CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The crows had started nibbling at the corpse's flesh, and one poked at its eye relentlessly until it fell out of its socket and dangled by the hold of the optical nerve. The head itself was barely strung by a few tendons, almost completely cut off from the neck up, and the blood had dried to a dusky color. There was a putrid odor in the air, and the students that gathered around the chapel to stare at the cross that the body had been impaled on.

It stood on top of the chapel like a scarecrow in the fields, almost as if it were supposed to keep something away or to send out a warning to whatever roamed around Scholomance. The garments on the body had been ripped by the birds, or maybe something else, and shredded skin peeked through the material's holes.

It was a summer day, and in the Carpathian mountains, that meant that there was barely any wind, and yet the reek of mortality seemed to envelop Scholomance as the body of Ivan Oleh stood against the harsh solstice sun.

There was nothing but taciturnity amongst the crowd, a few sobs, and yet the children had grown so accustomed to death that it no longer seemed to bother them as it once had. After all, they had been taught that death was as feeble as life.

"Nothing to see here," came the call of the Dark Priest as he pushed through the students, a few seventh-years trailing behind him and trying to scatter away the younger apprentices, "Just another monster attack, this is why you should never wander outside in the dark. As long as you are inside those walls, you are safe. However, I cannot speak for whatever might tempt you to step outside."

The words fell on the ears of the innocent children, and many of them wept at the sight of their fellow classmate so brutally massacred. It had not been that long since they had lost Ecaterina, and none of them were ready for another funeral. Her body had barely been buried, and the tomb still had green flowers placed on it daily. Not many plants grew around Scholomance, and some wondered how they could cover two graves.

Varya stood behind the crowd, and as she looked at the boy with a crease on her forehead, there was a pound at her skull. Something was picking at her mind, a dull throb in her temples as she tried to remember where she had seen him before. They had never spoken during their classes, and yet why did she remember his voice so clearly?

"I am going to try and escape."

Escape from what? The girl shook her head and swatted the words away. She had been listening to the radio too much lately, so much so that her dreams had started transfiguring into nightmares. The Second World War had barely begun at that point, and the horrors that were broadcasted on every station had been giving her terrible night terrors.

Most nights, she woke up weeping and trashing in her bunk beds, and her sheets had been soaked in perspiration. The girls that she was sharing the room with had started giving her odd looks, and soon enough, nobody wanted to associate themselves with Loony Varya.

"Go inside, child."

Varya gasped as she turned to face the Dark Priest, and the sense of fear that filled her was apocalyptic. Something about the man had always terrified her, the way his aged face carried so much monstrosity, and his voice was always grotesque. It was as if looking at a walking cadaver; death permanently etched on his face.

He was not the nicest person. He had a reputation of beating the children whenever they disobeyed — or whenever he just needed something to release his anger against — and was a vile human, so much so that even some of the school's maidens kept their distance.

Varya had had her fair share of beatings and had learned on her own skin never to upset the Dark Priest.

"Yes, sir."

She went back inside, knowing that she would not see the gardens for the rest of the month. They rarely let them go outside, and today had been an exception. They had said it was because of the solstice, a celebrated day in the coven, and that they would guard the entrances to the courtyard to make sure the apprentices could enjoy their time.

Perhaps, it had been a warning.

The funeral came by days later, and they all gathered in the catacombs as they watched them incinerate what was left of Ivan Oleh, the beautiful boy that had left their realm too soon. Some girls beside Varya wailed with stuffy noses, and they put their faces on each other's shoulders. There was some comforting back-patting, a few tearjerking stories about the skilled sorcerer, and some of his friends even brought various objects to put by his tomb. They would bury him after the next full moon. Until then, it was not safe to walk around the school. God knows where the creature that had killed Ivan was.

Inside.

His death left Varya's soul a little colder than the last one. It felt as if she had just lost a wonderful friend, and yet they had never had a proper conversation. Her mind and soul did not align, almost as if something was obstructing their connection.

"L-au omorât," came a voice from behind her, and Varya turned to see a superb girl with a tear trailed face looking over the symbolic coffin. She had spoken in Romanian to her, knowing that most people around them were not as fluent in the language. Her eyes flashed to the younger apprentice quickly, before settling into a look of obedience as a few teachers passed them, ready to go back to their chambers.

"Cum adică?" questioned Varya, confused. Nevertheless, the girl only raised a finger to her mouth, signaling her to keep silent. Yes, the monsters had killed Ivan, that much was obvious, and yet her words had carried a deeper meaning. It was almost as if it had been a premonition.

The ceremony came to an end, and everyone was sent back to their rooms as sunset was approaching. Varya walked the corridors alone, and the shadows writhed in the corners, almost as if they were breathing. The vibration of doors closing and locks turning resonated through the desolate castle. It was nighttime now, and that meant none of the students were safe. As she passed the arched windows of the stoned entrances, she saw maidens hurrying to close the curtains. Then, everything enveloped in darkness.

***

The Ravenclaw Common Room was even more lovely during twilight, and Varya looked out of the window as the stars gave a faint shimmer in the magenta sky, almost as if quartz gemstones had been placed along the horizon. The moon was beautiful, and it had turned the faintest shade of salmon, and white clouds were swans against the vast crystal lake of Heaven— they floated serenely along the edges. The canvas of sunset had been painted in shades of the violet flower that bloomed in spring. March has nested its warmth in the hills of Scotland.

Varya felt the murmur on her delicate skin as the moonlight touched it ever so slightly, and she breathed slowly as her mind fell into a calmness that was not beckoning to her. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, and matte obsidian eyes trailed the sky, while her mouth was pulled in a smile that never quite seemed to be sincere. Then again, it never was these days.

"It is nearing sunset," remarked Della as she coated her toenails in a magnet blue— her favorite color. Her hair had been pulled in a French braid that fell on her back tightly. She blew on her foot, almost knocking the bottle of nail polish over, "Shit."

"I should head back to the Dungeons," murmured Varya, but her heart twitched. She did not want to leave the window, too enlightened by the scenery. Few moments in her life carried such serenity, and she wanted to keep enjoying them— pretend like she was not an eighteen-year-old girl that had been thrown into a world of iniquity.

"Sleepover, then!" Della announced eagerly, "Oh, you should have told me you were staying over before I did my toenails. We could have done them together!"

Varya turned to her, legs resting beneath her form as she lounged over a divan, "I cannot stay; I have to start my Alchemy homework. Perhaps, another time."

Della pouted, then mumbled something to herself in a sweet voice, but her sadness immediately disappeared as she saw that her coat of blue had dried, and she started applying another one while humming a classical song.

Beauchamp had always been a wonderful, winsome girl. Her smile radiated kindness and solace, and she was ever-present to support all of her friends in their doings. She had grown up with loving parents, who fussed over every scar and applied ointments to the faintest wound, then kissed it before sending her off to bed with a story. Della tended always to see the good in people, and whenever a storm neared, her eyes searched the horizon for the graceful fluttering of birds. In contrast, Varya only ever listened to the rapture of thunder and lightning.

Varya got up, picked up her books, then headed out of the door after bidding her friend goodbye. Her mind was still on the memory that she had broken in Dumbledore's office the previous day.

Ivan Olef— the werewolf she had seen in the catacombs with her on the night they were taking her blood. She was frustrated at herself for not remembering anything else about the boy, and yet his death had marked her unlike any other. They had been close, she was sure of it, probably bonded over being the only people stuck in the dungeons.

She had been there for longer than him; Matron Lawrence had alluded to it, and yet she did not know for how long they had kept her down there. It seemed as if they kept bringing her in, torturing her, then sending her out into the world with her memory wiped and their conscience clear. It was awful, really, how she was a broken toy that they just enjoyed tormenting to no end.

So far, she had not come closer to understanding what they were doing, or how it benefited Grindelwald. As far as she knew, the man had always believed in magic supremacy, so it seemed very unlikely that he would subject wizards to such torture unless the benefits outweighed the price.

Hogwarts breathed of magic as she walked down the moving stairs; her body slightly lost balance as they changed direction, and she bumped into a heavy figure, having her stumble and miss a step. Her books flew out of her hands, and she tumbled down before stopping at the bottom.

Varya's head pounded, and she did not bother getting up, too tired to try against the force that had dragged her down. She turned around on her back, then gazed up at the ceiling, expecting to see the dome of Hogwarts' hallways. Instead, it was Silurian blue.

"You made quite an entrance," Tom mumbled as he gazed down at her, eyes so monotone he looked like he had hopped out of Da Vinci's canvas. His prefect badge glistened, and the girl knew that he had been patrolling. Yet, he had been carrying books just like her, and now they were scattered along the corridor and down several floors.

The witch groaned as she slowly leaped up to her feet, dusting her awful skirt, and the inside corners of her eyebrows hoisted up at the boy, "That was exactly what I was aiming for."

"Better head back soon, would not want you wandering around the corridors tonight."

He stood before her, so imperially handsome, it almost pained her heart, and with a flick of his hand, he returned her books that had fallen over the balustrade. Varya grabbed them as they hung in the air, and nodded as a gesture of gratitude, then made her way toward the dungeons. Her mind was too foggy to care, too exhausted to have a notion of what was going on around her, and she muttered the password to the Slytherin Common Room with a groggy voice.

Her body hit the softness of the couch in the main sitting area with enough force to make it scrape against the stone floor, and she let out a whimper as she thought about the homework that she was supposed to finish by tomorrow morning. With a wandering hand, she reached out to the table and tried to grab at her Alchemy textbook, and when she felt the smooth texture of leather, her eyebrows hoisted.

Varya's head snapped to the book she was touching, and her whole body hauled up as she realized it had been another volume that she had taken from the air— Secrets of the Darkest Art.

Pages of darkness immediately fluttered between her hands, and eyes scanned Tom's scribbles with so much curiosity that every ounce of fatigue had drained from her body. Then, she stopped on a chapter that had been severely underlined, to the point where it was hard to distinguish the rows of text from each other, and yet one word stood proudly against the white paper.

Horcruxes.

"It is best you return that to me immediately, Petrov."

The wand almost poked her eye out as she raised her head to look at Tom, who had his characteristic fury that only appeared when something did not go according to his plans. Riddle rarely made mistakes, and he despised nothing more than having something go wrong in his scheming.

Varya blinked at him lethargically. God, how tired she was of him threatening her life. His eyes had gone periwinkle blue, and she tried to fathom the catastrophic ocean that sent waves of Ares' wrath down on her and yet found nothing of them but the void of an apathetic man.

Her lips turned in a wry sneer, and her face shadowed a frozen look of boredom as she twirled the book in her hands, moving it from one to another in a charade that ought to raise his blood, "This?"

Had it not been for the coy twinkle in her eyes, one might have fallen for her sham innocence and merely assumed her behavior was nothing but pristine, and that she had not let midnight eyes train on the pages of detailed killing and plotting.

At last, inside the mind of the lunatic boy that was Tom Riddle.

It was oddly amusing how his thoughts contrasted his appearance, and while he carried himself with such exquisite aristocracy — the mannerism of a court-grown boy who had never once ridden a horse without a saddle — his mind twisted in such wicked ways that it might have made the devil himself gasp. Alas, that was Tom Riddle.

"Petrov, now is not the best time to test my patience."

"Is it ever, really?" she lamented and stood up, pushing away his wand with so much nonchalance she was surprised herself that he did not hex her into oblivion. There was so much defiance in her attitude; it drove him to the brink of imploding.

The fireplace was lit with flames that blurred together in an orange cascade of heat and anguish, and the volume almost scorched Varya's hands as she continued playing with the cover. She had read the words in it, and had seen the questions they had imprinted on the boy's mind. Murder? He had already done that, as his father's name was written underneath one of the pictures and circled, and it should have made the girl queasy. Instead, it triggered something else— some kind of morbid fascination that always seemed to flutter in her heart when she looked at Tom Riddle.

Tom found himself rooted to his spot, debating if he should bash her head against the stone fireplace or not. It would have woken up enough people that he would not be able to Obliviate them all, and yet there was always that temptation to murder the devious witch out of pure loathing and fury. Nevertheless, even he could not waste a mind as bright as hers for nothing. It would have been a shame.

"I thought my story of Koschei would scare you away from things like this, Riddle, not encourage you to pursue aimlessly." She turned to face him but did not move from her spot, "Nobody can defy death. Not even you."

"You looked into the book; you know very well there is a way," he growled and approached her furiously, hand still extended as an invitation for her to give his lecture back. Tom had scribbled essential notes in there, and it was best that he analyzed every piece of information.

Varya peered at the volume with distaste, and before the boy could react, she flicked it into the flames. Tom grabbed her and pushed her up against the fireplace, extinguishing the flames with a small wave of his wand, and his face was contorted in a mask of ballistic wrath as he gripped so tightly at her throat he could feel the rough skin from where she had slit her own neck.

The girl pushed right back, punching at his frame while trying to move his hand away from her trachea, "What is so appealing about a life of immortality?"

"Are you that dense? Time is the only thing of essence in this world— we are bound to our mortality, which is our greatest weakness. Defying that only allows for eternal growth and power, the kind of wickedness few dare achieve," his voice carried the nerve of a man who believed to be a master of all trades, and yet his words made Varya scoff.

"A life of loneliness and despair, maybe. You will watch everyone around you die, you will be there when Hell comes back to Earth, and you will eventually go mad. You have nobody, and that will eat up even a mind like yours, Tom."

"Do not use my fucking name," he snarled and released his hold, trying to compose himself before he actually hurt her.

"Tom? Riddle? Tom Riddle?" she taunted, and she played with fire as it skimmed right on the edges of her soul, knowing damn well that when the volcano erupted, it would shatter her to bits. Or she would shatter him.

"You think this is amusing, Petrov? You think you are so invincible but are you really? Last I checked, you were one step away from slitting your own throat in my lap just because you wanted reassurance that I needed you," he purred at her, hand flying out to tuck her hair behind her ear. Then, he leaned in, and touched her ear with his lips, "But know this— I will never need you. I will always loathe you to the point of self-destruction."

Varya stilled, and she wondered if he could hear the way her heart beat as they stood so close to one another. God, she wanted to kiss him and punch him at the same time for the rubbish he was muttering.

His intricate fragrance of mahogany and the faintest trace of aftershave was intoxicating to the point of delirium, and his body was almost pressed against her in a way that made her skin burn with wildfire. Tom's curls had grown longer, and now the smallest strand tickled her face as he moved both hands above her head.

She was utterly fascinated with the way it all seemed so natural, a combination of limbs and breathing, and their proximity no longer scared her. It felt welcomed, it felt right, and Varya found herself confused as to why their souls mixed together in such a catastrophic storm, and even though her love for him rattled her to the bones, it also calmed her mind unlike anything else.

Riddle was perplexed himself, and his lips burned where they touched her earlobe. It was her sweet scent yet again that made his head buzz with something else, and his chest fired up as he thought about her words— that he would end up alone. Was she implying that she would not be there?

That angered him in some way, and the wizard could not decipher the way his head swirled at the thought of that. His gut twisted, and he did not like the way she was avoiding his stare. Her porcelain features were turned away from him, and her stagnant eyes were glancing around the room in an effort to distract herself from the boy.

Her neck was slightly bent away from him, face turned in a frustrating flush as her nails dug in her own palms to keep herself from touching him. She did not want to succumb to the absolute electricity between them, despite the way her head pounded with the kind of intoxicating feeling that alcohol might have induced.

But he did.

Tom lowered his head until his mouth was near her jaw, and then, in a moment of weakness, he let his lips trace the outline of her neck. Her skin was soft under them, and he closed his eyes before pressing a phantom kiss against her jawline, his chest crushing against hers in primal desire.

Varya breathed harsher, biting down the small whimper that made its way up her throat, and she trembled at his proximity. He had barely done anything, and yet it electrified her body more than Icarus had managed to in that backstage room. He retracted his head and looked at her with the darkest eyes she had ever seen, a storm of uncertainty in his eyes.

He had acted on impulse, Tom had let himself be controlled by something other than his mind for once, and by the way his pupils were dilated entirely, she could tell that he was taken aback by it.

He had planned to set the Basilisk loose again tonight, as it was growing terribly impatient and bloodthirsty, and Tom himself wanted to test his powers against the mudbloods yet again. Now, however, his mind was too cloudy for it— Varya had managed to ruin his plans.

"Tom—"

Then, he pushed himself off, eyes looking everywhere but at her, and the girl stood against the fireplace, breathing irregularly, wishing she had the confidence to just...do something. Tom leaned down, grabbed the burned volume from the ashes of the wood, and inspected it, debating if a spell could fix the damage.

"I will see you in class."

And with that, he went up the stairs and slammed the door behind him.

***

She had to break up with Icarus Lestrange.

It would pain the boy deeply, and it would hurt her to see him hate her for how she had led him on, and yet it was the right thing to do. Perhaps, if she had listened to Rosier from the start, it would have been an easier string to cut, and yet her selfishness had made her act out of her own desire.

But she could never love him, at least not how she loved Tom Riddle, and Varya just had to learn how to accept that. There would always be something missing between the two of them, and the night they spent together was only more proof of that.

It had been satisfying in the sense that he was an experienced man. Icarus had been around court women before, older women perhaps, and it was not his first time doing such things with another girl. However, for Varya, it had been, and although she could not bring herself to regret it, something similar to shame built up in her soul.

Varya found Icarus outside by the lake, standing beneath a tree with his eyes closed as he breathed slowly, letting the wind ruffle his taffy hair in every possible direction. His robe was thrown on the grown, he was sitting on it, and he had rolled up his sleeves to let his skin feel the heat of the spring rays.

She took a moment to look at him, at the boy who had learned to love her despite everything and had created an image of herself in his mind that she could never live up to. In a different life, Varya and Icarus could have been happy, really happy— in this one, they were destined for doom. He looked so serene, and the witch had come to shatter his heart.

The moment he had heard the sound of steps against the freshly cut grass, his eyes of fire whiskey rose to her figure, and the warmth they held almost made her stomach turn inside out. Icarus' lips pulled in the faintest smile, and he let his head fall back against the tree to get a better look at her.

God, how could she even stand herself?

She had everything most girls wanted— a beautiful, intelligent boy who loved her against all odds. However, she wanted to throw it away. It was crude, and part of her hoped she would never find love again, not after maltreating him.

"Hello, love," he said brightly, then immediately pulled his eyebrows in a concerned frown when he saw her dismay, "What is wrong?"

Varya felt rivers of sorrow pull at her eyes as she kneeled before him, cupping his face with delicate hands and looking at him with so much regret. She did not want to let him go; he was so precious and so loving. Nevertheless, she could not think about how he made her feel, not when the girl could not return the favor.

His arms immediately went around her waist, and Icarus pulled her in a hug as she sobbed in the crook of his neck. They could have been so good together; they could have conquered worlds. She had to let him go.

The boy held her tightly, ignoring the stinging feeling in his eyes as he knew what the girl was thinking. He had hoped he would have enough time to convince her to stay with him, and yet he had failed in every way.

Varya pulled her face away, rheumy eyes gentle as she peered at him, and her dark eyelashes curled around her puffy eyes, "I—." The words got caught in her throat as she saw his grey eyes, the faintest storm in them.

"Go on," he whispered with a shaky voice.

"I cannot do this anymore."

Lestrange's hand went up to her face, wiping the tears with a regretful sigh, and he gulped slowly as he felt his whole body weaken, "Why?".

"I think," she started, trying to piece words together in an attempt to preserve some sort of happiness for the boy, "Icarus, you are a wonderful boy. Moreover, I truly wish that I was at a point in life where I could let myself be loved by you and reciprocate that passion. You see, I think you have fallen in love with a person that you have created in your mind, almost like a reflection. But I am not that person."

"Whatever do you mean by that? I know who you are; I have been around you for months now, and yes, perhaps I fell quickly, but that kind of feeling is not based on time."

The girl shook her head, avoiding his eyes as she listened to the hurt in his voice.

"No, Icarus. You see me as this wonderful girl that is some sort of...light in your recklessness, but I do not want to carry that weight," she admitted finally, and the witch felt something lift off of her chest, "I am not a good person. I have never been, and I am not the kind of girl that enjoys balls or jewelry. I like practicing dark magic; my pulse quickens when I learn a new ritual, I dream about redeeming my name and becoming a powerful person in the wizarding world."

"Of course you are a good person; you are different from the rest of us—"

"But that is the thing, Icarus! I am not!" she said in exasperation, "I might not be as dark as Riddle or as macabre as Avery, but that does not make me some sweet, innocent girl that is here to brighten your day."

How could someone love her when she did not even know who she was? Half of her life had been wiped away, stored behind reddish barricades of magic. Varya was a manufactured ideal of whom Grindelwald had wanted her to be, and she had to discover herself before anything else.

"That makes no sense, Varya," he frowned. "Is this because of Riddle?"

There it was, the question she had hoped he would not ask, as the girl did not know how to answer that. In truth, Tom had played a significant role in her decision, as he was the one who had captured her heart and caged it so that nobody else would be able to steal it. And Icarus deserved to know the truth behind her decision.

Her silence was enough of an answer, and Icarus' hand dropped from her face as he stared out at the lake, trying to soothe the anger that was simmering in his heart. He could not blame the girl for it, no. It was goddamned Tom Riddle, always playing with the minds of those around him, making them feel secure when in reality, all he did was put them in danger.

"You say I cannot see you for who you are," Icarus began, eyes still trained on the horizon, "but do you truly believe that he does, Varya?"

The girl looked up at him, unsure of what to answer.

"He does not," he deadpanned, "All he sees in you in your potential to be weaponized. He wants you by his side not because of who you are, but because of the power that you hold. And once he achieves his goals, he will discard you immediately."

Varya frowned as she felt the sting in her heart, and she recoiled from the boy, putting a bit of distance between them. Her throat constricted, and she wanted nothing more than to get up and leave.

"Why would you say that?"

Icarus chuckled bitterly, "I have known him for five years, Petrov. Believe me, that boy will never be capable of love, and you will only end up hurting yourself in the process. And you deserve better— maybe not any of us, maybe you should go off with that Parkin boy and try to stay away from all of us."

"So now I am Petrov?" Varya scoffed, her voice cracking at Icarus' sudden change in behavior. The boy's eyes immediately widened, and he wanted to smack himself over the head for being so crude with her. Just because he was hurting, it did not mean that he had to take it out on her.

He sighed and reached out to grab her hand and pull the girl back in his arms. Icarus guided her head on his chest, and Varya let herself be embraced, knowing it was probably the last time they would hold each other like this.

The sun had begun setting over that Black Lake, and the sky turned the slightest hue of tangerine as the final rays of light had begun sizzling in the soft wind. Spring had brought its first flowers, and the sky was clear that day. His hand stroked her sable locks and played with the softest strands that fell in slight waves, and he found himself humming the song they had danced to on the train. That memory seemed so far away now, and everything had seemed to change in between.

The girl felt his heart beat against her back, and as he hid his face on the top of her hair, she could have sworn she felt the slightest dampness on his cheeks, and yet Varya did not dare turn her face around. She twisted her neck to rest her face in the crook of his, and inhaled his sweet perfume, trying to memorize the way it made her lungs tingle for one last time.

She wanted it to be him. She wanted to love Icarus so much it made it impossible to breathe, the kind of love that consumed her heart, and turned it into nothing but softness. Yet, every time he looked at her, she could only imagine azure eyes and a smile that promised heartbreak.

"You are better than him," she mumbled in his neck, "You are the kind of boy that will one day make a girl so happy she will not believe you are real, and you will build a family and move into the mountains, have a daughter— maybe a son too. He will have none of that; he cannot."

"He will have you," came the faintest whisper, and the boy's voice had a slight raspiness to it, almost as if something was constricting his throat.

"He will not," breathed Varya, "Nobody will."

Because she did not know what she would become once her memories would be restored, and yet something told her it would not be anything good. Even after the faintest traces of remembrance had slipped through the cracks, she had already gone darker, and the girl would only continue to do so.

***

Thank you so much for your support! Someone actually recommended this story on TikTok and it honestly means so much because I have no idea how to promote it myself lmao. More people have started reading this, and I hope everyone is enjoying it so far.