Serpentine

The rest of the Hallowe'en party is somewhat of a blur. He knows that somewhere in the middle, he finally meets Hedwig's Puff (not her cousin like Ximena had surmised, but a timid girl whose surname he never caught), is introduced to a few of Slughorn's colleagues (all heavily informed on the trial and asking him where they might find Ximena), and holds a surreal conversation with Druella Rosier. A surreal, civil conversation.

It starts with a treacle tart. All the sweets left in the hall are bitter, lemony treacle tarts, and of course there are only treacle tarts left when Tom hates the taste of lemons and where are the house elves coming to refill the trays of puddings and cakes and tortes--

"Ugh. Treacle tart." The heavy-lidded girl purses her lips distastefully at the sight of the pastry, "Nasty little things--They're a favourite of Dumbledore, you know."

Tom blinks, looking up at his senior, "Are they?" The man would have terrible tastes regarding pastries.

"It's practically all that was served during his birthday social last year." Tom wouldn't know, he was at Wool's, "Mother almost got sick whilst eating one." What pleasant imagery, "..Do you like them?"

Unsure of what exactly her intention is, he decides to indulge her, "Not at all. I don't like the taste." Especially since the Lemon Tree Incident of 1932. "I prefer figgy pudding."

And then something even stranger than Druella having a civil conversation with him: she gives a hint of a smile before hiding it away, "I do too."

His chin tilts upwards a degree or two, "How are you, Druella?"

At his first use of her given name, she hardens; Tom muses over whether she's furious at the casualness, or surprised at his directness. Her hand tightens around her cup, "...Did you know?" What doesn't he know? "The...That Ian, at the trial...Did you know?"

Tom hums lowly, half sure he knows what she's referring to, but wanting to drag it out of her anyways, "Know what?"

Her fingers bend, nails scratching across the surface of her glass, filled with pumpkin juice, "That it wasn't him." she says, voice barely above a whisper. As if she's afraid that someone will hear her.

He takes his time with answering, letting the suspense sink into her skin, relishing in the small amount of dominance he holds in this moment, "Of course." It insults his intelligence to think otherwise.

Unsure of what the confirmation does for Druella, he watches as she intakes breath through clenched teeth, seizing up her shoulders and cursing under her breath. He braces for an outburst, but she does no such thing. Everything is kept inside. Secured. Fidelian. "...Evan won't tell me where he is."

Oh? "Are you sure he knows?"

The lour she gives is something fierce, "Obviously he does. Otherwise he wouldn't be speaking so...so lowly to me. Treating me like a nipper[1] and telling me not to worry about it...Evil little--" Apparently she doesn't go as far as to complete the insult towards her family's heir, but Tom thinks she'd like to. He wonders if he can push her to do so. “No one’s telling me anything.”

“Do you think they sent him to the same place they did his sister?”

Her eyes are fire. Explosive and accusatory, confused and vulnerable, “Colina wasn’t sent anywhere, she died as a child.” Yes, that’s what he read, but not what he was told, “It was dragon pox, nothing could be done for her.”

“My apologies,” he inclines his head, “I had heard otherwise.”

The desperation sinks back into her body language, “What do you--Who, who told you that--”

He lifts his hand to cease her talking, and almost shivers with pleasure when she obeys, “I can’t say I remember exactly when and where, but...” The trailing off is purposeful, and he tries to get the timing just right, “...I was under the impression that she was dispatched.”

When Druella flinches at the phrase, it all but confirms his suspicions that ‘dispatched’ is a euphemism for being sold to a workhouse or left at a poorhouse, “That’s a lie. That’s a dirty, filthy, disgusting lie.” The edges of her magic threaten to lash out at him, he pictures a leopard protecting her cubs, “Colina wasn’t a squib, I’ll stake my life on it.” Her bottom lip trembles, but her voice does not break, “She was sick, she was...How could they--” For a moment, it looks like she might have some sort of fit, “She was magical. Colina was magical. She wasn’t the most powerful witch, she was young, but she was a witch.” Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, anxious and upset, “I saw her on her deathbed. You can’t, you can’t fake that.”

His eyes never leave her form; her breakdown is very entertaining. He really shouldn’t go for such low hanging fruit but oh! She’s making it so easy--“Come, Druella,” his hand rests on her shoulder, and he ignores how unpleasant the contact is, “this isn’t the place for that...I wouldn’t want you to give these people any reason to spot weakness.”

He leads her to his retinue.

.

Druella is a strange addition to the group. The tallest so far out of all of them, as well as the eldest. The most rigid in her beliefs, the most uncompromising in her actions. Despite this, she often trails along on the tail end during shared free periods and lunches, arms crossed over her body defensively, trying to blend into the background but not hesitating to voice her opinion when passion strikes. She's not a constant by far, being a year ahead and taking different classes, obviously, but her presence is noted by all watching. Her admirers and victims, her family and friends.

Evan, amused with the new inclusion of his cousin, takes it upon himself to keep her in check so Tom won’t have to (though to her credit, her lashing out is kept to a minimum without the need for either of them to tone her down: a new, subdued version of Druella, but much improved). The sight of him is enough to calm Druella for reasons Tom can’t discern (if he had to guess, he’d say she knows what she can and cannot trust about Evan, therefore making him the safest person in the room), so he doesn’t even voice his concerns whenever they whisper quietly to each other outside of his hearing range (but he does keep an eye on them).

Hedwig finds her annoying, but also soon finds her a worthy match in the art of throwing verbal insults. Druella, more refined and subtle than Hedwig’s coarse offences, takes ages to find out that Hedwig considers trading jeers entertainment, and a few days to figure out that the tiny witch considers her a close acquaintance because of it.

Nemesis is a bit harder to convince for reasons Tom doesn’t know. She eyes Druella cautiously for the first few days as if the girl was likely to suddenly explode. Did she have some sort of nasty experience with her? She did mention playing with Ian as a child...Why not also Druella? Eventually, she does finally scoot aside to make room for Druella at their usual table after they share a conversation over their love of unicorns. Typical.

The most interesting development of the new addition, without a doubt, is the sudden increase in Cygnus’ appearances. Before, he had kept his distance from Tom and his litter (presumably due to their difference in age), but now with Druella tagging along, his broody face is a consistent sight in Tom’s day--and alongside it, are his cousins and siblings. Having a Black or two be regularly seen around one is akin to having a king drop your name in conversation. It’s an unexpected but beneficial side effect, and he almost wants to reward Druella for it--But not yet. She’s not exactly under his protection (Tom knows he’s not yet grown that powerful, he’s no fool), but she certainly benefits from his affliction...Therefore she owes him. Something deeper than her friendship (which he doesn’t want anyways) but lighter than her loyalty (which will come in due time).

He asks her, commands her really, to sit among her fellow falcons. Because he’s curious about what they think of all this mess--Of Ian’s expulsion, of Ximena’s noble actions, of Slytherin’s reputation. Yes, they’re not like us. Not as noble or proper, but they are her housemates. Potential allies. The world is watching. Be a leader.

As with Lucretia's comments, she bristles and protests, but soon enough sits quiet: the circumstances of these past few weeks fully realizing themselves in her brain. The backlash, the consequences…

“Besides,” he tops his speech with a little tap on the table between them, “there’s a few good fruits in Ravenclaw; Flints and Olivanders and Zhangs[2].” He purposefully tacks on Zhang at the end, knowing Druella’s stiff opinion on wizards without Saxon ancestry, “Each as pure and noble as yourself.” Some more so: Zhang’s family stretches back farther than England’s been in existence, "An outcross is often needed to strengthen the pool, right?"

He's not sure why, but the final sentence convinces her somehow. Touched or triggered some kind of personal memory, probably, or at least her sense of duty.

He knows in his heart that he'll be as esteemed to the Ravenclaws as he is becoming with the Hufflepuffs.

The first time he sees Druella sit and be merry with Ravenclaws is the first day of snowfall at Hogwarts that winter; it's a thick blanket of snow that forces the groundskeepers to tread narrow pathways, three feet tall, across the grounds to allow students to walk about. The group in question is discussing someone's prediction in yesterday's Divination class: about the very snowfall that's gotten everyone in the mood for cozying by the fire.

"It was so vague, it could have been anything!"

"How is blanket of chalk, three feet tall, swirling pathways vague?"

It's here that Druella inserts herself into the conversation, almost unnaturally: as if it were her first time public speaking, "All predictions are vague, it's on purpose...They have a much higher chance of coming true if they don't name specifics."

The Ravenclaws, to their credit, aren't bemused at their estranged housemate's sudden chattiness, they merely nod along, 'Quite right. Quite right' 'Excellent point, Rosier' 'Divination isn't an art meant for details, anyways'. The validation in her words makes her chest puff out in pride, and she grows confident enough to continue talking.

Tom doesn't stay to eavesdrop, he leaves for the library, where he coincidentally runs into Lucretia, who (coincidentally) is just the person he wishes to run into.

She sits at her usual table (behind a bookshelf that faces a window so that she has excellent reading light without the sun glaring in her eyes), contently snacking and scribbling down something (an essay, he assumes). Much like she was on the first day he spoke to her, she's carved out a reserved space for herself where she cannot be bothered by anyone at all. Tom suspects magic has something to do with the feeling that she remain undisturbed, because (as with the first time), she looks surprised that someone is addressing her. A glare fixes itself onto her face before she realizes that it's only Tom...Then it returns with a huff, "Izzi!" She commands suddenly, making him flinch--A pale house elf appears then, looking sullen but professional: her eyes downcast and mouth set in a firm frown.

"Yes, Miss Black?"

"Is my refreshment ready?" Impatience drapes over her words, her foot taps on the floor steadily.

"Yes; Izzi apologizes for her dawdling pace, Miss Black." A snap of her fingers, and a floating silver tea set materializes between Izzi and Lucretia. The later rolls her eyes.

"Fine fine, just serve the tea." It's the first time he's witnessed a personal exchange between witch and house elf that didn't involve Elle: the difference is stark but unsurprising.

Against, perhaps, his better judgement, he raises a brow at the appearance of the house elf (is it hers? Did it belong to Hogwarts?), "Afternoon tea in the middle of the library?"

“A witch of proper breeding can hardly be faulted if she’s used to the comforts of home.” She pours milk in her tea leisurely, pausing to address Izzi. “That will be all. Go back to your duties.” The house elf bows deeply and pops away along with the tray and tea supplies. Lucretia continues speaking to Tom, "Purebloods aren't allowed to bring their house elves with them; ridiculous, if you ask me...How are we supposed to dress ourselves in the morning? I had to learn how to draw up a bath from Rowle...Thankfully it's not all noble children in Slytherin, or else I'd have to ask Slughorn how to do it." She shivers, "My kingdom for a witch head of house...I'd nominate Merrythought, but with her unfortunate upbringing..." Lucretia hums, "Well, let's not talk about that--I apologise for my lack of greeting, I thought you were the elf. Did you need something?"

"Oh I just wanted to ask how you are, Black." He smiles pretty, trying not to feel like he's asking for an audience, "We haven't spoken in some time, and I wanted to check up on you."

"Quite lovely, thank you for asking." Even Lucretia is not immune to Tom's good boy act, and she smiles at him warmly, "Especially now that dear Ella isn't moping around over Ian." She sighs, "A shame, what happened to him, really...A shame, but necessary." Her head shakes, in disappointment or resignation--Tom doesn't know. "Ian really wasn't so bad on his good days...But with such a passionate personality, it's easy to get carried away."

"Mm." He decides not to comment on that, "Were you close?"

"As close as distant cousins can be," she sips her tea, "really, I think we were just similar in age, so our parents stuck us all together in a playpen and hoped for the best."

"The best?"

Lucretia hums, pausing to think over how best to explain, “...The Rosiers are frequent guests at Black get-togethers, in part thanks to the close friendship great-grandfather has with Felix Rosier.” Lucretia sips her tea, “I believe they wanted their firstborns to marry, but grandfather only had eyes for grandmother, even then." She tuts.

"--He got out of an arranged marriage?"

"Oh don't look so surprised now, marriage contracts aren't binding unless you want them to be. A Black knows their duty, but great-grandfather has a soft spot for his family."

That sounds too easy, "I assumed the friendship continued despite the breaking engagement?"

"Naturally, otherwise, Cygnus might be forbidden to speak to his not-so-secret belle." She smiles to herself. Tom wonders if that's what the two were arguing over in the common room earlier, "It worked out for the best, anyways: Felix Rosier's firstborn died due to splinching, so it would have been a very short marriage indeed." Brutal. "Not a total loss, of course, because it lead to the birth of the current generation of Blacks you have here today." Oh yes, lucky Hogwarts, "Or else I might be calling Vinda Rosier my mother...She has the right idea, but poor execution...Bowing down like that to another outside her family...Such desperation...And that's not mentioning the vicious little rumors regarding her...preferences." She tuts again, "I never felt romantically for Ian, and I suspect he didn't feel that way towards me...Even if we did, well, it's not like anything can come of it now." The tone in her voice is odd. Wistful but not regretful. Accepting and reflecting. "Perhaps Cygnus will fulfill great-grandfather's wish...Even if Druella is a falcon." A smile, sharp and anticipating, "It would be thanks to you, in part. What you've been doing is excellent...I can hardly believe it's happening, actually. I've been frequenting the Lions' den so often, some of them are actually happy to see me now." A chuckle, she covers her mouth, "Presence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose."

He nods, deciding to relate, “I certainly see a lot more of Cygnus now, with Druella frequently sitting around us. Hedwig’s been complaining loudly about it, so I know she’s delighted with a new person to argue with.”

“It’s quite nice that he’s finally speaking to his Slytherin underclassmen. Auntie is always pushing for him to be more social." He does spend an awful amount of time with the same four people.

"Is she in support of the current trend in befriending those of other houses?" Does she support him or will her family be an impediment on his goals?

"Children don't concern themselves with the issues of their parents, Tom." She dodges, "We're all allowed our own opinion anyways."

Alright, he'll admit it was naive of him to hope that a Black reveal any sort of information to him regarding their family's private, contemporary conversations, “Will it be put to a vote, then?”

Lucretia laughs the suggestion off, “If only it were that easy. In any case, you are in mine and Cygnus’ good books. And that’s more than enough.” Sure. For now. “And speaking of!” She dips her hand in the folds of her lavish linen robe and pulls out a dark, faded grey tome, thick as a good-sized slice of cake, and about as big as a small diary, "Here's the help you asked for..."

His eyes greedily take in the sight of the book, wanting to snatch it up immediately, and stopping himself in favor of listening to her dribel.

"...know what my family is known for, but we practice such marriages carefully...There's a reason purebloods document our marriages and births so meticulously." What Tom hears is 'we practice incest carefully', but he doesn't voice this, "The Blacks aren't particularly known for proper provenance documentation, but as usual, we are best at it." Lucretia's smugness is so carefully reigned in that it comes off as humble, "The defamation is mainly because we omit squibs and unfortunate unions, you understand." Does he ever, "They don't strengthen the tree, so they're cut. It's only common sense, right?" He nods, though he's not sure he agrees one hundred percent, "If a Riddle has ever married a Black, you'll find them here--And that's proof enough of your purity." The logic she's using is hard to follow, but he doesn't care at the moment. Her clean, manicured hands delicately slides over the dragonhide book with silver engravings; when Tom's skin makes contact, goosebumps erupt over the back of his hand over the layers of old magic the tome contains. "This one's my own personal copy." Lucretia winks, and the action looks odd on her face, "I received it for my tenth birthday. Be good to it."

What an awful gift. He would have cursed the giver. "Of course." His smile is polite and controlled, "I truly appreciate this, Black."

"It's the least I can do." She's right, it is, "Our family records go back seven-hundred years, so it might take a bit to skim through it all--Keep in mind, all of these families are within the isles, so if your line turns out to be Danish, they won't show up."

Upsetting, "Does Riddle sound Danish to you?"

"If I'm being honest, it sounds Muggle, but you're too sharp to have any of that in your ancestry." Fair enough, "At worst, your ancestors probably changed their surname to avoid prosecution by Muggles and blend in." How pathetic. He'd prefer them to be poor over that kind of shame. "Let me know what you find--And if you need any further service."

"You have my infinite thanks."

"And you have mine." It's strange how different this suave businesswoman is from the blushing, yearning girl he talked to last year...Something tells him if he mentioned Ignatius, she'd go right back to how she was, "Prewett and I are going to Hogsmeade together this Sunday, because of you." He was right. "And, well, Lane's actions. Felicitations on your courtship, by the by." A sly smile, as if they were sharing something private and personal between the two of them, "You're not the only one who's noticed what a smart little tart she is." Doubtful. "It's good to see her annexing herself to a better social standing...If her line is good, maybe your children can aspire to append Black onto their names."

Alright, that's Tom's cue to cut their conversation short, "Your laudation is too much, Black."

"Please," the older girl insists, "call me Lucretia."

.

As a boy (a younger, smaller, boy, that is), Tom enjoyed opening up the old, occasionally torn books that Wool's had for the children, and pouring over the words, pretending like he could read them. He'd sit up straight and tall, finger running over the lines and mouthing what he thought they could be saying...Doctrines, fables, biographies…

The sole kind caretaker at the orphanage attempted to teach him what little she knew, but she had stopped her own schooling at twelve to work. The most she taught Tom was how to write his name. And he wrote his name. Over and over again. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

One day when he writes his name down, the paper will be weighed down with the knowledge that his name means something. His family's grandiose legacy. It makes him almost desperate to start reading the tome Lucretia loaned him…

But...

The moment he opens the book--Really opens it to read it and not just skim through it, hes interrupted. Of all displeasures and misfortunes: Tom gains company in the form of the Yank.

"Heya," He slides into the chair across from him, taking a look at the open page before Tom, "Looking at some family trees, Gat?" He leans on the table, elbows up and to the side, "Business or pleasure?"

He blinks, "...Business."

"Ahh, homework for History of Magic, then?" Please go away, "Or Divination? Are you taking Divination?"

"--No, I'm not." Next year perhaps, it would be easy to catch up, if what he hears about the class being hot air is true, “I’m just trying to prove something.”

"Ah, gotcha." Adam nods once, "Find what you need yet?"

"Not at all, it's hard for me to concentrate with so many distractions--"

"Oh I understand that well. Real well. Everytime I'm trying to finish up some Potions work, my teammates want to jeer me into playing a game or something."

"Or try to carry a conversation?" Tom's smile is pained.

"Yeah, exactly!"

"Pity."

"Pity indeed." He chuckles, saying the words over again in varying English accents, to varying degrees of success, "It's great how y'all talk, so fancy. It's like everyone I speak to is a royal."

"...Actually, some would say my own accent is that of a lowborn, penniless urchin." He tests.

"Really? That's all wet." Adam shakes his head, "I get the same back home; been called every name in the book: hick, scrub, genius...Momma always tells me it's no shame to be poor--But it's certainly not a great honor, either.[4]" Adam chuckles stacking his two fists on the table and resting his chin atop, "Gran doesn't think so, though, I think she misses her cushy life with her parents before she was kicked out..." He shrugs, "I don't mind it, not having money. I have to work harder for the same things, but it makes the end result a lot more fun, y'know?"

"Fulfilling?" Tom offers, lamenting that he wants to carry a conversation with Adam.

He smiles, "Yeah. Fulfilling. Being at the top and knowing you earned it. That your blood, sweat, and tears brought you there. Not your name, not your daddy, not your daddy's money. Just you. You owe nothing to no one."

Tom tilts his chin forward, "Yes...That does sound ideal." Very American way of thinking to be fair, but Adam has the right spirit. A few fixes here and there, and he could have been worthy of Slytherin. Thank God he's not.

"Right? Bee's knees if you ask me." He sniffs, "Better than everyone trying to take advantage of you 'cause your great-grandfather was some kind of mongul."

"Better to be taken advantage of for who you are as a person?"

Adam chuffs, "You're sharp, Gat. I can see why people follow you."

Oh, how he does his very best not to preen, "Oh?"

"Some people...They can’t be bothered to use their peepers correctly, so they wait for someone to see for them...Gran calls them sheep, but I call ‘em twits.

Tom recalls Hedwig calling witches like that something much more vulgar.

"You've got good eyes on ya. Not satisfied with what they lay on, they gotta...They go deeper. Investigate. Don’t take stuff at face value. My old man’s like that too, we all look up to him in my town.”

That’s nice, talk more about his leadership suitability, “I remind you of your father?”

“Ehh, well, bits of him. He’s pragmatic, and you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who doesn’t like him. Folks keep telling him to run for mayor, but politics is ugly. He says people use it for selfish gain instead of progress.”

“He’s not wrong.”

Adam smiles again, “Heh. Got that right. Made me think of you n’ your little posse...You guys are so different, yeah? Different apples from different orchards, but you’re working towards something...Something real.

Now if only Tom could know what exactly that something is.

“I think it helps that you’re not a little...What do you call them here? Clan brat?” Hedwig has also used much cruder phrases for that, “You know the dark underbelly of those up above us. The value of a hard day’s work.”

It’s all but very upsetting that he finds himself agreeing with Adam, especially because it sounds like he’s relating himself to Tom’s experience.

“I didn’t have everything handed to me at a moment’s notice, no.” Everything he’s ever had has been hard fought. Everything ever taken away from him has had claw marks scratched into the surface, “No house and no blood has given me anything."

“I s’ppose that’s where we differ,” among other things, “momma’s family comes from money, and despite their estrangement, the town still treats her like she’s some kind of duchess.”

“Estrangement?”

“Ah, you know,” Adam waves the question away, “I think the eggs here call it disowned in polite company...Gran didn’t want her to marry pops and, well--” he shakes his head, “Family drama. Everyone’s got it, even if they don’t think so.” Except Tom, of course, “Momma and Gran are pretty excited to establish my magical dynasty or whatever.” He phrases the word dynasty like it’s some kind of pipedream.

“The first of House Miller, then?”

“Ya, if I have any warlock sons to carry it on, and if momma has her way, I will.” He sighs, “I’m not even moved out of the house and she’s on about grandchildren...I think she’s been talking to gran too much.”

“Your grandmother sounds like a formidable person.” A bitter, hard headed, formidable woman.

“Ya, you could say that.” He laughs softly, “She’s real invested in my education as a wiz...Sponsored my enrollment in Ilvermorny and everything. Wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for her.”

Tom hums, itching to get to the point, “You’re the only Muggleborn there, right?”

“Officially.” He starts, and ends there because a prefect calls him away at just the perfect moment and Adam tells him that he's gotta run, and dares to give Tom a ruffle on his head, and ohh, he wants to hurt him. Come back this instant and tell him what in the hell he means by 'officially'. Stupid boy. Tom hmphs. Looks back down at the book before him like he was before he was rudely interrupted. Altair III begat Canopus begat Saiph IV begat...

.

The Riddles are probably a minor house, if within Britain (mayhaps his surname is actually spelt Riddel and the women attending his birth never sought to ask for a proper spelling?) He's imagined them as quiet, reserved sort of witches who lived in a refined, modestly sized manor. Tasteful and ungaudy. The interior, of course, would be bigger, with the help of an expansion charm. Extravagant. Not showing off their wealth, but certainly not hiding it either.

--But why should they hide it? Shouldn't they be proud of what they've accomplished and built? So what if others would clearly be jealous of their successes...So what if it attracted attention. People need to be aware of their betters. Be made conscious of them. The same way he's making himself known to the students of Hogwarts.

Why are they making it so hard to find them?

If he had to theorize, and believe him he has had to many times, then he'd say that the Riddles were probably a non-English clan, and therefore ten times as difficult to locate in recent history. If Evan's talk about Britain first expands to the other highbloods (and Tom knows it does), then it's only natural for a family as powerful as his to be quietly pushed to the side in favor of some lesser houses from England

There is also, of course, the possibility that his father gave his mother a fake surname to keep her from stalking him or giving their filthy half-blood child his name, but Tom doesn't like to think about that because if he focuses on it for longer than a few seconds, he starts to lose his breath.

Despite how it might appear, he's not at all obsessed with his lineage. He prioritizes his education and social standing before it, but that doesn't mean he doesn't often wonder...When he gives himself time to imagine his ancestral line, it's during downtime in classes (or more recently: during lunch when Elle and Ximena are chatting). Some days, the Riddles are descended from kings, and other times from more historically impactful people like war generals and prophets. Being king sounded appealing when he was a tot, but now that he's watching where real power lies, he thinks being a sort of royal advisor would be more suited to his tastes. The kind that influence families like the Blacks.

Blacks are practically wizarding royalty according to most everyone he speaks to, even the ones who don't particularly like them. It's nothing to do with some ancient wizard king (much to Tom's disappointment), and more to do with attitude and entitlement. He sees it even in the meeker Black members, from sixth year Dorea to little first year Orion. The former might not be the leader in Eric's group, but she doesn't allow herself to be treated the same way that other wizards are treated. Eric doesn't give her special treatment, but she doesn't make her lick her heel. Private humiliation is much different than public.

As for Orion, he's still a bit of a wildcard. Too early to tell. His older cousin, Walburga, seems to coddle him and keep him from talking to anyone outside of the family's immediate approval--Including Tom (he's lucky enough to speak to him during lunch or in the common room,) and in those few moments he's proven to be a bit of a milksop. The sort of child who would start crying if he didn't get his way. Unrefined, but still entitled. A better example would be Lucretia or Casseopeia, but he suspects the latter has to do with age (nevermind that Dorea is only a year younger than her) and the former due to a stricter upbringing.

Wizards, of course, don't officially carry titles bestowed by the Queen, as she is a Muggle and it would be uncouth. They used to be allowed, and even had personal titles specifically for wizards, Sigur[5], which would allow the noblemen in question a comfortable life including lands, a place in the King's court, serfs, and the ability to enact local laws. He's read that many prominent Pureblood families were quite angry to give up their rankings and such once the Statute of Secrecy was in place, and Evan tells him that many resorted to quietly taking control of their former lands via unethical methods--It's then that he learns of the second Unforgivable: The Imperius curse.

Imperius. Commanding. Authority. Empire. Any other time, the words would spark excitement in him. But having spent so much time around highbloods makes him cautious; to be imperious is to be arrogant. Ruling without justification. And he has more than justification as to why he should be in charge of others. Something as tantalizing as the Imperius curse needs to be used sparingly...Not that he's planning on using it, his interest is purely academic. Just like his interest in Ximena.

He studies the pages of Lucretia's book scrupulously, as if his life depended on finding his family name within the book (and he'll claim it does); eyes scanning attentively over every Ratian, Rosier, and Rowle. The family trees charted in the pages are more alike to mazes, and it’s a wonder any of them remember who their own mother is, much less who’s distantly related enough to them to be a marriage candidate (not that that really seems to matter to them). What fascinates him, particularly after Lucretia's little explanation as to why there were blanks in her family tree, is the absence of any titles at all. Compared to the public records in the Slytherin common room, which had every other witch titled some sort of way pre-statute. Did they erase the shameful ties to Muggle culture, or did they keep away from them even then?

...Did his father's family carry any titles? In the past, when it was allowed? Perhaps his Muggle mother, which is why his father even deigned to cast a glance in her direction...No no, what power would a Muggle hold that invites a Wizard's envy?

Then again, highbloods have proven themselves to be connoisseurs of idiocities. He doesn't understand it yet, but hopefully he'll never have to.

.

The library this week holds many treasures. First: his exchange with Lucretia, which has given him such a valuable key in his journey to finding his father; invaluable and fascinating as it is frustrating. He'd attempt a gemino on the book had he not the common sense to suspect that it was protected against that sort of thing…

Second: Adam and his cryptic, half-explanations that give way to more than meets the eye (as well as more raveled mysteries that serve nothing to untangle the threads around him). The only official Muggleborn in Ilvermorny? There’s substance behind that (he’ll bring it up with Hedwig later.)

The third is today: he runs into two of the more interesting upperclassmen, Yami and Mali, huddled together over...nothing. No open books, no parchment, not a single thing atop the shared table between them. They're just talking. It's not a particularly heated discussion, their voices aren't raised and their expressions remain even, but they're very close, on perpendicular sides. As if there wasn't already a silencio spell around them (and Tom knows there is because he has excellent hearing and his magic sensing has gotten much better), they protect their words with their own bodies and long curtains of hair. Could it be related to Yami's sister? Or some other equally elusive topic?

When he asks to sit at their table, they break apart easy enough, Mali looking curious and Yami contemplative. Mali tells him that it's a public table and anyone is free to sit, and how can he turn down that challenge? He thanks her with a smile and sits himself down across from the two of them, not asking about their conversation, but sprinkling questions about their midterms and who they think will win the House Cup. It is, of course, too early to tell for the latter, but both announce their high expectations for Slytherin on account of all this excellent publicity.

"Slughorn's on cloud nine." Mali says, chin resting on her hand, "It's almost like he hasn't been under serious investigations for the past few weeks."

Yami scoffs, "His upcoming Slug Club meeting is going to be his biggest, if his boasting rings true."

Right, the Slug Club, Tom's not old enough to attend yet, but the fool definitely has his sights set on him, "Professor Slughorn has always had a lackadaisical outlook on life--Are you two going?"

"Unfortunately."

"You bet your sweet bippy, I am."

What's a bippy? No matter, it's probably nonsense, "I envy you both, they sound like...excellent unwinding methods after midterms."

"Really? They sound like a regular gatherin' for jerks to me." Mali chuckles, and Yami does not deny it, "I keep hearing weird reassurances from others that I won't be the only...What's that phrase they like to use, Yami? Color girl?"

The Slytherin prefect looks heavily displeased, "There are many terms."

Tom doesn't doubt it, "What an odd thing to say." Not at all, actually, it's per the norm and expected from that group at this point, "I'm sure they mean well." Which, unfortunately, makes it worse.

"Oh yes yes, they all mean well." Mali sighs, and Tom's not sure she's still just talking about the student body, "What I would do with all these well meanin' feelings."

Yami hmphs again, but this time, she sounds amused, "Just because they mean well, doesn't mean they mean well to us...I believe we are all sorely lucky that Lane is smart enough to stay away from the gatherings."

"Oh sweet Gods above," Mali laughs, hand slamming on the table, causing Tom to not jump, "Can you imagine? All those little assholes crowding around her trying to get into her good graces and ohhh Lane! You are simply so polite for a little dirty urchin girl, are you suuuuure you weren't raised by filthy, disgusting Muggles?" Her voice contorts and changes with her dramatic imitation, attracting looks from a few passing students, "Ooooh Lane! You're so pretty for a plain little brown girl! May I suggest some lovely skin lightening cream from Madame Gardenia's Boutique[3] on Diagon Alley?"

When Yami hides her mouth, he notices that she's deeply amused, but it's tinted with something else. A tiredness or a familiarity to Mali's jests. Tom, not quite knowing his place within the joke, allows a concerned look to filter through his features--It would feel too wrong to laugh with the two of them.

"Aww, don't look so sad there, Tom." Mali reassures, voice returning to normal, "They mean well."

Point taken.

"Understood...As it is, it feels like everyone is adopting vulture characteristics when it comes to Ximena, it shouldn't need to be concentrated." Definitely not.

"You're damn right--It's a fucking web of spiders, isn't it, Yami? How many of these have you been to?"

"Too many." She concedes, rubbing the side of her temple, "About...six or eight a year since my third year."

Tom blinks, "Third years aren't allowed at the private parties, though, are they?"

"They are if they're rich." Yami corrects, her gold bangles jingling, "Or the current Hogwarts Student of the hour."

He presses his lips into a thin line, he hasn't even been invited yet. "Ximena's been invited?"

Yami looks at Mali, defecting. Mali shrugs, "So I've been told."

That's...unfortunately not altogether ridiculous. Slughorn had zero idea who Ximena was before this whole incident, and now that she's temporarily popular (outside of the student body), well, it'll only be natural for her to show up at one of his little gatherings. Claim mentorship over her and her good deeds...It's just like him. Smart bastard. If he were Slughorn, Tom would do the same. Show her off like a pretty little ring or a prized racehorse to a gawking audience wanting to bask in the glow or profit off the wins. He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet, "I presume she's not going?" That would be the day.

"My baby viper? Please." Mali chuckles, "We all know she'd rather hermit her little butt in some cobweb stricken corner of this castle than speak to people." Well little is the last thing Tom would call Ximena, but details--Such as Mali's use of all instead of both.

He clears his throat, hoping, waiting for Yami to chime in with her piece...How does she know Ximena? Just a year ago it felt like she wanted to avoid her at all costs...What did Yami say about her? She is shrouded in a veil of...of what?

But Yami just hums, and comments nothing. Typical.

"But it'll pass, fame is ever fleeting--especially among you freaks." Mali snorts, "My first two weeks here, you'd think I was Josephine Baker--Boys n' girls fawning over me like I was made of candy." Yes, his ex-mentor in particular, "And now I'm lucky if anyone dares to look me in the eye."

"Is that a bad thing?" She sounds like she quite enjoys it.

"Not at all; it helps me know who's worth speaking to."

The shared eye contact pleases him, "And...your house is being amicable to you, right?"

"Civil, yeah; I think they're still off put by how impolite I can be."

"Impolite is an awfully light way of phrasing it." Yami threads her fingers together on the table, bitter or teasing. Tom's not sure.

"Impolite is how they phrased it, so I'm just repeatin'. Hufflepuff gossip isn't very malicious, you know...Speaking of, these days, I hear you're an honorary badger, little snake." Mali smiles the way Tom imagines a loving older sister would. It makes him uncomfortable.

"Hufflepuff has been very hospitable to me since gaining Elle as a Puff." His reply, carefully neutral, is given as he folds his hands in his lap, giving a little nod in confirmation.

"Since the trial, I've noticed how much more friendly everyone is to each other. It's lovely." He gauges the reactions of the older girls: Yami hums and stays silent, but Mali responds almost immediately.

"It's not very harmonious, but it's way closer than it was when I first arrived here. Soon you will all be holding hands and singing songs and wondering why you all hated each other in the first place."

Tom wouldn't go that far, "You really think the houses could unite under one banner for the sake of unity?" Specifically his banner?

"I mean, if there was a war that reached Hogwarts, sure." Mali ponders, and Tom tries not to get too mad at the hypothetical concept of any battles raging within Hogwarts, "But without a common cause, everyone's too afraid of change here, it's kinda pathetic." He agrees.

"People like what is comfortable." If he didn't know any better, he'd say Yami almost sounded defensive, "They don't want to be challenged." He decides that she's simply trying to spur a discussion.

"Do you think Slytherin will ever bend enough to consort with the other houses?" Tom prompts his two seniors.

"If it served them somehow, sure." Mali clicks her nails on the tabletop, "Like how everyone is tripping over themselves to come off as perfect little light-magic attuned angels."

Yami shrugs, indifferent, "Perhaps. It would negate the need for Puffs, but I suspect the tradition will continue for the sake of tradition."

"...Why do we have Puffs?"

"It's political: Slytherins have a reputation of being too reactionary, and Hufflepuffs have one of being fair and docile." Yami answers as if she's had to answer this question before.

"It's the same reason dictators take domestic, well-liked women as wives: they want the people to trust them more easily--They can't be all bad if they married a saint." Mali agrees, resting her chin on the back of her hand, "Not that all you little snakes are as diabolical as Signore Mussolini or Herr Hitler...I know for a fact a bunch of you love your Puff as you would family." Tom is...fond of Elle, as one is fond of a nice plant they picked out for their kitchen windowsill. He supposes if he was born with siblings, the affection would be similar. "But that's a reason parents encourage their precious lil' heirs to find badgers. Real bonds and friendships be damned."

He clears his throat, "How cynical."

"It's the world we live in." Yami states, not looking like she feels a particular way about her words, "Helga and Salazar's close friendship has been marred into a political tactic. I'm sure you noticed how many of our housemates have bragged about their Puff's reputation."

"Even us Puffs are in on it," Mali winks, and Tom's not entirely sure she's joking. Yami's only reaction is to roll her eyes, "Someone told me God promised us the earth, but so far all we've been given is the Hufflepuff common room[6]."

"It's hard to envision you as someone meek, Mali." Tom comments, and does not at all mean it as an insult. Mali is a special case within Hufflepuff.

"Aw, you sweet talker, you." Mali waves him off, as if she were actually flustered with his compliment, "My little viper sure is lucky, isn't she?"

Yami coughs, though to his ears it sounds like she was covering up a huff of laughter. Mali simply continues, "Us badgers are multifaceted. People think just because there's been almost no dark wizards in our house that we can't possibly be vicious, but they seem to forget that the majority of us go into politics." He questions whether Mali came to these conclusions on her own or if she was lectured on them by experienced Hufflepuffs.

Tom looks to Yami for confirmation. She nods, "Not to imply that politicians are as vile as dark wizards but..." she makes an open, unsure gesture with her hand, "...they certainly end up with more stability in their power than dark lords do."

He thinks he'd die of boredom if he were a politician, "Isn't fear the better way of keeping control?"

Perhaps he should have known better than to have asked that of the two girls, because now they're looking at him with gazes he can't quite describe. They don't know him nearly well enough to be certain of what his intentions are, but they certainly aren't stupid.

"Fear helps." Mali admits, finally, "But it can only go so far."

"The real power is love." Yami confirms, looking dissatisfied, "Love condones a lot of atrocities."

.

The elegant pathways of the Black family tree knot and flow so far that Tom begins thinking they rival the length of the roads that Rome built. He feels entangled in the menage's annals, even if they're more than fifty years old. Whenever he sees the charred mark of a missing name, he begins to wonder what happened. Did they run away? Marry wrong? Had the gall to be born without magic? It's akin to reading a melodramatic novel (and believe him, there's plenty of those available in the matron's office back at Wool's), and the more he overthinks about what could have happened, the more he worries that the reason the person was expelled from the bloodline was because they married into his family: an unworthy family.

It's an excellent distraction from Ximena. Until it's not.

The thought of her but not her herself is always lingering in the back of his head. Like a silent ghost. Behind corners, under covers, above rafters. A slowly simmering pot. An oven left on. A pile of embers. It doesn't hurt him to think of her, but it doesn't aid him in any way either other than to make him sulk mildly irritated. Annoyed.

He tells himself she's on his mind because he's simply looking out for any surnames that could be attributed to her (he writes them down alongside his other notes on the names that sound like they could have morphed into Riddle), but it doesn't explain why she remains on his mind after he places the book away.

Seeing her out and about, being social with others, talking with those outside of Slytherin and outside of his influence actually (absurdly) causes a physical reaction within him, starting in his arms and tingling to his shoulders and breast. It picks at him there. Digs into his chest to hollow it out--For what reason, he's not sure, but he doesn't like it. It's like having a raven pick at his carcass, stripping meat off his ribcage slowly. What the hell is this? A rebound of withholding the bracelet from her? Yes, a sort of curse that's attached itself to him. Trying to make him feel things like guilt and remorse. Is that aiding in keeping her away from him? Keeping the anger fed. Yes. It's not at all the fact that what he did was horrible or uncalled for, it's just some sort of foreign magic keeping her cold to him. It's not any kind of culpability or contrition that's making him feel this way either. That's absurd. He doesn't know the meaning of those words. If he didn't feel bad at taking away the little trinkets and mementos from his fellow orphans, why would he feel it at keeping one away from Ximena of all people? Because she's a witch? Gained his favor?

Ridiculous.

He does his best to keep himself composed whenever she and Elle set about ignoring him, and thus far, the best strategy (aside from ignoring them right back) is to daydream plot about how nice it'll be once Ximena starts talking to him again. If her stubbornness continues as strong as it is, he estimates it'll be about January before that happens (or February, at worst). And when it does, he'll catch up on all that he's missed in the conversations they didn't have: thoughts on their classmates and politics (including how silly it is that people think they're promised), the current events plaguing the Muggle world, and most importantly: the very happening that lead to his keeping of her bracelet no longer a secret. How does she feel about Ian's punishment? Her own court-ordered sanctions that have surely already shown their detriment in her education and daily life?

The problem with this strategy is that oftentimes he's so invested in his thoughts that he misses them leaving or excusing themselves to go elsewhere, either separately or together.

When finally, he has the right timing, and the proper luck, he runs into his Puff and housemate on their way to the kitchens, he's practically elated. Practically, though, not actually. He knows how to act.

Elle greets him with a sweet hello, accompanied by a sudden little swirl of what he interprets as her magic being happy to see him. Ximena gives him cold indifference, reining in her magic even further. He doesn't wince. He knows how to suffer in silence. Instead, Tom pips up about where are they going and oh they're headed to the kitchens too--What a proper coincidence, can he join them? There's no doubt that Ximena would have said no, but luckily all she does is frown when Elle accepts his inquiry. So she hasn't told her about her issues with him...That's good. Maybe he can gain some kind of insight from his Puff (not that she knows Ximena better than him, that's impossible), because people keep telling him that women are mad or from another planet or function on an entirely different physiology than men, and while he's experienced little to prove it, isn't it worth a small shot?

In the kitchens, he sits at a table, at a respectful enough distance, on a stool: legs swinging. Chewing on some fresh persimmons the house elves handed to him when he answered 'a bit' to their inquiries of his state of hunger. His Puff and silent housemate are preparing something Elle calls biały.

"Do you have any plans for Christmas?"

"Nothing outside of the usual: it's always a lonely winter back home, but I've grown used to it."

"I apologize; I would happily invite you back home for the holidays, but..."

"It's okay! I understand." Ximena sounds almost afraid that she's offended Elle somehow, and it doesn't surprise him anymore because the two always act like they're in a competition to be the most considerate and accommodating. Elle, as a Hufflepuff, she can understand, but he's never seen Ximena act so attentive. Towards anyone. He doesn't like it. Elle isn't even her Puff! She's his! She has her own!

The two continue their prep whilst asking one another about their winter traditions, and Tom (fortunately) learns much about Ximena in the process. Such as her brief stint of rebellion as an Anglican ('The Abbess was horrified!') In turn, Elle shares the story of her Catholic grandmother who was outraged with her sons' decision to walk out with two Jewish girls ('We don't talk to that side of the family much.') And Ximena outwardly wonders about how her guardian would react upon thinking she was even considering marrying outside the faith (he does not perk up at this).

"The one at your trial? She seemed understanding."

"At times." She sets aside some garlic for later mincing, "But mostly she's strict. She's in charge of my lessons back home, and she doesn't accept anything less than perfection."

Lucky. Nobody ever challenged Tom at Wool's or kept him on his toes; he was in charge of his own education and drive--Though he supposes he's better off for it, then. Are nuns allowed to adopt? Ximena's guardian continues to be ideal...Now if only he could find out if she's a witch.

“Very fitting of her stereotype.” Elle chuckles, “What was she before she became a nun?"

A pause, "I've never asked." Her face would probably be beet red if her skin was as light as his, "It's...It's just never come up."

His Puff gives a sympathetic hum, "Probably a past she preferred to forget."

The regret immediately sinks into her as soon as the words leave her mouth, because then her face goes beet red and she begins to stutter and slip over a new topic to bring up--In haste, she grabs one of the onions set aside, and begins chopping haphazardly, "I--I hate chopping onions, it's such a bother heating up the knife before cutting them." Elle laughs nervously, not realizing she hadn't washed the vegetable.

"Try instead, putting a piece of the onion on the crown of your head to keep from crying[7]." Ximena suggests (eager for the subject change), displaying her technique by placing a quarter of the purple onion on her head like a coronet.

"Really?" The older girl takes great interest in the information, watching Ximena dice the remaining onion so finely without any sign of tears, "Who taught you that?"

The sudden pause in chopping alerts Tom to something amiss: Ximena freezes, her face contorting into one of puzzlement and deep thought. She presses her lips together tightly, "...I don't know." The hemisphere falls from her head, thumping against the wooden block, "I don't know." Her voice breaks, stance wobbles, shoulders shake. Tom's not surprised when she starts sniffling, but he is surprised over the reason.

Elle is hesitant to touch her, but when she does, it is gentle and matronly: a gentle hand to her back and shoulder.

When he sleeps that night, he dreams of the event again. And Ximena's tears spill all over the kitchen floor, rising. Rising. Past his ankles and knees and stomach and shoulders. It feels as if he's being buried in sand. When the sun ascends to dry the pool, mounds of salt remain, and Elle sweeps it all up in a burlap sack and uses it to cook a feast. To season fantastic, superb, delectable dishes from lands far and foreign to England. When Tom eats them, he's enamoured. He cannot stop eating. He too, feels like crying.