CHAPTER EIGHT
"Secrets run deep when you're in a pit of vipers
Slithering, whispering, feel the venom poisoning me"
pit of vipers - simon curtis
"The Wit-Sharpening Potion is something that you might find to be especially useful, as it helps the wizard get a newfound sense of clearness. In the wizarding world, you will often find people mentioning it as an antidote to the Confundus Charm." Slughorn paced the room, some of his students' gazes following him, while others preoccupied themselves with making their origami frogs jump in unsuspecting classmates' hair. "Now, do not abuse this potion; it is not an academic performance enhancer. Furthermore,l will know if you use it on your O.W.L.s!"
A tickle woke Varya up from her daydream, and she turned around to scowl at an incredibly amused Icarus. He gave her a charming smile, teeth flashing, almost as if feigning innocence. His short hair had grown out in the past month, curling at the edges due to its weight. It fell over his forehead as he leaned over to pass her a piece of parchment.
The girl took it quickly, passing a glance at her professor, who was now scolding a student for making a paper frog hang itself from his wand, then opened it under her desk.
Are you going to Hogsmeade?
Varya wandered for a moment, thinking back to her conversation with Elladora. Her roommate had mentioned the upcoming trip to the nearby wizarding village, fawning over the many shops that sold carefully crafted goods. Petrov let out a small sigh past her lips, knowing very well that she would never be able to get permission from the woman she had grown up with.
As soon as Varya had turned eleven, her powers had begun showing without her permission, strange occurrences unsettling the villagers. The child had begun to see the little sparks of sorcery in the air, the darkness that spoke out from the woods, and just like any youngster would, she one day followed a trail towards the forest's heart. Her caretaker, Magdalena, had thought her dead when she did not show up for two nights, weeping at the thought of losing the girl she had grown as a daughter.
On the third night, the child emerged from the woods unscattered. She had followed the fairies towards one of their secret glades, trying to catch them as they flew past her reddened ears. At first, the fairies were not pleased with her presence, throwing little cones at her, but the girl persisted, smiling at what she thought to be a game. Eventually, they gave in, allowing her to spend two nights with them while feeding her nectar and small fruits, combing through her hair with their small hands, and telling her stories of their magic world.
When she started missing home, Varya bid them farewell and returned to Magdalena. She told stories of fairy dust and glamour to her caregiver, who was deeply unsettled by the child's worlds. Magdalena went to the town's mayor for consultation, who immediately passed his judgment.
"A witch! The Lord has forsaken us; he has let a witch grow in our village." he cried, demanding that the child be brought immediately and burned. Unbeknownst to him, Dalibor, the Dark Priest of Scholomance, had happened to stop by for his supplies.
He quickly sent word to the school's helpers, who came in the middle of the night, cloaked over their aging faces, and took the child in her sleep. Varya cried for days, demanding to be sent home, not understanding what she had done wrong, only for the Dalibor to lock her in her room. As a child, she would not know what had happened until years later, when one of the maidens that cleaned her chamber told her.
"Miss Petrov?" Slughorn's voice broke her from her train of thought, reality crashing her soul. "Are you quite all right? Would you like to visit the infirmary?" He asked, surprised by his student's uncharacteristic behavior.
Varya shook her head, rheumy eyes blinking fast to recover. Her cheeks had flushed, and her ghostly skin seemed to glisten with sweat. She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead, quickly drying it, then kept her gaze on her shoes, trying to let herself breathe regularly. Panic was a fanged deity that showed her glistening teeth, poisonous saliva dripping down in droplets of transpiration down her temples, and the quivering in her hands returned.
You are safe. Nobody can hurt you here. You are safe. Nobody can hurt you here.
"You look as if the Bloody Baron has just chased you around the Dungeons," came Tom Riddle's whisper.
Except him.
Varya looked at him, her gaze unfocused, and still glossed over. Spellbinding, his eyes were. Long, dark eyelashes framed them as if they were the most prized work of art, giving a soft undertone to their light. A cruel mind lay behind them, and its sparks lit the eyes with indescribable darkness. Cold, calculating, but still carrying the broodiness of a man who had seen his fair share of sinfulness. Tom Riddle was the epitome of the devil's temptation, not only because of his dashing appearance but also due to his all-knowing aura. He dominated the room, commanding it with a simple flick of a hand.
"I feel unwell," she told him a half-truth. Although she had not managed to shake off her sickness, she was feeling better. But to admit weakness to Riddle would have been foolish, and even when her past crawled from behind darkened corners, and her mind broke a little more than before, she plastered bogus smiles and let her eyes twinkle with fading luminiscense.
"You feel unwell?" he said, his eyes carrying something that Varya could not quite understand. "That is a shame," he continued sarcastically, "perhaps, you will succumb to your death, and I will not have to be witness to you passing love notes in class."
Varya gave him a horrified look, then crumbled the piece of paper Icarus had given her. She turned to Lestrange, silently giving him a negative shake of the head and letting him know that she would not be visiting Hogsmeade over the weekend. He gave her a pout, but then resumed taking notes of the professor's lecture.
"It was not a love note," she answered after a while, voice small. Varya did not know why she felt the need to clarify her correspondence's contents, but it irked her mind. Tom gave her an unimpressed look, not caring for it.
The class ended once the professor assigned them an essay on the importance of not using potions in competitive settings, and the students happily got up from their seats, making their way out of the chamber. Varya stayed behind, waiting for everyone to leave the room, then, she approached Slughorn.
"Professor," she began, a sickeningly sweet voice speaking in her stead, "I wanted to apologize for being so unfocused during your lesson. To be truthful, I have been feeling under the weather as of late."
Varya was not lying entirely, as she had been fighting off an autumn illness, but she knew very well it was not the reason for her being distracted. Slughorn sat down at his desk, slowly packing his scrolls as he waved her off nonchalantly, a gesture meant to urge her to come closer.
"Do not worry, Miss Petrov. I am very much aware of your outstanding academic capabilities," he admitted, "I have looked over your transcripts, and I was impressed, I believe I have told you so already. I do understand if you found this lesson to trigger your boredom, it was not as challenging to someone of your standing."
Varya gave him a sham smile, her sunken face making her cheeks stand out as her skin stretched, and her eyebrows knotted in a disturbing expression. If the man was bothered by her phantom appearance, he did not let it show.
"Yes, while we are on the topic, a friend of mine informed me of this afterschool gathering that he attends. It is hosted by you, sir, and I was told that only the most accomplished wizards and witches are in attendance," she let her face fall in faux concern, "but then I realized I had not been invited and...I do not wish to step my boundaries, but have I slipped in your eyes?
Slughorn looked at her, surprise flashing across his face, and Varya wondered if she had come on too hard, too demanding. She did not, by any means, want to seem as if she was beginning for an invitation, but her pride and curiosity had made her step forward.
"No, of course not, you are a very well rounded student, and I have only heard praise for your name! That is quite curious, though, as I had sent out an invite for you dated a few weeks back," he said, scratching the top of his head in confusion. "Riddle assured me that he would pass it on..."
"Riddle?" Varya asked, bitting back her annoyance. Of course, who else would have kept her away from such a meeting?
"Well, yes! I had seen the two of you talk during class, and I thought it best it come from someone you were acquainted with. Ah, perhaps his overbearing schedule made it hard to pass on the invitation. Rest assured, in any case! It would be a pleasure to have you at my gatherings. A bright mind like yours must be celebrated. Oh!" he suddenly stopped, opening a drawer at his desk and searching for something. He pulled out a calendar, then placed it on the table. "And what a great time for you to ask! We are to meet in a fortnight before Halloween!"
Varya nodded, a pleased smile taking over her face, "I will make sure to attend. Thank you, professor!".
She turned around and made her way to the door, anger in her steps. Varya discerned that Riddle had begun playing an idle charade with her, a push-and-pull meant to rattle her, to have her show some sort of emotion towards his authority and control. There was a warning in his actions, something that, much like the poisoning of Ivy Trouche, suggested that Tom's connections sunk deep into the core of Hogwarts. He was a demigod amongst commoners, a reference to Ares' means of battle and his infamous cruelty, almost as if the Greek god had bestowed the Slytherin prefect with all of the weapons he needed to vanquish Hogwarts.
As she stepped outside the classroom, she was met with the stone-faced boy, who looked at her through narrowed eyes. Tom pushed himself off of the wall, hands crossed over his chest, then approached her slowly. He lowered his head, eyes coming down to her level, then smirked.
"I did not take you for a butter-up, Petrov. Thought your pride had already suffered greatly after cowering in fear for years," he said, voice taunting her. Her nostrils flared, indignation rising at his hubristic behavior.
"Perhaps," she spat, inching closer to him as she raised her eyes defiantly, "I would not have to take such actions, had you not stolen by invitation!"
The boy threw his head back, a sinister laugh echoing in the empty hallway. Then, he straightened his face, eyebrows raising in ridicule. He reached to his pockets and pulled out a purple envelope, sealed with candle wax.
"This?" he provoked her, turning around and starting down the hallway as the girl reached out for it. "Ah, I had forgotten, you see. As Slughorn said, I cannot help but be consumed by my schedule. I do not have time to send out your mail."
He threw it back, past his shoulder, and Varya caught it with her hands, almost hitting herself in the process. She followed the boy as he turned a corner, still infuriated by his toying.
"Then why say you were going to deliver it?" the witch inquired, already knowing that he had not planned to give it to her in the first place. Still, she found herself indulging his methods, trying to find answers behind his psychological mechanisms and defenses. Riddle relished in making fools of those around his, but an arrogant man did not waste time on those he found purposeless, and so Varya could only discern that his schemes involved her.
"You already know the answer to that. Do no act daft, Petrov, or I might think you to be the same as the rest of those bloody idiots," he said, gesturing to a crowd of Gryffindor students that were trying to sneak in a basket of snakes towards their tower.
Varya stopped in her tracks and watched Tom approach them with a lordly grace, hands clasped behind his back and quick steps. He stopped in front of them, scaring them with his surprising presence.
"And what do you think you are doing?" he asked, his voice threatening. One of the Gryffindors, a petite girl with a pixie's ears, stared at him in admiration. Her friend, a fourth-year boy, looked between the two of them with distaste. He put an arm around her waist, dragging her closer to him and away from Riddle.
"Nothing," the boy answered quickly, then looked down at the basket of snakes, a curse passing his lips as he realized the compromising position they had put themselves in. "I mean...nothing?" he tried again.
Tom scoffed, pulling the basket from his hands and giving him an imposing stare. "Ten points from Gryffindor," he said, then sent them away. He turned towards Varya, giving her a startled look as if he had forgotten she was there, then walked past her.
Varya scowled at his retreating back, "Very well, then, go enjoy your time with your reptile friends. Merlin only knows they might be the only ones who appreciate your presence."
***
Tom was livid, face tightening with unresolved fury as he passed the staircase's shadows. His hands gripped the basket's edges, ignoring the hisses of the creatures that were inside it, begging him to set them free. They were odes of vigor to his ears, voices, and proof of his heredity, and he let the tickling sensation caress his ego.
"Soon," he hissed at them, his mind working like a clock. His robe flew behind him, making him seem like a rabid bat stalking its pray, fangs glistening in the low light.
He stopped in front of the wall, his pant uneven as his skin burned, ached and buzzed with a need for vengeance. He let a sinister laugh pass his lips, throat clenching as he felt his pulse rise. He traversed the hall, letting his mind stray to his needs and desires, then stared at the door that appeared before him.
He stepped inside the Room of Requirement, slamming the door behind him as he marched towards the wooden table. He sat the cradle down, then turned to look at the three paled faces that occupied some of the chairs. Lestrange, Rosier, and Malfoy exchanged glances, aware that something was amiss.
Tom looked at them, a slight macabre smile ghosting his lips, then sat down at the end of the table. The fire burned the wood brightly, casting a dark shadow on the left side of his face. He leaned back, a sudden calmness overtaking him. The silence was deafening as the boys gawked at each other, waiting for their leader to speak.
"Who told her?" the blue-eyed wizard spoke, his eyes trailing all of their expressions. He leaned over the table, a small scoff escaping his pink lips. "Was it you, Lestrange? With your pathetic desire for her attention? Did you try to strike a conversation in your pitiful attempt at earning her affection?".
Icarus looked away, ears burning red with rage and embarrassment at the thought, but he kept quiet, shaking his head at the question. Tom sighed serenely, tutting at his follower as Lestrange cast his head down in disgrace.
As he should, he thought. Tom had remarked Lestrange's love-struck gaze as he observed Varya, watching her with awe in his eyes whenever she had the faintest trace of a smile on her face. He thought it vulnerable, absurd that he would be captivated by such a superficial thing as the girl's appearance, and could not help but feel as if it were an insult to her intellect.
Tom turned his head swiftly, resembling a watchful hawk, as his gaze fell on Abraxas Malfoy. His right-hand held his stare, spirit blooming from his eyes. Tom thought it to be senseless and smirked as his eyebrows lifted.
"Was it you, Malfoy?" he inquired in a patronizing tone, head inclined as he scrutinized him. "Was your pride hurt by her brilliance outshining yours? Did you want to boast of your glory and accomplishment, make her feel undermined?".
Malfoy's nostrils flared, but otherwise, he remained fashioned as he answered in a steady voice. "No, my lord."
Tom let his gaze fly to the last boy in the room, Rosier, who had a shameful glint in his eyes. The powerful wizard scorned, "It was you," he concluded, slowly standing up from his seat. "You who has nothing to offer dared defy me!"
His shout rang in the room, the waves bouncing off of the walls as nothing could be heard except the hissing of the impatient serpents. Tom made his way down the table, his hand wavering over it as he approached Renold.
"Malfoy, Lestrange, out!" he beckoned, waving his wand to send their chairs flying back towards the back of the room. The two followers exchanged a look, unsure of how to help their friend as he received the end of their leader's fury.
Malfoy shook his head. He is alone; the unspoken message passed to Icarus, who reluctantly nodded. It had been Renold who had angered Tom Riddle, and it had to be Renold who felt his wrath. They both got up, leaving the room. As Lestrange shut the door, he said a small prayer for his friend.
Tom Riddle circled Ren, who kept his eyes towards the floor. The table began to tremble as the basket rattled with the maddened creatures. He had known, as soon as he told Varya about the order, that he had made an error.
Riddle stood behind Rosier, then leaned over the boy's shoulder to susurrate in his ear. "You must pay, do you not agree?" he said in a hushed voice. He sat up straight, looking at the basket, then with a wave of his hand, he sent off the top, letting the reptiles come out of their cage, raged by being held hostage. They slithered towards the two, and Renold felt his breath leave his body.
"Enjoy yourselves, my creatures." the Parselmouth spoke, his somber speech filling the room.
Tom Riddle made his way back to his chair and sat down. As he admired the fire's blazing flame, he let the saccharine sound of Renold Rosier's cries fall upon his ears.