HI! Sorry for not updating, but the elections have had me so stressed my mind stopped functioning (if you follow me on Twitter, I apologize for my rants). I am also trying to write better chapters, so it takes time. I hope you enjoy it!

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CHAPTER FIFTY

Varya stood outside of the Nott Manor, eyes sunken in a downcasted expression, and she played her pendant between fragile digits, skimming the pattern of the skull and the snake as she waited for the Knights of Walpurgis to parade themselves down the entrance staircase.

It was Elladora Selwyn and Renold Rosier who arrived first, dressed in fine garments of the times, and Varya cherished the redhead's dark beret and long coat that she hid underneath, making her an apparition of obscuration and flame. Ren saluted the Eastern witch, and his eyes shimmered with shenanigans as they neared her.

"I see you are doing quite alright," he quipped, then his eyes fell on the necklace, "Beautiful thing there. I would ask who gave it to you, but I must say that everyone in the Manor heard it last night."

He winced as Elladora spanked him over the head, sending his curls flying around, "You filthy swine! Must I remind you how many times I have stood awake to you, pounding some girl on the wall behind my bed? Or, perhaps, that time, I walked in on you kissing that French waiter in the kitchens of my favorite restaurant on Rue du Moulin?"

"All in good faith, regardless."

"All of depravity and immorality, I say."

"Indiscretions are my specialty," the French boy sniggered, then he turned angelic eyes to the Eastern girl, "Worry not, I will not think much of it."

Varya bit down her lip apprehensively, then pressed hands against her flamed face. It was not Rosier that she was troubled about, but rather Icarus, who had surely heard everything. Right on cue, the Lestrange boy dragged his suitcase down with a morose look on his face. His eyes were bronze medallions, and his locks fell around his face in a perfect mixture of effortless beauty and style.

The girl stood woodenly in her spot as the wizard give her a nimble stare, then completely disregarded her as he strode by and threw his luggage in the back of a taxi. The driver tried to salute him, but Icarus only got into the backseat and slammed the door.

Through the darkened window, Petrov could still make out tight features and sleep-deprived eyes, and she wondered how much the boy had heard, if this was what Tom had wanted to achieve.

"Awkward," groused Rosier, and the fiery-haired girl elbowed him in his stomach, making him double over in pain, "Fucking hell, Selwyn."

The opulent lady only hoisted an eyebrow at his agony, then turned to face Varya, "Worry not, I will talk to him." With that, she strode over to the same car and got inside, taking a seat by Icarus and immediately turning to face him.

The guilt was indescribable, and Varya's apricot face grew melancholic as she remembered how she had used the boy, led him on, then had not even bothered discussing with him that she was sleeping with his friend. Her sable eyelashes moistened as she batted her tears away and tried to stay composed, knowing well that it was only her fault. After all, she could have refused Riddle at any point, but had been too focused on herself to realize what she was doing.

"He will get over it, do not worry," breathed Ren as he placed a gentle arm on the girl's fallen shoulders, "Or at least, he might be able to look you in the eyes soon enough."

"I messed up," admitted Varya.

"You did," was the answer she received from the fatalistic man, "But that is quite all right. We all do at some point, and the fact that you are aware of it is already half of the run to being forgiven."

With that, he made his way to the taxi car, and waved at her before stepping into the passenger seat and immediately throwing his feet on the dashboard, earning a displeased look from the driver. Rosier winked at him, then stuck his head out the window to send Varya a kiss with his hand, bringing at least some amusement to her face.

It was short-lived, however, as Riddle stepped out of the Manor, white dress shirt clinging to his figure as his blazer was thrown over his shoulder, and he gripped it with one hand. When his eyes landed on Varya, he stopped in his tracks, and then his eyes darted around, seemingly looking for an escape.

The girl scoffed at his demeanor, at his audacity to appear the one to be offended by what had happened. Why must he act as if the idea of being loved by her was such torture? Such repulsive behavior, and she made way to the driveway, looking for a car to take her back to London, yet blanched as she saw Nott and Avery pull Ren's car to the front.

Varya hiked an eyebrow at Maxwell as he gave her a disgraced look through the window, then he lashed his head forward, face turning claret, and he stiffened. Avery grinned in the driver's seat, and then he rolled a window down and glanced at the witch.

"Ignore Nott; he gets flustered whenever someone has a sex glow—"

"Nicholas, I will swerve the steering wheel into the opposite direction and make sure you drive into a tree," Nott seethed at the boy, then glanced at Varya from the corner of his eye with an apologetic look.

"That is quite fine," the girl mumbled, although her fingers went back to play with the necklace tensely, and Riddle took that moment to step behind her. He glanced at her, then noticed she was still wearing the collier, and his stomach flipped with an odd sensation.

Tom made to open the door for her. Still, the girl dashed to the other side of the car, swinging it herself and then getting into the passenger seat, making sure to stay as close to the edge as possible, putting enough distance between the two that another person could fit in.

The wizard frowned at her behavior, and stepped into the care reluctantly, unsure why he suddenly felt cold all over. Tom fumbled with his blazer, restless, alert, and kept glancing at the Eastern witch every few seconds, unsure what to say.

Nott and Avery exchanged a spry glance through one of the car's mirrors, then pulled a face at the apparent tension between the two Slytherins in the back before starting the car and driving away from the house.

The drive was to be of at least three hours, and no matter how many times Nicholas would change the song and try to make aimless chatter, the silence between the two students in the back was distasteful. Truly, Nicholas did not know what to make of their relationship— he was as fucked up as one could get, yet there was still some strand of humanity left in him, whereas Tom Riddle had never cared for anyone.

Avery had to thank Maxwell for not letting him go down that path, for being the person that always called him out whenever he went too dark, when he took too much pleasure in killing. Frankly, the similarities between and he and their Lord were many, yet Avery had people to hold him down. He sometimes wondered if Varya would change that in Riddle.

The car pulled into a parking lot, Nott and Avery immediately dashing out and running to a store to grab some snacks and avoid the tension, pushing each other along the way. Varya bit her lip in annoyance and turned to face the window to avoid Riddle altogether.

"Are you not talking to me?" the boy huffed, obviously bothered by the idea of being ignored. He had never had someone act as if he was not there; his presence had always weighed too much in a room to be skimmed over.

The girl said nothing, eyes scanning the horizon as the early mist rose and vanished into the morning air.

"Petrov."

Nothing.

"All right then," Tom scoffed, then shifted in his seat awkwardly, eyes peeking at her side profile regardless. Something was eating at his mind, so he spoke up again, "I wanted to apologize for pushing you. That was discourteous of me."

The witch almost gasped, surprised at hearing such words from the boy, yet she fought with her mind and continued ignoring him. The wizard had done many things to her, and one apology would not cut it. Part of her knew he had gotten defensive at being touched, yet his reaction had been uncalled for.

Tom crossed his arms and sunk into the leather seat with a huff, nostrils flaring in inconvenience. Once, he had wanted nothing more than for the girl to shut up, and now he was utterly bothered by the fact that he was not the center of her attention.

The front doors opened, and the pair of boys stepped back inside, passing bags into the back and not daring to look in the eyes of the two bickering lovers. Maxwell sighed deeply, dragging a frustrated hand across his face, and then Nicholas suppressed a chuckle at his bothered appearance before shifting the gear and driving ahead.

The journey was torturous, and almost nobody muttered a word during the long car ride. Varya had pulled out her textbooks to scribble down notes for her upcoming classes and became completely oblivious to the pair of marine pools that kept analyzing her every move. It was Tom's obsessive nature that disliked the sudden development of events, and he wondered why his chest ached at her refusal to even look at him.

In his mind, she was being completely unfair. He had tried to give her a position by his side, power unlike any other Knight had would be bestowed on her, and yet the witch had refused all of his proposals. Tom did want her to join their cause; he wanted her to be with him through everything. Regardless, the boy could not feel what she wanted him to, and it was unfair to be asked such and reprimanded because of it.

It was only when they reached London that the tension seemed to dissipate somewhat, and only because it was almost time for the Hogwarts Express to leave the station. As soon as they passed the barrier, they saw one of the train staff members signal the start of its movement.

"Shit," muttered Nicholas, pushing the cart with their trunks faster, then wholly abandoning it as he threw each of them their baggage, "We are going to miss it."

The group ran eagerly, and just as the first puff of smoke left the engine, the three boys managed to grasp the metal bar of the staircase and pull themselves up. Nott stumbled into the hallway, followed by Tom, who landed graciously, and then Avery, who kept his head out of the open door to look at the girl that was scrambling to catch up with them.

Varya was much slower, and her feet dragged her across the platform as the wheels began to spin. She clutched the hat on her head, trying to keep it from falling as she held it with one hand, the other one sizing her luggage.

"Throw your luggage!" screamed Avery as the train gained momentum, and the girl threw her suitcase at him. The boy barely managed to catch it with clumsy fingers, and he passed it to Nott behind him, before extending his arm for her, "Grab it!"

Varya's digits darted forward as her feet continued to paddle against concrete, and her dress blew in the wind as she tried to grab the butcher's hand, yet just as their fingers glazed each other's, one of her shoe ties came undone, and the girl found herself plummeting to the ground.

The train moved past her at an increasing velocity, and its wheels turned continuously as her head raised from concrete and astonished eyes watched it move away from her. Nicholas' hair fluttered in the wind as his figure became smaller and smaller, and his mouth moved to let out a string of curses undoubtedly.

Then, his body was pulled back into the train, and Varya saw a figure jump out and stumble to the platform, dark shoes skidding slightly before they came to a stop, and Tom turned to face her with irritation in his eyes, almost as if he faulted her for having to intervene.

He walked to her slowly, and Varya narrowed her eyes at his expression before lifting up to her feet, dusting her dress, and cringing when she saw that it had been ripped near the edge. Her locks were in a tangled mess, and she ran soft hands through it before tying it back and standing straight to face Tom.

"How can you be so absolutely clumsy in such situations?" Tom groaned before he looked around, mind twisting as he tried to think of a way to get to Hogwarts on time. As far as he knew, no other trains were headed that way any time soon, so he grabbed her arm and checked his surroundings, only noticing a mechanic by the end of the railroad track. When the man twisted his back to them, Riddle pivoted on his feet, and the bodies of the two students enveloped in dark clouds and disappeared into thin air.

Varya gasped as her feet landed in the Knights' compartment, and then her body slammed into the ground as she fought back absolute nausea, loathing the way every atom in her body pinched and twisted. The girl had never Apparated, and she thanked Merlin that her limbs were still intact, as splinching was always a possibility with such things.

She shot Tom a glare, who only disregarded it as he sat down in his usual seat by the window. Abraxas gave the girl a hand, then helped her up before settling her on the seat opposite of Riddle, and handing her a flask of water.

Avery burst through the door, Nott running closely behind, "We have a problem! Varya and Riddle, they—" He stopped mid-sentence as he noticed the two mentioned wizards standing in the compartment; then, he furrowed his eyebrow before Maxwell kicked him through the threshold and made him sit down next to Selwyn.

Elladora gave his a displeased look, then flipped another page of her muggle magazine, apollo eyes scanning the rows of text, and she made notes of the various styles and coiffeurs. Her lips set in a snarl at the oddity of the garments, and then a hand grabbed one strand of vermilion red, twirling it in serpentinous moves.

It was a larger compartment than most, on the end of the wagons with chartreuse blinds dragged down, and brash amber covered the walls, making them look like the inside of a duck egg. The girl felt slightly uncomfortable between the collective of Slytherins, or perhaps it was just the invasive stare of the boy in front of her, who continued to study her every move regardless of her defensive gaze.

She wondered, then, why Riddle had even bothered helping her. The wizard had made it very clear that he would never be able to share her feelings, yet he seemed to come to her aid continually, and the girl was growing tired of the endless mind shredding at that mood switching of his.

Tom crossed his legs and leaned back in his seat, his thoughts corrupted by the same question. Why had he jumped out of the train when Avery had said that Varya had fallen? It had been his impulse, not even a coherent train of thought before taking action, and that was not characteristic of Riddle.

He was a calculative person, a well-versed academic that relied on logic, on the rationale, never on impulsiveness or sentiments. The only flaw he ever had was his booming rage, a serpent of venom and despair that poisoned his mind and turned it counter clock-wise. Yet, Riddle could not find that it had been wrath that had made him act, only the idea that there was something he had to make up for.

"We have matters to discuss," the Lord announced suddenly, voice imperious, and then with a twist of the hand, all blinds closed, letting the Slytherins fall in darkness before he made the light bulbs on the ceiling flash up.

Abraxas moved quickly, then pulled out some documents and passed them around the room, yet when he tried to reach out to Varya, the girl simply turned her head away and focused on the small table in front of her. She found herself scrapping at the paint on the table with chipped polish nails. Obsidian eyes traveled around the room, taking in how all Knights were giving her a mortified stare. She ignored them.

Tom blinked lethargically at her defiance, then decided he had no time for her mood swings, so he cleared his throat and addressed the room, "We have the diadem. Until we can further our plans with it, it will stay in Selwyn's possession, but now we must debate our next step. Rosier," he turned to face the young socialite, who was dangling a flask from his hands and had a look of dismay on his face, "What has Naramir told you?"

Ren stilled, and he kept his eyes from flickering to Varya, knowing well that the Dark Wizard would immediately catch onto that, "Nothing yet," he lied easily, "It is taking some time for her to trust me, I believe."

With narrowed eyes, Tom gave him an arrogant scoff, "Perhaps, I should speak with her myself, then. I see that your socialization techniques have rusted since you have been assigned this task," he stated before marking something down in his journal.

"My apologies, my Lord."

Varya had frozen completely, and as the rest of the Knights continued to discuss further movements— formidable names to bewitch, events to attend, wizards to question— she had started debating her own plan.

She had decided last night, after her conversation with Tom, that it was time she discussed with her Professor. It was only natural to do so, as Albus would be the only one to know how to handle such a situation. With Riddle's refusal to be loyal to her and only ever manipulating, Varya knew she could only put her faith in the Alchemy teacher.

The witch was not sure how the dialogue would unfold, as she had no intention of betraying the Knights and divulging their doings. After all, all of them would face the consequences, and some did not deserve to be punished. Besides that, Petrov herself had murdered two people, and regardless of Dumbledore's odd intention of helping her, she doubted he would look past the atrocious act.

"I need some air," exclaimed Icarus, and then he got up from his seat and darted outside, slamming the door behind him. The Eastern witch flinched in her seat, and once enough eyes fell on her, she got up from the couch and followed the boy outside.

He was standing by one of the windows, curls tousled by the wind, and his hands dangled on the edge of the threshold, holding his weight as his back slumped forward. Icarus' honey eyes were trained on the sky as he watched cotton clouds transverse in rapid motions, and when he heard soft steps behind him and felt the fragrance of the women he loved, his body stiffened all over.

"You did not have to follow me," he murmured before twisting his body to face her, and the coldness of his gaze made Varya shudder. She clamped her hands behind her back, then stepped forward.

"I know," her eyes gazed on the horizon as well, and she frowned as she saw one of the clouds take the shape of a disfigured triangle. She shook her head, then turned to Icarus, "I ought to apologize."

He stood in front of her stoically, unsure what to say, then he parted his lips with a sigh, "I sat in my bed last night, thinking it over, and not knowing if I wished you had told me that you were with him or not—"

"I am not," she said quickly, "with him, I mean. We are nothing but— well, I am not quite sure if we are anything at all."

"You do not have to lie to me."

"I am not!" Varya said, voice cracking from eagerness to explain herself, "I— I tried to make something of it, and yes, we have...well, done things. But Icarus, I am not seeing Tom."

"Do you love him?"

The question hurt her, and her heart splinched as she tried to sham some sort of dignity, yet found nothing in the pit of her soul except affection for the Slytherin prefect.

"I do," her confession stung, but Icarus had known this already, "And I told him that myself, but he made it quite clear that nothing would ever come of it, and that his feelings are merely out of a fascination for my power."

Icarus huffed, irritated by the way his chest still hurt when the blues of her timbre fell on his ears, and then he glared at the Knights' compartment, "He is fooling himself." Lestrange was not sure why he was admitting this, as it would have been easier to make the girl believe she meant nothing to Riddle, but he wanted to soothe her ache.

"I do not think he is. Tom has said—"

"Riddle says many empty things and threats, and he tries to distance himself from everyone because he believes he cannot be distracted, but believe me— he does care for you. In his own way, surely, but he does. And he is a buffoon for not admitting it to himself."

"I—" she did not know what to say, torn between wanting to believe Icarus and wishing he would stop plating the seed of doubt in her mind and watering it, "This is not about him, anyway. I wanted to apologize for hurting you. I do not think I ever did."

Icarus was at battle with himself, unsure if he wanted to accept her apology and fade back into the warmth that was the witch, or use the stinging in his chest to build a wall around his soul and entirely cut all ties with her. As a general, he should have chosen the second option almost immediately, yet he was not the fighter he had become under Riddle's command any longer, and perhaps it was time to surrender that sword. Warmth had finally won.

"Petrov," he chimed, then looked at her with a small smile, "I did say I will always be there for you. A Knight keeps his word, and regardless of how others might perceive Slytherins, we value our code of honor. Your apology is graciously accepted, just...just take care of your heart, yes? Make sure such a pretty thing does not break, or I might find myself collecting the shards."

Icarus stepped forward towards the witch, one hand surrounding her waist and bringing her closer, then used another to guide her head on his chest, and his eyes close as his face fell in her hair, taking in her fragrance. The heir's velvety lips placed a soft, comforting kiss on her forehead, and then he tightened his grip before letting go and taking a step back.

Varya felt cold as she watched him turn around and walk down the corridor, and she knew at that moment that Icarus Lestrange had finally given up on conquering her heart. It was a bittersweet feeling, and although she was glad that the boy could eventually move on, tears still fell down cerise cheeks. She patted them dry quickly, before pivoting on her feet and stumbling back to her compartment.

To her surprise, it was only Riddle that she found sitting inside. His chin was veiled by a veined hand as he looked at her with lifeless eyes, and his expression was resolute in apprehension. The boy's eyebrows were knitted in a choleric appearance, and he much resembled a demigod that had had his temper challenged by a mortal.

"For the love of fucking Merlin, what do you want?" hissed Varya, tired of his intruding presence. She knew he had dismissed the Knights to talk to her, and yet her mind found him no excuse regardless of the way her heart pounded.

Tom leaned over the table, hands resting on its surface as he supported his upper body with them, "I want you to talk to me."

"Why?" the girl asked suspiciously, "I believe you have made it quite clear that you will never be able to share my feelings, and that I am weak for engaging in such things. So stop looking at me like that, and if you have any humanity in you, just stay away from me and let me move on with my life."

He stood silent, lips pursed as he contemplated her words. Indeed, why could he not simply let her go on with her day? Riddle thought it was because as much as he tried to suppress it, the witch's presence made him feel some sense of security that he had never experienced in his life.

Oddly enough, despite her weakness, he felt more assertive with her by her side, and even without her Obscurus, Tom doubted it would be easy for him to let her go. Yet, he feared her affection remarkably, almost as if it was some cure to a sickness he did not want to subdue, something that engineered his mind to work in nefarious ways.

"I need not justify my actions to you, but if you so insist— I wish you to take a position by my side in my conquest, and that will never happen if you continue mopping over something you cannot change," his voice was stentorian, like a King that was reprimanding a general for disobeying or showing lack of vigor during a battle, "Accept the reality of your situation and ponder over my offer."

"That is all?" Varya gave him another chance, regardless of the purgatorial fire of vexation that had nested in her soul. His eyebrows crooked in wonder at her tautness, and he breathed in deeply before plastering a bogus smile on his face, something that resonated with allure. Good old Tom and his venomous tricks.

"Of course."

Liar. Liar. Liar.

"It is not enough," the witch resolved, then turned around and exited the wagon, slamming the door behind as her feet carried her away from his villainous presence.

Her words were sincere, she discerned, and that frightened her to the point of rattling bones, because loss of faith was a clear path to deprivation, and Varya seemed to dissociate more and more from her life at Hogwarts with each passing day. At some point, the quest of redeeming Tom Riddle had stopped being enough, and with his lack of affection for her, it only seemed that there was nothing left for the girl in that ancient castle.

***

How odd it was to see Hogwarts in such a light— mundane, humdrum. Despite the hubristic towers that stood against the leaden horizon, it all seemed to fall in a dull spiral compared to the dangerous calamities of the previous weeks. With the Whomping Willow blooming its newborn leaves and swaying in the April wind, the castle seemed much as it had always been.

Students of all backgrounds gathered through the entrance door, dragging their friends in enthusiasm towards the vast hallways they had come to know like the back of their hands, and some squealed in excitement as magic buzzed yet again through cracks and pots and books and wands. It was easy to forget that most Hogwarts students had not been allowed to practice magic during the holidays, and Varya wondered what their world must have looked like.

The Petrov witch spotted two figures standing near one of the gardens, and she dashed towards Ivy Trouche and Della Beauchamp, eager to let the past of Riddle settle in its grave and welcome the beginning of a new era.

Yet, as soon as she reached the two girls, they ceased their relentless whispers, and exchanged glances before gawking at the Eastern witch with recalcitrance. Varya halted in her steps and hoisted an eyebrow at their attitude.

"What is it?" she probed, perplexed by their corrosive gestures, and it was Trouche that scoffed in sardonic notes at the girl.

"I only told Della how you have been lying to all of us," she spat, her dragonic pride having taken her over. If one thing would stand against times and prove itself true of Ivy Trouche's character, it was that her morals swayed like grain plants in the faintest breeze, and perhaps it had been that reason that her hair was made of golden webs and the silkiest texture.

The Eastern witch found herself stuck to the ground, and her dark eyes turned to Della's despondent ones. Varya felt a lump of culpability metastasize in her core, and she parted her lips to say words of consolation, yet nothing came out.

"I just— I do not get it, really. You seemed to enjoy staying at my house, or was I foolish to believe a witch would be happy in a muggle-born's den?" the Ravenclaw prefect asked in a brittle voice, cascade of anguish and disappointment as she found fault in a friend she thought to be perfect, "You must have only said so if you wished to go somewhere else."

"Della," Petrov began, eyes darting to Ivy, who was still frowning in a rancorous expression, "It is not what it seems like, I swear! I loved spending time at your house, and I would have liked nothing more than to accompany you and Felix, but..."

"But Riddle's part was more important, of course," said Della with a crestfallen look, her maroon hair swinging in the breeze as it fell past her shoulders, "Perhaps this will sound selfish, or maybe even stupid but, well— I have always wondered what those parties were like. Of course, I could never attend, because they hate people like me, do they not? I never told you this, but do you remember when you left me alone in that compartment with your friends to chase that boy?"

Varya barely croaked out a reply, "Yes."

"You left me in a compartment full of people that hated me for existing, that would gladly slit my hands and watch me bleed for their enjoyment, only because their privilege has allowed them to believe they hold such godly power," Della whimpered, and even now her eyes were kind.

"Maxwell was the decent one. He conversed about this and that, but the rest, they— well, they did not have the kindest eyes, nor the most innocent mouths. And I was naive to believe that chasing one of them, Malfoy, and somehow earning his affection, would make them finally see beyond this wicked little flaw that they seem to detest so much. Silly me, I suppose, because they never will, right?"

No, they would not. At least not while Tom Riddle dominated their minds and souls, not while he was a parasite that sucked on kindness and brightness. But Varya kept silent, because what more could she say?

"I did not fault you for it; I did not have the heart for such things. You probably did not know how scared I would be; after all, you never experienced such hatred because of something that was not your fault. But this? The lies are too much, and they are starting to run too deep. I wanted to see the light in you, but they are extinguishing every flicker of good in your soul with their prejudice."

"They are not good people," interjected Ivy, "I know it might seem so in the grand scheme of things. But the things they have done are not of sane mind, and you know that."

"You are only as good as those you associate yourself with, and if you believe that you can excuse their fanaticism and stay around them, then perhaps you are not as righteous as I once thought," said Della swiftly, "And I know you have pure intentions, I know you want to change them, but that is not your burden to shoulder."

One thing that the two girls did not understand, however, was that Varya was not good either. She had never been. She had danced the fine line of somber gray with tentative steps her whole life, always a mash of wicked and angelic, never quite picking a side. The witch could not see the bother, for no person would ever indeed be black or white, and would only delude themselves into believing that. At their age, there was still so much space for growth.

"I am sorry," Petrov breathed, and her hands shook behind her back as a tsunami of emotions drowned her, almost as if commanded by the god of the sea as punishment for her insubordination. Last she remembered, though, Poseidon did not have eyes of cerulean, curls of voidness, and a viper smile. Regardless, Varya was terrified of the vast oceans.

Della nodded softly, yet her eyes were enough of a telling— she could not forgive the Eastern witch, at least not yet. Her hand grabbed Ivy's, and they both turned their backs to Varya before marching to the entrance, a tornado of golden and earthly tones.

Varya's heart seemed to disintegrate, and she clutched the necklace for stability— a habit that she had developed unconsciously after relying on Riddle one too many times to save her. He was gone, though, at least in the way that she had wanted him, and the girl found herself standing alone in the middle of the courtyard, eyes flooded with fear of something she realized no longer suited her. Loneliness.

Her love for Riddle, catastrophic down to the core, had ravaged her of everything and nothing, and had made her spiral into a cataract of degeneracy that she was not sure she could ever get back from.

She was uncertain, at that moment, which one was more parasitical— her Obscurus or her love for Tom. Both had assured her demise, one in physical, the other one in spiritual, and now the girl doubted what would be left of her in the end, once she had been consumed by all.

Tom, a fanatical demagogue with the tongue of an elapid, yet the beauty of a fallen angel banished from Heaven for his scrupulous mind. And her, a book of biblical connotations that he read like a poem of promise, yet cast to the side when it presented nothing but gospels of divination and affection, nothing of nihilistic quality.

He had made a vessel of her, a carrier of a weapon that he had so desired since the beginning, and with his manipulation had outrooted her substantial connections to everything that was still virtuous in her life.

And how pathetic it was that, regardless of the complete destruction of her everything, she still would have loved him soundly, would have cherished his affection to the point of consumption, and would have doused him in tenderness like the arsonist he thought her to be, burning his demons to the ground.

Some people did not want to be saved, though, and they walked the pavement of Hell as one would in the garden of Eden, smiling at the tormented wails of damned souls that had been corrupted just as them. Riddle was no different— he was a calamity, a demon sent to burn Earth for its immorality, and perhaps, in the end, it all came down to fate, and Armageddon was truly inevitable.

"Varya?" Felix's concerned voice rang through her being, and the girl gazed at the magenta horizon that had colored itself in opalescence. How long had she been standing outside for?

She turned to face her dear friend, whose face had twisted in agitation at her rheumy eyes, and the witch immediately threw weakened arms around his neck in a desperate attempt of comfort. But, perhaps, he hated her too, and she stood alone as her impending doom neared.

"What happened?" he asked quickly, running gentle fingers through her hair as his eyes blinked rapidly in astonishment.

Through sniffles and wetness, a croaky voice resonated, "Della hates me. I lied to her about our break, and I went with Tom instead. But you have to understand me, Felix. You have to!"

"Slow down," he pushed her away slightly to look into her eyes that had turned to the color of the night, "Della would never loath you, be aware of that. She is sensitive, and I might have played a part in that; I apologize. Things were...well, things went south during the break between us, and I think the idea of you abandoning her was what filled her glass. But I will talk to her, yes? There is always a solution."

"What happened?" Varya asked, wiping her nose with her sleeve before moving wet strands off of her face.

Felix blushed, and then his body was sent in a coughing fit, and he avoided her stare after her question. His ears had turned bright rogue, and his eyes moved with spasmodic strokes as he tried to explain by gesticulating vividly, "Things! Things happened, and I said certain— well, she did not want to hear my part. So then I did something that sent her in a bit of a shock, and we have not spoken since."

"I do not understand," Varya breathed, and the boy only waved her off in embarrassment before grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the castle.

"Just let it be," he squeaked, "Why did you have to go with Tom, anyhow?"

Varya stopped in her tracks, heart pounding as she struggled to answer the question truthfully. She needed to let it out; she needed honesty, at least with one person in her life that was not tied to Tom. But how would Felix react? Would he not just run away from everything? Even so, she had to try; she needed a pillar of stability in her life.

So her mouth parted, and the hurricane blasted everything to bits, and with each storm, the forest in Felix's eyes dulled to fire, and his skin blanched as vigor left and was replaced by mortification. He trembled, he stilled, he stopped breathing, he gulped, and then the cycle repeated itself.

Her story, a fable of darkness and devilry, preached of a young girl that had never found warmth in the embrace of a mother, and had had everything taken from her by life as a cruel joke, a jab at the Heavens and whatever Lord dared rule it. Less of a human, more of a machine, and nobody ever truly cared for her. A needle of fate threaded its string of love through her body, stitching up pieces and parts in weird patterns, and nothing fit, but at least she was whole. Then, the sews came undone, and somehow it all felt more empty than it had before.

When her lips finally settled, Felix was gripping her arm so tight it might have bruised, and Varya could see the turmoil in them. He was a good man, a pure soul, and of course, nobody would expect him to understand her immorality.

Yet, his arms moved fast, and he pulled her in a tight embrace, holding onto her for dear life. She was his friend, one of the few people he had allowed himself to care for, and damned be everything if Parkin's loyalty would waver at the sigh of inconvenience.

"Holy marbles, Petrov," he rasped into her hair as she shuddered in his arms, "How are you still sane?"

"I wonder myself sometimes, but it is everything I have ever known," Varya's answer was bittersweet, "I understand if you want to run, many would."

Felix backed a little, looking at her with glossy eyes, and then he groaned and ran a hand over his face before covering his mouth with it as he thought about what else to say. He threw it to the side, then bit down on his lip in frustration, "I mean, it is not an easy thing to wrap your head around— you bloody murdered people and destroyed castles, it all seems one enormous villain story. But," he struggled to piece it together, "What else could you do? You had to survive somehow, and at the end of the day, I try to put myself in your shoes and understand everything. I would not have been able to resist half of the things you have gone through, truth be told, and well, I do not know, Petrov. Something in me cannot fault you."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, grabbing his hand in gratitude, "Thank you so much."

"And Riddle," Felix continued, "He is unthinkable to me. The way you describe everything, call it intuition, but you are more to him than anyone else. He must be scared."

The witch scoffed, vulpine eyes scanning her friend's face, "Scared? Why would he ever be scared?"

"I mean, I am not trying to excuse what he has done," said the boy as he wrapped one arm around her shoulder and started leading them to the entrance again, "But I know I would be terrified of having someone love me after being born and abandoned out of sham affection. What perspective of such feelings would I have, then? As you said, his mother bewitched his father, and he was born out of a scam of love. So all that he knows of such sentiments is that it led to his miserable life."

"I never had my parents with me either, and my childhood was much more traumatic, yet I am still capable of handling such thoughts."

"And you are insanely strong for that, but he might not be. As a matter of fact, I suspect his strive for magical power is to mask his lack of emotional strength. He is not in charge of his mind no matter how much he wants to believe that he is, so he will try to appear mighty in other ways."

"Well, he cannot expect me just to stand by and accept his manipulation until he handles himself," said the girl weakly, eyes unfocused as they entered the castle.

Felix gave her a smile, "You are completely right— loving a person wholeheartedly does not mean you have to fix them," his answer was simple, yet debatable, "But you might try to, and that is fine as well. Though, you cannot fix a broken person when you yourself are not whole, and I believe that was your biggest mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"You have been grieving silently for months now, you have had your mind and soul completely wrecked from the revelations of your past, and yet not for one second have you stopped to pick yourself up," Parkin's voice fell in a hush as they passed the portraits, "What you experienced— it is Hell's worst nightmare. Varya, you are broken and mourning still, so how do you expect to help Riddle when you cannot even help yourself?"

His words were truthful, and they fell heavily on her shoulders. She had blocked everything out of her mind, had acted as if Ivan and Ecaterina's deaths had not awoken some deep agony in her, and Varya had not taken time to heal from everything fully. The past few months had been a constant of peril and venture instigated by the Machiavellian character of Tom Riddle. 

"So, what do I do?"

"I am not sure," answered Felix honestly, "I think you start by talking to Dumbledore. There has to be a solution to your situation. You have to start taking everything one step at a time and stop throwing yourself at every possible danger. Breathe, Think, then act."

"You are right," Varya admitted to herself, and she knew that as soon as she could, she would be paying her Professor a visit.

"Of course I am," quipped the boy, "That is why I was sorted into Ravenclaw, and you were not."

Their laughter resonated through the halls, echoing as it ricocheted off of every stone wall and traveled through the castle at high speeds, right to one open window on the third floor, where a looming figure had sat in darkness the whole time and watched over the affectionate exchanges that had passed between the two friends.

Tom's eyes had turned cobalt from incendiary wrath, and a trenchant stab of pain pulsed in his chest as his face turned to something heinous, barbarous. Anemone lips were pulled in the tightest possible sneer as he stood in his spot, unable to move, and his arms tingled with indescribable awareness.

He was dark-souled, and as much as he tried to push away the sinking feeling in his chest, make of it something that was not, it sounded through his being— jealousy. Riddle's dastardly nature stormed through everything, and he pivoted on his feet as he finally released his tight grip on the window frame from where he had watched Varya cry on Parkin's shoulder. His dark robes were the last thing that the moonlight touched, and then, where a phantom of a viper had been, only a broken glass stood. One that he had squeezed too tight out of irritation.

And for a boy that claimed to feel nothing, he undoubtedly felt a lot now.

***