Serpentine

Cw: Strong self hatred/deprecation as well as casual misogyny. The usual from Wizards.

-

Every morning she is the first girl in her year to rise. She makes sure of it. She draws back the drapes on her bed once she's secure and ready to emerge: a moth from its cocoon. It's behind these drapes that she transforms every morning into something beautiful--Presentable. It's behind these drapes that, every night, she returns to being uninspiring. Let her guard and magic down as her eyes close and she wanders into slumber.

Cold feet into slippers, the patter patter patter of her steps down the stairs and into the bathroom, the barely there light of the morning fluttering in through the high windows. In the mirror, the echos of her father's scolding yesterday stay singed into her delicate skin--Figuratively, of course, father would never harm her like that (dear mama, on the other hand, is another story entirely.)

Nemesis begins to brush her hair: a ritual of vanity. One. Two. Ten. Twenty-three. Fifty-seven. Eighty-nine. One hundred. It's silly, made up, and absolutely unnecessary, but oh how she loves it. When she was a child (more of a child than she is now,) she had an uncle acquire her a lovely book of Muggle stories (courtesy of his, then unknown, Muggle mistress), and her absolute favorite tale spoke of a trapped maiden in a tall tower with long hair as golden as the sun...Nemesis chooses for her hair to be like starlight instead, because stars are so much lovelier than the sun[1]. Sailors find their way with them and lovers preach their love under them. Stars are ancient, people have told stories with them for millenia. It's just the right connotation she wants associated with her.

She wonders how long it took for the maiden to brush her hair...Did she have help from the old crone keeping her hostage? Did that dashing prince, once they were reunited, acquire endless servants to keep his wife's hair shining and healthy?[2]

She hums as she brushes, some of that splendid jazz that Adam was playing in the Great Hall the other week...How wonderfully absurd it all sounded! With instruments she's never even heard of and rhythms her body can't follow. It's so dreamy! It's the kind of sound she imagines plays in fairie courts. Mysterious and playful. Wonderfully foreign. (She would like to acquire a wax cylinder[3] of some...Do Muggles have wax cylinders? Or do they only have that strange disk-shaped object to play music from? They look so flimsy, do they break easily?) Her voice, soft as the light in the girl's bathroom, resounds atop the tile and mirrors and iron pipes. She'd hum a more familiar melody, like a lullaby, but alas, she did not grow up with such a luxury. Mama made sure of that. Nothing but her steady breathing lulled her to sleep every night.

The brush is set atop the sink as she splashes her pale face with cold water (good for the skin, her second eldest sister always told her), and proceeds with the rest of her morning ritual. A beautification of the self. Not a single hair out of place nor speck of dirt on her person. When she looks back into the mirror and sees a face that would make her mama's blood curdle with anger, she smiles and changes into her robes.

As she puts on her contraband jewelry (smuggled to her by her fifth eldest sister), Hedwig joins her in the bathroom, yawning and scratching at her head.

"Good morning, Hedwig."

The girl curses back at Nemesis--At least, she thinks it's a curse, it's mumbled so lowly, "Good fucking where?" Looks like she's in a better mood today. Must be improving on her potions for the competition--Yami's always been a sharp witch, so much that Nemesis has been intimidated by her since her fifth eldest sister first told her about her. If being the youngest of seven was horrible, she can't possibly imagine only having one sister's shadow to sulk under. She's never had the pleasure or misfortune to meet Yama, but just uttering the name around Yami freezes her on the spot. Not even Nemesis' sisters had power over her like that. Not individually.

One-sidedly, she makes small talk with the smaller witch, asking questions about her classes and how she had slept. Another regular part of her morning routine. As she talks, more of their fellow Slytherin girls enter the bathroom. First, the older girls, then the youngest ones, each one in varying states of awake and dress. One by one, they claim a station at a sink or a section of the tub's edge to prepare for their day, chattering amongst themselves about a variety of topics. Their parents' ball this or my engagement that and occasionally I'm going to run away. It's thrilling. Being so open and trusting with other girls like this...Like being a part of a coven, she suspects. Grooming each other, washing each other, consulting one another...It's like home. Like what growing up with six sisters should have felt like all the time: a covenant between witches. As a house, they put up a united front for every snake, but in the privacy of this sacred space, their loyalties are to themselves.

"You're looking chipper, Fawley."

Nemesis nods her head curtly, "It's a beautiful morning, Burke--I have high hopes."

The girl smiles as she weaves ribbons into her hair, "I read the paper," was it delivered already? "you and Riddle looked cozy."

"Oh Burke, don't be a gossiper." Nemesis holds back her blush, "It was hardly a romantic atmosphere...We're very worried about what could happen." And that was the honest truth.

"About Lane?"

"Of course about Lane--She's our housemate."

Burke gives the other a look. A raised brow and a little smirk. A look full of disbelief and condescension, "If you say so."

The blatant distrust from her makes Nemesis wildly uncomfortable. She turns back to the mirror and brushes through her hair again. Rapidly. Why does everyone expect...expect such ugliness out of her? She...she's never proven to be a nasty person like that, right? She's good. She's a good girl. What did she do to come off that way, was it something she said or did or wrote or--

Her arm pulls too hard on the brush and a few strands rip out of her head. Damn.

-

In contrast to the bubbling conversation that happens in the Slytherin girls' bathroom every morning, the low murmur of voices in the common room during the morning is quite tame. No more squawking laughter or eager chitterlings about the latest rumors or which boys the others found attractive--Just sedated smiles and domestic hellos, buried under the socialization of the boys. It never fails to kill her spirit.

When Tom comes up the stairs, she preps herself to say hello to him, but Hedwig beats her to the punch: smacking him square on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, "And just when the fuck were you two munters planning on telling me that baby fucking Rosier testified yesterday?" Oh darnnit, she should have known she'd do something like this (a part of her is glad she was spared of her wrath, but she wishes that Tom hadn't been hit.) She frets--Hedwig is so barbaric sometimes, Nemesis is sure that her mama would drop dead just at the sight of her--and tries to see if Tom's nose is alright as he waves her off, unconcerned and seemingly unamused.

"You never asked."

Hedwig winds up her arm to hit him again and is stopped by Evan's hand--Thank the Gods, "Good morning, all." He smiles through Hedwig's death glare, "Acwellan, haven't we talked about using proper manners towards your housemates?"

As the morning (and Hedwig) erupts, Nemesis reads over Tom's shoulder at the copy of The Prophet that Hedwig had batted him with: right underneath a GRINDELWALD SPOTTED IN ARGENTINA is UNFORGIVABLES IN HOGWARTS: PUREBLOOD OUT FOR BLOOD? Not a very creative title--but the type certainly catches attention.

"Oh dear," Nemesis sighs, "they've certainly made a mess of this, haven't they?"

"I'm sure that's exactly what they wanted."

The paper is given to Nemesis after she offers to read to him (he had been squinting at the article, maybe his eyes hurt?) As he watches the moving photographs that make up the small collage (Ian's face sobbing, Dumbledore testifying, Ximena's statuesque posture, and his and Nemesis' walking away from the courtroom--It's the first and only picture of them together; the memory of his hand on her shoulder reddens her cheeks), she reads lowly, "--This past Thursday, Mister Ian Rosier, a third year at Hogwarts, was thwarted in attempting to cast the Cruciatus curse during a session of the school's weekly Dueling Club--"

"What does it say about Ximena?"

Nemesis scrunches her nose at his sudden, impatient inquiry, "--Miss Ximena Lane, a foundling witch of uncertain pedigree, was accused of injuring Rosier with a blasting curse, after he had attempted to ambush Riddle when he was alone with Miss Nemesis Fawley, seventh child to Erebus Fawley and Aide Fawley (neé Belasko) with a slicing hex." A pause as she skims over the petty details, "Lane appeared humbly before the court alongside her professors and classmates, whom were happy to testify on her behalf...A bright young witch with overflowing respect for Hogwarts and the Ministry...We await eagerly for her verdict on the morning of September 30th, and hope that proper justice be given out to the misguided Rosier and the noble Lane."

"Pathetic."

They turn to Katux, freshly arrived from the second year boys' dorm, Tom raises a brow, "The media or the Wizengamot?"

Katux's smiles in approval, "An excellent question, Riddle." His head nods to Nemesis, "Good to see you're on the path to redemption, Fawley."

She can't help it! She trembles in anger: the smallest of quivers. The proper thing is to swallow it down and address Katux formally-- "Bugger off, Lestrange." Oh.

Evan snorts. Tom, if she's not mistaken, holds in a guffaw of his own. Katux, displeased, excuses himself to breakfast, asking to speak with Tom later. She wishes Tom wouldn't bother with him, he's rotten to his core.

"About time ya start standing up for yourself." Hedwig rests her hands akimbo, "Especially to that minger."

Nemesis turns her head away, avoiding eye contact, "I acted out of turn. I should have kept my composure." Empty words, she's happy she said what she felt, she says it so rarely.

Tom lifts his chin, "He was being a prat. Good on you for telling him so."

Nemesis dares to look back up and oh her sun and stars, he's the most beautiful boy she's ever laid eyes on. She wants nothing more at all than to hide her face into her cupped hands and melt whenever he's near--Just looking at him is too much, it's too much. He might as well be part-gorgon, she stills and turns to stone under his gaze.

"Thank you, Tom." She fears he'll sense her heart fluttering in her chest.

Ah! His smile! "Of course, Nemesis." Being on first name basis now is...some kind of progress. A certain kind of closeness they didn't have before...It took longer for her to reach that than it did for Lane but…

"Ready to face the day?" Best not to linger on those feelings. She worries for him, of course she worries for him: he was raised among Muggles, what does he know of the world that was meant for him? He'll be alright, for sure, but he would be better if she were there to guide him. Introduce him to the right people and whisper their secrets and scandals in his ear. Materials to make armour with. To make weapons with.

"I'd be better set for it if you could accompany me to the Ministry for today." It's so awful and embarrassing how easily he flatters her…As if she had never received a compliment in her life, but oh! When it comes from him, she might as well never have.

"You'll be fine, Tom. I promise." Of course he will be, when is he not fine? Not even a week into his first classes at Hogwarts, and he was already soaring past herself and others who had grown up in this world. He'll be something great, he will. Minister for Magic, perhaps. She can hardly wait to see it happen...Watch him rise to glory and be nearby--

Her throat clears, and she steers her mind back to the present day.

"Of course he'll be fine, he has the face of a two year old, but the bite of a banshee." Hedwig smacks her hand onto his back (she should be more gentle with him, he's still recovering!!) in what she probably thinks is reassurance. Tom's too polite to say anything.

"Thank you, Hedwig." His throat clears, "I'd like some breakfast this time before I leave, would you all accompany me?"

"Of course, Tom." She takes his left hand side and never strays.

-

Despite the onslaught of attention (good and bad) she and Tom receive at breakfast, she finds it is actually one of the more pleasant mornings she has spent at Hogwarts. The area they sit in have only good natured snakes with the occasional Puff, and there's no sign of Katux or his group to try and bring her mood down. For a whole morning she's not just Slytherin's Fawley, she's Nemesis Fawley. She has a name. An identity. One entirely dependent on this incident and (partly) on Ian and Tom, but it is an identity.

When it dies down enough for her to eat in peace, she misses it. Just a little. It's so rare for her to only have to share attention with just one other person. Perhaps it'll repeat when Tom comes back from the second half of the trial? If all goes well, she'll only have to share with two other people: him and Lane. Lane's a proper lady, even if she wasn't raised among the right sort, she won't hog or perhaps even like the attention (Nemesis remembers her senior's sudden rise to popularity last year very well). In fact, Lane might try and wait out the attention completely and leave her and Tom alone to--

A flutter of something on the crown of her head: paper? Her hand reaches to pat her hair and comes back with a sealed envelope. It's too early for mail still--Her eyes dart around for any sign of the deliverer, but the hall is free of owls. Not a peep arises from her friends, it seems they have not noticed either. The red envelope is turned over in her hands twice, the wax seal of her family crest alerting her of the contents even before she dares open it.

It's not a howler. Mama would never be so crass, so open with her sharp fury. Humiliation wouldn't just be on Nemesis, it would be on mama's name as well--Yet when she opens it and reads over the lovely script, she hears her voice screech in her head at such a high pitch, she's sure that all those around the hall slap their hands over their ears regardless. ¿Qué estabas pensando? ¡Niña desobediente! Debería lacrar tu magia y encerrarte en una jaula de hierro. Has avergonzado tu padre en plena corte. ¿Qué dirán la gente cuando ven tu foto en el periódico? Que una vástago de la familia Fawley sea falsa--Una maldita bastarda. Has deshonrado tus padres. Quítate ese disfraz y ponte lista. El mundo tiene sus ojos en ti. [5]

She swallows the ball of nerves that had formed in her mouth. Her hands scramble at the top of the table for something solid to clutch, she almost spills over her drink, turns to her friends to try and apologise and explain. But no one is looking. Not an eye in the hall. Everyone is enjoying their breakfast. Of course they're not looking. It wasn't a howler (even if it had physically yelled at her, her mama would find a way to make it so that it only reached her ears.) They're in a vivid and spirited discussion on the ethics of using dragon heartstring in wandmaking. Her stillness has gone unnoticed. Her panic has gone unnoticed. Thank the Gods.

Seconds pass. She collects herself. Her hot tea is sipped before she joins their conversation, "I believe it's best for the dragons to be raised to harvest their heartstrings as opposed to hunting them out in the wild--"

-

Drat drat drat damn it all, she had wanted to walk with him to Dippet's office to wish him luck but somehow the time got away from her--Tom just kept talking and initiating such interesting conversation, such fascinating questions! Everytime she opened her mouth to offer to escort him, a new topic came up and she can't just say no to him...By the time he had to leave, she was already halfway late for her first class. She offered to miss it but Tom refused to have her receive a tardy detention on his behalf...He's so noble. It's no wonder he--

He'll be fine. He's no fool. He might be a little green, but he's a snake. And honest--He'll tell the Wizengamot what they need to hear about Ian. Without disrupting the delicate balance that those men curate. He's not strong enough yet to usurp them, but she knows one day he can. He can bring justice to the Wizengamot. Bring it because she, herself, cannot. It's perhaps a little pathetic to live through him like this, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him. And it certainly won't hurt her.

She just hopes he'll share everything with her that the papers won't have. Her desired beau is awfully secretive, and while she respects that, she wishes he understood the importance of trustworthy companions...So far, it seems only he and Hedwig are that close, though Evan is certainly catching up...Nemesis won't be left behind, she's sure. She's important. She is. Maybe he's just testing her. Waiting. She can wait. She can wait as long as he likes.

The one thing she wishes she knew more about now, however, is that new hat he had been sporting yesterday. She had asked politely, of course, but the only answer he had given her was 'It was a gift'. Nemesis might not know much about politics, but she knows about dress codes and gift giving etiquette. A hat like that is out of the price range of at least thirty percent of students at Hogwarts, including the highbloods. Using the usual allowance for someone of Nemesis' status would take years to build up to a proper, fitted hat like that. A hat like that, with that material, is difficult to find, and even harder to make. It's lotkabloom[5], a felt made of echinemon fur: the natural enemy of dragons. Echinemons are, of course, native to India, and thus: would be easy pickings for any Englishman to harvest would it not be for the current political turmoil happening (that's another front they have to worry about aside from Grindelwald. At least they're fighting for freedom instead of whatever Grindelwald wants--) The only echinemons in Europe are the ones in captivity (for study only, of course) and the ones smuggled in (used for pelts and dragon hunting). A hat like that, made of lotkabloom, is incredibly difficult to dye. The ingredients needed to successfully color it outprice the cost of the echinemons themselves: sea anemones that take centuries to mature and harvest ink from, feathers from birds that are elusive and rarely seen by human eyes, flowers picked by maidens' hands on harvest moons during leap years, a cauldron that can withstand the ingredients' corrosive properties long enough for them to properly mix. The only purpose of a garment like that is to send a message: I have money. I have power. I have influence.

The prime suspect would be Yami, if it wasn't already wildly obvious that it's not. Nemesis knows little about the cultures to the east, but she knows their traditional witch garments are different. Nemesis knows little about Yami, but she knows that she wouldn't just give out gifts like that without approval of her mother--And what would Yami's mother want with Tom? Besides, it's not her style to gift things like that. The Acaryas are rich, but they're practical--A better gift would have been something that warns a witch when their enemies are nearby. Or a soothing medicine for his head that doesn't make him so tired. Not a hat that costs about the same as a ship. No, that hat is the work of her godmother: Guillermina Rosier. Her tastes can be spotted a mile away, and that hat is all Guillermina Rosier. The woman was the one who caught her mother's shoe at her wedding[6]. Her mother was the matron of honor who joined her and her husband together[7]. Guillermina was the one to give Nemesis her name. To not recognise her own godmother's tastes would be insulting indeed.

The question is, what is she...What are they playing at? Offering Tom a garment like that when his original hat had been destroyed by Ian would be a normal enough thing to do if you came from a family like the Weasleys...But from the Rosiers? Are they offering him a hand? An alliance? Protection? There's hardly a Language of Hats like there is for flowers or fan movements, but it meant something. It meant something for Guillermina's son to gift that hat to Tom.

He won't keep it of course. Not for wearing. In the little time she has interacted with him (why little? She sees him almost everyday), he's shown himself to be a proud boy. She's sure the only reason he wore the hat was to show them...something. He's on their side. Or he trusts them. Does he trust them? Does he trust her?

Her unassuming steps carry her to the stairwell.

A gentle wave in greeting to her passing sisters as she walks. Their friends wave at her too: Baby Fawley, you're so big! Their words don't carry condescension, but somehow it doesn't stop her from feeling very small. Must they refer to her as such? Doesn't she have any other aspect of her personality to turn into a nickname? She straightens her back a little more and raises her chin--Revealing nothing. The way mama had taught her.

It is her sisters that know her the best. Her likes and dreams and secrets. Her shame and regrets and mistakes. Everyone, even their own parents, mistakes them from afar, from behind, from right in front of them. But everyone of her sisters always knew who she was. The littlest one. The baby. The sprout. The final chance. Somehow, being last is the most heinous sin when there's no son coming after you (in a way, she's happy she was the last, it saves her sixth eldest sister the burden of being the disappointment. In another way, she wonders why her eldest sister isn't the prime victim of mama's wrath: she was the first disappointment. It must have something to do with the number seven: it is the most magic number, after all.)

Despite everything, her sisters know nothing of her resentments. They had all looked shocked at her sorting, perhaps rightfully so, but it was of no surprise to Nemesis. Not really. It had simply never made itself known in an obvious way...A hidden, quiet little daisy in a bouquet of orchids and birds of paradise. It was the four minutes under the hat that made it obvious. Loyalty, hard work, and justice are important. But cunning, self-preservation, and drive are what has kept her alive in her family these past twelve years. Her raw ambition is what brought her to Slytherin, she knows it. Feels it in her veins as if it were what was giving her life instead of blood. The want to be the best and brightest. It is not just her name that has boosted her reputation at Hogwarts, it is by her own sheer will that she has carved out a spot for herself in the hearts and minds of her classmates, little by little. Even if she is just a girl--She's bested them all many times(save for, perhaps, Tom, of course) and received high praise of all her professors. Nemesis is an individual. She's a golden girl. She is herself first and foremost. With all her smarts and accomplishments, it's impossible to mistake her for someone else. Impossible to misplace her or brush her aside.

This is proven everyday in every classroom. Top marks, insightful answers, useful questions, and an eagerness to help her classmates radiates from her pores. As if she were a natural source for the element of overachievement.

"Very well done Miss Fawley, you're just as bright as your sisters."

"Fawley, right? I had three of your sisters before you, I expect excellence from you."

"Eri--Oh, Miss Nemesis, I do apologise, I thought you were your sister--"

But it's never enough, is it?

-

It is only when afternoon falls that she allows herself to visibly worry.

Her notes, usually pristeene, are a jumbled mess of scribbles and torn edges. Her hands haven't stopped shaking all day as a matter of fact. She doesn't understand how anyone could relax in her situation...Two of her classmates are in the center of a manticore feeding frenzy back at the Ministry. It should have been over by now. Some kind of news should have broken out--Good or bad. Are they being kept hostage in the building? Mayhaps Ian (the fake one, that is) managed to spin a sweet enough tale to hold the court in a stalemate? Did Lane's long lost rich and influential parents show up to claim and stand by her? Sweet Circe...

Nemesis squeezes more lemon onto her nails to keep from biting...But she doesn't know what to apply to her skin to keep from scratching. Scratching is a filthy habit mama would say. And though mama is thousands upon thousands of kilometers away, somehow she would know that her daughter's nervous tick has returned. Undoubtedly Nemesis will receive another not-howler about it in the morning…

"You are making a mess." The cold tone of Yami does little to quell her nerves, even when she looks up and sees there's no anger in her eyes. It's not her prefect status, or even her senior status, it's just...Her magical signature that sets her on edge.

"Oh--I'm sorry, Acarya." The lemon might bleach the tabletop now that she thinks about it. She takes a handkerchief to dab it up, but the older witch merely makes it disappear with a flick of her wand. Damn, she should have thought of that (she's glad the common room is empty for now.)

"Don't be nervous." That's easy for her to say, what stakes does she have in this game? "Her representative in court is a slithering, conniving, two-faced, manipulative bastard. He knows what he's doing." Indeed. But does Lane? Does Tom?

Nemesis plays with the lemon slice she holds in her hands, avoiding eye contact, "What if she's expelled?"

"Then she will continue her education somewhere else." Well yes, but--

"What if she's punished?"

"Then she will be punished." No pause, no hesitation. Nemesis flinches at her curtness, "But I do not believe that is what the Rosiers want." Yes, because in the end, that's all that matters here: what the Rosiers want.

Nemesis' hands squeeze together, "What do you think they want?" What does Yami know?

"A scapegoat." Oh. "Her actions will help take the heat off of the investigations of our house for a good while...It is easier for others to believe that his actions are his own or that of a family shame than the product of our house's dark history." But they don't...They don't encourage hurtful dark spells, do they? Nobody's ever come up to Nemesis and demanded or taught her any terrible hexes or curses, "I would not hold it past them to sacrifice Ian for the embarrassment he caused."

"That's horrible!" She cannot help but say back, "Ian...Ian is awful, but...But he's their family! Their son! How...how could they--"

She makes the mistake of meeting Yami's eyes. They look disappointed, almost. Sympathetic, maybe. Unsurprised, definitely, "What wouldn't a family do for the greater good?"

The greater good. A cynical part of her wants to laugh. The sensitive part wants to cry. Yes, where had she heard that before.

"...Acarya, would you happen to know where one could get an enchinemon?"

A blink and a narrowing of the eyes at the sudden change of subject, "Is there a reason you're asking me this?"

She smiles through the urge to tear up, "I'm just curious."

-

Nemesis isn't vain, at least she wouldn't define herself as such, but she knows she's fair. When she smiles, boys turn to look at her (at least, sometimes she catches them looking out of the corner of her eye). Girls in her age bracket ask her for beauty advice and compliment her (they wouldn't do that if they didn't think she was pretty, right?) That was before Hogwarts too--When mama dictated that she always look as plain as she could. Before she arrived to this sanctum and was able to indulge in her abilities. Lengthen her hair. Turn it bright blonde. Give herself eyes as gold as the crest on her father's pocket watch. Get rid of the horrid dapple of spots on her cheeks. As long as mama was none the wiser, it was fine, right? She's just expressing herself...Showing how different she is. None of her siblings here would have eyes like hers, hair like hers, skin like hers. She could be special. Finally. In the eyes of others. Not just a part of a set.

When Tom had, on that first month, come to her as a partner in DADA, she thought he'd seen it: what made her special. Unique. Maybe she had charmed him with her laugh or grace or smell of her hair. Perhaps she'd caught his eye from across the Great Hall when their gazes briefly met? No one else in Hogwarts has golden eyes like hers, surely (only the Gods have golden eyes! Her father had said)...Or he could have defied all odds and paid attention to her academic talents. How she's always the first to raise her hand and the first to set goals for herself. And in a tragedy to end all tragedies: it was the later. How could she not grow affection for a lovely boy who pays more attention to her mind than her face? A lovely boy with perfect teeth and dapper manners...With eyes so blue she could drown herself in them[8]. Eyes that she's never caught stealing looks at her. Eyes that she's never seen full of any sort of yearning towards her. Her eldest sister would say she's too young for such thoughts but is it so wrong to want? Perchance to dream? To be preferred over all others and be a favorite. To be considered first and be nobody's second choice...No one's placeholder or consolation prize.

She is, of course, all of those things. At home, anyways--Where her mama continuously tried and tried to bear her father a son. Insisted on it, actually--Dearest father who could not care less, a Fawley daughter is as good as a son (or is it? Does her father also speak about witches the way Ian does when no one is looking?) Her sisters, loving and much loved, have found their own niches to be proud of. For mama to be proud of. Decorum and court manners and bearing children...What does Nemesis have? The steady heart and clever mind of a warlock stuck in a witch's body. A genetic inheritance she's not even allowed to use. A strong public speaking ability swallowed by the expectation of her silence. Only Tom has really appreciated these things, these gifts of hers. The very ingredients that make her Special…

So then why...Why doesn't he look at her? Are his expectations as high as mama's? Is he waiting, scandalously, for her to try and pluck his attention away? Or does...Does Tom think her ugly? Strange and tacky? Is her choice of platinum blonde hair and amber eyes too much? Too gaudy and attention seeking and obnoxious and slag-like...What was she thinking trying out this look, oh! If she dare to change it now, people will know, everyone will notice and comment on it--And should her new appearance turn him away as well, she'd have to change it again and it'll all be ruined it'll all be terrible, if only he would simply tell her what he likes, what he wants her to look like and she can do it--

What is it about Lane? Her age? Her height? Her exotic features? Nemesis could change her appearance to look like her...Curly hair, dark eyes, long limbs, angular face...She touches her own cheek: buttery soft, having never known hardship, scarring, or blemishes. She thinks about Lane's skin: cool and dabbled in freckles. Dry--always dry at the beginning of the year (nuns live without beauty creams, do they not?), and dark. Maybe Tom likes her because she's already looking like a woman. Nemesis still has baby fat on her cheek and no chest to speak of (all six of her sisters had something by twelve! Why not her?) it makes her feel even more of a child than she is. Lane doesn't have a chest or hips either, but she has a certain...presence. An elegance Nemesis has only seen in her mama: quiet like a shadow and strong like iron. Is that why he likes her? She can try and emulate her in that sense...Nemesis can be quiet and helpful towards underclassmen. Reserved without any friends...She can repress herself for...For what? A boy? Even as one as good and wonderful as Tom? Mama would be ashamed. What proper young lady begs for the attention of others? Women are meant to be hidden.

And so: she hides. In the comfort of an empty bathroom located on the third floor corridor, she stands before a mirror and moves from face to face, morphing her nose to look more aquiline and less button like. Her small eyes to look larger and less round. Freckles blossom on her face again (of which has become more androgenous). She makes herself taller, shortens her hair and curls it up, darkening it to the same warm brown as Lane's. She stops short of changing her skin, of course, she's already gone too far: a crude parody of her Slytherin upperclassman bleached and put through the wringer. The imitation a student creates as they study their master's magnum opus. The appearance of the fake Lane in the mirror brings a terrible burning to her throat and a horrid, insipid cracking in her heart.