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Serpentine

Static

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. I do not know my blood status."

It's a terribly small world when he sits in that golden chair, and the heavens before him, the entire fifty-something Wizengamot, feel infinite. Every star in the sky is staring back at him. Waiting. He's sure a good handful of them are old enough to rival a few stars based on their wrinkles alone--They cut so deeply into their milk white skin, it makes Tom wonder about how they looked when they were young. There are some exceptions among them, namely Wzn. Shafiq and Wzn. Kingsley, who stand out as much as drops of ink would on fresh snow, and have a minimal, elegant amount of wrinkles: they look planned, somehow. The rest of the members are young enough to not exactly be elders, but old enough to command some type of authority.

"And why is that?"

Dumbledore knows why. It's degrading that he has to explain it to him (to everyone) as if it wasn't already common knowledge. It helps his--Ximena's case to paint him as a noble and perfect little orphan, but it also paints a huge target on his back: risk of Muggleborn in big bright letters. Like a theatre or moving picture show, with lights and painted pictures. Pleh. Don't look at him like that, Dumbledore, he's not guilty of anything. This time.

"I'm an orphan."

There's still pause over his name and status as an orphan. Does his saying it during these opening moments make it official? Do they recognise his name--Will they tell him where he comes from?

No. They ask if he's a wizard. If he's attending Hogwarts. Like his classmates. Dumbledore nods his head and gives the floor to the jade man, whom up close, smells like mint and lavender. It's half comforting, half off-putting.

"How is your injury fairing?"

"It's healing well, thanks to Madam Belfast and her cadre."

"Does it hurt?"

"Occasionally, but I've been given potions for it." Madly dizzying ones. What idiot hasn't figured out how to make a potion for pain without need of poppyseed? That should be first on his agenda once he gets his bearings back. He couldn't probably ask for Ximena's advice with that...Even if he wasn’t in possible trouble with her, she’d take it as cheating on that challenge she issued him. And rest assured, he does deep down believe that there will be issues in attempting to converse with her again. He tried catching her gaze before he sat down, but it was to no avai--What is that? That pull? He blinks. Eyes darting. Is that--Yes. He feels it: his wand. It's close. Very close. Outside this room? In which direction? He's never felt the magic in it before, but he knows that's what he's feeling now. It's pulsing. A blaring alarm. So obviously similar to the way the bracelet calls out to Ximena...His hands itch. He'll get it soon, right? Right after this case? Where is it.

Shit, he's missed the jade man's words...They were to the court, but undoubtedly important. Useless, but important. They're all nodding in agreement with something that was said, looking prideful. Willfull. Should he imitate that or react to it? Where the fuck is his wand?

"If I could, I would like to bring out Mister Riddle's wand and demonstrate that he was not involved in the unfortunate duel between Miss Lane and Mister Rosier," Ah. His instincts are on, "The last spell used from his wand was not identified, if the records collected from Hogwarts are correct, and I expect they are." His yew wand comes the same way Ximena's was brought out, the stark white standing out against the black chamber. The jade man picks it up carelessly and adjusts his hand on it, stretching out his arms, "--I understand they've been keeping it away from you since your injury, Mister Riddle, I'm terribly sorry."

Then stop waving it around in front of him, you git, "I understand completely. It's for the best--The greater good, right?"

The jade man smiles his politician's smile, "You're a fine young man." Young man. "And your schoolmates seem to think highly of you--Second coming of Merlin? A high compliment from a Fawley."

A true compliment. He plays humble, "To be thought of as alike to Merlin is an absolute honor. I only hope I can achieve an eighth of his brilliance within my lifetime."

"A noble goal, Mister Riddle." An easy one. They'll be giving Orders of Tom awards in a few years time. "Now, onto more serious matters,"

This time, the light that emanates from the wand is a minty, seafoam green, and the memory associated with it is his Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom: he and Nemesis are exchanging gentle jinxes and protegos--His last spell is an expertly cast stupify. One that could be diagrammed in a textbook. His dark magical signature is all over it, it makes his skin tingle. He's sure it raises a brow or six in the room, even after the magic in the air ceases.

The jade man smiles once more, "Beautifully done stupify, Mister Riddle, you could give a lot of duelists a run for their money." Ahuh. He turns to the court, speaks more about how talented and skilled warlocks are getting rarer and rarer these days, and how tragic it would have been if Mister Riddle's life had been cut short by that slicing hex. How, in his short time in the hospital wing, he had managed to become buried in gifts and well-wishes, so much so that the staff had to store some away to make sure the area wasn't so crowded. He's beloved! A treasure! He can tell he's making the older gentlemen with sons at Hogwarts a little bitter. Heh. It's laying it on thicker than he was for Ximena...Probably easier to curve public opinion around a witch who was no threat to their pure world...He, however, probably rings a bell of uncertainty for them...It's the reason he's been so aware of his own magical aura this entire evening: he can't feel out for her magic, her mood, without alerting the whole room of what he was doing. Could be seen as a threat, apparently. Even if he could pass it off as something unconscious, done out of concern for Ximena, it would be an incredible invasion of privacy for others to witness. Damn. If only he could turn his head and look at her directly. Probably would be met with a withering glare, one worse than the one she first gave him that first week of school...That one was a glare of suspicion, but this one would be more loaded. A canon instead of a bow and arrow.

"--the student all your professors said that Miss Lane was close with, the best and brightest, am I correct in my assumption that that student is yourself, Mister Riddle?"

Obviously, "I wouldn't want to jump to that supposition, but I know I am the closest with Ximena out of all of our housemates." Barring, just perhaps, the buffoon and possibly Eric. Adam doesn't count.

"Indeed! To call an upperclassman by their given name is a bond not often experienced by many second years--How long have you two been on given name basis?"

"About the end of my first month at Hogwarts--" ...Should he? He should. "--I noticed she didn't like being referred to as Lane."

Interest spikes in the room, the back of his spine tingles with cool magic, "Why do you think that is?"

He doesn't think, he knows, "Lane is a foundling name and has no ties to her--It's a name that the Muggles who found her gave her...Rather unceremoniously, I presume. I don't believe she wishes to be associated with it."

This is the right answer. Of course it's the right answer--He pays attention to these things. It's good that a Slytherin boy takes such care and consideration of his fellow student, and it's even better that this foundling child wants nothing to do with a family name given to her by Muggles...Of course, Ximena doesn't mind Muggles, but the true Slytherins in this court don't have to know that. All they need to know is that Ximena is one of them.

Her representative touches his hand to his chest, touched, "Perfectly understandable--To not have an earned name, inherited from your family, is surely filled with terrible trials and tribulations. Without your history and lineage, what does one have?"

Nodding his agreement, he subtly looks in front of him to gauge the reactions from the Wizengamot members. They're pleased. Sympathetic. Looking over his head to his upperclassman. Lucky idiots. He bets their chairs are much more comfortable than this gaudy golden throne--He's been sitting in it for a while now, and it's still cold, refusing to absorb his body heat. Is Ximena's seat this uncomfortable too?

Oh, someone's speaking to him, "Where did you get your name, Mister Riddle?" Wzn. Rookwood.

"I do not know." He sounds a bit down, "For all I know, my family name is that of a stranger." It is, technically, "But before she died, my mother instructed the matron to name me after my father."

That dreaded chorus of murmurs again, he wonders if that was the right thing to say--No, it absolutely was the right thing. It had to be--

"--Your mother died giving birth to you, Mister Riddle?"

He blinks up at the member, "I'm told she died an hour after labor."

Now the reporters chatter along with the members, he thinks he can even see the Rosiers in their section begin to talk quietly. What did he say in their language? Is there, perhaps, a written dictionary of highblood speak?

This time, the Prime Minister quiets down the room and addresses him directly, "Our sincerest apologies, Mister Riddle."

The acknowledgement from such a power staple in the country is strange. In a good way, "My sincerest gratitude, Minister." He bows his head, prepared for the worst.

Another member speaks, Wzn. Nott, "You are living in Muggle London currently, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"You still find ample time to study and practice in an area where magic cannot be cast?" What is he trying to say?

"Practicing is its own challenge, yes, but I always catch up." It's getting easier to catch up, actually, particularly with his readings and correspondence with his classmates. The advantage he leaves school with should be enough to carry him through the summer and the next year, if things continue as they are (and they will), "Magic comes naturally to me."

Wzn. Nott stares, for a moment, wondering if this was a good thing. Tom smiles, mouth closed, as if what he said wasn't vaguely prideful.

If Nott wanted to ask something else of Tom, he does not get the chance to: another member steps in and begins to ask about his extracurricular activities and the people he associates with. He sees the edge of concern when he mentions only purebloods and an interest in Dueling Club, but the edge is more or less gone once he starts talking about his camaraderie. How lovely it has been being welcomed by the whole school despite his humble and uncertain origins. That he has never, not once, heard a single thing regarding Purism in his time there. Which, is technically true: Purism as an official philosophy with motives, intentions, and plans. All his classmates talked about were personal offenses, and whatever they heard their parents spewing out.

He wonders if there's an official manifesto he can skim through. Purely for reference, of course.

Once the majority of the members are assured that he has not been indoctrinated, the redundant questions on Ximena begin to lay onto him. He's ready for all of them. Not just because he obviously knows her the best, but also because he's a smart boy. Prepped or not, he knows what they want to hear. The harder parts of it are steering clear of her skill: the very reason he even finds her worthwhile enough. The last thing he wants to do is use the awful crush excuse in this trial, less everyone take him even less seriously than they probably already do--Could he play up the idea that he was trying to 'civilize' her? Yes. He won't, of course, that's a hard, slippery slope that's impossible to recover from. He's already in deep water with Ximena, and even if she knew that he was playing to the courtroom, that withering glare that's waiting for him would be a hundred times worse and a thousand times more deserved.

The first questions are easy: when did they meet, what were the circumstances, and how was Ximena's attitude towards him. He doesn't even have to lie for those. He remembers all of these things very clearly, as if it were yesterday. The second questions are repetitive: is she sinister behind closed doors, is she a danger to anyone, have any students shown to be afraid of her for an unknown reason. He half lies to these. Ximena is kind, but he has seen anger within her: hidden from the world and bared only to his eyes. She isn't a danger, but she could be. Should be. He doesn't know what the hell the business with her being an 'average student' is, but he assumes it has something to do with her I don't want people to know how I fight complex. He understands. If people know the limits of her power, they'll take advantage of her. Weak little worms will try and squirm their way into her circle the same way they did after her duel with Hedwig. The same way they wanted to after she bested Ian. Is that it? Make higher powers think she's not a threat before striking? Interesting. That's interesting. A strategy he wouldn't follow himself, obviously, but it has potential. He commends her for that.

The third questions are on the attack.

"You are, of course, the only witness to see their duel--Can you tell the court what happened in your own words?"

An idiot tried to best him and was hoisted by his own petard, "I was heading to the Slytherin common rooms with a housemate, chatting amicably, when I heard a hex and then felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the side of my head." His hand lightly presses against the wound for emphasis, "At the same time, I felt a protego spell surround me--Nemesis screamed. I was on the ground, clutching the side of my head, and I heard Ximena tell Ian not to touch me." The words ring in his ears often, actually, he likes the sound of them, "Then she told Nemesis to get a professor."

"Directly?"

"I do not think she was telling me, so I suppose it was directly."

"And then?"

"Nemesis ran off and Ximena deflected more of Rosier's attacks. He openly taunted her and insulted her as he did so."

The richer members of the Wizengamot appear to cringe, as if they were anticipating this.

"Insults?" The jade man prompts, and Tom sees where he's going, "Like what?"

"Oh, I would rather not repeat any of them here." He clears his throat, "Not in polite company. He was very crude and...Well, I passed out before I could hear the worst of it, thankfully."

The representative nods, grimly, "I understand. I assume it had something to do with Professor Dumbledore's comment about Mister Rosier's thoughts on the American race?"

Tom nods again, hesitates, and then, "It was that and...something to do with her...Ah...Her being a witch." His throat clears, "That is, he made certain implications about her..." What word to use, what word to use..."...Continence."

Oh, that was the correct word. Of all the things he has told, this is what manages to get a gasp out of these old coots. As if they all haven't said worse behind closed doors...He might not be the most knowledgeable in whatever the hell a girl's continence is, but he knows it matters much to men. Girls' honor, virtue, treasure, flower--He doesn't really remember the talk given by the priest at Wool's (he wasn't even supposed to sit in on the girls' talk, he was hiding under the couch from one of the caretakers), only that God would punish those who attempted to mar their pearls, souls, gifts, roses, etcetera. Looks like wizards think the same as Muggle do in that sense. Strange.

"I understand," Ximena's representative looks grave, perhaps genuinely, "I regret that you had to listen to such talk, Mister Riddle. It's barbaric and unsuitable for a boy of his status." A grim silence, for dramatic effect undoubtedly, "It happens too often in many of our houses...Rich and poor, ancient and new...It's good to know there's still wizards like you."

There are no wizards like him. Only him. But he lowers his eyes and smiles sheepishly--Yet regretfully enough to show that he wishes there were more wizards like him.

"After he...said his abhorrent words to Miss Lane, what happened?"

"I passed out, I lost too much blood."

"A shame," the jade man shakes his head, "I'm sure you would have been a valuable witness to the rest of the duel." Yes, that's his only value in all of this, "But thankfully, you've been of great help with testifying to Miss Lane's character--I assume the two of you are close?"

"Of course." Maybe not so much anymore but…

"Like siblings?"

He wouldn't know, "Yes."

"You've sat in on a few of her tutoring sessions for the younger students, are they helpful?"

"Very."

"Even to you, a miraculously skilled wizard?"

"You're very kind, sir--Yes, they're very helpful to me."

"Do you often work in a more personalized setting? One-on-one?"

"Sometimes. We help each other."

"You help a student a year above you?"

Well, "I'm ahead in all of my classes, so it helps me more to study what the third years are currently learning. Not always, but most of the time." All of the time, "I can see what my own learning is building towards and ask her questions she hasn't thought of herself."

"What beautiful camaraderie." The jade man looks as happy as he would be if he had dictated to Tom what to say in order to appear more sympathetic, "It makes me nostalgic for my own Hogwarts years--" Blah blah blah… "--is she well liked among Hogwarts?"

Not at all: you have to be known to be well liked. Oh sure, she's known now, but he can't gauge if it's for the best or not--Even with her tolerant, mild nature, being a snake has connotations: he's heard a bit from Adam about his fellow lions' opinion on his friendliness with their rival house, "To those to know her, she's very well liked." Druella doesn't count, "I've never known her to be rude or cruel," on purpose, "and I believe her kindness to be genuine." For the most part.

"Studious and kind...and she bravely stepped forward to defend you and Miss Fawley against a very real and dangerous threat; do you think she's more fitted to be in another house?"

Nonsense. She's in his house for a reason. A reason he's yet to uncover, but still a reason--That hat doesn't make mistakes. "I hear she was a hatstall, but no. I believe she fits perfectly within Slytherin house." Not just anybody can live and survive in this snakepit, though it is half full of bratty children...A Ravenclaw is too interested in their own pursuits to put attention in politics and gaining influence. A Gryffindor would have probably started multiple family feuds in the span of an hour due to their lack of tact. Even a Hufflepuff, for all they get along with them, could most likely only stand a week before getting tired of all the games snakes play. Justice and fairness aren't common in the snake den, because none of them can decide on a universal definition of either.

Fairness to Hedwig is Ximena getting expelled. Muggles tucked away into a corner to be forgotten or studied like animals. All purebloods, regardless of race, coming together for a better world. To Nemesis, it is Ximena getting off spotless and Ian getting leashed for the rest of his impulsive life. Muggles being seen as harmless sheep or rats. All purebloods, regardless of sex, working for the advancement of their society. And his guide...Ximena being in some sort of debt to him. Muggles being subservient to magicalkind, or possibly extinct. All purebloods, regardless of class, fulfilling their duty by marrying each other and providing the wizarding world with more pure magic. For a group with such a large hivemind, they sure have different perspectives. Maybe if they knew just how differently they all felt, Slytherin house would come crumbling down. Maybe they already know. Or else they wouldn't have phrases like blood traitor. They wouldn't give those looks to families like the Potters or the Bones or the Weasleys. Without blood traitorism, Yami would be reigning queen of the snakes, in complete competition with Eric or one of the Black girls for sure--but he believes she would lead the best. Even if he doesn't know her politics beyond what Hedwig and his ex-mentor have gossiped to him about...And, of course, that sharp scolding she gave to the later. If he was forced to guess now, he'd say that to Yami, fairness is Ximena getting reparations for every insult and snide comment given to her by her white classmates. It is Muggles getting the chance to help rear wizard children to free up the hands of their busy parents and avoid explicit slavery via house elves. It is for all purebloods, regardless of who they are or where they come from, to take their pompous heads out of their asses and realize that it is not lineage that makes a great wizard. A vision of fairness that would make the blood of all these members curdle, surely.

Tom thinks fairness is simpler than all of that: fairness is him getting what he wants.

"Then, I suppose it's safe to assume that you two are a positive influence on each other?"

"Definitely. She's quite shy, as the others have told you, so I think our friendship is helping her come out of her shell. Pushing her to speak to others in our house." To others of a respectable and pure lineage. "I'd like to think I'm learning to be more worldly. I'm actually speaking more to some students in Gryffindor, as a matter of fact."

"Gryffindor house?" The jade man's smile couldn't be more sinister, and yet nobody else but him sees it, "Getting close to your rival house is ambitious indeed; I daresay no one else has done it before! Not since the founders, anyways...I'm sure they would be proud to see you young witches building bridges like this." Perhaps, but they certainly wouldn't be proud of their motives. "You are, indeed, full of marvel, Mister Riddle." Of course. He's the second coming of Merlin.

This isn't so bad. He doesn't understand why he was so nervous about sitting here. He's perfectly in his environment. Settling in nice and comfortable, save for this damn chair, but that's minor. He can ignore that. That and the peering stares from the members and the constant murmur of reporters, the flashes of their cameras... What he can't ignore is that he can't see Ximena from here.

He wishes they could question them together, at the same time. To be able to hear and see her, maybe they could be forced to have a conversation. Or agree on something. Make eye contact. On second thought: no eye contact, she would not look very happy, he's sure. It would be like her gaze was in that first dream he remembers having of her. A glaring void, festering with cockroaches. Cockroach--No, he shouldn't use that word. That word is tainted now. Bloody Ian.

Ximena's representative looks over Tom's chair at her, eyes shining, "Yes, when I see you both, I see the future of Slytherin house. Of young magisters everywhere, divided by these silly things called houses and race and sex." He turns to the Wizengamot, "I wouldn't be surprised if you two were descended from some lesser known ancient and noble houses...If not from Britain, then elsewhere in Europe...Perhaps Wales? You look an awful lot like a brother-in-law of mine, Mister Riddle."

It's a jest, but the suggestion still makes his heart flutter with what he denies is hope, "You're too kind, sir." Where would Ximena's ancestors hail from, then? One of Britain's colonies before they were conquered? She looks mixed, but not in the acceptable, pretty way that his contemporaries like. If she has any white ancestry, it does not show itself in her (except, perhaps, in her bouts of cruelty). Tom's not an expert by any means in race, so he doesn't take it upon himself to try and deduct hers. All he knows is that her face is not a type he sees very often in his day-to-day life, even among those whose ancestry hails from outside Britain.

They ask him questions about Ian next, and those are the ones where he has a little too much fun in answering...Without insulting his dear parents and family up in the pews, of course. 'Ian has always been easily excitable. Known as a bit of a scoundrel, unfortunately, but I've always known him to be simply bold' though foolhardy was more accurate. It makes him look better that he try to lighten up Ian's reputation, both for defending the old men who share his ideal, and for the sake of softening up Slytherin house's image.

It brings him a shivering sort of joy to be playing their game so well!

When it's time to return to his seat, it's a fight to not recoil from Nemesis as she tries to comfort him with a touch to his shoulder, but he makes it through in one piece. Probably because there are others watching.

"When will they bring Ian forth?"

"Tomorrow probably--If I were them, I'd want to keep him away for as long as possible." Because he'll inevitably blow up in the middle of testimony? "Because you can say he's so injured that he can't make it to court...Build up sympathy, you know?" Ah. "But I don't know. I'm as in the dark as you are." Perhaps, but she has better eyes. He's being lead by a clueless cat.

"What happens if they bring him out now?"

"There's no way...It's too early, they couldn't have prepped him well. He's still recovering...It would be such a dirty move."

"When have you known these people to play fair?" She has, after all, known them all her life.

Her spirit deflates. How easy. "It's a risk. Slytherins are calculating."

"A calculated risk." He suggests.

She bites her thumbnail, thinking, "I can't imagine why they would; it would be of no benefit. A suicide. You’d sooner see Grindelwald in this courtroom testifying in this case."

Those are, of course, her famous last words.

When Ian is brought in, he looks...better than Tom expected him to. With how everyone was building up his injury to be, he expected something akin to a mummy to appear. Or some kind of freak. Of course, he looks the same as always, but with bandages carefully wrapped around the left side of his head. Mostly clean. Soiled enough to induce pity but clean enough to show he's getting the proper care that a good pureblooded boy of his standing deserves. Tom suspects that his neck and shoulders are equally wrapped in bandages, but they cannot be seen underneath Ian's special robe. His bright hair, he can spot from here, is singed just slightly. He remembers it burning away during the duel. How it crinkled and withered away...

What unnerves him, just the slightest, is how calm he looks. The essence of collectiveness. Nothing like that volatile eruption witnessed during...well, any day that he's interacted with Ian. Even on his quiet days, he's a ticking bomb. Looks constantly annoyed with his surroundings. What did they give him? Calming draught? Drink of Zen? Opium?

"Aiden Grimme Augustus Giles Ian Rosier. Pureblood."

Ugh, why do so many of them have long winded names? Three should be the maximum amount of names allotted to a baby--Any more, and it's borderline abuse.

Despite Tom's clear dislike of the boy in the chair, he watches him much more closely and carefully than he did with any other person who testified. What tricks does he have up his sleeve? And who came up with them? His parents? The patriarch of the Rosiers? What lies will he spin to win back the favor stolen by Ximena? Or would it be the truth that steals it back?

"--grades are phenomenal. As expected of a Rosier scion."

"Your family does set rather high expectations of you, don't they?" The jade man says it with sympathy, but only just enough--After all, all proper families have high expectations, "Did you ever feel like you were cracking under pressure?"

Tom quirks a brow when no member interrupts: the jade man is clearly leading Ian.

"I suppose, yes." Tom's back stiffens; Ian doesn't have a vocabulary like that, something's off, "I want to always be sure I'm doing the right and proper thing by them and their wishes. But it's hard; there's so many conflicting messages..."

The jade man rests a hand on Ian's shoulder in comfort, "Of course! We English Wizards have all heard of the tragic fate of your dear cousin Vinda--"

Nemesis clears her throat, "Vinda Rosier from the French branch: she's Grindelwald's right-hand witch." You don't say?

"Has she been in contact with you?" Un-bloody-likely. Grindelwald's campaign and reign of terror undoubtedly take up obscene amounts of time, not to mention being on the run, staying hidden, and organizing rallies. Why would a witch as important as that waste time on a distant relation?

"I--" Ian actually chokes up, "I wasn't supposed to say," Oh for fuck's sake. "She just said she missed me. That she wanted to talk again. That we're family."

The Wizengamot doesn't even try to see through this act if their faces are anything to go by. The most dubious one is Dumbledore, and of course he would be dubious. The others in the room aren't much better, he can hear the gasps and coos and whispers of sympathy. Even by the alumni who weren't former Slytherins. The poor idiot boy, manipulated by a trusted older relative who herself, was being manipulated by a dangerous Dark Lord. It's an easy enough story to swallow. Ugh.

"That little bugger." Nemesis seethes.

"That's not Ian." He breathes lowly, eyes narrowing.

"What."

"That is not Ian Rosier."

If it were even possible, she grows quieter, leans in to exclude the possibility of anyone listening, "That's a serious accusation, Tom--"

"I know what I'm saying."

She seizes...Still looking at him, debating on whether to believe him or think him crazy, "...What makes you say that?"

"Look at him." Don't be stupid, Nemesis, it doesn't suit you, "Listen to him."

So she does. She takes a long pause to observe the boy. Not what he's giving away, but what he's keeping back. How still he is. How poised. How polite. Ian was raised well, but he can't betray himself like that. Not for this long.

"--Describe what happened that night."

"My honor was besmirched. I lost in a duel to a...a witch of undetermined blood. Had my wand claimed by said witch. Was physically attacked by said witch. And am here, as a result, because of said witch."

"Is that what your cousin told you to say?"

Everything's a scandal. How could they fall for this? It's so obvious. So pathetic. Is it because they want to believe it? Because the alternative would be too difficult to deal with...So much red tape to sort through if the boy had acted of his own free will. Of his own temperament and his own ulterior motives. How vexing. Ian deserves to face the consequences of his actions. The consequences of being Tom's assailant.

The boy starts to sob openly.

"...I believe you." She says, finally.

That is not Ian Rosier.

The Rosiers, up in their spot, look composed. Pleased. Everything according to plan?

"You'd think his mother would at least try to bring up some crocodile tears." Tom mutters, patience whittling down every second.

Nemesis shakes her head, "The Rosiers are a stoic clan. It's why Ian's temperament is so infamous. It would be more suspicious if his mother was crying due to his testimony."

"Isn't she a Burke by birth?"

"Of course, but when you marry into a family, you adapt to fit that family." Need to groom them into being their ideal wife, yeah? "Your family name is your uniform. A code of conduct."

A tilt of the head--What would the Riddles have as a code of conduct, then? The list of appropriate behaviors for heirs? Children? Men, women, husbands, wives, widows, in private and public? Is his family still alive for him to adapt to their expectations, or will he have to reshape them in his image?

A pleasing thought for later daydreaming. Something to tuck away for bad days.

The jade man tries, to no avail, to calm the imposter down. If it were really Ian, then it would have been pathetic to see him so emotional out on the floor like this. But because it is an imposter, a purposeful one, it is brilliant. Conniving. None of these men know Ian. None of the reporters, the spectators...Hell, maybe even his own aunt and uncle. They'd never be able to tell an imposter from the real thing...Not like him. Not like his classmates. He peaks at Slughorn, Merrythought, and Willow: they're impassive as well. Unable to believe their eyes, or rather, unwilling to believe that they could have put a fake on the stand...It's so much easier to believe that their student was riding under this immense pressure this whole time.

He peeks at Ximena, who looks as perplexed as he feels. Finally, some emotion--Even if he thinks it's planned. If it’s genuine, and she’s as confused as he and Nemesis, then does she have a better idea of what’s going on? Or is she in on it and a better actress than he thought?

What do you know? He wishes he was a mindreader. That he could reach out his hand and pluck the information he seeks from her brain. Or that by doing something as simple as looking into her eyes, he would be able to understand the deepest secrets being kept. Ugh, if only he could talk to her--Without her interrupting or simply walking away.

The imposter goes on--Spinning a tale of having his cousin coax him to think and say all the cruel things that he had done and said and thought. As if he had zero control over his own damn actions. What kind of enchantment could be so strong as to fool an entire chamber of grown wizards (unless, they all knew and were in on it?) Was the person testifying a Metamorphmagus? It was only briefly mentioned in his last Transfiguration class, but it's the only thing that comes to mind…

"Why would she lie to me? My cousin--my own family? She wouldn't steer me wrong, she loves me. She looks out for me. She took care of me as a baby--"

Spencer-Moon orders the jade man to calm the boy down less he be escorted out. Spectators scream justice for him. For all of Grindelwald's victims. As if Grindelwald himself had come and forced him to be stupidly violent and bigoted. As if any of this made any Merlin-damned sense. Won't the testimonies tomorrow just prove this all wrong? That Ian has always been a dull, bellicose, spoiled brat?

In all his crying, not once does the fake Ian apologise. To him or to Ximena. Tom didn't expect any less.

-

The sound of gavel on wood is anticlimactic. From his reclaimed spot, he sees Ximena's shoulders relax. Yes, she was nervous. He knew it.

"This Wizengamot will take tonight to decide on a proper verdict for Miss Ximena Lane. We will announce any and all terms, conditions, and punishments tomorrow morning, after Mister Ian Rosier's trial."

Nemesis looks grim as they walk out the hall, through a different door than the one they entered. Her eyes are downcast, hands folded in front of her, humbly ignoring the slew of camera flashes illuminating their faces. He looks ahead with a detached face, brave and appropriately stoic for the occasion. Reporters do, indeed, come to them in a feeding frenzy, frantically asking questions as if they hadn't been sitting in the same room for hours. Weren't they listening? Don't they have anything else better to report? The Muggle war, the civil unrest to the east, the goddamn dark wizard that's terrorizing half the world--They can't all be from gossip magazines, he sees a few press identifications from The Prophet. Some respectable paper that's turning out to be. Crowding children when they've gone through a traumatic event like this…The two of them couldn't have escaped past them the way they came in, he understands. They need to be seen right now.

In a moment of brilliance, he decides to turn the public more to their side, and he rests a hand around Nemesis' shoulder protectively. She leans in closer, the discomfort of having her so close bring drowned out by the shining reputation this action will help build.

Outside, the world revolves around them. Cold and dark, the two navigate outside the courtroom with the press following around them like the tail of a comet. Nemesis, her eyes still looking down at her feet, is still leading him. The evidence room she called it. That's where they'll be keeping your wand. His hand's itching for it. They told him it would be personally delivered to him at Hogwarts tomorrow, but he's waited long enough. Nemesis is a handful to cater to, but hell if she doesn't pay off: picking up his wand is a favor from her father. He'll have to remember to write a formal thank you note to him. Bugger.

His wand is handed back to him unceremoniously by a ministry worker, who looked at him with mixed suspicion and sympathy--For what, he doesn't know, but he has a couple of ideas: it's a similar look to the ones given to him those first few weeks of first year when highbloods believed Tom to be mingling with Ximena for the sake of indoctrinating her to 'the right ways'. He tells the worker 'thank you' and tucks his wand into the deep pockets of his robe, safe, next to Ximena's bracelet. Nemesis asks him how his wife is fairing with the new baby.

-

"Did he really say all that about Lane?" Nemesis is scandalized; in the safety of the empty stair corridor, her whispers cut through the silence harshly. Hogwarts is the same as they left it (absurd to think that it would have changed but--), welcoming and warm. Empty. Everyone is in classes or the library. He can't even see ghosts lingering around, it's like they both have the place to themselves, "That...That awful, crass, stupid...How dare he!" She huffs, and Tom wonders how she didn't blow up before reaching this space, "I didn't know! I knew he was terrible, but to know that he..That he could speak about a witch like that--We're related! I've sat at dinner with him! I...I played with him as a baby." Anger doesn't suit Nemesis well, but he likes it better than when she's being lovey-dovey. At least she has to be separated from him to gesture wildly with her arms. He's never seen her so wild.

"People change." No they don't, "Or they surprise you." That they do. "I can't say I'm the same as I was when I was a toddler," Yes he can, "I'm sure he was, at some point, innocent." He's not.

"But how can--" she gestures outwards with her hands, "how can he just...think things like that? Say them aloud? Does somebody else think things like this?" Of course they do, Nemesis can't be this naïve, "My father? Uncles? Nephews?"

"Who's to say?" He's feeling honest today, "Rosier was probably just repeating what he heard around the house, maybe everyone else is just repeating what they hear as well."

Her face sours, "Men!"

"Indeed."

Amber eyes on him, "You're not like that, Tom, you're--You're sweet. A gentleman!" When he has to be, "Purebloods should only hope to have sons and heirs like you! And--and you grew up in an orphanage! A Muggle one!"

His jaw stiffens. Takes a deep breath, "Upbringing isn't everything." Evidently. "Treating witches this way...It's the status quo for wizards, isn't it?" He doesn't mention, of course, that it's normal for Muggles as well. Something both communities have in common--They might even bond and get over their differences. Heh.

"It--" Her hands close into fists and open, over and over, "It...It is, isn't it?" But she knew this. She was the one to alert him of it. A witch in the Wizengamot?...That sounds like a dream, Riddle. A wonderful dream. "I'm...I'm so stupid."

Occasionally, "Come now, don't talk like that." She's smart in the ways that actually matter to him, "Someone with your grades and political savvy is not and cannot be stupid." Someone he willingly associates with cannot be stupid, "Our free period is about to start, let's settle in the common room and catch up on the classes we missed."

-

The first thing Hedwig does is grill into him about the trial. The second thing she does is punch his arm when he tells her to read about it in the papers tomorrow. He says something about injuring an already weak boy and she tells him to stuff it. And while he sort of misses the pushover nature of Nemesis and her attentiveness, he welcomes Hedwig's attitude. Nemesis, who has been treating him like glass since he got attacked, doesn't find the other witch's actions very funny. She scolds her, as a matter of fact, of which Hedwig responds with a healthy eyeroll.

"Lestrange's been asking for ya."

"Katux?"

"Aye. Somehow thinks I've got a direct eye on you at all times, the idiot. Bothered me all potions class."

Tom hums, only half interested, "How was the substitute?"

"He knew his way around a cauldron--But guess who it was?" He can't pin down Hedwig's expression, is it excited? Scandalized?

"Was it Professor Eald again?" Nemesis sounds worried. Rightfully so: the woman is a thousand years old and hard of hearing.

Hedwig shakes her head, looking at Tom, expecting him to guess.

"Professor Binn?"

"Gods no," Hedwig expels air through her nostrils, "I'd sooner like to bash my head in than have him as potions instructor."

"Well then Hedwig, who was the substitute?"

The witch leans in for dramatic effect, whispering lowly as if what she were sharing were a big secret, "Acarya's father."

He stills. Before he can formulate a response, Nemesis beats him to it, "No!" She's immensely curious, "I thought he was a myth, how did he look?" A myth? Did she just think that Yami's mother became pregnant all by herself?

"A myth and a legend." Hedwig confirms, shimmying closer, "He was a meek little man, gentler than a daisy petal! I thought maybe someone made a mistake, but then I saw him brew." And? "I know where Acarya's damn skill comes from now. That man could kill all of us without a trace if he wanted." The thought makes anxiety and excitement shake within his ribcage: to have that kind of ability...to be at the mercy of that kind of ability...

"That must have been nice for Acarya, to have her father with her in class. Witness her skills." Nemesis hums, folding her hands together.

"If by nice you mean fecking awkward. Not all of us get along with daddy dearest as well as you do."

Tom holds back a smirk, remembering daddy dearest's actions towards her at the trial. Nemesis grows defensive (her shoulders stiffen up), and is about to open her mouth to retort before Tom cuts her off: "A shame I had to miss his class. It sounds fascinating." If he's anywhere as good as Slughorn without any of his annoying habits, then the man is worth his weight in galleons. He's probably worth more, considering the family he married into.

"Don't be a git, Tom, you got a front row seat to the trials of the year! Entertainment for the masses: a horde of old pillocks scrambling to repair the actions of one of their youngins."

"Hedwig." Nemesis scolds again, to no avail. Hedwig gives her a rude hand gesture ('It's not like we're in public, you wet blanket'). Tom's not sure why Nemesis tries with her, Hedwig might be a pureblood, but she doesn't care about subtlety in the slightest.

"Speaking of, Evan and his lot were there, yeah? How did they look?"

Nemesis looks to still be recovering from the gesture. Tom decides to answer for her, "They looked well." Well off. "Statuesque." Revealing almost nothing throughout the entire ordeal.

"Figures."

"Were you expecting any less from them?"

"I was hoping Ian's mother would blow the fecking roof on everybody--I've seen her angry before, it's a sight to behold."

"She was as composed as the rest of the Rosiers, I assure you."

"At least I didn't miss that show." Then, the humor leaves her face, "How was Lane?"

This time, Nemesis cuts in for him, as if she were waiting for it, "She did her part beautifully."

"Did us proud, huh?" Hedwig nods, "Not so much a shtate[1] after all. Good girl." Tom holds back from rolling his eyes. "How'd those gombeens[2] take her for?"

Nemesis, once again, answers for him, "A harmless poor little witch who has been held back from her true heritage--You should have seen her, you would have probably cackled at the sight of it all...She had a lowborn accent and everything, it was like she was raised in a gutter--" Tom used to speak in that accent, but he doesn't interrupt to voice his offense, "--she even wore Muggle clothing."

"And those bollixes fell for it?" Hedwig's never been much for gossip, why is she so interested? Was her day that boring? It's annoying him.

Nemesis, unapproving of Hedwig's diction, decides to ignore it and nods her head, "Lane had them eating out of her hands."

"Fuck!" The smile on her face could light up nations, "That's some pure fucking class! Maybe they won't expel her after all."

Tom clears his throat, finally speaking up, "I highly doubt they will, she managed to rake in a lot of sympathy points despite the odds being against her."

"You're biased you dope, how can ya know that for sure?"

"I was there, wasn't I?"

Nemesis is quick to defend him, "The damage Ian did is too great for the Wizengamot to ignore...If they vote in favor of him, it would let everyone know for sure that they're all mostly made up of Purists."

"Everybody who isn't a complete gobshite knows that that parade of old farts is full of Purists. Hell, everyone who matters has a grandfather or six in there!"

Before Tom can correct Hedwig on the amount of grandfathers one can realistically have, Nemesis sighs, "Perhaps for the highbloods, yes, but not for the common people."

The white haired witch dismisses her words with a wave of her hand, "If the common people had fecking working eyes, then they'd see it." He has to agree with that: any idiot could see the true intentions of that whole lot.

"Well regardless," The taller witch has more bite to her these days, Tom wonders if she'll snap, "I really think she has a fighting chance. Our testimonies were excellent, and the word of Merrythought, Slughorn, and Willow only sweetened her reputation." She does not mention the appearance of Ian.

"Don't forget Dumbledore."

Hedwig blinks, "Professor Dumbledore spoke? On behalf of a Slytherin?"

"Really, Hedwig, his bias isn't as bad as all of us make it out to be--"

Hedwig places her hand over the girl's mouth to shut her up, "What did Dumbledore say, Tom?"

He makes a point of looking a little distressed at her actions: he hesitates, watching Nemesis struggle not to break her good-girl persona, before speaking, "I, well, he talked about Ximena, of course. Her mild and studious nature, same as our other professors."

"Uh-huh." She hasn't removed her hand from Nemesis' mouth, despite the later's tries to pry it off, "But what did he really say?"

And he knows what she means. Dumbledore is Gryffindor, but he has his slimy manipulation tactics. He wears a coat of red and gold over skin of green and silver, "A part of him definitely wanted the court to arrive at the conclusion that Ximena did burn Ian." The resulting muffled gasp from Nemesis reminds him that she probably still thinks her innocent, "But he knew that the greater good would be punishing Ian for getting away with all he has these past three years."

"Typical." Hedwig shakes her head, leaning back and finally releasing Nemesis' mouth, "She'll be saved by a hair."

"--You don't think Lane actually cast that confrigo, did you?"

"You didn't tell her?"

Tom holds up his hands to the girls in defense, "I never said she cast or didn't cast anything--I passed out before much happened."

"Sure ya did."

"Oh that's horrible--So there really are people who think Lane did it?"

How did he end up being close with such different people? Oh right, their skill. Their influence is just an added bonus, "There's a lot of conflicting stories; I haven't had a chance to speak with Ximena proper to clear the air--I was hoping to do so tonight."

"Oh you won't be able to tonight," Nemesis says, "she's spending the night at the Ministry."

She what, "They would really take her away from her education like that? Two full days?" That's at least sixteen classes, if she has a full load, and that's not counting what she's already missed, "That's absurd."

"Our Ministry isn't exactly known for being logical, Tom." Hedwig berates him, tsking, "Lane'll be fine, don't worry your pretty little head over her." Of course he knows she'll be fine, but he has to talk to her. Explain himself and talk his way into forgiveness without apologising.

"I think it's natural to be worried over my fellow housemate."

"Pfft, like you'd be this worried over either one of us if the situation were different." That's a valid point, but not in the way she's suggesting. Hedwig could hold her own and she comes from a powerful family. Only someone with connections and the patience of a saint would even think about squaring up against her. Nemesis, as she had mentioned, would be infinitely preferred over Ian just for the fact that she was born to the patriarch of an old and noble line. Not to mention that the girl knew how to lie when it suited her. Her words to the court impressed him. There is also the fact that Tom is not on either of their shit lists for keeping something precious to them away and hidden. But that's it. That's the one and only reason he's this wrapped up in the situation. Because of the bracelet. Nothing else.

"Of course I would. You're both my friends." Nemesis looks touched and Hedwig bites her thumb at him. He didn't expect any different.

-

He sleeps with his wand under his pillow.

The first spell he cast with it was a tracking charm: one from the third year spellbooks. It promises to lead him to the item in question no matter where he is and whether or not he has his wand on his person. He tested it out before bedtime by hiding it around the dormitory and seeing if he could sense the magic from other spots in the room and common area. So far so good, but he'll have to recast it every few months as it wears off. The same way he has to recast the featherweight charm on the bracelet.

Ugh, but there's lingering magic on the handle from that damn representative--It's sticking to his wand like slime...Earthy, almost. Definitely organic. He'll have to find a way to cleanse it--A spell used to cleanse an aura should work in theory, but he hasn't studied on them, much less actually casted one. It's something saved for his fourth year, and even then, it'll be just theory and vocabulary...It can't be too hard to learn, though. Getting access to the spell, though, that'll be a little harder without Ximena's help. Why can't he learn what he's ready for? Why must he wait until the rest of these idiots catch up?

When he was four, he had already learned how to bathe himself without drowning. The other children always, always had to have help or at least someone to watch over them. But not Tom. They left him alone, lest they feel the wrath of his scream and magic. If simple Muggles can understand how advanced he is, why can't wizards? He'll have to inquire about taking a special test to get into the more advanced classes...Or see about taking classes over the summer (away from Wool's) to be further in his studies the next year, or--

A temporary guardian.

No...That'll be a last resort. If any. There's too many factors he can't control or predict in that game, and Dumbledore is over half of them. If he submits to such a thing (and he would submit rather than agree in this situation), it would be under specific circumstances and conditions. The first one being: Tom has to approve whatever witch he is given to. Annoying, he can tolerate. Ignorant he cannot. He's been rubbing elbows with the worst of them at Hogwarts, and he will not stand for someone who clearly knows less than him and undermines his skill. The second one is: they will understand that they are not his parent. They are only to keep watch over him (from a distance). There will be no bonding or affection allowed. He was raised without touch, and he would like to continue down that route, thank you very much. The third is that they must agree to stay out of his business. No spies. No interfering. If he asks, they may be allowed to give advice, but that's the extent of it.

Ximena's guardian at the trial...That's his perfect situation. He passed by them on his way out: they were talking quietly between themselves a respectable distance away. No reassuring back rubs, no hugs, no warm smiles. Tom's willing to bet that their talk was all business, too. All 'how are your studies' and 'did you get your wand back yet' and maybe even a 'the Abbess suspects, but I fooled her into letting me out for the day'. If there was any affection, it would be a simple 'how is your health' or 'did you eat yet'. Ideal. Some people have all the luck. Tom wonders if Ximena knows how fortunate she is. She might, she's a smart girl, but terribly distracted at times.

Fortunate...She wasn't the only witch at her little abbey (Was it little? He never asked.) She was one of a few. Or many. (The Wizengamot didn't ask either.) How long has she known that--Did she make it up? No, they could verify those things. It has to be true. She was brought up amongst witches and her kind. They probably talk to her about her heritage and spill secrets into her ears. Help her with homework and tell her how to brew special potions for nerves. He didn't have his kind around him, he was lucky enough that one of the old caretakers could half-ass a card trick without getting a papercut. How is that fair? Why didn't his mother give birth and die on the stairs of Ximena's abbey? Or another location with witches? Infernal woman.

He has asked. He asked her if the Muggles who raised her knew she was a witch. All she said was on some level. She said that they claimed magic was of the devil. She was lying. She lied to him. It had to have been a lie. Unless not all of the women there were magical, and the way she talked about the Abbess leads him to believe that that could be possible. Unless the witches there were self-hating. Influenced by awful Muggles and the dangers of religion. Wouldn't they have stopped her from attending the school, then? The matron tried to keep Tom, but he has Dumbledore to thank for convincing her without the threat of violence. But Ximena's here, so that can't be it...Unless she lied to the Wizengamot, and unlike lying to him, there are real consequences when lying to the Wizengamot. That'll change, of course, eventually--But until then, he's put out. His usual process of punishing people wouldn't work with Ximena, he doesn't think she should fear him yet, and if he's being completely honest with himself, he's not sure he could reach that goal very easily. Unsettle, sure. Rattle up and bother, yes. But scare? That would take a real effort. He'll save that challenge for later, when he needs it.

If (and that's a very big if) she lied to them not just about Ian's past outbursts, but also about her home life, then that woman in the chambers is not a witch. Ximena is alone, just as he is. In theory. Wouldn't a witch raised among her kind be more social to her magical peers? All the other pureblooded girls are, even the half-bloods--Muggleborn girls are shyer, usually, preferring to keep to themselves until they find a proper group...The way Ximena is, though it doesn't look like she's interested in finding a permanent group. She doesn't seek Tom out to converse or study, but she welcomes his company...At least, she did, who knows if that will continue.

Perhaps it's a bit unfair to try and compare her to other girls, even the smart ones Tom associates with: Nemesis was bred to be a socialite, and Hedwig is...Hedwig. Yami's mother is the head of a political dynasty, and only seems to talk to those who would benefit her family. Mali does as she likes because she's not from here and will most likely never be in contact with any of these students again. There's no consequences for her. Lucretia isn't afraid to reach out to others because despite everything, the way Blacks raise daughters is frighteningly practical. Druella is far from social, but that's due to her unpleasant personality, obviously (alright, he's biased, but God, that girl--). She doesn't really count as smart, but she is well within Tom's spheres of influence. That is, influences on him.

Tom wonders, if Ximena had been raised with her parents, what she would have been raised for.

He goes to sleep.

-

They're outside--A forest. Perhaps the Forbidden Forest, and perhaps not. It's bright and warm, it's perfect picnic weather. The sunlight is captured by the canopies of the trees, leaving them in a cool shade. Walking in a cool shade. Mulch squelches under their feet, and every once in a while, he hears a satisfying crunch from stepping on a dry leaf or a bug. They have packs at one point, with supplies to camp out for weeks, but then they turn into simple lunch bags.

Ximena sits, facing him, arms folded on the wooden table. His hands are in his lap--Where's the food? He thought they were on a picnic. He looks behind Ximena: there's a car! A car, who drove? She did, that's right, Ximena can drive. They didn't walk here, that's silly, they're miles and miles away from civilization. It's not like they could fly here.

She's talking...He can't remember what about. Class. The drive here. Her fingernails. So nonsensical, is she even speaking English?

Oh, she's not. Not anymore. When she speaks, she says a word he doesn't know: ah-bou-ella. It dances out her mouth, and with it, brings something else--Petals and blossoms and stemmed flowers. They fall gently down on the surface of the table, soft as silk. Reds and pinks and yellows, warm colors with the intensity of the sun. The thorns on the stems do not bother her.

When he tries to say the same word, diamonds fall out from his mouth. Diamonds and rubies and emeralds, all sorts of precious stones that clatter noisily to the table between them. Some are so sharp, they cut his tender flesh, but they're so pretty. So vivid in color that he picks them up to admire them.

And she continues, this time saying paah-pa. This word, he does not know either. It slides out of her mouth smoothly, and rivers come out. Strong water currents, fresh and salt, with fish and algae. The rivers crash onto the table, briefly flooding the space between them, bringing the flowers to a float and sinking the gems to the bottom.

He wants to say that word too. He repeats it, and gold coins come out of his mouth, leaving a metallic taste on his tongue. They clang onto the table and splash the river water everywhere, shining beautifully alongside the gems. His side is beginning to look like a dragon's hoard, and Ximena's side: a floating garden.

Then she talks again: maah-ma, and the whole world comes out from between her lips. Mountains and sky and glaciers and dirt and magma and the forest tumble out and embrace them both, creating a womb for them. Safe and good. She does not look uncomfortable as the world emerges from her mouth, it looks as natural as breathing. As comfortable as falling asleep. As if the world regularly fell out of her mouth and has done so all her life.

Tom says the word too, but all that comes out of his mouth are snakes.
♠ ♠ ♠
[1] Shtate is Irish for someone unattractive or unkempt, but it can also mean someone whose life is in shambles, which is how Hedwig meant it here.

[2] Gombeen is "[t]aken from the Irish word ‘gaimbín’ (meaning ‘monetary interest’) the straight translation of this word is ‘a mean, underhanded, corrupt person’. The meaning has mutated quite a bit these days, now used to refer to a person who’s acting foolishly." Hedwig refers to the Wizengamot as mean, underhanded, corrupt people, but also as fools.

I'm not a fan of this chapter either, I cut out a whole lot of it because it felt so...eugh. You know?

No real Ximena here either! I have a few people saying they miss her and that warms my heart; you'll be seeing her in memories and dreams for a lil bit here. Not to worry, she'll be back soon! We just gotta make Tom suffer for a bit before then.