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Serpentine

A-Tisket A-Tasket

A-tisket a-tasket
A green and yellow basket
I wrote a letter to my mom
And on the way I dropped it,
I dropped it, I dropped it,
And on the way I dropped it.
A little boy he picked it up
And put it in his pocket.

-

On the end of the boulevard where Wool’s Orphanage is situated, there is a little used-to-be-white chapel that has seen better days. Built in 1858, its walls are cracked and crumbling, the pews creak when the slightest pressure is placed on them, and it seems as if the original congregation is still around--Or so Tom thinks based on their deeply wrinkled faces. He and the other children find themselves there every Sunday on behalf of the matron, and usually he spends his time there swinging his legs back and forth in his seat and looking up at the grotesque wax statues of saints and saviors long dead. During the rainy season, it always floods terribly, leaving slippery floors and puddles throughout the building. Despite all these factors, it was (and is) a good thinking spot. The clergy there are fond of silence and disdainful of music or any sort of ruckus, and so he associates with it peace. No loud playing from the other children or scolding yells from the caretakers, just him and whatever knick-knack he had taken from another child that week.

It’s this same atmosphere from the chapel that he encounters when he and Ximena return to the Slytherin common room. Even the fire in the hearth doesn’t seem to crackle, and the rain outside has calmed down enough to be properly muted by the Black Lake. There’s a moment of pause at the fork in the room where the corridors divide into the boys and girls dormitories, and Tom looks at Ximena out of the corner of his eye, calculating.

“I’ll see you at dinner?” His question pops the metaphorical bubble surrounding her, and she blinks at him as if she had awoken from a deep sleep.

“...Okay.” No eye contact is made, she turns her body away from him and walks to her designated side.

Ximena.

She turns to him, and makes eye contact.

The silence sinks deeper into the room, into their skin, making Tom feel like a stone being pressed down upon a strong current, lying in a riverbed. A part of that feeling though, he is loathe to admit, comes from the taller witch opposite of him. He’s not sure what part, though. The cold washing over him? The deep pressure he feels against his skin, against his chest? The not being able to breathe? Being able to see what’s in front of him so clearly yet hazily. Separated by power.

“...Nothing.” [1]

---

All of Hogwarts is in an uplifted mood the following day, and when walking through the hall, one can find themselves around cheerfully harmonizing ghosts, chattering students, and teachers with a little dance in their step. Warmth from the sun rays on his cheek is a foreign feeling after the great flooding of the past week, and the warmth from the school around him only contributes to the alienation.

Ximena stands out like an ink stain on a colorful dress.

As usual, Tom is right: the moment the last rain cloud cleared the school grounds, Ximena was left alone for the next big thing. Apparently someone’s cousin in Durmstag was a gifted fortune teller, and was open to receiving questions about the future via owl. While the idea appeals to Tom, he’s not so comfortable with sharing any goals or desires with someone he can’t make eye contact with or keep tabs on. Besides, he doesn’t need to talk to any distant fortune teller: He has decided for himself what his destiny is. Not fate or some God.

Sitting contently besides his...housemate on a bench in the main courtyard, he gives back the deeply studied and annotated book. Ximena, tired and hair tied back, looks up from feeding nearby crows, “Finished already?”

He almost quite literally couldn’t put it down, “I’m a fast learner.” Pridefully modest. Her hands take back the book delicately, and Tom preens when she opens up to the first couple of pages and runs her fingers curiously over his elegant script. That’s a look of approval in his book, thank you very much.

“That you are.” She retrieves a brown paper envelope from the bag at her feet to store and seal the book in.

“--You’re done with it too?” He tries to peek into her school bag.

“For now, I’m getting another.” From where, she doesn’t say, but Tom can tell by her tone and stance that, once again, she will not indulge his curiosity.

What a shame. He charmed the book for nothing.

The crow nearest them caws loudly, and Ximena returns to giving the birds bits of the flat maize bread. Tom eyes them with interest--birds and girl--and changes topic, “May I?” It comes out genuinely eager, and Tom almost makes himself cringe, but the feeling is washed away quickly by her immediate nod and exchange of food. The new giver of nourishment is met with some skepticism, but once he holds out his tiny gloved hand with the still warm morsels, the crows flock around him.

In silence, they stay like this until the hour ends.

---

In compliance with the ridiculous idea that he has feelings for her (it seems to gain him sympathy points from older students), Tom has been looking at other boys’ interactions with the fairer sex and takes note. Since his second week at Hogwarts, he’s found it strange that anything in the world gets done considering how clouded men’s minds get when thinking about a woman. A boy sitting close to him in his Herbology class is already failing due to his inability to keep his eyes away from a girl six seats away (and eleven class levels away). The boy knows that he’s failing, but it doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t he care? Is a pretty face really worth your education? Your future? Will the boy still stare at her when she’s moved on and forgotten about his existence? Grown old and wrinkled like a leather bag? He can’t understand it, particularly because some of the...tastes of his classmates range from questionable to annoying. Tom understands the beauty standards of today, and can perhaps give a small pass on that in regards to judgement, but skill? Potential? It’s almost as if these things didn’t matter.

Granted, it’s been of somewhat use so far in inviting other students to talk to him (as stated before, he’s easily swayed the topic of conversation to more useful things), however, in his observations these past few weeks, he sees no similarities what-so-ever, aside from (maybe) sticking close and initiating conversations, but isn’t that also done with friends? Sitting together at meals isn’t romantic (the candles weren’t placed there by him, they’re the only source of light in the Great Hall), studying together isn’t tender (they’re alone because everyone prefers goofing around to learning), and walking side by side isn’t passionate (besides, she walks fast, and it’s hard to keep up.) What are they seeing that he isn’t? Is he missing something? No, that’s stupid, he’s an excellent observer, what could he miss? They don’t feed each other spoonfuls of food from their plates, they don’t look deeply into each other’s eyes for hours on end, and they certainly don’t send each other lovey-dovey notes during class (the later of which, his mentor is apparently infamous for--he’s been through a few girlfriends).

Ah right, his mentor. He had a few things to say about Tom and Ximena. Even if (if) Tom had a special liking to her, the older boy’s advice was unwanted, unsolicited, and damn annoying (he can court a lady just fine on his own, he’s sure. If he tried. Maybe. Probably.) Every so often, he drops a line about Ximena’s background that sounds promising, but when Tom bites said line, it only leads to more dating advice. What kind of eleven year old needs advice on that sort of thing? Bring her flowers? Learn to dance? Go on a date? They’re children, where is there to go on an outing? What is there to do?

Of course, even idiots have their days.

“Don’t be a prat, Riddle, carry her books once in a while.”

An excellent idea--It’ll be much easier to skim through them, then. Or take them. Whatever comes first. He misses the book he borrowed madly, and wants so much to dig into another one. The hour with Yami four days ago has satiated him for a good while, but his mind grows hungry for more. He’s not entirely sure if he can wrangle up another hour of her time, though. Ever since his inquisitiveness on her and Ximena’s relationship, she’s been as callous towards him as she was before they were properly introduced. Scratch that, she’s been mannerly enough to greet him in the common room, pass him food in the Great Hall, and let him sit at her table in the library, but any attempt at conversation is executed with little fanfare. Something about it being “wrong to speak ill behind another’s back”, which personally just sounds superstitious to Tom, though to be fair, is there really such a thing as superstition to a wizard?

And so, he turned to Hedwig.

It is undeniably undeniable (redundancy deliberate) that he had made a hasty mistake in brushing his contemporary aside because of her uncouthness. Displayed in the classroom, and then a duel, she has managed to prove herself worthy of a second guess. A reconsideration. Even he makes fumbles, he’ll admit, but not very often. Ehem.

Also helping the girl was her status within the wizarding world. Rich and pure-blooded, people are already desperate to throw themselves at her eleven-year-old feet for the slightest chance of being grazed by the underside of her shoe. It was a different sort of commanding presence than Ximena. Two sides of the same knut to be cliché[2]. Ximena is admired silently. Like a pattern on an ornate rug or a beautiful tiara.She’s do-not-speak-unless-spoken-to-and-even-then-it’s-not-guaranteed-that-she’ll-acknowledge-you. She owns herself. Hedwig owns everyone in the room. Hedwig demands respect. Notice. Recognition. It’s annoying. It’s useful. It’s admirable. Being a part of her social circle is...favorable.

And so, he secures a personal lesson during free period.

Contrast to his past personal tutoring sessions, Tom heads outside to the crisp, cool Hogwarts grounds at Hedwig’s request. It’s chilly, still wet from last night’s downpour, but not altogether unpleasant. All the water from last week’s rains have caused an absurd amount of daisy-like flowers to spring up throughout the grounds, making the air sweet and fresh with perfume and dew. Far-flung, beyond the mountains, there is a faint rainbow pouring down from a distant cloud.

Walking along the perimeter of the Black Lake, he spots Hedwig alone underneath a tall willow tree playing cat’s cradle with a bright vermillion thread.

“Did ya bring the goods, Riddle?” Straight to business, as usual. Tom produces the coconut macaroons he had gotten from the kitchens earlier, and Hedwig’s face lights up like a lumos maxima spell, “Fuck yes, I knew I could rely on you.” She takes his payment eagerly and tucks it safely away in her dragonskin schoolbag before picking herself up and brushing off the grass from her elegant robes, “Did ya bring your wits about you, too?”

“Of course.” He never goes anywhere without them.

“Good, good.” She sniffs, rubbing her button nose, “Wand out, let’s get started.”

If Yami is a theoretical teacher, Hedwig is a hands-on one. Her idea of a beginner spell for him is Levicorpus of all spells, and she tells him to practice it on passing Hufflepuffs (‘Don’t worry Riddle, that one’s my cousin, he’s a foul git, I’ll tell him I made you do it.’) Luckily, he had read about a good chunk of them in the sections of the library he had snuck into with Ximena, so he didn’t dilly dally much on wrist movements or enunciation, it was straight to intention. Straight to casting. He’s not bad. Definitely not bad for a first year with no magical upbringing. He tries the spell subtly on the boy walking a few meters away, and really only succeeds in tripping him up a bit in the air, about thirty centimeters (‘Aye that’s the fucking ticket, Riddle, I didn’t think you’d actually hit him on first try.’) He doesn’t have Hedwig’s absurd prodigy skills, but he tries not to let that bother him because she, like many, have years of practice on him: Dumbledore had mentioned the strict laws regarding underage wizardry, and it was obvious to him by now that laws meant nothing to old, rich pureblooded families. Well, almost nothing. Their privilege was just that: a privilege. Not a right, despite what many might try to argue...

As for abstract teachings, the most she has for him are intimidation tactics, of which he has seen before, most notably in the duel against Ximena. When he asks her about this, she sighs.

“Oh yeah, you can’t let people treat you like some kind of minge, you know?” She flips her wand in the air like a baton, “Be boisterous, and be defeated--As my sister can tell you.” Her face gives a sour look, “Lane never did tell me about that spell she used.” A harsh sneeze. Tom spares a ‘bless you.’ “Thanks--I bet she’s been keeping it to herself, the bastard.” Hedwig cracks her neck, “Can’t blame her, though, I’m sure she likes the attention.”

Tom begs to differ, “You think so?”

“Oh yeah, that wallflower? I’m sure she enjoyed her time in the sun.” Another sneeze, “I don’t talk with her a lot, but my sister tells me about her.”

He perks up visibly.

The girl snerks, “Got it bad, don’t you, ya wanker?” A laugh, perhaps cruel and perhaps not, “Sis invited her over during a few holidays in the past. Not sure what for, they spent it away and locked up in her room.”

Tom almost snaps his wand in half, “Was your family alright with that?”

Hedwig snorts, keeping in another sneeze, “You’ll find my sister cares little about what our family wants or thinks.” She practices an impediment jinx on a passing fly, he watches it freeze in midair, “I’m planning to usurp her.”

For a foul-mouthed eleven year old, she sure is well spoken. Tom supposes that’s just what being a high-bred, high-class eleven year old brings you.

His eyes gleam, “Oh?”

“Aye, but it’s no damn secret, I tell her that every night at dinner.” Wand waving, she dances the little fly around as if it were a toy, “We’re always in high competition, it’s how we were raised. I actually fucking think our parents want us to fight to the death one day.”

The impediment jinx wears off, but Hedwig’s control of the fly remains. It wiggles desperately, pathetically, in search for an escape. After a rather violent sneeze, she complies.

“Lane’s unknown blood status doesn’t bother her?”

“Oh na, I mean, what kind of mudblood has those kind of skills, am I right?” She rubs her eyes, “Fecking allergies...And even if she was one...Well, she’s no slag, right? We can make an exception for usefulness. She’s still a witch.”

Interesting.

“I thought maybe your sister didn’t like me because of...” He trails off, implications galore.

“That munter?” Annoyed, but amused laughter, “Ya no, she’s just creeped out by you. Thinks you look like a nonce.”

Ah.

“Oh.” Tom tries to sound hurt, rubbing and playing with the tips of his fingers in sheepishness as Hedwig gets another rush of sneezes.

“No no, don’t mind her, she’s just a pillock.” Rubbing her pink-ening nose, she dismisses his apparent hurt, “Doesn’t trust anyone, that one. Especially men.” A snort, “Not that you’re a man yet, Riddle, no offence.” Some taken. “It’s a wonder she even trusts me sometimes...”

“She trusts Lane, then?”

The allergy ridden girl ceases her wand fiddling, and a slight befuddled look crosses her face, “Huh...You bring up a good bloody point, Riddle.” A sniff, “I don’t think she does, I think she sees her as something to study...We’ll see, we’ll see.”

She switches the topic to spells again, and this time she goes over a few advanced spells taught to her by her family. The majority of them are attack spells, meant for duels and executions--The ones in the later category aren’t demonstrated, but she promised (half laughing) that he would get his chance should there be a war in the near future.

“The bat bogey hex is a big favourite of mine, it’s shut up my little cousins more than once, I’ll tell you that. It’s a little advanced to say the least, but if you practice now, you’ll have the upperhand in a few years.” She points her wand at a murder of crows nearby, “Try it out on those over there.”

A slight moment of hesitation, “They’re so small, won’t that kill them?”

Hedwig shrugs, “Perhaps.” A glance over at him, “They’ve been bothering the owls these past few weeks, attacking them, killing their young, being general pests--Either way, you’ll be helping out the school.” She shoots the hex at one, and it sputters in bewilderment as bats sprout from the nostrils on its beak. Cawing, it flies away to a distant tower.

“Balls.” Hedwig sighs, “Want to give it a try?”

Glancing up in the tall tree where the black birds were situated, Tom prepares his wand, recites the incantation, and deploys the spell at the biggest crow on the branch nearest to him.

It shakes, much like the victim of Hedwig’s hex, but instead of recovering swiftly, it tumbles pitifully to the ground as the formed bats fly away--beak torn grotesquely open. It lies dead and still. Above him, the murder cackles and cries in a chorus.

His tutor for the hour whistles, “Nasty. Good shot, Riddle.” Hands resting on her hips, she approaches the body, “Shit, they’re not going to be messing with you anytime soon.” Wand pointed, a spell he doesn’t recognize leaves her lips, and the body sinks into the ground, leaving only a deep red mark upon the grass, “I think hexes are your strength, have you been practicing before this?”

“I had some help from Acarya.” And a selection of her companions, but mostly her, “I learned a lot about them.”

“Aye, Acarya’s good--She’s a fucking roaring flame, really--but she’s so...” Her right hand rolls loosely by the wrist, “Radical.” A sniff of her reddening nose, “As bad as Lane sometimes, but at least she doesn’t go around spouting blood traitor talk, yeah? Bloody embarrassing, that one.” Shakes of her head send her cotton candy hair outwards like fog. Tom purses his lips in both doubt and amusement.

“What’s a blood traitor?” He can assume but we all know what happens when one does that.

“What? Oh right right, I forget you’re a special case.” Her wand is twirled and spun around her fingers casually, “Wizards who mingle and associate with muggles are blood traitors. Choosing mingings over your own magical brothers and sisters? Considered shameful, to say the least.” Another sneeze, another curse. “Bugger. Learn what you can from Acarya, Riddle, but be careful who you make friends with here: they’ll decide your future in the wizarding world, for sure.” Her hand ceases its twirling of her wand, and it comes to a stop, pointing directly at him.

“Thank you, Acwellan.”

---

In quiet anticipation of Hallowe’en, the Great Hall is decorated with an assortment of decorations, ranging from colorful, warm earth tones to the deepest of blacks. Though macabre, they are rather elegant, and Tom finds himself appreciating the atmosphere created. He wondered how wizards celebrate Hallowe’en: did they fly into towns and terrorize Muggles? Take treats and feast until dawn? Dance in graveyards and summon the dead?

The return of Ximena’s ever-changing books is a sign of normalcy, and he peeps up about it when he sits down next to her during dinner, placing his bowl of hot potato soup beside a skeletal centerpiece on the table. It lies open in front of her, about somewhere in the middle, he reckons, to a page with words he can barely make out in bold, faded letters placed at the top, along with insanely small text situated underneath. There are illustrations of plant life on the opposite page.

“New one already?”

His presence, once again, seems to shock her, “Yes, I just got it.” Her supplier works fast. “It’s good you came,” she shuts her book just as Tom was about to read the elusive header, of which he was only able to read: Pat...Albularyo. The cover of the book is obscured by her arm as she pushes it away.

He blinks and shakes his head, “Sorry?”

She reflects his blink, and it’s the first time he’s noticed how big her eyes are, “I said I had almost forgotten to eat.” Damn. Shouldn’t have said anything. Resting her fingertips at the edge of the table, Ximena’s dinner blossoms before her: A bright green sauce drapes over tube like wrappings of what his nose tells him is chicken. It sits pretty and messily beside firey orange rice and black beans. To the side of her plate lies a gravy boat filled with a thick white cream that Ximena generously pours on the top of her food. Her drink is a steaming cup of foamy hot chocolate. It is the first time Tom has seen the beginning of her meal.

She lowers her head and clasps her two hands together in silence. Tom realises she is praying.

Finished, she finally begins, and his obnoxious guide saunters over before he can ask her about her meal. Sitting across from the two of them, he claps his hands twice, as if ordering an invisible servant around, and a plate with only a roasted turkey leg appears.

“Evening, comrades.” He says smoothly, not bothering to remove his hat, “Good to see everything back to normal.” His voice is laced with amusement, biting into his turkey leg, “The currents of fame are fickle, eh, Lane? Just like last year.” She nods, paying more attention to her food than to him. “Better hope Willow doesn’t call on you again this week, I guess. Or any other time in the future.”

Ximena stops eating. Blinking, she remains paused for a few moments before continuing, “I’ll hope hard, then.” Her free hand taps its nails rhythmically on the wood table. It almost sounds musical enough to be familiar.

“No ambition to be the top duelist? That’s not very Slytherin of you.” A chuckle, perhaps a teensy bit condescending, “I’m joking, I’m joking, I know how you work.” He gave no room for anyone to be offended of his questioning of her house placement, but Tom finds it is just like him to think that everyone around him is his audience.

“I am not a showoff.” Ximena corrects.

“True, true.” He nods, “Red and gold just doesn’t suit you like green and silver, yeah?”

Tom tilts his head, “But nobody wears their house colors.”

“It’s all in the soul, Riddle.” He forms a fist and beats it to his breast, “We’re Slytherins, our souls are made of the same stuff.” How poetic.

Ximena looks unconvinced. Perhaps she is about to say something on the subject, but his docent is called over by a rowdy pack of fourth years. He calls back to them with a dashing smile before he slips out of his seat, “See you later, Lane. Riddle.” A nod to the young boy as he trots away to his friends, turkey leg in hand.

“Chiflado.” Ximena shakes her head and continues eating. Tom isn’t sure if she’s annoyed or amused.

“Sorry?” He prompts again, for the second time that night.

There’s that look again, the look he hates. “Oh? Oh, yes, it um..” Her hand grabs at the air as if trying to grasp the proper translation, “Crazy? Silly? Out there?” A hum, “I don’t mean it in the worst way, really, but sometimes...” Her voice trails.

“I understand.” Completely, “He’s a bit of a buffoon, don’t you think?” He tries for a smile, friendly and relatable.

“A little, yes.” She sucks her teeth, “Useful, though.”

Tom knows how he’s useful to him, but how is he useful to her?

“Did he tell you about the kitchens too?” His hands rest on the table, cradling themselves.

“Kitchens? What?” Having spaced out again, she returns to the conversation, “Oh no no, I, hm.” Blinking rapidly, she tries to orient herself, “His, ah, family, they’re well known for keeping records, you see.” She clears her throat, “Family trees, death dates, trials, that sort of thing.” Her hands reach for a salt shaker, “It’s quite nice for history essays.”

It’s quite nice for other things too.

---

Excusing himself from dinner early, Tom catches a few precious moments alone in the dormitory. That is to say, he catches two of the heaviest sleepers in his year snoring away on the other side of the room. Unsatisfied with this, he brings out his wand to impose an even deeper slumber, and casts a charm intended to bring a restful sleep. His housemates flutter their eyes ever so slightly before falling still, only moving to breathe.

Tucked away in a little corner nook, Tom approaches his bed and ignites his lantern with a flick of his wand. It glows steadily and eerily in the surrounding darkness as he removes his hat and places it neatly on its designated stand. Then, carefully, he slides out his locked trunk from underneath his bed and opens it, reaching his hand inside...

There was no way she would have noticed, he made sure of that. He tested out his charm on six students and a teacher: the book was unmarred by any other eye.

He shares his secret, he shares what he’s done, with the wooden side table at his bed and the burning gaslight of his personal lantern.

Before him: a single page, a single edge ripped. Pale taupe parchment, smooth and fuzzy with time, covered with pitch print and varied comments and footnotes from both he and her. In the strong, concentrated light, the ink from her notation sheens a deep dark red. It’s most heavily concentrated around one of the book’s many illustrations, of which is captioned:

Fig. 1 Cornicello, cimaruta, and lunula: Italy.

And then, neatly below it,

Fig. 2 Traditional azabache bracelet from Latin America.

He lays the bracelet splayed out next to its near mirror illustration and smiles triumphantly, his fingers lining it up perfectly parallel with the black and white drawing. One step closer.

Tom leans his head back to admire the possession.

Soft scarlet red thread twined together with dark beads and silver discs. The discs, inscribed with symbols, shine dully in the lamplight, and chime quietly when Tom lowers them onto any hard surface. While they of themselves were interesting, he himself focuses on the beads: a mix of smokey brown stone--perhaps agate--and jet that lusters so beautifully, it almost looks as if there are rain clouds moving and glimmering inside of them. The painted dots on the surface of the small beads stare back at him. Do they acknowledge him as their new master? Their new charge? He rolls his prize back and forth on his nightstand with a flat palm, enjoying the sensation of the beads rolling against his skin and the coin-like discs flicking and tickling the ball of his hand.

He decides he likes his new toy.
♠ ♠ ♠
[1] If you’ve seen any of the four versions of A Star is Born...well,

[2] I used knut instead of coin for the sole purpose of making Lion laugh when I read this aloud to her. I have the maturity of a 13 year old boy.

As of now, I only have one more chapter to upload to Mibba before y'all are caught up with the other sites! When I said this was slow burn, I meant slow burn. It’ll probably be another thirty chapters before they hug, lmao.

I watched Fantastic Beasts finally! Was surprised to find another Kowalski, cries, I didn’t do that on purpose, they’re not related probably. We’ll see where the character goes, if I mention her again.

The chapters before this take place over a period of weeks and/or days, but this one all happens in a single day. Bit of a change, but  like it.

Been doing an absurd amount of research for this damn fic, I hope it pays off! Students, family trees, faculty, spells...I want to be sure that everything has a purpose. I don’t often like loose threads, so if I ever go out of my way to mention or name something here...it’ll come back sooner or later. I'm actually conflicted on just how much information to give, allude to, or just omit completely, it's maddening.