excuse any spelling mistakes, it's 4am and i am extremely tired. will edit this tomorrow if necessary.
also this chapter is absolutely terrible and i apologize. better ones coming soon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Warning: Be advised that this chapter contains slight mentions of gore and implied torture

The next time Varya went to training, the number of students had doubled.

By then, word had spread of the enchanting magic that the group was capable of, and pupils had become increasingly curious, eager to learn something other than reading in teacups and the history of magic. Everything that was taught was kept quiet, as their professors would not be pleased by the borderline dark magic they were attempting, even if it was what they needed to survive the upcoming months.

It was not the faculty per se, but the moles that the Ministry had infiltrated in the school—janitors, nurses, keepers, and even some teachers. They browsed the crowds with falcon eyes, and that made the Death Eaters incredibly aware of who they let join their training.

Felix had separated them all into four major groups based on their talents. He had had students exercise for one week and switch through factions until their strengths were clear and then instructed them to join the four Death Eaters that would lead each respective group. Parkin had become a form of authority amongst all, not only as a Hogwarts graduate but also because he was working directly under Newt Scamander.

The first ones were the Healers—wizards, and witches that had become skilled with potions and herbs, and had the anatomical knowledge necessary to heal any injury from minor to major. Lead by Elladora Selwyn and assisted by Della, Ananke, and Maxwell, they spent their days scurrying to find the best medicinal books in the library and boiling contents in cauldrons.

The second faction was the Martial Magic disciples, those who had an inept ability to control their sorcery beyond average capacity, who were agile and effective with their spells. They functioned similarly to those who had taken muggle martial arts and had a deeper understanding of their powers. From meditation to explaining how witchcraft was related to the mental state of the wizard, Ophelia Winterbour had to lead her juniors until they achieved a perfect balance of force and control. Second in command, Nicholas Avery had been incredibly displeased when she had been chosen as the leader by Alphard and Ren.

Thirdly, there were those who were Weapon Bearers, and had had an incredible affinity towards metal blades and arrows. Some had been hunting for their whole lives, whereas others had impressed Icarus Lestrange with their natural way of holding the daggers. Icarus had been more than happy to listen to the advice of his council, which was formed of Scarlet, Malfoy, and Indra. Their training filled the room with sounds of metal colliding with metal, shoes squeaking against the floor, and gave the Healers live material to practice on.

Lastly, there was the Dark Creature Banishers, habitually pupils who had excelled in their Defense Against Dark Arts and Care for Magical Creatures courses, and had proven incredible dedication to being on the frontline of whatever was to come. Surprisingly, it had not been Varya that had taken the lead, for Tom had refused to vote for her when she voted for Felix, and had cast his ballot for the boy as well. In the end, it had been for the best, as Parkin was the most capable leader after Riddle.

Varya had managed to secure a room in the dungeons for their training, and it was large enough that all factions could collaborate in different areas, promptly divided by shields to prevent spells and weapons from darting around the room. It had been Dumbledore that had provided her with the key in secrecy and told her to keep the location a secret.

"Merlin, my eyes are watering," complained Rosier as the two of them entered the room, pushing palms against the bridge of his nose when it became stuffy, "Can you ask Elladora to tone it down with the fumes?"

Indeed, on the opposite side of the room, the poisoner was working eagerly to chop up leaves and spin them in her cauldron, mouth rushing as she explained the composition of the antidote against a strzyga's bite. At another table, Della Beauchamp had conjured a skeleton to present the appropriate healing point when handling fractures.

"She is merely doing her job, which is more than what you have been doing," jested Varya, raising her hands to her high ponytail and pulling on the edges to tighten it before she headed to her group, "You know, there are only so many times I can keep Lev distracted while you sneak kisses with Indra."

"Yes, so many times before Riddle hexes the shadowmancer for being near you," mocked Rosier back, "I have never seen a couple so absolutely murderous in their jealousy."

"We are not a couple," bit Varya, although her words stumbled out weirdly.

Frankly, they had not begun dating—neither had such concept of their bond, for it was more profound than the frivolous sentiments of a teenage saga, something akin to a soul connection. As such, they did not parade themselves around as being boyfriend or girlfriend. Instead, there was an understanding that they belonged to each other on all levels, and that they did not need to display their relationship by being constantly together and showcasing concern.

More so, Tom Riddle was not the sort of person who would openly show affection and therefore admit his weakness. The dark wizard was not someone to hold her hand under the table, walk her to class, or comfort her in moments of uncertainty. It would have been icky to see him do such things, for their relationship was not a place of gratitude or fondness.

He rarely even came close to her in public, except for the occasional moments where he would get upset over Lev talking to her, and walk over to establish his territory. Varya found it entirely childish and amusing, yet did not mind their odd arrangement, for she had to focus on more important things.

They were not a couple; they were partners in absolute treachery, depraved minds that had correlated through bone-chipped trauma, ribbons of iniquity fusing two undoubted woeful souls and having them complete each other. They would not whisper sweet-nothing to each other; they would not heal from their connection.

No, Tom and Varya would murder for each other, they would raze cities off of the map only to bring peace to their lover, and in their least callous moments, they would dig a dagger deep into the other's back to push them forward.

Her eyes shifted to the back of the room, where Maxwell Nott was standing by one of the torched archways, legs propped over the dip in the wall as he let his back fall into the craving. The light fell oddly on his face, or perhaps it was the absolutely strained look that was etched on his features as he flipped through the pages of what appeared to be an encyclopedia on the human body. His lips scurried as he muttered the complicated words to himself, eyebrows knotted in frustration as he stumbled with his own thoughts.

When he heard Varya's steps approaching, he seemed to be entirely delighted, a cloudless look crossing his face at the opportunity to put his book down. It was perplexing to see a once dutiful boy so eager to stop his work, but she supposed he felt fatigued by the sluggish progress he was making.

"Hello," he spoke lowly, his voice strained as it normally was. Even after knowing each other for so long, Maxwell still kept some sense of formality with the witch, tautness in his body whenever she neared, "I assume you are here to ask me something and watch me struggle as I strive to remember."

With a guilty feeling, she nodded, "I was wondering if you kept an archive of who attended your ball when we visited your Manor two years ago," Varya inquired.

Maxwell raised an eyebrow, then shook his head, "I never much needed to keep lists; I normally retained everything in my mind. Most people had been attending it for years, and there were hardly any new faces in the crowd," then, his eyes shifted, "Although..."

There was a moment of consciousness on his face, like a flickering lightbulb that struggled to illuminate a shadowy chamber, and Varya knew that something was on the tip of his tongue, an essential memory that was triggering the boy's subconscious.

His features shifted awkwardly, and a deep sigh fell past parted lips before he drove a hand through sandy-brown hair. Nott gazed at Varya again, "I cannot remember, I am sorry."

"No worries," forced out the witch, although there were many worries regarding the affair. If someone had indeed cursed her, it was only a matter of time before the dark magic dug deep enough in her body to reach her marrow, and then there was no undoing it.

She brought her hand to her mouth, biting down on her nails in frustration as eyes flickered around the room, trying to come up with a solution. It seemed the more Varya tried, the more she got stuck in knee-deep mud, and her movements forward always slowed down.

They were no closer to figuring everything out than they had been months ago, and despite a few revelations of ties between Dalibor, Grindelwald, and the organization Acolyti Moirai, the girl still felt that she was playing in a losing game.

"We could use Legilimency," suggested a smoky voice from behind, and they both twisted to glance at Lev, who was approaching them slowly, grimoire in his hands, "We know that the memories are there; all we have to do is break past the barrier of trauma that is blocking you."

Maxwell shot him aggravated eyes, "Uh, no. That would hurt more than the strzyga's bite did."

"You do not know that," continued Myung.

"And I do not want to find out either."

The shadowmancer exchanged a look with the Eastern witch, and part of her knew that Lev was right. They were racing against time and losing—there was only so little they could still do before everything became too overwhelming. Right now, all they needed was a bit of hope to push forward, a piece of a puzzle that would guide them to the next one.

But Varya did not want to put Nott in an uncomfortable situation, not after everything he had been through. She knew that the boy was concerned about any further damages Legilimency could do on his psyche, grappling at the already shredded walls and pulling until it collapsed. So, she gave Lev a strict gaze that told the shadowmancer to back down, at which he dutifully responded in agreement regardless of his own beliefs.

"I do have something for you, though," continued Maxwell, and he patted himself down until he pulled out a small note that had been folded carefully, "I found it in one of the books we got from the Rosier Manor. It has to do with that sign you were inquiring about."

He passed it to Lev, who nodded gratefully before opening it up, eyes quickly scanning the words, "There is not much here, but it seems you were on the right path to discovering its meaning. You have a few passages noted down from books I remember carrying, page numbers and scribbles that I do not understand fully."

"Neither do I," admitted Maxwell, "But I was thinking—if someone helped me go through the books and keep track of everything, perhaps we could retrace my thought process."

"Oh," brightened up the shadowmancer, following his train of thought, "Like a human memory bank."

"Exactly," confirmed Nott smugly, obviously pleased for finally heading down the right track and being useful. For a second, Varya saw the old arrogant and intellectual glimmer that habitually sizzled in his forest eyes, "If I go through everything alone, I will forget what I read by the time I open the next book. But, if someone else were to help me, they could keep track of everything, and my mind would still be able to grasp the information."

Varya's face muscles move weirdly in a grin, and her lips stretched as her eyes crinkled. She nodded to the boy, encouraging him to pursue his idea, and watched him thrive at being acknowledged. Lev immediately offered to assist, arguing that he had been the one to do so at the Rosier Manor and could perhaps recall a few things Maxwell had said before if they went through everything again.

With that settled, Varya marched to her station, where Tom Riddle had taken to scolding a fifth-year for her sloppy wand movements. As skilled as the wizard was with his magic, he made for a terribly impatient teacher. Still, his facade never cracked, he never showed irritation or wrath with the other students, and the Eastern witch found it entirely mesmerizing.

It was as if she had front row tickets to the most awe-inducing circus, regarding some sort of beast camouflage itself through nefarious machinations to deceive the crowd. In the dungeon practice room, Tom was not the heartless serpent that Varya had come to know, but an exemplary disciple that had taken to sharing his knowledge with his peers.

It irked her—made her wonder how much of such duplicity he used with her, if Tom was indeed the person she knew, or he had managed to dupe her as well. Even if Varya relished thinking she was the person he was most genuine around, there was always a little devil picking at the roots of her hair and whispering in her ear.

Watching Riddle was akin to staring at an abstract painting—it was so deformed, so paradoxical, and malignant that there were many interpretations of the ingenious strokes of his well-crafted smirk, the interchangeable nuances of ocean-deep eyes and the curve of finely threaded eyebrows. Each observer perceived something different when analyzing a twisted character such as him, and defined the boy to their own experience and perceptions instead of truly reading the small plaque under the piece of art.

He turned to face her then—stared at her with the same luminous slit pupils that to her had always been mesmerizing. But they should not have been, for Tom Riddle had been sculpted from the same chaos that had birthed Erebus, and the darkness of his stygian hair was merely the mirror of the eternal night he submerged endless beings in. A ruthless killer, and yet Varya loved him as a deranged person cherished their intoxicating addiction.

That was what Tom was to her—an addiction without which she felt smothered, until it felt as if the air in her lungs had been inhaled because he had allowed it, until her nails sunk in her own flesh when she imagined a life without him. She minded it little when he settled determined eyes on her.

Like magnets, they repelled each other, for they were two drops of dew that dripped down the forbidden tree in Eden, souls made from the same matter of galaxies, and so the perpetual fight between beings like them only made sense. Still, they found to be in the same force field regardless of their opposition, and no matter how much distance they put between each other, their minds and souls stayed connected.

Tom approached her promptly, face stern and hands clasped behind his back, and even when his lips moved aridly to complain about the strenuous effort of teaching fools, Varya had a smile on her face. He narrowed his eyes, "What is it?"

"Nothing," she mused, then pushed past him, ignoring the childish tightness in his jaw at not being given a concrete answer.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Am I not allowed to?" the witch jested, grabbing a grimoire from the table and flipping it to a sigil she thought she ought to teach.

She leaned her back against the table, feeling the woods press against her spine, and dragged a long finger over the engraved words on the paper, feeling the curves of the Latin words and the shapes of the drawing. Tom stood before her, vaguely disturbed before he leaned in slightly, scrutinizing her.

Varya felt her head push back a little as she took in his impressive height, the way he towered over her as he leaned in to analyze the witch's expression, and felt her pulse drum, "What is your problem?"

"I do not like it."

She threw him a flabbergasted look, "My smile?"

"Yes," he drew in a sharp breath before glancing around to ensure that nobody was listening, "It is distracting me, so stop it."

With that, he twisted on his heels and headed down to assess the students' progress in drawing sigils. Varya stood in her spot, slightly perplexed by his words, before she saw Riddle turn around to stare at her from his place. She shot him another beam, and he frowned.

The witch pushed the amusement to the side and called the defense against dark creatures students over, signaling them to gather around her as she spoke, "Today, we will be going over a sigil that is entirely important, which is the protection one. Put it on any item you are carrying, and it will keep most creatures at a healthy distance."

A Hufflepuff girl raised her hand, eyes challenging, "Then why do we not just put them everywhere and keep them away?"

"Any banishing magic has its limitations. Firstly, there are many deactivation spells that your opponents will most likely know. Secondly, keeping them away does not do much if they still exist. The elements can also destroy your sigils—rain, mud, even blood. It is better to confront them than hide from them, because eventually, they will find you. Still, sometimes such sigils can be very useful," explained Varya.

"Such as?"

"For instance, say that someone you know is injured. A banishing spell will not stop the attack from continuing, but it might keep the beasts away from you long enough that you can transport your companion to safety," added Tom from the back, having all eyes turn on him. He basked in the attention, a satisfied smirk on his face before he gestured simply.

The Eastern witch bit back a scoff, then glanced at the pupils, "Form groups of two and try to recreate the sigil. Practice your intonation and call us over when you are done."

Varya placed the grimoire on the ground, then took a step back and let the students circle it, eyes eager and hands giddily trying to touch it. Her nose scrunched at having her books used by others, but Hogwarts did not keep volumes on satanic magic and demon banishing.

The door of the chamber opened, and in stepped Frederick Weasley, hands carrying a brown package as he scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Elladora, he began walking to her, before extending it to the witch, "Someone told me to give this to you."

"Oh?" inquired the red-head, picking it from his hands and batting sweet eyelashes at the boy, "Well, I suppose it was time my suitors returned to their endless gifts. Thank you, darling."

Varya watched the poisoner open it swiftly, hands voracious and twisted smirk on her face before she pulled out a sophisticated wooden box. With a click, it opened, and the Eastern witch stepped closer to glance at the package. Inside, the most elegant gloves rested on a red cushion, made from pure leather and with handmade stitches holding the material together.

An audible gasp left Elladora's lips, and she grabbed them promptly, stuffing delicate hands in them with a thrilled smile on her face. The witch rose her palms in the air, admiring the refined work in the dim light of the dungeons, braided tails falling over her shoulder as she pivoted on her feet to show them to Varya.

"Wonderful, are they not?" she mused, eyes twinkling, "Marvelous gift, and it makes one wonder who must have been so thoughtful as to send it. They have to be from someone of high rank—such gloves do not even sell on the common market, as they are made from Thestral skin and therefore have a high affinity for magic."

Varya felt something twist in her guts, almost like a feeling of trepidation as her breath quickened, and the sheer mention of Thestral skin made her own epidermis crawl with apprehension. Sweat broke on her forehead, and the witch glanced at Elladora right as it happened.

One second the poisoner was shimmering with satisfaction, and the next, her eyebrows were knotting as she felt the trivial tingle in her fingers. The next thing they knew, Elladora Selwyn's screams of torture had the room vibrating.

The foulness of charred flesh lifted in the atmosphere immediately, and the wine-haired witch watched her hands boil to bits as the dark magic infested her limbs, scalding her skin until it bubbled with repugnant blisters, and her thinner layers started sticking to the leathered gloves as her palms drenched in something akin to acid.

"Get them off!" she wailed, falling to her knees as tears of agony paraded down her face, and she twitched aimlessly on the floor from the sheer torture until she resembled a moribund animal instead of a human.

Varya gasped before falling right beside her, and the world seemed to turn as the clock of time slowed down, until each second felt like a lost eternity, until each minute of Elladora Selwyn's soul-splitting cries had imprinted themselves in the Eastern witch's mind, and she knew they would stay there for eternity.

She reached to take off the gloves, but screamed when the fabric came in contact with her fingers, scalding them all the same. Varya felt her breath halt as she grappled with piecing together a coherent train of thought, but the feeling of rocks piercing her psyche had her stuttering and looking around the room in a panic.

Elladora's lamentations continued even as Rosier came down beside her, grasping her shoulders to steady her from convulsing, and his face turned a chartreuse color when he caught sight of the bone that had begun showing itself through burned flesh, ivory standing against the translucent skin of a once mighty witch.

Varya gripped a knife from her belt then made to touch the gloves again, ignoring the mind-spinning pain that radiated from her fingers, before she felt someone grab it from her grasp and push her back. Through her fogged view, she saw Lev kneel before Selwyn, hands covered in shadows to protect his skin, before he grabbed the red-head's hands and drove a dagger through the thick leather.

Her epidermis pulled with the material, her tissue elongating like melted cheese as the shadowmancer tried his best to pick out every bit of dark magic from her flesh, having his shadows work along with the knife as they dug in burned meat and sloped. Elladora continued screeching on the floor from the limitless hurt, barely registering the room around her as her nerves sizzled. Still, she kept her eyes open and her mind conscious, a sign of a terrifyingly strong girl.

"Please," she managed to choke out, and Varya realized she had never seen her cry before regardless of how harshly she had had it, "Please, take them off!"

With one final tug, Lev threw the second glove to the ground, having students scream and scatter as they stumbled away from it. He breathed in heavily, ears ringing from the agonizing cries that did not seem to stop, and only then did he stare at the mess that had been left behind.

Elladora Selwyn no longer had hands—the dysmorphic limbs could not be called that, for the skin had been melted off until white had broken through in certain patches, and charred flesh sizzled as if it had been placed on burning charcoal. Blisters covered the lesser affected areas where the magic had not been as potent. Tendons exposed themselves to light and bent as the witch finally fell unconscious from the horror.

"Shit," breathed Rosier, grabbing an empty bin from the side before emptying his stomach's contents in it.

"Everyone, out," threatened Riddle, and then he caught sight of Weasley, "Except you."

Abraxas and Tom grabbed the wizard by his robe, then settled him on a chair against his protests. His eyes enlarged in absolute horror, and he spluttered strings of nonsense as both sorcerers pulled out their wands and thumped them against his throat.

"Where did you get the box, you little rat?" growled Malfoy, kneeling before him and pressing the wand further in his skin.

"I did not," mumbled Frederick, horrified eyes switching between Elladora's unconscious form and the two boys, "I do not—I cannot recall, and I—"

"Waste of time," grumbled Riddle before he grabbed the boy's head forcefully. In a matter of seconds, he dove deep into his memories, ignoring the pained wails of the suspects as he searched for a clue, for a culprit. Disappointment flashed at his face when he came back blank, "They used Obliviate."

"Fuck, of course they did," mumbled Abraxas, eyes falling on Scarlet, "Get him back to the Gryffindor Common Room and wipe his memory clean of Riddle doing anything to him."

Norberg nodded dutifully, too disturbed by what had happened even to comprehend that she was taking an order from someone other than Varya or Felix. She grabbed Frederick, who had become half-conscious due to Riddle's invasion, and dragged him outside the room.

In the back, Della was working fastly to brew a healing potion, and when the fume turned the right color, she swept a vial then kneeled before Selwyn, pouring it over her wounds. With sunken eyes, she watched the wound barely heal, and she drew in a sharp breath.

"They used non-curable magic," she whispered with a terrible tremble in her voice, "This will not do much; she has to heal naturally before we can restore function in her hands."

"Bloody Hell," muttered Avery from where he stood, face as pale as the earring Elladora had been wearing when he had cut off her earlobe. Still, Varya saw the pain in his features, the way he clutched his hands over his abdomen, leg tapping impatiently and fury building by the second.

"I will kill whoever did this," grunted Icarus from the side, eyes trained on his injured friend, "No, I will torture them, I will skin them alive, I will boil them, and then I will let them hurt until they succumb to their injuries. To kill them would be merciful."

The two of them picked Elladora up, and under Riddle's orders, began escorting her to the hospital wing, hoping that the help she needed would be provided there. Varya stayed behind, eyes trained on the sizzling gloves on the ground, and with absolute horror, she realized one thing—someone is the school was working for Grindelwald.

***

A poisoner's job was simplistic, yet complicated all the same, for it did not require only an extensive understanding of herbology books and potions, but also nimble fingers that shifted between the blade of a cutting knife and a sizzling cauldron, rousing it dutifully and watching it bubble to the right temperature.

With her hands affected, Elladora Selwyn had become a reminiscence of what had once been a great potion master, and even with her silver tongue and agile mind, there was little to work with in regards to preparing the liquids they needed. Instead, she sat in a hospital bed, hands bandaged from the middle of her arm downwards, back scraped by the easily recognizable sensation of medical sheets, and body covered with a papery gown that irritated her porcelain skin.

Her autumn eyes were trained on the window, where the raw zephyr of October knocked a greeting on thick glass, a raffle of the season's frosty weather that covered the brown edges of the window in the slightest frost. Crimson leaves had started gathering in the corners of the frame, like minute haunts of fall's eloquent speech of death and decay, and their nuance was a reminiscence of the once pigmented lips of the witty witch.

The girl that laid in her bed, absent and dejected, did not resemble the Elladora Selwyn that Hogwarts had come to know. Her hair, cherry-wine with specks of coral, was pulled in a distasteful braid, the roots covered in a layer of grease as they fell flat around the crown of her head. Face void of any make-up, sunken and translucent, faced only the twilight of yet another day spent in the Hospital Wing, trying to tranquilize her mind until the pain in her hands was as dull as her spirit.

"You need to eat," mumbled Icarus from her side, trying to grab her attention, yet she pretended not to hear him. Perhaps she did not listen to him—it was hard to tell when she was all there or too sedated with painkillers to completely comprehend her surroundings.

Varya shifted in her seat, eyeing the plate of turkey that had been placed on the poisoner's table hours ago, still untouched. She almost let out a sigh before stopping herself, knowing that nothing would anger Selwyn more than hearing a trace of pity laced in her tone.

The Eastern witch had seen her roommate in many circumstances—choking on her own blood as her ribs punctured her lungs in the Forbidden Forest, running on three days without sleep as she dressed their wounds and brought them food, scared as she thought the man she loved had died. Still, nothing had broken her quite like losing her ability.

"Elladora," continued Icarus, dragging his chair to the other side until he was standing right in her line of sight, "You have to eat; otherwise, your healing will take longer."

She turned scorching eyes to him. For a second, there was the impetuous spark of the Devil's favorite witch, yet it all stomped out in the faintest flash, "I do not want you here."

Astonishment laced with ache flashed on Lestrange's face, and he shot Varya a perplexed glance. Selwyn had never refused nor denied him, and had always seen him as a source of succor in moments of vulnerability. Petrov sometimes wondered if Icarus knew of Elladora's affection and merely told himself there was nothing more but years of friendship, for it was blatantly apparent to the wandering eye.

"I can leave," he breathed out, his voice strained, "If you promise me that you will eat."

"Just go."

The duelist pursed his lips, bit back any words he might have otherwise muttered about her attitude, and placed the tray of food on her bed before sitting up and picking up his robe from the edge of the mattress. With conflicted eyes, he nodded to the two witches, then left the room with his shoulders sunken.

"Why did you kick him out?" inquired Varya, eyes inquisitive.

Elladora turned to face the window again, and the only telling of the cataract of catastrophe that dribbled down her cheeks was the hazy quiver in her shoulders, the hoarse breaths of agony that seemed to be segmented by the severe cut of a cold knife, and the putrifying reticence that settled between them.

"I refuse to cry in front of him any longer," she said eventually, "For so long, I have been my weakest around him, and perhaps that is why he seeks other people. You, and now that Blood-Witch—he is attracted to powerful women that can rival his skills, not weak witches that cannot even hold a fucking wand."

There was such pain in her words, not only because of the lunatic unrequited love, but also due to her fall from grace. Elladora Selwyn had been, on all accounts, an undoubtedly powerful witch—in magic and spirit alike. She was as sturdy as a mighty oak, as sly as a flame-colored fox, and as delicate as a poisonous monarch butterfly.

"Icarus will not think less of you because you are hurt; he wants to help you."

"No, Varya. Powerful men do not like to be slowed down by infirm women; they want a partner that will match them in blasphemy and vitality," Elladora mumbled, "Besides, I hate it."

"You hate what?" probed the other witch.

"I hate how he looks at me compared to how he looks at her."

Silence after that—the ticking strain of an old horologe merely a humdrum to a wrecked psyche, a lullaby of somnolence that sizzled specks of weariness on her eyelashes until their weight had them close from the heaviness of the world. The saccharine taste of the reverie land was a most welcomed delight to those who could no longer face reality.

And Elladora simply could not. To stare at her hands, at the bared flesh that had turned obsidian around the edges, charred tissue from a potent malicious spell that had devoured her skill—it was worse than any nightmare her mind could have conjured.

Varya watched her fall asleep, analyzed her face as intoxicating calmness took over fatigued features, until there was the faintest trace of the grace that Elladora habitually possessed. The Slavic witch reached out to her shoulder and squeezed it gently, then dragged one of the nearby beds closer to hers, and puffed the pillows before getting up on it.

She knew Selwyn did not have many friends that were girls, and boys were not allowed to spend the night by her bed due to the Matron's requirements. So, even though their bond was odd and strained, Varya decided not to leave her roommate alone in such times.

The door opened across the room, and Petrov twisted in the scratchy sheets to see Tom Riddle walking down the hallway. As he approached, the faintest trace of revulsion seemed to slip through a cracked mask as he gazed at Selwyn, but he immediately concealed it with the illusion of normalcy. He stopped by Varya's bed, pupils trained on her and nostrils slightly flared.

"We have tried to trace the magic used on the gloves, but to no avail. The spell was masked, and there was no way of tracking the wizard or witch who had cast it," his voice was rough, but he did not carry the note of tiredness that most of the others did.

With careful steps, he approached Elladora's sleeping figure, and Varya watched him from where she stood. He had traded his uniform for an awkwardly fitted sweater that hung loosely around his collarbones, and picked threads decorated the lower hem, sticking out and catching against his dark pants. The witch knew it had not been him to toy with them—Tom took great care of all of his clothes, for he did not have many of them, and as such, they had to be in good condition. That meant his current attire was most likely second-hand, and it had been given to him by someone.

Curls fell around freely as azure eyes contrasted with the sheer onyx of his garments, pulling at the specks of algae that decorated the bottom of his marine irises, and he pressed anemone lips in agitation. The last rays of dusk scattered through the Hospital Wing, tangerine clashing with the murky beige of the stone floor, and they caught in his side profile, slashing against abrupt curves and a sculpted jaw.

"I told you it was a waste of time," muttered Varya, laying back on the pillow of her bed, "They would not send in a dark object and still leave traces on it."

"They must have an insider at Hogwarts," concluded Riddle, completely ignoring her critique, "Someone who sneaked in the gloves and handed them to Weasley. Most likely, a person he would know by name; otherwise, he would not have accepted it."

Varya stayed silent, mind twirling as she shifted eyes to Elladora, and the looping thought that had plagued her mind since the accident three days ago still scratched against her mental barriers, begging to be voiced out to the world. But the witch was scared to admit to it, for it opened possibilities she did not want to consider, and it stung her heart greatly.

Still, Riddle sensed her distress, and narrowed his eyes as he faced her, "You know something."

The girl gave him a brief look, and only at his insistent facial expression did she speak, "I think someone is targeting your Knights."

Tom did not seem phased by the idea that Grindelwald or Dalibor had been assaulting his companions. As a matter of fact, he almost looked thoughtful, or as if he had been expecting it.

"You do not seem upset by it."

Riddle inhaled deeply, "I figured it out after Icarus lost his fingers. It made no sense—why would the creatures attack him, the one that was armed, and not the three other targets that were struggling to get to the cave? Perhaps he had aggravated them, but as far as I can tell, strigois do not seem to take their chances. They would go for the weakest."

A small sound of approval fell past Varya's lips, and realization dawned upon her, "And at the Rosier Manor—the strzyga attacked Nott directly, although he would have been the least dangerous, and they always go for those who threaten them first, unlike the strigoi."

"Someone told them to target specific Knights," concluded Tom, "My initial guess was Dalibor, although he seemed to be more direct in his approach. Perhaps, it is a student doing his bidding, or somehow they figured out how to control the beasts themselves. Although I am still trying to figure out who would have enough motive to go against us."

The truth was poison on her lips—like an acidic solvent, it seemed to perforate through layers of skin and catch onto the witch's vocal cords, pinching them until she was rendered speechless, and although the brightness of a theory graced her mind, she could not voice it out. Because she knew exactly who would do this. After all, it had been Varya that had told them that they would take it one war at a time, one dark wizard to crush after another, until they had renounced all ties to Riddle's tyranny.

And she feared that one of the Virtues might have begun knocking the Knights out one by one.

***

Yeah this chapter is not very interesting but oh well. At least we are back to a slightly normal updating schedule.

Thank you for waiting!