Serpentine

The beginnings of April are as wet as one would expect them to be on the Emerald Isle. As far as his views can see, there are only green hills. Miles after miles of them. He knows the island isn't that huge, but at the moment he can't help but feel like the scenery truly goes on forever. It's a somewhat dark thought that makes him uneasy, and he tucks it away to be forgotten at a later date.

The Acwellan residence was built sometime in the 10th century after the first of Hedwig's ancestors left Tír na nÓg [1] for the human realm for the purpose of marrying a mortal man (something which she describes as a bloody stupid mistake—Tom agrees). It is more of a fortress than an actual manor, and reminds him terribly of Hogwarts.

He enters the grounds in a carriage, and he suspects this is because Hedwig's parents wish to show off their great wealth in a way that simply wouldn't be achievable if they had had him apparated directly here. Tom knows well enough how the rich operate, and it takes everything in him not to roll his views as the walled citadel opens its doors to him. Inside the walls, the fortress looks much like a self-contained village, negating the need to live near other sources of food or supplies (Nemesis mentions that many purebloods reside in Muggle-heavy areas, and that makes him snort audibly). The appearance reflects the idea that time stopped centuries ago, refusing to move forward.

He both covets and hates it.

Nemesis is babbling on about Ireland and how nice she finds the country. The magical side, anyway, she's never visited a Muggle village. A part of her wishes to explore one, and Tom vaguely recalls the start of his second year when Eric sat in the train carriage telling tales of her adventures around Muggles. It seems so far away now. What sort of things would his younger, more foolish self say about what he's experienced?

Hedwig would tell him he's still young and foolish, but he knows better. He's superior to his younger self, as he should be. More powerful. More sharp. To have gone backwards in ability would be inexcusable.

"Ma just redid the entire parlor. It's about three times as big as it is now. About the size of the main chamber of the common room."

"Oh my."

Tom doesn't comment on it, he knows he's unable to sufficiently hide his bitterness.

"You don't have to apply for permission to extend your household?"

"We don't. Other families do."

Why did he come here? Why did he think it would be a good idea? Perhaps it was upon learning that Ximena had spent last Easter with Nemesis' family, but…

Nemesis turns to acknowledge him,

"—we would have had you over at my family's manor, but it's a bit crowded with all of us, you know."

Hedwig snorts, "Your home is full of house elves, it's fucking awful."

Nemesis goes on the defense, insisting there was nothing wrong with the noble creatures. Tom thinks about Elle and wonders what she's doing. It's her birthday today, after all.

"—I don't think there's anything unnatural about having human servants, Hedwig!"

They're truly arguing over what kind of servants are better. How many degrees of separation are they from him? Why did they even invite him here? Because they're friends? Do they want something out of him? Perhaps if it were still their first year, he'd think they were mocking him. Dangling their riches and luxuries over his head.

He'll have this. He'll have all of this one day—The obnoxious home, the village of people serving under him, the carriages, the plush carpets and tapestries, all the damn servants he wants, whether they be human or…

The inside of her home is more modernized, but only perhaps to about the 18th century, a place that Tom thinks wizardkind has stayed frozen in for a long while. The room he's meant to stay in is larger than the third year boys' dormitory. It's nothing grandiose according to Hedwig, but the tapestries hung on the wall and the ornate carpets under his feet say otherwise. The bed alone could fit over ten of him with room to spare.

It's a type of luxury he would get used to.

Tom puts away his things, though he is only set to stay for a week out of the fourteen-day holiday, before sitting down at the writing desk supplied to the left of the bed. He pens a quick letter to Elle wishing her well and asking how her Passover is going[2]. Then he writes another to Ximena, whom he doesn't expect a reply from. Both letters are brief and vague, though worded especially to fish out specific topics from both witches. He'd never waste his time with small talk without reason, after all.

Sun just barely setting, he then sits on the bed and opens his book, reading until dinner.

The tests Balam had placed on him were strange and nuanced, and that's the polite way of putting it. He began by asking him what his wand was made of and then asked if he knew about any of the symbolism surrounding the yew tree and the phoenix. He did not. Balam merely nodded, as if making a note of it. Tom still doesn't know if that counted against him.

Balam asked him what he dreamed about. Tom, having sat down to record all such things weeks ago, was well prepared for that. The man complimented him on his meticulous documentation and listened keenly on all the repeated motifs in Tom's dreams (the ones that Tom decided he'd share, at least), making no comments and showing no identifiable emotion. It unnerved Tom. His astute observations are often all he can really depend on—How would he have known if he was saying the wrong thing?

Still, the interview continued, with seemingly meaningless questions being asked of him. His wand, his dreams, what he's been reading outside of the tomes required by the Hogwarts curriculum, what languages he knew…

Tom kept quiet about Parseltongue. Subsequent readings from Corvinus' diary and followup questions pressed out of Ximena revealed that it wasn't something usually associated with goodness. That religions from the Middle-East had demonized the ability to the point where even wizards found it to be a sign of dark magic. Dark magic in a bad way, he should specify. Tom assumed the religion in question was Christianity and its sects, but the diary also described names, holidays and practices not known to him alongside the usual descriptions of crosses, thorn crowns, and mentions of Isaiah. It wasn't until he listened in more keenly to Elle and Goldstein's Mysticism debates that he realized the diary also included Judaism and Islam.

What Tom did divulge was his readings on French and German (fueled by the many purebloods surrounding him), keeping his interest in learning Spanish hidden.

Not as expected, Balam didn't ask him why he wanted to be tutored in Latin America when the languages he's studying are much closer to England. Instead, he nodded again, muttering something to himself (Tom only made out 'the capital' and 'the north' from what Balam said), before reaching into his pocket to pull out a small book: flexible and thin. He then asked Tom to translate it. 'You have a week.' He told him, nonchalant and poker-faced, 'I'll be back in that time to see your progress, and we'll go from there.'

It had taken him six days, and it would have taken him more were it not for the practice he already had with Ximena's frustratingly cryptic tomes and notes. Another sign of the universe or God or destiny or whatever being on his side. All of his free time was given to translating the strange book, which was written entirely in old Basque. The temptation to ask Ximena for help was...there. And even though he had laid out the book in an obvious fashion within her line of sight, it was actually Nemesis who asked him about it. Typical.

What followed was reassurance in knowing he had made the right decision in bringing Nemesis into his entourage. She had made it known to him that her mother was Spanish, but had apparently kept her knowledge of the languages spoken within the country secret. Yes, he should have known better. And now he does. With her, the book is translated almost wholly with excellent clarity: it was a small manifesto talking about the merits of dark magic.

That was the first book. The book he's reading at the Acwellan residence is the seventh.

Perhaps he should be furious that these tests are so long and seemingly useless. He was anticipating dueling Balam, or perhaps showing off practical knowledge. But what he's been learning from the books is just enough to keep him interested in what Balam could possibly teach him… Even if it wasn't enough, the need to escape Wool's—escape this cursed war—is.

And, well, Latin America is a point of interest for him. For reasons.

Not all of the books lent to him were meant for translating. Other times, Balam would ask him what he thought about the book. The theories, the methods, the citations, the prose. One of the books had been about poems, and when asked about the themes and how it made him feel, Tom pulled pure bollocks out of his ass in response. While he can appreciate good writing, it doesn't mean he has to feel a way about it. But whatever Balam wanted to hear, he must have heard it, because he had given the book that's in Tom's hands to him.

This book is the most fascinating one yet.

'The Pantao grows in the garden of the Queen Mother of the West and ripens every three-thousand years (not unlike the Future Fruit[3]), whereupon the Eight Giants feast upon it...'

A knock on his door: he relishes in the small power of allowing the maid in question to enter. Dinner is ready. She guides him to the dining hall alongside Nemesis, who has changed out of her school robes and into a beige dress that looks like it came out of a Shakespearean play. He compliments her on it.

Tom finally meets Hedwig's parents when they arrive at the bottom of the steps.

Hedwig takes after her mother while Eric takes after her father. Mrs. Acwellan is a tall, lithe witch with hair so blonde, it might as well be white. It drapes around her hips in a thick braid and whips around her head when she turns to scold servants. Her oval-shaped face matches Hedwig's, alongside her bright hazel eyes and dark eyebrows. What doesn't match, however, is her long, upturned nose or high cheekbones.

Tiarna[4] Acwellan, in contrast, is a stout, sturdy man with Eric's straw blond hair and freckles. Like his eldest daughter, his face is very sharp and masculine, with bushy eyebrows, a broken nose, and a square jaw. The beard on him is impressive and as bejeweled as his fingers. Evidence of his right to his titles, according to Hedwig. There is nothing in Tom's Potions partner that reminds him of her father.

The dinner table they sit at is circular—ring-shaped, actually. Carved with Celtic knots and brimming with old magic. Tom wonders how many people have sat at this table and broken bread with this family, in this house. Hedwig said that the table remembers every witch and wizard that sits before it, and while that unnerves him on various levels, it pleases him to be a part of old magical history. He supposes he'll be the most famous wizard to have eaten upon its surface. What an honor it must be.

They start with a stew made of mussels and cockles. It's a bit under-seasoned, but heavy in richness. So much so, that Tom almost feels full by the time he finishes his bowl. That's when the lamb comes out and oh! Hedwig had talked up her family's cook, but her crude praises do the dishes no justice. Pink in the middle and dark brown on the outside, when he bites into the shank, sweet, honeyed juices spill out onto the plate. With such a meat-heavy diet, he's starting to understand why Hedwig takes after a hyena. Probably fiercer than one.

He expects her Patronus is a Hungarian Horntail[5].

Hedwig's father makes most of the conversation during dinner, asking questions to both his daughters and both his guests about their grades and interests regarding studies. Eric is most receptive to this chatter, followed by Nemesis, who was no doubt raised to be a perfect guest. Hedwig's replies are one-worded and sharp. Every answer she gives has a layer of aggression to it, passive or otherwise. Tom notes her mother's subtle smile.

All in all, despite the chatter, it's a cold dinner. Sterile. More or less what he expected from a pureblood household.

He and Nemesis are led to one of the parlors (he wonders if any of them have a point other than to take up space in a rich person's home) instead of being taken on a tour of the place as Mrs. Acwellan suggested. Hedwig said it would be a waste of time, and that the servants would try to spy on them. She and Nemesis bicker over this for a few minutes as Tom surveys his surroundings. There's a portrait of Mrs. Acwellan over the mantle that's taller than two of him put together. She appears to be holding a small baby in her arms wrapped in white lace (Tom assumes it's Hedwig), and looking rather pleased with herself. Every once in a while, the baby in the painting reaches up to try and pull at her mother's jewelry, and the woman has to tenderly scold her to stop.

Tom decides he hates the painting.

After some conversation (Hedwig mentions her scullery maid having a staring problem when it came to him, he hadn't even noticed her), Hedwig sneaks them all a small glass of her father's prized Firewhiskey; the amber brown liquid sits two fingers tall in the ornate cup. It smells like the bombings back in London. He takes a sip, though he does not want to. The taste is smokey, biting, like ashes in his mouth. He forces himself to swallow it without fanfare. Nemesis immediately starts coughing, sticking her tongue out and lamenting her choice. Hedwig cackles.

He relaxes. Perhaps this week will not be as painful as he expected.

-

The agreement was to drop Tom off at Platform 9¾ after his week with the two witches was up, and that was completed well enough. However, rather than be picked up by a Wool's worker, as he had led them to believe, the one to pick Tom up from the station is his teacher to be.

Convincing the matron at Wool's to allow him time away from the orphanage was easier than he believed possible, and it's mostly thanks to the war and influx of new arrivals from the easternmost countries, fleeing Hitler (though many of them also fled the Soviet Union). He's another mouth to feed, and unliked well enough anyways, that the woman only gave the permission forms a second glance.

Though, even if she had looked closer, she wouldn't see anything awry. The magical text is charmed, Muggles see nothing out of the ordinary. And if he amended the paperwork to ensure that she would not even think about touching his room and things while he was gone, then that's his own business, isn't it?

Even if all he has is ashes, it still belongs to him. No one else can touch it.

The older wizard looks much the same as he did the first time Tom met him. Balam's loose cotton shirt is still weather inappropriate, and holds bold red embroidered designs with vines and dancing deer. They move along the hem as he approaches, and he immediately asks Tom about his book, The Yi Jing: Reflections and Essays[6], before holding out his arm to apparate elsewhere.

"A thought provoking read." Tom starts, taking the man's arm with some caution, "Has the author written any more works?"

Balam gives a little harrumph, "Several. He's in the middle of writing another."

The side-along apparition feels different than traveling by floo. Tom feels as if he's being compressed, stretched, and twisted all at the same time. Flashes of the station, smoke, debris, and finally the English countryside appear in his view.

He empties the contents of his stomach on the side of the road. Balam waits patiently and then hands him a small vial of salt water to wash his mouth out with.

"Didn't realize it was your first time." For his credit, he does sound genuinely apologetic, "I wish you'd warned me."

Tom tries his best not to heave again, spitting out the salt water, "I didn't think that would happen." He can't say he's looking forward to learning how to do that, even if it is massively convenient, "Where are we?"

"Yorkshire." Balam provides, the open book still casually open in his free hand, as if he didn't just perform an impressive feat of travel and magic, "Don't ask me where exactly, I just remember this spot from training in my youth." His black eyes gaze over the dark pastures, the darkening sky becoming alight with stars, "The book, did you read it all?" Tom answers him. Balam nods. Asks no questions, unlike the previous times upon where he would delve into an almost interrogation. Asking Tom what he got from the reading. His takeaways, his confusions, his questions. It throws him off when all Balam does is shut the book with one hand and ask:

"Can you dance?"

Tom blinks. "What?"

"Can you dance?" Balam repeats, tucking the book away in his pocket—Despite the fact that the book was much too bulky and big to have been hidden down so flatly.

"Should I be able to?"

"Yes." His answer, blunt, surprises Tom. "My own teacher often compared feeling the magic in the air to feeling the music during dance."

The comparison doesn't make any sense. What is there to feel in music?

"I can tell by your face that you're not taking me seriously."

It wouldn't take a particularly keen person to sense that. "I am simply considering it."

"I'm sure." Balam reaches into what Tom had assumed was his wand holster and slips out a thin knife. Ivory handle, with a glossy, jagged blade looked to be made from stone. If he stretches out his senses, he feels magic radiating from it.

"Duel me."

Adrenaline spikes in Tom's blood. His hands twitch towards his wand, tucked in his robe pocket. So this is why they came here. He had been wanting to see just what the man was capable of, though he doubts if he'll go full-out. A former dueling champion versus a young prodigy? Tom is confident in himself, but he knows it would be foolish to grow arrogant.

He wonders if he could make Balam break a sweat.

Tom's wand is drawn out, in a more graceful fashion than that of Balam's knife, which he wields as if it were a wand...Curious.

"Standard rules for this region. The same ones taught in your Defense class." Balam looks curious and a bit excited if Tom does say so himself. "Last as long as you can against me."

The lack of any clear terms for winning irritate him, but no matter. If he wants to see Tom's endurance, then he'll see it. "I accept these terms."

They bow. Walk the ten paces away from each other. Count. Three. Two. One.

Balam strikes first: a silent spell he crafts by cutting through the air with the knife, the pattern is unfamiliar. His wrist is quick. A river of water bursts from the air where the knife cut.

The spike of magic is electrifying. He tastes a complicated mixture on his tongue. Something like cinnamon. Or nutmeg. Mace. Cloves. Pepper? He's never eaten it before. He'll make a note of it.

Tom strikes back with an evaporation spell. The waters thrown at him are warm and tropical, not difficult to get rid of with a casual Evanesco. But he wants to impress the other. Show him what made Willow covet him for Dueling Club. He wishes to attack back at him, but wonders if that is a part of the test… He decides to wait and see.

The only response given is a small smile and another spell: Balam creates more movements, blows a pinch of a powder into the air as he murmurs words. A language Tom does not recognise, and he did not expect to. The earth underneath Tom's feet moves and cracks open. He points his wand at his feet to cast float.

Obviously, these are no ordinary spells found within Hogwarts, and perhaps that's the point. Throwing the unknown at him and seeing how he reacts. How he adapts. All he has to do is sit and obediently take it while the other wizard throws all manner of foreign spells at him…

...Or he can misbehave a little.

After a dozen more strikes, Tom finds his own rhythm. Balam is attacking in a pattern, to the beat of an invisible metronome. Now that he's been 'fighting' with him for a while, it's obvious (naturally his brain picked out the pattern fast). The man is doing it on purpose, of course. Else he is insulting Tom's abilities, and he'd rather not think that was the truth. So he waits a little. Biding his time. Almost, if not all of Balam's attacks are elemental. They involve conjuration or summoning. No matter how strong the man may be, it'll certainly be wearing on his magic and stamina. Just a little bit more…

Tom strikes on count with the beat in his head. His wand points and shoots forth a shielding spell seen only once before, during Ximena's duel with Ian, and studied various times in his abjuration class. Balam's knife flips up when it makes contact with the shield, twisting in the air with uncertainty before landing back in the man's hand.

"Good."

Satisfaction prickles Tom's spine. He tries not to let it show.

"I thought you would strike back a lot earlier." Balam tucks the strange knife back in his holster, "You are rather impatient."

Tom frowns, but swallows his pride, "So you are rewarding me for disobeying your rules."

"Of course. Disobedience is a virtue. How else would traditions break?"

He couldn't agree more.

"Do I pass?"

"Yes." Balam stretches, cracking his neck and back, "Which is good, I don't want to travel all the way back to Scotland just to drop you off. I can't apparate into Hogwarts, you know." He searches his person for a cigarette, locating one in his pants pocket, "I'll send word to Dumbledore and your guardian: as of right now, you are my student." This time, instead of bothering to search for a lighter, he just snaps his finger again to strike up a fire to light his cigarette. "I've got sunscreen in my bag; you're going to need a lot of it."

-

They do not apparate across the Atlantic. It would be impossible to do so with the power of just one wizard, not to mention that after his second round of it for the day, Tom is not in any hurry to try it again. Instead, Balam apparated them to the Ministry, seeking to use a floo for international travel ('a portkey is so much work', he had explained). Tom asks if international floo is any different than normal, and Balam says that one is a lot more tired by the end of it, not to mention the soot that clings to one, but altogether less troublesome.

The inside of the Ministry is not as intimidating as he remembers it his second year, though it is just as gaudy and dark. Few people pay attention to his oddly dressed teacher, though there are a handful who stare. Balam walks past it all as if he held their opinion as high as that of a fly's. Or maybe he just doesn't notice. Tom can't tell. His is a quiet sort of dignity that he doesn't often see in his pureblooded compatriots. Balam has nothing to prove. He simply is.

At the departing gate, Balam warns him of how paranoid the consulate will be upon his arrival.

"Because of Grindelwald?" He remembers him being spotted in Argentina a year ago.

Balam chuckles, "It may come as a surprise to you, but we have our own dark witches to worry about." He shakes his head, "If you ever hear the name Mafalda in polite conversation, assume they're a supporter of tovarisch Stalin and his...ideas."

"Wizards following modern political ideals?" Modern Muggle political ideals?

A shrug is offered in return, "Things are different there."

Tom jokes about what did he get himself into, but deeply considers if he's leaving one war for another as he is engulfed in green flames.

-

Mexico is a surreal landscape. Barren and full of life all at once. The heat of the sun and crowded streets bathe over him like Firewhiskey. Submerge him. Beneath the surface, he sees and smells in colors and scents never seen before, it seems. Tom is acutely aware of where he is. The beauty of the land, the richness of the cuisine, the bloody history ingrained in every painting, every grain of sand, every brick in every building…

A healthy sheen of sweat layers over his pale skin, coated with just enough sunblock to keep him from burning red. The sweat drips from his forehead into his eyes, stinging him, and when he wipes it away with the back of his hand, it does little to help. Instead, he reaches for the white handkerchief in his pocket. Better. He's accustomed to heating charms, not cooling ones, and he makes a note to learn the latter as soon as possible. Later today, if there's time. He might be a wizard, but he knows the limits of his body.

Not many people look like Ximena here. In fact, many people look like him. Like Nemesis and Evan. But when they open their mouths, the same Spanish that Balam speaks (that Ximena speaks?) comes out, albeit with a strange twang accented to it. It's quite jarring. Quite fascinating. He wonders what Ximena would think about it. If she would feel just as alien here as she does in Europe. If she did, would she stay there? Closer to him?

Balam gives his salutations to various street vendors as they pass them (it must be a small town, or is he a regular?), and greets them all with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. In fact, everyone here greets each other this way, not just his teacher. Surely they can't all know each other intimately. He can't imagine having to tolerate anything more than a handshake, particularly towards a stranger. The mere thought disgusts him.

Yet here his teacher is. Here everyone is, treating everyone like an old friend. Laughing and chatting. Music plays in the background. A radio in a nearby shop, a street musician plucking an engorged guitar, a distant humming of traffic. People's murmurs and car engines.

Strangely intoxicated, he finds himself curious and genuinely interested in the affairs of the Muggles around him. Their wares and food and dances. He keeps back at a distance and observes it all, feeling overstimulated and hot. It isn’t until Balam stops in front of a herb stand that he realizes he is also among wizardkind: he recognises the dried plants hanging from the rafters.

“––When did we enter the magical district?”

A chuckle, and Tom tries not to take it personally, “Things are different here.” He offers no more explanation before ordering fast and quick in Spanish. Tom slips on the translation charm taught to him just minutes before.

“Are you a warlock too, sir?” The voice of a child. He turns his head to acknowledge him behind the counter, peeking over curiously at him.

“Of course I am.”

An excited smile passes over the small child’s features. Circe, he can’t be older than six––

“I knew it!! I knew it, I knew it!”

When Balam’s business is done there, Tom pulls him aside, “That was a Muggle child.”

“Yes.” He replies, unimpressed.

“Was he a Squib?”

“No.” Balam raises his brow at the use of the word but otherwise says nothing. Tom looks behind him as they walk, back at the shoppe.

“But the Statute of Secrecy--”

“I told you,” His teacher interrupts, and Tom can’t quite tell if he’s amused or annoyed. Maybe both. “Things are different here.”

-

The quick errands are finished before Tom can really process that he's on the other side of the world (he can see the moon in the daytime, and it bothers him). Balam tucks away all the things bought and traded for in his messenger bag (save for two cold Coca-Cola bottles he brought for them) and leads Tom into the shade of the woodland front, further up in the mountain which the village was situated on. It is a path the man has traveled many times, as evidenced by the ease in which he hikes up the trail and the familiarity with which he treats it.

Along the way, Balam engages him in conversation: asking more about him personally. Tom doesn't really care to answer, but he supplies his new teacher with the bare minimum: his house in Slytherin, the people he's come to know and categorize as friends, and what Tom enjoys doing outside of school. It's directionless dribble that he's not used to, at least coming from him, but perhaps it has a purpose.

As they walk, the temperature doesn't change, but the humidity does. The trees around them no longer look...right. They appear more tropical. Some lower to the ground. How long have they been walking?

He sees it then, in a clearing: a humble, decently sized house for one person sits pretty in the jungle, canopied by trees and surrounded by the sounds of birds and a distant river. It is an entirely different climate than the one he first encountered.

"Do your wards affect your weather?"

Balam huffs, amused, "It's a little more complicated than that, but good to know you're observant." He turns the knob, it's unlocked, and leads Tom into a comfortable, bohemian space.

It occurs to him, then, that Balam is not a wealthy man. He could have guessed it, by the way he carries himself and the clothes he wears, but it still somehow takes him by surprise. The walls are bright white, lined with various photographs, plants, amulets, and miscellaneous objects that aid in giving the parlor a cluttered, cozy feeling. The floor is earth, leading into a wooden floor hallway and what looks to be a terracotta tiled kitchen. He steps down into the living room, eyes sweeping over the tanned, leather sofa, cozy armchair, and wooden tables (also covered with photos, plants, and the like), immediately trying to pin down just what kind of person Balam is. Half of the photos move, the other half do not.

When he turns to his right to look out the large window, he realizes it is much bigger on the inside than out. "Do you live alone?"

"I would be a true bachelor, then, I suppose." He seems to find some amusement in that, "My mother lives with me, but she has business elsewhere at the moment." He doesn't elaborate. The door closes behind him and he walks past Tom to the first door in the hallway (it's painted a bright red) to drop his bags beside it. "A quick tour, and then you can leave whatever you wish in your room for when you return."

The first door on the left in the hallway is a bathroom. The knob is glass and transparent. Inside has a large iron soaking tub with golden knobs and claw feet in the shape of something Balam calls an ahuizotl ('My grandmother has one as a pet, they're quite vicious'). On the shelves lining the tub and on the green titled floor surrounding it, there's a large assortment of candles and bottles. All materials, all colors, all shapes and sizes. The sink counter isn't much better, and the golden faucet nested there drips steadily. The sound of the droplets echoing in the cool room.

The second door on the right, after the red door, is Balam's private study and should be avoided at all costs, save for an emergency. Naturally, Tom is the most curious about this one, and he eyes the iron doorknob with extreme curiosity.

The door after the hallway bathroom is Balam's bedroom, which is creaked open by an extremely amorous orange tabby cat which Balam affectionately calls Churro[7]. The cat rubs his head and body against Tom's legs, leaving his black robes covered in orange fur (Balam jokes that there's a reason black cats are preferred by witches).

The door at the end of the hall is a library, and when Balam opens that door, Tom's not quite sure what to expect. It sides to the right, like a barn door, and reveals a large, tall room that feels like it would belong in the Acwellan household, save for the number of birds flying through it.

"Cockatiels." Balam sighs, "And parakeets. My mother is obsessed with them."

The colorful plumage lends another layer of surrealism to it all, from the bookshelves too tall to not fall over, to the large half-dome of a window sticking out from the room, letting Tom gaze into the forest.

"This room is always free for your use, just don't steal anything; you'll be cursed automatically."

They round back to the parlor and turn left, showing off the kitchen. Instead of white, the walls here are bricked, as if it were built at a different time, a different place. What looks to be ivy hangs from the ceiling, crawling up on the walls and windows. There's a basic gas stovetop, icebox, pantry, and sink along with what appears to be an old-fashioned water pump and basin in the far corner. In the center of the room is a wooden table painted teal with a variety of utensils, tools, and dry ingredients. Three stools are drawn up to it.

"I keep it stocked regularly, so don't worry about going hungry. Eat as much as you need." Balam points to the door next to the wash station, "Out there's the garden. You can look once you've placed your things in your room," now the two walk back towards the red door.

“When you’re ready to return to your room, just open this door,” Balam gestures, “When you need something else, think about it, and it’ll help you.”

“Like the Room of Requirement?[8]”

He chuckles, “Something like that.”

The door opens.

His room is sizable--bigger than the one at Wool’s, but small enough to still be considered a one-person room. His bed is situated in the far right corner with a side table and lamp to the left. On the opposite wall lies floor to ceiling shelves with varying books and scrolls, as well as a study desk. To Tom’s left is a work table with vials, beakers, and a cauldron. To his immediate right is a wardrobe. All the furniture is made from dark, polished wood. All of the walls are painted a soothing, muted forest green. Directly across from the door is a tall, wide window with maroon curtains, showing the outside shrubbery and trees.

It would do.