cw: mild homophobia

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There's blood on his hands and no matter how much or how hard he wipes his hands on his clothes, the blood does not go away. He's not even wearing his own clothes, he's wearing the clothes of his father. Something rich and devoid of color. Muggle and Edwarian.

Glancing back and forth, to and fro, for any signs of life. Of his teacher or his daughter. Already he has a story explaining his tardiness, and no one will be the wiser. He treks past the garden and the hanging laundry and the oven until finally a man made sound reaches his ears. A humming. A voice like plucking guitar strings. Tom marches forward, knowing that voice by heart.

It grows stronger, but not louder, somehow. What does grow louder is the sound of running water. A creek or gentle river, he assumes. The forest is much too thick for him to look ahead properly, and before he realizes he is in too far for it to be safe, he spots the river, and a person waist deep within it. Bent over something, perhaps searching for something dropped within? When the figure rises, it flings back a head of heavy, wet hair. Raises her arms up with a wooden bucket and dunks water over her form, droplets inching down a golden brown back towards—

He recoils back, out of his daze, realizing who it was—what was happening.

He hurries back into the house. Rushes inside with such a fervor, it's as if he were on the run from someone. The back door is opened hastily, and when he slams it behind him, he rests his back upon it.

He doesn't remember falling asleep and dreaming, but when he wakes from the uncomfortably sensual dream, he is late in meeting Balam.

.

The grey morning after last night's attack is unnervingly silent. Quiet in the most ugly of ways. The silence of the dead. Were it not for his dream (which dissolves in the morning light), Tom would have been sure he was dead.

He's still not sure he's alive, really: in the stillness of the shelter, the dust hanging in the air and the smoke clouding the skies, he trembles. The bodies around him live, gently rising and falling with breath, though their faces are sullen and tired. Tom's own face can't be much better off. Even with the food and facilities of Hogwarts, the filth of London is quick to erase any signs of cleanliness and prestige off him. Anything that signals that he's worth something.

He tries to clear his dry throat, and at the roughness in his mouth, he knows that if he tried to speak, nothing but hoarseness would come out.

The door to the shelter is heavy. He strains to press up against it, and it takes all of his minimal strength (his malnutrition from early childhood has never quite been outgrown) to dislodge whatever debris was blocking his way to freedom and allow him to escape the glorified grave. Some of the others inside woke up at his grunts, but he didn't cease when they called his name, and he certainly doesn't stop in his tracks for them.

He cannot look around him as he walks. He knows that if he does, he will be consumed with something like despair. Like rage. This is what he tells himself to distract from the tears brimming in his eyes.

Death has never been so close to him. Beckoning. Demanding. He cannot stop shaking. He bites his lip to keep from mumbling anything comforting. He is not that little boy from September the first, 1939.

The sight of Balam before an untouched Wool's takes him by surprise. His teacher out in London, in front of the miserable hovel that's housed him for all his life, is yet another strange and uncomfortable juxtaposition. He looks like a foreigner, not an immigrant, from a storybook, not another country. Smoking a cigarette and dressed in comfortable, cool embroidered clothing, unfit for the climate. As Tom's always known him. As if the man unfailingly puts a warming spell on himself when leaving the comforts of Mexico.

Tom should ask him. Maybe they use the same warming charm, Tom's always cold.

Balam's eyes are coal black. Like his daughter's. All engulfing. "Shit." Tom feels bare, naked even, to be in this state while the other wizard stands there. He doesn't even flinch or internally sneer when the other places a firm hand on his shoulder, "Let's get you out of here."

.

Last night's Blitz corresponded with an appearance by Grindelwald in France. Ministry members with sizable family in the country are half outraged, half brimming with excitement. It's what any of them want, to be out in the open. No longer hiding. But for many of them, it is not enough. They desire more.

The dark wizard's spotting causes the travel to Mexico to be even slower, more painful than usual, and Tom watches as his teacher is questioned. Wand inspected for dark spells. He's never seen the man's wand before: an unrefined thing, looked to be broken from the branch of a tree. They do not touch, or even know about, his juju knife. Or the fact that the man is quite skilled with tool-less magic.

Tom still has the trace on him. They know no dark spells have ever left his wand. They know his face from the trial. They do not question him.

When they finally enter the international floo, they arrive to much of the same.

Latin America's dark witch, Mafalda, is leading a rally. The entire city is crawling with reporters, aurors, travelers, and the like, hoping to catch a glimpse. Be a part of history. Balam doesn't pay them much attention and snakes his way through the crowds like a river through the land. Tom does the same, not wanting to touch or rub up against strangers.

"I have some business to take care of at the yerberia." Balam starts, sifting through his satchel, "I told Ximena to come pick you up at the edge of the woods—"

Tom stops listening. Ximena. He'd almost forgotten she existed. Far away from him, from Hogwarts. She's waiting for him. Is she excited to see him? Is she still mad? Furious? Indifferent? Has his deed redeemed him or leveled out any animosity towards him? Will he be met with that same, harsh back and forth? That cold and colder? Does he even occupy a spot in her brain (I misplaced you), enough for her to remember who he was?

He couldn't take that. The uncertainty and wishy washy-ness of her demeanor. The cold indifference. He wants something solid. Something he can name. Anger or Tolerance.

"—so don't leave her waiting, she's likely to wander off."

Tom almost snorts. He knows that. He's known her for...almost as long as her own father. The thought is strange. To think that maybe he knows her more than her own father. Strange, but pleasing.

He leaves Balam at the shop, feet stepping closer and closer towards the forest edge. Wand hand twitching. What would they talk about on the walk back to her father's house (to her house)? What he's been learning at Hogwarts, what she's been learning here. Perhaps even a comfortable silence, like the ones they used to share before Ian had to ruin it by revealing Tom's secret…

Tom presses his lips together, Ximena's never been one to pay attention to pureblood gossip, so even sharing bits of school life with her (his travels to their housemates' domains) will definitely bore her. But as of right now, it's really the most important part of him. His life. What he left in London is nothing. It's…

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't realize he's reached the edge of the woods until a whistle breaks him from the slippery slope. It's sharp and melodic, easily mistaken for a bird were it not for the fiercely recognizable magic emitting from the witch who cast it.

There's a terrible brightness about her that makes her seem backlit and unnatural. Airy and fresh. He sees her in color for the first time: her blouse is white with vivid embroidered flowers around the collar and sleeves—Is she wearing trousers? They're black and slack, to above her ankles, but now that he sees the light hitting them, they're a dark blue. Her legs are long, she's tall, has she always been that tall? Yes she has. He's never seen her legs, actually, or her arms, the Hogwarts uniform covers all of one's body—it feels wrong to see her neck, even. Her ankles. Oh, she's wearing sandals. Her nails are painted. On her wrists are threaded bracelets and golden bangles, around her neck is a shiny gold chain—He only notices them when they catch the sunlight. That's when he sees the bracelet and looks away.

She looks like a completely different witch and he's not sure why. It's not the clothing. Or even her hair: neat and tidy without having the curls all brushed out of it. It's loose. Not tied back like it was the last months of her time at Hogwarts. It's good. But weird. He can't put his finger on it.

Curiouser and curiouser: she smiles at him. All teeth. It's not a threat, either: her eyes smile alongside her mouth—When did she get freckles? Did she always have those? Why can't he remember? He's looked at her face more than enough times in the past five or so years, surely he would have noticed a crucial detail about her skin like that?

Ximena greeted him, and he hasn't replied yet. He's staring. No he's not staring, he's just—It's a surprise to see her. He tells her it's a surprise. And she tilts her head, because why is it a surprise to see her when he was told he would? Yes, why is it a surprise—He should have expected this, he introduced them, for Hectate's sake. Of course she would be here. Bright. Different. Strange.

Come here, she tells him, gesturing with her hand, walking and not bothering to see if he's following behind her. She walks lighter. Gracefully from tree root to tree root as if she had grown up in this forest (and he supposes that she almost did). It reminds him of an illustration of fairies he saw while mingling through the library at Hedwig's house. Strong but somehow airy.

Oh, he thinks, it's happiness. She's happy.

.

The walk to the house is different than with his teacher. For one: Ximena does not drill him with questions on his studies or lecture him on safety. There's no warning to him to not separate from her (he wouldn't), nor any reminders on how easy it is to get lost in this area.

He wouldn't put it past her to forget.

Since she does not initiate conversation, he takes up the task himself and begins with asking how she is. Small talk infuriates him, but if he opened with I reunited you with your father, how do you feel about me, it would be too brutish. Much too Gryffindor. Though maybe she would like that, considering…

"You look different."

She blinks at him, black eyes ever engulfing, "Is that bad?"

Maybe. He hasn't decided yet. "No. Not at all."

A gentle smile plays upon her face, and in the span of only a few minutes, Ximena's managed to smile more than she has the entire time he's known her. It's overwhelming. Almost. Addicting. Strangely.

He remembers the brief time in first year when he believed her to be an animagus[1]: it was the only reasoning he could rationalize at the time, when she was running away from the consequences of winning her duel with Hedwig. How she successfully evaded everyone. Hid away where no one (but himself) could find her. From gazes, gossip, popularity.

The theory holds less weight now, though it's still in the back of his head, unforgotten. Now that he's all but mastered the disillusionment charm, he figures that's what it must be, alongside natural skill in blending in. Oh, she'll always stand out to him, of course, but to others? Invisible.

He thinks she's blended in nicely with Mexico.

"I've missed you." He tries, testing the waters, eyes peeking at her from his periphery. Waiting. His wand hand tense.

Ximena hums, and he's not all together sure she's heard him, "Why?"

He wasn't expecting that. Logically speaking, they haven't held a proper conversation in months. Years. Just bits and pieces that he's been able to grasp onto. Force out of her. Should he have grown out of missing her once third year started?

Tom licks his lips, throat feeling cry, "I-" shit, his voice cracked, "I don't relate to the other Slytherins… Not like I do with you."

Another hum before she nods, accepting his answer. Saying nothing. His hands close into a fist, "...Eris sends her greetings."

Her eyes squint, brows furrow, lips part just in the slightest. The difficulty she has in remembering her potions partner of five years shouldn't please him. But it does. Such a short time away and she's already misplaced. But when she saw him walking towards her, there was no hesitation.

"...That's Nemesis' sister, right?"

He pauses in his steps, "... Yes." She remembers her? "In fact, I'm going for a visit at the end of the holiday, if all goes well."

"Mm." Another nod, "She knows you're here?"

Eris or Nemesis? "Not at all." It's his special secret. "Where you or I are is a mystery to all of Hogwarts."

"Good." She lowers her voice then, almost mumbling, "That's good."

I am better in darkness. "I know you enjoy your privacy." He straightens his robes, which feel overdressed in comparison to her fresh, cooling outfit, "Though I was bombarded by nosy classmates, I managed to evade them all. No one knows why you left." He also quieted a few rumors too.

Her shoulders relax as she breathes out a long sigh, taking a moment to shut her eyes, even as she continues to walk along the uneven ground. "That is very good."

That's all she'll say? It's not enough. Ask about their supposed engagement. About the Rosiers and the politics. About Tom and the friends he's making, the ones she was so worried about back before she declared them not friends. Ask about him. Care about him. Now.

Tom stares at her hand. Licks his lips again.

"Are you hungry?" He blinks, "You keep licking your lips. Did you eat?"

His face feels warm. He clears his throat. "I am feeling a bit peckish."

.

His things are safe inside a messenger bag on his person, Balam having shrunken them down to miniscule size. There's no need to drop anything off at the house just yet, so Ximena takes him on a detour. Ten minutes away from the clearing, they reach a familiar coastal town: the same one Balam's mother-Ximena's grandmother-was born in.

The people here know him well enough, he's Balam's student. Someone revered and respected. When familiar faces see him, they greet him as they would an adult. Not a child.

Ximena doesn't seem to notice this, because she's greeting everyone very...affectionately. One patron of a shop embraces her tightly as one would their child, it's enough to make him stop in his tracks and seethe with… not jealousy. Not ever jealousy. It is the same familiarity by which Balam greets people: a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Traditional, in Latin America. But not something he ever thought he'd see his quiet classmate do. Never. Not in a million centuries.

And yet here she is, defying that expectation. Her magic growing brighter by the second as she's approached and greeted by people who look like her. Like Balam. Calling her mija and Ximenita. Asking about her father and grandmother. Her education. If she has a boyfriend. There's affection in their voices. Their gazes. They would care if anything happened to her.

It seems like he can no longer relate to her as he thought he could.

.

Ximena takes him to a sopes stand next to a general store and buys him two stuffed with beef, and a Coca-Cola to drink. She buys one pork sope and a sangria that he's not entirely sure isn't alcoholic. She dips a straw into the bottle and he notes for the first time that she's wearing deep red lipstick[2]. His face feels warm again. He sips his coke.

"...Ximena, I—"

Someone calls her name, interrupting him. It's not the first time it's happened today. Or in the past half hour. Tom resigns himself to waiting for her attention to shift towards him again, but instead of a child or an adult, it's a boy their age. He knows this boy. His father runs the general store they're next to, and he's seen him a handful of times moving stock in the back.

The two talk animatedly, as if they hadn't seen each other in years, but their body language says they talk everyday. The boy, Carlos if Tom remembers correctly, smiles flirtatiously with Ximena, and she pinches his nose with her fingers. It bothers Tom. It especially bothers Tom when Carlos smiles at him the same way. As a boy looks at a girl. Tom's taken aback at this blatant display of...of...chicanery.

When Carlos asks for his name and repeats it, he even says it...in a way. Sensually, almost. He's just...allowed to do things like that? In public display?

Tom keeps his dignity by ignoring it, though sending him a healthy look of contempt. Immediately after the boy's father calls his son back to the store, Tom asks Ximena about it.

"What? No, that's just Carlangas—That's how he is." She shakes her head, amused.

Brow raised at the nickname, he continues, "He's too forward for my tastes."

"Yes yes, we all know you like being the one in control." The understatement of the week.

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Ximena!" His voice slips into an offended, playful tone, hoping for something.

"Coming from you, many normal things are bad." There's a smile in her voice, but he still feels accused of something, "Carlos is a romantic, and he likes being open about it." She looks at him, "He does it to everyone. You don't have to kiss him if you don't want to."

"How reassuring."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"So far, in my life, I've done many things that I didn't want to do."

"Oh?" Her voice raises up at the end in a way that lets Tom know she is teasing for an explanation.

"Go back to that dreaded orphanage every summer, for one thing." He slips his hands in his pockets, "Sit through exams, drink nasty medicine, just dreadful. Justice will never be served."

"You sound like a proper highblood."

Only a few weeks ago would such a sentence give him an incredible lift in mood. Now, it only makes him ponder.

"Purebloods don't suffer, is what you're saying?"

"It's exactly what I'm saying."

He couldn't agree more.

[1] This was way back in Chapter 3: Their Severance, and it was only hinted at:

"...Of course, don't go looking for any Mandrake leaves," Dumbledore chuckles, remembering some long ago memory, "The plants are, of course, poisonous and notoriously acidic. We wouldn't want to fill up the hospital wing with you all. Might I suggest Perilla leaves instead? They're..."

...Yes, maybe that was the answer. Tom tails Ximena like a ducking to his mother, but every once in a while, she manages to whisk herself away somewhere. Rather than admit that she could outsmart him, it's only reasonable that she be…

[2] From Axiology: "With the flapper movement and the rise of silent films in the 1920's, red lipstick, particularly dark red lipstick, became enormously popular. At this time, red lipstick began to represent a woman's sexuality. For this reason, many frowned upon teenage girls wearing lipstick. A 1937 survey revealed that over 50% of teenage girls fought with their parents about wearing lipstick. It was implied that girls who wore red lipstick acted provocatively."

The opening dream was originally meant to be canon/happening in real life, with Tom coming back to Mexico after murdering the Riddles, but it no longer fits into the story, so I scrapped it. Decided to include it as a dream sequence, though, for funsies. Hope that was fun.