Serpentine

The rubble and ruin surrounding Tom’s form when he walks out to the Muggle side of the station weighs tremendously on him. His legs shake and he has to fight to keep from being brought to his knees. Beside him, a few Muggleborns exclaim in shock. Some cry. He is not one of them.

A trembling inhale. He is not one of them. A burning at the back of his throat. He is not one of them. A clenched fist. He is not one of them. A quivering exhale. He is not one of them.

He will never be one of them.

Wool's is surprised to see him. They know about the station. Have known for weeks. That his train in particular always leaves from there. The children look at him as if he were a returning ghost. Tom has no doubt they've spread rumors, possibly even made bets about his return. No matter. He gives a half-hearted explanation as to how he's returned to London, but he knows no one cares. When have they ever cared about him? The Matron eyes him warily as he retreats into his room, but he knows it is out of suspicion. Not concern.

Tom does not come back to ashes. His room is untouched, as usual, layered with dust. If he checks underneath his bed, he will find the same possessions previously tucked away. If he opens his wardrobe, he will find the same flat grey box he tucked into the corner after his first year. If he checks his windowsill, he will be able to count out the same amount of stones he left atop of it.

A part of him wishes it were all ashes.

Some of the newer children crowd around his door after he's entered. They know nothing of him outside of the rumors and stories from those who have grown up with Tom. Even some of the younger children who have grown up with him do not remember clearly. The incidents, the accidents, the tragedies. Maybe he should scare them. Even if it’s below him. Childish. A waste of time.

He closes the door without touching it. Slamming it shut so loud and sudden that he can hear their audible gasps and scurries of panic. He smirks.

-

The main branch Rosier manor is very much like the Acwellan one in the sense that both are imposing statements to the area around them that they are not to be trifled with. Of course, the outside is much different from that of the Acwellans: instead of looking like a genuine medieval castle, it looks like something much more modern, constructed at the height of the Sun King's rule in France (Tom knows little about him, as around the time he was reading about him, is when Dumbledore first showed up). Gaudy and tacky. The tour given to him upon settling in is mind-numbing. The Rosier patriarch goes on about architectural terms Tom knows nothing about and couldn't care less about like coffers and rosettes. Scrolls and fillets. It makes him think that architecture is a bit of a hobby for the rich because Hedwig gave a similarly informative (but much quicker and 'don't give a fuck'-ier) tour.

Only the roses that decorate the lands are natural, and yet they too, look fake.

Tom compliments the Rosier matriarch on them.

He can tell by her response that she's only expected to sit and look pretty. That she's supposed to say that the roses aren't hard to care for at all and that it's nothing. How pathetic. Thinking she can lie to him like that.

It's no wonder Evan thinks witches are beneath wizards, as Muggles think women are beneath men. In Tom's case, it's very true (he's above everyone regardless of sex), but too many wizards are letting their ego weaken them. It's no wonder two of the top three witches in his class are Hedwig and Nemesis (and he suspects the latter will eventually succumb to dumbing herself down for the sake of others).

Mrs. Acwellan would have never fallen for his false compliment. During his time with her family, the woman had proven to be a quieter version of her youngest child, only armed with a more delicate mace (compared to the trebuchet that Hedwig is). She might have accepted the lie, but she wouldn’t have responded to it.

Withholding this information is better for Tom (what if others start to wise up and try to overpower him?) Women are a quiet poison if his ex-mentor is to be believed. No one should know he takes them seriously.

“This is the geas they used on you?” Tom runs his fingers over the aged parchment, wondering if the ink used to write down the instructions were written in blood, “What language is it in?”

“Faerie.” Evan replies, “From my grandmother’s side of the family.”

A hum in response, "I've seen it before." Not that he can place where, he just knows, "Can you speak it?"

"A little." Evan's shoulders are stiff, his entire posture feels like brittle peppermint bark. One little snap and Tom could break him. "My brother knew more."

Yes that right, his brother. Poor fool. Couldn't be Tom. He's different. "I wasn't aware the Rosiers were in the business of neglecting their spares."

Evan's magical signature pulses. Controlled anger. So strong and fierce at the mention of his family. It's something Tom expected. Purebloods treat their families like their patriot country: something to be defended at all costs.

What Tom doesn't expect is Evan's collected response.

“His death was a surprise to us all.” And he speaks no more of it.

His room, like the one in Hedwig's home, is lavish to the point of insult, though in an entirely different direction. Instead of warm furs and dark tones, his room is a stale, hypnotically sterile environment. A bleached palace of Versailles (not that he's ever been, but he can imagine). He pens his letter to the girls at the spinet desk, one of the most modern things in the room aside from the gramophone by the bookshelf (the sight of it makes him snort. How long was it that Evan was turning his nose up at the device? Tom wonders whose idea it was to place it in the house.) Nothing too important, just keeping in touch.

Druella is unsurprised to see him, but shocked (affronted) that it had taken him this long to visit the main house. 'With how close you and Evan are, it's disgraceful.'

Maybe so. He has acknowledged Evan as someone to keep in his circle long ago, and the invitation was standing since his second year. The way Druella words it, it would seem he committed a social faux pas, but if so, no one here has treated him lesser for it. He likes to think it's making a statement. Let people wonder where he's been over the holidays…

Though the sensational news of Ian's attack on Tom (and Ximena's subsequent retaliation) has died down since then, the results of the trial continue to reverberate through the magical world. He heard about it through dinners at the Acwellans and now at the Rosiers: approvals and support of lawmakers previously viewed as 'too harsh' and 'too reactionary'. All because they decided that Ximena wasn't a monster for rightfully defending him. For rightfully punishing Ian Rosier. How bad could this wizard with Purism roots be? They served justice to that pureblooded child just a year ago! Odd logic. Short memories.

They don't talk about Ian at the dinner table.

-

He hasn't asked why Balam chose to teach him. Oh sure, it's obvious: he's a brilliant wizard, and anyone would be so lucky to have him as their student. But aside from that. Aside from Tom's paranoia that he's Dumbledore's spy. What was it? What did the man see in him?

It would have been easy enough to ask him, Tom has a way with words that always drives the conversation his way; every time he had tried, however, something stopped him. An odd sense of wait. Wait. The need to have patience. Not an uncommon feeling, but certainly never this strong.

Tom wants to know everything. If he could, he would read the mind of his mentor and drag every little bit of information out of him. Whether he thinks it'll be of use or not. The same way the Sorting Hat looks into the heads of every student. What did Cygnus call it again?

He separates seeds from a pod and places them in his mortar (a molcajete, his teacher had called it), keeping an eye on the quality. The task was tedious at first, but now that he's concentrated, he doesn't mind as much. His richer contemporaries might find Herbology and the like a waste of time (why cultivate your plants when you can pay for them instead?), but Tom's always found self-sufficiently to be the key to self-preservation. There's no one else to rely on other than yourself. As it should be.

He sneezes.

"Those allergies still bringing you down?" The amusement in Balam's voice annoys Tom, and rather than hide it, he vocalizes it.

"Do you find my suffering enjoyable?"

Balam chuckles, "Yes."

Tom blinks.

"Forgive me...This sort of teasing is common in my family." He waves it off, "You'll get used to it."

You'll get used to it. He says that about everything. Tom is already used to it; Hedwig treats him as such every chance she gets. "And how long will that take?"

"As long as you want."

Message received, "Does that include everything else?"

Balam blinks, and the expression is familiar to him, "Is there more to get used to?"

There's too much. The culture, the language, the people, the climate, the damn heat. Not to mention… "My magic feels different here."

Balam doesn't nod in understanding or answer. Instead, he looks interested, "Does it?" He hums, pressing his lips together, his long fingers drumming on the table between them, "How so?"

"Just different." His brows furrow, "I...It doesn't feel right."

"Like it doesn't belong to you?"

"No." The words do not come to him. He huffs under his breath, "It's like...Having my bones shifted. A little to the left."

"A little to the left," Balam repeats to himself, nodding slowly. It doesn't help Tom feel any less like something to be examined. Or like something's wrong with him. Though he's only known his teacher for a short amount of time, it feels odd to see him not immediately know the answer to something. Or form a hypothesis. "Magical signatures aren't my specialty, but..." He trails off, briefly considering something, "I've experienced similar when I was young. Particularly around your side of the globe." Another hum, "I grew out of it, I no longer get it nowadays...But if it really bothers you, I'll write a letter to my mother. She knows someone."

Balam writes something down on the back of an empty seed packet. A number or an address. Quick and clean. He does not show this to Tom.

“Maestro...Do you know of any magical means to read minds?"

-

The last day spent with Balam is spent traveling on foot. While Tom is used to walking long distances between classes at Hogwarts, he knows to charm his shoes ahead of time for cushioning. Apparating is still too much for him, and Balam avoids doing it in or around the forest. Superstitions. Or maybe practicality. When he asked, Balam gave a brushed off answer.

The second time arrived at his teacher's home was through the floo system again, through the northern town on the mountain with people who looked like so many of the pureblooded elite. But as they walk out of the jungle, they reach level ground. A tropical-esque coastal town. He can smell the sea from here.

"You look unsurprised."

Of course. Who does he think he's teaching? "Any observant wizard would have noticed the changes in travel..." Now as for how it's possible… "The Black Forest in Germany is similar, correct?"

"The same." Balam confirms, neither looking impressed nor annoyed, "Tell me, does your magic feel different out here than back in the house?"

A pause to ascertain the question. The answer. To feel and be aware of his magic from within.

"...Yes."

"Hm." Balam nods, "Keep track of those changes. It could help you figure out why they're happening."

Tom follows behind him as they pass through people who look like Balam. And Ximena. And combinations of the two. Warm skins in sepia, ochre, sienna. Dark eyes and dark hair. It occurs to him that any of these people could be a relative of hers, however distant. Somehow that thought makes him annoyed. That some stranger could have a better claim to her. Ridiculous.

...

She replied to his last letter. Seemingly uninterested in his prompts for attention, but wholly invested in his genuine questions. Alchemy, it seems, is something she better studies in theory rather than experiences in practice, because she has plenty of theories. Some baseless, some informed. All interesting. It's another thing he enjoys about her. That whole belief in something. How completely she gives herself to it. Tom wants that.

He's been writing about what Balam has him reading (without telling her about his apprenticeship), content with knowing that it'll catch her attention, but frustrated that he can't turn the conversation off of it. The moment he does, the dull, uninspired responses begin again. The kind that makes him feel like it's painful to talk to him. A chore. As if he's unwan…

Don't touch him. Don't touch him. Don't touch him. Don't touch him.

Inhale. Exhale.

He watches Balam make his trades, stuffing and taking out all manner of objects into and from his satchel. He's speaking not in Spanish, but in a language he tells Tom is Mixtec. Quick and poetic (not that Tom is one for poetry). Everyone in this town speaks it, and nobody speaks a lick of Spanish. It does not feel like the same country he stepped into all those weeks ago, but he knows it is. He feels it. That, and Balam confirms it.

"My mother was born here." He hands a freshly baked roll to Tom (a bolillo, he called it) as they exit a bakery, "Everyone here knows her."

It's an interesting anecdote, if only because it begs the question of whether or not Balam's mother is Muggleborn.

Tom bites into the warm bread and thinks of Elle.

They enter the jungle again.

"When we visit these clients' homes, don't ask questions. Keep to yourself and don't take anything." Now he knows that Dumbledore had said something to him… "Don't leave anything either." That was new, though. "When I ask you to pay someone, reach into the coin purse I gave you. It will provide."

The surrounding flora gradually changes from warm and tropical to cool and temperate. The trees grow taller and thicker. The animal life changes from snakes and pigs to squirrels and robins. Together, the two wizards trot onwards to a little cottage in a glen, nondescript and unassuming in its existence. A hay-thatched roof, half-timbered walls, and a mill on the quiet brook. Had it not looked straight out of a fairytale book (it was coming out of a giant tree trunk), Tom wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

Balam knocks once. Twice. It is a curious knock that Tom recognises as code, but he cannot replicate in his mind somehow. The thought disappears as the dutch door slightly opens on top, a suspicious eye turns into one of joy. Or relief.

“Oh Balam! Ladies, it’s only Balam!”

The door opens wholly, and his tutor gestures with his head for Tom to follow him inside. The house is horrendously old fashioned on the inside: wood stove, stained glass, straw broom...Even the residents were something out of a children’s story. While granted, most wizardkind are boring traditionalists and old fashioned (especially the pureblooded side), Tom has never seen the clothes replicated so...authentically. Wizards put their own spin on things, create moving embellishments, glowing threads, anything to make them seem extraordinary...These clothes have none of that.

The first woman, the one who had opened the door, looks popped out of a painting: a seamstress clad in warm, red-orange colors. Clean cut and no-nonsense. Her greying hair curled up tight in front where a piece of cloth was pinned to her head (for modesty? Perhaps these women are nuns.) She looks in charge. The leader. She is white-skinned.

“Oh look how much you’ve grown!” The second woman is dressed like Hedwig’s scullery maid, clad in long-sleeved washing clothes with a green scarf keeping her greying hair out of her face. Her eyes are kind and gentle, and her smile is a little...naïve. She reaches up to try and measure his teacher’s height with only her hand, “You’re as big as two of you now!” A giggle.

“Don’t be stupid, he’s only as big as he is.” The last woman was the youngest, with jet black hair parted in the middle of her face. Her dress deeply resembles that of a milkmaid, though Tom saw no barn nearby—Nor has he ever seen a milkmaid dress in such a vibrant shade of blue.

“Doña Florinda.” Balam greets the first one, kissing her cheek, before moving onwards to the others—Tom doesn’t take care to remember their names.

“Oh! You’re the same sweetheart as always.” The milkmaid-lookalike says with fondness.

“And who is this?” The first woman asks, referring to Tom.

“My charge, Tom Riddle.”

A respectful bow of his head, “A pleasure to meet you all.”

“Oh, he’s darling.” The kind woman coos, charmed.

“He’s something.” Balam jokes before lowering his voice to an almost whisper, “And how is...”

The look on all of the women’s faces changes at the same time.

“Oh, she’s getting bigger every day!” The kind woman places her hands on her chest.

“Yes...Fourteen, right?”

“Yes.” The leader of the group sighs, “She’ll be off and out of this house before we know it.”

Balam rests a comforting hand on her shoulder. Tom spots something out of his periphery: a spy.

He smiles, bright and handsome, up the stairs at the ajar door, “Hello there.”

“Rose!”

The spy flinches in surprise.

The first woman tsks, “Rose, Kam hier runter! Wo sind deine Manieren?”

“Sag nicht, dass du dich nicht an mich erinnerst, Kleiner?” Balam speaks warmly at the child at the top of the stairs, as Tom takes a moment or six to process that they're speaking German.

Slowly and shyly, a golden-haired young girl flutters down the steps, light as a feather, head down. She moves quick as a cat behind the bodies of her guardians, and curtseys from her spot. The youngest moves her arm in front of her protectively. Instinctually.

“Don’t mind her, she’s just not used to strangers,” The leader addresses Tom before speaking to the child again, “Rose, er est Balam—erinnerst du dich?”

The girl nods, her thick ringlet curls bouncing, “Ja. Es ist gut zu dir gesehen.” Her voice is melodic. Too mature for a girl of fourteen. She looks to him then, blush evident on her golden white complexion, “Schön, Sie kennen zu lernen, Herr Riddle.”

He blinks. Her eyes are a velvet, hazy purple, “Es ist mir ein Vergnügen., Fraulein Rose.” Studying paid off fast.

The blush deepens to a pleasing shade of pink. His teacher speaks next, “Hast du meine Gabe weise benutzt?”

Stillness. Then a firm nod. “Ja.”

Balam smiles, “Gut. Ich wusste, dass du es kannst.”

Rose looks down again, pleased with herself, but also terribly embarrassed. She asks to be excused to her room and hurries up back to the top of the stairs. Tom notes her barefooted state.

“Oh that girl,” The oldest woman sighs, “what are we going to do with her? Isn’t she a little too young to be thinking about—”

“Now now, it was only a blush, you’re overreacting—”

Balam clears his throat, “I’d hate to interrupt, but we are on a very strict schedule, and—”

“Yes yes, of course!” The kind one rushes to the back, past the milkmaid one (who had been eerily silent this whole exchange and looking at Tom like he was hiding something) to grab a parcel wrapped up in burlap, “I made sure it was of the best quality myself!”

“I’m sure there is no other that can hold a candle to it.” Balam assures, smiling, “Tom, pay the good ladies, please.”

He reaches into the burgundy pouch and pulls out a bright golden coin that brings up imagery of the sun. It emits a magical sort of heat that warms up his fingers. A small gasp is given by the three women at such a sight. He places it in the palm of the kind woman’s hands as they gather to admire it.

“I won't thank you.” Balam tells them, “I wish you and your charge many years of health and happiness.”

The warlocks leave the cottage with well wishes and an added basket of cheeses and sausages. Balam’s mystery purchase is tucked away in his satchel, hidden from Tom’s curious eyes. After a safe distance away from the home, he speaks.

“...Were they muggles?”

“No.” Balam hums, “They were magical.”

“They felt ordinary to me.” Tom looks back warily as if the youngest woman were still eyeing him suspiciously, “Looked ordinary to me.” His magic had not sensed any others aside from himself and his teacher.

“Looks deceive, as you should know by now.” His teacher replies, his tone eternally amused, “They took an oath to stop practicing magic.”

Tom almost trips over his own two feet, “What, why—Why would anyone do that?”

“Love.”

They continue their walk just as a silky, haunting melodic voice begins to sing from the cottage behind them.

The second space out of the forest is cold. Salt and fish assault his nose as seagulls and waves crash against his ears. Balam leads him up a rocky hill towards a charming white colonial home that looks to be a few hundred years old. The garden at the front of the house is littered with flowers and herbs of all types and appears to be the perfect space to hold a tea party in. He even sees a white table with chairs being occupied by a sleeping black cat. Tom brushes up against sprigs of rosemary as he walks through the white gate and turns back to look at the lines of trees from which he and Balam emerged—

He whistles for Tom’s attention, “Don’t get left behind.”

The younger boy trots up behind Balam as the latter knocks on the door seven times.

“You ladies still alive?” His teacher calls with a smile on his face as two older women cackle and open the door at the sight of him through the glass. They brush off his little insult as if he were a little rascal they had met on the street and let them both in, pushing and affectionate.

The thinner one with wide, dark eyes grabs Balam’s face and kisses his forehead, “Yes, we are, and we are upset! You’re late.”

“Oh, how long was the broom down before I came, then?”

“About ten minutes,” The plumper one, looking like a grandma mascot on a tin of cookies smiles at him, “So it might as well have been about ten hours.”

“So you’re late and intruding.” The other one laughs again before noticing Tom standing and waiting in the corner of the kitchen. When Balam introduces him, the two women come up close to inspect him with squinted eyes.

“Good hair.” The thinner one comments.

“Good teeth.” The plumper one comments.

“I would appreciate not sizing up my new charge like a prized pig.” His teacher crosses his arms, amusement in his voice.

“We’re just making sure he’s all there, honey,” The plump one smiles, resting a gentle hand on Tom’s forearm, “Tell me, dearie, are you spoken for?”

“That is quite enough.” Balam’s voice is firm. The thin one sticks her tongue out at him. Tom is baffled, “I’m sure none of your clients are in the market for a warlock anyways.”

“Oh no, not here,” The plump one sighs, “you would think two hundred years was enough for people to lighten up to our existence outside of convenience.” Her hand remains on Tom’s arm, “We were just browsing—For Gilly Bean, you know.”

“Heaven knows that child has the most terrible tastes.” The thin woman expels, raising her voice upwards.

His teacher laughs, “She is young. She will learn.”

“Yes, but at what cost?” The thin one says, exacerbated, “Come, Balam, we have your order right here,” She offers up a caffre made of colored glass, sealed with a cork. Inside, Tom can see a dark, viscous liquid that reminds him of cough syrup, “an eye for an eye.”

Balam smiles, handling the bottle with care, “Give my regards to your nieces, ladies.”

“We’ll ship them off to you the moment they decide to embrace their gifts.” The thin one cackles as the two wizards depart.

"That wasn't...This wasn't..."

"It wasn't Mexico?" Balam yawns, Tom fights the urge to mimic him, "What are nations? Meaningless borders on land that will outlast them."

There he goes again. Why does he bother, "The Black Forest in Germany doesn't reach that far. Not like this."

"Oh? Have you, yourself charted every section of it?" His mentor twists his torso to crack his back, stretching as he walks onward, "You need to start questioning things more. It's why I agreed to teach you. Curiosity like that should be nurtured."

Tom has nothing to say to that.