the seven virtues [tom riddle]

chapter three

He derided, "Why? Concerned that your wicked pet will find offense in such notions? My, Petrov, you sure do enjoy picking them with issues, do you not? He reeks of desperation and wound, but I suppose you know that already."

The witch felt her skin tingle with enjoyment at the apparent bother in his face, and she watched as he scowled before leaning against the wrecked table, sitting like a ruler after a massacre amongst Apostles.

The picture itself was worth remembring, tracing it out with light strokes against a canvas of depravity— a debauched autocrat amongst shattered porcelain and spilled wine, watching the redness drop to the carpeting with euphonious tones. Then, the artist would depict every single line that cracked Tom Riddle's demigod features, every crease that showed awareness of the diabolical force he has tempered with.

She envisioned it would be a humorous rendition of the Last Supper— a satire. Except instead of sacredness, there was only profaneness, and his crown was made of the bones and ligaments of the souls he had damned along the way.

He picked up a chalice she had broken from the ground, twisting it in his hands. Tom's face reflected in the expensive lustrous material, and the voidness of the ocean clouded his irises.

"If you are talking about Lev, then I will have you know he is as loyal and courageous as they can get, and you have no idea what you are arguing about," she defended heartily, shivering hands still on the knob as the attempted to twist it again.

A profound grumble of dissatisfaction resonated from her register, and she slammed her hand against the entrance in violence, then kicked at it with intensity.

Tom regarded her uncharacteristic behavior— the way she banged on the door like a brute in a cage, her body convulsing with mania as the defective cogs of her psyche turned with effort to have her advance. In the red-splattered apparel, she resembled a wailing woman in white, ready to shred the throat of any man that dared resist her.

His eyes fell on the spilled wine on the rug, and he clicked his tongue in displeasure. He was not one for alcohol, as the boy found it often clouded his judgment. Yet, even he could acknowledge the distress of a shattered vintage bottle, "You have made quite a mess, and I doubt the Malfoy family will appreciate their lavish dining hall being torn to bits, so I suggest you quiet down and hear what I have to say."

With her back still turned, she bit back fiercely, "And I suggest you take those shards and stick them in your eyes," then she glanced at the clock, and her being twisted, "What a waste of time."

But time? That she had enough, it was balance she lacked— and Tom Riddle was the accumulation of everything that had gone wrong in her life, of all the horrors and the cursed hours spent crying over moments that susurrated with despondency and failure. He reminded her of times when she had been too vulnerable, too delicate to fight against his dishonesty and selfishness.

"You will want to hear what I have to say."

"It matters to me least," she confessed wholeheartedly, and while her heart still ravaged for the boy, her mind had remodeled. Varya fancied believing she was well above his previous ways of manipulation, the deception that ran through his system much as plasma did, "You had your time to appeal to me, and yet you hid much like a coward. And tell me, Riddle— do you think I will drop everything for you? Perhaps, a few years ago, I would have, but I have no interest in being your lackey anymore."

The boy's features morphed into something sinister, and he bit back the need to obliterate her on the spot, knowing well that nothing would come of it. Her powers had tsunamied to the surface from her deepest ocean, and even as she continued to assault the door with stormy wrath, the shadows in the room flickered towards him. If he had not been able to defeat her, then, he surely would not now— and that hurt his pride above else.