the seven devils [completed]

chapter fifty-five

The Eastern witch strived to move her feet across the floor and get closer to the basket, yet something stopped her from doing so, and instead, she sat down on one of the church's benches in the back, where Renold Rosier stood in an utterly unkempt state.

A terrifying look glossed over his eyes, and his hair was sticking out in odd directions as he flung his head back to take another sip from his alcohol flask. Then Ren set it aside, and his hand immediately flew to absentmindedly press against the skin where his previous injury had been. And Varya knew— she knew he was still in pain, mentally and physically, and yet he was trying to appear as collected as possible.

"I take it you are as squeamish at funerals as I," stated the girl, yet her voice was so weak it was barely audible. Ren turned his face halfway, and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes.

"Brings back bad memories," he murmured, then downed some more of his drink. His gaze fell on Ivy's mother, who was only now letting go of the casket, "No mother should have to bury their daughter."

There was something oddly specific in his voice— the way it cracked ever so slightly as his timbre switched to a higher pitch. Then, he cleared his throat and turned his face away, pretending to be interested in the Christian paintings that stood on the walls.

"Are you religious?" he asked suddenly, "I am not. I believe that ceremonies such as this one, the pretense of sending your loved ones to some higher ground— they have nothing to do with pleasing any God; they are only a way that we settle our ache from losing someone by lying to ourselves and making up some fantasy land. All so that we can pretend they are not truly gone, and that we might see them again when the time comes. Bullshit, I say. I do not believe in God."

Petrov inclined her head, then sighed deeply, "I do," she admitted, "In some way, at least. I believe that magic came from Hell, and with so many demons wandering around, I have to. I know sigils that have been passed down from Satan's lore itself, and so if I trust in the existence of evil, I must also believe in good, right?"

"So you truly think there is a God?" chuckled the boy bitterly, "Well, then, I must have done something wrong for him to thunder down on me as such."

"Lack of faith would be enough," pronounced the girl— an attempt at a jest, yet it fell flat as she could not bring herself to mask her suffering with gaiety, "And yes, I do. But make no mistake— He is not the divinity our scriptures have made him be, and each religion is an interpretation of the needs we have as a race. Regardless, no ruler has ever only been truly good, so why should God be?"

Rosier said nothing else, only glanced around the room until he spotted the door to the side opening, and in stepped Icarus Lestrange and Maxwell Nott, both dressed in dark black suits, and their ties so tightly knotted that they pressed against their necks properly. None of them had enjoyed Ivy Trouche's company much, and to say they wept for her would be an enormous lie, yet paying respects was the right thing to do.

Both boys stumbled around ineptly, unsure what to tell the parents— would they lie and say they thought highly of their daughter? And if Ivy's father asked them any specific questions, what fables would they spin from their needle of deceitfulness?

Thankfully, serpent tongued boy and fellow Slytherin prefect, Tom Riddle, chose that moment to walk in and save the two from becoming a blubbering mess in front of the funeral guests. He promptly bee-lined to the parents, introducing himself gallantly. Varya watched him from the sidelines, admiring the way the black suit jacket encompassed his shoulders ever-so-perfectly, and his hair stayed neatly gelled in soft waves. His dark button-up was paired with an emerald tie, and his prefect badge was gently pinned to it, shinning in the candlelight.