THE ANATOMY OF VARYA PETROV - PATIENCE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

WARNING: Be advised that this chapter contains mature scenes.

Varya felt the skin under her eyes split from insomnia, and she extended a trembling hand to pat at the dry bags, gently drawing her nail across it until she felt some sort of sensation. Her head drummed as quivering pupils glimpsed around the dark hallway, taking in the way flies seemed to whir around it, adhering to the corpse across from her.

She continued to glance at it, taking note of the way the skin was almost transparent, and no sign of his death was evident except for the bullet wound in his forehead. A fly landed on it, then gradually squirmed inside, wings impaling in the open lesion as the boy flicked his lighter open, bringing it closer to the cigar stuck between his bloodless lips. The smoke that eddied upwards seemed to be as much as a fantasm as the person in front of her, whose lips quirked at her apparent uneasiness.

With roguish eyes, he puffed on the tobacco again, draping swollen eyelids over bloodshot sclera, and inhaling deeply in his rotten lungs before extending the cigarette to her, "Want some?"

The question was almost taunting, some sort of jest at her current state, where she crumbled much like the end of his white stick, succumbing until there was nothing left of her but ash. Varya shifted until her long legs were sprawled in front of her, dragging on the green carpet of the hallway, and she felt the itchy feeling of the dark wallpaper on her back.

"Why am I here, Lopheus?" queried the witch, tired eyes barely registering the infamous smirk plastered on his lips.

She analyzed the hallway once again, noticing the murky trail of blood that had come from the open antechamber of the Nott Manor, where Lopheus Evergreen had dragged his body from, slowly inching closer to her until they found themselves in the current position—both laying on the ground, back against the wall and staring at each other. And some sort of fatigue passed between the two, an understanding that they would not move from their spots.

"I mean, why do you think you are here, Petrov?"

"I have no time for your games," her voice broke, and she pulled her knees to her chest, trying to distance herself from the cold corpse. His skin looked oddly roughened, as if it had been desiccated of any trace of liquid, and the slightest touch might have had it turn into mush before her eyes.

Lopheus tilted his head, smoking on the grave stick again and watching the haze swirl like a tornado, hollow eyes moving slowly as they trailed the movement. His blonde hair was hanging over his wound, blood having strands stick to his ashy skin, and the flesh had sunk in, clinging to his bones. He was no longer the spirited American boy he had been when they had first met, any richness evaporated from his system, and Varya's heart twisted at his grim fortune.

"Who did this to you?"

His lips pursed, "Indeed, who?" the boy leaned forward lightly, "Been a while since you asked yourself that question. I mean, who could blame you? You have so many things to worry about...but Varya—everything is tied together, can you not see?"

Frustrated, the witch dragged restless hands over her face, pulling on her surface before letting her head fall onto her knees, "Lopheus, we tried to get it out of Grindelwald's acolytes, and they would not budge."

"Hm," hummed the dead wizard, "Indeed, they would not. Perhaps, it is time you remembered something—where was my body found, Varya?"

With dread, the Slavic girl tried to recall the detail of his death. She remembered how she had found out—during one of their meals, in the Great Hall. Elladora had been in tears, hair sticking to her face as she wailed over the death of her friend; Avery had been absolutely destroyed by the notion, storming out of the dining salon with wrath trailing him. It had been a tipping point for the group, and one of their rooted reasons to seek vengeance against Grindelwald for the atrocities he had committed.

The newspaper had been stiff in her hands, and the details were sparse. Pureblood wizard found dead in a motel, gun wound in his forehead, about to complete his last year at Ilvermorny when he had passed away. The picture of him had portrayed his charm eloquently, as if he had picked it out himself right before his death, knowing that it would bring sorrow into the hearts of woeful women.

Realization struck her, and she flashed concerned eyes to the dead boy, "Sweden."

"And how odd it was that immediately after, you got yourself a Blood-Witch from the Scandinavian mountains on your hands, is it not?" Lopheus had a daunting smirk on his face, and he stuffed the burning cigarette against his skin, watching the flesh flash, yet he felt nothing. There was no trace of the emotion that had once glimmered on his face like specks of incandescent moonlight, trailing the arch of his cheeks and shimmering in cobalt irises.

Varya shook her head with horror dancing in her eyes, "No, no—Scarlet would never," her breath came in quicker, a tiddly arrow seemingly stuck in the side of her neck that prevented her from gasping.

"I mean, someone did it, Varya," with that, he flicked the cigar end at her, then slowly pushed back the hair on his forehead, revealing the wound again. The witch watched the fly crawl out, small legs covered in sanguine, and it walked down the boy's skin, pulling a small patch of epidermis along, "Someone did it."

***

True to his words, Albus Dumbledore was out of office by the end of the week, right after the funeral had been held for Myrtle Warren and Professor Prigelton. Varya watched him walk out the doors and into a Thestral-pulled carriage from one of the windows in the South Tower, her breath somewhat heavy, because although he had never helped her out much, Dumbledore was an ally. And now, the castle seemed much darker without him, as if shadows had taken to occupy the vacancy of his departure, sinking into the grounds of the estate and flowering petals of ominous stems.

Alas, Hogwarts remained open, and students continued to train with even more verve than before, personally exposed to the danger that was slowly approaching them. It was peculiar to see such young souls concerned for their lives, gripping on daggers for the first time and attempting to handle them. Still, Varya had no sympathy to offer them, not when so much depended on how they would protect themselves.

Felix theorized that Grindelwald would strike once Germany capitulated, using the muggle world's momentary relief to advance and attack the school. The witch was unsure of that, but she knew the Dark Wizard was waiting for something—he was plotting from the obscure, extending appendages of power and utilizing creatures of the night to do his terrible tasks.

"You seem stressed," spoke Felix, and the witch turned to glance at him.

The boy was standing at his desk in the office that had been given to him by Headmaster Dippet, going through multiple papers that Newt Scamander had handed him to review. His tie was loose around his neck, and he pulled on it while clearing his throat, eyes scanning the multiple documents on his table with apprehension. His hair was tousled from the numerous times he had pushed it back with his hands, and on the sleeves of his dress shirt, there was a visible coffee stain.

"Not as much as you do," jested the witch, then turned to glance at the horizon again, thinking that, perhaps, if she looked hard enough, she could see the beasts banging on the protection shield.

"Well, I am grading multiple essays on whether dragons should be kept in sanctuaries in Romania or released back into nature," puffed Parkin, dragging his red ink across another line, "The things students will say only to hit the word count—absurd!"

There was a forced thread among them, as if unfamiliarity had settled between the two companions once they had returned to Hogwarts, and the Eastern witch much missed their days in the Alps, where they had worked side by side almost daily. Felix had become more of a stranger since their return, and the ache of the slight distance that the situation had created was smothering.

Varya presumed it to be a consequence of the unbearable way things had changed for her, how she had grown to be a thorned rose in a garden of dainty lilies, always scratching the petals of those around her unintentionally. On the other hand, Parkin seemed to hold onto his sanity is a much more applaudable manner, and he almost appeared to be ordinary in his virtuosos garments, a master of his knowledge and an apprentice of one of the most renowned wizards of their current time.

"I can only imagine," Varya said absentmindedly, her voice laced with unspoken bitterness that she resented herself for carrying.

Felix stopped his scribbling, turning nectar eyes to the Slavic girl, and watched as she contemplated out the window, her stare aloof and face void of any emotion. Obsidian hair was braided into two tails that fell over her back, reaching past her shoulderblades after finally growing back to their length. Her eyes, made of the darkest Tahitian pearls, were flickering with swirling thoughts, and curled eyelashes fluttered nonchalantly as the witch got lost in her own inner prison of self-doubt.

"But truly," he continued, his voice grave, "What is bothering you?"

Varya was not sure how to explain it—many things were clouding her psyche, preventing any light from seeping in and letting the petals of her mind flower with effervescence. An everpresent storm had catalyzed her sorrow, and in the obscurity of her inner realm, poisonous ivy seemed to be the only plant that still held roots, covering her thoughts in painful blisters that burst with insecurities and fatalities.

More so, the reoccurring nightmare was a seed of evil that had been planted in her mind, and the more it was left in the soil of her perception, the more writhing tentacles of tenebrosity encompassed Varya's being, gradually immersing her into dirt and past the underworld. She thought that escape had long been a forgotten choice, and had instead dwelled in the mud of her misery, feet steadily becoming immobilized until all she could do was stare at the shriveled garden of her soul.

"Did Scarlet ever tell you how she found out about the creatures?" questioned the witch, walking across the office with her arms crossed over her dark knee-length dress. Puffed sleeves dawned upon her shoulders, white lace gracing the color, and buttons ran down the middle of her chest until her waist. She felt icky in such clothes, as if they no longer represented who she was, and Varya missed the rough feeling of her tunics and pants.

The chamber was smaller than Dumbledore's, yet it was exquisitely renovated by the boy, his eagle soul twisting every droplet of creativity into the design. The walls had been adorned with blue wallpaper, silver swirls illuminating it with grace, and a portrait of Felix's mother stood over the fireplace, although unmoving, for the boy had not wanted to be under constant supervision. On his desk and around the tables, small replicas of ships were scattered, reminders of his obsessive fondness of traveling.

However, what absolutely devasted Varya was his Quidditch uniform that he had framed on the wall, his name drawn on the back, and the Captain badge still glistening on the front. The witch knew that Felix had been signed to a team in Scotland when he had graduated, yet the boy had given up on his future to accompany her on her mission.

Yet, there she was, doubting him along with the rest of the Virtues regardless of their constant loyalty, and the girl felt absolutely disgusted at herself. Because she had stolen Felix's dreams, and she knew that even after everything was done, none of them would be able to go back to everyday life. They had witnessed too many atrocities, too many killings, and torture devices.

"She could not sleep, so she decided to go to the Common Room, and that is where she saw the demons lurking around the school."

"Why was she not asleep?" questioned Varya again, "It was well past midnight, even I was asleep. But not her—why?"

Felix knotted his eyebrow in a frown, "What are you trying to get at, Varya?"

The witch shot him a blank look, lips sealed shut by the mistrust that plagued her beliefs, and she did not press onto the subject matter any longer regardless of her suspicions with the Blood Witch. Varya was not sure who she could still trust, and so she muttered a quick excuse before pushing past the door and heading down the stairs, her mind vehemently clouded.

With her tails pulling at her scalp, she felt her headache grow more resonant, and whether it was the curse or the lack of sleep that had her under such pain, it mattered not. At the end of the day, Varya felt her wits crumble before her, and so she swung open the door of the library, firmly deciding that she had had enough of the constant chatter and was in need of some solidarity.

Still, as soon as she stepped inside, she heard someone call her name, and was surprised to find Maxwell, Lev, and an awfully jaded Nicholas standing in one of the corners, stacks of books surrounding them until there was barely any room for the witch to sit down.

Varya eyed the volumes before gazing at Nott, "What are you doing?"

"You might want to hear everything we have figured out so far," was the answer that came, and despite the usual irritation that graced the archivist's tonality, there was undoubted excitement that broke through, "We think we figured out the symbol."

That got the witch's attention, and she let Lev pull out a chair for her right beside Avery, who was using his left hand to handle his knife, trying to twirl it on his fingers with the same precision he once had in his right digits. He shot surly eyes to her, impediment flitting against maroon irises before he went back to what he was doing. Petrov knew it was not directed at her, but rather at any general presence that seemed to disturb him from his moments of solitude, as he descended into his own mud of torment.

"Well, explain it, Myung," pushed Nott, insecurity dancing on his face. There was the slightest flicker of doubt, and ever since the boy had sprouted words of wisdom on the night of the attack, he had felt immense pressure in matching his success. Still, a week had passed, and Maxwell showed no improvements, and that rattled the boy; perhaps, even more so than the months of failure that trailed behind him.

"No, Maxwell. We talked about this," interrupted Avery, "You have to push yourself and try to remember the details. Only then can you get better. Stop trying to pass all your responsibilities to shadow-boy."

Lev flashed an irked look, "Who are you calling shadow-boy?"

"Definitely not Petrov over there, right? And as far as I am aware, the two of you are the only dark freaks around here, so the title sticks," continued Avery before yawning and stretching his arms upwards.

Varya rolled her eyes, biting back a scoff at his character. Compared to Nott, who handled his trauma with sensitivity, Icarus, who treated everything as one big jest, and Elladora, who took it all with a stride of pride, Avery seemed to grow more vicious by the day. He was undoubtedly bitter with his newfound incapacity, and often sulked in the Dungeons, refusing to come out unless specifically asked. She wanted to blame him, to fault him for the selfishness of his actions, but could not find it in herself to do so, not when she had done much the same in the Alps.

"Anyhow," Nott cleared his throat, bringing out a piece of paper that he had scribbled down everything on, "So, we know that we are dealing with the Triquetra symbol, which is often associated with Celtic culture. Depending on the religion, it can have various meanings, but since Dalibor is behind this, we can assume neopaganism and satanism. The Bible itself prevents any imagery to represent the Trinity, so not only is this blasphemy, but also a symbol of the antichrist."

"Delightful," mumbled Avery, rolling his eyes, "We have to deal with satanism and paganism now."

Maxwell ignored his comments, "It could only be a symbol of the worship; at this point, we know Scholomance was believed to be the school of the Devil, but here is where it gets interesting," said the boy, pulling out another notebook and skimming the lines, "You said the name of the organization was Acolity Moirai, translated from Latin that is the Acolytes of Moirai. The Moirai are the three Fates, a greek triad of goddesses that handle destiny and the cycle of life—birth, lifetime, and death. Do you see a pattern here?"

Varya frowned, "I see patterns of three."

It was Lev's turn to speak, dark eyes trained on her with intensity, and the witch felt her pulse quicken from the seriosity of his expression, "Because the Triquetra is meant to symbolize the three Fates, as well as the thread of time—past, present, and future. From what we understand so far, the Acolytes of Moirai are devoted to the stigma that destiny must not be changed, and that explains why they would target you."

Her eyebrows furrowed, "Why does that explain it?"

Lev leaned in, and then something similar with worry passed his face, "Because your task was to change the future, Varya. More specifically, to change a certain person that brought chaos and despair to the world, something that people like Dalibor and his followers would relish."

The witch felt herself go numb, absolute apprehension dawning upon her as the pieces started to fit in one endless loop of insanity. Her breath hitched, and for a second, her vision went dark, and she grasped on the table to hold herself steady.

Indeed, it had been her task to entangle the thread spun by the Fates, and as such, she had upset the timelapse that they had decided upon. More significantly, she had attempted to reduce the massacre that Tom Riddle would cause by preventing him from turning into an absolute monster. And if Dumbledore was capable of gazing into the future, then who was to tell that Dalibor had not managed to as well?

Suddenly, her bones froze over with iniquity, and the only thought that transcended her psyche was the scrapping sensation of words that had been muttered by one spirit that had tried to warn her long ago, "He is coming, Varya. If you do not leave now, he will get you, and when he does, he will slaughter your soul for his cause."

Her hand subconsciously grabbed her necklace.

She was rendered numb, her soul long ago fragmented by the boy she had come to love, and at that moment, the shape edges of it seemed to perforate through her psyche, a cascade of stillness inundating the witch's form until there was nothing left but emptiness, her resolve washed away on the shores of her sanity.

The spirit's words echoed in her mind, and with carnal realization, Varya concluded a truth that had grazed the corners of her thoughts for long. Yet, she had refused to acknowledge it regardless of the many situations that had pointed in that direction. It was Tom Riddle—he was the one that had split her soul with his spell in an effort to preserve his nefarious intentions, it was him that had attracted the mavka and not faced the consequences, because Dalibor believed Lord Voldemort to be similar to the antichrist, a cathartic force that would cleanse the world of those who were deemed unworthy.

And as Acolytes of the Fates, they were devoted to keeping the timeline intact, openly joining the battle against Dumbledore, the man who had instigated Varya to try and change it in the first place. For that reason, they had never targeted Tom in any of their doings, but rather sought out to eradicate any bond he might have had to those around him, anything that might have humanized him.

Including the Knights.

"Varya?" questioned Lev, concerned for how she had grown incredibly pale, and she gave him a suspicious stare, because if Dalibor wanted someone to watch over her, then one of her Virtues would be the perfect accomplice.

Varya's eyes flashed to the three boys that watched her with pity on their faces, and whether they had realized the meaning of it all just as she had was not something she could discern at the moment, for her mind pulverized under the weight of it all.

She pushed away from the table, feet carrying her through the door without as much as an inkling of comprehension of where she was going, yet all the witch knew is that she needed to find Tom Riddle. So, she rushed down the stairs, then took the pathway that led to the dungeons, and entered the Slytherin Common Room without another waiting moment. Then, she walked up the stairs and pushed the door open to the boy's dorm.

And there he was, standing on one of the chairs, dark magic book in his hands as he flipped another page leisurely, arms clad in a dark virid sweater that fell mid-thigh and curls freely tumbling as he leaned back in his chair. The moment Varya walked inside the room, Tom sensed her presence, and azure eyes fell upon her with curiosity dancing on the outer edges of his irises.

It was stupefying to comprehend that the person standing in front of her could be the Lord of worship for such a dark cult, but if anyone held a future grand enough to become the symbol of a bloodbath, it was Tom Riddle. He, born from Salazar Slytherin's line, descendant of the Peverell brothers, and wielder of the Resurrection Stone.

She did not say anything out of fear of having her voice crack and instead approached him slowly, wanting nothing more than to reach out to him and hold him close. But the boy would have been entirely disturbed by such gestures, so instead, Varya stopped in front of his seat, glossy eyes trying to focus on his features and search for the monster he was destined to be.

"Something is upsetting you," concluded Riddle, and he felt a stab of irritation in his abdomen, wondering what might have disturbed the witch so profoundly. The wizard did not make any move to comfort her, merely dwelled in the fascination of seeing her broken before him, eyes glistening with woeful droplets that made her irises appear as two forsaken pearls. The dread that accumulated in his abdomen, the sensation of suffocation in his throat, Tom found it all to be a morbid delight.

"Riddle," began the witch, puffed dress making her appear less threatening than she intended, "What did the mavka tell you back in the forest?"

The marine nuance of his eyes twisted with duplicity, the faintest hint of iniquity passing through them as the dawn of his lies finally settled, and Tom closed the book in his hands, then placed it on the table in front of them. A blizzard of emotions pierced her skin all at once as the boy stood up and strolled over to her, a smirk everpresent regardless of the situation.

Tom reached out his hand, cupping her face then slowly caressing her cheek before leaning in and placing soft lips against the saltiness of her tears, tasting her sorrow and feeling the way it twisted his being, "Well, you figured it out, did you not? My clever witch."

Varya grasped his hand forcefully, pulling it away from her skin, and dug nails deep into his wrist until she splintered his skin. With fierce eyes, she glanced up at him, "Do not even try to manipulate me, Riddle."

Hoisting an eyebrow then circling her until he stood behind her and her grip had his arm hugging her side, Tom used his fingers to trace the back of her neck, grazing her necklace and her skin, "I am not doing anything, Petrov."

His words were delightful marzipan, the dulcet taste of insincere promises and vague words that crooned a harmonious melody of trickery. Varya felt him pull her closer until her back was pressed against him, and he drew his hand down her body from her neck to her stomach, then dipped his lips to her ear.

"You want to know what the mavka told me?" he hummed, the vibration of his words sending a shiver down her spine, "It told me that it could show me everything, Petrov. All the ways I could ascend to power, how I could join forces with them and overturn everything, how much they crave my sorcery and all of the terrible, gruesome things I will do."

He pressed a kiss against her neck, biting down on the skin until Varya shifted on her feet, trying to hold back from the way he was using corporal tactics to associate his betrayal with pleasure. Still, the witch twisted, letting go of his hand and facing him with her wand against his nose, "You evil, foul creature—"

"Before you call me names, Petrov," grumbled Tom, staring down at her with acidity, "Perhaps, you should consider the fact that I ended up accompanying you to Scholomance, and that I destroyed every single resource that could have otherwise been provided to me so that I could succeed."

"And is that supposed to mean anything to me after you hid the truth for so long?" her voice grew tumultuous, slowly nearing the edge of shouting.

"I might be a liar and a deceiver, but not even I would go to such lengths as denying myself power only to fool a witch." Tom seemed to have some sort of scoff in his voice, "I might have followed the mavka, but I had my chances of joining Dalibor and refused."

"So grand of you, Riddle," spat Varya, pulling away from him in disgust, "What? Could not bear to share the spotlight with another sorcerer? Had to turn down a cult of wizards just because they were devoted to someone else?"

"The only person I intend to rule with is you, Varya," Tom smirked, approaching her again and grabbing her wrist. He brought it to his lips, then placed another kiss to her pulse, "When all of this is done, we will set fire to the world."

Varya felt her breath halt, and she let him draw her closer despite herself, mind conflicted over his words and her own intentions. She loved Riddle, she truly did, and that was what made her corrupted soul consider the option of accompanying him through the thick vines of Hell, until the crown of her head was made of bones and ligaments of every soul she had tortured and banished.

And when he kissed her, Tom made sure to pull her so close that she felt him press all over her body, sinking fingers in the hem of her skirts and dragging them across her skin. The sensation of having the boy so close to her was almost overwhelming, mahogany scent a slight buzz on the perimeter of her being, and plump lips urgently moving against her own as if the taste of her mouth was as gratifying as his conquest of power.

Frantic hands slipped under her dress, and Tom grabbed the edge of her underwear, dipping one finger in and pressing it against her core teasingly. The witch whined in his mouth and felt his lips tip upward in a satisfied smirk before he bit down on her lip painfully. He dragged teeth against her mouth and pulled until he could feel the slightest hint of blood mix into their kiss, coloring her lips scarlet.

Tom pushed them back slowly until they reached the edge of his desk, and then he hoisted her up on the table with one hand, the other still gradually rubbing against her clit as the girl breathed harshly against his neck. The sound of her sighing with pleasure was the zephyr of midmorning on his skin, and he felt himself drown in her apricity, a warmth sensation inundating him until he threw his head back in a groan, overwhelmed by the knowledge that he had the most powerful witch fidgeting in his hold.

Her skin was made of the finest silk, and he wanted to taint it and corrupt in such ways, so he lowered his head to bite down on her shoulder, then sucked on the spot and flicked his tongue against the tender area. With nimble fingers, he pushed down the zipper of her dress, letting it fall around her waist until her corset stood exposed to the light of the room.

"Turn around for me, darling."

Varya twisted, her feet hitting the ground, and she drew in a sharp breath when his knuckles skimmed her back, leisurely pulling on her corset strings and undoing them. Tom cracked it open, then let it fall to the floor before cupping her breasts and pressing his fingers in circular motions against them. Her head fell back on his shoulder, giving him enough space to place warm lips to her throat.

One hand still on her breast, he used his finger to swirl around her nipple before dragging it back down to her underwear, which he pulled to the side and pressed against her again. Varya moved to be flush against him, and he smirked, "Impatient, are we not?" his voice was low as he breathed on her ear, "Tell me, does it please you to be touched like this? To feel someone else take control over you?"

He turned her around again, gazing at her with a debauched sneer on his face, and watched the way swollen lips parted to protest against his words. Tom bent down to kiss her, then dragged on her lip and let it go, having it wobble slightly.

"Tom," her words were rugged as he raised two fingers to her mouth.

"Suck on them."

Varya placed reddened lips around his fingers, her tongue swirling around as Tom moved them in and out. He grabbed her chin, turning her eyes to his and drowning in the glamour of her stare. She looked so entranced then, so utterly depraved and immoral, just like the woman he wished to have by his side.

"Look at you," Riddle continued, sliding his fingers out of her mouth inside her, then feeling her clench around him. His eyes fell shut in a moment of awareness, and he bit on his lip to hold back the groan that almost spilled before gazing at her again, "All so eager to be touched although you had your wand at my neck minutes ago."

Varya used quivering fingers to open his buttons, then dragged his white shirt off of his shoulder and placed her mouth on his skin, her right hand grabbing his curls and pulling them back to expose his neck. She trailed upwards, watching Tom close his eyes as he savored the feeling of her lips against his pulse, then parted his lips to breathe out harshly.

"Move faster," she mumbled against his skin, and Riddle picked up the pace of his digits, slamming them in and out of her, adding another one when she felt that her legs loosened too much. He circled her nerves, deliberately and teasingly with his thumb, trying to stimulate her form inside and outside.

"Tell me how great it feels," he mumbled with a raspy voice, curls falling over his forehead as he lowered it to catch her lips. She mumbled something against his mouth and then dug her hand in his pants, slowly touching the area where his briefs had risen. Tom inhaled sharply, then pulled away to give her a twisted look, "I see how it is."

He unbuckled his belt with a fast move and opened his pants, dragging them down along with his underwear. Varya felt his fingers pick up the pace, nearing her to a climax as he continued to press his palm against her, and then he stopped.

"Kneel."

With that, he grabbed her hair, and brought her to her knees in a matter of seconds, twisting fingers in raven locks when he felt the witch wrap pillows of sin around his length. Her tongue whirled against his tip, and Tom pushed her head down further, hearing the painful sound she made. He dragged back, then slammed in again, this time against one of her cheeks, and the flesh scraped against him with enormous pleasure.

"Just like that, little witch," Riddle breathed in, completely lost in the movements of her head and tongue as he pulled her mouth all over him, his pace quickening each time Varya gagged.

The motion had him waste himself in a kaleidoscope of richness behind his eyelids, and he felt the slight sweetness of climax on his tongue, the way it made his toes curl in his shoes. The girl dove down on his length again, taking it all in regardless of the tears in her eyes. Tom mumbled a string of incoherent words, and then closed his eyes and threw his head back in a low moan.

Without warning, he came in her mouth, and Varya almost choked on the sensation, the unfamiliar saltiness making her squirm as he held her in place. She puffed her cheeks and glanced up at the boy as he took himself out, a devastating smirk on his face.

Tom kneeled right in front of her, then placed his hands on each side of her face, "Swallow it, darling."

Admittedly reluctant, Varya obeyed, grimacing at the feeling before parting her lips. Tom dragged his thumb over her mouth, spreading the stickiness over it slightly as he oversaw her.

"Is it not wonderful how desperate you are to please me?" he mused before kissing her neck, and his hand made to massage her breast again. Tom brought his mouth down to her flesh, pressing his tongue against her nipple and whirling it.

Varya drew in a sharp breath as he raised her back to the desk, making her legs circle around his bare waist. With a decisive hand, she grabbed his fingers and put them around her throat, "I want you to choke me."

Tom's eyebrows hoisted in astonishment before he bit on his cheek to prevent himself from spilling another blasphemous smirk, and he felt himself slowly growing rigid again at her audacity. The wizard sunk decisive digits in her thigh, marking the skin as his.

"What makes you think you can order me around, Petrov?" There was slight amusement in his voice, but then his eyes grew darker, "Perhaps, I should have you beg. What do you say to that, dear?"

Petrov bit back a small moan when he pressed himself against her entrance, now entirely delighted by the notion of having her at his mercy, "I would tell you to fuck off."

Tom inclined his head mockingly, then slowly bent his knees until he was facing her core, his lips barely hovering over her. He puffed a breath of hot air against her skin, then dug his tongue in the place where her thigh connected to the sides of her acute point and trailed it around her clit in a teasing manner.

Gradually, he inched closer to her before pressing lips against her entrance, and then hummed on her skin, the vibrations having her gasp audibly. Varya grasped his curls, trying to have him inch closer, but Tom stopped her movement immediately.

"Ask for me," he said, then moved to kiss her inner thighs, biting down on her flesh aggressively as one hand trailed from her clit up to her breast, and he grabbed at it, circling the focal point.

Varya covered her face with her palms then leaned against the hardwood of the desk, her hips hunching forward to try and find friction, yet her release seemed farfetched as stubbornness prevented her from admitting to her needs.

"Fine," Tom bit darkly, "If you have it be this way, then I will not do anything to please you. Instead, I will wholly take you for myself."

With that, he grabbed her ankles and seized her forward, and without another warning, he slid inside painfully, having her stretch from his length. Tom grasped her neck with both hands to immobilize her, choking her as he thrust inside, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see her or look at her. Instead, there was only the way she clutched around him, so needy and devoted, and Riddle let out a string of curses at the sensation.

He lost himself in it, movement erratic and harsh, and did not care for the way Varya squirmed underneath, her lungs constricting from his touch and her eyes tearing from the pleasure of the pain. It felt soul-splitting, earth-shattering, as if every movement of his was made to undo her in ways she had not thought possible thoroughly, and the sensation of being filled by Tom was almost too much to comprehend.

The sound of Tom ramming in her was rhythmical, and it threaded in the notes of their synced moans, his of a lower octave, and her a mumbled tune of spluttered emotions. When he thrust to the deepest point, so far in that she felt his navel against her core, Varya met his motion by raising her hips, which made Riddle pick up his pace.

Riddle pushed her thighs apart with one hand, the other still around her throat, then grabbed her by the hair and pulled her in a messy kiss, his breath harsh and his mind moving in circular motions at the way her skin felt on his.

"Do you like that, Petrov?" He managed to rasp out, "Do you like the way I fuck you even after you wish to be done with me? Even after you would give nothing more than to use that wand of yours to curse the life out of me?"

Varya breathed harshly as he pushed himself in again. Harsher. Deeper. Needier. And she did not manage to answer, not with the way her body rocked from his touches, and the desk cried underneath from the rattling of its hinges. So, he grasped her chin and forced her to look at him.

"Answer me," he ordered, his face void of any amusement, "When I ask a question, you answer. Tell me just how good it feels."

The witch narrowed her eyes, and then pressed herself against him, pulling harsher on his curls right as she reached her climax. The sensation was a culmination of all of Riddle's touches, a plethora of aggression and determination as if whatever Tom was made of was designed to have her reach the high of Eden before plummeting her in the ruins of his manipulation. The pleasure cascaded over her, and right as the boy neared his end as well, she pulled away, and Tom grabbed a nearby cloth before finishing into it.

"I—" her breath lagged as Riddle gripped her thigh to steady himself, "I think you are the one who finished twice, Tom. So next time, you tell me how it feels."

With that, she grabbed her corset and dress from the floor and slipped into her undergarments as she tried to ignore the ache in her muscles from where they had been hyperextended. By her side, Riddle had a displeased look on his face, yet he could not counter her truth as he buttoned himself up.

"Let me help you," the boy stated, reaching out to tie her corset, and Varya leaned back into him, wanting to feel his warmth even after debauched activities. When he was done with that, Riddle pulled her dress over her shoulders, then zipped it up and pushed her hair to the side, pressing lips against her nape.

"Thank you," mumbled the witch, feeling the clarity of their earlier conversation slip in, "Now, perhaps we should discuss the situation previously mentioned, or did you believe that I would forget?"

Tom rolled his eyes in irritation, a sneer covering his face as he picked up the volume of his dark art yet again. Varya caught sight of it, reading the necromancy title and biting back a distasteful string of curses. She recalled Dumbledore's words, and dread settled in her stomach as Riddle sat back down on the chair, flipping through the pages absentmindedly.

"What do you wish for me to say?" inquired the boy, "They are not the first people to believe me to be their savior and surely will not be the last. But I told you this once—I would slaughter everyone that intended to harm you, and so I have no interest in joining them."

"That seems entirely out of character for you."

With a wicked grin, he shot her a look of depravity, "Let me rephrase it, then—I will not join them, so long as you remain loyal to me, for your power and company is more valuable to my conquest and desires than they are. But listen to me closely, Petrov. If you were ever to betray me, if whatever deal we had between us were to break, I would not hesitate in becoming the ruthless antichrist they wish me to be."

His words left her cold, yet warmed her all the same, for in his layers of manipulation and deceit was an admittance that Tom valued the witch above else, and thought her to be the quintessential ally of his abominable carnage. The darkness of her psyche dragged limbs of corruption as they sought to vitiate any connection to morality on her side, and the pulsating obscurations attempted to crawl their way over the edge of her consciousness, making her incredibly aware of how ravishing Tom appeared with his vile smirk and sinful eyes.

But her plans of destroying her Horcrux and culminating in her mortality seemed to be a fault in their arrangement, for they both saw a different type of future. One of them, terrified by the notion of death and weakness, intended on outliving the skeletons that trailed behind him, whereas the other wished to submerge in the fountain of an eternal abyss, no longer wishing to carry the burden of her powers and be a weapon to the wizarding world.

Still, Varya was willing to wait alongside Tom, until his sin of wrath was subdued by her virtue of patience, a connection between two opposite beings, for regardless of her temper, the Eastern witch had been nothing short of tolerant for the boy. And she waited, she hoped, she prayed that one day Riddle could turn away from his diabolical plans.

So, at that moment, Varya bent her head in deceit, her lips not letting the words of disagreement pass regardless of the prideful expression on Tom Riddle's face. She was unsure how the end would play out their intricate tale, yet some part of her knew that fate had something of proportions in store for them.

And her foolishness would one day cost her significantly.

***

What soon become strikingly clear to the Eastern witch was that her mistrust in the other Virtues had had her entirely alone, with no one to confide in except Tom Riddle. The revelation of Dalibor's intentions with the boy seemed to be a hushed secret between the two, and not even Lev or Nott had managed to connect the dots, as they were not aware of the spirit's words towards the girl.

She knew that letting it spill out would possibly endanger their cause, for if the Dark Priest were aware that they had uncovered such an essential part of his plan, he would undoubtedly strike against them.

So, when they all gathered in the Ravenclaw Salon to debate their plans for the Christmas break that was only a month and a half away, Varya positioned herself in one of the corners, eyes trailing the room for possible suspects.

"I fail to understand why they do not let us stay in the castle," mumbled Alphard Black from where he sat on one end of the table, jaw tightened in irritation. Over the past couple of weeks, he had assisted the Martial Magic training alongside the rest of their group, regularly partnering with Ophelia or Rosier to demonstrate various methods of stealth and attacks.

With Nicholas on the side bench, his workload had increased, so he became a much more prominent figure in the group. Varya was unsure how much he truly knew of Riddle's group, as his only connection to all of them was through her, Della, and Winterbour. He had certainly not appeared to be ill-intended like the rest of the Knights, and she suspected that the boy thought their training to be only a means of protecting the castle and nothing more.

With a sharp jaw and colored azure eyes, Alphard had grown into his lanky stature and developed into a handsome young lad, with strong shoulders and an impressive height. He leaned against the back of his chair, toying with his wand in his hands absentmindedly as he surveyed the room, perhaps trying to figure them out as they tried with him.

"Because with Dumbledore gone, Dippet does not want to risk the safety of students. Certain professors will be heading home for the vacation, and they do not wish to possibly endanger students," pronounced Indra from where she stood between Rosier and Lev.

The couple had come forward to the brother about their relationship, no longer wishing to hide their affection behind closed doors of empty classrooms and shelves of worn-out books. As expected, the shadowmancer had been entirely displeased at the notion, furiously demolishing one of the statues in the courtyard in his attempt to grab Rosier and throw him off of the cliff. Still, Indra had yelled at Lev until he had calmed down, telling him that she was old enough to take care of herself.

Varya still sensed some reluctance in the older sibling as he eyed the interlocked hands on the table, but he bit down on his protests, perhaps out of fear of pushing his sister away, and that was one thing Lev would never do. The Eastern witch knew that even when he tended to be overbearing, the wizard cared for his family above all else, and would never risk their relationship.

"So instead, he sends us out to get plucked by Grindelwald one by one," scoffed Malfoy, his face twisting in a sneer, "We all know we are stronger if we stick together, so going back to our families will only have us open to attacks. Not to mention possibly endangering our loved ones."

Varya exchanged a look with Tom, who stood on the other end of the room in a similar position to her, analyzing the crowd and looking for suspects in a similar manner. Still, her heart drummed as their gaze interlocked at the mention of having people close to them endangered, for they both had nobody else in the world except the people inside that room.

"So, we stick together," proposed Della shyly, leaning further into Felix's embrace and avoiding Abraxas' stare, "We can all gather in one place. Perhaps, the Alps, or any safe spot."

"Oh, how wonderful of the muggle-born to invite herself with the purebloods," sniggered Avery from the side, showing his distaste towards the witch. Still, he made no further comment on it, for he knew that Della had the most to lose in regards to her family and Grindelwald's attacks, so he stayed silent like a sly fox and watched her squirm with a delighted smirk.

"That is not the point," interjected Abraxas, sending daggers to his friend, "Point is, we have to spend the Christmas break together."

"Is that not also dangerous?" questioned Ophelia, eyeing the room, "If all of us are in one place, we are more susceptible to an attack."

"But we have better chances of defending ourselves," argued Icarus.

"Ridiculous," puffed Elladora, glancing at her hands, "As if Grindelwald would lose time over striking any of us. He would go directly for Varya."

"And you want to leave her open for danger?" bit Felix, eyeing the red-head witch with enough distaste that she had the decency to appear ashamed. He had always had a strong dislike for her and her manipulation techniques, slithering through the shadows of seduction and attempting to use her femininity to her advantage, so much so that when he had met Scarlet, he had disliked her by association.

"I never said that," fought the cherry-haired witch, narrowing her eyes at the apprentice.

"Would not be the first time you endanger her."

"Watch it," she threatened, stepping towards him with aggression only to be stopped by Maxwell, who gave her a warning stare.

Elladora backed down, and the room fell in tense silence over the disagreement, waiting for Tom to speak up and decide as he most often did. Instead, the wizard had his eyes trained on the Slavic girl, almost as if asking her opinion on the situation. Or, perhaps, he was merely testing her, trying to see if she had what it took to raise by his side and take command.

Varya cleared her throat, "Staying together is the better option."

Sounds of agreement fused in with scoffs of nativity, but the witch did not bother to take them much into account, her decision already firm. Riddle smirked from across the room, signaling that she had made the ride choice, and she flared her nostrils in distress at his condescending attitude.

"We need a Secret Keeper," announced Abraxas, and when all turned perplexed eyes to him, he scrunched his nose in distaste at their lack of awareness, "Someone who will guard our location. It is a sealing spell, and only the chosen person can divulge the address. It cannot be tortured out of them, nor can they use a curse. It has to be of free will."

"Well, Varya should do it then," announced Maxwell.

"It cannot be her," concluded Malfoy, "The Fidelius Charm bounds the secret to the soul, and since Varya split hers to create a Horcrux, it might not hold true. We cannot take that risk."

"So then, who should do it?" asked Alphard again, eyebrows knotted in bewilderment.

"We do not have to decide now," said Tom, fully aware that not everyone in the room could be trusted, "Once the day approaches, we will see."

And whatever choice they made, Varya could only hope it would not be a mistake.

***

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