Serpentine

September, October, and November pass by without any problems or memorable events. Nothing to write home about, though it would be redundant for him to write to Hogwarts while he's in the castle (not to mention, no one to write to).

Dueling Club starts up again with him in the spotlight. Willow guides his form and corrects wand movements, showering reserved praise onto his growing ego and sending extensive feedback to Merrythought. It doesn't take a genius to induce that she wants to groom him for the school's official team--A distant, sweet enough sounding prospect. Only seventh years are allowed on the team, and for a valid reason. Real injury and peril happen in these things, he's skimmed the pages of the Prophet dedicated to Sports and Recreation, and has come out with a muted appreciation for the sport. If it's anything like the duels between the older students that he's seen, then it's something to look forward to. The World Championships weren't for students, but they could certainly be pursued by anyone seventeen and up...Wouldn't that be something? Tom Marvolo Riddle, top of the Dueling World and youngest Champion in centuries. The competitive athletes of the Wizarding world hold more power here than they would in the Muggle one. Cricket and Football players are well loved, but here, Dueling and Quidditch champions could ask for a fan's life savings and be rewarded with that and their souls.

What would he do with souls? He's not sure. But he has a few ideas about what to do with money.

The Hogsmeade visits continue as they have been. That is, with Tom being dragged along by his group for socializing and general frivolousness, and attempting to locate other points of more interest. More often than not, he'll seek to stay at the castle instead of leaving. Especially if all it means is that he'll be wasting valuable time not studying by frolicking around the village looking for people who are probably avoiding him. Shops that cater especially to students and close seasonally have noticed the trend in housewear and colors, and have started to cater to the idea of showing off one's house pride. Now, alongside stripped scarfs, colorful mittens, and obnoxious socks, there are enchanted broaches with roaring lions, hairpins in the shape of serpents, bookmarks with moving patterns of falcons in flight, and bejeweled badgers perched on brass rings. All these things are sold out in minutes and worn proudly on the student body by students of all ages, all incomes, all blood. Suddenly it becomes massively easy to identify someone's house, as well as the people said person chooses to associate with. As expected, most people tend to stick to their own house, even after all that talk of inter-house unity. Still, there's more intermingling than expected, and most aren't very happy with it. As for the actual paraphernalia, there's some talk of banning all unauthorized amendments to the uniform, but in the end, it's decided that the items are harmless. A fun little display of house pride. He expects his Christmas gifts for the year to be mostly silver and green socks.

The cooking sessions with his Puff have been very few and far inbetween. It's of no real loss to him, Elle is still kind to him regardless. Still, he misses the constant source of food made especially for him. Not to mention the interesting information overheard during hers and Ximena's discussions. As for her advice regarding academics, his own Transfiguration isn't suffering, but he could certainly benefit from more time with her. Elle's letters told about preparing for NEWT level classes; she's ahead of the curve and Dumbledore's vouched for her in front of Dippet for the privilege of taking Conjuration in her sixth year. Conjuration. Creating something out of nothing. The most advanced field of Transfiguration outside of Polymorphing. He's only seen it done once, the day he met Elle. She had done it so casually, he never thought it to be something that was supposed to be difficult. He knew he picked the right Hufflepuff to be his. Money and power be damned.

The main issue, of course, is that she's close with Dumbledore, who will not stop looking at him like he's guilty of something. Though the old nut had initially approved of his friendship with the upperclassman, it appeared he expected more out of it. He can sense it in the questions Elle suddenly brings up to him, all worded in ways that are not like her. She'd be a terrible spy. He's not sure what Dumbledore was thinking sending her in like this. What did he hope to find out?

I cannot appoint you a set of parents, or new family, Tom, but I can, perhaps, suggest a temporary guardian?

The more he hears about the growing war, the more appealing Dumbledore's offer is to him. It now sounds less like a trap and more like an escape. To be able to completely leave the Muggle world and stay safe in his own world. The one made for him.

No. He does not need Dumbledore's help. Not when he's so close. His father is within his grasp, and all Tom has to do is reach out and take it.

-

It's a point of interest for him to note that out of all the members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, only one family had no students at Hogwarts. When he was making his way down the list to assure that he had at least one member of every family in his back pocket, he had paused over it, lips frowning in mild bemusement. He's never met any Gaunts in Hogwarts. Never had anyone mention them in conversation or passing. Not in his or eavesdropped ones. It's strange, and it stands out to him. The Pureblood Directory is still a new publication, relatively, so it's not as if the family no longer exists. Perhaps they send their children to another school, or don't have any school aged ones...As a matter of fact, he stopped seeing their name in the heritage book Lucretia lent him after about five generations back. Without footnotes, there was no explanation as to why this happened (he had assumed the line had either gone extinct with no male heirs, or had mixed with Muggle blood). Even asking around his more knowledgeable (read: nosy) classmates brought him nothing, most of them hadn't heard of the family. Those that have, told him they were a reclusive sort and that no one's interacted with them in decades.

At the time, he had simply skipped over their name on the list and continued on down the line. But he's circling around back now and wondering if it was even worth his trouble to look into it. Probably not, if the family apparently refuses to interact with society; what use would he have of them? Even the Weasleys, poorer Longbottoms, Burkes...They help soften his image. Make him approachable. No offence intended towards his circle, but they don't inspire accessibility. Even Nemesis, one of the most friendly highbloods he's met, has an air of superiority that undoubtedly turns people away.

He thinks about putting a pin in the idea, at first, because he's already sown the seeds of a solid reputation with what he has already...but the nagging at the back of his head pushes him forward. What sort of Slytherin would he be without that ambition? Collect all of the families. Show his own superiority over all of them.

Tom looks under the G section in the Slytherin library. He finds three books: a diary, an ingredients index, and something in a language he can't identify. The diary has a name signed at the back, Corvinus Gaunt, and is written mostly in English, with some pages and passages written in the mysterious language of the third book. The index is a lexicon of foreign potions ingredients from Anatolia to the Kingdom of the Visigoths, and while not really being of use regarding his search, he pockets it for the time being. The final tome, the book of uncertain tongue, is one he runs his fingers over several times, trying to figure out why it looks so familiar. He's no polyglot (unless one counts speaking to snakes and his cockney slang), but the curves and movement of the lettering look familiar enough to the areas of London housing immigrants of West Asia--Which means having to test a ridiculous amount of languages to see if any of them match up.

He mentally thanks Ximena for her simple translation spell suggestion back in his first year. He's well versed in many by now.

The diary reads similarly enough as the one written by the Seer was, if only for the pretentious vocabulary. It was written two hundred years after the one by the Seer, and by a Hogwarts student, no less. In the brief entries he's skimmed over while flipping through the pages, he's managed to induct a little about the contents. Mainly disgust at low the education has fallen at the school and how disappointed and disgusted the founders would be at the state of it all. It reads like a self indulgent manifesto on what was wrong with education in the 18th century, and is of little interest to Tom. What does a teenager know about such things anyways? Even if he was born in a time where teenagers didn't exist?

His eyes rake over the first entry, feeling bored, expecting nothing––

...I am Corvinus Gaunt, the Heir of Slytherin…

Ah.

-

If it wasn't for his reading ahead, he might have gotten worried that all he was reading was the diary. Even with knowing what the curriculum will bring in the New Year, he still can't help but feel a little obsessive over it. How could he have missed this shining jewel in the common room library? How could none of his classmates neglect to tell him that the Gaunt line was the last legitimate line that could claim Slytherin's blood? Well that's easy enough to deduce: none of them know as much as they think they do. They can list off as many marriages and cousins and alliances as they want, but their knowledge is still limited. They can't possibly know everything. No matter what they might try to claim. And now he has this kernel of knowledge over them. Something to show that he was like them. Well read in pureblooded history. Oh? Haven't you heard? The Gaunts are the heirs of Slytherin. Can't believe no one ever told you.

He was so involved with his reading that he doesn't even notice that he's not the only Slytherin left at the castle until the day before his birthday. The revelation is something of a slight, seeing as he enjoys having the whole common room to himself, but if pressed, he could not name a better snake to be sharing the weeks of break with.

She's practicing complicated sigils and rune markings on practice parchment: a special material magicked not to take on the characteristics or enchantments of the symbols written on it. Some of them he recognizes immediately from his own classes and readings, and others not at all. It makes his fingers itch. He wants to ask about them. What they do, what she's learning about them in her class. For her to look over his own work and praise him. For her to spill out her reasons for staying behind at Hogwarts this year.

But he has a task at hand. And Ximena is still being difficult. She probably won't indulge him too much. Not yet. Even with just the two of them in the Slytherin common room, she still keeps to herself. Probably still upset that her Puff decided to stay overseas out of the blue.

As per the usual, she doesn't acknowledge him when he sits before her, and it's only after a few seconds of silence following his greeting that she stops and looks at him. It's not a look of surprise, or even annoyance, just one of reluctant acceptance. He's not sure if he hates it as much as the other possible reactions, but rather than linger on the thought, he pushes it to the back of his mind; sets his hands on the table before him like he's about to proposition a sort of deal, and asks her what she knows about Salazar Slytherin's line. It's not an odd thing to ask. Not at all. In fact, talk about the founder in particular has been buzzing in the common room since the beginning of the year. It's only natural that he's curious about it, he arguably knows the least about the subject out of everyone in Slytherin house.

"Out of everyone I know, you seem to know the most accurate trivia regarding the founders."

"Mm."

He wonders if she remembers her talk about 'revisionist history'. If his flattery will fail to land on her yet again.

"He's debatably the most interesting out of all the founders." Ximena's hands rest on the edge of the table, worn quill in one hand, the edges of her nails bitten, "A Welshman, by birth, but his mother was Basque[1]." Hence the name Salazar, "And her own father was a Turkic wizard with a strong wizarding line dating back centuries."

"Turkish?"

She shakes her head, "Turkic. All Turkish people are Turkic, but not all Turkic people are Turkish." He expects for her to fish out another book out of the depths of her bag to give to him, but she does no such thing, "...Though, I think he was Turkish. It's something a lot of the more reactionary purebloods like to gloss over with him...I expect his portraits around the castle have been Anglicanized." A resigned sigh, "Not that I have proof, but..."

She's going to get sidetracked or distracted. He has to focus her back on the subject at hand, "What about his children? Descendants?"

"I think he had three. Legitimate ones, anyways." Her fingers rap on the tabletop, showing thought, "Two wizards and a witch. He might have had more, but I know his marriage was arranged, so..." She lets the implications speak for themselves.

"Do you know who his daughter married?"

She shrugs, moving a finger to curl around a strand of her hair, "I think she married a Castillian wizard. Poor but pure. I don't remember his name." No, it's rare when she remembers names, isn't it? It's not as if Gaunt is Latin sounding, anyways.

"It always amazes me how much you know, but I never figured you would be interested in our house founder." Or to share what she knew about him, but maybe he caught her in a good mood. It's always easier to get her talking when her interest in a subject is piqued.

Another shrug, "I found a lot about him when I was researching Parsel."

He blinks, "Parcel?"

"Parsel." She enunciates, and he focuses on the movement of her lips and the placement of her tongue against her teeth, "Or Parseltongue. It's hard to learn without being a natural speaker like Slytherin was."

Against his will, he leans in his seat. Closer. Closer. Closer. There's a tingling on the back of his neck, up his arms and in his chest, "What is it?"

Really, the look of bemusement would bother him, as it usually does when it's wielded by Ximena. It would make him angry that he's expected to know something he doesn't. But the next words that reach his ears distract him very well, "It's snake language."

"Slytherin could talk to snakes?"

"Why do you think his emblem is a serpent?" Well when you put it like that.

"If he could talk to cows, would he have picked a bovine as his animal?"

"Cows are lovely creatures." Doubtful. They're boring and dirty and he hates them unless they're dead and cooked on his plate. They're probably even worse conversationalists than snakes, "Did you really not know?"

He shakes his head, knowing his old tactic of using woobie eyes to look helpless and ignorant wouldn't do him much good, "It didn't really come up in any conversations, and it wasn't mentioned in Hogwarts: A History."

"Strange." Ximena presses her lips together, "You'd think...Well," whatever she was going to say, she drops it.

"You said you were researching it? Snake language?" He keeps pressing.

"Yes." No elaboration. He holds back his annoyance.

"So you're not a natural speaker then?" Somehow he feels disappointed. Even if he knows it makes him special to be the only one he knows of.

She snorts, "If I was, I wouldn't be able to escape gossip--Being a natural Parsel speaker is rare in Britain. Only descendants of Salazar Slytherin are known to have the ability."

Tom feels his mouth go dry, "What?"

"It's hereditary. It'll never manifest at random."

He goes into a daze for the rest of the day. A marvelous manic state that puts him in the most wonderful of moods. His heart is light, chest bound to explode like a meadow in bloom. He has blood. He has brood. He has kin. A legacy to inherit. To wield. To return to glory. He's not among the scum. He's better. He's better. He's somebody. Not a mystery wizard of unknown blood. Not someone to be swept under the rug and forgotten about. Or taken advantage of. This is proof of it. His destiny.

Now if only he could find his father.

Student records are all available to the public, but that doesn't make his search any easier. Especially now that he knows his father is not a Riddle, but a Gaunt. Must have given his mother a false name, then. Ashamed to be with a Muggle when his bloodline kept so pure for so long...But not enough to not be with her. Disgusting. What was it that had coaxed his father to submit? Was it some sort of temptation of the flesh as Tom's ex-mentor would probably conclude? Was his mother really so beautiful and 'exotic' that she enticed an heir of Slytherin? Unlikely. Perhaps he was just curious...He can't exactly fault his father for curiosity, can he? His mother was a mistake, and Tom was the silver lining in said mistake. He just needs to find out about him...The Gaunts are reclusive, right? That would explain so much. Why the publicity of the trial didn't catch the attention of his father, why none of his teachers can testify to having taught any of his ancestors, why even his most well connected allies do not think he resembles anyone in their immediate family. It all makes so much sense, he wishes he had this sort of hindsight ages ago.

Though, the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders. What if Riddle is his father's true given name? His father's own mother could have been a Gaunt who decided to marry another pureblooded line. One outside of England. No one would have heard of the union because of the Gaunt's reclusive nature. Of course, the reason why he has Riddle and not Gaunt pinned to his name doesn't matter in the end. Even if having it would have made his introduction to wizarding society much more smooth. But more perilous. He can only imagine the amount of people slimily trying to worm their way into his good graces just because of his last name...All on the command of their parents, of course, half of the people in the school aren't as cunning as they'd like to believe they are.

The trial with Ian would have certainly gone smoother. Maybe people would still remember that he and Ximena are (as far as anyone knows) technically courting. Maybe he would have had a vault at Gringotts to withdraw money from for food, clothes, proper school materials. For that birthday gift that his ex-guide insisted he get. Something more permanent. Meant to be worn and shown off...

He stares at the portrait of the elder Salazar Slytherin in the East Hall. Trying to find himself in it. To identify similarities in their faces, eyes, bone structure. It's silly, he knows, to try and locate physical similarities between two generations that are centuries apart, but he can't help it. He wants any single bit of validation he can take.

The portrait seems as curious about him as he is about it. He debates on the merits of admitting to it that he's his heir, but decides against it. He has nothing to prove to a portrait of all things. Now if it were the real Salazar Slytherin in the flesh, well, that's another story entirely.

As excited as he is about the revelation, he has not told anyone about it. Not even Ximena, though he's sure she would appreciate just how remarkable it is. To be a no-name orphan surrounded by provenance, she understands. Even if she's a foundling, she understands. It would prove her right, that he had potential. Maybe it would light the fire in her to search for her own family again. Perhaps she is also an heir (Ximena Zabini, Ximena Potter, Ximena Shafiq[2]), one from a family as hidden away as his. As misunderstood as the Gaunts surely are.

He remembers the look on Dumbledore's face when Tom admitted to him his ability to speak to snakes. He understands it now, too: Dumbledore knew. He had known this entire time and kept it from him. His legacy and birthright. Naturally, this slight will not go unpunished, what on earth does that old man have against him? He was freshly eleven years old at the time and the worst crime he had committed was theft. What reason would he have to conceal the past of an orphan who has no memory of his own mother's face? It doesn't add up. It only confirms his gut instinct telling him to mistrust the wizard. He must have been jealous. Fearful of how powerful he could become.

Maybe he knew his father.

As for the diary of his ancestor, the foreign tongue within the pages has yet to be cracked. However, the English entries lead him to the 89th Edition of Nature's Nobility: a tome that's basically an extended and annotated version of the book lent to him by Lucretia. The details of the unions between various pureblooded households are so, that it even lists the hair and eye color of the offspring from marriages (as well as some bastards, how fun), along with skin tone, once marriages begin to include pureblooded witches from the south and west. He would be confused and angry that the tome wasn't recommended to him in his search in the first place, but he knows by now that the egos of the Black family are great. Lucretia would have told him her book was more useful to him. Stupid chit. Wasting his time when he could have made greater strides towards knowing of his father's noble origins.

But more on that later. He has time.

The book is a faded black, a golden emblem of a many-branched tree shines on the cover. The notes inside say it was published in 1888, which would definitely be outdated by his standards, but it was the only copy within the Slytherin Library. At least, at the time (a part of him wonders if maybe the only other snake in the castle has the most recent editions). The prelude is written by Duncan Avery, whose family has been publishing each and every edition of the book since before the time of the founders, and who will continue documenting the noble history of the United Kingdom's witches for centuries to come (Tom rolls his eyes at this declaration). Then there's acknowledgements to the Black, Nott, and Shacklebolt families before the book finally starts...

He finds Corvinus Gaunt on page five-hundred and eighty-four. Blonde of hair with grey eyes, born in 1717 on May 17th to parents Kaspar Gaunt and Canopa Black. Married his cousin, Iona Nutter (red hair, amber eyes), which is normal enough for purebloods but...

Tom squints at their tapering family tree. He hasn't gotten too far into the journal of Corvinus yet, but he didn't think his paranoia about his pure heritage being muddied by unworthy blood would manifest in such a way. Unless his eyes deceive him and unless someone made a mistake in writing down the records properly, the Gaunt line has been intermarrying for at least four generations--The last union documented in the book reads:

Marvolo Gaunt... - Maia Gaunt...

Against his will, he remembers. Creeping downstairs, along the steps where he knows there won't be any creaks. Peering around corners and listening. Waiting. For the workers to drink and let their guard down. To start telling stories and explaining to the newest hire the origins of the ostracized orphan,

'Tom for his father, and Marvolo for his grandfather--Her father, she had specified. I can't imagine what that poor woman had been through, do you reckon she was a part of that traveling circus that came through here a while back? I swear I've seen her face as part of a freakshow before...'

He spends the rest of the weekend raking through the book for 'Riddle'. By the end of it, Monday's sun creeping through the waters of the Black Lake--filtering in through the windows, he knows it is useless. At the very best, it is the very worst: his mother and father could have been closely related, as the rest of the Gaunt couplings were (and why would they give such a common name to a pureblooded wizard like that?), making him a pureblood. But at what cost? No. He cannot lie to himself like this.

Riddle Senior is not a wizard. Tom's father is not out there, powerful, influential, and awaiting him. His father has never gone to Hogwarts. Or any other magical school. And it's fine. He is fine. It is what it is. He does not have a heart to break. He has never allowed his hope to rise and bloom--In fact, he has never felt hope a day in his life. It's stupid to think that. Tom doesn't need a dad. A father. Someone to make proud. Open his arms and accept him. Validate him. What poppycock. What childishness. He is not a child. He's not. He's fourteen years old and he has never needed anybody. Not his mother, not his father, not anyone. He is the only one he's ever relied on to watch his own back. He has never had a single fantasy of finding his father, or his father finding him. Taking him out of that dreaded orphanage and into a life he's always wanted. Always deserved. He is not upset. He is not frustrated. He is not crying. He is definitely not crying, he hasn't cried in years. His hands are not shaking and his shoulders are not up to his ears as his limbs curl into himself. He shuts his eyes.

His dream is unremembered.

When he wakes up, he is still on the chaise he was sitting on before, book tossed carelessly on the floor, and his sole housemate for the holidays is on a chair perpendicular to him. Reading. Not looking up when he flinches and sits up suddenly, fixing back his hair and straightening out his robes, peeved that he was so vulnerable out in the open. He had gotten used to having the whole common room to himself and now to share it…

Tom is halfway bothered that Ximena hasn't noticed him, and halfway relieved that she's not gazing upon his dishevelled form. He's wholly relieved that he never told her of his discovery, and that he'll never have to reveal that he was wrong. That his mother was the weakest of witches and his father a common Muggle. That what makes him special comes from a dead woman. A freak in a freakshow. Ximena doesn't have to know. Nobody ever has to know. Would the others in his group continue to follow him if they knew? No. Of course not. It's a secret. Keep it all a secret.

"You snore."

He blinks. Eyes moving to Ximena's relaxed posture, his mouth open, unsure of what to say to that. She was still looking at her open book when she spoke, but now suddenly her dark eyes move and gaze at his. Blue staring into an abyss of black. And it's alright. It's somehow good and right that she be waiting for him to wake. Sitting in a shared room for the afternoon in each other's company. It feels natural. This is the way things should be.

He can't focus on the cover of the book in her hands, it would mean breaking eye contact, but it looks familiar. He sees colors and shapes on it at the edges of his vision that ring bells in his head.

"It's weird. I thought after your theft that everything you doled out was an act. But you really are just a boy." Something in her tone denotes sincerity, but all Tom can focus on is her choice of words. Just a boy. "I wasn't sure before, but now I am."

His heartbeat quickens, and the peaceful mood of before threatens to shatter to the whims of his paranoia. She knows. How does she know--Can she see into his head with a look? Did she induct the information based on his questions? His reading material? How can he convince her otherwise? That he's worthwhile? Worthy? As she thought of him in the beginning?

The tenseness in his body translates directly into his magic. She sighs and closes her book, finished with speaking, and moves to sit up. He spots the cover of her tome: the collection of poems. With violent and gory pictographs. Depicting death. Rituals. He thinks about the books she's led him to read. Curses. Diffusion. Wands. Alkahest.[3] He thinks about them and what he's learned. About magic and her and this world. He thinks about these things and opens his mouth, reaching for her but never grasping,

"What's it like?" It comes out before he can even think what he's saying. He doesn't want her to leave. He presses his lips together, swallows, "What's it like? Dying?[4]"

Ximena stops walking away from him. Stands eerily still. From his spot, he can just barely make out the gentle pulse of her magic. He wants to press into it. To be engulfed by it again. Protected or threatened. Either or. Just no more indifference. Please no more indifference. Look at him. Look at him. Look at him.

She doesn't. Ximena turns her head two degrees to her side, says "Not everything feels like something else" and leaves.