CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
TRIGGER WARNING: MATURE
Rosier spun her on the dance floor, snapping fingers and tapping feet in a mash of inebriated movements, and Varya threw her head back in a peal of lively laughter at the absolute chaos. She was not the finest dancer, yet Ren was too far gone to make any sense of what he was doing.
His purple tie was hanging untied from his hand as he wiped it around, side-stepping and singing the words to the ending song as his curls ruffled. Varya herself had beetle red cheeks, glazed over by sweat from an eventful night, and her lips were pulled in a glowing beam.
She squealed as he seized her hand and twisted her around, her legs tangling in her dress, and yet Varya felt delight and excitement as she twirled around eagerly. The ball had been going on for a few hours now, and under Nicholas Avery's command, she had had her fair share of champagne to drown out her displeasure at Tom for abandoning her.
Elladora had escaped from the scenery some time ago, and when she came back, her lipstick was slightly smudged, and her eyes shimmered with transgression, an indication that she had probably capsized that poor boy's night with her teasing and coquetting.
"Of course, nothing went past first base. And that is where the fun is, correct? Always have them think they have you where they want, then leave. It baffles them to no end. You have a lot to learn about such games."
Varya queried if that is where she had done wrong with Riddle— she had given everything to him, had let herself fall into his schemes knowingly. After all, there was little time for her left to enjoy, and that made her reckless. She wanted to be consumed by everything, knowing that she would probably never experience love at its fullest.
The party had died down by then, and Nott was by the entrance with Lestrange, bidding the guests farewell as they passed through, and Varya threw herself on an empty seat, pulling her stilettos off and massaging her feet to alleviate the stress of a danced night. Regardless of Tom's disappearance, she had enjoyed the party, and the rest of the Knights had as well.
"All right, let us get you back into your room," announced Abraxas as he clutched Rosier's jacket, trying to have him stay still, but the young boy was still booting his feet around. He threw his tie around Abraxas' neck and used it to pull him closer.
He grabbed Malfoy's hands, then started twirling him as well, earning a laugh from the two girls that stood by the side, "Dance with me, you little worm!"
"Bloody Hell, Rosier. Quiet down, will you?" shouted Lestrange from the side sardonically, yet he accompanied them in leaping aimlessly around the dance floor, delighted in causing disorder. Malfoy tried to pull away from the two troublemakers, yet his arms were soon immobilized by them, and Icarus bewitched an instrument that had been left behind by the band to play an effortless tune.
"Dance, Abraxas! Move those hips that God blessed you with."
Nicholas pushed Nott towards Elladora before joining the other two men in disturbing Malfoy, and the younger boy huffed before extending a fatigued hand towards the girl, who smirked at the ferocious scowl in his eyes, "Avery says I dance with you, or he is shaving my eyebrows off."
The mentioned wizard yelled in approval from the side, then he continued shoving Malfoy around and moving his feet to the flute's peaceful song. The boys screamed every few counts, and the music much resembled that of an Irish pub rather than a refined party. Even Abraxas found himself joining in, an amused expression on his face.
"And I just happened to be the lesser evil, then?" the girl batter her eyelashes at him, yet Maxwell only rolled his eyes in abhorrence, not caring that he came off as aloof or disinterested. The girl was an older sister to him, and probably the only woman with who he felt comfortable enough to dance. She accepted his hand, then they stepped beside the rest of the Knights.
Varya watched from the sidelines as the group danced around the ballroom, snickering at the way Selwyn's face contorted into a scowl whenever Nott would step on her shoes or how Avery and Lestrange would scream the melody into Malfoy's ears. They looked youthful, heedless, and alive. A sight she would probably not forget for years, something that proved that they were still teenagers underneath all of the scheming and manipulation.
Her eyes darted to Riddle, who was sitting at a different table across the floor. He had discarded his jacket, his black turtleneck, and vest on display, and was fiddling with a half-empty champagne flute in his hand. He swirled the liquid aimlessly, and his eyes investigated the room before they settled on her, and Varya's breath hitched.
Tom raised the glass to his lips and downed the rest of the alcohol before placing it on the table and licking his lips. He stood up from his seat, then strode over with hands clasped behind his back and a fiendish smirk on his face.
Varya lifted an eyebrow to his extended hand, and Tom tilted his head, "It would be ill-mannered of me to let you go tonight without at least one dance," he murmured, then his eyes flashed to the rest of the group, "And we ought to join the last celebration before school starts again, do you not agree?"
Her heart drummed, and she wanted nothing more than to accept his offer, yet her mind was still clouded with irritation from his absence, "Not nearly," she stated bitterly, "At least, not after you ditched me the whole night."
Tom crouched before her, leveling his eyes with hers, and then rested one hand on her exposed thigh through the slit of the dress. He leaned forward, until his lips were close to hers, and his skin droned with expectation and desire, thrilled by her obstinate stare, "Unfortunately, I am always quite busy during such events, and truth be told, you are the first woman I have ever invited to such a ball. Fear not, for I am yours from now on."
His thumb trailed her lips as they parted in astonishment, and Tom found himself entranced by her features. He had heard other women whisper during the event, saying awful words about the Eastern witch's profile— how her beauty resembled a withered flower, something dead and cold in the Eden garden, an oddity amongst the blooming roses of youth.
Indeed, the girl had eyes dim as the night, and her smile never quite reached her eyes; she had no charm in her face, had not had so for a long time, yet Tom found that to be one of the better things about her— a face sullen with grief and despondency, something that showed that the witch had endured much in life and had conquered it all. No man that had seen as much murder as she had would ever have an intact mind.
"Are you?" her voice came in a hush as she leaned into the boy, closing her eyes as he trailed delicate fingers through her locks, calming down her mind, "I do not believe that for a second."
"Good girl," his lips pulled upwards, and then he rose to his feet, dragging her with him and on the dance floor. The guests had wholly vanished, and even the Knights had floundered into the main salon, letting the House-Elves clean up the ball floor.
With a snap of his fingers, Tom had them all exiting the room, and then he turned to face the abandoned instruments, charming them to play a somber song. The wizard's figure turned to Varya's, and then he clasped her waist and dragged her closer, their palms entangling together until their fingers were indistinguishable from each other. He glanced at his hand, frowning at the way his skin tingled at the contact, then quickly dismissed it and shifted to face her.
"Do not step on my feet," is what he stated, and Varya scoffed in exasperation, yet a smile graced her face.
He moved her easily across the floor, and for someone who had never had a date to such occasions, his dancing skills were well beyond those of boys their age. Of course, Tom had taken it up to himself to analyze the way people glided over ballroom floors for years, and had started imitating their moves soon after.
Varya, on the other hand, was clumsier, and she did, in fact, step on his toes multiple times, yet he did not care. Riddle much preferred her uncouth ways to the overly opulent ladies that he had waltzed with in previous years, forced by circumstances and socialization.
Then again, none of them had ever compared to the Eastern witch, and they never would. So regardless of parochial words thrown at her presentation, Tom knew they were never going to amount to anything. Then, he did not feel remorse when he had stuffed his hand in Elladora's poison bag and slipped some herbs in the women's drinks. He was not even sure what he had done, yet he knew it had been right.
He twirled Varya around, and she giggled as her gown spun around her, raven locks flying around and almost hitting the boy in the face. Then, he dragged her back to his chest, and placed soft hands on her waist as they swayed to a classical piece that had notes too low to be played in a ballroom. But they both much preferred the minor key, the somber acoustic.
"Have you enjoyed your night?" he inquired suddenly, eyes trained on her in such a manner the girl could only feel herself blush. He bit down a smirk at her response to him, and moved around her in a circle, palms connected.
"Would have done more so had I had a reliable partner," the Eastern witch taunted him, and then he twisted her until her back was against his chest, and he pressed ardent lips against her ear.
"My apologies. I should make it up to you, then, no?" Riddle murmured against her skin, and Varya closed her eyes for a second, taking in the way his body felt around hers.
She faced him, "And how exactly are you going to do that?"
Varya gasped as she felt Tom lower his lips to hers, and her heart drummed in confusion at the mixed signals she was receiving, unsure what to make of them. His hand rose from her waist and cupped her cheek as he moved his mouth eagerly, and he grasped her hair firmer, completely closing the space between them.
The boy's mind swirled as her citric perfume invaded his olfactive receptors, and he lowered as he pressed deeper into the kiss— he wanted more, he always did form her. So he hoisted up her body and let her legs surround his waist before he stumbled aimlessly towards one of the tables, letting her fall on the white top and detaching his lips from hers to look at her face.
Varya could see the ambivalence in his eyes, and her hand floated to his face as she touched it benevolently, hesitant. Her abdomen filled with a fluttering sensation when Tom closed his eyes and gripped her wrist, pressing a soft kiss to it. The wizard dragged her closer to him, then rested his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her intoxicating perfume.
He trailed his lips upwards, one hand sliding under her dress and up her thigh until he felt lace, and then he bit on her earlobe and traced one finger over her underwear. Varya whimpered and dug her nails in his shoulder, earning a pleasured hiss from the boy.
She was surreal to him, and he explored the fluttering in his abdomen as he continued to press against her core, listening to her soft moans eagerly, needing to hear her depend on his touch, on him. Riddle was not sure what it all meant, yet one thing was certain— he wanted her around, and that was enough for him to become obsessive, compulsive.
The witch could never leave him; it was unacceptable. With a twist in his gut, Tom knew that he had to make her stay somehow, and the only way Varya would be if everyone else in her life abandoned her. After all, would the girl not pick someone else over him if given a chance?
Regardless of his power and intelligence, Tom was not a fool. He knew that he was not an ideal man to many, at least not his true self, and Varya had been exposed to his macabre for too long. The girl had watched him murder, had watched him torture, and eventually, she would surely flee if given the opportunity.
"Tom," her whine roused him, and Riddle bit his lip as he watched her face move to his touch. This is what he wanted— her under him, dependent on his every move, begging him for his touch.
"Yes, dear?"
She moved her hips against his palm yet again at the way he called her, and her mind swirled with rapture as he slid a finger inside, pushing it leisurely, teasingly. Varya sought to have him go faster, yet he stopped her from proceeding with a hand, pulling at her roots and a click of his tongue. Marine eyes trailed her face, and they held venom in them, mixed with satisfaction.
"Please," she managed to splutter out as he pressed lips to her collarbones, nibbling on the skin and marking her. He was playing with her, provoking her by moving extensively slow and watching her get more and more flustered.
"Say that again."
"Please, Tom," her voice grew even needier, and he smirked at that before finally sliding his finger in and out rhythmically, helping her hips move against his palm as he watched her succumb to his touch. And that was all he needed.
The girl trembled beneath his fingers, and clutched to his clothes and hair as her breath fanned his chest, and he let his head fall on her shoulder, placing hid head near her mouth so he could hear her better. He felt her walls constrict around his finger, and he let his tongue dart across her neck before tugging at her hair aggressively, making her purr in delight.
His thumb darted over her clit, and he whimpered as he sunk his nails into her scalp, "Exactly like that, yes," he rasped against her skin, "Need me, my little witch. Ask for me. Move against my palm."
Suddenly, he took his fingers out, and the girl was about to protest before she saw him undoing his belt, and he grabbed her ankles and placed them on top of the table, spreading her legs out and pulling her underwear down eagerly. She noticed his jittery hands, the way he seemed to shake with restlessness, and her eyes closed in ecstasy as she thought about pleasing him just as he did her.
"Now," he began before dragging her close and placing himself right near her entrance, and Varya huffed at the proximity, trying to get him to get on with it faster, "I want to hear you— everything. I want to know how good it feels, and let everyone in this manor know as well. Lestrange, Avery, Rosier, even Nott, I want them to avoid your eyes tomorrow because they heard the way you called my name. Have I made myself clear?"
The girl was about to protest, call him a lunatic for demanding such things from her, yet he chose that moment to slide in her, stretching her out and making her head twist with pain and pleasure.
"Have I?" he repeated himself, teeth gritted to stop himself from moving in her, from touching every inch of her skin. God, she was so tempting, but Tom had to make himself understood above else.
"Yes," she breathed, then circled her hands around his neck, and with the first thrust, she had to bite down on her lips from the sensation. He gripped her hips and moved along with her heartbeat, keeping eye contact as he slid in until his pelvis applied pressure to her nerve point. The table rattled underneath, and the boy's lips went to her neck as he kissed against her apollo heat.
She sunk her nails in his back, then grabbed at his hair and pulled his head away from her skin and to her lips, mashing their mouths as he continued to thrust into her core, and he groaned against her lips when the witch tightened around his member. Tom's hand went to her throat, and he pushed her roughly against the table to lie flat, gripping her skin tighter and enjoying her erratic pulse against his fingers. He squeezed it, and listened to the way she choked on her own moans, flustered by the pleasure she felt.
Varya tried to look away from his stare, embarrassed by her messy appearance, but he pulled her chin back, "No, I want to know exactly how you look when I do this to you," his voice was hoarse, and he closed his eyes and bit his lip when she tightened again, her mind spinning at the way he sounded.
And it was her doing this to him, it was her making him feel like this, and that was enough for the witch to see sparks behind her eyelids as she pushed her hips harder against his length, then gasped for air as the wizard's hold on her throat tightened, and his movements become erratic.
"Say my name," he demanded eagerly, and he gripped her hair and pulled her up, then undid her corset ties swiftly, knowing that he had tied them looser precisely for this moment. How fitting it was— he had been the one to help her get into her dress, and now he was the one taking her dress off. Just as he planned to be her everything, and yet her undoing.
"Tom," the witch whined, and tears pooled in her eyes as the white dress fell from her shoulders and exposed her body, which he then placed lips against, bitting down on the skin above her breast, then trailing his tongue on it and around the center. He groaned at that, and how fantastic it was to hear his name in such light. And Varya was the only one that could make it sound like that, as if it mattered and had a meaning behind it.
"Now, do it louder."
And she did just that as he felt his hand rub against her clit, and began moving her hips against his palm, meeting his continued thrusts as they grew even needier. Varya breathed laboriously as he continued pounding against her flesh, and then she stood up and pressed her lips against his neck, sucking a tender spot right beneath his jawline.
It was as if lightning struck them both, and she felt the pleasure ripple through her first as it all came down to a proportional tsunami. Her vision swirled, and her moment of undoing was when Tom whispered in her ear, "Nobody else will ever make you feel as I do, darling."
It was toxic, it was catastrophic, and she knew she was headed for heartbreak. But did it all matter when Riddle touched her like this, when he kissed her with need?
He continued to thrust into her with a storm of agitation, and regardless of her sensitivity, the girl let herself enjoy the way he felt inside of her, and looked at his flushed face and cardinal lips that proved sinfulness. Varya smirked, "And you think any other girl would satisfy you?".
Tom groaned, thrilled by her disobedience and arrogance, and Merlin, she made him act against his own nature. He immobilized her completely, and for a moment he lost himself in his frantic movement, face scrunching and biting down on his lips until he could taste metallic as he rammed into her fiercely.
"Fuck, fuck," he rasped as he felt his nerves fire up. He pulled out just in time, and then he closed his eyes harshly as he came undone over her legs, murmuring out her name in reverberation.
His forehead fell to rest on hers, and then marine pools of voidness sparkled with the slightest flicker of admiration before the wizard fastened his pants and tucked himself in. Riddle grabbed a few napkins from the table, then bowed between her legs and gently cleaned her up as the girl watched him breathless.
"Up," Tom ordered as he dragged her by the hand, and the witch pulled her dress upwards to her shoulder. He spun her around, then raised the sleeves and tied the corset carefully, ensuring that they were secure. Then, he gestured towards the ballroom doors, and they made their way out of the salon, taking the stairs to Varya's room.
He held on the witch's waist, helping her move smoothly, and traced his swollen lips with a finger as they fell in a pleased smirk. The servants dashed from their way, avoiding their disheveled figures, and he chuckled arrogantly.
"I never quite know what to expect with you," confessed Varya, overwhelmed by the way he was treating her, and Tom bit his cheek in irritation. They had reached her chamber, and she pushed her door open before stepping inside and looking over her shoulder— an invitation for him to come in.
"What do you mean by that?" the wizard asked with a tense voice, and he stepped inside the room, his lungs burning as everything smell of her fragrance. The girl stepped to her desk, and contemplated as her back was turned to him.
Petrov turned to face him, then tilted her head as she contemplated him. Tom Riddle stood in front of her as he always had— an apparition of enchantment and refinement, a virtuoso puppeteer that enjoyed toying with everyone around him, including her. He was of an evil seed, and his mind spun the darkness of the night as he plotted and schemed. Yet, he traced calloused hands over her body in a way that spoke of attraction and want, and regardless of his apparent deceitful nature, sometimes sparks of truth broke through.
The girl wondered, at that, who he was lying to more— to her or himself?
Riddle had barricaded emotions beyond a wall of trauma and mistreatment, as it was easier to face the world when nothing could hurt you. Varya saw in himself a mind of catastrophic dimensions, yet he did not act as a man who was not biologically able to feel. His impulsiveness, his narcissism, his satisfaction— those things did not come from nothingness, they were just shadows of monuments that triumphed behind ancient walls, and his heart was the Colosseum as gladiators of mistrust fought against sentiments.
The problem was, however, that for a soul like his, the phantom of happiness and content would be poisonous. Tom was not a boy used to feeling anything but anger and sadness, and had long ago given up on the idea of someone caring for him. If the walls were to fall down, if the Colosseum would be demolished, then it might just be the second fall of the Roman Empire.
"Well," the witch breathed as she stepped on the marble floor with wobbly legs, "I am unsure what you desire, or what to make of everything you do. Manipulation, deceit— they all come easily to you. I do not understand what you want from me, to be quite frank,"
Tom frowned, then gently took out a small box from his pocket, and held it up for her to see. It was not much, definitely not the same value as the silver earrings, yet he had had it personally designed for her. A sly smirk fell on his face, and he almost scoffed at the impression he would give. Yes, a present, but the meaning behind it was more profound.
Her future Horcrux.
He opened it slowly, then took out the pendant and moved her hair out of the way. Varya gasped as the cold metal touched her skin, and her features contorted into confusion— had he brought her a necklace?
That was too out of character for him, the girl thought, and her stomach churned with dread as her mind swirled over the multiple possibilities. Was it poisoned? Cursed? Her delicate fingers touched the metal circle that dangled from the chain and skimmed over the illustration— a skull and a snake.
"Morbid," she commented quickly, then turned to look at Riddle, who was staring at her necklace with a dazed look over his face. Almost as if feeling her eyes, he snapped out of it, then smirked.
"Now, you can leave that family crest of yours behind and embrace your future. This symbol, the mark of your Obscurus, will mean much more to the world," he declared, his timbre grave as his tongue hissed out the words, "Many will fear it, but many will understand the power it will carry."
There it was, the truth— this was his way of marking her, almost as if he had put a collar on her neck, and now her leash strung along to his every movement. The hunger in his eyes, the way they darkened with monstrosity, it sent a tremble down her spine, and her arms crossed over her waist in fright. There was something ominous about this mark, almost as if it screamed of macabre intentions.
"And here I was thinking you were giving me a present," she scoffed with irritation. Foolish her, expecting anything to have changed despite knowing that he schemed the way he breathed— easily, mechanically, as if the same part of the brain that commanded that automatic reflex had also taken control of his intentions.
"I am offering you more than I have to everyone else," Tom admitted with a fallen face, "I respect you; your power and mind are far mightier than most, and that makes me see a potential ally in you."
There was openness to that— Tom had never given anyone much importance before her. Even with the Knights, regardless of their acquaintanceship and peculiar dynamics, he did not find that he needed them by his side quite as much.
Varya bit her lip in aggravation, bulging her eyes at his constant refusal to acknowledge that they had long passed the frame of camaraderie, and the gripped the scissors on her desk with wrath, "You are so utterly ridiculous, Riddle. Allies? Is that all I am to you?" her voice fell in waves of frustration, scorned by his lack of receptiveness, "We have slept together, for Merlin's sake!"
Tom seized her hand that held the scissors as she waved it at him with murderous intent, "That was only a way to relieve frustration by raising levels of pleasure. Surely, you did not believe there was anything romantic about it. Petrov, darling," he grabbed her and pulled her close, smirk fallen in arrogance, "I do not succumb to mortal sentiments, I am well above that. A flaw, such as love, will never defeat me."
"You are so cynical," she spat, and tried to pull away from him, but the boy only gripped her tighter, "No, do not fucking touch me, Riddle."
"You are mine to do as I please with," he muttered, and he frowned at her behavior. It was beyond frustrating when she was ungrateful, and Riddle found himself digging nails in his palm to redirect the burn from his chest to his hands.
"I am not yours!" she thundered, "You cannot say I am yours and then tell me you do not care about me. Do you understand that? Do you understand that I am an actual person, Riddle?"
"That is ridiculous, Varya. How can you not be delighted to be offered such an opportunity? Do you know how many would gravel at my feet for such things? Foolish girl," the wizard spat out as he recoiled from her nails that swung at him, "You are destined for greatness, yet you let yourself be held back by ridiculous camaraderie with those of weaker mind."
"Well then go and find those people, Riddle! Because I could care less for your grand conquest, and I do not want to stand by your side as you destroy everything in your way, including yourself. I want something else, I want more," her voice came in waves of resonance, and Varya's face flushed with absolute fury.
"What am I supposed to do then?" he screamed right back, releasing her and stepping back as if burned, "I cannot feel, Varya! I cannot feel anything! I am dead on the inside, completely putrified to the point where I cannot even experience mundane things— music, food, drinks. You ask me to give you something I am not capable of, as if you did not already know this. I am offering the best I can give— power and glory— yet you fail to see it."
"Of course, I fail to fucking see it when all you do is manipulate me! And that is utter bullshit, Tom. You know as well as I do that you only fear opening yourself to it because you find it to be a weakness of soul and mind, something that took your mother away from you, something that corrupted your father's mentality."
"Do not psychoanalyze me, Petrov," Riddle huffed as he avoided her stare, his face reddened by anger and jaw set with disturbing tightness. He clasped his hands behind his back, then pressed his lips, "You have no idea what you are talking about, and I fail to see why this would be any of your concern regardless. What I feel— such ridiculous things that you worry for."
Varya stopped moving, and her cape of lace stood behind her as a somber look fell on her face. He watched her half-turned face with trepidation, and then one corner of her lips fell in a sardonic smile, cherry-red lips parted in wonder, "Why is this my concern?" her brittle voice came through, and then mistified irises turned to him, "Use your brain, Tom."
His lungs expanded as winter settled in one, and summer in the other, and Riddle found himself stuck to the ground as a spectrum of painted leaves fell around his pitiful soul as it glazed over with morning spring frost. His eyes, sapphire, dark, twisted, clashed against hers, and the boy lowered them in absolute resent at her words.
It was as if he metamorphosed into something young, a greener version of himself, a man of beginnings and no ends, and Tom fought back the queasiness as he shook her features out of his mind, and tried to make sense of things. The myth behind the man— the origins of the Dark Lord, a boy who had never had anyone to care for him, and had lived life in utter loneliness. Yet, it was easy to twist fate with words and spin it like a disc of a sweet tune.
He was a marooned ship in the Dead Sea, sailed by one sailor that had long given up on finding land, and as days passed, he grew delirious from exposure and dehydration. He was a priest that had forsaken the Lord, the almighty, and had lost all faith as he bowed in front of the altar one last time. He was the last bullet in a soldier's gun as he saw the enemy near, and the corpses of his battalion stood behind him.
She could have been the land. She could have been the miracle. She could have been the grenade.
Tom's eyes burned with wrath as he looked up at her through sable eyelashes, and he blinked monotonically, a portrait of impassiveness amongst a gallery of expressionism art. Nimble fingers pulled at his collar, and his lips stretched in a grimace, "Do not dare say it."
She chuckled acoustically, nodding with irony as she bit on the inside of her cheek, then glanced at him with tenacity, "Why, Riddle?". Varya marched up to him, face proud as she let her lips move, "I—"
"Stop it, Petrov," he growled, trying to turn away, not wanting to hear anything from her cardinal lips. Her fingers grabbed at his coat, and he struggled against her. He pulled out his wand, aiming it directly at her heart.
Little did he know, there were easier ways to break her.
"Why? Scared you might feel something other than pain?"
"Not another word," he thundered, then pushed the Eastern witch back in panic as she came closer, sending her flying to the ground, and Varya screamed as her back collided with the mirror, shattering it against her ivory skin.
She winced as she felt her back throbb at the impact, yet gave a wicked smile at the pain, as it was utterly numbed by the pleasure she felt at Tom Riddle's absolute wrath. He fumed like a train in the Northern stations, and his face had colored as his blood pumped faster against rusted railroads that had been devised, yet not used before. His eyebrows had creased maddened anger, and he was not the composed sociopath he had once been.
Varya tilted her head, and danger screamed in her expressions as her eyes watered with anguish. Her mouth opened, and for a second, she debated everything. At some point, Riddle would find out about the locket, and when he did, there would be no place for her in his life. Her hands grasped the pendant around the neck, and she pressed her fingers against the engravement.
"I love you."
The world had been destined to burn on Judgement Day. Yet, it had never felt the loathsome stare of Tom Riddle, and Varya's heart shattered as the boy turned to void, and even darkness itself spread away from him, too terrified to stand in the way of his satanic tendencies.
It was the utter terror that settled on his face, the way his mouth puffed, and his eyes danced across her face, almost as if he was waiting for a punchline, almost as if he could not believe that she would ever be capable of adoring a monster like him.
Riddle was very much aware that he was not a man that most could fall for, at least not in his scrupulous true-self, yet the girl had seen him and his worst and still dared mutter such words of promise, and he felt himself grow angry. He had suspected her infatuation; after all, she showed many signs, yet love was something else entirely. It went past the realms of manipulation and deceit, it was more than a fascination of allure, and Tom could not handle that reality.
He could not dare think that he was anything less than a terrifying conqueror, a man of horrifying tales of greatness, an idealistic villain, because the moment he would do so, everything would shatter.
"Then," he breathed, stoic face looking at her, "You stand alone in such things."
She had expected it, yet it did not hurt any less, and she turned away to blink at watering eyes, and felt drops of crystal slide down her cerise cheeks, lips pulled tight to bight back wrecking sobs. Daggers stabbed at her soul, and he stood there, refusing to comfort her.
"Do I?" she whispered slowly, and regardless of her attempt at keeping herself composed, the witch broke before his eyes as she had never before.
"Love is nothing but a flaw, a fault," Tom Riddle said coldly as avoided irises of heliotrope, and the way they were clouded with sea mist, a storm nearing the edges, "Opening yourself to such vulnerability only makes enemies grow stronger, and to conquer everything, I must have no weakness, Petrov. I thought a skilled witch like you, a soul of the night spider's dark web, would understand. Yet, I find myself disappointed once again."
"Just as I am with you."
"Are you?" Tom scoffed, then glanced at her snotty figure with distaste, "Or have you been so brainwashed by your stupid feelings that you will never fault me? So ridiculous, so childish. Love comes with an expectation of someone sharing your feeling. I have no interest in doing as such, I only want you to depend on me."
"So, what are you saying?"
"That I will never be able to love you."
Varya grabbed on the desk's edge, using it as support to keep her feet balanced, and she glanced at the illusion of a human, the little devil that had completely wrecked her heart, and choked back words of anger and resentment. It mattered not how hoarse her voice would become at yelling such things, he was made of Hell's stone, and nothing could ever change that. She saw it now.
"Then," she managed to breathe, "I want nothing to do with you. I am not going to let you touch me and have me while playing with my heart like this. It is unfair to me, Tom. You are so unfair."
Riddle frowned at that, and his mind spun with conflict. A part of him wanted to reach out to the girl, fix her and ensure that she stayed sane, yet another part, the corrupted one, told him that he could not allow her weakness to destroy his plan.
Varya could try to leave now, and he would let her, yet when the time came, and he destroyed every string that attached her to the world, she would have to come back to him. It was natural, after all. She was his, and that was all there was to the story.
How could he want her and yet reject her affection at the same time? The girl could not understand his intricate thoughts, yet she was somewhat aware that Riddle simply did not want to let down his barricade.
So he hardened his eyes, and let out a small scoff past his lips as he let them fall in a smirk, "Varya, my dear, do you not see it?" He turned to the door, then paced to it until he stood in the frame, then he glanced over his shoulder, "There is no escaping me. The day you walked into the Hogwarts castle, you belonged to me, and you can try to deny that, but at the end of the day, all will fall in place. Run all you want, but I will always find you. You will always come back to me."
That was all he said before he left the room, slamming the door behind him, and Varya sunk to her knees as she sobbed painfully and clutched her necklace, feeling the way it broke her heart. The only proof of their faulted relationship that remained. What was most terrifying, above all, was the little voice in her head that told her that Tom Riddle was absolutely right.
***
I feel so embarrassed when I write smut, I hate myself. Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I will update again soon. It takes a little longer because the chapters are around 7k words now, compared to everything before chapter thirty.