A/N: Hi everyone—apologies for the time it's taken me to update. My first semester at Uni just began, and I was 'learning the ropes', so to speak, but I have a good feel of my schedule now—the next few updates shouldn't take as long as this one.


The Hufflepuff Common Room, which through the month of October had undergone renovation under the direction of Head Boy Strangehouse—armchairs, desks and shelves were rearranged; there was a phonograph which greeted mornings with orchestral scores, and nights with jazz; from the ceiling, there was fitted a giant, magical wooden swing that could hold over a dozen people, and on the desk by the main entrance, barrels of pumpkin juice and butterbeer were available to anyone with a thirst to quench at all hours—was more full of people than Mary had ever seen on a Friday night. In fact, she suspected that every last one of her house-mates was in her company.

They all awaited Cassian, who had said that an important announcement would be made at eight o'clock—and surely enough, at eight o'clock on the dot (courtesy of Lucella's muggle watch), Cassian expectedly came through the circular doorway of the Hufflepuff Common Room.

What was unexpected, however, were the two figures that came after him. The Slytherin seventh-year Prefects, tall and proud; the girl was as intimidating as she was beautiful, with her cascading waist-length blonde hair, while the boy, contrastingly, had cropped dark hair, and a rather gentle, well-rounded face for a snake of such high prestige.

"Evening, all," Cassian exclaimed, holding up a hand to quell the murmurs that broke at the Slytherins' intrusive presence. "I am joined tonight by Florence Greengrass and Quintus Pucey — my counterparts in Slytherin. Their robes may be trimmed in green, but I assure you their intentions are clean."

The rhyming couplet engendered a couple of chuckles. Mary noticed that Cassian's voice was in its rhetorical mode—where most people, even Prefects, talked formally in the same way they talked casually—Cassian had a set of vocal chords for each occasion. He would have made a good Roman senator, perhaps.

"As all of you are likely aware, our houses haven't had the most kindred of relations for the last few weeks, if not for the last year entirely. Quintus and I will solve what Sprout and Rowle — our predecessors — completely failed to address."

Then, as though they had rehearsed it, Cassian took a step back, and Quintus Pucey began to speak. His voice, like his demeanour, was slow and calm, if not outright bored.

"The Head Boy's right, and he's put it into words better than I could have hoped for," Pucey began. "From now on, there's to be no more browbeating and no more duelling to be had in the halls, aye? If any of you lads got issues with my lads, put 'em aside — I'll tell mine the same. 'Course, none of this means much without real, tangible things — which is why Slytherin House is goin' to give youse a year's worth of butterbeer, eight hundred chocolate frogs, and we'll also give you the greenhouses as territory — if any o' ours come strollin' over, feel free to curse 'em."

Mary was a little dumbfounded; she knew that houses often considered the space around their common rooms as territory, but she hadn't known that claims were staked beyond immediate vicinities. Perhaps she was ignorant because she spent most of her weekends and evenings either in her common room, or with Tom, in the library.

"In return," Cassian followed, "We'll give Slytherin twenty large boxes of Honeydukes Assorted, the shore along the West Wing — territory for territory, like in the treaties of old muggle Empires — and I'll personally donate my Nightbrush to the best-playing member of the Slytherin Quidditch team at the end of the year."

Some dissenting murmurs broke out at Cassian's proclamation, but he quickly held up a hand and regained his audience's attention.

"On that note, I know some of you have been pestering Willie —"

"Oi! If you call me Willie one more time," William Holmes shouted, "I'll shove your Nightbrush right up your arse, Cassie!"

"Ah, there he is!" exclaimed Cassian, a handsome smile blossoming across his freckled face. "What I was saying was that, some of you have been pestering dickie about the Quidditch tryouts. I'll give it to you straight — there will be none. We've already finalised the line-up."

Once more, dissenting murmurs broke out, and once again, Cassian—who commanded the respect of Hufflepuffs so easily, as though he was the wind, and his housemates were blades of grass—quelled them with a mere gesture of the hand.

"I will rejoin the team," Cassian proudly declared. "The older among you will recall that I was a seeker in my third and fourth years, and that I had caught the snitch on three occasions. Willie is going to graduate in a few months — he's a try-hard git of a captain, so the least I could do for him, as a friend, is get him the glorified bloody gold cup he so desires. All of you, however, are welcome to assist in our training, or at least the ones on Wednesdays and Saturdays."

"Should'a kept it a secret from 'em! Would'a caught 'em off guard," Ben Chapman called out, pointing a finger at Greengrass and Pucey. Whispers of agreement broke from around him.

"We'll be caught off guard anyway," Greengrass punctuated crisply. "Half of our team graduated last year — they still haven't declared a new Captain, because Bassenthwaite failed to point a successor."

"Back to our topic," Cassian called. "It would be unwise on both Quintus' and my own part to assume that hostilities between our houses will suddenly cease just because we exchanged some candy. I mean, we're all teenagers — our blood runs high, we want to fight — which is why we have decided to reinstate the annual duelling competition in the tradition of Head Boy Montgomery."

We're all teenagers—we want to fight. Cassian was immediately vindicated by the excited oohs and ahhs that burgeoned upon his news.

"We have, however, decided to change up how the competition will play out — where Montgomery had two categories, juniors, who were the first to fourth years, and seniors, who were the fifth, sixth and seventh years — Quintus and I have decided that there will be a competition for every year-group. Montgomery's competitions were, in practice, restricted to fifth and seventh years — ours will be for everyone. Each house will have two contestants from each year to fight — a boy and a girl. All of this will commence after Christmas — the firsties will have their duels in February, and the rest will be scheduled in ascending order of power."

Alice elbowed Mary in the ribs. "Hope you're excited to throw some hexes."

Mary wanted to protest at her friend's declaration, but she noticed that, for a passing moment, even Cassian fixed his eyes on her—there was no way she could refuse him.

"That's all I have to say. Tomorrow, the three of us will repeat in the Slytherin Dungeons everything that was said here and today," and with those words, Cassian waved his hands to disperse the crowd, before gesturing, with a finger, for Mary to come to him. She made her way through the shuffling crowd.

"Hi Cass," said Mary. "I suppose you want me to throw some hexes?"

"Yes," he said bluntly. "Even if I have given Slytherin the courtesy of a fair fight, I still intend on defeating them. Do you not want to fight, Mary?"

"I don't want to hurt people."

"Consider this — if you don't hurt the other contestants, one of your friends will be doing the hurting instead, and perhaps they'll be getting hurt, instead."

Mary turned her head to give Cassian a scrutinising side-glance—what he said was extraordinarily cruel, she thought. He was playing God—or a tyrannical demiurge—in offering Mary to choose between the alternate hells that he created. He was supposed to be nice.

She meekly looked up at him, at his kindred smile and freckled cheeks which were so familiar, and then, she realised she was being dumb and dramatic—the whole point of his competition was to offer an alternative to the dishonest cruelty of the Hufflepuff-Slytherin rivalry that had been festering like a wound for over a year.

"You're right, Cass — I'll do it," she conceded, before her eyes widened in realisation. "I'd have to fight Tom!"

Her intestines were suddenly pulled out of her stomach, and stuffed into a sausage mincer.

"Good! You're the only one who stands a chance against him anyhow," he said, smiling. "Now that that's settled, I want your opinion — who, of the boys in your year, should be the other second-year duellist?"

"Ben Chapman," Mary said in a heartbeat.

"Oh?" Cassian sounded surprised. "The Prefects were in favour of Marcel."

"Well, Marcel is smarter — he definitely knows more spells," Mary clarified, "but Ben — Ben does better in our Defense practicals. He's quicker, more adaptable — you know what I mean?"

What Mary left unsaid was that she thought Ben would take loss better—both the boys would have lost to Tom—but where Marcel was as sensitive as anyone else, Ben had a comportment of mischievousness that seemed immune to sadness. Still, she thought he would at least fare well against the other contestants, and enjoy it all the while, too.

"Oh, he's just like William, then," Cassian noted approvingly. "Ben it is."

"Just like that?" asked Mary, incredulous at both her persuasive power on Cassian, and at Ben's fate being decided without him even being consulted.

"Just like that," Cassian shrugged. "Oh, and one more thing — Dumbledore asked for you to see him in his office tomorrow, at lunch. He wanted to talk about Tom."

"About Tom?" Mary asked uneasily.

Her mind ran through everything that her transfiguration professor could possibly be concerned about, and found that there was nothing good.

"Yes, he was rather vague about it, as he is with all things. You have to love Professor Dumbledore."

And with that, Cassian parted ways with her to show the Slytherin Prefects their way out. Not wanting to anxiously fret over her brother and her transfiguration Professor, Mary retired to her dormitory, took a long, relaxing bath, and went to bed two hours earlier than usual.


"You wished to see me, sir?" asked Mary.

"Yes, and thank you for coming, Mary," Professor Dumbledore smiled. "I apologise for intruding upon your lunchtime."

"Oh, not at all," said Mary, as she sat across Dumbledore's desk and observed his office, which prompted three alliterative words in her mind: colourful, cluttered, and crazy.

"I have noticed, Mary, that Tom and yourself have made it a habit to whisper to each other whenever you can. While it is entirely normal for twins to establish customs that often seem strange to those ignorant of what it's like to have another half — and, well, I can't help but wonder whether a certain hypothesis which has sprouted in my mind is true."

"A certain hypothesis, sir?" Mary asked cautiously.

"Don't worry, you're in no trouble, dear girl," assured Dumbledore with a smile, "and please forgive me for my implacable curiosity. I will speak frankly — is it in Parseltongue that your brother and you exchange whispers?"

Mary was taken aback at once, and realising that the shock that manifested on her face would've made it redundant for her to lie, she simply said, "Yes, sir."

"There's no need to feel guilty," Dumbledore said in a soothing tone, seemingly reading her mind. "I can understand why the two of you would establish such a custom — if there was a language that was only intelligible between myself and someone beloved to me, I would surely speak it whenever afforded the opportunity to do so."

"Most of what we share is mundane, really," Mary quickly offered. "Homework, gossip, jokes — all of those things."

"Mundane, Mary? If you don't mind me asking — how would one say 'transfiguration' in Parseltongue?"

"It's... rather simple, actually," Mary said. "When I'm speaking to a snake, I hear English, and when I speak English to it, I'm speaking Parseltongue. So I can say whatever I want to Tom — Quidditch, Neville Chamberlain, gravy on mashed potatoes — there's words for everything."

"I see," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes bearing intensely on Mary—not intense in Tom's desirous way that made Mary sure he was thinking of her and planning for their future—but in an assessing, impersonal stare that made Mary feel like she was an equation or boiling cauldron to be resolved or understood. Perhaps she was imagining it all; Dumbledore was one of her friendliest, most fatherly professors.

"Sir," Mary pierced the silence. "Are there not books on Parseltongue, as a language? My friend Alice, she knows about Parseltongue, and she makes it seem as though it's common knowledge among purebloods — is it?"

"Oh, there is very little literature on Parseltongue," Dumbledore blinked as though to rouse himself out of his intensive contemplation on Mary, "and all that exists of it is speculative — that is, none of the authors who wrote about Parseltongue were Parselmouths themselves. None have inferred that which you simply know by experience, Mary — that Parseltongue is produced by the soul, and not the vocal folds. But yes, all purebloods know of the existence of Parseltongue, and how rare an ability it is in particular."

"Parseltongue is produced by the soul? I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You say that you speak Parseltongue through the fabric of English, in a manner of speaking — this demonstrates that Parseltongue, in humans, derives from the soul, rather than the flesh."

"Ah — I see, sir... " said Mary. Then, she decide to ask him a question that would gauge his sincerity once and for all, "Why are Tom and I Parselmouths?"

It was because they were descended from Salazar Slytherin—Dumbledore knew it, and Mary knew that he knew it.

"The common theory is that it is hereditary, but there is no way of ascertaining the truth."

The common theory is that it is hereditary, because every known European descendant of Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth — why are you so afraid of being honest? Don't I deserve to know? Instead, Mary just asked, "So one of our parents was a Parselmouth?"

"It's very possible, but like I said — it's not a certainty."

She could not tell whether Dumbledore was being honest or not in his assertion of probability, but as he had already neglected to her of the relation of Parseltongue to the Slytherin bloodline, she was inclined to see him as deceptive.

"Moving on, Mary. Besides my curiosity at the nature of parseltongue, I have called you here upon receiving an interesting piece of news from Ms. Cole, the matron of Tom's orphanage — she received a letter from a certain Squire Thomas Riddle of Little Hangleton, who claims to be Tom's grandfather, and obviously, by extension, yours as well. Is there anything you know about this?"

At first, Mary said nothing as she considered whether or not she should divulge what she regarded as a confidential family issue, but then—rather inexplicably—she found that she desperately wanted to divulge everything she knew to someone other than Tom; she had bottled up so much, and in spite of how Dumbledore had unnerved her earlier—or perhaps because of it—she found solace in the idea of him knowing Tom's situation, in the idea of there being another responsible adult in the fold.

"Yes, I met the Riddle family over summer," said Mary.

Thus, beginning with Edward's convoluted letter on his discovery of grandfather Tom, Mary recited the tale of her summer to Dumbledore, sparing no details except the two most crucial ones: that she knew the Gaunts were descended from Salazar Slytherin, and that she had killed the last member of them. Dumbledore seemed approving of her intercession in grandfather-Tom's plan; he gave Mary a nod when she recalled that she had delayed him from seeking out Tom at once upon learning of his existence.

"In this case, either Horace or myself will need to pay Squire Riddle a visit during Christmas."

"But sir, our grandfather doesn't know we're magical. None of them do, except father."

"Which will have to change, Mary," Dumbledore firmly intoned. "It would be the height of irresponsibility to let young Magicals under the care of muggles who don't know of their condition — especially ones as powerful as Tom or yourself."

In spite of Dumbledore's compliment, Mary suppressed a snort—had they not let Tom under the care of muggles who didn't know of his condition for eleven years?

"Tom can take care of himself, sir," insisted Mary. "He had to provide for his own, growing up."

Truthfully, Mary wasn't sure how grandfather Tom would react upon learning that his idealised grandson possessed the same powers as the deranged daughter-in-law who sired him—and what Tom wanted most of all from the Riddles was the inheritance that he would prospectively get bequeathed.

"I'm sorry, Mary, but I neither make the rules nor have the inclination to make an exception to them."

The sole upside to Dumbledore's ultimatum was that Tom would be spared of the need to act the character of the well-educated muggle boy that Mary had painted for him.

"If I may ask, does it bother you to have to spend every Christmas and summer apart from Tom?"

"I'd prefer to be with Tom whenever I can, sir," Mary confessed, "but my mother needs me — both my father and brother Edward are far from home, and God knows how long they'll be away…"

"It's good that your desire to spend time with Tom doesn't impede your sense of responsibility," said Dumbledore. "Have you heard of The Tale of the Ionian Twins?"

"No, sir."

"Then I shall tell it to you. Perhaps you know this already, but long before the Statute of Secrecy was conceived, powerful Magicals served as Councillors to muggle rulers. Now, long ago, in the late Roman Empire, a pair of twins were born in the city of Ephesus, off the Ionian sea — Aelia and Vitalian. It is lost to history as to whether they were pureblood or muggleborn, noble or baseborn, but what is known is that they were two of the most powerful Magicals to have ever graced the Earth."

"It was Aelia, the girl, who grew famous first, for her ability to change the weather by singing to the clouds in a peculiar way — she sang in neither Greek nor Latin, but in a tone that sounded like 'the blowing of the wind' — and not only did her voice compel the clouds, but men as well; her sweetness, her beauty, and her power quickly became known to the provincial governor, and then even to the Emperor himself — very soon, she found herself a popular figure in the court in Constantinople…"

"Besides performing before the Emperor's court, she used her powers for the good of all — she went to parts of the Empire suffering from drought to bring them rain, and cities suffering from unceasing storms to reinstate the sun."

Already, Mary was growing fond of the Roman witch, but her fondness was eclipsed by her curiosity for a particular facet of her life. "What about her brother, sir?"

"While Aelia became celebrated throughout the Empire — so much so that many began to see her as an incarnation of Ceres, the Roman goddess of plentifulness, fertility, and maternity — Vitalian quietly became the apprentice of a renowned war-mage at the Lykeion in Athens. He quickly eclipsed his master, and his brilliance had impressed the Lykeion's archmage so much that he was trained not just to fight, but also to be a leader among men."

"It is said that there was never a day of bad weather in Athens during Vitalian's decade of training — every day, Aelia sang to the clouds, imploring them to protect her brother. They always listened."

"After Vitalian's first campaign, which could have taken place anywhere throughout Europe, or even in Persia, he reunited with his sister in Constantinople. It was the first time the two saw each other since their childhoods — and here, Mary, is where our tale's strangeness begins. It is said that the twins, who had been long separated, rediscovered each other with love at first sight — Aelia saw Eros in her handsome brother, and Vitalian saw Aphrodite in his beautiful sister."

Mary tilted her head at Dumbledore, as though to ask, what are you trying to imply, by telling this to me?

"It was said that after a night of lovemaking, Aelia taught Vitalian how to sing to the sun and moon and persuade them to follow his will. Alas, their honeymoon would last no longer than a single night — for the old Emperor Justin died the following morning, and his nephew, the new Emperor Justinian, at once ordered the imperial army to gather, in preparation for war. Vitalian had to leave. It was said that on the night of his departure, Aelia's lovelorn heart wrenched a thunderstorm from the skies of Constantinople."

"The Empire, at this point in history, had been forced out of Italy and much of the Western Mediterranean — Justinian wanted to regain the glory of old Rome, but he also wanted to be rid of his uncle's old advisors. He had heard of Vitalian's exploits as a captain in the wars of the old Empire, and he knew that the brother of Aelia the Skysinger would be a popular choice among the people — at once, Vitalian was made commander of all the Roman forces."

"Where Aelia used skysinging to heal and provide, Vitalian used it to plunder and destroy. Before sacking a city, he would assault it with hail and thunder — before invading a country, he would produce droughts to sow famine — and his terrible Magic was effective, Mary — very effective. For this alone, some have regarded him as the most terrible Dark Lord to have existed in centuries. Many believe it was Vitalian who composed the first copy of the infamous In Virtute Tenebrae, and that it was during these terrible years that he did so."

Mary suppressed a scowl; she had assumed that Tom's horrendous book was something from the past few decades, just as there were many occult books with names that made pretences of historical tenure but were in fact published by eccentric Londoners who'd spent time in India. The idea that Tom was learning from a true Dark Lord, even if indirectly, was discomforting to say the least.

"And so, the Empire grew, and Vitalian's fame eclipsed that of his sister's — the angel of plenty was loved by many, but the angel of death was feared by all."

"When the two next reconciled, in the capital city of Constantinople once more, rather than falling into each other's loving arms as they did on their first reunion, they came into an argument before breaking into a duel — some say it was because Vitalian was deeply jealous of Aelia's new husband, the Emperor's youngest son, Prince Marcellus, while others say Aelia resented Vitalian for using the magic she had imparted into him for evil ends — but what we do know is that while their duel broke off, Vitalian later broke into the Grand Palace, and slaughtered Prince Marcellus in cold blood."

"At once, Emperor Justinian called for Vitalian's death, but Vitalian, a man of many means, easily eluded his assassins. You must understand, Mary, that grief leads to vengefulness — and a father mourning his son will often think that he has nothing to lose. The Emperor would not let his fury go unsatiated; finding that Vitalian was too wily to capture, he directed his attention at Aelia instead — he had her executed at once."

"He wanted Vitalian to share his grief, to share his outrage at the mere fact of morality, and he succeeded, oh yes — for it was said that when Vitalian returned to Constantiople and beheld the sight of his sister's mutilated corpse, he wept tears of blood, and he screamed with such fury that Sol, the Sun God, retreated behind his clouds for weeks. Nonetheless, he took Aelia's corpse, presumably to bury her in their birth city of Ephesus, and was never seen again — but for decades after his disappearance, the Empire would experience terrible calamities, one after another — it was said that sulfur and ash rained from the sky like raindrops in a storm, that successive Earthquakes demolished the walls, castles and churches of both the great city of Constantinople and her distant provincial towns, and that a devastating plague spread like the dam of the River Styx loosening upon the Empire."

"The Plague of Justinian," Mary noted in realisation.

"Indeed — and that is how the tale ends, Mary — with pestilence."

Perhaps she was immature, but Mary didn't like stories with sad endings—she had never seen the 'tragic sublimity' of the Greeks, as Edward had appraisingly described—what was beauty without redemption?

"That was a rather morbid tale, sir."

She had seen Vitalian as the villain of the tale, but then she recalled that Dumbledore was reciting history to her and not a fable; the lines between hero and villain were grey, rather than black, in the real world. Lust was a sin, and lusting for one's kin especially—even if the twins weren't able to choose who they desired, they ought to have known to resist their unnatural temptations. Aelia might have been benevolent like an angel, but her failure to feel shame and behave with discretion was just as Vitalian's failure to restrain his murderous megalomania.

"Anyway, I shan't keep you from enjoying your lunch any longer, Mary," said Dumbledore. "I will write Ms. Cole to inform her that the Squire of Little Hangleton is indeed Tom's grandfather. You may leave — enjoy your afternoon."


"It's dead, Tom!" Millicent Bagnold cried out. "It smells like death, too!"

They were far in the forbidden forest, alone in a clearing, staring at the splayed corpse of a thestral, Tom's thestral, which was partially camouflaged under a heavy heap of snow—thestrals were black in life, and white in death. How beautiful.

"Only for now," Tom assured in a silky voice. "I've taken measures to preserve its organic integrity for the past few weeks — it may as well be sleeping."

Millicent gave Tom a nod, while on her face was the look that he enjoyed beholding; her dull brown eyes lit up with something at once nervous and excited, which in tandem with her eager smile, told him that she was utterly desperate for his affection.

"Well, erm… Tom…" Millicent fumbled in a teasing tone, "It's impossible to bring the dead back to life — even with Magic…"

"Don't you trust me, Millie?" drawled Tom. "Repeat to me the promise I made to God — yes, from the night of first snow."

"You'll show the world magic that's never been seen before."

"Do you see? Nothing is impossible for me," Tom said steadily. "Now, stand across me."

She did as she was told. The dead thestral lied in the space between them. Tom drew his wand, pausing for a moment to close his eyes to delight in the whistling wind and the frosty breeze—this was his first step onto a whole new domain of magic—a moment to be remembered. It would have been cold, particularly as he was dressed inadequately for the weather, but his magic was hot and fiery, engendering heat in his breath and beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Finite."

The piles of snow that had covered everything in the clearing vanished at once, revealing the fruits of the last three months of Tom's labour—a black-red runic circle seven yards in diameter, drawn from blood spilled by both himself and innumerable animals; seven bundles of dried blood dahlia pedals, upon which were mounds of dead squirrels, grouses and acromantulas in various states of putrefaction, and at the centre of it all, the teacup on the saucer—there was the dead thestral, ready to catch its second wind.

"Are you ready to bleed?" Tom asked with fervour in his eyes.

Without waiting for Millicent to answer, Tom drew his knife from his shoulder bag, knelt on the floor, and gashed his left palm open—it stung pleasurably, like music—before wiping his hot blood over a dozen drying dalia-pedals and the small hill of dead beavers on it.

One katabatic node completed—six to go. His arm was growing weak, his head light—as he'd predicted, the ritual required more blood than he was able to give.

"Show me your palm, Millie," asked Tom, mustering as much energy as he could to hide his sudden exhaustion.

He took her small, trembling hand in his own bleeding one and slowly—caressingly, as though he was massaging it—turned it over, so her palm was upside. Her expression was suspended in fear—the creases of her eyes and ends of her lips flitted in betrayal of her mind's turbulence—and Tom calmed her by brushing his knife's blade slowly over her palm, not quite cutting it.

"Please hold still," he cooed.

Then, slowly, he carved a diagonal cherry-red line from the beginning of her thumb to the bottom of her pinky finger. Her hand shook, and he had to clamp it firmly with his own bleeding one. She squealed and squealed, and Tom had to suppress a glare—he wanted every part of the ceremony to be graceful and beautiful, even during its prelude.

"Spread your blood over those three mounds," Tom ordered. "I have the others."

Under the cloudy sky and trees crested in white from which snow intermittently fell, the two second-years went about their great task in silence.

By the time they were done, Tom had become very dizzy and lightheaded, and Millicent's skin had taken an unhealthy sheen of pale.

"Now, Millie, I require you to stand still and remain silent until I'm done," Tom warned gently. "The ritual is very delicate."

By now, Tom knew the theory of creating a Katabatic Window as well as he knew the alphabet, but he was aware that executing in practice that which he understood abstractly was no easy task—he wouldn't become complacent in his hubris, like Duke Wodnik and all his peers whom Grindelwald had stomped over.

He closed his eyes.

First, there were two transformations his mind had to undergo—to accept the dualistic nature of the soul and the flesh—and then to confer upon flesh the dignity with which one would regard dust and clay. The latter was easy for Tom, and he suspected that he was endowed with an instinctive conception of it—for as long as he could remember, he saw nothing inviolable about flesh, belonging to either animals or orphans—everything in the world was sand to be built into castles, sand to be washed away by the waves.

The former, however, proved difficult. Whereas everyone—muggles, with religion, and Magicals, with magic—understood the body and the soul to exist separately on a theoretical domain, to truly understand the relation between them as distinct things, even more separate than an egg and its yolk, is no simple task. Tom, however, had already practiced the meditative procedure on no less than a dozen occasions, and was thus acquainted with the sensation of revelation.

He thought of God's curse on Adam.

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art , and unto dust shalt thou return.

It was a condemnation—flesh and mortality was to the soul what a prison was to a most exalted prisoner.

"For dust thou art," whispered Tom, dipping his head in prayer, "and unto dust shalt thou return."

"For dust thou art," he repeated, "and unto dust shalt thou return."

"For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."

"For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."

Opening his eyes, Tom beheld dust in the shape of a white thestral. It was infinitely mutable, just as specks of dust—of which the universe was comprised—were able to arrange into any shape, nightmare or heavenly apparition.

He drew his wand and waved it like the conductor of a concert—a picture from Mary's memories, when she went to the Royal Albert Hall in London as a nine year old. Now, it was time to prove that he understood the infinite worthlessness of flesh. To beseech Hecate, the goddess of shadows and the straddler of life and death, one had to show the black indifference of their soul to mortality; to assert their unfaltering conviction in violating otherwise intuitive moral laws.

Corpium Putrescia! Malignis!

He painted a broad stroke with the brush of his wand. Rot and burn, rot and burn. The burning dahlias smelled like lipstick or perfume, while the burning animals stank like shit mixed with rotting meat, which was to be expected, Tom supposed. While altogether a disgusting scent physically, Tom's soul was able to discern that which his flesh could not—the putrid aroma to which he was subject was the scent of power, of magic and of domination—the scent of decay was real, yes, but it was secondary, through and through.

Tom claimed possession of the configurations of dust; he held respect for neither the soul nor the flesh of the thestral—his desire to become the master of it was the sole emotion he bore to it. He had proven his worthiness; the blood of the living was transacted for the flesh of the dead. He would be unhappy and prone to bouts of anger or despair for the upcoming few weeks—his heart would be tainted, as though by thick, foggy black smoke—for the rest of his life. But the price for power was great, and there was no space for unease, apprehension—if even there was a sliver of doubt in Tom's ambitious heart, the wry goddess Hecate would take his soul rather than fulfil his desire. There was nothing more disgusting to the divine than compromise and indecision.

Then, Millicent broke into a shriek. At once, Tom's concentration and contemplation shattered, like a window upon receiving a brick.

"Y-you're — you're not-b-bringing-it-back-to-life!" she sputtered quickly. "You're making it into an Inferius!"

For a split second, Tom glared at her with icy contempt—how was it possible for someone to be so stupid, reckless, and prissy all at once?—before he regained his composure.

"Millie —"

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

She screamed. Then, she ran to her broomstick, and Tom—realising that he had no other choice—chased her. However, as Millicent mounted her broomstick and Tom drew his wand to stop her, an invisible force—a huge blanket held by an invisible giant—yanked him all the way back into the ritual-circle. He fell onto the dead thestral, a gigantic leathery bag full of jagging bones, and watched as Millicent Bagnold disappeared into the horizon on her broom.

Tom got back on his feet, straightened his robe, swept his hair, and then realised that he was in grave trouble. More experienced necromancers than him had died from minor infractions in their rituals. Immediately, he whipped out his wand and spun on his heel, expecting an explosion, or a vicious, disobedient undead monster, or perhaps a thunderbolt—but instead, he was greeted with a rather mild but still unanticipated sight: a sheet of mist, rising from the open mouth (it was previously closed) of the thestral, like smoke from a chimney.

It was a sheet in that it looked like a billowing curtain to an invisible window-frame, and it was mist insofar as it was grey and translucent, like fog. Tom pointed his wand at it, daring it to make a move.

His mind desperately groped for an explanation; the ritual was botched, that much was obvious—but what had he caused? Then, the mist began to hiss.

"Ahhhhh…"

Hoarse, yet feminine. Sibilant and breathy—it could be a woman speaking parseltongue, but it may just as well be a snake.

Suddenly, the heirloom-ring around Tom's finger became very, very hot. He raised his hand to examine it, and the black gem—which was usually entirely opaque, like the wall of a cave—was shining brightly, as though it contained fire from the sun; it was so bright that Tom had to turn away.

"I… sssaw…" It began slowly, before rapidly speeding up, "a-sslippery-slithery-ssnake… ssslide… thhhrough…"

Slowly, and against his better judgment, Tom edged towards the sheet of mist. As he went closer and closer to it, he felt colder and colder.

The perfumed, poisonous scent of the dahlias was gone, and so was the foul odour of burning, putrefied flesh—in place of it, however, was a far stranger, far more unique smell, something otherworldly. The indescribable (watery? cold?) scent of snow, mixed with what Tom imagined to be the scent of a gravestone, and ultimately melded together by a mortal sense of wrongness. Tom, however, knew not to give in to the visceral fear that accompanied this sense—even if the sense made one feel as though they were living on hell, and that they would be in hell forevermore—he knew that it was not what it appeared to be; it was merely the unavoidable pain that came with the acquisition of power. The heart was a phoenix to be tortured and slaughtered; only by anguishing through the flames of rebirth, would it become stronger.

"Ssslide thhrough the grasssess… making thhhem ssshake..."

Then, he saw it.

Slowly but surely, a face emerged from the sheet of death-mist; a woman's face, somewhat indefinite and of the same translucent, grey substance as the sheet. Though the sense of pervasive wrongness still tinged the air, Tom discerned no malicious intention on the she-entity's part.

As it became clearer, so did it become more human. It had the long, matted hair of an old tramp, a pair of large eyes that stared in opposite directions, and a plain, morose face—but most of all, Tom found something inextricably familiar in it, the same sort of familiarity which overcame him when he saw eleven-year old Mary on King's Cross Station, a year ago—but then, it was pleasant, it was bliss—now, something was terribly amiss. His stomach churned.

"He looked at me... withhh hissss beady eye…"

"Go away from my pretty greeeeen garden, sssaid I…"

The woman blinked multiple times, and furiously so, as though she had suddenly grown aware that she had eyes, before turning to face Tom—first to seemingly scrutinise him, and then to merely rest in his direction. The golden ring on his finger suddenly seemed very tight, as though it was trying to tell him something.

Then, Tom noticed an unmistakable expression on the morose mist-woman's face—pity. He knew it at once, because it was the expression that many a sanctimonious muggle Londoner wore when beholding orphans. She looked at Tom as though he was the poorest, sickliest, most feeble guttersnipe in the darkest alleyway of all Britain during the time of chimney-sweets a century ago—and somehow, instinctively, he knew what to say and do.

She, a beaten, defeated woman who died with the dignity of a rat; a beaten, defeated woman who forfeited the treasure of her ancestry and lived a life that was too pathetic to even be tragic, and she dared to look upon Tom as though he was somehow worse for wear.

"'Ssssssss'... sssaid the sslippery... ssslithery —"

"I don't need you!" Tom yelled at his mother. "Avada Kedavra!"

The entire sheet of mist exploded with a thunderous bang!—and Tom was sent flying back. Fortunately, he landed unscathed in a pile of snow.

As he stood and regained his footing, he beheld an incredible sight—the dead thestral and all the Katabatic nodes around it evaporated—there was no sign they'd ever been there at all, for in their place was a swirling tornado of black mist, perhaps three yards in diameter, and seven in height, furiously swaying back and forth in the canopy, eating at everything—trees, fallen branches, snow—like a thousand small, hot knives tearing through paper.

It was coming straight towards Tom, as though it was angry at him.

Without a second thought, Tom cast the first spell that came to mind, the spell that Cassian used to fend off Thane's darkness, the spell that Isuphiane Malfoy possibly used to save her son—"Expecto Patronum!"

He thought of Mary—her voice, her laughter, her face, her legs— then before her, when Dumbledore came to Wool's to deliver him the news that would change everything, then of the time Oscar Montgomery inadvertently told him he was the Heir to Salazar Slytherin, and then of the endless nights of pleasure he derived with a wand in one hand, and In Virtute Tenebrae in the other.

Nothing. It was as though he was a muggle holding a stick. It was as though he had punched the trunk of a tree, as though he had buried his face underwater, and expected to breathe.

Tom glared at his wand, fury and fear welling in his chest as he desperately contemplated his utter failure—never before had he attempted a spell, and failed so miserably as to not even produce the flitting tingles of magic that came even when he brushed his teeth.

For a moment, he thought that he had somehow lost magic—and there was a sudden urge to walk into the loud, deathly vortex he spawned, to dissolve himself into shreds, strands of flesh—before his survival instinct prevailed.

"Arresto Momentum!"

It worked. The vortex had been twisting and turning towards him at a rather quick pace before, but now he was afforded a window of opportunity.

Tom sprinted back to his broomstick, mounted it, and accelerated towards the castle with the predatory determination of a falcon. As he flew, he swore to himself that he would master the Patronus Charm—that he would cast it with the ease that a muggle boy could throw a stone, because of the humiliation he had endured from failing it.

It was outside the broomstick shed that he found Millicent Bagnold. Her eyes were puffy and red; she had been crying. Tom slowly walked up to her, his face a mask of false sympathy.

"Millie, I'm sorry," Tom put a hand on her shoulder. "You were right — I'll bury the thestral instead."

"W-w-what were you t-thinking, Tom?! D'you-e-even know how Dark the magic you a-attempted was? What were you thinking?!"

"Sssh. I wasn't thinking — I was being foolish," confessed Tom, as he gently took her wounded hand, and pressed his wand to it. "Tergera Sanentur."

He stroked her thin, untempting face, and, noticing that much of the tension which had held her shoulders and creased her face was gone, he pointed his wand at her, and whispered, "Silencio."

For a moment, there was chaos—Millicent immediately levelled her wand at Tom, but Tom firmly clasped her wrist with one hand, and slapped her wand out of it with the other. Then, he pushed her to the floor and knelt over her stomach. With another flick of his wand, he tied her hands together with a conjured rope—and there she was, entirely at his mercy.

She could not speak, but her face writhed and begged. Tom did not care.

Not only did she ruin months of his work, but she also made him behold something that he never wanted to remember, let alone see—his ignoble mother. For that, he wanted to make her pay, and Magic gave Tom a thousand ways to play with pain…

But he was sensible enough to do nothing more than point his wand at her temple, and whisper, "Obliviate."


The weeks preceding the Christmas break were uneventful. Tom continued to see Millicent on weekends, if only to ensure that she remained unaware of the memory charm he placed on her.

Since his conquest of Poland, Gellert Grindelwald made no new appearances on The Daily Prophet. His war, similarly, seemed to slow down. There were no Magical skirmishes, let alone battles—only a small but steady stream of British and German ships and submarines encroaching at one another. By the time of the Halloween Feast, the war no longer became the focal point of most conversations. No one cared about muggle naval engagements; nothing was happening on the magical front—and when it was discussed at all, it was talked about in the speculative, impersonal tone of imagination and storymaking.

He neglected to tell Mary anything of his encounter with the apparition in the forest. They both kept something from the other; Tom was able to discern, from the invisible creases of her soft face, whether or not she was withholding knowledge from him. It bothered him, yes, but it had become a state of affairs that he was acquainted with—but no matter—there would be a day of revelation, as there always was, between the two of them.

Even so, there was no longer the tension of unfamiliarity between them that pervaded much of their first-year; in potions, where they were partners and easily the top of the year, they worked off each other seamlessly. It was his second favourite subject; astronomy was his first—astronomy, where he learned next to nothing during Professor Hemithea's night classes—for there, under the shroud of the moonlight, they desperately hugged and held each other, while lying on the huge cushions that were like soft, sleeping tortoises. These bids for intimacy were always silent, and they were never discussed.

"Why do you always whisper to her?" asked Ruben Macnair. "Is it 'cause you talk in Parseltongue?"

"Very good, Ruben," affirmed Tom. "What do the others suspect?"

The others were how Tom referred to his friends, when talking alone to any one of them. There was Alexius Lestrange in fourth year, Sabien Wilkes and Amos Nott in third year, Avery and Ruben, his year-mates, and of course, Abraxas Malfoy and Antoine Rosier in first year. He ensured that they had plenty of time to talk among themselves, and that each of them thought they had a particular closeness with him.

"I don't think they have the slightest clue," Ruben assured. "Malfoy and Rosier like her, though — I don't think the others do."

"That's to be expected," said Tom, an indifferent expression on his face.

Tom needed his friends to befriend one another, too. In Slytherin there were cliques, of varying prestige, and the best of them were defined by two things—unity, and historicity. The greatest of them was the elusive group known as Condamnation—a gang dating back to the sixteenth century, it was only open to fifth-year boys and above, and its insignia was a purple serpent coiled around a sword. It was rumored that seventh-year Prefect Quintus Pucey was the head of its Hogwarts division, although there was no way for outsiders to know for sure. Then there was The Archeoserpents, a gang formed in the nineteenth century by Eridanus Black, which was rumored to have been behind the ascension of Unctuous Osbert to Minister of Magic.

It was through their friends—their pureblood gangs, with insignias and initiation rituals—that most Slytherins launched themselves into the world. Last year, Tom considered seeking them out—but in part from his disillusionment in the older boy who he stopped finding impressive after his first two months at Hogwarts, and in part because he learned that he had the greatest pedigree of his house-mates by far—he decided instead that he would found his own one—a clique that would go down in history as the greatest band of wizards to have ever emerged from Slytherin.

These were Tom's thoughts as he sat silently in his compartment in the Hogwarts Express, as the scenery offered by the window showed less and less snow, and more and more buildings—the closer one got to London, the more dispirited they would feel. Not Tom, though, for he would be in Little Hangleton the next day.

Mary was the sole occupant in his compartment, and they sat side by side. Tom wore his uniform, because he had nothing else to wear, while Mary wore a dark blue coat with a cloche hat to match and a velvety white scarf that fell to her stomach. She leaned onto him, and he enjoyed the sensation of her weight on his side, his arm slung around her shoulder.

"Father-Tom is sentimental," Mary began, her eyes rising from her book to find Tom, "Grandfather-Tom is a Tory, while Grandmother-Mary is, well — a nice lady, and Hobbes, the Butler, has a lip as stiff as an ironing board."

While she spoke Parseltongue in a conversational, human way, Tom found that the sibilant nature of it naturally lended itself to a certain gravity yo his own speech.

"Those words mean nothing to me," confessed Tom. "So long as they aren't averse to my being a wizard, I will strive to pass Christmas as quietly as possible."

"Suit yourself," Mary shrugged. "I'd like you to write me about it, though — I'm curious as to how father-Tom is."

"Of course."

Mary raised her feet onto the seat, so she sat curled up into a ball, with her book resting against her knees. Tom's arm remained around her shoulders, his hand stroking the impossibly smooth, impossibly supple skin over her throat. While she read, he examined her neck; long and thin, Tom thought that it could be broken so easily. It reminded him of the snout of a decorated teapot, but also of a streetlamp. Stroking it, he found that he was not contended—even if small, trembling electrical jolts ran from his arm through his chest to his loins—for he suddenly became aware of the transience of his ecstacy. He would be parted with his sister for two weeks, and when they returned to Hogwarts, what was the plan? To indefinitely fumble around in the dark, once a week during the midnight Astronomy lessons?

Thus, Tom raised his hand to press against Mary's cheek; with ease, he tilted her head away from her book to face him—and he leant in, he leant in, so that between their lips (the Riddle lips, as Mary had described them—thin, somewhat long; elegantly portioned) there were but four inches of space, then three, then two, then one…

Wouldn't this be the perfect memory from which to summon a Patronus?

Tom could feel the dampness of her breaths, her breaths which were becoming increasingly laboured, and he could whiff the scent of her skin—like warm milk, but also metallic—and he could see her big, warm eyes, too, which were full of desire but also sorrow (why sorrow?)—before they bizarrely morphed into something else entirely—fear. His sister looked at him fearfully—pleadingly—in the same way Millicent Bagnold did when he silenced, disarmed and handcuffed her—did she think he was going to force himself on her? What if he did? Was that what she was afraid of? A moment of pleasure—silk touching silk, a killing curse to send the Grim Reaper himself back to hell—infinite pleasure in a finite moment—would it be worth it, for weeks, months of pointless retrospection, of tension laced in itself like an improperly tied shoelace? When he bid her farewell before summer, some four months ago, he had done so in a most inadequate manner—but now, if their mouths touched, their memories of each other's lips would tormentingly resound through the two weeks of their break—would there be anything more consummate?

Then, Mary's soft, small, warm hand came onto his own, and gently lowered it off her face, letting his expectations fall back into the void. He shrunk back into the padding of the compartment, suddenly growing very aware of the rickety movement of the train, and of the sunlight through the window, while she resumed reading. Their lips were far apart.


A/N: Please review—thanks in advance!