Serpentine

When he was younger, Tom believed that in discovering Ximena's secrets, he could discover some of his own. If she was a part of a powerful dynasty, then surely he was as well. It wasn't ridiculous or outlandish or naïve to think. Not at the time.

Now, he curses his stupid, childish fantasy. His search for his past has been fruitful, but half of his harvest is tainted with rot.

Maybe hers is as well.

The Avery library is pathetically easy to sneak into. They either trust others a ridiculous amount, or Tom is just that good. He likes to think it's both, if only because he knows the latter to be true, and because the former would make it so that the family is full of idiots.

On a shelf between Nascence: Birth of Purity and Nautilus: Growing Golden Bodies, are dozens of editions of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, the first edition dating back to 689 AD[1], according to the spine. A history of self-congratulatory pats on the back and arse licking, as Hedwig would put it. It's more elegant than they deserve.

He wonders if he looks hard enough, he could find that supposed handbook for pureblood heirs[2].

The accursed edition that led him to his inbred history was the 89th, leaving the 90th edition open.

The forward is not by Duncan Avery this time, but by his son, George. He spares a quick scan of it before skipping right to the back of the book, wondering. Pleading.

His family tree. Well, not so much a tree as it is a wreath. A loop. A circle. An ouro…

He shakes his head.

It's something strange to see his own Mother's name written down on paper outside Wool's. Before this, all of this, she was just a concept. A woman who didn't care enough to stay alive for him. A stupid human Muggle woman who probably would have hated his magical self…

Now he's not sure what to think. All he has are the testimonies of the orphanage workers, who never told him much, and who were allowed to lie to children whose parents abandoned them. The only reason he believed them when they said his mother died in childbirth was because they said it behind his back. Other children are not so lucky.

His mother was mistaken for a circus freak, and he understands why now. It's not out of cruelty or bias against him, but because she was the result of at least four generations of inbreeding. They said his mother hoped he took after his father, and concluded that he probably had. What did she look like, then? Pale and sickly? Extra limbs? Lazy eyes?

Merope Gaunt (blonde of hair, blue eyes[3]), 1906

Unconsciously, he brings his free hand up to the side of his face, near the corner of his eyes. Were they blue like hers? The same watery, light pools? Is that all he has from her? Aside from her magic? Her legacy?

There's no document of her death or marriage, and he sighs in relief. He can use this. Spin it easily before the next edition comes out. See his name among his kind. Where he belongs.

He only has to find a suitable father.

The book solely covers the greater parts of Western Europe, so it's not likely to house any significant relations to Ximena. She knows that, though, she's not stupid. The Averys just have (must have) some excellent record scouting. Tracking systems. Far reaching hands and investigative workers at their beck and call. Surely impressive. Surely efficacious.

But she doesn't need that, she has him.

The revelation really should have come to Tom earlier. He feels foolish for dismissing the signs, the similarities. Only focusing on the differences. Distancing Ximena from anything that could have a better claim to her than he.

Will she cry when it happens? Hug him? Perhaps forgive him for his slights against her? Forget them entirely? What if the reunion is...unhappy? And his teacher abandoned her as Tom's own father abandoned him? Would Ximena kill him? In front of Tom? Scream at him?

He'd kill his father. If that were the case.

But no. He does not think the reunion will be disastrous. And if it is, then better for him. One less person to come in-between them. To distract her. Even if his teacher would be missed, surely he could be replaced?

Hopefully not. Balam is of better use to him alive.

Tom commits the page on which his family name is written to memory and leaves the library, wondering about his estranged uncle and whether he still lives.

Morfin Gaunt is a name that brings as much uneasiness as Marvolo did. The book had stated he was his mother's younger sibling...He wonders (assumes) that the two would have ended up marrying each other had the Gaunt's incestual been allowed to continue. He cringes. Would Morfin had been his father, then? Another inbred? Another wizard? Pure and powerful? There's nothing that states the Gaunts were powerful, but they had to be. They were descendants of Salazar! Tom was a descendant of them! If his power didn't come from them, then who?

'I see...I think...you’re better off as a half-blood, if I may be bold with you.'

He swallows his pride. Who were the Riddles, anyways? Were they alive? Prominent? As poor as dirt? A part of Tom wishes for them to be nobility. Like kings. Another part wants them to be dirty scum. Beggars on the street. Dirt under his fingernails…

He takes a deep breath.

No one is suspecting of his...half-blood status. Sure, there's rumors, and he's a part of the reason why they begin (his popularity grows with rumors), but no confirmation. His ex-mentor was right. He really could be anything. Anyone. Whatever people wanted him to be. Wished him to be. Needed him to be.

He'll never reveal his Muggle side. His Gaunt side, on the other hand… The other students had little to nothing to say about them. Positive or negative. Could it be that their infamy towards inbreeding was kept secret? Despite the evidence documented on paper? Or did people only scour these books to self gloat and check to see if they could marry their sweetheart without repercussions?

Ximena had the right idea with getting Avery's help, unfortunately. By what's written in this book, it's clear that they know where the Gaunts are. Or how to find them. Tom's starting to wonder how he can pull a deal with them as well. Hopefully he won't have to dance with him. Heh.

He wanders back into the party, still stiff, particularly when he spots Hedwig and Nemesis coming towards him. Hedwig looks terribly amused and Nemesis…

They ask if he knew what that was about. The spectacle (because it was a spectacle, nothing more nothing less). Tom shrugs, trying his best to come off as uncaring as possible--Because he doesn't care. Of course. Why would he? What those two do is none of his…

He wants to change the subject. To ask them both where their respective siblings are so he can dip into some of their good graces. Well, maybe not Hedwig's sister. He has a special bone to pick with her.

During his time with the Acwellans, he had spent an extended amount of time with Eric. For no reason in particular, he just saw her as skilled and useful. The conversation wasn't anything specific either. No. Absolutely not. What would they have to talk about other than school?

“Nosy little bugger, aren’t you?” Eric sounded spectacularly like her sister sometimes, it killed whatever admiration he had for the girl, “Well since you two are affianced, I suppose I am allowed to share.”

How convenient. “I’m only worried about her.” Naturally. After all, she is his...friend. Maybe. Something like it.

Thankfully, his reputation, even among snakes, is squeaky clean. Eric had no reason to doubt him or think his intentions were malicious. That doesn't mean she particularly likes him, of course.

"She's interesting, isn't she? Did anyone tell you she was a hatstall? Eleven minutes she was under that hat. Broke a lot of records."

"Considering how her head is..." He trailed off, hoping that she'd take the bait.

"Oh yes, of course." A nod, "I was fascinated by her mind while she was under my care. Amnesia has always been a study that eluded wizards, so I was hoping to make her into a sort of project...She didn't like that much." A sigh, "I'm surprised she hasn't told you...But then again, maybe the girl forgot."

"You insulted her, then."

"Not at all! Plenty of test subjects have been immortalized in the pursuit of knowledge!" Eric didn't sound very impassioned, but grounded.

"How Muggle."

Eric smirked, "They're good for some things. Don't tell Father dearest."

He would consider it, "So you ended up being of no help at all?"

"Oh I wouldn't say that," she hummed, "I think, if anything, I helped her head clear out a little. It was so foggy in there, I was almost lost forever if I'm being honest..."

His throat felt dry. He cleared it. "You performed legilimens on her." It's not a question. It's an accusation.

"Well I tried to." Eric sighed, "But her head is so...broken." He didn't like that word, "There's no logic to it. No reason. It's like trying to read the ancient scribbles of a toddler who only spoke in a dead language."

Still, he felt it: something like jealousy. Or envy. "Perhaps your skills weren't up to par."

Eric snorted, "I can see why my sister is friends with you." he took that as a compliment, "I might not be the best at legilimency, but I certainly can use it well." The challenging glint to her eye wasn't missed, and every instinct in his body was telling him that he should leave the room. Her grin was something wicked. It sent shivers through his bones. Her white wood wand was taken out from her sleeve, and immediately, his hand is on his own. Even if he knew she was leagues more experienced. He could have taken her. He knows it. He's at the top of his class. Ahead of some above him!

"Come on, try to relax, Riddle." The way she was toying with him made him fume on the inside, "It shouldn't hurt." She pressed the tip of her wand to his temple, like a gun.

His wand was instantly at her throat. She remained unfazed, "Is your technique so sloppy that you can't even guarantee a painless experience?"

Eric chuckled and he could feel the vibrations from her throat in the palm of his hand, "You're a smart boy, Riddle, I'm sure you know the basics: strong wills tend to resist. Thrash. It makes it more difficult for them than it is for me. Be a good boy and don't fight back?"

She was bluffing. He was sure of it. She had too much to lose by doing this.

"Legilimens."

Tom had never been shot in the head before, but he definitely felt like that's what this sensation was. The invasion of his mind felt like a steel balloon sharply and suddenly inflating in his skull. Waiting to burst. He heard Nemesis and Hedwig's conversation from their arrival in Ireland. The talk they had at dinner two days ago. He felt the contempt harbored when he first entered his room at this citadel. He thought about the painting. The one in the foyer. With Mrs. Acwellan and baby Hedwig. Over and over. The decadence, the ego, the bitter envy of having a mother who--

Something popped and the discomfort subsided. He was thrown back by whatever recoil there was and left blinking up at the ceiling. His wand on the floor. Eric standing over him, smug and condescending. He wanted to strangle her.

His magic had done something wild, then: rose up in an attempt to crush her. The way it would to protect him when he was bullied back at Wool's. Instead of dispensing justice, it was met with Eric's own magic. A solid force to be reckoned with.

"I said not to fight back."

"Piss off." He couldn't help but bite out, his natural cockney accent bleeding into his voice before he can catch it.

"You've been socializing with my sister for too long." She tutted, "You should be thanking me. An enemy wouldn't have been so gentle."

If that was gentle, then he's the softest boy in England. "I don't have enemies."

Eric shrugged, "Not yet. You're certainly making yourself a target, though. That trial didn't leave all of us happy."

His head still felt dizzy. Heavy. "What Rosier did was not my fault."

She twirled her wand in her hands, "Who said anything about him?" Before he could process her words, she continued, "Your orphan status makes you a blessing and a curse."

The tense faces of those Wizengamot members rippled through his memory. How they squinted down at him, as if trying to recognize their own kin.

"Are you calling me a bastard?"

"I'm not, but others are. That's the problem." She tutted, "Should have kept your head down, Riddle. There's still time."

Not if he comes forward with being Slytherin's heir.

The moment had reminded him to keep his hubris in check. If she were anyone else, she could have seen...Well, he's innocent of any and all crimes, but it wouldn't do him any good for someone (particularly someone as high profile as her) to discover he's not the sweet little saint he's lead most to believe (he can imagine how Dumbledore would use this information against him).

The moment has also embedded itself into his dreams. The sickly feeling of having an invisible hand force your brain to twist this way and that. Reach into not only the memory of sight and sound, but also of feelings. Of context. It was almost exactly as the books from Balam's library described it. Exactly as his teacher described it.

The moment also allows the daydream of peaking into Ximena's mind to steep into his brain.

Naturally, he told no one about the incident, though he thinks maybe Hedwig would be safe to tell...She's aggressive in her pursuit of being better than him in grades, but not a danger to him overall. Plus: she hates her sister. Or, at least, he thinks she does. It's hard to tell, he knows what hate looks like. But not what love looks like.

Does Hedwig know about how to protect oneself against such a thing? Unlikely. She's brilliant, but wholly aggressive in her style. Offense only, she hasn't changed at all since her duel with Ximena.

"Hedwig." He states, "Do you know how to offend against legilimens?"

-

There's a small sliver of time afforded to him in between the Avery party and returning to Mexico. Unfortunately, that time is spent at Wool's, as Hogwarts is unobtainable without apparation (he gets closer everyday). Fortunately, he knows what to do to kill time.

Being in London again makes him wildly uncomfortable. On edge. It's been years since he's taken public transportation. He still remembers the times and locations of every stop. The prices, the locals, the unfortunate smells. People staring at him, wondering what he's doing… Of course, the difference is that people are no longer looking at him worryingly. Wondering where his parents are, why he's here alone, who's looking after him. Now they wonder why he isn't up north. Or serving (does he look old enough to go to war, he wonders?).

He hasn't looked at a proper map of London and the surrounding area in the same amount of years that he's avoided public transportation. He used to have an intrigue in them (he wouldn't call it love), looking at new places he wished to see. To conquer. But those were all Muggle spaces. Worthless. Of no use to him. Wizard maps are seen as unnecessary; most communities are small and located within Muggle ones, so there's nothing for him to look at anymore.

Lambeth really is two stone throws away from Croydon. Twenty minutes, to be exact.

The Sisterhood of Saint Hesychast, Shrine of the Most Immaculate Sacrament is not listed in any public directory. But word of mouth is easy. He asks directions with his best good boy voice, claiming that his sister is a postulant there, and that he wishes to drop off a present. It's hard, of course, the area is scarce. Full of a heavy emptiness that comes with war and bombings.

He finds the convent on a quiet street in a still neighbourhood. Still because of the ruins of buildings, rubble littering the streets and walkways. Quiet because he sees very few people around. Most people stay indoors these days, and with good reason. It’s a wonder London isn’t yet deserted, but it looks like the motivational propaganda is doing its job.

The abbey itself stands solemnly. Walled with aged bricks, untouched by any bombs or ruin. As if the fenced area repelled all sources of destruction. Or was shielded by a large protego maxima. Ximena mentioned that she wasn’t the only witch there, at the trial. He remembers. Was she telling the truth?

As he walks around the walls, he runs his hands along the brick, listening to the tolling bells from within. Preparing himself to drink from the vial in his pocket.

He tries not to look up at the sky.

He rings the bell.

The postulants are kind. They call him child and bless him, and he would be upset about it, but if they saw him as a man, he would not be allowed inside (Well actually, if he hadn't bewitched them, he wouldn't be let inside). The nuns proper do not say much. They smile at him and wish him a good day, if anything. Tom understands now where Ximena gained her conversational skills from. Saint John The Silent indeed[4].

They ask why he's here, and he says he simply wishes to leave a message for her when she returns from school in the summer—And they tell him but she's here! Well, Ximena isn’t here right now. She’s out working, she’s so diligent.

Unfortunate.

The new information makes him antsy. He doesn’t let it show. A mere reluctant smile stretches on his face as he asks when she will be back. Some time. Some time. They tell him that it could be anywhere from an hour to four. Damn.

They insist he stays for lunch. He's hungry.

Lunch is in a small hall on a wooden harvest table made of balsa wood that creaks when people sit down at it. He is flanked by a few postulants, a handful of novices, and two or three nuns; the former two are conversational, the latter are silent as the grave. The meal, along with the conversation, is plain. Rice and vegetables. Hardly enough to feed a child, let alone him. ‘We’re vegetarians.’ They explain to him, and he hides his look of bemusement because Ximena is certainly not a vegetarian. It explains why she was always so...lacking in weight every time she returned to Hogwarts, though: the food on these women’s plates isn’t enough to feed a small toddler.

No, you don't think. You do the opposite of him, actually—You hardly eat a damn thing. Yami would scold these nuns silly, he's sure. For neglecting their health for the sake of piety.

“Señora Rivera was placed as her guardian, she used to raise children you see, for the ill and deceased, and she’s adapted well, I’d like to think.”

“Well I think I would have done a fine job too.”

The interrupting novice sounds a little bitter. She talks about her former job, before the abbey, as the matron of an orphanage. Tom decides he hates her.

Another novice tuts, “She didn’t like you, remember? Oh, don’t be bitter you know how children are; she didn’t like the name you wanted to give her, what was it?”

“I wanted to name her after that plant...What’s the one in the greenhouse, Sister Josefina? With the white blossoms that smell like citrus?”

“Merope?[5]”

He freezes in the middle of bringing his fork up to his mouth. It happens so fast, it almost feels like whiplash. Stomach heavy and tight, Tom loses his appetite.

“Yes, that’s the one. And that’s when she broke her silence! Imagine! Not a word for weeks, we didn’t hear a single sound emerge from her tiny little mouth, and then suddenly, in the tiniest, most determined voice: ‘No. My name is not Merope. My name is Ximena.’” A sigh from the sister, “Shame she couldn’t get a last name out, though.”

Tom sits quietly in his seat for the rest of the meal.

The charm potion works like a dream. The aura emitting from his body is friendly, soft, and benign. The sisters relax and think it is not at all strange that he's here. Where no outsiders are allowed. They answer as many questions as they can and give him every tidbit of information he could ever want.

All but one.

Señora Rivera is a mature, aged woman who, to Tom’s surprise, is newer to the abbey than previously thought. No other nuns take to calling her Sister Rivera, and when he brings this up to her, she shrugs it off, “I was known as Señora Rivera for so long, those ninnies can’t imagine me as anyone else.”

She is, to be curt, everything and not at all what Tom imagined Ximena’s guardian to be. There is great youth in her eyes, perhaps mischief, and a very obvious disdain for life at the abbey. Apathy, actually. As if this were only temporary. A storm or a cold or a trip. There's no warmth to her in her black habit, and she appears to be the only fully fledged nun who speaks.

What does intrigue him most, of course, is that she is very clearly the guardian that picks Ximena up every year at Hogwarts. The guardian that attended Ximena's trial. The guardian that, from a distance, could be mistaken for a relative (is she from that coastal town he visited?). But she does no magic, and if she has a magical signature, she is suppressing it quite well. Leagues better than her charge, whose barrier Tom has begun to peel back.

That’s...It’s very personal to do. Intimate. I wouldn’t do that to you without your permission or a warning. It’s something you do...In a battle. To scare and torment. Or to family, to comfort and protect.

He’d still like to confront her in a duel.

The way Señora Rivera carries herself is fascinating, though. Like watching a fusion of Yami and Ximena in Muggle clothing (he's yet to ask if she's a witch, he wants to figure it out for himself). Even after he's introduced himself, she's looking at him with suspicion. Asks him what he wants. How he knows her charge. Why he's here. How did he find this place. Asks him this as if she had the complete right to. As if she had any reason to think him harmful or dangerous (Does she? What has Ximena told her?).

He answers honestly. He wants to see Ximena. He knows her from school. He's here to deliver a message. Through a mutual friend. It's easy. And there's no need to try and don his good boy persona because it's not a lie. He’s being good.

She seems to accept this and walks past him and out the abbey without waiting for him to follow.

Señora Rivera takes him to a dull looking tapas restaurant that has seen better days. Chipping paint, exposed brick, and an uncomfortably damp atmosphere are enough to make him want to wait outside. It is not enough for him to follow through.

The inside is not much better. A few decorations and trinkets from Spain line the walls and tables, both of which are marred with old water stains. There was a terrible flooding that Spring. Where had he heard that?

They sit down across from each other in a booth. The table holds two shakers and a red carnation in a discarded beer bottle. Suddenly, he feels it. Feels her. He looks up to the back of the house and sees her: she’s running around back and forth like a wild chicken. Holding plates and trays and dishes in her hands, shouting out orders to the Spanish immigrants cooking in the back. Ximena seems utterly in place—at peace—with her environment.

“Do you like what you see?”

His eyes snap back to the sister, who sits with her hands folded in front of her, and eyes directly on him. Judging. Waiting. It’s a look he’s familiar with.

He can’t help it, it’s just so strange to see her outside of school like this. For so long, he has tied her existence with Hogwarts, that to have that illusion broken is jarring. Shattering. It feels like someone has plucked a glacier from the coldest regions of Iceland and dropped it in the middle of Spain. To have her exist outside of Hogwarts is to have her exist outside of a dream. His special dream.

“Interested in some mulled wine for the holidays?”

Ximena’s voice, so cheery it sounds foreign, interrupts whatever Tom was about to ask the sister. He looks up at his classmate almost expectantly, a little miffed that she didn’t recognize him, but she’s looking squarely at her notepad. It’s not until her own head moves that she realizes who he is. The notepad is almost dropped in surprise.

“Oh—” She gasps, looking at his companion, appearing as if she were caught without clothes on, “Señora Rivera!” Her hands move to fold in front of her and she lowers her head gently in a bow.

The sister looks at her neutrally, speaks in a language he does not understand. It most certainly isn't Spanish.

“Disculpame.” Ximena clears her throat, “I—I didn’t expect to see you,” a glance back to him, “either of you here.”

“Your friend came to visit you, child.” Señora Rivera’s gaze is sharp, “I am simply escorting him, you can’t expect for me to let a young pair like you two go out and about alone.”

Tom recognizes the implications in her tone of voice. He pretends to be sheepish and rubs the back of his neck. Ximena meets the older woman’s eyes and then moves her gaze down, “I—see. I’ll be done in half an hour, then…” She clears her throat, “Since you’re here, would you like to eat?”

They have pisto to start followed by salted cod (Tom raises a brow at this, but says nothing on the choice). Señora Rivera orders a bottle of red sangria. Ximena takes it all down and leaves for the kitchen, stiffer than how she came out.

From his seat, Tom receives a perfect view of the kitchen, though arguably his nose has the better deal of the two. The fresh, sauteed vegetables and salted meats bring about familiar yet remarkably foreign scents. Like someone had taken his favorite meal and added some strange twist. He feels it, even as he watches Ximena. Yes she fits in this place, but forcibly so. Someone has cut and pasted her in this picture. It is a beautiful edit, granted, but it is an edit nonetheless. Half of her blends in seamlessly. The other…

“Are you done?”

Shit, he had been staring again.

He clears his throat, “Pardon?”

“Don’t be stupid. I raised a son before this.” Her smile is low and subtle. She’s toying with him.

“I didn’t mean to offend, Señora Rivera.”

“Meaning is nothing. Action is everything.”

“You’re right. I apologise.”

“Mm.”

Someone in the kitchen says something, causing the rest of the workers to laugh in chorus. Tom feels Ximena’s magic swirl and bloom. He wonders what was said. If she laughed too.

He eats quietly. Not wanting to start conversation despite having a ridiculous amount of questions. He does not wish to test Señora Rivera's patience. Or tip off something on her radar. Who knows how she might react to the idea that he's sure he's found Ximena's father. For all he knows, she might be against the idea. Maybe she even knew him.

-

The two walk ahead, side by side, Señora Rivera only a few paces behind. Enough for some privacy. Tom struts with his hands behind his back. Proper. Ximena’s are folded in front of her. Casual.

“—How did you find me?” Curious that these are her first words to him. But fair.

“A bit of detective work,” he evades, throwing a smile at her, “you’ve always been elusive, you know. Even when we were children.”

“Are we not still children?”

“Oh?”

“I mean,” She refuses to look at him, it seems, “it doesn’t...I don’t feel like an adult. A woman.”

His answer is neutral, “Well, I suppose we both still have some growing up to do.” He has much power to gain, after all.

“You look like you’ve grown enough.” Was that a jest? His eyes roam over her, and it is here, standing alongside her, that he sees he’s finally taller than she is. At least, with his heeled shoes. It pleases him.

“Finally got my growth spurt.” About damn time.

A chuff, but not a laugh. Never a laugh, “It took you long enough.”

“So cruel, Ximena! That’s not like you.”

“Isn’t it?”

Taken aback, she’s finally looking at him. He contemplates his answer, “Perhaps.”

“Mm.” There’s no teasing, sarcasm, or jest in her aura. Even if he wasn’t able to properly read it by now, her tone of voice is enough. It’s as carefully neutral as usual.

He allows himself to be bold enough to reach out with his magic.

"Cheeky." Ximena sniffs, nose twitching, scolding him for the attempt, "Why are you here?"

He's never been insecure with his words, never once in his life. He always knows what he's going to say and how he's going to say it and what he wants as a result of it. But at this question, his throat feels dry. Stale. As if it hasn't been used in years.

"It's a surprise." He can't say that he...found her father like that. She wouldn't believe him, there's no way. Is there? Technically...technically he's never lied to her. Right? It's all been by omission. Though she probably counts that. How would he feel if someone told him they found his father? If Ximena went out of her way to locate him and say 'your father is alive'? She wouldn't, probably. "A Christmas gift."

Ximena looks distrustful. Uncertain. But soft. "You shouldn't have." It comes off as a light scolding, "In this time? In this economy?"

Planes fly over them. They make him flinch. Ximena looks unperturbed.

"It's not that kind of present..." He flexes his hand, growing anxious, "You'll like it, I promise."

"Okay." She's definitely not convinced, "Where is it?"

"...Hogwarts." He can manage to bring his teacher back to the castle. Convince him of...something. That Dumbledore wanted to see him regarding Tom's progress. Or that Dippet was looking for a professor. Can she get there? On her own? "That is where I've been spending much of my time."

"Really?" Why does she sound so surprised, "I hadn't seen you around. I thought maybe you weren't there."

He freezes in his steps and watches her walk ahead a few more steps before starting up again.

-

He's been here once, in a dream, and it looks much the same. Minimal. Liminal. Benthal. The same bed lies in the corner with a moth-eaten blanket. The same wooden dresser across from it. A single flower atop the surface. Colored a red so deep it looks black.The sky outside Ximena's room is a pale blend of sunset colors that seem to swirl the longer the sun continues to sink into the horizon.

Ximena holds the small black book, the one with all of her potential names, and holds it close to her chest. She's wearing the blue dress again, though it looks more saturated in the orange lighting.

"What's in the book?"

"It's mine." She states, and it makes him want to take the book all the more. When he reaches out for it, his hand sticks to the cover. He cannot remove it. The other hand tries, but it is the same story. He tries to shake his hands off, but when his elbows and arms bump into her, they too stick. Fuse.

Slowly, he comes closer. The light in the room flows into a pink color. A violet color. His body is sinking into hers like quicksand.

It's wonderful. Terrifying. A deep, primal need to scream comes barreling up his throat just as their heads melt into each other. It's no longer just his need but hers too. A feral appetite that demands indulgence.

What are they? An impassioned animal made of oil slick, stumbling, rolling, trying to sit up on all their combined limbs. To figure out which of their two backs[6] is front. He's afraid but alive. Thriving. Wanting the carnal sensation of being a beast to continue. To devour all who stand in his path. Their path. Something both terrified and terrifying.

When he wakes up, his body is changed in the most uncomfortable of ways. A way he's only had happen when completely enraged. He is unsure of how to feel about it[7].

By the time morning rolls in, he's tucked the dream away for later analysis, focusing solely on the task at hand.

Balam is somewhat bothered by having to show up at the castle in the middle of holiday break, Tom can tell. He's muttering in Spanish over Dumbledore and his complete lack of consideration and thought. Tom's never agreed with a person more. It really makes him hope that the two aren't in cahoots. Watching him. Suspecting him of something.

"He should have contacted me directly." He cracks his neck, tired and still muttering, "Using you as an errand boy is just like him, though."

"What do you mean?"

"He knows I would listen to my student over him." Balam says this as if it should be obvious, "You're my priority."

Tom? A priority?

If he's calculated right, and of course he has, then Ximena will probably be late to this meeting. Either because she forgot, or she got distracted, or because she doesn't see any urgency in it. It kills him that she doesn't value his time (his effort!) but no matter. Maybe after this, she'll change her tune. Make him a priority. He'd like that.

Balam inside the castle is a sight he hasn't seen since he first met him. It's fascinating how much the man contrasts against it. The same way Ximena did in her restaurant. Now that he looks at him, it’s a wonder he didn’t catch it earlier: the resemblance. Yes, his face is different from his daughter’s, but (admittingly) only marginally. Was there something about meeting a stranger so similar to her that made him want to exaggerate their differences? They’re not twins, in fact Tom’s willing to bet that Ximena takes more after her mother—

Her mother...Is she dead like this? Balam does not seem to remember her; he said he was a bachelor, after all. But then again, he also said he was without child. Should he expect anything to come from this plan? Will the two of them look upon each other and feel nothing? Remember nothing?

Shit, what if they remember nothing? He’ll have dragged them both up here for no reason. Have to explain his reasoning. The magic, the mannerisms, the room, the little things that cannot just be coincidence. He should have planned this better. Not let his haste push him to it, he can still reign them back, come up with some excuse—

“Coming out to meet us, Dumbledore?” Fuck.

“I suppose so.” The professor looks rightfully surprised to see them both, “Whatever for?”

He probably believes Balam to be returning him. Like an unsatisfied parent with their adoptee. If he doesn’t damage control soon, this whole situation could turn against him.

"Ah, Miss Lane." Dumbledore looks up, behind both Tom and Balam, "I wasn't aware you had returned to Hogwarts."

In his periphery, Tom watches his teacher glance back with disinterest before fully turning his body in an almost whiplash fashion

The sudden shock and tension in the hall is so thick that Tom feels as if he wouldn’t be able to turn his head if he tried. It would be like trying to swim in solid butter. The shock spreads out for a second. Five seconds. Longer.

Their magic moves first.

From their respective corners, both of the witches’ magic reaches outwards, blue and green, towards each other. Hesitant but eager. Like a child wanting to pet a wild animal they found. When at last electricity meets water, Tom feels a spark. A heavy feeling in his gut like rocks clanging together tells him he was right.

They run at each other, and Ximena moves faster than he’s ever seen her do before. Open arms, gripped hands, they meet finally: the force of his teacher’s daughter nearly knocking the man over in a hug so tight, Tom wonders if they will ever separate. Their magic does the same, swirling chaotically in a hurricane of strong emotions. Elation. Disbelief. Sorrow. Peace. He feels the crackle of Balam’s magic run over Ximena’s seamlessly, as if the two weren’t opposites of each other. As if they weren’t able to harm the other. And to his surprise, something in Ximena’s magic speaks back to the electricity. The lightning. Deep in her core, he can sense it: buzzing.

His classmate’s sobs bring him back from his observation. Such a painful, pathetic wail, that it reminds him of the women he saw back in London weeping for their sons. He never expected to hear something like that out of her. It alarms him, brings up goosepimples on his skin. But he doesn’t touch the scene before him. It doesn’t even feel like it’s really happening on his plane of reality. It looks like a memory through a pensieve, just based on the descriptions alone.

Balam rests a hand on his daughter’s head (Ximena has sunk to her knees) to calm. To comfort. To hold her closer and safe. He too, is crying.

This isn’t Tom's moment. It is as separate from him as a bird in flight is from the ground below. A star from the Earth. It is worlds away. A place he cannot touch, could never hope to touch, and would never want to touch.

The withered flower tattooed on the back of Balam’s hand blooms into a peony.