the seven virtues [tom riddle]

chapter thirty-three

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

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The tie was snug around Tom's neck, pressing on his veins as he moved fast hands to loosen it. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, took in the sunken eyes and lilac patches blossoming underneath blanched skin—an unfortunate consequence of sleep deprivation. His curls toppled over as he felt his muscles cement, and Riddle pressed a clammy hand against his forehead, dabbing the slight perspiration away. The sickly nuance of his bloodshot irises haunted him from the mirror, but he paid little attention to it, too focused on the way Icarus Lestrange struggled with his polished black shoes.

"Shit," the soldier cussed, stumbling backward against his bed and pushing his foot inside the shoe, "Have my feet swollen or something? Bloody Hell, we cannot be late for the funeral ceremony."

Across the room, Abraxas stood by the window that looked out towards the Black Lake, watching sirens bang against the glass panel with a flurry of enraged fists. The Death Eaters had returned to Hogwarts a week after the slaughter in London, voices hushed and minds whirring with agitation. Each day seemed to be on borrowed time as if the clock had begun melting and scalding their hands, craving for conflict and bloodshed. Tom knew that he had smothered the ticking seconds, accelerating Grindelwald and Dalibor's arrival, yet seven days strolled by, and the universe was silent.

    The first warning of danger had always been silence.

Still, that did not mean that Tom had allowed the moments to pass by meaninglessly. He had been scheming, trying to make a chess game out of his Knights, each one a valuable pawn that would help crumble the other King. The only problem was that, with the empty space that had been allowed for grief between the Death Eaters, there had been no moments for Riddle to have Varya alone by his side.

He glanced down at his finger, toying with the ring as if it almost burned through his flesh and to his bone. For a second, his mind performed a trick on him, and he saw veins of necrosis elongate from the jewelry and up his arm. The boy promptly banished the imagery from his psyche. The curse could not affect him. It was only a jest from the soul that had nested in his nightmares, demanding payment for her services. Ivy Trouche had always been a thorn in Riddle's side, but the dark magic that had bound their pact had allowed her to torment him until he paid his dues.

Tom drew in a sharp breath, feeling the pinch of pain inside his chest. He had not been sleeping well, not with a demon of his past haunting the cathedral of his sins, delving deep within his psyche and triggering unwanted dreams. Ivy had been tormenting him slowly, and although she could not harm him physically, she had sure managed to affect his daily routine.

After Tom had failed to find a moment of solace to give Varya the ring, he had been obliged to nest Ivy's soul inside his Horcrux. That had given her ground to work with, and the wizard knew he had only so much sanity left before he dissolved her spirit into nothingness. He had to find a way to talk to the Petrov heir today.