THE ANATOMY OF DELLA BEAUCHAMP - THE BRAVEHEART

CHAPTER TWENTY

Something had shifted between Varya and the group, that much was undeniable. If before, they would only chat with her when she reached out or when they needed something from her, now, they were everywhere. It was almost as if she had acquired an assortment of seven deadly shadows that followed her around the castle, always a few steps behind her.

She did not know if this was Tom's way of keeping an eye out on her, or if it was merely that they were all in the same House, but other people had begun to take notice as well. Now, there were whispers of a new Slytherin pure-blood joining Tom Riddle's ranks, and Varya did not know if she savored that label. After all, she had had enough of following cult leaders.

"So, as I said, if you could put in a good word for me to Malfoy—" Varya just stared at the fourth-year Gryffindor in front of her, not even knowing how to react, so when Della Beauchamp took over, she was incredibly appreciative for having the prefect Ravenclaw at her side.

"Piss off, Grunberg, that platinum-haired freak is mine, and my best friend will not help you put your nasty little paws on him," her voice was so melodious that Varya snorted. Nevertheless, she grinned when Della put a shielding arm around her shoulders, dragging her away from the startled Gryffindor.

Varya laughed as they walked away, "Getting protective over Malfoy, already?"

She was aware of Della's new fixation, and she did not know what to make of it. The Slytherin boy, of course, grimaced whenever the Ravenclaw would approach him, and Varya thought that it was precisely that reaction that Beauchamp was obsessing over. She was a pretty girl, and a pretty girl that was not a Slytherin was usually a very popular girl. That was her case as well, and perhaps, some part of Della did not like not being able to have the Malfoy heir in her hands. Although Varya doubted it would last, as the Ravenclaw girl had a new fixation each week, she was still worried about her.

"Here is my vision— when you get yourself a charming Slytherin boy to take you to Slughorn's party, Lestrange or Riddle, whichever one gives you bigger puppy eyes, I want my own!" she emphasized, earning a glare from Varya.

"Why would Riddle be my date?" she bit back, not fancying the way it made blood rise to her cheeks. "I do not fancy him."

"Right," Della said sarcastically, "but look, you did not deny Lestrange!"

Varya's stomach tickled from butterflies once again, "Can we not talk about that?"

"Has he asked you to accompany him to Slughorn's party?"

Varya shook her head, somewhat frustrated at the notion of not being asked. In some way, she had expected an invitation, although she knew it was only her egotistical heart looking for reassurance. They had not spoken to each other since her brief hospital visit, and she had begun wondering if his interest had only been part of Riddle's plan. However, she did not bring it up as she thought it would be insensitive, considering the recent news of a student being petrified.

Despite all warnings from other teachers, Slughorn had gone ahead with his Christmas plan, and Varya did not know what to make of it. There was nothing to celebrate as of now, and she was still dreading being in the same room with the Slytherins. She had managed to keep her distance from Elladora, who had been quite cynical about her sudden involvement with Tom's plans, only exchanging brief pleasantries in their shared room. 

Her earlobe had somewhat healed, although now her ears were not proportional anymore, and if any Hogwarts student noticed, they never said anything to Elladora's face, too scared to upset the Slytherin girl.

Ivy had taken notice of this bizarre behavior, and had been pestering Varya with questions about their falling-out. Questions the girl did not know how to answer, so she settled on avoiding the Slytherin girl prefect and occupying her time with Della's company. Varya felt guilty, as Ivy had been one of the constants of her time at Hogwarts, but there was only so much she could lie about.

Surprisingly, it had been Nicholas Avery who always seemed to strike a conversation with her. However, most of it was about the upcoming vacation to the Rosier Manor and how they should coordinate to extract information from the guests successfully. Varya was still picking at her brain over it, trying to come up with a devious scheme that might help her unravel Grindelwald's plans without putting a target on her back.

"Well, the gathering is tonight, and if Lestrange does not make a move until six o'clock, I believe it is only fair that you ask Riddle," said Della as they turned another corner to the Main Entrance. The girl had vowed that she would help Varya get ready, and the Slavic girl marveled at her lack of fear of being in a room full of heinous pure-bloods.

"I have no interest in that, Della," answered Varya, although she could not ignore the way her mind strayed to the sociopathic boy.

"Yes, that is why the whole Hogwarts body has been buzzing about your secret Hogsmeade trip— Oh! And how he carried you around the school to the infirmary after you fainted in the courtyard from your sickness, that was so chivalrous of him!" Della fawned, and Varya almost rolled her eyes, because she knew Tom had been the one that caused her illness in the first place, and dropping her off at the infirmary was the least he could have done. "Besides, it was him that talked Professor Herbert into letting you retake the Herbology exam; otherwise, you would have failed!"

Varya had been grateful for that, truthfully, as she was given a chance to take the exam she had missed due to her own imbecility. However, the corrupt outweighed the good, and in the grand scheme of things, Riddle was no benefactor of hers. As a matter of fact, she was raging with how he had managed to come across as a benevolent knight, the boy who had rescued the puny foreign witch from dying in the snowstorm, and had even gotten her an excuse to take a test she had not attended.

Tom Riddle, the master puppeteer, had once again managed to manipulate a whole school, hiding his actual nefarious dealings between porcelain simpers and honey-coated words, and it made the girl want to gauge her eyes out so that she could not see everyone treat him as a virtuous paladin.

"Is it not a bit medieval to think that a girl owes herself to a man just because he saved her?" asked Varya bitterly, but that only earned a laugh from her friend.

"It is common courtesy! Beside, Riddle is one of the gentlemen of Hogwarts. He has never even called me a mudblood."

"Your standards are terribly low if that is what your base your infatuation on, and anyhow, it is not like Riddle is a pure-blood himself," Varya retorted, slightly pestered at the groundless praises Tom was receiving from her friend.

Della gasped, then grabbed the other girl's arm, "Varya! He is an orphan; we do not know what he is!"

"Tom Riddle sounds muggle to me," Varya jeered, knowing very well that the possibility of Tom being a pure-blood was close to none.

"My apologies, but I must agree with your friend, Petrov. It is quite insensitive to say such things."

Varya's blood iced over, and she spun around to meet Tom Riddle's midnight cerulean eyes. They were filled with wrath, so much so that they entranced her, and she did not even notice the murderous glare that Abraxas Malfoy was sending her way. She heard Della's screech, and vaguely understood her rushed apologies to the two boys, but did not realize the girl ran away from the scene until Riddle broke their gaze-lock to signal Malfoy to leave. The platinum-haired Slytherin nodded, and passed Varya, bumping her shoulder with his in the process.

Then, Tom turned to look at her, face scrunched in fury, and he approached her with such speed that the girl did not even realize she was backing away from his figure until her back hit a nearby wall. She swallowed harshly, ignoring the mahogany scent that radiated from the boy's body, and avoided his fiendish orbs.

"Perhaps I should ask Selwyn to slip you some Belladonna again, because I appreciated your existence better when you were too weak to wipe the drool off of your chin, Petrov," he said grimly, suddenly pressing his wand against her throat.

Varya raised her chin, trying to put more space between her neck and his weapon, but halted when she realized their proximity. "You do not scare me, Riddle."

"For lack of better judgment, then. It would be best if you were absolutely horrified of the things I can do— of the things I have done," he murmured, voice slurring with a sinister speech as he raised her chin with his wand. "I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

"You have already stung me once, and I will be dammed if I let it happen again," the girl answered, suddenly pushing against his chest to create more distance between their bodies, but Tom only grabbed both of her hands with his, holding them forcefully.

"That is not really up to you, you see. You have no idea what my plans are, and as long as you are blessed with this ignorance, your brittle mind is guarded, but if I as much as —" he leaned closer, lips trailing her ear, voice in a salty rasp"— let one secret slip, it will shatter before your eyes. I did it once; I can do it again."

Varya inhaled heavily, her throat contracting in an unpleasant way at his touch, and she wanted to get away from it, to put so much distance between the two of them that he could never reach her again.

She was a liar, a miserable excuse of braveness, and she did not want to admit the way her resolve succumbed before Tom Riddle. Varya had seen beheadings, she had seen cadavers so foul that not even the beasts of the woods wanted to sink their teeth in their flesh, and she had felt the deathly touch of some of the most demonic creatures that roamed the Earth.

And yet, none of it had broken her the way he had. She had fallen for his treachery, had underestimated just how wide his reach was, and had put her faith in corrupt people. In the end, Tom Riddle had annihilated something that had stood firm against the most abominable acts of humankind. And what kind of abnormality did that make him?

"The fact that you take pride in doing such is repugnant, and let me tell you this— you played dirty, you took my witchcraft away from me, and you hammered down your nails on my mind, but now I know your tactics, Riddle," she said, dragging her face away from his. "But you do not know mine."

Tom let out a low sneer, suddenly pushing himself away from her, and he tilted his head in a disdainful gaze, "You have been threatening me for months, and yet have achieved nothing. You overvalued yourself, or maybe you have never met your match until me, but there is nothing you can do to undermine my command."

"And yet you need my help for your nefarious plans, am I correct?"

"Do not get arrogant, Petrov," spat Riddle, "I could hex out your eyes if I desired to."

"Keep threatening me and see what happens," she scoffed, although part of her did not quite mean it.

"Nothing would delight me more than to see you try to outpower me, Varya," he smirked, his voice so condescending it made her blood boil.

Then, he scurried his eyes along the deserted hallway, and his face fell in its usual apathy, no trace of the machiavellianism that coursed his bloodstream, his lack of morality and prudence.

"Has anyone told you that you are absolutely sick?" Varya lamented, gripping at her wrists in pain, as the boy had held them too firmly.

Tom gave her a smirk, then gestured for her to follow him, "The brightest minds are always considered mad because their depth goes far beyond human consciousness. After all, they thought Diogenes to be unstable because of his repulsion against society."

Varya scoffed, "Of course, the philosopher you would be fascinated with is the one who pillared cynicism." Even so, she found herself trailing behind him, and for a second, she wondered if she was not just as deranged as him.

Tom shook his head, "I am not fascinated with his teachings, he thought power to be a weakness, but I acknowledge his lucidness. He saw humans for what they were, opportunistic beings who only hid behind communal interest."

"I am surprised you even bothered educating yourself on muggle beliefs," Varya admitted as they walked towards the Dungeons.

"Petrov, manipulating the mind requires an understanding of behavior and psychology, it is only natural that I dabble with Greek philosophy," he resolved, and Varya could only agree in awe, surprised that they shared the same belief on such a matter.

They entered the Slytherin Common Room, the emerald hue making Varya feel quite somnolent, but as she glanced at the clock, she noticed it was barely past six o'clock. Soon, she would have to attend Slughorn's party, and the girl grimaced at the idea, as Riddle had managed to scare Della away. Now, she would have to get ready by herself.

"I expect to see you downstairs in an hour." She turned towards the boy, raising en eyebrow in confusion, but he only gave her a hardened stare. "Did your friend not say that if Icarus fails to assist you by six, I were to be your escort? I find it only fitting, two powerful minds arriving together. And besides, there is much to discuss about the upcoming break."

He turned around and left, not leaving her any time to fight against it, but truth be told, Varya did not know if she would have. A small smile made its way to her lips as she watched his brooding figure climb the stairs to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Was she completely losing her mind? The boy had just had her up against a wall, threatening to dissemble her mind, again, and yet she could not deny the fluttering feeling in her stomach, a sensation she could not quite understand. There was something about Tom Riddle's presence that moved her despite all, and she thought that it was precisely the notion that it was forbidden that made her want to always be around him.

It was as if a string had been tied between the two of them, and whenever the distance grew large, Varya would feel an odd tug at her heart that would have her follow his general direction. And no scissor could ever completely cut this nihilistic bond.

She made her way up the stairs and into her room, shutting the door softly behind her, and smiled when she saw Elladora's empty bed. By the mess of dresses sprawled on Ivy's, she knew her other roommate was close by, probably in the bathroom, and that gave her enough time to put on her dress before either would return quickly.

Her dress was on the bed, and she had ordered it from one of Della's recommended tailors. It was made of emerald satin that fell to the floor in massive heaps, a train trailing behind her. The glistening golden buttons on the sleeved were carefully craved with the Slytherin emblem and another drawing that Varya could not quite figure out. She picked it up, analyzing the pins closely, and felt her breath leave her body. She would recognize it anywhere.

Her family's crest— a tradition that belonged to most Eastern families, something telling of the high society they belonged to. Varya had last seen it craved in the pillars of her house in the Romanian woods when she was young, and as she traced the outline of the Eurasian Lynx, she felt pride swoop at her heart.

One of the fiercest predators in the European mountains, the Lynx was a stealthy killer with scrupulous grace. Almost playing a devilish game of seduction with its pray, it always waited for the right moment before pouncing on it, tearing its flesh and enjoying its feast.

Furthermore, those were the exact traits of the fallen Petrov line, ancient bloodline of powerful sorcerers that had always answered the devil's sinful call to dark magic, and had prided themselves in their enigmatic killings and insincere game.

Her trembling hand reached her mouth, and she wondered who had instructed the tailor to add such a small, but essential detail to her attire. To her, her name was the most prized possession that she had, the only reminiscent of the brilliance her parents had grown up in, and the only connection she had to them.

After the incident in the forest, Varya had promised herself to no longer cry, but she could not help the grief-filled tears that pooled in her onyx eyes as she cradled the dress to her chest, small sniffles escaping her lips. Her parents, damned wizards that had only let her inherit shame, and yet they were so important to her, and she cherished them as a child would.

Her mother was the one she remembered most, although they had both passed away when she was around three years old, with her stern features and pitched voice. She would always scold Varya for her lack of manners, but her piercing eyes never carried any malice toward her daughter, only compassion. After all, even the darkest wizards were capable of love. She had the same darkened eyes and pale skin, the beauty and harshness of a Slavic woman that was so enrapturing.

Varya's father was more of a blur, but she remembered his raven hair and impressive height. He was a robust man, and above all, he was loyal to his cause. It had been him that encouraged her mother to return to the war, eventually dooming them. The girl did not remember his voice.

She hurried to put on her dress, enjoying its velvety touch against her heated skin, and she trailed her hands down the patterned lace that stood on the sides of her corset. Her long sleeves fell in triangular shapes, one edge longer than the other, and her neckline stopped right where it should. She pulled her night-infused hair in a low braid, adding small ornaments that resembled drops of gold on its length, then pulled at two strands to let them frame her delicate face.

Giving one last look at the mirror, Varya turned around towards the door, feeling more influential than ever. With her family emblem on her sleeves, she felt, perhaps for the first time, her real legacy flow through her veins. She was a Petrov witch, and she cowered before nobody. She left the room, then made her way back to the Common Room.

As always, the Slytherin boys lined the entrance, each of them in a dashing suit and tie— except, of course, for Maxwell Nott, who had once again fashioned a silky scarf instead. They turned to look at her figure, and Varya blushed underneath their scrutinizing gaze.

Tom Riddle stood out from the group, making his way toward her with deliberate steps, and then he halted right at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her with thoughtful eyes. His suit was a bit large on him, and Varya could only assume he had borrowed it from one of the other boys, probably not being able to afford his own. Her heart twisted at that, and for once, she wished that the boy would have had a different fate.

"Your presence is as graceful," he complimented her with a dull face, and the girl bit back a scoff at the delivery. Tom truly did not know how to flatter a girl. He extended his arm to her, and Varya wrapped delicate fingers around it. The boy glanced at the emblemed buttons that trailed her arms, then pressed a finger against the roaring face of the Lynx, and hummed appreciatively.

He looked at her again, a knowing expression in his eyes, and muttered words of praise. "There is nothing more ravishing on a woman than power."

That had been genuine, and Varya pursed her lips to stop a smile from taking over. She loathed herself for allowing his words to matter this much, and she did not want to allow herself to dwell on the feeling too much, afraid of what it might reveal.

Tom confused her. She hated his arrogance and found his constant manipulation undesirable. He had toyed with her as if she was nothing, and yet his delusive bewitchery had fooled her into excusing it. Varya found it peculiar how, despite everything, all she could think of when she remembered being poisoned was his arms carrying her away from the carcass of the Therestral.

"I quite disagree, I believe that it is the complete euphoria that dawns on one's face when they elude the consequences of their recklessness," came the voice of Icarus Lestrange as he approached the two partners, and Varya felt remorse eat at her insides. Icarus grabbed her other hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles, then gave her a smirk. "I see you have found yourself quite a partner, Varya."

The girl looked at him, unsure of what to say, "Due to lack of interest from others."

Icarus frowned, almost as if the thought of having to ask her had not struck him until this moment, then he gave a sheepish smile.

"Of course, my apologies, I have been quite busy. Nevertheless, we will enjoy ourselves at Rosier's festivities, I am sure," He shot Tom a look, but the boy seemed to care less about the notion. "Save me a dance, however. I would like to test your skills before the event. Rosier said something about you practicing with skeletons, quite the statement."

Then, Icarus sent her a wink and made his way back to the group. Ivy Trouche came down the stairs, holding her golden dress' edges in her hands as she tried not to step on it, "Thank you for waiting."

She looked over at Varya, then at her arm resting on Tom's elbow, and frowned. She sent the girl a questioning stare that Varya tried to evade but knew she could not run from forever. The group started making its way down the hall, earning a few appreciative glances from the students that were heading back to their Common Rooms. There was the occasional judgmental look shot by Gryffindors, who could not believe that some would still have the heart to celebrate after the recent incidents.

However, Arthur had been a muggle-born wizard, and to the group of pure-bloods, it mattered less than what they would serve for breakfast the next day.

Slughorn's office was ornated with shimmering globes, charmed snow, and a towering Christmas tree. A faint carol played in the room, heavenly voices bouncing off of the walls, and the infamous tapestries had been modified to showcase festive exhibitions. A charmed snow-man was making its way around the room, a large tray of delicacies on its wooden arm, and Varya's eyes twinkled with delight at the scene.

The night had barely begun.