Serpentine

cw for terrible tom riddle fanfic trope that i succumbed to for plot reasons
-
The teleportation properties of the woods Balam resides in are lost to Tom in a technical sense. What sort of spell or curse or wizard could have possibly made that possible? Someone absurdly powerful. Someone like him? Like how he will be, he should say, because as capable as Tom knows he is, he knows something like that is a bit beyond his abilities. For now.

He tries asking Balam to explain but his teacher only presses his lips together and shrugs in response. "Astral plane ties, nothing to write home about." After praising Tom for being inquisitive, this feels like a polar punishment. He doesn't want to accept it. He refuses.

...Is there an answer in Balam's study? Something hidden that he doesn't want Tom to see?

The forbidden room has been a source of intrigue to him since the moment his teacher told him it was off limits to him. How could he not be intrigued? If someone, anyone, tells him that he's not allowed to do something, it only makes him want to do it more. Want it more. If it doesn't have anything on the forest, then about legilimens…

Tom knows that he has a natural penchant for it. He always knows when someone is lying to him, can accurately judge others within seconds of knowing them, and he's rather intimidating if he does say so himself. It's only a matter of practice. Clearing the mind. Focusing. Harnessing one's power.

Balam had compared it to cultivating a plant (his small greenhouse is one to be envied): pruning back stalks, pinching off leaves for new growth, preventing premature flowering. Ensuring the soil is properly mineralized and that the water is clean. The metaphor confused Tom at first (how on Earth is his mind like a plant?), before the idea of cutting away unnecessary baggage from his head came to mind. Of stepping into the right state of thinking and utilizing his skills properly in order to succeed. Not to become arrogant. It made perfect sense, then. Snip. Cut out friendships. Snip. Cut out family. Snip. Cut out distractions.

His teacher surprises him in new ways. Perhaps Tom will keep him. Not depend on him. But keep him.

He's an interesting man, his teacher. Masculine in a gentle way. Nurturing. It reminded him of a less pompous (less assuming) Slughorn. Most especially when instructing him on something new. Though he didn't often have to use it, the man's patience is endless. His presence calming. His magic electric. Thunderous. Something powerful and enrapturing. It overstimulates him when he asks to try and sense his teacher's magic after his lessons.

Much of the magical techniques Balam has been teaching him have to do with breathing exercises and being aware of his magic (a skill which comes easy to him thanks to the advice given by Ximena and Yami). Conscious of how it moves through and around his body. It's like being aware of the blood running through his veins. He never noticed it before, but now that he has, he could never ignore it. How could he dismiss something so powerful?

Balam reads his magic easily, quirking a brow as it flows over his lightly calloused hands. "Strange."

Tom mimics the brow quirk, "Strange?"

"It’s black...But it's not." He presses his lips together, "Iridescent, almost. I've never seen something like it; you don't have creature blood, do you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You don't have to sound so offended." Balam snorts, "Humans...witches tend to have magicks in solid colors. Occasionally gradients. Magical beings like fae or veelas have other visuals...Creature descended peoples tend to have unique abilities like charm or shapeshifting. Do you have anything like that?"

Surely he didn't inherit his parsel from a creature...Or any of his other magnificent abilities…

Then again, he was sure that his mother was a Muggle.

Still, his teacher continues without waiting for him to answer, "It's nearly like your magic's been contaminated, actually. The black is a fog. Have you been in close proximity to any powerful magical objects?"

The memory of glass obsidian and metal tickles over Tom's palm. He doesn't flinch, "Perhaps. An evil eye bracelet?"

Balam blinks, furrows his brows and shakes his head, "No no...An evil eye bracelet wouldn't...Couldn't...Hm." The thin line formed by his mouth is tense.

"...Couldn't what?" His teacher has the terrible habit of trailing off just when his words are getting interesting. There's no guarantee he'll continue, of course.

But he does, "An evil eye bracelet is protection, yes, but it wouldn't mix with your magic so readily like this...It is the difference between a nursery rhyme and a fourteen movement concierto...It's familiar."

Goosebumps rise on the back of Tom's neck.

It's black...Endless...A night sky. It’s very grounded. Rooted. Strong. Your magic is very elegant. You have a lot of potential.

"What else can you sense?"

His teacher sniffs the air, "Citrus."

The rest of the hour is spent trying to develop his other senses aside from taste.

"What on earth could a name as simple as Tom do for my magic?"

"Your vanity is showing." Balam tuts, "All names have meanings, and all names have power."

If that's the case, then his name is the weakest. Imagine how much better Tom would be if he had a more remarkable name? "What does yours mean, then?"

"Well, Balam by itself is jaguar. Bit of an important animal to my ancestors, you could say," he yawns, "My full given name is a little more complicated: Mamá liked mixing languages from different parts of the family." There's exasperated amusement in his tone that Tom can't relate to, "I suppose you could read my full name as Gracious God of the River Jaguar, but that's an extreme stretch."

At least it's impressive. "And do you know what Tom means?"

He hums, "Depends what part of the world it comes from, but if it's Hebrew, it means innocence, naïtivity, simplicity..." Tom almost snorts. That might explain why it's so easy to believe he's harmless, "...But it can also mean The End."

When asked how he knows so much, his teacher replies "I read" in a very matter-of-factly way, as if the answer was so obvious. Tom refrains from rolling his eyes. Yes, but what exactly does he read? And how does he utilize it in his magic? How long until he knows the same things?

The library inside the house provides ample answers, but hardly any in English. He finds many of the books given to him to read by Balam in their original languages (must have translated the text especially for Tom), stumbling across The Yi Jing in Mandarin. All of the words are as good as scribbles to him now, but he still runs his fingers over the illustrative pictures of perfect beings eating peaches in a celestial garden. Envious. Wondering.

His eyes linger over a circle in the sky. He remembers a distant dream with fruit and slumber. Being cradled by a tree. Trying to awaken...

He writes to Ximena about it.

The circle in the sky looks like a snake consuming its own tail to him, but there's enough lack of detail about it to make him pause. Eastern magic, obviously, isn't a priority within Hogwarts, nor does he expect for it to be. Still, he wishes for at least an elective to consider as he gets older. There's much in the aesthetics and philosophy of the East that he finds quite pleasing. That resonates within him on an academic and personal level.

She writes back quick, a crow hopping back and forth on his windowsill,

An ouroboros is a common symbol in alchemy, and has a few meanings...What was your book about?

Peaches, mostly, but he remembers some talk on the symbol, the author writing as if the reader should already know all about it. It reminds Tom that he's ridiculously behind on knowledge.

Churro, who has taken to spreading his orange fur all over Tom's bed whenever he has the chance, walks over his letter as if he owned the place. Tom scolds him, watching with distaste as a pawprint mars his otherwise impeccable letter.

He decides to leave it. Let her wonder about it. Ask about it.

It's still an entire stretch and a half to state that they're as they were before her discovery of the bracelet, but it's better. The hot and cold switches are easier to predict and manipulate as he likes, though there are still some dry spells where Ximena's interactions with him feel as dull as a butterknife. While the indecisiveness is definitely irritating, the idea that he's getting closer to what he wants (what does he want?) quells him for the time being. As does the information and resources she provides. Frustrating and irritating she may be, but she's also useful. Almost as much as his knowledgeable teacher.

Useful for what? His mind demands the rationale.

She just is. Is the automatic response. The completely one-hundred percent undeniable justification. Because if she's not useful then he's already wasted so much time on her. Talking with her, sharing space with her, thinking about…

He thinks about that caretaker at Wool's. How his time was wasted with her because she was gone so suddenly. All that...time wasted on someone who wasn't even going to stick around for the rest of his life. It doesn't even matter if the time wasted was enjoyed or

Tom watches the black crow leave from the window in his room. It turns north. Northeast. Before disappearing into the trees.

Balam is below his window, in the allotment, tending to some daisy-like flowers. A barn owl comes from the forest and lands nearby. He coos at it.

-

At Platform 9¾, where Balam leaves him, his teacher sizes him up and whistles, "You're growing like a river."

A strange analogy, but the reason Tom blinks isn't because of that. It's because yes, over the weeks he had spent with Balam, he had surpassed his faux guardian's five-foot-eight stature. Quite easily.

He hopes it's enough to surpass her.

"Swelling, like a river. When it floods, you know?" Another cigarette is taken out and lit in his mouth, "It happens so suddenly, you always think you have time to escape but," an inhale, "it always gets you." An exhale.

Something about the comparison prickles at his gut. He does not ignore it, but it acknowledges it and sets it aside for now.

When he's picked up to visit his next pureblood household, he has a book from his teacher's library tucked under his arm: Patnubay sa Albularyo, or translated from Tagalog, A guide to Herbalism.

-

By the time school starts again, he's met more families than he cares for and has slept in rooms that seemed to accrue more extravagance with each home he entered. He's spent time greeting heads of families and charming his little way into the hearts and memories of the elite. Aside from little differences in style and traditions, he found that most purebloods were as mundane as the next. Aligned only by a misplaced sense of superiority. It's pathetic. It makes Tom want to scream in their faces about his apparent impurity.

'Sometimes, I want to tell them my blood status. That a filthy half-blood is their better in every way.'

But he doesn't of course. He merely smiled and shrugged about his possible blood heritage. Let the rest gossip about it.

It makes his arrival to Hogwarts all the more cozy.

The classes continue to get smaller, with almost no mention of any Muggleborns or half-bloods at all during the sorting ceremony. In fact, he thinks the last half-blood sorted was that gigantic oaf the size of a grown man last year (rumors he's part giant are flaming). Tom only knows he's a half-blood by the boy's own admission (Tom's Puff had taken it upon herself to be kind to him), the fool.

Back in the common room, people converse about it openly. Where are the Muggleborn? Why haven't they come? Come back? Is the war really so bad? So terrible? Frightening?

Yes. Tom would scream if he had it in him. Yes it is you bumbling ball of spoiled baboons.

He's barely been involved in the war itself, and he's been more than affected by it. He hears air raids in his sleep despite avoiding the city like the plague. Can feel debris and dust in his lungs and smell smoke in the air. They've been sending more children up north. Wool's was almost empty, it seemed, the last time he checked it. So many faces he knew gone. Perhaps forever.

Good riddance.

At least the faces he's familiar with here have remained. Though, perhaps not for long. Elle's last year at Hogwarts is an odd thought for Tom to digest. He's become more than welcome within the badger's circle thanks to her, and he's unsure if it's worth trying to find another Puff that's half as tolerable as she is. Yes, Elle's shining morality and sense of justice is, at times, tedious and annoying, but there's no doubt that his transfiguration and reputation are where they are, in part, because of her.

She tells him otherwise, "Tom, you're a sweetheart. How could anybody not like you?"

He pretends to be humble, brushes her off, "I'm sure there are plenty who think me unbearable."

"Well then those people aren't worth caring about." She mulls through her bag, pulling out a bottle of something powdered. A deep umber brown that he mistakes for chocolate, but chocolate does not go in the pumpkin pie she's making.

"What is that?" He quips as she measures out a teaspoon.

"Taste it," she offers a shake into Tom's open palm, "my brother traveled a lot this summer, and brought back some this. What do you think it is?"

He licks his palm, the spice tingling on his tongue. Cinnamon. Mace. Nutmeg...He's tasted this before. "Ginger."

"Your palette is good!" Elle praises, "It's called allspice, it can be used to replace ginger in a recipe...I'm not surprised you don't know it, it's native to the south of Mexico and Central America—I should give some to Ximena, actually! I can't imagine she'd get any good allspice in Croydon.[1]"

He doesn't listen to the rest.

-

In the middle of the annual Hallowe'en party, news breaks of another attack by Grindelwald; this time in Angora, where the world's smallest wizarding community and the world's largest collection of cursed artifacts resides. It's enough to scare the professors into canceling the festivities early and sending everyone up to bed. It's of no great loss to him, he's beginning to be too old for these things.

Really, he wishes he could participate in Mischief Night. The idea was brought up to him and the other boys in the dormitories just the day before. How nice would it be to go out and reign a little innocent terror on Muggles? Though it was easy to tell that the boys lacked the vision needed to follow through with such a plan, the thought nestled itself comfortably within Tom's head. Could they make it to London in one night? Strike a...particular neighborhood, a particular street, a particular building…

Something to dream about.

He could never convince some of his other allies to do such a thing, of course. Even being under his leadership and thumb. Nemesis, for example, is too soft. Sees the Muggles as helpless little animals. Topaz is too weak. All talk, Tom knows the type. He'd work himself up before deciding he suddenly has a cold. Cygnus...He might want to. But he's too responsible to try it unless there's a one-hundred percent guarantee that they will not be caught.

Practice might be needed.

During breakfast the next morning, he's reading up on traditional festivities for Mischief Night when Slughorn interrupts him (giddy and barely containing himself), asking to meet in his office when Tom's classes are finished with. His paranoia caution tells him it could be that someone finally caught him or a member of his court in something they shouldn't be in, but he knows the professor enough to see when he's about to deliver good or bad news.

Still, he goes through the whole day in this anxious state of waiting. Wondering. Growing more and more tempered and snappish by the minute (he almost blows up at Evan for tripping over himself). It isn't until he's seated across his favored professor that he's finally able to get some peace of mind. Well, almost.

"It's a preliminary test," Slughorn tells him, excited and barely able to contain it, "quite old fashioned, actually, but I believe it's necessary for you to really flourish as a wizard, Tom."

Then get to it, you bumbling fool, "Professor, that's all well and good, but what is it?" He plays off the role of affectionately exasperated student well.

"You must understand, I...I'm strictly not allowed to let you know yet, but it's as good as done. Dippet should alert me by the end of the day." Spit it out. "I knew from the moment I saw you, Tom, that you were a cut above the rest. Why, had you been raised in a magical family, I expect that this should have happened sooner!"

Tom clears his throat, "Sir?"

"Right right, to the point: it'll only be once a week, and you'll start a little before Yule, as a matter of fact, which is wonderful considering where you are in fourth year and—Well that's on the condition that you pass the exam to do it, but I'm certain you will, I can provide a guide of all the things you'll need to know for the test—"

Merlin, Tom could snap and hex Slughorn now.

"Tom, would you like to participate in fifth year potions?"

A tingling, ringing sort of happiness pools up in him. Triumph. Finally he was being properly recognised for his brilliance and work. Rewarded for his exceptionalism. Skipping out on a year of potion's lessons that he already has an excellent understanding of could push for an extra elective his seventh year.

He, of course, accepts.

The study materials given to him in order to prepare for the fifth year potions class are indulgent as they are fascinating. He recognises ingredients and methods from books borrowed from both Ximena and Balam, and finally he's going to be able to apply that knowledge. To surpass it.

The week before Yule Holidays, after term finals were finished with, is when Tom is finally allowed inside the advanced potions classroom for the first time. It's the same classroom as always, unchanged; but populated with older students. Closer to his level. His—

It never processed that she would be in this class until he sees the back of her upon entering. A sight both familiar and unwanted.

Tom claims the place at Ximena's side. She does not acknowledge him. He did not expect her to.

Eris [2] shuffles towards the table before she notices him; once spotted, she backs away apologising. Smiling. Winking. She had forgotten he was going to be joining this period. That naturally he'd want to be partnered up with Lane.

Ximena blinks down at her usual potions partner, opens her mouth and before she can say anything, Tom gives Eris a thank you for understanding, wanting to be rid of her before she can cause some kind of scene.

Professor Slughorn finally starts class. Makes a grand deal of Tom, his star pupil, being allowed to participate in an advanced lesson. How they could all learn something from him and he from them. To welcome him as one of their own.

His chest fills with pride. Slughorn recognized his potential immediately in first year, it's only natural that Tom would be his favorite. His best. His brightest. The man had even become softer, more lenient to him after the events of the trial. Tom can do no wrong. No evils. No mistakes.

Through all of the opening explanation of the lesson, Tom can easily keep up and understand everything Slughorn teaches. The ingredients he reviews with the fifth years isn't something he's only learned a year ago, it's still fresh in his mind. What an advantage. The possibilities he can achieve from here. He could be taking his NEWTs early, the same as Elle, increasing his number from the average of seven to eight (and why stop at eight? Didn't Dumbledore take over ten? He should show him up).

The ingredients are not set before him and Ximena, as they are in his fourth year classes. Instead, students pick up the ingredients they need at the front of the room from a pile of supplies set up by Slughorn. Tom recognises the ones he needs immediately, but also a few ingredients he knows have nothing to do with the potion in question. Herbs that closely resemble the right ingredients, powders with similar names, and fancy (rare) magical animal products that could tempt anyone to add to their mixture in an attempt to add potency.

He's smarter than that. He takes the added ingredients regardless, because some of these he can sneak into his luggage. What Slughorn doesn't know, he won't miss.

Tom returns to the work station to a waiting Ximena. Eris must have always collected the ingredients for the both of them, then (a thought he's unsure if he likes). Separately, without speaking, they separate the stalks and springs and powders. The lumps of rock and dried carbon. The various serums. She speaks nothing of the extra ingredients, but he's certain she's notices them. The slightest of hesitations as her long fingers run over them.

He presses his lips together, "I'll grind the carbon, you cut the perilla leaves?"

Ximena works quieter than Hedwig. That's expected. She's slower than Hedwig, too. Also expected. And yet he's still fascinated by it. How well he predicted her process. How much he knows of and about her.

The scraping of the pestle against the mortar is calming. Distracting. He's not accustomed to not letting others know he's looking at them. Hiding his gaze is something unnatural; when he looks at someone, he wants them to know. To acknowledge him. Justify her actions to him. Why didn't she tell him she lived in Croydon? So close to him? A stone's throw away? Why is he hiding from him why doesn't she like him—

This is different. There's no desire to interfere (yet) with her work because he wants to know how she does things, and then he wants to show her that he can do it better. That if she properly partnered up with him, she could shoot further than she has alone.

They could be partners for the rest of his time in this class—For up until her seventh year. They could even graduate together if he advances in all of his classes like this—

As he pours the powdered carbon, the entire thing slips from his grasp into the potion. Mortar and all. It splashes out onto his robes and on the table. The potion bubbles ominously. Turning into a shimmering, menacing green. Anxiety grasps him by the ribs in his chest. Shit shit shit, his first day inside an advanced potions classroom and he's already going to embarrass himself. He's already allowed a silly little meaningless thing to completely ruin this chance for himself. His reputation, his standing...Slughorn will understand, undoubtedly, but any little slip up will result in Dumbledore advocating for him to be taken out. He knows it, the man is out to destroy his future—

The potion in his cauldron splashes again, less dramatic this time. He sees sprigs of gladioli[3] slowly sink to the bottom. A hand sprinkles in a dash of salt, before stirring clockwise twice. It happens so fast. So automatically. The potion settles back into the proper violet color.

Ximena's hands retreat as quickly as they came to help, leaving Tom in a light daze. Slughorn arrives soon after.

"Stupendous work, you two!" Their professor praises with a smile

"It was all him, sir." Ximena says, pressing her lips together and putting her hands behind her back, "I can't take any credit."

“Honest Lane,” Slughorn bobs his finger at her in approval, taking her word for it without any argument or doubt, “you’re a clean gem in the coronet of this house.”

From the corner of his eyes, he sees his classmate look down at her feet. Meek. Unassuming.

It enrages him.

-

The dismissal from class and from Hogwarts for Yule Holiday is spent silently. Balam picks him up directly from the station in Hogsmeade rather than in London (per Tom's request: he doesn't want to be anywhere near a bomb). The Hogwarts he leaves is filled with an abundance of students now. All Muggleborn or half-blood. Looking miserable and pathetic. He'd hate having to stay there with them, so leaving to Mexico is all the better. Even if his ideal plan is to stay in Hogwarts alone with only those he considers bearable. It's a school, so shouldn't he be allowed to be tutored here?

If, perhaps, he wasn't completely consumed by his thoughts, he might have pondered over the shrinking number of students coming to Hogwarts and leaving for the holidays. Felt some semblance of pity for them being denied their birthright due to a stupid war. Why, if he had only been born a few years later, he could have been one of them. Unable to attend Hogwarts and unable to claim his destiny. He wouldn't know any of the witches he knows now. Not have this opportunity to study abroad and learn other types of magic. Not knowing this house he stays in or the joy of his own room and independence.

Of course, this train of thought is (at the moment) not powerful enough to do anything. It's a mere speck in the back of his head, milling around until his quietly burning rage is allowed to burn out.

Pretending to be useless. An idiot. At the bottom of the rung. It’s frustrating. Infuriating. It’s no wonder everyone was so shocked at all her public accomplishments. Why (a reason why) his fellow wizards were confused at his (fake) attraction. His interest in being her ‘friend’.

For what purpose would anyone want people to think them stupid? It causes others to overlook you. To brush you off and disregard you as dirt...She doesn’t like attention. And weaklings crawl towards the strong, it’s only natural but…

He reaches his door and places his hand on the knob to enter, twisting it—Isn’t she embarrassed? In need of dignity? Tired of her lessers looking down on her when they should be begging to lick her heel? Is she too weak to seek the power so eagerly dancing in front of her face? Or can she just not see it for herself—

—This isn’t his room.

His hand slacks on the knob.

It’s dark. There are curtains drawn to block out the sunlight from outside. It’s wider. A colorful rug on the floor before him. The small bed, covered with toys and stuffed animals, is parallel to the wall with the wide, covered window. There are lights. Lamps on the side tables and wall and windowsill and desk and bookshelf that glow etheraly in pastel shades of creams, pinks, blues, and lavender.

It’s the room of a small child.

“Ah, you found a room.”

His teacher’s sudden voice makes him flinch, “Pardon?”

“It happens.” Balam shrugs, unconcerned, but giving the inside a curious glance, “A lot of people have lived in this house, this could have been one of their rooms—Or will be.”

A strange uneasiness seeps into Tom’s skin. The magic weaved into the room smells like…

He tries to brush it off with a light jest, “The house is clairvoyant?”

“Occasionally.”

He really doesn't like that. "...You don't have children, then?" His steps are muffled on the colorful rug in the room.

Balam shakes his head, "I have dreams that I do, though. Just one. She's six. A little chatterbug. Won't stop talking to the plants."

Tom's hands tremble, an idea forming in his head. Collecting. Analyzing.

His teacher doesn't seem to notice. He presses his lips together, leaning on the doorframe, "What were you thinking about?"

He almost laughs. Cackles. Bellows pure bemused joy. But he restrains himself. Waits until his teacher leaves to do it. And he does. Loudly. Unabashedly. Runs his fingers through his hair in incredulity, eyes squeezing shut at the ridiculousness of it all. The audacity of fate. The perfect opportunity presenting itself to him as if on display. Screaming at him to seize it. To take control.

He has it. He has something over her.

-

His first invitation to a party over the Yule holidays is a triumph for him. Not just anybody is invited to these things, but everyone is invited and if you're not then you simply do not belong. An annoying contradiction that no longer applies to him as he's in. Being a private guest within the quarters of other purebloods is one thing. But being invited and publicly announced as wanted is another. An ecstatic thing that makes him positively giddy.

Well it would if he were still a miserable child. But he's almost fifteen now. A few more years and he'll be an adult by Muggle standards. Ready to be drafted. Sent to die.

He crushes that thought under his heel.

The Avery heir's birthday is the day before Christmas, not that any of the guests here care or know about such a thing. Tom himself is apathetic to the holiday, and he's only gotten Modranicht gifts anyways, so it isn't as if he's missing out on anything. All of those presents weren't given out of the kindness of anyone's heart, they were given because those people wanted something from him. Not because...

Tom straightens out his dress robes, something brought in a shop back in Mexico (it matches the hat he received from Evan's family) for the event. It made him wildly uncomfortable to have Balam purchase the clothes, but the man waved it off, stating that Tom would work it off if it bothered him that much. The lackadaisical manner in which Balam embraced life is something strange, but Tom can't say he doesn't appreciate it. It's comforting and a breath of fresh air when placed in comparison to the wizards he surrounds himself with at school.

Evan coughs next to him, muttering about the live band and the teetering jazz music they're playing in the hall. Even if the rest of his family seems to be on board with the integration (the theft) of jazz and related Muggle music, Evan is stubbornly clinging to the old ways. Perhaps unknowing or willfully ignoring the Muggle origins of many other objects, distractions, and inventions that fill his life.

Tom gives his companion a once-over, comparing his extravagant dress robes with that of the simple black ones he wears. The juxtaposition is obvious, and if he were a more insecure wizard, he'd be upset over it. But riches, as much as he deserves them, aren't enough to surpass him. And Evan doesn't delude himself with thinking that his economical class makes him superior to Tom. At least, he doesn't think Evan deludes himself. During Tom's more paranoid moods, he scrutinizes over Evan's loyalty. His motives. But Evan's smart. He knows better. Tom would have seen it in his eyes.

The sudden idea of practicing legilimens on his ally is appealing. What else does he have friends for, anyways?

There's a lull in the music as people stop dancing (still in their group dances) and move to the edges of the hall. He tries to find Nemesis and Hedwig in the crowd, eyes scanning over several of his Slytherin compatriots. Abbas, Topaz, Katux, Dion, Cygnus...

He blinks.

Of all people, he did not expect to see Ximena at a party. Not willingly. His hope that she had given up on socializing is, in retrospect, naïve of him. And if that's all this is (casual socializing), then maybe he could be okay with it: sharing her with others who are not in his immediate grasp or reach.

But many things tell him that that's not all this is.

The first: her dress. An airy, tulle[4] frock the color of a blue lace agate stone. A painfully Muggle color in a painfully Muggle cut. Her prominent collarbone is bare, with puffed and bunched sleeves tantalizingly covering her shoulders and revealing her long naked arms. Ruffled lace trims the edges of the dress and around the skirt where her hands rest, making the outfit look youthful. Down at her feet, her ankles are showing, as are half of her calves, revealing sheer tights and blue heels. A fine enough dress for a girl's first cotillion, perhaps (he wouldn't know, he is neither rich nor interested in such things). But for a gathering of Britain's most elite...

Second: her actions. He does not find Ximena standing around in a corner hoping to blend into the tapestry, she's walking boldly out through the crowd like Moses on the Red Sea. An attractive confidence he hasn't seen in a while. One he wants to see more of. The lioness look (or perhaps jaguar). Her shoulders are back and her posture is unusually perfect[5]. Wizards part for her as if the clicking of her heels were somehow venomous to them. As if by brushing against her bell-shaped shirt, they would be infected with something.

Third: her company. As he was debating on the merits of sharing his recent discovery with her, he sees a snake slither onto her arm: the boy (man, now) of the hour. Looking like a politician's son, the same as he was the first time Tom had met him. His ex-mentor is dressed in an odd fusion of traditional robes and Muggle white-tie attire. White bowtie, pressed lapel, draping cloak, pressed pants, shined shoes. The two make a strange pair. As if a magical husband were trying to blend in with his Muggle wife's community (he shakes his head of that thought because of how nauseated it makes him). And the people do not like it.

He hears them whisper quietly and not so quietly around him. The nicest ones comment on their fashion faux pas ("Heels on a woman? The audacity") and the not-so nice ones call them traitorous rats. From his left, Nemesis appears to be the only one in positive awe of the two, but he cannot be too sure. He hasn't taken his eyes off of her them since they entered the room.

If she is uncomfortable (and he's certain she is), then she does not show it. There is a disattached expression on her face that reminds him of when he'd ask her questions as a lowly first year. And he doesn't know how to feel about that.

...A flighty, dewdroppy opening of piano keys plays, vaguely familiar. He can't tell who, if anyone, is playing. Avery leads Ximena out onto the center of the ballroom floor, where people have cleared the way—Not out of respect, but out of bemused shock. Pairs don’t dance. Only groups do. What the Avery heir and the foundling intend to do is something so profoundly Muggle, that…

Yes, that’s why Tom is upset. They’re parading Muggle culture in a sacred space. His sacred world, free of all blemishes and unpleasant things. Of filth.

The keys settle down as the two join at hand, shoulder, and hip. They pose. Waiting.

The melody starts up again, aggressive and soft: an elderflower pushing up against stone. Their movement isn’t in sync, but rather, it is very obviously playing off one another. When Avery exhales, Ximena inhales; he’s very clearly leading. Gliding across the ballroom on his dragonhide shoes ('I had a dream that there was only the leather off my shoes left to eat.'), his dancing partner following along with him as if she were a ribbon trailing from his hands. She is visibly taller than him with her heels. Perhaps even without.

Their gait is wide and swooping. Reminding Tom of waterhorses and arcs. The dance itself is no waltz, and it is certainly not anything he recognizes. It is, he concludes, as Avery begins to turn Ximena, a Frankensteinian monster composed of Muggle partner dances. A parody of what it was supposed to be. No real pureblood in here knows a single one of these steps outside of gossip and taboo Muggle paraphernalia. So it’s okay. They are setting a standard. Making a statement.

That’s all this is. A statement. Avery's father first defended Ximena in court, and now he’s really showing just how accepting of Muggle culture he is. His whole family is. That’s it. That’s all this is. That’s…

The look his ex-mentor is giving Ximena makes his stomach compress into an iron ball. He is only comforted by the lack of a look she's giving back. It's as if this is all happening in a dream somewhere else, to someone else. Not to her.

Recognition of the mixture of dances comes to him only thanks to the movies he snuck into as a child. The silly little research Nemesis showed him and Hedwig last Eostre. The vocabulary terms she heard from her sister and the distorted demonstration of moves. Who did her sister learn that from again…?

Her wide steps quicken. Ximena’s gait lowers to that of a bourrée[6]: petite and bird-like. A palpitating heartbeat. It reminds him of water washing over rocks in a river. The same ones he saw in Mexico.

Their dance becomes folkloric. Jumps and hops and twisting of arms, it's definitely not improvised. Or if it is, then…

Avery is surprisingly suave in his movements, but the two are hardly partners. He doesn't need his sensory magic to confirm that. Ximena is amusing him. Wanting to go her own way but allowing this to happen for...For what reason?

'He’s a bit of a buffoon, don’t you think?' He tries for a smile, friendly and relatable.

'A little, yes...Useful, though...His, ah, family, they’re well known for keeping records, you see...Family trees, death dates, trials, that sort of thing.'

So that's it, then.

The distance between them changes as often and as smoothly as tides. One moment they're a respectable distance from each other, and the next, pressed close in a faux tango. It's a miracle no one has interrupted them. No one has looked away in disgust. Morbid curiosity is keeping everyone here tethered, even the most reactionary of the Purists. Not unlike how it was the day Adam introduced his gramophone. His jazz. Only this time no one is joining in. They don't know how to. Would they even want to?

Across the hall, just behind the pair, he can see Colin Avery. The jade man. Looking pleased as punch. As if he had gotten away with something. There's not enough time for Tom to quietly seethe in his direction because his eyes are locked solely on the pair and said pair is constantly moving. Only pausing when the music does, in short breaths.

The more he stares, the closer the music gets to the end, the more he notes that Avery's steps feel painfully precise. Strategic. Ximena's feel fluid. Adaptable.

It reminds him of Balam.

He has to tell her.