THE ANATOMY OF VARYA PETROV - THE NECROMANCER

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tom Riddle was seldom impressed. He had, at some point, learned how to easily unravel characters, letting their truest form glisten brightly before his eyes. He was exceptional at divulging their secrets, their hushed desires, and found those around him to be shallow. It was comical, almost, how effortlessly he could understand people while never truly caring for anyone. A gift, or a curse, Tom Riddle was the master of perceiving.

Now, however, as he studied Varya Petrov at her most unscrupulous behavior, he could not help the tense sensation that took over his windpipe. He was surprised, yes, he could admit that. He was aware of the girl's in-depth knowledge of dark magic, but he thought her too soft to perform such witchcraft. Even more so, he had never considered that she dabbled with necromancy and spiritualism, having assumed that her training consisted mostly of martial magic, a similar curriculum to that of Durmstrang. And he did not know what to make of it, he discerned, because he did not like to be proved wrong, and the girl kept on astounding him whenever he let his guard down.

"Surprised, Riddle?" she asked, almost imperiously, entertained that the boy was studying her with something akin to admiration. She had expected it, of sorts, when she had decided to bring him with her, but it was still revigorating to see the Slytherin prefect regard her with the slightest hint of respect.

"Yes," he admitted, and now it was her turn to stare. "I did not take you to be interested in necromancy and spiritualism. As a matter of fact, I did not even know that it was still practiced."

"Perhaps not in established schools, no, but who cares for a small castle in the middle of a forgotten forest?" she answered and then pulled out the book she had purchased. "I ordered it specifically from Transylvania, and asked them to cover the title with a spell."

She passed it to him, and his fingers trailed the bumps of the title—the Tales of Beedle the Bard. To the unknowing eye, it looked like an ordinary fairy-tale book, but as Varya waved her hand over the bindings, its true form showed. The Art of the Occult: Necromancy and Rituals.

"Clever," Tom hummed. "Clever little witch."

Varya chuckled, grabbing the book from his arms then placing it in the middle of her pentagram. She stood in its center, eyes skimming over one of the rituals she had learned during her fourth year. This book, old and worn, was her textbook at the time.

It felt like home, although she did not know if she could call the castle that. Varya never sincerely had a home, but she had familiarity. Yes, this is what this was, familiarity.

"But why are you performing this?" the boy asked suddenly, still failing to piece together the information she had given him. He was lost, and it irritated him how little he truly knew of the girl. No other student at Hogwarts had ever truly caught his curiosity like this, not that he would ever admit it. It was purely nosiness, anyhow, a thirst for knowledge and skill that made him want to figure her out.

Varya sighed, and for a moment, she thought of her response. She had brought Riddle with her against her better judgment, almost as a peace offering between them. Over the past week, she had obsessed with finding the meaning behind the words that the mavka had told her, but as much as she wanted to return to the forest and force it out of the creature, she knew it could be potentially dangerous. So, she decided to do the next best thing, although still as hazardous.

The girl had sent an owl to one of her old classmates, begging him to send her the ritual book, saying that she had grown bored of the second-hand magic taught at Hogwarts. It was a half-lie, because she found herself enjoying her new practice, although she missed the thrilling sensation of the dark arts. Reluctantly, her classmate had agreed and told her that he would conceal the title to make it easier to hide—magic contraband.

Between the fading pages, Varya had found an ancient ritual that would allow her to temporarily lift the veil of death. By doing so, the girl could easily converse with the dead, and she knew they carried great secrets.

"Is showing off not enough?" she joked, but she rolled her eyes as she saw Tom's eyes narrow. "The dead know more than we do, and I have some burning inquiries for them. If it frightens you, care to step outside."

Tom scoffed, "I am not frightened, Petrov, of the living, much less the dead."

"But you should be," the girl said cryptically. "They see everything, they know more than we do, and they can let secrets slip."

Silence fell on them, the boy did not know what to answer, and Varya took this as an opening to focus on her ritual. She gazed at the boy, muttering a few warnings not to distract her.

"And above all, stay quiet, and do not let them hear you." she had said, not wanting to involve the boy in the risky activity. He could handle himself, she was sure of it, but if he meddled with her practice, it could be disastrous.

Besides the apparent intent of impressing him, Varya needed someone to come with her, someone that would act as an anchor to her reality. Otherwise, she feared that she might be pulled over to the other realm, as spiritualism was not only a door for the dead, but also the living.

She read the chant one last time, then placed the book on one of the tables. Varya walked in the middle of her drawing, then took a deep breath. Nervousness started to settle in, and for a second, she pondered her plan. She was aware of the risks, the Dark Priest had warned the apprentices many times of unsafe practices, but her curiosity was gnawing at her psyche. She needed to know; she was almost desperate for it. To the young girl, puzzles were her single thrill.

More so, ever since that night, the girl had felt an ominous, dim cloud over her head, and an unrelenting awareness of trepidation had pooled in her guts, almost as if unforeseeable danger was approaching her with every passing second.

Her hands quivered, but she tried to keep a steadfast mind as she began the incantation, ignoring the sudden fall in temperature. Her words, a mumbled string of Latin, almost alarmed Tom, and he watched her enter a daze of insanity, lunatic eyes wide with sadism. Her chapped lips muttered the spell fast, and he could only catch bits of it, but it was dark, horrendous, and definitely, something that was not taught in his land.

It was breathtaking, witnessing such blasphemous sorcery, a spell as ancient as the stone that built Hogwarts. It made his blood run cold, but faster, and his skin tingle with anticipation as he watched the scene unfold.

Her chant grew more tumultuous, sinister, her voice raucous, and both felt the small breeze that circulated its way around the cabin, tousling their hair. She stretched her arms open, palms facing upward, and the flame of the glowing candles swelled. She brought the small brick to her with a sparse move of the hand, and suddenly, she slit her palm, letting the blood flow sleekly from her cut. Black magic always required a price to be paid, and her crimson pain was hers. Tom breathed out and watched the small misty cloud leave his parted lips despite the fire's warmth.

The room went still, and the two exchanged a hesitant glance as nothing appeared. Then, a low screech on the wooden floor, followed by a low wail of terror. Tom's eyes snapped to the room's corner, where a fashionable woman sat, watching them with melancholic orbs. She was short, with heavy arms and a strong nose, and she sniffled painfully.

"Why did you call me?" she whimpered, brittle voice filled with absolute misery. She was translucent, much like the phantoms that walked Hogwarts' corridors, and to Varya's surprise, quite lovely, with long hair pulled in a Victorian hairstyle. Nonetheless, she was delicate, shoulders sagged in desolation, and her eyes were moistened.

"I have questions," said Varya, voice unyielding as she apprehended the ghost. She was fortunate, she knew that, as the apparition did not seem to be malicious. However, her ritual could have gone terribly amiss in a different circumstance, as necromancy was a gamble more than anything. You never knew what you opened the door for.

"I do not have to answer them, not after awakening so rudely," she moaned, earning Tom's irritation. He did not know what he had expected, but it certainly was not a wailing woman. The ghost looked around the room, then gasped. "And summoning me here, of all places, have you no shame? Have you no consideration of the dead?"

"I apologize for my rudeness, I called out to anything that listened, and you happened to answer," admitted Varya, a bit embarrassed at her ineptitude.

Another gasp, "Child, are you not of sane mind? Do you not know the dangers of opening a door between the two realms! God forbid something demonic had heard you, or you would not be standing here right now."

"I know, but-"

"But nothing!" she scolded. "You remind me of my poor Collette, so reckless, she must be growing old now, and I doubt that her mind has brightened over the years. So careless..."

To the two children that had not felt the two-sided edge of a mother's scolding, the ghost's constant bickering was tiresome. Tom was growing impatient, his sociopathic character not letting him sympathize with the deceased women, and Varya was plainly tired, her mind too shattered to comprehend her words.

"I met a mavka in the forest," she interrupted the ghost, not caring to be courteous. Tom raised an eyebrow at the words, suddenly fascinated, but did not speak. The ghost also seemed to react to it, but out of fear, shaking her head viciously.

"No, no, that is not a good sign. Not a good sign," it muttered to herself, almost as if she was unaware of their presence.

"It called me there, much as I did to you, and it seemed to know me. What was more bothersome were her words, something between a warning and a threat," Varya explained, and the ghost's head snapped to her. "He is coming, that is what it said."

"He?" she began, unsure of what the young child was asking of her. To the late Martha Flamming, the young one was much like her daughter in her early years, although she could tell by her posture that she was distraught.

"Yes, I did not know what to make of it at first, but..." Varya breathed out, sparing a glance at Tom, who watched her like a hawk. How much could she reveal without it being too much? She had brought him here to pique his curiosity, to make him question her witchcraft and story, but he could not find out everything.

Then, out of nowhere, the Martha Flamming stilled, almost entranced. With a tremulous cry, she let out an answer that would haunt Varya for years to come. "He is coming, Varya. If you do not leave now, he will get you, and when he does, he will slaughter your soul for his cause. The magic is shifting, dark times come. Run as far as you can."

Just as Varya was about to make her elaborate, the ghost vanished, and the flame crackled once again in the fireplace. The girl cursed, then glanced at one of the candles that had been extinguished by its wax, fickle downturned. The magic had broken.

She fell to her knees, consumed and breathy, almost ready to fly out a white flag in defeat. What was happening to her? Her magic sizzled on her skin, weakened and pitiful, and she felt a sting in her eyes as her head throbbed ridiculously. Why was she so weak?

"Petrov, what did what woman mean?" commanded Tom, approaching her with apathy. His face scrunched at her state, and he almost felt the need to kick her, much as one would do to a naive pup.

"I do not know," her voice was croaky, and it barely reached his ears as her face was still facing the ground, trying to hide the drops of failure that threatened to varnish her cheeks.

"What do you mean you do not know, Petrov? That is laughable," he jeered, then turned towards where the spirit had been. "Where did she go?"

"I do not know," the girl said again, his adenoidal voice making her skull pound with irritation and discomfort.

"Then make her come back-"

"I cannot!" she yelled at him, voice thundering through the desolate shack. Tom tensed his jaw, eyes narrowing at her insubordination, then watched her head fall back. "I cannot."

Her whisper was that of a bruised soul, and she hammered her fist at the floor in defeat, ignoring the ache that radiated in her knuckles. Her ponytail had come undone, and now her ebony locks covered her face from the boy, who stared at her with revulsion.

"You are pathetic."

He ignored her faint whimper as he spun on his heel, making his way out of the house, not even glancing back at her broken frame. He was nauseated by her, outraged that she had fallen in defeat, her magic broken. He almost smelled it on her, and it mixed with her usual citric scent. Then, he stopped outside in the snow, looking out at the moon that shined above him.

Alpine trees circled his surroundings, covered in a thick layer of chalkiness, and flakes swirled in the sky, flashing in the dusky glow of the lamps that lined the main road. The wind was mightier now, howling as it glid through the vegetation, hitting the boy's skin, reddening it. Tom did not mind it though, the coldness being welcome against his callous form, and he savored in the twinge that it brought. It was the only thing he felt at this moment.

The door behind him opened, but he did not look at her, not even as she passed him and made her way down the main street, back hunched and hair churning in the harsh winter nighttime. She was pale, and her eyes were specked with bands of crimson as they held unfathomable frustration.

Tom started walking behind Varya, watching her defeated form pass the town's edge and make its way back the same route that they came, almost mechanically. The girl had been startled to see him waiting outside, as she had thought that he had stormed out on her, and although they were not speaking, she was glad that she did not walk in the night alone. Varya feared that she would not be able to fight against any trouble if she encountered it.

The sight of the two students walking in the blizzard made the locals' heads turn, but none of them intervened, watching as they strolled their way past the horizon. A boy and a girl, so alike in character, but so distinctive. One with a heart of granite, unphased by any display of sentiment, the other one, a tortured soul, weakened by years of trial.

Two sides of the same coin, Dumbledore had once said, and if he had seen them now, he would have agreed more than ever, as they sauntered the darkness with their own gruesome malice. Was it not ravaging, to see such adolescent youths that had been utterly consumed by tragedy? That had discovered on their own skin that the only soul they could rely on was themselves.

The world had abandoned them, took away their purity and nativity, and hardened them beyond recognition. They were seventeen, at most eighteen, but there was no greenness in them, nothing to suggest joviality. Indeed, the calamity of not being sheltered by a parent's love had slain their souls, drained them of vitality, empathy, and made them grow up to be egotistical creatures.

Much like Erebus, son of Chaos, born out of void, they had raised from the abyss. Nevertheless, so had the universe, an infinite extension of nothingness. Chaos was a ladder, and it offered spectacular opportunity to those daring enough to climb it.

***

Hi! Second author note! I just wanted to thank everyone who has been reading, voting, and commenting on this story so far. It is really hard to get your story out there, so thank you for supporting my work in any possible way.

I hope you are enjoying this story so far, and just know that from here on, the action only starts building up!