CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The funeral had been odd.
They had brought her a silver coffin, and had even placed emerald gemstones along the edges and in intricate ornaments on the top, designing some peculiar serpent form that did not truly fit Ivy Trouche. It was an open-casket ceremony, and they placed her in a small chapel down in Hogdsemade, because Hogwarts did not have a proper burial ground.
Her parents had come fastly, and they had arranged the school ceremony for her friends to say goodbye before they would take the body back to Yorkshire and have a proper funeral for her close family. Varya felt queasiness spread through her whole being at the thought of the Trouche family having to travel with the deceased body of their only daughter.
Ivy's mother was a wonderful woman, regardless of her fine lines near her eyebrows that had accumulated from one too many stern frowns, and she had light hair that fell in soft waves just like her daughter. Her father was an authoritative man, with a small beard and blazing eyes, and he marched around stiffly as his eyes darted around the little chapel, clearly deeming it below his daughter's worth.
Even so, he held his wife affectionately as she wept over their child's casket, grasping at the edge as she sunk to her knees and lowered her head until it touched the edge of the coffin. She wailed Ivy's name in the stone-built chamber, and it echoed through every attendees' soul— the cry of a mother that was burying her only child.
Varya stood in the back, hands trembling as she fought back unphantomable anxiety, and through her ears, the mother's cry played on repeat, reminding her that her decisions had killed one of her closest friends. Her black dress fell around her figure like an unfitting pillowcase, and her skin had turned gray from lack of sleep and malnourishment. The guilt was devouring her from inside out, and there was an abyss of desolation in her stomach that she could not entirely fill.
The only other person in the room that seemed to be as devastated as Varya was Della Beauchamp, who also stood near one of the walls, gripping on a chair until her knuckles turned white, and her skin had blanched as she stared at Ivy's mother crying. Felix was by her side, and they seemed to have rekindled their friendship in a moment of weakness, although Varya could tell from the affectionate expression on his face that he still cared for the Beauchamp girl.
The Eastern witch strived to move her feet across the floor and get closer to the basket, yet something stopped her from doing so, and instead, she sat down on one of the church's benches in the back, where Renold Rosier stood in an utterly unkempt state.
A terrifying look glossed over his eyes, and his hair was sticking out in odd directions as he flung his head back to take another sip from his alcohol flask. Then Ren set it aside, and his hand immediately flew to absentmindedly press against the skin where his previous injury had been. And Varya knew— she knew he was still in pain, mentally and physically, and yet he was trying to appear as collected as possible.
"I take it you are as squeamish at funerals as I," stated the girl, yet her voice was so weak it was barely audible. Ren turned his face halfway, and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes.
"Brings back bad memories," he murmured, then downed some more of his drink. His gaze fell on Ivy's mother, who was only now letting go of the casket, "No mother should have to bury their daughter."
There was something oddly specific in his voice— the way it cracked ever so slightly as his timbre switched to a higher pitch. Then, he cleared his throat and turned his face away, pretending to be interested in the Christian paintings that stood on the walls.
"Are you religious?" he asked suddenly, "I am not. I believe that ceremonies such as this one, the pretense of sending your loved ones to some higher ground— they have nothing to do with pleasing any God; they are only a way that we settle our ache from losing someone by lying to ourselves and making up some fantasy land. All so that we can pretend they are not truly gone, and that we might see them again when the time comes. Bullshit, I say. I do not believe in God."
Petrov inclined her head, then sighed deeply, "I do," she admitted, "In some way, at least. I believe that magic came from Hell, and with so many demons wandering around, I have to. I know sigils that have been passed down from Satan's lore itself, and so if I trust in the existence of evil, I must also believe in good, right?"
"So you truly think there is a God?" chuckled the boy bitterly, "Well, then, I must have done something wrong for him to thunder down on me as such."
"Lack of faith would be enough," pronounced the girl— an attempt at a jest, yet it fell flat as she could not bring herself to mask her suffering with gaiety, "And yes, I do. But make no mistake— He is not the divinity our scriptures have made him be, and each religion is an interpretation of the needs we have as a race. Regardless, no ruler has ever only been truly good, so why should God be?"
Rosier said nothing else, only glanced around the room until he spotted the door to the side opening, and in stepped Icarus Lestrange and Maxwell Nott, both dressed in dark black suits, and their ties so tightly knotted that they pressed against their necks properly. None of them had enjoyed Ivy Trouche's company much, and to say they wept for her would be an enormous lie, yet paying respects was the right thing to do.
Both boys stumbled around ineptly, unsure what to tell the parents— would they lie and say they thought highly of their daughter? And if Ivy's father asked them any specific questions, what fables would they spin from their needle of deceitfulness?
Thankfully, serpent tongued boy and fellow Slytherin prefect, Tom Riddle, chose that moment to walk in and save the two from becoming a blubbering mess in front of the funeral guests. He promptly bee-lined to the parents, introducing himself gallantly. Varya watched him from the sidelines, admiring the way the black suit jacket encompassed his shoulders ever-so-perfectly, and his hair stayed neatly gelled in soft waves. His dark button-up was paired with an emerald tie, and his prefect badge was gently pinned to it, shinning in the candlelight.
He shook their hands softly, then bowed his head as a sign of respect, eyes darting to the casket. Then, a well-designed mask of grief seemed to fall over his place, and had Varya not known his utter hatred for the Golden Girl, she would have believed it to be true.
"He is quite impressive, is he not?" snorted Rosier, his words slurred as the alcohol finally started poisoning his thoughts, "Such a facade, a mirage of an undoubtfully perfect boy. The jokes write themselves."
"You might want to quite down, lest he hears you."
"Part of him knows, I think, that I am the least loyal in his little brigade," admitted the deserter Knight, "Do not get me wrong, I do look up to him greatly. He is the epitome of everything my family has valued for generations, and to be completely honest; I still have some of those values in my core. Riddle is brilliant, truly, and under his command, we will achieve many things. But there are moments, such as this one, when I wonder if it is all worth it."
"Selling your soul to a demon?" replied Varya caustically.
Ren chuckled, "Precisely," he smirked knowingly, "Is power really worth it? Heavy is the head that wears the crown, they say, and being in such a position surely has its downsides. The games, the darkness, the deceit— it gets tiring. Sometimes, all I want to do is be like those brainless classmates of ours, and only care about the next person I am going to shag or something—"
"Ren!" the girl gasped, appalled at his lack of manners.
"Oh, please. Stop acting so prim and proper, as if you have not slept with two of us already. Accepting the reality of your sexual desires is the first step to owning yourself— let go of the stigmas that society has placed against basic human needs in an attempt to shame us into submission and criticize us."
Varya shook her head, yet the ghost of a smile stayed on her lips, and she admired Ren's carelessness, the way he lived his life as if it were about to end tomorrow. As reckless as he was, the boy was extremely wise for his age, even if it would not appear as such at first glance. He never studied, never practiced, and always played around during class— yet, when it came down to it, he took his exams seriously and managed to stay part of the SlugClub.
With a bitter feeling in her chest, the witch realized she would miss him and his endless chatter. Her mind stayed on the day they had first interacted properly, in the Astronomy Tower during their shared class. Ren had told her about the SlugClub, and ever since, he had always been by her side silently. Perhaps, he had been the first Knight to offer her warmth, even before Icarus, and for that, he would always have a special place in her heart.
The girl glanced at her fingers, pulling at the dead skin around her nails with dread, and she bit on her lip anxiously before clearing her throat, "I am, uh— I am leaving by the end of the week."
Rosier snapped his eyes to her, alert and astonished, "What do you mean you are leaving? Why?"
"The attack on Ivy," Varya whispered, eyes darting around the room, "It was orchestrated by Grindelwald. Dumbledore believes that he is still out for blood, or at least trying to balance the scales after we killed some of his acolytes, and as long as I am here, people are not safe."
"So instead of confronting Grindelwald like everyone expects him to, he lets you take the blame and ships you off," the boy scoffed, shaking his head in annoyance, "I always thought him to be brilliant, but Riddle is right in saying he has a weak character. He pretends to be so righteous, then easily dismisses responsibility when he knows nobody else can do it."
"He will confront him," assured Varya, "Just not right now. He has other things to do first."
"Yeah, other things," answered Ren bitterly, "Meanwhile, people die because he will not take action."
"Ivy's death is on me, nobody else," Varya's voice shook, and she brought her fingers to her mouth, chewing on her nails as her eyes darted back to the coffin. She had not seen the corpse yet, too scared to face reality.
Renold gave her a blank stare, then swung his flask again, letting the bitter drink burn down the truth from his throat— Varya could not know that it had been Della that had caused Ivy's death; otherwise, things would go south very fast. Even with his need to protect her, the boy knew the news would only break the girl. So, instead, he said something else.
"We are all to blame," he smacked his lips to dissipate the taste of whiskey, "It is a domino effect, really, and pinning it on one person only will not justify what has happened. It is on Tom for taking you with him to Albania, it is on me for not telling you about your Obscurus earlier, it is on you for not leaving, it is on Dumbledore for not taking action earlier, and it is on Ivy for always involving herself in stuff she should never have been part of."
It should have been comforting, but it was not. Even so, Varya gave him a forced smile, then proceeded to play with her hair, hands restless, and mind alert. Tom had finally bid goodbye to the Trouche couple, and was now standing with Lestrange and Nott on the sides, murmuring something that was probably not of sane quality.
Then, his gaze shifted around the room, and pavonated irises settled on the Eastern witch's figure, judicious and stoic. Tom straightened himself up when Varya gazed back at him, and he pulled at his tie, then fumbled with it anxiously. He had not talked to the girl much since he had attempted to use the curse on her, and there was a longing feeling that had been residing in his chest for the past few days.
Good, he thought, as it should be. After all, he had to use the agony to recreate himself, to fulfill the task he had been destined to do as the heir of Salazar Slytherin, and regardless of any nuance of compassion he might have developed for the girl, Tom had to ignore the drumming in his heart whenever she looked at him with such softness, as if he was made of moonshine and the early frost of spring mornings.
Yet, there he was, standing still in the midst of a funeral, only able to glance at her, with his hands jittering in his pockets as he tried to contain himself from walking up to her and hearing her voice. It was so absolutely disgusting that a man as he had been reduced to a mess of juxtapositions in regards to a woman he undoubtedly cared for.
It clashed against his arrogance, and he found that he was not sure which part screamed louder— his selfishness as it claimed the witch as his own, marking her down as something he rightfully deserved and possessed, or the absolutely agonizing misery that told him she would never care for him, not when he belonged to the world of the unearthly, gruesomeness, and sinfulness.
Varya was the one that averted her eyes first, feeling her pulse ram against her skin, and she pressed a cold finger on her wrist, counting the beats and enlarging her eyes when she discerned just how fast her heart truly beat for the boy.
"Have you told him?" inquired Rosier as he glanced at his leader.
The witch shook her head, "No," she answered in a terrible whisper, "I have been thinking about whether I can even face him after what he did. How terrible must it be that we have tried to kill each other repeatedly, yet I find that nobody quite fits me as he does? Is that not odd?"
"Well, there was nothing normal, nor sane, to begin with when it came to the two of you. He is a sociopath with murderous tendencies, quite literally a serial killer, and you are an Obscurial with anger management issues. You have tried to destroy the school and annihilate all of us at least once."
Varya sighed deeply, then rolled her eyes at the remark, "Even so, I am not sure how to talk to him," she continued, "I am not sure he will care that I will go."
"He will; believe me," answered Rosier, "He will not show it. Perhaps, he will even act as if he is indifferent to it, but we have all been bracing ourselves for Riddle to break once you leave. None of us expected it to be this soon, of course."
"If you say so."
"I do not know who is more oblivious to his feelings— you or him," snorted the boy, "Anyhow, I believe there is someone else you should talk to first."
When Varya raised a confused eyebrow, Ren grabbed her head and spun it to face the Knights, then pointed to Icarus Lestrange, who was talking to Nott over a glass of red wine. The girl pursed her lips, and of course— how could she have forgotten? The boy had given her everything, and her disappearance would surely rattle him.
The witch excused herself, then slowly got up from the bench and made her way down the corridor until she reached the group of three men. Icarus immediately brightened at the fight of her and tipped his head courteously, Nott gave her a nod of acknowledgment, and Tom stared at her without saying anything.
"Hello," she greeted them, specifically avoiding to look at Riddle, who had crossed his arm in defiance. The girl turned to Lestrange, not even facing Tom's direction, yet the side that was near him buzzed with electricity at his proximity, "Icarus, may I speak with you?"
"Of course, darling," he said cheekily, then smiled at her openly. Tom's eyes darted between the two, and he stuffed his clenched fists in the pockets of his suit, trying to hide away the apparent sign of irritation.
"In private, please?" continued Varya, and then her past lover nodded and handed his cup of liquid to Maxwell, who sniffed it before scrunching his nose— it was no expensive liquor.
Varya pivoted on her heels, then turned around to leave the church, her heels clicking against the stone as Icarus walked by her side, and she could feel Riddle's burning stare as she left. It took everything in her to not turn around and face him, either to hex his eyes out or kiss him madly.
Once they opened the door to the chapel, they stepped outside to the Main Entrance, where a small roof barely shielded them from the pouring droplets as they fell from granite and onto the cold fauna, cascading like a curtain of misery as the gloomy weather matched the current circumstances.
"What is it, love?" asked the boy with his sophisticated accent, and Varya took a moment to analyze him. Icarus Lestrange had been an odd development in a situation she had never expected, and their relationship had been tumultuous at best.
The first time they had met, he had disregarded her as an opponent during a dueling class, and had called her a coward for hiding away from Grindelwald. Then, he had continued pestering and teasing her for weeks, somewhere between banter and playful flirting that was so characteristically for their age. Eventually, the boy had become smitten with her, and even though she had never returned his love, he had cared for her wholeheartedly.
And perhaps Varya had not loved him, but that did not mean there had not been a connection between them. In her own way, she had cared for Icarus deeply, and although the timing of their relationship had not been right, he would always be a person of importance to her— the witch's first boyfriend, her first lover, the only man that had ever confessed to loving her.
There was such purity in the way he glanced at her, with suede eyes that carried the fever of every apollo in the constellations of the night sky, and a devotion that she could never accept— she was not worthy of his love, not after everything she had done— so much so that it was easy to forget who the boy really was.
Icarus, just like the rest of the Knights, was a ruthless killer— he had always been Tom's preferred general, a master of dueling and deceit, yet he had only ever shown his gentle side to the girl. Even during their confrontation in the Forbidden Forest, Icarus had almost sacrificed himself to save Nott, and that was proof of loyalty unlike any other. But that was Lestrange— every fighter had a heightened sense of commitment, and the boy would die in battle before letting anyone destroy his comrades.
"I have to leave Hogwarts," confessed Varya, and then she added, "By the end of this week. And I wanted you to hear it from me, because I think you deserve that after everything I have put you through."
The blues that fell on his features was evident, and Icarus blinked fastly as he shifted on his legs, eyes darting to the sky and then back at her face. There was a beat of silence where the boy attempted to collect his thoughts, and then he simply reached out to touch the side of her face. A rueful smile graced his features, and his thumb caressed her cheek as he had always done during their months of dating.
"I was expecting it, especially after everything that happened," he confessed, "Of course, not this fast, but do you want to hear the truth, Varya? I believe leaving Hogwarts is, for now, the best thing you could do for yourself. You would be safer under Dumbledore's watch, and that is what matters most, although my heart does break when I realize I will not see you around anymore."
"Maybe I will come back," the girl said weakly, although they both knew it would not happen any time soon, if at all.
"Maybe," Icarus reassured her, "And perhaps things will be better by then."
They stood there for a few seconds, staring at each other as if it were the last time they would catch a glimpse of their faces, as if that moment in time was ripped from existence itself— some sort of niche they had both created, were their feelings intertwined and spiraled into a bouquet of flowers that only ever bloomed with tenderness, and the girl remembered the black roses he had given her once. And things had been simpler then; they had been easy.
Now, a universe of catastrophe awaited them, and in their funeral clothes, the two past lovers embraced each other eagerly, Varya's hands clutching on his suit with quivering hands, sobbing into his shoulder as he played with her hair softly and held her tightly, whispering words of comfort into her locks before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.
His love had been sincere regardless of her beliefs, and although superficial at first, it had developed into something more. Even after their unfortunate separation, Icarus had loved her solely, and it was that reason that he had decided to let her go— find her happiness, even if it was with Tom Riddle.
"I will see you again," the boy said, and how peculiar it was for him to finally be the one she clung to, the one she relied on for her stability. Alas, it was too late, and their story had ended abruptly.
Icarus was thankful, nevertheless, that he had been able to love her as such, and her presence had awakened something in him that he had never thought possible. Where had the reckless, heedless Lestrange heir gone, and who was the caring man that had replaced him? Indeed, time and affection had bloomed change in his soul, and while he was still a merciless duelist with a taste for adventure, it balanced out with his newfound mellowness.
The girl nodded weakly at his words, and she could only hope they were, in fact, true. Yet, where would they ever meet? She was to leave Hogwarts, and perhaps even England, and if the witch were ever to come back, nothing would be the same. Change would have rooted its vines deeply in their soil, and time would only tell what would come of the Knights.
Someone cleared their throat from behind, and Varya looked over Icarus' shoulder to meet Tom Riddle's cold eyes. She quickly patted her face dry, then took a step back and turned away not to let the boy see her rheumy eyes and cherry nose.
Lestrange cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing at Tom as he continued to stare at Varya with determination, "I will leave you to it."
With that, he went inside, and the two Slytherins stood outside the chapel— Varya avoiding his eyes and Riddle contemplating what to say. Then, he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it to the girl to wipe her face.
"Thank you," she said shyly, then pressed the soft material against her apricot cheeks and wet eyelashes, dragging softly at her skin. She made to hand it back, but Tom shook his head vigorously.
"Keep it," he replied, voice apathetic, and he seemed completely disinterested in her presence, yet there was something about his body language that divulged that fallacy.
Varya nodded, then gently stuffed it in a small purse that she had been carrying, and crossed her arms as she took in the sight before her. Tom seemed to be out of sorts, almost as if something was on his mind, and a permanent crease had nested on his forehead as he continued to watch her with azure eyes.
"You are leaving?"
Her eyelids moved alertly as she blinked away the surprise in them. She was not sure if her imagination was playing tricks on her yet again, that damned hopefulness that kept her from detaching herself from Tom Riddle, but Varya could have sworn that his voice had fluctuated. What it meant mattered less, as the idea of him feeling something at her departure, good or bad, was astonishing.
She scoffed, then onyx eyes flew to the violaceus yonder, where stars had started specking the horizon, and the twilight hour rang vivaciously as night approached, "For someone who is so against me eavesdropping, you sure do enjoy listening in on my conversations."
Tom sneered, then tilted his head, "That is because you do not do it properly— you always make your presence felt, whereas I hide away in the shadows and only make my intentions visible if I so desire. You have much to learn."
"Always so condescending, are you not?" the girl drew on, and an unimpressed twinkle settled over her features. With gentle hands, she threw her locks over her shoulder, and her movement caught the boy's attention, who suddenly became hyperaware of her perfume and the way it made his head spin.
"So, are you leaving?" he queried again, and there was even more aggravation in his voice now, almost as if asking such a thing hurt his mind.
Truthfully, it did in some ways. As much as he had planned to detach himself from Varya, he had not expected the mere news of her departure to have his body react like this. His heart had been beating with verve, and he felt the need to clutch it and susurrate some sort of calming words, as it felt as if it would implode in its cavity— a mess of myocardium and blood. Tom's hands had been polished in an uncharacteristic nervous sweat, and oh, how he hated the way his body betrayed his mind by following the heart.
Then, there was this voidness that had fashioned in his soul, and although it did resemble the wrath that had fueled his core for so many years, it was different. The note it played was somber, melancholic, and he tried to wave away its melody, finding that it did not suit his being. Regardless, it clung to his partiture, and now he found his heart humming it erratically.
The witch pursed her lips, and ignored the way her fingers twitched by her side as she watched one lonesome curl fall in his eye. She reminded herself that he was not hers, and she was not his, and there was no reason to touch each other.
"Yes," her chin lowered as she glanced at the ground to hide the sadness, "In a few days."
It sounded robotic, and the phrase had been repeated so many times that it had engraved itself in her permanent vocabulary, almost like a premonition of fatality and heartbreak, and if it hurt like this now, how suffocating would it be when her sand clepsydra ran out on her?
Tom shifted in his spot, hands clasped behind his back, and when he parted his lips to say something, he found himself unable to do so. His breath hitched as he took in her sincere gaze, the way she looked at him as if he was the most righteous person there was, some salvation to her doom, and he felt that his tie was suddenly too tight on his neck.
The news should have thrilled him senseless, should have awakened some sort of rejuvenation in his being, yet it all felt glacial as he stared at her heated face, and the way her eyebrows fell as the girl avoided his cold stare, almost as if it would have destroyed her to see his reaction. Her lower lip quivered, and she dug her nails in her palm to hold back the tears that were so obvious to him.
He wondered when he had mastered her expressions, when he had learned every twitch and tic of her body and the meaning behind them, almost as if his existence had come with a dictionary of understanding Varya Petrov.
Perhaps, it was that their souls had both been made from the same nebula, and galactic dust had settled in their existence and connected them across the universe and life itself, almost as if they were stars that orbited around each other only— the senseless pull of a connection like theirs.
"I wish you a safe journey," he answered eventually, and he felt cold, empty as if there was so much more to say, yet something blocked the connection between his mind and soul. Tom recognized her disappointment immediately, and he noticed how she played with the edged of her sleeves, cracking her fingers as she always did when she was nervous and tried to distract herself.
And then she bit the inside of her cheek, a gesture she had acquired from him, and how odd it was that those who felt as they did imitated each other's body language, almost as if they had left a part of their soul with another.
He made to turn, not wanting to be suffocated by her fallen look any longer, but he felt her small hand grab his arm, and then she pulled him back and grabbed his chin to look at her. The agony in Varya's eyes had him petrified for a second, and for a boy that believed he was above all law and order, an epitome of perfection, he undoubtedly felt faulty right there.
"Do not dare," she croaked out, "Do not dare walk away from me as if I mean nothing to you, Riddle! Please, stop acting as if everything was just some game that I fell for."
"And if it was?" Tom whispered, and his eyes focused on her with a softness he despised himself for.
She shook her head, hand clinging to his black button-up as she desperately tried to collect herself, "I do not believe that."
He was not sure what to do— he had never felt so grotesque for making a woman cry, and there had been plenty of tears shed from the multiple girls he had rejected over the years. But this? This burned him as if Hell Fire had metastasized in his soul, and he tried to push it away, to pretend there was nothing more than irritation at her make-up staining the collar of his shirt, yet when her head fell in the crook of his neck, everything buzzed into motion.
Tom did not move. He did not hug her, nor did he hold her as Icarus did— it was best that the girl believed he was an emotionless python, and perhaps then Varya would no longer love him, and he would finally be set free from the chains she had placed around his hands. Yet, some part of him could not imagine a reality where he did not have her, or where she belonged to someone else. Even seeing her with Icarus had made his blood boil, and Riddle knew that her absence would drive him mad.
And that was what he needed. That was what he wanted. Right?
"Tom," the girl tried again, pained by his aloof eyes, as if his mind had wandered somewhere else entirely, but Della chose that moment to step outside and look for Varya.
Beauchamp's eyes met Tom's, and for a second, she gasped at their intensity, trepidation making her shake like an autumn leaf in the harsh wind, so close to snapping off and falling to the ground. The absolute fire in his irises, the way the marine flickered with scarlet— how had she never seen him to be such a monster before?
Varya pushed herself away from the boy, and Riddle fought back the need to pull her back in. Instead, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and gave the muggle-born witch a stern look that reminded her she was to speak nothing of their arrangement, then walked inside the chapel to find his acolytes.
The Slavic girl wrapped her arms around herself, then placed a hand around her mouth and sobbed into it, body shaking visibly as the only boy she had ever loved walked away from her yet again, and she wondered if anything would ever hurt her more. Because this— this was utterly crushing, and her soul twisted with absolute ache as his mahogany scent left the perimeter.
"Are you quite all right?" questioned Della shyly, and she made to reach out and touch her friend, yet her hand wavered over Varya's shoulder.
Beauchamp gulped as she stared at her fingers, and her body shook as she took in the sanguine liquid they were covered in. Bloody, murderous, deceitful— her soul had been stained by impurity, and in the end, she had been a pawn in an endless game of twisted chess, where both kings battled over one queen.
The witch shook her head, then clasped her hands behind her back, biting back the bile that rose to her mouth, and she tried her best to appear as sane as possible, yet her mind had been broken by a Dark Wizard, and now, Tom Riddle was picking up the pieces and smashing them together brutally as he tried to make sense of the puzzle.
"Yes," lied Varya, then turned to face her friend who seemed just as troubled as her, "I am just glad we are talking again. I do not think I could have gone through this alone."
"Of course," Della feigned a smile, and her eyes had lost their effervescent twinkle, almost as if the brightest star had finally imploded and burned before its fuel consumed itself, "I only wish you did not have to leave so soon. But I am sure you will learn more about being a magizoologist with Newt than at Hogwarts. Especially after Professor Kettleburn got suspended after that disastrous play."
Tactunity fell over them as the reality of it hit them— Ivy had been the one to cause a terrible commotion during that night, and now her body was getting cold in a casket only twenty feet away from them. Both girls averted their eyes as they tried to make sense of how life had been so cruel, each with their own guilt and their own fault in their friend's death.
"Have you..." began Della, "Have you seen her?"
Varya gulped harshly, "I could not bring myself to."
"They are closing the casket soon; this might be your last chance to say goodbye."
The Eastern witch felt herself drown in shame, and with reluctance, she grabbed Della's extended hand, and both walked back inside, the door closing shut behind them. The carpet that stood between them and the coffin seemed never to end, and even from this distance, Varya could spot part of Ivy's features over the edge.
With trembling legs, both girls started to make their way down, clinging to each other as they felt the eyes of everyone in the room settle on them. Then, Felix came from behind and rested a protective hand over each girl, trying to shield them from the ravenous stares.
"You will be fine," he encouraged them, and although he could not understand the internal turmoil they both felt, he was still as reassuring as always. And how odd it was, that he was the only one whose soul remained untarnished.
It was almost comical how the price for the Knights' slight flicker of morality in their souls had cost the trio their youth, their joviality, almost as if fate had required a balance to be struck, an exchange of light and darkness.
Eventually, the trio made its way to the front, and Varya clung to Felix's figure as she stared at Ivy's face. She had expected her to be disfigured, broken from the impact of her fall, with parts of her skull sunken in and her face beaten up. Regardless, whoever had fixed her had done a respectable job, and besides the obviously dehydrated lips and sunken cheeks, the Golden Girl shined as she always had— with beauty and charm.
"Leave it to her to be breathtaking even in death," breathed Della out, yet her mind only carried one image— her friend's broken figure as it stood at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower. And that was how Ivy Trouche appeared in her nightmares as well, blood oozing from her shattered head, spine collapsed, and legs twisted.
The Eastern witch did not quite feel the same. Sure enough, Ivy was still beautiful, yet without the sunbeams in her smile, and her eyes glowing like two precious jewels, she was not what she had once been. She was dead. Ivy was dead.
No make-up or elegant service could change that, and Varya clutched her necklace as she continued to stare at the body, numbness spreading through everything. Her roommate, the one she had seen daily for almost a year, had been killed due to her stubbornness and selfishness, and nothing would ever change the weight that Varya now carried.
They had dressed her in a viridescent silky dress, something that did not blend with her warm natural tones, and with her skin paler and thinner, her purple veins stood out even more on her body, contrasting with the spectral color of her garments. Her hair had been curled and placed neatly around her face, which was so different than how Ivy usually wore it— soft beach weaves that were always tousled by her endless Quidditch practice.
The Slytherin team had paid their homage to her during the last game, even though they had not qualified for the finals. All of her teammates had flown around the stadium as one last chant for the Golden Girl had sounded through the bleachers, and every House had joined in regardless of their ties with the serpent wearing students. It had been a moment of unity in unfortunate circumstances, and Varya wondered if anyone realized how absolutely painful it had been.
Ravenclaw had won the final this year, and Felix Parkin had been the first Eagle Captain to win the title in years, although celebrations had not happened due to the tragic events. And when they had interviewed him for the Daily Prophet, Felix had made sure to mention Ivy Trouche's name as the only adversary he had ever feared.
Even Abraxas Malfoy, as opposed as he had always been to the female Slytherin prefect, had flown around the stadium with a solemn look on his face, and the rest of the Knights had stood in the bleachers dressed in green and eyes downcasted. Tom had also attended, much to Varya's surprise, although the girl knew that he felt nothing at the prefect's death.
"Varya," whispered Felix from the side, and only then did the girl realize that she had been gripping Ivy's cold hand for the past few minutes, "They have to close the casket."
"Oh, of course," the Eastern witch stumbled backward, "I apologize."
Ivy's mother gave her a mournful smile, "Do not fret, child. I appreciate seeing that people cared for her so much."
Petrov forced a smile, then bid the parents farewell, and quickly rushed to the side of the chapel, where Della and Felix had retracted. Her heart felt heavy, and she knew there would be no peace in her mind until she could avenge her friend's death.
***
Not me getting sad because this is ending as if it's not my own book goodbye. I have gotten so attached to the story.
Anyway, thank you for your support!