Abraxas Malfoy was to be held in the Hospital Wing for three nights following the Start-of-Term feast. Upon Tom's inquiry on the first night, Madam Milosz explained that Malfoy need to be retained over the weekend for her to enact 'preliminary measures' relating to his sickness, whereupon Tom made the advantageous decision to routinely visit him. He would ensure that Malfoy would think of him as a dependable, powerful older brother. Thus, Tom spent several hours on every one of Malfoy's bedfast days by his side, conversing with him as though nothing were amiss. Some of his visits were accompanied by Antoine Rosier or Alexius Lestrange, both of whom were Malfoy's friends from before Hogwarts.

Sickness, Tom decided, is worse for Magicals than it is for muggles. From his experience with Mary last Christmas, Tom understood that illness subverted not only one's mind and body, but also one's magic—his sister had scarcely performed magic during her week of ague—it was worse than being unable to walk. For muggles, sickness merely rendered what was already there—weakness, frailty—for all muggle endeavours were but distractions from what they knew as the 'Human Condition', an inherent sickness—having a sophisticated mind trapped within an animal's body. What good was being a baboon who knew physics? As such, the best consolation a Magical stripped of magic could receive is the company of a fellow Magical, whose presence would reassure them of their distinguished place in the world's hierarchy of beings. Over summer, Tom would have gone insane, if it weren't for his books, his vestiges of supremacy.

He had almost begun to despise Malfoy. The younger boy reminded him of a tormented, captive animal—sometimes, merely beholding him filled Tom with apotheotic anger. But Tom's face had always been wax; even if his mind was racing and racked by a thousand problems, he would be able to shape his face however he pleased, and to Abraxas Malfoy, he gave nothing but tender smiles and the impression of sympathetic interest.

Tom's curiosity at the nature of Malfoy's illness went unaddressed by Lestrange and Rosier; it was clear that they considered Malfoy's vulnerability a secret to be guarded, perhaps even something to be shrouded in mystery. Nonetheless, Tom was well aware of how entwined British purebloods were; like a nest, each twig was hooked or twisted around a dozen others—surely, there would be another student who possessed the knowledge Tom was seeking. It didn't take long for him to find such a student—on Saturday, Lysandra Yaxley, a fellow second-year Slytherin and a gossipmonger by reputation, happily rendered the tale of the Malfoy family to him. She had a round face painted with too much make-up for a second-year, and long, jarringly straight blonde hair.

"There's never more than one male Malfoy a generation," Lysandra began in her quiet, conspiratorial voice, "Although, it's not unusual for good purebloods to choose to only have one son — it keeps the money and heirlooms in the family."

"Abraxas has an older sister," Tom noted, as he recalled Mary's memories of Mirabel Abbott's Witch Weekly cutouts, a number of which featured Lucretia Malfoy, an absurdly thin witch whose smooth blonde hair cascaded down to her waist, and whose expression of contemptuous boredom seemed as fixed on her face as the contours of her sharp cheekbones, as though she were a statue.

"Not quite," replied Lysandra, smiling, "You see, Longinus Malfoy, daddy Malfoy that is, was wed first to Alyanna Bletchley, a Slytherin-year mate of his. They were engaged for a long time — I heard that they had their first kiss as third-years, and got married as soon as they finished their NEWTs… my, it's very romantic, isn't it?"

"Anyway," Lysandra continued, "Lucretia was their firstborn, in 1904 — and seeing that she was a girl, Longinus made haste to impregnate Alyanna again, and so came Perseus Malfoy, in 1906. Oh, and by the way Tom, the Malfoys used to host Yule Balls all the time — and guess what the theme of the 1906 one was? Yes, a baby shower — hundreds of Ministry big hats, including Minister Spavin himself, cast patronuses to run circles around Perseus' golden pram."

Tom couldn't help but feel jealous—but his envy abated at the foreboding tone in Lysandra's voice; Perseus Malfoy was due for grief, he already knew it.

"Anyway, eleven years later. Perseus was a hatstall in his Sorting, but in the end, like any good Malfoy, he went into Slytherin. He was smart, not quite as smart as you, Tom, more like Dharmesh-smart — and he was also popular, and handsome, so of course he became Head Boy. You'd think that his life had only begun, right? His dad was, and still is one of the most powerful men in Britain — and like I said, Perseus is charming, bright, and rich — you'd think that he's in for an enchanted life, yes?"

"He's about to die, isn't he?" Tom returned Lysandra's question with one of his own.

"Yes," Lysandra replied in a slightly exasperated voice, "Yes, I think I made it rather obvious. You know how they say, 'every tragedy is a comedy before the eyes of God' — a Muggle saying, isn't it?"

"I don't know that saying," Tom said forcefully.

"Anyway, in 1926, charming bright and rich Perseus Malfoy was celebrating his twentieth birthday — he got drunk, and got into a duel, yes, a drunken duel like a Knockturn Alley wretch — and he dies. Yes, just like that, our former Head Boy's story ends. It was somewhere in Germany, and within a month, two things happened. Perseus' funeral and Longinus' divorce. You see, by then, 1926 that is, Alyanna Malfoy née Bletchley had grown quite old. She could no longer bear children, and Longinus didn't want to be the last of the Malfoys, so he did what he had to do — he cast Alyanna aside, for a younger and, more importantly, still fertile bride."

Lysandra paused, her spirited blue eyes bearing into Tom's gaze, as though to catch his shock. There was none; to Tom, the elder Malfoy had done nothing wrong—wealthy muggles divorced their old wives and married upstart tarts all the time.

"Anyway, Longinus, the old wanker, married a girl who was younger than his daughter Lucretia — her name was Isuphiane de La Trémoille; excuse my French, I had lessons when I was small, but I've forgotten much of it — and Isuphiane, well, she only graduated Beauxbatons a year past! Anyway, of course she was pregnant right away — and in 1927, you have Abraxas, the new Malfoy heir."

"For all anyone knew, Alyanna Bletchley just disappeared — some pureblood women, Tom, are stuck in the sixteenth century — there's nothing more shameful for them than their husbands leaving them, so they lock themselves up, they disappear."

Well, Tom privately thought, perhaps it's not such a bad thing that Mary's not a pureblood.

"Anyway, Longinus wanted to pretend that nothing had changed, never mind that his new wife was nineteen, where Alyanna was what — in her sixties, by then? He continued hosting balls, dinner parties, all of those lovely things. It was in 1932, when Abraxas was five, on the exact day of his fifth birthday, actually — yes, birthdays never seem to go right for the Malfoys — that it happened."

Lysandra paused, giving Tom a sad smile before she asked a telling question, "Do you know what dementors are, Tom?"

"I've read about them," Tom answered truthfully.

"It's said that some Dark Lords of old discovered ways to talk to them," Lysandra whispered, as though she risked getting overheard, "Through ancient, evil magic — the sort that goes forgotten with time, that men like Grindelwald would seek."

With her latest pronunciation, Tom noticed that he was leaning into Lysandra as though he was preparing to kiss her. He instantly recoiled in his seat, and then considered asking her whether she knew anything about the ancient, evil magic that enabled one to communicate with dementors—before he realised such a question would be utterly absurd to pose to a second-year girl.

"So when Alyanna, once Alyanna Malfoy, and now Alyanna Bletchley once more, arrived at little Abraxas' birthday party with a horde of dementors at her back — well, what can I say? It was a miracle that Abraxas — a five year old — survived at all. The DMLE never released the report they had on the attack, so even to this day, no one knows what truly happened — but we know that both the Malfoy wives, Alyanna and Isuphiane, were found dead, and that no one was ever charged with anything."

"How did Alyanna die, if she had an army of dementors?" asked Tom.

"That's just one of the many unanswered questions in this whole mystery," Lysandra said with a delicate smirk, "Some say that Longinus killed her, although he said that he was at Gringotts when the attack happened — something that the Goblins confirm, too, while others say that her dementors turned on her at the last moment, for whatever reason. There are also those who believe it was young Isuphiane who killed Alyanna, perhaps in a crazy burst of accidental magic from seeing her son threatened, before falling to the dementors herself."

"And what of Abraxas?" Tom pressed, "How did he survive the dementors?"

"I'm not sure — like I said, the DMLE never released their report. But there are some ideas; that he was apparated away by his father's elves; that Alyanna felt mercy for him, a small, cute little boy back then, mind you, but then again maybe Alyanna sacrificed her own life to curse him — yes, those sorts of curses exist; or maybe he's ill because he survived a dementor's kiss, somehow. I don't know, Tom."

"You mean the cause of his illness is unknown?" Tom asked with an edge to his tone. The idea that healing—a magical discipline—suffered from the same defects of muggle medicine, was a bitter pill to swallow.

"People call it a curse, but no one knows what it actually is. Healers call it an 'idiopathic disease'," Lysandra said with a shrug, "Maybe Abraxas is just shaken from seeing his mother die, maybe a dementor did kiss him halfway, somehow, maybe Alyanna did curse him with powerful Dark Magic — no one knows, Tom."

Tom wondered what it would be like, to bear the memory of seeing your own mother die. He knew that he had seen his mother die, but that was when he was just born—Abraxas was five when his mother died. Tom couldn't remember being a baby, but he could remember being a five-year-old quite clearly. Still, he thought he wouldn't care.

"Anyway, after that, it was like Longinus retired from being a Malfoy," Lysandra continued, "He stopped hosting balls and dinner parties. Although I can't be for sure, I think that he sent for the world's best healers — and even after that, well, as we've seen, his son is still sickly."

And so, Abraxas Malfoy was released on Monday morning, just in time for his classes.

On Tuesday, the rumours began. Supposedly, the seventh-year Hufflepuff boy, Quidditch Captain and mudblood William Holmes smuggled a radio into his dormitory, from which news of two events spread like wildfire—firstly, that muggle Britain had declared war on Germany, and secondly, that a Scottish ship with over a thousand civilian passengers—the SS Athenia—was sunk by an unknown vessel of the German navy, an act of war. During their charms class, Oscar asked Professor Rotaru whether or not the rumours were true; and as the Italian Professor's answer was as vague as the description of a cloud, Oscar later asked Professor Dumbledore, whose answer was square—yes, the muggles of Britain, who outnumbered her Magicals a million-to-one, were at war with the muggles of Germany, who similarly outnumbered the German Magicals a million-to-one.

Wars, among rainstorms, droughts, and the appetites of predators for their prey, are a fact of nature. Yet, Tom couldn't help but wish that he had been born a few years earlier; even though his powers grew every day, he was only twelve, and Mary would need protection if the war ever came to Britain.

By dinner, every Hogwarts student knew and acknowledged the news of the war as true, even if they were only to receive official confirmation of it next Sunday through the weekly Daily Prophet.

"Some of the passengers were from North America," noted Amos Nott, a bespectacled third-year whose insights Tom sometimes appreciated, "It's hard to say if the muggle United States will join the war just because of it, but who knows?"

"I hope they do," Sabien Wilkes added smugly, "Grindelwald would sink their fleet in one go."

"It'd be like kicking over an anthill," Avery added.

"And if he does, muggles throughout the world will believe in magic once more —" Nott wrinkled his nose, "— and they'd build great works of metal to combat us."

Alexius Lestrange, obstinate and surly pureblood that he was, dismissed Nott's proposition—"That's a nice fantasy, Amos. D'you touch yourself at night, thinking about it?"

"Yes, it's just a fantasy," Nott gave Lestrange a condescending smile, "Nothing to worry about at all."

On Wednesday, potions with Hufflepuff. Ruben was quickly told to find another partner, as Tom would be working with Mary for the rest of the year.

"The Sleeping Draught," said Slughorn, who dreamily smiled as he held a small, beautiful glass—beautiful both in its design, and in the richly sparkling purple liquid it contained, "Is one of those easy-to-brew, hard-to-Perfect draughts — oh yes, the sort you'll have in your practical exams, indeed — ah, Oscar — it was 1935, I believe, when George procured a magnificent Sleeping Draught for his OWL practical… Oh, yes, I slept like a baby, and after a night of some most relaxing dreams, I woke up so well-rested that I wanted to mount a broom! I hadn't flown in years, at the time…"

Oscar, who Tom knew was deeply envious of his older brother, gave their Professor and Head of House an uncomfortable smile.

"While a poorly-brewed Sleeping Draught would knock you out in one blow — well, I suppose that some people want that effect — I hope none of you are so inclined — a Draught concocted by a subtle, skilled hand would gently guide you to sleep, like the sound of the rain with the touch of the wind. Yes, a well-made Draught is more like a warm cup of tea than a potion."

At first, Tom wanted Mary to relax and let him do all the work; he wanted to impress her, to preclude the fumes of the cauldron from making her long hair sticky, but he quickly changed his mind as he observed her labour. Her fingers were long, delicate, and serene, as though they were made of magically flexible porcelain—and flexible they were.

When grinding the sprigs of lavender in their mortar, she knew how to turn her wrists as to ensure that the pestle would evenly granulate them; if the lavender-grains were uneven in size, some of them would dissolve into uselessness, whereas others would still retain their hardness by the time the flobberworm mucus was due, and thus render them useless for the first wand-wave. Mary could read between the lines of their potions book, an ability few of their classmates had; and though Ruben possessed it too, he had trouble executing in practice that which he understood in theory—his fingers were shy and nervous around the cauldron; he needed Tom's direction—while Mary's chopped and stirred and danced as though their brewing station was the stage of a theatre.

Their final product was rich, purple and faintly glowing on the surface, like thickened wine cast under the light of a candle.

It was remarkable that everyone succeeded in brewing something approximate to the Sleeping Draught; on every table was a glass that contained a purplish liquid, even the one shared by Ruben and his Hufflepuff partner, Wallace Davies—usually, Slughorn's practicals entailed explosions and visits to the Hospital Wing.

"Tom, m'boy!" Slughorn looked admiringly at their cauldron, "Well, what can I even say now, eh? You've done it again — how do Muggles put it? Oh, yes — I trust that one drop of this will make you sleep like a log."

"Thank you, sir," Tom began with a strained smile, "Though I have to say, Mary did most of the work."

"Ah, of course, how could I forget? Well done, Mary, my dear — thirty points each to Hufflepuff and Slytherin! I expect great things from the two of you this year… the way you're progressing, why, you may become the next Bristlecones!"

"Bristlecones, sir?"

"Oh, you don't know, m'boy! Eugene and Ovys Bristlecone — they weren't quite twins, Ovys was older than her brother — but they did invent the Elixir to Induce Euphoria, some three centuries ago…"

A pair of potioneers who devised what amounted to a magical painkiller, albeit a powerful one. It wasn't the strongest praise, but Tom accepted it with a gracious smile.

As they left the classroom, Tom greedily took Mary's warm, sweaty hand and pulled her away from her brood of Hufflepuff girls, but not without the tallest of them, Alice Turpin, shooting Tom a suspicious look. Once they were out of earshot from all their peers, it was Mary who initiated their first full conversation since parting ways on Hogsmeade Station three months ago. She began with an accusation.

"Why didn't you return my letters?"

There was neither force nor indignation behind her voice, only weariness.

"How was I to know you wouldn't pass them to Cassian?" Tom rebutted, though he knew it was unlikely Mary would believe his excuse—he didn't even believe it himself.

"You worried me, you know," Mary continued, as though she didn't hear his question, "I'd begun to suspect that my letters — or yours, or both of ours — were being sabotaged. But of course, it was just your anger at me all along, Tom."

The blunt force of Mary's charge hit Tom like a fist to his shoulder. He was acquainted with her excuses, her apologies, her eruptions of girlish irritation—but for her to pass judgment in such a cold and distant manner was unanticipated, indeed. Yet, despite his position in the context, Tom didn't feel defensive; instead, he was intrigued.

"What happened in Surrey, Mary?" He began gently, "Yes, I read all your letters — you were there for three days, but you said nothing of them."

"A lot. I'll tell you everything on the weekends, is that alright?"

With her large, lovely black eyes upwardly directed at him in a half-pleading, half-teasing fashion, there was nothing Tom could say but, "Yes, of course."

"How was Wool's, anyway?" Mary intoned Wool's in such a frank, forward way that any eavesdropper would have failed to infer it as an orphanage.

"I spent every day in my room, curtains closed, reading about Dark Magic and slowly tearing mosquitoes apart with my fingers. I also killed a small girl's stray kitten after having a nightmare."

"Uneventful, quiet. What can I say?" Tom said.

He wondered if he ought to tell Mary the truth he learned of magical history; that once, Magic had been great despite being simple, in the vein of lightning strikes and floods; that Wizardkind, like humanity, had fallen from Eden in a way—but unlike humanity—Wizardkind had a way to avenge their Original sin—Magic.

"Really, Tom?" Mary asked with a precious smile, "Uneventful and quiet doesn't sound like you."

On Thursday, Defense with Gryffindor. Tom had to find a new partner. His first choice was Justin Hurst; a short, portly blonde boy who Tom regarded as a shorter, dumber version of Ruben Macnair. Mary had humiliated Hurst terribly last year, and Tom wanted to continue her noble work, but of course, his proposal was met with ardent rejection.

Melanie Fronsac, perhaps? Tom had promised he would give her to Ruben, who was desirous of her like a starved wolf for a plump sheep—but of course, she paired up with Oscar, who was now openly her boyfriend.

In the end, the Gryffindor unfortunate enough to think they would be a worthy opponent of Tom was Tiberius McLaggen. McLaggen, who exactly a year ago, had organised but ultimately failed in getting his Gryffindor boys to disarm and beat down Tom's year-mates before their first History of Magic class. McLaggen, who Tom had seen look at Mary in an unmistakably covetous manner on more than one occasion. McLaggen, who dressed in expensive robes on the weekends and swaggered about as though the world belonged to him. Wrong. The world belonged to Tom.

Tom used the same three spells over and over to humiliate his unworthy opponent. Expelliarmus. Wingardium Leviosa. Aguamenti.

At night, Tom visited the Forbidden Forest for the first time in four months.

Immediately, he was presented with an obstacle—the broom shed's ward-lock had been changed. Tom had to return to his dormitory to find someone from whom to borrow a broom. It didn't take him long—Abraxas Malfoy was happy to lend his broom, a slender, elegant honey-coloured model named the Oakshaft Century II.

The thestral's corpse was still where it was before summer. Although it remained where it was supposed to be, everything else about it had changed. When it was alive, it was black; just a few days after its death, it began to go grey—like the way black suits go grey from wear—but now, it was turning white, like the night turning into the morning. It was eerie, but fascinating—Tom was sure there was insight to be derived for magic universally considered in it; while alive and black, the thestral was only visible to those who had beheld human death—but dead and white, it became visible to everyone—why?

But Tom didn't dwell on his thoughts for long, for he had work to do. The Inferius ritual necessitated the opening of what was named the Katabatic window—a term derived from the Greek Katabasis, as Tom understood through Mary's memories of her brother Edward. To create an adequate Katabatic window to reanimate a corpse, one must (as Tom inferred from what he saw of Thane's two rituals) account for the volume, mass, and magical capacity of their vessel. Thestrals are large, magical creatures; Tom figured that he would have hunt and kill selectively magical creatures, so that their corpses would be arranged in a seven-point consecratory circle. However, if one overmatched the space and capacity of any given vessel, unwanted demons would be summoned—the cause of death for many unskilled necromancers.

He had only killed a few acromantulas and salamanders. A hippogriff or centaur would make his task so much easier.

At first, it was a great cause of irritation that second-year Astronomy classes were set on Friday nights. Tom was used to waking early on Saturdays; weekends were precious and he intended on continuing to make the most of them.

His irritation, however, quickly melted away into something altogether, as he sat by Mary at the top of the dark Astronomy Tower, sharing a large purple cushion with her and Caoimhe Sayre, who was on Mary's other side. Even if there were two dozen second-years sharing the space the twins had to themselves for Christmas, Tom didn't mind—most of them were probably asleep anyway, and the darkness of the Astronomy Tower enabled him to be intimate with Mary in a manner that would be inconceivable during their shared potions classes or library retreats.

Tom wrapped an arm around Mary's shoulders to pull her against him. She succumbed and leant on him as though he was a pillar, her head resting on his shoulder.

Through her robes, which were clearly newly bought over the summer, Tom could feel the slenderness and heat of her body, her flesh on her back slowly spreading and contracting to the rhythm of her breathing. He could feel her smooth, swanlike neck against his upper arm—it was so delicate in texture and appearance, Tom trembled at the thought of how fragile it was, like the neck of a porcelain vase, in which one would contain pretty flowers and keep out of the reach of reckless young boys.

Though his heart had suddenly become a hive for a thousand marauding butterflies, Tom already wanted more. He and Mary were at the back of the classroom—if one could call it a classroom—no one would see them. Perhaps that was the meaning of the invisible thestral; it was black in shade and obscure in disposition when alive, an embodiment of the night, when hidden thoughts and desires would come to fruition like black-pedalled flowers blossoming shamelessly under the moon—and it was gaudy, bright and white when dead, exposed for all to behold, like the stifling, mosquito-ridden and sweat-soaked heat of midday London.

A nocturne is a musical composition that is evocative of the night.

Tom hugged Mary even tighter, and squeezed her head against his face, so that his nose could rest on her scalp. There was the scent of coconut, mint and flowers, or something—shampoo, pleasant in an artificial way, like a prettily painted mask. Beneath the canopy of artificiality, though, there was the undergrowth comprised of the pores that protected one's hair from bacteria by producing oil, a rather animal function. With his nostrils buried deep in Mary's hair, Tom savored a rather peculiar scent—like a perfume mixed in equal parts by oil, warm milk, and skin—a very animalistic aroma, but one which Tom found inexplicably consoling, as though it was familiar from a time before he was capable of memory. Like the scent of the cot he occupied as a baby, perhaps.

His right hand furtively found its way to his sister's stomach—soft skin like the enchanted satin from which magical pyjamas were cut, over her hard, delicate ribcage that was reminiscent of the black keys on a piano. In return, Mary extended her own hand to him, and she touched—out of everything—his collarbone, through his uniform shirt.

"What are we doing, Tom?" She whispered in a tone that was at once confused yet excited.

"Sshh."

Not wanting to break their silent trance nor draw the attention of the other students, Tom pressed a finger against her soft, thin lips, before letting his hand slowly trail down her arm.

By the time the class ended, the twins had thoroughly massaged each other's bodies with their hands, and neither of them heard a thing Professor Hemithea said—Mercury was entering Virgo, who cares?

When they left the tower, neither of them said a parting word to each other as they separated into their respective Slytherins and Hufflepuffs—Tom, because he found the silence charming, and Mary, because she was ashamed.

On Saturday morning, Mary was sitting upright in her bed, with her quilt over her head. She held Morfin Gaunt's ring between her thumb and index finger—she thought that by constantly looking at it, her guilt would somehow be absolved.

"Ring-a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies," Mary sang quietly, "A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down."

She had played Ring a Ring o' Roses in junior school, and she never lost. To sing the accompanying rhyme was bizarrely reassuring, especially as she was trying to exonerate herself from murder.

"Ring-a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies —"

"Mare! Have you gone mad?"

"A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down."

Mary's quilt was violently uplifted, but she clasped the ring in her palm and balled a fist before Alice could see anything.

"Your song makes no sense," Alice pointed out, "Why would someone have a pocket full of posies?"

"It's from the Great Plague, I think," Mary said with a delirious smile, "Back then, muggles thought that carrying dried flowers and herbs around would inoculate you from the plague."

"Wait — but Muggles with posies — what?" Alice bumbled in confusion, "Are we thinking of the same posies?"

"It's just a way to say flowers," Mary clarified, "Like a bouquet. Could be herbs as well, I suppose."

"Oh, well — in the magical world, a posie is a bundle of knotgrass."

It wasn't the first time Mary was caught off-guard by a distinction between magical English and the King's English. She supposed the discrepancy in definitions was inevitable; there was no need to be annoyed.

In a tight white sundress with blue flowers that she was sure she would outgrow in no more than a few months—no, she could just use an enlarging charm, Mary left the Hufflepuff basement with the Gaunt ring. The plan was to meet Tom in their rendezvous spot in the library, where she would tell him everything that had happened in Little Hangleton, and give him the ring, before finally conveying Grandfather-Tom's proposition to 'recover' him into the family. Mary didn't bother rehearsing anything in her mind, for she knew that conversations with Tom easily swayed into uncharted waters.

As it was the beginning of the year, the library was pleasantly quiet—it wasn't cold enough to warrant everyone confining themselves indoors, and exams were still far on the horizon. Mary went through the corridors of elegant shelves with hardbound books, then the old shelves tinged with the odour of wet wood, and finally through the pair of magizoology shelves coated in throbbing moss.

Tom had arrived before her; he was already recumbent in an armchair, and her arrival was met with a subtle smile.

She recalled last night's astronomy lesson, where Tom's hands trailed over her body, leaving patches of gooseflesh all over her like fingers wiping a steamy glass clean.

"The library's awfully quiet," Mary noted as she sat facing her brother, "I wish it were like this year-round."

"That would be nice," Tom agreed.

Somehow realising that her brother didn't want to talk about last night's astronomy lesson, Mary decided to begin, "When I said that I went to Surrey to visit relatives, I was, well… misleading, in a way — but not lying, Tom."

"Oh?"

"I met our family, Tom — the Riddles."

"What?"

"Let me finish, please. Remember the letter I wrote to Edward, months ago? Well, it was his University friend's godfather's younger brother's former classmate, a man named Willoughby Hays —"

"University friend's godfather's younger brother's —"

"Don't worry, that's not relevant," Mary said, "But it was someone in Edward's Cambridge circles who knew our grandfather, whose name is also Thomas, on top of our father's."

Perhaps Mary was imagining it, but she thought that she saw something dark come across Tom's otherwise impassive expression, if only for a moment.

"Our grandmother is named Mary," Mary noted wryly, "It appears that our mother — Merope Gaunt — named us after our Muggle predecessors."

"Father's a Muggle?" Tom asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes," answered Mary, "Mother's the witch… and, well… the story of how they came to be —"

"He forced himself on our mother, didn't he?"

"The other way around, actually," Mary said with surprising ease, "The Gaunts were the heirs of Slytherin — they'd grown daft and mad over generations of inbreeding —"

"How can you be sure of that?" Tom asked sharply, "How do you know our muggle father wasn't trying to slander his dead wife?"

"For one, I visited the Gaunt home — a dirty little shack under a tree," Mary said, as she felt her shoulders tense, "and it was there that I found our uncle Morfin, who was filthier than a tramp and who could barely speak English."

Now, disappointment and indignation festered on Tom's face like a big, swelling bruise. It was clear that whatever expectations he had of their parents vanished instantly, like Leprechaun Gold, except that it was replaced by a mound of dirt, rather than thin air, which would have at least allowed for the possibility of something else.

"Yes, the Gaunts fell from glory, Tom — but we aren't them," Mary said in an assuring tone, "We're closer to Slytherin than the Gaunts have been for centuries — and, well, the Riddles are quite well-to-do, they're part of the nobility —"

"They're muggles," Tom asserted in a stubborn, petulant voice, "but moreover, they abandoned our mother — they abandoned us, Mary."

Mary blinked; she had anticipated that Tom's hostility towards Muggles would obstruct Grandfather-Tom's plan to 'recover' Tom to his family, but she hadn't foreseen that Tom would be afflicted the more obvious sort of resentment—that of an abandoned child.

"Well… you see…" Mary began rather cluelessly, and she might as well have been scratching her head, "I can't find it in myself to blame Tom-father — he's quite young, you know. He told me everything that happened — our mother was a pitiful creature, she never went to Hogwarts —"

"Do you recall Paul the Apostle's first letter to Timothy?" Tom interrupted suddenly, "But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel. You see? Our father is filthy, in spirit and —"

"How on Earth do you remember all of this?"

"Well, there wasn't much else to do at Wool's aside from reading."

As Mary contemplated the rather absurd fact that Tom—whose corpus of memories until his last Christmas were still well-rooted in her head—was somehow a great deal more versed in Scripture than herself despite his vitalist sensibilities, she realised that there was a more efficient angle from which she would persuade him.

"A galleon is worth roughly two pounds," she began, "The Riddles derive their income from the rents of a town with over a thousand residents — not only that, but Grandfather-Tom also owns a few cotton mills throughout the Southern counties — not quite as expansive as the Lancashire Cotton Corporation, but I have no doubt that they turn a small fortune each year."

It was a rather vulgar thing to do, but Mary knew that it worked—any orphan would be haunted by a sense of inextricable financial insecurity, and Tom was no exception.

"Tom-father doesn't intend on marrying again — and they have no children in our generation, Tom," Mary continued, "They want an heir, well, maybe that's too fancy a word, but they want someone to whom they can bequeath their fortune, and, well — of course they want you! You won't need to work a day in your life, Tom…"

"Why now?" Tom asked crisply, "They had twelve years to find me — to find us."

"I don't think our grandparents knew we existed," said Mary, "Father wanted to keep us a secret, and could you blame him?"

"I do blame him."

She should have known her question was redundant.

"Well, I've mentioned that Tom-father's quite young — he's like a boy, too," Mary said gently, "He was repelled by me at first, but then he grew quite enamoured with me, it was as though it took him some time to, well, realise that I was his daughter."

Tom said nothing, but his intense gaze remained steady on Mary, as though to pierce her presentation and discover the true intention behind her words—but Mary didn't falter, because she was being sincere.

"You won't have to go to London every summer," Mary continued, "and the Riddles — or at least Grandfather Tom and Grandmother Mary, are quite phlegmatic — they'll be happy to leave you alone."

Her brother's face turned impassive again, and it would have been amusing to behold his face contort from seeming disinterest to indignation to cold scrutiny and to seemingly disinterest once more, if it weren't for how dearly Mary hoped for her success—Grandfather Tom's proposition was beneficial for everyone involved; the Riddles wanted an heir, and Mary was sure Grandfather Tom would find Tom's poise and pragmatism a welcome change from Tom-father's sentimentality and idealism; Ms. Cole would be rid of her most dangerous charge; Mary would have an easier time reaching Little Hangleton from Salisbury than London, and Tom would have a far better place to stay every summer, and a fortune to spend in the future.

"Very well, then," said Tom, as though he was a businessman who had just adjudicated a deal, "What will happen?"

"Oh, splendid, Tom! I'll write Grandfather Tom, and we'll just wait until the Christmas break — he'll pick you up from King's Cross Station right away."

"That shall be the plan, then," Tom said silkily, "I find it ironic that I don't even know what my new custodians look like."

"I should've asked them for photographs," Mary added.

"Perhaps, you can still show me, Mary — through Legilimency?"

Mary paused for a moment, her heart pounding as certain emotions welled in her mind, and, deciding that she detested the idea of being secretive and duplicitous with Tom, she spoke from her heart. It was all rather ironic; she thought sincerity formed the basis of love, but her sincerity was cold and spiteful.

"Absolutely not! It's not just that you didn't write to me all summer, Tom — but I remember the last time you were in my mind. Do you think I'm a goldfish? Did you think I'd just forget? That touching me all over would make me forgive you for forcing me to watch w-what you made me imagine?!"

Immediately, she regretted her words—her description of his invasive Legilimency fell flat.

"Mary, calm down," Tom said with exasperating calmness—at once, Mary felt as though she was behaving like an unruly child, "I won't hurt you. If you don't want me in your mind, that's fine."

She couldn't tell whether or not Tom was being sincere. But where her mind was indecisive and assessing, her gut told her that the best way to cause Tom to speak honestly was to declare the final piece of news she had for him forthwith. Thus, she shoved her fist before Tom, unballed it to reveal Morfin Gaunt's ring, and blurted in a frantic tone, "I killed our uncle for you, Tom."

"What?"

"Morfin, the tramp in the shack — he's dead! Well? Take it — I don't want it!"

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as she watched Tom take the ring and hold it to his face to cautiously examine it between two spindly fingers—for some reason, she had expected him to behave the same way that she did upon first beholding it—like a hungry animal.

"It was one of their heirlooms, maybe it belonged to Slytherin. I don't know, Tom — I couldn't stand seeing Morfin with it, it was as though I possessed by a judgmental demon, so — well, Edward was with me, so I provoked him, Morfin I mean — I knew he'd attack me, and I knew that Edward would shoot him if he did — so even though Edward killed Morfin, mea culpa, Tom — do you know what that means?"

"I do — you killed our uncle," Tom said in an admiring tone—Mary felt silly for not anticipating his rather predictable reaction, "Are you sure you don't want the ring?"

"I'm sure," Mary said with an unexpectedly delirious smile, "It's yours, Tom."

"Well, thank you, Mary," He slid the ring on his finger so naturally that one would have thought it was his wedding ring, "Don't feel bad for Morfin — I would have killed him, too."

Mary was taken aback by the casualness with which Tom asserted his homicidal intention—to anyone else, it must have sounded either insincere altogether, or like a poorly thought out proclamation by a brash teenage boy—but she knew that he was being entirely serious, and that, perhaps, he was truly trying to console her.

As Tom admired his bejeweled hand, Mary reflected upon the malleability of her own mind. Mirabel had once, jokingly, asked if Muggleborns lacked personalities compared to purebloods—not out of blood supremacist spite, no, Mirabel Abbott was quite well-disposed to all—but rather because Mary had pointed out, once again, that her corner of the Hufflepuff second-year girls' dormitory was by far the least decorated. She thought that her reaction to events never came organically, never from the primary source—Morfin's death only made her feel sick because of the way Edward and Tom-father responded to it—she was glum because they were glum, nevermind that she had committed murder, snuffed out a soul as though it was a dying candle.

She wondered if she would have pummelled Oscar's face with his own transfigured rock if it weren't for Caoimhe's presence in their carriage, Caoimhe who tenderly empathised with animals—or if she would have warmly welcomed and supported Agnes Baker through her first few days at Hogwarts, if Alan hadn't done the same for Mary when she was in her own first year.

No, the idea that Morfin Gaunt might be in Hell—or perhaps worse, nowhere at all—didn't disturb Mary at all, not anymore. There were no Christians around, only Tom—and because Tom felt utter indifference towards Morfin Gaunt's death, so did Mary. Perhaps she truly was nothing but smoke and vapour.

Then, Tom suddenly spoke, as though he had been reading her mind and found the perfect time to make an interposition—

"You're all I have, Mary," he said, "We were never meant to be — our father never loved our mother. We came from nothing, but the world won't forget us."

A/N: Should I name my chapters? If so, do you guys have any suggestions/tips on how to name them?