i dont like this chapter

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THE ANATOMY OF INDRA MYUNG - TEMPERANCE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The zephyr of late autumn tousled Indra's snowy hair, having it contrast against the nuanced foliage that distorted the Black Lake's shores. As she let her body drop on the soft terrain, the lumomancer closed her eyes, allowing the radiance of the dying sunlight of November to soothe her soul, and apricity caressed her skin. She felt delicate fingers tangle in her hair, stroking her locks with feathered touches, and then they trailed down the edge of her jaw.

Rosier hummed a quiet melody as he pulled the witch's head in his lap, then went back to playing with her hair as he watched the horizon turn a deepening gloom. Scattered puffs of granite colored the cerulean sky in shadows of rainfall, and the wind picked up its pace as the sound of crisped leaves ruffling infused into that of the lake's slight waves. Ren leaned his head back against the dark bark of the tree behind him, wavy locks catching in the surface.

"How are they going to hold the Quidditch match if it is going to rain?" questioned Indra out of nowhere, turning on her elbows to gaze at the boy.

The lumomancer found it odd that they would still continue with their sports in such times, but the school had been stubborn with pretending that everything was still normal, as if two people had not died merely two weeks ago. For a while, Dippet had ruminated over the idea of canceling the season but had somewhat arrived at the conclusion that the students also needed enjoyable activities during their spare-time. Still, she was slightly excited at the notion, especially considering the fact that Scarlet had joined Gryffindor's team as a Chaser.

"Oh, we play through blizzards if necessary. Do not underestimate a Western sorcerer's devotion to Quidditch," jested the boy before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, "And anyhow, I do not think the rain will come this far North. It seems to be heading East."

"No, it is not," mumbled the witch, "The light is slowly fading in this direction."

"You and your peculiar powers."

"You wish you had them," snorted Indra before pushing herself up and dusting her skirt off. She grimaced at its length, fully aware of the fact that numerous professors had scolded her for her earlier attempts at shortening it. What a terrible bore British fashion was, so constricted to making women appear as innocent and submissive as possible.

The witch stretched her legs, then twisted to glance at Rosier, who had a lethargic look on his face. With one frustrated expression, Indra had him jumping to his feet and following her, arms thrown around her waist and curls tickling her neck.

They made their way back into the central Courtyard, glancing around at the students that were already dressed in attire to celebrate their House teams, placing bets left and right as they made their way to the pitch. Amongst the crowd, one figure stood imperially tall, draped from head to toe in black regardless of the typical attire amongst classmates, and solemn eyes searched the group for something, as if he were lost in a foreign sea, gripping to his lifeboat to prevent himself from falling amidst the western cultural shock.

Indra pressed her lips, her ears not registering what Ren was telling her as she gazed at her brother with worry, noticing the lack of friends he had made, and the way he glimpsed around with isolation stamped on his face. Lev was not a person that casually accustomed to those around him, but instead fought against the battalion of new beginnings, barricading himself beyond walls of solitude. The boy lacked her essential carefree personality and the undoubted sense of trust, which had the lumomancer making friends left and right.

"Indra?"

Her eyes snapped to those of Rosier, who had wrinkles marring his forehead, and she took in a deep breath before twisting to face Lev again, "I worry for him deeply," her voice was cloudy, "I fear he might be shutting himself off from everyone except Varya and me."

Ren threw the shadowmancer a glance, and watched him as he strolled down the courtyard, one hand in his trousers' pockets, the other pulling at raven strands as angular eyebrows furrowed from the commotion of a few girls by the pavilion. Lev stopped in his tracks, quirking a peculiar eyebrow at them, and they turned a deep scarlet color, covering flamed cheeks with petite hands.

"He is getting along well with Nott," mused the socialite.

Indra scowled at the notion, some part of her comprehending that her brother was acting arguably odd as far as his interactions with the archivist were concerned. Indeed, a bond that had transpired from nothingness, and the sensation of Lev's habitual meddlesome ways was a hot iron on her hand, as if it scorched her to admit that her brother was scheming.

"I will meet you before the game," simpered the girl, snow hair falling around the crown of her hair gently as she twisted to press a kiss to the boy's lips.

Rosier nodded, understanding that she wanted to speak with her brother, and gently squeezed her shoulder before letting go and heading inside the castle. She watched him leave with fondness in her soul, somehow still not comprehending that their relationship had bloomed in something so utterly enchanting, and her heart thumped in her chest when recalling their endless moments of gentleness.

Even after almost two months, the euphoria of blossoming love did not subdue, and they had found in each other a perfect balance. On one side, there was Rosier, a chaotic force that treated life as if it were a jest, throwing himself in lavishment and exhilarating jamborees. On the other side, there was Indra, a personification of temperance, who believed that to live a life was to explore the fleeting moments of passing happiness, and not seek out addictive escapes such as alcohol.

Then, Indra shook her head, trying to grasp her thoughts in a coherent manner as she headed to where her brother was sitting on the edge of a fountain, long fingers toying with a small object that she could not entirely distinguish. His dark shirt tucked in his long trousers, Lev straightened his back as soon as her shadow was close enough for him to sense.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of what he was doing, "I can smell your conniving ways from miles away."

The shadowmancer's lips quirked upwards, a gesture he reserved for his sister alone, and he glanced at her fondly before patting the seat next to him. Indra refused to sit down, knowing that he was trying to distract her from whatever he was doing, and instead made to grab the item he was holding.

Lev raised his arm, holding it away from her small stature, "Impolite."

"Hardly as impolite as keeping secrets from your sister," her switch to Korean was rapid, a tumultuous river of judgment, and her tirade continued, "I know you well enough to understand when your light shimmers from exhaustion. Whatever it is you are doing, it is eating you alive, so let me help you."

Lev's face twisted with something she recognized promptly—the expression he made on the rare occasions their mother would scold the older sibling, either for the endless trouble he got himself in on the streets, or the attitude he gave her on rare occasions. And the boy had always told Indra that her tone was similar to that of their mum, the slightest twinge of sweetness infused with a bit of a nasal intonation. All in all, it made her scoldings carry undoubted authority.

Sometimes Indra blamed herself for how her brother shouldered such weight, knowing that it had been difficult for him to fill in the vacancy that their father's death had left. When neither her nor her mum could support the family financially during the war, it had been Lev that had saved them from starving, Lev that had renounced his childhood so that Indra could have a normal one.

And the consequences were apparent—the boy had no concept of frivolous interactions between people their age, and instead had a sense of duty that overwhelmed him at times. He felt that he was responsible for those around him, and for the most time he had been, so Lev had a hard time requesting help.

"This is not your burden," mumbled the boy back in English. Indra knew he disliked when they argued in their mother tongue—it made everything more personal, as if their language had more gravity to it, as if Korean words weighed more.

"Yohan—," her whisper came in softly. His Korean name was less harsh than his chosen one, yet still carried a valuable meaning as the glory of the Sun, a stark reminder of his ties to the fae bloodline regardless of his shadow-wielding.

"Do not use my true name so carelessly," Lev bit harshly, eyes widening as he turned to glance around him in panic.

Indra scrunched her nose, not appreciating the way he overreacted. If their names gave power to those around them to control them, then she would never be careless enough to use it around other people. Still, such conversation almost required them to address by something different than their aliases, a warning that they knew each other better than anyone else ever would.

"I hope you did not tell that Knight your true name," warned the shadowmancer, terrible dread in his eyes, yet it all faded away when she shook her head, "Good. I have a feeling they might have enough reasons to want to use them soon enough."

Indra felt her blood go cold, "What are you doing, Lev?"

Again—that frustrating barrier, the slightest way his eyelids lifted in feigned innocence when he was doing something he might have otherwise been scolded for. The shadowmancer had many give-aways of his unscrupulous behavior, and Indra had learned them all, for they had spent their whole lives together.

"You must tell me if you are in danger, brother."

Lev's Adam apple moved with trepidation, "I am not," she did not believe him, "But I am working on something that might change how this group works."

He pulled out the item that he had stuffed in his coat, holding it in hands that seemed to tremble with the slightest anticipation—or fear, Indra did not know—and then held it in the sunlight. It was a compact mirror, similar to those that the witch used to powder her skin after class, and yet he handled it as if it was the most essential thing in the world.

Indra wanted to know more, but a group of students passed by them, and her brother took that moment to vanish into the crowd, a slithering shadow that escaped the wrath of dominating light, carrying out surreptitious schemes that would have proven to be dangerous for anyone else. She bit down on her lip in irritation, then puffed her cheeks in a way that Rosier always thought resembled a squirrel, but decided not to press further. No, Lev would not budge on his own, and so the lumomancer had to inquire in other places, perhaps Varya or Ananke.

Her walk towards the castle was feathered, as if she flowed amongst the dimming rays of sunlight, and she felt the way the atmosphere turned a shade gloomier as clouds neared the castle. As soon as she stepped foot inside Hogwarts and walked amongst the Ground Floor, she heard the titillating sound of droplets steadily hitting the paved stone yard. Still, her mind twisted and turned as the cogs of her thoughts seemed to process her brother's actions. Surely, Lev was hiding something from his sister, and she feared he was acting rashly.

Instead of heading to her dorms, she walked up the moving stairs, savoring the way they changed paths occasionally, a puzzle for her to solve and an outstanding display of magic. Indra found Hogwarts to be entirely fascinating, and even during times of war, it buzzed with effervescence, like a spilling magic cauldron that boiled with juvenile interactions and a sense of normalcy that wrecked her.

When she found herself in front of the Ravenclaw Common Room, Indra muttered the answer to the riddle rather quickly, and then stepped inside, ignoring the scathing gazes she received from the eagle-souled pupils. Indeed, the witch found the rivalry between houses to be a charade of buffoons, those who, instead of embracing their differences and seeking in them lessons, preferred to spend their time criticizing each other.

"Indra!" a sparrow-voiced girl chimed from across the room, and the lumomancer twisted to see Della Beauchamp's freckled face standing by the windows, volume in her hands as she scribbled notes in one of her notebooks.

Once, the Ravenclaw Head-Girl had been nothing more than competition to Indra, for she had earned the heart of Felixius Parkin. Indeed there were many things to admire about the older witch—there was something in her tanned skin that glistened in the fading light, something in the way sienna curls framed doll-like features with such grace, as if she had been crafted from the finest porcelain. Even now, when Indra had found another boy to fancy, she still felt lackluster in Della's presence.

Although, she would have been a fool not to notice how her allure had declined. The first time they had met, it had been in a brief visit in the Alps, and Beauchamp had walked in with bouncy steps, her smile radiant regardless of the way her eyes lacked brightness, and Indra had found her beautiful, admittedly strange. Now, she appeared to be drained, as if something had weighed her down in the past two years.

Perhaps, it was the war, as it had taken a toll on all of them, yet Indra somehow doubted that was all there was to Della Beauchamp's story. There was an excruciating dullness in her honey irises, a swirl of absolute torment that prevented her face from crinkling with delight, and even with the esteemed badge on her chest, the older witch seemed to lack vigor and authority in her. Della Beauchamp was an oddly broken girl that had perhaps taken mud to try and match scattered puzzle pieces of her being, sticking them together and letting the clay dry, yet even with the ravishing job she had done, the murky earthly tone peeked through the cracks.

"Have you seen Ananke?" inquired Indra, heading over to the other witch with perky steps, a certain easiness in her movements, as if there was nothing in the world that could bother her.

Della's face fell in a quick frown as she strived to recall her roommate's whereabouts, and then she shook her head, bushy eyebrows in a tight hold when her memories came back empty. As far as Indra could tell, the two housemates had not developed any form of deep bond, and although it was expected of a cold witch such as Ananke to be reluctant with newcomers, the lumomancer found it peculiar.

"I have not, my apologies," then she trailed off, as if something was sitting on the top of her tongue, "Can I ask for a favor, though?"

Intrigued, Indra nodded, and Della quickly skimmed through her notes, pulling out a piece of parchment that had been bent at the edges and slightly ripped, most likely due to nervousness.

"Would you hand this to Malfoy from me, please?"

Indra's eyes flashed for a second, curiosity striking her like a tsunami of cold reality, and she wondered what Della would have to say to the pureblood. The lumomancer might not have understood the hierarchy of order in the western wizarding society, yet she knew that people like the witch before her did not mix with those of Abraxas' heritage. Even so, she bit down on her apparent intrusiveness, knowing that Della would not trust her with something she obviously wanted to keep a secret.

"Of course," mumbled Myung, dimples flashing at the other girl.

Della's shoulder relaxed, and she gave her a thankful smile before something else passed her mind, "And do not mention this to Felix, please."

That certainly ruffled Indra's feathers, who lifted an eyebrow at the secrecy but made no comment of it. She was not one to meddle with other people's relationships, as she knew that all she could see was what met the eye. Still, being Felix's friends, there was now doubt poisoning her psyche, and so the letter felt undoubtedly heavy in her hand.

"I will walk with you downstairs," mumbled Della, sensing the tautness in the lumomancer's body and perhaps regretting her decision of trusting her. She grabbed her textbooks from the window edge, stuffing them into a bag that appeared to be way past its capacity, and had splotches of ink staining the deeper corners. The brown leather had begun ripping as the heaviness of the load put an unmanageable strain on the hinges, and Indra wondered who would snap first—the bag or the owner.

With a twist of their bodies, they fell into a march of their own, leaving the azure Common Room that had draperies falling from the ceiling in a cupola, and pushed the handleless door open, stepping into the hallway. With each passing day of autumn, the castle seemed to grow chillier as winds picked up their pace and quarreled with the stone walls. Even now, the boisterous sound of rain as it poured down the sides of peaked roofs was somewhat harsh, and perhaps it was nature's response to the horrors that were transcending the wizarding world.

By Indra's side, the Ravenclaw Head Girl seemed to stagger in her steps, shoulders sunken and eyes trailing the movements of everyone around her as if one wrong step would put her in harm's way. The lumomancer was an observant person, and so she took notice of the etched paranoid mask that covered doll-like features; it was most noticeable in the corners of her lips that slanted downward, puckered with the slightest tremble, and in the way slender fingers clasped on the straps of her bag.

When Indra was still young, she had been told that she had a gift for perceiving, and not only due to her unthinkable powers, but also because of her breezy lifestyle. Details, like her, were fleeting, and only those who were used to the ephemerality of moments could pick on such things. Contrasting to her was Lev, who was admittedly clueless in understanding people, and rarely picked up on social cues.

But there were many things that her brother did sense, and above all was his compulsive need to have all in his desired order. Never a speck of dirt on his shoes, never mixing the food on his plate, never misplacing things or having them in a messy pattern. As someone who had been given such an unbearable amount of control in his youth, Lev had become addicted to being polished and lucrative. As such, he often had tendencies to obsess over things that he thought could be fixed. Indra feared it sometimes extended to people as well.

"Ah, little dove!" a voice called from behind them, the distinguishable odd accent resonating through the corridor along with heels clicking against the stone floor. Hogwarts had many restrictions as far as women's clothing was concerned, and one of them was that they were discouraged from wearing anything provocative that might have appeared as out-of-place for the 1940s. Still, Ophelia Winterbour, much like the lumomancer, had taken into disturbing the balance as often as possible.

So, when Indra twisted to face her, she was not surprised to see the striking black heels strapped to her ankles, some she would often see women wearing around the roads of Keijo, those who had taken to the streets to feed their families. Ophelia's skirt was still ridden over her knees, a scandalous approach to the normalized uniform, and her sweater was slung over petite shoulders instead of over her white dress-shirt.

Gray eyes settled on the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw combo, and the slightest smirk infused on Ophelia's face, "My, what a combination," she mused, then stopped by their side and rose an eyebrow at Beauchamp, "Little dove, Riddle is looking for you."

Indra watched Della's face morph from the slightest terror to something entirely different and mundane as the Head-Girl spoke, "Bollocks, I forgot about the meeting with Dippet," she shot Indra a look, "Please do not forget about what I asked of you."

With that, she headed down the hallway, leaving the other two witches in each other's company. Ophelia was not someone that Indra often interacted with, and perhaps that is why as soon as Della left, the mentalist witch had begun bombarding her with questions as they stood by one of the closed windows on the fourth floor, rain clashing against the glass as thunder rang in the distance.

The crack of lightning spread through the sky like an intricate web of diaphanous golden material, and through the glass, the cascade of its flash illuminated Ophelia's face, making the witch appear all-powerful. Still, Indra did not miss the slight flinch in her body, or the way eyes spasmed as she heard the sound, and she wondered why it had scared her. Many had fears of storms, and they were mostly rooted in trauma that had been expressed through childhood.

Still, Winterbour recovered quickly, almost as if she had not let anything spill through her cracks, and yet her eyes were lacquered, and even as she asked the next question, her voice had a trivial rasp to it, "Do you like the rain?"

The question seemed to be open-ended, as if there was more to it that she was trying to figure out, but Indra was unsure what. Perhaps, she was trying to find comfort in her words, as if Indra's love for rain would somehow dim her fear of storms.

"I do," answered the lumomancer with a slight smile, "Rain and lightning, I find them to be entirely beautiful."

"How can you love lightning?"

"Because my powers are rooted in it," answered the witch, and somehow they both gazed out the window at the same time, "Any sort of light, really. And I believe storms represent the fusion of my brother and me in some way—I, the lightning, and he, the darkness that spreads with gloomy clouds."

Winterbour seemed to contemplate on her words for a second, and then something caught her eye across the hallway. Indra turned to watch Nicholas Avery stomp his way down the stairs, Quidditch uniform sleeves rolled up as he shouldered a fifth-year Gryffindor boy, shooting him a look that dared him to speak up. Indra felt the atmosphere grow dimmer, and she watched his hand tremble by his side, both from the injury and from the distress that he was facing.

When she glimpsed at Ophelia, she saw concern flash across her face, "You should check upon him."

The witch shifted on her feet, and it was peculiar to see the guilt that stretched upon her face. Indra wondered if she blamed herself for what had happened to Avery, for not being able to strike the demon that had attacked him fast enough, or if Nicholas' snarkiness had somehow reached her. Without another word, Winterbour headed down the hallway, steps somehow lagging as she trailed behind Avery and attempted to catch up with the boy.

"Playing match-maker with my friends?"

Arms wrapped around her, and she felt Rosier's distinguishable fragrance of pine as he dipped his head to place a kiss on Indra's temple. Wide smile on her face, Indra turned to catch his lips in a soft movement before stuffing her nose in his green scarf.

"You smell nice," she mumbled, the nuzzled her face further in when Ren tightened his grip on her affectionately.

"So do you," he quipped, "You smell like spring-daisies. Now, let us head out to the Quidditch match before Abraxas strikes me down for not watching his first game as Captain."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Varya lowered herself in the chair that sat in the corner of Tom's room, flipping another page of the book she held in her hands, not realizing that her mind had not registered anything in the last few paragraphs. Words and letters swirled in an endless loop of obsidian characters that trailed the edge of her vision, trying to gain her attention from where her mind had wandered. Unfortunately, the witch was currently staring at the other end of the room, where Abraxas Malfoy and Icarus Lestrange were scurrying to find the Slytherin Captain's badge.

Mattresses had been toppled, spells had been used in attempts to find it, yet it seemed to have simply vanished into thin air right as the match was about to start. Malfoy's platinum hair was almost pushed back wholly from the countless times he had run frantic hands through his locks, pulling at strands as Icarus tried to calm down the boy. For seven years, they had been roommates, and for seven years, they had learned each other's habits, so when Icarus found the badge first, Abraxas was not surprised at all.

"Nervous?" quipped Varya from the sidelines, earning their attention yet again. If they had found it odd that she had shown up in their room and taken to the chair as if it were her own, they had not commented on it. Then again, the Eastern witch had been visiting it rather frequently since the demon attacks, as she and Tom had been attempting to figure out everything slowly.

Malfoy sighed deeply, eyebrow-raising as he bit down on his lip with anxiety, "It is a heavy badge to wear."

Multiple meanings to his words—indeed, it was a big responsibility to lead the team, but there was so much more to it. Up until the ending of their fifth year, everyone had thought that it would be a duty reserved for Ivy Trouche, one of the best players that the Slytherin House had seen in years. After her unfortunate early death, the responsibility had been passed to a seventh-year, and then to Malfoy.

"I am sure you will do great," encouraged Icarus, patting him on the back rather harshly before grabbing the nape of his neck, "And the ladies would just swoon. Perhaps, you will finally find yourself a good one."

Abraxas' smile was strained, "Perhaps."

"Varya, will you come to watch our dazzling bachelor take to the skies and make us all proud?" inquired Lestrange, walking over to the witch with his hands in his pockets. He nudged her legs with his shoe, and Petrov swatted at him for dirtying her socks.

"I ought to discuss with Riddle something, but I will try my best to make it," she smiled at Abraxas, who gave her a curt nod before grabbing his broom from the corner and walking out. With only Icarus and her left, she turned to him, "And what about you? No longer a bachelor?"

"Jealous, Petrov?" jested the boy, leaning over her chair and approaching his face to hers, "Is your flame for me flickering back on?"

"Piss off," mumbled the witch with a sour face, pushing his face away gently and earning a hearty laugh from the boy. Lestrange then turned and grabbed a sweater from the room, and Varya closed her eyes as he began changing, a flush coating her cheeks.

"And I am currently pursuing a certain Blood-Witch of yours," finished the boy, curls toppling over once he pulled the Slytherin sweater over his head.

Varya's eyes snapped at that, and she bit back a snarky remark at the mention of Scarlet, her nightmare still vivid in the back of her head. The witch leaned in, inquisitive eyes passing over the boy as she analyzed the seriosity in his expression while he folded his previous shirt and placed it in his drawers.

"Has she said anything to you about the night the demons attacked?"

Icarus hoisted an eyebrow, then stuffed hands in his coat and threw a scarf around his neck, "Nothing more than you already know. Why?"

Part of her wanted to trust the boy and tell him everything she knew, yet there was a small portion of her psyche that made her not press the matter further, as if she had nobody in the world left to rely on. Realistically speaking, Icarus was improbable to be the mole, not when he had been harmed. Yet, the paranoia that had started to haunt the witch was arid, burning down bridges of trust that had taken years to establish.

"Nothing."

Lestrange seemed to sense the lie in her voice, as he had spent months by her side, listening to her troubles and trying to soothe the building ache in her. The boy had tried to find purity and light in her soul, bring it out to the surface, yet his search had come empty-handed because Varya Petrov was nothing but a ruin of what the future might have held for her, had her parents not died. Now, he sought such virtue in another person, a love pure enough to combat his deadly sin of lust, something that would wreck the debauchery that the boy was known for amongst inner circles.

Right as he opened his mouth to counter her words, the door swung open, and in stepped Tom Riddle, his face turned into a vicious scowl as he threw his robe over to his bed, not even taking notice of who was in the room. Still, when his eyes turned to the witch, his body loosened up a little, although his expression remained strained.

"Were you waiting for me?" his question was directed only at Varya, so Icarus took that moment to slip out of the room.

The witch nodded, then her breath caught in her throat when Riddle walked over to her, pulling a chair from across the room and setting it in front of the girl. He sat down, leaning back slightly and sighing deeply, obviously perturbed by something. He pressed large hands against his face, dragging them down then pushing back his curls as he straightened up.

"What is the matter?" Varya wanted to reach out to him and comfort the boy, but knew he would have been irritated at the affectionate gesture.

"Dippet keeps assigning us more tasks now that Dumbledore is gone," muttered the wizard, azure eyes trailing her face as if searching for something. Tom bit the inside of his cheek, and she wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps, he was glad that the Transfiguration teacher had left, his dislike of him evident from the first encounters, and was frustrated at having to deal with the backlash of his incompetency, "Anyhow, what are you here for?"

"I was trying to piece everything together," mumbled Varya, suddenly straightening up, "So, so far we know that Dalibor is controlling the creatures for Grindelwald, while also leading his own organization in the shadows, the Acolytes of Moirai. Now, if they are interested in keeping the timeline intact and seeing you rise to power, why would they attack the Knights?"

"To weaken me, perhaps," mumbled Riddle, his voice low, "If the Knights lose their abilities, then I would be left defenseless and reach out to them."

Besides the apparent reason, Varya suspected that Dalibor was also trying to dehumanize Tom as much as possible, and although the wizard would never admit to caring for any of his followers despite the bare minimum respect, she knew that they were the closest people Riddle had to companions. More importantly, they knew each other better than anyone else ever would, and although Tom would never consider them friends, they had their own twisted blood bond between them.

Even after all those years, the Knights would die for Tom, and believed that he would lead them to greatness regardless of the consequences. Varya sometimes wondered what it would take for them to give up their faith in the boy, wondered how willing they were to die for that they believed in—a complete reform of the wizarding world, where control was seized by a council formed by Riddle and their descendants.

She also pondered, sometimes, if any of them would ever be willing to follow Riddle in his immortality, or if their leader would even allow such thing. As far as the Slavic girl knew, Elladora was the only one that had expressed her disinterest in not having a proper family. Would Nott willingly create a Horcrux if it meant gathering knowledge amongst many generations? Would Abraxas follow Tom through everything, be a dutiful right-hand even in eternity?

"Even if that were the case," mused the witch, "Then why would he not target me? It would certainly help with his purpose."

"Perhaps he is, and you have simply not realized it yet."

A ball of dread settled in her stomach at his ominous words, strings of yarn curling around her organs and pulling tightly until she felt as if she were about to spill her guts on the floor. Varya drew in a sharp breath, pushing raven hair behind her ears to reveal high cheekbones, then settled her head in her hand in wonder as she leaned over her knees, contemplating on the boy's words.

A thorned rose of malice prickled her psyche, poisonous intent seeping through her thoughts like an overflowing spring river, and each wave of paranoia clashed against her verve until it crumbled in gray ashiness. Varya felt herself succumb to the growing peril that threaded through the atmosphere like a dark-feathered raven, each caw a premonition of the despair that would soon dawn upon her.

The witch did not feel safe. She felt as if she were drowning in a sea of despondency, where the only sailing ship that could save her was the perfidious words of one Tom Riddle. And how ironic it was that Varya had come to be terrified of being around anyone except him, as if he had become an addiction in dire times, and every small gesture for him was a reassurance she so desperately craved. Petrov feared she was beginning to rely too much on a treacherous man.

And even while she attempted to keep her head steady and her thoughts clear, there was a seed of doubt that sprouted leaves of fear of persecution, and they constantly scratched against Varya's perception of those around her. Her fear of being betrayed was only getting stronger with each passing day.

"My nightmares," spluttered the witch suddenly, eyes flashing to Tom's, "If someone placed a curse on me at the Nott Manor, then who is to say it was not under Dalior's instructions? But if they did that, then why would the dreams help me?"

"Because they are not helping you," realized Riddle, leaning back in his chair and toying with his wand as thoughts consumed him, "They are trying to deceive you, giving you false leads."

"You do not know that."

"So you think Dalibor would tell you who his mole is through a curse?" scoffed Tom, "Petrov, you are smarter than this."

"If he knows that uncovering the truth would ruin our dynamic, then yes, he most certainly would. I have been under his supervision for years, and I know the tricks and schemes that he uses. He relishes in toying with people, giving them scraps and puzzles so that they can lose their mind over uncovering the truth, and then when all is finally revealed, he makes sure the betrayal strings."

The disagreement that passed between them seemed to infuriate both sorcerers, and Varya pressed pink lips in a tight line as she watched Tom stand up and walk across the room, hands digging in his pockets as he faced the opposite direction, not wanting to argue with her further. There would have been no point, regardless, as they were both stubborn in the opinions. The conversation was finished.

Petrov got to her feet, grabbing her cloak from the chair across the room, and barely shot Tom a look before she made to leave, not wanting to dwell on the discussion any longer. The boy turned as soon as he heard the hinges of the door and shot her a dark look.

"Where are you going?"

Varya sighed, then leaned against the frame, gazing at him from afar—he was remarkable in every aspect, an intelligence beyond the comprehension of some of the most brilliant muggle scientists, and a face as equally praisable as those of Greek gods. Even now, as he stood in the dim emerald light of the Slytherin dorm, Tom appeared as fascinating as he had on the first day, darkness spilling from his eyes as he watched her every move.

"I am going to watch the Quidditch game."

The scoff that left his lips was almost tangible, as if he were judging her for indulging in such mundane activities. Tom glanced at her for another second, eyebrows hoisted in ridicule, then gestured towards the door bitterly, "Enjoy pretending with the rest of them."

"I will," her bite back was harsh, but Varya did not care whether it stung him to know that unlike him, she could still find it in herself to be normal sometimes, to pretend that they were not at war, willing to risk everything in hopes of somehow defeating an army of faceless monsters. If Tom Riddle wanted to brood in his chamber until sundown and sink into the depths of his own despair, then so be it, but Varya would at least try to salvage the remaining bits of her teenage years before they perished in front of her.

The way his jaw clenched was apparent, and Riddle shook his head in disapproval at her lack of work ethic, as if she owed it to him to figure everything out. It went without a doubt that the idea of a cult worshiping him had gotten to his head, and the more Varya spent time with him, the more she realized his ego had no limits, and that he believed himself to be a demigod. But she was far more powerful than him in magic, and would not hesitate to put him back in his place the moment he forgot she was the witch that bore the Lynx symbol, the one that had created the Dark Mark.

So, she twisted around on her feet, and when the door shut behind her, Varya wished that Tom felt a little emptier without her.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The cheers of the Slytherin team were vigorous as they hoisted Abraxas Malfoy in the air, screams of victory resonating through the hallways as they made their way down to the Dungeons. Platinum hair peeked over the crowd, and a domineering smile was etched on the pureblood's face at the triumph. The match against Gryffindors had been tight, but as the new seeker for the team, Nicholas Avery had managed to catch the snitch in a timely manner.

"Do you believe that his pride can swell any further before he starts bursting blood vessels?" quipped Rosier from behind Varya as she watched the chanting students pass her. She twisted on her heels, glancing at the boy that had his arms thrown around Indra Myung, both of them sharing one scarf that protected them from the coldness of the castle.

"Malfoy?" pushed Petrov, a smirk on her face, "There is no limit to his arrogance."

"Striking answer, always on point," muttered Ren in response before they began following the team down the stairs, "But he did get us a win with his game tactics, and that in turn means we get to drink our weight in alcohol, so—"

"No liquor for you," interrupted Indra.

"But—"

"No."

Her squeaky voice did not match the frustrated expression on her face as she watched Ren's face fall in a pout, his addiction still a festering problem that had not been solved entirely. Varya knew that her dear friend was trying to help the boy overcome his need for distractions and confront the underlying issues he was dealing with, yet it was not a process that happened in a short time-span. Rosier had the tendency to make light of his troubles, and that never meant fully facing them.

"Then Varya must drink," was his reply.

The witch's nostrils flared as she shot him a disapproving look, "And why is that?"

"So I can vividly live through your experience," his simper was sheepish.

The witch made no further comment, merely watched with amusement as the couple bickered behind her, voices drowned out as she stared ahead into the Common Room, eyes trained on Lev Myung, who sat on top of one of the window seats that faced the depths of the Black Lake, green incandescence caressing his sharp features as his eyes stared at something hidden by his large hands. A sense of curiosity overwhelmed Varya, and she wondered what the shadowmancer was so entirely fascinated by, so much so that he had missed the game and not even bothered to spy on his sister's relationship.

Still, as soon as he felt her presence approach, he stuffed whatever he had been handling in his pockets and shot her a surprised glance, eyes wide with culpability that made her psyche cloud with trepidation. The last person she wanted to suspect of nefarious actions was Lev Myung.

"We have not spoken in a while," was the first comment that passed her lips as she sat across from him, legs far enough apart from each other that there was no physical point of contact.

Lev seemed to ruminate on her words for a second, as if attempting to come up with an explanation for his peculiar absence. Petrov was not sure what the boy was up to, or why their distance stung her so aridly, and she gazed at him with some unspoken betrayal passing in her eyes. Back in the Alps, the two had had an agreement of sorts—neither spoke about the other's faults, yet they attempted to fix each other through their actions. The boy was a dear friend to her, so much so that she still felt ashamed for her earlier accusations against his loyalty, and felt the need to sort it out.

"I have been busy."

"I noticed," stated the Slavic witch, then her tongue passed over her lips as she sought out the right words, "But I wanted to apologize for our fight a couple of weeks back. I did not mean to upset you or be harsh; it is just..."

Her words trailed off, and Varya tried to summarize the emptiness and abandonment she felt inside through words, yet nothing seemed to pass her lips as if she had suddenly become void. Throughout her whole life, the witch had had nobody to rely on but herself, and as such, had become incredibly selfish and sought out for self-preservation. Having no parents to rely on and being thrown around by everyone after they had used her for their purposes, she had come to the realization that people were simply ill-natured, and as such, found it hard to trust their loyalty.

Her parents had died, Dalibor had experimented on her, Dumbledore had manipulated her, the Knights had betrayed her—so, to come to terms with Lev's loyalty was almost unthinkable, and as much as she wanted to put blind faith in the boy, Varya was too traumatized to believe that he would always want to help her.

"Varya," Lev's voice was deep as he leaned in to look at her properly, "I understand that you are going through hard times, and because of that, you have become very isolated and suspicious of those around you. It concerns me, but I cannot force you to be open with your thoughts. Still, I wish to help you, and if you need me, I am always here."

A small smile rose to the girl's lips as she glanced at the boy, who, despite the meaningful words, had a void expression, so characteristic of him it was comical. The sense of companionship settled over the two Slytherins that felt like intruders in their own school, as if the place was not the right one for them to be.

Varya pressed a hand against the cold glass that overlooked the bottom of the Lake and drew in a deep sigh, "I try to think of the day everything will be over, but my mind comes up blank. It seems like this feeling of emptiness will last forever."

Lev said nothing, not because he was not listening, but because he had been around the witch long enough to know that some of her words did not require answers, but were mere proclamations of the disastrous emotions that plagued her. So, he simply looked at her, watched her forehead touch the window as she closed her eyes and scrunched her face, trying to subdue the wreckage. To understand Varya Petrov was not an easy task, as she did not make it easy for others to figure her out, yet the shadowmancer liked to think he was one of the few people that knew the way she functioned.

Her eyes gazed around the room, and they landed on a figure that stood stoically in the corner, stare looming at the sea of students with distaste plaguing marine eyes. Almost as if sensing a watchful look, Tom switched acid irises to the witch, the faintest smirk on his face as he almost urged her to come to him. Then, when his eyes fell on Lev, the smirk was replaced by an irritated scowl.

Varya hoisted an eyebrow, ridiculing his apparent bothered attitude, and although she was too far to hear the scoff that he let out, she sensed it in the way his chest puffed, the material of his dress-shirt stretching over his shoulders. Stygian curls seemed to ruffle as he pushed himself from the darkness and advanced to her with decisive steps, her heart beating erratically when the boy stopped in front of her.

"Petrov." He said her name like a curse, as if it was venomous to even mutter, not for herself, but for him.

"Yes, Riddle?"

"Come with me."

Varya resisted smirking and shot Lev a look before following Tom's footsteps that led out of the Common Room and back into the hallway. By then, most Slytherins had gathered inside, and so the Dungeons were empty save for the few staggering students that held onto half-empty pints. Tom waited for her behind a wall that led to a dead-end, back pressed against the stone and eyes dark as he watched her come to him.

"You have something to say?" questioned the witch, her chin held high, and arms crossed as she watched Riddle analyze her.

"What were you chatting about with the Myung boy?" Tom blinked rapidly at her, trying to keep his face as impassive as possible.

"Has it become your concern who I talk to? Be careful, Riddle. You might start acting as if we are actually attached to each other."

Tom drew in a sharp breath, suddenly painfully aware of how she had cornered him against the wall, her dark eyes so entirely enchanting as he gazed into the purest black he had ever seen. And what he saw in it was terrible, so much so that it made a shiver pulse down his spine, an awareness of the fervor with which Varya regarded him.

"Ridiculous words."

"Are they?" she continued, "Then, I suppose there should be no problem if I go back in there and spend the night in Lev's company."

She made to turn and leave, but Riddle grabbed her wrist and dragged her back, pulling the witch against his chest and glancing at her with venom. He found her words blasphemous—as if Varya could ever match with another the way they did, as if she could be consumed by any other so undoubtedly and wickedly. Nobody would burn her as Tom could, nobody would drag her through veils of obscurity as he would.

"Yes?" she pushed further.

"Do not think for a second of being in the company of another man."

"The way I see it, I can be around whoever I want as long as you keep switching between treating me as if I mean nothing and calling me your eternity. Tell me, Riddle—why are you so against admitting that you care for me?"

Moments of silence were sands in the clepsydra of time, and their breaths mingled into one as they came closer and closer to each other, as if magnetism had drawn them until every atom attracted another. His hand on her waist, hers on his chest—Tom felt her fragrance buzz his mind, so intoxicating he felt unsteady on his feet the more Varya approached him.

"Because that would make me weak," Riddle admitted, eyes falling half-open and his voice below a murmur as their lips hovered over each other, "Because you make me weak."

Varya breathed harshly, the skin on her arms rippling with a sensation at the way the heat of his body merged with hers. She felt his nose touch the bridge of hers; his head slightly dipped as he fought against their synced hearts yet sunk fingers in the bone of her waist.

What a comical thought—that she was a parasite that could plague him and wreck him from the insides, the flowering emotions that lingered in his soul so captivating they might have destroyed him. Or, perhaps, it was the association with her that Tom found to be weak, as if she were merely additional weight he had to carry around.

"Do I look weak to you?"

Eyes flashed white, and Tom watched obscurity crawl from within her, taking over her features as it trailed from her hands over to his own, caressing the boy's skin through his garments, cold touch of death. The shadows pulsated heavily, enveloping them right as Tom dove his head down, meeting her lips in a rapturous kiss of dark souls.

Where his hands touched her, Varya's skin buzzed, and where she pressed aching fingers, Tom felt himself light alive. He sneaked a hand to the back of her neck and dragged her closer, wanting to have her as near as possible despite himself, and then drove fingers through her layered raven locks, pulling on them as their lips moved against each other.

And it felt colossal—a kiss of death and rebirth all at once, and Varya Petrov simply had enough power in her to drive a dark man such as him down to his knees. She was a plague that wrecked him from inside, and the only reason he had not fallen into Dalibor's call of action, becoming the antichrist semblance they wished him to be, a boy born from lack of love and subjected to endless years of trauma.

Tom knew, then, that whatever disaster he brought onto the world, he wanted the witch to lead by his side until they outlived darkness itself. For that reason, he feared the day Varya would find out about how he had betrayed her by hiding the truth behind Ivy Trouche's death.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

If you did not see the Lev edit that someone made on TikTok, then go watch it right now because it gave me a heart attack.

I am in my feelings about Varya and Tom and I have no clue why. Probably because I was listening to No Time to Die by Billie Eilish as I was writing this.