the seven virtues [tom riddle]

chapter twenty-four

THE ANATOMY OF VARYA PETROV - PATIENCE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

WARNING: Be advised that this chapter contains mature scenes.

Varya felt the skin under her eyes split from insomnia, and she extended a trembling hand to pat at the dry bags, gently drawing her nail across it until she felt some sort of sensation. Her head drummed as quivering pupils glimpsed around the dark hallway, taking in the way flies seemed to whir around it, adhering to the corpse across from her.

She continued to glance at it, taking note of the way the skin was almost transparent, and no sign of his death was evident except for the bullet wound in his forehead. A fly landed on it, then gradually squirmed inside, wings impaling in the open lesion as the boy flicked his lighter open, bringing it closer to the cigar stuck between his bloodless lips. The smoke that eddied upwards seemed to be as much as a fantasm as the person in front of her, whose lips quirked at her apparent uneasiness.

With roguish eyes, he puffed on the tobacco again, draping swollen eyelids over bloodshot sclera, and inhaling deeply in his rotten lungs before extending the cigarette to her, "Want some?"

The question was almost taunting, some sort of jest at her current state, where she crumbled much like the end of his white stick, succumbing until there was nothing left of her but ash. Varya shifted until her long legs were sprawled in front of her, dragging on the green carpet of the hallway, and she felt the itchy feeling of the dark wallpaper on her back.

"Why am I here, Lopheus?" queried the witch, tired eyes barely registering the infamous smirk plastered on his lips.

She analyzed the hallway once again, noticing the murky trail of blood that had come from the open antechamber of the Nott Manor, where Lopheus Evergreen had dragged his body from, slowly inching closer to her until they found themselves in the current position—both laying on the ground, back against the wall and staring at each other. And some sort of fatigue passed between the two, an understanding that they would not move from their spots.

"I mean, why do you think you are here, Petrov?"

"I have no time for your games," her voice broke, and she pulled her knees to her chest, trying to distance herself from the cold corpse. His skin looked oddly roughened, as if it had been desiccated of any trace of liquid, and the slightest touch might have had it turn into mush before her eyes.

Lopheus tilted his head, smoking on the grave stick again and watching the haze swirl like a tornado, hollow eyes moving slowly as they trailed the movement. His blonde hair was hanging over his wound, blood having strands stick to his ashy skin, and the flesh had sunk in, clinging to his bones. He was no longer the spirited American boy he had been when they had first met, any richness evaporated from his system, and Varya's heart twisted at his grim fortune.