CHAPTER THREE
"I do not see why I should discuss anything with you," her voice was just as he remembered, a saturation of obnoxiousness and appeal, and Tom found that he much fancied when she resisted him with such urgency, "And why now? So many months have passed since I have last seen you, and you certainly did ignore all of my attempts to contact you."
His lips pulled at that, and he knew that she was referencing the reoccurring letters the girl had sent his way. Of course, he had received all, had even read some whenever he so desired to press against the open wound her departure had left. Even so, not even a masochist as he would be capable of enduring such words of prejudice and concupiscence.
Riddle had not answered them, for fear of drawing her fondness and possibly diverting himself from his one faithful goal— devising a Horcrux that would knot the loose ends of his life, efficiently making him everlasting and undefeatable.
"Have you?" Tom queried with sham ambivalence in his voice, "I am afraid I have not received any of your messages, then."
"You lie so easily," Varya seethed, then made to move across the room and away for him, directly heading for one of the doors. Her hand clutched the bronze grip and made to spin it, yet it stood congealed against her skin— he had trapped her inside. She converted to him, outraged, "And have you learned no manners in the past year? Locking yourself with a young lady in an empty room. Well, that is quite indecent, is it not?"
The wizard smirked at her raucous speech, at the way her nostrils flared at his insouciance, and her jaw toughened with ferocity. Unquestionably, Petrov had undergone a radical transformation in her time away from the school of wizardry, and Tom found he relished her derangement and the way she ticked like a faulty clock. Then, there was her hair, which now dangled above her collarbones in notched layers. It suited her magic.
"And why am I being improper?" he continued probing, his eyes shimmering when a vein of vexation drummed against her temple.
"I do not want anyone to assume that something is— well, that we are doing anything."
He derided, "Why? Concerned that your wicked pet will find offense in such notions? My, Petrov, you sure do enjoy picking them with issues, do you not? He reeks of desperation and wound, but I suppose you know that already."
The witch felt her skin tingle with enjoyment at the apparent bother in his face, and she watched as he scowled before leaning against the wrecked table, sitting like a ruler after a massacre amongst Apostles.
The picture itself was worth remembring, tracing it out with light strokes against a canvas of depravity— a debauched autocrat amongst shattered porcelain and spilled wine, watching the redness drop to the carpeting with euphonious tones. Then, the artist would depict every single line that cracked Tom Riddle's demigod features, every crease that showed awareness of the diabolical force he has tempered with.
She envisioned it would be a humorous rendition of the Last Supper— a satire. Except instead of sacredness, there was only profaneness, and his crown was made of the bones and ligaments of the souls he had damned along the way.
He picked up a chalice she had broken from the ground, twisting it in his hands. Tom's face reflected in the expensive lustrous material, and the voidness of the ocean clouded his irises.
"If you are talking about Lev, then I will have you know he is as loyal and courageous as they can get, and you have no idea what you are arguing about," she defended heartily, shivering hands still on the knob as the attempted to twist it again.
A profound grumble of dissatisfaction resonated from her register, and she slammed her hand against the entrance in violence, then kicked at it with intensity.
Tom regarded her uncharacteristic behavior— the way she banged on the door like a brute in a cage, her body convulsing with mania as the defective cogs of her psyche turned with effort to have her advance. In the red-splattered apparel, she resembled a wailing woman in white, ready to shred the throat of any man that dared resist her.
His eyes fell on the spilled wine on the rug, and he clicked his tongue in displeasure. He was not one for alcohol, as the boy found it often clouded his judgment. Yet, even he could acknowledge the distress of a shattered vintage bottle, "You have made quite a mess, and I doubt the Malfoy family will appreciate their lavish dining hall being torn to bits, so I suggest you quiet down and hear what I have to say."
With her back still turned, she bit back fiercely, "And I suggest you take those shards and stick them in your eyes," then she glanced at the clock, and her being twisted, "What a waste of time."
But time? That she had enough, it was balance she lacked— and Tom Riddle was the accumulation of everything that had gone wrong in her life, of all the horrors and the cursed hours spent crying over moments that susurrated with despondency and failure. He reminded her of times when she had been too vulnerable, too delicate to fight against his dishonesty and selfishness.
"You will want to hear what I have to say."
"It matters to me least," she confessed wholeheartedly, and while her heart still ravaged for the boy, her mind had remodeled. Varya fancied believing she was well above his previous ways of manipulation, the deception that ran through his system much as plasma did, "You had your time to appeal to me, and yet you hid much like a coward. And tell me, Riddle— do you think I will drop everything for you? Perhaps, a few years ago, I would have, but I have no interest in being your lackey anymore."
The boy's features morphed into something sinister, and he bit back the need to obliterate her on the spot, knowing well that nothing would come of it. Her powers had tsunamied to the surface from her deepest ocean, and even as she continued to assault the door with stormy wrath, the shadows in the room flickered towards him. If he had not been able to defeat her, then, he surely would not now— and that hurt his pride above else.
"What if I said it concerns you just as it concerns me?" he inquired, and that seemed to have the witch turn to face him with nosiness.
"Whatever do you mean by that?"
Tom smirked, and then he pushed himself off the table, hands stuffed in his pockets before he halted in front of her. His forehead towered over Varya's figure, and he almost grunted at her obstinate eyes, unimpressed by her insubordination in such moments. Then, he dropped his head and inclined it sideways until their noses were aligned.
It felt foreign, yet so thoroughly natural, and their auras merged into one as souls settled in their respective places, the entangled strings that connected them finally lamenting with ease after being stretched for so long.
Here is where it got twisted— the boy had long ago discovered such threads, and had been plucking at them endlessly to devise a hypnotic tune of sorrow, a call for action. Their connection had metastasized into something different, something real, and Tom had figured out how to manipulate it.
He had opened a channel between their minds, a connection only allowed when two souls clashed in desperation, and their emotions had seeped into each other long ago. Now, he felt her sorrow, and she felt his wrath, the string of existence that traveled through space to unite them even in distance. It was the trading coin of their bonding, something so granular and yet with undoubted significance.
"Let me tell you a story," he mumbled, and his fingers clawed in his pockets when she gazed at him like that, through winged eyelashes that misled a man of credulity, "And it has to do with this little thing you have always sworn by— fate."
"Fate?" Varya's voice came out low, and her back hurt as she fought against the tangible urge to fall into Tom's cataract of lure. Any woman would have done so, especially with the way his lip rested between his teeth as his eyes trailed her over, then a small puff of air left his nose as he put distance between them.
"Precisely," he hummed, then motioned to the table and invited her to sit down. She followed his command with a scrunch of her nose, having gotten used to being the one in charge of such topics, but sat at the table even so. Her cunning essence made her susceptible to mysteries, and her soul tilted with the need for answers.
"Go on, then. Stop dragging this out for no reason."
"My my, so eager to leave my presence?" he taunted.
Her apricot lips parted to ridicule, "Yes, I find myself smothered by your existence."
"Well, dear, you will find your eternity to be quite unpleasant then," Tom declared, and then, with a domineering smirk, he placed something on the table and slid it over to her.
Varya picked up the ring, and the moment her skin came in contact with the metal, she could sense the life that pulsated from it— a broken piece of a soul.
Her eyes enlarged, and she gasped with astonishment as she looked at the stone that stood in the center, so charming and enthralling, and although she could not find reason behind it, her mind jabbed at the sight of the jewel.
Her stare raised to meet his with wonder, expecting his expression to be a twist of cunningness and haughtiness, yet she found that Tom's pupils were swirling with provocation, and something glistened beneath the Dead Sea of his irises— a feeling she had not seen on his face before.
He was glancing at her bare neck.
Riddle collected himself promptly, regardless, and inclined over the table to snatch the ring from her fingers, paranoia already setting in. It was mind-twisting to have your soul broken and placed into an object, and now he cradled it as it was his most precious possession. So, he wondered why she would ever take off her necklace, which bothered him beyond wits.
Not only because she was so careless with her life, but also because it made Tom question her devotion— had he been wrong in assuming she would always be his? And if so, then who had made her change her mind? His pulse quickened as his bloodstream fused with wrath, and that stupid boy that had dared defy his orders appeared in his thoughts. No, nobody would touch what was his, regardless of whether he wanted the girl or not.
Riddle cleared his throat, "Anyhow, back to the pressing matter at hand— the reason you are here is that we have both seemed to miscalculate a step in creating our Horcruxes. You see, there is this thing that defines life called entropy. It implies that everything tends to prefer chaos, and so whatever settles shall unsettle. Now, certain elements disobey that law. Magic, for once, tends to defy everything. Our souls are akin to that."
Varya let herself contemplate for a second, then narrowed her eyes, "What are you trying to get at?"
"Our souls are made to stay hole. There is a reason creating a Horcrux requires something as sinister as murder," he went on, finger trailing the edge of a wine glass that one of the Knights had left behind, "Breaking our spirit is supposed to leave us empty, some sort of vessels, and that allows for other things to settle in."
Her eyes widened, "Feelings."
Tom chuckled bitterly, eyes hooded and smile so forced it pained her eyes, "Yes, Varya," he glanced up at her as if she was the thing he despised the most in the world, "Feelings. Not just any type— you see, blasphemous magic is devised for pitiful monsters, dark wizards that would never allow themselves to indulge in such weakness. I believed myself to be as such for many years, and do not be mistaken— I could set the world on fire and watch it burn without batting an eyelash. Yet, my soul has disgustingly found something to compensate for the piece that had been broken off."
She gulped, "And that is?"
He leaned over the table, and then, without the slightest warning, he let his hand reach out to her sunken face, one finger smoothly trailing her jaw as his lips pulled in a ghastly smirk that made the girl shiver.
"You."
Varya blenched from his touch, refusing to acknowledge the way her heart raced with agitation and satisfaction, or the way her toes curled in her dark boots when Tom's eyes glinted with manipulation and wickedness. And Merlin, what game was he playing at?
"I thought you did not want me," she breathed, and the boy clicked his tongue against his cheek.
"I do not," his answer came with such nonchalance that her heart had no time to break, "And that is precisely why I have been trying to reach out to you for so long. To find a way to fix this."
"What are you talking about?"
"Certainly, you have sensed the headaches? The faintest whispers in the back of your mind that urged you to engage in such atrocious acts? I had hoped that you would finally become what I needed you to be," he gave her a once over, admiring the sanguine stains and the madness in her expression, "It seems I have succeeded."
Her nostrils flared, and she immediately sat up from her chair in anger, having it fall back to the ground with a sonorous rattle. Varya's hand flew to her wand, and she pulled it out eagerly, pointing it at Riddle's face, "How the fuck did you get into my mind, Riddle? You said it yourself in that bloody letter— you wanted me out of Hogwarts. And now, when I become detached, you slip into my emotions and manipulate me? How dare you?"
Unimpressed eyes wavered to her wand, "I would not have been able to do it, had your soul not been reaching out to me as well. We are connected, Petrov. Whether you like it or not."
"Oh, so now you suddenly want me near? Now, when it serves your purpose, and you have found a way to twist my love for you into your favor?" her breath quivered, yet no tears spilled out regardless of the way her heart stung. Varya had ceased crying over him a long time ago.
"Quiet down," he ordered, and when she refused to do so, Tom pursed his lips in irritation, "I only used a channel that was already in place, something you have been doing unconsciously as well. Fucking Hell, Petrov, you believe I wished for this? It was you who decided to play a game of charade with fate, you who thought it best to mess with my destiny. I wanted to become the greatest sorcerer of all time, and now all I have planned for is doomed!"
"I did not doom you, you arse! That memory was a reality before I even met you."
"Perhaps," he admitted, though the mistrust in his eyes was evident, "Regardless, it goes beyond doubt that whatever you have done has altered my existence. But I do not wish for that— I want power, I want glory, and I will not stop until I get it."
Varya thumped her wand against the table in frustration, "And how does any of this concern me?"
"Because I know of your little quest," he smirked, and her breath stilled as everything flew in patterns of desolation and frenzy. The witch's hands vibrated as she gripped at the edge of the table, her thoughts fogging over with anxiousness, "Yes, Petrov. I am well aware of what you have been searching for. And I admire your motivation, I truly do, but good gracious are you slow. Perhaps it is the fact that you never quite figured out how this world works— connections, bribery, schmoozing. Murdering everyone will do you no good when information is what you seek."
The witch exhaled heavily, and her brows cluttered with transpiration as she felt the boy pull at her mind with such intrigue, "And you made damn sure I fucked up on that one, did you not?"
"I will take the applause and ovations of such deceit, but darling, at the end of the day, it was your hands murdering those people, and your wrath. I merely stimulated your monstrosity and untangled the endless pit of guilt and morality, gave it the shove that I knew it needed."
She blinked at him, still not daring to believe he had figured everything out by himself. And then it struck her— Della.
"That is why you had her with Malfoy," Varya choked, and bloody hell she had been oblivious, "You were using Della to gain information, perhaps torturing it out of her or, maybe, you had— you have something over her, do you not?"
It was infuriating. His lips twitched in a mocking smile, almost as if Riddle had revealed an ace that he had hidden for so long, and no matter how far she ran away, he seemed to slither back into her life with such ease it was almost droll. She had thought him to be the past and nothing else, yet escaping a puppeteer such as Tom Riddle seemed to be improbable.
He played her like an out-of-tune instrument, and she screeched with violence when he tinkled delicate fingers on her strings, almost as if he had made her follow some partiture of murder and sin. The melody was in minor, and the notes were so oddly placed on the lines that the hum resembled a funeral march.
And Varya could not die, but Tom would always make sure she was as close to perishing as possible.
"My methods are worth more than that, and I would not divulge them without a token of respect at least," his comment was so off-putting it made her blood boil, and she felt the way her face was slowly going rouge from frustration.
"So, you know," Varya began, "That means nothing. I could still find both Hallows before you and—"
"As far as I know, you already have one, correct?" he mused, then got up from his seat, arranging the cuffs of his white ruffled dress-shirt, "And I have one as well."
She stopped breathing.
"Excuse me?"
He held the ring against the flickering light of the room, and shadows danced on the gem that graced the center of the jewelry— the Resurrection Stone. Tom had let her hold it; he had let her touch it only to spite her in the end, almost as if mocking how truly oblivious she was to what was in front of her, screaming in her face that she would always be two steps behind.
It was a psychological method that he had absorbed from his lectures, and a way to make his enemies immerse in self-doubt and vulnerability. And he had warned her. He had warned her so many times that his endless philosophical pursuit was merely a plot of understanding how to crack minds. The girl had not expected that Riddle would test it out on her.
Tom slid it back on his finger, "How fate plays tricks with you...the Resurrection Stone had been passed down the Gaunt line for generations as direct descendants of Cadmus Peverell."
Light broke through as the girl moved across the room quickly, and her dagger flew into the air in an attempt to cut Tom's finger from his palm. Just as it was about to pierce his hand, the boy stopped it with his magic, having it linger in front of him for a second before seizing it in his grasp.
Varya puffed with wrath, and her eyes darkened as she watched him flip her knife in his hands with an unemotional sneer etched on his sculpted face.
"I could slit your throat right now and steal it."
"You could," Tom hummed, then continued toying with the blade in his hands as he approached her, "But I have placed a curse on the ring, and anyone who dares hold it except me will find themselves to be in quite a tremendous amount of pain. So it will not do you much good."
He had indeed planned everything, the girl realized. She had taken his silence as a white flag of surrender, yet Varya should have known better. Tom did not savor loose ends, and his passiveness was only an indication that he had retracted into the darkness to scheme.
She faltered, "What do you want?"
Tom stood in front of her now, white blouse hanging on his shoulders as the collar ruffled against his neck, and he had raised his sleeves to his elbow, exposing pallid skin to the flames of the fireplace. His dark pants were held in place by a black belt, and in his hands was her prized silver dagger. The wizard's hair had grown out a little since they had last seen each other, and now it appeared softer and wilder, striking against his maddened expression.
He raised the blade to her neck, and that is when he had her under control— by weapon, by mind, by duplicity. Check-mate.
"Here is how this is going to go. First things first— I want the damned necklace that you stole back," he said as he placed one hand on the table behind her, leaning in as the dagger pressed against her skin, "Then, I am not heartless enough to leave you with nothing. You want the stone? Very well. I will give it to you; I will help you with Grindelwald and fight alongside you."
"Such a fucking knight you are," she spat, ignoring the metallic tug at her skin, and she gazed into his mooned eyes as he peered down at her with frostiness.
"But when it all ends," Tom scorned her remark, his body crushed against hers, "You will join my cause. Not only that— you will give me the Elder Wand. And you will fulfill your destiny just as I will mine."
"You want me to confront one Dark Wizard only to help another rise?" her scoff offended him, and his hand tangled in her hair as it pulled fiercely.
"Do not pretend to be some righteous hero, Petrov," he grunted with acidity, almost as if Pestilence had thundered its plague on her mind, "You know as well as I do that if you had it your way, you would not be even doing this. You could care less of the world and what comes of it as long as you and your band of circus performers are intact, and your morals rattle like Ivy Trouche's bones in her grave."
"Do not fucking speak of her!" she thundered, trashing against his hold regardless of the spark of pain that jolted from the weapon as it pierced her skin and his hand that pulled at her roots.
"Cease your aimless struggle, Petrov. Nothing in the world will stop me from doing what I was born to do. I will prosper, I will succeed, and you will be by my side in darkness and despair," his august voice declared, and her feeble hands slammed against his chest with lividness.
"I could blast this building to pieces!" Varya sounded, and her Obscurus vibrated on her skin before enveloping both of them in obscurity.
It was as if falling into an oily haze of nothingness, and the coldness was almost unendurable as it plunged deep into Tom's skin, yet her magic refused to lash at him as their connection fluttered alive, and what had been true stayed true— they could not kill each other, not with their magic, at least.
Tom leaned in further, and the girl's back compressed against the edge of the table sorely as she tried to move away, yet he caught up with her. Their noses nudged each other, and the boy breathed in her fragrance as he let his eyes flutter shut, encompassing himself in her presence as his pulse drummed effervescently.
His lips moved across her jawline, trailing the edge as she stifled a tremor of revulsion and magnetism, and her mind snapped in two at the obvious ambivalence. Then, he settled them against her ear, and murmured softly, "You are mine. Remember that."
With that, he pushed himself off of her, hurling the dagger against the table and clearing his throat. Her Obscurus flattened and retracted, and light slipped back into their vision as they gawked at each other with unspoken words of paradoxical origins.
It seemed that only Tom Riddle was capable of making her feel powerless.
The Eastern witch narrowed her eyes, "You are repulsive."
His smirk made her skin buzz with electricity and exasperation, "I am a schemer; I am surprised it still amazes you that I will go at any length to achieve my goals. Regardless— do you accept? You do not have much of a choice, but a gentleman must always ask for a lady's consent."
"I hate you."
"You do not."
Perhaps, and she hated herself for that even more.
"Fine," Varya breathed out, already strained by the conversation, "You help me get my revenge on the Alliance, and I help you get the Elder Wand. But I will never bow to you, nor accept you as my Lord. This is merely a trade."
"Ah, there it is," Tom hummed, "Finally admitting why you are fighting alongside them— revenge."
"Of course it bloody is," she muttered, then collected herself and took a few steps away from the boy. It had always been about vengeance and destroying Grindelwald just as he had wrecked her.
"I expect nothing less of you," Tom approved, and then with a flick of the wrist, he let the doors of the Manor fell open, "You are welcome to stay at the Malfoy Manor until we come to an agreement of how to proceed. I expect your acolytes have already been sent to their rooms, and the rest of the Knights are scattered around the estate."
She wanted to hear nothing more from him, so she pivoted on her feet and marched into the endless corridors, dashing past servants as she tried to find the area where her group had been left. One of the maids, a middle-aged woman that scrunched her nose at Varya's appearance, gestured towards the Western wing of the Manor, so the girl let her boots clink against the marble steps as her body moved past multiple portraits.
Eventually, the witch reached the dormitory they had all gathered in, and without words, she blasted the door open with her magic, then stepped past the frame with obvious tautness in her body.
Indra rose from the bed she had taken, her hands clasped around the knife she had been throwing in the air and catching, and Lev barely glanced in the Eastern girl's direction from where he sat at the desk, almost as if he had sensed her presence long before. It would not have been a stretch, not with the way her darkness detonated against the corners of the room.
Felix, Scarlet, and Ananke had sat down on the floor, yet their bodies lifted upwards as soon as they sensed the tightness in the atmosphere, and Varya's scream inundated the Manor as she seized the set of knives from the nightstand and started hurling them at every portrait in the room.
Her body trembled with unrestrained violence, and her emotions splattered against her cerebellum as they sipped through every neuron that sent a signal of distress. A kaleidoscope of pigments veiled her spasming eyes as she let the poison of hatred dissipate through her state and mind. Varya was demonic in her face, almost as if some devil had temporarily occupied her body, and only Felix dared approach the girl as she gripped the curtains of the baldachin and had them topple over.
"Varya," he thundered, trying to gain her attention, and the boy seized her shoulders and turned her to glance at him. She quieted down for a second, yet her chest raced as her pants drew to a close, "Bloody Hell, what are you doing?"
"That vicious psychopath, that little manipulative rat— I should gut him entirely with my teeth," she went berserk, and even now, something pounded at her thoughts with nebulous awareness, almost as if her mind was no longer hers. Varya felt invaded, she felt as if he had trespassed something sacred, and hatred bubbled in her chest, "Riddle tricked me again; he has the Resurrection Stone."
The words traveled around the room promptly, and soon everyone was on their feet, gawking at the girl as if she had just drowned herself in PolyPotion Juice and taken the form of some awful hybrid.
"What do you mean?" inquired Ananke as she approached the girl sternly, and her shoulders were so stiff she appeared to move mechanically, topaz eyes lacquered with struggle. Gloved hands clasped in front of her, she seemed to be akin to some sort of strict au pair that was about to scold one of the children she supervised.
"What you heard," Varya bit back. She had never quite taken well to Ananke's controlling and compelling attitude, regardless of how well she handled their crisis in high-intensity situations, "He has the Stone, and he is demanding I help him in his conquest in exchange for his help against Grindelwald."
"Well, did you tell him to shove it up his arse?" snorted Indra, yet her brother silenced her with a hostile look. This was no facetious matter.
"I accepted it; what was I supposed to do?" the witch recapitulated before traversing the room. She was restless, she felt her skin crawl as if something was lurking beneath, yet it was her mind that had betrayed her.
Varya should have known it was him that was intruding her thoughts, him that was causing her instability. After all, Tom Riddle had been the source of all of her problems the second she had evaded Scholomance. Yet, a mental connection had seemed unlikely, mostly when he had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her.
However, the girl had played with fate, and so the universe had struck right back and deteriorated her sanity if nothing else. Their broken souls had clung to each other with eagerness and possessiveness, and even with her Occlumency, the boy had still managed to somehow dive in deep. Petrov knew she had to fight against it, train her mind to flank the intrusion until his grasp faded away, or better yet learn how to manipulate it as well.
What struck her most was the warmth that hid behind the layers of revulsion that had cascaded over her feelings— because their connection meant that despite all, she was not alone in her devotion. Even when he fought it with his vigor, there was no denying that Tom had learned to care about her. To what extent she was uncertain, but the former Slytherin knew he had offered her more than he had done to anyone else. It would have been flattering, had he not twisted it to his own advantage and chained her down like a helpless swine.
"Murder him?" scoffed Scarlet.
Onyx eyes glazed over, "You know I cannot do that."
She wished she could end Tom Riddle's pitiful life more than anything else, yet fantasizing about such a thing would be aimless when her subconsciousness knew her love remained drowned in her soul. Killing him would be her own version of suicide, for even if she managed to find a way to rid of him, it would make her collapse from heartbreak. She hated him more than anything, and she loved him soundly regardless.
"So, what? We just surrender? No fight?" challenged the Blood Witch, her free-spirit disliking being indebted to anyone, "That is not something we do. We are more powerful than any of them, and if you cannot kill that python, I can sure swing a sword on its neck."
Varya should have said yes, but violence is what he had come to expect of her. No, they had to be smart about it; they had to play his game first if they wanted to stand a chance at winning.
"As of now, we surrender," she announced to the room, ignoring the disappointment that radiated from her companions, "But make no mistake of it— this is only how we bid our time. We take it one war at a time, one corrupt leader to crush under our iron fist. Riddle wants to fight alongside us? Very well. His connections and influence will prove fruitful, but we stay true to what we came here to do, and when the time comes, we dissolve any connection to his tyranny."
They stared back at her with uncertainty, and their doubt was crystal on their faces. It was expected. After all, the girl was undoubtedly attached to the Knights' leader, and fighting against him, betraying him— that was a task that would require her to defy her nature. Regardless, they nodded, deciding it was better to trust her than oppose her, and her pleased smirk was enough to settle their nervousness somewhat.
"Now, what?" came Lev's voice, who always enjoyed having his tasks settled before battle.
"Now," Varya announced, walking back towards the entrance, "It is time you all meet the Knights of Walpurgis."
She grabbed one knife from the portrait that hung on the decorated wall, her lips curling once Abraxas Malfoy's face radiated back from the canvas, and then she dragged the blade down his painted face, enjoying the way it crumbled before her. It was time to find Della Beauchamp and settle a few things.
***
I hate this chapter.
BUT someone told me that Varya and Tom's relationship reminds them of Jude and Cardan from the Cruel Prince which, if you have ever looked at the messages on my profile, you will know is my favorite book and oh my god I am in love with everything about it. If you like this story, definitely google The Folk of Air trilogy.
Does anyone have any non-wattpad fantasy enemies to lovers reccs besides Cruel Prince, ACOTAR, Throne of Glass, Shadow and Bone, Serpent and Dove and Shatter Me?