it is 4am and this is a 10k word so i only edited half of it. sorry for any mistakes. too tired.

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THE ANATOMY OF ANANKE NAVARRO - PURITY

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

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By the time December swirled around, Ananke was wholly sure that the demons of her past were looming around the corners. There was a peculiar paranoia that bewildered her, especially when one night, she woke up well past midnight only to see a white owl on the edge of her window, holding an envelope in its beak addressed to her.

With reluctance, she plucked it from its mouth, a clogged breath in her throat as she gaped at the animal that stood on the emblem on most of the dresses she had worn while growing up, her family always craving their badge on all possesions. Still, she did not allow herself to believe that they had found her and attributed the letter to someone else entirely.

But when she opened the envelope and read her mother's familiar handwriting on the paper, she felt her chest twist with apprehension.

Ananke, you cannot run from your duty any longer. You know, as well as I do, that your choice is affecting this Coven and everyone that serves underneath us. Please, return home by the end of the year and accept your status as heiress. We depend on you.

The letter was not signed, nor was there any returning address on it, only a sigil she knew too well and the slanted curves of her mother's calligraphy, as was custom of their bloodline. For decades, the empath Coven had been hiding in plain sight from the wizarding world, their powers so sought after that massacres had followed their history. From the most ancient times, the Navarro bloodline had been utilized in wars, their capability to control human emotions extensively used in torture and interrogation.

For that reason, they had been hunted by the opposition for so long, butchered for their sorcery until the empath Coven had been reduced to nothing but ten families, out of which only the Navarro one maintained a stronghold on their purity, with all members only marrying other empaths. Being the leading force in the circle of outlandish wizards, Ananke's family had first choice in wedding matters, their daughters and sons, their magic heritage so sensitive that only the most harmonious genomes could produce a mighty empath.

They were a dying breed—butchered by the wizarding world, selected against by nature, and increasingly less potent as time went on. So, Ananke knew that when her mother had presented her with a marriage announcement, having her engaged to a boy from another family in their coven, she had meant well. That did not mean, however, that the witch was willing to sacrifice her future and obey their requirements, only so that their magic ancestry could be passed down.

Why did it matter if the empaths died out? Was it not better for Ananke to have a daughter or son who could openly interact with the world, instead of hiding in a secluded village in the Peruvian mountains? She did not wish to follow their plans, but instead explore the world, find something she was passionate about and fight for it.

Because of that reason, Ananke Navarro packed her bags and disappeared into the night right before her wedding.

To vanish from the face of Earth was not as hard when there were no documents of her existence, the Coven having burned every trace so that they could be invisible to society, closing themselves into their own plastic bubble and never interacting with the outside. So, the witch ran away, hiding in the streets of Paris, and made work for herself as a waitress in one of the wizarding communities by the edge of the city, sheltered away from the on-going muggle war.

That was until Albus Dumbledore stopped by the pub she was working at, deciding to meet with his long-time friend, Nicolas Flamel, and immediately sensed there was something odd about her. He had stumbled upon the witch in a moment of weakness. She had mistakingly bumped into a customer, spilling boiling soup all over his trousers, and he had begun shrieking loudly as he tried to get it off of him, threatening to call the authorities for her negligence and have her fired. In a desperate attempt not to divulge her identity, Ananke had used her powers to dim his wrath, and it had not gone unmissed by the intrusive great sorcerer.

Dumbledore had figured her out in mere minutes, and then offered her a deal—he was designing a team for a young witch, people who would accompany her in a task of tracking down a set of items. He explained the reasoning behind it, trusting the empath with the truth of the on-going war between the European sorcerers and a Dark Wizard named Grindelwald, and Ananke found that the idea resonated with her.

But their initial deal had not implied her exposing herself to the world again by attending a private wizarding school, and now, her parents had managed to track her through their long list of spies and connections. Although a humble society, the empath Coven was undeniably influential, serving as a concealed community in the South American continent.

A knock enunciated at her door, and it made Ananke flinch as she twirled on her heels, lips pressed in curiosity of who could be bothering her at such a late hour. Stuffing the letter in her nightgown pocket and shooting a look at Della Beauchamp's sleeping form, the empath put on her shoes and headed to the door. As soon as she stepped outside, she was overwhelmed by the way shadows cascaded from the cupola of the Ravenclaw Common Room, slithering through the cracks of the walls until they materialized in the form of one boy.

Lev quirked an eyebrow, "Took you long enough."

"My apologies for not being quick to my feet at two in the morning, Myung," her tone was acidic, laced with the poshness of a court-grown woman. Lev watched her put on her gloves, a thick material that prevented her from accidentally using her powers on other people without intention, and then push dashing curls in a thick ponytail.

The shadowmancer merely rolled his eyes at Ananke's attitude, already used to her quick wit and snarkiness after months of working together. Instead, he buttoned up his dark coat, stuffing his scarf inside the open collar and then pulling the edges up to shield his face. From the side, all the empath could see was Lev's sloped nose, his high cheekbones, and raven locks falling in delicate patterns. Habitually, the boy would have styled it in a chic hair-do, but the hour had had him let his strands cascade down from his head crown and around his face, falling up to his ears and over his forehead.

When he set in motion without telling her another word, Ananke hurried down the steps, "Where are we going?" Her voice was croaky, "And how did you even get in here?"

"My shadows take me anywhere I want them to," he mused, disdain in his tongue, and then briefly gazed at her, "And we are going to London."

The witch felt the crisp air of the castle settle on her skin as soon as she stepped into the hallway, their footsteps ricochetting through the perimeter as they marched down the intricate set of stairs, doing their best not to be spotted. Ananke puffed in with annoyance, furrowed eyebrows nesting above her glacial eyes as she regarded the shadowmancer with apprehension.

"Why would we go there?" she continued eventually when they reached one of the passages that led to Hogsmeade. They could not apparate out of the castle, and as such, had to the nearby village, then through the shield before Lev's powers could carry them into the night.

The boy dove one hand in his trenchcoat then pulled out a glistening mirror that Ananke recognized immediately to be the one that belonged to Della. He twirled it between long fingers, a nefarious smirk on his lips, "I finally found someone that can fix it for me. I tried to do it myself, but there seems to be a locking spell from it, as if Varya bewitched it to only work for Della. I need a curse-breaker for it."

"Of course she did," sighed Ananke as they stepped into the passage. The corridor was long, with stone walls arching over their heads, and the flickering glare of torches lingered over their expressions as they stomped through the dirt-covered space. The habitual spider-webs that clogged the corners of the hallway glistened in the hazy light, and crawlers slithered through the cracks, trying to make sense of the commotion. A faint echo reverberated through the room, although only their steps could be heard, as well as Lev's faint humming as he toyed with the compact mirror.

When they stepped outside, trailing the empty train station of Hogsmeade, Ananke bit back a wince at the cold weather, glancing at her diaphanous material, and tugged the corners of her coat tighter. Lev shot her a look, then pulled the scarf from his neck and handed it to her, replacing the empty space with shadows. She was uncertain if they protected him, if they were some sort of armor that sheltered the boy's skin from the gnawing frost that had settled with December's arrival, yet she took the scarf and wrapped it around her curls and neck.

Ananke was not sure what she should have expected of the small wizarding village, as her brief visit a few months back had not allowed her to inspect it properly. However, it was definitely not a bordered perimeter with few lights still twinkling through the obscurity. The breeze had begun picking up, revolving lanterns with a muffled creek in the desolate streets that had been covered in the scantiest snow. As she trudged forward, the witch felt her boots water at the frozen surroundings, the sound of stepping on the white blanket infusing into that of the winter zephyr lifting snowflakes from the ground and carrying them around the town square.

"It is all so—" words clogged her throat, and the empath could not explain the feeling that settled in her guts, like barbed wire scratching her intestines.

Hogsmeade had lost its quaint lure and had been instead substituted by the imagery of apocalypse and abandonment. The few houses that still had light writhing from within had been barricaded, with wood nailed to the windows and undoubted charms on the doors. The faint smell of iron circulated the opening, an indication of banishing spells, and it made the girl's nose scrunch. The demon attack on Hogwarts had undoubtedly terrified the locals, who had decided that their everyday life could no longer sustain in such an environment. Many had left; that much was evident by the multiple signs stapled onto concrete beams and lamp-posts, paper fluttering in the air that warned of creatures of the night lurking around.

Lev had stopped in the middle of it all, snowflakes glazing his shoulders as he glanced up towards the moon, taking in the faint rays that spilled through cracked puffs of darkness, and then caressed his cold face. Obsidian eyes twinkled in the dim incandescence, flickers of obscurations swirling under his lower eyelashes as veins morphed into a darker color, and then he shot pupils at the abandoned village.

"This is what happens when tyrants do what they please," he mumbled, although reluctantly, before continuing in his path, walking a few strides in front of Ananke.

"What of you, then?" inquired the witch, trailing behind him with stiffened steps. There was something in her posture that could be attributed to her upbringing, the way her chin held high even while stumbling in the snow, the way her nose remained upwards even as it turned scarlet from the weather, "What do you think will happen to the world after this is all done?"

He shrugged apathetic shoulders, "This world is corrupt enough that even if we save it today, another danger will rise tomorrow," Lev shot her a glance over his shoulder, "I care about defeating the person that has been threatening those close to me. After? Well, I cannot say."

The trees were dense south of the village, with branches that extended like spider webs, covering the sky and barely allowing luminescence to bless the fauna, so much so that only devil's snare and parasitic weeds grew deeper within. At some point, the senseless sensation of blistering magic crashed into Ananke, and she glanced ahead, knowing that they had reached the shield.

"Now, what?"

Lev scurried the area, trying to sense the darkness of creatures before he pivoted on his feet and reached her, "We will step through the barrier, and then I will grab your hand. My shadows will allow us to pass through the Darkness Realm, and cling onto obscurities from whatever location I desire."

He stated it as if it were mere mundanity, not an unfathomable trait of his inherited magic, and Ananke drew in a sharp breath before muttering quickly, "Is it like apparating?"

Devious smirk, "Much more entertaining."

And without another warning, they breached the barrier, feeling peril loom over their heads right as Lev grabbed Navarro's hand, and then her feet were no longer touching the snow, and her body was no longer whole. It was an indescribable sensation, floating through darkness, as if one had renounced one's corporal form, and instead was an amalgam of obscurity threads that connected their being. Ananke felt herself break into pieces of dust, swirling through a blanket of nothingness, and then there was the coldest emotion that she had ever felt, like a pulsating needle straight through her heart.

When her eyes opened again, she felt undoubtedly heavy, her limbs tired, and she almost stumbled to the floor right as Lev caught her and brought her to her feet. The shadowmancer shot her a pointed stare, "Fascinating, is it not?"

"Not nearly," the witch felt sick.

But she had no time to dwell on the whirling sensation of in her abdomen, as her olfactory pathways were overwhelmed with the odor of muddy water. She collected herself for the briefest moment, skirt of her nightgown dragging against a bricked wall behind her as she gazed out into the streets of Hackney, London. The River Lea streamed through banks of sand and dirt, colored a jaundiced nuance, admittedly foggier than what she would have expected a stream to look like. Nearby, the smoke of factories eddied into the air, grayness barely visible in the light of the moon and stars. Otherwise, the British nation had been submerged into the night darkness, with no street lights shining brightly—The Blackout of World War II.

In darkness, the only thing the witch could feel was Lev's guiding hand as he pulled her through the curtains of shadows, his magic allowing him to sail them safely through everything. The only distinguishable forms were the small tents placed underneath one of the bridges that ran over River Lea, where homeless people had gathered to seek shelter from the unforgiving weather. The Blitz had displaced many from their homes, bombardments dropping over the city of London and alerting its scenery to that of a ghost town, with destroyed buildings and rumble crowding the boulevards. Although the evacuations had assured the safety of many, there were still some unfortunate souls that had been left behind.

A wail pierced through the night, having shivers run down Ananke's spine as she held her breath—a mother that had just lost her child after months of rationing, a sister who had watched her sibling slowly perish away, or a daughter that had witnessed her father fall sick due to the cold. She was not sure it mattered what their story was; not sure it counted for much. Frankly, it was striking how insignificant one's life became in times of war, when mass graves littered the streets, bodies pulled from piles of nothingness, and families destroyed. Children had been separated from their parents, sent to distant lands, and had no place to return to, their houses shattered to pieces.

Ananke could almost taste the smoke from the bombs on her tongue, although there had been no attacks recently, but perhaps it never disappeared. Maybe, the marking of World War 2 would remain engraved in the city of London until the end of time, not only through memorials and plaques, but due to everything that had been lost—buildings and monuments destroyed in battles that had no clear end.

"We are almost there," Lev interrupted her train of thought with a soft voice, and if he tried to point something to her in the distance, a location or a warehouse, Ananke could not see.

It was not until she heard the soft creak of a back-door being pulled open, and her eyes squinted at the hasty light that broke through before the shadowmancer pulled her inside, that Navarro knew they had arrived. Indoors, she felt almost displaced from the tragedy outside, as if the walls could shelter her from the emotions that overwhelmed her. Despair, despondency, grief—scattered like droplets of terror through the murky boulevards.

The warehouse had had every window covered with soft blankets, pinned to the edged by hardened nails, and the small room was only illuminated by oil-lamps placed on various surfaces throughout. A man, perhaps around the age of fifty, with gray hair poking from his almost bald head, glanced at the pair from where he stood by a small desk. All over the room—disaster. As if someone had purposely caused a tornado through the man's belongings. Every table was covered in empty cauldrons, some of them still fuming, and glasses of potions were placed on the shelves without a specific order. Every wall was covered with ceiling-height bookcases, but most volumes were in piles on the floor, colorful bindings of every possible subject. Ananke felt Lev twitch by her side, undoubtedly feeling suffocated by the arrangement.

"My associate told me you were looking for me," the man's voice was hoarse, as if he had been aged by the times he was living in, and then he pushed the glasses on his crooked nose upwards, "Something about breaking a curse?"

"Yes," Lev pushed forward, his face twisted in irritation from the mess as he accidentally toppled over a pile of books. He pulled out the mirror, then held it towards the man, "My sister's mirror, you see. I accidentally cracked it, and I was hoping to fix it before she notices, but there seems to be a magic barrier placed on it."

The curse-breaker hummed, taking the object in his hands, then examining it closely. Ananke stood by the door, hand over the pocket where her wand was, as she felt the slight flush of panic flood through the man.

He glanced up at Lev, bulbous eyes staring into the boy's as he spoke, "Your sister practices quite dark magic. I have not seen this sort of sorcery since the fall of the Satanic Chruch in this parts of town."

Lev cleared his throat, "Yeah, she—" eyes shot around the room frantically, "Will you be able to fix it or not?"

The man, whose name was Dolkins, if the plaque on the wall was anything to go by, shot the group a suspicious look before nodding slightly and turning to his desk to work. Lev puffed his cheeks, then marched over to Ananke, hands in his pockets as he hoisted an eyebrow at her odd expression.

The empath shook her head, "It is just so overwhelming to be here, in such emotions," she mumbled, "How will I handle a battlefront if I cannot push through the aftermath of one?"

"There is no time for grief during a bloodshed," mumbled the shadowmancer, who had fought in a war before. Eyes lacquered over with an ice-like veil, and his jaw tightened as he submerged in his memories, "Your tears are for the dead, not for yourself."

Ananke did not comment any further, merely focused on the ticking horologe that stood positioned on the eastern wall of the chamber, clad in dark swirls that intercalated with the glassy edges, and the tongues spiraled as they read the wrong hour. Still, the rumble was monotonous as it sounded in an iambic rhythm, like soft poetry splitting through the atmosphere and engulfing the burnt sienna-tinted room. The scent of old parchment was potent, and it somehow accentuated the sonority of Lev tapping against the boarded floors.

Then, Dolkins cleared his throat, and the shadowmancer snapped his eyes to him in a simple move, fingers clenching on the material of his robe as he strode over with quick steps, covering ground in brief seconds. Lev waited for the man to give him the mirror, and when he did not, he raised an eyebrow.

"Ten galleons."

A puff of irritation sounded through the boy's body as he pulled out the coins from his robe, counting them fast. Dumbledore had been giving them monthly payments for their service, as well as providing them with every necessity, but Lev sent almost all of his money back to his mother, and so with a tarried glance at his practically empty hand, he realized he did not have enough money to pay.

Ananke emerged from behind, slamming her coins onto the desk with a frustrated look at the curse-breaker that was robbing them before their eyes, but they had no time to quarrel with the elderly merchant, not when the sounding flame of peril was hot on their soles, nicking their skin until it tasted ivory bone. The inundating sensation of treacherous emotions hummed across her epidermis, prickling on dead skin until the empath stopped her swift motions while Lev took the mirror from Dolkin's trembling hands.

She rose small pupils to gaze at the man, noticed the duct of perspiration that stroked the side of his temple, then loitered down his face until it fell from a sagged jaw and onto quivering fingers. Dolkins pulled out a white handkerchief and pressed it against his married forehead, throat moving as he gulped into voidness. He was nervous. What for?

Swiftly, Ananke drew out her wand just as the sound of a loud crash resonated from outside, and the oil-lamps in the room flew into darkness as three windows smashed open. She twisted to glance at where the man had been, but he had ducked underneath his desk and escaped, and the witch cursed as a fleeting green glow flew across the room.

"Down!" yelled Lev, throwing her to the side until her body clashed into something she was not quite sure of, but might have been a stack of volumes. Her form thudded to the wooden floor, and she felt her knees scrape as they dragged on it, her wand sliding somewhere through the endless objects.

The chamber faded into darkness yet again, and the only sign of intruders was the sound of bodies slithering through the doors and windows—an ambush. With a huff, Ananke rose from the ground, yet nothing was distinguishable in the chamber. Another spell flashed forward, bright red this time, and all the witch could register was Lev being blasted into the wall as four of Grindelwald's men stood on the other side of the room.

When the blanket of obscurity faded again, Navarro closed her eyes, trying to catch onto the tingling connections of emotions that transcended through the room, and wrap pointed hooks against the edges. As such, she sensed the general direction in which the enemy was positioned, and then slashed a spell through the air, bursting every glass window in the room and allowing the piercing material to gash away at the wizards.

A hand clasped around her forearm, and she almost fought back before sensing Lev's distinguishable perfume, then the boy dragged her through the antechamber before pushing the door open. They stumbled into the streets, and with wide eyes, gazed around the destroyed neighborhood, searching for more intruders.

Right on cue, another curse passed by Ananke's ears, and the shouting of men filled the boulevard as they cascaded against the stone-paved lengths, and even with only moonshine as a light source, the empath could spot them like an avalanche of peril that headed their way.

"Run!" was all she could splutter before her soles were clicking against the ground, dust jolting from her movement. Lev followed right behind, grabbing onto corners to haul his body in an attempt to escape, for there were too many behind to attack simply. They had to break them apart if they wanted to stand a chance, and both wizards were too proud to vanish into thin air. No, they had been attacked, and they had had enough of their constant torment.

The shelterless people beyond the bridge did not even turn an eye to the commotion, nor did anyone step outside from the safety of their houses, for blasts and bombardments were no longer a resonance that earned the curiosity of a wandering mind, but signs of imminent barricade. So, in the Londonese streets of Hackney, the two Virtues dashed from wall to wall, from alleyway to alleyway, men chasing them right behind.

"Avada Kedavra!" rang throughout the opening, and the curse sliced right between the two as they threw themselves to the side, attempting to escape it.

Lev's body clashed against an empty trashcan, and the sound alerted the man of his location. With fierce eyes, he looked at the dead-end behind them, and then at Ananke, who gave him a curt nod right as she slithered through the cans that were scattered amongst the closed space.

Sounds of footsteps approached, but only four men cast shadows onto the boy as he stood by the wall, hands parted by his sides as adumbrations swirled amongst them. From their perspective, what stood at the end of the alley was not human—no, it was as horrifying at the creatures their leader had been using, with black swirls pulsing against the epidermis like veins, and sclera that had turned as dark as the onyx of the pupils. Still, with a tremble in their hands, they attempted to slash their wands against the boy.

But the demonic wizard was faster, and so he waltzed through them like a maestro, shadows grabbing at limbs and his fists colliding with jaws until they were disfigured. Blood splattered against the pavement as Lev's shadows caught one man's head, then slammed it against the opposite wall until brain mattered clouded the reddened brick.

"You little fucker—" spat another wizard, yet they were the last words he would ever mutter, for Lev dug deep claws of obscurations into his neck. The skin split at his digits, and he felt the flesh glide against his hand as he grasped the man's throat, then pulled ferociously until the muscle stretched. The shadowmancer watched the panic, the moribundity that danced across the enemy's face right before he detached his esophagus entirely, holding the bloodied gorge in his right hand and against the moonlight.

Lev's face was draped in blood, splotches of sanguine that had adorned his delicate features, and he twisted on his feet to glance at the last man that stood on the street, cowering before him. They had thought they were coming to destroy mere children, and they had been wrong. Myung had killed more than they could ever, had slaughtered in cold blood both Koreans and Japanese on the war front, only to protect his family.

The enemy made to dash away, but Lev lashed a shadow string that grabbed the man's own umbrae, having him stumble to his feet right before him. The fear that inundated features the shadowmancer would never remember was satisfying, and he watched them fade into nothing as the boy stomped onto his stomach again, and again, and again—until he dug a hole into his abdomen, crushing organs under his soles.

More footsteps rang from somewhere far, but it was not Lev who intercepted them; it was Ananke.

She stood impassively in front of two men, slowly ungloving her hands as delicately as possible, face so calm that they did not attack her on sight. Instead, they stopped, perplexed at her oddity, and exchanged an uncertain look, wondering perhaps if this was the woman they were supposed to go after.

That was the last of their thoughts that transpired because, in the next moment, they were trashing on the floor like drowned insects, overwhelmed by an indescribable sense of pain that she had infused into their minds, dipping it like a sweet tea package in the hot cup of their sanity. Ananke approached slow, steadily, perfectly—her hands were not bloodied, they did not have to be. Her weapons were of other means.

The witch leaned over their figures and regarded them lose their minds, horrible nightmares instilled with the most gruesome thoughts, and she lowered herself to her knees, determined to strike the last shot. She could size the mine from afar, but she had to touch people to drive them insane fully. So, with as little as two fingers placed on their foreheads, Ananke had the men wailing until their throats clouded with blood, spluttering on nonsensical pleas that they should have reserved for whatever divinity they admired, not for her. The gods were cruel, but she had been raised to be vicious.

The job was done the minute shouts did not flutter through the market, and Ananke drew in a sharp breath, glancing down at the two cadavers with a brief look before stepping over them and waltzing to where Lev waited for her in the shadows, drenched in blood that splotched his black clothes.

She scrunched her nose, eyeing him, "Barbaric."

He gave her a bloodied smirk, "Dainty."

That was the last word he muttered before grabbing her arm again, and the swirling sensation returned as they arrived on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, right where the barrier ended. With quick steps, they marched back towards safety and then stopped to gaze at the castle up on the hill. Ananke turned to look at Lev, lips pursed, and watched him take out the mirror. It was not fixed, but it was now repairable.

The shadowmancer puffed his cheeks, taking in a deep breath, "I will have it done by sunrise," and then he gazed at her, "And then we will know."

"And then we will know," echoed Ananke.

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Varya furrowed her dark eyebrows, pushing raven hair behind her ears as she gazed at Felixius Parkin's fallen face. He stood at his desk, toying with a quill in his hands as he gaped down at the movement, silence a screeching sound between them.

"Why would you believe Della is cheating on you?"

The deep sigh that wavered from the boy was strikingly painful, and the witch's heart twisted at the ache in him. According to the older wizard, his girlfriend had been growing more and more distant lately, sneaking out during late hours from his chambers and returning in the morning, perhaps thinking that he was not aware. Felix was a gentle boy, however, and did not want to confront the witch full-on.

"There is just something—" his words lumped, and he shook his head, "You know when you have a feeling that someone is lying to you, and you simply do not know what about?"

Of course, she did. She was in love with Tom Riddle, after all.

"You earn nothing by not talking to her," mumbled the witch, pushing herself off of the couch and walking to the boy. She extended an arm towards him, and Parkin bit down on his lip in debate before accepting it. They had to prepare a clearing in the woods for their training session tomorrow, and the wizard had to find something to distract himself with.

So, they both strolled through the corridors, then walked out into the Courtyard, arms wrapped around each other and ignoring the prying gazes of other students. Felix was considered to have the authority of a teacher, and to see him walking around with a student on his arm was admittedly strange. Little did they know of the one that sneaked in his private chambers every night.

When they reached the forest, flares of fire illuminated the clearing as Tom Riddle melted the snow to allow them to practice, lethargic expression stamped on his face as he waved his wand around. He was wearing a thick coat, paired with an equally thick scarf that appeared to be made of an itchy material, and small snowflakes had caught in his curls. When he heard people approach, his eyes immediately snapped to Varya, and he pocketed his wand before walking over to her with an apathetic face.

"Morning," he saluted her and Felixius Parkin, although he did not spare the boy a glance, "This is tedious work and absolutely useless. Might as well have the snow to soften the blows from when they would duel each other since I doubt half of them can hold a wand correctly."

"If they cannot hold a wand correctly, perhaps you should revise your teaching skills," muttered Felix from the side.

Tom shot him a skewed glare; his jaw tightened, "Parkin, if I wanted to hear the opinions of burned-out Quidditch players, I would have simply walked over to the Gryffindor table."

"And if I wanted to hear the thoughts of narcissistic sociopaths who have deeply-rooted self-esteem issues, I would have asked—," Felix shamed a stop, "Oh, right. Still you."

"Charming," mumbled Riddle, utterly unfazed as he clasped his hands behind his back.

He then turned around on his heels and walked over to where Abraxas Malfoy was approaching, robes fluttering behind him as he stepped with calculated elegance, platinum hair hidden under a dark hat. Varya watched them exchange nimble whispers, faces stern and bodies stiffened, as if they were two identical snowflakes that had caught in a zephyr of malice, trailing the predestined path of nefarious movements. They were two droplets from the red wine that nested in Hades' cup, plastered on forbidden lips and sunken in a sea of scarlet that followed their every move.

A small scream attracted their attention, and they all gazed down through the trees to see Indra running away from Rosier as he threw another snowball at her, coloring her garments the same nuance as her hair. The witch twisted rapidly, and then with a small gesture, she stole the boy's eyesight, plunging him into darkness as she grabbed a fist of snow and shoved it down his coat.

"That is not fair!" shouted Ren right as he toppled over, face planting into the cold blanked of ivory as Indra climbed over his back. The witch pulled at his curls, then raised his head up before diving it right back into the snow.

Her laughter tinkled to the clearing, yet she was promptly stopped as someone grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her petite frame and pulling her away from her spluttering boyfriend. Indra kicked her feet around, trashing in the person's hold, "Let me go, you brute!"

Lev scoffed, carrying his sister away, "If you kill this one, you are not getting a new one."

Behind him, Ananke loitered with small steps, and Varya noticed the terrible frown stretched over her face like a cannon of frustration. When their eyes met, the empath made a small gesture for the witch to follow her, so Petrov bid goodbye to Felix and walked over. Ananke's green dress was simple, yet luxurious, and her hair fell in tight curls around her head as she pressed aching lips in irritation. Then, Lev appeared by her side, wearing a similar scowl.

"What is it?" inquired Varya, somewhat anxious due to their displaced faces, and she glanced around the clearing, noticing how they had backtracked away from everyone else. With a quick side-step, the two sat on either side of her front view, exchanging ominous looks.

"We have something to show you," muttered the shadowmancer, then dug fingers in his robes before pulling out an object that might have otherwise been peculiar to the witch. But in the dim light of the winter month, Varya crinkled her eyes and recognized it promptly, "You know what this is, then?"

It seemed to be a rhetorical question, as he handed it to her diligently, face stern and drowning in her every move. Apprehension passed over the boy's face as Varya twisted the mirror on all sides, wrinkled forehead lowering to inspect it further. Of course, she recognized it—it was the gift she had given to Della Beauchamp on their first Christmas spent together, a means of watching over her father throughout war times. The swirls on the top had faded to a murky nuance, and there were scratched on every side from improper handling, as if it had been thrown against the ground repeatedly.

Varya raised her face to stare at her companions, "Why do you have this?"

"I took it from Della Beauchamp," confessed Ananke, and at the Obscurial's rash wrath, she continued, "For months now, I have been sensing something odd in her emotions. A shift, almost as if guilt had drowned her and whatever was left was a shell of who Della once was. I started suspecting her, and I decided to dig into the reasoning behind everything, especially after Tom knew so much about our identity."

"I know that they manipulated Della into giving them information of us, but she is placed under an Unbreakable Vow according to Abraxas and—"

"Varya, listen to me," whispered the empath, stepping forward to place gloved hands on her shoulders, "Yes, we knew that Della had been spilling some information to Tom regarding our task, but that is not all there is to it. Have you ever wondered what secret of hers they held that made her cooperate so willingly?"

The Eastern witch was admittedly lost, "Have you met them? They do not need to blackmail you in order to use you. The Knights will twist your mind until you feel empty and abandoned, until you have no choice but to ally with them because they will make you think you belong. But you never do."

Varya's words were bitten with acidity and familiarity, the tirade of a scorned woman who had faced the Knights' manipulation endlessly and had mistakenly placed her trust in their confined ranks, so desperate to be accepted. Yet, their fury had scorched her until charred flesh was as dull as the sting in her soul, and now she was numb to their nefarious ways.

"Open the mirror," Lev cut to the chase, arms crossed over his chest as he stared down at the witch from his impressive height.

Frowning, and with a slight roll of her eyes, Varya obeyed, and she felt her fingers cling to the beauty-object, popping the top open and letting it sit straight. Her eyes trailed the image, expecting to see a muggle man in the midst of battle, but instead, there was something much more terrible that awaited her—the sight of Della's father in chains, pushed in a confined space in which he could barely move, with his own excrements clinging to his soles as he glanced up at the ceiling, eyes glazed over by something inhumane. That was no man; it was no living being that still wished to be alive, but a vessel for a tarnished soul, an epave on the shore of insanity. Bones and skin were all there were left, and for a second, Varya thought there was a mistake.

This could not be the same man that she had seen all those years ago, the same man that had painted his daughter's ceiling with stars only because she had found a vague niche in astronomy, imitating the endless drugget of obscure infinity with specks of aureate apollos. Varya had never met him, but she had heard from the Beauchamp family tales of his decisive eyes and pleasant smile, a loving father and a caring husband. But this—this was nothing. Not a human nor a corpse, a being that threaded the edge, too afraid to let go and too tired to cling to what was left of his life.

And then, she saw it—the faint scarping on the wall, the marking that Varya had come to know as a representation of the Deathly Hallows, a triangle, a circle, and a line.

Realization dawned upon her like the last twilight before an apocalypse, and she felt the hotness of the dimming rays of hope fall behind a horizon of building wrath. She had been betrayed; she had been fooled by a person that she had considered to be like a sister to her, the closest thing she had ever had to a true friend. And perhaps she was foolish for not figuring it out earlier—the chilling distance that had been sewed between the two now a laughing premonition.

"Shit, Varya."

But no other words could stop her as she pivoted on her feet, mirror tightly in her hand and wind lashing brutally around their surroundings as her Obscurus sizzled underneath her skin, and eyes flickered to ivory, to black, to ivory, to black—yet all she could see was a scarlet veil of maddened fury as she headed straight for Tom Riddle.

Without as much as a warning, she blasted him into one of the trees, harshly enough that the wood creaked from the impact, and Tom stumbled to the ground, hands clinging to his side as he shot the witch surprised eyes. Malfoy made to step in, but Varya immediately clasped his limbs with outgrown roots, her magic a hurricane of torment, and the boy trashed against the hold, but could not break out of it.

"Varya, what in Merlin's name—" Tom began, but he was quickly silenced by another blasting spell that propelled him through the clearing. He let out a hefty groan, a crack already forming around his temple as blood dripped down the side of his face. When he stared up, though, he saw the Obscurial that had become known for sinking claws into men's chest and crushing their hearts, not the girl he had kissed in the Dungeon corridors with enough urgency to shatter a Greek amphitheater.

Against the snowy backdrop, her figure stood imperially, shadows dancing around her like tentacles of depravity that extended to the boy slowly, threateningly, as if they could pounce at any moment. Her hair swirled around her, magnetically, electrically, a witch infused with enough force to shatter bones into powder and crunch them with bare hands.

"Do not use my name," her hissing was laced with venom, and she retracted her grip on Malfoy, having him stumble to the ground as Rosier pushed forward to catch him. On the sidelines, Lev was sheltering Indra from the fury, and Ananke and Felix were exchanging concerned looks, debating whether to jump in or not.

Tom shook his head, clarity slipping away from the possible concussion he had acquired, and he attempted to push himself upwards, only to be struck down again by the witch as she lashed one arm of darkness towards him, a whip of submission. The boy raised bared teeth at her, snarling before pulling out his wand and hitting it, sending down a spell that glistened red and struck the witch in the chest. In a matter of seconds, Riddle was pulling himself to his feet; wand pointed at Varya's figure as she hurried to stand straight.

"What is the matter with you, Petrov?"

"What is the matter?" she screamed her question, and then, with one flick of her hand, she brought down three trees from around the boy in an attempt to squish him. Riddle stumbled backward, avoiding the fauna and trying to save himself from being crushed to death, before setting them afire in black flames and watching them turn to mere dust in the briefest minute.

"You lied to me!" Varya continued, launching another assault as she blasted two rocks together, dart pebbles slashing through the air as Tom raised a barrier of the earth to protect himself, "This whole time, you toyed with my mind, letting me believe you were helping me uncover the mole. But you knew who it was! You knew it was Della Beauchamp!"

"What?" sounded Felix from behind, and the boy gripped onto the trees around him, his legs heavy as the world crashed and burned around him. With swift eyes, he scanned the perimeter, and noticed two figures pulsing through the forest—Della Beauchamp and Scarlet Norberg had arrived at the scene.

The two witches stumbled into the clearing, wands drawn out to attack any intruder, but were stupefied at the sigh of Varya wreaking havoc on the woods. Tom coughed as he felt a prickling sensation on his insides, and then with horror, he gazed at his hands, taking in a deep breath at the dead butterfly wings that had fallen before his mouth like writhing petals of a flower. Suddenly, his throat felt clogged, and he rose frantic hands to grasp his neck as aghast eyes glazed at Petrov, whose lips had begun moving swiftly, the curse a fast string of dark sorcery that slithered through.

"Stop that!" he managed to choke out, pulverized wings coloring his lips a dark blue as they began twisting inside his abdomen, something akin to razors dragging across internal flesh, something he had felt before, but under different circumstances.

"Do you feel that?" Varya rasped, yet her voice slightly cracked, the betrayal a tsunami of that inundated her with agony, "That is what it is like to care for you, that it is like to love you. Constantly being torn from inside out like choking on razor winged butterflies."

She did not want to cry; did not want to look at the way his lips had begun turning blue from the lack of oxygen, or the way frantic eyes searched around the clearing for someone to help him, yet terrified eyes were only glancing at the sky, where clouds of darkness had gathered over the castle, the wind a flurry of wrath that rivaled Ares' crudity and Hades' vengeance. Lightning crackled through the horizon, patterned strings of golden perfidy that extended until there was nothing but a show of obscurity on light, as if Zeus was confronting the cerulean.

"I despise you to my core, I wish you nothing but endless torment in your life until you find it in your pitiful soul to end the misery you have brought onto everything by being born," her scream had broken into a wail, and lightning struck the trees beside them, having them flare like Death's matchsticks.

The flames blazed as if Hell had expanded its depths to the realm of the living, demanding payment for the years of debauchery, and their colors danced on Tom's pale face as he struggled to breathe, trying to raise his wand against the witch and failing as another jolt of pain radiated from inside. Blood spluttered from his lips, coloring the snow around him as his insides whirled, and he wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that he had not lied to her, because Della Beauchamp was not the mole. She had never been.

All the witch had done was be a pair of eyes on the front of Grindelwald's battles, gathering information on them so that the Knights could have an advantage. Abraxas had accompanied her on all missions and had been exchanging letters with the witch throughout the whole semester, tracking their progress in secret. She had never been let out of Tom's sight, had never been able to betray them, and had been the one to help them catch Nagel and understand the Dark Wizard's strategies.

More importantly, Tom wanted to tell Varya that although he had lied and had schemed, and he had hidden the truth from her, the boy had never done it to harm the witch. Riddle had been on her side regardless of his treacherous nature, and had done everything in his capacity to find usage in the unfortunate situation that Della Beauchamp had found herself in. It had not been done out of righteousness or pity, and although there was an egoistical nature to his actions, the Dark Lord had used his resources to help. He was a visionary, and that is where Varya could never meet his view—Tom knew that the benefits of using Della outweighed the drawbacks.

But he could not mutter one word, for inside of him blossomed carnage, a curse devised to have him suffer through the torment of Varya's sensations and emotions, and perhaps one might have expected him to feel defeated or ashamed. He did not. There was no shame caressing his face as he shot the witch a bloodied smirk, raising an eyebrow in mockery at her powers, only to aggravate her, only to show her that not even on the brink of death would he bow to anyone else.

And Riddle might have felt his psyche shatter at the sight of the painful tears that clouded Varya's eyes when she struck him again, nailing him against a tree and holding him there as he continued to suffocate, feeling dizziness spill until he could almost touch Grim Reaper's sachet that dragged onto his neck with expectancy. He might have confessed to the self-disgust of hurting the one person he cared for, the one Tom wanted to see every day until they outlived the Sun.

But he would never bow. Tom Riddle would never admit defeat, nor his weaknesses.

"Varya, stop, please!" cried out Della, pushing through the snow despite Scarlet's attempts at grabbing her, and throwing herself to her knees while gripping Varya's robes. She felt the Obscurus drag at her skin, slashing at it until small cuts formed on her cheekbones. The Eastern witch turned cold eyes to her, then, as if scorched, stumbled backward, letting her magical hold on Tom grow out of shock.

Riddle fell to his feet, quivering like a wounded dog as he spat out the last few bits of butterfly carcasses, taking in a deep breath that burned his lungs. Obsidian curls fell around his face, sticking to his forehead with transpiration, and he felt himself being hauled up by someone he recognized to be Maxwell Nott and dragged to the sidelines.

In the white clearing, with most Knights and Virtues scattered on the edges and trying to tame the wildfire that had broken through, Varya and Della stared at each other, unable to find their friendship in the ruins that had been left of their souls. One, destined to be nothing more than machinery, had been wrecked into ruthlessness, into something that functioned on anger and spite, with only destruction plaguing a rotten heart. The other, with treachery pulsing through her veins after years of lies, stared through stygian eyelashes clouded with tears, soft sobs shaking her body as she gazed at her former friend.

"Please, please, you have to understand!" Della cried out as Varya continued to step back, shaking her head in disgust.

"Why would you do this to me?" Petrov's voice broke, and she felt her nose clog as tears spilled from her eyes, "You knew what Grindelwald wanted from me, and yet you fooled me into thinking you were nothing but a victim! Is that why you aligned yourself with the Knights, because they discovered your disgusting secret."

"No," wailed the other witch, "No—they had my father, Varya. I had to do it. I had to do everything he said until Tom helped me. He helped me and sent Malfoy to protect me through every meeting in exchange for information."

"You could have come to me!" argued Varya, fists clenched by her side. With swift eyes, she gazed at Felix, who stood frozen in his spot as he stared at the woman he loved, seeing her in a new light. For a moment, Petrov wondered if he had known, but by the sniffing and trailing tears down his face, he felt just as ridiculous as she did, "'And Felix—this whole time, you had been meeting with the boy you fancied for years, the boy he felt insecure over, and you said nothing, Della. Why?"

The witch continued to sob, shoulders shaking in regret as she attempted to get up from her place on the ground and reach out to Varya, but the Eastern witch only put more distance between them.

"I could not," Della cried, "I could not, because...because—"

"Say it, then!"

The broken look that Beauchamp shot her almost made Varya want to forget the stinging sensation in her chest, almost made her want to put everything behind them and reach out to the witch, pretend they were still the same two girls that had been giggling about Icarus Lestrange in a forgotten pub in London. Della appeared utterly shattered, her hair sticking to her face as her cuts continued bleeding, the hematic liquid infusing with cold tears as she shook her head, pulling at her head and lowering her face until her sobs faced the ground. Then, she raised her face again, and what she said next made Varya forget any possibility of reconciliation.

"It was me. I am the one that killed Ivy."

For a second, the world stilled—the sound of the blizzard that had begun faded into nothing but a soft hum of nature. The panicked screams that came from Maxwell Nott as Tom Riddle crumbled to the ground, face blue, were nothing but a whisper in her subconscious. The coldness of her clothes as they soaked her to the bone, rippling through her marrow like icy daggers were only an itch on her numb skin.

Instead—numbness, stillness, crumbling. As if all air had left her lungs with a final knock, and the flurry of madness inside her stilled for the briefest second, letting the broken young girl she had been two years ago shine through. And in the clearing, there was no Obscurus, only an eighteen-year-old witch that stared ahead with a blank face, her lip quivering as everything turned into a muffled version of the world.

Grief was vacancy—the awareness that mundane moments that had once been taken for granted were now shattered into nothingness, a forgotten memory that tarried behind the realm of consciousness. Passed smiled nothing but nebular dust of recollections, a heavy name spoken in soft strokes of admiration and praise with threads of sorrow interlaced, and an empty, cold, rotten spot in one's soul where there once used to be a person.

And then, a shower of realization that dawned upon her as sound came back in, flares of distress as Nicholas Avery shouted for another person to charm a jet of water at the burning trees, as Elladora Selwyn leaned over Tom's body, trying to get him back to awareness, and Della's face a painting of despondency. At that moment, Varya did not only mourn Ivy Trouche, but also the Beauchamp witch.

Because she was going to kill her.

Fear flashed in Della's eyes as Varya screamed soundly before pulling her wand back to cast a terrible spell, but right as the witch tried to crush her former friend to pieces, she felt a blasting jinx hit her chest, sending her flying across the clearing and into one of the trees. Varya's hand rang profoundly, and her vision shifted between darkness and light as she blinked away the painful throbbing, barely registering Abraxas Malfoy standing in front of Della, wand pointed at the Obscurial.

"This ends now," he said decisively, "Della did not kill Ivy. She was instructed to do so and hesitated, but Ivy got scared and fell to her death. To end her suffering, Tom cast the Unforgivable Curse and then used her death to create his Horcrux. I will be frank with you, Petrov, because you have terrorized everyone with your outbursts into never facing you promptly, but I do not fear you."

Varya felt arms wrap around her, and Lev pulled her to her feet, trying to get her stable as her head continued pounding, and she clung to his robe, body rattling with sobs as her adrenaline faded away and she faced reality. Myung wrapped an arm around her waist, then brought her forward to where Malfoy was still shielding a crying Della.

"She is a traitor," mused Petrov through her tears, the stinging sensation in her chest refusing to go away, and it was all overwhelming as she almost fell back to the ground. Too much. It had all become too much.

"Beauchamp is no more of a traitor than you are a killer, and her hands are less bloodied than yours in the grand scheme of things," Malfoy narrowed his eyes on the witch, "She had to do it to protect her family, and she was scared, but in the end, she helped us capture Nagel which made us discover the Triquetra symbol."

But Varya could not understand. She could not fathom what it felt like to have your family in danger, to be so desperate to protect them, because she had never had one. The witch had been alone throughout her whole life, and the only family she had had were the people around her—those who had stabbed her in the back, poisoned her, used her, and left her in ruins. Grieving eyes flashed to Tom, who had awakened and was leaning against the tree, still on the ground, watching her with lost eyes.

"I will never trust her again," spat Varya, then turned to Riddle, "Or you. I want nothing to do with you. I do not want to see you, or hear you unless I have to."

Something flashed over Tom's face at her words, as if they had crushed him in a way nobody else ever had, and for a second, he appeared not to breathe before his face twisted in a taunt expression.

"You have to," bit Abraxas, having none of the argument, "All we have now is each other. And if you let this divide everyone, then we might go and hang ourselves off of the Astronomy Tower, because we are as good as dead when Grindelwald comes."

Varya turned scorching eyes to Della, who was patting her face dry as she rose to her feet, not daring to meet the witch's eyes. With a swift motion, the Eastern girl pulled out her dagger, and Lev almost sized it from her before she shot him a sane look and turned towards Beauchamp.

"Give me your hand," she ordered, and when she was met with hesitation, she pressed harshly, "Now."

Della obliged and staggered forward as she extended her hand, then watched Varya slash a deep cut on her palm before doing the same to her own. In one swift motion, she connected their hands, interlocking fingers as their blood smeared together.

"Swear to me," commanded Varya, "Swear to me that you will die before ever betraying me again. Swear to me that you will never do anything to harm any of us, or endanger us in any way. You will not move against me, or against any of the Death Eaters, not unless I specifically order you to."

"I swear," chocked Della out, watching their sanguine glisten with magic as Varya began her incantation, uniting their promise, and sealing it under a Blood Pact, just as she had learned from Dumbledore's past.

Everyone around them watched with terrible eyes as the two witches fell in a synonymous chant, both held by other people as to not topple to the ground from their fight, and their blood merged into one coherent string as it interlaced their fingers, uniting their promise in magic. When the spell was done, Varya stepped back like scorned, not wanting to spend one more minute in her presence. She was not sure when, if ever, she could forgive Della, but it was not today, nor in the near future.

With a sly look, Varya turned to Malfoy, sneering at him, "Now, you found your Secret Keeper. She is sworn by blood not to betray us, and will pay with her life if she does."

The words were spat with such crudity it made the boy flinch, and then Varya gripped Lev's arm, and motioned for them to pass through the group, ignoring the stares she received. She could not be around them for now; the witch needed time, she had to stay away from all, but mostly from Tom Riddle, who trailed her every movement with conflicted eyes and watched her walk away from him.

Malfoy pressed tight lips, then twisted to Della before grabbing her arm, "Let us go," were the last words he muttered before pulling her away as well, trying to distance the girl from the mess that had been left behind and bring her to the Hospital Wing.

As they passed by Felix, who could only watch them with a broken-heart, Della wanted nothing more than to break away from Abraxas and wrap arms around the other boy, but she knew that if she did that, it would mean nothing. Because she had been entirely right in assuming that Parkin would never be able to protect her from what she had become, would never be able to face her and see anything except the gravity of what she had done. Felix had fallen for the girl he had met in his last year of school, and Della did not die alongside Ivy, but she might as well have—her old-self had accompanied the blonde Slytherin to her grave.

When Malfoy and Beauchamp passed through the corridors, eyes gawked at the pair, unwilling to believe that the pureblood elitist was willingly touching arguably one of the most common muggle-borns in the school, fingers wrapped around her waist protectively. And they all knew that by tomorrow morning, not only would the whole school know, but their faces would be plastered on every Daily Prophet copy and placed on the table along with the morning tea.

Come sunrise; Abraxas Malfoy would have lost everything—his reputation, the weight of his name, his family's trust, and all that had shaped him into the prideful monarch that he was. Instead, all left would be a burned crown made of thorns.

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Someone made a discord server for The Seven Devils! The link is in my Wattpad bio, and you should join. The conversations are really funny.

Thank you so much for your support!