Serpentine

Sundays are her dominion. In the mornings, she rises early (having not slept much of anything the night before) and walks the empty halls of Hogwarts like a ghost: silent and graceful. It's when her thoughts are at their most quiet. When her self is at its most grounded. When her mind is clear and stable. Lucid.

Usually she'll wander up into the Astronomy tower on Sunday mornings (it's cold, it's devoid of people, a perfect spot for reading), but today she is heading to the library: her second favorite place in the castle. Where her heart is free to swell up in her ribcage and her breaths can come out shaky in excitement.

--Oh, she's here! Black eyes run greedily over the titles of tomes, drinking in the information available to her. Such choices! Her surroundings melt into each other until they're far, far away from her current list of concerns. Hands come out from her sleeves and hover hesitantly over the shelves, unsure of what she's looking for. Is she looking for anything today? She thought she heard the title of an interesting publication just the other day, but that might have been a dream. Someone else's dream? What was she doing in someone else's dream--

...The dull, aged jewel tones of the books soothe her thoughts. She's not a dreamwalker, that's silly. It must have been her own dream. A dream of digging her fingers deep within the folds of these pages and devouring all she can. Consuming the words through her eyes as she feasts on flesh through her mouth. A gruesome, violent, image, but oh such is her passion! Fueled by her need to know. Her eyes focus, then, the anticipation of touch too great for resistment...

Finally, her fingers dare to breeze over the spines of the leather bound books, and oh, she is at peace. All is well. When she pulls out a book on magical languages and sits down to read, there is only a buzzing in her brain. Radio static or distant bees or the sea crashing outside one's window. She charges through half of the book before mid-morning--

--Someone's talking to her? Who? Her ears process the voice: matter-of-fact and orotund. That's her partner in Charms, is she in Charms? Her hand runs over the surface of the table she's sat at (how long has she been sitting down?): glass topped. She's in Charms class--How long has she been in Charms class? When did it stop being Sunday?

A blink, she looks at her partner. Her partner is thirteen, like she is. Her birthday is in a week. She likes apple turnovers and has five younger siblings. When she's nervous, she plays with her long brown hair, and when she lies, she picks at her nails. She first talked to Ximena on the first Thursday of classes their first year, asking if she could borrow a spare quill. Ximena did not have a quill, she had pencils. The girl asked if she was Muggleborn as well. Ximena said she didn't know. Ximena likes sitting next to her because she smells like pine needles. What was her name…?

"...and he's so dreamy and on velvet[1], Ximena, but he's such a wanker!" The girl huffs, still practicing the wand motion as Professor Alder instructed her to (Alder. He has a low, smokey voice. A smokey scent. That's right, he told Ximena to practice as well, is she doing it?), "You're so lucky you bagged Riddle, he's such a gentleman--and so smart!"

Ximena moves her wrist the way Alder showed her to--Yes, she remembers now: clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clockwise and a tap. Clock--

"Martha, do you think it's strange?" The words are coming out of her mouth, but Ximena doesn't remember thinking them, "That we're practicing right on our wands instead of something else? Something safer?"

Her partner tilts her head, pausing in her own practice, "Well--There are a lot of accidental castings during the movement trials."

A nod in reply, "When I'm demonstrating for the younger students, I always use something else rather than a wand." She once used a breadstick! It was a very good breadstick. She's hungry.

The girl smiles, "Well not everyone can be as smart as you, can they?"

A hum, "It's not that hard, it's a very low bar."

She gently shoves her, "You mamzer.[2]"

Martha was her name, that's right, she remembers now. "It's not fair to be called a bastard when I don't know if I can dispute it or not." Ximena gives her a little smile, because Martha is her friend (they're friends, right?)

When they pack up to go to their next class, she puts her Charms textbook back into her shoulder bag and finds a book on magical languages--How long has that been there?

She walks to Slughorn's class with a tune in her head.

Fawley-in-her-year awaits her as always, eager to start and gossip about the latest happenings with their year. Ximena finds her tiring, but kind, "Good afternoon, Eris."

"Ximena!" She claps once, "Mama wanted me to inquire what you might like for your nameday!"

A blink--Her nameday, she supposes, was the day she was given Ximena Lane as an identity. But Fawley-in-her-year probably means birthday, "Something for me?"

If Eris (that's definitely her name, Euphoria is the third eldest) replies to Ximena, it never registers, because in a blink, she's already crushing ingredients and sprinkling them in her secondhand cauldron. Usually this would annoy her, but potions is a bit of a safe space for her. It's the closest subject to cooking. Read the recipe, write over it, make adjustments, measure ingredients, pick them, smell them, grade them, grind them in the mortar and pestle, thinly slice with a silver knife, grate with iron grater (careful not to cut your skin, it will never heal), juice by squeezing it with your bare hand. Let the sweet nectar of the fruit drip over the skin of your fingers like blood from the still beating heart of a maenad--

Oh well shit, that's a little intense. Ximena squints at the recipe, wondering if she's developed wordblindness[3] (strephosymbolia, that's what it's called, she read about it in an article she was able to snag from the Muggle Studies teacher). She hasn't. The potion had just been translated from Czech. They're often a little intense. She tries to replicate the feeling of holding a still beating heart in her hand anyways.

She's never had a heart, though she's seen it available at the butcher shops she accompanies the sisters to. It's a tough muscle and seems like it would be difficult to chew. Chewy textures aren't fun. It takes forever to swallow meat when it's over chewed, and then it just lingers in your mouth until your spirit is broken enough to just give up and spit it out.

But Ximena wasn't taught to waste food. She'd get scolded. Occasionally smacked (never too hard, though it left the tops of her hands stinging). Even if she had a mouthful of leeches, she'd swallow it all.

Luckily Hogwarts has such excellent meals (she still hasn't figured out how the house elves know how to make her food--she's asked, at least she thinks she has, she's so sure she has, how could she have not asked?). Made with pride and love by the elves in the kitchens--That's ignoring the part of her brain that screams that their position in life is awful. It's a very hard part to ignore. Bonnibel (no, that's not right, her name is something else, she doesn't like being called Bonnibel, she should remember what her name is--) shared a few theories as to why they're so happy in their captivity, and Ximena understands none of them. She'd ask them herself, but she knows it would come off as rude. Would it though? Would it be rude? She should ask Not-Bonnibel. She knows so much, it feels like she holds all the knowledge on food in the world. For example: Hogwarts shares Guest Rights with every student and faculty that ever eats in the Great Hall. This is something Elle told her, over latkes last Friday (Elle! That was her name. A good name.) Ximena has an utter fascination with the Hufflepuff's hands when they're cooking--So precise, so knowledgeable, so gentle. Her fingernails are always clean and trimmed, and Ximena's are often bitten off. Youngest Fawley (her name is definitely not Euphoria) advised her to squeeze lemon onto her fingertips to stop the habit, but biting off her nails is comforting to her. It's something she's in control of. It also helps her not scratch herself when--

Oh right, she was talking about Guests Rights. Elle told her that students eating together was a sacred covenant. Comradeship. Ximena couldn't agree more. At home, she serves the sisters before serving herself, and knowing that the food they were eating came from her (and a few others) nourishes the bond between them. It's why it's been so easy to talk to Elle. The shyness waned off so quickly. So easily. It felt like, perhaps, they had known each other for longer. Years. A lifetime. She can't think of anyone else better to share the food they make together with.

She sips her cup of mango juice thoughtfully, a book on summoning theory open on the lunch table before her to a chapter on rakshasas. Hmm...It wouldn't be so hard. She has sizable access to a whole kitchen of fresh fruit and meats, and a few of the South Asian students could trade her the incense for something else (what does she have that's of worth, though? Nothing.) Maybe she can do them a favor. Offer to tutor or help them study?

Ah, fuck--She can just ask the crows. She's so silly. The crows can bring her what she needs--The little things. The seeds and flowers and bells--She'll prepare a fine treat for them in advance as a reward. They're darling little thieves, if she does say so herself--What did that one witch call them? 'Fucking flying bastards'? They're eating the young of the owls and stealing from others.

Yes, the crows can be bastards. But they're just. Which is more than Ximena can say about people.

She sections off a phrase in the text, and writes down beside it: Lichiwinankgoy lapaxkit ninín. She pops a blackberry into her mouth.

A rakshasa would be tricky...There's no guarantee it would be a good one. Or even an original one from the breath of Brahma himself like she wants...The risk highly outweighs the reward but…

More writing in the margin, underlined twice: Acarya.

-

When she's able to make it to the end of the day without much incident, Ximena considers it a success. A day without attention or praise. People asking her how she is, what she likes, what she's doing. It eats at her energy. Drains it completely. Makes her sleepy. This newly acquired fame might not have been worth the freedom it granted her (Was it freedom? She's not dead. Not in prison. Or deported. That's what matters, right?)

Perhaps, if she were a little more average looking, she'd be able to hide better. Her height makes her an easy target to track down in a hallway full of students. But she's never felt a way about her physical appearance aside from how difficult it is to find clothes in her size.

Ugh this hair tho--It's unreasonable. Maddening. She's sometimes half-tempted to shave it all off and just hide her scalp under a habit for the rest of her life. A bit dramatic, but her brush and the state of her curls is almost enough to push her into trying to find some scissors. With each pass through her thick ringlets, the hair grows. Like a sponge. Wild and untamed. By the end of the evening, she'll look like fuck-witch (she had thought her name was Hattie, but when calling her this, she exploded and declared she 'wasn't a motherfucking owl, you spacey swot.', so maybe fuck-witch was more appropriate.) Not that fuck-witch was ugly, Ximena found her hair and face to be symmetrical and soft. Very pretty. She's surprised more students don't have crushes on her, but perhaps they're still too young for those things...

Then, someone addresses her. She wasn't aware she was a part of their conversation. It was muffled in the back of her head, despite the group being only a few feet away.

"How are you and Riddle, Lane?"

"Who?" Her brain races to catch up with the girls'--It's awful not knowing, not remembering someone's name. The hurt look on their face, their refusal to then help you in your time of need.

"Lane." The curly haired one who smells like copper smiles at her like they're sharing a secret, "You know who we mean--Tom!"

"There are a lot of Toms." She can name three off the top of her head, which is surprising, because usually it takes longer than that.

"Cheeky!" The girls all giggle, but it feels like they're giggling at her, not with her. Particularly because she, herself, is not laughing. What's so funny? "Fine, then, keep your secrets. Can't say I blame you."

What is it with everyone today? Starting conversations with her about random boys...Ximena wishes the people around her cared about other things. Like how to properly summon a demon without injury. Adam was talking about a Jersey Devil earlier, maybe he might know something. He's so smart (and handsome)--not usually her type, but…

She starts humming again as she decides to braid her hair for sleep. Something melodic and slow. Comforting. Familiar. She can feel it reverberating throughout the chilled bathroom. The girls start their giggling again, but Ximena's not paying attention to them anymore.