Serpentine

Sitting before Dumbledore in his office is a familiar, yet queer situation. He had been under the impression that there was no more need for weekly tea, as Tom was adapting quite well to Hogwarts. He has plenty of friends and high grades.

Occupying his time with swinging his legs gently back and forth (his feet just barely reach the floor), Tom stares at the jar of sweets on Dumbledore’s desk as the man sets down a silver tray with two cups, sugar, cream, a teapot filled with hot water, and a small container with loose leaf black tea. In silence, his professor prepares their tea and sets down a cup before Tom, leaving him to prepare it himself (undoubtedly, Dumbledore remembers how he likes it, but he also remembers that he prefers to do it himself because he is not a helpless little boy).

Dumbledore asks if Tom knows why he was called here, not in a way that makes him feel like he’s in trouble, but in a way that makes him feel like he’s about to tell him about the death of someone close to him.

“You want to talk to me about the war, sir.”

“Indeed, Mister Riddle.”

Tom’s mood sours more.

Headmaster Dippet has indeed sent back word to his orphanage of his safe arrival to Hogwarts. This, he has done to all Muggleborn families (and Tom cringes at that word) before breaking the news that no, they cannot be kept at Hogwarts over the summer.

The disappointment seeps into Tom like spilt honey on wool.

And then Dumbledore explains the decision. It is not a talk that is given to every other student trapped in the Muggle world, he’s sure. This is a talk exclusively for him. Made and catered to him. And he’s not sure how to feel about that.

Old laws biting him in the ass, is the summary of what Dumbledore is telling him. In her history, the statue of secrecy had just begun, and the Ministry of Magic saw fit to become involved in Hogwarts policies, to the extreme charging of pureblooded families, who didn’t trust their children to the Ministry. Any opportunity not spent learning or studying was a chance for the government’s propaganda to infiltrate their heads, if it wasn't already doing so within the classroom. They had been hoping the statue was just a temporary hack. A mistake to be corrected.

They couldn’t allow their precious heirs to be left at school for so long. To be corrupted. Influenced. Swayed.

He knows that what he is learning is little more than a summary of the real history, but he still believes the words coming from the Deputy Headmaster. What reason does he have to lie to him?

But then, something awfully strange happens:

Dumbledore sighs, appears resigned, and leans back in his elegant chair, debating with himself, “I cannot appoint you a set of parents, or new family, Tom, but I can, perhaps, suggest a temporary guardian?”

His hands tremble as he stills in the mist of sipping his tea (four sugars, no cream).

What.

The cup is set down in its saucer and rested on his lap as he clears his throat and composes himself, “Excuse me, professor?”

“It is as I said: Should the war...truly take as dark a turn as the Muggle Ministry feels it will, I believe I can help secure you an apprenticeship. With, of course, the permission of the matron at Wool’s.”

This...this has to be some sort of trick. Surely, Dumbledore means to keep him under watch. Under lock and key. The person he suggests will be abusive or mad or incompetent or completely under the thumb of the Deputy Headmaster. Everything Tom does, says, eats, breathes, will be reported back to Dumbledore. It would be miserable. So much that it would be better to stay at...at the orphanage.

But...if this isn’t some trick? If he’s finally throwing him a bone (much deserved, thank you) and seeing that he’s wasting away at that hell space, then...Then the matron will not give any sort of permission. It’s a miracle she even lets him go here (Tom suspects some trickery on the school’s part, but he’s never asked). She would absolutely refuse anything that encouraged his ‘freak’ behavior. Even if it meant separating him from the orphanage, as she’s always wanted.

His distrust must be obvious on his face, because Dumbledore merely tells him to think it over. There’s no time limit. No real one anyways, unless the bombs drop tomorrow and kill him, but he doesn’t say that.

Then, he asks about Ximena.

Ximena? Oh no sir, he tells him, they haven’t spoken in months, she’s been very reclusive, not speaking to anyone. He says this almost like he’s hoping for Dumbledore to force them together on some sort of project. Sorting or grading papers, perhaps. Hadn't he once encouraged Tom to pursue friendship with her? But no, of course, no such thing happens. Instead, Dumbledore looks concerned for a second, nods, and speaks.

“I see. I had hoped that Mister Miller might have encouraged her to come out of her shell.”

Tom can feel his body language stiffen up at the new information.

He drinks his tea.

“But, that is talk for another meeting, another person.” Dumbledore waves away the low hanging fruit from Tom’s reach, and offers him some of the candy on the desk.

And to think he had forgotten all about Adam’s little witchnapping.

“...Sir, if I could,” Tom starts, catching Dumbledore’s attention, “I wanted to ask about Eric Acwellan and Ximena--I mean, I was wondering, how do you decide who to match Muggle-raised students with?”

Though a brow is raised, Dumbledore gives his question careful thought, before deciding to indulge him,“It’s a curious pair, as I’m sure you thought when Miss Lane presumably told you.” More than curious, “When I started the idea, the goal was to bring together two sides of the Magical Community together in harmony. An easy settlement for Muggleborns to come into the world. Miss Acwellan volunteered for the program herself, and she had--and has--no history of abuse or bullying towards Muggleborns,” Sounds fake, “I had hoped at the time that she was opening up borders for noble magical families.”

There’s something like reflection in Dumbledore’s eyes, and Tom’s not convinced it’s not regret.

“When I met Miss Lane, she seemed a bright young witch in need of proper guidance. Miss Acwellan seemed a good match in stature, talent, and temperament.” Alright, now he knows for sure that Dumbledore is an old coot, “But just different enough to learn from Miss Lane as well. Grow. Just as your own assigned guide was similar, but not too similar.”

Tom wants to protest: he is not at all like that idiot. And he was useless in all the ways he wanted help in (well, save for help in useless things, but--)

“Do you know why my past guide volunteered?”

To his surprise, Dumbledore chuckles, “I believe it was a futile attempt to woo Miss Acwellan.”

Some things never change.

Once dismissed, Tom spends the rest of the day not sulking. Merely being worried over his fellow Slytherin, of course. Fuck what Hedwig says, he would know if he had something ridiculous like feelings for another person. At most, he has one feeling for Ximena at a time, and when it's not curiosity, it’s frustration.

Even if he is jealous, he has a right to be. Too many people are keen on taking away his teacher from him, just when he's getting somewhere with earning her trust. He saw her first, saw her for her true potential. Everyone else is just a copycat. Who else can say they understand her situation like he does?

What does she see in Adam, anyways? Silly girl. He had hoped she was above getting stupid crushes and feelings for people, but he was clearly wrong. Tom supposes it’s only natural for a thirteen year old girl to feel like that, especially towards someone as boyishly good-looking as Adam, but it doesn’t make his mood any better. Really, it only makes it worse that he can understand why someone might like him: he’s infallibly magnetic. Charismatic. In a genuine way. Tom can spot a faker a kilometer away, being a bit of one himself, and the Yank is just that happy-go-lucky. His handsome face doesn’t hurt either. Balls.

Tom could be boyishly charming. Not naturally, he would have to work at it more (do a bit of growing), but he could eventually get there. Reach teenagehood, gain a couple of centimeters in height, develop a pleasing low voice...He’s already a beautiful boy, he knows, he could grow into a handsome one. He could study people and what makes them happy and laugh and blush.

...Could he learn how to make Ximena blush like that?

The cawing of a crow alerts him to her presence, but not fast enough to avoid walking into her whilst turning a corner, headed out of the dining hall. The sky’s dulled down to a muted grey-blue, and most of the students are on their way to dinner, opposite of his way. His cold face is pushed into her shoulder, right at a soft, nice smelling clean wool scarf. The corner of his chin, however, is scratched by something.

“So-sorry.” She clutches a book tight to her chest (the assailant to his chin), “I was lost in thought.”

He’s not sure if he wants to see her or not, but decides to deal with the event that fate decided would happen to him, “I’m fine. ‘Tis but a scratch. I’m sturdier than I look.”

An amused exhale, he’s glad his jests lands, though at the expense of his short height. How tall was Ximena? “Still, I should have been paying attention. I’m glad you’re okay.”

A nod in confirmation, before he breeches the subject, “How was Hogsmeade?”

Fingernails drum against her book, “Uneventful.” Can’t say he blames her for wanting to keep the...outing with Adam private. He would want to as well. Doesn’t mean he won’t still blame her.

“Is it really that boring?” Of course it isn’t,

“Oh you don’t want to hear about my time there.” Her tone is a familiar one: one spoken by adults to children who don’t want to bore them with adult stories and details. Tom doesn’t like that.

“I enjoy hearing about your day.” His hands go behind his back as he rocks gently back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, “I miss our talks.” Because you’ve been neglecting me. “I miss you.”

Guilt again. Her voice softens, “I’m sorry. I’ve been stretched thin lately.” Stretched over one person, more like, “Third year is so much more...good for me. So much to learn, so much to invent.”

Tom wonders if she’s been brewing potions again, “We can talk about it back at the common room, just us.”

Consideration, she holds her fingertips to her lips, “It’s been a while since we’ve had a talk, isn’t it? I think that’s a good idea.”

Tom is light on his feet as he walks alongside her, not behind. He decides to forgo the usual shared silence for more conversation, he has to play catch up:

“Have you met the other American?” He wants so badly for her to just forget about Adam, just for a few minutes.

“Oh, Mali?” Ximena says the witch’s name like Mary as well, “Yes, we have Summoning together, as a matter of fact--A shame, considering how advanced she is compared to the rest of us, but it’s a blessing for me.”

Damn. Tom didn’t sign up for Summoning, “What do you do in that class?” Besides the obvious, but he can blame that on his upbringing.

“Well, what I and the other beginners do is all theory: history and readings and essays, none of the stuff that will get your hands dirty. Intermediate students are learning circles and sigils.”

“And Mali?”

There’s that quiet excitement again, he’s hungry to see it, “She demonstrates! Professor Pannikin doesn’t have a proper lesson plan for someone of her level, so she mostly serves as an aid for the lessons. An assistant teacher, if you will.”

What does a talented Summoner want with a girl from a renowned cursebreaker family?

“...What do you summon?”

“Oh, lots of things. Mostly druids, harmless fae, each other.” He raises a brow, “You can have people at your beck and call in theory: a matching symbol on them and on your summoning circle, and you should be able to call them from anywhere on the Earth.”

“Do the magical creatures do your bidding?”

“Well, for a price, yes.” Figures, “Most of them want simple, easily attainable things like flowers, honey, or good quality fabrics. Some want abstract things, like your name or your memories.” She shivers silently, and Tom understands why, “I don’t know if anything I need or want will be worth my memories, but the class is fun.”

“Do you take it just for fun, then?”

“Mm. For knowing. Summoning, in theory, is supposed to be used to gain knowledge or power or aid. To be able to request an audience with someone or something that you might otherwise might never be able to encounter properly in this life, or the next.

“Do you think you’ll have use of that, then?”

“Better safe than sorry, right?”

He agrees with her.

“...Do you know what Mali plans to do with her skills?”

“Mm, I think she means to bring forth some of her Gods for counsel back home, but I’m not sure. It felt private, so I didn’t push it.” A witch with Gods? Proven ones? That’s new. “Apparently Summoners are rare in the States, and ring up a pretty penny. She already has clients.”

“What a talented witch.”

Ximena agrees eagerly, “Isn’t she? We get along great, swimmingly, really. She feels like home.” Great. Another wonderous American come to take his teacher away, “I think she’ll be my Puff.”

“--Puff?”

A blink, “Your guide for First Year didn’t tell you?”

“He mostly talked nonsense and gossip.” Not a lie.

“Ah, right. Um, well, most Slytherins have a Puff--That’s to say, a Hufflepuff to themselves, for friendship or advice or tutoring. We’re close, our houses. They call us their snakes. I believe younger Acwellan’s Puff is her cousin?” The boy she made Tom curse all those months ago because ‘he was a right prat’? Sounds about right.

A Puff...Older Kowalski was probably that to his past mentor, then. Explains the buddy buddy relationship well. Did that make Elle his own Puff, should he try to pursue one? He’ll have to investigate.

“How...Fraternity-like.”

“Isn’t it? I thought it was a little silly at first, but Mali has been so welcoming. And helpful! It’s like...It’s like having a sibling, I think. Her company soothes me.”

--What about him? His company?

No, he can’t say that, even last year when he was often following behind her, he would go days or weeks without really speaking to her. Or looking in her direction. Damn his ambition to create a proper network of people in school. He’d have to adjust accordingly, but he can't spend every waking hour on her.

“I spoke with her earlier, she has a good head on her shoulders. Maybe she could be my Puff as well?”

“It’s not unheard of for that to happen, but I don’t think she’ll teach you what she knows. It’s not for you to use.”

Some magic is personal. In the blood.

“Ah. I understand.” Really, too many times, he has understood. Understood when he has not wanted to. Why isn’t this magic for him to use? Why is he barred from it? Why isn’t Ximena?

“Mm.” Ximena nods, “You have time for a Puff, if that’s what you’d like. You’re very social, I’ve noticed, so you shouldn’t have much trouble.”

“I’m social?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. I think in your first week, you must have spoken to more people than I have my entire time here.”

“I didn’t think you paid much attention to me--Your surroundings, I mean.” The slip up was on purpose, of course.

“Oh I don’t.” Oh, “But I’m good at hearing things through the grapevine. People don’t tend to notice when I’m sitting nearby.”

How does that not bother her? When Tom walks into a room, he wants to command it. To have everyone acknowledge his existence.

Furthermore, people talked about him? How delightful. He had thought only the few Slytherins within his guide's circle and Dueling Club were mumbling about him, but knowing that his work to be seen has reached out further than the club makes him preen.

He can't, of course, ask about what she heard through the rumor mill. He has to appear humble, like what others say doesn’t bother or interest him.

“I don’t see how anyone couldn't notice you.” A half-lie. Ximena is fascinating and full of promising knowledge, but she’s also quiet, like a fruit stain on a patterned robe.

“Oh it's easy. People don't want to see what they don't like.”

The heavy words sink into his psyche. He remembers his first few weeks here, at the ugly questions people would ask him about her. The things they told him. The reason she thinks someone is keeping her precious treasure away from her. A part of him wants to ask about the bracelet. Another part of him vividly remembers the neglect he faced back home as a toddler, and wants to share that. To connect with her. Instead, he changes the subject.

“Will you be in Dueling Club again this year?”

A nod and a hum, “Sitting in the back, as usual, but yes. Will you be going? I know you were eager to join the rest up there.”

He didn’t think she noticed his want to fight. It makes him happy to know she did, “I hope so, the sport interests me greatly.” Upstaging everyone interests him greatly.

“Will you become a professional duelist, then? Compete in the World Championship in Bangladesh?”

Perhaps. His future is not sealed yet, but he likes the image of him as a powerful duelist: he would wear such nice clothes, much nicer than what he has now and definitely not secondhand, “Do you think I could do it?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen you duel.” Fair, “Professor Merrythought talks about you in my class, though.”

He displays his humble pride again, “Me?”

“You’re a jewel, according to her. Uses you to encourage everyone because half of them are behind you, or close to it.”

Is...is she telling him this because she feels bad or...is she just being talkative today? With him? Is there some sort of reason she’s buttering him up? Is she going to say something soon that’ll ultimately hurt him? Or is she...is she just being conversational?

“Professor Merrythought is too kind.” He fiddles with his robes, “I’m lucky to have such a teacher as her. Really, I’m not as grand as she says.” He probably is. He wonders if he’ll be able to duel the third years successfully, then.

“You shouldn’t be so humble. It’s okay to carry yourself with pride.”

It’s not that he needed her permission to do so, but her words make him feel safer at the idea of polishing off his ego and displaying a little of it to others, “Are you humble, then, Ximena?” He remembers the ease at which she cast the spells back in that Charms class last year. The strange, foreign spell that left her lips during her duel with Hedwig.

Ximena shakes her head, “Being humble implies I’m good at something.”

What kind of nonsense was this? “And what about that potion you brewed last year? For nerves?”

“That was nothing, I--Anyone could have done that. Really.”

“It’s okay to carry yourself with pride.”

A pointed look, but one of amusement. Success. “Point taken. But I stand by what I said: anyone with knowhow could have mixed that together.”

“Even me?”

“Well, if I did it my second year, why couldn’t you? Professor Slughorn speaks about you high enough.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“If you’d like.”

Excitement sparks in his heart.

“I’ll tell you what: if you can figure out how to make the potion for nerves that I brewed by the end of your second year, you win.”

“And what will I win?”

“Satisfaction.”

He can work with that.

They step into the dungeons.

Inside the cool common room is mostly empty, save for some spare firsties playing a game of chess towards the entrance. The two magicians find a comfortable space behind a large bookcase, on a rug surrounding an elegant coffee table. Ximena opts for sitting against a leather armchair, legs to the side, and Tom grabs a large velvet floor pillow to sit on criss cross, right across from her.

Ximena opens her book on the table.

“--That’s the same one you were reading when we first talked.”

“Hm? Oh yes, it is.”

“Almost done translating it?”

A soft smile, “Almost. I’ll share it with you when I’m done, if you like.”

Absol-bloody-lutely he would like it, “Please.”

“--You know, it’s good that you’re so interested and willing to read books outside your curriculum; most people I study with think this stuff is a waste of time.”

“People in your classes?” When I’m not able to talk to you?

A nod, “It makes sense: they all want jobs here in Europe, so foreign pieces like these are mostly useless to them.”

“...Do you want to leave Europe one day?”

“I want to leave as fast as I can.”

Hm.

“It’s...just miserable here. And now with the war starting...Well, I don’t want to be around if Germany comes.”

“You would leave Hogwarts?”

“Hogwarts is...it has been many things to me. Good and bad. A good escape. A bad dream. But I feel trapped.”

He can’t say he understands, but he definitely doesn’t not understand, “Where will you go?”

The quiet excitement he saw on the train last July returns to her face, “Latin America.”

Ah. He doesn’t know much of that area of the world, Muggle or Magic. He’s sure they have their own problems and wonders, “Is that where you’re from?” He figured, after his research on the bracelet and all, not to mention her little Hallowe’en story from last year.

“I believe so.” Her finger pads rub together as she thinks, “It’s not so much memory as...feeling.” Eye contact, “When I perform magic from that land, I feel...whole. Complete. The food I eat here, it brings me so much more joy than any other cuisine.”

“Do you know the names of the dishes you eat, then?”

“No...not all of them.”

This intrigues him, “Do you think Hogwarts just knows what you would enjoy best then?”

“...You know...I’m going to sound so...I actually never thought about it before.” That’s a first, surely, “I just...when I first sat down to my meal, and I got something wildly different, I was too happy to really process why.”

“House elves must be very knowledgeable, I guess.”

A moment’s confusion before realization dawns, “I might have known.”

“Skip that chapter of Hogwarts: A History?”

“I skimmed the book.”

Oh? “Didn’t like it?”

“It felt too revisionist for me.”

“You’ve been working on your vocabulary.”

“Trying to. Thank you for noticing.” Of course. Only he would notice.

“So why is it...revisionist, did you say?”

“I...It was just a feeling, at first, like most things. It talks only about the good. The glorious. Nothing about...muck. It practically glosses over Salazar Slytherin’s decision to leave the school.”

...Now that he thinks about it, he was wondering about that. Oh he can induct based on the talks of others, but no one ever really told him the story.

“I was curious, so I tried searching in other books. Most were similar. It wasn’t until I found personal journals in old languages that I found something satisfying.”

“--You went into the sections for older students didn’t you?”

She doesn’t even look ashamed, “Of course. Baring knowledge from people is unjust.”

“Is that why you let me follow you into the second year sections of the library last year?”

“I...confess, much of that time, I was too focused on my task to notice you were tailing me.” Ouch. “But the moments when I was aware, yes.” That makes it better, he supposes, “You value knowledge well. That’s good. It’s admirable.”

As nice as it is to be in her company, his ego is likely to burst at some point, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Do you think, then, that someone told the house elves how to make that food you always eat?” He presses.

Finger pads gently tap tap tap on the pages of her book, “I...suppose that’s only logical. I can’t say I would know who but...Maybe Dumbledore?”

He can’t help it. He snorts.

“Ah...You’re right.” Of course he is, “He’s been very kind to me, but his...helpfulness has given different results.”

“Maybe your ancestor came to Hogwarts--And taught the house elves themselves.”

A sad smile, “Wouldn’t that be a dream? Walking the same halls that my parents, grandparents walked...” She sighs, shoulders slumping, “I don’t think so. I’ve scoured through records of all sorts. If any relative of mine has stepped foot on these grounds before me, they are distant, and irrelevant.”

To Tom, any relation, even something as ridiculous as a step-second-cousin thrice removed by marriage, is golden. It’s a ticket out of his orphanage. It’s a claim to blood.

“I’m sure there’s more documents to look through, more family trees to find, but...No, it is hopeless.” She nods, resigned, “I am the first in my line to step into these grounds, I know it. It is the same feeling by which I feel I belong to Latin America. Do you understand?”

He shakes his head.

She looks sorry, “I suppose it’s a lot to ask of someone to understand. There’s more than that, of course, but solid evidence isn’t as interesting as things felt in the spirit, yes?”

Oh, Tom begs to differ.

He tries, regardless.

“...It’s like...how I know that it was my father who is the wizard, and my mother who was a Muggle.” It starts and is out of his mouth before he can even hesitate, he’s never told anyone of his theory...Aside from...“I just know it. I can feel it.”

It occurs to him, watching Ximena’s gaze change from curious to sympathetic, that he just shared something awfully private with her. Damn.

But Ximena, despite being a snake, merely nods with understanding, “Yes. Something like that.”

He doesn’t say that his gut feeling is more like a desperate plea.

“Does it bother you, then, that your mother is a Muggle?”

If he’s being honest, it bothers him that she died more than her being magicless.

Her use of is rather than was is not missed, “...I don’t obsess over things I cannot change.” It’s not like it affects him academically or socially anyways...So long as this keeps quiet (and it will, for Ximena is not a gossip-monger nor cruel.)

“Do you think your father is still alive?”

‘He has to be’ almost comes out of his mouth, but he stops himself, “I know he is.” That sounded better. Confident and sure of himself. Grown up.

She hums lowly, looking at her hands,“I see...I think...you’re better off as a half-blood, if I may be bold with you.” Always.

He tilts his head.

“The complexities of what it means to be a true half-blood aside, there’s the obvious: so many purebloods have health problems.” All the purebloods get sick after the holidays. “And I know it doesn’t show, but there’s a large number of deformations that can be hidden under clever charms.” She chuffs, “Genetic variety aside, there’s only so much magic you can really grasp when you only have samples from such a small pool...You’re a talented boy. If you had come from only highblood, I don’t think you would be as skilled.”

Oh? “Are you saying that I have access to more magic power because of my mother’s Muggle blood in me?”

“In a way, yes.” Ximena would really get along well with Elle, “Families like...the Blacks, for example, they’ve specialized in dark magic for...centuries. And they’re impressive for it, of course, but there’s no flexibility. Light magic is a stranger to their wands and cores...They have so much trouble conjuring even the simplest of light charms, it’s embarrassing.” That was the closest he’s ever heard her be...snide about something. How interesting, “God, I mean...Cassiopeia Black can’t even conjure the Patronus charm. Head Girl, top of her class and for what? For power in only half of all spells, if that.” And all that half-power wasted on a marriage contract, surely, if Hedwig’s talk expands towards the Blacks, and he knows it does.

Is this what his past mentor meant when he said she was obsessed with methods? “Of course, magic prowess is as random as real genetics, I’m sure, and really is more dependant on skill, but...” She looks at him again, “It doesn’t hurt to have something like a head start from your parents. Height, physical ability, looks...and ease with which to cast certain types of spells.”

“...Spells even Muggles can cast?” They must not be very powerful, Elle’s food magicks lecture aside.

She can sense his doubt, he knows it, “Especially. I think, if nothing else, maybe Muggle blood cancels out some of the barriers that a pureblood magical core has evolved to build up over centuries...To leave room for growth in another direction, should the witch want to.”

“So then...You would claim that Magic-Muggle marriages are beneficial?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Scandalous, “You’ve told others about your theory?”

“No,” A defeated sigh, “just you.”

He likes that. He’s like her confidant. Her partners in class don’t know about this, and Adam certainly doesn’t either. He’s special.

“...You never know, I could still be from the purest of lines: I almost got sick last spring.”

“That’s just how germs work. Or maybe allergies?”

“I don’t have any allergies.”

Her lips purse, “Didn’t you say you lived in London? You wouldn’t know it with the lack of greenery. It’s not like here.” Obviously.

“What about dust then? N’ mold?”

A hum, “True, true, you’re right,” He ignores the feeling he gets when she admits that to him, “But maybe you’re used to those things?”

He hates that that’s plausible.

“Maybe my father was from a very fine pureblood line, then?”

“A scion of a magical powerhouse...Joining with a Muggle? I’m sure it would have been the scandal of the century.” I’m sure we would have heard of it is what she’s saying.

“Maybe it wasn’t so public. Maybe it was a secret affair.” He continues to cling to the idea that his father is someone worthwhile.

“Mm. It’s common, if the gossip webs I come across are true.” Tom visibly perks up and quirks a brow, “--Oh, well,” She clears her throat, “That’s a bit mature for someone your age.”

“I’m only a few months younger than you.” Not even a year! They’re separated at Hogwarts on a stupid technicality.

Ximena’s fingers drum on her book again, “I...Please trust me on this. There’s types of information that is ugly to hear. I would much rather keep it from you.”

Is she trying to protect him from something, then? He doesn’t need protection, he’s not a weak little boy. He’s fine. He’s strong.

“...Alright.” He picks his battles.

The shuffling of pages. Silence. One. Two. Five seconds. He can’t let this active conversation die, he won’t let it, she’s never talked this much with him.

“Did you find out anymore about your bracelet?” Wait, shit, no, he thought too fast, he didn’t want to remind her of that--

“I know it’s close.” Shit. “I can...hear it sometimes.”

“Hear?”

“The magic in it. It hums.” Shit shit shit. “It’s very low. I have to strain to hear it.”

“Do you think someone who hears magic naturally could help you find it?” He remembers Yami, and the ease that she noticed the shift in Ximena’s magic.

“Mmnm. No. I think...I think only I can hear it. We’ve spent so many years together, it’s only natural.”

Then why can’t she hear it in his pocket, right now? Or is she playing with him? He really should leave it back in his nightstand.

“..Why is it only sometimes?”

“I...don’t know.” He holds in the breath of relief as he listens to her frustration, “I can’t figure out why. I can’t understand it.” Her displeasure in not knowing something is almost tangible. Tom can relate.

“Something you don’t know? That’s a first.” Distraction with flattery is a talent of his.

“Don’t be silly, I can’t possibly know everything.” Dismissing his flattery is a talent of hers.

“It feels like you do, sometimes.” His elbows rest on the smooth wooden surface before him, leaning forward, “You’re like an encyclopedia.”

“Mm. I think Acarya would better suit that title.” Coming from her, Tom takes that as high praise. He really should mingle more with Yami.

“Perhaps...But I think your information is more interesting.”

She gives a thoughtful look, “That’s an interesting thing to say.” He almost snorts, “Why interesting? Why not useful? Or practical?”

“The things you know...I think it draws my magic.” Like a shark to blood. “All I know from Acarya is light spells. Theory and defense. That’s practical. You...you’re a mix, I’ve found. You don’t shy away from certain spells, even if they’re dark. I find use from them, but also delight.”

“You think your magic center is dark, then?”

He thinks he knows what that means, “Yes.”

“You fit the bill, going by archetype. It can explain why some of the things I help you with resonate better with your magicks.”

“How do you know so much?” A laugh as he says it because he wants it to be a compliment. And it is.

“I read.” Obviously. He reads too. But he doesn’t know like she does, “Though I suppose it’s what I’m reading that matters.” Absolutely. The foreign books often seen in her hands are fascinating to say the least, but they aren’t very helpful in his classes...Not like the so-called revisionist ones. He might get a great substitute for a potion ingredient, or pronunciation help, but he’s still not getting much from them...What is he missing? Why isn’t he reaching the same conclusions as she is on magical theory?

“Do you read for pleasure?” To know?

“That’s a part of it.”

“What’s another part of it? Hobby? Research? To look intelligent?”

Another pointed look, again with amusement in her eyes, in her lips, “It’s like this: If I were to tell you how to cast a certain spell...I tell you the incantation, the wand movement, and the intended effect...Would that be enough to know how the spell actually worked? How...best to maximize its potential?”

He’s greedy to hear more from her. Why does she want to know such things? To gain power? Triumph over others? Prove herself? “Perhaps not.”

She shakes her head, “I don’t think so. It can’t be that easy. I refuse to believe that. Otherwise, why doesn't everyone in charms class succeed immediately when learning a new spell?”

Because they're all idiots, obviously, “You want to learn why magic works, then?”

“Of course, don’t you?”

He must confess, he had never truly thought of it that way. Magic is something to control. To submit to him. He could care less about the whys as long as it works.

His negative reply is regretted the moment he shook his head, she looks disappointed, but not surprised, “Why does magic even do as we say? Why doesn’t it always work one-hundred percent for everyone who is a witch, even children? Why should it matter if someone is trained in order to perform powerful magicks ‘properly’? What is proper magic?”

Does she want him to answer? He doesn’t know. Magic does because it’s a tool. And warlocks use it. It doesn’t work for people who don’t know how to use the tool. Proper magic is when exceptional wizards (like him) hold the tool. That’s how he sees it.

But he wants to look intelligent to her, so he leans further on the coffee table between them, looking intrigued, “Are you saying there’s better ways to utilize magic than how we’re being taught: a method tried and proven through centuries of notable witches?”

“Yes.”

If so, he would like to be first in line to try these new methods out.

“How Muggle.”

“They’re effective problem solvers.”

They’re also effective problem causers.

“I can see that.”

“Can you, though?” She has a right to ask him that, she’s heard more than enough talk from him about how stupid Muggles are, “Wizards in Europe used to relieve themselves in public and magick away the waste, did you know that?” He did not. The thought is horrendous and makes him shiver in disgust, but he can believe it, “Make a mess and throw it away, that’s the warlock way.” A sigh, “Imagine if the Muggles on this continent hadn’t adapted a proper waste system...No pipes in Hogwarts?” Filth.

“You don’t think wizards would have figured something out?”

“Not at all. Why would they? They’re so...content in their...their...”

“Obstinacy?”

“Does that mean pigheadedness?”

“Stubbornness.”

“Then yes. Obstinacy. They’re happy with mediocrity until someone they see as lesser finds something better. Leeches.”

The sharp bitterness in her voice is appetizing. It’s been too long since he’s seen her angry.

“The Romans had their aqueducts, and when they invaded Britain, they brought bathing with them, but once they were all gone, how fast do you figure wizards here were to return to the old ways? Did it take ten years? Two? A week? As fast as the Muggles?”

Muggle history, he confesses, is no longer a strong suit of his. He had once loved learning of conquerors and leaders in the classroom of the orphanage, but that was abandoned upon Dumbledore’s visit. Perhaps he was mistaken to do so.

“You know, even now I can hear jazz pass through highblooded circles. They’re taking it for their own. Making it seem like their idea. That they simply took it from clumsy black Muggle hands and made it better.” Ximena’s gentle hands tighten so hard, Tom can see them shake, “And really, isn’t that just the peak of pureblood culture?”

Tom would like to think that wizards hated and rejected everything Muggle, but the more Ximena speaks, the less easy it is to think so.

“I’m tired.” Her hand rubs her temple, “In one, two, three years, we’ll see gramophones in the shops at Diagon Alley, fixed to work in high magic areas. We’ll hear new witch vocalists harmonize over loud brass and stinging strings, singing about magic this and spells that, because that’s all they seem to sing about, is how they’re magic and different from the Muggle singers.” It is a rant that would sound better if it were ignited and fast, but coming from her exhausted form, it comes off as reluctant fact reading. The resigned announcing of surrender terms.

And Tom understands. When he left the Muggle world for this one, he wasn’t leaving a world of corruption and ugliness for a world of betterness and justice. He was leaving one lonely world for another.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

“I hate it too.”

She looks at him.

“I hate the sneers given to me when I tell people where I come from. Where I was raised. Even when I surpass them in class, in trials, in studies, they want to hold my Muggle upbringing against me. When I quote Muggle literature, they praise it for the wisdom and superb wording until I tell them who it was that wrote it. My notes in books are made fun of for using pencil, but I have Carrows, Flints, Yaxleys asking to borrow one when no one is looking. Sometimes, I want to tell them my blood status. That a filthy half-blood is their better in every way.”

His own voice is even and calm as he speaks his truth. It doesn’t take away from his own hatred of Muggles and their sins, but rather add onto it: Why couldn’t he escape his ties to the Muggle world here? Why must he be scrutinized over an upbringing he cannot help? Curse the filthy purebloods and their unattainable standards. For not realizing that one of their own was wallowing in a miserable orphanage surrounded by Muggles and not saving him.

“I didn’t think you’d understand.” Is that relief in her voice? “--I thought by now they might have brainwashed you.” They. The purebloods. They’ve influenced his thinking more than anyone else (other than, perhaps, Ximena, if he were being honest).

Her magic is pulsating vibrantly like a drum.

“I thought maybe you were just humoring me on my ideas about dark and light magic...About everything else too.”

It occurs to Tom, that she is now sharing something awfully private with him. Evening the playing field. He holds fast to her words.

“I...People here come and go from me. Never linger. And that is fine. I like that.” I am better in darkness. “My ideas aren’t taken seriously, I’m seen as an amusing little curiosity, and people don’t listen to me. Not really.”

But he’s different. Of course he is. Only he really listens to her and what she has to say. To share and teach. Only he’s smart enough to see her worth.

“You’ve given me hope.”

He preens.

“Thank you.”

“--I wish you could come to Hogsmeade, there’s this ice cream parlor you would love, they have so many flavors...I’ll tell you what: we can go together next year, if you’d like.”

Nothing has ever sounded sweeter.