I really need to stop writing at late hours because I cannot properly edit. Sorry for any mistakes.

***

THE ANATOMY OF LEV MYUNG - DILIGENCE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The windows battled with the tumultuous sound of rainfall, a thunder bestowed upon the thickened glass of the Ravenclaw dorms. An acute whirring sonority engulfed the tower, akin to a blanket of dampness and piercing sensations. It was a muffled ring, droplets cascading over everything that the horizon covered, and the boisterous flash of lightning briefly illuminated the abandoned chamber.

Ananke peeked her head out from behind the door, gazing into the Common Room where Della Beauchamp was scribbling Astronomy notes on jaundiced parchment, her quill scratching against the paper with fever and her eyebrows knotted in concentration. Waves tumbled around porcelain features, cradling feminine beauty with refined arrangments of long eyelashes and a round nose.

The empath's eyes fell on the mirror across the dormitory hallway, and she caught sight of herself as she stood in the door of their shared room, her features flaring with complicity. Her honey hair had been pinned half-up, few undulating strands outlining her minute face and making protruding mellow eyes glimmer with intrusiveness. Ananke's white dress shirt adhered to her body, already perspiring in the hot spots from the way her feelings sizzled with turbulence.

She pursed her lips, then gradually moved back into the chamber, shutting the door quietly as not to attract the other girl's attention. With quick steps, she approached Della's trunk, then tried to pry it open. It did not budge.

"Shit," cursed the otherwise refined witch, and she glanced around the room, looking for something that could be used to pry open the lock. Then, almost as if struck by her own stupidity, Ananke slammed her hand against her forehead before pulling out her wand, "Alohomora."

The trunk clicked open gently, and with apprehensive hands, Navarro pushed the top part upwards, leaning over it as her heart beat loudly with trepidation. She tried to keep her mind steady, feel any sort of shift in Della's concentration from across the Ravenclaw Tower, and then began digging through the endless piles of objects.

Ananke drew her gaze over the countless pictures stuffed in one of the corners of the trunk, and with a curious mind, she reached out to them and pulled them. They were of different sizes and dates, and some of them had had their image faded by restless time, the white-edges bent and crinkled.

She gazed at the whimsical smile on the Beauchamp witch's face as she threw an arm over Varya's shoulder. The picture was not a magical one; it had been taken with a muggle camera, their bodies still and expressions awkward. The date seemed to be labeled on Christmas Eve a few years back, and Ananke almost found the youthful expression on Varya's face to be abnormal.

It was still strained, the slightest inkling of morose eyes and the lips that barely quirked, but it did not have the pure darkness that filled in steely eyes, nor the tightly pressed lips and the ever-present frown. Petrov appeared younger, greener than she was now, almost as if it had been taken before her juvenile days had been stolen from her.

Ananke placed it back, and as she made to pull her hand, she felt the acute pain of something slicing her finger. A small gasp barely went past her lips when she saw sanguine dripping down the edge of her palm, and she promptly pressed it against chapped lips, tracing her tongue over the wound to have her saliva attack the possible infection.

"What the hell?" she mumbled, leaning over the edge of the container and eyeing the shards of a broken mirror on the bottom. Navarro dug her hand in again, making sure to avoid the sharp edges, then gripped a compact mirror that had been hidden underneath piles of photos and socks.

She felt Della's mind slightly wander off in the Common Room, and tucked the object in her robes fastly, then shut the trap of the trunk and scurried to the other side of the room, where she tried to appear entirely entertained as she folded her duvet.

Beauchamp walked in, heeled boots clinking against the wooden floor as her blue tie hung around her neck, and she threw Ananke a toothy smile, "Doing laundry?"

"Yes," mumbled the witch, "Taking out all the dirty laundry."

Della nodded, completely missing the subtleness of her words before she headed to her chest. Ananke drew in a sharp breath as the Head Girl rummaged through her belongings, a slight frown etched on her delicate face. Only when she smiled as she pulled out an Alchemy textbook did the empath's pulse settle.

With a quick goodbye, she stepped out of the room, and Ananke waited a few minutes before diving out into the hallway. The mirror was cold against her skin, and she dove a hand through her shirt before pulling it out. With furrowed eyebrows, she twisted it on every side, opening it as she analyzed the broken mirror.

There had to be something about it. Traces of magic laced it, pulsating like needles against sensitive skin, and although they were faint and could have belonged to an ordinary magical object, Ananke knew there was more to it. Why would Beauchamp keep a broken magical mirror unless she intended to fix it? And the fact that she did not merely replace it suggested that it was either one of a kind or incredibly valuable to the girl.

Navarro pushed the door open to the Ravenclaw Salon, her mind immediately sharpening as she stepped through the threshold, and glanced at the scattered books and parchment that adorned most of the council table. Pacing around it eagerly, Lev trailed Maxwell Nott as he pointed at different books, lips moving fast as he spluttered words of significance.

The two of them were actively going through every document that they could recall from their studies at the Rosier Manor, tracing patterns and underlining any information that might be useful to them. Inkspots covered Nott's hands and the sleeves of his uniform, whereas Lev remained perfectly pristine.

"Lev," spoke out Ananke, briefly earning the shadowmancer's attention before Nott started waving a document in his face, "I must speak with you."

"Well, go ahead," he answered, voice distant as his eyes trailed the endless texts with the slightest fascination. He picked the paper from Maxwell's hand, then frowned at the lines of rows, scribbling down something on the paper in front of him.

Navarro shot her eyes to Nott, who had an inquisitive look on his face, "In private."

Myung paused for a second, almost as if there had been something in her voice that had alerted him, and then onyx eyes swirled with some sort of agitation that Ananke did not quite understand, yet knew to be his flare of protectiveness. Perhaps, she had sounded distressed, and that is all it took for Lev to march to her side with soldier steps and accompany outside in the owlery.

At his probing look, the empath glanced around the chamber before pulling out the mirror and holding it against the light, "Look what I found."

Myung frowned, "A beauty mirror?"

She almost rolled her eyes, then proceeded, "It is Della's, and look—entirely broken. Yet, she keeps it along with her photos of Varya and Felix, with her textbooks and notebooks. Would you hold onto a broken object and place it amongst such significant things if it did not carry sentimental value?"

"No," admitted Lev, "But I fail to see how this helps us."

"Hold it."

The boy did as told, and his veins pulsated of shadows, covering his skin in traces of darkness as he felt the black magic that emanated from the mirror. Lev drew in a sharp breath, knowing this was no ordinary object found in the wizarding market, for its sorcery had the slightest tang of blasphemy.

"I see your point," admitted the shadowmancer, "But this is hardly proof. For all we know, Varya could have given this to her. It has the slight hinge of her magic, almost like a thin veil of demonic affiliations."

"Think about it—if Varya was the one to give it to her, then why did Della not just go and ask her best friend to fix it? There has to be something about it that she does not want Varya to see, something that this mirror is now hiding," explained Ananke.

"I am not sure we should give it to Varya until we know everything," mumbled Lev, twirling the mirror in his fingers. It had seemed quite large in Ananke's hands, but the shadowmancer's palm had it appear as small as a badge, "I can try fixing it, get the glass replaced, and the try to pull on the strings of darkness and connect them again. Then, it should go back to working properly."

"How fast can you get it done?"

"Uh," started the boy, "As fast as I can, but I have been with Maxwell in the past few days ever since Selwyn had her accident. We have been trying to connect a few dots here and there, get some sort of lead on what our next step should be."

Ananke narrowed her eyes, "Now that we have the mirror, I believe you should leave the poor boy alone."

"I am not doing anything," argued Lev, "If anything, I am helping him by encouraging him to train and explore different skills. Even his friend—whatever his name was—the one that was explaining the easiest way to have someone bleed out yesterday. Even he has started joining us."

"So you are doing this for his benefit?" snorted Navarro, "Please, Lev. At least do not lie to yourself. I know the games you play with people to get what you want, I know that you are willing to do to protect us, but do not go too far this time."

There was tightness in his face then, his eyes glossed over by something entirely newfound, and his jaw clenched, "You have no idea what I am capable of in order to protect those I love."

There was a moment of taciturnity then, and Ananke's skin crawled as the intensity of the boy's stare seemed to set her alight. She opened her mouth to ask what exactly he had meant, but the door of the owlery swung open again, and in stepped Varya, her eyes trained on a letter she was scanning fiercely.

As soon as she raised her pupils to glance at the two companions, there was a slight hesitation in her features, almost as if an invisible string had hooked the witch from her collar, having her stagger in her steps. Ananke sensed the spark of suspicion, braided with the slightest trace of fear, and her eyebrows furrowed.

"Is everything all right, Varya?" she questioned, having Lev step back to analyze their leader with inquisitive eyes. The boy changed his demeanor then, somewhat less hostile, yet still on edge.

Petrov blinked fastly, a hefty breath passing her lips before she nodded, "Yes, yes I am," she cleared her throat, then held up her letter, "Have you seen Rosier? Headmaster Dippet asked me to hand this to him. His parents have been trying to contact him, and he has not responded."

The empath sensed the half-truth in her words, but before she could interject, Lev spoke rapidly, "No, but I will come to help you look for him."

"What of Nott?" questioned Ananke, frowning at how he was hurrying away from his crime. The shadowmancer shot her a disturbed glance, something between a warning of secrecy and a plea, but the truth had already been spilled.

"Lev, I hope you are not doing anything to endanger any of them," said Varya in a hushed voice, approaching the shadowmancer, "Please, if any of what has happened recently is your doing, if—"

"My doing?" asked Lev, affronted expression painting his face in subtle strokes. His jaw tightened, and his hands clenched by his side before he scoffed, "Surely you do not believe I would harm someone to that extent without running it by you, do you? Or is that what you think of me?"

Varya's face twisted in surprise, her eyes enlarging as the wizard pushed past her in aggravation, making to leave the tower. The Obscurial pivoted on her feet, knee-length skirt almost catching in her feet as she paddled with dark shoes against stone floor to catch up with the boy. Ananke followed behind, jogging down the stairs as to keep the pace.

If there was one thing that had always been true about Lev, it was that he took great pride in his loyalty and devotion, having been the one to watch out for the group continually. He always handled the most demanding tasks, always went the extra mile to preserve their purpose, and strived to win. It was not just the apparent infatuation with Varya that had the boy so entirely willing to bleed and die for their cause, but the absolute belief that swearing to an alliance was a deep vow of his honor.

And for that reason, Lev Myung was the virtue of diligence—a boy who would go to any end to protect those around him, for he had seen the scarifying truth of war. Trained to one day become a soldier, there was such eagerness to please his leader and companions, his steps harsher than most, stiffer than the average folk. And the blood that ran through his system, the diluted substance of fae people, ink of darkness, and a raven's feather, it made his anger chaotic, proportional.

When he struck an enemy, he made sure to nail them into the ground, having their coffin cackle with the body still warm. He was ruthless, an intrinsically skilled warrior, and that often alarmed those around him. Even in the army, he had had trouble finding like-minded soldiers, for most were of weak of character and entirely there to honor their families.

But Lev had joined them not for the glory of being a fighter, nor for the appreciation of becoming a martyr. Only ever to help his family, to earn his wage by enrolling in something he did not agree with, so that his mother would not have to face the suffering that other women did under Japanese occupation.

"Lev!" shouted Varya, smoky hair whirling as they stepped down the spiraled staircase, "I did not mean offense to it. But I know you would do anything to protect—"

He twisted on his feet at that, fire in his eyes as he gazed at her. Varya took a step back, hand cold on the balustrade, and she blinked rapidly as the boy tried his best to calm down his wrath at her audacity.

"You know nothing, Varya," he almost spat, although trying to contain his venom, "You know nothing of protecting people because you did not have to face what my family did; you did not have anyone close to you to protect. Do you have any inkling of why I am the way I am?"

"Lev, do not be harsh," spoke Ananke from behind.

"I am tired of being faulted for the fact that I will die for all of you, only for you to end up choosing bloodied serial killers and finding beauty in their poison," continued the shadowmancer, "Tell me I am wrong for disapproving of the way Indra looks at Rosier, I dare you. Tell me it is not normal for me to be absolutely disgusted when a man touches her when I have seen what they do to women in times of war. This is war. And the truth of it all is that men become uncontrollable vipers during such times, and they take advantage of women."

"I can take care of myself," argued the witch.

"Can you? How many times has that Riddle boy broken you? How many times have the Knights backstabbed you?" he shook his head, almost in disgust, "Women in our country, they get tricked into prostitution, forced to please soldiers. They get raped. And that is the truth other world leaders will hide from you; they will try to shadow the suffering of those who live in Asia. I have seen everything with my two own eyes; I have murdered more men on my own side for what they did than those on the opposing one. So tell me—tell me I am supposed to trust that those pythons will not hurt my sister, you, Ananke, or Scarlet."

The dust seemed to stick to his shoes, and Navarro watched Lev furiously take out a handkerchief from his pocket and lean down to scrub the polished footwear, scrub until the spotless glisten was as painful as a boring apollo, until he could not see nor feel as if he was not in control of everything around him.

From his heads to his toes, Lev was pristine—his uniform pressed tightly, his tie aligned so-perfectly, his hair in beautifully-crafted dark waves. The only chaos that ever radiated from the complex boy was the pulse of his shadows, which were now swirling around in agitation, dragging claws against the walls of the room and ruffling Varya's skirt.

The witch did not have much to say. There was compassion in her eyes, but also some sort of resentment, as if Myung had offended her with his words. Perhaps, he had—Varya did not like to be reminded of the fact that she had been alone for most of her life, exposed to the world's cruelty, toughened like a closed seed by the unsettled weather.

But Lev's words held true—Varya would never understand the absolute desperation he felt or the promises he made to take care of his sister. She would never feel the paranoia that plagued Myung's being while he was away from his mother, constantly worried for her safety.

"I know what you could do, and it scares me," continued the Eastern girl, "Because if you have been hurting the Knights, Lev, then I am not sure if you are still on the right side of things. We need their help, and I specifically told you not to harm anyone."

"And I did not," his answer was curt, yet his face was red from infuriation, scarlet lines running up and down his face, and some even pulsated with darkness, an indication that he had trouble controlling his rage.

Varya drew in a sharp breath, and Ananke placed a hand on her shoulder, something to let her know that as far as the empath could tell, Lev was telling the truth. Of course, there were always ways of blocking or fooling her senses, but she had faith in her friend.

The Obscurial nodded, then held the letter up, "I should find Rosier, then," she mumbled quickly before stepping past Lev and leaving the tower.

Ananke shot her friend a look, "Why would she think you had something to do with the Knights?"

The shadowmancer seemed lost for a second, his eyes empty and his face sullen. Navarro knew he disliked fighting with Petrov, for they had always shared a bond that was left unspoken, and it had been strained by their return to Hogwarts. Lev blinked fastly, pushing away the relentless thoughts.

"Because she does not know it is Della," answered the shadowmancer, "Once we show her the repaired mirror, she will be at ease."

Yet, there was something in the way he said it. Something that made Ananke doubt his words, and she knew that wherever their search led them, it would not put Varya at ease.

***

Varya's fingers tensed around the envelope, handling it as if it were a time mine, ready to blow her hands away at any moment. With the most recent way events had unfolded, she felt paranoia gnaw at her psyche in punctured bites, gradually cleaving away lumps of sanity.

Her feet carried her to the second floor, and she stopped by an open window, where golden draperies ruffled in the mid-autumn zephyr. October was an avenging month, the vestige of summer a carcass covered in auburn foliage, and the trees darkened their bark to charcoal, until the horizon was painted in shades of death.

Onyx eyes trailed the courtyard, and the witch watched students promenade across the fauna, boots cracking the leaves relentlessly as they made their way to yet another class. Hogwarts seemed normal for the briefest flash, a scenery broken from her fifth year, when she used to gaze out the window long before she had been poisoned, her mind wandering to the depths of her altered memories as she recalled her time at Scholomance.

But her school had burned, her memories had resurfaced, her Obscurus had unleashed.

"Penny for a thought?" chimed a melodious voice from behind, and Varya twisted to glance at Ophelia Winterbour, who was wearing her robes. Mousse hair had been pulled in a ponytail, and granite eyes glistened with officiousness. There she was again, the intrusive and prying witch.

Varya was still skeptical of her proximity, and her mind wandered for a second to the possibility of her being the mole. Her appearance was entirely convenient—plucked right in the middle of the fiasco, with just the right background to have her slither her way into Tom's group.

But Petrov had been inquiring about her, and everyone had told her two things about Ophelia that made her almost entirely unlikely to be the culprit. One was that she had not been in Europe for the past five years, her father having decided that she was to get an education in the United States, which explained her odd accent—a mixture of European and the roughness of the American land.

Secondly, she had no reason to attack the Knights, especially if she was working for Grindelwald. After all, the Dark Wizard would have used her presence as an opportunity to directly target Varya's group, those who had opposed his views since the beginning, not the descendants of his supporters. More so, she had been at Hogwarts for a year before the Virtues had arrived, and nothing had happened during her first year.

Still, Varya could not let her guard down just yet, so she plastered a bogus smile then shrugged, "Merely searching for Ren. Have you seen him?"

"Well, yes, I have. He was walking around the gardens with Indra earlier," Ophelia spoke rapidly, then gestured for Varya to follow her, "I was heading to my Herbology class anyhow, so I will gladly show you."

"Thank you," mused Varya, stuffing the letter in her robes. The last thing she needed was for the obnoxiously curious witch to start sniffing around at more scandal.

"So, what is your star sign?"

Flabbergasted, Petrov shot her a look, "My what?"

"Star sign," hummed Winterbour, then fumbled with her bag to pull out an extensive chart of constellations, "The constellation which you were born under. It is detrimental that you tell me, for I have been analyzing everyone's charts."

Varya blinked, then pushed her hair behind her ears, mildly confused, "Aries."

"Horrendous! Riddle is a Capricorn, do you know what that means?" When Varya shook her head, Ophelia continued, "Your compatibility is entirely messed up. You are quite literally competing for how to ruin your relationship, and the chart has you seated as likely enemies. Still, you seem to put your trust in each other blindly in dire situations, which I suppose is what you both need—a place of undoubted comfort and understanding."

"Divination taught you that?" questioned Petrov, somewhat fascinated by her words.

"Well, Professor Prigelton made her fair share of remarks on such things, but most of it I know from my studies," there was an odd pause in her speech, "It is wonderful to be able to know so much of people, do you not agree?"

Varya cared little for other people, a blissful ignorance that soothed her quick fuse, and as such, paid no mind to understand them. Perhaps that is why people such as Tom always bested her in intense situations, because they understood how those around them worked, and therefore their brains had been conditioned to comprehend fatal reactions.

"Ah, there they are!" chirped Ophelia, her ponytail swinging as she pointed at Ren and Indra, who were ankle-deep into the Black Lake, actively splashing at each other.

Varya bid the mentalist witch goodbye, and ran across the estate, her skirt ruffling in the wind and her hair spinning in every direction. Her breath felt heavy as she stopped in front of the couple, and they took a break from their merriment to give her strange looks.

"Not the time, Varya. Indra and I are having an argument—"

Crystalline laughter swept her senses, "Hardly! And it is entirely childish, regardless. Tell her, then!"

"Varya, dear," inquired Rosier, stepping out of the lake to stand before her. The wind ruffled his sienna curls, having them sway awkwardly to the side as he approached her, "Were you aware that my beloved girlfriend had a crush on your best friend, Felixius Parkin?"

The Eastern witch chuckled briefly, "I believe everyone did."

Ren twisted to glance at Indra, "So he was that mesmerizing that everyone knew of your feelings, then? What was it that you called him again?"

"Dream-like," chirped the witch, throwing her arms over the boy's shoulders and leaning her head against his shoulder-blades, "But you admitted to crushing on Felix too!"

Varya hoisted an eyebrow at Ren, and he merely shrugged, "She is right in calling him dream-like. I mean, Head-Boy and entirely charming? Forbidden love right there."

"What is the problem then?"

"She said that if we were both to compete for Parkin's heart, she would most definitely win!" exclaimed Ren, then plunged his hands behind his back, grabbing Indra's thighs and hosting her until he was carrying her on his back. He twirled slightly, and the witch screamed as they tilted ever so tenderly.

Varya watched them bicker as Rosier continued pretending to drop her in the cold water, a certain heaviness in her heart that she could not describe. She knew that such love was not meant for her, as she was not capable of lightness and gentle affection. Still, she was envious of how entirely open they were to each other, no emotional manipulation or backstabbing. Odd.

"This came for you," she interrupted their talk, pushing the letter forward and waiting for Ren to take it, "From your parents."

His face darkened then, crinkled features falling into a somber expression as he glanced at the envelope with skepticism. Reluctantly, Ren let Indra back to the ground, and gulped before slowly reaching out to the letter and grabbing it.

Rosier opened it with a quick spell, a small sigh leaving his lips. He had placed a blocking charm on all correspondence from his family, and now they had managed to reach him through the Headmaster. Quickly, he skimmed the letter, and Varya watched his expression morph into something serious, so much so that Indra had to reach out to him, sensing the light in him flicker.

"What is it?" she questioned, not wanting to be intrusive, yet worried about her boyfriend's emotions.

Rosier crumbled the letter, then threw it in the air before sending a fire spell at it. It disappeared in a matter of seconds as dark flames engulfed it, and then he turned to Indra and Varya, "Empty apologies from my mum. Says that she did not know Grindelwald would attack all of us, and was only worried that I was getting involved in something I should not be in."

"Have you spoken to them since you left?" asked Varya.

"No, and I have no intention to," mumbled the boy, then sighed, "She also told me that the Ministry has been discussing replacing Dumbledore as a professor, although they have not had much success considering their basis of doing so is that he has past connections to Grindelwald. At the same time, they keep assuring everyone that Grindelwald is not a threat, so their logic keeps failing them."

"Absolute fools," muttered Varya.

Rosier nodded, then abruptly stopped what he was doing as he glanced over her shoulder. He raised his hands, then pointed to a spot behind her, "Someone is looking for you."

Varya spun on her heels, and spotted Tom Riddle patiently waiting by the entrance of the castle, eyes solely focused on her. His robe was thrown over his shoulder as he leaned against the threshold, one foot against the wooden beam, and his curls tousled in the wind. There was something urgent in his stare, and the witch promptly set into motion to reach him.

The closer she got, the more overwhelmed she felt by his presence, an indescribable need to reach out and grasp his shirt, pull Tom into her, and press cold lips against his. Even so, their intricate bond was not one where such things were normalized, and as such, both did not fall into each other at any given moment.

"You are giving me an ominous stare, and it is making me uncomfortable," mumbled Varya as she marched past him, and Tom pushed himself off of the wall, wicked smile on his lips as he followed her.

"I entirely enjoy the idea of making you squirm," he mocked, then leaned in slightly, mouth almost touching the skin on the back of her ear, "In more ways than one."

"Pretentious prick," bit back Varya, "What do you want from me?"

All ridicule faded from Riddle's face like the soft deteriorated motion of a feather, and a secret twinkled in his features, "I am going to the Chamber to train. If you wish to accompany me, feel free to."

Varya froze in her spot for a moment, the same sensation of aggravation passing her being as she watched him slither into the girl lavatory, the hallway empty as students had left to attend their classes. The witch took in a deep breath before following him inside, pushing the door closed behind them and locking it with a spell.

"You are being reckless," she muttered quickly as the stairs began to form, and Tom extended a hand towards her out of courtesy.

"Hardly," the sound of his voice was muffled by the raucous sonority of stone crashing against stone, and Varya put his hand in his, letting herself enjoy the moment their skin touched, like the suave motion of two petals closing in as a flower ascended into night-time.

Riddle glanced at her then with compact determination, the lines in his forehead creases of intellect, and he pulled her down towards the steps, each movement of tempered eagerness. She did not let her mind dwell too much on the unconscious way his fingers slightly clambered around her hand or the way he walked a little closer to her than expected, because Varya knew Tom did not mean them. The boy was not doing anything consciously, he was too terrified of affection to caress her openly, and as such, any action was spontaneous combustion of inherited behavior.

The Chamber was just as she remembered it, slightly damp and overly heated, so much so that her ordinarily straight hair freezer where some strands had had breakage, sticking up like small antennas. The sound of Tom speaking in Parseltongue was oddly soothing as the entrance moved to open for them, and even when they stepped inside, his tongue moved aridly to order the basilisk to stay back.

A few steps in, and the boy became aware of how he was holding her hand awkwardly, as a gentleman would when inviting a lady to step out of the car. He retracted as if singed, and took a few steps back, embracing the coldness of not touching the witch and the way it drove icicles in his soul.

He pulled out the necromancy book again, and Varya grimaced, "I thought you gave up on that."

Tom ignored her, merely walked towards the front part of the Chamber, shoes clinking against the tile floor before he stopped at the bifurcation. Out of the pockets of his robe, he pulled out a package made out of white wrapping paper. With swift motion, he undid it, and Varya watched a dead rat fall to the ground.

"You cannot mean this," she injected, rushing forward to stop the boy, "Riddle, give up on the pursuit of necromancy. It will do you no good."

"Stop your babbling, Petrov. I will do as I please, and you can sit and watch, or accompany me in pursuing the darkest form of magic, and thus embracing the power you were given," his tone was acidic, like the blazing burn of a potent substance, and it peeled at Varya's layers.

Tom approached her swiftly, placing a hand on her waist with treacherous intent, and then leaned in, his lips hot on her neck. They were cuffs of grandeur, sinful promises with wicked intent as he grazed the skin where her jaw met her neck with his teeth and hummed deeply as he felt her citric fragrance spin his head.

His hands clutched her tighter at that, as if she were a mirage of wonder, and the witch would disappear the moment sanity was bestowed upon his ravaged mind. Her body was petite against his, and Varya felt the heat of his skin pulsate through his white dress shirt, a magnet of seduction and alienate. There was such pull to his being, as if he had connected strings to all of her limbs, and was now fiercely pulling like the master puppeteer that he was.

It was when he slipped relaxed fingers under the hem of her skirt that she felt entirely consumed, and his thumb pressed against her inner thigh as he gripped with voracious need. Tom twisted his other hand in her raven locks, pulling until plum lips connected with his, and he groaned against her mouth, so entirely fascinated with the way she tasted like peppermint.

His lips had always been blissful—kissing Riddle was like grazing the edge of Arcadia, or diving neck-deep into the reddened sea of Hell. There was such opposition in his touches, manufactured from the finest material of deceit, artifices of a brilliant mastermind that would one day have the world bow at his feet, yet the lightest sensation of rhapsodic beauty. There was something divine to his appearance and something blasphemous of his soul.

When he took a step back from her, she glanced up to meet eyes melted in burning flames of destruction. A man like Tom obsessed over everything he deemed worthy, and masochists such as him found rapture in slaughtering that which he adored. Varya wondered how he imagined doing it to her—choking on her own blood, pressing tight hands against her air pipes, having her beg on her knees.

She was powerful, and Riddle enjoyed trashing anything of pure appearances, asphyxiating virtue from a depraved word until Varya was as rotten and debauched as he was. Splattering sanguine against art-work, burning ancient tapestries down, demolishing renaissance buildings—devils such as Tom relished in destruction.

"Do it with me," he mumbled, alluring and bewitching, and Varya knew the tone of manipulation that he so eagerly used with her.

Still, her eyes had settled on the rat, and the pit of darkness in her abdomen only extended as she felt Tom's presence near, like tentacles of obscurity clawing at her and depriving her of light. There was a ring in Varya's ears, something similar to what the imagines the chime of purgatory to be, and her skin covered in goosebumps as the familiar tingle of dark magic settled in her bones.

Only once. It was not an addiction. Only once.

"Fine," Varya breathed and tried to ignore the heinous smirk on Tom's face. He probably thought she had agreed from his touches alone, not knowing of the way her psyche had been slowly deforming for months now.

Riddle stepped back to the rat, then opened the book, pages flipping like harmonies of cruelty, and it fit well into his hands. The Eastern girl thought there was almost something natural to the way his aqua irises simmered from the darkness of his spell, and how he susurrated the Latin chant so clearly, silver-tongue a whip of sorcery.

With prying eyes, the witch leaned in and watched the dead creature move slightly, its stomach round punches as the skin seemed to deform, and Tom held his breath. They both kneeled beside the animal and watched as its mouth fell open, a cockroach crawling out of its intestines, covered in remains and entirely disgusting.

Varya slammed her foot over it, then used a spell to clean up the mess before glancing at Riddle's sullen face. His eyes appeared somewhat disturbed, his face fallen at his failure, and eyebrows knitted in frustration.

"Here," she started, extending her hands to him, "Your first try is not supposed to work, regardless of how entirely talented you are. You must feel a connection to death to banish it, and for a being such as you that had entirely chased it away, it is hard."

Tom eyes her fingers as if they were poisonous, "And why would you help me?"

"I do not like seeing you upset when you cannot bring back the dead," scoffed the witch, trying to pass it off as a jab, but instead somehow ended up meaning it.

Riddle blinked slowly before clutching her hands, and they hovered over the carcass, connected through physical touch and sorcery. Varya opened her mouth first, reciting the chant she had memorized long ago, and feeling his grip tighten as he joined, their minds interlocking as they often did.

There was a buzz on her skin as his magic threaded her own, and she felt the foreign presence to be somewhat soothing. If she were to describe Riddle's sorcery through physical attributes, she would imagine it as a darkened surface, with extraordinarily polished and well-crafted edges, that encompasses her own rough and circular force.

His hands were somewhat rough, she realized and wondered if it was because of the work he must have probably been forced to do at the orphanage, or the countless hours spent gripping his wand to perfect a craft he had learned later that most of his peers. Her eyelashes fluttered open, and Varya watched the wizard concentrate on the spell.

Tom's face was a mask of focus, curls tumbling over his forehead and eyebrows somewhat lifted as anemone lips parted to let the cascade of foreign words drip through. His collar clung to his neck, and his shoulders were tense, pulling at the material of his shirt as he held Varya's hands tightly.

Varya felt her stomach constrict at the sight of him, and her heart drummed against her ribcage, pushing against the bones painfully as the longing emotion overtook her being. With a deep breath, she shifted her concentration to the rat, and watched its small legs begin moving as Riddle continued to mutter his spell.

Eventually, its tail flicked, and the mouth fell open in a terrible squeak, probably frozen from whatever death Tom had brought upon the creature. Satisfaction passed the wizard's face as he watched the beast slowly stand up on broken legs, sniffing the air around mindlessly, and its beady eyes appeared even more lost than usual.

"Excellent," mused Tom, then watched the rat crawl through the Chamber before dashing into the basilisk's den, unknowingly heading to another death.

Varya could only sit by his side and watch, taking in the shadows that passed his face, swirled in his eyes, and extended to her through their connection, caressing her psyche with the agonizing touch of gritted rocks. Her minds screamed, yet it was all numbed by the way Riddle glanced at her, and the petrifying derangement that united them in nefarious intent. And the witch knew there was only so much more she could go before she fell into a pit of obscurity.

***

I am so bored of fluffy chapters I want death and dragons again so expect some chaos next chapter.

Also if I made you read Cruel Prince I feel acomplished.

Thank you for your votes and comments!