made no comment to her remark at first. He stared her down as if choosing his words carefully, perhaps not wanting to face one of her outbursts. He glanced at her tear-stained cheeks, then took in a deep breath, "I did not know that would happen."

"Should have done more research before splitting your soul and using my friend's death to do it, no?"

Varya moved away from him, feeling herself sink in her lowest points, and the ache in her chest was terrible. Because even after she acted as if he mattered least, even after she had told him never to look at her again—the witch still cared for him deep down. It was not something she could let go of so easily, no matter how badly she wanted to point her wand at her temple and take the memory away.

Similarly, she could not absolutely hate Della Beauchamp either. For that reason, she avoided her former friend like the plague, putting as much distance between the two as possible. Varya knew the closer she was to her, the easier it was to fall into familiar patterns, to act as if nothing had changed.

The rain continued to drum against the window panel, melodious thudding as droplets splattered and froze over. By now, the glass had been covered in a thin layer of ice, covering the scenery in an optical malformity, where umbrae and figures danced in the last few rays of twilight, yet nothing could be distinguished. The sonority of the pouring skies fused in with the pair's soft breathing, and Varya could feel Tom's eyes on her back as she moved across the salon, pretending to be engrossed in the spider webs that had gathered in the corners.

"What do you want me to do, Petrov?" he called out suddenly, and the slight urgency in his tone making the witch turn on her heels, eyes wide open, "Beg, is that it? Do you want me to squirm as I see you parade yourself with another man because you deemed me unworthy? You must enjoy seeing me uncomfortable, watching me lose sleep over the fact that you are so deeply sown into my soul, even an emotionless bastard like me feels it tear."

She shook her head, "Do not dare manipulate me with your double-edged words, Riddle. I know, as well as you do, that it is not me you have been losing sleep over," at the surprise that flashed in his eyes, the witch neared, smirk on her face, "Yes, I saw you sneaking out into the night. I saw you coming back with your hands bloodied and your shoes muddy. Tell me, have you been seeking thrills in murdering locals, Tom?"

It happened every night around midnight. Varya would lay in her bed, motionless from the nightmares that screeched like hyenas, dark eyes under her circles, when the wood outside her door would creak. A soft sound, at first, but it would only accentuate as shoes clicked against the moaning stairs, filling the small townhouse with resonating notes. She had told herself to let it be, but insomnia was a demon that could only be tamed by distractions, so the witch had dabbled to the windows, cold hands against freezing glass, and had glanced outside.

And there he had been—Tom Riddle slipping through the shadows of the night, hands gloves and dark coat over his shoulders as leathered boots left marks into the night snow. Varya had debated following him through the storms, but her disgust with the wizard had made her merely wait for his return from the window.

Sometimes, it took a few hours for him to return. Sometimes, only one twist of the clock. Even so, whenever he pushed back through the white fauna, steps retracing his earlier path, scarlet would trail behind him, small drops of iniquity against the pure chalky color of the ground.

Tom's jaw tightened, "You know nothing."

"Tell me then," she began as he made to move out of the room. Varya reached out, clasping fingers against his wrist, and then froze up.

Tom paled as well, glancing at the spot where their cold skin touched, delicate digits round his hand, and he felt an uncharacteristic ache in his abdomen, as if her hand alone could wreck him beyond recognition. The wizard did not move, some part of him not wanting her to let him go, but much to his disappointment, Varya pulled away as if scorched.

She cleared her throat, face flushed with fury and embarrassment, then gazed anywhere but his face, "Tell me, Riddle. What is it that I do not know?"

The moment flickered past him, and he bit the inside of his cheek, vein drumming against the side of his face as he puffed out air aggressively, "You do not know many things, Varya. To begin with, you are losing control over your own mind, letting your emotions snuff out your rationale. We both know you are smarter than this, and whatever happened in that clearing would have never made you act like this last year. I am not one to care much for the mindless chattering and so-called friendship between your and your band of rascals, but even to me, it is obvious you are pushing everyone away."

With that, he moved away again, pushing the door open, and right as he passed the threshold, he heard the girl's soft voice from behind, "I never pushed you away." Tom felt his pulse quicken, and he shot her an astonished look, taking in the fragility of her state, yet it all shifted as her eyes switched to blazing fire and hatred, "That was all you and your endless lies."

"You are not as faultless as you think yourself to be."

"Everything I am, you have made me."

The boy scoffed, "Make me your villain if it helps you live with everything you have done, Petrov."

Her eyes seemed to shimmer, and he tried not to care, "How can you live with yourself?"

Riddle took in a small breath, and he savored the way it soothed the blister in his chest. He scorned the need to reach out to her, for it was nothing but a pointless attempt to satisfy a craving he would much rather let burn to the end of its fuse. So, instead, he shot her a condescending smirk, "If I were you, I would worry more about the days you have left before you seek out to death as that curse rots your psyche away."

Eternity was only an ideal and nothing more. In the end, Tom Riddle only ever needed himself.

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Della Beauchamp felt as if larvae had settled in her backbone, feasting upon her marrow and gnawing at her nerves until she had become a spineless creature, nothing but clay to model for those with riotous hands and a conniving mind.

The witch could not remember the last time she had indeed belonged to herself, before she had been reduced to a spy or an acolyte, when her thoughts had been something else other than the blood that had been spilled due to her mistakes or the hearts she had tortured. Two years ago, she had been a girl glowing with brilliance, her grace and briskness renowned amongst the Hogwarts corridors. Della Beauchamp had been a pure soul, with a kind family and a bright future ahead of her.

Now, she gawked at the walls of her room, trying to count the cracks in the ceiling, and she wondered if they were any match for the ones in her soul. The ticking sound of Ophelia Winterbour's nightstand clock was faint, yet it felt as scratching as a turbine, unsettling her sensitive nerves as the fresh set of tears dried out on burning cheeks, and her eyelashes clumped from the saltiness.

What was left of her?

They had taken it all, had tied strings around her arms and legs in moments of weakness, then played her like an aimless puppet, like a brainless marionette. Della had never been as unique as Varya or as bright as Felix; she had not trained in anything remotely useful when it came to war because she had never thought herself to need it. Her father had been the one to make the sacrifice for their family and had enlisted during her fourth year at Hogwarts, sailing out to the troops on French soil. But Paris had fallen long ago, and in the rampage of World War 2, muggles were as defenseless as sitting ducks. It did not take long for Grindelwald to infiltrate their camps and take her father away.

And then, just like her father, Della Beauchamp had become a victim of war.

She had been utterly frightened when they had taken her from her house, pushing her through the dark night to face the wizard. Collateral damage, Grindelwald had said, or a hefty price to pay for the greater good. The Head-Girl had never thought much about the wizarding world, too preoccupied with the muggle one, and she had not known that her closest friend had been the seed of the poisonous plant needed to end it all. Sometimes, Della wished she could have resented Varya for dragging her into this. She had never wanted any part of the massacre and had planned to apply for a healer job at the hospital. Instead, she was to be a medic on the war front. That was if they even allowed her to step near it out of fear of betrayal.

Her eyes fell on the deep cut Varya had used to seal their Blood Pact, and another round of tears streamed down her cheeks. Della was terrified. She was not made to face such danger, and had not grown up the way Varya or Scarlet had, with darkness crawling around from the woods and grasping their limbs, being taught how to survive in high-intensity situations. She was a muggle-born, had not even had a magical upbringing, and that made her weak.

A knocking sound came from the door, and Beauchamp used her pillowcase to wipe away her tears before standing up and clearing her throat, "Come in!"

She cringed at the way her voice broke, yet it all faded away into nothing but panic when Abraxas Malfoy pushed the door open, dark suit catching the dim light of her room. The witch stood up straighter, moving locks away from translucent cheeks, and was suddenly entirely conscious of the cloth marks on her face.

"You should not be here," she mumbled, guilt nesting in her like a rotten thing.

"Why?" mumbled Abraxas, not daring to come closer from where he stood by the door.

It would pain Felix if he saw you here, and I already hurt him enough.

But instead, she settled for another answer, "I saw what your parents sent to the Daily Prophet," Della attempted a smile, but it only made her seem more miserable as her eyes glistened, "I suppose I am a stalker now?"

Malfoy drew in a sharp breath, chest puffing as his eyes flashed with conflict. She should have expected it, frankly. They were his family, after all, and one girl was not worth throwing away everything they had built, his whole inheritance and future. He had the decency to look ashamed, although Della would have much preferred that he did not. She would have been able to hate him or, at least, pretend to do it.

"I had nothing to do with that," mumbled the boy, distant eyes only slightly swirling with turmoil. He had made his decision, perhaps.

"But you did not stop them."

"Della, you know I could not do that."

"I never asked you to."

She never felt comfortable enough to demand his respect, and Della supposed that was the quality that made her so malleable, like soft mud to shape into a desired weapon. The problem was, cruelty had long ago surpassed the need for stone and clay armory, and her actions proved to be futile even if they intertwined with her most honest desires.

The witch could only wish that the signature on her defaced gravestone would be boisterous, that her death would bring some sort of fulfillment if not her life, a last cry to the dirt made beings that loitered murky boulevard, aimlessly searching for a purpose. Della knew that she was nothing but a dull girl, dragged by still tightly braided tails and forced to mature in a nefarious environment. Part of her wanted to hate all of them for what they had done, for taking everything away from her, having her constellations flicker out into vagueness until the sky was as obscure as the abyss they sunk her in, and every direction was gawking darkness.

Abraxas sighed, some stiffness in his limbs as he attempted to move towards her, hands clenching by his side as though he had to reach out to her. Still, he kept his distance, as if her skin was infected and she was nothing but the alluring and intoxicating sensation of mindless cheap thrills.

"I wish I knew the right thing to say or how to mend things, but I do not. I am not brave enough to give everything up for a possibility. Not today, maybe not tomorrow either, but once Riddle brings us to glory, once I raise my own name to glory, perhaps, then..."

He trailed off, sealing an empty promise that only stuck shards of broken mirrors in her soul.

"Riddle would never allow you to be with me," her whisper was terrible, a truth neither wanted to admit.

Sometimes, Della thought that not even Abraxas truly wanted her. She thought he wanted to stand out from his family, put up a fight only to pester their strict rules and complex dynamics, and his affection towards her was nothing more than an outcry of defiance.

There seemed to be no use in finding words to console her, so Malfoy simply stayed quiet, dragging his eyes over the room with regret twirling in sapphire eyes like a lopsided ballerina, all tangled movements and unmatched. Platinum hair caught the beginning of moonlight, and the silver-like luminosity caressed sharp edges of a shattered boy, his gaze lost and lips parted with unspoken promises that meant nothing.

Every word he spoke to her was heresy—dogmas that did not abide by the doctrine he had built his life upon, blasphemy to his blasphemy. Abraxas Malfoy had not been made to love a muggle-born, a soul evaluated by most to be inferior, even if the world itself implied that they all were beings made of dirt and blood, like Adam and Eve. Ha. And she thought herself to be made of clay, malleable, bending—mudblood.

"I am sorry," was the only thing Abraxas could say, words that pinched his nerve and lit them with culpability when she sent him a tortured smile.

Perhaps, Tom Riddle's ability to be so shameless in his propaganda against affection was a blessing in disguise, not a curse, because at least he never got to feel the way Malfoy did when he turned on his heels and headed out of the room, head hung down in shame.

Della stood still for a second, now completely abandoned, and yet tears did not fall anymore. There was only emptiness, a lonesome hole to crawl into, until vines of solitude crawled from the edges, covering the view she had of the northern stars, and the only sensation she could feel in her grave was the taste of dust on her tongue and the dirt crumbling around her.

Her next movements were slow, pained, as if every joint in her body had become fixated, and she dragged her legs to the bathroom, pushing the door open and taking in a deep breath as she stared into the mirror. The witch's face had become sullen, bruised patches underneath her dusky irises, and the faintest traces of red contrasted on bronzed skin. She tried to grasp at the strands of hair that stuck together, taming her waves of sienna with quivering fingers, yet the knots were unmanageable.

To somehow salvage her deplorable state, she leaned over the faucet and let it run with cold water, then splashed it on her face until her skin was as numb as her insides. Still, she felt nothing, and only sunk deeper into the craving sensation of nothingness as she moved her hand to grab a towel, but instead knocked over the cup of toothbrushes into the trashcan.

"Marbles," she bit back profanity, then leaned over the sink to glance at the bin. Her hands moved to grab the hygiene tools, although unsalvagable, yet her eyes caught something different. Leaning against the marble faucet, she dove her digits in the bag and clasped them around the object before bringing it to her eyes.

A bottle of pills.

Her mind swayed, and she walked back into the dorm, analyzing the bottle with curiosity. There seemed to be no label on it, yet a clear marking of the space it had once occupied was on one of the sides. They appeared to be headache pills, nothing incredibly strong, yet the fact that the label had been ripped off made Della raise an eyebrow.

Her eyes wandered around the bedroom and then fell on a piece of paper stuck on the edge of one of the beds. The witch got down to her knees, and sure enough, the sticker was the label that had been torn off. She picked it up, then scanned it over quickly, and felt bile rise to her mouth.

Prescribed for severe headaches following a lobotomy. Beckomberga Mental Asylum, Bromma, Sweden.

"What in Merlin's name?" choked Beauchamp as she set the bottle to the ground, gazing at it with some sort of fear overtaking her.

As far as she knew, lobotomies in the 1940s were used to treat cases of psychosis and other mental illnesses, driving an icepick through an eye socket in hopes of reaching the prefrontal cortex and severing neuronal connections. A barbaric attempt to dull out patients in psychiatric hospitals, which led to severe emotional numbness in the most extreme cases, and other side effects in more favorable circumstances. She had read medical journals about it before, and her eyebrows furrowed as they landed on the trunk in front of her.

Without another thought, Della opened it swiftly, hands digging into the objects and searching for any tie to what might cause someone in their group to be in need of such medication. She pushed through heaps of ornated gowns and delicate jewelry, only to reach a wooden ground. For a second, she almost let disappointment pass her, before knocking on the material softly and hearing it be hollow. With quivering digits, she pushed away the fake covering and revealed documents and other glossaries tucked neatly in one corner.

What caught her eyes, however, was a photograph that had been crumbled and thrown between the books, and as she picked it up, she analyzed the familiar faces on it. On one side, a strikingly handsome boy, with blonde hair and mischievous eyes, and by his side, a brunette girl with similar features. Della's heart began thumping loudly, and her gaze landed on the small names scribbled in one of the corners.

Lopheus and Ophelia Evergreen.

"Well, little dove, you just had to ruin this for me, did you not?"

The wand thumped against her neck, and Della's whole body froze as she twisted gradually to gaze at the mentalist witch. Ophelia stood in front of her, eyes blazing with wrath, and long gone was the plastered smile and court behavior, now replaced by some brutal and obscure craze that glistened in her eyes. Her locks were pulled back in a ponytail, revealing high cheekbones and a demented smirk that made Della's blood run cold, until her whole body faded into an icy sensation.

"You—" breathed Beauchamp, yet Winterbour—Evergreen?—only pushed the pointed side of her wand further in, as if she had explicitly designed it to slice arteries with the harsh wood and have people crumble in front of her.

"Surprised?" there was something daunting in Ophelia's tone, some sort of lamentations that birthed only in the most profound wonders of inferno, and her gray eyes flickered with the flames of iniquity, "You must have suspected it in the slightest, although I fancy thinking I did quite well in diverting the attention from myself."

"You framed me," breathed Della in, "You made everyone believe I was the one that had been sabotaging everything. If Riddle had not figured out that it was all a distraction; if he had not placed faith in my words..."

"I did not point the finger at you specifically, dove. I merely made myself a permanent guest in Varya Petrov's nightmares. But then again, did my powers not give it all away? Ah, to play with the psyche," something hardened in her eyes, and a memory fluttered by with sharp wings, "There are many things one can do in the confinement of a psychiatric ward, you see. My sort of magic requires hours of practice, the most untarnished focus, but with your hands strapped around your body, I suppose there is nothing else to do but train the magic of your mental state."

Terror passed over Della's skin like a soft fuzz, and she backed away until her spine slammed against the nightstand behind her. She debated opening her mouth out to scream for help, but one look at Ophelia had her understand there would have been no point. The mentalist would have crushed her psyche in mere seconds.

"You see," continued the witch, withdrawing her wand and casting a silencing and locking spell around their chamber, "I decided to join Grindelwald when I was fourteen. By then, the news of his escape and rise to power had circled around New York like morning eagles, making the wandering ear nothing but prey. I was fascinated, completely enamored. A world where wizards controlled the inferior beings, and put their endless squabbles to an early grave. The war had taken a lot from me; it made my parents restless, weak. They feared the consequences despite being capable of annihilating any threat with their magic. Even at an early age, I knew they were nothing but ephemeral characters, destined to perish while I followed a Dark Wizard and sought out the truth."

"You are repulsive," spat Della, "All Grindewald would do is enslave us."

"Dove, it is not polite to interrupt me. I would not want to cut your tongue out and let you choke on your own blood."

Della's lips sealed shut then, and her skin turned paler as her eyes bulged out. She glanced around the room, trying to search for an escape, trying to think of what others might have done in her situation, yet her mind came up blank.

"Anyhow," continued Ophelia, moving around the room and twirling her wand around her hands, "My parents found out eventually. They were high-end people, and could not have their names tarnished by having a traitorous daughter. So, they decided to send me away. But they knew I would never stand still, and they thought my fanaticism came from a place of instability, so they did what any normal parents would and sent me to a mental asylum. Note my sarcasm."

Even in her instability, Ophelia managed to look somewhat breathtaking, with lunatic eyes skimming every corner of the room as wander passed over, as if there was not enough of the world that she could take in at once, not enough information to fill in the space that her days of being locked up had created.

"The problem is, being labeled as clinically insane has you treated as such. They stuck needles into my eyes; they drilled me through and through, thinking that they could fix something that was not broken. Half of the people walk beyond those doors perfectly stable, yet all leave either in black plastic bags or insane."

With fear, Della questioned, "What about you?"

Ophelia's psychotic smile deepened, "I put my trust in Grindelwald, and he left me there to rot away for two years. Then, Dalibor decided to break me out. Took me under his wing, kept me hidden at Scholomance as he trained me to become his best spy. With magic like mine, there were few things I could not do. But then we stumbled onto a problem."

"And that was?"

"My years of confinement had changed me. The lobotomy they did altered my emotional balance; I became desensitized to the emotions of others, somehow disconnected from reality. I could not understand people anymore. So I had to ask questions. I had to document every little detail about a person, from astrology sign to favorite color, from Hogwarts house to preferred weapon. Little by little, you all revealed yourselves to me, and that made it so entirely easy to destroy you."

"Why would you ever want that? I thought Dalibor thought Riddle to be our salvation?"

"He did," purred the witch, kneeling down beside Della, "But Riddle would only ever be at his best if all distractions were removed. So, I started at the top. I targeted Varya. Oh, that Nott party. I was testing Riddle that day, muttering words of how awful the witch looked to stir a reaction out of him. Of course, just as I had thought, he had let himself grow attached to someone who would only save him and attempted to poison me. Then, I began breaking her."

Her face became hypnotic as if every word her honeyed voice carried out was doctrine.

"I had sent out mare the night before, a nightmare demon, to cloud her nights and make her susceptible to my manipulation. Then, little by little, I started tearing her down. It was hard at first, for I could only ever reach her dreams with the help of the creatures, but when she came back to the Malfoy Manor, I made sure to sink my fangs in really deep. I took the form of her dead friends, and I began speaking to her, seeding doubt in her friends, in you. She thought them responsible."

Della sneered, "But Tom caught onto it. He tried to talk her off the ledge of insanity."

"Yet he only drove my knife in deeper," Ophelia smirked, "Until she snapped; until she almost killed you. That paranoid little witch, always on the verge of collapsing, sinking into insanity with each passing day, turning darker."

"Is that it, then? You plan to kill her?"

"Maybe," mumbled Winterbour.

"Maybe?"

"I believe in choices, dove. And she has a terrible one to make ahead of her. I am only guiding her towards the true path."

Silence fell over them, and the rain cracked against the window aggressively, as if the sky had opened its realms to flood their nihilism down, only to punish them for worshiping another. Thunder sounded in the distance, and Della saw Ophelia flinch for the briefest second. She had seen her do it before, and her eyebrows hoisted in wonder. The mentalist caught her stare and smiled with fierce eyes again.

"Reminds me of the sound my gun made when I emptied it in my brother's head."

Lightning caressed her side profile, and Ophelia rose to her feet, dragging Della along with her. She shot her a look that meant everything, and pressed her wand against her side before pulling her out of the room. Beauchamp felt her eyes water as she was hoisted out of the house, gaze intersecting with Scarlet and Indra before the witch on her side shot them a smile.

"We ought to go by the pharmacy," she said sweetly, and now her imitation of pleasantry was so painfully obvious, "I will be back shortly."

Della almost fought back, almost opened her mouth to call for help, but the sharp wood dug into her abdomen more, and before she knew it, rain was falling on the two as they marched through the street. Ophelia cast a quick sheltering spell around them, not even bothering to hide her display of magic. Fortunately, the night covered them into a veil of deceit.

The lamp posts of London dimmed due to the blackout, and only the shadowy moon and the occasional strike of lightning illuminated the ravaged streets as the pair passed buildings made of reddened bricks. The sewer system had begun giving out, and water slashed against their ankles, having their boots and socks stick to their skin, and the melting snow froze over, making each movement more perilous.

The Head-Girl felt her tears freeze on reddened cheeks, and she realized with horror that she had not even grabbed a coat, too focused on following instructions and attempting to postpone what seemed inevitable. Her nose had become frigid and painful, and the sensation in her limbs faded into nothing as fogginess became a reality and not just a feeling, as if everything swirled into blankness.

Ophelia pulled her into an alleyway, then stopped as she scanned the surroundings, damp curls sticking to her skin as she took a few steps away. Lightning struck again, and with the black dress clinging to her skin and her face so unbearably maddened, she appeared to be a lady of death, a mistress of all unholy. It was as if her skin had been stitched from the same material that insulated the throne of Hell, bleached past extinction, and the witch stood there in her true form—all deranged and nothing worthy of a court.

The Ravenclaw wondered how she had come to take her fake identity. Was Winterbour another acolyte of Dalibor, or had they used one of the Unforgivable Curses on him? It made sense, then—her bizarre accent that had never resembled anything she knew, an interchangeable American dialect with hints of something European probably from her time spent at the asylum, her appearing out of thin air, claiming her father had had her at a boarding school for the longest time. The way Elladora had pointed out how similar she had looked to Varya, or how the Eastern witch had complained about the peculiar familiarity she had found in Ophelia, probably not recognizing that her mind was referencing Lopheus.

Lighting cracked again, and the mentalist's demented laughter rang through the alley as she twisted to glance at Della, all made of fire and destruction. Ophelia Evergreen had been their downfall all along, and Beauchamp wondered what kind of monster that made her—the villain of the villain.

Did those two categories cancel each other out? Was Ophelia some savior that they could not understand? She believed herself to be righteous, to have the best interest of the wizarding world, yet Della wondered if that was all there was to it. Was the witch seeking vengeance on those who had stuck her into an asylum by helping Tom rise to power?

"But I do not get it," continued Beauchamp despite herself, "If Riddle succeeding is what you want, why would you ever target the Knights?"

Ophelia seemed somewhat ashamed of her actions. Not the kind of guilt an average person might have felt, but a flicker of emotion that moved an otherwise dazed face, "The means to an end," she answered, eyes scanning around again, "They are not permanently incapacitated. Only temporarily, only until I can bring my task to an end."

"Your task?"

Something sounded in the distance, a sort of horn that rang throughout the night, and Ophelia's lips stretched out further before she raised her hands towards the sky, embracing the pouring rain that was almost drilling through Della's skin. How numb was Evergreen that she did not feel the hypothermia starting to peek through? How broken?

The terrible sound continued to ring, and then Evergreen shot Beauchamp a look, "Dalibor is coming," she confessed, and Della felt herself go still, "He is going to take Riddle with him, and then nothing will stop us."

"Your plan," wheezed Beauchamp, feeling her legs shake, "It was not just dehumanizing Riddle. You were disarming him for your attack, taking out the Knights until he was left defenseless."

"They always underestimated your intelligence, dove."

"But why only them? Why not target the Virtues?"

"I needed a scapegoat," mumbled Ophelia, "And the Virtues were perfect. They would have had more than enough reasons to attack Riddle's group, and then, there is also the other matter."

"Which is?"

Crazed look, "He is going to kill them all."

The horn blew again, and Della barely had time to register her words before Ophelia flicked her hands towards her. Beauchamp's body hit the bricked wall that stood behind with a painful sound, yet the cold had numbed out everything, so much so that only a small groan left her lips as she felt her spine crush. Still, the panic spread fast, and soon enough, she was trashing against the hold, attempting to escape the mental magic.

"Now," mumbled Ophelia, "You have a choice again. As the Secret Keeper, you can tell Dalibor the location, and join our ranks. This is a losing war, dove, and they do not want you on their side anymore. But we do; we could bargain with Grindelwald for your dad's life, we could have you return to normalcy, and when we win, you will be seen as a savior. You already betrayed them once, Della. You can do it again."

The ache that settled in Beauchamp's soul was phenomenal, and it seemed as if everything had come full circle. Here she was, standing with her family's safety dangling over her head like a mighty carrot, with a decision which should have been simple but was not. Yet, it was tempting, so absurdly compelling just to cower once again, to run to her family and isolate herself. Even if Varya survived and attempted to seek her out for destruction, Della would be protected by Dalibor, sheltered away from peril.

"Or," continued Ophelia, coming closer until her hot breath fanned Beauchamp's glazing cheeks, "You could finally meet your fate."

Her bones shattered into dust, and the spineless creatures that she had transformed into begged for mercy, asked the witch to betray her friends and sell them out for her own safety. They did not trust her; they had all turned their backs on her and refused to empathize with her situation. Della had never inherited a reputation to shelter her nor abominable powers, only the pure soul of a young girl, and they had smashed that as if it were nothing, as if she were nothing. She would die in an alleyway, surrounded by filth and gruesome creatures as the snow beneath her would turn a murky color. Her dad would continue being held captive, and without her, Grindelwald would probably kill him. All for people who had once been her friends, all for people who had given up on her.

The choice seemed simple.

"Go to Hell," Della cried, streaks of hot liquid sliding down her cheek as Ophelia's smirk turned into disappointment.

"Very well," sighed the witch, "If you are so desperate to be a victim, then I will make you one, dove."

With one swift motion, Ophelia lunged a knife deep into Della's stomach, twisting it against her insides until she felt her organs crunch underneath her skin. The Head-Girl cried out in pain as her body fell to the ground, hitting the snow harshly and making the blade pull against her guts even more. The agony was unbearable; it was as if someone had disemboweled her all at once, tugging on each intestine until they pulled away from the tissue of her insides, then slashed against the inner mucus of her stomach, tearing at muscle and fat.

Her eyes clouded over, and everything shifted into a view of nothing as Ophelia murmured something that sounded like an apology of regret, yet could have been a curse as well. Boots clinked away from her, and before she knew it, Della Beauchamp was curled in the corner of a foul alley, her blood tarnishing the pure snow in front of her as all seemed to waste away. Her corrupted blood.

She was dying alone.

In a last attempt to find some sort of peace, she shifted her eyes to the sky, trying to find the burning apollos she had adored as a child, a reminder of all that she had once had. Still, a sheltering material covered her view, and she only faced darkness.

Della Beauchamp had grown in a family home with her two loving parents and their lanky dog, with holidays full of cheer and stories that had warmed her heart. The witch had gotten her Hogwarts letter when she was eleven, and her mother had almost fainted out of worry, mumbling about all of the dangers that could harm her precious little girl.

Oh, how right she had been. And what would she have thought now, if she saw her sweet child bleeding out in the streets of her hometown, like a progeniture of the roads?

Ophelia had not even used magic, Della realized, and how delectable irony was. The mediocre witch, nothing extraordinary, the mudblood, was dying like a defenseless muggle. For a second, the girl thought that satire tested metallic, but soon realized she had simply started coughing sanguine as her insides slowly perished away.

She could only hope that her body could be found, that Varya would understand that Della had tried her best to fix her mistakes.

She tried.

Delirium hit in shortly after. It might have been seconds, but the agony seemed dragged out for hours. She almost thought she saw platinum hair moving past her and felt cold fingers against what might have once been her skin. It was all a blur.

And she was sleepy. She was tired of fighting against something that had been too grand for her since the beginning.

Coldness against her lips, against her cheeks, some seraph face begging her to stay, or to leave—nothing could be traced nor determined. There was only misery that she desperately wanted to escape, chains she no longer wanted to wear around her wrists, and a sweet release of demise. Spotts everywhere. Muffled sounds. Coldness against lips, against her cheeks. More begging.

She barely managed to spew something out, "Stars."

The witch was too far gone to comprehend whether she had been moved or not, whether the spots scattered against the breakage of puffed darkness were truly sizzling nebulas or only her vision slowly fading away. But for a moment, there was peace, and she was not afraid. Whatever awaited Della on the other side would be a pleasantry compared to her life.

Even if it was nothing.

The coldness had dug vines dip into her soul, dragging against the edges until all that had been left was a numb sensation. She felt the clepsydra twinkle as the last few sand scrapes pushed through, and then, perhaps, the Grim Reaper. A figure clad in a black-suit that held her hand as her last breath left her body. The witch had never thought the angel of death to be so forgiving.

Della Beauchamp died in the alley on Christmas Eve. And some people were not meant to be the heroes of the story.

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hello! thank you for the comments as always <3

sorry if the mole arc was not what you expected and disappointing lol but I liked it. also, more will be explained next chapter, so if you are confused, do not worry!