Serpentine

On the way back to the common room, Ximena is visibly lost in thought. That is, more so than usual. Tom suspects that at any given time, she's probably thinking about something other than the events around her, but when he peers at her during their walk, there's calculation in her gaze. Like she's pondering a particularly difficult puzzle[1] or maths problem. Her index finger is curled at her chin, and she's biting her bottom lip fiercely. Brows gently furrowed, her eyes are focused on something ahead. Something he can't see.

He hates that.

"Are you alright?" Probably not, she had just had a bit of a vulnerable moment with him.

She doesn't answer. And normally this would mean that she's forgotten where she was (that he was there with her), but she's still keeping pace with his steps rather than falling behind or rushing ahead, so she knows that they're supposed to be walking back together…

Tom considers dropping it. He doesn't.

"Ximena?"

Again, nothing. No signs of her hearing or registering his voice. He scowls a little, hands forming into fists briefly before relaxing again. It's fine. It's probably nothing. It's…

"When you had my bracelet," she begins, not causing him to flinch in surprise, "what did you do with it?"

"What do you mean?"

She doesn't clarify, she just keeps looking at him, and that's good, she should be, but maybe not so expectantly.

"...I just kept it on my person." Most of the time, anyways.

"Did you wear it?"

Tom blinks. It never occurred to him to wear it. Damn. That might have been… "No."

Ximena stares for a while longer, unblinking, before turning away, accepting his answer.

She doesn't say anything for the rest of the way.

-

The End of the Year Feast is just as enjoyable as the last. Which is to say: it's awful. There's nothing to celebrate. He expected to pass all his finals and classes, why would you have a party for something you knew was coming?

His schoolmates, obviously, don't agree with his sentiment. The Slytherin tables are alight with cheer and sing-along songs he doesn't recognise with lyrics about dancing under the moonlight and ancestry. Even his half blooded compatriots join in, not remembering that there's a war going on, there's no time for his nonsense. They are all going back to a battlefield.

"Cheer up, prat." Hedwig tells him, "You look like you've been sentenced to death."

He might as well be, "I don't feel quite well."

"Have you visited the Hospital Wing?" Nemesis always manages to look so concerned for his well being. Doesn't she ever get tired of it?

"It's not that kind of unwell." Tom says, wondering about the validity of stealing some food under statis to hide with him back in London, "I'll be fine." Because he has to be.

Hedwig chides Nemesis for wasting her time being worried over him. Tom doesn't care for the way Hedwig words it, but he appreciates getting Nemesis off of him. The girl's natural instinct to coddle him is...disgusting. She isn't his mother. She didn't up and die on him when he needed her.

Much of the end of the year is the same. Except he sees Muggleborns and some half-bloods looking as excited as he feels. It figures that he can only relate to them, yet again. Another barrier, another layer of separation from the elite. But there's something that sets him apart from them as well: they all have happy families to return to. Even those who will be sent away up north. They have mothers to write to them and siblings to stick by.

Tom hates them all.

He should have what they have. And better. Much better. A strong witch to bring him up and a powerful wizard to give him his name. His legacy. His mother is out of the question, naturally, but there's still hope for his father…Riddle might not be on the Sacred Twenty-Eight nor Lucretia's genealogical records, but that means nothing. Nothing at all. He still hasn't exhausted all his resources…

A terribly rude, terribly crescendoing voice in his head tells him it is useless. He crushes the feeling under his heel.

On the way to the carriages that will take them to the train, he manages to find himself in a conversation with Adam. Tom hasn't seen him since he (rightfully) put a stopper on Ximena's silly little fantasies, and he takes the time to ask about his last Quidditch game.

"Everything hurts still." Adam confesses with a boyish grin, "I might have gotten a little aggressive with one of your beaters, Gat. You snakes are nothing to sneeze at!"

Tom hums, noting to thank Dion later, "I'm sorry you're still hurting...You know, actually--" He begins to search through his book bag, "--I might have something for you...I was going to hand it off to Dion, that's Mulcifer, but I think you need it most."

Adam takes the small vial in Tom's hand as the latter goes on to explain how it's a pain relieving potion, made to relax the body aleve discomfort. He's rewarded with a humiliating head ruffle: Adam completely messes up his combed hair, thanking him with a beautiful toothy smile. Tom bites his tongue and tells his senior that he's just grateful he was able to get him the potion at all.

Tom climbs into the self-drawing carriage after waving him goodbye. Evan is already waiting for him, reading a book. Hedwig and Nemesis enter soon after.

Hedwig yawns, cracking her neck as she steps into the carriage, "What did you give to Miller? Poison?"

"That's a little aggressive, Hedwig." Tom tuts, "It's just a gift."

"What's just a gift?" Nemesis asks.

"A parting gift, for Miller." He smiles with his teeth, "Nothing special. Just a tonic, I heard he was sore from an injury."

Hedwig scoffs. Evan looks interested, "And what did you put in this tonic?"

Tom looks properly scandalized, "Why all this distrust? It has all the usual ingredients for sore muscles...cloves, ginger, feverfew..." Nigella seeds [2].

"That's so sweet of you, Tom." Nemesis smiles as Hedwig looks completely unconvinced, "It's so good of you to continue to spread a positive representation of Slytherins."

"Ya until Miller drops dead in the middle of the damn train ride."

"Oh Hedwig, don't say such things!" Nemesis frowns.

Evan leans in towards Tom, whispering in his ear as the two girls banter, "This wouldn't have anything to do with those blessing seeds you were looking for?"

Tom hums, crossing his legs, "I think we all got as much as we could from Miller, don't you? His leave was long overdue...Poor thing, he's so lighthearted, I don't think he'd survive the Muggle war if he stayed."

Evan doesn't have the gall to be upset. Because he's smart. But he does retort, "You did it on impulse, didn't you?"

Tom replies with a sharp side eye, "Don't question my decisions, Evan, it's not very becoming of you."

He keeps quiet for the rest of the carriage ride to the train. Tom joins in on the talk Nemesis and Hedwig have regarding the usefulness of Care of Magical Creatures class.

-

The closer he gets to London, the worse the anxiety in his throat gets. He's avoided every piece of media regarding the war for good reason. While he's certain that he would know if Germany had already won, he's not so sure if anyone would bother to spread the news that Muggle London is in ruins...A paranoid fear, of course. Of course someone would let them all know if the portal to Platform 9¾ was destroyed…Wouldn't they?

The train whistles.

At Euston Station, there is no one there to pick him up. When he walks out of Platform 9¾, the train station is empty. London is still there. If he concentrates, he can still hear traffic. Still hear distant yells of children on the streets (though fewer than before). Were some of them brought back? Or did these children never leave?

He catches a trolley.

As it was the year before, Wool's continues to stand. He learns, when he's greeted by a surprised Matron, that there was no bombing. That many children have been returned to the major cities--The orphanage is near empty. That she expected to not see him again. And how silly, because where would he go? When he has no home and Hogwarts refuses to keep him? Still, it's the warmest greeting he's ever received from her, as she leads him back to his room: untouched, as always. Sad, as always.

Immediately, he sets to the same routine as he had last year. Cleaning up the dust on his furniture and putting away his clothes, half exhausted and half in denial about being back.

Everything about this ritual is wrong. Off-putting. He should only have had to do this once. No...He should never have had to do it at all. Damn Dumbledore and his arm twisting, Dippet was...Dippet was about to allow him some leniency...He's sure of it.

The first thing to do is set down his trunk on the bed and pat away at the dust. Then go over the tops of the bedframe, the chair and desk, the windowsill...Only when the room is deemed spotless will he even consider taking out his Hogwarts items. He doesn't want them to dirty up with the place. For his books and supplies to absorb the grey drabness of the air like sponges.

The items he worries most about are his clothes. Naturally. They still retain the comforting smell of the school itself, and he knows even if he shuts them tight and away in his wardrobe, that by the end of the month, the scent will be lost unless he manages to lengthen it with a charm (he hasn't managed to do it without a wand). Still, he hopes the enchantment he was able to cast before he left will last longer than expected...

A knock on his door. Supper is ready.

When he steps back to look at his school robes hung in the wardrobe, it looks wrong. Like hiding diamonds in a burlap sack. Or gold in a paper envelope. He shuts the door quickly so he doesn't have to think about it, but it doesn't work.

Tom shuffles off to a sad dinner.

-

The first week back is as bad as an adjustment as he remembers. The few children left at the orphanage have formed a strange and solid bond with one another that even if Tom were unfortunate enough to desire their friendship, there's no way for him to relate to them at all. Luckily, he has no time or want for such frivolities. He only needs to read his books and plan out a time to journey to the Leaky Cauldron. His opening a bank account is long overdue.

Paper is not something that's easy to come by, much less parchment. And he knows better than to spend money on it, even if it'll end up helping him to keep communications open with his classmates. Thus, why he ended up stocking up on the material before leaving Hogwarts. None of his letters are brief or pointless, and he makes sure to pack every single one with as many important questions and commentary as possible. No riff raff. It's a good image for him, he thinks. Practical.

He also has a proper line to Ximena this time around. He writes to her this time, on an owl borrowed from Hedwig (her being the only one he could trust not to make something out of it) unafraid of any consequences she might face due to learning that she's not the only witch at the abbey (if that was a lie, the blame falls on her anyways, how was he supposed to know when she doesn't communicate?) Tom strikes when he sees weakness, and just as he had slid into Ximena's good graces the first time he saw her cry, he will slip right back after this second. Is it so wrong to want to return to that? To hope that she'll pretend right along with him that he didn't commit a wrong against her? He thinks not.

First: a clear opener, asking the usual niceties, before going into what he really wants to know (he still has that letter she sent him over Yule break his first year, a reminder that her patience only runs so far). His letter is thorough, if he does say so himself. Straight to the point and littered with niceties to show he wasn't raised in a barn (which is only a tier below Wool's, really). Tom's not so naïve as to think that she'll answer all (or any) of his questions, so the least he can do is try to repair the damage done by her discovery of his pseudo theft. Return to what made them birds of a feather. Or at least, snakes of a scale.

Monday, July the first, 1940

Ximena,

I hope this letter finds you well. The weather over Lambeth is, as usual, dreary, but at least the near empty orphanage is peaceful. No bombs have dropped on London, but the adults here worry about it everyday. In the mornings, when I walk along the yard, the city feels quiet. Unnatural. I sat along the bank of The Thames the other day and watched the ships come in.

Is it much of the same where you are? Are there hardly any children walking the streets? Or are you further in the north, where all of them have been sent? Is your abbey littered with them?

I don't have much to practice on spells and potions like I would like...Everyone around me here is a Muggle, so I can't even share with them the fantastic things we do at school. The statue is important, obviously, but sometimes it would delight me to show the other children what they're missing. You said you weren't the only witch over there, can you get anything done over the summer? Do you have a cauldron available to you? A mentor? You're so lucky if you do. What about your guardian, Miss Rivera? Is she a witch?

The matron here, Mrs. Cole, is often compared to a witch. I used to agree with the sentiment when I was young, but now I just find the other children's imagination with their insults lacking. She's nothing like a witch. Really, sometimes she resembles a wraith. Or an unseelie. Some other monster unwritten in the pages of mythology. Or our Care of Magical Creatures textbooks. Perhaps Professor Duncan should study her.

I never got the chance to ask you what your classes were going to be next year. For myself, I've signed up for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes as my primary electives. Divination was a nice temptation, but placed as a tertiary choice alongside Summoning. If I end up in your Summoning classroom this next year, you'll know if my choices were granted. I hope you'll help me catch up with the work given so that I might be ahead of my class. I don't believe I got your other electives either, wasn't one of them Divination?

Katux is still going on about that Seer in Durmstrang that predicted he'll sire only girls. Half of the time, it's about how clairvoyance is poppycock and the other half he's sulking because he believes the premonition. I believe he'll lose his will and attempt to locate her over the summer in order to receive a more preferable result. It's rather pathetic. But by now I know about how House Lestrange treats its witches over warlocks (about sixty percent of the arguments erupted between him and Hedwig are over the subject. I, for one, support Hedwig's noble cause in shutting Katux up about anything.) Do you put much weight in the ways of omens? It's a vague, passing interest of mine. Particularly the interpretation of dreams. I had an odd one the other day about crows flying in through the window of a home I was in. It was the kitchen, if that matters. Have you all gone over the subject in Divination yet or is that in the future?

On the subject of kitchens, I miss our own sessions in the Hogwarts kitchens with Elle (and indeed, my own one-on-one moments with her. I don't know if she'll be here next year.) They don't allow me inside the kitchen here (they've never trusted me with anything), and if the food was bad before, it's worse now that I can only eat a fraction of what I used to. Being sent to bed without dinner has somehow gotten worse. I hope you are still allowed to work in the kitchen at your abbey. It would be a waste otherwise. I envy the sisters who get to enjoy your cooking. Have you gotten your apprenticeship? I remember you once told me you wished to study under a bakery near your home. There is a bakery up the street from here that sold the most appetizing looking sticky buns. I could never afford to walk in to purchase one, and now even if I did have the money, I wouldn't be able to. Luxuries like that are the first to go in a war. After the children, anyways. Will they be sending you up north with the rest of the children in the larger cities? Or are you up there already? I never got the chance to ask you how you spent your morning on September the first. It was quite upsetting on my end, I thought perhaps I wouldn't even make it to Hogwarts. I still don't understand how so many of our classmates are meant to make it to next start of term when the only way to get to the school seems to be localized entirely within London.

You know, my first Christmas spent here was incredibly lonely. But this past one, there were tons more students wandering the castle. Most all of them Muggleborn. If any of them make this to this next year, I expect for the amount to double. Perhaps triple. Will you still be going back over the holidays?

I've been meaning to remind you, actually: do you remember what you said to me at the beginning of the year? That you had misplaced me? I know so many things got in our way after that talk we had, and the duel, and the trial...But you never got a chance to explain it to me. I hope you still will. It was rather disorienting to greet you on the train and be met with confusion like that. I'd rather not go through it again, if it can be helped.

Yours,

T.M. Riddle

. . .

July 4, 1940

Hello,

I was surprised by your letter. But it's good that you're writing.

Everything here remains the same as it was when I left. I think, maybe, it will stay the same next year. And the year after that. If I went to sleep for a hundred years and woke up in the next century, it would remain the same. The consistency of the abbey is comforting. It's as if time doesn't pass in here. Most don't like it, but I have grown accustomed. And that is the same as it being comforting...