Serpentine

He's walking outside in the crisp winter air, on the cusp of Spring. His shoes clacking softly against the black asphalt path winding out before him—A pebble stuck in his left one. Right under his heel. But he doesn't mind it. Hardly notices it. He can ignore it safely and admire the trip. The passage is free from debris (leaves and dirt and litter) and the sky is a strange sort of color: he can't tell what time of day it is. There is no sun, no moon, no stars or clouds above him. But he can see. Clearly.

To the left of the path, there's neat rows of young trees. Fresh and thriving. With smooth, bone white bark and bright parakeet green leaves. They look cultivated. Perfectly groomed and grown by someone wanting the healthiest and best looking specimens.

On the other side, there's an assortment of older trees, tall and imposing. With ashy, damaged brown bark that's peeling off in some spaces and dry leaves that twirl as they fall to the earth below. In the rustling branches, there's twittering birds hopping from tree to tree, but he never sees them. He still knows they are there. By movement. By sound. Do animals have magic? Because he senses that too. Sparks of tingling electricity passing through the trees...

...The trees to the left look odd. Now that his gaze lingers on them, he realizes that the folds and wrinkles on the forking of their branches resemble skin. Soft and fleshy. He's sure that if he were to press his hand down on them, that they would sink softly into the bark like fatty meat.

The pebble in his shoe isn't so ignorable anymore. It digs harder and harder into his foot the further he walks. He still doesn't do anything about it, he can remove it from his show when he arrives at his destination. He continues walking. Even when he feels the blood begin to pool in his loafer and drip behind him: marking his footstep. He starts to limp. He continues forward, unhindered by the new injury.

He hears the chiming of bells.

There's someone ahead, sitting cradled in a tree: trunk low to the ground and smokey, wispy branches almost caging their form. In the manner of dreams, he thinks he's himself for a second, but at the sudden spike of fear, his mind changes it to Ximena. Naturally. His mind often goes to her by default.

She is not awake, but in a deep slumber, her breaths slow and steady. Mouth slightly parted. In her hands might be a bird, or blossoms, or fruit. He's not sure. But it's bright vermillion, and split open, the fleshy pulp from the inside staining her fingers, her hands, dripping onto her clothes and the ground beneath her. Must have been in the middle of eating it when she fell asleep. At her feet are discarded pieces of fruit: rejected by her. Apples and peaches and pomegranates and figs and olives and pears and it does not stop. They're all rotted or dry. Stepped on. Some of them she hadn't even taken a bite out of before throwing them aside. Are they even fruit?

He wants to wake her. Shake her shoulder because he wants some of what's in her hands too. To share it with her. Give it to him. Wake up and hand him the bird, the blossom, the fruit; so he can take a bite out of it too.

But Tom wakes up first.

The canopy above his bed is covered in shadows, but there's enough moonlight coming in through the window to make a small streak of emerald through where the curtains are slightly parted. His head is ringing. Heart beat pounding in his ears—But what for? Whatever he was dreaming about wasn't a nightmare, was it? There's no sweat on his brow or chill on his skin. He just feels cheated out of something. Even if he doesn't remember what he was cheated out of.

He closes his eyes but doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.

-

Dark circles under his eyes, he takes his breakfast in the dormitory (holding a friendly relationship with the prefects and teachers allows him to take his food just about anywhere without question), huddled up with his plate and glass of milk. It's rare when there's anyone in here outside of sleeping hours, so it's the perfect place to hide from people's concerned questions over his fatigue. He doesn't have a class for another hour (his other professors proctoring OWLs and NEWTs leaves him lots of free time), so it buys him time to sort his head into a place that he perceives as real.

He doesn't usually remember his dreams, and he hardly remembers this last one, but it's so far removed from how they've been lately that he…

He resolves to start writing them down rather than relying on his pristine memory.

Setting aside his empty dishes to be picked up later by houselves, Tom walks up to the common room to procure spare parchment and ink at one of the writing desks; he sits down at one situated in a corner of the room next to the girls' dormitory entrance, and begins to write out as much as he remembers. Not just about last night's dream, but also about any others he can remember. Most of them mixed up with one another, and definitely out of order.

Behind the bookshelf to his right, there's a chattering group of upperclassmen girls, walking down from their dormitory. He doesn't pay any attention to them, at first. He only hears parts of their conversation.

"I'm supposed to see into a mirror a certain way in order to see the face of my future husband...Isn't that fascinating? Here I thought I was supposed to dream of him."

"I dreamt I married last night, I think." Ximena's voice, clear as a bell. He doesn't recognise the other voices, but hers he would never forget. It makes him extend an ear in curiosity, "It felt like a wedding, anyways, I'm not sure...Very pagan."

He remembers parts of his dream too. Walking down a long path with someone waiting at the end…

"Aww! Already dreaming of yours and Riddle's bonding, then?"

"—No, actually, it was to someone else...I think his name is Evan?"

Tom snaps his quill in half. Ink spatters on the parchment.

A hush sweeps across the group.

"O-oh."

"Well, dreams don't really mean much."

"Yes, that's right, there's nothing of worth in such a thing, Lane, don't worry."

He can feel her confusion from here, "I know." He can picture her look of bemusement and delicately furrowed brows, "Why would I worry?"

One of the girls clears her throat, "Well...You wouldn't want your courter to get jealous of something that means nothing, right?"

Yes. It's a good thing they're not actually courting and he doesn't have any feelings towards Ximena at all, or else he might actually be jealous. A damn good thing.

-

Elle teaches him to melt chocolate that afternoon.

"You need to cook it over a pot of boiling water, otherwise the chocolate will burn." Her tempered voice patiently narrates as she shows him how to stir the melted sweetness, "Make sure the bowl doesn't touch the surface of the water."

It's a calming process, being taught by her. More so when a few of the house elves join beside him to observe and offer questions. He never noticed at first, but they're not afraid of her. Not like they are of him. They don't trust him yet, he doesn't think, even if he's spent so much time here already…

Elle treats them as equals. In magic and manner. Definitely not a mark of a pureblood witch, but if he cared about that, he wouldn't have secured her as his Puff. The strict, distant disrespect given to the house elves has reaped no added benefits for any of his classmates. Poor or otherwise. But the attitude that Elle undertakes with them has...There's no other word for it, awakened something in the creatures. But he can't pinpoint what.

It started a few weeks ago, a little before April, when he was about to ask Elle for help with the ginger cookies. He had witnessed a peculiar exchange between her and Pris: she left her a bottle of cream. Huge! The size of his head. It was deposited casually on a counter with a fun ribbon tied around the neck—And rather than politely and profoundly refuse the gift as she has all others that Elle offered her, Pris had frozen at the sight of it. The surrounding house elves froze at the sight of it. As if they had never seen heavy cream a day in their lives.

When Pris accepted it, the atmosphere changed.

No longer were the other house elves afraid of Elle, nor timid in her presence. When mistakes were made, no one cowered. No one begged for forgiveness or punishment. They told her when she missed a spot in her cleaning rather than scrambling to fix it for her. A partnership. It was as if she turned a switch on them, changing their very nature. A different sort of magic. An old magic.

They still treat him the same.

"When the water is boiling, you know it's ready." Elle's voice takes him out of his thoughts, "You know, Ximena told me about a saying they have in her country: that when you like someone, you're hot for them, you're like water for chocolate."

Tom freezes. "Her country?"

She nods, "She can't remember what her country is, but watching me boil water the other day reminded her of the saying." A hum, "Isn't that funny? Like water for chocolate...I'm sure it sounds better in Spanish."

He watches her swirl and move the half-melted morsels in the glass bowl.

"Do you have any interesting sayings from Poland?" He doesn't feel like talking about Ximena.

"Well yes, of course, we're very...colorful people." She chuckles, "But I feel my best sayings are from Yiddish. We're quite creative. One my mother says to my brother all the time is," she clears her throat, " ‏‏אַלע ציין זאָלן דיר אַרויספֿאַלן, נאָר איינער זאָל דיר בלײַבן אויף צאָנווייטיק." Her voice sounds different in another language. "It means 'may all your teeth fall out, except one to give you a toothache'." A full laugh, tired and nostalgic, "I always find the different proverbs from different areas fascinating, don't you? Little pieces of culture and history." She gestures to the melting chocolate, "Like food."

He wonders how different two cultures can be to develop phrases like may all your teeth fall out, except one to give you a toothache and like water for chocolate. Especially when the Brits have phrases like 'a bird in hand is worth two in the bush'.

Elle pours the melted chocolate into her batter, folding it in.

"How long have you been making food for others here? Not just your brother."

"...Well, probably once I realized I wasn't the only Hufflepuff who knew where the kitchens were. Us badgers are communal, and I was raised with a big family, so it's only natural that I ended up bringing all the food I made back to the common room." The batter in the bowl fluffs up, "You're welcome to come sometime! We're always happy to have our snakes visit, and everyone's fond of you."

Everyone's fond of you. Who is everyone? Why are they fond? Because he's Elle's Snake? Solely?

"I'd be happy to." He's never been inside another common room. How different is the badger den from the snake pit? "Is this for your housemates too?"

"Oh no--No, this is for Pris."

Another treat? “Is it her birthday?” He’s starting to get a little too old to be giving those cute little quips, but it still lands well on Elle, who chuckles and shakes her head,

“It’s about gratitude, Tom. Showing that I care and appreciate the work done around Hogwarts.”

No, it’s more than that. Something she’s keeping from him.

She pours oatmeal in the batter and folds it in as well, “Houselves don’t...accept pay, so I’ve found good alternatives. It’s close enough to the rewards they used to..." Elle trails off, but Tom can't figure out what the look on her face is trying to convey. Reluctancy? Regret?

"...They're brownies, aren't they?"

Her look of surprise offends him: he knows his folklore. He has ever since he was small and listened to the stories told to other children. At night, he'd imagine the brownies that lived in Wool's would go up to the caretakers and pinch and bruise them for not doing their work properly. For not taking care of the children—of him properly. In the mornings up until he was about seven, he'd always check to see if there were any marks left on them.

"...I think they were, once." She offers in reply, looking down at her hands with such melancholy that Tom believes she'll burst into tears at any moment. The thought makes him deeply uncomfortable. "But with how they’ve been treated…”

He blinks and looks out at the kitchen: large and almost threatening. Completely populated and manned by the creatures his contemporaries kick around. Treat like scum. Hogwarts: A History told him that the houselves were Helga's loyal servants (serfs, was the word used). But somehow that feels like a lie. Revisionist.

Tom helps Elle finish making her chocolate-oatmeal treats. They leave it on a platter in Pris' usual workstation. As they leave, Tom thinks about what it would take to change his nature. Forget his roots. Kill his spirit.

-

Charms class is mundane as ever, with a review going over the last few months taking up the rest of the half hour. He has, of course, finished up the assignment ages ago and has taken up to reading ahead to parts of the textbook the class won't go over. His partner, still the mute Ravenclaw, is busying herself with some pen and paper. Drawing, he thinks; she had finished the review right after him. A better result than how it was back before late April.

His attention span in class has improved drastically since the clothes mending session with Ximena. Dumbledore was the first to notice, obviously, and Slughorn the last; all he notices is when Tom's work is off. Outside of his academic achievements, Tom means nothing to him.

In Charms, Alder is somewhere in the middle: attentive to his students' emotions, but more focused on their technique over anything else. Tom suspects that emotion makes him uncomfortable, and he respects that. Understands it. Alder's avoidance of feelings isn't neglect of his students the same way Slughorn's is, it's just sensible. Just the way it should be. Not prying into his personal space or life or problems. All his professors should be doing is teaching him and guiding him in improving his skills. None of this frivolous pseudo-friendly nonsense like Slughorn does when he pretends his former students are all his friends.

After class, during his free period, he walks back to the common room to try and get a few minutes of solitude when a sharp whistle catches his attention; he focuses on the two figures ahead of him: "Hello Hedwig," a smile and a nod at her, "Evan." He greets, perfectly civilized as he always does.

"See, told ya he was pissed." Hedwig elbows Evan, who flinches and rubs at the spot she hit on his shoulder.

Tom blinks, "Me? Why would I be?"

"Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit ya." Thank you, Hedwig, "We know."

"You know?"

Evan rubs his temple, "Lane's dream."

"Dream? What drea—Oh, that." He hasn't stopped thinking about it all day, "What about it?"

Hedwig rolls her eyes and Evan shifts in discomfort.

"You're not slick, Tom, I've seen you with that book before." Her arms cross, "The one by Ainslie Blight, about dreams."

It had never occurred to him that Hedwig was observant. That's on him, he should never forget she's a Slytherin, "Wha...Hedwig, that was last year, I hardly remember—"

"Cut the shit, we all know you're an obsessive fuck." Her hand waves away his perfectly thought out reasoning, "And you're also way too smart to be upset over something like this."

"Who said I was upset?"

"You took my breakfast from me this morning." Evan, looking anything other than composed for perhaps the first time in his life, shoots back.

"Did I?" It was rashers and potatoes. "I'm sure you imagined that." They were delicious.

"The whole table saw you do it, you prissy prick."

"Then why didn't anyone say anything?" That's an easy one, they couldn't. What could they do? Nothing. He's in charge of them all. Even Hedwig didn't say anything, but probably because she didn't care. In fact, if he remembers correctly, she laughed.

Evan opens his mouth to answer, but Hedwig talks over him quickly, "Don't try to distract us you shit, we know you too well."

Unfortunate. Here he thought he had distanced himself just enough. "What on earth would I have to distract you from, Hedwig?"

"You have that same tone of voice whenever you speak to Miller." Evan says, his arms crossed, unamused.

Tom blinks. He has a tone of voice when he speaks to Adam? He never noticed.

"Sometimes dreams are just dreams." Hedwig rolls her eyes, "Thought you knew better than to buy into that dragonshit."

"It's very rare for prophetic dreams to happen and then be interpreted correctly." Evan adds, still looking irritated at Tom's behavior. "And you know my family would never allow such a union."

He knows this. The book on dreams—The seer's journal, it said all of this. That dreams hardly ever make sense, and that most self-respecting clairvoyants base their public predictions on more reliable methods. He hardly forgets any information he's read in a book, especially if it's of value.

And yet…

"I never asked, Evan, but where did your family settle on their opinion on Ximena?”

He frowns, “That’s private.”

“But enough time has passed...Surely it’s not a delicate subject matter anymore?” Tom tilts his head, “Can’t tell me down in the common room? It's only a few steps away.”

Evan tenses, inhaling—A subtle nod. Not here. It says. Not now.

Hedwig rolls her eyes. She reaches over and dares to actually smack Tom upside the head.

“Stop looking so smug; you're thirteen, you piece of shit."

He's surprised Hedwig didn't make a joke about Ximena upgrading from Adam to a pureblood—He's rather glad, actually, it would have been annoying.

When they leave him, he wonders how they found out. He can only hope it was merely through eavesdropping and being at the right place at the right time...Hedwig and Evan wouldn't spread the information around, but whatever group it was that Ximena was speaking with...No one else has approached him on the topic, whether to see if he's alright or to tease him. So up until now, they've kept tight lipped about the whole thing. That's good. Very good.

He's never cared to stop and take note of the Slytherin girls that Ximena sits with. The development is so recent, he still fights the urge to reel back in surprise when he sees her sitting with them in the Great Hall (or speaking with them in the common room!) They were picked up around the same time that she was trying to see who in their house took her bracelet, and have probably been hard to shake off. He recognizes none of them as being related to anyone in his group (so, no Lestranges, Mulcibers, Rosiers, Yaxleys, or Selwyns), and when he digs a little more he finds most of them are half-bloods.

Evan had once told him such witches were disgraces. Unfit to be in their house unless they renounce their Muggle heritage. Tom's never heard him verbally harass the witches in Ximena's group—Nor any specific group or witch in question. So that's why he doesn't ask him about them. The only reason.

Instead, he sits with Lucretia and Cygnus in the common room to ask about them.

"Yes, Lane's been adopted by the little halfling group! It's so quaint, isn't it Cygnus?"

"It's vulgar."

A part of Tom agrees with Cygnus.

"Oh stop that, Cygnus, it's adorable—You support our Slytherin halflings too, I know you do."

He sighs, "Any halfblood worthy enough to be in Slytherin has my support, of course." His words, reluctant, draw out like a yawn, "But someone who needs all the sponsors she can get shouldn't be mingling with them, she should be with la créme de la créme."

"Like yourselves." Says Tom

"Exactly." Cygnus confirms, "Or Abbas and Topaz—Or some of the older Slytherin girls, they would be excellent role models."

Lucretia pats her cousin's hand, "She's bettering our image, remember?"

"The reasons for that will die down eventually, she doesn't have to commit so hard."

"It's a long term investment." Lucretia continues to defend, "You think just because she was able to sway the Wizengamot and public, that Slytherin families will continue to enjoy this period of grace?

Cygnus, as usual, doesn't like to be proved an idiot. But he doesn't talk back to her.

"Let the halfbreeds enjoy a good role model...We can claim her once needed." She pops a blackberry in her mouth, her bowl holding an array of different tart fruits, "I had my doubts with her as a Slytherin, but I've never been so pleased to be proven wrong."

He's learned nothing of use from the conversation. Of course. Why bother? As the two continue to prattle on and Tom pretends to care about what they're talking about, he wonders how Slytherin has gone this long with the farce that they are all brothers. Allies. Shouldn't allies know more about each other?

Yes, just like he should have known to ask his damned ex-mentor about the group instead of two Blacks. The moment he lays the question out on the table to him, there's this condescending chuckle that escapes his lips, and oh, Tom wants to hex it off. What right does he have to look at him like that? Were they in the same year, he'd be under his thumb.

"Just some silly little halfbloods, Tom, nothing to ruffle your scales over. I'd get her away from them, though, more over to the purer side of Slytherin." He clicks his tongue, winking, "Eventually, I mean. It's good that she sticks mostly with her own house...Mostly." Yes, it's no secret that she's always floundered around all houses. But his senior is referring to something else, "How is Miller, anyways?"

"I wouldn't know, we don't interact in the same circles." Obviously. He's a sixth year and he's a second, "But I assume he's well, considering Gryffindor's winning streak in Quidditch." It's been a sore spot for his house, actually.

His elder shakes his head like he knows something Tom doesn't, but he drops the subject, "The girls all lingering around Lane are leeches, trying to ride on her coattails." Hm. That makes sense. "None of them batted an eye at her three years ago, you know? If they were on thin ice for being half as pure as the rest of us, then poor Lane was below the surface...My instinct for sniffing out good blood saved her." Ugh, that smug smile again. "Those girls might have ancient ancestry, but that one parent or grandparent is ruin to their name. Especially if they have the name of their Muggle parent." He pretends to sift through a textbook of his before dumping it carelessly on the side table, "Now that Lane's good to be seen around...Well, they're not in Slytherin for nothing."

Tom hums, not really seeing anything particularly special with any of the girls Ximena was speaking to, "You don't like them?"

"Like...Well, I like to look at them." A chuckle, "Not bad looking for half-filth. I kind of like the wild ones. You know what I mean? A touch of savagery and a touch of refined purity. Best of both worlds."

Tom has no idea what the hell he's talking about. Well, he has an idea, because he wasn't raised in a monastery, but he doesn't understand completely. What's so appealing about savagery? How can the older boy be physically attracted to ancestry? Especially when he openly shows contempt for one half of it? For both sides, if he counts the 'bloodtraitor' pure parent.

He continues, "Mmm, maybe you're still too young for that." A wink, and it looks like he'll move to try and ruffle Tom's hair, so he steps back quickly before he gets the chance, "Just wait a little. You'll see what I mean." Unlikely, "But right—Where was I?" A yawn, "Right right, the girls—The good side of their pedigree is nothing to sneeze at. Device, Warren, Nutter...You know they're so famous that even Muggles know about them? Maybe that's a bad thing, though, probably a reason why some of them mixed." He shakes his head, "It'll be generations before they're considered pure again...But maybe if they're seen with Lane, it won't be too long. "

That literally doesn't make any sense. It would if Ximena were part of a renowned bloodline, but she's not. At least, no one knows if she's not. Wouldn't those girls be better off by clinging onto someone else? Well, then again, the only ones directly involved were Ximena, Nemesis, and himself, so… "Even with the Pureblood Directory?"

His ex-guide snorts, "That thing's lifespan is gonna be shorter than a mayfly's, Tom." It's been going strong for months now, "Trust me on this, by the time our next start of term begins, no one will remember a damn thing about it."

"You don't like it, then?" Now that, he finds odd. "I thought your family was on it?"

The older student offers a shrug, "We are, but the whole thing feels self-serving, doesn't it? And it's not like we purebloods need someone to tell us that we're pure."

Tom remembers the crying Satrapi in the halls last Winter Holiday. It very much feels like they need someone to tell them they're pure. Has the other not been paying attention to what's been happening around him?

"It's actually why I'm so sure of your lineage, Tom." He smiles at him, resting his hands behind his head, "You're not sweating over anything—And you were so composed during your trial." A wink, "And your courtship. It's how proper purebloods behave."

"A calm composure is all it takes?"

"Well, no, obviously, but keeping it together is in our blood." Ahuh. "It's the same with Lane: those halfies see it and want to be associated with it. They don't actually like her."

"What's not to like?"

There's that inane chuckling again. Good Lord. "Not everyone has your exotic tastes, and Lane's personality doesn't exactly lend itself to an exciting conversationalist." What an idiot, "Besides, she's attached to you, and you have proper connections...Be sure to have a talk with her: the people she associates with can negatively impact you, after all."

As if he ever had any power over her choices.

-

Hedwig called Tom obsessive. And, alright, she's not wrong. He knows how determined he can be. One-track-minded. Fixated. Who can blame him? Growing up, all the people around him were wishy-washy and weak. Easy to topple over and take from. He was never like that. Ever. Not once. And it's why he's survived this long. Grown this strong. Even with setbacks. Obsessive is a compliment, if anything.

So then, if he happens to be incredibly concentrated on a certain thing, like, what had happened in Ximena's sleeping mind (a place she can't control), then by association, it's not a bad thing either. It's just something of interest. Of note. Because he's not bothered. Really. He's not. But if he were, wouldn't it make sense? Ximena hardly knows Evan, she's closest to Tom. It would have been him. Why wouldn't her sleeping, dreaming brain make that connection instead? Even if dreams aren't supposed to make sense, them together like that doesn't make sense so...So then…

It's easy to spot her walking out of the library in the evening. It's easy to fall back into his old habit. It's easy to follow her. She hardly notices him when he's right in front of her, so trailing her only a few paces back is child's play. Because she's not actively hiding, it only makes it more effortless.

But she doesn't go to the Great Hall. Or a secret class. Or extracurricular. Rather, she wanders out into the front courtyard and pauses, looking to her left…

Adam sits inconspicuously, flipping a pen around in his hands like a baton, looking completely uninteresting and charming. Wrapped around his neck is an obnoxiously colored gold and red scarf. What kind of dullard wears a scarf in June? And in his own house colors? How strange.

Ximena goes up to greet him and sit next to him. Tom frowns and doesn't follow, choosing to walk around the covered walkway to linger behind them. They don't notice. Of course they don't.

She's asking about his scarf.

"Yeah, isn't it neat? Mama made it for me—It's so weird that you guys don't wear your colors or mascots here. Ilvermorny's wild about them." He sticks out his ankle to raise the hem of his robes, "Got my socks done too! House pride demands it. I can write back to her and ask for some snake goodies too if you want! She's already working on more stuff for the other lions, we wanna enter this next year looking good."

Ximena shakes her head, "I can knit them myself, thank you...But it's really not for me."

"No snake pride?"

"It's less about sports teams here and more about...politics."

"Oh. I see." A nod, "Yeah, we've talked about this before, huh?"

Ximena clears her throat, "I'm surprised you remember: it was at the beginning of the school year."

"My noggin's more than for just clever lines." He taps at his temple with his index finger, "Sometimes I even observe things. I just don't always mention it."

She adjusts her seated position, sitting up straight, "Why is that?"

"I'm an outsider. In more ways than one." A sigh, "Can't say you haven't noticed...How people react to me here? Like I'm a threat to their way of life. A lil ol' red-blooded American boy."

Ximena hums, "I know how you feel."

Adam laughs, carefree and beautiful, "I figured you would: I know that big ol' dueling scandal caused you trouble. But you seem okay now...Whatever did come of all that nonsense?"

Ximena offers a shrug, "My wand was placed under harder traces for monitoring...The kind they use on criminals finished with their term in Azkaban."

He's appalled, "But you didn't do anything!"

Another shrug, she doesn't lie to him directly, "I could have been deported. Had my citizenship taken away."

Adam scoffs, "For what? Defending your friend?" His head shakes, "What'd Rosier have then, for attacking poor Gat? A slap on the wrist? I haven't seen him around, was he expelled at least?" Did he not read the papers when the news broke? Or is he just so self involved in his own life that he doesn't notice--

"His schooling was...furloughed."

"Don't remember?"

Ximena shakes her head, "No I do...But the details are...fuzzy." She rubs her eye. Does she know, then, that the Ian at the trial was a fake? Was she in on it? Does she know where he is--Could she tell him?

"Well don't strain yourself there, I'm sure I can figure out what's up from one of the other Gryffindors--Hell, that damn trial was all they talked about for weeks, it was hell trying to tune them out."

"It was all anyone talked about." Unspoken is the unfortunately at the end of her sentence, "I'm surprised you don't know more."

"Not everyone listens to gossip, 'Mena. Mom and Pops always discouraged that fuss."

Tom can hear the sad smile in her voice, "You have good parents."

"Ya, I'm thankful for them everyday. Even if they're a little old fashioned sometimes." He rubs the back of his neck, "Back home, I still have to be chaperoned around when I take a girl out. It's embarrassing. Do your nuns accompany you when you walk out with someone?"

Ximena shrugs, "I don't really talk to others my age back home...But I do have to be escorted everywhere."

"Ya, that sounds about right. Worried about your purity or something like that?"

"Something like that." She chuckles, shaking her head, "I think that's why I like Hogsmeade so much: it's exciting to be able to go out unchaperoned. Relatively, I mean." She pauses, "I like the independence of it. Being able to go where I want."

"First taste of freedom, huh?" Adam chuckles, "All you lil bugs are so cute. Makes me wish I was a kid again, you know? Watching y'all discovering things like good music and independence."

All of the studying he's done on Ximena's usual posture tells him that she doesn't like something about what Adam said, "I'm hardly a kid."

Adam laughs, gentle and bright, "You're fourteen, you're a baby!" Nothing about his tone is malicious. "The same age as my brother, actually—Oh he's such a brat. He also thinks he's grown, but I guess it's fair. Used to think the same thing at your age."

Ximena doesn't respond at all. She just looks down at her lap, where her hands lay.

"Mali and I were talkin' about it, actually: what I said about everyone acting like adults when they're still children. And she called me a child too." His head shakes, still good humored, "What a woman. Or girl, I guess, by her own insistence."

He considers Ximena a child. A baby, even—How good of him. Tom always thought Adam incapable of such debauchery (fourteen and sixteen! Disgusting). A standup man. Excellent morals.

"You're actually already considered an adult here. At least, on the Muggle side." Her quiet voice says as she continues to look at her hands.

"Oh yeah yeah, sixteen, right? I'm actually seventeen now."

"Oh?" Oh?

"Yeah, just last week actually! I'm a May baby."

"You didn't celebrate it?"

"Darn tootin' I did! All my friends and I went for a pint over at The Three Broomsticks—Beer's awful, by the way, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone—and had my first shot of Firewhiskey. Bit more to my tastes."

Ximena touches her neck, a move which Tom interprets as being self conscious, "I'm sorry, I wish I had known, I would have given you something."

"Nah." Adam brushes the suggestion off, "Not necessary, if the lads didn't get me anything, I wouldn't expect you to—Ha! The lads! I'm already speaking like a native."

She hums and does not reply.

"I invited Mali to come, actually, but she wasn't big on joining the boys. Fair enough." He nudges Ximena, "You know her type? I was hoping it was me, but I haven't had any luck."

Adam prattles on, completely unaware of how quiet Ximena's gone. And in fairness, Ximena is usually quiet, but at least pay attention to her body language. She looks so small.

Eventually, when Adam switches the subject to Quidditch, he remembers he's about to be late for practice and dismisses himself, telling Ximena to take care and watch herself, leaving with a wave and a smile.

Tom stands from his spot and watches. She's still. For a minute. Two minutes. Five. She doesn't move.

He approaches, hand brushing up against the arch beside the bench she's seated at, "Ximena." He relishes when she flinches in surprise, but not when she looks at him like he's the last person she wants there, "Are you alright?"

Her lips press together, like she's formulating a lie, but it never comes out. For the best, because he'd be able to tell if it was a lie. He hates it when others lie to him.

Tom sits down next to her, where Adam was sitting. There's still silence between them for a while before he speaks again, "I finished that potion."

"...What?"

"The one for nerves, that you challenged me to finish?" He's been damn busy all this year, but he got it done. Only he could do it. He'll make her remember if he has to.

"Mm." Her stare returns to her hands in her lap, "Was it hard?"

"A little." Admittedly, "But once I was able to concentrate on it, I got it done easily. It's really quite simple."

"Good. That's good." A barely perceivable nod, "That's right, it is simple."

He waits for more, and nothing comes, so he prompts her again, "You want to try it?"

"..." And then, "Alright."

"I don't have it now, I can bring it to you later, though."

"Mm."

He remembers, briefly, the words on friendship given to him at age three. So rather than saying anything else, Tom waits. In a shared silence. She'll talk when she's ready.

"It's...silly, isn't it? The fantasies your head makes up when..." Her voice catches on something, and for a moment Tom thinks she might cry again, "...I'm...I'm so stupid." She opens her mouth, and it's the chiming of bells—she laughs, and it's the first time he's heard her laugh, but it's filled with no mirth. Somehow it's half disappointing, half engrossing. He wants her to do it again, "I can't believe I thought…I thought maybe..." Her hand reaches up to hide her face, and he sees the bracelet tied around her wrist as her sleeve slides down.

"You're not stupid." He says, meaning the words.

Instead of giving him her laughter again, she sighs. Slow and audible.

"I thought we spoke the same language." She starts, and Tom knows she's not speaking about literal language, but he doesn't really know what she's actually alluding to either, "Outsiders and loneliness...Looking out to a sea of white faces...Seeing them stare back at us.

"I should have known. He's...He is a man and I am a girl. Just a little girl. A child. A baby." A shuddering breath, and he knows she's trying to pull herself together, "I thought he'd like me. Maybe. One day. When I grew. But..."

And he thinks about what he could say to her. Something helpful or coddling. An encouraging word, a comforting phrase. To show her he's listening. Even if it's ingenuine. Fake. Only one thing comes to mind.

"I know how you feel."

At this, she turns her head to look at him, surprised again. Like she's forgotten she was even speaking to him. Then her eyes soften and her mouth closes. It's pity, he's sure. Unwanted, but he takes it. He'll take anything she gives to him.

Her shoulders relax again, she turns her head forward again, breathing out, "Oh."

She doesn't say sorry. Or try to empathize with him. Or coddle or croon or cry at him. That's good. She knows him well. He wouldn't like that. At all. Contact is unpleasant and unwanted.

But…

...His hand, resting beside his thigh, is just close enough to brush up against hers. To barely register as touch. As warmth. Soft. Gossamer. Ghostly. And that is acceptable.