CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The following days that passed were a blur to Varya Petrov, as she had spent most of her time hiding away in her room, claiming to have fallen ill yet again. The House-Elves brought most meals to her bed, and whenever she was forced to attend dinner, she would arrive just as everyone else was leaving, pick up some food on a platter, and then run back to her chamber, shutting the door behind.

It had been too much for her, realizing that her childhood memories had been fabricated by someone, and that Grindelwald had managed to infiltrate in her life without her being aware. She had always gathered that she was safe, far away from his hold, and yet Varya had been precisely in his den of snakes.

It was mostly Tom Riddle whom she avoided, however, because while she knew a way to get her memories back with the help of Dumbledore, she did not know how to make her infatuation with the reptilian boy go away. It was almost as if she was a fly caught in his well-designed web, and part of her wondered if this was his way of finally shutting the door of her coffin because the feelings that she felt were deadly.

Varya knew that the boy was growing impatient with her, keen to know what had unnerved her during the party, so much so that after kissing unfortunate Icarus Lestrange in the middle of the dancefloor, she had run away from the ball, not even bothering to complete her task by talking to the rest of the guests. And on top of that, he was too intelligent to fall for her lie, knowing very well how the girl acted when she was seriously sick.

Had it not been for Bellatris Rosier's urges for the girl to quarantine herself in her room, her evasion might not have worked, but the mother had had a terrible scare when the influenza pandemic of the winter of 1943 started, infecting some of her staff members. And while it was not enough to kill a witch, it was definitely a safety hazard.

Varya took this time to rearrange her thoughts, to plan. She had a task, after all, and now she was more determined than ever to make Tom Riddle see the light. However, part of her wondered if it was even possible. What did she even believe she was going to do? Make the boy fall for her? That was impossible, and she was well aware of it, knowing that despite Dumbledore's belief that the love potion had not affected his ability to feel, the boy had still developed into a full-blown sociopath.

So she went on to the next mystery— figuring out what the dark creatures had been restless about. Although her last visit to the library had been lucrative, as she had found out about Tom's origins, it did not bring her any closer to understanding the threat that was approaching.

Therefore, she spent all of her nights finishing the volumes that she had bought from Burke's shop, making detailed notes on everything she had found odd. There was not much, but she had managed to note that the Drekavac was often believed to be the soul of an unbaptized child, and Varya raised an eyebrow. In some way, it was similar to the story of mavkas— lost souls that had been tormented or doomed too early, and now sought revenge on those alive.

To further her investigation, Varya had asked some of the House-Elves to bring her whatever newspaper they could find from the past few months that mentioned strange creatures roaming Western Europe. Sure enough, they had found at least four different sightings of odd beasts and had brought them back to the girl in exchange for fruits from her breakfast.

With every newspaper sprawled in front of her, Varya scanned the descriptions of the creatures and came to a few conclusions.

The beast that had been tormenting the border of Italy was a Poroniec, a creature that resembled a malformed baby, with a colossal head and bulbous eyes, and that stank of death. They were stillborn fetuses, and they sauntered the lands until they could find a pregnant woman or a child, and they then would dig a hole to Hell and drag the unsuspecting humans down with them.

Similarly, the Mylings that had been terrorizing the Spanish fields were also children, but those who had been brutally murdered by their own mothers. They were less malicious, as they only haunted people until they would give them a proper burial, and yet they were just as odious, making many quiver in fear. With broken limbs crawling at the floor, they would throw their bodies on travelers, demanding to be carried to a graveyard, and as the person approached the destination, they would grow heavier on their backs, until it was almost impossible to move forward. Eventually, the myling would kill the human, enraged by their failure.

The last two were not as well described in the newspapers, and Varya could not find any telling of what the creatures actually were, although they seemed to have gone more North than West. If her theory were correct, then they would also be lost souls.

Ultimately, what seemed to connect every puzzle piece was strikingly apparent— death. All of them had died in painful and unfair ways and had come back to haunt the land of the living in search of vengeance.

Thus, Varya had been preoccupied with her task, and it was not until New Year's Eve when she heard someone rap on her door loudly, that she got up from the mess of books and writings, then made her way to the door.

As soon as she swung it open, the girl tried to shut it back, but Rosier was much faster, and so he stuck his foot in the threshold, then pushed with all of his force to completely open the door, eventually outpowering the girl.

"For a sick person, you sure do have strength," he declared, panting a bit at the struggle before entering the girl's room. Varya shut the door, a small sigh leaving her lips.

"Or you are just terribly weak," she teased, and the boy let out a snort at that, shaking his head at her awful humor.

He sat down on one of the chairs, glancing at the open books on the floor, "Oh, dark stuff, my dear. No wonder you have complained of frivolous feelings, even I feel myself getting chilled while looking over those pictures."

"Amusing," the girl replied dryly as she picked up her readings, putting them on the shelves beside the fireplace. Then, she turned back to the boy, "What is it?"

"Can I not see how my guest is faring?" he chuckled, but it died in his throat once he saw her grave look, "Riddle wants to know why you are locking yourself up."

"And he could not come and ask me himself because?"

"Well, you know how he is— always delegating this and that, only doing the tasks he believes to be far above our capacity. Even more so now, considering that it is his birthday—"

"It is Tom's birthday?" Varya questioned, agitated by the idea. For some reason, she had not even thought about the boy having a birthday, almost as if she had assumed he had appeared out of the void, flesh made from the haze of darkness.

Rosier cleared his throat, "Well, yes, it is Riddle's birthday, but do not make a big deal of it, he hates being pestered, and does not celebrate his aging."

Because he is terrified of death, Ren deemed, but of course, the girl knew nothing of Tom's ambition and conquest.

Varya nodded, then glanced at the clock, noticing there were still a few hours left of the day.

"Varya," started Rosier, and the girl remarked the tautness in his voice, something that told her that whatever he was about to say might upset her, "What are you doing with Icarus?"

Of course, another person she had been eluding. She knew that what she was doing was wrong, as the boy had never been anything but kind to her, and had loved her in the way she had always dreamed about. It was not his fault that Varya had fallen for someone else, and yet it was him that was being punished for it, because she was too much of a coward to let him go.

"I do not know," she huffed as she sat in the other chair by the fireplace, thinking about the boy. "I think I might not be able to give him what he wants because—"

"Because you love Riddle," breathed Rosier, and at the girl's horrified expression, he snickered, "I could pick up a few signs here and there."

Varya gave him a rueful smile, "I did not want this to happen, I despise myself for it, and if I could change it, I would."

Rosier hummed, and Varya saw something flash across his face, something akin to a pitiable sadness, but he quickly collected himself, then said something that surprised the girl, "Here is the thing, Petrov. There are things in this world that we cannot control— destiny, time, whether it will rain tomorrow—"

"Actually, they used to teach us that as Scholomance," blurted Varya.

Rosier gave her a blank stare, "Of course they did," then, he composed himself and continued, "Love is one of those things, you see. You cannot help whom you fall for. And yes, sometimes it does not make sense, and it will make you stare at the wall for hours trying to pinpoint the moment that tipped you over, the reason you fell in love. However, you will never find an explanation because it happens when you least expect it. You were meant to love Tom Riddle."

"I hate it when you say things like this, Rosier," mumbled Varya as she dragged her knees to her chest, trying to soothe the dull ache of her heart.

"And then there are things that you can control, and what you choose to do with Icarus is one of those. Do not lead him on, Varya. He is a strong boy, but you might just be the one to break him if you are not careful, and he does not deserve that," explained Ren as he poked the fire with a metal bar.

"But what if I can someday come to love Icarus?" she asked in a soft voice, drops already blending in her eyes. She did not want to fall for an emotionless python; she did not want that to be her fate.

"It would be selfish of you to ask him to wait for the mere possibility that, perhaps, years from now, you will be able to move on from Riddle and go back to him," ended Rosier, and the conversation seemed to stop, his words hanging in the air.

However, Varya was a selfish being, and she would not put it past herself to take advantage of such a pure feeling, of someone cherishing her so much. After all, it was only human nature to bask in the veneration of others, and Icarus had treated her like nobody else had. He had put her on a pedestal, and thought her to be beyond the gravity of mistakes, some kind of perfect woman. To everyone else, Varya was simply an odd witch with an affinity for the dark arts, and nobody had appreciated her as Lestrange had.

Nevertheless, Rosier was right, it was unfair for her to lead him on when her heart belonged to another, and as much as it would pain the boy to hear this from her, it was better than the alternative— making him wait, letting him fall harder only for his soul to crash into pieces when she was not there to catch it.

Her eyes went to the clock again, and something took over her as she got up from her seat quickly, then hurried to the mess of clothes on her bed to pick out her coat. She threw it over herself, then dashed out of the door before Ren could even process what she was doing.

Her room was in the eastern wing — the irony of that — and she dashed down the stairs, skipping some steps before running to the western side and halting in front of a door. As soon as she touched it, she felt her breath shake, and her body started tingling everywhere. She stood in front of the entrance, and built up her nerve to knock on it, then waited.

Tom Riddle opened the door, a world-weary look stretched on his fine features, but his eyes swelled when he saw the girl standing before him.

"Hi," she sniffed, then gave him a scanty simper.

The boy gawked at her with no emotion, and he blinked monotonously, "What do you want?".

"I heard that it is your birthday—" Tom tried to shut the door in her face, but the girl stuck half of her body through before he could close it, pushing both of them inside his bedroom.

Tom groaned as he watched the girl struggle to close the door behind her, and with her presence in his chamber, he felt oddly invaded. He glanced around, noticing that everything was in perfect order except for the small corner by the fire, where open books and parchments were scattered. Varya had interrupted his studying.

"Happy birthday!" the girl spoke, her voice warmed as she stood woodenly in her spot. Naturally, she would assume people hug on such occasions, but neither of them was good with physical contact, and she doubted Tom would hesitate to hex her on the spot.

"Thank you," he responded blankly, before pivoting on his feet and making his way back to his research. He sat down by the fire, determined to finish the chapter he had been reading. It was the textbook for Alchemy, the class that Dumbledore would start teaching at the beginning of next semester, and he wanted to make sure he was well ahead of everyone else. After all, tomorrow, they would head back to Hogwarts.

Varya felt out of place as she watched him disregard her for his studies, and the fire that had burned in her skin and determined her to come to see him was close to being extinguished. She approached him tentatively, sitting down in the other chair by the table, and Tom briefly glanced up at her before going back to his book.

What was strange was that Tom was not even bothering to question her on what had happened at the party, what Carrow and MacDuff had told her, and that irked her to the point where she found herself asking the boy, "Why are you not pestering me about the party?"

Tom glanced at her again, impatience flashing in his eyes, and he shut the book forcefully before throwing it by the pile, "I already know what Carrow and MacDuff said," he explained.

"How?"

"We found them in the closet the next day, still petrified, and tortured them until I could use Legilimency on them. It was easier, you had rushed out and charmed your door so that nobody could open it, and we all thought best to give you space," he muttered, but Varya did not buy it, because Tom Riddle did not give people space just because they had experienced something traumatizing. After all, this was the same boy that had used Legilimency on her after poisoning her for months.

There was something else that had been troubling him, and Varya could not quite figure out what. She bit her lip, then pondered what to do for a second, because she knew the boy would not budge from his position. Unless she offered something more challenging than Alchemy.

"New Year's is tonight, I hear that the rest of them are going to a nearby town to celebrate, and it is only fair that we do something," she stated, but the boy only scoffed, leaning against the sofa chair.

"I have no interest in getting drunk," he admitted, and Varya rolled her eyes. Of course, he did not.

"I did not mean that we should join them, but if all leave, then we could wander into the woods, and I will teach you more dark magic spells," she offered, hating how terrible the idea was, and yet Varya wanted to be the one that he would celebrate his birthday with. Furthermore, if she got to show off as well, then it was even better.

Tom hoisted an eyebrow at her, then gave her an incredulous look, "And why on Earth would you do that?".

"Consider it a birthday gift," she answered, and although Tom glared at the word, he got up from his position and picked up his coat and scarf off the hanger. He got dressed quickly, and Varya marveled at the dexterity of his moves, how his curls bounced as the put on his coat, and how his eyes glanced at her for the briefest moment before he gestured towards the door, opening it for her to pass.

They headed out the door, and Varya said they should take the back exit to make sure they would not bump into the rest of the group, who would undoubtedly pester them into coming to the pub with them.

The nights had grown colder as the month of December had come to an ending, and Varya could not believe that once the clock struck midnight, they would be entering a new year. Only four months had passed since she had left Transylvania, and yet her life had been changed entirely. She was no longer the girl that had been desperate to evade Scholomance, and Varya let herself ponder over her development for a few seconds.

Four months ago, she had been a selfish little girl who had used an opportunity to escape a school she thought to be doomed. She was domineering, heedless, and was used to being the best. At Scholomance, nobody had dared defy her amongst her peers, as she had been top of her class for years, and few would stand up to the witch. Varya Petrov had arrived at Hogwarts wanting nothing more than to satisfy her need for redemption, to cleanse her reputation, and make her family name mean something again. She had never experienced friendship, much less kindness, and she had combated every single word that Dumbledore had told her on the train.

Then, she grew spineless, flaccid, and her stature could no longer support the recklessness of the dark witch. Her emotions had become a jumble, and her actions were only fueled by furor and childishness, desperate to prove that she was still the witch she had once been. Along the way, she had managed to memorize a few faces, and had started being manipulated by a certain Slytherin boy, mind too weak to understand what was going on.

Now, Varya chose to think that she had gained her spark back and some more, because she had been taught a few lessons along the way, and her personality had bloomed like a late flower in the month of May. She was still selfish, and would probably continue to be so until the end of her days, and yet, now she had a few other souls that she cared for. Her task was no longer a method to escape, but something that she wanted to see to completion so that the Knights of Walpurgis would continue being the innovators that they were, and yet they would become sensitized to the world that surrounded them.

Moreover, she was falling in love with the boy she was supposed to change— that had been the most unexpected part, along with the revelation that her childhood had been tempered with. Tom Riddle had been her weakness all along, the poisoned apple that she had bitten from, and Varya could only hope that it would not prove to be her demise.

The future was uncertain, and there was still a long path that she had to walk, and yet the eastern witch let herself enjoy this one moment, relishing in the journey she had had so far. With the start of a new semester at Hogwarts, there was indeed a lot to come.

"What are you thinking about?" queried Tom as they entered the forest, noticing how quiet the girl had gotten. She turned her head to him, meeting his scheming eyes, and smiled.

"The past few months and the change they had brought," she admitted, and then let the boy fall into his own thoughts, enjoying the silence that they had found themselves in.

They reached a small river, and Varya stopped in her tracks, thinking that this was as good as any other place to start. She let herself think for a moment and wondered what she could show the boy that he would find fascinating.

"What is the darkest creature that you can think of, Riddle?" inquired Varya as she circled around the boy, and Tom regarded her as she moved graciously through the snow, dark robe covering her attire, and her hood had been pulled on, covering part of her face.

"Dementors," he started, unsure of where this question was going, "Hounds...demons."

"Those are mere babies compared to the creatures that live in the Carpathian mountains," the girl scoffed, but then she stopped in front of a rock, picking up a small and sharp piece that had been blasted off, "Even so, you are correct, those are dark beings. And what makes them dark is that they channel their energy from dreadfulness— death, sorrow, despair, and fear. When you think about it, however, those creatures...they do not possess such emotions. So they channel it from somewhere else."

"Humans," Tom breathed, following the girl's story effortlessly, and Varya marveled at his quick mind, the way it seemed to connect the dots much faster than the average wizard. It had taken her months to understand this concept, and yet here he was, figuring it out in a few seconds. His brilliance would never fail to surprise her.

"Precisely. Now, if someone were to be able to manipulate such beings, if someone were to, say, channel them in a nefarious manner, and cultivate them for those creatures, then one might just be able to have them grovel at their feet," she spoke, her speech falling below a menacing snarl as she neared the boy, stepping behind him.

Varya reached out to him, and her finger rested on his neck, where his mortal pulse drummed against the thin skin, and she felt the way it sped up by the slightest fraction. Then, she trailed her hand down his neck, and the girl felt him cement beneath her touch, not moving an inch until her finger went all the way down to his chest. There, she rested her palm carefully, above his beating heart.

"What are you doing?" Tom demanded, his voice more rugged than usual, and he tried to turn around, but the girl only gripped his shoulders forcefully. "Varya?"

She quieted him, and inhaled slowly as she closed her eyes and let her magic hiss through her blood, flowing all the way to her fingers and on to the boy's skin. Without much thought, she infused the nightmare in his mind, letting it plague his most profound thoughts, and she felt the way Tom's heart beat faster as he found himself stuck in a lucid dream of terror.

He remained still, composed, the only notion of the alarm that pulsated through his being was the slight spark of agitation that tickled Varya's skin. She incorporated it, channeling it eagerly, and her craving only grew more potent when she felt the vigor radiating from his skin. He was so dark, so vile; there was such pleasure in the pain that he was feeling.

She let it take over, his own corruption and dignity, and she felt her thrill at the sensation. Yes, there was enough to enslave even the wickedest demons, and there was so much potential for growth.

Her concentration broke as she felt Tom's hand grasp at her own before he pivoted and met her face, eyes enraged with animalistic fury. He shoved Varya off of him, ignoring her maddened cackling at his behavior, almost as if something demonic had taken over her being, something much darker.

"What was that, Petrov?" he growled, clasping her hand in a tight hold as she reached out for him once again, almost entranced. Varya sneered sinisterly, eyes crazed, and she fought against his hold.

"Let me go," she yelled, pulling at his hold, but Tom used his leg to tackle her to the ground, then kneeled by her, holding her down as she trashed on the floor like a rabid animal. Her wrists were in a painful grip, and he had to swing a leg over her to keep her feet from hitting his figure.

"What is wrong with you?" he thundered, but a part of him had begun to panic at the girl's behavior, so uncharacteristic it chilled his blood. His mind was still fogged over from what he had seen, from what the witch had projected into his mind— his death, his defeat, repeated countless times, each one more morbid than the other.

Once, he had been struck down by his own curse and had succumbed to be nothing but a skeletal being, a serpentine figure that was obscured by the shadows. Another time, he was blasted into bits by a boy with emerald eyes and the anger of an untamed lion, someone he did not recognize but had induced some sort of fear in him. Lastly, he had been walking in the ruins of an old cathedral, and the sky had been covered in a green marking that had captivated him, and yet he felt different, lighter. Then, the chamber had grown darker, almost as if a monstrous being had walked in, but it was not until he had heard her voice that he genuinely felt the terror slip through his skin.

"Missed me, Riddle?"

Varya had begun panting, and no longer fought against him as her eyes began to clear, awareness taking over her body. She felt as if she had just barely escaped drowning, and her lungs fired upon under the sensation of being suffocated.

"What?" she mumbled as she realized Tom was standing over her, hands clasped around her wrist, and he had the faintest hint of concern in his features.

"What the hell was that, Petrov?" he asked, ignoring the way her eyes searched his face.

"I do not know," she mumbled, then closed her eyes, "I wanted to show you how to channel negative feelings and use them for dark arts, and so I projected a nightmare in your mind, and when you did not react physically, I thought it was not frightening enough. But then I absorbed your fear, and it was so..."

So painful, Varya thought. It was not even that the boy had been utterly frightened; it was the power with which he tried to suppress it, letting it gather in a nest of his soul to the point in bubbled ferociously. It was almost like the boy was being tortured.

Then, Varya realized the meaning behind it. Tom Riddle was so used to suppressing every feeling, to being a bottomless pit of nothingness, that when she had slipped the faintest nightmare in his thoughts, something that his defense mechanism could not fight at will, his mind had reacted violently. To a boy who had not experienced any genuine feeling, the faintest trace of emotion had been the light to a barrel of gunpowder, and when his mental power was not able to brush it off, his darkness had attacked the girl ferociously.

Her eyes widened as she saw Tom's face dip closer to her, so much so that his breath fanned over her eyelashes, and his mahogany scent was so protruding it made her head spin. One of his hands left her wrist and gripped her face, his thumb pressing severely against her cheeks, while his fingers grabbed at the other side.

His eyes were infuriated, and he let his lips trail her ear lobe as he whispered, "If you ever as much as think about invading my mind again, Petrov, I will break every single bone in your body, I will make you suffer so much you will be begging me to end your miserable life."

Tom's face drifted away slightly, and he watched as Varya gazed at him defiantly. Then, out of nowhere, she grabbed at his shirt, pulling him down so their eyes could meet, "Riddle, I will never beg you for anything, I would rather let myself be tortured until my brain oozes out of my ears. And make no mistake, as much power as you think you have, I possess just as much, and if it ever comes down to it, I will rip you to shreds if you try to lay a finger on me."

They glowered at one another, their breaths mixing in a cloud of fogginess before them, so close that they did not know whom it belonged to. Their eyes struggled against each other. On one side— the proudness of delphinium cores that had been coated in mercury, a mixture of azure and the seafoam that covered the coast after a storm, so poisonous and menacing. On the other side — the laciness of the midnight hour, the soft feather of a raven's spread wings, a symbol of sovereignty and rebellion.

Her cheeks were coated in maiden rogue, and her lips were parted as she panted heavy breaths, watching him with an enthralled gaze. Tom's mind was clouded as he looked at her, at the way her ebony hair was a mayhem of locks against the snow, and her eyelashes fluttered away the small snowflakes that had begun to fall over them. 

He had never been one to feel the troubles of being a teenage boy, as he found most women whinny and enraging. They cared about frivolous things, and few delighted themselves with the wicked feeling of the grotesque and morbid scent of death. And yet as Varya stood below him, Tom's natural human compass oriented itself toward her, and he felt her pulse underneath his hold.

His hand trembled by his side, and he found himself reaching out to her, a tentative finger tracing her pouty mouth, fueled with enough unrecognized desire that it was obscene. It was a natural bodily reaction, where hate's flames burned so brightly that they transfigure into frustration, and that lead to the same reaction as desire. He wanted to overpower her in so many ways, make her squirm underneath his hold.

Fuck, he hated her so much.

The clock struck midnight, and the sound of a farby chapel's bell-ringing into the night traveled into the forest, loud enough to snap both of them out of their daze, and they both scurried to their feet, unsure of what had just transpired between them. It was Tom that left the forest first, and Varya that stayed behind, watching him leave her yet again.