Serpentine

Of the Dueling Club meetings that Tom is least fond of, he would have to say that the ones where little action happens take the cake. Meetings that talk about safety sanctions, updates to the British League rules, and reprimands to the more rowdy club members.

The type of meetings that are in second place are the ones where each and every member pairs up with those in similar power levels and spar all across the hall--Mainly because Ximena always manages to be absent those days, but also because it’s more difficult to focus on the fights that he finds most intriguing.

That is, of course, until today. When he’s able to finally, finally participate.

The room is the same as it was last year, only a handful of new faces sprinkled around like weeds. What is entirely different is the air of the conversation when he enters the room.

Yes, there is the occasional ‘cute’ comment from an older student still, but most of the words leaving people’s mouths regarding him are of reverie. Admiration. He’s becoming the Golden Boy, just as he promised himself. They ask him if he’s excited to finally show his stuff, make Slytherin proud, join the official school team--They’re like reporters from The Daily Prophet. Witch Weekly. Magister Monthly. Frantic for an interview, a word, a glance in their direction.

He glows.

Willow walks in with her billowing robes fluttering grandiosity behind her, smiling at the students and greeting her favorites. When she speaks, she holds the entire hall’s attention--Even during the boring little tidbits of safety and sportsmanship. A true mark of a great witch. At the end of her introduction and welcome, new members line up in front of her messily. Eagerly. Tom is the only refined second year of the bunch, if it wasn’t for his height and young face, he’s sure he’d be mistaken for at least a fifth year. His permission slip (with an expertly forged signature) is handed to Willow without any fuss, though there was a hefty anti-forgery charm on it (disabled with some trouble, but still disabled, in the end).

The new members are given partners with whom to gauge their skills and knowledge with, while the rest are paired off to spar proper. Tom finds himself pleased to see that he’s up against another wizard older than him. Ximena wasn’t lying to him when she said that his reputation precedes him--Slughorn and Merrythought must have spoken to Willow beforehand. Good. Less time wasted on his part.

Tom has the sense to only appear humbly confident as he strolls up to his side of the small dueling oval (marked on the ground with chalk), stifling down his eager excitement into a locked compartment in his heart. Outside, he is a cool and controlled Slytherin boy, ready to face his first opponent. To prove himself.

His sparring partner has the gall to look assertive and sure of himself: Ian Rosier. His ugly face smiles at Tom as if he were doing him a great honor by speaking to him. Tom forces himself to take the other’s hand in greeting anyways.

They bow, waist deep (the other’s is shallower than his), and take out wands from their sleeves: poised and ready.

The elder boy strikes first, quick and elegant, just as Tom had observed the year before. It’s a simple stupify that he brushes off as if it were a mosquito. He’ll have to do better than that.

“Protego.” His little voice, fierce with authority, lashes out--And he internally cringes, because he doesn’t need to be fierce, he should try and look more effortless, right? As if this was nothing? Or should he really try to stick to the image of humility?

“Expelliarmus.”

Tom wants to huff--Ian is going easy on him...Fair enough if he were any other second year, but he’s not...What if he starts to goad him?

A counter spell, and Tom digs into the arsenal of material that Hedwig had given him so long ago, “Reducto.”

The surge of power he feels extend from his wand is enough to give him goosepimples. The flinch and look of surprise from Ian is enough to send a satisfying chill up his spine.

Unfortunately, he manages to block it at the last second, gathering his bearings and eyeing Tom like he cheated or something, “Petrificus totalus.”

Yes, now he’s getting somewhere. Treat him like a real opponent, dammit.

Back and forth, they parry. Strike. Block. What thrill, what in his life could ever measure up to this? He’s a natural. Just as he knew he would be. Ian has nothing on him. Absolutely nothing. Repeating itself in his head was the sentence: Ximena wasn’t joking. When she said that Merrythought believed him to be better than those in her year...This was pathetic. All of Hogwarts was pathetic. Where were the standards? The level of skill that his haven deserved? All tucked away in just him and a handful of people?

The other spars in the room end quickly and begin anew--But his and Ian’ duel goes on. He knows he should stop while ahead, it’s only the wise thing to do: magical exhaustion is just so easy when you’re young.

But there’s a reason he’s not a falcon, isn’t there?

Why should he stop when he’s already so far ahead? So close to the sun? Why should he step away and speak to his senior about his posture or wandwork and Oh what else can I do to improve? What does Ian know, anyways? He’s barely holding up his own to someone with half his experience and seventy percent of his height.

Tom will stop when he does.

But people are starting to take notice. Tom’s focus is entirely on the fight, but his sensitive ears pick up little chatterings--’They’re still going?’ ‘Aren’t they tired?’ ‘Is Willow really allowing this?’ ‘That’s Slytherin’s not-mudblood, right?’. Yes, yes, talk about him. Create stories and legends in his name. Watch in awe at how young and gifted he is. This poor little orphan without a damn coin to his name. With the accent of a poor Londoner and the wardrobe of a beggar. Come and see how much better he is than your haughty lexicon and your miles of dragon leather and silk. How all the money and blood in the world can’t stop you from succumbing to under his heel.

“Godric’s beard, Rosier, he might as well be a mudblood, and you still haven’t finished him off?”

The quip from the Gryffindor doesn’t sting Tom quite as much as it does Ian. His sparring partner snarls like some kind of dog at the recognition of his shortcoming, and begins to fire a spell he does not at all recognise.

Tom fires faster.

“Cruc--”

“Rictusempra.”

The push back is enough to cause a recoil on his end, and as Ian blasts back into a few students not enraptured by their duel, he howls in laughter. Pained, furious, loud laughter. Cackling like a mad man. He doesn’t stop. It’s enough to seriously disturb him...If he were some little baby, he means. So he’s not disturbed. At all.

Willow pushes past the onlookers, a look of absolute anger pointed at Ian. She demands he tell her what in the Founder’s names he was planning on casting on a second year student. What was he thinking? Does he want an express ticket straight to Azkaban?

The dueling instructor is so terrifyingly worked up that she doesn’t even register that Ian can’t respond. All he can do is laugh. Glare at Tom’s little smirk and laugh himself to exhaustion.

-

The halls buzz with scattered news on the war, Grindelwald, gossip, and his little triumph. Of course, the triumph is talked about as if it were Rosier’s misstep, but...

But they’re talking more about him, right? Not about Rosier, right?

Hedwig, as usual, doesn’t make him feel better, “You went against baby Rosier?” She’s cornered him in the main area of the common room, looking like she ran here from wherever her last class was.

“Yes, I won.”

“Ugh, I knew I should have skipped orientation I mean, fecking hell--I hear he tried to cast a bloody Unforgivable on you!”

“--A what?”

Hedwig rolls her eyes, “An Unforgivable, Tom, clean out your ears once in a while.”

He doesn’t know what a damn ‘unforgivable’ is, but apparently he’s supposed to--Something like insecurity pulls him away from asking Hedwig. Only a Muggleborn would ask what an unforgivable was. He’s not a Muggleborn. He’s not he’s not. He doesn’t have dirty blood.

“I couldn’t tell, all I know is that Willow was furious.”

“She stopped the fight?”

“Well no, I ended the fight, she only came afterwards.”

Hedwig scoffs, “Ya figures. I bet she was holding back from breaking the two of you off. Did the same with me and Lane last year, remember?”

He does, “It’s not like she’s entertained by it all, right? Students fighting?”

“Well she’s a sadist, I’m sure, you see what she does with Wood every week.” It’s Wood’s own fault that he’s late every week, but he understands, “She keeps her hands off duels, it’s a West African thing, I think. Their fights are to the death.”

“--To the death?”

“Ya, but she wouldn’t ever let it go that far, even if it was a Rosier fighting.” His clueless blink has her rolling her eyes, “You can’t just interrupt a duel that has a bloodline like that involved--There’s old laws about that. Centuries old. Even little clan brats like little Rosier are covered under it, and he’s not even the heir of his family.”

“Wouldn’t that just be for official duels? The sort fought for honor?”

“Old laws are vague on purpose, Tom.” She waves her hand, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was expelled, the idjit.” Hedwig shakes her head, “All that incest in his family line must have ruined any chances for a good head on his shoulders.”

“--You don’t think his family’s status would save him?” He doesn’t comment on the later words, he has to play neutral on that disgusting ground for now.

“Oh definitely. Lucky son of a bitch.” Her tongue clicks, “But if he wasn’t a member of one of the purest houses in Britain, he’d be gone in a flap of a snidget’s wing.”

“...Snidget?”

“Fuck’s sake, Tom, learn vocabulary, or people will start to believe you’re Slytherin’s first mudblood.” The thought (the near accusation) bruises him deeper than expected. He doesn’t reply. “I’ve associated myself too damn much with you for that to happen, you got it?” As if he would get better for her sake...But her resentment is understood. He would feel the same way.

“Affirmative, captain.”

“Sod off, Tom.”

Heh.

He asks on her orientation for the competition, as well as the tutoring she was receiving for it, and Hedwig tells him it’s going splendidly--She’s learning more than she thought she could from the bloodtraitor. Even they have their uses.

“I’ll be set to win the WSPC without a hitch.”

“Assuming Acarya gave you all her cards?” That’s not very Slytherin like.

Hedwig purses her lips, “I have some skills too, you know.” She flicks away her wild hair from her eyes, “Mysterious oriental magicks or no, I am a foe to be reckoned with.”

He doesn’t disagree, “Care to share?”

“Nice try.”

He wasn’t trying to do anything. Not yet. “I’m only curious, Hedwig. I have the best intentions at heart.”

“Aye, the best intentions for whom?”

Smart girl.

Keeping a watchful eye on the entrance to the common room, Tom begins to study with Hedwig the rest of the hour--pausing to address the concerns and inquiries of the few students rude enough to interrupt him. He might be less annoyed by their attention if they were focused on him in their questions and worry. Not on Ian.

“He’s been in the Headmaster’s office for hours--Do you think he’ll be expelled?”

Not bloody likely, but it’s not like he gives a damn, “I’m not sure, I’m just as in the dark as you are.”

“Ooh, I hope you can help vouch for him! I’m sure he didn’t mean it--”

“I didn’t know you were Rosier’s fucking lapdop, Avery! Stop bitching about his wrongful imprisonment, and go bother someone who cares.”

While Tom gives his best I’m so sorry about her, really look at the freckle faced girl, he internally praises Hedwig for being herself.

“You’d think he was beloved by all, by the way they talk about him, fucking knob.” She doesn’t even wait until the girl is out of earshot.

“I’m sure he has his peers and groups--Abbas and Topaz?”

“Pfft, those aren’t friends, those are obligations.”

Well, yes, obviously, “Don’t tell me they all hate each other?”

A little shrug, “Maybe. Probably.” A moment’s hesitance, “Parents force purebloods to befriend each other all the time. All this nonsense is just scum groveling on behalf of their families.”

“And you, of course, don’t grovel.”

“You’re damn fucking right I don’t.”

“Don’t have any family alliances with the Rosiers, then?”

Her nose scrunches with distaste, “Not officially.”

“Unofficially, then?” His brows rise gently, eyes wide with curiosity, voice light and innocent, “You look close with Evan.”

“Yeah, what’s it to ya?”

“How defensive, Hedwig! I’m merely asking a simple question.”

“Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to know the answer to.”

The more she pushes him away, the more he wants to know. She should know that about him by now, “Who says I’m not prepared?”

“The wetness behind your ears.”

Hm that--That stings more than he wants it to. Probably because she’s right, he’s still very much a fish out of water when it comes to wizarding affairs, much less the complicated tangles of pureblooded alliances. But after her revelation of child marriages and engagements, what could possibly be worse?

Tom makes a show of checking behind his ears with his fingertips, “Wetness? Hedwig, it’s as dry as bone back there, how can you possibly be aware of something like that?”

The look of incredulity on his classmate’s face is hard to resist laughter to--She looks torn between punching him and picking up her books and leaving, “You’re lucky you’re baby-faced, you shite, it makes your acting all the more convincing.” He’d be flattered, but he already knew that. He’d be worried, but Hedwig is smart enough to know he’s not completely innocent. He’d drop the subject, but Tom never lets anything go. Ever.

“If you’re in need of someone to talk to, I hope you know I’m here.” The amount of sincerity needed in his offer almost sends him comatose. He sounds too sweet. Too earnest.

But Hedwig believes him. She stares at him solidly for a few seconds, unblinking. Searching for any signs of cynicism. Of ulterior motives. Ximena gave him the same gaze the first day they met. Cautious and distrusting. When wielded by Hedwig’s hazel eyes, it feels less like an animal caught in the middle of a meal is sizing him up and more like a cornered one is debating on whether or not he’s a threat.

He likes it. Being seen as a possible threat.

A firm nod is given. Help accepted. She stays silent. Looks down at her notes and textbook and continues writing.

Tom excuses himself to dinner early to search for Ximena.

Though her schedule is still unlearned, he has gotten quite good at tracking down his senior. Her usual and preferred spots of study were long ago memorized and established as favorite spots of his own due to low traffic and near-silent atmosphere. If she wasn’t in a class, there was a high chance that Tom would know about it (he’s long learned to keep tabs on those who should be kept an eye on). Classes do not go on this late. Not being in the common room, the only place she could be is her spot in the library--their spot. Where she wept over her bracelet. Where it should have chosen him as its new owner. Cursed thing. He’s starting to hear things from it too. Noises and garbled nonsense. Whispers in languages unspoken by human tongue. Is it making him go mad? The matron would tell him serves you right for being a thief… Would Ximena think the same?

She is there (of course she is there), cheek resting on her knuckles, reading through a book he identifies as a theory on summoning. Hair tied up and eyes tired, she looks older than a girl of thirteen. More mature and refined than many of the prefects he’s met with. How sad (how ridiculous!) that such a commanding aura be broken down by something as silly as emotion. That her tears and blush and laughter erase the imperial mood of her face and stature. The only useful emotion was anger, in Tom’s opinion. It is also the emotion his classmate looks best in.

Nothing in the air stirs. She hasn’t acknowledged him.

He waits. Watching.

It takes fifteen minutes for her to look up and notice he’s there.

“Oh--Good afternoon.”

“Evening.”

A blink, she looks to her left at the tall windows, “--Ah.”

He allows a chuckle to leave him, “Lost in thought?”

“--I didn’t miss dinner, did I?”

“Not at all, I’ll walk with you to the Great Hall.” It’s really phrases and offers like this that only fuel the crush rumor, but since Evan and Hedwig have pushed him to socialize with Ximena more, why not play the part? He has questions to ask, anyways. And no one’s around to hear them.

“Thank goodness, I’m famished.” Her book closes after she dogears the corner of the page she was on, it disappears in her well worn bookbag, “I’d have probably stayed here til’ midnight if you hadn’t shown up.” Ximena straightens up her robes as she stands and begins walking, wiping the tired from her eyes.

“Sounds like you know from experience.”

“Something like that.”

He anticipated her answer, and speaks at the same time as she, “Something like that?”

Her throat clears, and something like fluster sinks into the air around her, “Mm. Yes.” The language of her posture closes up, she’s self conscious. “--Where you in the library long?”

“Only long enough to find you.” And linger a bit, “Was wondering where you were, none of the Gryffindors I encountered knew.” No Gryffindors were asked regarding her location, but she doesn’t have to know that.

A sudden cough, sharp and guilty, “Why would--Why would they know?” A finger plays with a loose hair strand.

“You aren’t trying to build bridges between our houses?” Instead of just between her and Adam.

“--Oh, yes, right, um.” Her fingers twist twist twists her curly hair, “I guess I’ve made myself an ambassador, haven’t I?”

“Of sorts.” If that was her true intention (and Tom doesn’t believe it is for a second), she should have picked Vane or a Weasley to speak to, “I think it’s admirable.”

“You do?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” His voice implies he’s hurt, “I know the sort I choose as my friends would imply otherwise,” Her talk of brainwashing echoes in his memory, “but really, I think the houses being open with each other is a good thing. More resources, more chances to help each other.”

The approval in her eyes is very validating, “Good. That’s good.” Her head bobs, like she’s nodding to herself, “Really good.” Like she’s saying it to herself. Something about it bothers him. She should come back to Earth and pay attention to him.

“Any luck with your search?” The bracelet had been left in his bedside drawer.

“Somewhat.” The subtle spike in frustration isn’t missed, in her voice nor in her face, “I’ve been doing some reading.” What else is new?

He prods, “Tracking spells?”

A bitter chuff, “It’s a little late for something like that.” Thank Merlin, “I’ve been looking at types of magical bonds.”

“Contracts?”

“More or less, yes.” Her mouth draws a thin line as the two walk into the Great Hall, heading towards the Slytherin tables, “It’s hard to translate to Englis--” A sudden stop, though her pace doesn’t lessen, “--Why is everyone staring?”

“Hm?” He hadn’t noticed, but of course someone like her would. The few dozen nearby faces turned in their direction aren’t malicious, but rather in awe and concerned. They are the faces of their Dueling Club peers.

“It’s not you,” Not this time, “it’s me they’re staring at.” This, he says in the most reassuring way possible, though really he was showing off. He wants her to ask why--To want to know the details.

A sigh of relief as they sit down, though her posture does not relax--When her books are placed to the side, a lovely hot platter of butterflied fish dressed with vegetables and red sauce blinks into existence. Noted is her pause before praying: is she thinking about where this food came from? Where the knowledge of the recipe originated?

When her hands come apart and she reaches for the butter dish, she continues her talk, “Why are they staring at you?” He can practically hear the urge to scooch away from him to avoid the attention by proxy.

“Not privy to the gossip circles today?”

“I’ve been studying all afternoon, but I think I heard your name in passing a few times.” She seasons the cod on her plate, “Dueling Club started today, right?”

Good, she brought it up first. Technically. “Yes, it did.” He replies matter of factly, “I won my first duel.” Eyes to the side, he watches for a reaction.

“Mm. Congratulations.” Her hand covers her mouth (half full), “Sorry I wasn’t there, the, uh, Gryffindor quidditch tryouts were today--Who was it against?”

“I forgive you.” Lie. “Ian Rosier.”

Her face goes sour, “He joined again?”

“It looks like he’s here to stay,” Despite the humiliation Tom delt him. Heh. “he probably wants revenge now.”

“He lost that badly?”

“I’d like to think I did quick work of him.” He cuts his food nonchalantly, looking down at his plate.

“Was he angry?”

“Furious.” Tom’s not actually sure he’s ever seen anyone that mad before, “Looked like a bull going straight for the red cape of a matador.” He decides not to go with the ‘I was scared’ tone, but rather the ‘he really was so pathetic’ one, “I cut him off at his last spell.”

“What was it?”

“Not sure, unfortunately, he looked rather eager to use it. Started with a crou--sh sound.” He chews his turkey thoughtfully, “Willow was very hostile about it, but I think that was just because he was being too aggressive with someone a year younger. Even said he could have gone to Azkaban for it.”

“. . .”

“--Ximena?”

He turns his head and finds her still. Dead eyed. As if his words had turned her into some sort of tense, stoic statue. Her hands, he notes with extreme interest, are balled up tightly into fists. They’re trembling.

Is she...

“Ximena?” Tom tries not to seem too excited at the prospect, nor too perturbed; the magical signature she works so hard at concealing is bubbling up from darkness. Tempting. The spice from her dish stings his nose as he breathes in, “Ximena, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

What was the damn spell Ian wanted to use on him? She knows, he knows she knows, and it’s something nasty. Dark. Evil. A jinx or a hex or a curse. And she’s absolutely fuming that it was almost used on him. How delightful.

“Don’t interact with Rosier again.” A command. The authority in her voice is as new to him as was the anger. He resists the urge to quirk an eyebrow (nobody tells him what to do), and simply accepts Ximena’s request. For now.

Concern is good. It’s a claim. She’s very clearly (publically) on his side. A few students have glanced over at her little outburst, and soon enough when they dip into the gossip pool, they will know why. They will know the context.

The problem, of course, is that this concern probably comes from her seeing him as a helpless little boy. As if! If only she could have seen him--His magical prowess and control was flawless. No scared little orphan can do what he can. Is she was there, she would get it. That he’s meant for something greater. That Rosier was only an ant in his way.

“Understood.” A pause, and he eyes her out of the corner of his periphery, “Ximena, can you tell me where I could get nigella seeds? It’s for an assignment in potions...”

-

Tom has long since concluded that the reason his popularity is soaring isn’t because of how great he was in his first duel, but instead because he almost had something called an Unforgivable almost cast on him. He heard it in Hedwig’s voice when she confronted him about it. He sees it in Ximena’s eyes when she shields him with her body every time Ian so much as glares at him (he can handle himself against someone like him, thank you very much). It’s an insult to the display of power he showed to his schoolmates in the dueling hall, but so be it--He knows he can twist the chatterings to be about how talented he is to be able to survive an attempted casting.

Asking what an Unforgivable was, however, is out of the question--He should know, after all. Hedwig herself said so--implied so. This knowledge is only further enforced in his brain as he finds nothing on them in any of his textbooks nor in the library. Censorship is his first instinct, but really, if the spell is as dangerous as the nickname entails it to be, it is probably for the best that no talentless idiot could accidently get his hands on it.

So what of the incredibly skillful wizards like him?

They get someone they can play into not spilling the secret.

Nemesis is all too happy to accompany him back down to the Slytherin common room (and all too comfortable with sticking much too close to him--The dungeons are always upsettingly drafty.) No, she does not hang on his sleeve and drool or stare at him like it seems like a lot of other students do with the object of their affections, but he's so...aware. Of her. It makes him feel like she's staring at him through a display glass--Or rather, like a cake on a stand on her kitchen counter that she was told she couldn't touch.

Her upper arm brushes against his, and his robes aren't thick enough. He smiles through it, "It was quite an eventful meeting."

“I wish I could have joined in! I’m sure it was something to remember, but it’s not really an interest of mine.” Nemesis’ disposition could rival the sun.

“You’ve never thought of joining before?”

“Oh no,” She looks down at her feet, “proper pureblooded girls do not duel.” A sigh, resigned and accepting, “Mother made that perfectly clear.”

“How absurd.” He’s beginning to see why Nemesis is so misguided. He wonders if his head would be as equally filled with nonsense had his own mother… “You’re better than half the boys in Defence Against The Dark Arts.”

The smile she gives him is pained, but flattered, “You think so?”

“Humility doesn’t suit you.”

That got her. Her face flinches, but she laughs it off, “You’re better at catching my lies than my mother.”

It takes a liar to know one, “Why are there other pureblooded girls in Dueling Club if it’s not proper?”

“What’s proper in one country isn’t in others...Mother is Spanish. She has very...old fashioned traditions.”

In Tom's eyes, all pureblooded beliefs were obviously old fashioned...Nemesis' mother was probably stuck somewhere in the Bronze Age, then. Old bat. He plays the neutral and concerned card, “I’m sure there’s a method to her madness.”

Nemesis giggles, “You know Hamlet?”

That catches him off guard. Sends him violently back into a memory he thought forgotten, “...Yes,” he had snuck into a picture show when he was young--younger than he is, of course. Nine years old. He had an awful haircut and had injured the damned caretaker who had given it to him (without his hands, of course, he was performing magic even then), before proceeding to run away from any punishment they could dole out. A talkie was playing. From India[1]. The theater was dark and cold, but it was easy to go unseen. To steal popcorn and eat his fill of grain for the week. The tale thrilled him. Ignited his imagination. If he were to shut his eyes and concentrate, he’s sure he could still feel the crunching snack between his teeth and the gasps from the audience as Hamlet dueled his uncle. He could still smell the mothballs and dusty corner in which he sat himself for the better part of two hours. There was an older girl sitting a few rows in front with a red balloon who kept bopping it up and down and up and down so much it gave him a terrible headache and he popped it violently. A theater worker he charmed into thinking he wasn’t there by maintaining eye contact with him.

Within less than a second, he’s snapped back to the present by his classmate’s voice, “I didn’t know! Do Muggles know about Shakespeare? I remember learning that they knew what dragons were and feeling like my reality was shattered.”

“...How do wizards know about Shakespeare?” He remembers his ex guide thinking his Hallowe’en costume was someone from The Bard’s plays...He had brushed it off then, because who hasn’t heard of Shakespeare?

“He was a wizard, of course!”

That...sounds wrong. More than wrong. In many ways. But he drops it. It doesn’t matter right now. He places his hands behind his back and nods, accepting her words, “I see.” He licks his lips, searching for a way to get back on topic--

“I’d like to speak with you about something, actually.” Nemesis plays with a stray strand of hair, curling it around her finger in a manner that he senses she practiced in front of a mirror for. Her magic, flurrying and rustling near him like a squall, leaves him dreading what was inevitably going to come out of her mouth: some sort of confession. Ugh. Why couldn’t Nemesis have some damn sense like Hedwig? He’s never seen nor heard her fawn over boys. More girls should be like Hedwig.

“Oh?” But he has to play along, tilt his pretty little head and smile cluelessly like he wasn’t about to stomp down on his classmate’s heart.

But he never gets the chance.

The last thing he hears before hissing pain is an attack:

“Infido!”

Then: the familiar buzz of a protego--It comes strongly and just a little too late. The first spell cuts through the top of his left ear, grazing gently and ripping violently all at once, spurting forth his blood and raising up burning pain. The second spell, he reckons, saves his head.

Nemesis screams, shrill and terrified, hand covering her mouth and hesitating before Tom’s figure. He turns around, away from Nemesis and onto the scene before him.

Her back, so familiar, is all he sees at first: her robes swishing dramatically and curly hair seeming to fill with static and energy. Serpentine wand out, firm and threatening. Still and confident. The second thing he sees is Ian, gawking and fuming madly, eyes wide open like a beast.

Then noticed is her magic: furiously wild and thrashing like violent waves. A hundred shades of dangerous energy that calls out to him like bells. What he senses last is her voice: no longer familiar and meek, but dripping a dangerous, venomous tone that pricks goosepimples on the back of his neck,

“Don't touch him.”