Serpentine

...there have been claims that the opposite is true: that Lane's verdict is far harsher than the one given to Rosier, considering the circumstances of her heritage. There are those that would say that due to her lack of resources, she will sink in our society's negative view of witches non-affiliated with a family. What the public does seem to agree on, however, is the reasonable doubt surrounding whether Lane truly cast Confrigo on Rosier that night, and that if she had, it was rightfully cast.

The Rosier patriarch did not respond to our request for comment.

In the end, it seems the right decision was made for both the unfortunate Ian Rosier, and Hogwarts school. We hope that, moving forward, the dark arts will forever be banished from Slytherin house and the lives of our children.

What a load of bollocks. The careful neutrality of the writer is sickening. Shouldn't journalism tell truths regardless of the consequences? He expects something like this from Muggle news sources, but not The Prophet...Should have listened to Evan: it really was a garbage paper. The only helpful thing this reporter has done is shine a good light on Slytherin house, which (now that he thinks about it) is probably what the sole point of the article was.

As if the essay wasn't bland enough, the article itself is completely unreadable...Who taught these wizards how to design a proper layout? The paragraphs loop and zig-zag and format themselves sideways--He swears he saw a bit of text disappear just now...What is the point of this? How can anyone read the news when it's like this?

Tom folds the paper and sets it aside, thinking. The second trip to the Ministry wasn't as intimidating as the first, but it certainly was more confusing: Nemesis, having little to nothing to do with Ian's first attack on Tom, was sitting pretty in their DADA class without a care in the world while he alone navigated the halls. There was no secret entrance for him to slip into, he has no connections or permission without her, so he entered the dungeon alongside everyone else--Including nosey reporters and heckling outsiders. It was a ridiculously stark contrast to yesterday, when it felt like the beginning of this trial was hidden away and secret. Something to tuck under the rug.

He had thought this would be two separate trials--And officially, they were, but shouldn't there have been a verdict reached before moving onto Ian's punishment? Before people rose and spoke on his character and nature?

As much of a relief as it was to not have Nemesis constantly brushing against his shoulder, he wondered if it's worth the exhaustion just to have her there to explain things to him...Luckily, he caught on quick and had (in his pocket) a small notebook and pencil with which to take notes of interest. He'll cross examine them with her during their free period together.

The rest of the trial, itself, was a bloody circus, as Slughorn had so kindly put it. No, it was worse, at least circuses were entertaining and allowed the viewers to eat. It was a gathering of baboons. Volatile and loud and passionate about every little thing, every little infraction...His medication did nothing to help with the headache, and it only made him dizzier to take more. Unhelpful piece of--

He rubs at his temple, the side with the slowly fading scars.

"I see whatever the paper holds has you pleased as punch." Hedwig speaks, finishing up a plate of bacon, "Did they get your good side?" Good Lord, he is really not in the mood to deal with her personality today.

"They omitted so much...They really want to pin every wrongdoing done in Slytherin on that idiot." As if he could be so clever. As if it were only he who covered up the incidents and not his parents or family or people indebted to his family.

"I suppose that means we should start behaving." Evan smiles as he cuts his breakfast up, "Ian just gave us all a free pass for the next century."

As if he needed Ian to not get caught doing...Well, he hasn't really done anything yet, but if he were...He wouldn't need a scapegoat. Tom's smart enough to erase evidence of his wrongdoings. It was lesson number two at Wool's.

"I always behave." Katux comments smugly, and Tom wishes he didn't have to make nice with him, "Us Lestranges are known for our discipline."

Two Blacks down the row from them visibly roll their eyes and giggle amongst themselves at Katux's hubris. Tom mentally moves them up a rank in his list of people he tolerates.

"Well if you must be known for something, I suppose discipline is a fine hill to die on." He muses, sipping from his milk. The group of boys around him chuckle at Katux's expense, and to his credit, the boy only looks half as insulted as he would if Tom had made the quip a year ago. Even better: he won't lift a finger to hurt him as he would have only a year ago. He knows better now that Tom's properly educated him.

It surprised Tom, at first, to see Abbas and Topaz so chummy with him--Especially since it was them who introduced him to Ian in the first place; Tom was under the impression that they were all bosom buddies. But rather than look at him with unease or distrust, they coddle up to him even more than before. As if he were the strongest male in the herd now that Ian was gone--Nevermind that the one who ended up vanquishing him was Ximena, technically. He assumes they don't speak so reverently about her due to her gender. Abbas' first words to him solidified his theory, as a matter of fact: 'Was it really Lane who did him in? Or was it you? Giving credit for your best kill hurting a hunt is grounds for wooing, you know--Some could say this is similar.'

Idiot.

The rest of the week unfolds as any other day does, with one main difference. As he predicted: Ximena is not the Slytherin poster child for the 20th century, but she is, suddenly, the sole creditor of Slytherin house, and he, her apparent collector. All Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, snakes tell him to give their best to Lane, as if he knew where she was at all times (he doesn't obviously, he's miffed about that). The only one he doesn't mind is Slytherin's head boy, who checked up on him passing the halls, asking again if he needs anything (Cassiopeia[1] however, has remained cautiously neutral in the wake of all this. He expects it's a common Black trait.) The one that he minds the most is the presence of Eric, whom looms in the common room and looks at him with little more than disdain and pity (he wants to crush her like a bug but also win her grace, it pisses him off--). She talks with her retinue just within his earshot about personally making sure that her former charge was alright and commending her for her service towards Slytherin house. As if she didn't need Tom there as the buffer and she was letting him know it (she doesn't, particularly with Ximena possibly being furious at him, but if she weren't, he would be the first person to speak to in regards to the silent witch--), he was only wasted space. What did he do to personally offend the older Acwellan, anyways?

She thinks you look like a nonce. Hedwig's voice echos in his head. She doesn't trust men.

Shame. That'll be a deterrent in the future.

Of course, thanks to his association with Ximena, her treatment only benefits him as well. Properly bred boys in Slytherin speak to him more often, and the lesser ones look to him with thanks and respect, looking to him for his opinion and decision making. Abbas and Topaz don't prelude his praise with 'he's only a second year but--', and Katux doesn't talk him down. As for the later's friend, Dion seems to have been spreading tales of Tom's intelligence to the other boys. They ask him for his answers on quizzes and essays, and don't dispute him when he answers something contrary to what they've answered. They already know their place: starving dogs feeding out of his hand. His first-year self would be rejoicing. Kicking his heels and skipping down the halls. Of course, as he's older, he knows better, so he does no such thing now. Instead he preens. Fixes up his hair and straightens his robes out. Buffs out his shoes and makes sure his face is extra clean. It'll only be a matter of time before he can afford better clothes, or make them himself with magic.

There is, of course, a second difference, but Tom considers it below his notice: Druella. On any given day, she can be found complaining or looking down upon others, but since the sentencing of Ian, she's been dead silent. Keeping to herself and focusing on her schoolwork. Sitting quietly at the Ravenclaw table and picking at her food. Tom knows better than to believe her grieving; maybe a part of her is truly upset, but he's familiar with the look upon her face: stern, still chin, focused gaze...Calculating. It's the first time she looks like she belongs in Slytherin--Or even Ravenclaw. All this time, she's been coming off as a rowdy Gryffindor, not knowing when to shut her mouth. It looks as if she's gained some perspective now that her unruly cousin (were they cousins? Or siblings? He doesn't remember,) is gone from Hogwarts. He expected for her to jump him with accusations the moment he stepped back into Hogwarts (and only expected worse for Ximena), but instead he was met with contemplative glances. If she were intelligent, Tom would think she was biding her time. Since she isn't, Tom isn't sure what to think, and it bothers him. Druella is many-faulted, but she's impeccably loyal. Would she side with her family and house as a whole or with the boy she was so close with? Would she see the decision of her family to cut him off as betrayal of their values?

(Moreover, does she know the Ian at the trial was a fake?)

It's something to think about. But not important. He has Potions to review for. Hedwig, about to enter the tournament with Yami, is noticeably absent from their usual space in the common room, so he contents himself with Nemesis, whom thankfully has stopped stressing out over every little excursion of his (the injury is feeling much better).

"You missed the beginning of our second lesson on mind altering potions--I have the notes for that and pages of the book for you to read," already read weeks ago, but he lets her continue, "Hedwig's notes are horrendous, I don't think she was paying attention," she probably wasn't, Hedwig doesn't need to, "but I got help from Badi, he's very clever; his mother's a healer, did you know?"

He did not and he does not care. Badi has a good enough head on his shoulders, but he's absurd levels of meek. He might as well be a Muggleborn, "Oh?"

"Yes, it explains why he was so good in our medicinal unit...I had my doubts with him as my partner, but he's a sweet boy."

Tom hums, growing bored with the small talk, "How was Acarya's father?"

"Brilliant." Nemesis sighs, "Hedwig was right: he seems so unassuming at first. So benign and carefree...But when he started brewing, he got such a powerful, focused aura...A master at work." She sifts through her notes, "I wrote down everything he said...It wasn't much, but I thought you'd want to look through it, Tom. I really wish you could have been there."

He glances at the notes, Nemesis' familiar script looping front and back on the pages, "You're so considerate, Nemesis, thank you." He doesn't know when he'll have the time to sort through this mess, but he knows better than to toss out something this potentially useful. Some of the foreign terms he sees can easily be deciphered with the help of said man's daughter...He hasn't spoken to her since she saw him in the hospital wing. Undoubtedly she'll have something colorful to say about the verdicts and offer some sort of insight not previously given by any other student...He'd call it a foreign outlook, but he's not sure how long Acarya's been living in Britain--If he goes off her accent, he'd have to guess at least three years, but then again, even if she had been living here for seven or eight years, she'd probably still be considered a foreigner.

He suspects it's a bigger insult to her to be considered a native.

"Ah, darn, I have to get going," Nemesis frowns at the grandfather clock's chimes, "My herbology partner's as punctual, and twice as nervous about this project as I am."

"Cherish them," Tom advises, "too many people are loose about their time now and days."

Nemesis smiles at him, taking his words to heart, before taking her leave, passing by a smattering of students entering the common room--Ah, there's Ximena. Excellent timing. She's probably returning from a late breakfast or a special Saturday class (which would mean she has an extracurricular outside of her regular electives--something to note later).

He says her name once. Twice. Nothing. He would previously excuse her lack of attention for the amount of chattering in the common room, but he knows better.

"Ximena."

She stops walking, "Yes?" Somehow it's the rudest Yes? he's ever gotten.

"Can I speak with you? Privately?"

"I have a lot of work to get caught up on upstairs."

His lips press together in impatience. Very well then. If she doesn't want to be alone with him, then he'll do it in front of everyone. That should send a message, right?

His hand reaches in his pocket to bring out the bracelet, and it's the heaviest he's ever felt it be. Vibrating and pulsing and whispering...He doesn't understand how no one else in the common room can hear it. The energy only amplifies as it leaves his pocket and he opens his hand out to her. Offering it up. There's a deep, sudden inhale from Ximena as her eyes lay upon the bracelet again, as if she had forgotten what it looked like, or truly believed it gone forever. When she doesn't take it from his hand, he lays it out on the table between them. He doesn't notice the entire room still. Nor does he notice the gasps and murmurs as Ximena finally takes her bracelet back and puts it on her wrist, face humorless and eyes sticking to her lost possession. Tom's not sure if he's grateful or upset that she won't look at him. He wonders if she notices the spot he fixed from when it was torn from her wrist. He wonders if it feels any different, having been with him this past year, laced with his own magic.

Her tone is devoid of feeling, "Thank you." A sharp turn around as she walks away to the girl's dormitories--Followed quickly by a good armful of girls, some in her year, some not, whispering excitedly about God knows what, trying to catch up with her--

"Tom," ugh, "what did you do?" His ex-mentor's hand finds its way to his back in cautious support. His tone of voice is strange, he can't diagnose it.

Tom blinks, finally registering the dozens of snake eyes on him, "Excuse me?" It's none of his business what he did, that is between himself and his housemate.

"You gave Lane jewelry. Publically." Why is he talking like that? What is he going on about? "And she accepted it."

He opens his mouth to ask what he means, but is interrupted by good-hearted chuckles and jeers by the other boys in the room--And that's when he notices that there are only boys in the room.

Evan clears his throat "I didn't know you and Lane had an understanding." A what.

Tom tilts his head, losing his patience, "An understanding?"

Katux's smile has never been slimier, "They don't teach you that at that Muggle orphanage of yours?"

If there's one fucking thing Tom hates is not knowing something that everyone around him already knows. For once, he wishes his housemates had the bluntness of Gryffindors, "Muggle social customs are quite primitive compared to those of our kind, as I'm sure you can imagine." He stands up, oddly discomforted with the attention of those around him, "If you excuse me, gentlemen, I have homework to catch up on." He pretends to be playing dumb...It's not hard, he's known for his private personality. He can probably ask about it later when Hedwig returns from her Potions meetup. Fucking highbloods and their strange practices. What did he do, offer to name his firstborn after her? A laugh.

.

Of course, only a few hours later, it feels like all of Slytherin house knows that he's returned Ximena's bracelet. Complete strangers ask him about it, as a matter of fact: what it looked like, what sort of metal or gem was it made with, how expensive it was--Everything is about money with these people. Or if it's not money, it's blood. Pathetic. They should mind their business. He's sure telling people the context (the altered story, of course) would change their outlook on whatever it was that he supposedly did. Elites always had rules like that, it was in every book he's ever read on the subject (fictional and non-fictional).

He still has the leftover sickles from his ex-mentor, alongside a few spare coins he’s found around the castle: in between cushions and under beds and taken from unsuspecting pockets (if the money was so valuable to them, they would have taken better care of it). He wouldn’t spend it on anyone other than himself unless his life depended on it. How foolish to think that he’d waste it away on something like jewelry--On a gift for another person. It’s enough to make him ‘hmph’ to himself in the middle of his walk (a few students look at him in bemusement, but otherwise leave him be.) If he were to gift Ximena anything like that, and he wouldn't (he'd sooner choose a book), it would be something sleeker. Smooth polished stone in the cut of a diamond prism--Maybe a ring. Something that's understated and very clearly chosen by him--Rings are powerful. Bracelets sort of give off an aire of fragility and wishy-washy-ness, if he does say so himself. They clang and make noises if they're shaken like rattlers, and are too often gaudy and tacky. A ring is simple. Appreciated only by those with finer tastes.

But he's not buying her a ring. Maybe he'll get himself one. Something nice to wear on his pointer finger. Once he has a growing amount of money in a vault at Gringott's, he'll be able to afford frivolities like that. Until then, he'll focus on saving money for food and clothes for when he has to return to Wool's.

He steps into the Great Hall for lunch.He'd rather sit alone but the only way for him to achieve that is to wander to the Gyffindors' table and he's already made accidental eye contact with Nemesis, who looks a little too eager to talk to him. This wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary were it not for the series of events that happened between himself and Ximena. What will she tell him? The truth or something else?

Reluctantly, he sits beside her.

"Good afternoon, Tom."

"Good afternoon, Nemesis."

"..How are you?"

"I'm splendid, thank you." He spares a smile at her before returning to his book and waiting for her to gain enough courage to ask him what she really wanted to know.

"I heard what you gave Lane earlier." That was quick.

"Hm?"

"The gift you gave her."

He looks up from his book, looking nonchalant, "I was simply giving her her bracelet back; she lost it earlier last year. Everyone lost their heads over it, I didn't really understand what was going on."

Nemesis, the fool, looks relieved, then concerned, "Tom..." She pauses, trying to formulate the right words, "In normal circumstances, a warlock of good breeding would give a witch of similar good breeding an item of jewelry to show his interest in marrying her…If the witch accepted, she'd publically wear the piece to show his claim." Nemesis clears her throat, "You asked Lane for permission to woo her. And she accepted."

Ten solid seconds of silence, and he can't help it: he laughs. Cackles, really--Partly in confusion, partly in genuine glee. He did what? Purebloods did what? Ximena did what?

Nemesis coughs, clearly uncomfortable with his laughter (it's gathering curious looks from students around them), "Tom--This isn't really a laughing matter--"

"Isn't it?" Why can't she see how stupid and old fashioned these customs are...He remembers reading old kings and ranks of nobility practicing similar, why didn't he connect the dots before? Because it's just so stupid! "I'm a child--we both are--What sort of custom would bind two children like that?"

She stiffens, "It may seem foreign to you, but it's a strong and beloved tradition, Tom." Oh has he offended her? Hilarious. Has she dreamt about what kind of trinket she'd one day receive and accept? In her head, was it from him? A boy who grew up speaking that gutter accent that she disdains and whom barely has any money to spend on himself? How stupid.

His laughter slowly, finally, calms down, "Neither of us have any titles." That they know of, "No land. No riches. No property." We're the furthest from being highblooded like you. "Why would it apply to us?"

A sigh, "You did it in a room full of Slytherins, Tom." So he did. And Slytherins are one, no? Brothers. Taking care of their own.

Very well. If that is what people think, then let them think it--It can't be any more annoying than people thinking he has a crush (at least now it won't be a hopeless one), and it can be used as an excuse to talk to Ximena. Clear up the air--Laugh about the misunderstanding of silly pureblood customs...Have people shove off and leave her alone, finally. At least, the boys, lest they offend him. Shooing away crowding girls will be another challenge for another day.

Wooing. How stupid. He's been over this before: a boy of twelve has no business going on about that. Moreover, the way wizards look at marriage would definitely wither away any potential that Ximena holds. Why would he want to be the cause of that when he can reap the benefits instead? Absolute tomfoolery.

"What's so special about jewelry? Nobody said much when I gifted her taffies for her birthday."

"Candies are an appropriate gift for your friends...But not your betrothed." Oh, so they've moved onto betrothed now? Should he hunt down Ximena's long lost (possibly dead) father to ask permission? His laughter almost starts up again, "It's why I thought...when you asked me to help you with her birthday gift, that..." That what? That you still had a chance? That they were for you? That sends him again, the thought of having feelings for a girl, of all things. For Nemesis, of all girls.

"I don't think it's very funny!" Well of course she doesn't, this is something normal in her eyes. Expected. The complete opposite of ridiculous.

"I'm sorry, truly I am," he feigns to wipe a tear from his eye, "It's just so...foreign to me...A simple act of kindness be taken as something so much more serious...Are the girls giving Ximena the same sorts of talks, do you think?"

She purses her lips, "That's how I found out." Ah, that must have been hysterical, "A few girls who witnessed your pseudo proposition were speaking to her about it in the bathroom this afternoon."

"Is that so?" What did she say? Think? Respond?

"They were excited for her. Talked about whether she had a dowry prepared or not. If she was going with a traditional wedding and engagement party, if the two of you were going to wait until you graduate or until you were both sixteen."

He snorts, "They didn't have anything else better to do?"

Nemesis looks insulted again, "It's a very important step in a young witch's life! They were just trying to help!" Eavesdrop and be nosy gossiping ninnies more like. "You should have seen poor Lane's face, she looked so confused." Yes...he should have seen her face. He would have liked that. If only he could pluck the memory from Nemesis's head to watch it.

"And I suppose you were the one who broke the news to her?" He's sure nothing else would have given the girl more delight than to try and tell Ximena that no he probably did not intend to ask to court her.

"Actually it was Hedwig." Oh he really wishes he could have seen that. "Starting going off about your foolishness and ignorance, actually...You know how her...vocabulary is." Does he ever, "Told Lane not to waste her time with you and wait out for a bigger fish." Gee, thanks Hedwig, "But not to look towards Miller, as he wasn't the good sort." That's better.

"Good to know I can count on my friends to straighten things out." More or less.

"You should say something Tom...Everyone thinks you two have an agreement."

He shrugs, "Let them think, what does it hurt?"

"It could get out--You two are fresh celebrities, your photographs were in the paper!" Unlikely, but the thought is as riotous[2] as the thought of marrying Ximena, "This sort of thing has serious consequences."

"Nemesis...Have you ever thought about, perhaps, going against the current?"

She tilts her head to the side, bemused by the sudden change of topic, "I'm sorry?"

"Traditions are well and good but...Some of them have no use in today's society, don't you think?" He mirrors her head tilt mockingly, "If someone had fought back about this sort of thing centuries ago, we wouldn't have to be worrying about it today."

Her spirit shrinks, "Well...Yes, but--"

"Think about it." He turns back to his book, showing the conversation is over.

The hours following Nemesis' explanation are clearer thanks to his newfound insight: it's a lot easier to play dumb when you're actually playing, to say the least. His smile is more confident when he asks harassing girls 'what on earth are you talking about?' on the subject of his supposed proposal. Somehow his cheekiness only endears them to him more--Ridiculous. As if rudeness could be attractive. They really don't have anything better to do, do they? What pathetic vermin. He wonders what Ximena is telling them to ward them off--Probably just hiding, really. If she can, with all this absurd publicity. The times where she evaded his watch and that of her fans return to his memory, and he wonders if she's only gotten better at escaping the attention. Must be. Considering he hasn't seen heads or tails of her since the exchange. Perhaps she's changed her usual routes to avoid him specifically? Hm. Unpleasant. But he understands: if they were seen together, it would only spur the rumors on, even if they are silly. Even if he doesn't care. The best way to dispel false ideas is to carry on until they disappear. That's what his favorite radio stars did growing up, and it's worked wonders for them.

He ignores the minute part of him that wouldn't mind for the rumors to continue, and even spread. All publicity is good publicity, right? Especially if people think he's following the customs of the gentry; it would help kill off the unpopular but still existing rumors that he's Muggleborn (and when he finds who's perpetuating these rumors, he'll have a fine time punishing them).

Katux claims that this little proposal is a logical way to pay back the life debt he owes Ximena (did she save his life? He doesn't want to think about that possibility--That in another life, another time, he could have died then and there), considering she would be marrying up. Dion, the hidden scoundrel that he is, suggested that a better idea would be to court her as a consort rather than a potential wife. It takes everything in Tom to keep from screaming he is a child. They are both children. It takes more to keep from thinking about what an excellent idea it is: consorts don't waste away potential at the side of men raising babes and throwing little tea parties. Did highbloods have a proper, traditional method for seeking such women? It wouldn't surprise him if they did, but it all seems so long-winded. If he were in charge of the world, and someday he will be, he'd have social customs be much more logical. If someone wanted to begin courting someone, they would simply ask directly like a normal person. No tip toeing around it.

He'd also have it so the purpose of a consort was more akin to a counselor or advisor. None of that other foolishness.

But until then, he'll lead by example. Be the shepard for his little flock of snakes--The poor misguided fools that they are.

Of the few good outcomes from this spectacle is students from various houses butting their nose into it. Not their complete invasion of his privacy, obviously, but their flocking to him--Their easy invitation for him to befriend those in other houses. He needs to do more work on that front, after all: he must continue to back up the claim that he was uniting the houses. It shouldn't be just hot air.

So he takes a risk: he sits among Puffs.

The difference is immediate. Instead of reserved, careful facial expressions and weighed greetings, he's met with curious and honest smiles. Figures. In all of her history, he's sure Hogwarts has never known an unfriendly Puff. Better for him, it makes his job easier.

He sits himself alongside Elle, who was in the middle of a minor debate with Goldstein over something called Practical Kabbalah[3]. Upon seeing him sit, she doesn't hesitate to introduce him to the others at the table: Goldstein, Abbott, two of Nemesis' sisters, and Crouch (four purebloods and a half-blood. Not bad.) At once, they take to him, and invite him into their conversation, as if they had been friends all their lives. It stuns him because he knows they have no ulterior motives other than to make him feel welcome. Hufflepuffs are truly strange creatures.

"The law of Kabbalah was created to protect Jewish witches!" Elle insists, no malice in her voice, as she butters her roll, "If it could be promised that they only use pure, white magic that harmed no one, then they wouldn't be persecuted."

"I'm not disagreeing with you, Elle, I'm just saying:" Goldstein replies, looking tired, "it also had the added benefit of ostracising the folk religion of Israel at the time!"

"They always do this." Abbott explains to Tom with a sigh, "You should see them in class, they talk more than the professor."

To be honest, the talk is rather interesting. He's never seen Elle so animated and confident in her speech, at least, outside of food. Her spirit rises with religion? He can work with that, "If they can't keep control over their class, then maybe they deserve it."

"Cutthroat." Abbott smiles, impressed, "Wouldn't expect any less from a snake."

"Little Nem is the same," says one of Nemesis' sisters--The one born fourth in line, "always giving cheek, we're always worried she's going to get scolded!"

"Nem?" Crouch prompts, looking doubtful, "She's the sweetest--"

"In front of company, yes." The sixth-eldest sister states, nodding her head, "But talk to her someday: Nem has all the right traits of the serpent." A gesture to him, "Ask Riddle if you don't believe me."

He handles the attention with grace, "Nemesis is kind, of course, as anyone would be being raised in such a lovely family," the older girls coo at him, "...But yes, she does have a certain bite to her." Not that she knows how to use it. Like giving a mace to a rabbit.

The fourth-eldest sister jumps up excitedly, "Nem once bit my finger, you know! She was seven months old, and I was holding her for a portrait, and she bit me!"

The table laughs, even Goldstein and Elle. Tom spares a forced chuckle, moving a meatball from one side of his plate to the other, strategizing.

It takes a few minutes, but he manages to turn the conversation from familial anecdotes to job prospects after Hogwarts to political happenings to the trial.

"Our family is grateful to you, Riddle." The sixth-eldest sister says to him, hand outstretched on the table, "Rest assured, father and mama won't forget this anytime soon." The fourth-eldest sister nods in agreement.

All this for what? Remaining friendly towards Nemesis when the world was busy publically ostracising Hector Fawley? All this for being close enough to Nemesis for Ximena's protego to shield her as well? He didn't accidently partake in another stupid pureblooded custom, did he?

He inclines his head, "You're very kind. Thank you." He finally cuts the meatball on his plate in half, "But really, you should be thanking Ximena."

"We did!" His knife scrapes against the plate, "All six of us--Father and mama sent her a personal letter." He swallows, "She's so humble, she refused our praise but accepted our thanks--Those nuns must know something about raising children, I suppose." he coughs.

"Ximena has never liked attention." That feels like a safe thing to say.

"Speaking of," the sixth-eldest sister's tone doesn't please him at all, "I heard about your gift to her."

"Ooohh, yes!" The fourth-eldest sister claps her hands in excitement, "Are you two promised now? I know you two don't have parents, but I would think that makes the process a little easier: there's no need for their approval, after all."

Nosy ninnies.

"You two are sharks." Crouch shakes his head, "Leave rumors lie."

"Leave our guest of honor lie!" Abbott agrees, patting Tom's back.

"It's harmless." Sixth-eldest defends, "We're not trying to weasel our children into marrying theirs like your cousin was at Cassiopeia's engagement banquet."

They bicker on for a while, Abbott giving his commentary every once in a while. Elle and Goldstein sigh, here they go again, they murmur. It's almost enough to make Tom snort in amusement. The purebloods argue over frivolities, and the less than pure argue over substance...It's the same in Hufflepuff, then.

After Abbott manages to hook Goldstein onto the conversation through his magical parentage, he stops observing and begins to chat with Elle over that Mysticism class. An elective, as it turns out, for the more religious students. Tom, who had previously believed Wizards smart enough not to have Gods, finds himself both disappointed and intrigued. Moreso when Elle, who doesn't judge his questions nor speaks down to him like Nemesis or Hedwig, explains how differently Gods are treated in this world than the Muggle one[4]. She herself, obviously being religious, doesn't discount the existence or idea of Gods outside of Yahweh. Yes, he thinks to himself, she'll make a fine Puff.

"Have you talked to Lane yet?"

"Yes." He lies, "She's elusive, but around."

"I haven't been able to introduce myself--I wanted to wish her well, I'm sure the Ministry experience was very stressful."

He seizes his opportunity, "I could introduce you now if you'd like." It would be spectacular to be away from the bickering purebloods, anyways.

Elle straightens up her posture further, if it's even possible, "Can--Right now? Right at this second?" She fusses with her hair, which is perfectly neat anyways, "I look...I'm not very presentable." Hm. She cares about appearances? How silly. Must be the company she keeps that influences that. "I mean--My nails, they're filthy!" Her hands are held in front of her as she inspects her clean cut nails.

"Your eyesight must be remarkable, because I cannot see a single speck of dirt."

She flushes, embarrassed, "Sorry, I just...First impressions are everything, aren't they?"

Tom thinks for a moment, "Yes, they are."

A minute later, he is leading Elle towards the far end of the Slytherin table where Ximena sits among a group of girls in her year--Some of which he recognises from when he gave back her bracelet. He wonders briefly what they talked to her about up in the dormitory (were they as vague and unhelpful as the boys? Did they explain things to her?), and then questions why she's sitting amongst them...Ximena shouldn't be desperately trying to make friends again, she has her bracelet back what need does she have of them? Did they trap her into sitting with them? They're not talking to her, nor are they seemingly talking about courting customs and the like…

He sets the questions on a backburner.

"Ximena." Tom states, ignoring the lingering looks from the girls sitting around her.

Silence. She turns a page in her book, ignoring him again. The way she was when he gave her the package of salt water taffies. There's no way she can't see him out of her periphery.

He clears his throat, hoping to not be embarrassed. Behind him, he can feel Elle's magic swirling...Air like, perhaps. She doesn't hide it like Ximena does.

Perhaps she can feel it too, she finally deins to cast him a glance, "Yes?"

His shoulders set back, cutting to the chase, lest she cut him off and ignore him again, "Hello Ximena, it's good to see you back: I wanted to introduce you to somebody," he steps aside, not that she needed help in viewing Elle (the girl isn't tall, but he is still, upsettingly, short.)

"Elle Kowalska." She offers a small curtsey, "I sent you some Gołąbki while you were, um--Out of school." She did what?

"Yes, I received your package. Thank you. They were delicious." Ximena's smile is tight. A balancing rope under enormous pressure, ready to snap at any moment. If Elle can sense it, she doesn't say anything.

"Oh thank goodness," the older girl sighs with relief, resting her palm against her chest, "I was afraid you had some dietary rules--I know some nuns are vegetarian."

"Not at all--Would you like to sit down?" It doesn't escape Tom's notice at all that the phrase is directly solely at Elle and not extended to himself, he is not imagining it. He squeezes in beside the Hufflepuff regardless. He's small, he can fit.

"If it's not a bother," The girl is a bundle of nerves, one would think she was meeting her idol, "I wanted to ask you: what are you eating?"

His perspective Puff had sent Ximena something, then? Without asking him what she would like? If she had any allergies or dietary rules? Nevermind that he wouldn't know the answer to the later two, but it annoys him to be excluded so blatantly. If he didn't know better (and he does), he'd think the two already forgot he was here.

Nails rap against the tabletop as they go on about different herbs and spices. Rubs and roux and ragout. Since when had Ximena been so interested in cooking, of all things? Baking, maybe was a passing interest, he remembers, but to this level? It's almost like she's bothering him on purpose. Look how much me and this stranger have in common! Look how much we're talking and getting along without you! Look how much you don't know about me! You know nothing, Tom Riddle! It makes him want to...not throw a tantrum because he is not a baby, but…

They really are getting along swimmingly. Better than expected. It's not that he wanted them to fight or anything silly like that, it's easier and more beneficial for him if they get along, but they look so cozy. Intimate. Like siblings. In the span of only a few minutes, Elle has appeared to surpass him in friendship. Ridiculous! Absurd!

"--would you really?"

"Of course! I'd love to--Have you been to the kitchens yet?"

"I didn't know they were accessible to students."

"Oh they absolutely are, it's actually how I met Tom, he found the kitchens when I was baking."

"Mm." She hums, "And the house elves...They're okay with it?"

Elle grows tense, he can tell by her body language. By her magical signature, "They have to be," her voice has lost its enthusiasm, "you...I'm sure you know..."

Another low hum, resigned, disappointed, and unsurprised, "I'd be happy to keep you all company, then."

"That's great! What are your free periods? Or would you prefer Sundays? Lunches?"

If he's not mistaken, Ximena's eyes go to him for a split second, "Let me think about it. I'll get back to you when I can." Damn. "Through Mali--You know Mali, right?"

"Not personally, no, but she's, ah, well known." To say the least, I'm sure. Tom smells a story there and notes to ask Elle about it later, "--She's your Puff, right?"

A nod, "Mali is very intense, but she's a good soul, I promise." What a curious thing to say, a good soul. As opposed to a good person? A good witch?

"Oh she seems very nice, I just haven't talked to her much." Elle clears her throat, "She's in my Mysticism class, though. She's very smart. Everyone says she should have been a Ravenclaw."

Ximena snorts, and Elle takes it as permission to giggle along, "As if only intelligent people belong only in Ravenclaw."

"It is a bit silly, isn't it?" Elle sighs, "It's a good thing that things are changing, isn't it?"

She contemplates, "Yes. It is."

After their conversation, he takes to the kitchens at random intervals--in hopes, he begrudgingly admits, of catching Ximena with Elle, or Ximena alone--But preferably with Elle. She's an excellent buffer. In the short time they've been talking, she's proven herself to be worthy of Ximena's company. Namely, in allowing him to be nearby without her storming off. It doesn't help with her act of pretending he doesn't exist (which he's half afraid isn't an act), but one step at a time. One step at a time. He's long gotten over the irritation at knowing that it wasn't him who introduced Ximena to the kitchens, but at least it wasn't his buffoon of an ex-mentor or Adam. Still, having the credit for it would have been a good point in his favor.

Unfortunately, tonight, he doesn't catch Ximena at all, but Elle. Just Elle. Sitting in front of a tall window, bathed in moonlight. Not a total loss, he's still in the midst of courting (haha) her friendship, and any added time with her only helps his cause...But the problem is that she's sniffling. She's either sick or crying, and Tom's not sure which one is worse.

"Kowalska?"

She stiffens, he thinks he hears a 'shoot' come out of her mouth as she quickly wipes at her eyes...Where are the house elves? Wouldn't they be tripping over themselves trying to console her? Or are they all elsewhere? Asleep? Cleaning? Did she order them away?

"Tom--I thought I told you to call me Elle." A half-hearted chuckle, her shoulders scrunch upwards towards her ears as her hands lay folded in her lap, "You're here late--Not causing trouble, I hope?"

He's unsure of whether to beat around the bush or address it directly, "I was hungry."

"Mm." She nods once, "The house elves are at a meeting right now, planning for the Hallowe'en feast--So it's just me." A sniff, "You're free to help yourself to some of the cookies I made, though." A gesture towards a tray of star shaped goodies. He takes one and pockets two.

"Thank you," he takes a stool and sits beside her, looking out the window at the absurdly large moon, "I always look forward to your baking."

"You're so sweet." She laughs it off, still desperately trying to hide the fact that she was crying, "It's nothing compared to my...my grandmother's, though. I have a long way to go."

Tom hums, strategizing his next words, "...I'd like to meet her one day, then."

"Ah." She pauses, "Perhaps. That would be good. If you could. If she..." Bingo. He has her. Just one more push…

"If she…?"

"..." Ten seconds of silence...and then: "Germany and the Soviet Union," she begins, shoulders back and taking a deep breath, "they've agreed to partition my home country. Where my grandmother is."

Ah. Yes, people usually care about their homelands. About the loved ones living in said homeland. He can't relate. But he can relate to others trying to take control of what he has.

"Chamberlain is a sodding coward." The only way he knows how to comfort is to demean others.

Elle hacks out a half-laugh, half-sob, "He did nothing...No one did anything...Because they were afraid of this very thing."

A fear of war is a great thing. Fear alone is a great and terrible thing. He nods along, "They'll replace him soon, I expect."

"Unlikely...I think they'll keep him as long as they can. He'll flee when he faces another embarrassment." Her kind voice, filled with spite, is unnatural. But quite lovely. "Fucker." Against his will, his eyes go wide at her sudden cursing. She half-laughs, half-sobs again, "Sorry. I shouldn't use such language in front of a second year." A sniff as she dabs her eyes with her tissue, "But I can be quite nasty too when push comes to shove." An exhale, "And I am very tired of being shoved."

Tom nods again. Hufflepuffs are still badgers, after all. Still predators. Capable of killing lions, snakes, and surely falcons. "You're a fighter." He tells her, picking his words carefully, "I can tell. You all are."

She looks at him, eyes measuring him up...You all are… Elle doesn't ask who he means by that. She already knows the answer.

"Quite right." Her shoulders set back, back straightening up, "You're absolutely right."

Of course he's right. He's always right.

In a matter of minutes, just over an hour, actually, he has pocketed Elle as his official Puff. He figures it must be a record of some sort and wonders if there's anyway to find out or document it for the books. All this without even trying, it's truly as if he had planned everything ahead of time. Life or God or whatever is on his side (and even if they weren't, he'd still get his way).

As a result, he's integrating himself more with the house of badgers and is finding them amusingly simple. Fiercely loyal (an admirable trait when it is towards him) and just, but without complications. Yes, like Slytherin, they have their own house rules and conflicts and dynamics...They're communal. An all for one and one for all mentality that rivals the tightly knit web of their serpentine comrades. While Slytherins stick together out of necessity--be it aligned interests, intentions, origins, or otherwise--Hufflepuffs stick together out of duty. Because it is the right thing to do. It's fascinating. As if these people had taken every fable told to them by a parent to heart. Any other time, he'd see them as weak, but now he knows better: they're useful.

As if he needed any more evidence that people in his house are looking to him as a leader, his journey to the badger table brings followers: more snakes sit with their Puff for the entirely of a meal, and not just for a few short moments to chat or exchange notes. When sitting amongst Diggorys and Abbotts, one can find themselves near Parkinsons and Flints as well--the Slytherin Flints, anyways, they're a family that's been known to put out falcons alongside snakes.

This is good. All according to plan.

Except the part where Ximena is sitting at the lions' table.

It's no great secret that there's an intense and passionate rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin--Drawing from the good-natured, friendly competitions held by the two founders themselves. And perhaps in those first few years, it was truly just that: house spirit and harmless little contests of skill, strength, intelligence and so on...But little of that remains in this day and age. To the lions, they're a bunch of conniving, selfish elitists with ulterior motives, and likewise, to the snakes they are a hoard of brash, idiotic primates with sand in their heads. They stand for opposite things, opposite values. The colors in their coat of arms stand on opposite sides of the color wheel, and the metals are two completely different elements with different purposes.

The news of Ximena sitting amongst the courageous ones would have been bigger, more embarrassing, were it not for the other cunning student joining her tirade: Lucretia Black.

Having Ximena Lane, new defender of Slytherin underclassmen and living evidence of the good within the house, sit with the Gryffindors is nothing compared to having Lucretia Black, scion of an ancient and noble house that's had its members sorted into Slytherin since the founding of the school, sit with the Gryffindors. It's a risky move in itself, Tom assumes she moved when Ximena did to try and distract attention away from her own decision, but it's a calculated one. Blacks do not follow trends, it would have been shameful for her to follow along other snakes rather than for her to lead them (if they choose to follow, and he believes they will). That's not to say that Lucretia looks 100% confident in herself, he can smell the anxiety radiating off of her from meters away. God knows why, the girl is only sitting with purebloods like she was back at the Slytherin table--It's Ximena who's sitting with the half-bloods and Muggleborns, but he expects that the action only lightens up her good girl image and benefits their house more. Damn.

He asks Lucretia's brother, a first year by the same of Orion, what he thinks of it and he shrugs, almost afraid of how Tom would react to his reply, "I--Lucretia is aware of what mother thinks of such mingling..." He's so shy for a Black, is it because he's young? "Um, but mother knows that such actions will only help the cause." The cause. The facade everyone has about Slytherin being chummy and wholesome?

Cygnus more or less says the same thing as Orion with the same level of cynicism that Tom held for the answer, "This is all a fucking mess, is what it is, Riddle." He glowers at the other end of the hall where Lucretia was laughing alongside Ignacius and a Weasley, "If Ian hadn't--If he had just listened to me." He clenches his fist and slams it sharply against the tabletop, "Interloping with Gryffindors of all things...Because people are afraid of us. Our potential. Their precious little wizards and witches being hurt by our dark power...What a load of codswallop." He proceeds to violently cut the steak on his plate, "And of course I have to do the same because fucking Lane and Lucretia are doing it."

Tom blinks--Lucretia, he can understand, the Blacks are devoted to family loyalty, but Lane?

"Don't look at me like that," Cygnus somehow always ends up offended in their conversations, "Lane might be a potential mudblood, but she's Slytherin's potential mudblood." He chews his food and swallows, " 'Sides, did you see what she did to Ian? No mudblood has a Confrigo like that. I'll eat my hat if I find one."

He'll hold him to that, "I heard that those kind can't possibly be sorted into Slytherin."

Cygnus snorts, "I know exactly who told you that, stupid pillock--I don't understand why they allowed him to be a mentor for first years, all he does is--" He cuts himself off, making sure to cool down. To not let his anger get out of hand, "--There's no evidence for a mudblood being in Slytherin, but would you expect to find proof if there was one?" A fair enough point, "The hat knows what it's doing...Sorting based on what's going on in here," a tap on his forehead, "it can't detect blood...Salazar himself took in half-bloods turing his time here--Provided, of course, that they renounce their Muggle side and all." That kind of talk...It's familiar, who spoke of it to him before? "And the hat thinks like him, right? Alongside the other founders, so it rests his judgement on everyone."

"Did Salazar believe a witch born from two Muggles incapable of being loyal to the magical world?"

Cygnus shrugs, "There was no way of knowing for sure; it's not very ethical to perform legilimency on children, is it?" Legi-what. "Even if they are filthy mudbloods--The other founders would have laid eggs in rage. Of course, it's acceptable when a hat does it--"

The hat, the Sorting Hat. It does legiti-somethings on you. Reads through your mind, your personality--So quick, it barely touched his head before announcing his house.

Tom presses his lips together, deciding to interrupt, "Wasn't Ximena a hatstall?"

He's peeved, but the question distracts him enough, "--That's right. Doesn't she have a lost memory, though? Could have taken so long because it was trying to navigate her broken head."

Navigate her head. If the hat could do it, could he? "It ended up putting her in Slytherin, though."

A pause. A nod. "Her priorities are in the proper place. She's one of us. Whether a lost noble or nameless filth. And Lucretia is of my blood, so I must support both." Cygnus' voice sounds distant. As if he were reciting something told to him at a young age. Tom drums his fingers on the table and hums his agreement.

More and more, he understands why Hufflepuffs and Slytherins are so quick to get along.

.

Perhaps he should have waited to return the bracelet. It could have served as an excellent bargaining tool for him to prompt Ximena into listening to what he has to say (in private, of course), and he wouldn't be dealing with concerned looks from his in-the-know professors. Particularly Dumbledore. Especially Dumbledore. Fuck Dumbledore. It's like he has spies everywhere, making him privy to the privacy and intelligence of everyone in school. Tom reasons that he found out about the incident hours before anyone else outside of Slytherin. He hasn't asked him to talk but only because the moment class is over, Tom is out that door--He almost trips over other students, that's how fast he's going (he even forgot poor Ambrose, who was returned to him via a peeved Hedwig). It's not that he feels in trouble, he just doesn't want to speak to the man, and that's fair. Who would enjoy speaking to someone who's constantly doubting them and thinks lowly of them?

He wonders if he's spoken with Ximena. What did he ask her aside from his usual vague dribel meant to guilt an answer out of students? What did she tell him about what was going on? That he was holding her precious trinket for an unknown amount of time? That she doesn't know whether to trust him anymore? If he were in her shoes, he'd cast himself aside faster than somebody could say 'goodbye'--But he's not, so he'd rather advocate for himself. He supposes that whatever that bracelet was doing to him is going to wear off slowly; the dreams he's had since returning it have not let up in their strangeness, but they have stopped giving him severe anxiety and sweats upon waking--Only minor anxiety and sweats, and that is punishment enough.

He still naturally reaches for it in the middle of the night for comfort. Or grounding. Grounding is a better word for it. Comfort implies some kind of weakness on his part. Of course, the bracelet is no longer there for him, so he has to do with nothing. Or scratching at his skin, and he's long stopped that terrible habit--He's not going to pick it up again just for something that's going to (hopefully) fade with time.

Despite this, he continues to scribble down what he can remember of the dreams to analyze them to the best of his ability. Omens of death have been phasing out of the stories (nocturnal birds flying during the day, wilted flowers, crows circling the chimneys of sick peoples' houses), but signs of water have continued to be abundant, whether in rain, bath, or body form. His last dream had himself being baptised by a figure (a padre?) with the mask of a barn owl--Something which seemed perfectly normal in the moment, but which brought him a sense of disconnectivity in the waking world. The dream interpretation manual says owls are ancient and wise, which would imply that someone worthwhile will grant him some sort of approval or entrance into a kingdom (his father, mayhaps?) However, this answer doesn't satisfy him and so: he takes to the library. Binns had mentioned (on one of his less long-winded rants) that symbols in different cultures meant different things, so searching for a dream symbols lexicon from another country (preferably more south than the one he has) seems most appropriate.

(He pauses--Would Mali know of a proper resource?)

A close but not quite there asset he's picked before has been Magical Diffusion in the New World, which pinned down the origin of the strange story his housemate told last Hallowe'en (would she tell it again this year?), as well as giving him more context for the evil-eye bracelet she had lost during her duel with Hedwig. Another thing it did, which he'll never admit to, was ease his suspicions over whether or not her story was rea--

What is going on over there?

He blinks once. Twice.

It's a bizarre sight, somehow, to see Ximena and Nemesis chatting quietly, amicably, in a cozy section of the library. Surely it's natural to see two Slytherin girls looking over books and talking, eating snacks they snuck past the librarian. Rather than approach, he walks behind a few shelves to eavesdrop--A difficult task considering the two are near whispering. If he peeks through the shelving and books, he can see what they're reading, but that involves a bigger risk than just trying to listen...Hopefully they're discussing the reading material.

"...good to have...morning. In the bathroom, I mean." That was Nemesis. She sounds nervous.

He hears Ximena's familiar low hum, "...nice...belonging..."

Nemesis' enthusiasm can practically be felt from here, "Wasn't it? ...misunderstanding...they forget we're snakes too...tomorrow?"

"I think...will...thank you."

Dammit. He can't hear anything worthwhile.

"...and...Tom?"

"Not at all...young...nuns...think?"

"...Miller?"

A loud sneeze from the book shelf behind him obscures his hearing and just about makes him jump out of his skin. He hadn't realized he was so on edge. When he returns to the two girls, they are no longer talking, but reading together from a frilly looking book. When Ximena gets to the end of the page (she reads faster than Nemesis), she waits for her junior to finish before turning to the next one. It would be a beautiful, outstanding display of comradeship and bonding if Tom gave a single damn about it. He's not sure how long he stays there, watching them, but when he finally tears himself away in irritation, the sky has grown golden.

It's ridiculous to believe that either of them are somehow plotting against him, much less the two of them together, but it doesn't mean he's shaken off the feeling or possibility. Anything he doesn't know for sure is potential for ruination, in his book. But what else would they have to talk about aside from him? What else do they have in common outside their house, their sex, their intelligence?

Are they...Are they becoming friends? Is Nemesis reaching out to her in some strange attempt to...To what? He can't even think of a reason why she would want to become closer with Ximena. He knows why he wants to stay close and grow closer, but why would she? Her ambitions are far different than his, whatever they may be, and quite frankly: much less important. How can Ximena help with them? It doesn't make any sense.

He'll have to talk to her. Finally. Alone.

.

Contrary to how the common room felt during the holidays last year, the area is fairly warm. Perfectly heated to his classmates' comfort--No Slytherins stay over the holidays, save for him, so naturally the space was left cold, heated only by the fireplace, because that's all one little snake needs. There's a fun little joke about reptiles being coldblooded somewhere in there, but Tom's not nebbish[5], so he won't make that joke.

Instead, he stays in the area until most of his classmates have gone to bed and Ximena has returned from her Astronomy lesson (the only Sytherin in her class, he remembers). A perfect moment to intercept her without the prying eyes of others. A dangerous moment without any buffer in-between them. At the stroke of eleven, he hears the passage open: stone sliding across stone and a dull thud. Clear footsteps and a low humming. A song he's never heard before, but pleasant enough all the same, if perhaps out of tune. She's in a good mood.

At the sight of him, she keeps from flinching, but she continues walking anyways--As if he weren't there. Right past him, as a matter of fact, as if it weren't obvious that it was her he was waiting for. Alright, if she's going to be rude, then he'll skip the polite greetings--

"Ximena."

She walks further away from him.

"Ximena, if you would let me explain--"

To his surprise (and delight), she turns around. She stills and waits. Folds her hand in front of her the way a school teacher does when she's waiting for a child to fess up--But he didn't do anything, not really, and she'll see that, she will, it's just a bracelet. It's just a bracelet. Isn't he worth more than a bracelet? He who acknowledged her for her potential rather than her physical shell? Talked to her and listened to her words rather than brush them off? Took her theories and ideas seriously instead of thinking her odd and Muggle-like?

He presses his lips together, trying to gather his words, trying to look sad instead of distressed, but something ugly coils in his stomach, "What had happened was--"

"No." The word echos in the empty common room, filling up the space in his lungs where air was supposed to be. "I can't speak to you." Hear what he has to say, it's important, it will change everything, he promises, "I don't want to speak to you." No no no, she has to speak to him, she shouldn't have a choice, he has to explain--She has to know his reasons why he did what he did, why isn't she listening? Look at him. Look at him look at him look at him, he'll never do it again, "If I try, I will..." Her fist squeezes so tightly, he wonders if the veins in her hand will burst and blood will drip down her skin and onto the floor.

"Ximena--"

She looks at him, finally, and he almost wishes she hadn't. Her eyes look wonderful in anger, even directed at him. Anger is a passion he's confident he can redirect properly, as with any strong emotion...But her eyes skewer through him as a poniard does a ribcage. He feels in trouble. A strange trembling in his chest he's not sure what to call...But he doesn't like it. When her magical signature erupts forth from her person, encasing him in an uncomfortable typhoon of repressed power, he's not sure if he likes it even less or slightly more. It's meant to intimidate him. To cause fear. It does, it's so sudden, even he has to admit it's level with the few times in his life where he's been truly shaken...But it excites him as well. Brings forth familiar goose pimples on his skin and causes a sharp intake of breath. He's only barely started truly sensing the magical properties around him, but he feels overstimulated regardless. It's as if a mythical, icy beast has laid breath on him. A burning cold that rings in his ears and leaves his hands numb as if he had been dunked into one of the rivers of Élivágar[6]. The strangest of all: a vague aftertaste of something tangy in his mouth, as if he had swallowed ginger root. His own magic is ecstatic. Wriggling wildly in alarm at the sensation, unsure if it should strike back or allow itself to be subjugated. The experience is nothing like how it felt when he held her bracelet in his hand for hours on end: it's a surge of dominance that begs him to continue to tempt her as a child taunts a wild animal. When it's gone, he misses it. Wants nothing more than to be submerged by it again.

But unfortunately, she regains control of herself. Reels in her magic and locks it tight, "I think...you should keep away from me. And I from you." No. He can't, he's come so far. He has so many questions--About her home, the witches she grew up with, the spells she knows, what happened after he had passed out. He has so many more things to take from her. Her knowledge her memories her aspirations...He needs to know them, and she has to give them to him, she has to, that's what a friend is, right? A friend gives and gives and is happy to give all that they give, that's why she's his friend, right? "We're not friends." The sentence is painfully curt, if she were giving this talk to anyone else, he'd have the sense to be impressed by her detachment, "You are a--a very terrible friend." She doesn't understand, she doesn't understand, he has to reason with her, "You may speak with me again when you've grown up." What on Earth is that supposed to mean? He's the most mature boy his age--In all of Hogwarts, surely! He's grown, he's faced stupid, unfair amounts of trials and troubles and sufferings, moreso than any other student here, he's positive. Just wait, I'll show you to Wool's--You'll see how it's shaped me. Just wait, Ximena--You can't leave.

She ascends the stairs and does not look back once.