THE ANATOMY OF OPHELIA EVERGREEN - THE MOLE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

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Be advised that this chapter contains multiple potentially triggering themes.

For one year, she had done nothing but gawk at a white wall, eyes glossed with some profoundly implanted madness that transversed her body until she twitched in her restraints. The ivory paint was spotless, as not to leave room for any sort of visual stimulation that might have otherwise triggered an emotional response out of her. They wanted Ophelia to be as senseless as possible, lucidity a long-forgotten paragon that decomposed beneath her skin.

Her locks had started wasting their shine two months in, and by the end of her first year locked in the asylum, she was not sure it could even be considered hair. Akin to sandpaper, they scratched the nape of her neck until her nights were spent stirring, twitching in the pressed and itchy coverings she had come to know as her second skin.

Void was a detrimental thing. The human mind was nothing without its imagination, neurons firing up from constant stimulation of multiple receptors, and when the stimuli were excluded from the scenery, the pathways that led to mundane reactions wasted away.

It only got worse after her lobotomy. Still, she found herself lucky—the patient across the hall from her had entered delirium in the early morning after his surgery, no longer more than a nameless face. Ophelia, at least, had only become slightly more disconnected from reality, until she stopped perceiving social cues, and habitual patterns of human behavior became odd to her. She learned by imitation, mimicry, and created versions of herself based on her research, until the Evergreen heir had stopped existing, replaced instead by something inhumane.

Towards the end of her first year in capture, her doctors had decided to perform a second lobotomy. They prepped her for the surgery, dressing her in a hospital-like gown that felt like stitched carbon on her epidermis, then chained her to a moving bed, hands and legs immobilized so that she would not put up a fuss. Her temperament had stayed consistent throughout her time in Sweden, a flare for the dramatic and outbursts, and so even in their grasp, Ophelia made sure to trash around madly. If they wanted a lunatic, she would give them one.

By then, part of her had given up on her hopes of a rescue. Grindelwald had not reached out to her, not even after Evergreen had devoted her teenage years to his movement and had let her stay behind the bulky walls of the asylum, like a lost cause.

That night, rain had poured down from the skies in heaps of cold liquid, hitting the building as if it were set on tearing it down until the rumble of dust created waves. The sound of lightning was the only one that broke through, amplified tenfolds by her lack of auditory stimulation. Ophelia had not even heard when they had broken in, ravaging the holding cells for her.

She was hauled outside, and she could almost taste light on her tongue, yet found that it left her hollow—the world was made of cardboard and sand, and her nerves did not seem to find satisfaction in anything anymore. They were inactive, threads of nothingness connecting areas that should have lit up like lanterns released in the sky at the sight of spectral nuances overwhelming her.

Touches meant nothing. Taste meant nothing. Music meant nothing.

She had forgotten how to live, what matters were supposed to have her laugh or cry, and sometimes they fused in a weird pattern of radial emotions, only to swoop in back to the center, tangling as ropes became unmanageable and all looked like a poorly knitted material.

Ophelia had been told that her powers had acquired the attention of a powerful sorcerer in the eastern parts, but nothing had prepared her for when she truly met Dalibor. He was the wickedest creature of all, with a face so sunken in he resembled a cadaver more than a human, skin hanging from rusted bones until he appeared to be melting.

The Priest had told her of what they had seen, of what a Seer had been whispering about in the deepest villages of Transylvania—a Dark Force unlike any other would rise, engulfing the world in hellfire and destruction. They had initially thought it to be Grindelwald, but he was a mere fool, weakened by his devotion to magic and his childhood attachments. He would find his brutal end soon enough, but Tom Riddle would not. He could not. The Seer had described the darkness he felt in his vision, the face of a boy that marched through the Hogwarts yard half a century from then. It pulsated strongly the moment his figure stopped in front of the crowd gathered outside, covered in his black robes.

He had to rise to be the savior they needed, letting the world capsize on the shore of darkness before engulfing any wandering ship in tentacles of wickedness and dragging them to the bottom of Hell's pit. And they knew that, as long as Varya Petrov flaunted her stygian locks and rough hands around the boy, Tom Riddle would be drawn away from his full strength. Therefore, she had to be removed.

Or corrupted.

The sound of church bells ringing throughout midnight made the blood on Ophelia's hands all the more onerous, and she glanced with granite irises at the scarlet veins that cradled where her fingers met and filled in the ditches of her palm. She had not taken any satisfaction from murdering Della Beauchamp, nor had it brought her any grief. It was a means to an end, a measure that had led to a domino of actions.

Lightning and rain covered the horizon, invading the obscurations that sled around the corners of Evergreen's vision as the boisterous rumble of thunder made her flinch, recalling the way the gun had been cold as she had clasped fingers around it, gripping the trigger before unloading it in her brother's head. Not once. Not twice. Three times. All at the same point.

Lopheus Evergreen had heard of her escape, undoubtedly, and had been called to the asylum to provide authorities with details that could help the investigation. With his charming smile, dashing hair, and meaningful hand gestures, he had convinced them to bring them back there if they ever found her. But Ophelia could not go back, and she knew that her brother had entered Tom Riddle's circle, so Dalibor instructed her simply. Kill him, leave an empty spot on Riddle's team, an extension to the Knights that could easily be filled, and use the Evergreen name to attend the gatherings. Even without a purpose, she would have murdered her family. Resentment was an ugly thing.

She took a turn around the bifurcations of two main boulevards, then Ophelia glanced around the street, her eyes adjusted to the darkness as she pushed through the pouring skies and opened the door that led to a small motel. The receptionist stood behind the desk, throat ripped and blood splattered on his square glasses, and the girl merely stepped around the corpse, grabbing the keys from behind him and stuffing them in her pockets.

Her eyes fell on the man—his hair had started turning a dull shade of gray, like weeds amongst a court of flowers, and the first signs of aging had invaded his face, digging ducts under his eyes and pulling at his skin until it sagged around the jawline. Empty forest eyes stared ahead, and a small fly landed on the eyeball, rubbing its legs together as red eye-spots took in Ophelia's approaching figure.

"Poor thing," she mumbled, gazing down at the receptionist, then placing a hand over the nasty tear in his throat.

He had been compelled into pulling it out himself if the blood and spongy tissue underneath his fingernails were anything to go by. Ophelia glanced over the figure and saw the butchered esophagus bits smashed from the chair that had rolled back over them. The static sound of the radio behind him was the only tune that accompanied the storm outside.

A door's hinges rattled in the distance, and then steps creaked on the stairs across the hallway, wood squeaking under the weight of polished shoes. She saw his ridiculous trenchcoat before his face, a murky nuance of black, as if it had been washed out at the cleaner. Yet, Ophelia knew it was Aleksander Dolohov that strutted down the hallway, his smirk nefarious as he eyed the corpse, then the witch.

"Mh," he sounded out, hands clasped behind his back as he bent until his face was on the same level as the corpse. Aleksander's eyes glimmered with the same lunatic glint that his aunt, Matron Lawrence, had had before her death. "I thought my curse would be even more wretched. He pulled out his veins instead of his arteries. Now, that simply will not do."

Ophelia paid him no mind, pushing past the boy with ease, and yet she heard soft footsteps echoing behind her until she reached the room she had taken. With a quick twist, she pushed the door open, entering the simplistic chamber and immediately going to the bathroom to wash the blood off of her hands.

Aleksander trailed behind, "You had your own fun, I see."

"I do not find delight in torture the way you do."

"Terrible shame, makes the act entirely more pleasurable when you take delight in watching the vitality leave their face," Dolohov sighed dreamily, then shook his head, as if pushing away a fantasy, "Anyhow, Dalibor requests a meeting with you. He wants to march out soon."

Ophelia shot the boy a hard stare, but he merely shrugged, moving out of the door to let her pass. The hotel had seemingly fallen into the deepest corners of the night, and as they trudged through the corridor, windows whined from the blasting wind, and tree branches scratched at the glass. Fading moonlight dripped through the small cracks allowed by the material they had used to cover the panels with, conforming to the regulations of the muggle war.

Aleksander hummed a low tune behind her, his mind already lost in a reality of his own. The designated Seer of the Acolytes was on the verge of madness, nights clouded with terror dreams of an incoming carnage, and even at the early age of eleven, when he had stumbled through the Scholomance hallways while gripping Lawrence's skirts, people had thought him to be somewhat unhinged.

Two doors stood before them, wooden and dusted, and when Ophelia pushed them open, she faced a council table. At one end stood Dalibor, his long robes covering most of his shriveled body as skeletal limbs moved to grip the table with anticipation. His hair, already balding in some spots, was of the whitest shade of gray the witch had ever seen, almost as if color clung to the roots with vigor. When he revealed sharp teeth through a demented smirk, Aleksander inhaled deeply by her side.

"We have waited for your return," his voice had a degree of rust to it, "Take a seat. We head out by the witching hour."

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Her blood had tainted his shirt, coloring it carmine as he pulled the body to his chest. Abraxas' voice shattered while he susurrated Della's name as if it were gospel, as if it had some alleviating capacity to it, a soft stroke of vowels and consonants which were muttered with such grief the ground almost swallowed them whole. The warmth was fading from her body, and the rain thudded against her tanned skin as the wizard attempted to shelter her figure from the weather.

Honeyed eyes still trained on the stars, chest not moving, and dagger deep into her abdomen, Della Beauchamp resembled a porcelain doll even in her death, with curled eyelashes framing bulbous eyes and stuffy eyebrows in a relaxed state. Her plump lips were parted in a last word, something Malfoy wished he could have kissed away, but he feared touching her again, for her skin would turn cold at any moment. And then she would be entirely gone.

"Della," Abraxas muttered her name again, vocal cords strained as thunder roared in the distance, and he sniffled before glancing back towards the boulevard. The street was covered in snow, ice, small puddles, and stars shimmered over bricked buildings with pointed roofs. His coat stuck to his skin, and he did not even feel the bite in his frigid arms as he lifted Della's corpse upwards, hands grasping her clothes.

Her head lulled backward, and the sensation that fermented his soul was unlike anything he had ever felt. It was as if he could not comprehend that Beauchamp was dead, that there was nothing left behind her gentle eyes. Maloy would never see her scurrying around the corridors, fingers grasping her books as the terror of exams glimmered on her face. He would never feel the ardent sensation of not being able to be with her in all ways.

Some disgusting part of him was glad for it too.

As he carried her back to the residence, Abraxas was unsure how to process his thoughts. His mind was chipped—as if it had been scratched, and now there was a medley of emotions that he could not comprehend. The shock was his armor, and it protected him from fully unleashing his terror on the world, for he knew anger like his burned akin to dragon fire.

The rain streamed down on the boy until he was numb all over, and every breath felt like icicles perforating his lungs. Still, numbness was something he sought out to, a shelter from what was to come when his mind wrapped around the carcass he was currently holding.

Her blood was staining his clothes.

It looked red, although somewhat of a deeper color than he had expected. His ridiculous mind had foolishly thought once that mudbloods bled a different nuance, but as Abraxas let his eyes trail crimson hands, as he regarded rivers of vitality drip down the sides of his palms, he almost drowned in shameful delusion. Years of propaganda drilled into his skull through punishments and privilege, and they all seemed to cling to the skeletal form that was left of his pureblood education. The boy knew that if he were to cut his own skin right there, they would be the same on an anatomical level.

Blood, flesh, tissue, ligaments, tendons, fat, bones, marrow—everything that made them one and the same as they birthed from the soil and returned to dust. Abraxas Malfoy was not a pious man, far from it; still, he found absurdity in the evangelical origin of man and wondered if the abdominal agony that throbbed beneath his skin right now was his rib breaking as his Eve descended into the abyss.

"You will be fine," his whisper was appalling; he had not even registered pale lips moving like a flickering flame as assurance passed from his mouth—to her or to him, he did not know.

At some point, he passed the threshold of the house, moving inside the small living room, and the laughter that came from Indra Myung's lips was almost as terrible as the piercing scream that followed once her bright eyes fell upon the corpse. Abraxas did not feel nor register when they took her away from him, and was only vaguely aware of the arms wrapped around his shoulders in sacred comfort and Icarus Lestrange trying to call out his name.

The Malfoy heir only watched Varya Petrov as she rushed down the stairs, eyes alight with trouble before they settled on Della Beauchamp's sturdy frame.

She fell to her knees and crumbled like a sandcastle in the harshness of littoral zephyr.

The floor scrapped her surface, and the witch did not even notice, translucent skin fading to nothing but the complexion of the cadaver that Indra leaned over, eyes swelled with tears and breath trembling. Varya's natural granite face prevailed, except it was one that bowed in front of a gravestone instead of tautness and cynicism. Her raven hair fell around her face as she lowered it to the ground, and then hands grasped the floor as it would consume her whole, drag her into her own version of Hell and butcher her into bits.

She did not even cry, Abraxas suspected Varya Petrov had long ago fallen into continual grief and had never recovered, and as such, there were no tears left for her to shed, only incoherent mumbles of apologies as she crawled over to her parted friend. He knew there was resentment in her; still, he thought even he clung to it. Part of Malfoy tried to continue villainizing Della Beauchamp, only so that her death would not blast him into shattered pieces, and perhaps that was how the Eastern witch coped as well.

"Who did this?" Varya's voice broke, and she cast Abraxas a look of suspicion, eyes trailing his bloody hands that had attempted to save her friend. But not even a bastard such as him would rid of an inconvenience that had nested over his reputation, no matter how many times his parents had offered to discard the witch. Such tactics were saved for people eroded down by times of darkness. People like Tom Riddle.

Scarlet Norberg, who stood in the corner, eyes wide and hands trembling, whispered in a terrible voice, "She left with Ophelia Winterbour."

Malfoy sensed something shift to his right and glanced through a cloudy vision at Tom Riddle. There was no sympathy or regret as he stared at the corpse in the middle of the living room, eyes aloof as if he calculated an equation that would give him an answer. The leader leaned towards Nicholas Avery, who was in an arid discussion with Maxwell Nott, and then the assassin's stare fell on him. He nodded, and somehow Tom's whole demeanor changed.

"We have to go," he announced, moving through to let everyone gather around. There were still people missing, still people who were not aware of what had happened, yet he wanted to leave.

"We have to burry her," mumbled Varya, hands hovering over Della's face as if her skin was anointed and she would burn like the devil if touched. The culpability almost smothered her, and her psyche stumbled and fell in a long hallway that led to unfortunate mistakes she had made.

"There is no time."

It was then that her eyes glossed over, and Abraxas knew the witch was trying to hold it together, yet Riddle was making her lose it, "I am not leaving her body here."

"If you do not, we might as well add all of us to the pile," snarled Tom, his lack of empathy so striking in such moments. "Ophelia must have done this, and with our Secret Keeper dead, it means that we are all now bearers of this location. Including her."

"What?" the astonishment ghosted her lips.

"When the Secret-Keeper dies, everyone that was aware of the guarded truth becomes a Keeper. That allows us all to share the location. I suspect Winterbour—Evergreen, if my assumptions are correct—targeted Della. Your Blood-Pact made her death a certain one, even if she betrayed us by revealing the secret or not," he moved forward, touching the edge of the blade still in Della's abdomen, "I suppose she decided to redeem herself for you."

The fright that overflowed Varya's eyes almost made Abraxas turn away, and he observed her body convulse with sobs as the gravity of it all fell upon her. Had she not acted rashly, had she not made Beauchamp swear to her in a moment of weakness, Della would have still been alive. And that was a burden she would carry in her own grave.

"Della?"

Silence stomped over their conversations as Felix's voice broke through—a trembling, squeaky, broken melody of an out-of-tune instrument. He pushed through them all, not caring for manners before he crumbled by the Beauchamp witch, hands touching her face and then pulling back as if scorched.

He covered his mouth in the crook of his elbow and sobbed into it painfully, "She is cold."

She was dead.

Abraxas had never had much sympathy for Parkin. He envied him for his ability to love without consequence, but other than that, he was nothing more than a bug in the dirty soil beneath his feet. He had intruded onto something that would have never finished, and although Malfoy's rationale knew that his heartbreak was a cure for the cowardly, he sought to blame Felixius for the ruins of his emotions.

Malfoy was still unsure how, or why, he had decided that Della was someone he was to seek out to. He supposed it happened in the endless hours spent protecting her, something that, for once, made him feel powerful and worthy of being Tom's right-hand. He was the least spectacular out of the Knights, with no unique ability to distinguish him except calculated bursts of raw magic and connections that could acquire him the world. When he was with Beauchamp, he felt worthy, and although he was unsure whether to call it love or not, the emotions he had felt towards the girl tied in with the absence of warmth in his past.

Della was a cascade of sunshine at first, but even the brightest flame flickered in darkness until shadows smothered it and dug it a nice grave six feet under. Nothing was brilliant in the tenebrosity of death, between the bugs and larvae that gnawed at putrescine tissue. He tried to push the image of her rotting corpse away, yet it plagued his thoughts, and he wondered how long it would take for her form to fade into the ground completely.

"We have to go," repeated Tom, irritated eyes watching Felix as he sobbed with his face in his knees, whole body trembling as if everything had fallen apart. Varya moved to put her arms around him, and he leaned against the witch.

Parkin had told her that they would all be a family once everything was over. Now, two of them were gone. He and Petrov only had each other to cling to.

Riddle turned to his Knights, who, despite the grief that passed through the room, were not as affected. Elladora shot him questioning eyes, and so he addressed her first, "Quickly pack everything from our rooms. Stuff the luggage into endless pouches. I doubt we have more than a few minutes to get out of here."

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Varya held onto Felix, caressing his hair as he cried into her shoulder, body shaking until it passed to her. Her eyes never left Della's body, watching her as if she would wake up at any moment and laugh in their faces for worrying. But she did not. She never would. Della was dead, and the Eastern witch had had her fault in it.

The guilt that stroked her body was indescribable, so much so that she felt hypocritical for the waves of pulsating grief that pushed through her system. Part of her had wanted the witch dead for her betrayal, but now, with the act done, she realized what a foolish girl she had been. Her last words exchanged with Della had been those of hatred, and they played like an endless loop in her head.

Elladora and Nicholas came downstairs, handing everyone their luggage in a hurry, and even the Virtues had set into moving. It was only the two mourners who clung to each other on the carpet that seemed to be stuck in time, bones frozen with regret as they wondered what to do with the body.

"We have to apparate," mumbled Nicholas as he lowered to the ground before them, handing each a small pouch with their personal belongings. He gestured towards the group, who had gathered in the kitchen, ready to leave.

Felix glanced at him, eyes puffy, "What about Della?"

Avery had the decency to look ashamed as he said, "We have to leave her here."

"She deserves a funeral!"

"We do not have time for one," spoke Riddle as he came down the stairs, and the disgust that struck Varya was overwhelming. Cerulean eyes fell on her, and he narrowed them with decision, "We are not transporting a dead body with us; it will only slow us down. Unnecessary weight in an already dangerous situation."

A horrifying sound came from the kitchen, and they all twisted to see Renold Rosier gripping Indra, his eyes somewhat troubled and mouth parted. He attempted to wrench on his heels, and when nothing happened, he glanced at Tom.

"I cannot apparate."

"What?" puffed Icarus. The duelist moved through the motions and, just like Ren, did not disappear. "Shit."

"Anti-Disapparation Jinx," concluded Riddle, glimpsing at everyone as he marched towards them. He took in a deep breath, eyes shutting as he tried to think of a solution. They could not simply run into the street and attempt to hide. A mere location spell would have them revealed to Dalibor, and they would be helpless mice trying to evade a starved cat. "We have to fight."

Disagreement was raucous, and voices clashed against each other as they debated on the best options. They were trapped, cornered like rats in a crowded basement, meant to be slaughtered and nothing more. Tom started making his way up the stairs, and Varya pushed herself up, following him into the meeting room with rage in her eyes.

"Surely, you do not mean to say we are better off trying to face Dalibor and his men," she drew in a sharp breath, "It is a losing fight, Riddle. We have already lost people; we cannot afford to endanger more."

Tom walked around the table slowly, his hand dragging along the edge of the cherry wood surface. His back was turned to her, and he slowly gazed towards his right, showcasing his jawline. His white blouse clung to his frame as he tensed from her presence, their last conversation still burning his psyche, and his fingers clenched by his side, fighting the natural urge to reach out to her.

"Petrov, we are long past debate," pupils fixed on the clock that ticked on the wall. At any point, it would strike the witching hour, "Running away from confrontation is pointless in war; it will only drag out the inevitable. Soldiers are meant to fight despite the possibility of casualties. There will never be a right time to attack."

Varya sat down in the chair, head resting in her hands as culpability settled in her bone marrow until she was made of the nauseating sensation of anxious emotions. Her abdomen rumbled with the echo of sorrow, a pressuring puncture in her spine that made her body tremble. The witch cleared her throat, making Tom gaze at her with his full attention, and she felt suffocated under his stare as though he was tearing her into pieces and then assembling her being to understand it.

"I—"

The wall behind them blasted to bits, and pieces of debris were flunked across the chamber, hitting the witch's small body and having it crushed under their weight. Dust clouded her vision, and Varya felt pain radiate up her leg and through her nervous system, having her body spasm. She tasted ground-up bricks on her tongue, and with watering eyes, she tried to gaze around, ears ringing as the shock settled upon her. The right part of the house had been destroyed, and around her were chunks of the structure, covering the ground and wrecking the furniture. The moonlight spilled in, yet she could not see the sky from underneath the rubbles.

"Fuck," she cursed as she tried to move, but her leg was caught underneath a heavy chunk of wall, bones obviously broken. She shifted on her elbows, coughing at the soot that stuck to the walls of her lungs, and pressed a hand against her pounding temple. The ringing inside her head made everything swirl into dizziness, and the witch winced. "Tom?"

Her call went unanswered, and she cursed with dread settling in. There was no sign of the boy, and the silence was broken by a piercing scream sounding from downstairs. The ground quivered as another blast rang through the building, and Lev's shout of terror carried out into the night. Varya's heart sped up, and she knew that Dalibor had arrived.

The boulder was flicked off of her, and a figure emerged over the pile of debris, moonlight cascading over broad shoulders as Tom leaned forward, casting a quick healing spell over her leg and having the wounds fix themselves. Without another word, he jumped into her visual realm, and she saw the grime that stuck to his face, blood dripping from an open wound on his forehead.

"No time to stare, Petrov," he stated before grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her upwards. He made a cradle from his hands, then lifted an eyebrow and pointed upwards, to where the edge of the destruction would allow them to slip through. Varya placed her unsteady leg in his palms, and then dug hands in the formation of fallen walls to pull herself up.

The wind hit her most at the top, almost pushing her body off of the ledge, but she sank her knees into it and twisted to give Riddle a helping hand. He accepted it and then used the momentum to run up the wall, fingers flying out to clasp the edge. His shoulders tightened as he pulled himself up, curls slashing through the air as he gazed out into the night.

Right across the street, Ophelia Winterbour stood with her hands directed at the estate, a concentrated look on her face as she flicked her palms upwards, advancing slowly towards them as a demented look struck her face. Her lips were pulled in a tight smirk, murder dripping from her desires, and the wind made sienna waves blow around like Medusa's snakes.

Behind her, a boy their age stood with a cane between his hands, dark locks falling over his features and haughtiness in his body. Varya drew in a sharp breath as Aleksander Dolohov hoisted a dreadful eyebrow at her, a face she had not seen since the torturous years at Scholomance, where he had gained a reputation for his cruelty with younger students and his sharp tongue lashing against any opponent. Her eyes narrowed, and she snarled before ducking behind the walls and following Tom into the hallway.

They moved down the stairs, glancing around the common area that had been destroyed. The back door hung open, and a wail of something demonic pounded, making the windows shudder. Varya's figure stumbled outwards, then backtracked as a knife of light flew right past her head. She drew in a sharp breath, glancing at Indra Myung, and she dashed past her, blade in each hand as a strzyga descended upon them.

The lumomancer jumped up into the air, catching onto one of the wings and dragging the monster downwards until its beak tried to dive deep into her skin. Indra wrapped her legs around the body, then her fingers gripped the few strands of hair that clung to decaying skin, and she pulled the face backward. The beak was covered in human skin, scratched and torn as it revealed multiple sets of teeth, and the lumomancer stabbed the strzyga right in the heart. They both plummeted to the ground, but in the last moment before the crash, Indra used gravity to flick herself off of the beast and landed on her feet, one knee to the ground.

"Indra, step aside!" came another yell as a strigoi pounced on her back, and Rosier flicked his wand, sending a blasting spell from its side, and having the walking corpse smash against a tree. Its arms still clung to the witch's frame, and he ran over, pulling them off of her and throwing them to the ground. With another movement, he unfastened a dragon glass dagger from his belt and skewered the beast.

Varya glanced around the courtyard, trying to count the people, but came short on a few. The destruction behind her was heavy, and she almost twisted to glance at the rumbles, wondering if anyone had perished between the rocks. Her eyes slid to the sky, and she drew in a sharp breath as the horizon covered in bat-like creatures, strzygas, and lataweics crowding and clashing as their screeches filled the scenery.

The lataweics, still-born fetuses with raven bodies and mutilated faces, extended their small wings and ran in groups. So, when they descended down upon the witch, she threw herself to the ground, covering her face with her hands. Their clawed legs dug into her epidermis, and they picked at her surface as their wails filled the night, trying to skin her alive. Three of them surrounded her, flying upwards before swooping back in and striking her, and Varya sent spells their way, trying to have them turn to nothing more than a pile of feathers. Her Obscurus cracked underneath her skin, and she unleashed its force against the lataweics, shadows gripping their heads and tearing them off.

Eyes of pure ivory, the Obscurial rose from the ground, dark dress ripped around her waist and clinging to her small frame. Every step she took, the oily blackness wrapped around her figure, until she was lost behind a screen of darkness. She glanced upwards again, eyeing the strzygas with absolute hatred before she broke into a run.

With a small jump, her body shifted into the non-corporeal form, covering the moon and having the clearing fall into darkness as limbs of shadows extended around the creatures. Their screeches grew loud, tumultuous, as they crashed against the barriers of the Obscurus. It engulfed them inside, trapping them in a spherical configuration, and then began constricting slowly, crushing their bones and petrified bodies until even the maggots inside were squished into nothing but liquid.

The Obscurus released the remains, and like a river of dark liquid, it poured over the clearing, falling onto the lawn. The odor was terrible, and Ananke Navarro put a gloved hand against her nose, trying to push away nausea. Still, there was no time to dwell, for from her right rang out a curse as one of Dalibor's apprentices desired to kill her. The witch threw herself to the side, narrowly missing a strigoi's grasp, and instead, Scarlet shot an arrow at it, having it burst in flames.

Ananke ungloved her hands, stuffing the garments in her pockets, then pulled on her long skirt and tied it to prevent it from getting in the way. She gazed at the man that had tried murdering her, and right as his lips parted again, hand outstretched towards the witch, she focused her powers on him. The terror that slipped through his mind was a frequency that had his sweat drip down the side of his neck, his pupils round, and his knees buckle underneath. Navarro puffed a breath, then strolled over and placed a hand on his temple. He was dead in seconds.

By her side, Scarlet plucked her bow once again and again, striking multiple witches and wizards than had begun stumbling through the courtyard gate. When she had drawn enough blood, her hands covered in a slight reddish glow, and her eyes enlarged as Blood Magic swiped the scenery. One by one, the acolytes fell to the ground, blood scalding their faces as it boiled their insides and trailed from their eyes down to their chins. Norberg whispered something that sounded like a curse, or perhaps an incantation, and watched eyeballs burst into their sockets, splattering blood over the ground. Still, they remained alive, their eyesight gone.

Next came their hearing as she burst their jugular veins right where they neared the eardrum, the pressure change making the sounds whooshy. As sanguine pooled out of the inner ear, Scarlet raised her arms upwards, and like marionettes, the acolytes obeyed her instructions. They moved across the estate like mindless zombies; mouths parted in wails of horror as they felt something foreign overtake their bodies. Then the Blood Witch had them jump in front of an attack on Icarus, who had been crouched into a corner by an overwhelming amount of strigoi.

The acolytes screeched as the starved creatures sank teeth in their flesh, the blood that covered them overpowering the compelling not to harm Dalibor's men. Lestrange took that opportunity to grab his dragon glass sword from where it had been thrown and twirled it around his fingers before digging it through three strigois at once. He pushed his body through the heap of bodies that clung to each other as the maddened creatures feasted upon the accomplices and killed them one by one. In the end, he emerged from within the circle, pushing the bodies away, and grimaced at his hematic stained clothes.

He shot Scarlet a smirk, "Thank you, darling."

Varya's body fell from the sky, and Icarus let out a small scream as it crashed over the pile of dead bodies before him. The Obscurial pushed herself off of it, hand going to her head and cursing as she felt something block her Obscurus. Eyes dashed around the estate, and she saw Dalibor's figure near, eyes twinkling with macabre intentions as Ophelia and Aleksander fenced his sides.

It was not her that his focus was on, however, but rather Tom Riddle as he conjured a fire-made serpent, having the beast blow in the air, burning trees and structures around him. It circled the boy's body, the size of a basilisk, and patiently waited for an instruction to strike.

"Well, Tom Riddle, at last," Dalibor's voice broke through, eyeing the boy with sickening admiration, "I am delighted to encounter your powers, to see the man behind the myth, the Dark Force that would bring terror upon the world unlike anything before. Tell me, why is it that you mingle with such weakened souls, refusing our help?"

Varya dashed forward, stopping by Tom's side and eyeing the boy. The turmoil on his face was apparent, a call for action from the diety of darkness that was deeply buried in his soul, who knew that death and doom were at the length of his fingers. She had doubted Tom's loyalty multiple times, wondering why he would refuse to follow the Acolytes of Moirai, but the girl knew the reason behind it was the same one that had prevented him from joining Grindelwald.

Riddle was a ruler of his own, a man that had built empires from the ruins of his childhood, a monarch that counted the bricks of the temples that were constructed for him. He had never wanted his success to be attributed to anything besides his own struggle and did not easily place trust in those around him. To Tom, Dalibor was another weakened wizard who sought to cling to his destiny and collected fruitful outcomes like sweet Eden apples, tasting onto sin while never facing the serpent.

He was not a man who would ever share the spotlight—Dalibor's followers would always be his, regardless of whatever savior they made Tom be. After all, humans had nailed Christ to his cross and put a crown of thorns on his head to mock him, and even after his sacrifice, continued to chant his name in ridicule. Faith in demigods was nothing but a showcase of weakness.

Dalibor turned his eyes to Varya at last, "I see," he mumbled, tilting his sagged face as he focused a harsh stare on her, "An obstacle. One you ought to eradicate."

Tom's fire serpent puffed smoke, "It is detrimental for you to appear so demanding of me. Has nobody told you that kings do not bow to squires?"

The Dark Priest's eyes enlarged at Tom's habitual audacity and haughtiness, and the vexation that struck on his face was enough to prove he was not one to become a subordinate simply but instead saw Riddle as a weapon to destroy and conquer the world. Still, he directed his fury to Varya and narrowed his eyes.

His next words conceived chaos, "Aleksander, kill her."

With a wicked smirk, the boy set into motion, dark magic fusing at the ends of his fingers as he pushed through the battlefield, avoiding every strike of magic that came from the Knights and Virtues by using his Seer gift to foresee their movements. He slid on the scarlet-colored snow like a cobra, moves fast and precise, and before the girl even knew it, she was blasted into the air and catapulted six feet behind.

Tom tried to make a move, but creatures of the night surrounded the boy, covering his view of the witch as they attempted to strike him and have him bow down in defeat. A mavka dug fingers in his back, then tried to entrance him with whispered promises and lullabies of madness, but the fire serpent shot into the air and circled back, engulfing them into flames of Hell. Riddle pushed himself away from the odor of burning rotten flesh, and sent out a blast against the monsters that had nailed Nicholas Avery to the ground. Losing men was not an option.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Ophelia Evergreen dash towards the woods and threw Avery a look that told him to chase her. Nicholas regained his footing, ignoring the burning mark left by a creature's claws that spread over his back, shirt torn from his figure, and ran after the witch. He had murder in his eyes.

Across the clearing, Varya used trees to hide from Aleksander's blasting spells, but to no avail. He predicted her every move, and like a maddened hyena, his laughter echoed through everything. She ran deep into the woods, where the snow had melted, allowing mud to push through, and she found her feet getting stuck in the soil often.

Her body fell forward, and she cursed loudly, trying to find something to grip on and pull herself up. Dolohov's magic sizzled in the air as he set trees on fire, attempting to trap her in a circle of flames. The smoke swirled in the wind, having her cough until her lungs felt like dust bunnies, and the mud covered her dark dress and translucent skin. The Obscurial tried to conjure her magic again, but the Obscurus was still leashed by whatever channel block Dalior had placed on her.

With frantic hands, she dug through the mud until she found the carcass of a dead rabbit deep into the soil, and pulled it out of the ground. Varya unfastened her leather belt and hoisted it to her level, then grabbed her silver dagger. She used it to cut up the cadaver, digging through the disgusting rotten organs until she unhinged the heart and held it in trembling hands.

With disgust in her features, she sliced her palm, ignoring the way the mud would surely infect it later, and let her blood droplets fall onto the putrefied heart. It glistened for a few seconds, then Varya felt the dark magic's veins pulsate through the forest ground, extending to wherever Aleksander was. The curse would have his heart-beat slow down until he entered a comatose stage. It would not last for long, but enough for her to get out of the mud.

Still, she had to be quick, for if he found her before her curse took roots, he would not hesitate in daggering the witch.

"Varya, come out and greet your old classmate!" his voice rang out through the woods, like an eerie call of death, and she saw his dark hair push through the ivory fauna. Aleksander had always been a ruthless boy who relished in taunting the young witch. She had never thought they would see each other again, she had hoped it would never happen, yet there he was.

Then, right as he was about to spot her, the boy felt something cold against his skin, and he was suddenly pulled backward and engulfed by whirling shadows.

Lev's face stood in front of him with absolute hatred stretched over crafted features, and he swung his fist in Aleksander's jaw before the Seer could predict his movements, too shocked by being outwitted. The shadowmancer had used his distraction over finding Varya to assault him.

With another twist of his hands, Myung called upon his obscurations to grasp the boy, having him blasted into the trees behind him. Aleksander groaned as he felt a rib puncture his flesh, but he channeled the pain into terror, and when his eyes opened again, there was something magnetic in them, almost as if he had transformed into a lesser being. No longer wanting to be outdone, he lifted to his feet and sursurrated a fast curse, having Lev's blood increase its mercury levels.

Myung gasped as he felt the poison slip through his system, and he gripped his temples as he fell to the ground. Dolohov bent over to pick a branch from the terrain, then broke it over his knee, and sent Lev a daunting smirk, "Ah, tell me if the shadows follow you into the after light."

With that, he hauled the branch through the air and nailed Lev right in the eye.

Lev stumbled backward, the shock overwhelming, and then tumbled to the terrain. Varya screamed, attracting the attention of the Seer, and once again, he was distracted by her presence. Therefore, he did not sense Maxwell Nott slithering through the woods in an attempt to find Avery, only to stumble onto Myung's breathless figure. The archivist felt his throat constrict with horror, and he slowly crawled through the trees, trying not to attract any attention before he leaned over the shadowmancer. He put his cheek against his nose, and felt his heart drop out of his ribcage when warmth fanned his skin. Lev was still alive, but only just.

With a terrified look from Varya that told him to get out of here, Maxwell slowly picked up the boy and dragged him away.

"Obscurial," hummed Aleksander, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her out of the mud. He clasped rough fingers around her throat, and immediately cast a counter-spell to the curse that almost spilled from Varya's lips. "Shame we meet in such circumstances. You would have been such a lovely addition to our team before you decided to go against us."

"Die, you roach," she gasped, kicking her legs and trying to use her magic. But for every spell she remembered, he knew a counter one.

"Easy, easy," he grabbed the dagger from her belt, "The louder you scream, the more thrilling it is."

With that, he drove the knife through her chest, having her gasp as the injury rivaled death. Aleksander had not, however, meant to kill her with that blow. He wanted her to beg for it, beg for him to end her miserable life until her voice was rough and her eyes watered. The Seer took the knife out, watching crimson form a circle around her wound, staining her dress and dripping into the muddy snow beneath them.

"Do you remember what you found in those dungeons at Scholomance, Petrov?" he continued, madness in every word, "Would you like to see what it is like to have animal skin all over you?"

He grabbed the rabbit, using a spell to tie her legs and arms to the tree, then skinned the animal with her dagger. Underneath it, all was decaying flesh, and as he brought it closer to her face, Varya could barely hold in the bile that rose to her mouth. He placed it over her skin, his own features nothing short of a monster, and then sliced at her thigh with the blade. The blood sizzled fast, and he chanted the magic they had been taught at that blasphemous school, sealing the animal fur to her horrified expression.

Petrov tried to kick at Dolohov, she tried to move, but with no Obscurial to be untraced, with nothing to distract the boy and allow the moment of surprise to give her a chance of escape, she could only hope her curse would catch roots in the godless dirt of his soul, having him pass out before he killed her.

"Now," he continued, but there was a tiredness in his voice. Aleksander took in a deep breath, shaking his head as if to draw the dizziness away. "All I must do..."

His words tarried, and he lifted his dagger again before sinking it back in the same wound, twisting it around and scraping Varya's tissue. She cried out from pain, her vision fogging as the blood loss fused in with the agony and created an elixir of demise. Shadows crowded around her perception, and her breath felt hazy as if whirring particles of dust had piled in her lungs, clogging her air pipes.

Aleksander's body fell to the side as his heart-beat finally fell low enough that his body shut down. With her last few shreds of power, the witch grabbed her knife and lifted it over his head. She dug it down, but it missed by a few inches, and her body fell over him, too weak to continue.

Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes as the world slipped away from her, as the animal skin attached to her face scratched against her own, and they trailed down the fur that smelled of decomposing flesh. The coldness bit at her limbs until everything was numb, and her eyelids began fluttering shut as the possibility of death overwhelmed her. What terrified her above all was that she did not fear it, but rather thought it to be an end to her misery.

"Varya," a muffled voice broke through, that of a male, yet she could not discern who it was, "They got Riddle; they chained him down and used all of their forces to knock him out. We have to go, now!"

But she wanted to stay. She wanted to feel the mud on her skin, soak in it until she returned to the soil, and then everything would be stomped out. The terror that never left her, the grief, the heartbreak—there was nothing in death, and even sinking into perdition would have had her in less agony, as the flames of Lucifer caressed her face. She thought he would be less sadistic than the angel of death that they had left to bring inferno into her life. Nobody could be more vicious than Tom Riddle.

"Shit," mumbled the voice again as footsteps sounded through the forest, and then arms wrapped around Varya's frame, lifting her up with ease, "What the fuck did they do to you?"

Barbaric howlings filled the air, like demented cries of those who had come to shed blood, and Abraxas let his eyes scan the perimeter before dashing between the trees. A few meters down the hill, Renold Rosier and Indra Myung were pushing through. He had not seen Elladora or Maxwell since the beginning of the assault, and he prayed that they had not been caught underneath the blasts of bricks. Where was Avery? Where was Lestrange?

God, they had taken Riddle.

He glanced down at the boy on the ground and assumed that Varya had killed him by the bloody dagger she desperately clung to, then ran through the trees, feeling the ground rumble underneath his feet as he pushed forwards. His muscles strained from the combat; he had lost count of how many he had killed, undead and alive.

A curse whizzed past his ear, so close that he felt its warmth on his cheek, and Abraxas half-turned his body, then flicked his wand before blasting the ground to bits. Three acolytes stumbled in the crater, grasping onto the ledge while striving to save themselves, but to no avail. Malfoy made roots get their ankles, pull them underneath, and then shut the earth close, squishing them to death.

Up ahead, Rosier screamed something that sounded hopeful, and Abraxas looked to see him pointing towards the end of the forest, where a river flew down the canals and bifurcated into multiple directions. They could use it to escape, dive down into the water and use spells to maintain their body heat and lung capacity.

Right as the heir neared the couple, a figure emerged from the trees, and Dalibor's dark cape glistened as moonlight dipped down on them. He appeared more monstrous than ever, his face scarred by Tom Riddle's vengeful magic, with skin hanging from an open cheek wound and one eye bloodied and burst.

"This is where it ends," the Dark Priest commanded, and his followers loitered behind the group, wands drawn. They were surrounded, "Hand over the girl, and we will let you join us."

Indra's light knives were the only illuminating source in the clearing, and her snow-colored ponytail flicked from the harsh wind as she raised them in defense, "I would never betray her."

Dalibor smirked, "Is that so, Eunbi Myung?"

Abraxas had never seen someone's face lose color so fast, and Indra's eyes swelled with tears as complete terror overwhelmed her. The two boys stood behind her, perplexed looks over their faces, as they did not know the power the name of a fae descendant held.

But Dalibor did, and as such, he had instructed Ophelia to closely analyze Indra, pick up on her traits and personality and dissect until some parts stood out. It had been a strenuous task at first—there were many things the whimsical witch cherished, but two stood out. Above all, she loved her brother, and the Myung family had a tradition of showcasing their powers through their names.

On that faithful day, as the two witches had stood by the window, Ophelia had asked a simple question, yet had received a meaningful answer. Indra cherished storms, for they were a representation of the two siblings merged in one, her, the lightning, silver "Eun" and him, the gloomy clouds, those who brought faithful rain, "bi". It had taken a long time for the Dark Priest to come across something that might have been a mixture of the shadowmancer and lumomancer, but the name "Eunbi" had provided him with assurance.

"Since you are so hell-bent on disobeying, why do I not teach you how we reprimand those of weaker faith?" Dalibor gave her another sneer, "Eunbi Myung, slit your throat."

It happened before anyone could even react. One moment, she was standing there, bright as midmorning sun. The next, the knife sliced her arteries.

"Indra!" Rosier mourned with so much agony it almost made Abraxas bite down on his vomit, and he blundered forward to press against her bleeding spot. But there was nothing left to do. His light was dying.

The trumpets of Armageddon seemed to call out for the end of it all, and Rosier felt everything crumble beneath him as if the sky split in half and poured angelic mockery on him. Indra's eyes shimmered with a parting nuance, and no matter how hard he tried to call out to any power above and beyond, nobody listened. They had not listened when he had found his sister hanging. They were not listening as he watched the one he loved perish.

"I love you, please," his tears were not those of a phoenix, they would not cure her nor bring her brack from the ashes of her burning light, yet all he wanted to do was lean over her body and die there with her.

With a cold hand, the Myung witch gripped his wrist, and sprayed blood as she spoke, "I love you too," her voice was choked, "Run and do not look at me!"

She pushed him back with whatever magic she had left in her, and they all watched her body illuminate with the light of a thousand burning apollos, as if her death was the fragmenting of a supernova. Abraxas gripped Rosier's collar and pulled him in a fast run despite his protests, and covered his eyes by stuffing Ren's face in his shirt. While they dashed down the hill, the screeches of Dalibor's acolytes encompassed the clearing as Indra's light burned them alive, returning to the skies and to the ground.

The coldness of water hit them right as the glaring rays passed over their heads, and underneath, Rosier trashed and screamed, kicking against Abraxas' body to let him go back to Indra. Or let him drown. Anything but live without her.

Malfoy cast a charm on all three of them, clutching to Varya's passed-out form and watching her blood varnish the water. With a quick move, he bashed Ren's head against the bridge they were swimming by, having him fall unconscious. His soul hurt for the boy, it understood him, but they would never get anywhere as long as he continued fighting him. Abraxas would not let Ren die. They had each other now.

As he pulled the two bodies after him and continued to swim down the stream, one singular thought passed Abraxas' mind—Dalibor had achieved what he had wanted , and all the Knights had been broken.

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hi

I am quite ehh about this chapter, but I am trying not to drag out the story by being too descriptive in action-packed scenes. thank you so much for your comments and support!

rip indra lol

thank u fairiesrot for the amazing TSD playlist linked in the beginning of the chapter ily