Two hours of epic music mix and off we go with another chapter without any insane ramblings from me (though I tried a new writing technique for inspiration so we'll see how that orks out - if anyone tells me it is worse, I shall flip this table so hard that the very roof shall shatter. Although I am not writing at a table ...)! I did quite enjoy writing this chapter though and I do believe things are shaping up and picking up speed!

And, much cause for celebration if you ask me, I found a half-full/empty, lukewarm cup of tea in another room of the house far from my writing place. For how long it has been there I do not know, nor do I wish to know ... but nonetheless. Tea!

My thanks goes out to Ria once again for reviewing, bless you for that so very much.

And one insane rambling later ...

Do enjoy!

It's in our Blood

Chapter XXXVI

Tom's brow was furrowed in slight ire, arms draped over his opened book and chin pressed hard against the rough, cold surface of the table; his eyes trailed the slow, shimmering movements of the ghost at the front of the classroom, eyes half-lidded. Professor Binns' endless, droning voice wore down any lingering clarity from the half-blood's mind. But not even his exhaustion could prevent another wave of resentment towards the Slytherin witch to roll over him, curling his lips into a scowl, and he shifted irritably in his seat.

A single, long finger trailed the spine of his History of Magic textbook absentminded; the uneven edge brushed lightly against the tip of his finger, grazing his nail as he withdrew his hand; pressing the cold skin to his lips, he suppressed his ever lingering impatience. The pureblood witch had suddenly vanished from the castle, nowhere in sight the following morning.

He had stayed awake – uncomfortable, expectantly consumed with thoughts – throughout the entire night, until the embers of the fireplace had died out and darkness settled in the cramped space of the dormitory; even when the first rustles of movement piqued his ears and the other inhabitants stirred from their sleep.

Subduing a threatening yawn, Tom closed his eyes briefly.

Having been lead astray by the pureblood's manipulations, lured into a false sense of trust and security, he had been suddenly – forcefully – pulled awake. How blind he had been, that Tom finally understood. It had only taken him mere moments to figure out exactly what he would do with the witch, but as it turned out ...

It would have to wait.

The unexpected disappearance of the witch had no doubt hindered his initial plan, or rather, stalled its completion. He trailed the dry, chapped flesh of his lower lip. It could wait. He could wait, for without a doubt the witch would return; and once she did, Tom would be waiting with a very special card at hand. His plan, however many times he ran it through his head, was flawless.

Another flicker of a scowl swept across his features and he buried himself in the sleeves of his robes. "–wizarding organisation–the Medieval Assembly of European Wizards–" Soft, rhythmic taps, heavy droplets of rain pitter-pattering against the windows blurred the grey scenery of the castle grounds. Tom quietly slid another, thin book from underneath Bathilda Bagshot's heavy tome and smoothened its pages open.

Glistening, piercingly yellow eyes almost stared directly back at him through the pages of the book; the dark green scaled body of the Basilisk captivated his very being and an excited shiver ran across the length of his arms. The witch's words, spoken in the shadows of the night, reverberated in the back of his mind. 'King of Serpents', he read.

So this is the monster within.

Tom felt a lingering gaze on him, briefly, ever so often, and he shifted his attention to his left.

With a questioning look towards the book, then back to Tom, Avery mouthed his wonder: "What are you reading?" After a moment of silence, the half-blood dismissed the inquiry and in stead slipped the object slightly towards the other wizard – a small sign of trust that would most likely be advantageous in the long run. He felt no harm in sharing the reading material, knowing he could easily brush off any further questions with the simple answer of curiosity.

Self-study.

The blond tilted his head and scanned the pages with mild curiosity.

Tom quietly observed from the side a moment longer before finally, thrumming his fingers against his cheek distracted, returned to the image of the giant animal – the monster. An interesting passage caught his eye. Spiders flee from it. He made a mental note to test the theory later, when an opportunity presented itself.

If he was lucky, the small, eight-legged menaces could create a path; lead him through the intricate and complicated corridors, steps and stairs, towers and dungeons that tied together into an immeasurable maze that was the castle. It felt like a terrible long shot, but without any results for months upon months, Tom was willing to put some faith into the creatures.

At some point his bad luck had to turn for the better, he thought bitterly.

His attention returned to the professor who, after an hour of agonizing torture for his students, came to a halt. "With that–" the ghost paused, speech slurred in assessment, before finally ordering: "–a three foot long essay about this particular topic, by the end of next week." A soft, dissatisfied murmur swept across the room, but none dared disagree with the ghost.

Tom quickly gathered his belongings, sweeping the books together; shuffling through his bag, moving items, creating space, he was shortly after on his way out of the classroom. He caught himself in glancing about, eyes keen and searching, trying to spot the familiar black hair in the crowd – perhaps expecting the witch to pop up all of a sudden as the last time – but Fowl was nowhere in sight.

He yanked the bag further up his shoulder.

"Are you considering Care of Magical Creatures?" Avery asked, trudging up to match Tom's steps.

He shrugged lightly in return. "Perhaps. I have not given it much thought."

"Then why'd you bother reading about Basilisks? Really, Tom, if I didn't know better I would almost say you voluntarily try to learn stuff."

"I am," he responded, voice but a mere mutter and thoughts once more wandering; allowing the pureblood to ramble on about elective classes, they made their way through the well-lit corridor, through the increasing crowd of witches and wizards on their way to the Great Hall. Lestrange appeared in his field of vision, smacking Tom's back in a friendly gesture and locked his arm around the half-blood's neck.

Tom tensed unconsciously.

The sudden display of friendship still felt unnatural, displeasing to him.

"Isn't today just marvelous?" Lestrange exclaimed, a lightness in his steps that seemed rather unlike the proud second year; with a tilt of his shoulders, Tom managed to escape the grasp and distance himself from the other boy; making no claim to neither agree nor disagree with the other. Fingers fidgeting with the hem of his robes, he immediately gathered his clothes to their previous neatness.

Avery shot the other pureblood a dry look.

Lestrange cringed his nose. "As if you don't enjoy a Fowl-free day," he returned. "Rumors have it that both left early this morning with Slughorn."

His interest stirred, Tom paused in his steps and looked towards the pureblood; the latter had, hands folded behind his head and stretching leisurely, stopped as well. "And who told you this?" He spoke, voice even and impassive, never betraying the inner turmoil of his thumping heart beat, loud in his chest at the sudden news. Whatever the contents of the emerald green envelope, it had apparently been enough to force the Fowl siblings to leave Hogwarts.

"I pestered Greengrass about it in class," he brushed a hand through light strands of hair. "Though Newell spoke more than she did ... Apparently they heard a thing or two in their dormitory this morning. The reason why, I haven't got the faintest." Tom gave no further response, but merely inclined his head in acknowledgement before once more continuing his way down the corridor; brow knitted together in thought.

Tom clasped his pale hands behind his rigid back, the muscles in his jaw tense and gave a sigh.

With no feeling in her freezing, numb fingers, Elana clasped her hands behind her back to hide her fidgeting. She absently trailed the faint lines and knuckles, circling her wrists until finally willing her restlessness to a halt. In her pause, she shifted slightly from where she stood. The Healer, sending gruff instructions her way ever so often – "Two of those, every four hours – change the compress when it is dry–", carefully traced, prodded her mother's throat, feeling the soft drum of a pulse.

The older witch sat incredibly still, eyes hardened in resolution to not show any sign of weakness. Only her chest, heaving in forced inhales of air, and light eyebrows drawn into a tight frown, indicated the woman was having some trouble keeping up appearances. "So?" She asked, a haughty drawl to her voice. With a shake of his head and greying curls, the wizard withdrew to get a clear view of his patient.

"From my examination, it appears the illness has spread further to your airways," he shuffled through an oversized brown bag and pulled out a vial of clear, silvery liquid; a crooked finger lightly tapped the glass, before unscrewing the cork with a plop! and handed it over to the pureblood. "Try this and see if it helps, Madam." Elana watched in silence as her mother, hand trembling in exertion, swallowed the potion.

After a short moment of waiting, Elana's mother discarded the vial into the folds of her bed sheets.

"It made no difference," she breathed.

Elana closed her eyes with a soft, inaudible sigh. Her mother seemed to live on borrowed time.

An impatient wrench in the pit of her stomach had – over the long-felt week she had stayed watch at the woman's sickbed – crept over her; Elana almost welcomed both the witch's recovery as much as her passing into the next world. The constant, suspenseful waiting almost felt worse. "I shall return tomorrow." At the tip of the head, the Healer bid them farewell and exited the room in a rush.

A quiet moment of utter silence settled.

Bed sheets rustling, the older woman shifted and lay down as her eyes fluttered shut; the soft, regular breathing indicated her mother had once more returned to sleep. Elana stared for a while before stepping across the room. Her pale, shadowed face was reflected in the still surface of the bowl, eyes heavy with weariness; ripples danced across the grimy water as she lifted it from the cabinet, fingers clutching onto the metal rim.

Balancing the bowl against her hip, Elana soundlessly pried the door open.

The outsides of the room were abandoned, the upper parts of the house seldomly called upon by their current visiting relatives and Elana quickly made her way down the hallway. Slipping into the bathroom, she emptied the contents of the bowl; her mind, far away in thought, watched the unclear water swirl and disappear into the darkness; her shoulders slumped as she leaned against the cold marbled sink. Her long hair brushed against her arms.

Sighing, Elana turned the faucet.

A soft hiss was thrown back from the walls, echoing in her ears as she once more filled the bowl. The clear liquid spilled over its edges, but Elana had no will to move, no urge to return to the dark chambers of the sick; the sting of tears pressed against her eyelids when she violently rubbed her face with a hand. With barely any sleep, nor a place to feel at ease, she felt downright worn out.

Straightening her posture, Elana forcefully turned off the water flow and once more picked up the bowl.

It did not take long before she placed the container back on the cabinet, amongst vials and pills; practiced, she dipped a white cloth into the waters, soaked it for a moment and then quickly wrung the fabric between her hands. Folding it once on the middle, twice, Elana carefully – not to wake the sleeping witch – placed the compress against her mother's feverish brow.

Then she returned to her seat.

Elana could feel the slight press of her wand against her leg, and she silently regretted not being able to conjure any light. The Healer had explicitly instructed that the sick best needed darkness to recover and with that – unfortunate comment – destroyed any possibility of reading as she waited. She folded and unfolded her legs. "Because I have nothing better to do with my time," she dared mutter with a scoff.

"Child," the sudden call for her instantaneously made Elana snap to attention. Bare feet shuffling against the thick carpet, the girl approached the woman; unsure of what to do with herself, the black haired witch paused at the very edge of the bed, hands once more fumbling around with the fabric of her skirt. A slender, boned hand reached for her. "Come here–"

Feeling the impulse to frown, Elana carefully placed her face in a mask of blank calmness. "Yes, Mother?"

The hand gently – fleetingly, a phantom touch – ran over her dark hair, an unmistakable sign of affection so completely unfamiliar to Elana, until it lingered against her cool cheek. Her mother's skin was burning feverishly. "My dearest child, my little blackbird." Blackbird. Dread rushed over her and it took her combined effords not to pull away, finally understanding.

Her mother was delirious.

"Mother, I am not– ..." Her voice dropped. As their gazes met, sudden recognition flaring in the older woman's light eyes, Elana finally uttered: "–Emmaline." The witch withdrew her hand, breaking the short moment of love between mother and daughter – almost scolded and burned. Elana pressed her body into the shadows, out of reach.

"Get out," the pureblood woman hissed, teeth gritted in contempt. "Get out, immediately."

Elana fled the room.

Soft footsteps scampered after the older boy, both children wild in laughter as she tried her best to keep up. With the heavy drapes pulled aside, they quickly hid their presence against the warm glass of the arched window. She pressed her hands against her mouth, trying to still her amusement and dark blue eyes gleamed in delight.

"Master Elliot, Miss Elana–! This is hardly befitting behavior of someone your status. Come out this instant!" The strict, angered tone of the housekeeper merely made the two purebloods cuddle further together in their hiding place. They waited moments longer until all was quiet once more, before they erupted into a new wave of laughter.

With a sudden movement, the curtains were pulled aside and they gasped in surprise. "Aha! I thought I saw a pair of troublemakers, and indeed I did!" Elana squealed in delight, quickly clasping both arms around the young woman's dress; burrowing her face in the soft folds of the fabric, she fell into the embrace. "I've got you now and you cannot escape." The witched let out an evil laughter before picking Elana up, holding the small child against her chest.

"Em, play!" Elana demanded, hands fumbling through the dark curls of the woman's hair.

"Now, now. I am fairly sure you two were studying, were you not?" With a tender smile, she took Elliot by the hand and guided him from his hiding place. "Seems like I have caught another mischief-maker! What to do, what to do?" Em mused to herself, pulling the smaller companion further up onto her shoulders; then, whistling a gentle tune, led them down the bright corridor.

Winter hit Hogwarts suddenly. And it hit hard.

A blanket of white covered the slopes of the grounds surrounding the castle. The Black Lake had frozen, a clear, blinding mirror; icicles, longer than the length of Tom's shin, hung from the ledges of the castle and the trees of the surrounding forest. Their trek from the greenhouses and the last Herbology class of the year, through the thick and heavy snow, had left them shivering and drenched. Tom breathed thoughtfully into his cupped hands, before once more tucking them away into the folds of his uniform.

But much unlike the November storms and gale winds, the pureblood witch and her brother had yet to make an appearance. While Avery fretted in thinly veiled concern, Tom had rather impatiently looked for Fowl amongst the Slytherins on a daily basis, in the common room, at classes, the Great Hall; in the crowds of the hallways – only to be met with disappointment.

When he finally had the chance to gain the upper hand, of course the witch completely eluded him.

Tom heaved a sigh.

The Slytherin group had taken to the couches of the common room. The cracking flames of the fireplace bathed their faces in a warm light; the dungeons were left clammy and damp and Tom could feel the uncomfortable air brush against the nape of his neck. He flipped a page of his book and ran a hand through his still wet hair.

Mulciber muttered an order to the chess board, watching in slight boredom as his Knight speared and – without much concern – dragged the shattered remains of a white Pawn off to the side. His opponent, Lestrange, rolled over from his position in the armchair and observed the game in thought. "I hate this game," he stated.

"Then why did you suggest playing it?"

"Because I am bored, obviously."

Always observant and aware, Tom regarded the gathered with faint curiosity. The previous hostility and discomfort was, like snow in the sun, completely gone from sight; now it was rather replaced by friendly and casual banter between the four purebloods. Or rather three – as Nott could spend days without a word to anyone. Tom's brow furrowed in amusement at the thought and marvelled in wonder at how the other wizards understood the pureblood's intentions. But, Tom noted, he was slowly forming a clear understanding of every single one of them, of their ambitions, their drive for solidarity, power and influence.

And, more importantly, how he could shape those very thoughts and ideals to suit him best.

"Am I the only one staying here for Christmas?" Avery, who was busy examining his own fingers in fascination, asked. Tom was pulled from his thoughts and looked towards the pureblood. A faint taste of bitter annoyance filled the inside of his mouth; how he had hoped the purebloods would return home over the Holiday, creating enough privacy to once more search for the Chamber of Secrets.

Tom clicked his tongue.

"Anthony and I will return home," Mulciber responded, eyes never leaving the checkered board in front of him. Another Pawn was smashed into small fragments, clattering over the table as a black Bishop moved to take its place. "Fairly sure Sebastian will do the same, no?"

Lestrange cracked his knuckles. "If only I wasn't ... Knight to E5. What about you, Tom?"

"I will stay."