Walking home and eating his sope is nostalgic in a way he hates.

The chapel the orphans were forced to visit was near an ice cream shop; none of the children ever entered, but Tom once managed to swipe a treat from a whining child a little older than him at the time (what was he? Four?). He ate it walking, trailing behind the group so they wouldn't notice his bounty. But it felt like none of them even remembered he was there. Perhaps they'd forgotten him (misplaced him). Or perhaps he'd used a bit of accidental magic to protect him and the sweetest thing he's ever eaten.

No one is here to take his food away from him this time. He doesn't walk alone. He's not returning to an orphanage.

Balam is still not back at the house, but Churro greets them both with a happy trill, padding up to Ximena and him before pressing against their legs: he is wearing a knitted wizard's hat. Blue with white stars. Obviously homemade. He wonders if Ximena was the cause of it.

"Churrito," Ximena coos, the tone of voice so foreign to him, that Tom actually freezes in his spot as the door closes behind them. It makes his throat dry, it makes it hurt to swallow. It isn't as if he's never heard that tone of voice before, he just...

She squats down to baby the cat, scratching eagerly under his chin. Churro, naturally, allows her (did they know each other before?), eating up the attention happily. When Tom realizes he's staring at Ximena's hand again, he tears his surveilance away quickly and scans the home for any changes.

The biggest difference is the photographs: Ximena is in them. In pictures, both moving and unmoving, where only Balam or a few people sat, an empty space beside them, is her. All at an extremely young age. Balam holding a baby Ximena in his arms, in his lap. A Ximena old enough to walk standing next to other children who were probably her cousins. A Ximena, no older than six, laying in the lap of an old woman, asleep. The old woman running her hands through her curls, smiling gently.

It reminds him of the portrait of Mrs. Acwellan and her baby. He turns away.

"Do you need help unpacking your things?"

Tom blinks, then smiles courteously. He doesn't know the spell Balam used, but he can figure it out. Scrincan[1]? That's Old English. He can reverse that easily. "Yes, please."

To his (slight) disappointment, she does not take her wand out to help, but merely gives him the spell to de-shrink his items (grōwan, he was right). She doesn't even enter his room, waiting for him to shut the door behind him before going on about her business (Tom hears the sound of his door opening and closing, but knows she is going into her own room).

Well,

His room is unchanged since he last stepped foot inside, down to the lack of dust on the surfaces of his things, his furniture. A different sort of frozen in time as his room in Wool's is: for one, the room isn't stale. Stuffy. As if someone's been in here every day to air it out. Tending to it. As opposed to the state of neglect he always returns to back in London.

A deep breath. He sets his things away. Books and scrolls and stationary. The small number of clothes outside his school robes that fit him, his actual school robes (he transfigures them to his liking), and his one pair of shoes. As he slides in the books to the shelf, he glances at a number of new titles, left by Balam no doubt.

A hum, contemplative. Books picked out and left for especially him. His ex-classmate is probably going to stay in her room for a while...

He picks out one whose title draws his notice and reads until Balam comes home.

.

There's three books laid out on his desk (his, it's all his, no one else's): the diary of Cornivus Gaunt, the book of unknown tongue, and a book of Asian languages: as thick as his forearm and as heavy as he is. The unknown writing in the diary and book matches up with a selection of languages inside the third book, but only with passing similarity. As if they had used (appropriated) the same alphabet and structure for their own purpose. The translation spells he's found work, if not a little basically, on the lexicon of Asian languages, but does no such thing to the diary or the other book.

His frustration is palpable, something sour in his mouth that tightens his fists and blooms migraines in his head. A lost language is one thing, but to only have found evidence of it in a diary, of all things? It must have been a code Cornivus developed, to hide this thoughts. But why these languages? Why use the Mongol alphabet when wizards of the era were obsessed with Nordic runes?

Salazar Slytherin was Turkic through his maternal grandfather… Perhaps that side of the family has something to do with it? Ximena didn't mention who he married, but that should be easy enough to find out through his own research…

There's a clang outside his room. The sound of metal on metal, voices… His teacher is home, he hadn't noticed. His familiar signature is something energizing. Like a battery. Near it is something lulling. Like being hummed to sleep.

Tom hears more as he opens the door to his room, opting to walk into the kitchen to see what his mentor and ex-classmate are up to.

He's met with a hot room, the smell of fresh herbs and spices tickling his nose pleasantly. The two of them rush around silently, tending to the steaming pots of vegetables and stews, and adjusting their temperatures as needed. As if they had been doing this for years. Decades. He takes his seat silently on a stool off to the side. Out of the way. He feels intrusive. As if he had stumbled upon something private and intimate. It fills him with a strange sort of bitterness: their loving energies and collective effort to make their meal tugs at something he buried inside long ago. A yearning. How pathetic that something as simple as a father concerned over his child cutting onions could...could reduce him to this. Had he been younger, he might have stormed out of the room. Had he been little again, he would have...

"¿No vas ayudar?" He blinks out of his thoughts and activates the translation charm again. The two are looking at him. Expectant. Ximena holds out a washed carrot at him, "Come help."

He takes it. Awkwardly, almost. It feels strangely heavy in his hands.

"Your hands are washed, right?" It sounds like Ximena is about to scold him, "Go do that right now, the basin is over there." She points at a wash station made from grey stone (concrete?) off to his right. As if in a trance, he obeys. He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands clean. He puts on the apron Ximena hands him without hesitation or question. Ties it tight around his waist and doesn't protest when Ximena tells him without words that he did it wrong by re-tying it herself.

His first task is slicing the carrots thinly. Then onions. He peels tomatoes, and it's the slowest, most aggravating thing he's done in his life for a good minute before Ximena shows him properly how to do it. He dices them and places them in a pot alongside the carrots and onions and salts liberally. He gets to the garlic and learns that it's easier to peel them when you crush them beforehand with the broad side of the knife. There's no sound in the kitchen aside from the movement of utensils, pans, food, and Ximena's occasional instructions to him. Somewhere in between chopping the rosemary and stirring the pot on the stove, he relaxes. Simmers down into a peaceful rhythm. He even starts to hum lowly, under his breath. Barely there. Hardly audible. He doesn't notice he's doing it.

Tom watches the broth's heat so that it does not boil over. Ximena and Balam roast large green chiles bare over the gas stove next to him, and his eyes sting when the smoke gets into his eyes. The other two are seemingly unaffected-letting the flames blister the chiles black and tucking them away into a covered bowl to sauna. The smell stings sharply, but it's more than pleasant. It's vaguely familiar, bringing back images of grey stone walls and sitting next to Ximena as an eleven year old.

He peels plantains for them (a strange fruit that isn't a banana, like he had first thought). Spotted like leopards because 'these work best for cooking, they're sweeter', and fried in oil in a cast iron pan that has seen many meals. The burning oil pops and licks and bites his skin, and it's absolutely nothing compared to the pains he's experienced at the hands of bullies, but he winces anyways because it is an unfamiliar and unexpected pain. Behind him, his teacher prepares rice, and at this point it's adding up to be such a bountiful feast, that he wonders how many people they are supposed to be feeding.

He is given the task of helping Ximena juice a large watermelon, which she busts open with a bare tree branch that had fallen out back-wielded like a wooden club. The pink insides spatter a little over them, like blood, and he does not stare when she licks her lips to taste it. Using a large spoon, she hollows out the inside of the berry and hands him the chunks to mash and blend with ice. They squeeze lemon and orange and mango pulp and stir and stir until the mixture is a fresh punch and both their hands are sticky with sugar. He puts a finger in his mouth to taste at her suggestion and is wooed by the light sweetness of the nectar. She marks his cheek red with her finger and he does not mind.

They plate the food together: the ones that aren't meant to be served in the dish they were made in. Every receptacle appears to come from a different set; that is to say: they are mismatching, but they all seem to go well together anyways. The enamel pans with sunflower patterns, the glass bowls with scratches and knicks on the sides, the wooden spoons with dents and stains from feasts long past, the porcelain bowls with deep blue abstract brushstrokes… A marvelous collection. Something built upon and added onto for ages. Possibly by them and past family members.

On a wide and narrow table beside the kitchen arch, both Balam and Ximena lay a few dishes before religious iconography, both Catholic and foreign. It's new, and Tom stares at the small altar set up before being pushed towards the table in the center of the room to eat. No one's ever been so eager to feed him. Not even Elle. She never knew his roots. Not ever seen the building he grew up in. The rampant poverty.

He sits down at the table alongside Balam and Ximena and pretends to pray with them. He bites into the best meal he has ever had in his life.

.

Half way through the dinner, Balam asks him about what he's studying in school currently. Tom wipes his mouth with a napkin and clears his throat, not looking at Ximena, answering crisply. There's his core subjects (Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Astronomy, and DADA) and his electives (Arinthmancy, Ancient Runes, Abjuration), alongside his interests for next year (Summoning and Alchemy).

"You have an interest in Alchemy?" Balam prompts.

A glance, hardly even noticeable, in Ximena's direction, "I was lent a book on it my third year...Theophrastus von Hohenheim?"

"Mm." His teacher nods, "I have the book," his glance towards his daughter is not so subtle, "I assume it to be the same one?"

Ximena shrugs, uninvested but not uninterested, "I've lent him a lot of books."

Tom blinks, the cogs in his head turning and processing. The same book. Was he implying…

'That's not a book available to students in your year.'

Balam continues, "You have the brain for Alchemy," it's subtle praise, and Tom laps it up, "very mathematical. Scientific. Logical. If you make it, I hope to see you excel."

"Are you proficient in alchemy?" Tom asks, pushing more rice onto his fork.

"Passable. But I know people who are masters." He looks at his daughter again, pointed, "People who are good teachers and looking for students."

Ximena doesn't seem to react, chewing on her nopales. Tom notes this occurrence for later. Balam sighs, but doesn't look too bothered by it.

"What piqued your interest in alchemy?" His teacher moves his attention back to Tom.

"Aside from the borrowed book," he nods a thanks to Ximena, as if he were at a noble and pureblooded dinner, "many things in the essays of The Yi Jing caught my eye."

Ximena looks interested. Balam looks amused. "Oh?"

"Mainly the talks of life energies and how they're balanced." He drums some fingers on the surface of the table, wishing to draw a diagram or point out the specific pages, "Alchemy is similar, isn't it? Equivalent exchange?"

Balam's smile makes Tom smug. He knew he would be impressed. Why wouldn't he? "I'd be interested in reading a developed thesis." He picks up his fork again, addressing his daughter, "You attract interesting people, mija."

Ximena chews her food thoughtfully before shrugging. Tom is disappointed in her lack of a response, but unsurprised.

"I'm not sure how good the Alchemy program is at Hogwarts," Balam continues, "but we have plenty of resources here, as you know. Especially on qi and yin. From the same author as that book, too."

Tom's own intrigue is piqued. Wáng was a presumptuous author, but a very informative one. Brilliant. His essays opened his eyes to possibilities. Of never having to hide under his bed from air strikes again.

"Ximena can help you translate the actual Yi Jing if you're interested in seeing the original text versus his interpretation of it."

"-You read Mandarin?" He prompts his ex-classmate.

"Not well." Ximena shrugs again, "But yes."

He feels like he should have known this[2], "How many languages do you have in your arsenal?"

A blink, "Arsenal?"

"A collection of weapons." Balam explains.

"Oh." She looks up, trying to remember or count, "Um, a lot?" Her fingers drum, "At least ten maybe...Languages are fun. They come easy to me."

"What are you working on now?"

She hums, "Well, Mandarin. Urdu. Some Parsel,"

"Parsel?" He blinks, not intending to interrupt her, but doing so anyways.

"Didn't I tell you?[3]" She scratches her chin, "Thought I did. It's hard. The only natural speakers in Mexico are hard to get a hold of." She presses her lips together, "Our families aren't really on great terms..."

Balam rests a gentle hand on his daughter's, giving a reassuring (apologetic?) smile. Ximena relaxes.

Tom clears his throat, "Why Parsel?"

"Why not?" Why not indeed, "I've always wanted to talk to animals… Apparently I tried doing so a lot as a child… Snakes aren't a first choice, but Parsel is well documented."

The hell it is, "Oh?"

"Not on the same scale as Gobbledygook, but better than Tongues." Yes, Hogwarts offers classes on the former, doesn't it? "There's actually an alphabet for it, did you know?"

Goose pimples appear on his skin. He swallows, wondering if his pupils are dialating, "Oh?"

"There's several alphabets for Parsel," Balam corrects, and Tom is reminded that the man is in the same room as them, "The one you're studying is derived from Maya." He addresses Ximena, "But the most used ones are all from Asia."

Tom's fists grip the tablecloth, "What parts?"

Balam's gaze moves up now, looking like his daughter only a few moments ago, "North India, Siam, and Mongolia...There's more, of course, but those are the popular ones."

It's a wonder he's not visibly excited. Vibrating. Tom presses his lips together, "Did Slytherin use any of them?"

His teacher blinks, and looks towards his daughter, who taps her long fingers on the table, "If he did, it would probably be the Mongol dialect."

He's about to burst with excitement. Euphoria. "Not Turkish?"

"You remember." Ximena smiles (he doesn't stare), "Logically, yes, but Slytherin's grandfather was specifically Turkic: those peoples have strong ties to Mongolia."

"The Muggles or the wizards?"

Both Balam and Ximena chuckle at his question. He feels self conscious and he hates it, "This was before the Statue of Secrecy, there's no separation between the two." She explains, "And even now, well." Now they still don't care, her unsaid words imply. Everyday he spends here, he passes by Muggles visiting medicine men and herbalists and brujas under the guise of wanting cleanses. Projection spells. Love potions. Open secret.

It still unnerves him. He wants magic to be kept away from them. Special and secret. Untainted.

"Could you…" He starts, licking his lips and pressing them together, "Could you possibly tell me if a book I have is in Parsel?" He feels like gripping the table to ground himself, but they would know that something was amiss, "It's definitely using the Mongolian alphabet, but none of the translation spells I use work on it."

Balam nods, "Over reliance on translation charms, it's why I asked you what languages you were interested in when we first started." The man does not mean it in a derogatory sense, but Tom still feels as if he disappointed him, "There's only so many spells available for a given language, and not all of them updated or good." He rolls his eyes, as if remembering something personally annoying, "Neither Ximena nor I know Mongolian, but we should be able to recognise it as Parselscript. We have some silk manuscripts on it somewhere..." He trails off, trying to remember.

Tom swallows, "How resourceful."

"It's best to be prepared." Ximena agrees, but doesn't answer his silent question. Why are they so resourceful? Why do they have to be so prepared? Was Ximena's disappearance and subsequent amnesia something expected? Could it happen again?

He steals a glance at his teacher, he would have been a marvelous Ravenclaw. Attentive and always curious about Tom's questions. The ones he couldn't answer immediately. It reminds him immensely of the man's daughter.

"How do you usually tell if something is Parselscript?"

"It'll be snakelike," Balam explains, "as basic as that sounds...The alphabets I mentioned really lend themselves well to the idea… The script is already serpentine, I suppose it made sense to Parselmouths to use it for their speech."

Ah. "And that's why reading it doesn't come naturally as speaking it does to them?"

Balam nods, "Intuitive." Something like that. "Maya-derived Parselscript is different, of course, as are the rest of the scripts in Mesoamerica. But that makes sense: they're cultures separated from the East."

"Are you going to eat your rice?" Ximena prompts Tom, interrupting his train of thought and making him blink.

He pushes his remaining rice onto her plate.

.

Practice happens in the back garden, surrounded by trees and sounds of birds. Churro napping happily in a beam of sunlight filtering through the canopy and Ximena watching absentmindedly as she knits an absurdly large blanket. The temperature is pleasantly humid, if such a thing exists, and Tom finds that he has to consistently wipe at his brow. There should be a spell for this…

"Intent for Dueling can be hard when you don't have a very strong will." Balam instructs, correcting Tom's form, "If there's no feeling behind your casting, then all that's left is will. Intent."

Tom remembers Merrythought saying something similar. That Will wasn't as powerful as Emotion. It had taken a bit in him to keep from scoffing. If that were true, then he wouldn't be dominating DADA as he is now.

His teacher, of course, disagrees. And they bicker over it, without much commitment, until,

"Ximena." Balam calls, looking back over his shoulder at his daughter, "Ven."

Tom gulps.

Ximena sets aside her knitting, uncrossing her legs and standing at a leisurely pace, walking slowly towards himself and his teacher.

"Stand here." Balam points in front of Tom, "As if you were dueling him."

Tom presses his lips together. He flexes his free hand. Ximena steps before him barefooted (is she taller than him? He isn't wearing heeled shoes…) and appropriately tense. She does nothing else.

Tom blinks, "No wand?"

She shakes her head. Balam smirks. "You cannot rely on reading wand movements or classic dueling stances… Didn't I use a juju knife in our first duel?"

That's right, he did. But not everyone in Britain (or Mexico, for that matter) has one. "I know she has a wand."

"Have you seen her use it?"

Of course. Should leave his mouth. Because of course. He has. His first Dueling Club meeting. The attack Ian inflicted on him. Where he witnessed her incredible defence and obtained her bracelet. Where she realized that he had her bracelet after it shielded them against...

"..."

Ximena smiles, as if reading his mind. "Wands don't like me."

"But then-"

"Magic is versatile." Balam interrupts, stepping back and away from him, "It finds a way."

He clenches his teeth, this subject is not dropped. "Do you have a juju knife, then, Ximena?"

She opens her mouth, then pauses, looking at her father for permission before answering "...Not knowing what your opponent has in their arsenal is more realistic."

Figures.

"Look at her." Tom obeys Balam's instructions easily, "Are her hands positioned near any pockets? Is she wearing longer sleeves? Are they hidden?"

Her sleeves are short, exposing her elbows. Her hands are relaxed but at the ready at her side. Her wrap-around skirt has no pockets. He shakes his head.

"Then how will she cast? Defend against you?"

He wants to be honest, but somehow he knows that they will not reveal a thing. Not indulge his curiosities, "She will lift her hands."

"And if she does, how will you stop her?"

If she were an enemy? Cut off her hands. Impair her. Stun her.

"A simple stupify."

Balam hums. "Try it."

Tom tenses.

"It's fine." His teacher reassures, "I would never allow you to hurt her."

That, Tom believes. There's a solidness to the man's words that sound genuine. Still, his ego (rightfully) is large enough to believe that his magic could possibly bypass any safeguard Balam has imposed.

Ximena's left wrist flicks, her hand and fingers curling so quickly, that he cannot process what position they're in. He feels the current of magic, or rather the anticipation of it, before it's able to manifest.

"Protego."

Something pelts against his shield. Small like acorns, strong like heavy rain. He had almost flinched. Or maybe he did.

"Your great will was not enough to overpower your feeling of not wanting to hurt my daughter." Oh he can hear the smugness in Balam's voice and he hates and admires it. "Even if you knew she could defend herself." He turns back to Ximena, "Thank you, Mija, you can go sit again.

"Hesitance is costly. You should know that by now."

Yes, he should.

.

Easter for his teacher and ex-classmate means going to church. As delightfully mundane as that sounds, Tom has an appointment in Carlisle. One long overdue.

The Fawley home is the most modern looking of all the rich and noble houses. He assumes this means something, like maybe they're friendlier on Muggle trends. Considering Nemesis' own view on Muggles being harmless, it would make sense. Druella is always complaining on how lax she is regarding mudbloods.

The Fawley matron does not resemble her youngest daughter a bit. She's olive toned, with pin-straight ebony black hair and green eyes. She has herself in all of her daughters, save for the last. Nemesis must take after another relative, then. Perhaps a Malfoy or Hedwig's mother?

Even her aura is different. Something solid and impassive. Domestic in a way that shows she's the head of house and that nothing happens under the roof that she doesn't know about. Actually, the woman isn't like any of the daughters that Tom's met. Curious.

Something similar yet not to all the other matriarchs of pureblooded households he's met.

The Spanish that comes out of Mrs. Fawley's mouth is different than the Spanish he's heard from Balam or Ximena. From any of the places he's visited with his teacher. Something too loose and too slick. More pronounced than what he's heard around school with the other Spanish students. With lisps and sparks. He doesn't like it. It sounds wrong to his ears. Sticky like spiny balls from sycamore trees.

Tom's Spanish is not perfect. He cheats with a simple translation spell. Weaves previous knowledge with the handicap, and preens when the other does not sense his cheat. Nemesis' mother is impressed. As she should be. As all other pureblood matriarchs have been with him. There's no reason to not be. He saved the life of her youngest, after all. Didn't Nemesis say she was the favorite?

He hasn't seen her, which is odd. All things considered, he would have thought that she would have been the first to greet him. At the door, or be the one to pick him up. But perhaps she was busy getting ready. Or perhaps it just wasn't the proper thing to do. Who knew with these purebloods.

Then footsteps descend down the grand staircase, another one of Nemesis' sisters he never cared to meet properly-

"Tom?"

He blinks. Studying the features of the black haired girl before him: Green eyes look back, panicked. Confused. He shares some confusion, had no one told her he was coming…? Why does she… "Nemesis." A curt nod. "Good evening." Her face is different. There's no glow about her, as usual. Her skin is no longer clear, but littered with freckles. Tanned. Her hair is cut short, like the rest of her sisters. She looks like she belongs in the family now. Part of the Fawley set.

Nemesis avoids eye contact with him, clearly embarrassed. Exposed.

"Nemesis," her mother looks something like a satisfied beast, having cornered their prey, "Show your classmate to the table, yes?"

His classmate walks quietly in front of him after a meek yes, mamá. Hands in front of her, clasped, eyes and chin down. Calls his name, waiting for his mark to begin her trek down the corridor. Silent. Like the nuns back in Ximena's abbey.

He feels a fool. He absolutely should have known. No one else has eyes like that, so unnaturally amber. Golden. Not without creature blood. Or a spell. Even her hair has an unnatural glow about it. Ethereal or celestial. There was never anything about Nemesis that was out of place. Not a hair, not a speck of dust.

"You're a metamorphmagus." He states, watching her. Perhaps accusing her of something. Perhaps looking in awe.

Nemesis yelps quietly, as if she had been pinched. Or startled. She stops walking. "I-" She gulps, as if she were guilty of something, "It's not...It's not widely known." She twists her hands and fingers together as if she were wringing them out, "I'm, I'm registered! Don't...don't think I'm...My family would never hide it from the Ministry…"

The startling contrast between this creature and the classmate Tom has grown to know is fascinating. He cannot recall a time where she's stumbled over her words. Hesitated, yes. Blushed, yes. But something like this? Where is that confident witch he saw stand witness for Ximena's trial?

It would be a disappointment...But.

"Why do you hide?" He says, remembering a time where he asked someone else the same thing.

She looks surprised by his question. Then ashamed. Green eyes filled with anxiety. "I'm...I didn't want to be just another Fawley girl, Tom...You wouldn't...You can't understand. You've only yourself...No one for others to compare you to. To hold you up against." Her voice is tense, a balance upon a tightrope, "Everyone expects me to be like them. Like my sisters. People mistake me for them all the time." Ah, the edge of bitterness in her voice. He was waiting for that. "Even Nyx and she's-She's a grown woman! She has a child!" Her shoulders press in on her ears, "My own family calls me by the wrong name. I don't...I'm not a person here, Tom." Nemesis glares at the ground, "I'm a part of a set. A spare." A deep sigh, "This...This is all I have. The only way I have to stand out. Be different. Singular. And-" She shutters, full of emotion, not wanting to burst into tears, surely.

"You're not even allowed to use it, are you?"

She falls silent. Sober. Still unable to look at him.

"It's perverse," he begins, ignoring how she looks up at him with hurt, "the way your mother found glee in exposing you like that."

The hurt wanes. It's replaced with something else.

"Parents are meant to protect their children from humiliation, aren't they?" Not that he would know, "And they're certainly supposed to nurture, at least acknowledge the greatness of a child." Nemesis is still yet unmolded clay, and after speaking to her mother, he knows well what they want to shape her into. What the elite want to shape the witches in his year into.

He won't let them.

"You're wasted here." He holds his hands behind his back, standing straight, "Withering, if I may… You deserve to shine." Tom wills for Nemesis to lift her head, and when she doesn't, he steps forward: closing the distance between them, "Your family, they love you, certainly." He wouldn't know, he cannot tell, but what Mrs. Fawley showed Nemesis was something familiar to him, "But do they nurture you?"

Amber eyes look up, it's as if he's looking into pools of weak tea.

"Will you really marry for love? In this political climate?" The Sacred Twenty-Eight document has rocked and broken so many engagements already, Nemesis mentioned her parents discussing it long ago, "It feels as if your mother wouldn't let you out of the house were it not for school."

Nemesis flinches, and he knows he hit the nail on the head.

"Such old fashioned views… You can't look at you like, can't use your abilities...Can't join Dueling Club, though you would be a knockout if you could." He hums, sighing, as if dejected, "If your sisters are a quarter as impressive as you are, then their own treatment is criminal as well."

Her gaze is watery. His inclusion yet dismissal of her sisters has struck perfectly.

"I dream of a better world, Nemesis..." He lingers on her name, "A better one. For witches and wizards alike… You have it good, and yet you still suffer. Still wilt. Will it be the same for your daughters? Theirs?"

Pale hands, trembling slightly, join in her front. Timid. Considering. He has captured all of her attention.

"I think, we dream of the same world, you and I." He smiles, all teeth, and he knows it to be charming, "I can see it. We want for the same things. We should discuss them after we eat.

"Come," He holds his arm out, "we'll be late. Let's go to dinner. You'll be at my side, naturally?"

Nemesis doesn't hesitate.

.

Little is shared about his time with the Fawleys in the hopes that Ximena asks questions (she does not), but that's alright because there's little time to even think upon it once he returns. On his last day in Mexico until the Summer, Ximena takes him to a barroom in a small town where he has not been yet.

There's no debaucherous happenings going on around them, Tom knows Ximena isn't that type of witch, but there is certainly drinking, performances, and general tomfoolery happening around the area. Normal, as he's been led to believe, including the fact that both he and his companion are allowed to consume alcohol despite having no proof of their legal age.

The barroom Ximena takes him to is not a cantina[4], but a cozy saloon with a small stage full of worn down musicians and a large bar with a small menu. There's mostly men in the room, accented by a barmaid or two and the other half of a sweetheart coupling. It's as if everyone inside knows each other. Or at least, is comfortable with one another.

His translation spell stutters as he asks for the golden daisy[5] drink scribbled on a chalk board, and Ximena has to correct him and ask for a margarita made with añejo tequila (and he's not sure if he should be affronted or flattered that she knows to ask for less alcohol and more sugar).

Her drink of choice is a glass of sangria, deep and dark, like that rosy red agua de jamaica drink he once saw her consume all those years ago.

He wastes no time in asking questions, away from the cautious eyes (ears) of her father, "Tell me how you cast." He demands it. He has no patience to try and filter his words through sweetness, not when she knows how impatient he is.

Ximena yawns, "You're always so...on." Her short fingernails tap against the glass, "Do you ever relax? Do you have a hobby?"

He has no time to relax. He has a vision. A goal. "You just don't want to tell me."

Her hum is melodic, she bobs her head from shoulder to shoulder, as if contemplating the statement, "True."

"Academics is my hobby." Not entirely, "I've only read about tool-less magic but to actually witness it…" He wishes she had cast something more powerful at him. Something to shake him to his core.

"I'm still a beginner." He can't tell if she's being humble or not, "But it comes much easier to me than other forms of casting… There's just something about hands…"

Tom stills, suddenly fixated on the smooth skin of her hands. Her long, slender fingers. The knicks and cuts along her knuckles…

"You've changed."

"Good."

He can't argue with that.

She rests her cheek on the back of her hands, gazing emptily at the stage where the group had begun to play a wicked, playful tune. Youthful and almost romantic. As the notes sink into his skin, he feels a strange sort of nostalgia. He gets the sudden knowledge that this song is old. Older than the earth, even. Bar patrons around them whoop and holler—The song is familiar to them too. Beloved. They sing along—

"They wrote this song about my grandmother."

The woman who raised his teacher is not yet someone Tom has met. Cousins, spare nephews or nieces yes, but not his mother. She was always (is always) away doing something important. Vague. Half the time he's not so sure that even Balam knows just what she's up to, but he remains unbothered by it, as the woman is around when Tom is back at school. All Tom knows about her is the littering evidence of her existence around the house and the stories people have muttered off-handedly about her in his presence.

He looks at Ximena, and strains his hearing. The words come to him, but he does not understand them. The translation spell is useless.

"What are they singing?"

Ximena smiles softly, "I told you your charm wouldn't be perfect. You should learn Spanish." Despite the rubbing of salt, Tom does not anger. "They are singing about a blood-sucking witch."[6]

His head turns back to the men playing, each with such passion and love, that he almost doesn't believe Ximena. Her head turns so that it is her chin resting on the back of her hands. She hums along softly.

"What songs have they written about you?"

Flattery, as usual, does little for Ximena when it comes from him. She chuckles under her breath, low enough so he can't hear, "You'll hear them one day."

For a while, in the darkness of the bar, under the low candlelight, surrounded by a mix and mash of Muggles and witches, he sits looking at her. At her strong eyebrows and the dark coal eyes underneath them.

.

The walk outside afterwards is pleasant. The air is warm, but not ridiculously humid or uncomfortable, and he finds it fit to be out without his cloak.

"Are you getting along here alright?" She prompts.

"You act like I haven't been living here on and off for the past year."

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, the little closed mouth smile on her face looked forced, "It's different: I was born here. I knew these people, once. They knew me."

They knew you. But I know you now. That's the only thing that matters.

"I'm sorry." He bows his head, "It's good. Most of the time I spent here wasn't in the town, it was in other places." She probably knows about the paths through the forest, Balam has undoubtedly told his daughter about it. Tom suspects it's been a family secret for years. "I'm actually a bit of a celebrity now because I found you."

She snorts, "After all this time I'm still a foundling, then?"

"You know what I mean." He doesn't hide his chuckle.

"My father speaks well of you." As his student or as the one who reunited him with his long lost child? "And every person we've encountered has gone out of their way to say hello to you."

"It's a friendly town." He shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets, "And I suppose I am just that extremely likable."

"That's what your track record tells."

"You've been paying heed to my record?"

"I skimmed."

"You're not the skimming type of witch."

"I have been known to skim on occasion."

"I do contest: you analyze everything you read-And you read it twice. Then you annotate."

"Well I didn't get through your record in one sitting."

"You're getting sloppy."

"It's a very long record."

"Excuses."

"It took you a month to get through that curses book I lent you."

"It was a terrible translation!"

"Excuses."

This is good. It's like before. But better. They look like they have history. Trust. Outsiders watching them know there's a bond there—It'll only help cement his good standing with these people, "Even your translation notes were in another language."

"A simple translation spell-" They start up at the same time, Ximena stopping in her explanation to glower at him, and Tom giving a perfect shit-eating grin because he couldn't have planned this interaction any better if he tried.

"A simple translation spell," she begins again, "would have worked fine. You were smart enough to cast one then."

"All of the ones that worked for Spanish were for Castilian Spanish, Ximena."

"Excuses."

"Am I supposed to expect that as a retort for everytime I commit a mistake?"

"Excuses."

His laugh is genuine.

"You're smart, I know you invent spells, surely you could have adjusted one to suit your tastes." A half shrug, "You did it for the one you're using right now."

"I didn't know where your Spanish came from back then—And I'd never heard Castilian before visiting Nemesis."

"You know what that sounds like to me?"

"Excuses?"

"You're smarter than you look."

"I thought this was well established."

"I told you I only skimmed your record."

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

"I'm sorry I didn't adequately arm you with the proper translation spell to get through my notes."

"Are you?"

"A little."

"Your honesty is refreshing and cold."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"From you it is."

She knows him better than he thought, that's mildly alarming, "So, have you been speaking to me in English or Spanish this entire time?"

Her brow rises, "You can't tell?"

"I modeled the spell after your speech patterns, and that of your father's-Every translation is based off how you two would say it in English, and in case you haven't noticed, the two of you are very similar to each other."

"So we've been told." She sounds impressed, "Is it foolproof?"

"Sometimes...There are some phrases that translate a little too literally, and others that just...don't. Like that golden daisy drink."

A noise of amusement, "What do you hear when there's singers, then?"

"It depends. The individual words are understood, but when I try to process them together, I get left behind." His irritation at this fact doesn't show, "I've yet to find a good charm for poetry."

Ximena hums, "I'll give you one, if you're good."

"Oh?" His smile is rehearsed, but his amusement is genuine, "Finally sharing your secrets?"

"It's not mine to share," she does not answer his question, "it's my grandmother's."

"The same one who drinks the blood of young wizards like me?"

A nod, "You'll meet her tonight."

He stops and his eyes shoot upwards in surprise, meeting her back as she continues on the path ahead of him.

[1] Scrincan is Old English for shrink

[2] From Chapter 20: White Noise, "Oh, I want to see China too...Once the warring states come to a peace talk, I mean; their food magicks are some of the oldest and most sophisticated in the world." Elle practically vibrates with delight at the thought, "I didn't know you were learning! Is it hard?"

[3] See Chapter 33: When One Person is Cursed, Two Graves Are Dug (Part II)

[4] A traditional (historical) Mexican cantina would not allow women inside

[5] A margarita is a daisy. A golden daisy would be a golden margarita.

[6] La Bruja is a traditional huapango from Veracruz, the version Tom is hearing is very similar to the version sung by Son Jarocho

It was kind of hard to get Nemesis to share her feelings without just repeating everything she said in her Interlude word for word. But maybe I should have, since it's been a while.

New chapters available for LMR, as well as a new side story and a cute lil birthday gift from theaspiringcynic :( 3 You can read them all on AO3 under the same series!

Things have been rough. Hope you're all doing ok.