THE ANATOMY OF FELIXIUS PARKIN - KINDNESS

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

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The sound of logs crackling in the fireplace should have been a blissful, remarkable ode that soothed any worrisome thought which might have tormented the wandering mind. Instead, it was a scratched disk that played in reverse, out-of-tune resonance that irritated Felixius Parkin's troubled psyche. Tawny irises were lined with scarlet burst vessels, and lilac patches adorned the under-eye as the boy trailed one hand over his unshaven face, stare aloof and hair disheveled. He felt broken.

The uncharacteristic whiskey glass on his desk had stained one of the essays left unmarked, and with a soft string of curses, he moved frantic hands to clear up the space, pushing papers of all kinds aside and pressing a damp cloth to the side of his glass. A shaky breath left his lips as his eyes landed on one otherwise trivial copy of the Daily Prophet, and the headline made his heart ache all over again. Now, he remembered why he had placed stacks of work over it.

Abraxas Malfoy's face was crude and sharp on the front page, a worrisome title that announced the rumors of his involvement with a muggle-born witch, and as the picture moved, his sneer deepened in a mind-baffling way. Platinum hair was pushed back, and a dark suit covered his tall frame as he attempted to move away from the camera that flashed with luminosity. Still, he looked all the more aristocratic, all the more sophisticated.

And in the bottom corner, an absolutely enchanting picture of Della Beauchamp, showcasing her delicate features and heart-shaped face as bushy eyebrows hoisted in surprise at being photographed. It was still unclear who had given the newspaper such detailed information on the sightings of the two together, as well as pictures from the Hogwarts class book, yet Felix thought it mattered less.

Some part of him wanted to hate them. Hate them for the way they had toyed with those around them, like pawns in a game of chess, only there to serve as sacrifices until they conquered the king, whoever that ended up being.

In the grand scheme of things, Felix was aware that Della's involvement with Abraxas might have been an unfortunate circumstance of their months spent together, and although astringent on the tongue, the taste of treachery was as aggravating as it was disheartening. Because in the end, Felix thought himself to be the biggest fool there ever was. And he hated himself for being blinded by rose-colored lenses more than he could ever despise the pair.

The knock on his door was curt, almost as if whoever stood on the other side of the door was undecided on their intention of bothering the apprentice. With a quick sigh, Felix pushed himself up from the desk, stumbled to his feet as the headache drummed in his temples, then staggered to the entrance and swung it open to reveal Newton Scamander.

A whimsical, terribly awkward smile, "I suppose you have not finished grading the last stack, then?"

Felix jolted awake, running fingers through his hair to tame wild strands that fell over his forehead, then mumbled something that was barely coherent as he trudged to the table, picking up the papers he had managed to get done.

His brown vest restricted the movements on his shoulders, and with the way the white blouse clung to his chest, Parkin could barely control his actions.

"I apologize, professor, I—"

"No need to apologize," pronounced Newt as he took in the small office.

It was a cramped space, yet it bustled alive with the various decorations that Parkin had scattered amongst the chamber, framed uniforms, and one too many ship replicas.

The Professor stopped by one impressively large boat, whose sails had been hand-painted by the younger boy, and gently lowered himself to look at the model, "Did this one yourself?"

Felix stood in one corner of the room, hands moving as he scrubbed them nervously, and he felt undoubtedly aware of the tinge of alcohol odor that transversed the space. Then, he set in motion to open one of the windows, pushing it upwards to let the winter zephyr carry away the reeking of his despair.

"Indeed, sir," he answered dutifully, as an apprentice would speak to someone they held highly. Newton Scamander was a well-respected figure in the British wizarding society, and his name was carried by the uproar of crowds across the continent, a remarkable man that had confronted Grindelwald on numerous occasions.

As such, to be in his presence was always somewhat startling, as if watching a historical event unfold in front of one's eyes, and Felix carried a deep admiration for the man. Not only did they share the same passion for magical creatures, but also the same kindness and loyalty that was detrimental in a field such as theirs. The younger wizard had sometimes wondered what was entirely distinguishable about them that they had been placed in different houses, and had somehow come to the conclusion that Newt particularly enjoyed engaging with the fantastic beasts he cared for. In contrast, Felix was fond of studying about them.

"Dippet informed me that you would be heading out for the break," stated Scamander, then straightened up to gaze at his apprentice, "As your supervisor, I should wish you well on your journey. But as someone who has been around your group endless amounts of time, I hope you know what you are doing."

Parkin drew in a sharp breath, "Yes, sir. Our location will be safely guarded by a Secret Keeper, and Grindelwald will not be aware of it. We have decided to stick together through such times, for there is strength in number."

And weakness, was what Felix did not add. Ever since the confrontation between Varya and Della, the Virtues had been reluctant in engaging with the Knights in any way, the betrayal a cold dagger that slashed at their skin, and the boy understood the reasoning behind it. Although none of them had trusted the other party much, they had grown familiar with each other, had thought that they shared some unspoken bond of being united under one sole purpose—defeating Grindelwald and Dalibor.

But to come to the realization that one of your own had been an agent for so long, that they had withheld information from the other side, taking them to be fools and nothing more. Well, that was a comedic cognizance that at the end of the day, they still stood on polar opposites of the spectrum of ideals.

"With Dumbledore gone, I fear that Grindelwald might become brazen, try to strike while the absence is still raw, and take advantage of the momentary confusion. I suppose I might ask you to keep an eye out for any signs of danger, and Parkin?"

"Yes, sir?" Felixius wheezed, almost as if being addressed by his mentor had his throat constrict, and his voice pitched.

"If anything were to happen, remember that your duty is first and foremost to protect Varya Petrov. Should Grindelwald reach her, then we might as well raise a white flag and wave it around," the words were muttered with the slight awkwardness that was so distinguishing for Newton Scamander—the most nuanced way his body inclined forward as he spoke, the eye contact avoidance, the overly dramatical expressions.

Felix pursed his lips, nodding before letting the man leave the office, words still fresh like a string of red poppies on his psyche. The boy cleared his throat, then shook his head, trying to gain some clarity and snap out of the mind-boggling passivity he had submerged himself in, allowing moments to tick and time to drain from him hour after hour, thoughts jumbled in a ball of self-pity. With a resonant sigh, he grabbed his luggage from where he had left it and placed it on his desk, snapping the locks shut and getting ready to head out.

They would all be leaving by tonight, going to a location that had been chosen by Icarus Lestrange and spread through Della. Felix had not heard it, as he had not had the courage to face the witch, and she was the only one able to tell others as the Secret Keeper. Some part of him dreaded the idea of spending time in the same house as her, hidden away from the world as the holidays chimed on their doorstep, but he was no selfish man, and as such, knew that he had a duty above else.

Another knock at the door and the boy gripped his luggage carefully before half-twisting to face it, "Professor, I—"

But it was Della Beauchamp that stood in the threshold, fingers playing with the sleeves of her Ravenclaw sweater as she glanced at him with culpability in doe-like eyes, so entirely enchanting and credulous one might have thought her to be of seraphim origins, with finely-traced features and sienna curls tousled by her agitation. Nevertheless, the stinging truth had proved her to be nothing more than a facade of virtue, and Parkin felt his heart shatter even by looking at her.

Like an interminable loop of torment, their last night played, a black-and-white film of feathery touches and susurrated promises that had shivered into fine dust of dishonesty. Their relationship had been built on nothing but fables, and that is what made her so undoubtedly antagonizable to him.

Felix could not help but wonder how much of it had been a lie. Had she enjoyed toying with him, seizing his heart from its hollow and squeezing until she had become the only reason his blood pumped? Had it served the witch when the boy had given her every bit of himself, as he had never done before? It must have been quite a laughing stock for her. Oh, how Della had tuned the wizard to play her winsome harmony of passion, a vaudeville with a deadly twist that fated him to become a buffoon in her own sickening play.

"Felix," she began, attempting to step closer to him, yet her face fell when he backed away as if scorched by her proximity.

"I have nothing to say to you," his voice dropped low, and he pivoted away from her, grabbing papers from his desk and cleaning the space in an attempt to seem busy.

Della stood in her spot for a second, glistened eyes watching a person who had once been her dearest friend turn to a stranger. A flash of memory engulfed her psyche, and she remembered them spending late nights in the castle's kitchens, reminiscing about their lives before Hogwarts with the House Elves, and grabbing various sweets to last them through the night as they attempted to hide from the other patrols. They had been inseparable, like two parts of the same apple, and it had all rotten away into nothing.

"But I have much to say to you."

"More lies?" the snarkiness was uncharacteristic for the gentle boy, and even he seemed to be surprised by the acidity in his tone before his face fell back in a taunt mask. Felix grabbed the trashcan, then dumped any notes he had taken, and lit them on fire, "Della, I believe the time for truth has long passed, and the damage has been done. There is nothing that you could say to me to change what you have done."

He grabbed his suitcase, then made to push past her, but the witch reached out for his arm and clasped slender fingers around his wrist. Parkin sent her a startled look, skin covering in goosebumps at the familiar touch, and a cascade of fever drizzled from his heart down his limbs, until he could not bear to pull away from the sensation. The boy knew it might as well be their last time being in each other's proximity, and his yearning to fall into her arms was almost unbearable. How it would have pleased him to press a chaste kiss against reddened lips or run tender fingers through silky locks, pulling the witch close until every inch of him covered her frame.

But such times had passed, and the undoubted revelation of Della's choices had destroyed their relationship. As much as he longed for her, Felix knew that he could never bring himself to truly forgive her, even if his heart was desperate for it, drumming against his ribcage as if it would burst through at any moment and fall into her petite hands.

"Do not touch me," his voice came out soft, fragile, although he had first wished it to be more threatening.

"I know what you must think of me," pronounced the witch, eyes just as captivated by the boy, "But please, Felix—I had no choice. They had my father, and I simply had to protect him. I was scared, and—and stupid, yes. But at the moment, there seemed to be no other option for me."

The sympathy hit Parkin like a forecasted hurricane; something he had expected, yet still ravished him until there was nothing left behind but wreckage, torn out roots that had grown into the familiar soil now exposed and sensitive. Still, he shook his head, then stepped away, throwing her a reluctant gaze.

"Is that what you believe I blame you for?" he muttered, almost hurt by what she implied. As if he were some cold monster that had not taken into account her situation, some petrified soul that sought fault in her desperation.

Della seemed taken aback for a second, bewilderment a soft veil that caressed an angelic face, and she furrowed thick eyebrows before opening her mouth to say something, yet no sound came out. Her face was hollowed, and the boy could read in the fine lines under her eyes that she had been losing sleep, lips desiccated and busted from the torment she had been facing. Besides Malfoy, nobody had bothered to soothe the harrow in her soul. And even he had been keeping somewhat of a distance, trying to deal with his family's wrath at being slammed in the press.

The witch had been left entirely alone to fend for herself and manage the emptiness everyone had left behind.

Felix knew where Varya stood on the matter—she wanted nothing to do with the Beauchamp girl. Had been avoiding her as if she were the plague, and the boy suspected the Obscurial would much rather have rotting tissue than face her former friend. She had taken the betrayal harshly, knowing that Della had been the one person that had shown her the warmth of a comfortable home, the kindness of a functional family, and perhaps Varya had sought out for the indescribable feeling of belonging in the girl. Therefore, although she had agreed to continue with their plans for the Christmas break, the witch refused to be anywhere near the Ravenclaw.

"I do not fault you for trying to protect your family, Della. I do not even fault you for what happened to Ivy—but for months, you lied to us, you saw us struggle to understand Grindelwald's plans, and stayed in the shadows. You could have come to us, even after Ivy. Fuck, Della...You should have said something!"

The sound of Felix cursing made the witch take a step back, suddenly overwhelmed by the look he was giving her, as if she had become the greatest disappointment in his life. Perhaps, she was the one who had let him down the most and had selfishly assumed that the truth could be hidden from the wizard without consequence. She had wanted to let his warmth caress her frigid limbs, to bring back feeling where there was now only numbness, and stroke away any troublesome thoughts with soft lips pressed on exposed skin.

Beauchamp had used Felix, not consciously, but she had, and that is what hurt the boy the most, because he felt as if the woman he had been sharing a bed with for months was a phantom and nothing more; an illusion that the witch had created if only to maintain the charade of a typical witch. Della—the candied Ravenclaw, crafted from syrupy nectar and sugar canes, the one who had simpers as brilliant as midsummer apollos in the northern skies, and eyes blazing with saintly warmth.

Not the person that stood before Parkin now, a shadow of the disintegrating witch she had been two years ago. Perhaps, not even a functioning human, but something far more dejected and lifeless, with a boney frame and trembling hands. She had turned from mighty eagle to a mouse, a quivering, scared, and tortured little mouse.

War was not made for everyone, and Della had been one of its victims, even while still breathing.

"You would have hated me for what I did to Ivy and—"

"Della!" shouted Felix, completely irritated now, "Did I blame Varya for everything she had done because of Grindelwald? No, I was shocked and scared, but I never abandoned her, and I never will."

"So, please, can we just put this behind us?" she cried out when he made to move past her again, blocking the threshold.

Felix's heart squeezed at seeing her so broken, so alone. It was a natural reaction, for he had been entirely in love with the witch, and such emotions did not fade away into nothingness at the sight of trouble. They clung to the skeletal form of a faded bond, like grappling hooks that pinched the marrow and had the body react to the stimuli without conscious thought—a reflex and nothing more.

"Della, I love you," confessed Felix, the words bitter from his mouth, and not how he would have wanted his admittance to be. He had never muttered it to her, perhaps out of fear that the emotions were not shared, and the horror that struck the witch only proved him to be right.

"I—"

"Tell me, do you love him?"

Her mouth moved to let out a sound of disagreement, but right as it almost touched her lips, it seemed to get stuck. Her heart squeezed, and the lie could not be muttered as realization dawned upon the girl with incredible consequence. The pain that flashed on Felix's face made everything spin in an endless circle, and Della let culpability soak her.

She had not intended on falling for Malfoy, yet he had been the accumulation of all of her desires, someone who would protect her against the danger that seemed to loom over her hear at any moment. Della loathed herself for it, but affection had blossomed in the endless missions that they had been sent on, the numerous hours in motel rooms where he would sleep on the ground to leave the bed to her, or the moments in which he would calm her down from her panic attacks with soothing words she doubted he would have used for anyone else.

But that is where it all ended—in the confinement of motel rooms or back alleys, for no ray of attachment could shatter the barrier of darkness that encompassed the Malfoy name. Beauchamp would have been a fool to believe that he would ever see her as more than a simple affair, as his status was so incredibly detrimental in his choice of companionship.

There was no future for them, and she knew that. It might have been a sweet fantasy in her fifth year when she had pinned over him like any other girl in their school, an ideal and nothing more. Reality had no time for fairy-tales; it was too crude to indulge in them.

Felix took in a deep breath, gaze sliding anywhere but her face, "Did you cheat on me?"

"No!" the scandalized witch answered immediately, eyes widening, "I never cheated on you, Felix. Every meeting I had with Malfoy during the night hours was strictly business, and more often than not, Riddle or Lestrange would also be there. There was nothing going on between us while I was with you."

But there had been at some point, when Abraxas had kissed her during another formal meeting requested by Grindelwald to assess her knowledge on Varya's location. The heir had been teaching her how to guard her thoughts, so that none of the members of the Alliance could extract information from her unwillingly, and in a moment of frustration at Della's endless complaints about not being able to do it, he had pressed heated lips against her own, pulling her so close that it felt almost impossible to not be near each other again.

Malfoy kissed as he spoke, with elegant movements and shrewd aggressiveness as he pressed cold fingers against her jaw, gripping it forcefully while his other hand pushed their bodies together. He tasted like the expensive whiskey he savored sipping on every morning in his dark coffee, and his fragrance was that of Parisian perfume, explicitly imported for him. He had kissed her until both of them had run out of air, with so much desire her heart had pinned for days after. Still, it had been their last interaction, and yet it never left her mind.

"It changes nothing," settled Parkin, then sighed and pressed a hand against the bridge of his nose, "I need time, Della. This is simply too much, and I need to think about everything."

With that, Felix pushed into the hallway, ignoring the slight sweat between his fingers and the way his heart thumped as if it were to burst out of its cavity. Alas, heartbreak was a monstrous thing, a fanged deity that ripped the myocardium to shreds until the ache became suffocating, and blood seemed to clog every artery, making the limbs grow frigid, and the body paralyzed. Slight tingling in his digits, as if ants had seeped under his skin, and were crawling on the inside, making the movements restless.

He tried not to glance back at the girl. Instead, he continued walking ahead, his luggage heavy on the side as he tried to push through the heaps of students that congested the hallway traffic, joyous whispers flittering through the space as they dragged their trunks down to the carriages.

"I will have you know that to block the corridor is a violation of Hogwarts' code of rules, and even if you believe yourself invincible due to the upcoming break, I am still allowed to take away points from any insubordinate behavior."

Felix glanced through the crowd, spotting a towering figure draped in a darkened coat, curls gelled with a side part as his nose scrunched in distaste at the heaps of students. Like ominous gargoyles, Elladora Selwyn and Maxwell Nott fenced Riddle, harsh stares making the crowd part for them with more authority than even the apprentice had. They passed through, a mirage of elitism and grandiosity, having heads turn to glance at their impeccable formation, and students gawked at the easiness with which they moved.

The older boy stumbled between the fourth-years, elbowing his way through in an almost pathetic way, and followed the trail of the Slytherins, muttering apologies along the way, "Excuse me. Excuse me, Professor assistant passing through."

It was moments such as this when Parkin truly resented the Knights, when he observed the way in which they intimidated others into bowing, as if power was something they had been born with. But that was entirely improbable, was it not? For Felix had also grown up in a pureblood family, with a legacy of hundreds of years to support his name. Yet, no one flicked from his path as if they were opposing magnets; no one had a swirl of wonder and fear waltzing in their eyes when he strolled down the corridor.

Indeed, even in his years as a student, Parkin had been a popular boy, with numerous admirers that had accompanied him in his time as an assistant. Although, it had been a different type of allure that the wizard had possessed. He was not intimidating, nor did he glance around with predator's eyes, trying to spot a wandering victim to torture and have them kneel from the slightest odious remark. Felix was gentle and friendly, with a subtle flirtatious nature that he used to have his way most of the time.

The wizard had his own score to settle with the Knights, but the one he despised the most had always been Elladora Selwyn, with her hazing insults and quick-witted snubs, all ornated with the faintest lace of satire, as if everyone she addressed was a mere commoner and unworthy of her time.

In their third year, they had been Potion partners, and the cherry witch had decided to carry out an impractical prank against Parkin, dousing his robes with Fatiguing Infusion, almost making the boy stumble face-first into the boiling cauldron. Her laughter had been irritating above all, and Felix imaged it was similar to what Tinkerbell might have sounded if she had been an evil, rotten, and infuriating snobby witch.

"Heading somewhere, Parkin?" called out a voice from behind him, and Felix half-twisted his head to see Ophelia Winterbour marching down the stoned path behind him. Lost in his thoughts, the wizard had stopped right in front of the carriages with a dazed expression on his face.

"Much as you are," muttered Parkin, then grabbed the witch's suitcase, placing it near his. He hopped into his seat, then extended a hand out of courtesy for her, and Ophelia gave him a flirty smirk before accepting his offer and sitting down across from him.

"You have a certain glower on your face right now," she began her charade as soon as the Thestral started pulling them throughout the courtyard and to the Hogsmeade train station. Her ashy curls bounced with each rock that hit the wheels, and yet her eyes remained of steel, "Would I be wrong in assuming it is because of Beauchamp?"

"Hardly your business," muttered Parkin, leaning back into his seat while keeping his stare focused on her. He was not sure what to make of the witch, yet found he much preferred her over any other of Tom's acolytes, for she never ridiculed him, only ever asked intrusive questions, as if she were dissecting him and assembling until she understood the way he functioned.

"I believe the world is centered around me, and so every single person becomes an object of interest."

"That is entitled behavior."

"What do you expect of a witch grown at court?" her smiled was taunting, as if her teeth were fangs she would gladly sink in an innocent soul.

There was something bemused in her stare, yet fascinating all the same, as if Ophelia was never quite there—she lived in her own world, and indeed all other people were pawns in her grand game or background personas. She talked about others and analyzed them as if she had not had human contact in years, and Felix could not help but wonder if her father had isolated the witch from others, filling her head with pompous claims of superiority.

Yet Winterbour did not have the same haughtiness to her that encompassed Elladora Selwyn; instead, there was a vague fascination, as if she wanted to know the exact things that made all of them tick like broken clocks. It was almost unsettling, as if a tornado nested behind granite irises, ready to demolish any personal barrier that her companions had. She knew no boundaries, and continuously questioned those around her on everything.

"Why did you even leave your home?" mused Felix, watching the train station materialize behind the witch as they neared it.

Ophelia's gaze slid to the line of trees behind the boy, stare aloof, yet an enchanting smile was plastered on her face, "My father wished for me to marry as is common of most heiresses my age. Since my poor mother was never able to carry a son, and our times have it that women cannot control an estate on their own, he thought it essential that I be engaged come Christmas."

"So, if he were to marry you, Avery would become a Lord?"

Again, a whimsical smile, unsettling, "Parkin, are you interested in asking for my hand in marriage? This interrogation is uncharacteristic of you."

The boy scoffed, cheeks coloring in a deep scarlet as he shook his head, his heart unsettled at the idea of even being around a woman that was not Della. Ridiculous—he knew he was a pitiful man, yet it would take a while for his soul to mend, until the sanative force of time would soothe the burn.

"Merely curious, Winterbour," retorted Felix when the buggy settled by the small concrete station. The depot was a compact structure, with walls made of sooty blocks, and white stripes running up and down any window or glass that adorned the sides. The crimson door was the only speck of color on the old building, and the railway's side was full of bumbling students that pushed each other up the steps, stuffing themselves like tuna in the compartments.

When Felix turned to address the witch again, she had already left, probably off to irritate Nicholas Avery or even taunt Della Beauchamp with her infuriating pet-names. The boy shook his head, then picked up his luggage and handed it off to the locomotive handlers, who dipped their hats at him as he passed them. Although there were specific compartments for Professors and their assistants, Parkin much preferred to find himself an empty one, too embarrassed to share a seat with Slughorn or any other Hogwarts teacher.

So, he settled into an empty partition, knowing that he still had paperwork to go over before they arrived in London. As such, he had not sought out to find his friends and instead rested on the fabric-covered seats, a soft sigh passing his lips. Some peace and quiet would do.

Truthfully, Felix was exhausted—not only from the events of the past week, but also everything that had been thrown at him ever since he had left Hogwarts. The former Ravenclaw had never expected his life to turn into an amalgam of ill-fated decisions, of nights spent dashing through darkened forests, array of hexes and curses breezing through branches and almost ending them multiple times. He needed time for himself, and so he pulled out a book that he had been trying to finish for months, then used his coat as a blanket over long legs, and settled into his seat.

"Are you so terribly dull that you must read even while on break?"

Elladora Selwyn's voice nicked at his disposition, and Felix shot her an aggravated gaze, eyes dancing over her posh figure as she strutted into the compartment, shutting the door with a quick spell. Fiery locks had been braided into two tails from her widow peak down the length of her back, and the intricate pattern pulled at her forehead until there was no crease in her face, having the witch appeared seemingly unsurprised and unphased by everything.

"Find a different partition," lashed Felix almost immediately, still in a sour mood.

The smirk that nested on her face was as infuriating as her daunting eyes, "I would, except every other seat is taken, and I happen to have useless hands that cannot open the sliding doors."

To prove her point, she held up her limbs, still covered in a white material that had to be changed every few hours. Although they were far from healed, the witch had started sleeping through the night, no longer keeping her roommates awake with her sniffles. Varya had told Felix that the cherry girl was improving, and although the skin on her fingers was still melted and disfigured, they expected her to be back on track in less than a month.

"You have magic," puffed Felix, then slowly tilted his head, sizing her up, "Riddle sent you here?"

"Of course he did," her tone was almost feline, as if she were purring, "Or did you truly believe I would willingly be in your presence for more than necessary? I thought being a valedictorian meant you had a bit of mental capacity up there, or do they just give grades on pretty eyes now?"

"You would know, I suppose," snarked Parkin.

"Hm, see—I do not think I would. After all, I am at the top of the class in Potions, and I have been the overall highest grade for nearly five years now. It must burn, does it not? Knowing that a younger witch bested you, and then, of course, you have Nott and Riddle mopping the floor with you in every possible circumstance."

"You poisonous ivy!"

"Poisonous?" her eyebrows hoisted as if she had taken it as flattery, "Entirely so. And add deadly in front, while you are at it. But as far as ivy is concerned, I believe you are best off asking your dimwitted girlfriend what she thinks of that."

Felix took in a deep breath, closing his eyes to try and settle his wrath, for Elladora's tirade scratched against open wounds, and he searched for an irreverent reply, yet the words that stumbled out were anything but.

"She is no longer my girlfriend," it hurt to admit, especially to the girl that stood before him, who smirked with triumph at his obvious agony, yet the bitterness of it fused in with the sweetness that he felt towards the Beauchamp girl.

"Ah, how pleasant. I was wondering how long such an outrageously monotonous couple would last—the mundane and the mudblood."

"Watch it."

"I do not think I will," Elladora clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, then leaned forward slightly, eyes alight with amusement, "If you do not wish for me to ridicule you, then make it less entertaining. I take delight in watching your face glow red."

"And I take delight in watching Lestrange be entirely oblivious to your presence as soon as Scarlet walks in," spluttered Felix, eyes widening at his harshness as soon as he realized what he had said. The hurt that flashed on Selwyn's face should have been delightful, yet it only made him feel more horrendous.

Elladora took in a hearty breath, blinking monotonically as she cleared her throat and leaned back into the seat. Suddenly, every detail of the compartment seemed more interesting than Felix's face, and the boy watched her stare at the flickering light by the coat hanger for a good few seconds before she dared speak again.

"Riddle wants to know if Varya is faring well," the poisoner cut to the chase, bandaged hands in her lap and lips pursed in irritation.

Felix raised a perplexed eyebrow, "Then how about he goes and asks her himself?"

"He has deemed the situation to be a sensitive one, and they have not spoken since your girl—since Beauchamp revealed the truth. Varya is not talking to any of us except Rosier, and even he cannot get more than a few sentences out of her."

There was something unexpected in Selwyn's voice, almost a hint of guilt, or perhaps bother at being at the clash of swords with the Obscurial. As far as Parkin was aware, the two had somewhat resolved their issues and moved past their animosity towards each other, to the point where one might have considered them to be friends. And he doubted Elladora had many friends to spare.

So, he answered her truthfully, "Varya needs time," his voice was calm as he spoke, somewhat soothing, "She has to process everything, and perhaps come to terms with Ivy's death, as she has not had much time to grieve after Dumbledore threw her in an endless chase."

Elladora did not answer, as there was no reply that could have sufficed, so instead, she made herself comfortable in her seat and pulled out a mirror. She placed it on the small table by the window, then began undoing her braids. Felix shot her a questioning stare, but the witch merely shrugged, "Might as well stay here."

Ignoring the pulsating irritation behind his eyes, Parkin rolled his eyes and pulled out his book, flipping it open to the page he had been on previously, "Then you better keep your lips shut and your snarky attitude to yourself."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Standing in front of the building that Lestrange had picked for their break, Varya felt undoubted paranoia, eyes glancing up and down the Londonese boulevard, making a note of any faces that might have been classified as odd.

The townhouse was made of ruby-colored bricks, and was a two-story structure with a pointed roof, squeezed between the neighbors and with dead potted plants dangling from the windows. The entrance was illuminated by two lamps, one of which flickered uncontrollably as snow specks fell around it calmly. The coldness of the weather made the witch's skin itch, and she pulled on the coat she had borrowed from Lev tightly, trying to shelter herself as much as possible.

"Not our typical kind of place, Lestrange," muttered Rosier from the steps, scrunching his face at the spider-webs in one of the corners. He flicked his hand, casting a quick spell to have them disappear, then shifted his eyes to the other boy, who was struggling to drag out his heavy luggage from the back of the cab they had taken.

Icarus shot him a sheepish smile, "You said we ought to hide ourselves to the best of our ability. Who would look for us in this part of London?"

"Yes, I was thinking more of a nice cottage near Prague, you see."

"Well, you should have been specific in your desires, then."

They pushed through the doors, Varya charming her luggage to carry itself, and she patted the collar of her coat down once inside, taking in the communal area. There was hardly enough space for all of them to fit in, so much so that a few of the boys had to step up on the staircase that led to the second floor. In the center, one couch was framed by two reddish leathered chairs, and the ground was covered in a fringed carpet. The fireplace was on the opposite wall of the seated window, where pillows of crimson and golden had been scattered amongst the ledge. A heavy bookshelf covered the last wall, with a small ladder on the side to reach the highest rows.

"This looks like the Gryffindor Common Room," groaned Avery, pushing through to launch himself on the couch, legs thrown over the edge. A loud knock sounded on the window, and he jolted upwards, almost falling off, only to turn and see a shadow dashing from the corner of his eyes. He frowned, then shot Lev a glare, "Stop that, shadow-boy."

Myung feigned innocence, smirk barely resting on his lips, then shrugged nonchalantly.

Varya took no more time to stay in everyone's company, her mood dampening as soon as Tom Riddle stepped inside, eyes trailing directly to her. He made to move towards the witch, but she solely turned around and began walking up the stairs, trying to pretend that she did not see him.

The girl felt herself suffocated, and if she had had it her way, they would have never even been under the same roof, but rather one in the ground, six feet under, and one above. Still, Indra had had a chat with her, and explained that they had to work together regardless of what had happened with Della, for they did not have the commodity of being picky with their allies. Varya suspected the lumomancer was trying to justify her time spent with Rosier regardless of everything they had all hidden.

And she could not understand how some of the Virtues remainder so impassive to it all. Indeed, they had not known Ivy, and had not been affected by the revelation of her death. Regardless, could they not see that what the Knights had done meant they were not to be trusted? Perhaps, Varya had held them to a higher standard, which is why it all bothered her.

The townhouse only had three rooms and a common area, so the fifteen of them had to split into pairs of four, and as such, Varya had decided on rooming with Scarlet Norberg and Ananke Navarro. Still suspicious of the Blood Witch, the Obscurial had agreed to keep an incredibly close watch on her, for if what Malfoy said was true and Della Beauchamp had not been the traitor, then Norberg was the second-best guess. After all, her appearance could easily be deemed to be more than a coincidence, and if her nightmares were to be trusted, then there was a connection between Scarlet's place of birth and Lopheus Evergreen's death.

"Need any help?"

She twisted to glance at Lev Myung, who stood leaning against the threshold, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows furrowed in question. Varya cleared her throat, not realizing she had been standing in the middle of the room, an aloof expression on her face. She gestured weakly, then shook her head.

"Just thinking is all," her voice was somewhat weak, but she managed a sham smile before walking over to the boy, "The next two weeks ought to be painfully awkward and strained."

Lev rolled his eyes, then laughed, "I happen to agree. I might end up serving Rosier's head on a plate for dinner if he suggests he should share a room with Indra again. Apple in his mouth and all."

Varya took in the way his eyes crinkled with amusement, eyebrows hoisting up at his own jest as he talked calmly about his sister's relationship, and the witch knew that Lev had grown to accept it somehow.

She played with the edges of her sleeves as silence fell over them, and the two stared at each other, eyes interlocked. Something unfamiliar passed over the shadowmancer's face, something far softer than she had ever seen, and Varya held her breath.

Lev had always been her closest friend out of all of the Virtues, save for Felix, and had understood her better than she did herself. Their powers collided in a whirl of similarities, and although she had never spoken to it, Varya found the boy to be enchanting.

But she had never let her mind wander to any possibility, for her heart had been strung to another, and if her relationship with Icarus had taught her anything, it was that desire for another person did not overturn complete devotion. So, while her skin covered in goosebump and her heart drummed from the intensity of Lev Myung's darkened eyes, she knew that to indulge in whatever sensation was passing between them now would only end up in destruction.

Suddenly, the shadowmancer stirred, almost as if caught doing something forbidden, and slipped back into the stern expression that he always wore, jaw tight and eyes blank. Lev straightened up, and his head moved to glance anywhere else except the girl. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers, then made to move away.

The steps creaked from behind them, and they both turned to see Maxwell Nott walking upstairs, lethargic look on his face.

Lev moved away from the witch almost immediately, heading to the boy with a questioning expression, and then Maxwell shot him a glance that Varya could not decipher, yet the shadowmancer understood. He turned to her, and then inclined his head for the witch to follow them.

She did so without question, regardless of the bitterness of being around the Knights, and they entered a room at the end of the corridor that seemed to have once been a proper study. Now, however, it was filled with objects without purpose, a hoarding place, and Nott had to cast a charm at the circular table in the middle to clear up some space for them. He pulled out a chair, then sat down, and from his trenchcoat, he procured a tight envelope.

"What is it?" inquired Varya, and right as Maxwell was about to let her decipher the grave look on his face, the door swung open again, and in stepped Riddle, strained expression in his cerulean eyes. There was some sort of disorder in his feature, some uncomfortable spark that did not usually nest there, and it only intensified when he spotted the Obscurial seated at the table, Lev Myung by her side.

Tom shot Maxwell an aggravated look, "Since when do you inform them of your findings before consulting me ahead of time?"

Nott's face tightened, and for a second, his old apathy passed over his face, as if he could care less of what others thought of him. Sandy locks fell over his forehead, covering recalcitrant eyes, and he pursed his lips before answering, "There is no time for a division in operations anymore."

With that, he opened the envelope, and then pulled out a piece of jaundiced paper that seemed a few seconds away from crumbling. He passed it over to Tom, and Varya watched his features move from irritation, to bewilderment, to something she might have considered to be agitation, yet knew better.

"Well, what is it?" she questioned the archivist, avoiding any direct chatter with Riddle.

Maxwell shifted in his seat, "A few weeks ago, you asked me to provide you with a list of names of people that had attended the gathering at the Nott Manor, and I told you we never kept records of who walked through our doors, for I remembered everyone's names."

"But?"

"But," and he drew in a sharp breath, "Every invitation was sent through the owl office by my hometown, and they do keep a track record of every confirmation received so that they can then provide the caterer with a definitive number. Now, none of us supervise the invitations; we merely tell our housemaids to go by the list we have told them every year. But this whole time, whenever I tried to remember that night, I felt this odd sensation that I was missing an essential detail."

Almost like a reflex, Varya's eyes met Tom's in wonder, and then she collected herself, breathing harshly and averting her stare, for her blood pulsed faster from irritation. Still, the boy kept his eyes on her.

"A few nights ago, I was thinking about it, and I realized that forty-six invitations had been sent out, forty-five people walked in and greeted me, but forty-six walked out. At the time, I thought it to be a mistake in my counting, but then I asked the owl post office to provide me with details of everyone who had confirmed their attendance. And one name stood out."

Tom passed over the paper that he had been holding, and the witch grabbed it with reluctant fingers, trying not to let their skin brush. Then, she drew it closely, and opened the parchment to scan the writing on it. There, one name stood like a mountain against hills, and Varya felt her body go numb as she gawked at it.

Evergreen.

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Hello! Thank you for reading. This chapter was from Felix's perspective mostly because he is my comfort character and I adore him. Anyhow, thank you for reading!