Serpentine

Tom can count on one hand how many Muggleborns are left at Hogwarts.

It's of no surprise to him that many of them aren't here. Hell, he's sure that the majority of them wouldn't want to risk coming into London for the train. Even those that lived in London might not want to emerge from their bomb shelters long enough to risk it (Wool's goes to a public shelter, there being no money to spare for a private one).

It's the halfbloods that are missing that surprise him. It should be easy pickings to apparate onto Platform 9¾ (he had learned the previous year that there were designated spots at the station for such a thing) along with one's child, but apparently not every wizard was able to do so without something called splinching. Pathetic. Being held back from one's birthright because the parent that was supposed to be useful can't fulfil their promise to help you in your time of need. It is assumed that most, if not all of the halfbloods at Hogwarts will continue their education at home, following an emergency degree allowing it.

Muggleborns are shit, out of luck. He doesn't see any of the ones he knows of, and with the amount of empty space at every row of tables, he knows there's more missing. How will they receive that missing education? No one's answered yet, though in all fairness, he never asked. Because he's not one of them. He went out of his way to ensure that he'd be on the train to Hogwarts before any more bombs fell on London. The Matron woke up to his room being empty. She didn't care.

In front of him, the smallest crop of first years walks through the grand doors of the Great Hall. Not even ten of them, as a matter of fact, compared to the thirty who were there just the year before, and the forty the year before that (several seventh years had once told him that before Grindelwald's rise in the twenties, the oncoming first year classes would reach the hundreds.) None of them have that uncertainness that accompanies Muggleborns. All of them, while looking in wonder at the ceiling, have the self-assurance of nearly every one of his Pureblooded peers.

Tom decides he hates them on sight.

While the sorting hat sings its song, he glances over the Slytherin tables to try and spot the rest of his classmates. He sees Ximena almost immediately, speaking quietly to Yami, of all people, rather than reading as she usually is (though last year, she had been staring towards the front, at Adam). He watches them for a few seconds before Yami's eyes flicker to him, keen and sudden.

Immediately his eyes go to his lap, pretending like he wasn't looking at all.

We are still not friends. What kind of a send off was that to write in a letter? He hasn't stopped thinking about it. Don't friends write to each other with letters? Although he did also write to Dion and Katux, so maybe that's not a good instrument to measure friendship. Still, how many other people is she writing letters to?

…

...How many other people is she writing letters to? He's never thought about that before. Surely she hasn't reached that level of intimacy with that group of halfblood witches in Slytherin to constitute any communications over the summer. They're not even sitting together! Was it Yami? Is that why they're chatting? When before, the older witch seemed wary of her? What changed? What are they talking about? Is it about him?

His gaze searches for Mali at the Puff table, wondering if crows can cross the ocean to deliver messages? Or would Ximena go about the way of a normal telegram? It's much faster, surely, and perhaps more cost effective if one takes into consideration the quality of the parchment or paper that the message is written on. It's a form of communication he would have gone with, were it not for the fact that it was another 'filthy piece of Muggle invention' (he wonders, then, why the camera and steam engine were allowed to transfer over to the magical world). Mali, even as a pureblood, wouldn't be opposed to receiving a telegram, he's sure, but does she even know what it is? And does she live amongst Muggles, does she live in a place where she could easily receive it?

Tom does not find Mali.

He doesn't bother looking at the Gryffindor table.

-

Third year indeed has the sudden increase of difficulty everyone kept telling him about. He thrives in it. Others around him cramp up in the learning curve, he can tell by the way their stress shows up on their person. By comparison to how stress avoids him (well, stress over his academic merits and education).

No, the stress that's been sowed in his bones has solely to do with what is happening back in London. Tom avoids the Muggleborns and Muggle Studies classroom like the plague, but he cannot escape news of The Blitz, dubbed by the British press in a most dramatic fashion. Almost ostentatious. He wishes it were pretentious. That it was all an exaggeration. He knows it's not. When he sleeps at night, he dreams of malicious lightning striking down from the sky. Of explosions within the darkness, starting out distant and harmless. Across a river, across a whole world away from him. It gets closer. No matter how hard he runs. Until it's right on him. Less than a few feet away. The sounds of fire and destruction. Of burnt flesh. Screams. Sounds he knows. Sounds he remembers from…

In the dream, little protects him. The only solace he finds is by jumping in the river (he can't even swim!), feeling the cool water submerge him. He knows, in the dream, and after waking, that it is not the river Thames because of how clean it is. How safe it is.

Don't touch him don't touch him don't touch him…

If there have been air raids where Ximena lives, she has not mentioned it. Neither to him or seemingly anyone around them. Elle, despite her uncertain letters to him, continues to attend Hogwarts with an air of sad determination on her face. Her parents had managed to leave the continent for the States, leaving her with a family friend to continue her education whilst living in a magical town, safe from any air raids.

He's not sure if the situation is something for him to envy.

The first week back at school, and he still hasn't had a chance to speak with his Puff on the subject. Schedules are hectic and liable to be adjusted still at a moment's notice, so really he's missing everyone not in his year or in a shared class with him. The Slytherins are, of course, an exception to this (with Ximena being an exception to that, as always), because while every single one of them might have a different favorite part of the castle, they all prefer to lounge in the common room. A universal safe space for them all. Regardless of their different goals.

One day soon, he'll bring them together under his single banner. He's already trained half of the boys in his year quite well if he does say so himself, alongside the ones directly above and below his year. Who knew that letter writing could prove as effective as direct threats?

Said correspondence he's kept with the rest of his contemporaries has served him well. How he's kept his composure throughout all of last year's nonsense has elevated him onto a higher status. Delightful. Katux finally seems to have domesticated himself alongside Dion, and is busy attempting to usurp Evan in being the one closest to him. At any given time, he'll try to steal Evan's spot next to Tom in class, at meals, and in the common room. Subtle, unless you're looking for it. Evan finds it quite irritating.

"The fool should have gotten on your good side earlier."

True, but it wasn't like Evan was lining up to be Tom's best friend their first year together. A fact they're both very much aware of. In fact, the first of the purebloods whom he got close to was Hedwig--Well, really it was his ex-mentor, but he's a buffoon. Not of use to him at all. Hedwig, while having to break through several barriers thanks to being a witch, is at least full of knowledge. She recognised greatness in him. It deserves a reward.

Katux, Dion, Druella and all the others who will one day join his retinue will receive his protection and sponsorship, but they'll never be within his closest circle. At least, not without earning it.

He watches them all interact, those who consider him as an ally, during a surprisingly peaceful lunch in the Great Hall. Druella and Hedwig are bickering, growing more attached everyday despite the age difference, as Nemesis attempts to keep the peace (not understanding, still, that fighting is how Hedwig makes friends). Evan is discussing a piece of trivia on Salazar Slytherin with Katux and Dion. The former two are engaged in the conversation to the point where they're beginning to show clear irritation at each other, though it's half hearted. The latter is merely listening in to what the other two are saying before deciding to comment. Abbas and Topaz are attempting to remember how they're related to Cygnus and Lucretia, who sit across from them insisting it was a third cousin from the Selwyn family who married into the Blacks. But the two newly engaged boys believe it's from a great aunt Yaxley who adopted a Black bastard (an interesting detail he will take note of and return to later). This group is definitely something to be proud of, despite the fact that most purebloods flock together regardless of interference, but even they have their own grudges and rivalries between them...Who else could have united them all together like this? Aside from the purity in their veins, they all only have one thing in common: himself.

Tom turns his head to look at the Hufflepuff table, where Ximena and Elle sit. Ximena is still welcome by his present company on the validity of three conditions (her house, the trial, and the faux courtship), but Elle is (unfortunately) a Muggleborn. Something more than half of the people he sits with take much too personally. If he invited her to sit with them, there wouldn't be any nasty words said about it, but he would certainly be hearing about it later in the comfort of the common room. Slow progress. Not everyone is clever enough (well educated enough) to see Elle's use to him as a Puff[1]. Can they not see what he sees? The doors she opens just by acknowledging him as her Snake? The lot of them could do with Puffs of their own, he only knows of three of them who have them for sure.

A deep sigh. Another thing to fix. Another dog-eared page in his schedule. He'll have to ask Elle which one of her fellow badgers aren't already taken (because while sharing is acceptable with Puffs and Snakes, the more his group has, the more ground he can cover).

He eats the rest of his lunch.

-

The uneasiness that builds up in him when he spots Ximena from across a hall, room, or cloister is beginning to become unignorable. It used to bother him when he got this way during the first few months of knowing her, but now it's become a reluctantly accepted side effect of...the bracelet probably. Besides, wanting to speak face to face with her is natural, he hasn't seen her in two months! And every question she bothered to answer in her letters only led to more questions--it would be easier if she just forgave him, finally, and submitted to his friendship. Give him all the information he wants from her the moment he demands it. But of course she has to make things difficult.

...Was it really so bad, what he did? Keep something precious from her? Something that meant so much? Would he feel as wronged had someone kept a memento of his mother away from him? Of his father?

It’s the proof I have. The proof that I am loved.

A piece of evidence that you are wanted. That there is someone out there waiting for you. Wanting for you. That you were not discarded without care. That there is a place for you among your kind. Your kind who will accept you and give you all the love and care you were denied.

He feels as if something's rotting in the pit of his stomach.

Distracted, he half-bumps into a seventh year boy who mumbles 'sorry' in a familiar, femenine voice. Ximena's familiar, femenine voice. He turns, his eyes following her feet searching for stilts, because he's only seen teenagers on the cusp of adulthood be that tall (he swears that's the only reason he mistook her. He's glad he doesn't have to explain or justify it to anyone.) He finds no stilts, of course, just cheap second hand shoes, much like his own.

In a manner very much like Ximena, she doesn't stop to further speak to the person she ran into, she simply continues walking, holding a book in her arm. And rather against his will, he gawks.

Over the summer he had grown tall. Had his voice drop (though not all the way). His features sharpen. When he stepped once again through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, he wasn't the same four-foot-eleven boy that sat under the Sorting Hat. He was a young man of thirteen reaching five-foot-six. Ximena looks as if she grew a whole four inches. She has to be taller than--Than half the boys in her year, at least. One nick away from being six feet tall. Some of the other students walking past her barely reach her chin.

He watches her walk away and decides he has time before his next class.

The library is, as it always is at the beginning of the year, scarce save for the spare Ravenclaw and/or diligent student wandering around. Not like it is around midterms or finals season, when every table and chair is taken up by frantic students studying at the last minute.

His eyes narrow when she sits down, the reasons twofold:

Her height is well hidden enough when she is sitting. This explains why he didn't notice anything strange during the first feast of the year (it means her legs are longer than her torso, possibly, but that is a useless fact). As silly as it is, it almost feels like a lie she's giving him. The lie that she wasn't tall.

The second is who she's sitting with. Ignatius isn't the bother, Tom had long ago stopped being annoyed by his presence. No it was the Ravenclaw sitting next to him. A Flint. Animatedly debating Ignatius and reaching over to--

The boy grasps Ximena's hand. Squeezes it. Lifts it, palms up, to show them all something. She lets him.

Tom stares at the bracelet on her wrist and thinks about Ximena reading Adam's palm.

Flint flinches, exclaiming in pain as his hand recoils back from Ximena's as if it had touched a hot stove. He grasps his wrist, growing in panic as Ignatius asks what's wrong, what's wrong. Ximena's frozen, unsure and eyes wide.

Behind Tom, he hears tut tut tut, and he turns to see Evan, looking amused at his apparent voyeurism, "You're a little too old to be spitting out accidental magic like that."

"I don't believe I know what you're talking about." The finality of his statement is clear in his voice: he's not at all amused at what Evan's implications are.

Evan merely smiles, a subtle little thing, as Ignatius and Ximena accompany Flint to the Hospital Wing, "Romulus isn't at all out of line for taking Lane's hand like that. Very few people remember your courtship mishap, actually. So unless you decide to do another grand gesture of friendship that will be misconstrued, the memory will fade."

Tom pretends to find amusement in that statement, "One would think with their love of gossip, that they would keep memory of that event alive and well."

"If you were rich with a known name, they would have," Evan shrugs, "But as it stands, you have no parents to remind others of your courtship, or to reach out to try and find better offers. Better for you, isn't it? You said the whole incident was a misunderstanding, right?" He had. It was. Is. But that doesn't mean he wants it to go away. Rather, he'd prefer for the rumor to thrive. To counteract Ximena's sudden spurt of socialization (why is she even still doing that? She has no need to.)

"It's not a misunderstanding if it benefits me." Tom answers candidly. Evan snorts.

"If you say so."

Later, as he walks into the infirmary planning to claim to have a slight headache, he does not see Ximena at the bedside of Romulus (what a pretentious name) as he expects. Rather, he sees the deputy mediwitch on duty applying salve to the wizard's hand, and Ximena on the other side of the room, speaking lowly to Yami.

The First Feast rings in his memory.

Beside the sixth year prefect, Ximena looks like the beanpole Hedwig is always accusing her of being (Tom mentally corrects the comparison to flagpole because Hedwig has no concept of it). Yami, whom from this distance he estimates to be about an inch taller than him, is not affected by the height of her underclassman. As expected. He's never seen her intimidated by anything or anyone.

So what are they talking about?

The disillusionment charm comes easy to him. His will is strong and his wand movements flawless. He had mastered it on the first try in Charms last Tuesday, and just knowing that he was going to successfully pull it off outside of a classroom practical ignites goose pimples over his skin. Moreso when he knows that he's about to find out what the two witches are speaking out without them knowing. It would have been used earlier, in the library, were it not for Romulus' brazen lack of social etiquette, but this is a fine consolation prize.

At least until he gets close enough to realize that neither of them are speaking English.

It is not the Spanish that he has heard uttered from Ximena's tongue, but rather a tingling and rhythmic language that he mistakes for German, at first, but quickly corrects himself on. While it shares a lot of similar inflections and vowels, it lacks a certain timbre. Their mouths don't appear to open very wide, keeping their movements small, as if they were conserving energy, despite the zeal in the sounds they make. Their speech leaves the impression that it was meant to be sung rather than spoken. The two of them sound so different in this language. It would mesmerize him if he were a lesser wizard.

Tom does not know a translation spell that works on spoken word. And even if he did, he doubts he would be able to use it on a tongue which he can't even deduce the origins of. He almost huffs in frustration at the loss of knowledge from their conversation, trying instead, to focus on their expressions.

His focus goes to Yami first, whom he has rarely had an opportunity to interact with up close. Her carefully curated expression is bent into the emotion of cautious intrigue, her left arm crossed over her torso with her right hand cupping her chin with her thumb and index finger. She is the one listening, her eyes rarely blinking as they watch Ximena. Only speaking to possibly assure her that she was listening, or to ask a question (possibly answer?). Whatever it is the two are discussing, it is being taken seriously and with grace.

Ximena is a cold opposite to Yami's collected stance. As she talks (he notices that her twang is different from Yami's, an accent?) she bites her nails and picks at the skin around her fingers, and by the look of them, it's not the first time she's done so. A nervous habit surely developed over the summer. The eyecontact held with the older witch is unbroken, despite her constant blinking. Her voice is low as if she's trying to hide the fact that she's talking at all. Tom's first instinct is to assume that she's ashamed of what she's sharing. She almost looks scared.

When he licks his lips he swears he can sense a bit of her magic again. A mizzle of peppery sweetness, joined with an undertone of something unfamiliar: Yami's own magic. A sharp cut of black tea lingers in his mouth.

Ximena then pauses in her speech, nose twitching. Her tense shoulders lowering, but retaining their anxiety. A sniff. Her chin and eyes turn towards him--

The deputy mediwitch previously attending Romulus whistles sharply at the two witches, shooing them out of the ward if they had no further business there. The save and pounding in his ears is enough to get him to leave early for his next class, despite the two of them staying to speak with the scolding deputy.

-

Though yesterday's scandals are still impactful in their influence, no one seems to be really talking about them. What was, for most of the first three months back at Hogwarts last year, the talk of the century, is little more than an overlooked footnote in the circles of the student body. How quickly they forget. Do they need constant reminding everyday of their lives? Well, judging by how people are still talking about the Pureblood Directory, the answer is probably yes. It figures.

This is why it comes as a surprise that Adam's little parting gift from the year before has bloomed into a new trend.

"Why on earth has everyone taken to wearing such obnoxious displays of their houses on their person?" Druella's voice is shrill, and was not at all missed during his summer away.

"Miller had started it, back during the final weeks of June, remember?" Nemesis reminds her, though Tom's sure Druella has never willingly paid attention to a Muggleborn if she could help it.

"Filthy mudblood." Druella scoffs, watching her fellow falcons strut about with bronze and blue earmuffs and mittens, "Spreading his simpleton culture around like a disease."

"Oh shush." Nemesis tuts, uncomfortable with Druella's vocabulary but not sharp enough to really tell her to stop, "I think it's cute. I brought some silver snake earrings over the summer; you saw them, I wore them for the Carrow engagement party."

"They were very elegant." Evan compliments.

"That's different," Druella frowns, "Your choice in jewelry was subtle. This is just obnoxious."

"I'm sure people thought the same when the camera started being used in magical spaces." Tom tests, watching the faces of the people at his table, "Remember when we all heard jazz for the first time last year?"

"It's all they played at the social events this summer." Nemesis confirms, "Well, the ones for us young witches and wizards, anyways."

"That was quick." Evan tuts, shaking his head, "At least we haven't adopted Muggle dancing habits, I'm not in the mood to press up against strangers anymore than I need to."

"Who would our parents even bloody hire to teach us those dances?" Hedwig scoffs, "Muggle dancers? We'd have to obliviate them all afterwards."

Obliviate. He read about that spell over the summer. A charm taught in every OWL prep. Necessary for interaction with Muggles (accident or otherwise). The very idea of controlling someone's memories of himself makes his fingers twitch with a strange sort of anticipation. Could he impose himself in the mind of someone so as to never be forgotten then? To be seen as more important than remembering their name?

Something to think about.

"Yes, I couldn't imagine any of you having to learn how to waltz or foxtrot."

The others in his group look at him funny. Ah. He's done it again.

"Muggle dances." He explains, wishing he hadn't said anything at all.

"I've heard of waltzing," Nemesis starts, her head tilted, "but not the later...Foxtrot, did you say? What a curious name."

"Fawley," Druella has the nerve to scold, "where were you hanging around that you learned about such a vulgar thing?"

"It was Avery, actually." Nemesis blushes as Hedwig narrows her eyes at her, "He talks a big purist game, but I heard him using knowledge of the Muggle world to try and impress Kore while he thought the rest of my sisters and I weren't looking."

"When the fuck was this?"

"Is that what he was saying to your poor sister during the Carrow head's speech?"

The Carrow twins engagement. The event of the summer of 1940. Most everyone in his correspondence mentioned it, and most everyone at school is speaking about it now. Everyone worthwhile, anyways.

He remembers his dilemma regarding information given to him rather than information he experiences on his own. When he and Nemesis had walked into a hostile conversation between Druella and Yami last year, and he had wondered just how many important events he misses every day just by not being present.

"--I'm serious! You have to dance with your hand in your partners, and the other on his shoulder!"

"Well where in Hecate's name does he put his other hand?"

"Your waist."

"Fucking Hell."

He tunes out the rest of the conversation as a flock of Hufflepuffs walk past with bright yellow and black scarves. It's really not that strange, he thinks. Bannerman and knights wore the colors of the families they were sworn to, right? Not that Slytherins as a whole are sworn to the Slytherin family (which he's not even sure still exist), Merlin knows that plenty of them would find his presumed policies too lenient or radical (how times change). No, it's more of a philosophy, he thinks. Just as there are schools of thought in philosophy and religion, there's schools of thought in magic. In this way, the houses could be sorted and divided up many times…

He rides in silence with the group towards Hogsmeade.

The first thing he does as he dismounts the carriage is search for a tall bob of curls. He doesn't have to search for very long, either, her height makes looking for her comparable to searching for a lighthouse on a clear night. She's ahead of him with a group of fourth years in Slytherin, though it doesn't look like she's traveled here with any of them. As in: none of them are clinging to her or speaking to her. They scatter with the rest of the students and keep together with their own friends. Ximena remains unbothered. As expected.

Now if only he could push through the rest of these people to catch up.

Everyone walks forward.

It's the first time he's seen the town in daylight, and he's not impressed. For all the hype given by the older students in the time he's been at Hogwarts, Hogsmeade leaves much to be desired in Tom's view. Though, he supposes, that it looks better in non-rainy weather, when there's flowers instead of mud and puddles, and the people don't look so grim and afraid. No. Afraid is the wrong word to use. But it's the first word that comes to mind. They all come off as people with boring lives whose highlight of their weeks comes when the youthful crowd visits from Hogwarts. The sign at the entrance of the town reads the year it was founded (1004 A.D.[2]), and from the looks of it, it hasn't been updated since then.

His feet squelch in the mud and he mentally recounts all of the cleaning methods he knows before he goes over the cleaning charms he knows.

A good chunk of the students break off and make a beeline towards a shop with colorful window displays that shimmered and danced in the warm light of the building. The swinging sign hanging above the entrance reads Honeyduke's in an overly elaborate script that looks like it was written by a monk in the thirteenth century. Filigree illustrations and all.

The few bits of money he's managed to save up suddenly weighs heavy in his pocket, despite the featherweight charm placed upon his coin purse (he placed it there himself, so he knows it's good). Through the glass and constantly opening door, he can even smell the famed sugared treats (something he assumes is a powerful enchantment to get customers in the door because he's a good distance away.)

Stomach grumbling, he turns away from the scene, onto the rest of the small town. He needs parchment and ink, not hard candy. And he's just spotted his target ducking into a storefront with a quill and inkwell on their sign.

Tom tells his group he'll meet with them later.

Inside the store is much like many of the other wizarding retail shops he's visited. Unbelievably messy. Visually displeasing. Apparently disorganized. Goldstein had commented on his mother's confusion with the stores upon her introduction to the magical world: went on and on on how it must be so nice to never have to put anything away when you can just summon exactly what you needed into your hand the moment you want it.

The very idea of agreeing with a Muggle is abhorrent, but he can't help but agree. The shops he's forced to step into when sent as an errand boy back in London are ancient and crumbling, but at least they don't have spider's webs and layers of dust on every surface. Disgusting. The novelty of walking around ancient castles and buildings wore off after the first nest of spiders he found in his potions classroom his first week.

Still, he wouldn't trade it. Not for anything. This world is his birthright. His heritage.

Ximena is at the counter, standing next to Yami, appearing to be at the end of a sale. The shopkeeper is busy summoning different types of expensive looking parchment and ink and quills and black sticks of what look like black chalk or graphite. None of the items are shelved where a customer could grab it for themselves, they are being accio'd from behind the shopkeeper. Out of drawers and boxes, both sealed and unsealed. Visible and not. He magicks up a neat little package, all of the paraphernalia wrapped up and tied with twine.

"Seven hundred and eighty-six galleons even." He announces, and it almost makes Tom fall back in sheer surprise.

"Send the bill to my mother." Yami replies, sounding bored but authoritative as she picks up the packages by the bow at the top, speaking to Ximena as the two turn around to see him.

"This sort of thing is best done with the same materials found in their homeland, but I understand you're on a time crunch, yes?"

There's no chance for Ximena to respond because they see him, and why didn't he didn't to cast his charm before entering the shop?

"Ah, Riddle." Yami continues, "Come." She gestures with her free hand, as if he didn't have his own business to attend to in the store (he does not, but she doesn't know that). Regardless, the command in her voice leaves him with little room to argue, especially as she charges forward, walking past him (Ximena at her side) and expecting him to follow.

If he didn't already have an objective that was coincidentally pinned to the prefect's side, he would have definitely ignored her. Absolutely. Without a doubt.

The building Yami ends up taking them to is larger than it looks on the outside. A quaint little bistro with only about eleven tables (two of them already filled), decorated with dusty tapestries, foreign flags, and tall windows. Under the counter is a glass display of sweets.

It occurs to him then, that he's never been inside a restaurant.

They sit at a small round table which adjusts to the number in their party automatically: a fourth place popping out of existence along with the chair sinking into the ground. Yami doesn't pay it any mind, but both he and Ximena are visually interested in it. It makes him feel less like a fish out of water. Or more like a fish with a companion out of water.

Yami's voice takes him out of his thoughts, "Do you have trouble adjusting to the new diet as well when you come to Hogwarts?" It had previously been brought to his attention that Yami was observant (her direct accusation of him stealing the bracelet notwithstanding), but to the point where she's taken note of his gorging of food upon return to Hogwarts is--

Wait, as well?

She continues without waiting for him to reply, "I understand that the both of you are enduring lacking meals on top of a rationing from the Muggle war," at this, he sneaks a glance at Ximena, who's looking down at her lap, "but the way you consume food is important."

A waiter comes to their table. The older witch orders for them all, used to getting her way. Or, already knowing their diet trends, decides she knows best for them both. It's a thought he resents, but the way she wields this power is enticing. He wants to be like her.

"Why would you think I have trouble?" He asks, avoiding her question.

"You're getting to be too old to play naïve and innocent." Yami folds her hands on the table, "I've seen how you eat when you come back from summer holiday. It's alarming." Her look of I'm not angry, just disappointed is masterful, "And I'm not the only one who's noticed."

Before he can ask who else has noticed, Ximena speaks, "I don't think--"

"No, you don't think." Yami's mouth forms a hard thin line, unamused and unwilling to engage with whatever Ximena was going to say, "You do the opposite of him, actually--You hardly eat a damn thing."

That's...That's not true, is it? He's seen Ximena eat plenty of times. Bountiful meals. Bright and colorful. And she doesn't waste any of it. He catches her snacking all the time, actually. Sneaking rolls and fruit and nuts into the library and common room.

But Ximena doesn't argue this, and all at once, he's incredibly disappointed that she's not standing up for herself. "I have to take it slowly at the start of the year." Well...True enough. Now that the subject is brought up, he's never seen her eat at the First Feast. Always reading, watching, talking, but never eating. "If I don't pace myself I get sick."

Yami's gaze returns to him now, accusing. "And what's your excuse?"

Anger fills him. His hands at his side tighten into fists. What right does she have to impart any sort of judgement on his eating habits? She is neither in charge of his diet nor him. Surely she doesn't care. She'd have brought it up earlier. What's her game? Does it amuse her? This attempt at humiliation? Picking at her underclassmen for things to critique?

Though he keeps his face carefully blank, he knows she knows he's pissed. It seems to amuse her. He hates it.

"You're not wrong." Ximena cuts in, either noticing his flaring temper or choosing to ignore his presence and speak over him, "But you must understand, Acarya: you have never known hunger." Her chin juts out, more confident than he's seen her be for all the months he's known her, "You will never experience the sudden appearance of food, when only hours ago, you had nothing."

Something in her words moves him. Presses against a hidden emotion he didn't know he could feel. He can't put a name to it. But it's comfortable. Warm. He hates it.

Yami, for all her haughtiness, concedes, bowing her head with her hand on her chest, apologising to them both. Has anyone ever apologised to him? So earnestly and quickly? Admitted they were wrong? He doesn't know what to do with it. His mouth feels dry.

"Why is the way we consume food important?" Is all he can manage to get out of his mouth.

"What you put in your body affects your magic, of course." The same server returns with levitating plates and dishes as Yami doles out her explanation, she does not thank them, "It's how I could tell your eating habits were completely haywire. It completely overstimulated me to be around the two of you." She folds a cloth napkin on her lap and spares a brief murmur under her breath before picking from the dishes and piling it on her plate, "I'm sensitive to magic. Didn't I tell you this?"

He thinks he would remember something like that, but it would explain a lot. How she knew he took the bracelet, for starters. It's an interesting topic--One that sounds like the sort of thing his Puff would love.

But then Ximena moves, gathering food with a cautious, curious glance; attention is brought to the bountiful food brought to them both: dishes he's never seen before, though they look similar enough to the things he's seen both Ximena eat, and the things he's seen in the immigrant slums of London. Cubed and diced sizzling meat alongside long-grained rice and fresh chopped vegetables. Halves of hard boiled eggs with strips of naan and a small roasted chicken alongside diced tomatoes. A large cauldron of soup, lentil, with small dishes of garnish and sauces around the edges. The decanter, which sits closest to him, holds a hot, milk white liquid with two small dishes of cinnamon and nuts alongside it.

He hasn't eaten since breakfast.

"Eat." Yami commands, "But do not waste this food by shoving it all into your mouth without savoring it."

The first thing he tries is the drink, which Yami tells him is drunk with the cinnamon and/or nuts as a garnish. It's thick and creamy, the cinnamon he chooses to put in it swirling within his glass like a small whirlpool[3]. When he swallows it, it goes down smoothly. Like velvet.

It takes more than he'd like to admit to refrain from drinking it all in one sip.

"Good?"

He licks his lips, "Could use some sugar."

Yami rolls her eyes, something small and sharp, far from obnoxious, "Typical Briton."

The rest of the meal goes by quietly. He's never experienced an enjoyable meal that involves heavy talking, his mouth is always too busy to speak. It would seem that the other two are on the same wavelength as he, because they eat without prompting any sort of conversation. Yes, this is the way it should be. There's no need to fill the air with empty words, it's the same as it is (as it was) in the kitchens with Elle. So much so, that the food (however different, however the same) fills his belly and soul wonderfully, as the food created by Elle and Ximena does--Is it because it was made for him? A more specific range than the hundreds of house elves at Hogwarts making food for all of the hundreds of children who reside in the castle? Was it made with love and care just as Elle claims her dishes are made?

As with the entrés, Yami orders dessert for them. A sweet cake with a golden color cut into diamond shapes, an almond at the center of every cut piece. It's light and buttery with a lovely, faint taste of citrus.

He eats five of them.

Yami wipes her mouth with her napkin, "Mm, what electives have you got, Riddle?"

"Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Abjuration[4]."

"That's a heavy load, are you ready for it?" What a stupid question. He doesn't enter into situations he's not fully prepared for.

"I suppose only time will tell." Those subjects are the foundation of almost all of the higher level books he's managed to get his hands on. "Really, I'm more excited for the classes that will be available to me when I reach fifth year...You're still in Alchemy, right, Arcaya?"

"Yes; you wish to take Alchemy your fifth year?"

He hums, pretending to consider it, "It's certainly an elusive topic I'd like to know more about, but what do you do in that class? Create gold out of lead?"

"Hardly. It's mostly theory at first. Ethics, morals, rules...The history and philosophy behind it. None of us transmuted anything that first year, as a matter of fact."

The waiting would drive him insane. His first year in his first classes, they all learned at least one basic spell. Why wait to educate? "Invigorating." He comments.

"Don't be smart." Yami doesn't find amusement in his quips, and he wonders if that's because she's humorless or because she knows he's not as soft and innocent as he makes himself appear. "Not enough wizards take Alchemy and Alkahestry[5] seriously on this continent. You all worship Merlin and forget about Paracelsus." She tuts, turning her attention to Ximena, "I heard you're not taking Alchemy next year, correct?"

The other girl shakes her head, "I'm not good at it."

Yami frowns, only slightly, it's barely perceivable on her carefully curated face, "That's a shame. I've been told your summoning circles are quite good."

Ximena clears her throat, busy playing with her thumbs or maybe wringing her napkin in her hands, "Summoning circles and Alchemic Circles are different."

"Different sides to the same coin." Yami starts, then pauses, "Well, maybe not a coin. More of a die. A twelve-sided one." She doesn't elaborate further, unfortunately.

Fortunately, however, he takes the lead, "Why do you say you're not good at it?"

Instead of looking surprised at his presence (or at him speaking to her), Ximena appears a tad bit annoyed. Hesitant. Almost as if talking to him is akin to pulling teeth (a comparison which he very much resents, thank you very much), "I'm better at Transfiguration."

The bemusement must show on his face. She continues, sighing a bit too dramatically than what's called for, "Transfiguration and Alchemy lie on opposite sides of the spectrum...Their laws are polar, and directly contradict one another."

"It's one of the biggest mysteries of magic." Yami confirms, sipping her dark coffee, "If the laws of one are true, then the laws of the other cannot be."

"Alchemy defies Gamp's Laws?"

Yami scoffs, "Gamp's Laws are outdated, his own law contradicts itself! Look up Elmaleh's Laws[6], and then we may speak."

He pinches his lips together, peeved at the idea of missing out on vital information. Moreso because it's Dumbledore who's responsible for it...Well that's not altogether true. He doesn't decide the syllabus, merely how to teach it.

Ximena, quietly digging through her satchel, pulls out a small hardcover book and sets it on the table before him. Theophrastus von Hohenheim[7] is the title, embedded with faded golden letters over a German subtitle.

"Simple translation spell?" He asks, sliding the thin book closer to him, deciding not to ask why Ximena had a book on a subject she claimed she wasn't going to take in the future. She offers a bland 'mm' in reply, nodding her head--Again, as if speaking to him were painful. He doesn't understand it. This hot and cold back and forth directed at him. Why help him and provide answers if she doesn't want to?

It's pity. A small part of him seethes. And he crushes that sentiment under his heel. It's not pity. It's not pity. It's not pity. It's not pity. It's not pity. It's not pity. It's not pity. She does not feel sorry for him. She does not look at him and see a poor little orphan boy. She looks at him and sees potential. Even if her feelings are spurned, she knows it's better to be on his side than not. To be in his favor. It's not pity.

"Thank you, Ximena." His gratitude is genuine, though he's unsure of her motives.

"That's not a book available to students in your year." Yami's face is intimidating, but her tone is amused. One would think her job as a prefect takes precedence over whatever clear special treatment she's giving Ximena, but she's not taking points.

"No, it's not." Ximena replies, choosing to ignore her implications (and his thanks). Perhaps if this were his first year, she might have been remorseful about attracting the attention, but her discomfort with the situation seems minimal. As if she trusts the space created between the three of them.

He wonders if she does.