Serpentine

The journey towards the Transfiguration classroom is heavy. Tom’s thoughts press down on him as if in a vain attempt to weigh him down. To keep him from moving forward and completing the task he’s set upon himself. Ridiculous, but…

His knock on Dumbledore's door echoes through the corridor, though he knows it was not that loud. It was polite and firm. Enough to know that he means business and will not wait long for it (he's practiced at it, as he has with all the mannerisms adopted upon entering Hogwarts).

He still waits for Dumbledore to say 'come in'.

Inside, the man is grading through papers—First-year essays by the looks of it. He has a steaming cup of tea beside him, along with a plate of biscuits. There's another matching, empty cup alongside the pot. As if he knew. As if he were waiting for him.

He asks him to sit down.

Tom's feet no longer dangle just above the floor, but instead plant themselves firmly on the ground. Matching his confident posture. He is a young man of fourteen. And nothing scares him. Certainly not the big bad office of the wizard who has been working against him since they met. He opens his mouth and gets right to it. Declares his intent.

Dumbledore, the old idiot, looks very well pleased with himself that Tom's finally approached him about the mentorship. He returns to shuffling through papers on his desk, acting nonchalant about it all. Tom wants to kick him. "Oh? Why what very excellent news, Tom." Circe. "It's a bit short notice, but I'm sure I could find someone in need of an apprentice or charge."

The idea of being under anyone's care is unpleasant, but Tom stays silent. He needs Dumbledore on his side for this one. He nods, "But I get to decide where it is I go." He wants that much, at least. Because despite everything, his gut is telling him not to trust Dumbledore. Not to let his guard down. That there is, at any given point, someone trying to impede him in his life.

"Very well," Dumbledore's brows had jumped in the slightest at his request, but he concedes easily, "I have a wide array of colleagues from all over the globe--where is it you'd like to study?"

"Latin America."

-

The day after his request doesn't leave him with relief or a burden lifted. Moreso, it feels like he just woke up from a hundred-year sleep. Or been submerged in the deep sea. He doesn't like the feeling at all and tries to distract himself from it by focusing deeply in all his classes. The first day back from holiday is always a strange one, seeing all the students walking around his Hogwarts where just yesterday he had most of it to himself. At the very least school resumes on a Thursday this year, so he spends the afternoon at Dueling Club taking out his frustrations on unsuspecting idiots because Ximena isn't there again, and her continued absence from the club is noticeable and irritating. Just when he's gotten to be so great, she has to go and miss out on watching him--

You really are just a boy. Why did she say that? Was it bad? It must have been. It's only been a day and she hasn't spoken to him since. The newly arrived crowds of students filter through the halls, speaking of family holidays. Of the war front. Of Grindelwald. Of Hitler. He can't find it in himself to engage any of them in conversation, they're all in his way. All just distractions.

Just a boy. There are a lot of Toms. Diamonds are common.

Frustration fills his entire body. The desire to...to do something engulfs him. Scream at her. Yank on her arm. Pull her hair. Anything to have her look at him. Acknowledge him.

He remembers how Ian's lack of control over his anger ended him. He breathes. One. Two. Three…

His walk down the hall back towards the common room is silent enough to help calm him. But this is ruined by his excellent hearing when he walks past the ajar door of an empty classroom. He hears Evan's voice. Nemesis' voice. No one else. He can feel their stress from behind the door. What are they talking about?

Tom walks in.

"She's what. Since when?"

"--Since forever, Evan, why do you think I was allowed over all the time as a child?"

The two notice him.

Evan looks annoyed, though not at being interrupted. Nemesis looks uneasy, and upon making eye contact with her, that uneasiness grows.

"Something amiss, you two?"

Instantly both of their postures relax. As if he had activated a switch.

"No, Tom, nothing at all—Why do you ask?"

What are you hiding from me? He ponders over this for the next week, filtering through past conversations and what they wrote in their letters (all meticulously filed and organized by him using his own system). He concludes at the end of the week that it was something that happened at the famed engagement party over the summer before realizing that that would mean that they successfully hid whatever it was from him for four entire months. And somehow this angers him more than the knowledge that they were withholding something from him. Why don't they trust him? Is it that personal? That out of his range of control? He's their leader because they know he can do it—Protect and influence. If there's something he can't do, it's only a matter of time before he's able to conquer it.

Even if it takes an absurd amount of time.

Evan's already spoken to him about Ian. Took him long enough. All the information he wanted wasn't drawn out of Evan, but not for lack of loyalty on Evan's part (Tom would have tortured the information right out of him if needed), but because he had a geas[1] on him to not speak or write about it. Communicating with him was frustratingly difficult, but it showed off how clever Evan can be. How much more careful Tom has to be if he ever has to bind Evan's tongue to keep his secrets. A perfect learning opportunity.

Whatever the two were speaking about definitely isn't as important or intense as that. So then…

He doesn't have time to worry over it. The two couldn't possibly be planning to do something against him, they're not...Well, Evan isn't bright enough and Nemesis isn't gutsy enough, but together...No. Absurd. It makes little sense, it's best to simply forget about it and move on and

Tom ends up mentioning it to Hedwig.

In fairness, he's not sure what he was expecting, but her subdued reaction isn't it. At first, she looks at him like he's being paranoid, but then she listens. Listens to the words he overheard. Probably thinks about what she knows of Evan and Nemesis. There's little making fun of him, in the end, which pleases and uneases him: a Hedwig who does not take the piss out of him is like idle hands to the Devil. Instead, she offers to take care of it for him. Find things out—Though he knows she has some kind of personal stake in it, the knowledge that he can just hand things over to someone is good. He feels...secure.

Besides, if Hedwig betrays his trust, he's certain he can find a way to punish her. He hopes he won't have to. Sincerely.

Druella is a different story. He confides in her on the subject of being worried for Nemesis, because he suspects that she and Evan are still having a bit of a row...And if it has anything to do with her family, she's probably not allowed to speak on it either. Nemesis, though? No such loyalties. They might get along, if only because Druella ignores Nemesis' tolerance for Muggleborns and Nemesis ignores Druella's blatant prejudice towards them. But they're definitely not close enough friends to keep secrets.

Druella's loyalty isn't to Tom. Not really. It wouldn't be as upsetting to subjugate her should she betray him. Besides, she's been making excellent strides in Ravenclaw house. Many falcons know him by face and name and are starting to be comfortable enough to socialize.

The real trouble house is and will always be Gryffindor. But there's time--And, if he were being honest, he's never liked the house. What good has come out of it?

He walks across the common room, hoping to turn into bed early, giving nods and greetings to others as he passes, one of them being the sixth year girls' prefect. Yami is often in the common room, always looking like she rightfully owns the place (does Tom own the Slytherin common room? Is it his birthright as the heir?). Today is no different. But rather than hum noncommittally at his greeting, she looks up at him.

"Riddle." He knows when to stop for a prefect, "Sit."

Don't tell me what to do. He seethes internally as he does exactly what she commands, "Something wrong?"

She shakes her head, claiming she just had some questions for him he had to answer.

"I have to answer?" His voice is amused, but he's suddenly on edge. Tom remembers their talk in the hospital wing well. He supposes now that Ximena knows about the bracelet, that he owes nothing to Yami for keeping his secret. That's only fair, right? Yet, there's still the possibility…

He's never been so aware that he's alone in a room. The common room is hardly ever empty at this time of day. At least, on a weekday.

"I assume you've noticed the difference in Ximena already?" When did she start calling her by her first name?

He blinks, "Noticed something?"

"As someone who is naturally sensitive to magic, it's easier for me to tell when others are the same—I'm rarely wrong."

He debates the merits of telling Yami the truth, "I find that I can taste magic more easily than anything else."

"How snakelike." Yami hmphs, appearing to be amused, before going on to explain her reasoning at Tom's inquiring look, "That's why they stick their tongues out so often, they're tasting the air. It's how they smell."

A very snide sense of pride fills his chest at the thought. Yes, it only makes sense that he be snakelike when he's Slytherin's heir...The only worthy heir in over a century, surely.

Families who depend on legacy alone to prove their worth are living in a fool's paradise. Yami had told him that. He remembers. And he won't be like that. Being Slytherin's heir will be a supplement to his legacy, but not the whole thing.

"I haven't been around her long enough to...taste anything different."

"Interesting..." She trails off, mind simmering, "Even if your sense is natural, you still have to train it up."

It's normal enough to feel like an experiment or article being analyzed by Yami, but it doesn't mean it doesn't unnerve him any less. She asks a few more questions, focusing more on him than on Ximena, and he answers them all carefully. Trying to give enough information to satisfy her, but not enough to...To what? Incriminate? It's not a crime to sense magic, surely. But he doesn't want anyone to know of all the cards he has up his sleeve.

Besides, it's not like he gained nothing from the conversation. Ximena's notes on feeling magic were confusing and vague, like someone from the third century attempting to describe all that there is in modern times to those who have never seen it. But Yami's explanation is clear cut. Methodological. Almost detached. He understands it better.

He practices it for the week. Expanding, retracting, feeling. Suddenly those metaphors and allegories Ximena made connect. She's done this while self-teaching? Gone this far? Or did that guardian of hers teach her? They looked to be from the same place...Will his own teach him better? The same?

...It doesn't hit him until now that he might have to leave London. And sod London, it's a filthy place that's given him nothing. But it's all he knows outside of Hogwarts. The narrow and crowded streets, the misty mornings by the Thames, the chatter of various immigrant languages, the posh upper class exiting the theatre--He always saw himself as a very big fish in a very small pond but London is the biggest city he's been in.

And what does he know about lands across the sea?

He looks down at Ambrose's tank, where he sits happily with the other toads owned by Slytherin students--There's an abundance of them because they're apparently the most traditional animal (a reason Tom was alright with being given one to use by the school). They're also one of the easiest to keep track of: rats and ill-trained owls get lost all the time, and that's not even going into the nightmare that is the stray cats wandering around the grounds. Last year one of them was eaten by something in the Forbidden Forest.

"Ambrose," it feels strange to be speaking to the animal when he's already fourteen years old, "if I leave, would you want to come with me? Or would you want to stay here? Your home?"

Ambrose does not understand English, so he just croaks, walking over to a prime spot on a rock. It's just as well; if there was something like Parsel for frogs, Tom can't imagine why they would be any better conversationalists than snakes.

"I'd want to stay here."

-

The walk back to his office is just as long as it was a week ago. This time around, rather than a heavy weight bearing down on him, he feels the grip of a python circling his lungs. Acute anxiety rising like a tide. The tide in the seaside cave that threatened to swallow him, Amy, and Dennis up…

Why did he call on him? Did he find someone already? So fast? Or did he have this person in his back pocket, ready to launch? Was the week of wait only so he could deceive Tom? Plan something out behind his back?

His hand clenched into a fist, digging his nails into the ball of his palm. The pain eases him, somewhat. He relaxes.

The knock on the door is the same as it was last week. But somehow it feels weaker. Resigned. Tom tries to tell himself that it sounds secure.

He also doesn't wait to be let in--He opens the door before he can hear Dumbledore's 'come in': an assertion of authority. A move of power. He thinks it'll make a fine impression on--

Dumbledore is speaking with someone. He sits behind his desk looking at another person, who stands loose and comfortable before him. They were talking about him. He knows it, he can taste it in the air. Of course, he also heard his name coming in, so that's how he knows as well.

"May I remind you I do not allow anyone to smoke in my office, especially with students present," Dumbledore says, acknowledging Tom's entrance in a tone that is cheery but firm. The stranger gives a pause, turning to look at him.

His new mentor-to-be is young. He can't be any older than twenty-seven. His skin, a deep burnt sienna color, is marked with tattoos of various types scattered around. Strategic. Tom need not taste the air to be able to sense the magic coming off of them: a formation of decorated rings on his right forearm, Arabic and Roman numbers on the side of his neck, a flower bud on the back of his left hand (either unbloomed or wilted), and what he believes is the moving end of a snake, disappearing just under his white shirt (a button-up short sleeve[2] that looks odd and out of place in a place as cold as Northern Scotland.) His hair, a mop of loose curls that cuts just under his ears (a haircut that any self-respecting Englishman would abhor), is tucked underneath a straw sunhat. At first glance, he thinks the man looks like Ximena, but upon looking again, he notes that their facial features are different. The man's nose is wider, his eyes closer together, lips thicker. Still, it's easy to tell they came from the same part of the world. He wonders if everyone there will remind him of her.

His expression is aloof. Calculating. He's sizing Tom up, he can tell. Seeing if he's worthy, perhaps. Well, he's more than that. In fact, who's to say that this new teacher is worthy of him? He looks green. Wet behind the ears, as Hedwig would say. Too young to know anything.

But no, he corrects himself, looking into the man's black eyes, he's worldly.

The stranger puts out his cigarette on a conjured ashtray, "Tom Riddle?" His accent isn't thick, but it's definitely noticeable. Something like the Castilian students, but not quite. He holds out his hand, expectantly, and gives a handshake firmer than Tom was expecting, "Balam."

"Baa-lahm?"

He nods once, and Tom searches for something in his eyes. Judgment. Assumption. Finality. There's none of it. Only a soft detachment.

"No last name?"

He chuckles, moving to rub the back of his neck, "Always with the family names here...Not that you've heard of us, but if it's that important to you, then Hidalgo." Balam's lackadaisical demeanor unnerves him, "Either or, but address me as Maestro."

His first command. Reasonable enough. Still, he hates following orders. "You're a professor?"

"Not at all. But I know what I'm talking about." He waves away the question, "The nuances of the language and culture will come to you. Probably."

Dumbledore then speaks up again--Tom had almost forgotten that he was in the room with them--and explains that he's known Balam's family for quite some time, that they're a part of some sort of Wizarding network of professors and academics. It all sounds very out of character for Wizards, but the words intrigue him regardless.

"My specialty is in plants." Balam explains, "Though I was a former champion in the Dueling scene for a while."

Tom expects the two to reminisce or for Dumbledore to ask Balam how his family was doing or for the two to waste time and catch up for the next hour, but his new teacher hurries him up outside, dismissing them both from the office with little fanfare.

The last he sees of Dumbledore is his contemplative stare.

Outside the castle, it's stopped snowing. The snow crunches underneath both their feet as they walk out into the courtyard.

"Sorry about that. I can't stand to be in a room with him for too long." Balam finds another cigarette from behind his ear, "I don't take on apprenticeships--Or mentees or charges or whatever you'd like to call it." He searches his person for a lighter, then gives up and snaps his finger, raising a small flame from his thumb to light the new cigarette in his mouth, "But I owe that Dumbledore a favor."

Tom watches the smoke rise from the tip of the cigarette, "He does seem the sort to bank on debts."

He wonders if this is an act. Some kind of play put on to make him trust the wizard before him better. What better bond is there than one made by hatred or distrust? No, no, Dumbledore wouldn't try for something like that. He'd have the person be unreasonably kind to him. Past the point of reason.

Balam snorts, chuckling when the cigarette is removed from his mouth, taking special care to keep the smoke from blowing into Tom's face, "I'm positive it's what's keeping him alive."

Goose skin prickles upon Tom's arms, but Balam moves away from the subject, "Your grades are good, but it doesn't tell me anything about how you are in the field. It only makes sense for me to test you. See if you're worth my effort."

The straightforwardness is refreshing to hear from an adult, but it nonetheless rubs him the wrong way, "What kind of tests?"

Balam moves the hand holding the cigarette, expressing with it, "Nothing too hard, I know you haven't even taken your OWLs yet." Does he know what those are? Do they have them in Latin America? "But still challenging. I've talked to your professors here, and they talk you up like you're some type of prodigy."

He is a prodigy. "They're all too kind."

"Heh. I'm sure."

Tom stifles the feeling of offense.

"One of them said you were the second coming of Merlin."

A blink--It was Nemesis who had said that, not a professor. One of them must have appropriated it. Probably Slughorn.

"I didn't know Merlin personally, so I can't confirm or deny that statement."

That earns a chuckle out of Balam, and Tom gets the sudden urge to impress him. "Fair enough. You don't look to be hundreds of years old." A pause, "But then again, with magic like Merlin, who knows? You could be an immortal and I wouldn't know."

One day, Tom thinks. One day soon.