CHAPTER SIX

"I'm uncontrollable, emotional, chaotically proportional
I'm visceral, reloadable
I'm crazy,I'm crazy, I'm crazy, I'm crazy"

twisted - missio

The crowd's cheers magnified as the Gryffindor Quidditch team scored yet another point, ensuring their lead of eighty points. Varya watched with prying eyes as the players spun mid-air on their brooms, heading towards another goal post. She turned her face towards Elladora, who was slightly despondent. It seemed as if Slytherin had suffered their first loss without their star chaser, Ivy Trouche.

The wind hit the girls' faces grimly, making their hair sway around them. Varya pulled at her scarf, using it to cover her exposed neck. The autumn breeze had settled in, leaves falling gently towards the ground as death loomed over fauna, a breathing reminder that all creation returned to dust. She pulled her bag closer, then opened it slightly to take out her Transfiguration book. Elladora threw her a glance from the corner of her eyes, unmistakable judgment passing over her face as cherry-wine locks covered her delicate face.

"Oh, Merlin, please do not tell me you will do your essay here," she said, her lips turning down in revulsion. Varya looked at her book, hesitant of her answer. She had grown tired of the game, not fully understanding it despite her friend's detailed explanation. Varya had never been one to take well to sports.

"I suppose I might head to the library then," she said softly, sending her roommate a smile before picking up her school items. She made her way down the stands, then out of the Quidditch field. She walked towards the castle, leisurely, admiring as it stretched out towards the sky with its high towers. Pursing her lips, she wondered if she could ever truly explore the whole school, as its chambers seemed never to end.

Solitude was welcome to her as she realized it was her first time being truly alone in the past week, far away from the ruckus that followed most wizards. Her eyes watered from the intense wind, and she tried to cast some protection around her with her wand but failed the simple task. It was a wrecking notion, a powerful witch reduced to nothing by inconvenience, and Varya felt her wrath pulsate under her skin, like tentacles of darkness dragging against her epidermis, begging for a release of unholy magic. She smothered their voices.

Her frustration prickled her mind, and she felt her hands harden over the useless piece of wood. Varya did not understand how it could cause her such trouble, a chain to any sorcerer's capability, a token of freedom in practice exchanged for sweet lies of a Ministry that declared the dark arts to be sacrilege. Such idiotic notions—there was nothing but honeyed sweetness in the call of devilish rituals, nothing but glory and power, and how easy it is for a nation to cower away from the gifts the Devil had blessed them with.

Thinking back to her Potion's class, Tom Riddle had offered her his help, although she knew very well that it was only a subtle method of gaining information from her. Curiously enough, he had disappeared without a trace ever since, and now she doubted he would meet her as he had promised.

She entered the castle, shutting the door behind her out of habit, took off her scarf, and walked Hogwarts' long hallways. The Slytherin Common Room was deep in the Dungeons, so she took the stairs that lead to it, deciding to use the lounge to study. There were times where the cracking sound of fire was the only lullaby that soothed an arid mind, calming down troubles and exposing inner peace.

As she stood in front of the entrance, she muttered the password, then the passage opened before her. The dim fire cast shadows on the stone walls, creating illusions and playing with her mind.

"Not a fan of Quidditch, then?" asked a voice from behind her. She turned slightly, only briefly glancing at Tom as he made his way to one of the chairs before the fireplace. He had a book in his hand, and Varya tried to make out the title.

Secrets of The Darkest Art.

He held it in his long digits as if it were a book of worship, something entirely sacred, although every word drawn in splotched ink that colored endless words was nothing but devotion to a lesser deity, a god of evil. Varya's eyes trailed his movements as he pushed it past his long robes, hiding it away from prying eyes, and even then she wondered if Tom had wanted her to see him read it. 

"I suppose not," she said, voice unusually low. "I would say neither are you, but I fear I might faint."

Her mocking tone did not sit well with Tom, as his eyes carried newfound wickedness. Alas, she had finally gotten him alone, and she feared that his true nature would bubble above his fraudulent politeness if she pushed too much.

"A shame that Trouche could not play," he taunted, his tone caring no remorse whatsoever. "I assume she will take the blame for the team's colossal loss."

Varya gawked at him, understanding the many layers of deceit that his plan carried. She supposed it was not evil, no, but she did not doubt that it was the least the boy could do. She wondered what her fate would be if he were ever to find out her truth.

Dumbledore had been meeting with her secretly, helping her strengthen her mind against any possible attack, but she still wavered at her weakest moments. For now, she could hold her thought tightly, but she feared Tom would easily find her most vulnerable times, having her break down before him like a thin stick. He struck her as an odd character that would find pleasure in hearing someone beg underneath him as he annihilated their psyche.

"I thought everyone was at the game," she admitted, suddenly wishing that she had gone to the library.

"I prefer staying behind; the Common Room is not usually as peaceful," he answered as he looked at the fire's flames burning brightly.

"Where have you been in the past few days?" she suddenly inquired, curiosity taking her over. She had not seen him at all, not even in the Great Hall. It was as if he were a phantasm, a walking mirage that deluded the minds of students to turn a blind eye to his atrocious behavior. Tom Riddle had spent years crafting himself from clay, building up lies and appearing to be the image of a god he did not worship, for he thought himself to be the only rightful ruler of the world.

"Missed me, Petrov?" he asked, his voice mocking sweetness in a way that made her skin sting. She scoffed, but he went on. "I have been busy."

His voice carried some degree of crypticness, making her understand that Tom was up to no good. He seemed to come and go as he pleased, and for someone as well respected as him, nobody ever took ample notice of his absence. He was as stealthy as a snake, carrying out his surreptitious affairs under everyone's nose.

"You promised to help me with my wand," she said eventually, unsure of how else to bring up the idea. As much as she dreaded being around him, she knew this was an opportunity to observe him.

"I do not make promises, but yes, I do remember saying that I would help you," Tom concluded, getting up from his chair. "Follow me."

Varya got up, trailing behind the Slytherin prefect as he walked at a fast pace out of the Slytherin dormitory. From the back, she slowly observed his movement. He seemed to almost float, his steps graceful as he advanced towards one of the doors. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture as perfect as always.

The girl hurried her movements, eventually falling in to step with Tom. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, analyzing her nervousness, but said nothing as they made their way to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. 

"Surely we cannot enter," said Varya, who had heard from other classmates that the forest was off-limits to students unless they attended detention. She found it odd that they would send them there as punishment, despite being aware of the danger.

Her legs could not carry her deeper into the woods, as her mind was attacked by memories of the deep, dark forests that surrounded her old school. On multiple occasions, she had seen monstrous creatures peek out from behind the trees, their gaze filled with grotesque hunger. Varya doubted that Hogwarts kept such monsters around, but she would not doubt that there was still danger.

Tom saw her fear, almost smelt it on her, as she stopped to gawk at the line of trees. He saw her hands clench, his Adam apple bobble as he swallowed forcefully. Her breath came out shaky, and her eyelids fluttered rapidly, almost as if blinking away the image before her. Fascinating, he thought, taking note of her momentary delicacy.

"Pull out your wand," he instructed, his voice stern. His authority demanded reverence, and Varya swiftly followed his instructions. Her wand felt foreign in her hands. "Cast a spell at a tree, try to do it as you normally would with your hand."

Varya went through the motions, mumbling "Reducto" as she directed the long stick towards one of the trees. Much to her annoyance, there was only a puff of smoke that came out. She groaned, already frustrated. Although gifted in witchcraft, Varya had quite the temperament and was easily put-off when something did not come to her naturally.

Tom, on the other hand, was the master of practice, as he had spent countless hours perfecting his spells once he arrived at Hogwarts, trying to catch up with the rest of his peers that had grown in magical households. A self-made wizard, a catalyst of resentment that rooted in his practice, until each slash of his wand became rugged, aggressive, and he found pleasure in striking those around him down. 

"No, you will get nowhere if you do not believe in your magic," he said as he circled her. "Do it again."

Her second failure was even more embarrassing, as she heard him sigh from behind her.

"Again," the authority in his voice was pestering, as if Tom believed himself to be a person of great importance, who understood magic better than anyone else.

"Again"

"Again!" he raised his voice, disappointed at the fact that the girl would not entirely focus. Had he been mistaken in acknowledging her intellect? No, he knew that she was only holding herself back. He made his way to her, gripping her wrist and tugging her to meet his stare.

"Petrov, stop fooling around, neither of us has time for you to act daft. Concentrate, feel the wand as an extension to your power rather than something that holds you down," he said, then pushed her forward to the tree.

Varya frowned, unappreciative at being manhandled, but she supposed he had a point. She was not in her right mind, unable to focus under his watchful eyes. Drawing in a small breath, she pointed her wand again, casting the spell in her mind with as much belief as she could. The red light hit the tree's bark, sending it flying in all directions. Both of them cast a protective shield, Varya, with a satisfied smile and Tom with a nod of acknowledgment. He looked at her, watching her chin fly up higher at her achievement, eyes glowing at the fact that she had knocked down another skill. He hummed appreciatively, glad to see the talented witch back on track.

"Now, why don't you tell me about your school?" he did not bother with more pleasentries, his low energy not allowing him to be courteous with her. Varya turned, her raven hair locks clumping around harsh features, and suspicion flowered in her onyx irises. Of course, he had his reasons for helping her, but that had been expected, right? He was a manipulative person that used her weakness as a place of common ground, attempting to lower her protective barriers by appearing in the image of a gracious savior. 

"What do you want to know?" she asked, deciding on enabling his meddling. She sat down near a tree, pulling at her robes. Tom did not sit next to her, but instead, he kept his upright position, supporting his shoulder on another tree. His hands flew to his pockets, and Varya marveled at his causality.

"Did you truly study the Dark Arts?" he questioned her, then continued at her affirmative nod. "What do you remember?"

"I remember its history mainly," she admitted, her eyes trailing the horizon. "They taught us of its origins, of the many artifacts that had been created as a result. Some spells as well, mainly jinxes and hexes but also—"

Her voice trailed off as something knocked at her brain, almost as if a memory was threatening to spill. Tom raised an eyebrow as if telling her to continue, but the girl only stared off in the distance, lost in her own land of fanaticism. It was a common notion that the souls of Scholomance were wicked, progenitures of the wretched, and that there was some crazed reverie that often plagued their thoughts. The atrociousness they had witnessed in their years of education was enough to make one unstable, dark magic palpable, and they swayed like broken beings in clouds of terror, the faint taste of dusted sacrilege on their lips. 

She cleared her throat, snapping out of it. "It is not something you should dwell on, Tom. The Dark Arts are prohibited in many countries, such as Japan, for a reason. They break your mind and feed on your weakness."

She got up, taking her bag off of the ground and placing its strap on her shoulder, then dusted off her robes. A moment of reticence was enough for the staggering soul of a lost boy to cling to a promise of mind-baffling power.

"That is if you are weak," Tom said, his smirk carrying a devilish charm. Varya looked at him, honestly looked at him. The boy before her oozed of blinded confidence, as someone who had no knowledge of the real horrors of Dark Arts would.

"You are not invincible, Tom," she told him, making him freeze. He looked at her, his jaw clenched, and she looked at him, her eyes unyielding.

Their eyes battled in silence, unspoken words passing between the two of them. Once again, two sides clashed, and like water and oil, they repelled each other. Each found the other childish, an uncultivated seed that had not faced the weather's wrath. Without another word, both headed in different directions.

***

Varya passed by the Hospital's wing, then stopped as she saw a familiar face just making her way out. Ivy Trouche looked as if she had not slept in days; lilac patches on translucent skin were the only nuance that colored the witch as she trudged into the corridor, frame weakened by the poison that Tom had undoubtedly slipped into her cauldron. When her eyes met Petrov's, indescribable wrath stomped out any fatigue.

"I cannot believe he meddled with the potion, Varya," Ivy started. "He truly thinks that he cannot be held responsible, that rules do not apply to him."

They started walking together, Varya slightly supporting her friend as they went down the stone steps to their dormitory. She did not know what to answer, so she mumbled something in acknowledgment. Yes, Tom Riddle had an undeniable massive ego that made him see himself as some superhuman.

"I do not know how I will get back at him, but I will," her roommate stated as they entered the Common Room. She looked around, then turned to Varya, grabbing her shoulders. "You have to help me."

"I do not know what to say, Ivy. I do not think poking a hibernating bear is a good idea," she said truthfully, not wanting to be on the receiving end of Riddle's wrath. It would go against her plans to get on his wrong side.

"I am not talking about harming him, Varya, we both know he is too cautious about letting his guard down. Nevertheless, we can expose him, show the world his true nature. I know you see it just as well as I do."

"Why are you so hellbent on revenge?" Varya asked. Her time at Hogwarts had taught her that most students admired Tom Riddle.

"Because," Trouche huffed, annoyed. "He is insufferable, truly. He walks around and orders our House as if he is some leader. He has everyone around his finger, and I am afraid he has been getting to Alphard."

Of course, Ivy was protecting her boyfriend from Tom's evil grasp.

"So what, we get his mask to crack? Stir a reaction out of him?" Varya asked in a hushed voice. Ivy pondered, sitting down on the couch, "A job for a lunatic."

"I will think about it," the Slytherin pureblood answered, her eyes filled with determination. "But, Varya..."

"Yes?"

"Do not, under any circumstances, let Elladora know anything," she said, venom in her voice as she spat the other girl's name. Varya looked at her questioningly. She knew her roommates did not quite like each other, but it seemed she had underestimated their animosity.

"Why?" she asked, not understanding Ivy's warning. Elladora had been warm to her so far, showing her around the castle more than anyone else.

"There is much you do not understand about this school yet. All of our families have history dating back hundreds of years, and because of that, beliefs and loyalty are passed down generation from generation. Not everyone you share a meal with will be your friend, and not everyone that raises a sword against you will be your foe." she said, heading towards the stairs that lead to the girl's dormitories. "Anyhow, give my proposal a thought, I think it would benefit us both just as well."

With that, Ivy entered their shared room, leaving Varya behind to think over her words.