Serpentine

October drags on like feet through thick mud. The lessons given in class suddenly seem dull and the chatter given by his classmates are even more lackluster. His books don't keep his interest for very long and more often than not, he finds himself distracted by the dust in the air or whatever's going on outside the windows. Occasionally, he'll be staring out into space, not thinking about anything, and when he returns to consciousness, he'll be somewhere completely different like dinner or another class or outside. It's funny. His days feel as empty as a beer hall during the dry season, but nothing's changed. His classes go on as usual, the social circles surrounding him morph to his liking, people continue to gossip in the halls, and Ximena...

It's stupid because it isn't as if this feeling is anything new. Aloneness is quite familiar and liked. Comforting as it is useful. Perhaps in the first few years when he had been a weak little baby, it was painful, but by the time he had first stepped foot on the Express, it had dulled down to an intimate and good ache that fueled him. Allowed him to get stronger when others around him had grown dependant on care and attention. Solemness is his sibling, born one hour after him and grown up with him these past twelve years. They nursed from the same woman and played with the same toys, ate at the same table and walked the same way to and from school. Being alone is something that was happening to him even with Ximena in his life, she didn't change anything.

So of course, the sharp stabbing in his stomach and chest is something unwanted and strange. He doesn't want to use the world upset so freely, but he supposes that that is what he is feeling. Upset. Unfortunate. Tom can't say he's grown accustomed to Ximena's company, the phrase would be better suited to Hedwig or Evan, but he's grown something towards her. Whatever the precedent to accustomed is. Pre-accustomed. In preparation for becoming accustomed. Is this the normal reaction to such a thing? The separation of someone you're pre-accustomed to? He wouldn't know, he's never had that happen before (well, aside from his mother, but he can't remember their separation nor time together very well, can he?) There was the kind caretaker at Wool's, but she was nice to every child, he thinks. He was no special case.

Was he a special case with Ximena? Perhaps. They had their moments, and he's positive that no other had bothered to investigate her beyond study talk or whatever the hell Adam spoke about with her (Quidditch, probably). Certainly, she's never rushed to the defense of another like she has to him that night that Ian struck (he would have found out about it!) So why would she cease communication with him? After he's worked so hard to crawl his way into her good graces? It doesn't make sense to him why someone would show such levels of dedication like standing between an assailant and him, and then growing cold afterwards...He'd probably have to experience it himself, but there's absolutely no way he'd ever risk himself for another person. Not without a damn good reason. What was Ximena's reason?

Somehow, it feels like it'll be sixty years before she speaks with him again. Or longer. A whole hundred, perhaps. Will she forgive him by then? Or forget him?

"It's so flakey!" Elle exclaims from his left, chewing happily on a large pastry shaped like an ear, "You get this from folding the dough in with cold butter--I'll show you after my Herbology class."

Ximena hums from Elle's other side, breaking apart her own ear-shaped pastry and watching the steam rise, "Folding butter in the dough? It sounds hard."

"It's very toiling. It takes a lot of time and arm work," Elle rolls up her sleeves to show off her pale bicep, lightly defined with muscles, "five years of baking in the kitchens here--not to mention back home." Her sleeve rolls back, "Baker's muscles are a badge of honor in my home."

They continue talking, continue ignoring Tom's existence, happy as clams. Not once has he ever cut into one of their conversations, he knows better--He's only tolerated thanks to his status as Elle's Snake, and nothing more. Elle, who has been buddies with Ximena for well over three weeks, doesn't bring up her lack of enthusiasm when it comes to Tom, nor does she try to bring him into their talks. Tom assumes Elle is polite and observant enough to see that they are simply going through a rough patch or perhaps too distracted by her culinary talk with Ximena to notice. As for the silent witch herself, it seems she hasn't yet told Elle about hers and Tom's separation, something which surprised him despite himself. He supposes that telling Elle about his actions (or rather, inactions) with the bracelet wouldn't do much to benefit her, so why bother? Other than to put a roadblock on his own ambitions and plans, but what does Ximena know of those? He hasn't talked to her about them, not even alluded--And thank Salazar for that. Imagine if he had? She could have started sabotaging him...Tell others of his plans and most intimate secrets…Nevermind that he knows her to not be like that. Nevermind that he has no real plans beyond the end of his second year. That's not the point. The plans will come. And with them, so will Ximena's allegiance. Surely.

What did he do to win it in the first place? Listen to her, that's easy enough, except she refuses to speak to him. Help her in her studies, which he's trying to do, but there's never any seating available at the impromptu study sessions now that the houses are allowed to mingle longer than a few minutes. After receiving help, the students stay and chat, and Ximena actually indulges them in their asinine conversations. She's absolutely doing this on purpose, all to bother him, he knows it, he's going to make her pay for it, he will, but for now he just needs to grin and bear it.

"Oh, I want to see China too...Once the warring states come to a peace talk, I mean; their food magicks are some of the oldest and most sophisticated in the world." Elle practically vibrates with delight at the thought, "I didn't know you were learning! Is it hard?"

He tunes them out, again, rolling a ball of minced meat across his plate. Their discussions on foreign dishes is nothing new, and if anything, it just makes him hungrier (despite being surrounded by all the food he could ever want). He's never had Chinese cuisine, despite London harboring an abundance of immigrants in East End. He's seen the enclaves in passing and heard plenty of talk about them and the problems they bring from a few of the caretakers at Wool's. The matron sings their praises, though, because there's a doctor in Limehouse that's been the only person able to quell her migraines. He's seen the hot stew she brings with her after every visit and remembers the aroma keenly. Bitter olives, coriander, star anise, mint...The look of bones and marrow floating at the top of a fatty, rich stock with cuts of vegetables and meat--And long white rice noodles, as pale as his skin. He tried taking it from her once, on a night when he was denied his dinner, but he was foiled by Eric Whalley. Stupid git.

Elle laughs loudly at something Ximena said. Tom frowns. He refuses to be petulant. This will pass. It has to.

-

For better or for worse, Ximena appears to be taking her court-ordered punishment fantastically. Sympathetic parties give her condolences and declarations of sympathy. Something about how it'll all be changing soon enough for us, just you wait and what the hell does that even mean? These are the same people who were looking down their noses at her just a few weeks ago and now she's suddenly worthy of an emotion other than contempt...Their opinion on her is so...so volatile. Unpredictable as the weather. Slytherin house isn't exactly a hive mind, but there's a reason they all keep to themselves in regards to their views: to change their stances at a later time if need be. But it's usually never so...sudden and obvious like this. He tries to bring it up to Hedwig or Evan for comment, but they don't seem to follow his line of logic. This alone would be fair enough, considering they've been conservative about voicing their opinions regarding Ximena, but they've also been keen on the trends and opinions within their social circles. Nemesis alone has given him something half-satisfactory in explanation: In the end, we're all children, Tom. We love playing politicians and socialites, but we don't know what to think without the guidance of our families. It's nothing he didn't already know for himself, but it impresses him that Nemesis is aware of it (she's smart when she wants to be, but awfully stupid in other aspects). Is that why her previously apathetic sisters are suddenly Ximena's top benefactors? Why Evan and Druella both remain carefully neutral in the wake of the trial? Tom's not sure, but it bothers him. That she be ostracized for so long only to be suddenly considered one of them at their own convenience. It means they can easily cast her aside. That they can just as easily cast him aside--The thought only encourages him to sink his claws deeper into what he has already gained. Nothing and no one will take his opportunity away from him.

For better or for worse, students in Slytherin have continued to bruit about the supposed arrangement between himself and Ximena, moreso since she's started ignoring him. Nemesis, per the usual, was right: word got out fast. If they lived in a shotty little town with little to no news, he's sure it would make the morning paper. Something corny about emotions rising during a life saving duel, or some dribel about 'childhood sweethearts'. Eugh. Tom can handle people chattering about him just fine, but it's the nosey older boys giving him advice that irk him. Nevermind their confusing, conflicting methods of gaining a girl's affection, they're just plain disgusting. He feels ill enough at just the thought of holding hands with another person, let alone the things they're trying to describe to him. A part of him is sure most of it is just made up to tease and scare him, but another part of him is afraid that the things they say are somehow capable of being achieved by the human body.

What makes the situation for worse rather than for better is, as mentioned, Ximena's standoffish attitude with him. People assure him that her still wearing the gift is an excellent sign, but a half-blood taught the term playing hard to get to the Slytherin boys, and Tom hasn't been able to escape their taunts since (he can't imagine what they're saying about her behind his back, either).

"Cheeky witch." Dion snerks, elbowing Tom as if they were chums, "Making you work for that courtship, I see."

Tom almost breaks his quill in half, but he keeps his composure, "How did you start your paragraph on the Battle of the Bell?"

Of course, instead of politely following the subject change, they chuckle at his good-boy persona. He almost feels sorry for giving back the bracelet in public. Almost. Most of the pureblooded boys (noble and common) have ceased contact with Ximena since his pseudo proposal, and that suits him just fine. What doesn't suit him is the small percentage of boys who are sharp enough to realize that a (fake) courtship isn't grounds to start pretending a girl doesn't exist.

He leers bitterly in suspicion at Adam from his place in the library, who appears to be recounting a story about Quidditch tryouts to a small, mixed audience (Ignacius, Weasley, Vane, Bones, and Ximena). Adam, he can excuse, because what would he know about proper procedures regarding (fake) courtship rituals? The rest of them, on the other hand, owe him an explanation. Well, they would if he were actually set on wooing Ximena, and he's not, but they don't know that--Unless Ximena told them personally, and he suspects she hasn't because the only ones who seem to know that he hadn't intended to cause a fuss are Hedwig, Nemesis, and Evan...Why didn't she clear the air with others? Is she, like him, too busy with more important things? Amused at the silly customs? Is there some basis to Katux's libel about him repaying her life debt by elevating her status in society?

Perhaps she is trying to stir some kind of urgency or envy in Adam--Which, if successful, would only prove how much of a scoundrel he is. But she doesn't seem like the manipulative type. Well, outside of the courtroom, that is--But that was for her own self-preservation. She wouldn't be a snake if she hadn't done so. This is different. It's being conniving for the sake of collecting someone. The sake of walking out[1] with them. He doesn't think her capable (or rather: he doesn't think she'd have the heart to do it). She's weak enough to have a crush, and alright, fair enough, she's human after all, but to actually want to capture said crush for herself doesn't click right.

The group across the section laughs in unison as Adam's gestures grow bigger and more comical. Tom continues to write about the Battle of the Bell, counting the ways that a Quidditch beater could get injured during a game. Dion's on the Slytherin team now, if he remembers correctly--Perhaps he'll have a friendly, chummy little chat with him later.

In the meantime, he'll simply have to lay low. Wait it out. Like he has been doing. A prisoner doing his time.

At 12:03am, sleep cannot capture him, and he tip toes downstairs to the common room to mill about and check to see if anyone left anything valuable between the couch cushions (he still sends his little knight out nightly for any treasure). The worse he could get for being up in the common room is a mild scolding, though he suspects that the prefects are all on his side and would let it slide...Something to test later. His bare feet pad quietly on the stone floor as he yawns, eyes shut tight. When he opens his eyes, he flinches--but as usual, she doesn't notice he's there.

It's late. Obviously. Is Ximena one to stay up late or rise early? He hates that he doesn't know, that should be something he knows, right? Something easy to figure out and note...Really it would be much easier if Ximena were a boy, cursed girl. It'd be much easier to check her schedule if they were both in the boy's dormitory. Maybe she'd be less sensitive too, he's always hearing about how sensationalist women are (though in his opinion, men are equally such over sports and the economy). Not to mention there wouldn't be any silly rumours about his fake infatuation or their equally fake betrothal.

But rather than mull over how much easier life would be if the two of them shared a gender, he observes the girl carefully: at her tense fingers holding open the pages of a book and the glowing light of the nearby fire crackling in the hearth. The light waxes and wanes on her dark skin, making part of her complexion appear a metallic gold. Her still body aids this effect in making her look like a statue, frozen in the middle of the Slytherin common room library. Any other time, he'd attempt another conversation. Stroll right up to her as if nothing had happened--But he's smart. He learns fast, and he sneaks instead. Slowly drops to the ground to keep the old floors from echoing sound. Crawling towards the bookshelf, he tucks his feet in, bringing his knees to his chest, and keeks[2] carefully around a couch. He's continued to escape her notice, as expected, but it doesn't hurt to be careful. Even if he could just waltz right up beside her without raising alarm--If he were tall enough, he could even read over her shoulder without her sensing him. Thank God he's been practicing how to pull back his magical signature.

When he looks at the book, what catches his eye as quickly as it did the first time he laid his gaze on it is the title: Dream Lexicon: Interpretation and Mediations.

Attention flickers to her face: she looks deep in concentration; not skimming through pages or searching for the right paragraph. No, she's found exactly what she needs. It's a look he's pally with: when she narrows down the answers for a particularly jarring Arithmancy riddle, discovers the proper ingredient substitution for a potion, or finds the perfect source for a history essay--It is, amusingly enough, a look shared by many a Ravenclaw, though he's never brought that up (house talk is an easy way to get her into a sour mood.)

What dreams are the bracelet bringing to her? She does not look particularly stressed or sleepless (at least not more than usual), she mostly looks frustrated. Furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, a slightly parted mouth silently reading along with the text. He's never been a lip reader, but even if he was, he wouldn't be able to discern her words. A part of him thinks that she might even be mouthing in another language, but that's nonsense: the book is in English.

He waits. Her lips go still. Pressing together into a thin line. Her eyes don't change, though. They're neither satisfied nor disappointed, simply vexed. It's a more intense, more rich emotion than what she had when confronting him and somehow that irritates him immensely. The book shuts and is placed back into its proper slot (the Slytherin Library is painstakingly organized by date), the witch scurries herself back to the girl's dormitories. Five seconds of silence. Tom emerges from his hiding spot to pull out the book, pointing his wand authoritatively, "Reditius."

Whoosh, the pages flurry open towards the center of the book where Ximena was just reading from. Though there are multiple entries (thanks to the small text) on display, one in particular seems to jump out at him. Mothers. It's not emboldened, or in a different size compared to the rest of the terms, but it screams at him regardless. Was this was she was reading? Or was it Moths? Morters?

His index finger follows the line of text, The Mother is a soul who sacrifices everything for the betterment of her child. She is a symbol of peace, and thus seeing her in any other state aside from happy is cause for alarm...Seeing one's mother protect one in a dream suggests there is an addle-plot about in one's life (see Protecting). If there is scolding or anger directed to the dreamer, a warning is being issued regarding one's path (see Paths). If one's mother takes care of another mother's child, it reflects jealous behavior and possessive character...Mothers always reflect one's intuition. It is wise to follow their advice on deception (see Kneazles).

"Whose mother did you see?" He mumbles under his breath, brows furrowing, interest piqued, "Yours? Another's?"

Tom doesn't remember his mother. Obviously. He'd only known her for an hour. On particularly bad nights, when the oldest workers at the orphanage were three sheets to the wind, he'd hear all about how she looked though. Nothing physical, unfortunately, it was all about her soul or her emotional state. Miserable. The epitome of patheticness, in the old and contemporary sense. Helpless. When he dreams of her, he pictures a wraith: skeletal and wispy, formless and constantly crying. Constantly reaching and grabbing for him. Staring at him with hollow eyes. She never means him harm; on the contrary: all he feels when she's present is wanting. Coveting. It doesn't make the dreams any more pleasant.

Involuntarily, he shivers.

What was Ximena's mother like? Is she a Muggle? Does she look like her? Is she dead like his? Sharing a cold, dark grave plot alongside his? Unmarked? Did she name Ximena after herself the way his mother gave Tom his father's name? Or is she alive? Out in the world crying, begging to see her daughter again--Or anxiously awaiting the day when her abandonment of Ximena would return to haunt her?

...Did she abandon Ximena because she was a witch?

His grip on the edges of the book tightens. It would be in the nature of a filthy Muggle to do something so horrid to her child...Toss them aside out of fear, out of jealousy. Because they were special. If his own useless mother had lived, he's sure he would have been in the same boat as Ximena then. Not an orphan, but a foundling.

The book is returned to the shelf.

The next morning, though the spring in his step hasn't quite returned, his chin is held a little higher than yesterday. An improved mood that's unfortunately noticed by all and attributed to his pseudo-fiancée, which isn't much of a lie, but isn't much of a truth either. However, students seem to take his better humor as a sign to pester him more than usual. At the end of the day he's exhausted. Too many people want his attention or energy, and he only has so much to spare; he has to divide it up by importance, and as usual, his education takes precedence over all else. The effort needed to work up a smile and carry conversations with others drains him to the point where all he wishes to do at the end of the day is sleep. He almost dares to miss his ostracization at the orphanage, because at least there his time was all his. He didn't have to pretend to care about others or their problems.

He walks Hedwig down the moving staircases to the Wizarding Schools Potions Championships, making small talk with her and Evan about how she feels the competition will go. Really, if it weren't for her, he'd be napping in his bed right now, but she's aligned herself to him, and he must show that he takes care of his people. Goddammit.

She's confident, as usual, talking about the intel she received about the other schools and their curriculums--Some more focused on medicinal potions, some on body-altering.

Nearing the hall in which the championships will be taking place, her explanations are interrupted by cheers and chants, so loud they seem to vibrate the entire castle--It's only when a small crowd of students, some in Quidditch gear, are seen holding up a student on their shoulders, that Tom realizes what's happening. A victorious game for the Gryffindors, then--Good to know none of them will be at the competition. Too busy celebrating and causing a ruckus (though the whining of his losing housemates will be annoying to hear back at the common room).

Tom raises his wand to enact a shell of silence around the three of them--Evan thanks him and Hedwig curses about her hearing: the Gryffindors are chanting Adam Adam Adam over and over.

"We should have gotten rid of him weeks ago." Hedwig says, rubbing his temple.

"We were distracted." Tom offers.

She snorts, "Fucking derailed more like."

And Tom pauses, because how does Hedwig know that word? The only train in Wizarding Britain is the Hogwarts Express and that's certainly never had an accident in its time (it was in Hogwarts: A History). Why would she need to know it? "No need to be so dramatic, Hedwig, we're back on track now."

Evan looks at them both with confusion, as if they were speaking Greek instead of English, but doesn't comment on it, "We're still distracted, impeded even. How are we supposed to eventually expel the American when everyone's expecting us to welcome our lessers?"

"I thought you fecking wanted us to be best mates with him."

"I expressed an interest in seeing whether or not he was useful." Evan turns to Tom, "Tom understands, he's a pragmatic lad."

He hums in response, holding his hands behind his back, "Well he is popular with the Gryffindors; befriending him would kill several birds with one stone."

"Alright, so the pillock's useful in helping us keep up the social snakes act, but what about when the world looks away?"

"He's only here for a year, isn't he?" Tom gestures with his hand as he shrugs, "By the time he works off his usefulness, he'll be gone. Perhaps sooner, if the Muggle war escalates."

Hedwig scowls, "And if he stays longer?" Then he'll expire.

"Then we intervene. We have a year, it's more than enough to cook something up." Considering Tom already has ideas.

"You mean brew something up," Evan corrects, "get more hours of sleep, Tom, you're mixing up sayings." He wasn't aware. Tom pretends to thank him for the correction and the consideration for his health, though he finds it strange because Evan knows better than anyone how much sleep Tom is getting, "I know we can trust you with it, Tom--" Tom almost begins to humbly grin, "--after all, if you don't, you can't get married: Lane will run off with Miller." Tom resists the urge to smack him.

"Stop teasing the bastard, you know he's delicate." Tom sends a pointed glare to Hedwig, and though she doesn't stop smirking, she does stop talking. It'll do.

"You two are well aware that an engagement was the furthest thing from my intentions." He shakes his head, "I'd appreciate it if you cease the silly jokes, this is a serious matter." His irritation is showing through his magic; he's been feeling it much more obviously these past couple of days, particularly during stressful or intense moments. Doing nothing to try and cover it, he tries to see if he can direct it at Evan--And after a half-second, his keen eyes catch the other flinching.

That's better.

"The bastard's really not too bad, he has more sense than most Gryffindors."

"Oh has he converted you into a Blood Traitor, then?" Evan's words are teasing, but Tom feels a tenseness in him, "Soon you'll be talking like him; yipping around the castle like a bitch."

"As opposed to skulking around the castle like a gelding?[3]"

"Don't mix up your terms, Hedwig, a gelding has done its job. A bitch is useless until it raises a litter."

Hedwig's wand is at Evan's throat faster than Tom can blink. He knows it shouldn't surprise him, but he still finds himself as dumbfounded as Evan looks.

He decides to cross his arms and watch the event unfold.

"Is that a threat?"

Somehow, Evan finds it in himself to chuckle, albeit nervously, "It's a warning."

"Yeah? What's the fucking difference?"

Evan licks his lips, ever so aware of the ashwood baton at his Adam's apple, "The difference is that I'm on your side."

Hedwig stills, her breath catching. Tom raises a brow at Evan's words, awaiting an explanation and awaiting it in vain. Evan? A friend to witches? Hilarious. He tolerates Hedwig and Nemesis because of their good pedigree, and Ximena for...why does he tolerate Ximena?...her status as a Slytherin. What alliance have these two made behind his back, then? And why haven't either of them told him?

No matter, it's only a matter of time.

Hedwig, after ten seconds of silence, lowers her wand. Evan's shoulders relax, mouth twitching as he resists the urge to smirk, "...Go on then, you'll be late. You can't let that bloodtraitor beat you."

She stares at him for a few more moments, calculating, before going off without another word. As she enters the hall, Tom turns to Evan and is met with a chuckle, "Highblood problems, Tom...Nothing for you to be worried about."

He smiles, eyes narrowed, "I'm sure.

-

The Wizarding Schools Potions Championship is, in a nutshell, absurdly boring. He watches students quietly and hurriedly mix ingredients together under an enchanted hourglass as judges from all schools walk about to grade their choices and results. It's a bit like watching people jotting out long equations on chalkboard. He wishes he brought a book.

Hedwig, her big cotton hair plaited back neatly for the first time, has on a face of utter concentration: hands moving at such a speed that Tom, for a moment, dares to feel insecure that he's holding her back during class. She sweeps the floor easily the first few rounds against the other students. As expected.

Yami, her long black hair pulled tight in a simple chignon, appears relaxed in comparison. As if she were cooking up a simple stew in the comfort of her own home. Rarely does she reference the material provided by the judges (in fact, she goes off recipe for the potions he recognises), appearing to have a firm handle on her actions simply by memory. In her movements, he wonders if she owes her ability to her father…

He looks down at the seats where the families of the competitors sit...Eric is an easy find, she's hard to miss and hard to take your eye off of. He assumes the prim woman at her side is Mrs. Acwellan, if her straight, silky, cotton white hair is anything to go by (does Hedwig's hair texture take after her father, then? He sees no one near them that could be him.) His eyes travel further, searching for a family with skin as warm as Yami's, and finds only a humble looking man: short and stout with a gentle face. He's observing Yami's work carefully, giving subtle nods to himself or head shakes every few seconds. Sometimes a brow will raise before he reaches a verdict. When he adjusts his glasses, Tom decides that he must be Yami's father. He sees no sign of anyone that could be her mother or sister.

In the end, a witch from the Japanese school[4] takes first place with Yami in second and Hedwig in a comfortable third. The later is, by far the youngest competitor there, and the contrast caused by just having her stand next to the other two is shocking. What doesn't shock is the fact that they're all girls, which is all the audience seems to be stuck on, rather than how the winner was able to successfully brew a potion to cure the common cold with only three ingredients.

"It's as expected." Yami later tells him in the common room, surrounded by the quiet murmur of their peers, "Mizushima is a prodigy, descended from the line of Abe no Seimei[5] himself."

"So it's in her blood, then?"

A squint, "It's in her family's expectations." She corrects, "Something like genetics only takes you so far." And by the tone of her words, it sounds like it's not very far, "Families who depend on legacy alone to prove their worth are living in a fool's paradise."

Her open words turn heads. She continues on as if they were as insignificant as the gazes of flies. Perhaps they are.

When he asks similar of Hedwig, after Yami leaves, she says the very opposite, "Strong magic like that stays in the blood for a long time--If Merlin had children, you can bet their descendants would be massive fucking forces to be reckoned with. Even if they were imbeciles."

"And are imbeciles common, then?"

She snorts, "To my standards, yes. But others are forgiving." A scribble on her Potions essay, "It's why Acarya's so damn smart you know, she has creature blood in her."

Tom stills.

"Aye, it's no ordinary fucking creature blood either," for someone who claims she isn't a fan of Yami, Hedwig certainly knows a fair bit of trivia about her and her family, "that bloodtraitor has demon ancestry."

Consider his interest snatched.

Tom snorts, waving away Hedwig's words, "Now I know you're pulling the wool over my eyes, Hedwig."

"Am not!" She insists as much as the other girls do about their own pieces of trivial gossip, "They proudly advertise it too--and who wouldn't? I mean, creature blood is shameful and all, but if it gives you an advantage like that, well, I'd be boasting about it too."

But Yami does not boast. Does her father? "Now Hedwig, when you say demon, do you mean the proper sort that offer knowledge and apples to coerce you to sign the Devil's book?" He tests.

"Course not, eedjit, they have a due name for the kind of creature they are over in the East, but I can't remember it." How...convenient, "Raj...Rak...Something that starts with a Raa sound. Rolls off the tongue nice." She sniffs, "Got it on her mother's side, of course, I hear the woman is as vicious as a hag."

"Not as vicious as a demon?"

Hedwig smacks his arm, "Aye, I bet it was your smart mouth that killed yer mum, Riddle: opened it right up after birth and shocked her to death."

He doesn't find it in him to be offended by her words, merely amused, "I'm sure you'll give my mother her due justice, then, Hedwig." And then, "Do you know if Acarya's father has any...creature blood in his line?"

"Nah. But I wouldn't be surprised if he did. His wife's family is always looking for pretty additions to add to their power." She shrugs, "Did'ya see her father?"

"No, was he there?"

"Right in front of ya, you knob." He'll never doubt Hedwig's sincerity in their relationship, at least, "The only one in the whole hall with her nose, how did you miss it?"

"I was focused on the riveting competition, of course."

Hedwig smacks his arm again.

"Oh honestly, you two--" Nemesis' voice fuses as she approaches, "You're worse than my sisters: always bickering."

The witch across from him narrows her eyes, "Which sisters?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I want to see if I should be insulted or not."

Nemesis' complexion burns red. She reaches over and pinches the fat in Hedwig's arm--The other witch curses, but cackles alongside it, "Son of a bitch, I didn't think you had it in you--" A punch to Nemesis' shoulder tops the compliment, "Keep it up, Nem, and I think you'll be as terrifying as the Nott Matriarch."

Tom quirks a brow as Nemesis rubs her shoulder meekly, about to speak, and being interrupted, "Mm. Would have thought there were firsties here with all the ruckus you three were dishing out."

"Top of the fucking morning to you too, pillock." Hedwig greets Cygnus, finally deciding to close her textbook because there wasn't any way that she was getting back on track anytime soon.

"Black." Tom greets with a nod of his head, following Nemesis, "Here to join our cram session?"

He blinks in response, just noticing the parchment on the table between himself and Hedwig, "From what I hear, the three of you don't need to study; some of the upperclassmen even suspect you're cheating."

"Jealous chits."

"Suspecting and not accusing?"

"We know how to mind our own." Cygnus chooses to ignore Hedwig's chuff of disbelief, "Besides, if a couple of second years are beating our grade records, then we deserve it and need to step up."

"The spirit of competition is excellent at improving one's skills!" Nemesis agrees, "I'm sure our grades will be bested soon enough by the oncoming crop of new students, too--And so on and so forth." Speak for yourself, nobody is going to take Tom's crown.

"As is their job to." Cygnus nods.

"Was there something you needed, Black?" Tom prompts, curious as to what the other was implying.

"As a matter of fact, yes, but--Fawley, you may state your business first, since I arrived after you." Cygnus offers.

"Oh, I was just wondering what the two of you were planning to be for Hallowe'en this year--Hedwig, I know you came as The Morrigu, it was stunning...What were you last year, Tom? Some kind of wood sprite?" He doesn't have time to correct her before she continues, "I was thinking perhaps we can all have matching costumes this year: show our unity and all that...Maybe Gods from the same Pantheon? You'd be quite fitting as Pluto, Tom."

"He'd be better off as Acontius at this point." Hedwig snerks, and Tom almost misses Cygnus' mouth twitch.

"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Dressing up as Gods and spirits is distasteful." It's what every wizard dresses up as, but he doesn't mention this to Cygnus.

"Dressing up as sour-faced cunt, then?"

His nose scrunches, "I think not."

"Not coming to the Hallowe'en event?" Tom hums.

Cygnus scowls, "You mean Samhain--Don't roll your eyes at me, Acwellan, mother says the word Hallowe'en is wrought by Muggles, and mother is hardly wrong."

Nemesis tilts her head, "All Hallows Eve isn't Muggle--" she turns to Tom, "--Right? Muggles don't celebrate?"

He clears his throat, "They do." There's smugness, bemusement, and surprise from the three of them, "Though a bit differently than us wizards." To say the least.

"You see?"

"We're not celebrating no fucking Muggle festival, they must have stolen it."

Only Nemesis stays quiet.

"It's a Catholic event, if I'm correct." And Tom often is.

"What's a Catholic?" Cygnus squints, "Is it another word for Muggle?"

"It's a religion, ya stupid ballsack."

"A Muggle one?"

Nemesis finally clears her throat to talk, "--There's many a Catholic witch, Black, but most of them choose to go to Saint Columba's[6]."

Apparently the name of the school rings a bell for Cygnus, "Oh." To say he looks displeased is an understatement, "The ones who persecuted our kind back then...Correct?" It sounds like he doesn't need confirmation. Nemesis looks a bit downcast.

"Yeah, those ones." Hedwig sniffs, "Stupid Muggles don't even step back to realize their prophet was a wizard himself." That almost sends Tom into a violent guffaw--Jesus of Nazareth a wizard? He peeks at Nemesis to see her reaction, and finds no surprise. Probably false, then.

"It was a few religions, as a matter of fact." But that's neither here nor there, "--I didn't know you celebrate the Celtic New Year, Black." Tom was under the impression that the Blacks had more Southern ancestry.

Pride floods Cygnus' eyes, "Of course. It's tradition." What else is new.

"Get with the times, Black, we switched over to the Gregorian calendar decades ago." What.

Cygnus scoffs, "It's a simple fad, it'll pass--The Julian calendar was more palatable, anyways."

Nemesis clears her throat, "I have a few Catholics on my mother's side of the family...They're reclusive, but certainly don't associate with Muggles...At least, not anymore--That's how the Fat Friar died, he was helping them during the Plague...You know Lane is a Catholic?"

Cygnus gives an exasperated sigh, muttering Of course she is under his breath, "I suppose I will have to confer with Catholics now."

"Aw, poor lil' pissbaby, having to talk to his lessers." Hedwig gives a Bronx cheer, "I thought you wanted to go into politics after school?"

"An adviser and a politician are two very different things." Cygnus scowls, "Look at the Avery who helped Lane in her trial and tell me he's the same as Wzn. Gamp or Spencer-Moon!"

"He's the same nonce-looking ponce if that's what you mean. Bastard's as slimy as a trout and so's the rest of them."

The talk of politics unnerves Nemesis, and she begins scratching the back of her hand.

"He has no allegiance to the common good that the Ministry swears to, only to himself and his chosen clientele."

"A proper Slytherin you are, Black." Tom compliments, half-genuine.

"A proper Slytherin among others--My commendations on your courtship. It's good to see some dignity among our house."

Tom tilts his head, ignoring how Nemesis stiffens up, "Pardon?"

"I admire yours and Lane's sense in separation, Riddle, it's refreshing. It's how a proper nobleblood should act, and it's ridiculous that you're the only one to do it: Yaxley and Selwyn are busy mooning over their current intendeds, they're insufferable."

"Awe, ya jealous, Black? No one's come to ask for ya hand?" Hedwig's voice hits an overwhelming tone of false-sympathy, and he's grateful for the distraction, "Whatever will they do with your dowry?"

"You don't come to the Blacks with a marriage offer," as usual, he's offended, "the Blacks come to you. It's ludicrous to believe otherwise--An insult." Ahuh. Tom sees Hedwig roll her eyes, though Cygnus misses it, "Though I suppose you would know all about confirmed bachelors."

A sharp tug rips out a rib from Tom's side--At least, that's what it feels like. The sudden pull in the air is as tangible as his own flesh, he's sure that he's been attacked. It takes far too long for him to realize that it's Hedwig's simmering magic that made him feel threatened. Cygnus, looking as alarmed as he is, flexes out his own magical aura in response, though late. Hedwig's hazel eyes are somehow inescapable: Cygnus cannot look away from her furious stare, "You quiet down now, Black...Wouldn't want mummy to know you've been gossiping like a lowborn Muggle, much less sucking neck like I know you have."

Cygnus' magic truly awakens then: on Tom's other side, it feels like hot sand pressing into his arms, and he imagines himself to be between a harsh desert and a jagged cliffside. "Oh? And what would little baby Acwellan know about my affairs?"

Being caught between these carefully measured displays of dominance is something strange after having been protected by Ximena's magic...Feeling it strife against Ian's own, which felt so opposite of hers. Neither of the two has their anger directed at him, but he nonetheless feels pinned down by them. It's such a small, intimate space, he could reach his arms out and touch either one of them. From behind him, he can sense Nemesis' magic fluttering anxiously, not unlike the way it was when she was close to confessing to him before his attack. He stretches out his own signature to her--Enough for her to know it was there, but not enough to make contact. He has to keep her on a short leash.

Then, he flares the rest of it forward, imagining a tall, imposing wall rising, "There are outsiders in this library." Tom near hisses to the both of them, "We are brethren outside our common room." Goose pimples blossom on his skin as he scolds them, feeling them yield to his words--albeit reluctantly.

Cygnus clears his throat, never taking his eyes off Hedwig, "...Quite."

Hedwig throws a rude hand gesture at him, "Suck a cock, Black."

Nemesis sighs in relief.

Tom grins.

-

This year, Tom needs less convincing to join in on the Halloween festivities, but is much less visually excited. He's a second year now, he has to control himself. No gorging himself on candies and sweets, and certainly no dancing...At least, nothing that doesn't have a minimum of two other purebloods participating. Make that noble purebloods.

He, Hedwig, Evan, and Nemesis walk to the same hall that the party took place in last year, dressed not in matching disguises, as Nemesis suggested, but in similar enough schemes that they could get away with saying they planned it as a group. Hedwig is a God again, this time Cailleach, Nemesis and Evan are mythological figures (Iseult and Naoise respectively), and Tom is Amandan Dubh: a more refined, divine, wizardly version of his previous costume--Surely J.M. Barrie gained the inspiration for his masterpiece from this same God...Reed pipes, fairies, shadows and tricks, it's as if Peter Pan was Amandan Dubh in infancy--If only the boy had allowed himself to grow just enough to gain that extra bit of power. Retain his immortality, but gain something he wouldn't have had without growing up.

He hopes people will understand his costume this year.

The music greets him first before the sight: similar to last year in most everything save for some decor and table placements. The hall is still curtained and sectioned off for various parties to sit down comfortably and in semi-privacy for their conversations whilst still being under teacher supervision. It reminds Tom of the mental image he had of the masquerade ball within Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera. Enticing and menacing.

When he enters, he doesn't look for her his eyes simply scout her out because she stands out. In a crowd of a thousand, he could find her. That's hardly his fault, her black dress (the same one as last year?) is easily spotted out of all the vivid costumes in the ballroom.

Tom excuses himself, promising to meet up with the four of them later--And the group scatters. He walks across the ballroom, eyes scanning over his passing schoolmates and teachers.

Slughorn has cornered Yami and Hedwig regarding their Potions Championship titles, singing their praises to a select few other colleagues (outsiders, probably, he doesn't recognize any of them as professors), and speaking regretfully on the biases held by the judges. Hedwig has her good girl attitude on, mouth shut and smiling. Laughing at whatever joke Slughorn tells. Yami looks the same as she always does: a blank canvas. The faces of the adults in the group avoid eye contact with her and smile warily when she speaks. Are they afraid? Intimidated? Why are they not equally uneasy over Hedwig's lack of personality on display?

Druella is tucked away in a corner, quietly watching the party with a glass in her hands. She's been found by Evan, who looks to be in a serious talk: she nods along occasionally, empty and blank.

Nemesis, plucked by her sisters for a group photo, looks oddly melancholy alongside their bright and vivid costumes. Like a wilted sprig of herbs among others in a garden. He notes that she's the only blonde out of the seven of them, and wonders if her mother has the same kind of hair--Despite her dramatic difference in color pallete (all of her sisters have green eyes--), she looks exactly like all of them.

Lucretia is joining a mixed group of witches in a dance, twisting her raised wrists in the air and linking hands. It looks marvelously fun, and she's quite elegant in her movements--unsurprising, if he considers her upbringing (though then he has to wonder why half of the other highblooded girls are not allowed to dance). All those in the Black family are stupidly debonair, at least the ones older than eleven. Even Cygnus, whom Tom assumed as graceful as a drunken foal, moves across the dance floor in a sophisticated manner: supporting Lucretia's choice of intermingling with non-Slytherins, as he had said he would. His face is carefully neutral, and he even spares a small smirk to a few others of similar status as him.

Merrythought is recounting a charming story about Dumbledore when he was her pupil to a small group of professors. The man himself is standing by her with what could pass as a sheepish (but shameless) grin on his face. He glows in the praise of the small circle, and Tom resists the compulsion to glower at him. The only one not chuckling along with the rest is Willow, who remains carefully anodyne.

Abbas and Topaz entertain a small group of third years, paying particular attention to two girls whom Tom recognises as Carrows (twins). The girls are birdlike in their stature and looks, though if he were being kind, he'd refer to them as swanlike instead. On their necks are bronze pendants Tom assumes are lockets, which are twiddled and played with as if the two girls didn't know what to do with them. He wonders why these girls have the luxury of a fiancé near their ages.

Eric, a glass of something deep and red in her hand, rolls her eyes at something his ex-mentor is telling her and swats him away dismissively as her cortège giggles. The boy isn't dissuaded by this, but is soon enough distracted by his younger sister, who begins to scold him. Presumably on bothering other girls. This results in a chorus of jeering. Dorea covers her mouth and turns her head to the side, but Eric laughs openly: head tilted back. It's then that he notices how similar hers and Hedwig's smile is.

His mute, Ravenclaw Charms partner is animatedly moving her hands and fingers in concise gestures, and Ximena's own Ravenclaw Charms partner (Martha?) is talking back with equal enthusiasm, giving half-speech, half-gesticulation, in response. They're hanging around a large group of mostly Muggleborns (if Tom had to guess by their costumes), near the far right of the hall. He can recognise a good amount of students from Hufflepuff thanks to his frequent lunches with Elle--They smile at him as he passes by, no longer intimidated by him, but endeared.

Katux and Dion are harassing a poor house elf who made the mistake of bumping into one of them--Though upon closer inspection, it seems the creature had bumped into Orion, and the two took advantage to flex their verbal harassment skills.

He does not find Elle, who had told him she would be abstaining due to religious reasons (which caused him to wonder why her brother was alright with going, but another question for another day).

At the end of the hall, past the veils and shadows, there's no crowd. No shroud of captivated silence nor dozens of eyes fixed solely on a single person. It is merely her and Mali; the later is dressed in a bright blue gingham dress over a white blouse with glittery ruby shoes. Ximena is wearing the same dress as she was last year. The same capelet, dark brass buttons, and faded color fabric. She is at the end of her story. So early in the evening?

"...I was nine.

"I tell it every year now. I did it before--When I still didn't know what I was. Local urchins all gathered to hear the dark one talk about her brush with death. Because a lot of children drowned that year. Because I was the only one who survived.

"The sisters told me it was the blessed Virgin who saved me. Or Saint Nicholas. Or Saint Agnes[7]. They encouraged the stories because of it...But I don't think it was either of them. I didn't feel any holy light upon me. Just cold. Just wet."

"...Why do you do it?"

He can feel Ximena hesitating, and the image of her pressing her hand to her chest rises in his mind, "Stories are meant to be told. To be heard. It's a ritual. Repetition, and all that." A pause, and he can picture her pressing her lips into a thin line, "...I was found on Hallowe'en."

The hair on the back of his neck rises.

Mali stays silent, listening.

"It was Hallowe'en morning, and I was found wandering the edge of the Thames...I remember their faces, asking me if I was okay. If my mother was anywhere nearby." There's a tension in her words that makes Tom think she's teetering on crying, but a sob never comes, "I...I didn't know what to tell them. I couldn't talk."

He peeks past the column carefully, stiff and tense. Mali has leaned over to drape a comforting arm around Ximena's shoulders, hand gently rubbing her arm. Though his own magic is tightly retained, the Hufflepuff's is broadcasting itself loud enough for it to tingle at the edge of his senses. It feels like he's pressing his face against cool soil. Stable. It makes him feel like he's being swaddled in a blanket of earth. He tries not to think about whether or not she knows he's there.

"Shhh," she coos delicately, as if Ximena were a weeping babe, "You don't have to tell me anything. It's okay. It's okay." Mali begins to speak in a language he doesn't understand, has never heard before, nothing like Latin or Spanish or French.

It is a tender moment. One not meant for him to spy on. That only makes him want it more. Her tears and vulnerabilities are his--This was established last year, when she wept before him in the library. Are they Mali's now? Is she his replacement? Does Ximena trust her as much as he did him?

In the periphery of his hearing range, he hears a low, bassy, jazzy tune.