Serpentine

Evan is his first visitor. When Tom turns his head after waking up, he sees him sitting beside his bed, reading a golden book. There's a small package of what he assumes to be sweets on the table next to them.

"You look terrible."

"Thank you, Evan, it's good to see you too."

The book is closed and settled down on his lap, Tom can't read the title, "Did my cousin do that to you?"

The bandages feel fused to his wounds, and even though they cover said wounds, he knows they must look impressive, "He took me by surprise."

Evan sneers, "Ian has always been a sniveling milksop, even when we were children."

Maybe it's the heavy medicine still lingering, but Tom speaks before thinking, "Are you not children now?"

He purses his lips, sucks his teeth, "All purebloods grow up when they turn eleven."

Tom has nothing to say to that.

"You're not here to avenge him, then?"

"Don't be stupid, Tom, it doesn't suit you." Well excuse him, Evan, "Read the atmosphere."

It's a little hard with the potion Madam Belfast gave him. His head feels heavy, and his dream hasn't completely left his conscious yet, "You're picking sides."

"Merlin, Tom, you don't need to state it so clearly, you're speaking like a Gryffindor." He crosses his legs and stands up straighter, "Your head must have been struck harder than I thought."

Any other time, his impudence would have made Tom put Evan on his shortlist for reprisal, but now it only amuses him, "Well he cut into my head, so you're not incorrect."

"Circe." Evan swears, rolling his eyes, "We're lucky Lane adopted her mother hen persona after you told her what happened in Dueling Club. Or else we might be attending your wake."

He seizes up, stiff at the thought. Dead. Cold in the ground in a pauper's grave. Insects crawling in his hair and jaw and rib cage. Rotting. Unnatural. Horrible. He pushes that idea away. Far away. Forgotten.

Evan doesn't notice. He continues talking, "Didn't think she had it in her." He makes purposeful eye contact, "Of course, all I know is her last spell used."

He opens his mouth to ask how he knows, but then he remembers who his family is.

"Auntie and Uncle were furious. I think Ian would have been better off getting punished by Lane."

"...They're not angry at her?"

Evan shrugs, "As angry as they would be at a wild redcap attacking their provoking son. Their words, not mine." Figures. Evan is an ass, but wouldn't refer to Lane as a creature. "Sure, they'll probably demand some sort of punishment, but Ian will get the worst of it for starting a fight he couldn't finish." He tilts his head at Tom, "Why didn't you join the fight?"

Duel laws, Dumbledore, incrimination, Dumbledore, his rising anxiety, Dumbledore, he's never been in a real fight, Dumbledore, he wanted to see Ximena duel for real, Dumbledore, "Because I'm not stupid."

"Hn." His shoulders shake with amusement, "At least someone in our year isn't."

Tom knows he's only counting the boys. Girls don't count with wizards like him.

"I know how you know what happened, but..."

"Oh, all of Slytherin house knows what happened." Evan announces casually, "Lane is a celebrity, and you are mythical."

The word pleases him. "Nemesis?"

"Partly. Slughorn had a talk too. About inter-house conflicts and the weight that dark spells have on you. The usual nonsense." Evan rolls his eyes again, "She, though, she really turned the story to favor the two of you." A clearing of his throat, he flexes his shoulders and enunciates in a hilariously accurate Nemesis voice: "He was a terrible brute! Pissy because of a lost duel in something that didn't even matter!" Tom almost chuckles at his heightened pitch, "Attacked Tom while his back was turned like a recreant! If it wasn't for Lane, I'm sure that Dumbledore would have found reason to investigate all of Slytherin house! Especially after Ian had the gall to try the cruciatus curse in Dueling Club!"

It's amusing but a little hard to follow, he blinks, "Investigate?"

"Ah, right, you're…" He muses for the right word, "New." His hands fold together, "It's no secret what our house's reputation is yes? A festering pit for dark wizards...ridiculous." He huffs, "We're devious, but far from evil. The problem is that some of us aren't very good at covering our tracks." Tsk tsk, "Parents and politicians from other houses have been demanding an investigation into the lives of students for decades. Dumbledore notwithstanding."

"Dumbledore has children?"

"Dumbledore is Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot." He stays silent. Evan continues without waiting for a response, "It's good that Lane's a Slytherin instead of a damn lion or badger. Maybe now those rumors will start having some truth to them."

It's a curious thought to have, but if Evan were older, Tom can imagine him smoking a cigarette during this conversation, looking annoyed and tired as he is. "Truth?"

"That the darkness in Slytherin isn't all encompassing. Just a few bad eggs." His hand taps on the cover of his book, "Dark spells are in most of our blood, but it means nothing--Do you know when you're being released?"

Too much information in such a short span of time hurts his still muffled head. He rubs his eyes, "Sunday, if all goes well?"

Evan nods to himself, satisfied, "Expect lots of visitors today then, Tom. You'll be sick of it." A gesture to the box of candies, "Enjoy these, by the way, they're from Acwellan. She'd be here yelling your ear off, but she had other obligations."

Ugh, thank God, he could not take Hedwig's yelling at this hour with how he's feeling, "Nothing from you? I'm hurt."

He tucks his book under his arm, "My family's get-well gift should be here later today." A curt nod, "But if you're really so wounded, I'll smuggle some cauldron cakes to you after dinner."

"--Wait." It slips out, Evan pauses, "Do you know where Ximena is?"

He raises his chin, "No. No one's seen her since yesterday."

When Evan leaves Tom to head to breakfast, he sinks into his bed a little more, wanting to bury himself under the covers.

.

If Tom didn't know any better, he would think he was beloved by all of Slytherin house--and a few more outside of it. Students he's never talked to (or at least, he doesn't remember talking to them) visit him with sympathies and flowers. Classmates come with candies and pastries. Teachers come to commend him for his actions (inactions?) and offer extensions to deadlines for assignments he's already completed days ago. He has a growing collection of little cards with colorful, animated pictures and words that he can't even look at for longer than a few seconds thanks to the medicine (the eyestrain is painful). The flowers by contrast are less annoying, but still irritating. He had to ask a mediwitch on duty to dull the contrasting and mixing smells, however mild they were (his wand is being kept from him for ‘his own safety'). The candies and sweets are fine. He likes those best, but the mediwitches are storing most of them away from him. Hags.

If Tom didn't know any better, he would think Ximena became an overnight martyr. Prefects ask him to compliment her on their behalf, younger students whom he half-remembers from varied and scattered study sessions look at him with stars in their eyes and ask when Ximena will be coming back, Slytherin's head boy comes to apologize for Ian and tells Tom If you and Lane need anything, I won't ask questions. When people ask where she is, he doesn't know what to tell them all. He blacked out. The last he saw of her, she was...She had just disarmed Ian. No she wasn't injured, he doesn't think.

And yes--the attention he is receiving is half the fault (the result of) Ximena and Ian combined, but at least people are remembering his triumph now. How embarrassing it must have been for Ian to be bested. At least, even if it's not how he planned, there is a spotlight on Ximena again. And this time, it's not just a handful of students, it's the entire school.

The part he hates most about this, though, is the people giving him sly looks and winks, assuring him that this must mean she returns his feelings. Idiots.

Despite the armful and a half of insipid people stopping by to see him, there's about seven conversations held with his fellow students that stay with him for the rest of the week:

.

"Where the fuck is Lane, I would have figured she'd be stuck to your damn side like glue after this."

"--I assume she's still being questioned about what happened."

"For what? Why wouldn't she be back?"

"--She's not in trouble for what she did?"

"What, defending her underclassman from an idiot?" Hedwig starts up before something clicks in her brain: she pauses in speaking, brows furrowing, "Are you--" Too loud, too loud, she moves to a whisper, "Are you telling me it was Lane that left that gobshite looking like a flambéd goat?"

He mirrors her look, intrigued and alert suddenly, "...Do people think he just burned himself?"

"Oh," She chuckles, and it's a foreign sound, but a pleasant one, "Oh Tom, you--You fucking geebag." Her hand comes up to rub at her eyes, "Fucking Satia. I didn't think she had it in her." A heavy sigh, "This changes things."

He doesn't sit up from the bed like he wants to, but merely stares, "Changes what?"

"Everything."

"Are you being unhelpfully vague on purpose?"

"Ya, fuck you too, Tom." A strong punch to his arm in good jest (still hurts), "Don't worry about it, just eat your sweets."

She's holding this over his head and she knows it, "I'm not allowed to know about the status of my housemate?"

"Lane's fine, you knob, she'll probably just be expelled." That is not at all his definition of fine, "Dippet has the Rosiers on his arse, and we all know where Slughorn's priorities lie." She picks up one of his boxes of fudge flies and shamelessly opens it to eat some. Tom's not invested enough to care. "She'll be out sooner than she can say ‘expelliarmus'."

"Evan didn't mention anything like that--"

A snort, "That fucking pox, he's only considering what his family will do to her probably." The crunch from the chocolate is very unpleasant. Almost as if Hedwig really were eating flies, "What did he tell ya? Personal vendetta? Indentured servitude?"

"--He didn't say anything like that."

"Huh." Though she keeps eating, she looks perplexed, "Maybe they haven't decided yet."

"I thought people weren't supposed to interrupt fights like that. Wouldn't she be in hot water because she intercepted the attack meant to me?"

It's rare when Hedwig doesn't know the answer to something. She shrugs, "It's not an official duel, Tom. It shouldn't be, anyways. But like I said: these things are vague on purpose." Her hands put away the fudge flies and move onto some shock-o-chocs, "He could plead that he was defending his honor or some shite, and that Lane stopped him from doing do. There's no other witnesses but you, and you have a bias."

"They can't just prove that he's lying?"

"Oh yeah, golden idea, Tom; Veritaserum is illegal to use on minors." Verita-what, "I suppose you could pick everyone's memory of the event and compare them in a pensive," What, "but Lane's head is all fucked up, they could damage up her brain more." Can't magic get around that? Or cure her of her damn memory loss? "Maybe your brain got fecked up too, I hear the spell he used tore your hat to shreds."

Hm. He had forgotten about that--It was secondhand, but it was still expensive. Getting another won't be easy, "I assure you, my mind is as healthy as ever."

"Ya sure--What school do you think she'll apply to? Beauxbatons? St. Comba's?" Saint what, "I'd bet Durmstrang, but it's hell to get in. Don't think she'll be able to with her grades." She pauses in her chewing, "But then again, I guess she is full of surprises." Hedwig shrugs stuffing more chocolate in her mouth, "Guess you like her for a reason, huh?" A teasing, good natured, absolutely cruel chuckle, "Maybe I'll have you screen my potential fiancés for me. Make sure I get the pick of the litter."

.

"I brought you some pierogi." Good, Madam Belfast is late with his lunch.

His eyes brighten up and he sits up in his bed, "For me?" He has no idea what that is, but it smells heavenly.

Elle smiles gently, "My brother got hit with a slicing hex from a nasty boy back in his fifth year--These things will do you wonders." Such radiating kindness. A Hufflepuff poster child. She sets the covered plate aside a few obnoxiously colored packages, looking unassuming, "You're not...allergic to potatoes, are you?"

God no, "No no, thankfully no. Thank you, Kowalska. You shouldn't have." Her smile of relief is a little pathetic, and she uncovers the plate, releasing warm steam.

"I always make extra, it's alright." Her wand appears, a swish and a tap, and she transfigures a discarded candy box into a small gold platter before stacking on the strange, dumpling like food, "They're a bit like, ah, sopaipillas...That food Lane was having for dinner the night, um…" The night Ian attacked him. He remembers. They looked different than this, but the texture is...similar enough.

"You pay attention to Lane's food too?"

"Oh, um," Her near-white skin hides nothing when she blushes, "I...yes. I always do. Even in passing." He supposes that makes sense, considering her relation to gastronomy, "It's so interesting! I would love to try and taste a sample one day." She passes the food to him.

"Why don't you just ask? I'm sure she'd be alright with it." That's a lie, Ximena is aggressively defensive about people picking things off her plate. Something his ex-mentor continues to ignore at his own peril.

Elle shakes her head, "Oh no, I could never. It would feel...wrong." His brow cocks, "There's something ritualistic about her meals, I can't...put my finger on it." She chuckles, "It's something I can understand."

Calculation, "...I can introduce you, if you'd like."

"Re--No, I couldn't do that."

"It's really no trouble." If anything, it would be to his benefit.

"I'll...I'll think about it." Her hands clasp in her lap, her right index finger tapping on her knuckle, "--Please, eat. They'll get cold."

He does. They're fluffy and delightful. He knows by the end of the plate, he'll have gained ten whole stones, hyperbole be damned.

"...Have you heard anything about her?"

Chew and swallow, "I've heard a lot of things." Three different stories thus far, "I was hoping you knew something."

"Oh--No, no, the Slytherins know the most on what will happen, these sort of...things are their territory." A sigh, "My snake told me a bit about it before she graduated. You're all sort of your own little micronation in that house, you know? I'm surprised you haven't developed your own currency, how can you keep up?"

Can't argue with that, "It's...a learning curve." He's so fucking lost, "But so far, even the smartest in my year have different ideas on what will happen to her."

"Mm." Her nervous tick continues, her finger accelerating, "The boy who attacked my brother was also a pureblood, but he wasn't like...like Rosier." Tom can tell she's trying so hard to stay impartial, but he won't blame her one bit if she slips and calls Ian a right prat, "It was a Potter...Fleamont? Feodore? Something weird like that." Another sigh, and it feels like she's going to depress all the air out of her body, "They were fighting over a girl of all things. It got out of hand and," a shrug, "--they both ended up here." She shakes her head, "The Potters are a good, reasonable family, but a few of their members demanded a trial. I suppose, if I had to ponder a guess, that this situation would reap the opposite effect. Many demand a trial, few are level headed enough to remember that the witches involved are children..." Elle trails off, not wanting to continue.

"--Do you have some time tomorrow? That's when I'm getting released, and I'd like to ask you a few questions about Transfiguration."

The older witch perks up, beams even, "Of course! I'd be happy to help with whatever you need."

.

"Hey there Tommy Gun," Oh fucking Christ, Merlin, and Circe, "What's the gag? Good to see you in one piece!"

"Hello Miller," He tries to look tired, maybe he'll excuse himself out of politeness. "Did someone say I was broken in half?" He says with a yawn.

A beautiful laugh, "A few people told me you were shredded up like a mouse by a cat! But I know these kinds of things get a bit exaggerated when pulled through the mill." He elbows Tom's side softly as he sits, "Ya get it? Mill? Miller?"

Good fuck, what does Ximena see in this boy, "Mm." A soft smile, he flutters his eyelids like he's about to pass out any second, "Well, thank you for visiting me,"

"Of course! I can't be left out from this! Have to contribute my own offering to your pile." Offering...he likes that word. A tribute from a conquered city. A sacrifice from worshippers. Tom will allow it.

"Oh you shouldn't have."

"Nah, what I shouldn't have done was pin the blame on my friend for our third year prank--This is different." He shows off a golden box, the size of a whiffle ball, and shakes it. "Good ol' American hospitality. Nothing like it!" He sets it atop of a box of jelly slugs, and Tom's grateful he doesn't expect him to open it in front of him, "You might not know what to do with it, it's kind of a regional thing, even back home! Just break it up immediately, okay?"

...Break his gift? "Okay." No time to ask, he wants him gone so he can nap.

"Looking at your hoard, you'd think you were some kind of dictator." He chuckles as Tom sends him a questioning look, "I mean--The more afraid of you people are, the more flowers you get [1]. It's something my mama says a lot. But you're a good kid. Hard boiled [2], too."

Hm. People being so afraid of him that even when he's sick or injured, they cower and bring him tokens of their loyalty. Adam is full of good ideas today. Maybe he'll let him stay a while.

Tom inclines his head in a humble bow, "I do my best."

"Well your best is pretty darn good. Ya got moxie. All the teachers talk about you when the rest of us upperclassmen are slacking."

He preens, "Oh?" He knew this already, but he likes hearing it.

"Oh ya. ‘Mena too, but it's not as constant, she's a quiet dame." Oh? Talk more about that, "You already know--We'll be in the library chatting about something and she brings you up. Usually about some interesting insights or something you've said about the subject."

At least he's not being misplaced anymore, "I feel honored."

"Eh." He nods in agreement, "Smart cookie."

"Do you help her in anything else besides Divination?"

"Oh yeah, lots of things. She's an eager beaver. Potions, History, Care of Magical Creatures...I don't think she really needs it, but she likes learning. It's cute. Like watching a lil kid grow up and learn to walk before your eyes."

.

"You have Lane's bracelet."

"...How long have you known?"

"Since the day she lost it." He doesn't flinch. Doesn't show anything on his face. Not a single raised goose pimple or bead of sweat on his brow. "I could see it from Burma. Were you ever planning on giving it back?"

Eventually almost comes out of his mouth, but it doesn't. He doesn't know how, but Yami would know that he's lying, "...What does it matter to you?" If she really cared, she'd have told Lane, right? She's had a year. Almost over a year.

She sits with her legs crossed, hands on her knee. The heel she has planted on the ground taps once. It echos with impatience in the empty ward, "Do you know what it is that my family does, Riddle?"

There's that feeling again: that she's already judged him without listening to all his perfectly valid reasons. That he's under a test. "They're curse breakers."

A nod, though her brows raise, "In a way...Curses are...different here than they are elsewhere." He's about to ask ‘where is elsewhere?', but she continues before he can, "At home, a curse is something you inflict on yourself. Carried through other lives, other actions. It bears your name and your name only. It is no one's fault but your own." She pinches a piece of lint off her lap, shooing it away, "So as you can imagine, Lane's case interests me greatly."

Her case as in the situation at hand or as in his classmate is cursed?

"Do tell her hello for me when she's back."

"--You think she'll come back?" He tries not to sound too eager at the prospect.

"Of course." Her gaze steadies down to his pocket, where the bracelet rests, "Did you think she would leave that behind?"

His mind searches for corresponding answers from the pages of the book Ximena lent him, head filled with ink and figures, "So, she is cursed, then?"

Yami nods her head down in confirmation, but also gestures in a so-so manner with her hand, the gold bangles on her wrist jingling. Excitement spikes up his spine, "I trust you won't go spreading that information around." It's not a question. She knows. That he wants to keep everything that counts as a secret to himself. Is it so easy to figure him out?

"Of course."

Another nod, "A good favor to keep for a friend." --Does she know his crush is fake? "It shouldn't be hard to keep another."

Yes. She wouldn't dare offer him her silence without expecting anything in return. It's nothing personal, he understands, it's only business. As expected from a Slytherin prefect.

But she doesn't say what she wants, or needs, merely wishes him a good day, leaves her gift of fresh fruit (did she say that red one was called a persimmon?) and walks out.

.

"That filthy Muggle lover had no right to do what she did!"

"Miss Rosier, you will take care not to shout in my hospital wing!"

Tom hides his smile behind the piece of chocolate he's snacking on.

Druella is, by far, the worst visitor he'd had today--Peeves included. At least he had something intelligent to say.

She huffs, biting back her tongue, "I know my cousin already visited with you, what did he say." Who does this girl think she is making commands at him? She's only above him in money.

"Evan wished me well and said a package from his family would arrive later today."

This information, of course, does not please her. Her hands ball into fists, gripping her gold trimmed robes, and she looks like she's resisting the urge to strangle the life out of Tom. He keeps eating his chocolate.

"She did that to him! I know it, Ian would never be so idiotic as to burn himself." Her lower volume is still, remarkably, loud. Impressive. "He practically invented expulso. He mastered it in three months!" They both have different ideas of ‘mastered', then.

"Does your family often teach dark curses to their children?"

Ohh, that was something she shouldn't have said. Her heavy eyes narrow, annoyed that she was so careless, "Of course! All the right houses do." Weak defence. Druella moves so erratically, her hat almost falls off her head. "You were there, Riddle, tell them the truth! Bring justice to my family's name--I'm sure Ian didn't mean it, he has a stupid temper when people best him: he almost handicapped my sister over a chess match!"

No, this is much more fun, "I don't know what happened: I passed out from blood loss before the fire started."

An exasperated ugh, she rubs her eyes, "That idiot...beaten by an Indian."

Huh. "Ximena's not from India." Probably.

"Whatever." She waves her hand, looking tired, "All those unsavory bunch, they all look well enough the same, what does it matter where they're from?"

Mm. This again. If she actually paid attention to their faces, she'd see how wrong she was, but he won't tell her that, "Perhaps you are in need of some spectacles, then?"

Druella is by far the shortest visit.

.

"Hon, you look like hell."

"Hell must be remarkably charming, then."

Mali chuckles, not taking a seat, but remaining standing instead, "I see why all the girls won't stop talking about you." ...Girls? There's more than Nemesis? Sweet Salazar.

His displeasure must show on his face because Mali's smile grows wider, "Don't like girls yet, huh?"

"Yet is a very very conditional word." He's never seen himself as someone who could stand being around someone long enough to woo them, much less marry them. Even marrying for the sake of getting into a better family sounds exhausting.

"What about boys, then?"

If Tom were eating, he'd choke on his food in surprise. Homosexuality was more than taboo in the presense of the Wool's workers, it was a one way ticket to having at least two of the caretakers eye you warily and suggest taking you to a priest and doctor. Nevermind the horridly loud rants that Mrs. Cole would dole out. He assumed it was the same with wizards (no one had mentioned anything to the contrary, after all, and most of them are rather concerned with breeding...) Is Mali trying to trick him?

He plays it safe, "I don't find anything particularly alluring about either gender." He's as equally attracted to the pretty girl as to the ugly one and the handsome boy as to the hideous one. That is to say: not at all.

"That's fair." Mali nods once, "You're still young anyways, there'll be plenty of time for that later if you like." He would not like to ever, thank you, "Adolescence hits us all differently." Oh God, is she going to give him a talk.

"I didn't think you'd come and visit me." Quick change of subject, thank you!

"And miss the martyr of the century?"

What curious wording, "I wasn't attacked for my beliefs." Just for being exceptional.

"Maybe not, but you do suffer constantly from those pigheaded boys in your houses."

"Touché. But I'm sure the pigheaded boys in Hufflepuff house are just as bad."

"They're a...different brand of bad."

"A rose by any other name."

She turns her head to the side at him, "A perfect Slytherin quoting Muggle literature?"

"I'm told he was a wizard."

Mali snorts, "Bullshit. That's a lie they made up so they could keep reading his works without guilt or hypocrisy." Yes...that sounds more like reality. "I hear the Japanese changed the name of baseball in their language so they could keep playing it. They wanted to ban everything that wasn't from their culture, but they love baseball too much to give it up." She tsks, "Not sure if that's true, but I wouldn't be shocked to hear that it was. The more things change the more they stay the same."

"How cynical." He agrees.

"Speaking of cynical," she starts up as if the topic had just come up in her head, "what do you think of all these rumors going around about the fate of my little viper?"

He's not sure. There's much to think. Everyone has given him a goddamn different story, and he doesn't like most of them for different reasons. "I think people have a lot of free time."

"You got that right. Damn kids have nothing else better to do but squabble like shaken hens." Kids? Mali is barely a teenager herself. "It's about the same back home: the most interesting thing that can happen is a near-death experience. Tell me, what would you like to happen to your remains after you've passed?"

The question is completely out of left field. And if he's being honest, he doesn't want to think of himself in the terms of mortal. In the conditions of mortality. He finally got all that horrific imagery out of his head only for this damn girl to bring it all back.

But thankfully he doesn't have to answer, because she laughs at him, "Sorry, it's kind of a random question, it's just been on my mind." She rubs the back of her neck, "In Alchemy, we talk to the dead sometimes. Nothing dark, mind you, just your casual communicating with human skulls in the light of a full moon." Oh yes, as one does, "And...Good gracious, it's so morbid. Someone took those poor sons of witches out of their resting place for their own gain and just...never put them back." Her arms cross, "Maybe we can't even put them back anymore because no one knows where they're buried. They have to be used like this, constantly, never being able to rest…" She sighs, "I bring it up because...Even they take up their time with arbitrary gossip. One moment they're telling you how to transmute gold and the next, they're speaking about something dramatic that happened Beyond the Veil. We never change."

.

"Miss me?" His ex-guide is the last thing Tom needs to see right now: he's eating some cauldron cakes.

"Not particularly." Tom isn't joking, but the other boy laughs anyways.

"Sorry I couldn't drop in earlier, I had some business to attend to." Chasing skirts again, no doubt. Chasing robes? Witches didn't wear skirts unless they were Muggleborn.

"Busy with Slug Club?"

He blows air out of his mouth, "I think not--All Sluggy can talk about is the sad state of affairs in Slytherin house...To the rest of us snakes, of course. The rest just get cautionary tales of ‘you can never be too careful. I reckon he thinks himself to be like Beedle the Bard--Has he visited you yet? You're one of his favourites."

"I was asleep when he came." Fake asleep, but that doesn't matter.

"Eh, that's for the best, he's been very on edge. Some of the other professors are doubting his leadership as Head of House. As if all the clan brats in Slytherin are so easy to keep track of." He shakes his head, "I know for a fact that the ones in Gryffindor are worse than we are. Only we have dark magical centers, so that places us on a watchlist."

"And dark isn't evil." It's not a question, but not exactly a statement.

"Right you are, Tom." He adjusts himself, leaning back in the chair and spreading his knees apart, "Looks like I taught you well." Ugh. "And I guess Eric's mentorship wasn't all for naught: our girl held her own, I hear."

Our girl. Pleh. "From what I remember, she was very precise." That's not incriminating, right? "I think Ian was very heated up, so that worked to her advantage."

"Pshh, you know Ian almost got Gryffindor? He begged the hat to place him into Slytherin."

What.

The older boy leans in closer, "It's true, I heard my mother talking about it with his--And I'm not surprised. His complexion looks far better with red and gold anyways."

There's a moment where Tom tries to process all of this...It makes sense. His infuriating stubbornness, brash personality, his ego...The boy during their match, the one that taunted Ian into (nearly) casting an Unforgivable...That was a Gryffindor, and he used the word mudblood. Tom hadn't thought about it before, but that was a bit unusual wasn't it? Weren't lions all against that sort of thing? Or…

"Do you think the hat made a mistake?"

"If it did, it won't admit to it: damn thing always stands by its final decisions, apparently. Even centuries after they're made." He yawns, scratching at his cheek where the suggestion of facial hair was beginning to grow in, "Baby Rosier is a good Slytherin, by most standards, but he would certainly be a better Gryffindor. You'd have to be brave to try and cast the Cruciatus Curse so carelessly. Or stupid." Brave and stupid are often the same thing. "Even if he did, it probably wouldn't have done anything: you have to really feel it, and he was probably just pissy because he was losing to you."

Magic is not free from passion. He remembers, "So, I wouldn't have felt anything?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that." What the hell would you say, then? "He has the right stuff for it, but I don't think you'd feel unbelievable pain. Probably the worst you've had, but nothing compared to the real thing."

"Would he have still gone to Azkaban, then?"

"He wouldn't have gone to Azkaban if he had murdered you right then and there: he's a Rosier!" Hn.

"He has family in the Wizengamot, then?"

"Most worthy families have at least one seat, but the Rosier's real power comes from the people whose campaigns they fund." He squints, thinking, "I think they have someone in parliament? From one of the lower branches. Not important."

"You know so much," he's more useful than he lets on, "you could probably represent Ximena in this whole ordeal." Do wizards have lawyers?

"I might." Huh, "Well--My father. I can pull a few favors for a housemate."

"Favors?"

"Mmm, investments." There it is, "Lane might not have a lot of weight to her name, but everyone has something to trade. It's good to have a couple of spoons in everyone's cauldron."

Yes, but Tom has spent most of his first year making sure to hoard said cauldron all to himself, "Ambitious."

He laughs, "Who do you think you're talking to?"

.

There was a sprinkle of more visitors after his ex-guide came around, but Belfast quickly shooed them away once it was getting close to curfew. She looked over his state, changed his bandages, and assessed that he would be a free agent tomorrow morning. A marvelous recovery under her supervision of course, though Tom doesn't feel like she did much beyond nag at him and give him dizzying medicine.

He has a dreamless sleep.

.

There'll be scars, at first, faint and noticeable once his hair grows back to its length on that side of his head, but otherwise, he has survived and come out of this unscratched.

"You were very lucky, Mister Riddle." Madam Belfast tells him as another mediwitch helps him out of his bandages, "That hex could have cut off your head." Don't remind him, he's been trying to forget. "I'll send you off with Miss Travers to accompany you to the Great Hall, they should be serving lunch right now." Travers, the eighteen year old intern beside Belfast curtseys once in greeting, staying silent, "Don't let me see you back here again." As if any of this was his fault. Preposterous.

He nods his head courteously, vowing to obey, and thanks the staff present for taking care of him, as well as apologizing for any trouble he might have caused (which was none: he was a perfect patient.)

Tom walks out with the mediwitch intern, all his get-well gifts having been transferred to his bedside via house elf (he greeted Pris neutrally), and a single, unopened package from the Rosier patriarch and his wife under his arm.

Evan waits, as if he were personally alerted of Tom's departure, at the doorway of the Great Hall. He greets Travers with a smile and asks how his cousin (her father) fairs, before taking her charge.

"Doesn't it exhaust you to keep track of so many family members?"

"Doesn't it exhaust you to be at the top of the year constantly?"

"It's my natural place in life."

His companion turns to look at him, "There you go."

Still doesn't make any sense to him.

The two, however, don't get far enough to reach their usual seats and continue any conversation before a voice calls out--"Riddle. Sit with us, won't you?" That sounds like Katux, but it can't be--Tom will eat his shoes if it is. He turns around, Katux and Dion are sitting primly at their special seat in the Slytherin section along with a handful of others. Well there go his shoes. "Evan is welcome too."

Only he can hear Evan's heh sound. He waits until Tom moves to sit anyways. Good.

"Recovering well?" Katux doesn't bother for a formal introduction, Tom remembers the faces of his would-be bullies.

He smiles at them all, showing teeth. "Wonderfully, thank you, Lestrange."

"Ian didn't rough you up too bad?" Dion asks, overly excited and leaning over his breakfast.

A hand is waved as Tom's plate fills with sausages, "Nothing but scratches." He makes a show of looking as nonchalant as possible.

Katux chuckles, "Indeed. If a second year bested him so easily, I expect that a witch of all people in his own year could do the same. Especially one that could manipulate fire like that. I admit, I didn't understand what the point of following around that girl for all of your first year," Girl? Tom wonders if it's better or worse to not even be good enough to be referred to by name or to be referred to by insult, "But after your victory over Rosier and seeing how she left him, I see you have a good eye for...usefulness." Katux plays with the flame of a candle next to him as he talks, looking at him with an elegant smile on his face--He probably thinks he looks so cool. Greasy git.

Tom furrows his brows, ignoring Evan's little smirk out of the corner of his eye, "Lane never cast any fire hexes, if that's what you're implying. Those are all much above her year level."

Katux snorts (fairly uncharacteristic coming from him), and eats more of his eggs, "Yes, of course she didn't. Ian Rosier simply burned himself, I forgot."

"That's what the Priori Incantatem said." Evan confirms, "Expulso, correct?" A glance at Tom.

Ah yes, Evan knew; he almost forgot about that, "It was very clumsy and poorly executed, even a first year could have done better." It really wasn't that bad. Just out of control. Impassioned and...everywhere. Something he learned by watching his elder siblings, no doubt. Druella said he had mastered it, but what frame of reference is she using for that? Evan might know. In fact, he might know the spell himself.

"Get your news straight from the source, Evan?" Dion quips.

"It was the first thing said to me by Auntie Sirona."

"Salazar, I can see her ugly pug face now." Dion replies as Katux looks thoughtful and the rest of their group chuckle, "She must have been furious."

"She was rather calm about it, actually." Evan cuts his food, looking bored with the topic, "I imagine once Ian is home from St. Mungo's, he'll feel her full wrath."

A blanket of morbidity covers the table. Some of the boys pause in their eating. Was Nemesis right about the curse of pain being used as discipline in their families? Or are they all being melodramatic again?

A break in the thick silence, "I underestimated you, Riddle." Yes, he knows that, Katux, "Very clever of you to have your little guard dog do the dirty work."

He's trying to bait him. Ximena is far from a dog, and Tom is far from needing protection like that. He was simply taken by surprise. He could have gotten away with maiming Rosier like he deserved if only Nemesis weren't there...Would Ximena have told him to run and get a teacher? Or let him try and fight alongside her? Let him have the final hit? "Oh Lestrange, you know me well enough to know I always do my own work."

Katux flinches. Good. Maybe that'll help him remember his place.

Tom steers the conversation away from Ximena and back onto him, making himself appear both humble and rightfully confident. A victim and a victor. They're as enthralled by his words as the students were by Ximena's story last Hallowe'en. As more and more people gather, the wider his grin grows.