CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

NOTE: Feel free to play the song I attached in the second part of the chapter. You will know when.

The kitchen smelled of pan-fried eggs and baked beans as Varya Petrov strolled inside later than usual. She had slept in that day, letting her body recover after such a strenuous trip, and she promptly smiled as she saw Icarus Lestrange grappling not to burn the food. Abraxas Malfoy was standing by the bar, mixing something for himself and watching his friend struggle with impassive eyes.

"Shit," yelped Icarus as a bit of oil jumped on his hand, and he dragged his hand back from the frying pan, then glared at it. Varya's high pitched laughter filled the room, and his almond irises immediately flew to her, a wan smile on his face, "Good afternoon, princess. I see you took your fine time."

Varya elbowed him to the side and seized the pan, knowing well that no pureblood in this house had any survival skills. They had been pampered their whole lives, and the only reason Icarus was cooking for himself was that he wanted to prove to Malfoy that he was capable of doing so. The witch threw away the burned eggs, then cracked open a new batch and let them sizzle.

"I barely sleep in, give me a break," she huffed before turning the eggs. Things were still slightly strained with Icarus, but she was making an effort to fix everything. Despite all, he was an essential person in her life, and she knew that asking him to stand up to Riddle was unfair.

Lestrange smiled brilliantly, delighted that the girl was finally talking to him again, then he threw himself on one of the bar stools and watched her prepare their breakfast. Malfoy threw the glass in the sink and groaned, "God, I hate it when I put too much whiskey in my coffee, now I am tipsy."

"As long as you do not do what you did in Prague."

"Shut your mouth, Lestrange."

Varya smiled to herself as she set their food. It was easy to forget that those boys had grown up together, had seen the world together. Although Riddle had brought them under one name, most had been friends for years and shared deeper bonds. It was funny to her, how some whispered that there was no friendship between all of them, yet it was so painstakingly obvious that they would all die and fight for each other.

"How did you two meet?" asked the witch as she set the plates down in front of them, and they immediately gobbled up the food, cutting and eating eagerly. Lestrange moaned at the taste, then threw Malfoy a bold look.

"Fate brought us together," he proclaimed dramatically, then inclined over with puckered lips. Abraxas scoffed and pushed him back, "Our families always plan marriages between each other; it was probably a wedding. To be fair, most of us have known each other since childhood. Selwyn and I grew up in the same neighborhood— our parents always thought we would get married."

Varya smiled at that, "I could see that."

"No way," the boy threw his head back in a hearty laugh, "I saw her when she was awkward and bony, and her hair frizzed at the slightest hint of humidity. I remember once we were in London, and we went to this restaurant, and she choked on some sort of dessert. Funny, really."

"Well, she is not awkward nor lanky anymore. As a matter of fact, I would say she is the most gorgeous girl in the Slytherin house," said Varya as she finished her eggs, and Icarus stilled at that.

"Well, I mean— she is pretty, but..." he mumbled, and Varya could see the fight in his eyes, almost as if he had never considered the fact that Elladora was no longer the twelve-year-old she had once been.

Malfoy chewed slowly on his food as he watched his friend have a breakdown, "So oblivious," he muttered to himself, then got up and put the dishes in the sink. With a look of gratitude towards Varya, he dusted off his black suit and darted outside, where Avery and Rosier were working on Ren's car.

Icarus then stilled, and hush fell over the two past lovers. The boy cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, tortuously aware that it was their first time being alone together since their break-up. He missed her deeply, so much so that his heart throbbed whenever she smiled, and he would have done anything to have her back. Most of all, it was painful to see Varya with Tom, knowing well that she would never get what she deserved from him.

"I have been meaning to talk to you," blurted Lestrange, and Varya grimaced. She did not want to have some sort of sappy conversation with the boy, and her breath hitched as he drew closer to her.

"About what?" she asked, then focused her eyes on her food.

"Tom," said Icarus openly, then he looked around the salon to check for their leader. Nevertheless, the boy was still in his room, and he would not come out until later. He always kept to himself whenever they went somewhere.

"What about him?"

"He is manipulating you," confessed the boy, and Varya raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing new there," she scoffed, then picked up their plates and glasses and went to the sink. Icarus trailed after her, then stopped by her side and towered over her as she washed everything.

"The play, you remember that?"

"Yes, I do. Last I know, he actually saved me there."

"He made it seem like he did," mumbled Icarus, then he lowered his lips to her ear, and they both felt electrified at the close contact, "But did you ask yourself why Elladora had been flirting with Black in the first place? Why Riddle had even bothered coming to a show when he never socializes?"

Varya dropped the glass in the sink. Her mind ran at fast rates as she tried to recall that evening. It was rather odd that Selwyn had simply started showing affection to Ivy's former boyfriend, mostly since she avoided the boy at all costs after the play. And yes, Tom would have never attended such a thing without having a scheme in place.

Merlin, she was so oblivious.

"Icarus," her timbre was threatening, and she turned to face the boy, their faces close together, and Lestrange's abdomen filled with butterflies at the proximity, "What are you getting at?"

"He set everything up to make you trust him, to have you come with him to Albania. Tom wanted you to believe that things had been changing, that he trusted you to some extent...But everything was a mirage," the words stumbled out of his mouth like a cascade, and Varya's heart filled with dread, "He made Selwyn stir a reaction out of Ivy to cause a scene, knowing that they were going to use an Ashwinder. Now, none of us expected the explosion, but then he told Malfoy to glue your feet to the stage so that he could run and save you. I mean, for Merlin's sake, when has Tom ever gone out of his way to save someone?"

He had done it for her, multiple times, and yet the girl always seemed to forget that Riddle desired her powers above all else, and that he would protect her for that reason alone. She pursed her lips in displeasure, and a wave of resentment passed through her like a midnight tide, drenching her in utter hatred.

Varya opened her mouth to say something, but then the door opened, and in walked the little demon, horns hidden between curls of Belgian chocolate and wickedness framed by azure irises. Tom paced his way to the breakfast table, then grabbed an orange from the basket and proceeded to peel it.

He glanced at Varya, and hoisted an eyebrow at her recalcitrant figure, as the witch gave him a death stare, "May I help you?".

The girl felt Icarus stiffen beside her, and she knew there was nothing she could say for fear of the boy being persecuted. They always had to walk on glass around Riddle, because he was so unstable that one did not know what his reaction would be. Tom pushed a slide of orange between his lips, then licked at the juice that dripped down his mouth, and tilted his head as an invitation for her to speak up.

"Nothing," she muttered, then turned around to do the dishes, an attempt to hide from his devious smirk, the way his jaw set in amusement at her discomfort. He was so bloody destructive, and he betrayed as nothing mattered to him but power.

For now, Petrov had nothing to say to him, and she could only cradle the fallen petals of her vitality rose as he continued to pluck them with each scheme, and the girl's hope proceeded to fade into a blur of nothing and everything. The thorns pricked at her insides, and they drew blood so easily. That was how he ruined her— from the inside, while preserving her appearance of a vigorous witch.

"Are you dueling today, Lestrange?" Riddle inquired as he stepped towards his acolyte, who glanced at the girl's fallen expression before pushing himself off of the counter.

"Dueling?" queried Varya, although her face was still turned away.

"Favorite past-time activity— getting as close to murdering each other without actually doing it," revealed Icarus, then grabbed her wrist and dragged her outside, where the rest of the Knights were already sitting at an outdoor table.

Tom tarried behind the two, eating slowly as he analyzed all of his followers. He had dueled all of them multiple times, and yet none had come close to disarming him or having him surrender. Now, Varya was a completely different challenge, and he felt his excitement rise at the idea of battling the girl.

Rosier cheered as he saw them approach, and then he pulled out a notepad, "Now, Nott will keep the score as always, since we all know he would be the first one out anyway. No offense, mate," the French man chuckled before passing the quill and paper to his frowning friend. Then, he patted down his vest, and shuffled his sleeves swiftly, "How are we doing this?"

"Random draws?" advised Elladora, pushing her sunglasses upwards on her nose bridge. She was holding a delicate teacup in her hands, swirling the contents around as she sat on a chair cross-legged.

Rosier nodded, then took the hat off of Nicholas' head, and bewitched it to draw all of their names. His hand dove right in, and he pulled out a piece of paper, "Elladora, and—" his hand went back in, "Nicholas. Oh, I am dying to see this one!"

Selwyn glanced at the butcher over her teacup, then politely placed it on the table. She moved across the yard with grace, her hair carrying the color of a thousand burnings apollos, and her ingenious acorn eyes flashed of alluring frigidness. The witch stood in the middle of the courtyard, her lips turned in the flimsiest smirk, and she clasped her hands behind her back, sending a strong message— I do not fear you.

That is all it took for Nicholas to pull his knives out of his belt, twisting them around slender digits, then gripping their handles hard, "How did that earlobe of yours heal?"

Elladora scoffed, then pursed her lips in discontent as her white dress fluttered in the wind, "How did that head trauma of yours heal after I saved your life, Avery?".

Varya shifted in her seat at the obvious scalding tension between the two— they did not like each other, not in the slightest, and while they might have fought together under the same purpose, at the end of the day, their anger thrived above else. The girl could not help but wonder why, so she passed a look to Nott, who smiled at the quizzical expression.

"They are not the greatest of friends," he mused as he leaned forward to talk to her, "Avery used to make fun of her as we were growing up, and Selwyn grew a strong dislike for him. I think he actually sees her as some sort of little sister, but Merlin, they are insufferable."

The wind blew their locks, and the scenery stilled as the two wizards regarded each other with falcon eyes. It was a clash of two magnets, an opposition of solutions that never mixed well together, and Selwyn scrunched her button nose at Nicholas' dismissive stare. Varya thought back to her words on the previous day, how she had alluded to men never taking her seriously, and she wondered what her strategy would be, as she was as stealthy as Leviathan.

It was Nicholas that made the first move, always transient, always dynamic, and yet he moved with the furtiveness of an assassin as he twisted one knife and threw it at the girl, trying to get her to budge. Elladora raised one swift palm in the air, stopping the pointy edge right as it almost touched her forehead, and she stared back with acidity in her features.

"Impedimenta!" her voice boomed through the forest, and Avery found his moves slowed down as the girl flung at him, eyebrow drawn in frustration as he tried to avoid her next strike. He was blasted ten feet backward, and then Elladora threw her unique darts at him.

They almost hit the boy, but he quickly deflected them, "Poison? Really?". He scoffed, then kicked himself off of the ground with a neat turn, and spun his body as he sent another knife her way, this time charmed with an icing spell. The girl yelled as it hit her shoulder and froze over, making her unable to use the hand that loomed over her potion pouch.

"Why are they not simply using magic?" questioned Varya, astonished at the tactics the two were using.

It was Riddle that answered as he sat down next to her, lovat eyes trained on her curious expression, and he rested his chin in his hand, "To surprise an adversary, one must use blasphemous tactics. When combating a wizard, they will be too focused on the hand that carried the wand to notice the one that plunges the knife in their chest."

"Macabre way of dueling."

"Yet very efficient," meditated the leader as he watched his acolytes duel. Elladora had managed to break the ice, and was now throwing missiles of smog through the yard, making Nicholas groan as his eyes watered and his eyesight faded, "That is what makes them extraordinary, their capability to think outside of the box. Magic is restricted in the Hogwarts curriculum, and none of us are taught real defense strategies, so we took it to ourselves to practice and become military leaders."

Varya could only nod in understanding, and when her eyes flicked back to the duel, her heart plummeted as she saw that it had ended. Selwyn had laced her smoke with some sort of psychedelic, and Avery was now seizing on the floor, dagger on his neck as the girl smirked viciously.

"You surrender?"

Avery glowered at her as his body convulsed, "I d-do."

Elladora opened her pouch and grabbed a vial, then forced it down his throat, and in a matter of seconds, he was back to normal, groaning in frustration at his loss. It had always been a balanced duel between the two of them, and she was one of the few people that managed to best him. The boy got to his feet, and trailed behind the glowing victor as she threw the men a smirk that screamed supremacy.

"Next!" yelled Rosier, and he took out two names scribbled on paper with delight, "Would you look at that? Let's go, Malfoy. I have waited for a long time to tassel that platinum hair of yours. Now, I hope you do not mind your black suit getting a little dusty—"

Malfoy blasted him to the sides, and the boy's body rolled on virid grass before stopping against the trunk of a tree. Ren groaned as he clutched his stomach, then twisted to face Abraxas as he stood against the horizon, a scarecrow of pride and malevolence, the right-hand of the devil himself.

Satan had been wrath, but Lucifer was pride, and Malfoy held his stance with luscious resolve. His next move was just as ax-cut as his first— clean, rough— but Rosier was not to be messed with himself. Regardless of his position, the boy had something that the rest of them lacked— he laughed in the face of danger, he embraced death with the sanity of a maniac.

Rosier was utterly insane, and so he cackled before deflecting Malfoy's curse, "Oh, not very friendly." Then, he charged forward, and his wand sent a cascade of fire down, and the hunger in his eyes was plentiful—damned Beelzebub, always ravenous for chaos.

Clicking his tongue against his cheek, Malfoy surrounded himself with a wall of water, and it sizzled as it extinguished the demonic flames that engulfed him. He gave no time for Rosier to get back on track before he flicked a finger, and a tree fell on the boy.

Varya rose to her feet, hand flying to her mouth, and when she heard Tom's amused scoff, vicious eyes turned to the boy. He hoisted an eyebrow at her, shaking his head ever so slightly, "Malfoy might be a quiet person, but believe me, he is my second in command for a reason. The ones that never show their true power outright are the deadliest."

Selwyn ran across the estate to where the boy had fallen, and immediately flicked the trunk away. When she saw him laughing on the ground, she rolled her eyes and sent a thumbs up to the group, before giving him a vial of bone reconstructing potion.

Then, Ren limped back to them with her help, and he sat down on one chair with a groan, face turning to Malfoy, who was stoic as always, "That was crude."

"I will make you an Irish coffee, shut it." And then he strode in the kitchen and grabbed the whiskey bottle.

Rosier made a pleased sound, then clutched the hat once again, eyes looking at the three remaining tributes. He bit back a laugh at the situation, not knowing which battle would be more amusing to watch— the former lovers trying to take each other out while being eaten alive by guilt, the two commanders of battle, or the two absolute sociopaths that were oblivious to their feelings?

He pulled out the first name and smirked, "Varya, rise, and shine."

The girl had half-expected it to be her. After all, she had the worst luck out of all. She pushed herself off of the chair, then glanced between the two men that were left, and she did not know which battle she dreaded more.

Rosier stuck his hand in the hat, and as he began pulling out the paper, he saw an "L" etched on it, and frowned. No, he wanted something more dramatic today. So he stuffed Icarus' name back in and grabbed Tom's, "Ah, what a coincidence! Riddle!"

Tom tilted his head and smirked at the girl with a serpentinous charm, and then he got up from his seat with a gracious move and strode over to the opening. His mind swirled with rapture, and he wondered if this was the right time to get back at her for almost killing him.

Varya, on the other hand, had no intention of going easy on the boy. For too long, she had let herself be manipulated by him; for too long, she had tried not to hurt him during their arguments, but Icarus' words had been the last nail to his coffin, and whatever happened on the front would not keep her awake at night.

"All right, now try not to kill each other!" screamed Nicholas from the veranda, and then he winked at Icarus, whose face had blanched completely.

She looked at Tom, observing the way his cerulean irises focused on her with sole maliciousness, and his lips turned in a beam of crudeness. He bowed at her tauntingly, almost disrespectfully, only to spite the girl further, and yet he kept his composure— regardless, he knew not to underestimate the witch, but the show of defiance would rattle her.

It was the way he twisted her mind with each calculated quiver of his eyebrows, the way he angered her with impassive expressions— his most effective weapon. Tom Riddle was cunning beyond imagination, and he feigned and changed personas so often even he found himself confused at times. Nevertheless, nothing rattled his temper quite like the Eastern witch.

Varya made the first move. She blasted the ground beneath his feet completely, and her eyes unfocused as the boy apparated somewhere else entirely, "You can apparate?"

"Of course I can," he smirked at his own trick, knowing that he was letting one Ace poke from his sleeve. He wondered, then, why he was putting in so much effort for a mere duel.

Perhaps, to impress her.

He needed no wand, and with the slightest flick of the wrist, he sent a maelstrom of fire that cackled against the magnet sky, then dove down on her in serpentine form, mouth open with a voracious need for murder. Varya blocked it, then huffed in irritation at his display of magic.

The witch took her knife out, and if the boy wanted surprise, that was precisely what he would get. She cut her hand, letting the haematic liquid drip slowly, then advanced as she chanted her spell, earning an impressed look from Riddle. The sigil burned on the ground, and Varya lowered herself to it, eyes closed as her lips murmured to nature, to darkness, and her bloody hand scraped against the dirt as her sable dress pooled around her legs, and her braided midnight locks swayed in the fastened wind.

The sky darkened as if Armageddon had finally come to save them from their despondency and sacrilegiousness, and the blow of nature mewled at the upheaval of dark magic that slithered through the cracks of the ground, and shadows danced their way to Tom Riddle as the witch chanted the coven's call. No mercy was to be bestowed, and she had a few lessons to teach the boy.

Riddle felt the liquid drip down his nose, and the acrid taste of caustic blood invaded the back of his throat. It pooled on his hands, and in his eyes swam erythraean pigment of mortality, a nuance of rouge and catastrophe, and how he wiped it away in such desperation as the mercuric traces in his blood rose from the spell, and he poisoned himself with his own venom— a tragic fate for a serpent.

Spots whirred in his vision, and the sound of birds muffled in his ears as he tried to make sense of what was happening to him. There was no blast, no fury, just whispered words with ancient meanings and dark magic he barely knew himself, and the Old Ways triumphed.

But he was a Dark Wizard, and regardless, he had taught himself vast spells, some of which he had fashioned from Eastern volumes after meeting the witch. And so Tom muttered the incantation swiftly, always one step ahead, and Varya gasped as her magic channels felt the blockage, and her scorpion eyes snapped to his, the slightest flicker of white.

"You learned coven magic; you blocked my spell!"

Of course, he did. He was Tom Riddle, and was it not natural for such a brilliant mind to explore her own witchcraft after being exposed to it? He had been studying for a while now, trying to catch up with the girl's talents. Roguish smirk, and when his lips parted, she saw the blood that had stained his teeth, and yet he strode over graciously as if he had not almost perished mere seconds ago.

What power of nature he was, and she raised her head to meet his as he towered over her, glancing down at the milk skin that contrasted against her black dress, and she looked like a proper witch of Salem, "My turn."

Varya had never seen him perform dark magic, only ever the spells taught at Hogwarts, so when his lips spluttered Latin, her heart twirled with delight, and regardless of the spiders that darted towards her in madness at his call, she smiled.

The spiders neared, and only when she felt a few crawl up her leg did she let out a scream past her lips, swatting them away as they tried to cover her body. She pivoted on her feet, then circled herself in fire and watched them burn in the flames, before facing Riddle yet again with a daunting smirk.

"Is that all your dainty books taught you? Could have just asked me for private lessons," she twirled, and her next movement caught him off-guard, as she grabbed at his throat and pulled him in a paroxysm of wind. His hair flew around as the girl pulled him closer, and yet his lips turned upwards when their noses met, "Like what you see?"

"I should lie," he confessed, and her eyes twinkled.

"So do it."

"I cannot," and then her nails dug in his skin and dragged at the epidermis, clawing at his throat. Tom sneered maniacally before blasting her away from him, and she rolled on the grass.

Nicholas Avery whistled to himself, then threw Nott a merry glance, "You think they're going to kill each other?" Maxwell shrugged, then sipped on his coffee.

Tom walked to her quickly, then lowered himself, his ankles supporting his weight, and he pushed the girl to her back, smiling as he saw the laceration on her cheek, and he placed a finger against the open wound and pushed, the hair on his arms rising as she screamed and kicked at him.

"Bloody hell, Riddle," she breathed and patted her face, healing her wound fastly. The boy bit the inside of his cheek, and watched as the blood dried on her face.

He pressed his finger against the stain and scrubbed at it, enjoying the way the carmine danced on her skin. His thumb trailed over her lips, and Riddle wanted nothing more than to taste her again.

The twilight hour chimed, and the rust of dusk clinked through the night as the last tangerine turned in exquisite amethyst. The crows screeched through the wild lilac yonder, and their croaky sounds brought peace to the girl. Somewhere in the distance, a church's tower bell reverberated with silver. The fragrance of the moonflower traveled through the air, and surrounded the two lovers as they stared at each other— macabre, yet jovial.

Her eyes rolled in the back of her head as her lips moved vigorously to curse Tom, and the boy fell to his side as she took control of his nervous system, sending spasms, making him twitch as he fought against the foreign sensation, "Now, you know how it feels when you make the Obscurus take over my body."

Riddle groaned, then blocked her again, and irritation sparked in her eyes as she rose to her feet and put distance between them. Even so, the boy conjured the grass, and it braided in a long whip that he lashed against her feet, catching her ankle and pulling her to the ground. Varya threw her fist at the ground in frustration, then felt him turn her to face his smirk. He straddled her, and as he looked down at her, a curl fell forward and tickled her forehead.

"Any last words?" he said arrogantly, and the girl stared at him with wrath.

"Yes, actually," Varya answered, her tone caustic as it dripped with fraudulent docility. She raised her face until they were inches apart, and his lips hovered hers in temptation.

Tom's throat constricted as he inhaled her citric scent, and his mind swirled as he remembered the way she had felt the previous night. He looked down at her delicate features, and the way they were graced by such recalcitrance and arrogance, and then his stomach twisted as his mind was plagued with her. He lowered his head, "What is it?".

He felt the pointy tip against his throat—her blade.

"Check-mate."

Varya's eyes twinkled with satisfaction as she pressed the dagger against his throat, and she laughed in high-pitches at his bothered expression. Once again, her knife had been the end of their tale, and it was comical how he always forgot about it regardless of her frequent usage.

Rosier whistled from the sides, and applauded as the Knights watched their King fall, and yet none seemed to mind as Varya and Tom made their way back to the Manor, "That was marvelous!"

"I have never seen Riddle bleed," said Malfoy, with no emotion in his voice as he passed a wet towel to his leader. Astonishingly, Riddle had taken the loss pretty well, and despite the evident frustration, he seemed to be more focused on getting the blood off of his ruffled shirt and vest.

Nicholas turned his head to him, then cast a quick "Tengo" spell to siphon the liquid, earning a nod of acknowledgment from the ruler. Then, he stared at Varya, "Now, teach me those spells, or I might strangle you in your sleep."

"I would like to see you try."

"Getting cocky, are we not?" he quipped, then bent over to pick up the shoes that he had so graciously taken off. He stuffed his feet inside, then sat up straight, "Nevertheless, I believe it is time for dinner."

***

Varya spooned her gelato as she and Tom stood outside on the porch, gazing up at the sky that had fallen in nocturnal bliss, a coating of gemstones of numerous proportions and hues that swirled into galaxies and cosmos. The moonshine glided over their translucent faces in waves of an ocean tide, and it pulled heartstrings closer in silence and darkness.

The taciturnity of the bone-white moon, and the stilled scenery of nighttime, where the only tune was that of The Ink Spot's Maybe and Elladora Selwyn's crystalline laugh as Icarus twirled her softly to the tempo in the living room, and Varya much wondered if the witch liked violins.

"Muggle music," remarked Tom bitterly, and yet his foot tapped to the slow tune, and his heartbeat mellowed out as he allowed himself a peaceful moment. He was not one for music, he found it ridiculous, yet there was something that stirred as he glanced at the woman by his side.

"Indeed," sighed Varya, and she licked at her spoon eagerly, enjoying the sensation of coldness and frost that soothed her flaring skin at the boy's presence.

She was not sure which one of them had come outside first, perhaps neither, and yet they found themselves in each other's proximity. A long time ago, Varya had thought that there was a string of fate that connected her to Riddle, and that it pulled at her being to follow him wherever he went.

Perhaps, now it pulled him too.

"Slow down with the wine," came Nott's muffled voice from behind the glass door, and Varya turned to see Rosier on the kitchen marble, swinging his body gently, pointed hand in the air and eyes closed as he moved softly to the tune. Ren had a blissful smile on his face, and with the bottle in his hand, he looked more at peace than ever. She wondered what, or who, the boy was running from.

Malfoy had fallen asleep on the couch, and Avery was drawing a mustache on his face with his wand. His nose scrunched, and Nicholas' eyes enlarged, then Abraxas turned to the side and swung his arm over the other boy and pulled him in a hug, downright petrifying him.

The soft tune continued to carry out, and they all fell into some sort of tranquility as they soothed the aches in their bodies and minds, allowing themselves to taste normalcy on their buds, and they all looked alive with joy and the inherent recklessness of their age. For a second, the girl wondered what would have come of them, had the world not turned its back to their needs.

She imagined a reality where Tom Riddle was a sane man, an aristocrat that paraded himself amongst ballrooms with vanity and superfluous grace, and wrung the hearts of young women with just the right mixture of mischief— always in close reach, and yet inaccessible. He would be the heir of the Gaunt lineage, and she, the sole name bearer of the Petrov line, and they would meet at a ball that neither desired to attend, then exchange flirtatious glances over champagne flutes. When the moment of adventure would caress their souls, Tom would walk across the floor, pushing past moving couples, and ask—

"You want to go for a walk?"

Varya's mouth hung open as the spoon dangled on her lips, and she turned to peer at the boy, make sure he had really said those words, and when his world-weary eyes gave her a frustrated look, the witch knew that he had asked her, in fact, to promenade around the Nott estate.

She placed the cup to her side, then wiped at the creamy substance on her lips, and raised to her feet in anticipation. Tom frowned, then proceeded to walk with her by his side, hands in pockets and eyes trained on the horizon.

It was the way their steps synced; the way silence never carried any weight, and how she felt her hand tingle as it swayed by his side. Varya loved him as she did not even love herself, and her mind was fighting a losing battle against his manipulation.

He wanted some peace of mind, away from the rest of the Knights, and they strode down the paved garden patches— him, with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the girl with curiosity; her, with a blush coating delicate cheeks, restless underneath his eyes.

"Did you get Nott to sign those papers you needed?" she asked suddenly, and Tom nodded.

"Yes, I will be residing with him over the summer," his eyes lingered on her, "Where will you be going?"

"I am not sure, really," Varya admitted, "With Grindelwald on the loose, there is not really any safe space for me. Perhaps, I could ask Dumbledore to let me stay at Hogwarts. I do not know— it will be strange."

"Why would you need Dumbledore to protect you?" Tom scoffed, and he felt his blood rise. Was she implying that he was not enough? That his powers were not enough to have the Dark Wizard stay away from her? He turned his head away in irritation, disliking the way his guts twisted with resentment.

Then, he wondered what he would do if the girl would be in danger, if he would truly be apathetic. She was such a valuable asset to have by his side— powerful in body and mind, and Petrov brought out something in him; he did not understand. He had thought for the longest time that she was merely a weapon, and it had been true, yet her touches were a universe of itself, and he had become obsessed with the way she tasted.

The smile on her face was enraging, so electric, so fatalistic, and Tom felt his breath hitch as her dark eyelashes batted at him, and her chapped cinnabar lips stretched. She was of catastrophic proportions, a devil sent by Satan, or an angel sent by God— he was not quite sure, yet they all brought despair to his mind. The breeze of darkness passed through her tousled obsidian waves, and she was a phantom of possibility against a sky of realism.

And then, horror struck him as he felt them.

His pupils dilated as Varya looked at him, and queasiness spread through his senses, and they all turned to her— he could only smell her citric fragrance, he could only gaze at her raptured face, he could only hear her soft breaths, he could only touch her pale skin.

Suddenly, the boy stopped in his tracks, and he glanced at her with uncertainty and doubt, and then his fist pressed against his chest, pushing down on his heart as it went basilisktic. It drummed with effervescent venom, and Tom let his mind wander on the possibility of being poisoned, for he could not understand the way his hands jittered, or the way his breath came in heaps.

Varya Petrov was the woman he would never figure out, a mess of juxtapositions in his vocabulary— she was of a macabre soul, yet so generous it was of fables, she was the strongest person he had met, yet she succumbed to her darkness. When pearls of sorrow fell from her eyes and came in a river of anguish, it angered him. On the contrary, when she radiated of enthralling tenderness, he loathed it.

He pressed against his chest harder, and Riddle felt that his lungs were giving upon him. Varya moved to his side, and her hands flew to his body, yet they burned like the fire of Hell, or the holy water. Once again, he was not sure. He felt— he did not know. His brain fogged over, and he recoiled from her.

"Is everything all right, Tom?"

Her voice made his ears screech. No, it was the finest tune of spring. No! His ears bled. He hated it. He hated her. Did he? Riddle's hands flew to his ears as his eyes shut in agony, and he groaned as his brain seemed to implode in on itself.

Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom.

He wanted to rip his heart out from his chest; he wanted to smash it against the pavement and make it stop from beating so erratically. Riddle's soul shifted, and something cracked through, then everything seemed to be made of light and her, her, her.

Tom should kill her. End her. Murder her. Rip her throat out. Gauge out her eyes. Bash her head against the trees. Make it stop. Do it! Do it!

He gasped for air as he fell to his knees, and Varya kneeled beside him, taking notice of how his clothes had drenched in cold perspiration, and he glistened in the moonlight as he looked at her with lost eyes. And how beautiful he was—a broken soul, a heart on the verge of breaking.

The boy was panicking in a way he had never before, and for years he had been void itself, yet now something was blossoming, and as it curled up his throat, it suffocated him with tender touches and the fragrance of oranges.

What did it mean that he could not bring himself to kill her?

The girl grabbed at his face, and tried to help his eyes focus as they moved around frantically, almost as if he was in a trance, and then his forehead fell to her shoulder. Varya wrapped worried arms around him and pulled him close as he struggled to breathe. He was breaking.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

"Tom?"

He grabbed her face and pressed his lips against hers, trying to extinguish what she had called attraction, trying to get his body to stop needing her as he had done so many times. But it was not enough; this time, there was more to it: his pulse racing, his heart beating, his breath hitching.

But why? He did not understand why his insides were melting, or why it felt as if he was having a heart attack. Such a foreign sensation, and was this it? Was he dying?

Tom kissed her with need, with fire, and Varya's mind spun as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and her legs made to straddle the boy as he stood upright in the grass. The moonlight braided her hair as his fingers danced through it, and the song of the owls covered his rugged breath, and her quiet sobs as they kissed. And it felt final; it felt like an ending.

Was it?

His lips were the tidal wave of the morning in the August month, and he soothed the absolute burning in her, he muted nature and humanity with desire, and his body was never close enough to hers. Tom was the coldness against her burning figure as the Sun flared her up. But he was the Sun too, and that did not make sense, not now, nor ever.

Tom had never needed anything.

Varya whimpered against his hold, and the power that pulsed through his veins put everything into place and revived him, as if she was the answer to everything. And he thought back to the first time he had seen her, to how indifferent he had felt. This did not feel like that, it did not feel like she could vanish, and he would be the same.

Did he need her?

She pressed soft lips against his neck, and his neck extended as he groaned at the feeling of her. Tom's hands pulled her sooty dress upwards, his nimble fingers traced the outline of her lacey socks, and he then gripped tighter.

Oh no.

"Tom," her whine spiraled everything into oblivion, and his eyes darted to the sky as he wondered if divinity or monstrosity had graced Earth. The stars aligned, the constellations felt alive and danced amongst the black sea, her lips on his skin. Perhaps, maybe, somehow, his name was not disgusting when she breathed it like that.

Razor-winged butterflies.

***

So yes this is my take on Tom's body reacting to Varya and his refusal to accept that he is falling. Also sorry for the slow updates, I am having major writer's block and my classes are also killing me.

Besides this, since there are only ten chapters or so left, I am trying to write everything as eloquently as possible. There will be a sequel because, well, there is so much left to say, but I have to separate the chapters because of something that happens. Anyway! I hope you enjoyed this chapter.