Self-possessiveness is the first thing Tom used to describe Ximena. An ownership of herself that was clear and direct from day one, influenced by no movements or trends of the student body (or indeed, her country). Rather, as time went on, even with her quiet nature, she showed (proved!) she was the one to make waves. Even unintentionally. Such was her power. A silent self-possession.
Moonlike is a far more poetic term to describe Ximena, but it fits. Always present, though not always visible. Cool and dominant over water. Full of yin energy. Quieter than the sun whose light it reflects, yet more brilliant.
If Ximena is the moon, then her grandmother is the sun. Warm and burning, she radiates a dangerous type of magic quite openly. It is flame versus mist. Bluntness versus subtlety. She wears a loose frock that seems to be made from black fog. It hangs down to her ankles and flutters and moves with a wind that is not there. On its edges are intricate, filigree embroidered patterns that imitate flora and skeletons. Her elegant, brown hands carry golden rings, at least one to each finger; each unique and old and beautiful in their way. Around her neck, she wears the same jade rosary as she did when they first met.
"Señora Rivera?" He asks, his mind furiously making connections and trying to make sense of what the fuck was happening.
The woman smiles, and it's as if her lips are coated with poison. She opens her mouth and her voice is silk, "Señora Hidalgo is more correct."
Balam glances at his mother, unsurprised and unbothered, "You've met, then?"
"Something like that." The woman's nails nap on the table next to her, "You may call me Doña Inés."
He sees something like a smile tug at his teacher's lips before he returns to his plants. Tom nods once. Tries not to stare. Not to stare at the woman who now looks much too young to be anything like the grandmother of a teenager. Not a day over forty. Her only sign of age being the dramatic white stripe of hair on her head, pulled back with the rest into a braid crown. She holds a rounder face than that of her granddaughter, though still sharp and strong, with an arched, broken nose and smaller eyes. Black eyes. She could be his former classmate's mother. She looks much younger than she did months ago.
Her venomous smile widens as if she read his mind.
.
"She knew?" They sit in his room quietly—Rather, she sits on his bed, in his room quietly, working on embroidering runes into a blouse, as he paces, too heated to register that she was sitting in his space, following him a little bit after he had excused himself in a right hurry. "She knew who you were all this time and did nothing?"
"Do you think this shade of magenta looks good with this green?"
"Sadistic, that woman is sadistic—"
"Maybe the thread is too shiny?"
"—What kind of...Why aren't you more bothered by this?"
"This blouse is for my cousin, I want to make sure the embroidery is pretty and useful."
He presses his lips together, gathering what's left of his wits, "Aren't you mad? Weren't you always close with her back at the abbey?"
Ximena sighs, shrugging her shoulders. "It's complicated."
"Why didn't she say anything? Why didn't she tell your father—her son?"
"If you're trying to find reason in anything my grandmother does, you'll be searching for centuries." She threads a new needle, "It's private. Family business."
He identifies the rune on the blouse as a symbol found in that poetry book she was studying all those years ago. "Well, it seems like everyone in the neighbourhood knows about what goes on in your family."
"Oh yes, they're marvelous gossipers. My family has lived here for a long time: it's hard to hide a curse like that when your blood has so much history in the earth."
"—It's generational, then?"
"Hm?" She lifts her head after a second, "Is what generational?"
He knows her enough to know when she'll stop divulging information. He tightens his fist and sits down across from her, at his desk, not sulking or scowling or glowering.
"Thank you." He looks at her but she doesn't look up from her project, "For caring. It means a lot." Caring. That's not what this is about this is… A grandmother is supposed to—To not standby while her grandchild grows up alone and isolated and not knowing anything about their family or heritage, fuck the fact she was involved in said grandchild's life. She could not have been more distant. Detached. Señora Rivera was his ideal guardian fantasy for a reason, not Ximena's, "Family is a sensitive subject, I understand."
"Of course." His throat clears, "What are friends for?"
He's worried she'll reaffirm that they are not friends again. That this thank you is something that will only be bestowed upon him once and never again. But all she does is continue speaking about her embroidery project, "For telling me if this thread is too thin to contain the magical properties I need it to."
It hits him then, that she's in his room. Somewhere he's slept and had time alone to think and study. An intimate place that was safe for his pursuit of dark knowledge. She had followed him in here, seeing how worked up he was. Was she worried? Did she want to justify her grandmother's choices to him?
The thread she's using is too thin, not that he knows much about magical crafting—It's just common sense. Decorum isn't his strong suit either, compared to dark arts, charms, or potions, but he's developed an eye for beauty these past few years, and color combinations aren't so complicated. The blouse is olive green, the magenta she picked is perfect. Some spurts of yellow, teal blue, and maybe a little orange on the filaments of the flowers she constructs out of the runes. Their fingers brush against each other as he points out where the next blossom should start, and he doesn't mind. Ximena's hands are clean, and her magic is familiar. They bicker half-heartedly over the proper runes to set into the blouse for her purposes, all while allowing him to add in his own magic to the threads to strengthen the runes.
She trusts him. Enough to help protect her family. She trusts his magic. She knows it's strong. Unyielding. It weaves in perfectly with hers, it takes zero effort to do it. He forgets he's angry at Señora Rivera, as a matter of fact.
"Don't hold it against Nana what she did." Nevermind. "It was always supposed to be my father who found me. It's in the terms and conditions. She just wanted to watch over me."
"Hm." He presses his lips together, "...You make it sound like your curse was a contract."
"All curses are contracts, really. Mine is."
A blink, "It's not broken yet?"
"It's a very detailed contract." He can't tell if she's joking with him or being smart. Probably both, "I keep in correspondence with Yami because of it."
Oh? "She would be the one to keep in contact with on these matters."
"Mm. My father and I are visiting her main estate in a few months. You can come with us if you'd like."
The main compound of the Acaryas. Just the thought of it springs forth excitement in his skin. Hers was the only worthy pureblooded household he was never invited to (oh he's not bitter about it, nobody is invited unless they have family ties), and the only one where he has little idea as to what lies within. He hasn't been up to date with what's going on with Yami, much less that side of the world...Maybe it would be a good idea to check in.
"I'd love to."
.
Señora Rivera seems delightfully aware of Tom's general animosity towards her. It doesn't seem to bother her one bit, and if anything, she revels in it, picking at his actions under her son's tutelage and questioning the time he spends (or tries to spend) with Ximena openly. When she's not picking on his pronunciation of Spanish, she's picking on his language skills, which are excelling wonderfully with German and French, but nonexistent in the native languages around Mexico. An absurd standard for him to meet, but knowing he's not exceeding it makes him want to learn all the more.
Perhaps worst of all, she calls him Tomás.
It's a form of his name that's left people's lips a few times in Mexico, Balam included, but it hasn't yet stuck. At least, until she starts to drop it in conversation. The woman's nicknames for others seem to stick like fat on ribs, and more and more, people within the shared circle and environment of the household begin to almost exclusively refer to him as Tomás. He's half certain that if Churro could talk, he would also call him that.
It's not that the name bothers him (it does), it's just that it's not his name. People who don't deserve that sort of intimacy use it for him. And the people who do deserve it…
He can't seem to remember a time where Ximena's used his name in conversation around him. To call him or refer to him. Not that that has anything to do with anything.
For all the annoyance caused by Inés, she's a vast well of knowledge. He understands where Balam and Ximena get it from. The questions that Ximena cannot answer, she turns to her father, who turns to his mother. So far, he has not yet seen the woman (matriarch?) turn to another for answers, but he wouldn't put it past them to have another relative hidden under the floorboards to surprise him. What's next? Ximena's long-lost distant uncle is Professor Alder?
It's Señora Rivera who guides him best (begrudgingly on his part) through the Parsel in the books he has. She's not a Parselmouth, but she speaks it well. If he didn't know any better, he might think she was.
"I don't know Mongolian," she says, pointing at a passage in the book fully written in Parselscript, "But this looks like a bastardization of it. I see some Mandarin characters I recognise."
"You know Mandarin?"
"Enough to get by." There's an oddly pleased, self-satisfied smile on her face as she says this, "I think Ximena will know more than I do. Young people's brains are much better suited for learning."
Ximena is better at deciphering the book, but she gets distracted easily: going down on tangents when she's able to successfully identify a character. She does these tangents in silence, so Tom doesn't even notice she's doing it until an hour has passed without her turning a page..
"Sorry," her tone is sheepish every time, "you have more patience than our professors...by now, they would have just flunked me."
Something like rage splinters through Tom. "...I remember, back at the trial… Our professors said you were average at best. But you're not."
Ximena shrugs, says "Brilliant witches don't get constantly lost in thought" and leaves it at that. No resentment or care.
"They failed you." He says.
"Yes." Ximena shrugs again, "I guess they did."
A crow outside caws next to the open window. Tom studies the silk manuscript before them instead of continuing the conversation.
.
The book in full Parsel is frustratingly far from being decoded, but the small, more manageable entries within Corvinus Gaunt's diary are slowly revealing themselves to Tom. Or rather, they're slowly revealing themselves to Ximena, who writes her translation notes and questions for him neatly in a little black notebook. It's taken three full days for a single paragraph, but he's confident that he has the correct translation.
His fingers glide over the Parselscript, smooth and hurried. Debonair and sophisticated. This was his ancestor. His blood. His link to Salazar Slytherin. The man whomst decided that inbreeding was preferable to marrying half-bloods. Whom no doubt caused a number of Tom's ailments: his pale skin, emaciated face, weak lungs, terrible allergies… Corvinus Gaunt was a fool. Tom will not be like him.
«čæzăr.[1] » He breathes out, not stopping himself. Eyes glazing over Ximena's neat script which explained that the word meant clean. Absolute. Pure.
His companion and ex-classmate blinks at him in interest. He stands up a little straighter. Chin tilted up.
"I've never heard you speak." She stops then, perhaps wondering if she had, and had just simply forgotten, "You sound like a natural speaker."
He gulps, feeling as if someone stuffed cotton into his mouth. Wanting to share and show off. Wanting to cover up and evade, "I've never heard you speak either." He wets his lips, "We could practice together if you'd like." He needs no practice. Never has and never will. It will keep her dependent on him, however small. However brief.
"When there's time." Ximena nods, grateful for the help perhaps, but seeming hesitant on another front. Something else on her mind.
Tom prods. Gently.
"...I have some relatives coming over soon...for my birthday." Yes, it's in a few weeks. "...They're going to...Induct me into the coven."
"Ah. How traditional." The thought is somewhat pleasing, somewhat disappointing. From what he knows about covens, anyways.
"Mm." She nods, "Some would say outdated."
"Archaic?"
Another pause, "That's a new one." She smiles, something unassuming. Just the barest flash of teeth, the almost imperceptible quirk of her lips, which lingers on her face in the form of a half-smirk: the curl at the edge of her lips beckoning to him like a finger.
He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until she speaks again.
"It'll be my first time belonging."
Tom swallows a lump in his throat. "That's not true."
Ximena angles herself away from him, the smallest gesture of her shoulders, "You wouldn't...get it."
He's the only one who understands, "How many others were there like us in Slytherin?"
She presses her lips together, "Parentless?" None. Not a single other Slytherin had nothing but themselves to rely on. Tom would know. "Does that matter?"
His fingers curl in slightly, hand against the smoothness of the tabletop, listening.
"We were different from each other." She halts in her speech, "Are different. People took to you like you were..."
There's something about her voice. It feels strained or meek or...contained. A sort of vulnerability that doesn't look good on her.
I don't relate to the other Slytherins… Not like I do with you.
"...When I first arrived at Hogwarts, Katux tried to hex me in the halls on my way to Potions—Lestrange." He emphasises at the end when he sees her eyes narrow in concentration, "Said there was no room for mudbloods in Slytherin. The usual were at his back, goading him. Mulcipher, Goyle, Crabbe..." All boys who are now under his thumb. As excited as terriers to fulfill his wishes. Carry out his vision of power. "You didn't see it." Didn't see me. "No one did."
A lie. Plenty of people noticed, but so long as Slytherin continued presenting a public united front, nobody cared. Typical. Wizards are more like Muggles than they'd like to believe. "I had to earn my scales." When he had been born with them.
"You made yourself belong."
He almost flinches, because that wasn't it at all. He did belong. The others just refused to see it. That he was among peers. His people. His kind. He didn't change himself; he didn't… He wouldn't…
"I tried doing the same." A half-shrug, "I don't have that...appeal." She does. In ways different from him. "Whatever they see in you, they never saw in me."
Because they're fools. Blind idiots. He and she are akin. He knows it. Has known it from the moment he first saw her in her second-hand robes, that First Feast. She just refuses to grasp it. Take reign of it. Why?
"If they saw you now," he starts, choosing his words with care, "they might."
Ximena hums lightly in response. In thought. She knows he's right. She has to. The Ximena before him would turn heads if she were to walk through the halls of Hogwarts now. With confidence and purpose radiating off of her in waves. As mist hangs on the sea. Once more the center of attention. Eyes staring, unworthy, upon her form.
He grips his fist.
"I don't know how to feel about that." She states, her shoulders rolling, "I don't want to think about it."
A quiet moment. He wonders if he should be daring. Impulsive. "...Will your mother be there?"
"Mother?" Ximena blinks, coming back to earth, eyes squinted and brows furrowed, as if looking at a particularly vexing Arithmancy problem. Or maybe a better description would be that she looks as if she doesn't know what a mother is, and is trying desperately to remember. "I...Maybe." Uncertainty doesn't suit her, and yet she wears it so well. Eyes darting around, trying to focus. "I have to go."
Tom is left alone in the room. He stares at the space previously occupied by his ex-classmate, his fingers threaded together, searching for something to do with themselves. Mothers are a sensitive subject with the two of them, he's sure. Maybe hers is dead too. Or forgotten, like Ximena was.
Perhaps he shouldn't have asked.
His hand dips into his bag, picking out an often played with glass ball, its two hemispheres bonded by a golden ring: the same one found in his first year, in his DADA desk, probably left and abandoned by a previous class. He lets it roll on and around his fingers, watching in almost mesmerization.
"Careful with those, they break easily."
He doesn't stumble, "Señora Rivera."
"You still calling me that?"
"...Doña Inés." He corrects.
"Better." A nod, "Bothered by the new name?"
It's a sign of respect she doesn't deserve, "Just more to get used to." To say the least, "Is it your real name?"
"Clever boy." It doesn't feel altogether like praise, "I imagine Inés is easier to pronounce than the first name given to me."
Soht-chilt. Tom remembers the sound. It feels like a name too soft to belong to the woman before him, but for all he knows its meaning is more bellicose.
He acknowledges her first statement instead of continuing the conversation, holding up the little sphere, "Do you know what this is?" None of his books have anything on it, he assumed it was some sort of bauble trinket. Like the golden ball in the Princess and the Frog.
"It's a remembrall." Ximena's grandmother snorts, "Invented a few years ago. Very creative name[2]. The smoke inside turns red when you've forgotten something."
Tom blinks, "Smoke?"
She nods, "When it's clear, you've remembered what you've forgotten."
He frowns, "It's rather useless, isn't it?" He turns the glass ball in his hands, "Why bother if it doesn't tell you what you've forgotten?"
Inés tilts her head, carefully focusing her gaze onto Tom, thinking. The gesture makes her look immensely like Ximena. "That's an interesting question."
"I don't suppose you have the answer?"
The woman shrugs, "Wizards only think so far… Everything is a toy to them."
His lips press together, "They just use magic because they can, not because it's of any help."
A gleam in her eyes, perhaps approval, "That's a very dangerous thought to have."
"It's one I share with Ximena." Ximena. Not 'your granddaughter'. Because he's earned the right to her name. To use it. It's as good as his.
The gleam shifts, and maybe now it is not approval but a warning, "She knows better than to share those thoughts."
She trusts me. Well, no. Trusted, yes. Trust, maybe. Circumstantially. He hasn't yet gotten her alone enough to pry into that conversation. Really alone. Out of the house, away from her father, grandmother.
"Who would I tell?" He offers, smiling like the sweet young man he is, "A penniless orphan without brood[3] or blood?"
A lull, "You're a snake. You have plenty of both."
We Slytherins are brothers. We Slytherins welcome our own.
"You know, you do sound like a natural speaker."
Tom would still, but keeping the secret of being a Parselmouth is no crime. He's guilty of nothing. Just of having her comment on his lack of...lack of what? Accent? Just having her point it out indicates nothing. Nothing at all.
"Have you met many?" He defers, playing it save, not liking it when any of his secrets (big or small) unravel.
"Just one. Once." There's a curl at the corner of her lip just as there was on Ximena's, moments before. It invites nerves to Tom's bones. Beckoning to his suspicion like a finger. "I was a child. Barely nineteen."
Nineteen is an entire adult. Able to be drafted. To be independent. Tom's skepticism must show, because the woman laughs, "When you're my age, you'll understand… You don't know anything at nineteen, despite what you might believe in the moment."
He understands now. It's how he views himself at age eleven, twelve, and so on. Always improving himself. Always getting stronger and regretting how weak he used to be.
"What happened to the Parselspeaker?" There's at least one family in the country who shares a part of what makes him special and he wants to know if there's more.
"Left as fast as he came." She shrugs it off, "Most visitors to this house do."
Visitor. Is that what he is? Someone temporary, just passing by?
"You want to know about Ximena's mother?" Her head tilts down at him, "Don't ask questions you're not prepared to know the answers to."
.
The boys protest the sudden inclusion of Hedwig and Nemesis on their weekly Hogsmeade meetings, but Tom quiets them down easily with a look. Then promises (in private) to hold smaller meetings with just the boys, if only to shut them up and make them believe he prefers them. It's just as he suspected: the boys do not think outside of their immediate gratification and futures. The mere concept that they're wrong about something brings to them a sense of such despair that they can only take so much at a time. Sniveling infants. The orphanage would have eaten them right up and spit them right back out. They don't have what it takes to be without lineage.
Evan, thankfully, holds no such delusions on being favored over the girls. Good. Tom needs more people with intelligence around him. Even if he's a bit peeved at not having been told of Nemesis' shifting abilities much sooner. So much could have been done. What, exactly, he's not sure, but now that he knows, he will not let it go to waste.
"It's an open secret, Tom." His friend had explained, brows furrowed and half-way scowling, "All the noble blood families know… We just don't talk about it."
Yet another reminder that he's still poor and dirty in the eyes of these people, "It seems as if you all have nothing to talk about, then, with all of these taboo subjects."
The other's mouth twists as if eating something sour, "What I hide from you is not your concern. Everything you need to know is known."
But how can he know that? How can he know every little detail that's unimportant to Tom? Evan is smart, but still foolish in many ways, as with the rest of his circle. As with the rest of those in his year.
"Prove it to me." His chin lifts with his command, "Show me your mind."
Evan hesitates, breath hitching. Suddenly avoiding eye contact for obvious reasons, "You've never performed it on a wizard before-"
"I will not kill you." Tom cuts him off, "Trust me." Evan is too valuable. And he would have a difficult time hiding the body. "Why do you follow me if you do not trust me?" It's a legitimate question, one he would like answered. "The less you resist, the easier this will be." He echoes the words once said to him by a pompous Eric, "The geas will not trigger with this, correct?"
The other boy grips his right hand into a fist before releasing the tension. Clears his throat and breathes deeply, "Fine."
Tom holds his wand up to Evan's temple. Makes eye contact with dark, forest green irises. "Legilimens."
When he practiced on animals, the colors and sensations were not nearly as intense. Not nearly as bright or loud. The early morning passes by Evan's mind, his classes, his partners, his assignments. He had difficulty with the potions lesson, Tom makes a note to help him with that later. He thought about lunch and how his cousin, Ian, was fairing. A lone isle in the middle of the sea shows.
The memories shift, and Tom knows that Evan is guiding him. As well as he can. These memories are not fresh or crisp, but they're clear enough to understand what's going on. Evan is small, he is small. Looking at his own chubby hands and trying to use his magic to bring a hobby horse towards him. A small Nemesis is next to Evan, no older than three, her hair wildly changing color from pink to blue to green.
A woman (Mother, Evan's memories supply) laughs in delight at this, comparing Evan's expression with that of Elliot (Brother). Another woman (Aunt Aide) is whom Tom knows to be Nemesis' mother. She does not look as amused or pleased, but only because she is looking at Nemesis.
"Debería haber sido un niño." Aide says, contempt and resignation in her voice, "Todavía hay tiempo..."
"No seas terca." Mother replies, clicking her tongue, "Tener a tus últimas dos casi te mata. Quieres arriesgarlo otra vez?"
Evan manages to make his hobby horse twitch. He chortles in delight.
"Mi marido no tiene un heredero." She counters, ignoring how her daughter gazes at her with growing desperation, "Lo he fallado."
"A Erebus no le importa. No es como nuestros padres..."
The two women look at each other in a way foreign to Tom. Then the memory shifts, as the toddler Evan focuses more on Nemesis and her changing appearance. He laughs and demands that she turn into a goose.
Tom waxes and wanes in and out of more thoughts, bright flashing lights that are too blurry (too many) to discern. He brushes up against opinions of people, passing ideas, indulgent daydreams. His senses as he touches these things mix. The sight of a golden shell, a worn tome embellished with Rosier, the bright smell of oranges. It's overwhelming. Too much.
He dips himself into another memory. More recent, more clear. An empty classroom, one of many thanks to Grindelwald's slow rise and the quick ignition of the Muggle war. He sees Nemesis again through Evan's eyes, in his body. Feels anxiety balloon up in his chest. Frustration a clanging cymbal in his brain.
"They can't just break up your engagement like that!" Nemesis isn't just scandalized, she's offended for him—For Evan. Looking ready to march right up to his mother and demand answers.
"We did not finalize it." Evan's voice comes from his mouth, and though experiences the feel of his lips moving, of vibrations coming through his throat, it feels off to him somehow. Wrong. Like slipping into a wet bathing suit while still dry. "And therefore, it's perfectly legal."
"Well, certainly not ethical!"
Evan snorts, "My father and mother do not care about such things." And he means it.
Nemesis looks desperate, "There must be something...Something I can do to assuage her! She's my Godmother, for Circe's sake!"
He feels shock and confusion register through his system, "She's what. Since when?"
"Merlin—" Nemesis mutters, "—Since forever, Evan, why do you think I was allowed over all the time as a child?"
Evan then notices Tom in the room. And the Tom in his head almost gawks at the sight of himself through the eyes of another person. Pale, gaunt, almost sickly looking. Classically handsome, or at least slowly becoming it. Looking to be missing a few meals and in need of growth. Evan's memory is coated with acute anxiety. Tom slips out of Evan's consciousness.
Evan sputters, knocked back by the recoil, bumping back into a desk.
"You never said you used to play with Nemesis as a child." Tom comments, minorly perturbed, but unsurprised, at the memories shown.
"—I mentioned it." Evan manages, his hand on his head, disoriented and perhaps tired.
"You said your mothers were playmates." Details, details, "You never spoke to her at school before me?"
"There was no reason to." Odd. Most Purebloods seem to stick together like sap. Unable to go beyond their known circle. Did something happen?
He changes the subject, "Your old engagement?"
Evan cringes, "More of a possibility than an engagement. And now it's nothing."
Tom remembers the talk of The Pureblood Directory at the Rosier's table, a few months back. How impassioned Evan's father was that his family was finally getting recognition. That his people were finally getting justice. He hums, "You could do worse." At least his bride will have a brain.
Evan shakes his head, "You can't understand."
A few weeks ago, that might have annoyed him. The idea that he couldn't understand the struggles of the rich. Now the words empower him. "I don't need to understand to help."
The other boy snorts, crossing his arms, trying to look relaxed, "You have no power over the decisions of my parents, Tom."
Not yet. "Not alone, I don't."
Evan raises a brow.
"Evan...have you considered joining a coven?"
.
Since the first night of his return to Mexico, Tom has had more and more food appear in his dreams. They're different from the usual in that he is not starving and searching through a ruined house, a ruined London, for scraps. Not kept away from him by any sort of glass or partition. Not forbidden. Never turning to ashes in his mouth as he tries to chew and swallow. Instead, the food is freely his. Tables and tables of succulent rich dishes, too many to choose from. All of which is solely Tom's to eat. No one else's. No one but…
He thinks about his last dream of Ximena. Then he doesn't. Afraid of how it might make him react. He thinks about the other dream of Ximena. The cold fusion of their bodies into a beast that consumed and desired. He doesn't want to think about that either.
The meal he worked to make alongside Ximena and her father, he thinks about that too. Thinks about that instead. The heat of the kitchen, the smoke in his eyes, the feel of a knife in his hands. Now his food dreams are about growing. Creating. Picking grapes, plums, kumquats, and more from fertile soil. Harvesting salmon and pork and other strange things that do not grow in the earth, a sign which only proves his worth. His skill and talent.
It's all his. His to gorge on, to waste if he so wanted. But he doesn't do the latter. In the dream, he grabs the bits, the foods he has little interest in and passes it on.
Ximena is always first in these dreams. Not holding out a plate, or even really asking, but still she receives armfuls of fruits and pastries. Sweetbreads, like the kind she shared with him for his birthday.
Elle is usually second. She's fed him since his second year, and he pays back well. Elle receives her cultural dishes, every piece of bread or baked good she's made for and with him.
Hedwig or Nemesis follow, along with Evan occasionally. Hogwarts breakfast and meals that were eaten in their homes. The sweets given to him for Modranicht, for his time in the hospital.
Sometimes there are others. Katux, Dion, Abbas, Topaz. Teachers. People at Wool's. Adam. Mali. Yami. Dumbledore. Their bounties are always different. Sometimes Tom feels generous, sometimes wrathful. Petty, he admits. But rightfully so. Sometimes he gives bones and cartilage, skin and claws. Hooves. Peels of oranges and pineapples. The cores of apples and pits of peaches.
Sometimes he gives them poison. If they deserve it.
If his dreams have been different, then his magic has been too. He notices how much stronger it feels in Britain. How rejuvenated it is. Stepping into a cool room after hours in the sun. A pool after weeks without water.
And yet it's not weaker in Mexico. Just different. A sprout planted in different soil, different climate. Evolving? Or rubber-banding back and forth?
He knows who to ask, about the food, anyways, though he partly wants to keep it to himself, that's no surprise. The meal is a memory tucked into the space in his mind that holds all positive things. A minuscule space indeed. But he also wishes to know (has to know) if it could have… altered anything.
The letter to Elle is written omitting any details like location or names. She doesn't have to know that this moment was with Ximena and her father.
That's wonderful, her letter states, I can't even imagine all of the food magicks hanging in the air. How bonded the food you all cooked together made you. It's exactly what he wants to hear. Confirmation of something he already knows in his core. Soon there'll be nothing to tear himself away from…
He doesn't like Ximena. It's positively absurd. Why would a wizard as smart and as filled with such potential as he, fall prey to something as stupid as a crush? Nonsense.
[1] This would be pronounced something like chai-zahr. Traditional Mongol, which used to use the Uighur alphabet, doesn't have Unicode or anything, so I have to use the Latin alphabet.
[2]In Spanish, a rememberall is recoradora, which is even less original.
[3]Brood in this made-up context means kin or family. It sounds nice so I'm appropriating the English language to do my bidding. No, you can't stop me.
"Rivera is a surname of Spanish and Italian origin which was the old spelling of ribera, the Spanish word for "riverbank"", it's featured in Chapter 13: Righteous/Wicked, in the list of last names dream Ximena has written in the diary. That one was a little more subtle: the groups of surnames are all in threes except for the one Rivera is in.
Then, in Chapter 39: I lost you (Part I), Ximena mentioned the first name of Señora Rivera after her father took an interest in it. It was not a Spanish name, so Tom couldn't identify it well, only getting a loose pronunciation, "soht-chilt". The name is Xóchitl, and it means flower in Nahuatl, but that would have been too easy (thinking back to the end of Chapter 16: Static).
TBH y'all should have seen this coming, but with how long this fic is, I don't blame you if you didn't.
I wanted to include the reveal of Señora Rivera at the end of chapter 43, but I felt it better to include it here instead…
Also a correction: In Chp. 43, I mentioned that Tom's last day in Mexico was the night he met Ximena's grandmother, forgetting that I previously established Easter Holiday as a two-week period. Whoops!
HUGE thanks to Jac for reading over this chapter and giving edits/suggestions, you're a fabulous person. Without you, this chapter would be even more of a trainwreck.
A thank you to theaspiringcynic who's been leaving a review/comment for every chapter of this fic since I started posting to :( That motivation is keeping me going tbh… I'd appreciate even a lil 'i liked it':( sobs. What can I bribe y'all with this time… Maybe a lil Grishaverse au chapter in LMR? I recently got done reading all the main books in the three series/duologies and I'm really taken with them.