Serpentine

Cw: Casual, but lowkey serious, brief suicide mention.

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The students walking past him in the halls begin to blur together the more he tries to differentiate their identities. They look at him and smile. Tell him hello. Expect something from him. It's eerie. Irritating. But powerful. His sudden flare of popularity help cushion the fact that he hasn't been allowed his wand back. More of the boys turn to look at him when he speaks. They do not interrupt him or roll their eyes anymore. They stop talking when he talks. They listen. When he walks down the corridors, they follow. It's wonderful. Brings him a beautiful rush of blood to the head and heart. Tingles down his spine.

All this from just a year's work? Where will he be at seventeen? Hopefully he'll have his wand back by then.

The morning of Ximena's court date is chilly. Petrichor surrounds him and Nemesis as they walk together across the cloister. She holds a dragonskinbound notebook to her chest, trying to chat about arbitrary things like the weather or classroom assignments. There's a few wandering eyes around them both, so it's not like she can really discuss what's on both their minds. Nemesis is smarter than that. She has to be, otherwise, what is he doing pretending to be her friend?

"Have you ever used floo, Tom?"

"I've only read about it." Quite recently, in fact.

"Oh it's easy, I'll explain it," Nemesis teaches him like he were a lost child, and he supposes, in some sick way, that he is. But it's no reason to think him stupid. Calling out the same of a place before dropping some magic powder is not exactly a science (in fact, nothing about magic is a science.) But he still listens. Nods his head and thanks her for her lesson.

Headmaster Dippet has the only fireplace authorized for floo use in Hogwarts. Safe and easy to regulate, but not very convenient for anyone having to leave the school in a hurry. Tom had inquired about possibly leaving using a side-along apparation, just to experience it, but the wards around the school would not allow it. Again, a reasonable, safe and secure decision, but one that inconveniences him, so he doesn't like it. Upon hearing what apparition was from Elle, he has been very eager to try his hand at it--Or at least know what it was like by proxy. The only people around him that he could reliably have that experience with were teachers (he doesn't trust any of those clown seventh years as far as he could throw them), and naturally, none of the teachers have any reason to apparate anywhere with him.

Everything would be much easier if people would just do as he says.

"Would you like me to go first?"

No. "Yes, please."

Nemesis smiles and soon disappears in a green flare within the abnormally large fireplace. It's strange, he thinks, to see someone go up in flame without screaming. She had told him to not fear the floo fire, and he figures he holds as much trust in her as Moses probably did when first encountering that burning bush, which is to say: none.

He steps forward anyways. Adjusts the new hat given to him by Evan's parents: a statement. He's supported. Has powerful people on his side. He can play the role of a grateful boy, he can be sweet. This entire day could go his way.

Flames engulf him, and he feels ashy. Fragile, a light breeze could spirit him away if it came. When the flames subside, he steps out of a cool, black fireplace and stands alongside a waiting Nemesis, looking prim.

The shiny interior of the Ministry building makes Tom take back all previous thoughts he had first had about Hogwarts being ostentatious. The obsidian floors and walls, polished to the point of perfect reflection, make it appear as if there are thousands of wizards in the hall rather than only dozens. In fact, he spends the first two minutes of his walk trying to figure out how wide the corridor is to fit so many people, it's dizzying. He doesn't notice until he catches his own blue-eyed reflection, (and half startles himself) that the Ministry is not, in fact, infinite in space. This place was made to intimidate. Be a statement of power. The opposite of Hogwarts. His eyes linger on the stalwart [1] statues of imposing wizards whose eyes seem to follow him as he walks past them. As if they knew he didn't belong. It's worse than the bustling adults brushing by him and paying him absolutely no mind.

He sticks his gaze straight ahead as best he can, the same as his companion.

Nemesis is his guide dog for this. His expert. He doesn’t want to look like he’s following her around the maze that is the Ministry, but it’s difficult to keep a brisk enough pace to stay alongside her whilst paying attention to the direction she’s going in. Difficult to not stare at the absurd architecture of the Ministry's interior: both fantastic and ridiculous at the same time. Nemesis looks perfectly in her environment, she only looks straight ahead. Walks securely, as if she had all the right in the world to be strutting down the halls of the Ministry, but Tom can see her shake. Her amber eyes darting around, searching for something.

“Are you nervous?”

She flinches, glancing at him, “...Yes, maybe.” A deep breath, “A trial like this is so unnecessary, Tom. Normally, a single witch would be assigned the case, and the trial would be done in the office of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. At least, looking at other school rumbles…” They turn a corner, beginning their descent down a spiral set of stairs, “I read through the minutes of a lot of cases during my holidays, and there’s been scores worse than this. I really believe they might actually convict Lane of something.”

“Despite the Unforgivable?”

She tenses, “That is a part of this trial too...But I am not sure what will come out of it. I have some ideas…” How annoying. But she’s the closest ally he has in this: he’s walking into this courtroom blindly. No adult can be trusted with his questions on what happens in these things. Nemesis will have to do. She'll keep the secret out of some sort of perceived camaraderie. Slytherins take care of their own.

Tom makes a note to thank her later.

The further their descent, the darker it becomes, despite the torches (of which do not emit any perceivable heat) lining the wall. In fact, the lights become weaker. So much that he has to squint to see in front of him, and he resigns to finally walking behind Nemesis. Her stark blonde hair catches the miniscule amount of light fine enough for him to follow. He puts his hand out to run over the cobbled wall to his left, fingers grazing gently, hoping for some kind of hold should he lose his balance. His steps don't slow down anymore than they have been, but he still waits until he hears the steps of Nemesis before continuing onward--How can she be so confident in her gait with this darkness? Is there a spell to gain night vision--No, she would have told him, of course she would. Perhaps she is used to taking these steps, the same way he memorized the steps at Wool's: he could climb them blind without any hindrance. Without any creaks to give away his position.

Did Dippet, he wonders, send news of his injury to Wool's? It's a responsibility of his, considering Tom has no other formal guardian. He almost chuckles as he thinks about it: Dippet seems insistent on believing that he is as beloved back at the orphanage as he is here at Hogwarts. The look on his face when Tom told him that he didn't expect any visitors from back home was oddly satisfying. 'No sir, not even if the war wasn't happening, I expect. Would you care for some jelly beans?' Ha. Maybe now he'll try and see reason when Tom pushes for staying over the summer, old laws be damned.

...And then there was Dumbledore's offer...What did he call it? A temporary guardian. An apprenticeship of sorts. Nothing as permanent (as binding) as a formal adoption, which was growing more and more unappealing everyday--No wizards frequented Wool's, and a Muggle claiming him as their child repulsed him greatly. Not to mention they would, undoubtedly, be massively disappointed in him, no matter if they wanted a free servant or a genuine connection. Tom isn't a mule, it's part of the reason he didn't allow himself to be whisked off to Merlin knows where along with London's other children. He'd sooner kill his new parents, and that will not be so easy to erase now that Dumbledore has his eye on him. If the hypothetical parents in question actually desired a child for love (and this, he doubts, because most of these types are looking for a replacement), even worse for them: Tom is away the majority of the year, and has no interest in the lives of Muggles, or their expectations of him. He is himself, first and foremost.

On the other hand, if a magical couple happened to be impressed by his grades and standing, and inquired the orphanage...It would be conditional. A high profile name like Flint or Carrow is probably out of the question. Families like those are obsessed with blood, so unless they took in another confirmed pureblooded child (that was somehow related to them, of course), there was no chance. Something a little easier to reach would be Weasley, but despite their purity, their poverty shines through. Bloodtraitors, the lot of them, as Hedwig says. They have large families, but little pull. A good medium would be a Longbottom, who seem to be divided into bloodtraitors and proper highbloods depending on the century or branch. Decent money, particularly if you're closer to the Northern Longbottoms. This being said, it's not like he's plotting to be taken into any of these families or anything, it's just good to be ready. As his ex-mentor said: have a spoon in every cauldron.

--Nemesis is speaking, when did they stop walking? Tom blinks out of his thoughts and focuses: someone had asked them if they were lost. Security? He lets her do the talking, only because she spoke first, and undoubtedly knew the employee questioning them. Yes, they're meant to be here, they're witnesses, she says. Witnesses. That was a word for people who saw others die. Not for children who saw a temper tantrum, no matter how violent.

She shows him the signed document allowing their absence from Hogwarts for the trial, and the wizard runs his wand along the surface, scanning. They don't have anything to be nervous about, of course, but he can't help but expect that he'll find something wrong with it. He doesn't, of course, and gives the parchment back to Nemesis, satisfied with his findings. She tucks it back into her formal robes, thanking him as he runs his wand down a line of runes embedded into the cobblestone, which glow a strange, eerie shade of pink as the stones peel themselves away. Again, there is the cold black mirror design, well lit, for the most part. Not stuffed with various wizards, but instead littered with only a handful of them, shuffling through papers and muttering lowly to each other.

"Special entrance." Nemesis tells him as they walk through, "Bit more private than the one used by the public, I'm not really in the mood to be ambushed by photographers."

"Has the world gone so silent that something like this makes top tier news?"

"Only in tabloids, and only rumors have been published...Or so I've been told by father." She glances at him, "It's not just one thing that makes these cases interesting, you have to understand. An Unforgivable being almost cast in Hogwarts is going to garner attention."

He does understand, that's what makes him mad about it.

A few of the wizards greet Nemesis politely, and she greets them in turn as she guides Tom through the small, reclusive area to a large, imposing wooden door that is absolutely out of place in this surreal, mirror design. It belongs in a fairy tale, the sort of door that guards treasure or a princess--Or even a dragon.

When he enters the space behind the door, he tries not to be surprised. Though the room is physically spacious (Tom wonders if it’s bigger than the Wool’s building), it doesn’t feel so. The lack of windows, the dark ceiling, the dull faced Wizengamot members in their lavish plum robes...Good Lord, it really is a dungeon, isn’t it? It’s chillier than the ones at Hogwarts, and he suspects it’s completely on purpose. What could be more unnerving than a freezing room with dozens of judging eyes staring at you? It reminds him of the reprimands he received as a toddler. Stone walls, inhospitable environment, and a cold echo.

He takes a seat alongside Nemesis, east of the chair in the center of the room, feeling ridiculously underdressed despite the glamor charms he placed on his pressed robes to look presentable. Even Nemesis, who is wearing the plainest set of garments he’s ever seen a rich witch wear, appears leagues more elegant than he. Refraining from picking at his clothes, he instead focuses his attention forward, looking serious and well-behaved. Adults love boring, quiet children, it’ll help his credibility. He hopes Ximena does the same.

The seats they choose (and he's not sure if they're required to sit here or not) are a hard, dark, warm wood. The color of strong tea that's been seeped for too long. They're polished and carved with bold sigils, of which he recognises from a few of Hedwig's own books on runes--The ones she doesn't care to read through because she 'doesn't need to'. The benches curve like crescents and resemble the church pews at the little chapel frequented by himself and the orphans a little too much for comfort. Despite the clear difference in material and quality.

As the people around them settle in and take their spots, a few more come into the same section as Nemesis and he: Professor Willow, Merrythought, and Slughorn being the first. There's somber greetings, Willow asks how he's fairing, Merrythought offers a kind smile, and Slughorn pats his shoulder telling him it'll be alright. He can understand why Willow is here, she oversaw his and Ian's duel. Merrythought as well, she can attest to both Ian and Ximena's temperament and skill in DADA...But Slughorn is an interesting choice. An impartial party, speaking fairly on all involved? Stupid. Just because they're all Slytherins, doesn't mean anything. The man has his favorites, and Tom is one of them. That has to be enough.

A yawn, suppressed behind his hand, as he observes a few others enter the chamber: members of press and a couple of public observers here and there. He identifies the important ones by how many Wizengamot members go out of their way to personally say hello to them before the trial. Nemesis, herself, gets ten, including her father (Tom shook his hand) who regards her a little standoffishly. With a thousand-meter stare, he looks right through her instead of at her. Mutters something Tom can’t hear (‘But father!’ Nemesis says), before telling her ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ Judging by his yearmate’s pout, it wasn’t anything serious. At least nothing he would consider serious.

“Alright there, Nemesis?”

“--Yes, thank you.” Her nails tap against the notebook in her lap (for records, she said), “He was...upset about my dresscode. Thinks I should dress more modestly for court.”

How much more modest could she get? She’s covered neck to toe, the only sense of gaudiness coming from the gold buttons on the breast of the robe. If he raises his head to the clothes of others around them, he’ll find much more that were tackier and more obnoxious. Pureblood standards. Figures.

She sniffs and begins writing in the notebook, probably as a distraction.

“--The trial hasn’t even started.”

“I just want a receipt on who’s all here. Outside of the transcript and what’ll show up on the Prophet.” Her hand gestures suddenly, “Look, there’s Spencer-Moon.”

The new Minister for Magic looks tired and haggard, contrast to the lively, youthful disposition of the previous one (a face he only saw in the papers of the Prophet), and much more experienced. A veteran. Tom can already tell he was not elected on family name, but on merit. He does not mention any of this to Nemesis, the wound is probably too fresh for him to press on it.

There’s a small intake of breath as another wizard enters the room: Dumbledore. He’d almost forgotten about him. Chief Warlock, huh? The only difference in his clothing compared to the rest of the court is a bigger hat and a gaudy looking shash draping over his shoulders. Despite the richness of the fabric, it pales in comparison to the wizard’s usual outfits. Damn man was more fashion conscious than half the female student body. He takes his seat alongside the Prime Minister, giving courteous hellos and nods to a few of the other members, including whom Tom assumes is the court reporter (at the ready with a floating quill), and Nemesis’ father.

"When does all this start?"

"After all the members say their hellos." Ugh.

He cracks his knuckles, impatient. Closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, trying to get a better feel of the chamber. To sense the magic in the others around him. He is only partially successful (the ones who frequent court seem to be excellent at hiding magic) before he hears Nemesis again, “Opening statements,” She whispers to him as he opens his eyes--Hears Dumbledore speaking up, “they’re taking a moment to state why we’re here and what Lane and Rosier are accused of.”

When his transfiguration professor talks, the note of authority is undeniable. A step above the disciplinary tone that he uses on the clowns in his classroom. It chills him more than the cold room could ever hope to. It makes his hair stand on end, the way his magic had the night of the attack, just before he had passed out. It’s an alluring sort of authority that Tom craves, but he forces himself to take his eyes off of the wizard. Instead, his eyes wander as Dumbledore greets the room. Across from him are a few Rosiers he recognizes: Evan, Ian’s parents, and a small handful of Dueling Club members. On Evan’s right are who he assumes are his parents: Evan takes after his mother, both with strong, sharp gazes and straight black hair. His father (blond) sits with a cane in his hand, some sort of crest atop of it. They all rest on a higher tier than the other observers, looking down their noses at everyone.

Evan makes eye contact with him from across the room and nods once in the middle of Dumbledore’s speech. An acknowledgement. Tom nods back.

Nemesis leans in again, her breath touching his ear unpleasantly, “Lane’s trial is first.”

Of course it is, “Even though Ian started everything?”

“They’re going by severity, I think...They could have something up their sleeve as well, I’m not sure.”

Ximena’s name rings through the chamber, and Tom hears a door open. Footsteps. His upperclassman appears, escorted by an older wizard in slick, suave jade green robes, with a bright smile that reminds him of a politician. Some kind of representative to speak on her behalf? Earlier, he had asked Nemesis about a lawyer and was met with genuine curiosity and confusion--Wizard courts don’t make any goddamn sense.

“Is that Lane’s guardian?”

It takes a second to acknowledge his companion’s words, and another second to notice the quiet figure in the far stands that Nemesis is gesturing to: the same woman who had picked Ximena up from Platform 9¾, comfortably covered head to toe in her habit and robes. She looks bored. Distrustful. The kind of look that Tom imagines mothers make when they arrive home to find it in disarray, either by their children neglecting chores, or by their spouses trying to hide something from them. What really grabs his attention, however, is how nobody else seems to pay her any mind. “I think so. Is she required to have one present?”

Ximena takes her seat at the center of the room as the man stands behind her shoulder--With how grandiose the chair is, she appears a humble queen, and the man in jade her advisor. Nemesis ponders over his question, “Underage witches get to have a guardian at their trials for their own self-interests, they can't really speak for themselves. But Muggle guardians are rare in court...Is she a witch?”

If she is, Ximena never mentioned it. The woman looks as plain and ordinary as she did back in July--Not to mention the mere idea of a nun being a witch is inconceivable...Though, is it? Now that he thinks about it, why is it Saint Mungo's and not just Mungo's? He’s used to hospitals being associated with saints, it’s why he didn’t think anything about it. What was that school Hedwig mentioned...Saint Comb? Saint Camber? He had thought Wizards didn't have Gods, but that was thanks to the lack of any mention of Christ in the school (save for the Muggleborns)...Elle spoke about kosher eating once, why wasn't that a hint to him? Are magical saints different than the Catholic ones? Are the Greek legends just historical figures to them the same as Merlin, or do they pray to them? Worship and sacrifice to them (do people pray to Merlin?)

"I don't know. Ximena is rather private."

In all honesty, he doesn’t care to think about whether the guardian was a witch, when his classmate is right there. It feels like years since he’s seen her. She’s a different person. Almost. Chin up, posture perfect, hair neat and tamed for the first time, in clean Muggle clothing (‘A curious choice.’ Nemesis remarks), and despite the similarities to standard witch robes, Tom has been living around Muggles long enough to recognise the cut of postulant clothes. All eyes in the court are on her, scrutinizing. He does not see the same anxiety he once saw when she first lost the bracelet (is it because she now knows where it is?), nor the same discomfort brought on by a large crowd in the Great Hall (perhaps it’s a calming draught?) She’s the girl he first met that week in the library. The girl who spoke that first Hallowe’en to a secluded audience. A good, polite, meek girl, with just the right amount of self assurance to not come off as arrogant. A perfect court persona.

He wonders if the man in jade advised her on how to present herself.

“Dumbledore will be asking the questions in place of the Minister, I don’t think we have anything to worry about until the other members decide to dig their claws in. They look awfully stern, but most of them are reasonable.”

How promising. He’s not sure if he should trust her judgement. Nor, even, if he should trust his Transfiguration teacher as he speaks to Ximena.

“State your name and blood status to the court.”

“Ximena Lane. I dunno my blood status.”

“And why is that?”

“I’m a foundlin’.” Tom cocks his brow at the accent, Nemesis murmurs a ‘good touch’ under her breath.

Various members mumble amongst themselves in response, shaking their heads or peering at his classmate with interest. They remind Tom of books he used to look through at Wool’s where various pictures of doctors in white coats could be found: all of them in the middle of surgery or autopsies.

“Are you a citizen of Britain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you a witch?”

“Yes, sir.”

The only show of impatience on Tom is the soft tapping of his toe. What is this, formalities? Are they laying a baseline for which to detect lies?

“And you attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore nods once, gesturing to the man standing behind Ximena. He saunters in front of her, center of the room and of attention. Declares that Miss Lane is being punished for nothing. For defending a fellow classmate (‘A younger one, at that!’) What proof do they have of her guilt? The simple word of one other student: the student who not only attacked said classmate, but also attempted to cast an Unforgivable on that classmate. The evidence is in her favor: her wand, her history, and her grades.

A stirring speech. He’s managed to keep everyone’s attention--Even some of the members who were busy dozing off. Tom looks back at Ximena: her hands are folded neatly on her lap, she appears as still and serene as a statue. Well behaved.

Nemesis scribbles more down: some sort of shorthand code he can’t decipher.

Someone brings out Ximena’s wand. He leans forward ever so slightly in his seat. The Prime Minister yawns.

“No one has handled Miss Lane’s wand since the night in question, correct?”

One of the Wizengamot members finally speaks up, “Armando Dippet previously performed a priori incantartum on both Ximena Lane’s wand, and Ian Rosier’s.”

“Ah yes, the reputable headmaster at Hogwarts, my mistake.” The representative paces towards the handler, requesting to hold his classmate’s wand, “Would it please the court to witness it for themselves?”

Again, a murmur ripples through the pews, birds chattering with each other. A hivemind.

“Proceed.” Another member projects after a moment.

The man nods, curling his hand around the handle with purpose (Tom’s almost sure he can sense the wand pushing back against him--) and performing the spell: the one he was told would reveal the last spell used by a wand’s owner.

A moment. Blue tinted white strikes out erratically from the tip, and the memory of her expelliarmus fills him. Sharp and quick like lightning. He feels it like he has felt magic: hers and his. He can almost see it too...In the flash that spurts from her wand, there’s the flick of her wrist, the calling of Ian’s wand to her hand. Can the others see it too?

It appears so, “Lane can perform a silent expelliarmus?” Nemesis sounds rightfully impressed, but Tom wonders if he should confirm or deny the idea. He stays silent.

The majority of the court look vaguely interested, and only one pipes up, “Couldn’t that have been faked or tampered with?” Tom has an idea on who it could be, and Nemesis confirms his suspicions with a tired ‘Yaxley’. Said man looks distantly related to Evan’s father: something in the nose or the lips.

“By whom?” Ximena’s speaker gestures with her wand towards the asker, “Someone in the ministry? The trusted headmaster of Hogwarts, where we have all gotten our education? Where we have all sent our children?” A chuckle, well timed, Tom thinks, “Priori incantartums cannot be faked, lest we go back on the Mulcifer v. Smith case of 1879.”

A good section of the Wizengamot seizes: Tom doesn’t have to be sensitive to their magic to notice, they’ve all but gasped at the mere suggestion of reconsidering said case. He glances at Nemesis for clarification, because she’s all he has, she has to know,

“Um--” Her eyes shut, trying to remember, “--Self defense against a Muggleborn, Mulcifer was innocent, but the trial was ridiculously biased,”

“There’s no need for dramatics.” A whiskered man says, looking stern.

“If that is so, then explain why this Wizengamot has deemed it necessary to hold a full trial for a simple school skirmish?”

From across the court, Tom can see Evan rolling his eyes (before being scolded by his mother) at the excited, quiet chatter of reporters in the room. His father looks on, perhaps vaguely amused, whilst his sibling and in-law (Tom’s not sure which is which) appear nothing less than constipated. The Minister for Magic orders silence.

"A good pureblooded boy was almost killed." One of the younger members all but hisses down at the representative once it was quiet enough to be heard.

"Was he? St. Mungo's reported his burns no more serious than that of a witchwife's crossing with a reactive oven. The boy that was almost killed, however, was saved from a Cruciatus curse cast by the same good, pureblooded boy that this Wizengamot seems keen on defending." A finger points to him, and all at once, Tom feels the implications of it weigh heavy on him.

Eyes. Sudden and bright. Whites of eyes bearing into his being. He looks appropriately brave and fearful for his classmate. Sticks out his chin and twitches his nose a little, blinks back, surprised by the attention, but taking it in well. His perfect, pale, cherub face doesn't detract from the effect either, and he knows it lands well when a few of the warlocks' eyes soften. When they don't sneer, at least. Do they see their heirs in him? The very future of their perfect, ideal, pure world?

He doesn't turn to see if Ximena looked.

"But--That will come later, I imagine, with Mister Ian Rosier's trial, I trust."

Eyes away. Quick like whiplash. He hadn't noticed he felt numb until they looked away.

"Good job," Nemesis comments quietly, "I didn't know you were that good an actor."

He doesn't comment back, he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking into a guffaw. She didn't know--She still doesn't. Maybe never will.

“She could have easily performed the expelliarmus after the confrigo.” A tight faced man with long blond hair and unimpressed expression says.

“Ah! So she could have, but,” His hand pushes out in a ‘stop’ gesture, “wait...Could a witch of thirteen really have cast a fully functional confrigo spell?” Shaking of his head, “No, I think not. I’ve brought forth three of Miss Lane’s teachers from Hogwarts who can attest to her abilities, including her Head of House, and the professor who witnessed Mister Rosier’s botched Unforgivable!”

Magical signatures from Slughorn and Willow spark behind him.

"I call as a character witness," the man in jade starts, "Mister Horace Slughorn."

The floor beneath Ximena's chair shifts, and she moves along with the chair backwards and to her left whilst another identical one rises up from the ground. A few photographers ready their cameras as reporters and the public chatter. Tom hears Slughorn sigh before getting up to take his new seat in the center of the courtroom. Ximena remains calm and impassible.

"Please state your name and blood status." Dumbledore says again, as if he hadn't been working with Slughorn for years.

"Horace Eugene Flaccus Slughorn. Pureblood."

"Are you a citizen of Britain?"

"Of course."

"Are you a wizard?"

"Absolutely."

"And do you teach at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

"For ten years I have, yes."

The jade man takes the stage.

"Horace, how are you today?"

"Feeling fine, Colin, how's your oldest?"

"You know best." He chuckles, happy to waste time playing catch up with his old professor, "His last exam went better than last, don't be afraid to spare the rod with him."

"I wouldn't dream of it!" Slughorn laughs along, and Tom wonders if it is an uncomfortable laugh.

"How lucky for him--Now! Onto this somber topic: you are Miss Lane's head of house, correct?"

"The Head of Slytherin House, yes."

"And you are her Potions professor as well, correct?"

"Every Monday and Thursday at three o'clock sharp."

Tom mentally jots that down.

"Well Miss Lane is a very fortunate witch. As her head of house and as her professor in one of the most important subjects, how would you describe her temperament?"

Slughorn appears to blank. As if he hardly even really knows who Ximena is, "Miss Lane is a very quiet student. Never intrusive or a distraction. I've never received any trouble or complaint about her or from her."

Another Wizengamot member speaks up, "Would you describe her as antisocial or unsocial?"

"Well--No. From what the Slytherin prefects tell, she helps her underclassmen study often." He clears his throat, "Miss Lane isn't hostile or resentful to any of the students at Hogwarts; she's quite close with one of the best and brightest, as a matter of fact."

Tom preens.

"So Miss Lane has never proven herself to be a harm or danger to anyone?" The jade man continues.

"Not at all."

Questions continue like this, from Ximena's representative and the Wizengamot alike. Redundant questions phrased strangely or stupidly, trying to make him slip up, as if he were hiding something. Covering for Ximena, or had assisted in her crime. Jabbing inquiries into him like a pincushion. A classic tactic of the contemporary Wizengamot, according to Nemesis. If it wasn't her nature, it was her personality, or her spirit, or her magical aura, or her habits, or her character. Just give up! He wants to scream.

"And, how would you describe Miss Lane's academic merit?"

Tom leans in unintentionally.

"Miss Lane is a fairly average student. Decent grades, passing scores."

"Mediocre?" The jade man prompts.

"Ah...Well," Slughorn dabs at his forehead with a patterned handkerchief, "Mediocre is a...crass word, but yes. I suppose."

Had the not-lawyer prepped Slughorn too? Is he lying?

The representative thanks Slughorn for his time, tells him to give his regards to his family, and formally dismisses him. Professor Slughorn, appearing relieved to be done with that, hops out of the chair with the speed of a man half his size and returns to his original seat next to Merrythought, who pats the top of her colleague's hand.

When Professor Merrythought steps down into the center, much of the same happens--Though Tom is surprised to discover his talented professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts was raised by Muggles. She, too, testifies to Ximena's character being meek and unassuming (after getting shmoozed up by the representative). She's helpful when needed, and a pleasure to have in class, though Tom suspects that she too has never personally spoken with her. She does, of course, hear from rumors, because she also mentions Ximena's friendship with one of her best students.

"As Miss Lane's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, how would you describe her academic performance?"

"Well, she has an average dark core, just like most of the Slytherin girls her age, so a bit of the curriculum comes difficult for her." Her brows furrow slightly, "She tries hard and takes good notes, but light spells are tricky for those who have darker centers."

"Then, how is she with darker spells? Like, say, ones of fire?"

"Oh no," Merrythought banishes the idea, "Lane can handle a small jinx just fine, but something as complicated as elemental magic is years ahead of her."

"Would you agree with Horace Slughorn, then, on Miss Lane being an average student?"

Merrythought looks like she doesn't want to be so blunt about it, "Yes. Yes I would."

The Yaxley Wizengamot member speaks up again, "The confrigo spell that attacked Ian Rosier was unusually weak, could it have not been cast by an inexperienced witch?"

"Perhaps, but it also would have burnt the caster."

"Without question?"

"Undeniably."

A chorus of talk.

Her confrigo was unusually weak? That explosive nightmare that left Ian gross and disfigured like that was weak? They can't know that, they didn't see it. Didn't feel the edge of her magic shimmer on the edge of his skin. If that spell was weak, what would it look like cast by someone older? Someone like him? Merrythought wouldn't lie...Slughorn, perhaps, if it benefitted him, but not Merrythought.

"If she is so mediocre, then how was it that she was able to cast a successful and wordless expelliarmus?"

"Expelliarmus is one of the first spells young witches and wizards learn to do without words. Besides, magic often responds better to emotion, it's why so many children have trouble casting simple charms their first year: there's no feeling attached to it. I expect Miss Lane wanted to passionately avoid any more chances of being seriously injured."

"She did not attack Mister Rosier further once she disarmed him, correct?" The jade man, and the court, already know the answer.

"Only physically: they were found hitting each other on the ground."

Grumbling from everyone in the room: they don't like that.

"You recommended her for Dueling Club, correct?" The jade man continues.

Merrythought blinks, "I suppose I did, yes--It's a fine club for building up skills and confidence, though I'm told she doesn't participate much."

"Told? Is the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher not traditionally the one leading Dueling Club?"

"Yes, but my class courses these past years have doubled--I also teach a NEWT level Folk Magic class."

"And so, to whom have you given the task of overseeing the club?"

"Mrs. Willow, she is testifying today as a witness for Ian Rosier's case." She does not point her out.

By now, the notebook brought by his classmate must be halfway filled up with her rapid shorthand notes--He's been getting little commentary and help from her, and it makes him antsy not to know exactly what is going on at all times. When will they call on them? Why weren't they prepped by that man speaking on behalf of Ximena? A case of the less they know the better, perhaps. He just doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of these people, to reveal just how inexperienced and unknowledgeable he is, he knows it will impact their view of him.

Magical Law, Magical Law...He can't remember reading anything on the subject, even after he had found out that there would be a trial (instead, he was searching for information on Unforgivables). Azkaban is probably out of the question, even if Ian didn't have a pedigree to write home about, the general consensus was that he would be alright in the eyes of the law. Ximena, a minor and first offender, would be so lucky to receive that same treatment it seems.

Tom's eyes blink painfully in the light of a sudden camera flash--This is going to be all over the school tomorrow, isn't it? Their photographs and testimonies, the stories and verdicts...He'll be in The Daily Prophet. Witch Weekly. Magister Monthly. Just as he thought he would be, though not as soon as this. And certainly not as a side character. Will the Professor's comments on Ximena's supposed mediocrity drown out the talk of her being worth something? A very real possibility, one he doesn't care for at all. It's easier to pass having her in his circle when others know she's capable rather than because he has a pseudo crush or because she saved his head. There isn't a life debt or anything like that, despite what Topaz or Katux might have suggested: he doesn't want to owe. Only own.

Although...The possibility of integrating her into his court doubles in difficulty now that she knows he holds her bracelet. Still haven't worked out that little story. Nothing sounds right or real enough. Even with his best apologetic tone or 'you have to believe me' eyes. It's not one step forward and two steps back It's at least a kilometer forward and several thousand kilometers back: that kind of trust he saw break in her eyes takes time. A real effort. Over two years' worth. And it was still surface level. No, the challenge won't be convincing others that she is fit to breathe the same air as them, but convincing her that it is worth her while.

"--Abisola Willow. Leopard Person.[2]"

"Are you a citizen of Britain?"

"Yes."

"Are you a witch?"

"That is what I said."

"Do you teach at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

"Of course."

The jade man's turn to ask questions comes, Tom leans towards Nemesis this time, "Leopard person?"

"It's what they call wizards and witches where Willow is from." She squints, "Middle Africa, I think? Maybe in other places."

"But what about her blood status?"

"Oh--In that part of the world, you are generally either pure or Muggleborn. Half-bloods aren't common, it's illegal to tell any Muggle about wizardkind--Even if they're your family. Your own children or parents, even. It gets pretty lonely if you marry a Muggle. Or have non-magical children."

Curious. "So, what is she?"

"Pureblooded, most likely. Muggleborns are called Leopard People too, but if that was the case for Willow, she would have probably used the term 'Free Agent'. I hear they like them a bit better than they do here."

Very curious.

"There's no confirmation needed? They just accept her foreign terms?"

"It's the law. Not that everyone likes that. Terms of blood purity are varied and personal throughout the world, it would be an insult and a crime to ask her to define it by our terms."

Extremely curious.

Attention turned back to the center, he watches Willow be questioned the same as his two professors before. She's in the middle of answering an inquiry about Ximena's habits in Dueling Club, in fact, "--never been an active participant in the group, so bellicose is the last thing I would call her, Wzn.[3] Malfoy."

"If the girl has hardly dueled in front of others, how can we properly assess her ability to cast?"

Willow opens her mouth before the jade man has a chance to, he doesn't look surprised, he looks as if he was counting on it, "Are you telling me that you doubt the word of Galatea Merrythought, Wzn. Lestrange?"

"Oh dear." Nemesis mumbles as the aforementioned Wizengamot member looks taken aback.

"She taught you! She taught us! You were nothing but a sniveling weasel before she took you under her wing!"

A section of members around the same age as the two stifle laughter. Camera men flash their bulbs and fill the chamber with smoke. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Merrythought sigh deeply, uncomfortable.

"Order in the Wizengamot!" Spencer-Moon shouts, amplifying his voice by pointing his wand at his throat.

"Bloody circus..." Slughorn mutters behind him, undoubtedly shaking his head.

"Circuses imply skilled people in their chosen profession." Merrythought corrects.

Willow smiles as a cat with a tummy full of canary smiles. The jade man looks satisfied with the results as well, muttering sounds like a 'thank you, Bisola' to her. Ximena continues to look unfazed, but Tom can see a twitch of a smile on the corner of her lips, however far away she is from him.

"Mrs. Willow," Dumbledore speaks, face giving away nothing but tiredness, "please refrain from antagonizing this Wizengamot."

"It was never my intention, Chief Warlock Dumbledore." A humble bow of her head, "A thousands pardons."

"She knows what she's doing," Nemesis sounds impressed, "I wish I could be in that club...or take her class. Are you taking it?"

"No, I was saving it for my third year."

A hum, she nods, "I hear they're going to change the curriculum soon so that second years won't be able to have electives. Bit of a shame, isn't it?"

Bit of an odd thing to bring up at a time like this.

"--being that you are the instructor for Hogwarts' official dueling team and club, as well as the Professor for History of Magical Combat, would you say that Miss Lane is a talented fighter?"

"Offensive, no, but defensive, yes. It's unusual for dark cored witches, but seeing that her personality is rather gentle, it is unsurprising."

Why doesn't she mention the bracelet? Surely she must have noticed it, it's at least half of her defense system, "If her defense is so good, could that not have helped in resisting the burns of the confrigo spell she allegedly cast?"

"No, Wzn. Bones, those would be two entirely different spells, and much more unlikely for a third year student of her skill to achieve."

“Mrs. Willow, are you expecting us all to believe that Ian Rosier was able to cast a confrigo so terribly that he burned himself?”

“That is quite a jump, Wzn. Malfoy.” Willow scolds, “I am telling you the facts: Ximena Lane is too weak of a witch to cast a fire spell as dangerous and volatile as confrigo without harming herself.”

Tom dares to move his gaze to Ximena. She doesn’t look offended or even ashamed. Just still. Accepting. Does she know why Willow is lying for her? Does Willow know why she’s lying for her? They don’t seem close, certainly they don’t resemble each other enough to pass for long lost (or secret) mother-and-daughter...What’s going on?

...Was he wrong? His perceived gauge of her talents and intelligence nothing but hot air and his own misconceptions of how magic works? No. Nonsense. It can't be. He's not wrong. Not often. Not about his judgement on people--If anything, he's always right about that. When people are wastes of time or mean him harm. When they want something from him or nothing to do with him. When they're useful or worthless. It doesn't make any sense. There's a reason behind this. All of this...If only he understood this damn system. The implications behind every inflection and change of syntax. The vocabulary and regulations of high wizard society.

If only he didn't need Nemesis! A little girl as old as he and only partly as skilled is the one to lead him through this spider's web? Having to decide between asking her questions or listening in to what was happening is a big enough pain (he should have brought a notebook for himself), but wording his questions to reflect genuine curiosity and concern instead of his hunger need to know and have a semblance of control of the situation...It's pathetic.

...He wasn't wrong. No. He refuses that notion. Everyone had told him that they understood his interest in his classmate: if not after her own duel, then after this attack. A hidden gem. A diamond in the rough.

Diamonds are exceedingly common, contrary to popular belief.

He looks at her.

Yes, perhaps they are common, but they are coveted.

-

"If it pleases you, Prime Minister, I'd like to ask Chief Warlock Dumbledore to answer some questions as Professor Dumbledore."

Spencer-Moon clearly wants this damn charade to be over--He glances at Dumbledore, who appears to have been expecting this, and speaks his approval for him to testify. Did he have a choice? Dumbledore did witness the end of the fight, where Ximena brought it to the point of fisticuffs...Surely asking permission was nothing more than a courtesy...

Dumbledore takes his time (makes a show of it if you ask Tom) taking off his gaudy hat and sash, stepping down from the platform and sitting in the chair--Transfiguring his robes into that which he normally wears about the castle. He is no longer Chief Warlock Dumbledore, not in his clothes nor attitude. He merely is the Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts, looking like he just invited a student in for some tea. It's unnerving. To go from one persona to the other without any problems or hesitation. How many masks must this man wear? Which one is real?

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Half-blood."

Tom floats outside his body, every other sound coming out of his professor's mouth becoming buzzed and muffled. Dumbledore is a half-blood? This great wizard who has climbed so high in academia and politics, who knows of Tom's true nature, was nothing but a half-blood? It does, of course, explain the immense disdain that many of his Slytherin classmates have towards him (he had assumed it was only because of the blatant favoritism Dumbledore gave to Gryffindors.) It also, unfortunately, gives him a seedling of hope for his own upsetting half-blood status.

“--Did you know Dumbledore was a half-blood?”

“Hm? Yes, didn’t you?” Nemesis is glued to the testimonies, but surely they’re still on the mundane questions.

“Which parent is it? The Muggle?” The mother, if he has to guess.

“Neither, both his parents are magical.”

There’s never enough time in the world for all his questions to be answered. He wants a timeout for every moment he feels lost.

“--you were the one to inform Miss Lane of her magical abilities?”

No, he can’t focus on the particulars of pureblood genetic naming practices right now. There’s too much going on. His brain is buzzing with activity and words, he’s entangled in threads whose origins he can’t discern. The room is too tight, why isn’t there a window? Fresh air? How long has it been since he’s seen the sun?

“I was the one who brought Miss Lane her Hogwarts letter,” Dumbledore clarifies, “but I am certain that she already knew she was a witch.” She already knew she was special. Of course. He did too, even if he hadn’t had pinned down magic as the cause.

“Did she say as much?”

“I believe she was expecting the letter.” Dumbledore pauses, wondering what to give and what to keep back, “She asked if she would get an offer from other schools in the continent."

"Was it Miss Lane's wish to attend a school other than Hogwarts?"

"I cannot pretend to know what she wanted, but it would seem she preferred to have an option or six."

"Rather ambitious for a foundling." Malfoy says, looking distasteful but interested.

The jade man answers for Dumbledore, "Well she is a Slytherin, Wzn. Malfoy, and a witch with every right to pursue her desired education. I'm sure you remember considering Durmstrang for Abraxas, no?"

The man looks incredibly displeased, "Yes."

Ximena's representative looks incredibly pleased, "Professor, would you say you know Miss Lane well?"

"As well as I would know anyone of my students."

"Would you agree with your colleagues on the subject of her magical abilities?"

"I would."

"And of her temperament?"

It's impossible for Tom not to space out: these questions are insufferable. They have Dumbledore here, primed and at the ready to answer anything they desire and they're wasting it on frivolities. He'd always heard the matron complain about lawyers and courts (never did quite find out what she was in court for--), and now he truly understands why. So long winded and redundant. It's all juice. Where's the pulp? The splendid flesh for his ears and brain to feast upon?

"--were the first adult on the scene, correct?"

"Correct."

"Can you describe what you saw?"

Dumbledore appears to take a deep breath, "I saw two of my third year students quarreling physically on the ground whilst one of my second years was lying nearby, freshly unconscious."

"The two fighting were Ximena Lane and Ian Rosier, correct?"

"Correct."

"Can you describe his injuries?"

"Injured by magical fire, of course. Mostly on his face and upper torso. Looked much worse than it was, but nevertheless provided him with pain."

"Were there any injuries on Miss Lane?"

"None that I could see--Aside from some fingernail scratches from Mister Rosier."

"And where were their wands?"

"Beside Mister Riddle: the aforementioned second year."

The jade man nods, turns to the court, "After Miss Lane disarmed her opponent, she discarded both of their wands aside...If she had really intended to injure him, wouldn't she have struck then?"

She should have. It would have nipped the Ian problem in the bud. Well, only if Nemesis hadn't been there--Then Dumbledore wouldn't have arrived and the mysterious disappearance of Ian Rosier could have been their little secret. Something new to hold over her. A fun, albeit unrealistic daydream: the worst curses he knew how to conjure were minor hexes. Something to work on.

"Why do you think she did so instead of responsibly body-binding Mister Rosier?"

Dumbledore is full of sighs, "She is a child: full of emotion and driven by impulses. Much like Mister Rosier." His colleagues don't seem to agree, "He has a history of saying...shall we say, less than savory things about witches of the American race[4]." Now his colleagues look guilty, but not sorry, "And as I understand it, the second year student he attacked is a good friend of hers." Her only one, thank you very much.

"Do you mean Mister Riddle?" Tom feels eyes on him again.

"Yes," Dumbledore confirms, "All Slytherins, of course, are usually close to those within their houses, and Miss Lane and he are no exception."

"Are there usually spats between Slytherin students?"

"None that I have ever been aware of." Of course not. It would be an insult to Slytherin house to have anyone outside of their den know of their problems. It was, in fact, the first thing told to him by his mentor and Slughorn himself. Phrased differently, of course. 'Keep your funny business to yourself and your housemates, don't let the rabble know anything is wrong' is much cruder compared to 'Slytherin is known for our united front. We are a family, and family is loyal'. Despite everything, Tom actually prefers the former. Family means nothing to him.

"Is there a history of animosity between Mister Riddle and Mister Rosier?"

"Not to my knowledge."

None of the Slytherin members in the chamber (former or current) look surprised.

"Is there a history of...animosity within Slytherin?" Wzn. Vane chooses his words carefully.

"Only rumors." Dumbledore says, knowing that he's at the forefront of trying to figure out the truth behind said rumors.

"You've championed a cause to find out if these rumors are truthful though, correct?" Vane continues, rather desperately.

"I have gotten many voices of concern from parents and students alike that Slytherin is housing less than moral practices. No evidence, of course, has ever been found one way or the other, but the complaints are multiple and spanning centuries."

"--You only want to keep your students safe, right, Professor?" The jade man interjects himself quickly, "It's absurd to think, of course, that you have any bias."

"Of course." Dumbledore confirms, "It's completely irrational to believe that a whole group of people be inherently evil without proper proof."

-

The jade man, for the first time in this entire case, speaks personally to Ximena, as if she were a person and not someone on trial, "I'm terribly sorry for the length of this case, Miss Lane, but it's all just and proper procedure."

"Oh that's fine, sir." She plays with her fingers, "I understand. You're all just doing your jobs." Yep. Definitely coached her. Ximena doesn't talk like that. Not about the system they both function in as magisters.

"You're a very kind young lady," He states it to his audience, not to her, even as he looks directly at her, "could you tell us more about your school choices? I'm afraid your professor couldn't divulge much information."

Ximena nods, and pauses as she (apparently) remembers back to her old choices, "I was looking at Durmstrang and St. Comba's, for their curriculum and the former's specialization in darker magicks."

"Any other schools?"

"Banyacérvol, Raganosšventovė, Cumae, Beauxbatons, and Cackle's[5] were contenders for a long time."

"A good selection." The one Rosier on the board quips, and Tom feels it's the first time he's heard him speak, "What made you choose Hogwarts?"

Something like light finally comes into Ximena's eyes, but the rest of her body remains still, "After careful thought, it's the obvious pick...Good history and good teachers, and it's one of the closest to where I live. Aside from Cackle's."

"Cackle's has a reputation akin to Hogwarts, and it's closer, why not choose that?"

"Transportation."

Strange. The court accepts this. Mumbling as they do--School politics is so trivial...He thought arguments about Oxford and Cambridge were annoying, he can only imagine how big his headache would be if he stumbled across a fight about magical schools. Regardless of location or curriculum or history, Hogwarts is best, obviously, Ximena said so herself. Any idiot could see that.

"I considered Cackle's as well, it's an all-girl's school." Nemesis whispers on cue to him, "But breaking family tradition isn't very good."

He refrains from rolling his eyes. Coward. Brilliant, but an absolute coward, "Why are they so keen on knowing her school choices?"

"I'm sure they have their reasons, probably evaluating her character." Stupid thing to evaluate her character on.

"Can't we be called to testify on her character?" He was waiting for it, actually.

Nemesis hesitates, "Yes, we can, but we were also witnesses. We'll come later."

A refrained scowl, "That doesn't make any sense." It's so out of order. So nonsensical. He's watching a circus performance of clowns.

"That's just how it's done." That's just how it's done. A sad excuse if he's ever heard one (and he has). An idiot organized this.

He wishes he ate before leaving.

"We'll break for lunch soon, I'll treat you." Ah. Good then. He can pay attention to the trial for a few more minutes.

"How do you feel about choosing Hogwarts?"

"It's the only place to be as a studious and drivin' witch. I love it. It's m' home."

Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. It sounds so...truthful.

"I'd be lost without Hogwarts, actually. The professors, m' housemates...They're m' family. I would go to the ends of the earth for all of 'em. I love 'em."

Nemesis looks touched. As does Slughorn, out of the corner of his eye. Merrythought and Willow, however, look a mix of resigned and impressed. When he spots across the way to the Rosiers sitting tightly together, Evan's mother has her chin lifted up, eyes gleaming. Ian's mother, still looking like she ate something sour, has her eyebrow cocked curiously.

She has the Wizengamot in the palm of her hands, just for that one moment. There's no doubt. Even Spencer-Moon, who just moments ago looked to be mere inches from falling asleep, looks reassured in this new generation of Slytherins. The only one not fooled by her emotional confession is, by Tom's judgement, Dumbledore. Figures. At least he has the foresight to not show it.

For thirty more minutes, they pile on questions on her loyalty. To her school, her house, and her kind. What Muggleborns does she talk to? Half-bloods? Purebloods? Rich or poor wizards? Of what races? What genders? And to his surprise, she's honest about it: she never asks the blood status of anyone who deins to speak to her or sit beside her at lunch. The scholars she assists during study sessions are never turned away unless they're openly rude to her. And he knows that the Slytherins in the chamber don't quite believe her words, but the rest do. And that is good. It is good that they think her deceptive.

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. Ximena's far from the new Slytherin poster child of the 20th century, but she's looking more and more appealing the longer they question her. No snake is an island, and if she's positively influencing her surroundings, who's to say her surroundings aren't affecting her just as much? It's perfect. As if every silver and green alumni at this trial conspired together to ensure this.

“--And you just knew that Mister Rosier would attack Mister Riddle in that moment?”

“I was on guard since I heard he tried to cast the Cruciatus curse on him, so no, I didn’ know; I was just prepared at the right place at the right time.”

“A simple yes or no is enough, Miss Lane.”

“'M sorry." And she looks it, eyes moving down to the hands in her lap.

Nemesis sighs, tense, "They coached her good." No shit.

Her representative lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. Tom sees it stiffen, but it seems that no one else does, "Miss Lane was rightfully protective of her classmate and fellow Slytherin. Nothing but house unity and proper upperclassman responsibility caused her to defend against Mister Rosier. In protecting Mister Riddle, actually, she most likely protected another underclassman: the blood of an ancient and noble house, no less!" Tom sees Nemesis' father, sitting close to Dumbledore, still.

Hm. Nemesis was rather close to Tom at the moment of attack, wasn't she? Her fault if she had gotten hurt thanks to Ian's shit aim. She, too, was probably saved by Ximena's protego, then. Does that make Ximena a valiant hero? Moreso than she would be if she had only saved his skin?

"Protected one pureblooded student and attacked another." A member (Tom thinks he could be Topaz's father) speaks.

"Allegedly." The jade man corrects, "Does it not say in the official report that Miss Lane told Miss Fawley to, quote: 'get a teacher'? If she knew an authority was on their way, why injure Mister Rosier like that?"

"Eliminate witnesses." Wzn. Selwyn throws out, "She knew Miss Fawley would rightfully side with her pureblooded cully."

In his periphery, Nemesis scowls.

"On the contrary, Wzn. Selwyn, Miss Fawley is dear friends with Mister Riddle, as they are both sitting side by side up in the pews right now."

It's Nemesis' time to act brave now, though Tom's not at all sure it's an act. She looks proud to have chosen her side, and by the look of it, her father is relieved. Had no one told them she was right beside him as the slicing hex was cast? That feels illegal. Underhanded.

Wzn. Selwyn clears his throat, perhaps embarrassed, "Miss Lane," he addresses Ximena directly this time, hoping her quiet nature extends to not being able to stand up for herself, "can you describe what Nemesis Fawley and Tom Riddle were doing when you deflected Ian Rosier's incidium?"

"They were chatting, standing near each other."

"How close?"

"It's hard to tell, I was focused on casting, but I would say no more than a meter. Maybe thirty centimeters?"

A gasp from a good majority of the room. Wzn. Selwyn continues, "Did your protego extend towards Miss Fawley as well as Mister Riddle? Or did you only see fit to protect him?"

"It was extended, of course. Ian's aim in Dueling Club is..." she hesitates, pressing her lips together, "...It's good. Not bad. I wouldn't know how to manipulate the size of a protego anyways."

"Ian's aim is quite poor." He says to Nemesis, "It was easy to block him because half of the time, I'm sure, he couldn't even hit me."

"That's good." She holds her finger to her lips, thinking, "They can get him on misuse of dark magic around a main branch member."

Tom pauses, "Do you want them to convict Ian?"

Her throat clears, "--He should reap what he sows." Pale hands smooth out the fabric of her dress, "The Rosiers have a small but old treaty with my family, and if they can prove Ian didn't care about harming me or that he meant me harm, it will only help your cases."

"--He's not going to single handedly destroy the relationship between your two families, then?" What kind of society would give children that kind of power?

"Not...exactly." Scratching an itch on her cheek, she mulls over his question, "Ian isn't the heir, and neither am I, but I am in the heir branch. That means if all six of my sisters suddenly die or don't give heirs, then I will be the sole heiress. Ian is not in the heir branch...He's not unimportant, but he definitely doesn't represent the Rosiers in any sense beyond Hogwarts...If it were Evan, or if Ian was older, we might be in deeper water."

He wishes Hedwig were here.

"If anything...Maybe he will be more in trouble for putting the alliance in jeopardy, than for anything else he did...At this point, it could go a variety of ways."

"--describe the relationship between yourself and Tom Riddle?" His ears ring. Head turns. A member who hasn't spoken in a while has his eyes squinted down at Ximena. She looks impassive.

"We are housemates."

"Are the two of you close?"

"You'll have to explain."

His nails dig into the top of his thighs.

"It says here that Mister Riddle is an orphan--Did you perhaps bond over having no knowledge of your families' whereabouts?"

"We don't talk much about our possible families. It's a sad subject."

"You were, also, both raised in Muggle London--In the same place?"

"No, he's at an orphanage, and I'm at a nunnery. We didn't meet until Hogwarts."

"Do you meet outside of school, during the holidays?"

"No."

"Do you meet with any other witches or wizards during the holidays?"

"Not often. I study."

“With whom have you met with outside of school?”

“Durin' my first holiday break, I was at the main branch house of the Acwellan family, per invitation of their heir. She was my guide for my first year in Hogwarts.”

Another chorus of murmurs, quiet and approving. They do not ask what she does at these visits, even if (as far as Tom knows) it was only one. Disappointing.

"Are you the only witch at this..." The man browses through some papers, "...Sisters of Saint Hesychast, Shrine of the Most Immaculate Sacrament?"

"No."

More of the same, this time louder, approval. Some of the members still on the fence growing warmer to the idea that Ximena wasn't scum beneath their notice. Do they know what a nunnery is, then? Why is it that so many of his classmates don't know who 'this Christ fellow is'? Why does it matter? How is she not the only witch when he had nothing but Muggles around him? How is that fair? Why didn't she tell him? Is that why she's so ahead?

"Ohhh," Nemesis breathes, "so that's a nun, then?" her chin gestures to Ximena's guardian again, who like the girl, remains expressionless and unphased, he had forgotten she was there, "I've never seen one before--My great-great-aunt on my mother's side is one, you know. Well, was, but I don't think she stops being one after she's dead, right?"

He feels disassociated from his body again, "Right."

"You claimed that you were protective of Mister Riddle since you found out an Unforgivable was almost cast on him--Did you know that Mister Rosier was planning on attacking him?"

"I can't say if he was plannin' it or if it was a spur of the moment decision. But I know his temper well. We're in a lotta classes together."

"Has he ever done similar to other students?"

"What do you mean?"

"Has Mister Ian Rosier ever attempted or succeeded in extracting revenge on another student?"

"I don't think so, but I've heard rumors, and I wanted to stay alert--"

Nemesis stills in her writing, "She's lying." A sweet whisper heard only by him.

"What?" He's thrilled, somehow. How does she know that? She doesn't know her half as much as he does.

"N--No, I," A gulp, "I didn't say anything."

It's useless to try and hide it, he'll pry it out of her if he has to. He'll even submit to holding her hand if it'll butter it out from between her straight teeth, "I thought you did, are you sure?"

"I, um, yes, uh, you see...Um, it was nothing."

He doesn't even hear Ximena's testimony anymore. He comes closer, "It didn't sound like nothing." Ugh, he has to...Sacrifice himself. Placed atop her own hand is his, gently. Delicately. Nonchalantly, of course, as if he hadn't noticed how close he was getting.

It works, she jumps, and the uncomfortable, unfamiliar push of her soft magic sparks, "I..." Oh sweet Merlin, she's starting to sweat, "You see, I...I think she's...lying." Her voice is lower than a whisper, "I think...I think she..." Eyes squeeze shut, "I don't know. I don't know. I can't talk about it here. Later." She forces eye contact with him, "I promise."

Too easy, "Promise."

"Miss Lane, are you aware of the rumors surrounding your house at Hogwarts?"

"Like what?"

"That Slytherin house intentionally breeds an atmosphere of belligerent witches and actively encourages the use of dark magic."

"No, sir."

"May I remind you that penalty for lying to this Wizengamot is a night in Azkaban, regardless of your status as a child."

Tom feels every Slytherin in the room seize.

"Thank you for the reminder. I stand by my previous statement."

The man asking her about the rumors takes a moment before nodding, "Understood. Thank you, Miss Lane."

“M' pleasure, Wzn. Gamp.”

The Prime Minister sighs, probably feeling as tired as he looks, “This Wizengamot will retire for a short recess. We will return in half an hour.”

-

Outside the cold chamber of the dungeon, the world continues on as it did when he left it. Nothing has changed, he didn't expect it too, but it leaves a strange feeling with him after having gone through the first part of the trial. For a while, his entire world was that courtroom: the intensity of the atmosphere, the shrouds of silence that would encompass the moments after a particularly dividing answer, and the tight tension in his professors' words. By no means was he alone in that dungeon, but it didn't stop the separation: not a single person in that place had wanted the same end result as he. Even Nemesis, he knows, undoubtedly wants an end where all was forgotten and forgiven, and Ian was left quietly leashed in the corner so he wouldn't hurt others (or himself) again.

She treats him to lunch, as she promised. They sit beside a small cornish pasty stand located on the edges of the Improper Use of Magic Department. It's a funny little display of domesticity in the otherwise inhospitable environment: the stand is ordinary enough to be presented to the Muggle world, save for the intricate moving images of a happy (albeit stereotypical) Cornish man enjoying the stand's 'World Famous' pasties. It's not very modern (it, in fact, looks like it came straight from the East India Company history book on the matron's shelf), and the cook looks haggard, but when he bites into the warm pocket of meat, he can't complain.

He takes small bites, making it last.

"What did you mean when you said Ximena was lying?"

Oh, she had hoped he'd forgotten about it. He can tell. She almost choked.

"..." Her throat clears and she pats her mouth with a napkin, "Lane isn't stupid. I'm sure you know that...She's observant." And grass is green, "I...I had heard about this through my sisters: sometime after Yule holidays back in his first year, Ian had gone after someone who insisted that he fancied his own sister. Some Muggleborn from Ravenclaw I think, they don't go to Hogwarts anymore."

"--What did he do to them?"

She sets her pasty down, "My sisters wouldn't say. There was no evidence anyways. But everyone knew what happened. Everyone."

He snorts, "He really does have a short fuse doesn't he?" Not that implication of incest isn't something to be insulted over.

"Well, here's the thing," and Nemesis whispers again, as if speaking of it were taboo, "the Rosiers have been known to occasionally marry siblings, it's not common, but it can happen--that's not what Ian was upset about."

Tom raises his brow.

"--Ian's sister is a squib."

Ah.

"Broke his mother's heart when she never got her letter...I don't know where she is now, I think out in the countryside in Wales." Sent out the dog to live on a farm, then.

"..Is there a place wizards send their squibs?"

"Highbloods yes...If they don't hide them, they quietly drop them off in orphanages or monasteries...Workhouses too."

"Wh--Workhouses were abolished."

A cleared throat, "I don't know what to tell you." She picks at her pasty, "That's only what I know--My family doesn't do that to their squibs: they usually end up leaving on their own."

"--They would leave the Wizarding World?"

"Of course. Can you imagine? Not being able to claim your magical heritage, watching as everyone you grew up with got their letter to Hogwarts while you didn't, seeing that disappointment in your parent's faces...A lot can't take it."

Tom thinks he'd kill himself.

"...You said Dumbledore had two magical parents, right? Why is he a half-blood, then?"

"Isn't it obvious? His mother is a Muggleborn."

"But, both his parents are magical, doesn't that matter?"

"Oh no, Tom." He hates this condescending tone she takes with him, "Blood purity is much more complicated than that, didn't anyone teach you?"

"Who would have?" He says before he can stop it from coming out.

"Oh," She's sorry, "well, we're not as complicated as the systems they have in some other countries, but it's more than just the parents: it's both sets of grandparents too." Her pasty is set aside, "Some older wizards and witches also factor in adopted parents, but that's growing out of fashion." A frown, "The idea that a good witch can be raised by two unrelated Muggles isn't a very good platform for the Purism movement."

He's inclined to agree, "So there are purebloods raised by Muggles, then?"

"I haven't heard of many, but I'm sure they're out there--More than we know. Usually squibs from the same family as the pureblood, but squibs aren't usually considered the same as Muggles."

"How confusing."

"Oh not really," Reassurance isn't Nemesis' strong suit, "it's just logic. Do you want another pasty? I don't know when we'll get another recess, so it's best to have one with you when you go in."

-

If Ximena looked like the spitting image of a domestic, harmless, foreign witch, then Nemesis is the spitting image of an innocent, well-bred, future child bearing witch. He's sitting close enough to the members of the Wizengamot to hear a couple whisper about it: it's disgusting. What a good child. Look at her skin. She'll be ready for marriage talks soon--My oldest would make a good match.

If Nemesis' father hears it, he doesn't give any sign of it.

The first question asked to her, after the usual, is how she's enjoying her classes. How her lovely mother is fairing. The jade man treats her with as much reverence as he did the adults. And, yes, they do know each other (Nemesis mentioned her eldest sister is married to his brother), but not very well. They've talked once or twice since Nemesis was publicly presented (a question for later), but she doesn't know much about him. That makes two of them.

"Lane is wonderful. Friendly and quiet, I've never heard an unkind thing about her." Liar. "She helps me review my potions work when I need to study."

"How does the help of a, quote: 'mediocre witch' help you, an 'upstanding role model for her fellow Hogwarts students'?" The member appears too eager to cut into Nemesis as if she were butter.

"Well she only reads off vocabulary words or gives advice. She's really quite booksmart, I promise. Just meek."

"Do you choose to consort with Miss Lane often?"

"Not consort, but we are in the same house, so I see her throughout my week."

"You two aren't friends?"

"We are friendly, but I think I'm too young to really relate to her. Third year gets very serious, I hear."

"Very serious." The representative agrees, "I'm sure all of us here remember our third year with fondness." He does on, filling the air with fluff and nonsense again. But he's smart enough to let Nemesis talk: she slips into her classroom persona. Confident and as Tom likes her. When she's not trying to touch him or be his friend, he finds her much more tolerable. How sad. She should always be this detached.

"I don't think I've ever seen Lane perform magicks, outside of the protego she cast. Even then, I didn't actually see her cast."

"Do you think she's shy or embarrassed to cast in front of others due to her apparent weak magical core?"

"I don't know. I don't like prying into the private lives of others." She looks appropriately uncomfortable

Tom's eyes flutter, he suppresses a yawn, scratches his cheek. How much longer did Nemesis say? An hour? Two? He could dig into his pocket and have the second pasty (still hot thanks to a heat charm), but that wouldn't shave off much time. He'd have to cast a notice-me-not ('It's rude to eat in the chambers, unless you're Wzn. Slughorn, of course, he eats all the time--He's Professor Slughorn's great-great-uncle, I think?'), and he still doesn't even have his wand. Something about it being evidence--It's one of the reasons he's okay with being withdrawn from Hogwarts for this. He was promised his wand after he left the hospital ward, and he still doesn't have it for yet another absurd reason. He should be indignant. As apoplectic as some of the purebloods are about sitting next to half bloods in class. Hmph.

"Are you and Mister Riddle close?"

"I'd like to think so, yes." Yes, she would. Ugh.

"Do you, perhaps, remember what you two were doing the night of the attack?"

"Let's see," Nemesis hums, tapping her index finger on her chin, "I believe he was actually discussing Hamlet with me."

"Oh?" The jade man almost looks genuinely interested, "Is he an avid reader of the Bard, then?"

"Oh yes, Tom's extremely well read! It's a reason why he's at the very top of our class." One of the reasons, anyways.

Heh. He can feel Professor Slughorn's pride from here. As if he had anything to do with Tom's successes. Undoubtedly among his contemporaries and colleagues, he takes full credit for Tom's excellence. So be it.

"Top of the class!" The way the representative bellows it out is so theatrical, it's a wonder he hasn't been kicked out, "Above the Blacks? The Selwyns? The Flints?"

"Yes. He's a marvel. It's like watching the second coming of Merlin."

Something about her flattery tells him not to take it so much to heart, but oh, that statement...He can't help it. He lets it sink into his body slowly. Savors it as he did those baked treats he shared for his birthday last January. Second coming of Merlin? Well, he doesn't know about that, but...well, it's not so hard to believe, is it? Merlin was a Slytherin. An exceptional wizard. Centuries beyond the intellect and capabilities of his contemporaries. Surely if he were born first, and Merlin born in this time, the man would be referred to as The Second Coming of Tom M. Riddle? What a delicious thought! He almost trembles as it waltzes through his head, he can't be the only one who would think it plausible. Even if his name isn't as spectacular as Merlin, it would still be revered. Or perhaps he could go by his middle name? Marvolo Riddle...It certainly stands out. Strikes at you. It was the name of someone from an old family, undoubtedly. The name of a pureblood. Marvolo. Marvolo. Marvolo...High and proud and good. The more he repeats it in his head...The less he likes it. Marvolo. Marvolo. Marvolo. Why is that? It's unique. Elegant. Powerful. Why does it sound so thick and sludge-like? Dirty? His own name, suddenly?

Push that thought away.

"--what happened?"

"I screamed, there was blood spattered on me...On the floors too." Nemesis takes a deep breath, "Then Lane told me to get a professor."

"Did she tell you directly?"

A pause, "I think so, I'm sure she did not expect for Tom to get up himself, he was struck so bad." It wasn't that bad, "There was a lot of energy in the air that night, I think she was really focused on protecting...Making sure that no further damage could happen." No further damage to Slytherin house, of course, that's all these members care about. Nothing to cry about, of course, Tom's more than used to authority not caring about him. They'll soon see how mistaken they are.

"A lot of damage happened in the span that you were gone, Miss Fawley, how long did it take to find a professor?" The slight is not unnoticed by his classmate: he can see the flinch in her eyes as she tries to keep them from narrowing.

"The dungeons are deep inside the castle, and Professor Slughorn was busy entertaining in his office, up on the upper levels." She smooths out the fabric on her lap, "My big obstacle was prefects on their watch duties: convincing them that I was out late for a valid reason was difficult, but eventually one of them took me to Dumbledore's office, and he believed me."

"Did the prefect in question have any reason to doubt your honestly?"

Nemesis shrugs in a way that tells everyone that yes, they did, "I had never met this prefect before: a Gryffindor by the name of Turner, I believe." A Muggle name, if the Wizengamot's reaction is anything to go by, "I...I don't want to get him in trouble," Oh she absolutely does, Tom can tell, "but he really held me up...I think he knew I was a pu--a Slytherin." Nice touch. The ones with ulterior motives in the chambers have gleams in their eyes. Dumbledore doesn't look too amused, but then again, he hasn't looked very pleased this entire time. Tom supposes that he, like many others, wishes to be elsewhere. Teaching, probably.

Right about now, Tom would be in his Charms class, sitting, once again, next to that mute Ravenclaw. Annoying but smart. They'd review the summer assignment and he would be the first one in the class to successfully show he understood the reading. Possibly the only one. Then class would end, and he'd meet Nemesis on the way to DADA and he'd carefully curtail around her timid advances and silly attempts at flirtation. It's a sort of dance, at this point: choreographed and rehearsed through months of knowing her. It's as natural to him as his banter with Hedwig: witticisms and sarcasm so heavy it drips. He still plays the good boy, but everyday it gets a little easier to trust his sharper sides to her. Particularly because she's already shown him she's all edges.

Strange, he misses them both, somehow. Even if one of them is here, and the other is a smartass he wishes to strangle on occasion (he's sure the feeling is mutual).

"--Riddle to witness."

He blinks, surprised at the sudden call of his name, feeling stupid that he wasn't paying attention--He really needs to stop day dreaming like that, it'll get him in trouble, one day.

At his feet, back straight and gait elegant, Tom steps down from his seat, passing Nemesis, and walking into the center of the room.