CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Silence.
The first warning of danger had always been silence. The lull before the hurricane, the sand that settled before a tornado, the ocean that retracted before a tsunami. Tactunity of nature and being was unnatural in a cosmos ruled by entropy, where the primal state of everything was chaos. Nothing ever defied the laws of the universe, and balance was a human-made fantasy to preserve sanity.
Hogwarts was silent.
Almost robotic in motions, students clambered through shelves of books, and the dust of the library began to clear as the final exams of the year started. Quills scratched feverously against jaundiced-looking parchments, and the ink dried of many words that would be memorized for a few days before they faded into the nothingness of subconsciousness.
The Knights of Walpurgis stood at one table in the far corner, a silencing charm cast around them, and to anyone who might have passed by, they appeared as extraordinary students that had already started learning for their O.W.L.s.
To some extent, that was true, as Elladora Selwyn charmed her pen to write down every note she whispered between cardinal lips, braiding parts of her hair with jittery hands. Her parents, world-renown lecturers in the wizarding world, had been very clear on their expectations of the young girl. After losing the prefect position to Ivy Trouche, as well as an invitation to the Slug Club, the Selwyn heir had been on the rocks with her family.
Another person who was ever-so-stressed was Icarus Lestrange— a man many lauded for his fierceness in battle, yet none looked up to on the intellectual plane. He was far from being a lousy student, yet his star of knowledge never shone quite as vivaciously as the rest of the knights, so he had surrounded himself with multiple textbooks. And he marked, he jotted, he scribbled, and he teared up when it all became too much.
Nicholas Avery, despite his impish appearance, happened to be one of the most brilliant students to walk around Hogwarts. He, unlike most academics, was a homogenous solution of brain and street-smart, so he had uncovered his own studying methods long ago— focus on the most demanding tasks, those that seem to rattle every student, and only ever worry about the easier ones when the time comes. He had priorities.
Renold Rosier did not care for his exams, not when they were still a few weeks away, so his legs rested on the table as his head hung back in slight wave-like motions, humming himself a syrupy melody he had heard on the muggle radio not too long ago. His leg accidentally kicked Malfoy's inkpot over his parchment, which earned a dissatisfied growl from the heir.
"Legs off the table," he barked sternly in that authoritative voice of his, and Rosier peeped at him briefly before fixing his notes and inkpot with a quick charm.
"Whatever you say, mum."
"Do not call me that."
"Sure thing, dad."
Maxwell Nott rolled his eyes at their exchange, then stuffed his nose right back between the pages of his Transfiguration textbook, rereading the same paragraph for the nth time, almost as if he did not know most of the volume by heart. His photographic memory, a true gift of intelligence, had him at least a year ahead in academics, yet his obsessive nature always doubted his capacity to retain the information. Truthfully, Maxwell Nott was a genius, and the only person that ever competed with him besides Varya Petrov happened to be his trusted leader— Tom Riddle.
Tom stood at the head of the table, as sovereign as always, chin rested in his palm as cerulean eyes settled with flames on one lonesome girl on the opposite side of the library— Varya Petrov. His heart of stone drummed in his ribcage as he watched her weary eyes blink away somnolence, and she rested her cloudy head on the textbook in front of her before letting the luscious escape of false reality take over. Riddle shifted in his seat, then crumbled in his hand a piece of paper that he had just received for Naramir Borgin.
He, too, was silent.
***
"You are salivating on my DADA volume," grunted Felix Parkin as he sat down in the chair opposite of the Eastern witch, two coffee cups in his hands that he graciously placed on the table. When the girl made no move to awaken, he sighed, then poked her harshly in the side, earning a small scream and a sleepy death-glare. The witch's head shot up reluctantly, and she pressed gentle hands against stingy eyes.
Varya huffed as her fingers made to settle down her unkempt hair, then she took the coffee and sipped on it eagerly, letting the energy slip through her bloodstream and awaken her brain, "I have been studying relentlessly, and my quality of sleep has decreased."
Many things had been keeping the witch awake. Ivy had avoided her completely in their shared room; her recalcitrance was so apparent that even Elladora had taken pity on the Eastern witch. They had had no chance to smoothen over their differences, and the tension only grew exponentially under the stress of their upcoming O.W.L.s, so much so that an explosion was imminent.
Tom had been entirely absent, a phantom in the background of her quotidian routine, as the girl had taken her time away from him to go back to a semblance of sanity. They saw each other in class and the Common Room, yet both turned their heads away fastly.
Della Beauchamp had also been absent from her life in the two weeks since their return to school, and no matter how many times Varya had tried to approach her in the Great Hall, the Ravenclaw prefect would simply run away from her friend, too scared of confrontation.
"Has Della spoken to you?" Varya questioned Felix, who had been seeing the girl in their student patrol meetings. As Head Boy, the Parkin heir had to have interactions with the muggle-born witch from time to time, regardless of her evasive nature.
He shook his head silently, "Not since London, no."
"May I know what happened, then?" Varya probed further. She could understand the fallout between her and her friend, yet as far as the witch knew, Della and Felix had always been on good terms.
The boy shifted in his seat, and once again, his face went beetle red as he twirled his cup of hot liquid in his hands, "I kissed her," he confessed eventually, and Varya choked on her drink.
"You kissed her?" she hissed, surprised by the idea that the boy had ever liked their friend. Indeed, Della was a gorgeous young witch who rivaled those of Beauxbatons, yet there had never seemed to be any romanticism between the two.
"Bloody Hell, I did," he groaned, pulling at his roots, "It was an impulsive move. We were sitting in her bedroom, and she had this...this awestruck expression as she looked at those ridiculous stars on her ceiling and told me about her dad. And she was beautiful, breathtaking, and there was this twisting feeling in my chest as my breath halted. I wanted to touch her face, so I did, and she flinched under my hold but gazed at me with her doe eyes—"
"And you kissed her," finished Varya, obsidian eyes enlarged with astonishment.
"And I kissed her," breathed the boy in exasperation, "She kissed back, at first. Her lips are soft, welcoming, and my heart melted in her hold. Then, she pulled away and looked at me as if I had grown a second head. Of course, she fancies Malfoy, so what was I expecting?"
"Merlin, Parkin— I never even knew you liked her."
"I did not know either; it was an avalanche of surprise, believe me," Felix glanced around the room, looking for a docile girl with the smile of summer, "It is hopeless, anyway. For some reason, she is head over heels for that prick that will never look at her. I mean, come on!"
Varya sighed over her cup, before drinking it down until the last drop. Her eyes flickered to the table on the far end, where the Knights were susurrating like serpents, a mirage of elitism and poshness, and their masks of enamel covered depravity unlike any other. The witch's eyes met Tom's, and it all came back— a wave of catastrophe and longing.
She missed his lips, missed his touch, missed his voice, missed his candied words that distorted her mind, and played it like a harpe. How odd it was, that her soul belonged to the devil, yet no pact had ever been made.
The wizard furrowed his eyebrows, and in his irises, floated some sort of consciousness the girl had not seen before— close to regret, yet it was the faintest breeze in a hurricane that he owed her. The witch wanted to believe that he missed her presence as she did him, yet was very much aware that snakes were cold-blooded.
Felix groaned as he grabbed his head, "My head hurts," he complained, and for a second Varya rolled her eyes before realization settled in.
"Close your mind in, right now," she ordered in panic, eyes flashing back to Tom, who now had indignation plastered all over as Felix built up bricks around his thoughts, making them harder to decipher.
Petrov's heart pumped blood erratically as she grabbed her friend's hand and dragged them out of the library, not even bothering to glance back before the door shut behind them. She pulled Felix to the next hallway, then stopped and clutched her chest as her breathing became irregular. Damned Tom Riddle, always toying with the minds of those around him.
"He tried using Legilimency on me, did he not?" the boy inhaled by her side, hand still massaging his temples, and he thanked Heavens for being two years ahead of them and knowing the defensive tactics.
"Yes," Varya answered, and she pulled at raven hair in frustration, her pale skin glistening with the faintest sweat of frenzy. She had almost lost everything. If Tom had seen anything of proportion, all would be doomed. Yet, luck was on her side, and the conversation at the time had been on Felixius' affection for the Ravenclaw prefect, "I doubt he saw anything of importance; he had no time, but guard your thoughts in his vicinity from now on."
"Yes, ma'am," he quipped, then glanced around, "Let us head to our History of Magic class, then. Worrying about Riddle is pointless as of now; you must speak with Dumbledore first. When did you say you were meeting him?"
Varya pursed her lips, dread settling in her stomach, "Tonight."
"Well, finally! I know you trust in the man is lost, but he must be better than Riddle at least and—oh, what is with that face?"
The girl closed her eyes as they walked the corridor slowly, her stomach churning, "It is just, well...I am not sure what to tell the Professor. I want to protect the Knights, of course, and I have no intention in betraying them, yet how do I spin my story without letting everything spill?"
"Say only what you must, then," answered Parkin before he pushed open the door to their class, and the sonorous chatter of students fell upon their ears.
Professor Cuthert Binns, a scrawny older man who preached in a flat, monotonous timbre, only ever spoke of History and nothing else. His lectures were, perhaps, the least exciting at Hogwarts, and many took the class as an opportunity to write essays for their other courses. Varya immensely enjoyed the teachings, though, as she had always found history to be an essential subject.
"Take your seats," Binns ordered slowly, a small man behind a large desk, and his gray hair stuck out in odd patterns, making him seem lunatic and unsettled. He flipped the pages of the textbook open, and then announced that day's lecture, "Now, with your O.W.L.s approaching, I see it only fitting that we discuss the previous material. We will be going over the...the...curriculum."
His speech was slurred as he blinked with drowsiness, and then he yawned loudly before smacking his old lips in tiredness. Varya sighed, then shook her head before grabbing her textbook and flipping through the pages without a clear thought in mind.
***
The witch stood frozen in front of Dumbledore's office, her mind swirling with trepidation as she raised a flabby hand to knock on the sturdy wood. A vacuum of fright absorbed all sanity from her mind, and when the Professor's voice sounded from the room, telling her to come in, she swallowed in the void and opened the door, stepping into his space.
It had not changed much ever since her last visit all those months ago, yet it all felt so foreign to her. Once, she had considered it a safe space from Riddle's scheming, but now it was only another precarious spot.
"Varya," Album hummed from his desk, youthful eyes shining with surprise, "I was wondering when you would reappear. I thought it to be sooner. Nonetheless, I am glad you want to talk. Take a seat, please."
She did just that, pulling at her sweater as the heat of guilt buzzed underneath her skin, and the witch cleared her throat, "There is much to talk about."
"Indeed, there is," stated Dumbledore, sky-blue eyes analyzing her properly, "It seems you are quite troubled."
"I know," she managed to squawk out, pushing her hair behind her ear in an effort to keep her hands occupied, and maybe then he would not notice how much they trembled, "I know what I am. I know that you lied to me about why you brought me here in the first place; I know what Grindelwald wants me for. And I remember everything."
The flames leaped in the fireplace as the two wizards glanced at each other, sending umbrae on the decorated walls and unmoving portraits. The phoenix had returned to its cage in the far right corner, and its soft chirping was the only melody that filled the room as Albus pondered over his next words.
"I see," he mused, scratching his chin in thoughtfulness, "And I presume you have questions."
"I do."
"Go on, then," he prompted her, although the powerful sorcerer knew some questions were to be evaded.
"Why did you let me dig through my memories if the consequences were so catastrophic? Why gamble with my life as everyone else did when you were supposed to have my side?"
Albus leaned over his desk to glance at the broken girl, his finger trailing the glass of whiskey that he kept on his desk, and marine eyes spasmed as he took in her frantic state. She had lost hope, had forsaken their cause, and now there was no trust left in her.
"There is no such thing as gambling with your life," he muttered, "You see, we had been suspecting for a while now that your Obscurus had cracked through, and how fortunate we are that you are vigorous enough to keep it leashed for now. There have been concerns, though, and we have been trying to find ways of securing that leash without harming you."
"We?" asked Varya, suddenly confused by his words.
Dumbledore sighed deeply, ignoring her probing, then pulled out a document and handed it to the girl, "As you might be aware, Grindelwald has long ago formed a society to carry out his nefarious plans, and they have marked themselves under one symbol and called themselves the Alliance. Now, do you recognize this drawing?"
He pointed to a triangle drawn on one of the document's papers, a simple triangle with a circle and a line drawn inside. The girl shook her head, frowning at the design that seemed so familiar, yet she could not find meaning. Then, she gasped as she realized that she had seen it around Nurmengard Castle, "I saw it around his fortress when I was young, but I cannot remember what it stands for."
"Say, Varya...have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?"
"No, sir," the witch answered truthfully.
"The Deathly Hallows are a collection of wizarding objects said to have been made by Death itself, or at least that is how the Tales of Beedle The Bard would have it told," the Professor explained, then pulled out a paper and started drawing each part of the symbol, "The triangle is the Invisibility Cloak, the circle is the Stone of Resurrection, and the line is the Elder Wand."
"The Tale of The Three Brothers," the witch breathed, mesmerized by the idea that a story that she had read as a young child could have been, after all, reality.
"Indeed," answered Dumbledore, "Then, you must know that he who possesses all instruments will become the Master of Death, and so Grindelwald has been searching for them for years. He has managed to get one of them, the Elder Wand, yet the rest are scattered through the universe. Recently, he has been growing restless, and that is what has made us assume that your Obscurus had awakened. Gellert knows that he is running against a ticking clock, and that soon enough, it will strike midnight."
"He wants to preserve me by overcoming death itself," concluded Varya, then frowned, "But...surely there must be other ways. Such a task, of great proportions and consequences, could be easily accomplished through other means."
Albus raised an eyebrow, "Do you know other methods, Miss Petrov?"
She averted her eyes in panic, "No, sir. It was only an assumption."
The sorcerer nodded, although something in his eyes twinkled of suspicion, "Very well, then. To continue, Grindelwald has been making threats, and with each passing day, they grow stronger. I suspect that he might crack soon, and unless we surrender you over, he will strike against the school."
Varya rose to her feet, pushing the chair to the ground in a hurry as her locks ruffled in the breeze that started picking up, "I will not surrender to him," she croaked, "No, never again. Never again in his grasp."
"Of course, we do not expect you to do such a thing," Dumbledore calmed her down, then with a flick of the wrist, the chair was back up, and he forced Varya to sit down, "But, we do have a proposition for you— leave Hogwarts. Hide away with Newt Scamander, at least until we manage to ensure that Grindelwald is under control."
Varya looked at her fingers and noticed she was gripping the chair rather firmly, her digits having gone entirely white, and her nails dug into the material, scratching at it. Her whole body had tensed up with aversion, and she blinked away the liquid that polished her pupils over, then glanced up at the Professor.
"Hide?" her voice cracked, "Hide just as I have for all those years, while he slithers through cracks and sends his acolytes to haunt my nightmares? And of the creatures, what do I make of those? How do I hide from darkness itself when I am made of it?"
Her timbre had escalated, and she panted in fury at what the man implied— suggesting that she was to cower in fear yet again under the pretense of safety when her conscience knew well that there was no such thing in her life.
"I thought you would have a solution, that is why I came to you! I thought you were ready to fight against him and stop this madness. Yet, you are too scared to stand against Grindelwald, and instead wish to send me away as you have always done," Varya continued, her lips in a sneer of distaste and face rouge with wrath, "And how am I to survive meanwhile, I ask? You know, as well as I do, that this parasite inside of me is eating me alive!"
"That parasite," Dumbledore said grimly, eyes downcasted as he chuckled bitterly before tilting his head to glance up at her, "Is all I have left of my sister, Ariana, and I do not know what to make of it. It belonged to her, you see, and it led to her demise."
"So you play with my life to preserve her darkness, knowing well that it is killing me slowly?" inquired Varya, flabbergasted by his forwardness. Then, she drove her hand down on the table and leaned forward, before raising one hand and conjuring a spiral of darkness in her hand— her Obscurus. Albus' eyes mystified, and his face blanched as he stared at the shadows, "This is not your sister, Professor. This is a monstrosity, darkness, shadows, everything she was not yet all that killed her."
"I am trying to save you both," he stated eventually, finally looking at the living girl in front of him, "Scamander can keep you safe from Grindelwald. As long as you are at Hogwarts, he will only keep terrorizing the school, but if you keep moving, if you keep running, that will give us time to figure a definite solution to this."
Varya felt her faith disintegrate at her feet, and no matter how much she struggled to piece everything together, it all fell like sand through her fingers as her clepsydra of vitality slowly ran out. Yet, there was one solution that she had, and there was one person that had tried to keep her alive regardless of what his true motives could have been.
The girl shook her head, then she stared at the middle-aged man with loathing in her eyes, "I am not leaving Hogwarts. I am not a coward like you."
She pivoted on her feet then ran out of the office, tears of selfishness cascading down her face as she patted them away with the sleeve of her sweater, and Varya felt at a loss of words. She knew that her presence was endangering many, yet Grindelwald had made no moves since she had killed Pichler and MacDuff. Perhaps, she was only pulling on her time, yet there was no real reason for her to leave except Dumbledore's paranoia and fear of confronting the Dark Wizard.
Steps echoed in the hallway as she marched the stone floors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As Varya Petrov walked the chandelier-lit corridors of the castle, her Obscurus slithered through the cracks of the walls, trailing behind her as it poisoned her from the inside out. Figures of history turned their heads from their portraits as she moved past them, wondering why a young girl appeared so utterly broken.
Her hair, spun by Erebus, the god of chaos himself, flew behind her in locks of midnight, and her watering eyes were a spiral of the void as fear settled in her chest cavity, making it move frantically. She let her eyes wander around, knowing well that the true atrocity of the world had already shown its fangs to her. Varya had learned that in her first year at Hogwarts when her soul had been broken by everyone she had put her trust in, and she had watched those she cared for suffer in strive for greatness. While at Hogwarts, nobody would ever be safe as long as the Eastern girl paraded around, her Obscurus lashing against those who betrayed her. The witch was older now, much more mature than she had been when she had left Scholomance, yet her fate seemed to be one endless loop of despair.
"As long as you are at Hogwarts, he will only keep terrorizing the school," Dumbledore had said, so familiar in his timbre, "But if you keep moving, if you keep running, that will give us time to figure a definite solution to this."
Hogwarts was anything but safe, the students would soon realize, and as the silence of the night fell upon the ancient walls, danger loomed over the horizon, and creatures transversed the land as they approached the wizarding school, always on the look for one Eastern witch that never entirely belonged.
And how amusing it was, that so long ago she had thought him to be her savior, the one who would finally end the misery in her life. Suppose she had known what was to come, if only the witch had had the slightest idea of the terror that would trail after her. Back then, regardless of her situation, she had lived in blissful ignorance. At the end of the day, the only person that would save her was herself.
Varya ran up the owlery stairs, her heart knowing exactly where she was headed, then immediately scattered the birds before reaching for the knocker to the Ravenclaw salon. The walls parted steadily, and the girl swung the door open before stepping inside the study, her breathing harsh as she faced Tom Riddle.
Tom stood at the table, curls ruffled and textbooks scattered in front of him, and his eyes snapped to her figure with wonder as soon as the witch had opened the entrance to the salon. His soul hammered as he took in her teary face, and he rose to his feet, then breathed deeply as her perfume invaded the room.
He had not talked to her in two weeks, and his mind had fogged over with an indescribable feeling he had never quite experienced, a sort of dull ache that only soothed now that she was in his proximity. Her presence was benevolent, it encompassed his being, and the wizard had not even realized how cold his surroundings had grown until Varya had come back to him.
"You seem upset," Riddle's voice was modulated, and it played the soft song of a harpe against her cochlea. She swallowed harshly before approaching him slowly, magnetically, almost as if he was the only constant in her life.
Why was it that Varya could barely avoid him? She was painfully aware of his constant manipulation, of his deception. Yet, if she closed her eyes and let herself imagine that his gestures came from a place of warmth, all troubles seemed to dissipate into nothingness.
"Tom," she said softly, and she had to clasp her hands behind her back to prevent herself from touching his soft skin. The nights that they had spent together had been playing on a loop since they had parted, and yet she could not bring herself to taste him again, not when it was so bittersweet, "You said you could save me. I do not want to die, please."
Her desperation burned him senseless, and he bit back a smirk of satisfaction at the way she pleaded for him. Naturally, the witch had come back to him, just as he had expected, yet things were very much different now.
One hand dove into his pocket, and he felt the rough texture of the parchment that he had received just that morning. How much things had changed, and now in his soul, there was a battle of two predominant forces— Tom's need for her to be by his side and his absolute wrath at what she had done.
A venomous sneer covered his face, and with a flick of his wrist, the door shut tightly behind her. Varya turned to face it in panic, and trepidation accumulated in her core like an avalanche as she stared back at the boy she loved and noticed his apathy.
"Tom?" her voice quivered as absolute vexation infused in Riddle's features, and he circled her slowly, like a vulture closing in on the naive rabbit that had come too close to its nest. He stopped behind her, then, with a soft hand, he trailed the nape of her neck. Varya flinched at his coldness.
Tom leaned over her shoulder, lips close to her ear as he whispered with venom, "You have made quite a mess of things, have you not, Petrov?".
She made to turn to him, but the boy only grabbed her shoulder and steadied her to face forward. Then, he slipped something into her hand, and the girl glanced at the piece of paper with confusion swimming in her scorpion irises. Her digits opened the folded parchment, and then horror set in her stomach.
Dear Tom Riddle,
I am unsure why you and Rosier keep asking me about the locket, but if you so desire to know, my grandfather has told me that it went missing during the first week of Christmas break. The last people to be seen looking at it were a boy that looked, as per the shopkeeper's words, mischievous, and a girl with a strong accent. Please, do stop pestering me about this and tell your friend Rosier that he is a rotten egg for completely ignoring me.
Best regards,
Naramir Borgin
Riddle smirked at her completely mortified expression, then plucked the paper out of her hands and sauntered to the other side of the room, where he threw it in the fire, "Now, I assume that blameworthy look etched on your features is not because of Renold's uncourteous actions, but because you know, as well as I do, that you stole the necklace."
Varya blinked at him, unsure what to say, "I can explain—"
"And nothing would please me more than to hear your pathetic excuses and grappling, but save yourself the trouble of denying the obvious and tell me," He marched to her, then sized her arm in a tight grip, "Where is Salazar Slytherin's locket, Petrov?"
"I destroyed it," she half-lied through gritted teeth, trying to pull her arm away from the boy's stronghold, "Let me go, Riddle."
"Not quite yet," Tom said, and his tone grew more enraged with each word, almost as if he was bitting down on the sentence, "Surely, you do not believe me stupid enough to accept that answer? That locket is more powerful than you can imagine, and no spell can simply break it."
"What about an Obscurial, then?" the girl tried, and the flicker of doubt that crossed Tom's face was enough for her to continue, "Perhaps, my shadows broke it in pieces, unlike anything you have ever seen. Perhaps, it is long gone, and you should stop trying to look for it."
Tom's face turned an obscene color of scarlet. With a lithe move, he placed his wand underneath the girl's chin, murderous eyes scanning her face for any indication of deceit, yet the witch kept an apathetic stare, "You are playing a perilous game, Petrov."
"Am I?" the wand scratched at her throat, and yet she continued to stare at him with defiance.
"I do not want to harm you, darling. But I will gladly torture you until your voice is hoarse. Your ears will bleed from your own screams," his cynical tone susurrated, a cataclysm of indignation lacing his timber, "Now, why do you not sit down and tell me exactly what happened to my locket, lest I end up scratching that beautiful face of yours."
Varya sat down quietly, eyes darting to the door, yet she found it was too far for her ever to make it past the boy and safely outside. Regardless of their unspoken peace treaty, the witch knew Tom would not hesitate to hex her into oblivion if she tried to escape. So she looked up at the boy once more, then gave him a sardonic smirk.
"You will never see it again, Tom," she said sincerely, knowing she meant every word of it.
Riddle pursed his lips as he bit back the string of hexes he wanted to send her way, and his heart was encompassed by barbed wire as he gazed at the witch's face, eyes trailing her apricot lips and her high-risen cheeks, a portrait of suaveness and temptation. His hands tingled by his side, and Tom fought against touching her for the first time in weeks.
"Do you realize what you have done, you stupid girl?" he thundered, wand pressing against her neck harder, "It was not yours to take! It belonged to me, the heir of Salazar Slytherin, the rightful owner of the necklace. And you, a scrawny little witch, a thief, dared destroy it?"
Varya scoffed, then made to push his wand away, but the boy only grabbed her hand in a tight hold, keeping it from touching anything else of his. His skin roared to life where it connected to the girl's, and his mind fogged over as the rage almost subdued, but then he pushed harder against the wall that was forming around his wrath.
What was this? Why could he not stay angry with her?
"Too bad, Tom! Because it is gone, and no matter how much you scream at me, I will never give it to you—"
Her words cut short, and she gasped as she realized what she had just said.
"Give it back?" Tom inquired, the madness in his eyes burning lividly as his sneer deepened, "So you did not destroy it, then."
"I did," she lied, "All I meant was—"
"No," he growled, then turned around abruptly and clutched his chest, trying to control his heart as it beat erratically at her presence, "Do not fucking lie to me again, Varya."
"Or what?" she screamed right back, getting up from her chair and marching after him, "What are you going to do? Merlin's sake, Tom. Look at me!"
Her hand made to grab at him, but the wizard took a step backward, scrambling away from her as if she were holy water, and he a demon that had trespassed sacred ground, "Do not touch me!"
"Or what, then? Will you kill me, Tom?" her voice ricocheted off the walls, "Do it! I fucking dare you! I dare you to murder me right now, Riddle. Merlin knows everyone will praise you for it, right? Dumbledore will have one less thing to worry about; Della cannot look me in the eye regardless, and you..."
Her voice broke off as tears pooled into her eyes, and the boy dug his nails in his palms until they went numb to redirect the pain from his chest to his hands, and he tried to ignore the crime that pooled in his beings like a lagoon— a sea of troubles and worries Tom had no intention of addressing.
"You," she tried again, but her voice cut off as a sob rippled through her body, and Varya fell to her knees in a mess of tears and sniffles. She glanced up at the boy, whose expression was as stoical as ever, "You cannot even love me. If I die, will you even care?"
A question that had been keeping him awake at night as he tossed and turned in his bed. His mind screamed the answer at him, yet Tom muffled it with lies— to himself and to her.
"No."
Her vision had blurred from the drops that trailed down her rogue cheeks, and everything buzzed and shouted as absolute stupefaction invaded her body. Regardless of her intelligence, the girl could not seem to figure out through the boy's mountain of fallacies, and his words sounded through her being as everything inside annihilated itself. He did not care for her.
"Then, perhaps I should go," she said softly.
Alarm bubbled in his chest, and the boy blinked fastly, "Go? Go where?"
She raised her head to meet his stare, "Dumbledore told me to leave Hogwarts," as soon as the words left her mouth, the boy felt his mind break into pieces, "I said no, but now I realize I have nothing to stay here for."
"You cannot leave," Riddle stated sternly, eyes narrowed as his mind spun with fear of the girl leaving Hogwarts, leaving him. Yet, why could he not tolerate such thought?
Hopeful eyes gazed into his, "And why is that?"
Tom tried to make sense of his own thoughts, he tried to piece everything together, yet something screamed at him to harm her, to torture the information out of her. So he raised his wand again, and directed it at her chest, "You are not leaving this room until I have my necklace."
His childishness should have surprised her, yet all the girl could do was glower at the boy before she raised to her feet, body shaking with apprehension, "You are such a wicked person, Tom," Varya whispered with hatred, "I truly despise myself for ever loving you and for believing, even for a second, that you were redeemable."
"Do not dare insult me!" his voice was guttural as he ran a frustrated hand through sable locks, trying to calm his breath as it fell in heaps, and his mind spun, and his chest pumped, "Petrov, I will have your head for this."
"When will you understand that your quest will bring you nothing but pain?" her protest echoed in the room as she drew out her own wand, pointing at the boy with spite, "You will achieve nothing, Tom. You will lose everyone and yourself too."
"You have no idea what you are talking about, you—"
"But I do!" her frustration pooled at her feet, "You want to see, Tom? You want to see exactly what will happen to you once you make too many of your stupid Horcruxes?"
To Hell with everything, Varya thought. There was no point in hiding anything; there was no point in trying to protect and save a man that only cared for himself. And if Tom Riddle was destined to perish in darkness and loneliness, then so be it.
So she marched over and grabbed his hand, then her mind barriers came down for the first time in months, and she placed Tom's hand on her cheek as her eyes flashed white, and everything around them transfigured into the Dark Church. Before Tom could even process what was happening, he saw himself, or at least what part of him recognized at himself.
Terror spread through his being like a vine on an old house as he watched his being turn into a senseless monster, a creature that functioned on violence and nothing else. Then he saw himself die, and his mind flashed to the faithful day in the Rosier woods, when Varya had infused a nightmare into his being. It had been repeating itself on loop for months now, and whenever he allowed himself to dream, that is all he saw.
Except it was no longer a nightmare. It was his future— serpent face, red eyes, odious being.
Riddle gasped as he broke away from her, and they both scrambled backward, grasping at the furniture to hold themselves steady as queasiness spread through their bodies, and the boy trembled as he clutched the fireplace. Terrified eyes snapped to Varya, and the girl panted before gulping with dread.
"That," he heaved, pointing at his brain, "That is not true. I will not die. I will not fail. You have no idea what you are talking about."
"You will!" the Eastern girl cried out, "That is why the locket is gone, that is why the diary burned. I tried to stop you; I tried to help you—"
"No," Tom screamed, and then he flicked his wrist and sent her flying backward, her body hitting one of the walls, "No. The reason I fail is you— you messing with my plans since the beginning, betraying me at every step as if it were nothing. As is—"
He stopped in his tracks as his mind filled with suspicion. Her love, had that been a sham too? Was that Varya's way of manipulating him just as Riddle had done so many times? The boy grasped at his hair and yelled out in frustration, turning his back to the witch before he slammed his fist in one of the portraits, ripping the canvas right in the middle.
Tom gripped the frame as he leaned over and breathed harshly, and everything in him wrapped as his stomach flipped with the same tender feeling he had experienced after the dueling, some sort of fluttering he was not familiar with, yet attributed to the girl's presence.
She did not love him, then. Of course, how could she? He was a ghastly being, a python of catastrophic proportions that had burned the world to the ground. Moreover, he was a failure, a pitiful creature that had never achieved its purpose, and Varya had known that since the start.
Varya did not love him. Varya did not love him. Varya did not love him.
He clutched his chest and winced as he felt the misery spread through everything. The wizard knew that it came from a place of sorrow. Although he might not have understood positive feelings, he knew the negative ones too well, and the anguish he was feeling was because of the witch's lies. Yet, why did Tom care if it had all been a fabrication?
"Tom?"
Her voice resonated through his body, and the boy parted his lips as dawn settled on his being, and as if a prophet had whispered words of absolute truth in his ears, Riddle's galaxy spun with an unequivocal sense of awareness.
No, no, no, no.
Varya reached out to stroke his shoulder with apprehension, and then the boy blenched and shifted to face her, his face shimmering with perspiration. His eyes enlarged as they fell on her soft figure, the one that he had touched so many times. Repulsion, disgust, abhorrence— they all settled in his guts as he felt the warmth radiate through his core.
Fuck, Tom cared for her.
"Do not touch me," he rasped as he pointed the wand at her with a shaky hand, and his throat constricted as he saw the fear flash in her eyes.
"What are you doing?" Varya whispered, noticing the way he gripped the wood in his hands, and knew that he only ever did so when he was about to battle.
"You lied to me," his loud voice boomed through the room. The wizard's hand flew to his head once again, and he pressed against his temples where pain throbbed under thin skin, and his breath was shaky as he tried to extinguish the disturbing feelings that had taken over his being.
"To protect you, to save you!" argued the girl, yet her voice quivered as he stepped closer, eyes mystified with lunaticism and wickedness, and his lips fell in a thin line as his mistrust and paranoia took over.
"Varya, for the love of fucking Merlin, stop lying to me!"
"I am not!" she cried out, "I love you; can you not understand that?"
"Lies!" his voice trembled, and his eyes spasmed around the room as he felt it closing in on himself. Tom had never been so unbalanced, had never felt so out of control. His future— it was gone in flames, and the uncertainty of it all he could only attribute to one person. Everything that was wrong with him— it all tied down to her.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
Varya threw frustrated hands in the air, then grabbed a book from the table and threw it against a wall in absolute madness and rage, her breath catching in her throat as she bit back another sob. Why did he not believe her?
"You are a liar, a deceiver. From the very beginning, you have been my downfall and have done nothing but undermine me. Love? Is this what you call love?" he screamed, "If you loved me, you would help me achieve everything I wanted, not destroy my plans."
"Do you not understand that your plans lead to your demise? Your bloody useless Horcruxes will drain you of everything that made you powerful— your intelligence, your charm, your power. They will all be gone if you pursue this madness."
Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!
Tom marched around the room, hesitant and unsettled for the first time in his life. No. There had to be a way to make everything work, some form of achieving all he had planned and still keeping his vigor. The girl was wrong; she could not know what she was talking about. All of this— it was only a plan to have him paranoid. Then, when he would step down due to her scheming, perhaps she would try to take everything over.
No, no, she would not. That was ridiculous, and the girl had no intention of ever harming him. Tom knew that Varya had been his only source of light in the darkness that he had nested himself in, and her power alone was enough for him to reach his goal.
Of course, she wanted it all for herself! Who would not? She was a liar, a manipulator, a deceiver, and Tom had to stop her now. If he did not do it, if he did not end her, it would all fall—his empire, his crown, they would be in the wrong hands.
KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER!
Tom turned to face her, and then everything stopped. Varya watched as he slipped into his sociopathic calmness, and an aura of grotesque and macabre surrounded his being as he advanced toward her— slowly, tentatively, slithering like a serpent through tall grass.
"Tom, what are you doing?" her voice trembled as onyx eyes gawked at him with fear, and the boy's chest fluttered with repugnant affection. Tom wanted to touch her skin, trail his lips along her neck as she whimpered his name in a saccharine note, feel her breath against his cheek as he felt her inside and outside.
He raised his wand.
Varya fell to her knees before him, and her hands trembled as she tried to grasp the table behind her, and her ebony hair fell in her face as she cried in fear, and in sorrow, and in love.
She said a prayer.
Tom dug his nails in his hand yet again, but this time there was no redirecting the pain; there was no numbness. All he felt was the way his soul seemed to break at the sight of her suffering, and he knew he could never allow her to do this to him. He could not be weak. He could not be mortal.
He closed his eyes.
"I love you, Tom."
She kept hers open.
"Avada Kedavra."
***
This is so funny, oh my god. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I posted angsty Varya X Tom edits on my tiktok if you want to check them out. See you next time!