In 1907, a dementor was lured from the Forbidden Forest into the Entrance Hall—an investigation involving the Ministry was launched, and the culprit was found to be Head Boy Ivarius Drear; not only was he expelled from Hogwarts, but his wand was also snapped. In 1913, only six years later, a Jarvey—a magical sort of ferret that was capable of speaking to humans, a creature forbidden from Hogwarts for good reason—was found in the possession of Newt Scamander, a Hufflepuff who was then expelled imminently. A decade of peace scarcely passed until 1924, when Illyrius de Montmorency poisoned several girls with Amortentia, landing the girls in St. Mungo's and himself before the Wizengamot. Not even a decade after that, Nikolai Grimmson was expelled in 1933, for experimenting with something called blood alchemy on first years. And lastly, the fifth and most recent sorcerer to be expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the twentieth century, is Thane Mulciber, in May 1939, for the possession of lethal dark artefacts.
"One Ravenclaw, one Hufflepuff, and three Slytherins," Lester Avery whistled, "Impressive, don't you think?"
"Are you pleased by Thane's expulsion, Avery?" Tom asked.
"No, no, 'course not," The chubby boy quickly said, "Just impressed."
Tom knew Thane wasn't foolish; he wouldn't do anything incriminating or keep anything incriminatory where others might see. Furthermore, Tom was certain that the supposed Captain of the 'Auror Hogwarts Division', Prometheus Ledbury, was looking out for Thane in some way. His expulsion was only possible because someone, a fugitive capable of and dedicated to the task, made it possible.
"What do you think he had, Tom?" Avery asked, excitement in his tone, "A blood talisman? A cursed ring? Maybe a portkey to Germany…"
Ruben shook head at his chubby friend's guesswork.
"I think it would be better to ask, how do you think he was caught?" Ruben suggested, as he flicked a coil of his long blonde hair behind his ear.
"Someone set him up," said Tom, "I doubt he had a dark artefact lying around to begin with."
"The Hufflepuffs, d'you reckon?" Avery suggested.
Tom knew what Avery implied; Slytherin and Hufflepuff had been at each other's throats for the past few months. Starting with Crickerly's assault on Mary in the common room, and then the Fogbourne idiot tackling Crickerly off his broom in the Quidditch finals, Slytherins and Hufflepuffs had practically been at war since the Christmas Break. On a few occasions, Tom had to disperse the irate badgers himself—he hoped they would overlook him on account of him being Mary's brother, but he was wrong.
"Mulciber was a quiet chap," Ruben observed, "I don't see why the Puffs would've chosen him over the obvious target — Crickerly."
But to set up someone as smart and underhanded as Thane—Thane, who unlike Crickerly, never put himself in the public eye—was beyond a mere house rivalry. Yet, Tom could think of one Hufflepuff who might've had both the spite and skill to outdo Thane; Cassian Strangehouse.
Strangehouse, however, had been obliviated by Thane—Tom witnessed it with own eyes. He wasn't the only witness, though; Mary was there as well.
"Maybe not the Hufflepuffs, but it could've been a Hufflepuff," Tom mused more to himself than to the two boys by his sides.
He decided it was time to retire to his dorm; Crickerly usually appeared between 8-9 , and Tom didn't want to pick a fight without preparing himself for it beforehand. As he returned to his dorm, he found Oscar and Dharmesh merrily engaged in conversation. The inseparable pair greeted him quietly; he returned their pleasantries, and headed straight for bed.
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus," Tom said to the rising sun, his wand placed over his heart.
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus," Mary repeated, her wand likewise over her heart.
The twins stood together in the Entrance Courtyard. Aside from a handful of couples spread about and a group of Ravenclaws surrounding a large cauldron, they were left to themselves, peaceful and undisturbed.
"Open your mouth," Tom instructed.
Rolling her eyes, Mary did as she was told; as expected, the mandrake leaf was tucked under her tongue. Still, Tom jabbed a finger into her mouth—her tongue was soft and warm, like the inside of an apple pie. It was oddly pleasant to touch, Tom let out a slight breath.
"Hey! Yuck!" She shrunk her head back and clamped her mouth shut.
"The leaf's still there, we've only a week till the next full moon."
"You don't have to be a dentist, you know," Mary chided, "I can figure whether there's a leaf in my mouth without help perfectly fine."
"I know, but I need assurance," Tom pointed out, "You've heard what happens when the potion is brewed improperly, I need to be absolutely sure that you don't turn into a centaur."
"Your concern is touching, Tom," Mary mocked, "But I'm quite sure that the leaf won't escape my mouth without me noticing."
"And it certainly won't escape without me noticing, either," he jested.
They stood and watched the sunrise, hand in hand. It was almost like the Christmas break again, Tom thought, now that they were seeing each other three times a day, rather than merely once. But like a great coiling vine of ivy on a tree, they had each parted ways to their own crooked branches. He had been hiding the extent of Dark Magic he'd been practicing; and he was sure that Mary was hiding something as well.
"I miss winter," Mary absently said.
"I do as well," Tom agreed.
If only there was some way for his sister to understand; truly, Tom did everything for her, especially the things he couldn't mention to her. Likewise, there were things that Mary couldn't mention to Tom, but Tom couldn't imagine that she hid them out of her devotion for him. Yet, he couldn't pry her open forcefully—Mary was delicate and precious, like an expensive jewel, and she had to be treated delicately and preciously.
"Let's go to Breakfast," Tom suggested.
"Sure, and Tom? Don't swallow your leaf while you're eating," Mary mocked the reminder Tom so often gave her.
"That's not a problem for me," Tom said, "between the two of us, you've always had the greater appetite."
"Well, I'm not a giraffe," his sister retorted, "I hardly have an appetite for leaves."
As they walked towards the Great Hall, Tom's left hand held his sister's right; his right hand had to be free, for his wand. Thane's expulsion meant that Crickerly no longer had any reason to stay away from Mary. If it became necessary, Tom would teach him one.
"I suppose you're giddy that Thane's gone," Tom said flatly.
Mary's grasp on his palm tightened. A flight of pleasurable tingles ran up his arm.
"Should I not be?" Her tone was defensive.
"Well, I can understand," Tom spoke softly, "but consider this; Crickerly feared Thane, and Thane was my friend. Now that Thane's gone, Crickerly's loose."
"But Mulciber's far worse than Crickerly. I think it's worth it," said Mary. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince Tom.
"Thane's never been interested in hurting you," Tom reminded her, "Crickerly, on the other hand… He's very interested in you."
She said nothing in response.
"Even if you hurt him once, he still thinks you're a little girl," Tom continued, "A plaything."
Tom hoped she was unnerved, not only to understand how mistaken she was to consider Thane's expulsion beneficial, but also so that she might be pushed to apotheosis once again. It was important to remember that misfortune always presented opportunities. Both Alan Fogbourne and Crickerly were saved from falling to their deaths by Mr. Bertrand, which was a pity—but Crickerly's continued mortality, although troublesome, presented an unmistakable chance for Tom to convince Mary of the power of power over the power of kindness.
"You're doing it again, Tom," Mary shook his hand off and shot him an irritated look, "You're trying to provoke me. Stop."
"I'm only telling you what you already know," Tom took her hand back; she didn't fight it, "It does no good to run away from the truth, ugly as it may be."
"I'll be fine. I won't come knocking at the Slytherin Dungeon's doors again," Mary said, "Don't worry."
"But what about me?" Tom asked in a playfully pitiful tone, "I live with Crickerly, he's not very fond of me, as you can imagine."
Surprisingly, Mary gaze him a distressed look and squeezed his hand.
"I… Tom — you're close to Professor Slughorn, you need to tell him if Crickerly does anything," she blurted, "and with what I've said before about… well, dark magic — I still find it foul… but don't hold back if you have to defend yourself."
"Of course," Tom gave her a wide grin; perhaps she was beginning to understand.
He had no intention of defending himself. In both duels and Quidditch, playing in a defensive form conceded one's inherent inferiority to the opponent. Tom would force Crickerly to defend himself, not the other way around.
The twins arrived at the entrance of the Great Hall.
"See you after classes then, Tom."
"And you, Mary."
Tom watched her her long, slightly wavy black hair bounce under the sunlight as she skipped towards the Hufflepuff table.
Standing on a barrel in the kitchen corridor right outside the Hufflepuff basement, Tom twirled his wand once every few minutes to maintain his disillusionment charm. He needed to stay invisible; Slytherins in the kitchen corridor were as welcome as Hufflepuffs at the Dungeon staircase. He was waiting for Cassian Strangehouse.
Nearly an hour had passed, but Tom was patient. It was strangely fun to lurk in so open a spot while remaining invisible to everyone who passed—Tom compared himself to a hawk perched on a tall branch, watching its ignorant prey scurry below. It was silly how much eavesdropping he managed; he learned that Mary was adored by older students, while opinions on Alan Fogbourne were mixed—some considered him a hero, while others saw him as a hotheaded, Gryffindor-like fool who cost them a once-in-a-decade opportunity at the Quidditch Cup.
At last, the unmistakable figure of Strangehouse came out of the Hufflepuff common room. Though he was tall and upright, his hair was terribly thick and messy, and his face was dotted with freckles like a round block of cheese—Tom thought he looked rather shabby for a future Auror. Tom followed him, and after they crossed into a relatively empty corridor, he regained visibility, and tapped Strangehouse on the shoulder.
"Oh, hello Tom," Strangehouse quickly turned around, "You startled me."
"Strangehouse," Tom greeted with a nod, "A word?"
"Of course," Strangehouse stopped in his tracts, sharply looking around—they were alone, "Your disillusionment charm was most impressive."
The Hufflepuff Prefect's compliment sounded sincere enough, but it didn't dispel Tom's suspicion that he had somehow recovered the memory Thane obliviated from him. He needed to be sure.
"Thank you," Tom gave a small smile, "Cassian — may I call you Cassian?"
"Most certainly, Tom," Strangehouse's tone, though outwardly friendly, was guarded. It reminded Tom of the way Professor Dumbledore talked to him; they both harboured secret misgivings about him.
"You care about my sister," Tom observed, "Very much."
"Yes, very much indeed."
"As do I," Tom continued, "Which is why there's something you need to know."
"Go on."
"Dugal Crickerly holds a grudge against Mary. She threw him against a door, after all."
"He incited —"
"Let me finish," Tom held up a hand, irritated at being interrupted, "Crickerly hasn't sought revenge against of Mary for one, and only one reason — Mulciber."
Tom scrutinised the Prefect's freckled face; there was no mistaking the scowl that appeared at the mention of Thane's surname. The two older boys only became acquainted with each other at the duel, and now Tom knew it—one way or another, Strangehouse had learned of his obliviated memory.
"You see, Mulciber was my friend, as I'm sure you know," Tom said innocently.
"Are you trying to anger me?" Strangehouse asked with a glare.
Tom paused for a moment, his smile remaining on his face. The older boy was more sensitive than he anticipated; he'd explicitly confirmed Tom's suspicion—he remembered everything Thane obliviated. All that was left for Tom to figure out now was the extent to which Mary was complicit.
"Not at all, but since you haven't gathered what I'm saying yet, I'll spell it out for you — Mary's in danger," Tom looked up at the older boy, "Mulciber isn't around to keep Crickerly on a leash anymore."
"How does that make any sense?" Strangehouse shot, "Was it not Mulciber who set Crickerly on Mary in the first place?"
Tom figured that Mary must've told Strangehouse the half-truth Tom related to her—what else was had she told the older boy?
"Yes, but it was also Mulciber to make him stop," Tom repeated, impatiently, "As a favour to me, he told Crickerly to stop. But now that he's been caught with dark artefacts, Crickerly will seek revenge on Mary."
"It sounds like you believe Mulciber's expulsion was unjust, Tom," Strangehouse observed, "Dark Magic is impermissible at Hogwarts, and for good reason."
Strangehouse intoned Dark Magic in a manner that implied he knew Tom was familiar with it. Both the boys knew that Thane's expulsion was on faulty grounds, and they both knew that the other knew, as well. Yet, Strangehouse was still trying to present his manipulation as justified; he meant to say that Tom knew what Thane was truly up to, which was the realreason he was expelled.
Which meant Strangehouse knew that Tom had been acquainted with Thane for a long time. And only one person could have told him that—Mary.
"He shouldn't have left dark artefacts lying around," Tom shrugged, "but what this means, again, is that my sister is vulnerable to Crickerly."
Strangehouse deeply exhaled and scratched his messy hair, before speaking—
"I suppose you're asking me to protect her," he gave an odd smile, "Don't worry, Tom, I won't let anyone hurt Mary. However, if you're trying to say that Thane's expulsion was a mistake because of this, you're wrong."
Tom suppressed a snort; Strangehouse had an impulse to moralise like Ben Chapman had an impulse to scratch his head. No wonder Thane despised him; strength spoke for itself; only the weak needed justification through words.
"Thank you. Yes, that was what I was asking."
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus," Tom lead, facing the full moon from a clearing in the forest.
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus," Mary repeated after him.
Both the twins spat their mandrake leaves into the empty glasses in their hands. Tom gave a long sigh in relief; after holding the leaf in his mouth for a month, he was finally free. There was nothing under his tongue, and he vowed that he would never take an empty mouth for granted again.
Mary, whose white dress glittered eerily under the bright moonlight, poured dew—dew untouched by humans or sunlight for seven days, into the two potion glasses, from a vial.
Tom pulled a strand of Mary's hair, at first gently, and then roughly, dislodging it from her scalp.
"Oww!" She exclaimed, rubbing her head, "I could've pulled my own hair!"
"You should've said so sooner," Tom said, placing the hair into Mary's potion glass.
Then, he felt a sharp pain on his own head—without asking, Mary had stolen a strand of his hair.
"You're welcome," She mocked, as she deposited the black strand into his glass.
He said nothing, watching Mary cautiously handle the final ingredients of the Animagus Potion. With a pair of tweezers, she withdrew the two Hawk-Moth Chrysalises, which looked like small, rotten sausages from their jars of green brine, into the potion glasses. The Animagus Potions were all but complete; for now, though, the glasses looked rather dull—with a leaf, a strand of hair, and the sausage-like Chrysalises shallowly dipped in pools of dew each, they looked like something to be deposited into compost.
"Fantastic," Mary said. Her pale skin glinted dimly under the full moon. The moist scent of the forest's soil was pleasurable in Tom's nostrils.
"Fantastic?" Tom repeated, holding his 'potion' close to his face, "It looks rather boring, I'd say."
"Well, I suppose it'll stay boring 'til the thunderstorm, whenever that comes," Mary pointed out.
The last step of the process to become an Animagus was to drink the potion during a thunderstorm; apparently, upon exposure to thunder, the potion would turn blood-red. But until then, it had to be stored in a dark, undisturbed place.
"It looks like we'll be waiting a while," Tom gestured at the cloudless night sky. He took Mary's potion and put it in his shoulder-bag, along with his own.
Mary went towards their broomsticks, the wind brushing the white velvet of her dress against her skin like a soft curtain against a shapely marble statue. Tom couldn't help himself—he drew his wand and murmured Carpe Retractum under his breath; as though she was a giant flying seahorse, Mary was violently pulled towards him; she collided into him, and both of them were knocked to the floor.
"Hey! What was that for?" She giggled as she tried to stand, but lying down, Tom pulled his wand again, and she fell on top of him.
"Let's stay for a while," He insisted, "We haven't had any time to ourselves in months, not truly."
He wrapped his arms around his sister, tightly squeezing her, slowly breathing out as she relaxed against him. Through her dress, she was soft and warm, like a bundle of silk towels under the spring evening. Though Tom stayed still, every inch of his flesh seemed to tremble from within, as though his body was a vessel swaying back and forth in the sea. Mary's head rested against his neck, and the flowery scent of her dark, slightly curly hair was intoxicating.
"It's nearly midnight, Tom," She yawned, "Alice and Caoimhe are probably worried sick for me."
"I don't care," Tom said, watching the fullness of the overhead moon—it was probably past midnight, "Stay."
"Maybe," Her tone was playful, "So long as you don't go through that 'what are you hiding from me' nonsense."
Tom said nothing, but disappointment rose in his chest. After all, Cassian Strangehouse had, unknowingly, told Tom that Mary confided their secrets in him. He didn't know the extent of what Mary was hiding from him, but he knew that she was hiding something.
"I like this, Tom," Mary's breathes tickled his neck, "I like it when you do magic that's not… depraved."
There's no such thing as depraved magic, Tom wanted to say, but he knew that Mary took it very poorly whenever he argued in favour of Dark Magic. She would become unfriendly and upset, even childish, Tom thought, but there was little he could do about it, at least not with mere words.
He continued clutching her, like how she hugged her pillow in Salisbury while imagining it to be him. He noticed that she felt smaller and lighter than she was during the Christmas break; had Tom really grown that much, since then?
"Both of us ought to be birds," Tom said, running a hand up and down Mary's soft but tight, small but expansive back, "We'd be able to go anywhere."
"I don't think I'd like being a bird very much. I'm already used to broomstick flying, wings would be odd," Mary mused.
"I imagine you'd have to flap your arms very quickly," Tom said.
"Like I said, Tom — odd," Mary gave a gentle laugh.
As he imagined soaring like an eagle or a falcon, Tom laid silently, running his hands all over his sister, which she found calming, to the benefit of both of them. Yet, in spite of the soothing weight of Mary on his body, and the pleasant scent of the forest in his nostrils, Tom felt restless and uneasy. After all, Mary was supposed to be his; he was devoted to her, and she ought to be equally devoted to him. Yet, she still refused to tell him the truth; what made him unworthy of it?
"You know, they're one of the only universal magical creatures," Millicent blabbed on, unaware of Tom's growing disinterest, "In every corner of the Earth — on every little island, you'll find them!"
Tom idly twirled his wand, regretting his agreement to Millicent's proposal — "You're the smartest Slytherin, I'm the smartest Ravenclaw — let's study together!" He had offhandedly asked a question about thestrals; whether or not dead thestrals were the same as live ones, in only being visible to those who had seen death. Millicent had explained that dead thestrals were visible to all—apparently, their magical essence would fade with the loss of their life—and Tom appreciated her information, but then, she decided that she would show off to Tom, by lecturing him with everything she knew not only about thestrals, but Magizoology itself.
"See, usually only incorporeal magical creatures are universal; dementors, dust-mites, ghouls — all the ones that grow as a result of magic, rather than by reproduction, like all other animals, including us humans."
With a twist of his wand, Tom pulled waves of dust from the nearby bookshelves, clustering them together into a little ball above Millicent's head. His duelling partner was utterly oblivious to it.
"I suppose it helps that they're good fliers. They're not just fast, but they have good stamina, you know," Millicent spoke adoringly; one would've thought that she had a pet thestral, in the way some had pet dogs, "Dragons can fly from London to Glasgow within an hour, but they need to rest for several hours for every hour of their flight."
With a subtle twist of his wand, Tom transfigured the ball of dust over the Ravenclaw girl's head into mud. Slowly, he lowered it.
"But thestrals can fly for hours and hours without stopping, without food or water — they hardly sleep, did you know?"
"Have you ever even see a thestral, Milly?" Tom asked, as he lowered his wand under the desk—the ball of mud was all but on the bun that tied her brown hair.
"No! Have you, Tom? I mean, people are usually scared of thestrals, or they find them boring because they're not pretty, or something. But you asked about them…" She lowered her tone, "Did you see a thestral, Tom?"
"I have," he confessed.
"Oh... Tom," Millicent's brown eyes widened, and she stammered, "But… but that means — that means you've seen someone die…"
Although he couldn't remember it, Tom knew his mother died shortly after he was born. It was the one heirloom she left him; the ability to see thestrals.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said quietly.
"Of course… I won't press; I'm sorry."
Then it happened—under the table, Tom tugged his wand down, and with a splat, Millicent's head was covered in mud; it even went so far down as to besmirch the Ravenclaw-blue trim of her robes. With a shocked expression, she raised a trembling hand to touch her face.
And then, she started crying—noisily and annoyingly. Tom blinked in irritated confusion; during Merrythought's classes, he'd hurt the Ravenclaw girl in all sorts of manners, from covering her in conjured spiders to strangling her by the extended sleeves of her own robe. Why would she fuss over some mud?
"Calm down," he said with an edge to his tone. It wouldn't do for others to hear her.
His warning went to waste. Insolently, Millicent stood up and ran away, crying even more loudly, not even bothering to clean the mud off her face. Tom stood up and vanished the mud for her, before following her out of the library.
When he finally caught up to the Ravenclaw girl, he found her leaning into a wall, her face hidden by her palms. Tom tapped her shoulder, and as soon as she turned, he reached out to clasp one of her hands with both of his. He stroked her hand, which was stubbier and far less smooth than Mary's—Millicent's skin felt dry and old, like leather. Nonetheless, Tom gave her a smile.
"Tom?" She whimpered, "W-Why? Why did you do that? Why m-mud?"
"I was bored," he drawled, "I didn't mean anything by it."
Millicent's brown eyes were a little puffy from her tears, but she stared intensely at her right hand, which was being affectionately massaged by Tom. His suspicions were confirmed; his duelling partner did fancy him, just as Oscar and Ruben fancied Melanie, and how half of the boys in their year fancied Mary.
"Do you want to know a secret, Milly?"
The Ravenclaw girl, who had been crying no more than a minute ago, rapidly nodded her head, with a foolish smile on her face.
"I won't tell anyone, Tom, I promise," she blurted, "I can keep secrets — you know that."
Tom wanted to scowl, but he kept his smile—the scar on his right thigh was a secret that should've known only to himself.
"It's a secret about the thestral I saw," Tom paused, watching excitement bloom on Millicent's face, "I found it in the Forest."
"The Forest? As in… The Forbidden Forest?" Millicent asked incredulously.
"Silly name for it — how can it be forbidden, if it's full of life?" Tom repeated Thane's words—uncomfortable as he was to admit it, Tom missed the older boy. He was an equal, a friend; perhaps Tom's only friend, besides Mary.
"Well, uh… what were you doing in the, erm, forest?" Millicent fumbled.
"That's a secret I can't tell you," Tom smirked.
"Oh…" Millicent murmured, dumbly, before her voice lit up again, "Tom, your hands…"
His hands were still stroking one of her's—her skin was coarse, and her fingers were short, which made Tom suspect that she would be rather clumsy at playing the piano.
"My hands. What about them, Milly?" Tom asked in a soft, almost mocking tone.
Millicent didn't catch the mocking edge in his tone, as she continued in a dreamy voice—
"Do you like me, Tom?" She put her other hand above Tom's right, making their four hands into a stack, "Even though you always beat me so terribly in our duels — even though you're really, really unreasonable, and mean, and terrible and awful and foul sometimes, Tom… I… I like you, very much so, I think."
For a moment, as he looked into Millicent's brown eyes, she reminded him of Mary. He quickly dismissed the bizarre association—Millicent's voice was bossy and she spoke too fast, she wasn't playful and elegant at all; she wavered between wanting to impress Tom, and to attract him, while Mary only wanted to be with him and have fun, for she had nothing to prove—and finally, how could Millicent, who looked like a little old lady, compare to Mary, who looked like a Princess?
"I like you, Milly," Tom held the girl's gaze, but he shook off her hands, "I like you very much, as well."
"Do you like other girls as well?" She asked eagerly, "Or just me?"
"Hmm," he playfully wagged a finger at her, "Don't be greedy."
Thane was the one who taught Tom the power of being liked, rather than merely being feared. After all, Tom saved Thane from Strangehouse because he liked the older Slytherin; if he merely feared him, he would've been glad to let Strangehouse win the duel. Ruben, who liked Tom a great deal, proved much more useful than Oscar and Dharmesh, who mostly feared Tom.
Most of all, Tom knew that boys and girls could fancy each other, and when a girl or a boy fancied someone, they would do anything for their beloved. Perhaps, Millicent Bagnold would prove very useful indeed.
"The thestral I saw was sick," Tom said, "In fact, I think it was dying."
"That's awful, Tom… What happened to it?"
"I'm not entirely sure, but I know it's not beyond saving," he said in a determined voice. "I'd need your help, though, Milly."
"But I've never seen someone die, I wouldn't be able to see the creature."
"I don't need you to see the creature, Milly," he gave her a sympathetic look, prompting her to expect bad news.
"What is it you need me to do, Tom?"
"Perhaps I shouldn't have told you," Tom affected a tone of regret, "It's a rather complex piece of magic…"
"You're the smartest Slytherin in our year; I'm the smartest Ravenclaw," Millicent repeated, "If we put our minds together, I'm sure we'll be able to heal the thestral."
"It's not that, Milly," Tom gave her a sad look, as he stroked her thin, horse-like face, "I'll need your blood. I'm afraid mine won't be enough, not for a vessel of this size."
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus," Mary began.
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus," Tom followed.
From their clearing, the twins bore the full brunt of the tempestuous thunderstorm of the cloudy night. Tom's robes were dripping wet in and out; Mary's yellow collared dress stuck to her skin like a damp tissue. Both of them shivered from the cold, as thunder incessantly raged around them like a giant furiously banging a drum. Although it was late into the night, the constant lightning made the scene as nearly as clear as the day.
"Ready?!" Mary, whose dripping wet hair sweetly stuck to her head, shouted through the storm's clamour.
Tom thought of everything; he had drawn a protective ward around the clearing so no animals would interfere; both his shoulder bag and Mary's purse were buried a yard beneath the soil, so they wouldn't be destroyed in case their Animagi forms became aggressive, and in Tom's bag, there lay two sets of spare clothes, three quarts of bottled water, and a small bag of salt.
"Ready!" Tom shouted over the storm.
In synchrony, Tom and Mary took their potions out of their pockets, and held them in front of their faces. The leaf, the strand of hair, and the sausage-like chrysalis in his glass suddenly vaporised; the vapor turned into red steam, before coalescing into a misty, blood-red liquid. Tom waited for it to fully settle—Self-Realisation: Becoming Animagi said that it would look indistinguishable from bottled blood once complete. They had succeeded.
"Cheers?!" Mary raised her potion in toast at Tom.
"Cheers!" The two potion classes touched soundlessly; the clink was drowned out by the storm.
Uncorking the glass at an angle so no raindrops would dilute it, Tom downed his Animagus potion in one gulp. It tasted like expired milk mixed with soil, and Tom had to fight himself from puking it back out. His stomach rumbled furiously, like there was something large and angry trying to escape from it—he could hear the rumbling from within his body, and it was impossibly louder than the storm.
"Aaaarrrghhhhh!" Tom fell onto the floor, mud splattering onto his robes as he clutched his stomach in pain.
Then, everything went black, and he couldn't hear, nor feel, nor smell anything. He was supposed to see the animal he would become at this phase, but there was nothing. Tom panicked—did he misbrew the potion? He knew the fate of those who botched their Animagus potions... wizards stuck with three legs, witches going blind…
At last, he saw it.
It was a large, vividly snow-white snake, with a scaly underbelly, and splotches of purple in interlocking circles across its body. He'd seen it before, when he was eight years old, in the cavern under the cliff at the beach Wool's made annual excursions to. Five yards long, the strikingly bright snake had been protecting its eggs, eggs which illumined the otherwise dark, damp place with an eerie purple incandescence. It had a thin head, with two large, yellow eyes, and thin, black lines for pupils. Tom had wanted to be a bird, so he could fly—but being a serpent, especially such a beautiful and frightening one, was worthy of a descendant of the great Salazar Slytherin.
He succeeded. Like Slytherin, he had endeavoured to perform difficult, dangerous magic, and he succeeded.
However, as though on cue, pain flooded his body right as pride leapt in his chest. His heartbeat had so suddenly become so fast that he was certain his chest would explode. For a moment, it felt as though his skin was melting, and he wanted to scream but his lips wouldn't open—but then, the pain suddenly ceased, just like that. Tom opened his eyes—his eyelids felt different, flexible but inhuman, like rubber, but all he saw was red.
Though the pain was gone, his heartbeat was still impossibly fast, but oddly enough, the prospect of it didn't disturb him. His stomach became long—absurdly long, until it consumed his arms, his legs, and even his neck, and it was sensitive; he could feel the moisture of the soil beneath him in an uncanny way, as if he was pressing his tongue against it.
Where his stomach encompassed the entirety of his front, his back encompassed the entirety of his behind, from his heels to his scalp. He could feel each individual raindrop pattering against him; the cold was sharply uncomfortable—but rather than an impulse to shiver, he felt an impulse to seek shelter.
He could smell everything; there was no longer a scent of the 'forest', but rather, the scent of the rain, the aroma of a hundred different kinds of bark, of algae in distant tree-trunks, of the different layers of soil… and of something warm, and feathery.
Opening his eyes again, he saw the warm and feathery thing, which was a yard from him—a tiny bird with a green back and a white chest, it looked like a little ball of wool. He could see it at once very well and very poorly; he saw everything much more brightly—snakes clearly had no need for sunlight nor moonlight—but colours appeared less intense; everything was more gray, and less detailed.
The tiny bird, lying on its side, rapidly flittered its little beak—it was chirping.
"Mary?" Tom hissed in realisation, "Can you sssee me… can you hear me?"
His sister chirped rapidly in response, and pride blossomed in Tom's chest once again—they'd both succeeded! However, Mary still couldn't stand on her feet. She was like an infant rolling restlessly in its crib, as she, a tiny ball of green and white, rolled back and forth before Tom to no avail, like a big fuzzy green marble going in small circles.
A strange, awful urge gripped him—he could see Mary glowing, and he instinctively knew that her glow meant she was warm—food was warm. He realised he was hungry, and, disgustingly, he realised he wanted to eat her. No matter how hardly his human conscience objected, his snake's body followed its own directives. Fortunately for both of the twins, Tom had no idea how to move closer to his sister.
"The book ssssaid movement would be hard to learn," Tom pointed out, "We're babiesss, trying to walk again."
Tom tried to move himself—to go forward, to stand up, to do anything—but he had no arms or legs, only a back, a stomach, and a head. It was like being confined to a bed, being only able to roll this way or that way.
"Ten minutess," He reminded her; Self-Realisation: Becoming Animagi suggested that an Animagus' first transformation should exceed no longer than ten minutes.
She chirped in response.
Although snakes couldn't hear nor see very well, Tom knew that the storm was growing weaker—the dampness in the air and the moisture condensed in his skin had lessened in intensity, meaning that the raindrops had become less frequent. Plus, he could no longer hear thunder.
For the next few minutes, the twins, one a large, purple-splotched white snake and the other a small green hairball of a bird, writhed and twisted about on the muddy floor, as they attempted to adapt to their animal forms. It wasn't entirely pointless; Mary was able to walk for a yard, which was at least a dozen steps on her little feet, before she fell over, and Tom found that he could sluggishly move in a general direction by lurching his head forward, while trying to throw his back into the air.
Transforming back into a human was comfortable, although a little smothering; smells became simple again, and although Tom was naked, his skin became an extra layer of flesh that he didn't need, nor want—he could barely feel the raindrops on them. However, he could see the stars more clearly, and moving as a human was easy and intuitive.
Only as a human again did Tom notice how small Mary was—with green feathers and a white chest, Tom would be able to hold the entirety of her in his palm. She transformed back like a balloon made of inflating skin.
Then, she was standing before him, completely nude, a beautiful half-silhouette under the rain and the clouded moonlight. Tom's curiosity got the better of him, and instead of turning away, he stepped closer to his sister, his eyes running up and down her flesh. She had the body of a girl just as much as she had the body of a child. Raindrops streaked down the smooth, pure contours of her pale flesh. Perhaps he was imagining it, but as he inhaled, Tom whiffed the scent of her body—something between sweat and the scent of fruity gels that girls used when showering, her fragrance made his stomach and thighs tingle all over.
"We did it, Tom — hey! Look away!" Mary folded her arms over her small breasts, before petulantly continuing, "I'm cold."
Forcing some rather strange thoughts out of his head, Tom found his robes and Mary's yellow dress on the ground. They were utterly soaked, like sponges after a shower.
He picked up his wand, pointing it at the sky—
"Protego Elementis."
A shimmering sphere of blue light appeared over them, and the rain fell onto it as if it were a giant umbrella.
Then, pointing his wand at the ground and tugging it upward as if it were a fishing rod, Tom tore a large pile of soil out of the floor, under which he had buried his shoulder-bag and Mary's purse. It had been an unnecessary measure to hide them to begin with; after all, what possible harm could a snake that couldn't slither and a bird that couldn't walk, let alone fly, have done to them?
"I think I was a robin or a jay. Some sort of garden bird, I felt very small," Mary noted, her large, black eyes glinting up at Tom.
"You were very small," Tom agreed, as he pulled his spare robes out of his shoulder bag, and a white shirtdress with blue flowers for Mary, "Did you hear my parseltongue?"
"Oh, yes," Mary nodded enthusiastically, "You sounded more like a snake than yourself — I mean, compared to when you spoke parseltongue before."
He watched Mary button up her shirtdress before he clothed himself.
Tom held his wand up as they walked towards their broomsticks, keeping their gigantic, spherical umbrella of blue light overhead. Mary flew on Alan Fogbourne's Starsweeper—after what the Hufflepuff boy did to Dugal Crickerly, Mr. Bertrand suspended him from flying altogether until the beginning of the next Quidditch season. Thus, he lent his prize broomstick to Mary. She had offered it to Tom, but he refused, for he preferred to see her fly on it.
The storm of an hour ago had diminished into a gentle shower; as the twins slowly glided high above the canopy, Tom needed only to whisper for his sister to hear.
"I know you've been hiding something for me," Tom repeated the accusation, perhaps for the tenth time that month, "And I know it has something to do with Strangehouse."
Mary was a yard in front of him; her white shirtdress lightly blew as she smoothly coasted on the Starsweeper. Tom hoped that one day, both of them would be as fluid in their Animagus forms as Mary was on a broom.
"Yes, I have, but I… I had no other choice—"
"You could've told me," Tom pointed out.
"It's not that simple!" She exclaimed, before her tone mellowed again, "I couldn't have told you… Cassian is kind, he means well for you…"
"What do you mean, 'he means well' for me?" Tom pivoted his broom downward, as they were getting close to the castle. "What does he even know about me?"
Mary didn't say anything; she merely continued to fly onward. The rain was getting heavier again, so they sped up.
"Mary?" Tom asked.
As his sister still failed to respond, Tom leaned forward on his broom, thrusting to fly by her side. He inspected her pretty face; she was brooding over something, unhappily. Then, she turned to face him with an imploring expression.
"Please don't be angry," She whispered.
"What have you done, Mary?"
She turned her head down, giving a long sigh, before raising it again to gaze at her brother.
"Cassian knows everything, Tom," her voice was full of shame, "I showed him, through my mind."
A/N: For the purpose of visualisation, I'm going to disclose that Mary's Animagus form is a Wood Warbler. Reviews would be greatly appreciated!