"One of these days a comin', I'm gonna take that boy's crown

There's a serpent in these still waters, lying deep down"

a little wicked — valerie broussard

CHAPTER TWO

The witch had deemed once that good things came to good people, and that the reason her life was a perpetual succession of desolation and grief was that she was the personification of equivocal morals.

Certainly, fate had dealt her a wretched deck of cards, and amongst all was the shinning sonorous enthuse of Death, the figure thirteen in a deck of tarot cards. It tarried her along every bifurcation of destiny, clasping at the sand she jolted with her steady soles, always balancing on her obscuration like a prodigious omen.

Now, she conceded it was not her death— because she got to savor an eternity of revulsion at what she had become— but that of those who surrounded her. A wall of featureless faces she regarded whenever she let eyelids flutter shut with somnolence, that wailed at her in nightmares regardless of having no mouth.

Sometimes, the witch would revisit that ghastly antechamber in the Nott manor in her dreams, where the demon had prophesied death and despair. There, one body hung from the ceiling as the wind rapped at reverberating windows. She would gawk endlessly at the cadaver until her mind would fool her into discerning features— sometimes, it had Felix's whimsical simper, or Icarus' scarred cheek, even Elladora's flaming hair.

One thing stood clear amongst a mound of uncertainty— it had not been Ivy Trouche's death that she had dreamed of. No, because Ivy's body was splattered on the wooden floorboards, and her cerebellum seeped through every crack as if it had not putrified long ago. Varya had ached to remember her as she had been at the funeral, a feeble form of flowery cheeks and golden curls, yet her mind had decided to shatter the bit of peace she had gotten from the event.

And even when all had forgotten months later, the girl still found herself tormented by her friend's death, especially during prolonged nights, when her rotten body dragged itself across the floor of the Nott Manor, and skeletal fingers wrapped agilely around Varya's throat and squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed.

She could not forget, not when Ivy Trouche's mangled corpse inhabited her nightmares.

And Lopheus Evergreen.

And Ivan.

And Ecaterina.

And Sylvia Carrow.

And Richard MacDuff.

And Miss Pichler.

And a dozen other bodies that formed a mass grave of her doing.

Each night, her screeches filled the metaphorical cell of her mind as they ripped her to pieces, and what lay beyond the dark door of the chamber in Nott's Manor was nothing short of morbid.

***

Varya extended her hand to Felix, and the boy gulped with nervousness before accepting it. The girl hoisted him to his feet, and watched as he dusted off his clothes with composure, clinging to a box almost as if it mattered above else. Then, Parkin bent his head to her, and before she could even register what he was doing, he flung his arms around her figure.

The girl winced at the contact, yet returned the hug, falling into the pattern that was their cordial friendship. It was almost enough to alleviate the shadows that had begun clinging to her soul, yet they only ever fluttered slightly before trespassing her being again.

"Thank Merlin you came," the boy confessed, and despite the fact that he had been one of the people that had insisted on her staying inside, he was undoubtedly grateful right then, "I do not know what I was—"

"Thinking?" Varya finished, then flicked her pupils into the distance, where light still cascaded from spells and charms as the two oppositions fought  each other diligently, "No time for harbored feelings of resentment or regret; we must help the rest."

She set into motion before the boy could answer, and side by side, they walked towards the ongoing battle, where a new figure had joined the three familiar sorcerers— Ananke Navarro ungloved her gentle hands swiftly, before placing them on one of the wizards that Indra had struck to the ground. It was noticeable in his eyes first, the way they stretched as a horror unlike anything else settled in his being, and he trashed against the empath's hold with animalistic ferocity. Yet, she remained unfazed as she shredded his mind to bits.

Her bronze skin glistened in the light of Indra's magic, and her dusky hair had been pulled back, then twisted into a complicated braid that she had pinned much like a crown on her head. Her dress, a fusion of pine green and emerald, hung to her figure as she raised from the man that was now spasming on the grass. Ananke's topaz eyes clouded with exasperation as the wizard's hand darted and clung to her boot; however, she only booted it away before pursing her lips sternly.

A spell darted to her figure, and Felix flung his wand and shouted the counter-curse, then sprung to action without even realizing. Ananke's eyes fell on him with gratitude, but she said nothing before they fell into a synchronous movement of battle.

Varya held in her spot, falcon irises rushing across the field to spot her prey, and her lips pulled in a grin when she saw one man strike Lev's sister down. Her darkness snaked from within, slipping through every pore as it swirled on her skin.

Her body contorted before she erupted with obscurity and misery. Her Obscurus gashed through the atmosphere and struck against the sheath of celestial bodies, and all of Grindelwald's men raised their eyes in horror as it met the luna and the heaven— a threat of catastrophic dimensions.

The wind whistled as the sky darkened, and Satan himself rustled speeches of awe as the Obscurus catapulted itself on one man, enveloping his figure with its oleaginous obsidian, ripping at his tissue and slashing at his body. Then, almost as if all it had taken had been the flurry of Hell, the darkness lifted, and the man fell to dirt with his neck snapped, and one mark covered his skin— the skull and the snake.

The Eastern witch's form shifted to her corporeal, and her soles touched the grass as her bloodied blizzard tunic rippled in the storm she had caused, hair an amalgam of locks that had tied together from the dried blood of her victims.

Varya stood in the opening as the combat ceased, and all directed their heads towards her figure as she burst out in deranged giggling, a shiver of unsettlement passing through their bodies. Her hand raised to the air, and shadows enveloped it before extending— one tree propelled itself through the chest of another wizard.

Two of Grindelwald's men remained, and they glanced at the sight before them— at the group of outcasts and hybrids of unusual magic— with uncertainty. Then, right as Varya started moving towards them, they dashed through the forest.

"Oh," she stopped in her tracks, eyebrows furrowing in dismay at the cowardliness. Then, she smiled wickedly, "Run! Scatter away! I love chasing helpless petty mice!"

So the sorceress dashed after them, and her bloodthirst only grew mightier as she watched them fall to their clumsiness, scattering on the ground as vines of Hell and corruption extended themselves from the floor and wrapped around each limb. Trashing viciously against Varya's shadow hold, they turned to look at her as she hovered between the trees.

She did not slither out of darkness, nor from Hell's Well, yet she was as vindictive and vicious as Lilith. As Petrov roamed the edges of their vision in her dress— pureness splattered with cardinal of immorality— and locks of sable tones fell on her face, she resembled the demons that had been ravaging Earth for the past two years. Wicked Varya Petrov, the girl that had preserved her body from the Obscurus' parasitic forces, yet not her soul.

Her soul had been eradicated long ago, in a castle of misery and antiquity, by a monarch that had never presented himself to be anything short of nefarious, and had opened a portal to shadows to crawl inside and decompose her being away.

Now, she was crueler, or perhaps it was just the ruthless armor she had fashioned to defend herself from the mission. Even so, Varya was different now, and while she still kept the core of the youthful sixteen-year-old girl that had worn silver and green, the exterior had been forsaken by Grindelwald's endless assaults.

So why should she feel repentance as she observed her shadows tear the men in front of her—limb to limb? Why should she not hum a melodious tune that her mother had sung to in her early years before the Alliance had broken her?

Blood pooled to the soil, and the witch bent her knees and stood right underneath the suspended suffering men. Her onyx eyes watched the pond of carmine as it extended with each member that fell to the ground. And she relished the way it trailed through the grass, mixing in with the filth and descending right back to where souls like theirs belonged— Satan would have his feast with men like them.

Some sanguine splattered on Varya's face as the oily tentacle of blackness pulled off the last limb from one of the men, ligaments stretching and snapping, and the girl glanced up at their faces, watching with enlarged eyes as vitality slipped away from their humanity. Now, two repulsive corpses hung from the extension of her parasite. The Obscurus let them drop against the dirt, and Varya stood up straight, biting the inside of her cheek as her thirst for blood subdued.

"Merlin," whispered Felix as the rest of the group pushed through, and he darted to the girl immediately, grabbing her shaking figure as she continued to stare at what she had done, "It is all right. It is fine; let us get you out of here."

Scarlet came by her other side, clinging to her arm and whispering words of comfort, yet Varya continued to stare ahead with unfocused eyes, lips moving as she muttered something none of them could quite understand.

"What is she saying?" questioned Lev as he trailed behind them, not disappearing like usual. His eyes followed the girl with care, and he sensed her distress from the way darkness twisted around her. Even when the others could not see it, the shadowmancer was still aware of how it pulsed. Felix rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Varya had tried to defend the boy's rude behavior in their first months of cooperation, arguing that he had been traumatized by the muggle war. Felix had understood that— As the only male in his household, Lev had to mature at an early age and take care of his mother and sister, protecting them from the horrible atrocities committed during the occupation.

His mother, a muggle, had been excessively exposed to the world. With the ongoing war and lack of freedom, it had been challenging for the two wizarding children to connect with their magical background. It was not until Theseus Scamander had apparated in their modest home, explaining the need for their unusual magic, that the family had managed to flee. And while the children were away, their mother lived safely in a village near Yorkshire.

Indra leaned in, trying to catch something, yet it all made little sense to her, "Something about walruses? Walnuts? " her voice was crystal, and confusion laced it as she tried to make sense of what her friend was going through.

The sibling exchanged a glance, then stepped behind the group as they continued to advance to the Dumbledore home. Ananke opened the door, letting everyone pass through as they toppled into the living room, and they let Varya fall on the couch in her exhaustion.

"Ice," she whimpered, and then someone passed her a cold bag to apply to her forehead. The headaches had been growing severely with each passing day, and she found that she could no longer find peace inside her mind, almost as if there was a small voice in the back of her head— always calling out to her, echoing her name obsessively, and muttering words that she was not quite sure of.

Ananke glanced around the room, then noticed that one of the vases had been misplaced. She gazed at Indra with wary eyes, who smiled sheepishly with culpability, and immediately darted to the opposite side of the room. The empath's forehead creased with irritation, yet she said nothing of the apparent disturbance, too focused on the box that Felix was holding tightly.

"Is that it?" she began, and everyone's attention snapped to the box. Parkin scrambled upwards, almost as if he had forgotten of the very precious cargo, and then he nodded with a small smile on his face.

Varya pushed herself half-way upwards, grimacing at the way the light cracked against her retina, sending shock waves of pain to her optical nerve, yet it all faded into nothingness once Felix pulled out the Cloak from the package. Her eyes watered at the sight, and she almost moved her hands towards it with greed but was stopped by Lev, who peeped at her with a somber look.

The girl settled in her seat, and contained the obvious feeling of excitement that passed through the room. It felt as if the air had finally settled back in her lungs, and all those months of torment had come to be fruitful— they had found one of the Hallows. Even with the Resurrection stone hidden between pages of history, at least they had evened the score with Grindelwald, and that would anger the Dark Wizard beyond control.

"What now?" breathed Ananke from her seat by the fireplace, the one she always seemed to prefer, as the flames soothed her cold skin. Her gloves had gone back on her hands— today, they were dark green. With the gaze of a woman wise well-beyond her years, she surveyed the salon for reactions and winced when Lev turned to look at Varya for directions, yet the rest turned to Felix. Their power dynamics had become quite complicated.

At the beginning of it all, it had been clear— Varya was the reason they were all there, and so it went without a doubt that she would call the shots. All had gone supremely under her rule for the first few months, when all they had had to do was hide in their estate in the Alps and gather books and parchments on the history of magic and the Deathly Hallows. Then, about seven months in, all had crumbled in Petrov's empire.

The bodies had started pilling up with each mission and dead-end they had faced, and eventually, the girl had snapped. She had not recovered since, and her temper had metastasized into something they had come to fear— it was not in accordance with Varya's nature. Where the girl had been vicious before, her newfound sadism was utterly morbid. She fractured bones like they were mere twigs; she split bodies in half as if it was child's play.

At first, they had thought it to be her Obscurus. It only made sense that it had polluted her insides. While that held true to itself, they knew something was wrong with their theory. Yes, the Obscurus was unquestionably acting out on its surroundings, but the parasite was only a reaction to Varya's internal medium, and the emotions fueled it.

So, where had the emotions come from? Yes, she was broken, yet it all was so sudden, so vengeful, and it did not seem to quite fit. Ananke had tried using her powers to find the root of her evil, yet her search had come out blank— the source was not inside Varya.

Therefore, Felix had taken over the reins during Varya's instability. While the witch did not seem to mind, too preoccupied with her disintegrating mind, the boy had undoubtedly felt pressured. He had confessed to Indra a while back that it felt as if he was stealing something that belonged rightfully to the Eastern witch, especially when it became clear that he was more capable of filling in the requirements. He had been Head-Boy during his final year at Hogwarts, and that had polished his leadership skills unlike anything else. Sometimes, the leader was not he who held the most power, but he who understood the dynamics and united all.

Varya glanced at Felix over her shoulder, awaiting his instructions, and the boy cleared his throat, shyly, "We have to leave as soon as possible. Undoubtedly, Grindelwald will come searching this whole village by sunrise, so we must scatter. Pack everything you own and come back in an hour; we are to leave through the portkey."

With that, all dispersed through the house, and doors slammed shut as the group ran to pack everything promptly. Varya inclined her head just as Lev was about to dash in the shadows, and called out for him, "Help me for a second, will you?"

He froze in his spot, then spun so that half of his face was showing, and even so, the irritation was indisputable. Nevertheless, he came to her side with a grunt, and grabbed her body before hoisting the girl up. Varya's lips twitched upwards as she gazed at the way his eyes flickered with flames. The girl knew he despised it when she exerted herself beyond reason, and he had to pick up the pieces and mold her back to a resemblance of humanity.

With one leg, he pushed the door to her bedroom open, and carried her to the chair by her desk before letting the girl's body fall into it. The shadowmancer glanced at her bloodied clothes, then his nose scrunched with revulsion, but he made no remark of it.

"Thank you," the girl returned sincerely, and Lev nodded in acknowledgment before his eyes darted around her room. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and her luggage was placed somewhere in the corner, completely emptied. Her bed was unmade, and while the girl had never been one for order in her room, it certainly reeked of disaster right now. The only comfort it brought was her fragrance that transversed the chamber, a mix of citric and sweetness.

"You will definitely take time cleaning this," his bass voice sounded, and Varya's eyes hoisted at the implied jab, "Good luck."

With that, he turned around and left, and the girl smirked as she watched his back retreat. Their relationship was tumultuous, and while Lev had his hostility towards everyone except his sister, Varya had been the person to break his barrier somewhat. With such similar powers, they had found a place of comfort in each other, and while it had always stayed platonic, the two trusted each other despite their appeared antagonism.

Regardless, that had always been the boy's personality— he was very secluded, and had endured a lot in his life to shelter his family. Varya understood that, and while she had never had close relatives, it had certainly taken a toll on her always to have the world's fate depend on her actions.

The Obscurial twisted in her chair before letting her hands fall on the desk, scrapping at the wooden material as she gazed at the dried blood on her hands. It had become a commodity, something that occurred regularly, and it no longer daunted her as it had once had. Varya still remembered the first time she had taken a life, how it had wholly ruptured her, yet at the end of it all, she had been pacified by—

Her eyes moved to the necklace across the table, the one she had placed on top of the multiple envelopes she had received from Della over the past year. Her soul churned as quivering hands made to grab at one of the letters, and she pulled it close, then opened it.

April 1944, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dear Varya,

As you might have expected, Hogwarts is under constant bombardments by Grindelwald's army. The persistent attacks have rattled many parents, and students have been dropping like flies as concerned mothers have asked for them to be sent home. The protection barrier continues to hold as usual, and while none of the darkness has managed to enter the perimeter, we fear that the beasts grow stronger by the day.

Dippet has announced that the school will be closing by the end of the month, and exams have been rushed so that seventh-years will graduate ahead of time. The future seems bleak, and hope continues to fade with each passing day. Still, I believe that you and Felix will successfully find whatever it is Dumbledore has sent you after, and this will all cease.

You have asked me about Riddle in your last letter...truthfully, I do not have much to say. His group has been quiet as of late, and some have even left the school. Rosier and Avery no longer attend Hogwarts, at least not for the time being, and they have traveled back to France last I heard. Riddle has been in the library each time I have seen him around the castle, and he seems— he seems odd. I cannot say much more.

I hope to hear from you soon,

Della

The correspondence had become scarce after that, with the letters getting shorter and stiffer, and soon Varya had seen more of Della in the newspaper than she had heard from her.

The witch knew something was terribly wrong, especially where Malfoy was involved, and refused to believe that he had taken any sort of interest in the girl. It seemed ludicrous that he would allow himself to be spotted by journalists with her when she was a muggle-born, and when rumors of their relationship had formed, Varya had known it to be nothing but bogus.

No, it was all a pretense— they were scheming something, and somehow they had managed to drag Beauchamp into their sinister plots. Without Felix and Varya there to protect her, the naive girl had indeed fallen prey to the Knight's repulsive behavior.

She threw the letter on the table, slamming her hand down with such force that the empty cup of tea rattled with a pleasant clink, and Varya leaned back in her seat as the headache began to subdue. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she chewed on her nails with anxiousness as her thoughts wandered to the past and the future, yet never to her present.

The girl had refused to admit there was anything out of the ordinary with her behavior, yet deep down, she knew that her odd outbursts of magic had had origins in the core of her being.

The witch sat up from her desk, then moved across the room and to the mirror that she had broken during one of her anger surges. Through the cracked surface, she saw herself as she had always been— brittle, boney, and with a contrast of skin and hair that made her appear much like a spirit. The only thing that had changed of her was the length of her locks, which she had cut right below her chin after yet another nasty meltdown a few months back. It now hung over her collarbones, yet it was still not as it had once been.

Her Horcrux had made her immortal, yet one thing she had not expected was the way her body had become frozen in time. It should have been obvious— of course; she would not age, her cells had been petrified by magic, so why should anything of her looks change? Even her hair had refused to grow back at all, and the witch had had to charm it with a self-devised spell.

So while everyone around her had continued to develop through puberty, and Felix and Lev had grown a good few centimeters alone in the past fourteen months, Varya had stayed an image of her sixteen-year-old self. Now, a few months past eighteen, she wondered how terrible it would be when all of her friends would appear as adults, and yet she would still seem to be a teenager.

She hated it. She hated every part of immortality, and the idea of suffering in lonesomeness until the end of all days had only contributed to her unstable state. Yet, Petrov knew it was the only thing that kept her body from dissipating into nothingness as her Obscurus consumed her.

Varya now wondered if that would be such a terrible thing.

"You are not scared of dying, but of living."

Her nails dragged at her neck as she tried to scratch away the memory of him, and onyx eyes hurled to the multiple crumpled papers near her bed, then to the inkpot that still stood open on her desk, long ago dried. She had tried to write to him, had sent multiple letters during the first few months, and had continued writing long after she had understood that he had had no intention of answering.

They were shredded pages on her floor, words of resentment and aversion, then scribbled admittances of concupiscence, cut with multiple lines of frustration. They were a memoir and nothing more, feelings she did not allow herself to dwell on, and he had become a nameless, inconspicuous being in her soul— because even his name obliterated whatever was left of her.

A knock sounded at her door. "Come in," her voice rang through her room as she continued to look at the crumpled letters.

Felix stepped inside, and his eyebrows hoisted with distress as he noticed that the girl had not packed, nor changed out of her bloodied clothes, "We must go," he said flatly, then shifted awkwardly from one leg to another as he avoided her stare.

Varya glanced at him, flabbergasted, "It has already been an hour?" she muttered to herself. She had been losing track of time lately, too lost in her thoughts to notice the way it flew by her. Because she knew she had enough of it.

When the boy nodded, the witch dashed across the room, gathering her clothes before stuffing them in her trunk rapidly. She rarely unpacked fully, yet she had turned her luggage upside down a few days ago to look for the boots Annie Beauchamp had given her on Christmas a few years ago. They clinked against the wooden floor as she moved from one side to the other, and Parkin could only watch her trembling arms as she struggled to bite down the panic of being rushed.

Varya grabbed her books from the desk, as well as Della's last letters, and placed them on top of her clothes. She stuffed in the necklace as well— she never wore it anymore, not after he had refused to contact her— and then slammed the trap shut. With a flick of the wrist, she made her bed and set her own letters on fire, not even bothering to watch them burn.

With a quick charm, she had her trunk following her as she stepped past Felix and into the narrow hallway that connected all of their rooms on the second floor. The wizard frowned, "Are you not going to change?"

Varya waved him off, "I will change when we reach the estate again; we cannot waste any more time here."

He nodded reluctantly, then surveyed her chamber one more time to ensure that they had not left any trace, lest they ended up being followed by Grindelwald, and shut the door behind him. The pair of friends walked down the steps eagerly, entering the living room in a hurry, and when the group's eyes landed on Varya's disheveled state, Felix signaled them to keep their comments with a hand wave.

"All right," Scarlet started, pushing herself off the wall with questions swimming in her eyes. She had always been an invasive person, and much as a parasitic plant would, she swept her roots in everyone's business in order to understand everything that was going on, "The portkey is on the table, and I assume you all still remember how it works. It will take us back to the Alps in no time; just make sure you hold on tightly."

When everyone around the table nodded and grabbed their luggage, the Blood witch gestured to the book she had placed on the surface, then waited for hands to be placed on it. Her lips muttered the spell quickly, and then everything swirled, "Portus."

Almost as if a hook had gripped the back of her dress, Varya felt herself be pulled through a ripple of time and space, and the familiar sensation of traveling with a portkey invaded her being as everything transformed in their surroundings. Queasiness built up in her body, and she fought to stay alert until she felt her feet touch the ground.

The first thing she registered was the sound of Indra Myung emptying her stomach on the pavement, and then a light flashed across her vision as particles gathered, and her eyes welcomed the sight of the world. Even so, the girl could immediately tell something was amiss— the house they stood in front of was not the one that they had been training at for more than a year.

Instead, a golden gate separated them from an impressive Manor that struck against the granite sky, where a cloud of monsoon had covered the scorching sun of midsummer. Its towers quarreled with the horizon almost as if they had no end, and the pointy roof was a mere illusion. Its architecture, something Varya could not pinpoint, yet seemed to be of Gothic influences, stood haughtily as the light caught in the multiple opaque tinted windows.

On each side of the main pathway, gardens fenced by bushes surrounded the estate, and a fountain whispered with lure somewhere beyond, the mellow sound of water droplets hitting expensive marble caressing the group's ears. The handsome Manor was dark, almost as if light had been shunned away by whoever resided beyond the walls, and the only indication of ownership was the small road sign that Varya could spot down the opposite way— Wiltshire, England.

"Bloody hell, this is one expensive house," whistled Indra as she wiped her mouth, then scrunched her nose at the bitter taste. She looked around in bewilderment, and noticed that everyone seemed to be just as perplexed as she, "Well, did you miscast the spell?"

Scarlet jeered, "Of course I did not; who do you take me for?"

"Do not be like that, Norberg; we both know transportation magic is not your specialty."

"Sod off, will you? Pestering witch."

"Crooked nose!"

The Blood Witch puffed, "Take that back right now!"

Indra smirked with transgression, yet her eyes held no malice as she clicked her tongue against her lip, cheekily, "And if I do not?"

Right as Scarlet was about to implode with fury, steps against pavement captured the group's attention, and they all turned to see Varya marching down the pathway with determination, fists clenched by her side as if she was heading for battle. Her raven hair hung behind her and swayed as she moved vigorously, eyes focused on the window where she had just spotted a flutter of platinum hair she had come to know too well.

They all followed in a hurry, shouting words of warning from behind, and then stopped in front of the entrance as the Eastern witch gazed at the doors with unfocused eyes, letting the trepidation build on the insides. No. No, it could not possibly be...

The entrance parted for her, opening to a scrumptious corridor that was fenced by shadowy pillars, and scintillating chandeliers swung from the ceiling as the door banged against the blackened brickwork. Her feet stepped on the marvelous carpets, embroidered with intricate patterns of luxury, until she found herself halting in front of another entrance.

Two doors of oak wood stood in front of her, and her soul was titillated with the haziest awareness of what lay ahead, yet the only thing she could sense was the deadness in her fingers, the way her shadows danced on the tips in calculated glints. Her eyes hurried back to the group behind her, disheveled and bewildered, and they all seemed perplexed by what had just happened.

The house itself would have been unfamiliar to anyone who had not encountered them, who had not shared a meal at the same polished tables with exquisite servings and unfathomable copiousness, and even then, they might have missed the slight markings scrapped in the corners, or the sinister affinity of the atmosphere, almost as if darkness had made nest in the residence as it trailed them.

But the witch knew. She knew that, for a reason that she could not figure out, they had summoned her there, deep into the forests, and for the first time in months, Grindelwald was not her biggest fear. Why? Why had he reached out to her after a year and a half?

With a reluctant hand, she turned the bronze handle, pushing the door as she sashayed into the chamber, and it was a scene worthy of admiration. Sacrilegious, nihilistic, blasphemous— seven devils stood in an echo of The Last Supper, holding golden goblets in their hands as their devious eyes trailed the group in front of them with sardonic simpers etched on sinful lips.

Even so, her eyes only rested on him— she observed the way he stood up from his chair, different yet quite the same, and the luminosity of his cheeks had somewhat faded, yet in his eyes, there was the slightest hint of the Devil, and gone was the symphonic periwinkle, now a spectrum of marine and claret. Regardless, he remained imperially beautiful, a poem of epinician connotations, with the darkest curls and moonlight skin, and the allure of a sovereign as he stood amongst his faithful disciples.

"Well," his serpentine timber rattled, the faintest susurration with such clarity, and even after so long, it was still the zephyr of midsummer on her soul, "Delighted to have you back, darling."

And she knew it was him. It would always be him.

That demonic bloody viper.

Before anyone could register anything, Varya flung herself at the table, scattering the buffet on the ground before her hands made to grasp Tom Riddle's neck and break it just as she should have done all those years ago.

Rosier's high pitched scream filled the room as the scene unfolded, some part due to the emphasized emotions that were quivering through the chambers, yet more of it because of the extravagant wine the girl had just spilled on the Persian rug. He got to his feet immediately, then grabbed the witch's shoulders and dragged her away from their leader's unimpressed face.

Varya trashed in his clasp with animalistic frenzy, and her sanguine painted garments paid her no help as she appeared utterly demented in front of the Knights. They held onto their golden cups while exchanging concerned glances.

"You bloody snake," her voice bounced off of the walls, and eventually, she managed to break from Ren's hold and raise her wand to Tom's figure, "Why the fuck did you bring me here? Merlin, I should gauge your eyes out right now."

Yet her heart hammered in her chest, and for the first time in months, the headache seemed to fade away as another exhilarating sensation took over, and just seeing him made her want to plummet to the ground in a mess of sobs and God — she thought she had overcome such adolescence devotion. Yet, he remained the altar she would always tremble in front of, the religion of her being and existence.

Tom inclined his head, curls falling around slightly as he peered with deviousness at her, and there was something about the boy that had changed. He seemed less of a childish bastard, and more of a charismatic leader. His eyes carried maturity as they gazed at her, a black hole that absorbed her relentlessly. Even so, his face portrayed no emotion of her arrival, and he remained an impassive force as he drew out his own wand.

Without a signal, all of the Knights raised their wands as well, pointing it at the newly arrived group with caution, who returned the favor without much thought. The room was a barrel of gunpowder, and both sides awaited for their leaders to light the fuse that would lead to a massacre.

"Now, this is no way to treat an old friend, is it now? Perhaps your time away from society has rattled your brain, Petrov," he jeered, and amusement flashed across his face when the girl growled in indignation. Yes, he could sense that a few screws had come loose, and he found it made his skin drone with apprehension.

"What do you want, Riddle?" Varya spat out, and when her voice shattered with emotion, she wanted to sink into the ground— because after all that fucking time, he still managed to get such reactions out of her.

Tom placed his wand back into his robe, then glanced at his Knights and indicated them to do the same, "Take our guests to the common area, would you? Petrov and I are in for a lovely chat."

Malfoy was the first one to spring into action, and he moved across the floor before grasping Parkin's arm, a delighted smirk on his face as he watched the boy's face twist with repulsion. Felix tried to pull away and move to his friend, yet the girl gave him a look that told him to settle down.

The only one that stubbornly held his stance was Lev, who was a ruthless soldier amongst all, and refused to back down from an obvious threat. The lights in the room flickered, and the salon turned slightly more ominous as he continued to gawk with skepticism at the Knights. It was Lestrange that was positioned right in front of him, and the duelist caught the boy's gaze as he held a dogmatic posture.

"Lev," the girl called out to him, "It is quite fine; they would not dare hurt any of us— they have tried multiple times, and I seem to remember taking them down without much a thought."

A giggle sounded through the room, and they all glanced at Renold Rosier. He clapped his hands in recreation before lamenting melancholically, then stumbled drunkenly by Avery's side. The drunken boy gasped as he felt the attention, then immediately covered his face with his hand to avoid the stares.

Tom, however, let his eyes sweep the boy that seemed to protect Varya with his might, and a sneer covered his face as he took the shadowmancer in, "Well, I see that you have found yourself quite the little battalion."

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he opened every door of the room, and promptly had his Knights escort everyone outside before the chamber sealed shut, and silence fell over the two. He turned his head to his past lover, who continued to gaze at him with a conflicted flame in her pupils, and he found himself stiffening.

It was the familiarity of her fragrance that arrested him above all— the way it paraded across the salon, enveloping everything into her presence, and wringing his mind much as it had done so long ago. The citric aroma of oranges that he had learned to avoid above all, the stabbing against his broken soul too painful to take, and even now, it wreaked havoc on his pulse.

Tom clasped his hands behind his back, ignoring the way they thrilled with a familiar need of proximity, for he apprehended that he would surely reach out to her figure and draw her close until atom clashed against atom, and then there would be nothing stopping him from undoing her.

Riddle made one step to her, and he smirked charmingly when she backed away, almost as if she dreaded her own reaction much as he did. Varya held her stance imperially, and even in her slovenly appearance, she radiated against the tedious backdrop. His lips pulled in a malicious smile, one that ensured feud.

"I reckon we have much to chat about, my dear."

***
I know you all hate Tom but I missed that little bitch.
Thank you to everyone who has been recommending my story on TikTok! I have seen a few videos about The Seven Devils and it made me so happy.
Thank you for 70k reads as well!