Sorry for the slow updates. Again. As usual ...

I read somewhere that there are actually windows in the Slytherin common room, but since I've previously described it to be without I'll continuously do so. Just a bit meh, since I at least try to stick to the canon descriptions as much as humanly possible without opening Rowling's brain to look inside (How I wish I could take a trip in there though ...).

But do enjoy the following chapter where Tom completely takes over, even though I had no plan for it to begin with, but I'm kinda proud of him! Every time I have a plan, it feels like Tom just goes "Nope. I'm running this show." although I somehow doubt he would actually ever phrase it as such! This story is picking up speed just as we approach 40 chapters. Ha ...

Lastly, thanks to the people that continuously review - 534667lc and sugar addiction, thank you, both for the reviews and for your patience!

One small step closer to 100 reviews.

It's in our Blood

Chapter XXXVIII

At first Tom merely stared ahead, into the flickering shadows across the ceiling of the dormitory. It was still early morning and his eyelids felt heavy from an unruly sleep clouded by uneasiness; slowly turning his head, feeling the soft pillow press against his cheek, Tom thoughtfully watched the pile of parchment at his bedside table. When Slughorn had finally allowed them to the leave the evening before, having deemed their work adequate, the second year half-blood had then spent the remaining hours trying to put together a suitable collection.

Doubtful and rather skeptical, Tom was unsure of the older wizard's real intention, for – without a doubt – there had to be something else hidden behind an otherwise strange request. But of course that did not mean that Tom planned to hand in an incomplete assignment, his pride forcing him to finish the task to perfection and leave the older wizard no room to complain. Even if the pureblood had no intention of actually using it afterwards.

Shifting lightly, bedsheets rustling until Tom had freed his arms to grab ahold of the top layers.

Neatly folded instructions; potion brews, collecting and preparing reagents; Transfiguration and Charms, down to the smallest details on hand movements; illustrations, notes from both during lessons and outside of class. All meticulously jotted down in his cursive writing. The smell of parchment and ink was heavy in the air.

Carefully, with brow furrowed in thought, he flipped through a list of Astronomy charts.

The embers of the fireplace had long died out before Tom had gathered the many scrolls and books; fumbling to create room in both bag and arms, he had then returned to the company of the pureblood group in the second year dormitory. And to Lestrange's less than subtle remarks on how diligently Tom carried out his work, he merely replied that it was nothing special to copy notes from one parchment to another. Even though the pureblood left it at that, satisfied with the other's curt answer, the question lingered in the back of Tom's mind.

He had brushed off the nagging feeling of putting too much of his time into the task, because to Tom it was simply an exercise in repetition; to refresh his memory on the previous weeks' classes. But more than anything, he was curious. With a sudden grunt erupting from a nearby bed, Tom finally decided to fully wake. Bringing his toes to meet the cold stone floor, he sat upright on the edge of the bed and stretched.

Running his fingers through unruly hair in an attempt to loosen the worst knots, Tom shuffled to his feet in one fluent, quiet movement.

Stifling a yawn, the Slytherin wizard proceeded to get dressed without waking the slumbering residents of the dormitory; shortly after, with a groggy Mulciber – still half asleep – as company, was Tom correcting the silver and green tie around his neck. The morning hair had been combed into submission. The other wizard huffed in exasperation and tossed a bundle of jet black clothes over a nearby armchair. "One would think this a pigsty," Mulciber grumbled, shooting a final grim look towards Avery's wrinkled and discarted dress robes. "Throwing things wherever he wants to."

Tom followed the gaze of the wizard, the dark fabric a reminder of the swiftly approaching Slugclub get-together. He let out a sigh. One could not say he looked forward to the event – not with how things had turned out the year before. What had first been an awkward attempt to socialize with complete strangers, something that certainly was not Tom's preferred pastime nor forte, it had quickly led to an evening of continuous disasters; whether Tom preferred the Fowl siblings to be present or not, he was not all too sure.

He stared blankly ahead, eyes looking past the dull, flickering flames of the fireplace.

Long enough had he postponed the confrontation with the witch, to show her who exactly was in control; but where she went, her brother would without a doubt not be far. Lurking in the shadows as a far more dangerous adversary. Tom emptied the contents of his bag, leaving only The Standard Book of Spells, his quill case, ink bottle and a few sheets of paper as he required those for the first class of the morning. He then began to carefully fill the bag with the requested assignment, making sure not to leave a single wrinkle or fold.

He planned for it to be absolutely spotless.

Perfect.

When he felt the bag to be brimming, Tom gathered the remaining sheets in order to avoid torn or ripped edges; carefully gathering the rest, nestling it under his arm with a rustle, the half-blood turned to the other. "Are you coming?" The pureblood nodded in response, muffling another yawn with the back of his hand, before smacking a bundle of blond hair.

The previously asleep pureblood jolted upright with a sputter of curses and arms flailing, but Mulciber had already joined Tom at the doorway before the other's punches could meet a target. "What was–?" Groggy eyed, nightwear slanted and askew, the wizard muttered under his breath; he shot a look towards the two when Tom, suppressing a sigh, had clicked the door open and held it ajar with the weight of his shoulder. "Merlin's saggy left– ... was that even necessary?"

"Wouldn't want you late for class, would we now?" Mulciber jeered then nodded towards the other occupants of the dormitory. "Wake them, will you?"

"Do it yourself," Lestrange shot back.

With a light tilt of his head towards Tom, Mulciber in stead slipped out the open door with a final reply: "Sorry, already left."

The common room close to abandoned, only a couple of girls lazily lounging near the kindled fireplace to ward of the clammy air of the dungeons; correcting the strap of the bag over his shoulder, Tom quickly entered the dark corridors with the pureblood in tow. The atmosphere was brimming of voices and anticipation for the upcomming Holidays and the last classes of the year as they approached the upper levels of the castle and into the warmth of the Great Hall.

Tom slipped into a seat at the Slytherin table, carefully letting the parchment rest at his side. He and Mulciber had not spoken a word together after leaving the dormitory, and the half-blood was rather content with the quietude. It was not, unlike what silence so often turns out to be, awkward and neither seemed inclined or forced to break it. A clandestine glance towards the brown haired wizard, who, reaching for a bread roll, calmly looked around the Great Hall with little interest, Tom mirrored his actions.

Little by little the tables were filled; black school robes, flashes of silver and gold cutlery reflecting the hundreds of lit candles. The ceiling above an intricate mesh of greying clouds, the bleak herald of rain; the air smelled of freshly baked bread and sweetness, while the noises pierced Tom's mind. Impatient for the Christmas Holiday to commence, he pinched the brink of his nose.

Tom found himself to be a solitary figure, much rather preferring his own company in stead of the mind-numbing conversations he had come to expect from his peers. Just then, a slim figure slipped into the empty seat at his side. "Good morning, Tom. Lawrence." Clear blue met dark eyes as Newell greeted them. "How very rare for it to be just the two of you." A faint flicker of a scowl tugged at the corner of his lip, but with great force he in stead returned the greeting with a civil smile.

"Good morning," he briefly nodded in the girl's general direction, gaze trailing towards the second witch and repeated the action. Mulciber showed no indication of mannerly propriety, but decided to rather pick apart another roll of bread with very little interest in the newly arrived. In fact, as Tom noted, the air surrounding the pureblood had turned to a familiar hostility.

His brow furrowed lightly.

Was it a certain dislike of the witch in particular? Tom's attention lingered briefly on Mulciber, eyes narrow in thought; or was it rather the purebloods' usual animosity towards those of impure blood, because then certainly should that hostility not be directed towards him as well?

In order to avoid an invitation to strike a conversation, Tom quickly began to pile food onto his plate; hopefully it would keep the half-blood witch at bay, as well as any gossipy subject she had come across and would otherwise without a doubt share. Much to his chagrin, things did not turn out as hoped – for clearly, Newell could not read the mood of the gathered.

"I hear Professor Slughorn has invited all kinds of prominent figures to attend his party tonight. Oh, how very jealous I am of you both for being invited," the witch's body was slightly angled towards him; whatever thoughts of breakfast vanished, a wave of disgust rolling over him as her hand lingered momentarily on his resting arm.

His eyes hardered as his entire body tensed, revolted by the blonde's obvious approach.

"It's a shame the professor has yet to recognize my abilities, but surely, next year. Don't you agree, Tom?"

The reason for her actions was unclear to Tom, but whichever plan or desire the witch may have he would have none of it and he made his opinion apparent; Tom quickly withdrew his arm, resisting an urge to dust off his clothes, and looked down on the Slytherin girl. "I must say, Miss Newell, that I find it rather intriguing how you speak so fondly of something you have been excluded from participating in. Especially since it is common knowledge how Professor Slughorn invites those he deems his favorites."

The blonde blanched at his words, stricken by shock at the polite, well-mannered boy and seemed unsure whether to burst into tears or laugh at the situation, which she clearly found to be absurd. Blue eyes wide, she opened and closed her mouth at a loss of words. But Tom had no plans for her to have an actual say in the matter.

Tom interlaced his fingers against the table and inclined his head slightly towards the girl. Then he smiled. "I would have kept that to myself."

Satisfied, Tom found his remark to have come across clearly. He pried his eyes away and in stead, with no regard towards the gathered, leafed through the pile of parchment; a small, almost inaudible whimper reached his ears, before the half-blood witch fled the Great Hall. Greengrass immediately followed, but not before giving Tom an unreadable glance through thick glasses.

"Well," Mulciber paused, a hint of admiration lacing his tone, and drew Tom's attention; the latter was met with a wide smirk, the pureblood clearly pleased to have witnessed the situation. "Nicely phrased. How I doubt we'll be seeing her at Charms today, without a doubt bawling her eyes out in the bathrooms." The Slytherin wizard shook his head with a soft laugh. Rather than responding, Tom pressed a cup of lukewarm tea to his lips, letting out a hm.

Newell had caught his attention too often, leaving nothing but bad impressions in her wake, and Tom was certain the witch would now know her place. Without a doubt she would be too terrified to even approach him, which suited his tastes to perfection. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk. Now, if only all witches were that easily controlled ...

A newfound confidence flickered in his chest and the previously bleak outlook had turned to expectancy. His fingers tightened around the mug. Luck seemed to finally smile upon him.

Tom hoped the Fowls would attend the party.

A smirk crept over her lips. For the first time since Elana had returned to the mansion, now almost two weeks ago, had her mother left her bedchamber. A bubbly feeling of victory surged through the young witch, watching the woman from across the room; the skin had lost the yellowish hue of sickness, but was still ghostly pale in the dim afternoon sun; the trembling hands had stilled and the pureblood sat rigid in her seat without allowing a single indication of illness leave her body.

They were four seated around the table.

Next to her mother in the couch was her father, prim and proper; dark eyes never betraying his emotions or revealed his thoughts, an unreadable wall in front of the assembled. With a small twist of slender fingers, her mother glanced upwards onto Elliot, who – positioned behind their parents – leaned down to hear her words; identical eyes lingered on the younger witch across from them, their low exchange secret to all but themselves.

Elliot pursed his lips.

Whereas most of the Fowl relatives had withdrawn to their own estates after the election of Eloise, the woman had stayed along with her own father, most likely to swoop in and claim the prize at the first given chance. And of course, as Elana thought grimly, to poison the one standing in their way. It had taken a great efford for Elana to secretly replace the medicine; not only was her cousin on guard and ever watchful, but her very own mother had often turned her away from her side in obvious malice.

At times, when the woman's sour remarks turned truly venomous and the burden crashing down, had Elana considered confiding in her brother and reveal everything. When she was reminded of the shame she brought upon the family, the disgrace. When her mother, in a moment of feverish clarity, had hissed "You should never have been born". But she had soon after seen reason.

With a few more moments of patience, Eloise would be pushed to the point of no return; tethering on the edge and the final shove belonged to Elana.

"It is good to see you have turned for the better, sister, and against the Healers assessments even more."

Elana watched the large man, back turned and face hidden from her sight behind a mane of bushy hair; expected to attend the meeting, yet not to participate, she had taken to one of the windowsill of the parlor. Resting lightly against the ledge and arms crossed, the distance between herself and the family was suitable to her taste. Her mother's lips were pulled into a thin, white line but she then smiled: "Thank you, Ambrose. Your daughter, dearest Eloise, has been a great comfort and support – and without a doubt, I would not have recovered without her."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation, she in stead returned Elliot's gaze with a light shrug. Elana did not expect her mother believed that her own daughter's constant and vigilant watch to have any influence; nor did she care. Her attentiveness and work had not been for the sake of the witch. Everything she had done was for the sole purpose of protecting her brother's and her own place in the family.

The woman could rot for all she cared.

Laughing, the wizard waved her off: "We all know how sturdy our bloodline is, so I never really doubted you'd pull through."

"Now–" cutting short the exchange of pleasantries, the head of the family immediately silenced the gathered; the wizard had not spoken a word or spared her a glance since they had been summoned from school, and the monotone, yet intimating voice that demanded obedience, made her skin crawl. Dark orbs locked with hers for the briefest of moments. Elana diverted her eyes.

Her hands balled into fists.

"–As we all are aware, Eloise was chosen by consensus as the replacement. With my wife's recovery that will no longer be necessary." Her cousin tensed in the armchair, fingers, previously trailing the gold-embroidered stitches, hesitated. But something felt off. When Elana had observed the witch previously, the anticipated face of defeat, despair, had been absent in the woman's features. "Ambrose and I have in private discussed the current distribution of power. The branches have started to reallocate and with that, a threat to my son's inheritance has become prominent."

Elana, taken aback by the preposterous statement, unable to comprehend the sheer hypocrisy, the false affectation that her father displayed. When had he ever cared? When they elected Eloise to take over, a woman who, without a shred of remorse, would be the greatest enemy to his children? Her eyes sought her brother's, but the older boy was transfixed on the carpet below.

An ominous feeling crept over her.

"In order to strengthen the main family's control I have decided, once Elliot finishes school, that he shall marry Eloise."

All blood drained from her face.

"I expect you to follow the wishes of the family, son." The wizard turned towards the younger boy, who in return lowered his head; her eyes stung, mind overcome by dread as she knew her brother too well ... The words of the family were indisputable, a law carved in stone, and he would oblige. Elana clenched her fists, pained as her nails dug into bare skin; a sharp flash of clarity through her mind. The contents of her pocket suddenly felt heavy, calling for her attention.

"Yes, father."

The cold glass of the vial brushed against the tip of her finger.

All pieces had been moved into position. It was finally Elana's move.