CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The room was obscure, with no windows or openings to the outside world, and the only source of light was the flickering light bulb in the middle of the ceiling. It was covered in grime and spider webs, and it swung from one side to another with a faint creak. The air was dusty, and each breath burned the lungs, so much so that some of the bodies in the room coughed continuously. It was almost like being in a pneumonia ward.

Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Drip, drop.

Something rattled at the old pipe that ran across the wall of Scholomance's basement, and a hand darted out to reach to the sound source, almost like a twig about to break in the wind. The girl felt herself lose all strength in her system, and she could not feel her lower body. Despite her best attempts, her vision kept blurring, and when she moved her head, it was as if water waved inside her skull. It stung profoundly, and if she had had enough vigor to part her lips, she would have winced.

There was only deadened vibration around her, and the odd sensation of being watched, but she was somewhere between alertness and a fainting feeling, and could not make sense of her surroundings. They looked familiar, and something knocked at her brain, almost as if she was supposed to remember the gloomy room.

Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Drip, drop.

"She is waking up, sir," came a cry from the deepness of the obscurations, and the girl saw something move across her visual field, before a sensation prickled at her skin, a dull ache in her arm. "That should keep her down."

"You said that about the last dose as well," grumbled a man as he strode over to the table, grabbing the syringe and inserting it deeper in the girl's arm, pumping its contents in viciously, "If you cannot do your job, Matron Lawrence, then have a man with the guts to do it take this over."

"My apologies, sir, I promise to watch her over carefully."

"How are the rest faring?" steps reverberated as the man walked away from the girl, and the Matron followed closely. Their voices bounced off of the walls, echoing through the basement.

"The one near the exit has unfortunately passed away; her body could not take the, uh— the stress, and perished during the night, around midnight, we believe," stated Lawrence in a hushed tone. The sound of wheels screeching against the floor resonated through the room, and then a tray of utensils was moved across a table. Something ripped at the skin, and a damp smell filled the room.

"What about the boy?"

"The boy? We have tried inducing forced shifting, and we believe that with the moon approaching, it will only become easier—"

"But you know that is not what I am asking about." The man's voice was guttural, so much so that the girl found herself cringing at it. Her head was still pounding, and she had to fight with all her might against the substance that had been injected.

"Oh, well, I cannot say, sir, the most promising one is still the Petrov witch. We have been studying her for a while now, but it is hard to say whether it would work."

The footsteps came back to where the girl stood stock-still, and she felt a presence hovering over her, "She has grown up under your watch, has she not?".

"Yes, right in the heart of Scholomance, and she has been under our supervision for years now, undergoing all of our...trials. Nevertheless, it is hard to tell the outcome of it all. Combining such forces goes against nature, but if we succeed, we will find ourselves owning an incredible weapon."

A door banged, and Varya felt her head pound as obscurity started to skim from the edges of her vision, and she knew that whatever the substance was, it was meant to knock her out. However, something in her blood fought against the intrusiveness, and she used her last bit of energy to stay awake, alert.

Her head dropped to the side, and she saw Matron Lawrence approach another bed across from her, where a pale hand stuck out from the sheets. The doctor pulled them away, revealing the cold body of Ecaterina Banescu, and Varya felt queasiness build in her skin. That was one of her fellow seniors, a sixth-year that had died the previous month due to a strigoi attack, and yet her body had been brought to the catacombs. Even in her mind-altered state, the decay was evident, and Varya could feel the odor of putrefaction.

A scream sounded in the room, and Varya's eyes dashed to the corner, where a boy was fighting against the Matron, clawing at her face as she was trying to restrict him down with chains. There was no virtue in his growl, and he trashed around spitefully. Eventually, when he was restrained, Lawrence pulled out a chart and scribbled down a few notes. Then, she took a syringe from her pocket and stuck it in the boy's neck, immediately knocking him out. That was Ivan Oleh. Varya was close to him.

Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Drip, drop.

The damned sound of liquid dripping would not leave the poor girl's mind, almost driving her insane, and she struggled to find its source yet again, but to no avail. Her eyes flew to the pipes repeatedly, but she could not see any hole in them. Her head moved slightly, and then she saw the red duct that connected from her hand to a bag just below her bed.

Why were they taking her blood?

***

Varya gasped as she opened her eyes, and fell backward to the floor as she scurried away from the pensive, breathing harshly. It was as if a river of coldness had awakened her from a deep slumber, and a memory that had not been there previously was now at the front of her brain. It was an odd feeling, almost as if she had watched a movie; she was aware that the person in it had been her, and yet it did not feel like it.

Albus gave her a hand, and then hoisted her up off of the floor, helping the girl reach one of the chairs in his office. Varya sat down and thanked her Professor as he gave her a cup of hot chocolate. She sipped on it anxiously, still shaken by what her mind had conjured.

"What did you see?" He asked promptly, not bothering to skim around the question, and Varya let out a shaky breath. What had she seen? They had had only three sessions so far, and yet none of them had proved fruitful, always showcasing some sort of dim chamber. Moreover, Varya always felt cold, and yet today had been the first time she had heard someone talk.

"A dark room, a basement of sorts, and it was at my old school, the same pipes ran throughout the whole building, marked with the same factory symbol so that I could tell," she began, her voice dull, "There were people there, doctors, and they were talking about some trials. One of the girls four years ahead of me was dead, but they talked as if she had died there. That did not make sense to me; we were told that she died during an attack..."

Ecaterina Banescu had died during a strigoi attack; they had had a funeral for her on a rainy Tuesday in the month of November; Varya had cried for the girl despite not knowing her well. Her tomb was by the fourth tree in the graveyard, and her friends had left flowers every day for the upcoming months. On Easter, there had been a plate for her placed at the sixth-year table. Varya remembered all of it, and the pain that she had felt.

"Then, there was a boy, and they talked about him shifting during the moon phase."

"A werewolf," hummed Dumbledore, scratching his chin in wonder. He seemed to be in deep thought.

"I believe so, but they were trying to learn how to induce the shift. And then they said something about me— that I was the most promising, but they did not say for what. The Matron injected me with something, and I think it was meant to knock me out. Peculiar, but they were taking my blood," the girl gazed at the Phoenix cage that was empty near the desk, and she wondered where the bird must have gone.

Dumbledore breathed deeply and leaned back in his chair as he looked up at the ceiling, and the girl could only dart her eyes across his office in awkwardness, letting the man have a moment for himself to think.

Then, she remembered something, and her skin chilled over. When Dumbledore had come to transfer her from Scholomance, he had said something to the Dark Priest and alluded to some experiment that the Headmaster had been carrying out.

That implicated Albus, and Varya understood with disgust that the wizard was aware of whatever had happened to her, and yet he was withholding information.

"You already know all of this," the girl muttered, and Albus' eye darted to her immediately, although he remained silent. "Why are you not telling me? Why do I have to go through it so painfully slow when you have all the answers?"

"Because the sudden truth might be too much for you," was the answer she received, and Varya's frowned deepened. What could be so horrid that it would traumatize her so profoundly? "You finding out is already hazardous, but you seem very set on uncovering the truth, and I would much rather you do it under my supervision. So, what do you think your memory meant?"

Varya scratched her hairline and bit the inside of her cheek, unsure, "They were definitely carrying out some sort of experiment; they were trying to weaponize us but...I cannot see how they could ever use my powers. This is not making any sense, Professor."

Dumbledore looked at the girl, and understood her frustration and confusion. Part of him wanted to end her search for answers, to protect her mind from the horrid truth that had been shadowed from her, and yet another part, the selfish one, the dominant one, let the girl pursue her desires because he knew that it would help him understand what had happened.

"It will once we dive in deeper, but I see it best we end our meeting for today; I have other matters to attend—"

"Concerning Grindelwald?" asked Varya with focused eyes, as she remembered what Ivy had said at the table a few days back. Dumbledore only gave her a strange look, and did not answer as he gestured to the door. The girl huffed in annoyance but proceeded to leave the room as requested. She would find out what was going on somehow, even if Albus did not want her involved.

Varya walked along the corridor, unsure of where she should head. It was a Sunday, and most students were out at Hogsmeade, but the girl had not managed to get her permission slip signed, so as she wandered around the castle, she realized it was mostly empty.

Although the curfew was to hit soon, there was more than enough time to wander around, so Varya ran up the moving stairs, letting them take her wherever they wanted to. They switched seven times, clockwise, then the other way around, and Varya walked down the hallway of the fourth floor.

She soon reached a dead end, and made to leave, but then she saw an unusual mirror placed on one of the walls, almost as if it stuck out of it. Varya walked up to it, and noticed the slightly ajar position; then, as she pushed it with a hand, it revealed a spacious passage.

"Curious," she muttered, then started walking along until she reached the other end, where yet another door stood slightly open. Someone had just used the passage before her, and as Varya stepped outside, a small chuckle left her lips.

She stood in the Hogsmeade Train Station, and realized that the door was a secret escape to the small wizarding village. Varya breathed in the January air, and she felt her lungs burn at the coldness, but it was a pleasant feeling.

The girl started walking down the Main Road, wondering if she could spot any familiar faces amongst the crowd of students, and sure enough, she saw Icarus Lestrange and Maxwell Nott exiting Zonko's Joke Shop, the trickster sucking on a sugar quill, then offering it to his friend and receiving a disgusted look in return.

Varya ran to him with a smile on her face, and when Icarus saw her, he opened his arms to greet her with a hug. The girl embraced him shyly, face nuzzled in his chest, and he placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Look at you, did you sneak out, my darling? Such a devious witch!" His eyes sparkled with the pristine enjoyment of a man who admired idyllic recklessness, and his hands interlocked with hers in a promise of adventure and heedlessness. If he felt her fingers twitch, or the slight reflex of her pulling away, he did not say anything. "We were just heading to The Three Broomstix; you came just in time. We are trying to see who can finish four halves of beer— Avery or Rosier. Maxwell said Avery, obviously."

Nott nodded from his side, approving his words, and then stated in a matter-of-fact voice, "Nicholas was born to be an alcoholic; I have never seen someone finish a bottle of wine faster than him. It was a Madeira one too, perhaps the most expensive sort because it came from Cossart, one of the oldest companies in the business. It was the flavor of Sercial, which is a type of white grape grown in Portugal, especially—"

"Anyway," Lestrange interrupted his friend, rolling his eyes at the way he always spluttered knowledge, then turned to walk backward as to face Varya, not caring that he bumped into countless wizards, "I, of course, said Rosier, because we all know his father has a wine cellar that he raids every holiday."

Varya gave Nott a smile when she heard him scoff, and the intellectual boy dragged his scarf up to his red nose, covering it from the harsh coldness of the day. He dragged the strap of his bag further up, and the girl heard the clutter of books inside it.

They reached the Inn shortly after, and as soon as they entered, Varya was overwhelmed by the loud chatter of students. Each table was filled, to the point where some had to sit up and form a crowd, and laughter ricocheted off the walls, clashing against the sound of finished half-pints being slammed against the table.

Even so, in one corner of the Inn, there was a table with seven chairs, and almost as if some magical barrier had fenced it, no student dared invade the space of the Knights of Walpurgis. They watched over the sea of overly excited students with indifferent faces.

Elladora Selwyn stood with her feet placed on the table, head swung back on the chair's seat, and hair pulled in a ponytail of fire. Nicholas Avery and Renold Rosier were bantering on one side of the table, glasses of beer in front of them, and Abraxas Malfoy was holding his head in despair at their bothersome behavior.

What was most surprising was Tom Riddle standing at the head of the table, a book opened in front of him, and Varya remembered when her roommate told her that he rarely came to visit the village with them, too preoccupied with other affairs. Nevertheless, here he was, wearing a sweater that was too large on him, sleeves curled up his arms to reveal the slightest bit of skin, and it reached past his hips, color of the midsummer forest. His curls were more ruffled than usual, a few of them falling on his forehead, right above furrowed eyebrows. His eyes rose when he heard the group approaching and immediately fell to the interlocked hands of a particular couple. He shut his book.

"Ah, there you were," remarked Rosier as he stood up from his table and made way to embrace Varya, much like he always did nowadays, then pulled a chair from a random first-year Ravenclaw, setting it at the table.

Right next to Tom.

Varya sat down, trying to ignore the way he was staring at her, and focused her eyes on Icarus, who was chatting lively with Rosier and patting his back in encouragement. They almost seemed like a match between a coach and his star athlete, and Varya wondered how many times they allowed themselves to feel this kind of joviality. Then, she felt a tug at her sleeve, and she turned to face Riddle.

"Speaking to me now, Riddle?" she scoffed, and the boy narrowed his eyes, leaning forward until their elbows were almost touching.

"I have a task for you."

"Piss off!"

He let out a low growl.

"It was not a question; I need you to do something for me. After you failed to interrogate the last two families, I had to have Lopheus talk to them. They are not loyal, it seems, but they had some beneficial information on an object of great importance to me," he spoke in a hushed tone, face so close to hers that his breath fanned her cheek, and she saw Icarus give them a glance from the other end of the table.

Varya's curiosity got the best of her, "What do you need?"

"There is this object of great significance that I have been looking for, a diadem, and I have managed to find its location through rather reliable sources," he said smugly, almost as if he expected praise from the girl, "But it happens to be in Eastern Europe, and I require your assistance on my trip. I will have to go through a forest, and with the most recent sightings of creatures, I would rather have you with me."

"You want me to come with you?" Varya asked, unsure of how to react. It was her damned, stupid heart that would not stop bouncing in her chest, despite her mind telling her to back out and run for the hills.

"Yes," he said, meeting her eyes in another clash of pride, and when he did not see her budge, he became restless, "Please."

Varya could not hide the smirk on her face, and he narrowed his eyes at her behavior. Nevertheless, the girl let herself enjoy a slight moment of victory, knowing very well that she had managed to get some courtesy out of Tom Riddle.

The smell of roast beef and pies filled the chamber, and the bubbling laughter of students was muffled as the two Slytherins continued to stare at each other. It was almost as if the world surrounding them had faded into muteness, a testimony of their bond and devotion. Varya's cavity drummed as she looked at the man she loved, and deep warmth spread through her being, making her curl her toes in her shoes and part her lips in wonder.

He was so mesmerizing to her, so absolutely breathtaking that he did not seem real. Tom Riddle was an angelic face with demonic tendencies, almost as if he had been the seed of Lucifer himself, a fallen angel in need of redemption. His eyes were the Pacific Ocean on a stormy day, and she was a boat that had fallen prey to its tsunamic waves, engulfed by the water, and then she suffocated as it spread through her lungs.

Discomfort inked his features, and he broke the eye lock just as Renold Rosier downed his last glass of alcohol, letting out a prideful howl as he shook his head from the bitter taste, mouth puckering.

"You cheated!" screamed Avery, finishing only a few seconds behind. "You started ahead of me, you little buffoon."

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

They both turned to look at Elladora, who had been playing the role of referee between the two of them, but she only shrugged indifferently, and the two men groaned before trying to order another round for a rematch.

Varya gazed back at Riddle, "What do I gain out of this?".

His eyes narrowed, and he huffed in annoyance. A part of him had forgotten that she was not part of the Knights and that her assistance was always a trade between the two of them, "What do you desire?".

"A favor," the girl answered, "Not something specific right now, but you will remain indebted to me until I can think of something."

"I refuse to do such a thing."

"Then, I guess it is time for you to find a different Eastern witch."

Tom Riddle was growing impatient with her, and his jaw set in fury as he looked at her nonchalance. Few would dare manipulate him in such ways, and yet this woman seemed to do it so often it had become a habit.

"Fine, a favor," he said eventually. The girl gave him a smile that he could not look at, and he trained his eyes on his followers, who were now engaging in another competition. He judged their alcoholism, as Tom barely found himself enjoying the bitter taste of beer, and what was even worse was the sensation of mind haziness that came after. Tom enjoyed having control over his thoughts, and he found that the poisonous drink inhibited that.

Icarus Lestrange came by Varya's side, placing his palms over her shoulders in affection, and squeezing gently to massage the girl's neck. That seemed to momentarily tense her up, before she fell back in his hold, looking at him with gratitude. Tom felt a strange sensation overtake him, and his stomach flipped with something similar to anxiety as he watched the two. It was more potent now, and he thought it was because of the distraction Petrov had become. Lestrange was no longer whom he used to be, his ruthlessness had been mellowed by the witch, and Tom attributed the suffocating sensation in his chest to displeasure.

Abraxas Malfoy pulled Rosier out of his seat, who was now a limp drunken mess, spluttering nonsensical words with a sharp tongue. He hissed at a passing Gryffindor, and Malfoy had to physically restrain him from advancing toward the poor student. Avery was in a similar manner, banging his head against the table. He knew he had had too much, and he could feel nausea slowly creeping in, so he stood up and grabbed at Lestrange.

"Take me back, lover boy, will ya'?" In his drunken state, Avery no longer carried the posh tone that he usually used, his words sounding more like a commoner.

Icarus threw a glance at Nott, "Why can Maxwell not do it?"

Nott rolled his eyes, then proceeded to stand up, "I told him this morning that if he ends up looking like an imbecile, I will not help him," then, he grabbed Avery's head from the table, pulling it back so he could laugh in his face, "You are on your own, buddy, I am going to Schrivenshaft's Quill Shop. I am out of ink."

With that, the sandy-haired boy left the Inn, and Icarus sighed as he hoisted Avery up, "God, you reek of alcohol. Malfoy, grab Rosier, and we will take the passage from Honeydukes. God forbid Slughorn sees them like this."

Then, he turned towards Varya, who had her eyes trained on Tom Riddle as he scribbled notes in his textbook, and Icarus hesitated in leaving the two alone, but then he glanced at Elladora and gave her a silent plea. Their years of friendship had made it so that the two understood each other well, and the girl nodded in confirmation.

Lestrange, Malfoy, and the two drunken children exited the pub, and now all stood in the hands of Selwyn. Unfortunately, the witch had her own kind of plan. She had noticed the brief exchanges between Petrov and Riddle, and knew that if she managed to get the fellow witch to take one miscalculated step and break Icarus' trust, the boy would have no choice but to dump her.

So Elladora raised her hand to the barman and made him bring a new set of beers to their table, thanking him with a gentle smile and a delicate eyelash flutter. She turned her eyes to Varya, then offered her a drink.

"Trying to poison me again, are you?" Petrov scoffed and pushed the drink away.

"That is absurd, Petrov, and this constant rivalry has to end," she threw Riddle a look, who was now glancing between the two of them, "Look, Riddle will drink one just to prove to you that they are not poisoned. After all, I would never dare to such a thing to him."

Tom narrowed his eyes at the redhead, "What makes you think you can order me around, Selwyn?"

However, Varya's scoff caught him off guard, and he turned to look at her mocking stare, "Exactly, Selwyn. Besides, you actually believe that Riddle would do something fun, ever? Must have confused him with Lestrange."

There it was again, the painful twist in his guts, and Tom frowned at her words. Is that what she appreciated in Icarus, his recklessness? That was ridiculous; the boy was not superior to Tom in any way. So he growled as he took the glass from Selwyn's hands, throwing his head back as he downed it.

Then, he slammed the glass in front of Varya, who met his eyes in a challenge, "Your turn."

The witch scoffed, then grabbed her own glass, and drank its contents swiftly, ignoring the way the bitter taste made her want to spit it back. Riddle would not best her.

Elladora smirked as she watched the two engage in their usual game of self-destruction, unaware that they had such control over another. It was pitiful to see Riddle affected like this, even more so when the boy was oblivious to it, and yet she could not bring herself to judge him. After all, she had been pinning over Icarus for years, and yet she never made a move out of fear. Tom looked down on affection, he thought love to be a weakness, and so he would never have accepted Elladora pursuing Icarus. Now, with Varya in the scene, not only was he too distracted to notice, but perhaps the witch would make him less strict.

Not that he would ever love her back, but all it took was the slightest infatuation.

Another round of drinks came, and whenever the boy drank, the girl followed swiftly, except her tolerance was much lower despite Riddle not being an avid drinker. Elladora excused herself to go to the toilet, grabbed her rob in the process, and headed out the exit. Let them succumb to their desires; let them implode.

Varya groaned as she held her head in her hands, everything around her moving slowly and circularly, and when she glanced at Tom and noticed his composure, she whimpered. He had unfastened the few buttons of his dress shirt that stood underneath his sweater, and his cheeks were coated in a dark rogue as his body tried to break down the alcohol. His eyes were moving at a faster speed than average, and his lips were slightly parted as he looked back at her. He had the sort of look in his eyes that promised a hellish time and a mess of tears, and she found that she did not quite care. Despite that, he was as lucid as usual, only barely letting the drinks get to his mind.

"How are you barely tipsy?" she inquired, words so muffled they were barely tangible. Her hand reached out to his face, poking the boy's cheek, but he merely swatted it away. Yet, when he glared at her, it was not half as menacing as it had been before. Such an amusing boy he was, and she dragged her chair closer to him, fully submerging in his mahogany scent.

"I have self-control," he mumbled, looking at the girl in front of him with the usual impassiveness. "I think you should call it a night before you do something rash."

"Tom?" she spoke suddenly, almost as if she had not quite processed his words. Varya was too entranced by his face, and she looked at him with the kind of warmth not many experienced in their lives.

"Yes?"

I think I love you.

"I think I am going to be sick."

"Merlin, compose yourself," he sighed, then got up from his seat, his moved slightly sluggish, "We have to head back, come on."

He did not wait for her to get up and simply walked out into the street and out of the Inn. Tom looked at his watch and noticed that they were well past curfew at this point, then he let out a small curse as he thought about what he should do. He had come to Hogsmeade using a passage, and he assumed so did Petrov, and yet that one would lead to the hallway, and they would surely get noticed.

The door opened behind him, and he felt the warm air clash against his back, then it closed, muffling the sound of the pub to nothing but a whisper. Something grabbed at his sleeve, and he saw Varya Petrov stumbling forward, grasping on him for support.

He grabbed her elbow, ignoring the way his hand tingled and dragged her forward towards the Tomes and Scrolls bookshop, where he knew another secret passage stood behind one of the bookshelves. It led to the Room of Requirement, and it had been created specifically for Tom so that he could sneak in during the night and read if he so pleased. He could not afford to buy the books, so he had to think of something else, and the tunnel was the best idea.

He covered Varya's mouth as she wanted to protest, then dragged her inside the shop and behind an old bookcase. He felt at the shelves, then pulled on a book that was hidden between a few dull volumes, and the gateway opened.

They walked in the darkness, eventually coming out at the other end, where the room had conjured a warm fireplace, fenced by two chairs and a small couch, and the boy led Varya to it, placing her down.

Merlin, she was an absolute mess, and she fell to her side, face squishing against the comforter, "So velvety," she mumbled, patting the seat with her hand. Then, she looked at Tom, who had an appalled look on his face, "What? Never seen a drunk woman, Riddle?"

"No," he said truthfully as he sat down in one of the chairs, warming his cold body by the fire, "Not quite like this, but you tend to surprise me."

Varya looked at him as he sat in his chair, legs crossed and chin in his hand, so aristocratic in nature, it was easy to forget where he had come from. He had taken off his sweater, and it was now draped over the chair's back, and his white shirt still had a few buttons undone. His anemone-pink lips were pulled in a thin line, and his gloomy expression contorted into displeasure, whereas the somber arctic melted in his eyes. Tom's curls were not styled, nor gelled, and they fell in voluptuous curls around his features, dark like the ash that proceeded the burning of a robust tree.

"Riddle," she breathed, and when his eyes met hers, she could not help but tremble under their intensity. "What are you thinking about?"

Such a tender moment, something so momentary, and yet the boy had let his guard down, and he did not know if it was because of the alcohol or her damned smile, "Death."

Varya threw her head back in a mesmerizing laugh, "How come?"

But, what could he tell her? She would not understand. In fact, she would be completely mortified by the idea of Horcruxes, and the boy thought she already knew too much as was.

"Are you scared of it?" she challenged, making her way to sit by his chair on the wine carpeting that covered the cold floor. The thought of Tom Riddle being alarmed by something was so perplexing that she wanted to reach out to him, make sure he was still there.

"Nothing scares me, Petrov, you should know that by now," his timbre was dastardly and deadly, and he leaned closer to her, tilting his head as his eyes had the slightest flicker of...something...in them, "However, it would be terrible if a bright mind like mind succumbed to something as mundane as mortality. I am better than those who preceded me, and I will make sure I—"

His words got caught in his throat as he realized what he was doing, how much he was divulging, and he stopped himself, but it was already too late. The girl had caught on.

"Immortality," she breathed, standing to her knees from the ground to look at him, "You want to be immortal."

Stillness. Muteness. Tension. The slightest eyebrow raise, and Tom would be sent into a storm of rage and catastrophe, and as he grabbed the girl by the hair on the nape of her neck, pulling her to meet his enraged stare, Varya went into a petrified state of fear. There was no trace of humanity left in the boy, he was as monstrous as any creature Varya had come across, and he pulled at a hair with a painful tug, making her wince.

"Petrov, you are getting on my last nerve," he growled, and then his hand switched from her hair to her neck, and he pushed her to the ground as she squirmed underneath, her mind still hazy from the drinks, "When will you learn not to meddle with my affairs? You will end up dead, you stupid witch, and that would be a shame."

"And who is going to murder me, Riddle? You?" she choked out as the boy tightened his grip, one knee down beside her, "Please, if you wanted me dead, I would already be singing in Hell with Satan, and hear this— I do not fear death, I savor it. Furthermore, when my time comes, I will make sure to leave an apocalypse behind me."

Tom scoffed, then released the girl and got up. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, ignoring the way his whole body was on fire, and sat down in his chair. He watched Varya on the ground, as she struggled to regain her pattern of breath, mind barely clearing up.

Petrov's hands went up to her throat, and she felt the burn where his hand had been. He had not squeezed hard enough to kill her; that was not his intention. No, Tom had wanted to remind her just how easy it would be for him to end her. She let a bitter chuckle past her lips, and her tongue pressed against her cheek in nuisance.

Varya glanced at him and marveled at his hostile face. God, he was a sinful man, and his fiendish eyes were trained on her with effervescence and sadism, so destructively enamoring. Tom was a macabre character, and she should have been repulsed by his devilish mind, and yet it was one of the things that had connected the pair.

They would both sing together in Hell, goddamn it.

She got up swiftly, then reached out to Riddle's knees, grasping them forcefully. He was looking at her in curiosity, and when Varya raised and leaned over his frame, and their faces stood mere inches apart, Tom found himself captivated.

His eyes trailed her figure as his hands twitched by his side, and some part of him wanted to reach out to her, just like he had in the forest. Her melon lips were so close, and her scent was intoxicating. Tom's head buzzed from alcohol and perfume of a woman he had not quite figure out, the kind of feeling that drives any powerful man to his knees. He would not be aware of this at that time but, perhaps, Varya Petrov was becoming his weakness.

Varya herself had her mind swirling with temptation. What she was doing was so terribly wrong, lusting after a boy who was not her boyfriend, and it made her want to put the knife against her own neck.

But it was his that the blade touched.

"Again?" his voice did not quiver to the threat, utterly unfazed by the dagger. It was not the first time she was threatening him, and yet it felt completely different. Before, it had been the slightest notion of fear that had passed through his veins. Now, it was something new, a sentiment that he had never experienced, almost like excitement tingling on the surface of his being. Riddle's mind had never been this foggy, and yet the girl seemed so clear.

Varya breathed deeply, dragging the tip along his neck so calmly, humming to herself a quiet song. He was making her go mad in a way that she had never been, a creeping need making its way to her senses, and she was hyperaware of how one of her hands was still rested on his leg, and she had wholly climbed on the chair, thighs resting on each side of the boy.

"Each time it gets less impressive," he continued and looked down at her hand, wondering why he felt it so extensively despite the layers of clothing between them. His hand reached out to her waist, squeezing at it, and God, he had never quite experienced something like this.

"I surrendered a long time ago, Riddle. I am not trying to impress you," she answered, then gazed at him with unfocused eyes, "You put your hands against my neck, I put my dagger on yours. Both of us could kill the other— no, do not interrupt me— I could kill you, be aware of it. Moreover, I could do it and shatter that absurd fantasy of yours, but I choose not to. And you choose not to kill me either. You want to know why?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because we both know that you need me, I have magic you have not seen before, and that rattles you completely. I am this puzzle you cannot quite solve, and good boys do not discard on their toys before playing," She was so close he was almost intoxicated. Nevertheless, his heart drummed at her defiance, and her eyes held something darker now.

"You must be insane if you think you have any right to talk to me like this," he growled, "And I do not need anyone, Petrov."

Ridiculous, and a lie at that, the girl knew he was bluffing. So she pulled the dagger away, then grabbed his hand, and put it in his. Before the boy could say anything, she raised his hand to her neck, pressing the edge of the dagger against it.

"So kill me, Riddle," she challenged him, letting her temper get the best of her. Her rational part, the one that was now swimming in the toxicity of alcohol, was screaming at the girl to stop, knowing damn well that the boy was capable of doing it. Moreover, there was this demon on her shoulder cackling madly as he whispered words in her ear, and the voice took over her being as she pressed her own dagger harder. "Kill me, or admit you need me."

"You are deranged," he whispered, and yet he did not drag the knife away from her neck; instead, he grasped it harder. "I will never need you, Varya."

It was so alluring, so tempting just to slit her throat and let her bleed over him, gargling on her own blood. He would have enjoyed it too, seeing something as gruesome as death overtake such a beautiful face, almost like tainting a pure maiden with his own sinfulness. She had gone haywire, and he wondered if Varya had always been this hot-headed, and he had completely overlooked it.

Yet, something else had taken over the girl, and her consciousness fell in the back seat of something evil that had been plaguing her mind for months, maybe even years. There was this oddness to her, something that had never resurfaced until her memories had started coming back, and now it was blowing at full force.

The girl put the tip of the knife on the side of her neck, and started dragging it slowly, making a small incision that bled forcefully and stained the boy's white shirt.

Tom's eyes enlarged, and it was then that he tried to pull his hand away, clarity coming back to his mind, "Varya, stop! What is wrong with you?"

Her other hand grasped his, and forced it right back, completely overpowering the man with a force that she should not have been capable of, fighting her best against his resistance. Her neck bled rapidly, although she had not nicked any major artery or vein yet, and she felt the fogginess take over her mind. Her blood had begun pumping faster, loathing the man's words and how they hurt her feeble heart.

He was so toxic, so utterly infuriating, and screamed of deprivation and sin to the point she wanted to burst into flames. Her head whirled, and the wrath overtook her senses. Varya wanted to hurt him.

She was mad, mad, mad, mad.

And then the darkness started spilling on the floor again, and she felt her magic slip from her ears, and nose, and eyes. A sinister smile took over, and at that moment, Varya Petrov was lost to something that she was not, and her essence vanished behind a foggy glass of macabre. The fire that burned in the room intensified, sparks flying on the old carpet, and it caught alight with a glare of fanatic flares. 

Tom Riddle struggled to fight against the girl, and his panicked eyes met hers in a haste moment, but there was no Varya Petrov before him, just a vessel of a girl with eyes as white as the snow that had fallen when he had broken her mind. 

***

Hi! So this is the double update for today. I will be back on Saturday with the next chapter. And yes, I know most of you must be extremely confused about what is going on right now, but it will all make sense soon! See you next time and stay safe.