FINAL CHAPTER

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Be advised that this chapter contains death and gore. I also attached a playlist that should be played halfway through.

   Polished black shoes sounded against the gravel floor, their echo bouncing against the bleak walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As Tom Riddle paced the crudely lit corridors of the castle, his acolytes trailed closely behind, gradually slinking around the edges of his vision. The portraits swirled their heads as he moved past them, querying why a student would ever take on the burden of defending the castle.

   The question lacquered his mind in inky spots, and, with every step, he queried when his means of achieving power had changed. In some paradoxical way, Tom thought he was still the same ruthless creature he had been three years ago, with an unquenchable desire for sovereignty and control. Still, his vision had metamorphosed into something else. More tangible, if anything, an established plan that would seize control over the Ministry of Magic, replacing the cowardly members with his own.

   The world would be reformed to his own model, and Riddle would become a governor unlike anyone before. The Dark Arts would be a legacy, a practice worshipped and coveted by many for its dastardly nature. Knowledge would not be hidden due to fear, but rather embraced for its appeal, and the wizarding world would flourish as it always should have. A hierarchy of excellency would be stabilized, where thirst for intellectualism and unprecedented ambition would be celebrated—a Dark Age, though fluorescent in its own way.

   Tom's eyes slid to the wizard and witch following his lead, Ananke and Nicholas, their faces covered in dry blood and yet eyes gleaming with purpose. They were both restless, but Avery was ravenous for everything that had been promised to him, and the boy thought the battle to be the first step towards greatness.

   Avery's face morphed into marble, though, underneath, wrath pulsated freely, something that controlled him in his entirety. By his side, hands clasped around daggers, though his injured limb trembled slightly. Unlike Maxwell's accident, which had been improved through constant training and magic, Nicholas' was not reversible. Once, the assassin had thought it to be the end of it all, and although it still intervened with his accuracy, the tremor had become part of him. He had embraced it, drilled himself until he could throw his weapons again and hit the target. With the shift in his mentality had also come improvements—Avery brought different blades to suit his needs, practiced his magic more, trained to be faster on his feet. He conformed to the situation and, just like Maxwell, found worth in himself beyond one talent.

   Icarus had made sure that, once met with a stressful situation, Nicholas would be prepared. They trained from morning until dusk, clashing metal against metal, because they knew hardships were not endings. They were beginnings. With two fingers made of iron, Lestrange became fire-hearted and refused to let the throbbing pain that never entirely left his limb during training become something that turned him around.

   Tom had attended them, observed them and their desire to continue, and once again was reminded of why he had chosen them in the first place. The Knights had always been extensions of him, broken fragments that created a whole, and they complimented each other through flaws and merits.

   A shriek rang out through the castle, and Riddle twisted to see the balustrade of a staircase topple over as a strigoi ran into it. Its claws dug into the scalp of a young wizard, someone who seemed familiar to Tom, although not important enough to remember. Behind them, windows smashed to bits as a spell vibrated through the courtyard, blue light illuminating the shattered castle. Outside, a marine-tinted fire dragon took to the skies, its magnifying roar rivaling that of Lydia's beast. It soared over Grindelwald's frame before heading straight for Dumbledore as the Transfiguration teacher cast a counter-course. Chaos was an omnipresent deity that had taken over Hogwarts.

   Avery, Ananke, and Riddle took to the stairs, heads ducking to avoid the shards of glass that sliced at the surrounding people. Tom's hand gripped the balustrade and used it to push forward, his wand by his side as he slid through the dueling crowd. Hunting Ophelia Evergreen down had seemed, at first, a mundane task—there were only so many concave nests where a serpent could crawl. But after checking the lower floors, it seemed as if the Headmaster's office would be their safest bet.

   Still, as Tom pushed the door open, he found the space empty.

   "Was she not coming for Gryffindor's sword?" grunted Avery, taking in the space with inquisitive eyes.

   Riddle frowned, hesitant. That was what Aleksander had told Varya, was it not? The boy's eyes scanned the wall, locating the spot where two metal hooks stood bare as if something had been taken from them. They were too late. Ophelia had taken the sword. His blood ignited, and he could feel the ashy savor of violence on his tongue—it was a rancid sensation.

   "She already has it," concluded Tom, then turned towards the other two. "But the Gryffindor Sword alone cannot destroy a Horcrux. Evergreen has to find something to couple it with—the Goblin metal used to craft it is highly absorbent to any corrosive magic."

   "So, there is still hope. All we have to do is find her," muttered Ananke.

   "That pestering, irritating, infuriating reptile," snapped Nicholas, toppling over a chair as he continued his tirade. He eyed the surroundings, trying to think of another spot the witch could have headed to. Avery hated to admit that he understood how her mind worked, fueled by nightmares, rage, and something sadistic, but it had been their similarities that had made the hatred between the two deepen.

   Ophelia reminded Nicholas of every part of himself he scorned—the cruelty that had been woven in with a thirst for survival, the putrid pleasure that came with hearing bones fracture and tormenting people. He loathed that more than anything.

   "She wants to destroy the Horcrux, yeah?" inquired the assassin, turning dark eyes to Riddle, who nodded, though his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

   Tom felt something shift, some whirling sensation of an almighty power, as if Eden's nectar had suddenly drenched his linings, serving his sorcery. Eyebrows pulled in a frown, and creases marred his forehead. Deep within, an external factor amplified his magic, and he raised his hands, eyeing the flashes of sorcery that threaded through his skin, creating an assembly.

   Through turbid cloudiness of power-lust, Tom discerned that the significant surge of sorcery was due to Varya's curse slowly running the witch into the ground.

   He pushed it aside, trying to ignore the faint pang of distress that married his forehead or the restless movement of his fingers as they found their way to the doorknob. Instead, he directed his thoughts to the matter at hand—Ophelia Evergreen's whereabouts remained unknown.

   The ground rumbled again, and the three companions stumbled in their steps, grabbing onto whatever they could find to hold themselves up. A mighty roar burst through the realm, accompanied by cries that could have belonged to something inhumane, yet were fueled with sorrow all the same. Turning his head towards the window, Riddle's eyes increased tenfold as he watched Lydia's dragon fall from the skies, its wings burning in blue marine flames as it plummeted into the Black Lake. The witch was nowhere in sight.

   Smog and flames clung to every brick that had been used to build Hogwarts, eddying in the surroundings like phantasms of destruction, and Tom could almost taste the uproar. Grindelwald's beasts changed their course, directing itself to Dumbledore again, though Riddle did not stay to follow their battle. The particles of dust made it almost impossible to navigate the crumbling hallways as students screeched and stumbled to flee the war. Their faces doused in blood, their bodies torn by beasts, and their souls scarred, they fell to the floor and trampled over each other.

   They were losing.

   "We have to find Ophelia before these creatures run us into the ground," groused Ananke, her voice hoarse from having to scream over the bells of death that rang through the hallway. Her dress was torn at the hem, exposing the slightest bronzed skin covered in bandages from where she had splinched, and woeful eyes carried unbearable agony. She controlled it well, regardless of the overwhelming injuries and tears, and began ascending down the stairs. "What could they find at Hogwarts to pair with the sword?"

   "It has to be something noxious. A substance, perhaps," uttered Nicholas, following the empath as they sliced through the crowd. His hand controlled his wand vigorously, casting a curse down the path and slowing down a moving strigoi. Then, with another movement, he launched a dagger through its skull, having the monster crumble at his feet.

   Avery wiped away the sweat from his forehead, smudging the dirt further on his cheek, and grabbed his weapon from the decaying corpse before glancing up at Riddle. Tom pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, contemplating. Then, his eyes enlarged.

   "The Chamber of Secrets," he murmured, already setting towards the lavatories, "She wishes to go to the Chamber."

   The trio moved swiftly, sparring with the acolytes that tried to cut their path, trying to divert their attention from the bathroom doors that stood at the end of the floor. Tom spotted Nagel's face from afar, his lips pulled in a devious smirk that made the cicatrix on his face morph into a repugnant mark. The place where Varya's dagger had marked his skin remained butchered, as though it had never healed properly. The former prisoner had been let out by Ophelia Evergreen, and had survived regardless of his injuries.

   Nostrils swelled in irritation, the Slytherin boy cast a curse toward the acolyte, having him jump out of the way and roll to the ground. Nagel's wand scratched at the air, and green flared through the corridor, the deadly curse whizzing past Tom's ear as he continued moving down the stairs.

   Enraged, Riddle ducked behind the balustrade, then cut at his finger before scribbling an old rune on the stone pillars. It glistened in sanguine as Riddle pulled Avery and Ananke to cover, then burst into bits and pieces, taking out the remaining enemies. Their screams echoed through as they plummeted to their deaths, followed by the sound of bone and flesh crushing against the pavement. The moving stairs changed their direction, allowing Tom to grip onto the upper level's railing and pull himself upward.

   His robes were shredded to bits, and they did nothing to protect him from the coldness of winter as the boy stumbled into another hallway, eyes large as he took in the destruction. The right wall of the third floor had been completely destroyed, allowing the blizzard to ransack the interior of the castle, snow catching onto the shattered portraits, and having the paint dampen and drip down the golden frames. Through the unforgiving weather, the wizard could spot a few empaths taking down Grindelwald's followers near the Quidditch Pitch, hands moving fast as they had their sensors burn with pain and fear.

   "We have to get to the second floor," muttered Riddle, barely registering Ananke's cry as she pulled herself to the upper ground, her wounds making it unbearable. Panic was sultry on his tongue, scalding everything as he tried to comprehend what he ought to do next.

   Fingers trailing the edge of the smashed wall, he glanced downward, eyeing the slight roof that framed the window. Quickly, he took off his robe, tying it to the central pipeline that stood exposed from the wall, and gave it a firm tug. After decreeing that it would hold, Tom put his weight on it and lowered himself to the next floor, black shoes almost slipping on the icy tiles.

   He shot his eyes upward, giving Nicholas a look, "Through here."

   The two followed his movements and waited as Riddle used his magic to unlock one of the windows, pushing it open and stepping inside the corridor of the second floor. Unlike the upper decks, the Staircase Tower seemed eerily quiet, as if students had placed wards to keep any malicious spirits away. With discomfort, Riddle noticed a few pupils carrying wounded companions to the Hospital Wing entrance, their bodies mangled and worn.

   Footsteps accentuated against the floor as he strode down the hall, trying not to attract too much attention as he slipped into the girls' lavatory, followed by Ananke and Avery. The sink was as it had been all those months ago—lustrous and arched, something worthy of praise as a design. Tom placed his hand on the snake-engraved tap, twisting its head until the entire appliance sunk into the ground, revealing a set of stairs that led to the catacombs below.

   "Do not make any noise," Riddle announced, immediately pulling his wand to light the way downward, "And do not stare into its eyes."

   "Its?" echoed Ananke, shivering from the slight breeze created by the hollow channels of the Corridor of Secrets. The dampness of the encompassing air did not do much to wash at her fatigue, yet the empath marched forward, eyes wary and vigilant.

   "The basilisk," explained Nicholas, and the awe in his voice seemed incomprehensible. None of the Knights had been allowed in the lower sewers, for the Chamber of Secrets had been reserved for the heir. The only person that had seen its insides besides Tom Riddle had been Varya.

   A dripping sound muted the surroundings, the faulty leakage system of the castle carrying over their heads, and Riddle felt his chest clench with agitation. The basilisk had to be contained inside the Chamber; otherwise, their already diminishing number would only continue going down. Ophelia undoubtedly wanted to either strike it with the sword or douse the blade in the poison that dripped from its prongs. Reptilian of origin, the basilisk often spat venom when confronted, or had it leak as it accumulated in its frontal fangs. The tunnels would be filled with pools so far into the winter season, when the dropping temperatures made the giant snake more restless.

   Tom was uncertain how the mentalist witch would ever be able to enter it, but she was nothing short of ingenious, and had perhaps learned how to imitate Parseltongue. She had been privy to most discussions regarding Riddle's plans and secrets, and as such, knew the requirements for the Corridor's doors.

   As he had anticipated, the door to the Chamber stood open, though there was no sight of commotion inside. Riddle moved towards the entrance, eyeing the surroundings and trying not to dwell on the growing sorcery inside him. His thoughts wrapped around a name, a distraction, but he pushed it all aside. For his own sake, and for Varya's as well. The witch could handle her own, and Tom had to retrieve her Horcrux.

   "Well, you caught up with me, did you not?"

   The three students turned their eyes to one of the snake statues, taking notice of the legs dangling from its head. Ophelia's smirk was daunting as she toyed with something, slipping the object between her dexterous fingers before allowing it to dangle in the viridescent luminescence of the underground tunnels. The necklace almost glid from her hold, making Tom move forward before the witch swooped it back up in a taunting manner. In her other hand, she held the Gryffindor Sword, holding its hilt in a threatening stance.

   Avery did not hesitate to strike first; his knives flew through the air as Evergreen moved briskly, using momentum to run along the heads of the statues, jumping from one to another. Her hand flicked to the opposite wall, having the plumbing come undone, and water poured into the sewers. Riddle moved away, using his sorcery to protect the group from the high pressure of the water jet, then twisted his wand towards the escaping girl, red blooming and severing the next statue in her path.

   Ophelia fell to the ground, rolling around before digging her hand in the stone and using friction to stop. She flicked her head upward, tawny curls falling messily around her irked visage, and the witch sneered at the trio. Then, sorcery sizzled in the air as Riddle launched another attack, making her move again. The boy continued to advance, and the witch resumed blocking all attempts to immobilize her and seize the necklace.

   Evergreen twirled the sword in her hands, using it to hinder any spell that Riddle threw her way, and the Goblin metal simply absorbed it, slowly making it more potent with each curse. Wrath sizzled underneath as the death curse burned on his tongue, and Tom almost cast it at her, but stopped as Varya's words rang in his mind—Ananke had a plan.

   The empath put her hands forward in a battle motion, forehead married by concentration as she attempted to clutch the decaying sparks of Ophelia's emotions and twist them into something tangible. The threads of cognition dissipated through her fingers, and Ananke huffed with frustration—Evergreen was too cold, too crude.

   "Rile her up!" she bellowed over the sound of another bombardment as the mentalist had the ground beneath their feet break into two halves, and Ananke fell backward, trying to prevent the hole from swallowing her completely.

   "That I can do," sneered Avery before setting into motion.

   He slid through the opening created by the protruding rocks, then avoided collision with another burst of metal pipes from the walls by jumping over them. Nicholas summoned his daggers from the walls, then twirled them between his fingers and gripped them tightly. The witch held her sword in a blockade, her infuriating smirk glistening almost as intensely as the iron.

   Ophelia quirked an eyebrow of interest, "You could not defeat me before, yet you have the nerve to try again. You are either brave or outrageously foolish."

   "Same thing," grunted Avery before flicking a knife towards her.

   Evergreen rolled to the side, hands flying upward as another portion of the ceiling crumbled over them, spilling even more water into the Chamber of Secrets. The witch hurried towards one of the tunnels that led to the inner walls of the castle, her immediate steps echoing through, and the trio followed her swiftly. Vaguely aware of the reptilian monster that crawled somewhere in the passages before them, they could only wish they found it before Ophelia did.

   Tom ducked his head, hands touching the sides of the circular passage to steady himself as they moved amongst the pipelines and sewers. Then, as they took a sharp turn into the catacombs, he felt the scorching sensation from before amplify, so much so that he reeled forward. His hand touched his chest, where the feeling metastasized into agony, and Riddle wobbled on his feet.

   Something was wrong with Varya.

   Quick breaths fell from his lips like noxious petals, and fierce eyes glanced towards Avery, who stopped from the chase and shot him a concerned look. Tom gazed forward, taking in the damp walls, the way they seemed to circle him and squeeze until he could hardly breathe. The echo of Ophelia's footsteps began fading away, and his rationale screeched at him to follow. Was this not what he had desired? Varya's curse slowly took over her body, sinking her into an almost comatose state, and with each minute she failed to find Scarlet, her powers slipped to him through their bond. They allowed Riddle to magnify his sorcery.

   He felt it inside, a booming sensation of something blasphemous. The power slipped through his veins, something no mortal should have held solely, and it was Riddle's to own. A treacherous smirk almost threatened to sink, something putrid that glistened like a flash to the past, and Tom raised his hands, watching them contract into something similar to demon claws. At that moment, he felt invincible.

   He was getting all he had ever wanted.

   "Riddle, we have to move," hissed Ananke, narrowed eyes critiquing the doubt in his steps.

   Tom knew that Varya needed his help, but he could snub it. He could continue pursuing Evergreen, and seize the Horcrux from her, which would mean that he would ultimately gain control over Petrov's life. Then, he could ensure that his reign of terror would succeed, for with the Obscurial under an unbreakable sleeping curse, Riddle would channel her magic for decades to come. The Ministry would never be able to stop him, and he would finally become what he had always been meant to be—Lord Voldemort.

   The horologe commenced its ticking, and every second that glid through the timeless clepsydra only served his greed until it became a serpiginous monster, a deity that mankind surrendered to. Tom felt its blood on his tongue, and he knew that he was so close to achieving it. All he had to do was give up Varya Petrov.

   Avery huffed, restless, "We are losing her."

   Tom glanced at them again, his eyes eclipsed by something grotesque. Then, he finally made his decision.

   "Grab her."

   And with that, he turned on his feet, heading towards the exit of the Chamber of Secrets and hoping he could still find Varya.

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   Ophelia felt the hissing of magic. She sensed its pungent texture on her lips, nectar of the demons that lurked around her soul, dragging shackles of suffering around the gouges of her humanity. The moisture of the sewers made her skin itch, and she twirled on her heels as her hands came in contact with another dead-end. The witch almost felt the need to punch at the wall, though the spark of vexation was brief before it decomposed in the crypt of her sentiments. The skeletons of her ardor rattled, chipped bones a remembrance of the fourteen-year-old girl that had been.

   Eyes scurrying the place for another hole to crawl through, Evergreen caught sight of something moving through the openings of the maze-like tunnels. Her lips pulled into something sinister—a demented smile that seemed forced and unnatural. She followed the movement, the Horcrux dangling from her neck as she attempted to find the basilisk. Yet, as she slipped between two pillars, a blade pressed against her side.

   "Move, and I will gut you right here," muttered Nicholas, breath hot against her cheek.

   Evergreen cursed herself for not paying attention to her surroundings, and watched Ananke slip from the shadows, eyes cold and stern. Her dark hair was pulled away from her face, making it more pointed than usual, and she moved with grace. The mentalist witch felt something tug at her hair, and she hissed as Avery snuck a hand through her locks, making her meet his cocky smirk. He kicked the sword from Ophelia's feet, and Navarro bent to pick it up.

   "What was it that you said again about the brave and the foolish?" his voice irked her endlessly, but it was shortly-lived, as all other emotions were.

   "Tell me, what are you going to do with me? Kill me to avenge your dear, dimwitted Lopheus?" Ophelia snarled, and Avery's face shifted back into its characteristic fury.

   "Death would be too kind for a monster like you."

   "Monster, yes," hummed Evergreen as the boy pulled her to her knees, his blade switching to the side of her neck. "That is what you all call me, as if you do not work under a sociopath and a murder machine."

   Ananke frowned, slowly ungloving her hands, "I would watch my tongue if I were you."

   "Cut it off if you wish me to stop," the mentalist taunted back.

   "Might take you up on that offer," Avery continued from behind her. His eyes fell on the empath as he questioned, "What are you going to do? Torture her?"

   Ophelia smirked. As if that would do anything to her. She had spent years in asylums under a scalpel with little to no anesthesia. Nothing could harm her, nothing could ever rattle her—she was a walking weapon and nothing more, and Evergreen relished that. Dalibor had crafted a perfect soldier out of a little girl; he had taken an empty vessel and sculpted machinery out of broken shards, ensuring that the sharp edges served as armor.

   "Something akin to that," whispered Ananke as she kneeled before the mentalist, her hands slowly inching towards her face. "Now, do what I told you, Avery."

   Nicholas muttered some sort of disagreement before placing a finger under Ophelia's chin. He twisted it towards him, cruel eyes taking in her face with enough disagreement and disgust to fuel a war, and his fingers gripped her face harshly. The witch took in every detail of his face—dark irises carried the haze that settled over the night sea, his lower face was covered in the slightest stubble, a sign he had not had the chance to shave, and an ever-present snarl concealed his expression. Then, he pressed the knife against her skin until it formed a shallow cut.

   Evergreen felt the slightest vexation bubble over her graveyard, and that was enough for Ananke to clasp around the threads, tugging at the emotion and pulling it forward. Ophelia gasped as Avery let her go, and she fell forward, clutching on her chest as something foreign settled in her marrow, a buzzing that brought goosebumps to her skin. A cry rang from her lips, though it was not due to agony, but a crash of something grey, something invasive and wrecking.

   Quivering hands grasped Navarro's hands, trying to pull them away from her temples, but the empath resisted, clenching her teeth as she pushed against the mentalist's fight. A slippery substance dripped down her cheeks, trailing to her lips, and Ophelia almost choked on the saltiness. She could not breathe. She could not discern reality from the shadows that smothered her whole.

   "Get off of me," she shouted, pushing Ananke to the ground and hauling herself upwards. The witch tripped, grabbing onto the beams that held the ceiling above their heads, her legs trembling and her chest heaving with a foreign sound.

   She turned her head to glance at Navarro and Avery, who stood a few paces away, eyes cautious as if dealing with a rabid animal, and Ophelia sensed her face heat as her hands trembled with a need to hurt, to kill, to maul. Fingers clenched, and all she wanted to do was shriek, though her throat itched with a soundless sob, and her psyche clashed against everything she knew. Awareness slipped in like a torrent of sorrow—names, faces, cries of those she had murdered felt like boulders disintegrating over her.

   Lopheus.

   Evergreen fell to her knees, muteness having the world still before her. Her breath rotted in her lungs, wasteful and frigid. Ophelia cried out with catastrophe and fury, her hands clenching with distress as the structure above them shook from her sorcery, having the two students before her topple backward and away from her. Curls stuck to her damp face, and she lowered her head to the ground, trying to melt through the cracks and let the world cure her of the malady of regret within.

   "Why would you do this to me?" she screeched, maddened eyes settling on the two, though the previous demented stare had been replaced by something almost stupefying—grief and rage morphed into a demonic presence. It flowed back in, the pain that had been muffled in her teenage years, the terror of the asylum, the solitude, and the anguish, and it drowned her in misery.

   Putting himself back together, Avery narrowed his eyes, and the rancid stare he shot the witch stung her, "This is what you did to Maxwell. You gave everything back to him to hurt him, to have the idea that he could have prevented everyone's death shred him. Ananke only did the same for your emotions. The disgust you feel, the self-hatred—I am glad for it. I am glad I finally hurt you the way you hurt them all."

   The walls wobbled as Ophelia let out a piercing scream, and the wind flew through as her sorcery boomed with an overwhelming sensation. Her hair whipped at the surroundings, and then she flung her hands forward, a bombardment of power sending Avery and Ananke backward.

   "Grab the necklace!" shouted Navarro, and Nicholas tried to move forward before his path was blocked by a piece of ceiling collapsing at his feet. He fell on his back, crawling away from the crumbling chamberlain.

   Dust pooled from above as Ophelia rose to her feet, her hands lashing again and bringing another wall down. Her cries rang through the tunnels, echoing with the deafening vibration of a wailing woman. Debris continued toppling over, inundating the surroundings, and though Avery tried to move towards the witch again and grab her before she would bury them all alive, another rush of power sent everything flying and tumbling around.

   "We have to get out of here," shouted Nicholas, "Screw that necklace. We can get it later from the ruins."

   Ananke got to her feet, grabbing the Gryffindor Sword before turning to flee. The boy moved to follow, but he stopped in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder at his former fiancee as she tore down another wall in her grief, tears scalding ruddy cheeks and eyes rippling with another outcry. Ophelia extended her hands towards the sky, fingers clenching and trembling as if she were pleading for salvation from whatever god had turned its back on her. Nicholas hated her. He loathed her to the point of self-destruction. The wizard knew that she had brought this upon herself. With one last glance, Avery followed Ananke down the tunnels, running away from the destruction.

   Evergreen screeched once more, then brought the whole channel down with her.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

   Another step forth felt like inching through barbed wiring, and though she was sure blood still pumped beyond ivory skin, Varya felt as if her vessels had turned to sandpaper. She staggered forward, gripping onto a tapestry and trying to chase away the spots that swarmed her vision. The ache in her muscles did not settle—it magnified with each tick of death's clock. It hovered over her threateningly, its tormenting talons nibbling her skin yet not cutting deep enough to lacerate.

   Someone passed by her, a fleeing student, and they thumped into her shoulder in their hurry. Varya slammed against the wall, and the impact itself felt as if every bone in her spine split through her skin, her nerves still whining from the spell that had linked her to Rosier's death.

   Crumbling to the floor, she felt her dignity spoil inside her, yet the witch refused to back down. Her hand reached out, and she began crawling, for even with the agony residing inside, she ultimately refused to give up. Raven hair fell around her pale face, and her robes were torn on her body. The world slanted around her, tipping off of the edge of consciousness, and she grappled with staying whole.

   She welcomed the briefest touch on her shoulder, then someone hauled the girl upward, carrying her body in their arms. Varya barely distinguished the passing figures and hues that surrounded her, eyelids becoming heavier and heavier. Some part of her tried to stay awake, to focus on the sorcery that had not slipped away, but that too was getting extinguished as the power flowed through.

   "Stay awake and save everyone the trouble of figuring a way to go through a reincarnation ritual," muttered Riddle, crouching as a drekavac shot past him, tearing another fighting figure limb by limb. He used the distraction to slip into the staircase hall and rushed up the stairs to the second floor and to the Hospital Wing.

   Amongst the widespread beds, casualties lay on improvised comforters, their profiles covered by blackened material. Some had been taken down by spells, so their bodies remained intact, whereas others were mutilated by the fight. Riddle caught sight of Professor Slughorn at the end of the room; his expression distorted into ache as a healer doused his open abdominal wounds with a healing liquor. His rounded face had blanched from blood loss, yet words of revolt tumbled briefly from his mouth as he argued that he ought to return outside. By his side, a Ravenclaw girl wailed over the corpse of another student, clinging to the bloating form. The healers stumbled over limbs and bodies, trying to aid those who needed it, but their resources were being depleted by the minute, and the injured kept coming in.

   The atmosphere was somber, grave—everyone knew they were losing and dying, and yet they kept going back into a slaughter. Creatures crawled through every unguarded sector of the castle, and the sigils drawn by the Scholomance students were barely holding. Tom Riddle had never attended a proper funeral—he did not care for such aimless gestures for the weak—but he imagined it would have sounded the same as the castle. Hogwarts lamented for its deceased, a mournful wail that clanged like cathedral tolls through foyers of terror.

   Tom shifted Varya's half-unconscious body in his hold, eyes trailing the crowded chamber, taking in the faces of those he remembered and those he did not. He searched for a hint of auburn hair, though managed to only spot Elladora by one of the beds, hands waving over a scalding cauldron as it bubbled and splotched. The boy rushed over, trying not to step on the make-shift covers, and caught the poisoner's attention by clearing his throat.

   "Norberg?" The question was swift, and Selwyn shot him an aggravated look at the sight of Petrov's trembling figure. She peeped around, trying to find an empty spot on the ground where she could lay her fellow classmate. Elladora took off her robe, then placed it on the cold ground, and instructed Riddle to put the Obscurial on it.

   "Somewhere in the back getting a strzyga cure," remarked Elladora, eyebrows furrowing as she took in Varya's state. Her lips pursed in discontent, and she leaned over the moribund witch, heart hammering at seeing her in such a state. An alarm sounded through her psyche as she noticed Petrov's eyelids flutter open with a grieving look in them. "What is it?"

    Tom turned his back to the two, trying to detect Scarlet through the tumult. Four more students were rushed through the main doors, two of them unconscious, the other two seemingly dead. Blood drenched their vestments, and heads lolled back as people gathered to tend to the wounded. He located her moving through the occupied beds, her hair pinned back and her face contorted in violence—Scarlet moved like a ravaging lion set to maul its enemies.

   "Norberg!" called out the boy, having her scalding eyes settle on him. She huffed with irritation—the witch had never taken a liking to him, not that he appreciated her in any way. Tom found her remarkably pestering in more ways than one. "Petrov needs your help. Dolohov cursed her using blood magic."

   The Blood Witch moved towards them faster, pushing healers aside before kneeling down by Varya. Frowning deeply, Scarlet took the witch's hand, then brought a blade to her skin and sliced deeply. Crimson dribbled down the side of Varya's hands, and Elladora scowled.

   "What are you doing?"

   "A blood purge," hummed Norberg. She placed one digit in the dripping blood, smearing the liquid before bringing it up to her eye level. Her lips moved softly, and though Riddle tried to eavesdrop on the incantation, he could not distinguish the words. The sorcery itself seemed ancient, a broken piece of history preserved only by the Blood Coven in the Nordic regions of Europe.

   The boy crossed his arms, eyebrows pulled in a profound scowl as he stared down at Varya and felt the sorcery slowly slip away from him. It was a draining sentiment, and he loathed how it took away from something his body had already marked as his. Tom knew, of course, that the power itself did not belong to him, and that it had come from the witch, and yet he felt famished for it. He had gotten a taste of her magic, and now he craved it even more.

   Scarlet sighed deeply, "I am cleansing her blood of dark magic. It should take a few moments, but you made it just in time."

   Riddle turned to face Varya, taking in how her skin began to retrieve its luminosity as Scarlet continued her incantation. Behind him, more wounded lurched into the small Hospital Wing, and the Matron cast troubled glimpses at the pilling numbers and the diminishing space allocated. The smell of rubbing alcohol fused in with the metallicity of spilled blood, creating a potent waft of incoming death, and though it was not baffling to Tom Riddle, he noticed the way others' expressions fermented. Hospitals were a place of trial and gain all the same, but the castle wing had become a mortuary for the living, as well as the dead. Hopelessness clung to every eyelash that fluttered as tears pooled on dusted cheeks, and students gawked at Varya's unmoving form with defeat.

   A groan caught his attention, and Tom watched Varya shift on the floor, slowly opening her eyes and taking in a shallow breath. Her chest heaved with a silent sob, and she reached out to clutch Elladora's hand.

   "I am so sorry," cried the witch, her grip getting tighter and tighter. "I am so sorry, Elladora. I did everything I could. He did not suffer."

   Panic struck Selwyn as she froze, "What are you talking about?"

   A pitched tone rang throughout the hall, something akin to a funeral chime, and everyone turned their eyes towards the entrance. The chapel's bells continued to enunciate with solemnity, as if bewailing for all parted souls, yet the specific harmony turned to a menacing note.

   The doors to the wing swung open, and in ran Lev Myung, followed by Icarus Lestrange and Maxwell Nott. Misty eyes searched the room until they settled on Tom, and then he moved towards him, exasperation on his face. A mission was stapled into the fine lines of his uptight expression, and he stopped right in front of the group, lips parted in disbelief.

   "Dumbledore won," explained Myung, shooting a look back towards Icarus and Maxwell as if to confirm his story. When they did, he continued, "They captured Grindelwald with Newton Scamander's help, tied him up, and dragged him towards the Viaduct. The acolytes have fallen back to regroup. We have an hour of cease-fire before Dalibor attacks again, and Dumbledore is asking for Varya. This has to end. We have to make way for her."

   The shadowmancer's eyes fell behind Riddle, taking in Petrov's dismal state, and his skin whitened with terror. They all knew that their fate relied on Varya, for she had become their destined fighter, and her weakness was their agony. The witch took in the surrounding faces, a shadow of anguish caressing her porcelain visage. If he tried hard enough, Lev could count each crack that had drilled itself into her figure, each sign of pain that had worn her down throughout the years. It bothered him deeply, and he wished endlessly that he would have had the power to take or share her burden, but Myung knew that although his sorcery was potent, he did not have Varya's will to destroy Dalibor.

   It had become personal. Perhaps, it had always been personal. Varya's quest for retribution had been birthed from the ashes of her burning stake, the one they had butchered her childhood on. Petrov wanted to be the one to shut the coffin on Dalibor's corpse, and she would have never allowed anyone else to take that away from her.

   Still, the pain that prospered in her eyes—it was another variety, something malignant. There was the ever-present distress due to her wound, mixed in with something drab and heavy, a funeral color, but that was not what made Lev halt in his spot. Underneath it all, a thorned rose of bitterness bloomed, unstable petals threatened to fall and poison the ground of her morality. A demented spark glistened under the veil of misery, as if, even though she suffered, madness had started tearing her apart.

   Varya shook her head, clinging to Elladora, "Ren did not make it," she sobbed, "I tried to help him, I did, but there were too many and—"

   Selwyn took her hand from Petrov's hold, her whole body going rigid. She fell to her knees, mouth parted in disbelief, and the thought process painted itself on her expression as she processed the information. Then, the witch bubbled a petrifying sob, something that wrecked from within and scratched at her soul. Elladora swayed her head, moving away slowly, and Maxwell came to hold her from behind.

   "No," cherry curls shook with her disapproval, "no, you are wrong. He is not dead. He cannot be dead. Rosier must be playing a joke on us." She turned to look at Nott, who had blanched significantly, and he blinked fastly as if to chase away the affliction from between his eyelashes. "Tell her. Tell her she is wrong, Max. You know how Ren gets when he is upset. He leaves us, but he always comes back."

   "Elladora," tried Icarus, advancing towards her, but the poisoner moved as if stung.

   She backed up until her spine hit the corner, her hands shaking from incredulity. Fingers dug into her locks, and she pulled until the sting of that almost muffled the one she felt inside. Elladora cried deeply, tears scalding her face as she screamed out in agony. Maxwell moved to hug her, wrapping secure arms around her and trying to stabilize the witch, a gesture that might have been carried by Renold Rosier habitually.

   Icarus kneeled beside the other two, bowing his head in defeat, and although Varya could not see his face from the angle, she watched his shoulders tremble slightly. There was no sound of crying, but the boy dragged a hand across his face, pressing against it with aggression and trying to stabilize his breath.

   "I am so sorry," she breathed again, the word plugging in her throat. They did not indict her for it, but she still felt somewhat culpable for Rosier's death. The witch should have tried to help him more; she should not have run, but the curse had been eating her away, and they would have never made it out together.

   Turning her eyes to Tom, she searched his expression for any grief or remorse, but the machiavellian boy remained impassive. For any outlooker, it would have appeared as if Riddle had not been phased in the slightest by the death of his fellow Knight, and yet Varya saw past the stone mirage. Jaw clenched, fists tightened, eyes blazing with desire for demolition—Tom did not show humanity nor mourning, and yet his emotions reacted to the tragedy in the only way they knew how. The Devil's smirk had nothing on the macabre pull of Riddle's lips, a seal for the promise of destruction.

   He glimpsed at Varya, rouged and despotic, and extended his hand, "We must go and face whatever awaits us."

   The witch met his stare, his determination a malady that spread to her, and clasped his hand before pushing herself upward. Her left ankle remained painful, but the dizziness had subdued, leaving only a metallic taste in her mouth. The blood loss made every step she took towards Tom unsure, but he steadied her and held her upward.

   "What do we do now?" inquired Lev, one hand over Nott's shoulder, the other holding a dagger that belonged to his sister.

   Varya took in a shaky breath, "We find Lydia and Ananke, and we look for Dumbledore. I have the Stone on me, and Felix can fetch the Cloak from the Ravenclaw Salon. How is the situation outside?"

   "Dire," sighed Scarlet, wiping Petrov's blood off of her palms, "The momentary cease-fire gives us enough time to gather our forces and count our losses, but—" she shook her head, cynical.

   "There are not many left," added Myung, rising to his feet. "Five of us, seven in total with Riddle and Dimitrov, but even then—"

   Elladora raised angered eyes from her palms, "Count us in, will you?"

   Frowning, Varya gripped the material of Tom's shirt tightly, shifting to face her roommate, "You are grieving."

   A scoff left Lestrange's lips as he got to his feet, and though his eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his voice remained clear as he stated, "They took from us, and we shall take tenfold from them."

   There was no room left for uncertainty as the three Knights gathered their weapons from the walls. Elladora tied her pouch around her waist with Scarlet's help, her hands still shaky from the burns they had suffered; Maxwell swung his arrow quiver over his left shoulder; Icarus counted his dragon glass blades. They moved quickly, swiftly, like shadows of judgment or the flow of a mighty river, then made way for everyone else as they led the fighting stance to the second-floor hallway.

   Riddle held onto the Obscurial as they walked and felt her gradually gain her sway with each step. Ardent wrath burned through his veins, and he supported her move forward, his robes slashing at the grimy tiles as the group marched towards the stairs. There, Abraxas and Felix carried an injured Lydia towards the Hospital Wing.

   When she met Varya's eyes, the weathercaster gritted her teeth and spat, "They killed my dragon. They had it fall from the sky and into the river, and those awful creatures began to tear it piece by piece. What kind of awful, sick beings do that?" The witch shook her head in revulsion, profile facing down as tears dripped over her nose, "The Dark Priest did it himself! That putrid being. You cannot let him go, Petrov. He is gathering his forces due to Grindelwald's loss and has run to the forest. Track him down."

   With that, she pushed away from the group, stumbling due to her injuries and clinging to the wall. Midnight skin sizzled as she grabbed her limp arm, the broken bone pushing against her skin, then snapped it back into place. Her eyes turned misty as she repaired the damage through magic, then winced as her agony faded away. Still, other wounds remained, but the fire inside her burned as vividly as the one her dragon had breathed, and Lydia refused to back down.

   "Felix," began Varya, turning dark eyes to the boy. His clothes were torn on his body, and his hair stuck to his face from mud, dirt, and transpiration, but he was otherwise unharmed, which meant he would be the fastest to get through the castle. "I need the Cloak from the Salon. Can you get it for me?"

   The boy nodded, then turned to leave dutifully, but Elladora stopped him, "I will come with you. Merlin knows what creatures are lurking around the castle."

   With that, the two left, and Petrov pressed her lips, "I ought to find Dumbledore."

   "He is by the Viaduct," answered Lydia, pointing in the general direction. "But so is Grindelwald, admittedly tied. And I do not think you should—"

   Her words got lost in a flurry of steps, and all the group could do was watch Petrov walk away from them, set out to finally meet the man.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

   The corridors felt snug, tight. Varya had never had a fear of small spaces, but at that moment, the castle seemed to smother her. Destruction was present everywhere, and the homely quality of the school had been lost, replaced by something aloof and bleak. She did not mind that part, found it settling even. It made her conscious of her space and the loss and tragedy Dalibor and Grindelwald had caused in their conquest. Furthermore, it proved her earlier beliefs to be true—the wizarding world needed to be purged.

   The Ministry of Magic had stood by, and had let numerous students risk their lives to protect something that was, by documents, under their name and control. They had been cowardly, barely allowing the Scamander brothers to join in the wrestling against Grindelwald, and had sent only a few Aurors to help the battle. It was disgraceful—a nation run by cowards and weaklings, and Varya was certain that, should they continue to hold such power over the country, this incident would only repeat.

   Hours had passed by since the fighting had begun, and gone was the tangerine dawn, replaced by a lilac sky of amurg. The tiredness wore down Varya's shoulders, but she pushed it aside as her shoes squeaked against the wrecked granite floors. Shoving open the doors towards the front courtyard, she allowed the inherent smell of petrichor to ease her tautness. The weather had appeared to gather a mind of its own, and a slight drizzle streamed from above, having the snow underneath her boots freeze over.

   Most of it had melted away with the heightened temperatures of the midday sun. Its faint rays scalded the battleground with a morbid serenity, and they illuminated the vermilion that doused the few patches of ivory that remained. Varya stepped through it all, taking in the muteness of the courtyard, and her movement was the only sound that could be heard. She felt small at that moment, almost insignificant in the grandeur of nature. Few birds chirped in the distance, the ones that had not fled with the coming of winter, and crows nicked at the corpses that remained in the corners of the Viaduct.

   In front of her, the bridge stood in open space, rebuilt from its ruins by magic. Like a scarecrow, Dumbledore remained in the middle, his grey suit ruffled by the faintest zephyr, and rain drizzled around them. The horizon had turned a murky grey, foggy even, and the iciness of the surroundings turned Petrov's lungs frigid as she advanced.

   She caught sight of him from a distance—Grindelwald stood on his knees, hands bound behind his back by some magic nullifying device that Albus had tied, and though he appeared entirely feeble, his presence still made her halt.

   Raven locks lashed at her face as their gazes met, each at one end of the bridge, and the blood held in Varya's veins. Years had passed. Years had slipped by since she had last seen Grindelwald, and yet the memories of being stored away in his castle bloomed unforgivingly. He was dressed in his usual dark coat, mismatched irises carrying the lightning of gods in them. Gellert's lips pulled in a nebulous smirk, something short of triumphant, and the witch's stomach lurched.

   Step by step, she advanced, and yet her movement felt accompanied by something else. Behind her, shadows swirled, and the faint light of the sun choked in the grasps of her Obscurus. It tarried behind her like a faithful attendant, something she had vanquished, and obeyed her whims and desires. Varya held Grindelwald's gaze, but her expression remained stoic, and she wanted him to know—to be aware that it had been her that had succeeded in what he had failed repeatedly. His desire to bind Ariana's magic to Credence had displeased, and though he would have made yet another busted experiment out of the Eastern witch, she had discovered a way to cling to the parasite and to survive through it all.

   "You lost," Varya spoke, breaking the reticence as she stood a few feet away from him. Dumbledore leaned against the railing, hands crossed over his chest as he took in the two. "I hope you rot in the cell they reserved for you."

   Grindelwald cocked his head mockingly, and his eyes scurried the witch from head to toe. "Have I?"

   "Yes."

   A jeering laugh, "As you stand before me, I think I have achieved enough."

   Nails dug in her palms, and the obscurations crawled at her feet, begging for release, for bloodshed. But she controlled the magic, not the other way around. "What do you mean?"

   "Gellert," warned Dumbledore, pushing himself off of the support and advancing toward them. His eyes carried a hushed warning, though some sort of awareness passed between the two, as if they held a secret that the witch had not been let in on. The Transfiguration teacher turned to the witch, "He is trying to get inside your mind. Do not let that happen. You still have one last battle ahead of you."

   Reluctantly, Varya nodded and stepped away, retracting her Obscurus and puffing in inflammation. A new figure Apparated in the middle of the bridge, then tilted in his steps before regaining his gait and clearing his throat. Newton Scamander dusted off his jacket, then stopped by the three, his hands holding an infamous suitcase.

   "I shall transport Grindelwald to the Ministry," grumbled the magizoologist, then bowed his head to Varya, "Good evening, Varya."

   The witch withheld comment on how the evening was anything but good, and let the Professor capture Gellert, his hands holding onto the magical manacles and pulling. Newt huffed at the impediment, for it would be hard to Apparate two people after dueling. He raised Grindelwald to his feet, pushing the man forward, and prepared to disappear.

   Then, right before they left, Gellert turned to face the Eastern Witch.

   "You say I have lost, but so have you, although you cannot see it now," he said gradually, charisma adhering to every word. "Because you, Petrov, have become everything I desired you to be. A weapon. The only thing that changed is who held you."

   With that, they both disappeared into a puff of dark smoke.

   Varya gawked at the spot where the Dark Wizard had been, numerous thoughts swirling in her mind, and she wanted to curse herself for not telling him how much she loathed the man. For endless nights, she had practiced what she would say to the one who had stolen everything from her—Petrov would have wanted to let him know how much she had suffered, how truly despicable he was, how much illness she wished upon him. Poison corrupted her every moment thinking about Grindelwald and all he had taken, but faced with the man himself, she had come short of words.

   Because no matter how much she would cuss him out, nothing would change, and all that would be left behind would be resentment. But, with the words still left unsaid, she could perhaps cling to the wrath and hatred. Varya wanted to remember how she felt at that moment, a victor that wondered if it had all been worth it in the end. Emptiness was a perpetual thing, for it existed in every crack of the soul that remained sullied, and Grindelwald had broken her so many times that all she had was mismatched pieces of a whole. The emotions within—they would never wither, regardless of her success. They were part of her now; they were building blocks of her existence.

   Grindelwald could call her a weapon, and maybe he was right. Perhaps, she had truly lost her integrity and had become something less humane. But Varya was not lithe nor malleable, and she would not allow anyone to use her. Every cog of her machinery, every murder that hung from her fingertips—they had been on her accord. And the rest would be just the same.

   "I suppose this belongs to you now."

   Varya glanced towards Dumbledore, who held a wand in his hands, but she could tell, even without touching it, that it was unlike any that had ever existed. It looked ordinary, it even felt ordinary as she touched it briefly with a finger, but oddity stuck to the wooden object. Albus handed it over to Petrov, his eyes cautious and glistening with the same secrecy that they had held earlier, as if the wand was the most precious artifact there was. Grasping it in her hand and feeling the spark of power that rose up her arm, the witch understood what it was—The Elder Wand.

   Behind her, footsteps sounded, and she turned to see Felix, Tom, and Lev walking over, their faces dreary, though it could have been the weather that obscured their emotions. In his hands, Parkin held a soft material, and he handed it to Varya with quivering hands. The witch held onto the two objects, then dug in her pocket, retrieving the Resurrection Stone.

   The three Deathly Hallows reunited at last.

   Taking in a deep breath, Petrov nodded, "Dalibor is in the forest."

   "The shadowmancer, Parkin, and I shall accompany you," said Tom, eyeing Dumbledore briefly with suspicion as he inclined his head and moved past them in a hurry. The boy reasoned the man was going to assess the castle's losses and offer assistance to the fighters that remained. "Will that be enough?"

   Varya nodded, "Everyone else will be needed at Hogwarts. The cease-fire is almost over, and, frankly, they need the help more than we do," she explained as she tied the cloak around her attire. It turned a dark shade, close to charcoal, as if it had obtained a mind of its own and knew invisibility was not required.

   With that, the four pivoted and began walking towards the forest, their steps heavy against the terrain. Heart drumming in her chest, Varya reasoned that the trepidation that surrounded her was not due to impending doom, but rather due to what the battle meant—an ending. After years of conflict, it was all coming to a close, and though it was liberating, it also felt curiously smothering. The Eastern witch did not know what awaited her after. She had never considered having a life after Hogwarts, and though once she might have wished to be a healer, she was not sure she could ever go back to that. Desire slithered through her soul, beckoning the girl to yearn for more, to lust after power. It was corrupted of nature, though Varya reasoned with herself that it was the right thing to do. The world needed saving. She was a hero, a vigilante, and she could not stop at Dalibor.

   The forest was impenetrable, fogged by darkness and mist, and it scented differently than the courtyard. There was a wilderness to it; perfume of fauna and flora consolidated into something that burst with life. Twigs scratched at Petrov's skin, and she kept close to Tom, who seemed to whisper a tracking spell, his blade against his palm. She did not comment on his newfound inclination to dark magic, for it had proven to be rather valuable as of late but remained wary of it. His presence, at least, settled her nerves somewhat, for he was far away from the objects that connected their powers. That did not mean, however, that she was safe. Varya was not a fool—she could not let her guard down just yet.

   "Over there—" began Lev, but his words were cut short by a screeching sound as an arrow pushed through his hand. The boy roared with agony and hunched over, ducking from another attack as three acolytes dove through the woods.

   Hissing with irritability, the shadowmancer turned somber eyes to the attackers, sizing their numbers before slipping through the branches. The shadows welcomed him with a clammy embrace, and sorcery cascaded from his hands as he skidded behind the clueless men. Varya hid behind a tree to avoid an arrow, Felix by her side as he pulled his wand out and cast an immobilization curse down the pathway. It hit one of the men, sending him soaring above, and the other two started moving in the direction of the two students.

   Something hooked one of the acolytes around the neck, a rope that felt between airiness and palpable, and squeezed against the trachea until he spluttered. The shadow dug into his skin, having his veins slowly turn a darker shade as if becoming corrupt, and his companion twisted to stare in disbelief. He attempted to free his friend, but the suffocating man protested and pointed to something behind him.

   Before he could react, a blade slashed the free disciple's throat, having him fall to the ground.

   Tom snarled at the remaining invader, prepared to strike, but the obscuration suddenly tightened and lifted, snapping the man's neck and killing him on the spot. The shadow retreated its way and curled around Myung's palm as he appeared from the murkiest corners of the woods, and his eyes switched from pitch black to the peeved expression he always wore.

   "They are dead," called out Riddle, and Felix came from the hiding spot, followed by Varya.

   "The forest will be flooding with these pests," sneered Petrov, crossing her arms in irritation and glazing around, "We need a distraction."

   A snapping sound reverberated through as Lev broke the arrow in two halves, then pushed it through his skin until he got it out. The boy grunted at the pain, then discarded the weapon in the bushes, and Felixius stepped forward to heal his wound.

   Tom bit the inside of his cheek in exasperation, "The tracking spell is pulling me in that direction," he said, pointing towards the pathway that led deeper into the woods. " If my inkling is correct—and they usually are—he is hiding somewhere near the river. We can clear your way until there, and then hold back whatever might try to interfere."

   Petrov nodded, then marched forward, eyes studying the surroundings with cautiousness. Every crack of a branch had her squirm, every blow of a potent breeze brought goosebumps to her skin, but the witch tried to stay composed. The subsequent encounter they had was near the spot where she had killed the Thestral all those years ago, and this time, it was them that spotted the enemy first. Scattered through the lower branches and digging in the corpse of wildlife, a few strigoi tore at intestines and flesh, blood pooling around their feet.

   Nearby, two men stood with their weapons drawn, and yet the creatures did not approach them, undoubtedly instructed by Dalibor to not harm any of his men. Varya nodded towards the strigoi first, and Lev understood the signal, diving into the shadows and disappearing. Felix followed behind, shifting through the branches to get closer to the creatures. The witch rose her wand towards the acolytes, a spell on her lips, but suddenly she felt something jab at her side.

   "Not so fast, sweetheart," sneered a woman from behind, digging the tip of her wand in Varya's skin.

   The witch arrested as more acolytes swarmed around them, lifting their weapons in the air and aiming at her and Tom. Eyes drifting to the boy beside her, she passed a silent question, one which he understood promptly as a man raised him to his feet.

   "Watch your hands," muttered Riddle, trying to move away, but the man chortled cynically.

   "Why? What are you going to do to—"

   His question was cut short by a shrill screech, and he dove backward, staring at his limbs as a rotting spell took into effect. Tearing away at his tissue, the magic that belonged to Riddle's necromancy volume seemed to baffle the mob, and the boy took that moment to grab Varya and pull her close. He formed a protective shield over their heads, barely missing the numerous curses cast their way, then moved to take cover.

   "I did tell him to watch his hands," added Tom, raising an eyebrow at Petrov's horrified expression. "We must not stop. We have to advance."

   "But Lev and Felix—"

   "They can handle themselves," resonated Riddle as another curse buzzed past their ears.

   He pushed the witch between the trees, using them to take cover from the constant attacks, and every now and then twisted to flare another spell at the opposition. The odor of something burning began to breeze through the forest as twigs and branches lit up, and the sky covered in silver webs as lightning and thunder bellowed from above. Varya continued running through the trees, jumping over the ducts and bridges of roots that stood in her way, and did not glance back towards Tom, who continued to fight in order for her to advance.

   Echoes reverberated through the woods as the acolytes shouted at one another, trying to spot the two, but once they were far enough, Tom pulled the witch in a ground cover and stopped to catch his breath. His features were morphed into discomfort, though he did not say anything of being injured. Riddle pressed a hand against his forehead, trying to wipe away the sweat, and then moved to glance over the small rift.

   "We lost them," he said and turned intense eyes to Varya.

   They burned with resolve, and the witch caught her breath, deciding not to dwell on their intensity. Their shoulders stood squished against each other, and she felt the press of his thigh to her own.

   "I can hear the river nearby," she whispered, glancing in the general direction of the running water. "He must be there."

   The shouts returned, calling from a distance as the acolytes undoubtedly used tracking spells to find them. Their numbers seemed to have diminished, as if something was picking them one by one, and Varya could only hope Felix and Lev had managed to strategize amongst themselves.

   Tom hardened his stare, grabbing his weapon, "You must go."

   "They will—"

   "I will hold them down," said Riddle, clutching her arm, "You have another fight to carry out."

   "There must be at least six of them."

   "I find the worry in your voice insulting to my capabilities," Tom narrowed his eyes on her, then shook his head in disapproval as if such a fight was well below him.

   And it was, Varya realized. She was worrying for him, but Riddle was strong enough to take twice as many men at once, even with her depleting his powers to her own benefit. Something swirled in her stomach as she gazed at him with sincerity, trailing the harshness of his jaw, and the veins that drummed against his neck. He was focused. The wizard was doing what he did best—murdering, dueling, conquering. It was in his blood, the one he used to cause chaos and to wreck those around him.

   Anguish married her soul, premature grief, as if that moment was primordial. Time appeared to hold them in its palms, glimpsing down at them with misfortune, and Varya wondered why she suddenly felt so forsaken. It was certainly not because she thought that Tom would die.

   Was it her own failure that she feared? Did she worry that she would be the one that would not return to Riddle? That twisted her insides, scratching and tearing, and the idea of losing the boy would ruin her whole.

   "Tom," she whispered, making him glance at her.

   Though his eyes did not carry the warmth that hers did, nor the ardor, they were not solely void. It was as if Tom could read her solicitudes, and therefore knew the corrosive thoughts that plagued her psyche. He held her stare and lifted a hand to touch her cheek, trailing his knuckles over the softness of her skin.

   "I will wait for you back at the castle," he admitted, and though the words were artless, they held some significance to the witch—Riddle wanted to see her again; he wanted them to meet. That, somehow, eased her thoughts of betrayal and made the witch get up to move.

   Varya placed her hand over his and leaned into his touch, then squeezed his fingers reassuringly. With that, she let go and did not glance back.

   A booming sound split the ground beneath her feet, and a spell flew past her as she ran down the pathway, not caring for the shouts behind. Petrov pushed forward, her mind suddenly focusing on one goal alone—on bloodthirst. She could hear the faraway resonance of running water, could almost inhale the fresh fragrance, and that made her continue. The witch jumped over a few rocks and used the torn-down trees as a bridge over the dips and heights of the hills.

   She knew this path; she had walked it before. Moreso, Varya had fought in this place, although it had been against Riddle at the time. He had tried to activate her Obscurus, to make her break through the barrier that Grindelwald had placed, and at the time, the witch had found it the worst betrayal. She still disagreed with his methods, but, perhaps, Riddle had been right. Through her sorrow came power, and her Obscurus had kept her alive as much as it had threatened her existence. Now, Petrov could not imagine not having such sorcery. It was part of her, not just a mere parasite.

   The odor of something pungent and yet savory made her stop in her tracks, and that is when Varya caught sight of him—Dalibor stood by the running water, hands clasped behind his back, his face as repugnant as it had always been. The wind caught his dark robes, threaded with golden symbols of Scholomance, and his eyes were shut in serendipity. He seemed content, calm, even. As if he was waiting, as if he was counting the minutes before she appeared.

   Petrov's throat constricted with hatred, and she moved slowly, like a lioness stalking its prey. Approaching him gradually, Varya saw the Dark Priest's lips quirk upward in something defying, and then he opened his eyes and gazed at her.

   "Petrov," he called her name, and a shiver ran down her spine, long-suppressed fear scalding her marrow. "I see you are still alive. Fear not, I can put an end to this, to the anomaly you have become."

   Varya scoffed, pushing her tongue against her cheek in disbelief. Her fingers tightened around the Elder Wand, seeking reassurance. "Is conscience finally striking you after all of these years? Can you not bear to look at me, at what I have become? I reckon it is not because you are a good samaritan."

   Wind whirled around them, muffling the sound of the battle that continued deep into the woods, and the sun settled in its grainy nest. Nature cried from beyond, and light snuffed out like a burned cigar, having the shadows of the grand trees caress the soil and draw dismorphed shapes in the heart of the clearing. The chapel's bells continued to chime, signaling that the cease-fire had come to an end, and Varya held her breath for whatever horrors dawned upon the castle.

   "You act mighty, witch," growled Dalibor, slowly stepping towards her, "but do you not remember the fear I instigate in you? You are a young, foolish, scared little girl. Nothing has changed, except for you have been given power too well over your station. All you have done is ruin the Devil's will. You corrupted Tom Riddle; you brought Albus Dumbledore the influence he needed to stop Grindelwald—you became a pawn in the hands of the good. But they will discard you after this is all done. I would be merciful, but they would not."

   A laugh barely fell from Varya's lips, "I cannot extend that same promise to you."

   Then, she moved first, her Obscurus flaring as she struck the attack. Its tentacles extended to the Dark Priest, poniards of death, and aimed to clasp around his limbs. The man moved quickly, slicing at them with a banishing spell and protecting himself. His response was curt—he summoned a whirl of black flames that extended to the sky, shielding his body from any attacks that the witch could have thrown at him. Then, with a slash of his hands, he made the shield burst, sending fire everywhere.

   Varya cradled her Obscurus around her and cried in pain as the flames slashed at her darkness, an extension of herself. She gasped audibly, stumbling backward from the curse, then shifted to the oleaginous form of her sorcery, soaring to the sky in an attempt to avoid another blast of Hell-Fire. Dalibor sneered below, moving his hand in a pentagram form, trying to block her channels of magic that connected her to the moving darkness.

   His incantation fell past his lips as Petrov ascended in an arrow-like movement, aiming right for the sorcerer. The Dark Priest chanted faster, and barely had a moment to register that his curse did not work before the Obscurus collided with his figure, having the ground beneath him break upon impact. A screech of terror rang through—Tom had been right that the linking spell would protect Varya from any blocking spells, and Dalibor felt the limbs of darkness slowly clasp around his extremities, pulling harshly.

   They tore at flesh, ringing agony from every inch of skin and tissue, and the man twisted his wrists, casting a blasting spell from the center of the Obscurus. It shattered into bits of shadow, releasing him, and then they collected into a form as Varya's body hit the ground. She rolled against the dampness of melted snow and withering grass, mud sticking to her skin as she dug a hand into the soil to stop the movement.

   "Your little tricks do not work on me!" called out Dalibor, one arm holding onto another as he worked quickly to repair the tears in his skin. His eyes had turned a scarlet color as veins burst and toned his sclera, and a demented quiver hung in his voice, one of a man in torment.

   Petrov huffed, knowing that her strategy—of lack of it—would not do. The demagogue had had years to study her under a scalpel, to understand extents of her power that she could still not comprehend, and had surely researched every possible way of battling an Obscurus. She turned her eyes to the surroundings, noting the dense woods that hung around them, almost in a circular manner. The last time she had fought here, Varya had torn the flora from its roots, making a graveyard out of it.

   She had the Elder Wand by her side, which meant that pure sorcery would be amplified, but the witch was unsure if it did much for the darkness. Fingers digging into her pocket, she wrapped them around the Resurrection Stone, plunging into her possibilities. Varya knew little of the Deathly Hallows and their history, but one thing that stood from the stories told about them, and that was that they had been forged by Death itself.

   Grindelwald had yearned for them, Dumbledore had as well—but they had both wanted the objects for Varya. That meant that they knew her magic would work with them, and there had to be something specific about her that made her such a perfect fit, not the Obscurus.

   Then, it clicked—she was a trained necromancer.

   Varya's eyes flickered to the river, briefly recalling how, when she had fought Tom, there had been corpses scattered in its depths, probably carried out by the currents to the lower banks throughout the decades. Her skin shriveled with trepidation, and her phobia of water resurfaced, making her hesitate. That left an opening for Dalibor's next attack.

   He twisted his fingers, and Petrov felt something stir within, her heart drumming erratically. Blood trickled down from her nose, and she cussed at the skies—why was everyone casting blood curses at her today? Toxins swirled inside her veins, clogging them as she moved to evade Dalibor, and the witch staggered in her steps, sight becoming spotty.

   Branches and twigs cracked underneath her soles as she ran to take cover into the woods, using her magic to create a fire barrier that would slow Dalibor down. The man screamed from behind, irritated at not being able to take a final strike. Varya clutched the side of a tree, then dug her heel into its bark and climbed upward, trying to evade the dire chaos below. It spread rapidly, overtaking the forest, and the witch continued hopping from tree to tree, trying not to pay attention to her weakening state.

   When she could not see Dalibor anymore, Petrov pulled out her silver dagger from her belt, slicing at her skin and repeating the words she had heard Scarlet mutter earlier. Blood magic was not her forte—the true craft had been preserved by the nordic covens, grimoires sealed for the wandering eye. Still, the healing spell took into effect relatively quickly, and her verve returned.

"Hiding will do no good, Petrov! Postponing your inevitable fate is burdensome for the both of us," called out the Dark Priest from somewhere below, his voice scratchy and welted by age. "Come down, let me put an end to your suffering, and then I shall bind your soul to an object of my desire."

   Petrov cursed—that sly fox had not destroyed her Horcrux, but that did not mean he did not know other means of capturing her soul. He had written books about such dark objects, and the witch would not put it past him to somehow turn her into an amplifier of forbidden sorcery.

   The branch cracked underneath her feet, and Varya suppressed a scream as the tongues of fire almost caught her feet. She jumped off, hands barely grasping another tree, and pushed herself upward. Frantic eyes searched the surroundings—everything was burning.

   In the distance, thunder continued to cry out to the skies, conjuring whatever deity was above to glance down on the wretched mortals and take pity on their feeble souls. The massacre provoked the yonder to bellow for the malignity that had decomposed humanity into nothing but skeletons, and yet the gods granted no mercy to the corrupted. Zephyr tousled the witch's locks, and she felt the slightest drops on her skin, coldness against the scalding and smothering sensation that came from the flames.

   The tree began growing damp, and Varya felt it start to give in. She could have shifted into her Obscurus form, but that would attract Dalibor's attention, and it would be a matter of time before he cast another curse. With dread, the witch glanced around, trying to find another escape as the flames drew close, but no other trees were surrounding her. Only the river cried from beneath, begging her to accept its invitation.

   "There you are!" A spell almost caught her feet, and that made her move. She held onto the Resurrection Stone, and the Elder Wand then backed up.

   Varya jumped from the branch, the Invisibility Cloak flapping around her, and then her body hit the water. It was freezing, deadening—a sensation which ignited a flare of frenzy through her bones. Bubbles spilled from her lips as she tried to grapple at whatever she could, and her legs kicked frantically as the water began pulling her away. Not for the first time, she yearned for Tom Riddle to come and rescue her, but that thought was absurd. It was her fight, her right to douse the world in blood.

   The Elder Wand warmed in her hand, almost as if challenging the witch to cease her struggle and focus, and Petrov held onto that sensation, trying to reason with her mind. The world slanted and blurred around her. She could barely discern where she was through the turbid current, but the witch began swimming earthward.

   At the bottom, seeded like Atlantis' guards, few corpses prevailed. They were torn from the waters, bloated and molded throughout, but there was an unmistakable pull towards them, as if Death called out from within and entreated for Varya to follow.

   Air began running out rather quickly, but the girl brought the Elder Wand forward, threading her sorcery to its core, and extending it to the other two artifacts on her body. Spots whirred, and her sight clouded a darker color as the familiar alarm returned. Varya felt as if she was asphyxiating, and that made her lose focus. Again, she pushed against the tremor in her hands and the irrational—or, perhaps, extremely rational—fear of Death. Flipping through the compendium of deadly incantations drilled into her psyche, she recited one mentally, heart flipping in her chest.

   Her necromancy was weak; she was aware of that. Varya wanted to smother herself for not listening to Tom Riddle when he had offered that they train together—it had been her naivety that had prevented her. She had wanted to stray away from the darkness, to not let it consume her, but that had been absurd. The witch was made of obscurations; there was no outrunning them, and enfolding what lay within would grant her more of the power she desired.

   Still, the first corpse moved at her command. The Inferi lifted its arms, pushing itself out from the sandbank, and began moving toward the surface. Although brainless and witless, the other animated corpses followed the same track, digging their skeletal hands into the river shore, then crawling forward. The fire licked close to the water body, but as Varya resurfaced, she cast a spell, making it move out of the way. It swirled around, retracting like a wounded animal at her whim, and revealed Dalibor on the other side.

   Hysteria struck his face as he gaped at the necromancer, who strode forward, and the Inferi lunged towards him with murderous ferocity. The man toppled back as one gripped his cloak, throwing him off balance, and the Dark Priest blasted it to the side. The resurrected corpse toppled over, its limb snapping into two, but did not stop from advancing again.

   "Get off of me!" yelled the man, slamming another Inferius away as it wrapped putrefied digits around his ankle.

   "How do you murder that which is already dead?" Jeered Varya, lifting the Elder Wand towards Dalibor as he ventured to fight the rising army. Her steely eyes held no remorse as she watched the creatures scratch and tear at the older man's clothes. He was made of pure evil; he had killed children for his experiments, he had tortured them. Petrov would never be able to give him the agony he deserved.

   The Dark Priest screamed as one of Varya's creatures sank fangs into his leg, and even as he tried to summon his magic to ward off the evil, the obedient creatures continued to carry out their master's will. They tore at his flesh, stringy skin stitched between their teeth as they ravaged the demagogue, and another drew and scarified at his arm until ribbons of red emptied over the ivory patches of snow. The witch took it in with its delightful irony—Dalibor, the master of dark creatures, being torn apart by those who should have obeyed him.

   For a few seconds, she weighed lifting the Elder Wand and casting the death curse, but that felt impersonal. And this was every bit personal. He had made it so. Varya wanted him to suffer as she did, although the momentary pain he felt now would never amount to everything she had been through. She yearned for him to feel the humiliation, the loneliness, the betrayal. Physical pain did not balance the scale.

   But she was not an empath, and as much as she wanted to bloom those emotions inside Dalibor's psyche, she could not. The witch swallowed into nothingness, then her lips pulled in a sardonic smirk. She regarded the Inferi as they tore, and hurt, and stretched and mauled. Sanguine coated every bit of fabric on the man, and his wailing was enough to turn the stomach of those who had not grown accustomed to such macabre displays. But Varya felt nothing but delight. Nothing but power.

   Light drained from the Dark Priest's eyes, and he appeared nothing more than a roach being squished under her shoe. He was disgusting. Pathetic. Such a man should have never lifted a finger against her, for Dalibor was nothing more than a coward who hid behind monsters.

   Varya pivoted on her feet, blinking slowly as she began to walk away.

   "Come back!" He screeched, "Come back and watch me die, you repugnant being!"

   She continued moving away, the scene well below her. People like her—powerful, invincible—they did not witness the deaths of the feeble. Dalibor did not deserve such recognition, and Varya knew that nothing would spite him more in death than to be degraded and disrespected as such.

   Blood dripped the side of her brow, and the world felt heavy on her shoulders, but it was done. Varya had killed Dalibor. She had killed the Dark Priest. The thought itself was spoiled on her tongue, and tears swelled in her eyes as her breathing suddenly became troublesome. She was free. His tormented cries filled the forest, and the witch glanced upward, gawking at a flock of crows that wailed into the night.

   Moonshine caressed her face, and it bled silver liquor against her cheeks, sharp and avenging. The girl closed her eyes, breathing in the perfume of serendipity, and she thought it smelled of mahogany, of an embrace given between silk sheets. Tears scalded her visage in rivers of catastrophe, of anguish, though she did not know what or who she was crying for. Liberty tasted like marzipan on her tongue, but poisonous things were often sweet or savory.

   Varya kneeled in the forest, breathing heavily. She was alive. After all this time, it was her that had lived. She had succeeded. Dalibor had not killed her. Tom had not betrayed her. Pressing a hand against her damp face, the witch felt lighter than she had felt in years. Hope was the ichor of the foolish, and perhaps, she was juvenile for believing that danger had passed.

   As her weeping ceased, her gaze fell on the wooden wand in her grasp, and her breath stilled.

   She had promised it to Tom Riddle.

   The thought was winding—she had almost neglected the deal they had stuck together—his assistance in battle and the Resurrection Stone in exchange for the Elder Wand and her devotion. Now, with the moment knocking on fate's door, Varya wondered what her choice should be.

   Dumbledore would undoubtedly want the weapon back. He would ask for all of the Deathly Hallows to be preserved by the Ministry, and that alone made Petrov frown, for she did not believe any of them deserved such artifacts. Riddle desired it, too, for his cause and his intent on destruction. It would thrive under his hold, and, perhaps, with Varya by his side, Tom would be able to wield it in a way that benefited them all.

   Did Petrov want it?

   No, not really. It was powerful, and it was able to do sorcery unlike anything she had ever seen before, but wands were manacles to a wizard. They brought nothing but blindness reliance and were often used to track magic and its pathways. Varya had never relied on a wand, and the mere thought of doing so made her queasy. Though the object amplified her sorcery, it was nothing but a crutch, and Petrov knew that a wandless witch could achieve such grandeur through hard work.

   Still, the choice turned in her head as she made her way back to the castle, where silence had overtaken the courtyard. Oddly enough, Varya could not see anyone outside, nor did she catch sight of people moving around the windows, waiting to see if she returned. Her steps felt insignificant as she passed the bridge, and she twirled the wand in her hands, uneasiness spreading through.

   Why was everything so silent?

   They had won the war, and so, festivities were in order. Perhaps, everyone had been caught up in the Hospital Wing, tending to the injured. The wards would have kept all sound in, and so, Petrov would not be able to hear her classmates. They were most certainly not dead if the lack of fresh corpses was anything to go by.

   Passing through the courtyard, the witch caught sight of the piled deceased dark creatures in the corners. Without Dalibor to order them around, the monsters would have undoubtedly returned to the darkness of the forest, trailing the grounds as they made their way back to the natural habitats.

   "Hello?" Varya called out, and then, she heard the door of the chapel swing shut, as if someone had just entered it.

   Cautiously, Petrov drove towards the sound, her hair flaring around in the whirlwind. Wind chimes clanged from where they stood over the arched parols of the church, and its wooden door swung and clashed with the frame due to the breeze. The sky had turned sullen, yet a greenish hue clung to the atmosphere as the drizzle fell from above. Varya pushed into the chapel, the weight of its sacredness making her insides swirl.

   The racket of rain hitting the outside panels echoed through the empty establishment, her footsteps accompanying it into a symphony of mundane songs, and the smell of incense transcended through the chamber. Wooden benches had been moved to the sides due to the funeral, and the portraits of Indra, Della, and Ananke still hung over a bed of white lilies. Varya stopped in front of the altar, glancing at the faces of her friends, and grief struck her painfully. By tomorrow, Rosier's picture would be added as well.

   Something shifted behind her, and the witch turned, panic flaring as she raised the Elder Wand, "Who is it?" She asked again, nostrils flaring in irritation, "Show yourself."

   A shadow fluttered in the corner, standing in the frame of one of the colored glass windows, and the witch could barely discern its shape, though she recognized the outline of a man. He stood rooted in his spot, gazing out the window serenely, and Varya frowned.

   "Tom, what is it?" The witch inquired, making her way towards Riddle. "Where is everyone—"

   Pain flared inside her abdomen, a ravaging sensation that something was ultimately wrong. Varya's hand flew to her chest, where her heart started skipping beats, beating erratically and in odd patterns. Her face scrunched in agony as the tearing sensation bloomed from within, something akin to blades dragging at her linings, though not in the fervorous way that butterflies had. This was something else—rotten, poignant, malignant.

   It felt like the stabbing wound of betrayal.

   Her eyes slid to where Riddle stood, his form still obscured by shadows, and the witch wanted to tear at his body until he stopped. Until the torment faded away. Emotions withered and flourished, they swirled in a current of confusion, and Varya could simply not understand. She thought that he had changed, that he had chosen her. Tom had accompanied her to Dalibor; he had fought alongside her—but had it all been done out of self-interest? The intensity she had seen in his face, had it been a figment of her imagination, or, perhaps, manipulation?

   She heaved her hand, fingers fastened around the Elder Wand, and Varya attempted to fight back. Yet, as the witch summoned her sorcery and clasped at its threads, trying to knot them into a curse, they snapped between her fingers. Her power oozed from her, absorbed by something else, or destroyed before her eyes. Magic slipped away from her grasp, and her arm weakened as she dropped the wand. Varya's face morphed into utter terror as her body wilted, and she fell to her knees, vision slowly fading away.

   "Why?" Her cry rang out, almost begging Tom to at least face her as he took everything away from her. "Why would you do this to me? I gave you everything, and yet you continue to take. Is it not enough for you?"

   Tears streamed down ruddy cheeks, though the mere idea of crying made her fatigue worsen. Varya hunched over, the garden of her being withering with every second, and a dessert of grief nested in her core, where only the dead, the dying, and the deathless remained. Tom twisted from his spot, the shadows wrapping around his face, and then he began to walk towards her.

   "You," sneered Varya as he stepped into the light.

   Dumbledore gazed down at her, his expression void of sympathy, as if he had been crafted out of pure granite, and gone was the periwinkle of his eyes, replaced by something apathetic. The witch scurried on the floor, grabbing the Elder Wand, then twisting it and casting a curse at the man with all her wrath. The spell shot out, but Albus intercepted it almost immediately, sparks meeting in a clash of power.

   Varya wailed as the draining spell wove her into an early casket, and the wand burned against her skin as she fought to hold onto it. Her magic fell short, and Dumbledore's own hit her openly, sending her flying and into the arrangement of white lilies. A groan escaped her parted lips, though the stabbing pain was dulled by the numbness that began to overtake her, and the witch fluttered her eyelashes open to see her former teacher lean over and grab the Elder Wand.

   He twisted it around his fingers, analyzing it, before finally speaking, "It would never work against its own master."

   Flabbergasted, Varya questioned him, "What?"

   "The Elder Wand will never turn against the person that owns it," continued Albus, pocketing the Hallow and clasping his hands behind his back. He began moving forward, and Varya only cowered further into the wall, feeling reality slip away from her, "I dueled Grindelwald and earned it."

   "But you gave it to me."

   "I did," agreed the man, "But you must disarm one to gain control of their wand."

   "You tricked me," whispered Varya.

   Dumbledore hummed in approval, then turned on his feet and strolled over to the side of the chapel. He placed his hand against the altar, and Petrov watched it move out of the way before sinking into the ground, offering access to some sort of catacombs. Still, the Transfiguration teacher did not go down. Instead, he took out a pocket watch and checked the time before putting it back.

   "It will not be long now," he sighed, shaking his head before taking a seat on one of the wooden benches.

   Trepidation pooled into Varya's guts, and she tried to move towards the door, but her limbs failed her. She sank to the ground, cheek against the cold tile, and dizziness settled in as vigor drained out, making her hollow inside. The world painted itself in shades of grey, color eroding from the surroundings, and the noise became deadened. The girl fought against the sensation, she tried to summon her Obscurus, but it only flickered in small bursts of shadows, never quite reaching the man.

   "What did you do to me?" mumbled Petrov, feeling her eyelashes fall heavy.

   "Only what I had to," stated Albus, crossing his legs as if he were a gentleman waiting for a train and not a traitor watching a girl's sorcery hiss out. "When I heard you and Riddle talk of the bounding objects, I knew it was an opening I could not miss. You see, Petrov, I am well acquainted with the secrets of this castle, and the Salon had always been one that I cherished. After all, it was for that reason that I asked Rocky to show it to you. But under the portrait of Rowena, your secrets fell into my hands, and I soon knew it all. I knew what you were becoming."

   Through the fuzziness of it all, Varya recalled Tom's cautious words, when he had told her that the objects would be exposed to anyone who knew of the Salon. The witch had not even considered that Dumbledore would pose a threat. She had assumed, as always, that Riddle was the serpent to watch out for. Regardless, the lion remained a bloodthirsty and power-hungry ruler.

   "Why?" She whispered, though the witch knew it might as well be the last word she muttered.

   "In hindsight, I know what you must think of this. You believe I am doing this to my own benefit, because I yearn for the power of the Hallows, or, perhaps, because I simply want to claim laudations for the battle," reasoned Dumbledore. "But you are wrong."

   He raised from his seat, walking toward the girl, then lowered himself so that he could look her in the eye.

   "I am saving the world—"

   Varya spluttered, "But I changed him. I made Riddle become—"

   "—from you."

   Her breathing, which had already become painful, halted. She gazed at Dumbledore, though his features had morphed into a blurry circle of light, and no longer could she pinpoint the slope of his nose or the colors of his eyes. The thought itself—that she could have become the darkness that consumed the world—seemed absurd. Varya was a hero. She had saved everyone, and she would only continue doing so.

   Albus sighed, and he had the audacity to appear remorseful, "When I came to Scholomance to get you, I told you that it was Riddle that I was worried about. That had been a white lie, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. You see, the vision that I saw of the future, it was not Tom that worried me, but you. You came through the crowd, raised your wand, and there you were—leading the defense. But it was not our side that you were on. No, it was your own."

   Absurd. What Dumbledore was saying was absurd. Tom was the monster; he had to be. She had seen what he would do, the carnage he would bring upon the wizarding world. Varya only wanted to reform it; she wanted to be the one to salvage the remains of the Ministry's failure.

   "I thought. No—I hoped that by bringing you to Hogwarts, I could keep you under my watch, and that by showing you what Tom would do, I would save at least one of you. But I warned you, Petrov," Dumbledore shook his head, "Two sides of the same coin. I told you he could poison you, and he did. He made you worse."

   "You are wrong," Varya cried, shaking her head.

   "The things you do," mumbled Albus, "They are not holy. I have to stop it."

   "No," the witch attempted to grasp at him, crawling at the floor as he moved away, "No. You cannot do this. They will hate you. Everyone will hate you. I did nothing wrong."

   "You are wicked, Varya."

   "You are making a mistake!"

   "Just because the villain got to tell their side of the story, it does not mean they are the hero," stated Albus. "You have deluded yourself into believing that you are saving people, that you will save people. But look around you—you have murdered dozens, tearing them from limb to limb. You have conspired with an organization that you knew would one-day cause havoc. You taught Tom Riddle dark magic, and you sided with him in his ideologies. Reform? You are only capable of destruction."

Villains became the heroes of their own tales. The compass of virtue always pointed to one's self-made truth. Throughout her journey, Varya had been the one to gather compassion, to present her own idealized version of her actions. Multiple times, she had excused her callousness as being virtuous, but was that not what Tom Riddle had done as well? Still, at the core, she remained the same—corrupted.

   Resentment flared inside the witch, and though her voice came out meekly, her words charred, "And you have done nothing! You did not bring me here to save me; you brought me here as your own weapon, something to use against Grindelwald because you could not do the job!"

   The slightest spark of irritation passed Dumbledore's face, but it faded away as a groan left Varya's lips, signaling that it was almost over. He moved towards her, but she flinched, and her arm reached out to grab at the floor and crawl, but it was of no use.

   Albus frowned, "You told a story once," he began, "Of a monster. Koschei the Deathless was his name. A creature that fractured its soul in order to become immortal, thus denouncing its humanity and becoming a bloodthirsty sorcerer. Then, he was chained down, hidden away from plain sight with his powers weakened. At the time, you associated it with Riddle, but perhaps, it was yourself that fit the scenario more."

   Varya felt herself getting lifted, and her head fell back as awareness faded away. Dumbledore carried her below the chapel, knowing he had asked for its construction specifically for this moment, and not to honor the deceased. He pushed open a door that led to a small room—there was not much to it, save for a bed covered by a glass casket, with two torches illuminating each side of the room. The man put Petrov down, vaguely aware of her drifting stare that bore daggers in his skull.

   "With your sorcery tied to the dark artifacts, I am able to control your state until their destruction. Until I can find a way to rid of both you and Riddle, you will stay underneath, and I will hide them all—the necklace, the diadem, the cup, the ring, and the diary. I know you might believe me cruel for going to such measures, but it is the only way I can ensure that I correct my mistakes," answered Dumbledore. "I will find whatever it is that took away your ability to die, and, when I do, I will destroy it."

   "Nobody will believe you," whispered Petrov, her head heavy on the pillow, "You will rot in Hell for what you have done."

   Dumbledore frowned at her words, then made way for the door, his steps heavy. He turned in the doorframe and watched Varya Petrov's eyes fall close, her skin a pale, sickly color that resembled death. The melody of rain hitting the sides of the cathedral aggravated, but no god would ever wail for the witch's fate. Perhaps, they took pity on her soul, on what had become of her. Lightning caressed the skies, illuminating the cupolas of the church, and turning the obscurations of the chamber into haunting demons that stood as vigils to Varya Petrov's tomb.

   "I suppose we both will."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

   A clock tolled in the petite confinement of the Hospital Wing, signaling the passing of midnight. As the calendar turned for yet another day, the Hogwarts castle fell into a hum of grief, the susurration of wanton cruelty, a drab veil of granite encompassing the widowed scenery. Death shifted its scythe over the numerous souls that clung to their last thread of reality, severing the connection with a parting wail, and collecting its reapings in mercenary hands. The almighty deity was a nomad, a traveler that stopped in the doorframe of tragedy and muddied the entrance with graveyard dirt.

   Tom Riddle sat on the edge of one hospital bed, head bowed, and hands clasped as the fatigue wove through his body, connecting muscles, tissue, and bones. The rain muffled out the faint sounds of cries and whimpers as students leaned over the corpses of their loved ones. His eyes fell on the scene in front of him, where Renold Rosier's body—or what was left of it—was displayed on a thick portion of black material.

   Part of his body was charred, burned by a fire he had undoubtedly started to get rid of the ghouls, and there were pieces of him missing. Maxwell held a weeping Elladora away, her hands flying around in an attempt to reach her deceased friend, but the sight was too terrible for the witch. Tom stood up, stretching his legs and feeling the ache in every fiber of his being, then waltzed over to the corpse.

   With a slight wave of his hand, he cast the same spell that he had used in Albania when the girl had been mauled by a ghoul and reconstructed Rosier's appearance. The tissue reappeared and sealed itself in the places it had been torn, and the darkened flesh faded to its conventional color. The shadowy light of the few candles that flickered from the open windows cast odd shapes on the parted boy's face, but he appeared tranquil. Asleep.

   "Come on," grumbled Avery, his eyes tired and worn as he brought Selwyn forward. She crumbled over the cadaver, hands clinging to the clothes, pulling at them with indescribable desperation.

   Perhaps, if she shook him enough, he would awaken, and those azure irises would sparkle with the fading light they so graciously carried. His expression would move—first, in a terribly infuriating smile, one he reserved for his greatest jests and tricks, and then fade into something melancholic. Rosier had carried the sort of fantasy that poets had, somewhere between a misplaced soul and a scrutinizing conviction, as if his thoughts were distorted verses of untarnished wisdom. More often misunderstood or overlooked due to his fatalistic nature, his words could have been written in cursive on parchments of literature.

   "Shit," cursed Avery, shaking his head and pressing a cold hand to his face, "I just—," his words bubbled and spoiled on his lips.

   "This does not feel real," mumbled Icarus, his gaze trailing the curved slope of Rosier's nose, the unmoving eyelids that remained forever shut.

   Abraxas placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing in comfort, though he remained mute, his thoughts gnawing at his ability to speak. Platinum hair was doused in the slightest hint of blood, an indication of the battle that had taken place. His mark felt heavy on his arm, it felt incomplete, and though none spoke of it, they could feel the thread of connection that had been severed. The boy was accustomed to grief—it was not an unbeknownst anomaly that had overtaken his senses, but rather a lurking demon that clung to his being. Malfoy knew, above all, that one day they would all find themselves beyond the dirt, their bodies cold and rotting.

   "Was this all for nothing?" mumbled Elladora, her hand touching Ren's curls and caressing them, "What happens to us now? We are incomplete, we..."

   She shook her head, biting down on her lip to prevent another sob, yet her body rocked with it, and she tasted blood on the roof of her mouth. Selwyn raised her head towards the ceiling, blinking in an attempt to get rid of the tears, but ebony eyelashes clung to each grief pearl and threaded it in a continuous necklace down her cheeks.

   Riddle furrowed, his words clogged in his throat, and he continued to stare down at Rosier. It was a pity. A shame that such a brilliant mind had fallen so early. He shook his head in incredulity—it certainly felt peculiar, although he could not attribute the twist in his stomach to any known emotion, to lose such a companion. He had first met Renold when they were both eleven, and years after, their thirst for reform common ground for acquaintanceship.

   "We continue," stated Tom, pushing a hand through inky curls, "We make sure that our names are remembered, that we do not become puppets in a battle that we were abandoned in. The Ministry will pay for everything they have done, and we will ensure that under our power, under my rule, nobody will dare defy us."

   The speech felt empty, broken somehow, because a dream shared by seven felt poisoned to six. But the words were dependable—they could not stop now, or their losses would be in vain. The Knights ( the term itself felt newfangled, incomplete ) would raise their sword and have heads roll, as it should have always been.

   The doors to the Wing swung open, and in stepped Ananke, Scarlet, Lev, and Felix—they were just as worn, faces pulled in grimaces, and as they approached Rosier's body, they only curdled further. Parkin drew in a sharp breath, his hand moving in the form of a naive cross, and bowed his head respectfully. Ananke pursed her lips, veiling emotions behind a stern face, yet her hands tightened by her side, and how odd it was that they had grown to care for a person that had started out on the rivaling side. But hours spent together had had it that connections were a complicated thing, and the virtues and sins had intersected humanely, as they often did in the world.

   Lev that appeared most stricken, and Tom supposed it was odd to see another reminder of his sister pass away so quickly. The shadowmancer averted his gaze from Ren's body, closing his eyes in silent grief, and wrath transpired on his face. Scarlet placed a warm hand around him, leaned her head against his side, and squeezed the boy in comfort. Once, Lev had wanted nothing more than for Rosier to end up in some misfortune, but the young socialite had made his sister felicitous. He had given her happiness in her last few months, and for that alone, Myung had been obliged.

   "The Horcrux is gone," started Ananke, voice quivering and eyes lacquered as she glanced at Riddle, "I went to the tunnels, and with Myung's help, removed the debris. There is no corpse. Ophelia is gone, and so is the necklace."

   Tom's breath halted, and he frowned as he took in the witch, "She survived, then."

   "I will track her down," muttered Avery, his eyes lost as he continued to stare at Rosier's unmoving form. Then, he raised his stare, scrutinizing the surroundings, "Why is Petrov not back yet?"

   As if called upon, the doors of the chamber flew open again, and in walked Albus Dumbledore, his figure poise, his gait domineering. He had the radiance of a mighty sorcerer, but Riddle felt the same disgust pool in his guts, followed by an overwhelming sensation that something was wrong. The Professor gave him a glance, then inclined his head for him to follow, and walked out.

   Suspicious, Riddle instructed the whole group to accompany him, not wanting to be caught by surprise by whatever scheme Albus had planned. Apprehension twisted around his head like a throned crown, and it continued down his profile and throat, pins and needles poking at his skin. There was a spark of power, of sorcery, underneath his skin, and he knew what that meant—that something had happened to Varya. But that was impossible, for even with the Horcrux gone, their connection would have prevented the witch from coming to harm.

   His footsteps accentuated as Dumbledore walked into the Viaduct, passing the small cathedral that stood illuminated with burning wicks in remembrance of the deceased. Some students had gathered at the doorstep, growing veins of blooming flowers that encompassed the building. In its windows, shadows seemed to spill from within, and as Tom passed it, he felt an overwhelming pull towards it. The boy frowned—whatever god was playing a jest with him held no importance right now. He had to find Varya.

   The Professor led them to the end of the bridge, and the margin of the forest, before gesturing at the trees. Perplexed, the students walked towards it, expecting to see their fellow witch emerge from the darkened woods, and as such, stepped outside of the school bounds.

   Almost immediately, Riddle sensed something wrong, and he twisted on his feet, attempting to walk towards Dumbledore, but an invisible force stood between the two, and he felt a shield-like surface stopping him.

   "What is the meaning of this?" ravaged Tom, eyes growing bulbous with wrath.

   "You are no longer welcome at Hogwarts, Tom," stated Albus, his voice filled with authority, and he shot Riddle a condescending look. "From this day on, none of your acolytes will be able to step past those bounds. For as long as I am under this castle's roof, I will make sure that your evil does not spread within."

   From behind the boy, Avery made to move at the middle-aged man, but Icarus pulled him back, holding him from making a terrible mistake. Undoubtedly, Albus had portrayed himself as the defeater of Gellert Grindelwald, and so his reputation would be a golden shield from immediate harm. The Knights and Virtues stood in their spots, chests heavy and minds whirling at the betrayal, and their worries metastasized into a lurking monster that yearned revenge.

   "Where is Petrov?" spat Riddle, placing one hand on the force field that kept him away, "What did you do to her?"

   Albus inclined his head, "She is kept safe; asleep until I can find a way to destroy whatever force you wish to achieve, until your destiny is fulfilled and you fail. Whatever she has done to preserve her age, it will only hold for so long, and I will ensure that balance is restored."

   With that, he pivoted on his heels, the wind catching his coat as he began walking down the bridge and back to the castle. Dumbledore's steps were heavy, and his shoulders remained tall as he ignored Tom's infuriated screams.

   "Give her back to me!" Riddle shouted, his fist hitting the shield, and he suppressed the pain radiating up his arm. "Give her back!"

   Albus had tricked him—he had the objects that connected his power, he had his Horcrux, and he had Varya. He had taken everything from Tom. The boy hit the shield again. And again. And again. Until his knuckles split and the blood he so cherished stained the barrier. Until Abraxas had to draw him back. And even then, he fought against the hold, nihilistic fury blinding his sights and spoiling his soul. Within, something demented twisted, a repulsive need for the grotesque, for spilled sanguine, and Tom felt himself implode with agitation.

   He wanted Varya. He needed her.

   "You will pay for this! I will make sure that I am the one to murder you, that I succeed in everything you tried to prevent. I will rise, Dumbledore, and you will watch as I take everything you cared for away from you, and you will suffer. At my hands, you will lose everything. Tarnish her name, and sign your own death certificate, I dare you," Riddle screamed to Albus' retreating back.

   Then, with a decisive move, he took out his wand and whipped it forward, from the tip flying sparks of destruction. The shield resisted the attack, and even as the Death Eaters joined, raising their wands and trying to bring it down, it held. Shadows curled around it, extending upwards, snuffling the sun as darkness rose over Hogwarts. Lev pulled at the sorcery, but it did now bow to his power, and they all knew why. Dumbledore had tied Varya's magic to the protective barrier, channeling it to the sorcery and redirecting it from Tom.

   Tom stumbled backward, his breath heavy, his chest rushing, and all he saw was blood. Destruction. Murder. Carnage. Crimson colored his sight, and veins of heinous malady wrapped around his soul, pulling and tearing until they broke it apart. Perhaps, he could not destroy the barrier and pass it himself, but that did not mean he could not do something else.

   With a maniac laugh, Riddle brought his blade to his skin, cutting it deeply. The blood dripped down into the soil, and he closed his eyes, chanting rigorously. Then, he raised his chin upward and glanced at Dumbledore's back, "I will come back," he shouted, making the man stop in his tracks. Albus glanced over his shoulder, raising a challenging eyebrow, "I will always have a spot at Hogwarts. Not as a student, but as a teacher. Because from this day onward, whoever takes the Dark Arts position shall find themselves cursed, and no one will be able to hold the position for more than a year. Nobody, except me."

   He could see it from afar—the vexation that roamed Dumbledore's face pleased him.

   Tom Riddle sneered, then chuckled caustically, "So, bide your time, Albus Dumbledore. Because their blood will be on your hands. You have vexed the wrong person, and I promise you nothing but agony."

   The Death Eaters held their stances, wind whipping at their broken frames as they slowly began retreating in the forest. One by one, they disappeared into the darkness, letting it consume them whole, allowing it to whisper tragedy and carnage in their ears. The trumpets of archangels bellowed from beyond, and the universe collided as the Fates renewed, caressing their spindle of destiny with strings of galaxies, stretching worlds into each other and having them splinter. Varya Petrov had left her imprint on their embroidery, and now, it was Tom Riddle's turn to birth chaos from void.

   As the midnight hour passed, Tom Riddle followed his acolytes into the forest, his face a mask of heresy and perfidious intent. The Death Eaters knew that, eventually, they would return. And if it was not them who would bring carnage, they would pass their thirst for vengeance down generations, until the last of their bloodline would carry one last task. A personal one, born from years of torment and stitched with deceit.

   Revenge.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

the epilogue should be up in a few hours or Monday depending on how fast I write!

if you want this to be a "origins of the Dark Lord" book, you can stop reading here. but I did not write 600k words for a lizard man so if you are curious what happens next, read the epilogue!

fair warning: the epilogue is set AFTER the events of the stories of the Knights that I have prepared, so it might spoil a few small details. more information about that will be posted in the final author's note. just to make it clear though—it is a spin-off, not a third book!