Mexico is not much changed, but Ximena is.
He sees it physically: the malnourishment on her body is all but gone. There's proper definition in the muscles of her arms: shown bare for the sun to touch. Too big a change to have happened naturally in only a few weeks.
He wonders how different she would look back at Hogwarts now. He wonders how different her magic would be if he reached out and touched it.
The magic of the Basilisk was something strange, but in it, he recognized something of his own: a touch of Salazar's magic preserved within the body of the giant serpent. A relic of his ancestry. Does Ximena's entry into her family's coven give her touches of her own predecessors? Or is it all blended together? Unable to tell from whom the magic came from originally?
He hopes not. Having Ximena's magic polluted would be a terrible waste.
She does not greet him as she does others: no hug or kiss on the cheek. She respects his dislike of touch and does not even reach out for a handshake. There's no need to. No need for such arbitrary actions.
The air between them feels excess. Unnecessary. He clears his throat.
"Your grandmother seems in high spirits." The woman is directing men around the front yard. She smiles and tells them where to place large potted plants and tables. As if she couldn't just wave a wand and do it herself in only a fraction of the time. Tom guesses that she just gets a kick out of ordering others.
"Her boyfriend is coming over." Ximena sticks out her tongue, in disgust or mockery. "He's going to give me another tattoo."
He almost stumbles in his step, "What?"
"Her boyfriend." She yawns.
"No, I meant...A tattoo?" The thought is almost making him gawk. Those are for criminals and perhaps occasionally sailors or Muggles in freakshows. On Ximena? On her skin? How would that look—? "You said another?"
"Oh. Yes." Ximena turns her head to show him her back, lifting her short hair to reveal a large eye at the nape of her neck the size of a tangerine. Its iris detailed with spokes, pupil dark and fixated on him. Moving. There are small runes around the outline he cannot quite make out. The sight of it makes goose pimples erupt on his skin. "It's for protection. My dad has one just like it."
He knows. He remembers seeing it. "And your...Grandmother's boyfriend gave that to you?"
"He's good with things like this. Studied a lot of ancient magic."
Tom wonders if he might be allowed to study the glyphs on her back. "So this will be your second one?"
"Third. I got another one on my birthday when I was introduced to the coven." There's no worry on her face, only streamlined joy. Assurance and confidence that fit her like a glove. "That one you can't see...But you might be able to see this next one."
How ominous. But that's nothing new. "Personal?"
"In the blood." She completes the phrase as if she remembered it. "Dad's looking for you."
Somehow dad is too crass a word for her. He expected to always hear father come out of her mouth. "Am I in trouble?"
"Maybe."
Tom finds himself happy to see Balam, oddly enough, and tries not to think too hard about why that might be. After all, it's obvious, isn't it? He's a good teacher who takes him seriously and is a major reason he's avoiding the war back in Europe. There's no deeper meaning there.
The house feels busy, both in watching its occupants run around completing errands and in the wards and magic that threads its walls: he can sense the smallest of vibrations just by running his hand along the wall. Just by standing barefooting in his room, unpacking his things. Placing them in the house. It feels excited. Alive. As the walls of Hogwarts do.
A lot of people have lived in this house. Balam had told him that. A lot of people have lived in Hogwarts too. But surely the school has been around for longer. Has housed thousands more—
"Come." Balam's voice cuts through his train of thought, he is rushing him, his patience even, "We have a lot to do before the end of the month."
His teacher walks through the lesson plan for the weeks that Tom plans to stay in Mexico: exercises for his magical core, readings to complete, and gathering ingredients. Tom notes that the older man is now allowing him to do more and more by himself rather than by escort, and the thought brings him great pleasure. He is almost an adult by magical standards, it's only natural.
Still, even with being almost of age, the man does not let him walk through the woods surrounding the house alone. Tom has always been guided through it, either by Balam or Ximena. Never mentioning why it was so dangerous.
"...which leaves the end of your stay here free." The way his mentor ends the sentence makes Tom think there's something more. Something on his teacher's mind.
"Was there something you wanted me to do?"
A nod, "Keep an eye on my daughter: there's an upcoming wrestling match she wants to see in the capital. Could you escort her?"
"You believe her to be in need of supervision?" It's meant to come off as a jest, but the look on Balam's face is curiously serious. And irritated.
"Yes." Balam scours for a cigarette on his person in search for something to do with his hands. "I'd do it myself, but I have business."
There's a moment where Tom opens his mouth to ask over Ximena's grandmother or one of her cousins escorting her, but he shuts it quickly. "Of course."
"On your way back, you can collect a package for me, as well."
"So I'm your errand boy?"
"All apprentices are." The man finds a cigarette in the pockets of his trousers, and lights it quickly, "But my errands have purpose: you're meeting new people and experiencing deals and contracts. Or, well, witnessing them. Which is just as good." A quick puff, "Learning how to deal with people is important. They can make a difference of getting the right ingredient now or waiting another six months."
Amazing how much Balam reminds Tom of Slughorn right now. "You're manipulating them?"
"That's a grim way of seeing it." It's an honest way of seeing it. "I suppose, for lack of a better word."
He asks if Tom is excited to be going into his fifth year and if he thinks he'll make prefect. Usually, the small talk would bore him to tears, but instead, he finds himself content with sharing his expectations for the future. The abridged, censored version, of course.
The basilisk was not returned to her hibernation. Instead, Tom released her out of the pipes into the lake and beyond to the Forbidden Forest: where she would be able to hunt proper game for the first time in centuries. Upon seeing the night sky, the Basilisk had remarked (lamented!) on her inability to weep before slithering away into the edge of the water.
It's better for her to begin regaining her strength. Never mind that he doesn't know the proper spell to return her to her slumber.
If he asks Balam about basilisks, would he suspect? No. There's no way.
"We're studying transfigurations that occur naturally in nature."
"An oxymoron if there ever was one."
Tom hums in agreement, "And I was wondering if you had ever encountered a basilisk?"
Balam presses his lips into a thin line, "Not as an adult. When I was very small. My first teacher deals in trade and breeding of magical creatures, and he had a basilisk egg on his person."
"Didn't care for the international ban against them?"
"Things are different here." Now, where has Tom heard that before? "Serpents are heavy in our culture, you can't just erase that sort of importance because some wizards are too incompetent to handle a creature."
Tom's seen the serpentine imagery around Mexico and the distinctly not Mexico parts of his time with Balam: snakes with women, vipers with feathers, serpents shedding their skin and being reborn. It had never really caught his attention (what use are pictures to him?) until now.
"What was he going to do with the egg?"
Balam shrugs, "Cook it, probably."
Despite himself, Tom chuckles, "He'd eat something so sacred?"
"Catholics regularly consume the body and blood of Christ."
Touché. "But that's metaphorical, despite what the church says."
"Doesn't make it any less odd."
Tom tilts his head, "I thought your family was catholic."
His teacher waves his hand, dismissing the idea or belittling it, "It's...different for us. The way we view the religion." Yes yes, every little thing is so different. So outside Tom's scope of understanding. "Besides, as we know it best, who better to point out the vulgarities?"
Tom's mind wanders towards Ximena and her time in the abbey. What critiques does she have of the organization, what stories must she hold?
"Is that the requirement for pointing out hypocrisies? Being Catholic? Whenever I did it as a child, I was paddled. How unfair."
"There's still time to convert."
He'd rather cut his tongue in half.
Balam asks about his plans outside of Mexico for the summer.
"I'm invited to several parties, actually." Some birthday, some engagement, some for apparently no other reason than to socialize. He suspects the purebloods have their own social season and are trying to use him as an accessory in their balls.
"How stiff." Balam comments, gesturing with his hand, "You'd fit right into that sort of environment."
He does. It's an easy persona to slip on at this point. To pretend to want all of the same things as his pureblood contemporaries. To promise them these things. "Are you implying something?"
A snort, "My mother tells me you need to relax more, and I agree. If you tried to stretch out your back, it would sound like firecrackers going off."
Tom gives a little hmph, not truly offended, but truly confused. "I have nothing to be stressed about, I can't imagine why you both think that."
Balam brushes the comment away, "So you say."
.
Tom finally has the freedom to roam. He'd have to be escorted through the forest, but he can go where he likes. Visit places he's been meaning to. Finally open up his Gringotts account properly. Browse shops that dabble in darker curiosities...
"Nemesis, do you remember the little knight you got me for my first Modranicht?"
"Yes?"
"By chance, might you remember where it was purchased?"
"Oh," she blinks, "goodness, it was so long ago… There's this enchanted little shop in Bavaria that sells all sorts of magical toys and trinkets… It's also where I get my stationery. Custom, you know. I can give you the address if you'd like."
It's silly, just how much a little knight can inspire. When they write about him in history books, will they mention that tidbit? Or will he force them to omit it? To foster the rumor that he is eternal. Was never a child. Never born, but always was.
Tom tucks the thought away as he enters the house alone.
Inés is curled up happily on the small sofa in the living room. She's speaking with (giggling with, really) a tall man about her age with straight, ebony black hair and a deep, pleasing voice. He has his magic open and vulnerable, which would usually be an alert to Tom that the warlock in question was an idiot and therefore not a threat. But when he reads the magic in question, he pauses. It's...different. Like his or Ximena, it has a color and temperature, but unlike theirs, it has...It has...Context? That's the first word that comes to mind, but it may be the wrong one. The man's magical signature feels like it has a history of its own, outside of being bound or produced by him. It is much more similar to the magical essences of the magical creatures he's encountered. The houselves, the goblins, the ents. The basilisk.
This man has creature blood. He's sure of it. The display of magic isn't because he's too stupid to hide but because he wants others to know he's a threat.
When he turns around, he reveals a deeply masculine and charming face: sharp, clean-shaven jaw with high cheekbones. A slightly crooked nose, round at the tip, and long eyelashes over tired, golden eyes. He's dressed to the nines, he has money.
"Tomás," Inés sounds happy to be interrupted, which is his first clue in knowing she's up to no good, "you have spectacular timing: come, meet my dear friend," The woman looks younger, somehow, in her joy.
Her dear friend stands up and gives him a once-over before extending his hand to him, "Wáng Zǐmò[1]."
The name rings a bell—Several bells, actually. They clang and ring in his head as he retains his composure on the outside, "I've read your books." He shakes his hand. When Tom touches the other's magic, his stills. It doesn't know what to do. It doesn't know if this man is a potential threat or not. He hates it.
"You read that nonsense?" Inés chimes in, smirking at the man as if she didn't have his books in her library.
Tom quite literally couldn't put them down. He read several in one sitting, "I found them fascinating." More so now that he has the author here. In this house, of all houses. Inés gives a little guffaw, though Tom fails to see what's so amusing about the situation, she has a certified genius in her home. "I didn't think I'd meet you here."
The professor smiles, "I'm quite taken with Mexico. She has much to offer," he glances at Inés and winks. She kicks him on his bottom from her seat.
"—I understand." Or something like it, "I apologise if this is rude but, I thought that Zǐmò Wáng was just a pen name for you."
"Right, it is." He nods once, moving his hands into the pockets of his tailored pants, "I've grown out of the habit of telling wizards my true name." A head gesture back to Inés, "Influence from the missus." She snorts.
"Never tell anyone your name or birthdate if you don't want them to control you." She explains when she sees Tom's questioning look, "You know how Inés is barely the start of my name? You think that Balam and Ximena's names are their own?"
"They're not?"
"Well, not wholly." Her hands reach out to her beau to bring him closer to her, "Just a part. Hidden like the moon." She winks as if she had given him an obvious clue, "Now go find my granddaughter, we're going to be adults in here for a few hours." Disgusting.
Tom pauses at the red door, hand on the knob, thinking. The two are back in the parlor chatting and giggling in a way that would make anyone believe they were teenagers. He's not sure if he feels nauseated or something else.
He opens it, and his ears are filled with the sound of rain. Her room is bathed in a cool, dull light. The air is chilled. She is bundled up under several blankets and stuffed animals atop her bed in the little nook, gazing out the window at the blue rain tap tap tapping against her window. Gazing into a whole other world than the one she resides in, he's sure. Ximena sits so placidly, she looks like a still life. A Muggle painting of a woman about her day. He doesn't realize he's staring until she speaks up about it.
"Am I really that interesting? Shut the door."
He does.
Ximena's room looks like it did when he first mistakenly entered it a year ago, but not. The pastel lights that decorated her space are still there, but not ignited. Her walls are a saturated green-grey that reminds him of olives, with dried bouquets and herbs hanging from exposed rafters, as well as a few colorful, floral tapestries hung here and there. It no longer feels dark and infinite, but bright and enclosed. The foot of the bed faces a small library at the end of the room with a desk perpendicular to it. Between the two, on the wall, is a long mirror. Around the corner from that nook, to Tom's immediate left, is another door, shut. It is a good space.
He sits on her bed.
"...Is Ximena your real name?"
"That's a strange question."
It is. He's known her as Ximena for years. To think of her with any other name is wrong. "I was speaking with your grandmother."
"I warned you about that."
A small chuckle, but he's not amused, "Well she warned against giving out your full name to other wizards."
"Yes. It's the first lesson she taught me."
"As your grandmother or as your guardian?"
She hums, her hand reaching for an old stuffed toy at her feet, "The latter. I thought it was a strange lesson because I didn't know my full name at the time, but I followed it anyway."
He nods; Lane never felt right at the end of her name, "What is your full name?"
"Nice try."
"You really think I'd try to control you?"
"Without question."
She really does know him well.
"I'm not allowed a hint?"
"It doesn't start with X."
Despite himself, he smirks, "You're feeling cheeky today."
"I guess. Where is everyone?"
"Busy."
"My father?"
"Still out on an errand."
"And my grandmother?"
"...Downstairs with her boyfriend."
Ximena snorts, "They're disgusting. They have no shame."
"You didn't tell me he was Wáng Zǐmò."
"Should I have?"
"He's a warlock at the top of his field—I've read all his books."
"Oh, that." A little yawn, "Nana wants him to tutor me."
She what.
"That's remarkable." He licks his lips, mind going kilometers a second, "How does she know him?"
A little shrug, "Don't know. They met years ago, I assume. I don't ask about it in case they get romantic in the middle of the explanation."
"Aren't women supposed to be fond of romance?"
"You're lucky I'm fond of you, or else I'd have kicked you off of my bed just now."
He offers a laugh, pupils dilating, "You're fond of me?"
"You brought me be back to my father." She states very matter-of-factly. "How could I not?"
He can think of several reasons why, but he does not voice them because he is not an idiot. After all, isn't fondness what he wanted from her? Yes but no. It isn't enough. Not nearly. "Wáng is going to give you a magically inscribed tattoo...Do you know what it is?"
"I'm supposed to...But I forgot."
He supposes some things never change, "It doesn't worry you that he might put something on you that shouldn't be there?"
Ximena shakes her head, "Nana trusts him, and I do too… He's tattooed my dad when he was young, so it feels right to have the same done to me. Like a tradition, almost."
The same marks and rituals done to one's father put on your own body. It makes him wonder. "How old is your grandmother?"
"She doesn't like me telling people." Ximena sniffs, stifling a yawn, "If she knows I told you, she'll pull my ears."
"You've faced more fearsome things than having your ears pulled."
"My Nana is more fearsome than the Wizengamot and Ian Rosier."
Don't touch him don't touch him don't touch him…
"Perhaps." He doubts it. "But I am merely curious...She looks so young."
"A lot of older witches look younger than they are. Merrythought is almost a hundred."
"—What?"
Ximena snorts. "See? Nothing special about it."
"But she taught Dumbledore. They look the same age."
"Stress? He's had a hard life...At least, if you listen to the rumors."
As a general rule, Tom does not listen to rumors. They're a waste of time. But here and there he has heard bits about Dumbledore's past and his involvement with Grindelwald. Something about them growing up together? "I think there's more to it."
Another shrug, "I'm sure some witches have their anti-aging secrets." She finally looks away from the window at him, "If you're brave enough, you can ask some of my aunts."
If they're anything like Inés, he'll have to be brave. He's past the age where such questions are seen as cute. "Will I meet them soon?"
"Yes." No explanation. Figures.
He prods, "Is there another induction into the coven?"
A shake of her head, "All my cousins are too young, we're celebrating my Titi's birthday."
That's a new name for him. When he tilts his head and asks pardon, Ximena elaborates, "My grandmother's grandmother. Don't ask how old she is, she's very sensitive."
"She's still alive?"
"Barely." To anyone else, this comment would seem insensitive, but from Ximena, it's simply honest, "I get the feeling she doesn't want to be...She's tired."
The thought of being near someone of such an age is...discomforting. Someone grown so old that they're tired of living? He can't wrap his head around it. "I'm looking forward to it."
Ximena blinks, "Oh. You shouldn't be. She'll hate you."
He sputters out a cough. "—May I ask why?"
"She hates Europeans." She yawns, "Bad memories—Don't worry, I won't let her bully you."
Don't touch him don't touch him don't touch him.
"My hero."
.
In the morning, he wakes up with acne erupting over his forehead and cheeks: an event becoming more and more usual by the month. It's annoying having to experience the awful trials of young adulthood. Having a constant reminder on his face that he is only human. That common things happen to him.
He rubs tepezcohuite[3] cream over his skin, handmade from Balam's lab due to Tom's constant need to sunburn. The man called it a gift, but Tom keeps note of every little thing given to him during his time here: he will not be indebted. Even if he ended up being the reason his teacher and Ximena were reunited. He knows better than that.
The inflamed skin calms, and Tom disillusions the rest. He dresses for the day.
The lessons with Balam are beginning to feel like they're what Dumbledore wanted their tea sessions to be like. In other words: Tom feels wholly comfortable around his teacher, something which Dumbledore was just never able to achieve. How could he have?
Still, it doesn't mean that Tom's time with Balam is always wonderful. Sometimes, particularly right now, it feels a bit like being lectured about morals in Sunday school, though less tedious. Or perhaps less hypocritical. Morals are fine and dandy so long as they do not impede Tom, but the way Balam talks about them is less about what not to do and more about what the consequences are for breaking certain laws of magic. Infinitely more helpful. Especially when the price is something as grave as death.
"Alterations to things that are nature made, as in the way of transfiguration, are fine because they are temporary. But you'll find that an object that's been turned into something it's not for a long time becomes distorted the longer the enchantment goes on. It's not natural."
That makes sense. Although he supposes that if a wizard were powerful enough, the enchantment would stay true to form. "And if the item is man-made?"
"Supposedly there's no distortion, but…" A shrug, "All things come from the earth, processed or no… I think it just takes a longer time."
Suddenly, the idea of asking about Ximena's bracelet comes to mind. Tom stays quiet.
"But if it's transfigured by hand, without magic?"
It makes it special, doesn't it?
It's somewhat of a shattering concept: the idea that magic isn't perfect. But he's sure he'll find a solution.
Balam asks him how his magic is. If it's still different when he relocates outside of Britain, and Tom explains what Hedwig told him about ancestral lands and connections.
"It's not the most ridiculous sounding thing." Balam mulls the concept over in his head, "Your classmate, she's a reliable source of information?"
"On these topics? Yes." Hedwig is still full of her own prejudices to be a source of valid info regarding, well anything outside of academia.
Rather than replying, Balam moves towards one of the infinitely tall shelves in the library, running his fingers over the spines of the books in a manner mirroring his daughter. Tom recognizes that look on his face. Gently furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, a bitten bottom lip. It's ridiculous that he didn't notice it before his discovery of the room: just how strongly genetics ties the habits of two witches together. It makes Tom wonder what faces or habits he took from his own parents.
You've seen him: my son. My darling. I died for him. Look how beautiful he is, the most holy of all creatures[2].
The sudden dialogue in his head seizes him by the throat and leaves him frozen in horrifying terror. His fingers curl in and his back stiffens as his shoulders tremble. What was that? Where did that memory come from? Why has it rendered him weak and cowering—
He can hear Balam's voice, behind some shelves, but his brain cannot process it. Cannot turn the sounds into information. He needs to stop, he needs to pull himself together because he cannot be like this in front of his teacher, in front of anyone. They would ask what was wrong and what would he tell them? What could he tell them?
Balam rounds a corner holding a fabric-bound book with a faded mauve color. Tom is sitting upright with his hands folded on the table before him, calm as the surface of water.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
.
The capital is a hot, swarming anthill with people festering and cars rushing, and Tom does not like it one bit. The lights are as bright as London, bleeding out the stars from the sky so that only the moon is visible. Unnatural. So unlike his home.
He stays close to Ximena like an anchor and disgusts in the strangers brushing up against him inside the stadium. Thinks briefly about reaching out and grasping her hand to keep from being separated. How could she possibly be so at peace here? She despises crowds of people (as does he). Is it because they're not focused on her?
They settle close to the ring, at a point that he knows they're sneaking in because being this close could have only cost a fortune. And while Ximena and her family are not lacking, they are certainly not rich. It reminds him of when he used to sneak into movie theatres as a child. And he likes it. Something more that connects him to her.
He wonders if he could take her to a movie later.
The crowd is cheering for the silver-masked man. Chanting Saint Saint Saint[4] over and over. Making him feel, unseasonably, like he was inside a church.
"Cast a sound charm." Ximena's voice rings clear, despite the noise. He raises a brow. Was she watching him? "They can't persecute you overseas...The trace doesn't work that far."
You don't say? "Balam neglected to tell me that." Still, he hesitates.
"Don't tell him I told you...He just wants to keep you out of trouble." Just the thought of that concept is odd. As if Tom were worth something to Balam outside of a debt to Dumbledore. "Go ahead. Try it."
No eyes are on them, but rather on the ring before them. Under the cover of his coat, Tom flicks his wand delicately and creates a bubble of lowered volume around him and his companion. He relaxes.
"Crowds still make me nervous, so I use magic like this all the time."
"With your wand?"
Her shoulders rise into her ears, arms close in on herself, "I don't like to use it."
He clears his throat, familiar with her tone, and changes the subject, "I didn't think you were the type to enjoy such violence." Not exactly. He remembers how closely she watched the duels back at Hogwarts, studying them eagerly as if doing so would guarantee a long and healthy life. It was participating that Ximena never liked.
"It's not about the violence, it's about the people. I like watching the wrestlers." The red-masked one is flung into the corner post, blood pooling between his bottom gums and lip. "There's a lot of passion...don't you think?"
Tom looks at the two men in the ring, bloodied and dripping with sweat. Their rounded muscles twitching. They look like heaving animals to him. "It's very...dramatic. The announcer, the costumes, the masks. It doesn't feel real. It feels fake. A performance."
He feels Ximena's gaze on him. He meets it. "Of course it's a performance, but that doesn't mean it's fake."
The Saint pins down his opponent in Tom's periphery. "Oh?"
"It's…" Her eye goes to the upper left corner as her brain thinks up what she's going to say, "It's them. But amplified… The luchadores, they don't put on a mask to hide themselves or their identity… But rather to become their identity[5]."
He watches her hands as she speaks: they weave together and disentangle themselves over and over.
"Who they are with the mask...It's who they choose to be. They don't need to be anyone else, and when that identity is pulled off, they cast it aside."
The silver-masked man unthreads the ties of the red-masked man's identity as she talks. He rips it off triumphantly, displaying it to the riotous crowd as if it were the head of his enemy. The man formally in the red mask looks...normal. Beaten up and normal. Plain. Nothing special about him.
"I love El Santo, he always does a good job." She hums, "But Gory Guerrero is still my favorite. I hope they do a tag team one day."
On the way back, Ximena buys a silver mask just like the one El Santo was wearing.
.
The role of women in Tom's head is to protect. To serve the hearth and home. To ward. This is because this is what wizards tell him is proper and right. Traditional and deeply sacred. An honor to hold. And incredibly widespread, regardless of class, nationality, or blood status.
Tom sees women all throughout the house during all hours of the day. In the early mornings when mist hangs on the ground and the late evenings when he wakes up for a drink of cold well water from the earthenware jug in the kitchen. Aunts and cousins and family friends of his former housemate, the formers' magic feeling woven from the same thread as Ximena's, just in different patterns and combinations. He can feel it in their auras, in the walls of the house he sleeps in. Balam, and now Wáng, are the only men he's seen within the building, and the latter's presence isn't even consistent. At least the women have a sort of routine. Times where Tom is most likely to see them.
Most of the time they do not acknowledge him, being in the middle of their own reading, conversation, or disassociation. But every once in a while, they look at him and seem to recognise him. Balam's student. Apprentice. The white boy living in the house. The presence whose appearance resembles that of a ghost (one of the women, a cousin of Ximena's, shrieked at the sight of him standing in the hallway in the middle of the night).
Whether passive or assertive, none of the women caught Tom's attention or ire. Their faces barely taking up residency in his head beyond keeping track of who he hasn't met and whose names he knows. Who's told him stories about Ximena and who has kept their happy little distance from him.
But this encounter is different.
Long sable hair cascading down like deep-sea tentacles, a fine, aristocratic face on toasted skin. Objectively beautiful. The stranger speaks lowly with Inés, maintaining eye contact with a soft smile on her face. When he takes a breath, she hears him and turns to greet Tom.
Acute and sharp, the fear enters his body like a chill. He looks into the eyes of this woman and sees nothing. Emptiness. A void. Her magic is different, he can feel it wisping around without intention or element, and for fuck's sake, he wants it as far away from him as possible.
Don't touch him don't touch him don't touch him
The woman smiles, and for a moment, he is somehow reminded of his mother.
"Tomás," Inés begins, just noticing he was in the room, "we have company; introduce yourself."
Mouth open, nothing comes out. His throat clears, and he starts again, a very nervous hand outstretched, "Tom Riddle."
The laughter on the woman is harmless. Warm. Tom hates it instinctively, "I know." She says.
I know. He believes her. If this woman had told him she had known him his whole life, he would have believed her. If she had told him that she had picked him up from the ground as a seedling and planted him to full growth, he would have believed her. Wholeheartedly.
"Ximena Paz." Her hand touches his, and it takes all his willpower to not immediately retract his hand back to the safety of his pocket. Every cell in his body is screaming at him to run. Instead, he lets himself be bemused at the woman's name.
"My granddaughter's eponym." Inés notes the confusion on his face, "Sort of."
The company laughs again, "Paz is fine if you get confused."
He will not. Paz is nothing like her namesake: Ximena's magic is a pleasant, powerful buzz. Flowing like water, cold like distant comets. Its color is cool. Like the forest surrounding her home. When he reaches out to touch it, accidentally brush by it, it lingers, humming like electricity in his soul.
"I think Ximena was looking for you, Tomás, she's in her room."
The room of his former housemate is becoming more and more familiar to him. The way the books are organized and the way her bedspread lies underneath her. How many pillows are on her bed (thirteen) and the type of knickknacks left on her desk (wooden).
She doesn't acknowledge him. He clears his throat to announce his arrival.
"Where's Wáng?"
"Around...Or not. Sometimes he leaves without warning. There's always something happening somewhere that he wants to see for himself… But he always comes back. It's what I like about him."
There's something immensely personal about what she just confided in him. He does not know how to approach it. Instead, Tom clears his throat, "...That woman, outside—"
"She's my godmother." Ximena sniffs, rubbing her nose, "There's a photo of her holding me as a baby in the living room." There are a lot of photos featuring Ximena in the parlor, he hasn't had the chance to look at all of them. "She's really nice."
Tom presses his lips together and wonders if he should share just how...discomforting it was to be in the same room as that woman. Hell, even just knowing they were in the same building was causing him to...
"You don't like her?" Shit. "She's like that. People either love her or hate her. Hardly an in-between." She pulls a grey stuffed animal that looks handmade closer to her, "But she's still nice to everyone. I like that about her."
There's nothing Tom wants more than to stop talking about her. "Very Hufflepuff of her. Reminds me of Elle."
Ximena hums, "Have you heard from her recently?"
"Yes," one of her more positive-sounding letters, "It's a bit of a whiplash compared to how my usual circle talks about marriage."
"I bet." She yawns, "Marrying for love is becoming more common with them, though."
"With exceptions." Lest he forgets the fate of his closest three. "I don't see what the fuss is all about."
"You don't want to be married?"
"Whatever for?" Sure, he could benefit from the dowry, influence, or inheritance of a rich witch, but at what cost? "I am better alone." He's sure she understands.
Another hum, softer this time as she gazes out the window, "I would have thought otherwise, from you."
His throat is suddenly dry. "Explain." His voice almost squeaks.
"I don't know, you're just very traditional." A shrug, "You seem like the type to want to marry before living with someone. Or to ask a father's permission before walking out."
Well, that's just called doing things right. "I can believe those things are proper and still not desire marriage."
She smiles, just barely detectable. "I guess." It almost feels like she's disagreeing for fun. As she was when they walked back to the house from the salon. "I just thought…"
He's hanging on her words, unsure why. "You thought?"
She threads and twists and plays with her hands, "You always seemed worried over the...allegiance of your friends in Slytherin."
Tom does not know where she is going with this, but he waits for her to go on.
"So I would think, then, that something as committed as marriage, where you're legally and spiritually bonded…" Another shrug, another yawn. "But maybe it makes sense. You can only marry one person at a time, after all."
Somehow the thought that Ximena ever observed or remembered enough about him to draw that conclusion makes him stand up a little straighter. Brush his growing hair behind his ear. "You're not wrong." She rarely is. "It's not as if I could make them swear a vow of fealty to me when they're so attached to their families." Unless it is to his coven.
"I'm sure you'd find a way."
It almost warms his heart to know she believes that. He stares at her, then, for a minute. Two minutes. Maybe more. The two of them in silence. He wonders if she's forgotten he's there.
Eventually, finished with looking outside the window, she wiggles down onto her side facing him, laying down on her bed, the little stuffed animal sandwiched between her arms.
Not thinking, perhaps possessed, he walks over to her bed and raises the corner of the blanket. He slips underneath alongside her and rests on his side, curling up, facing Ximena.
"Why did you do that?" She asks, sleepiness lacing her voice.
"Because I wanted to." He replies, finding that as he said it, it was the truth.
"Hm." Ximena readjusts herself on her side. Tom can feel her warm breath on his arm, and despite the heat, it raises gooseskin. She's so close and yet he feels no disgust. He wets his lips and speaks.
"You've changed, you know."
"Since we were children? I should hope so. Though, I suppose, we still are children."
That talk again. Fair, "I hear your voice more often. Your thoughts. I like it."
"My thoughts aren't any different from others."
"They're very different. Even back when we were eleven and twelve, I could see it. You talked about things I never heard from the mouths of other girls. You weren't like them."
"What's what supposed to mean?"
He blinks.
"What's wrong with other girls?"
Her tone isn't angry, but she's looking directly at him, and he feels frozen in the line of sight of her beetle black eyes.
"Don't compliment me by putting down other girls."
He wonders if he should move away, but Ximena makes no gesture telling him to leave.
"You're so stupid sometimes."
.
After that, Ximena is not distant, but she is quieter. Usually, he would not be so self-centered as to think it had anything to do with him, but the idea is constantly repeating itself over in his head, and he wonders if he somehow ruined something between them. Or if she's just temporarily irritated with him. Or if it's nothing. After all, it's only been a day. There's always the chance he is simply imagining it.
But he's probably not.
She admitted a fondness for him. For reuniting her with her father (perhaps for the old childhood friendship they held?). That's not just something she can throw away. No. She cannot be rid of him so easily. Not when she's so aligned with him. Intertwined with him. He wouldn't allow it.
His thoughts are interrupted by the singing squawk of a bird. A bright bird; one delightfully saturated in vivid oranges and reds descends from the sky before them, looking so shining, Tom almost averts his eyes. In the bird's talons: a package. For a moment he believes it to be from Dumbledore, as the bird greatly resembles the one that perches around in his office, but Tom happens to know for a fact that Dumbledore does not send out his Phoenix for deliveries.
Ximena stares at the bird, at first appearing to be in some sort of stand-off with it, before breaking out of her daze and offering it a treat in exchange for the small box. It flies off soon after, unfortunately dropping no feathers for him to pillage.
"...It's for Nana." Ximena reads the markings on the box quickly, despite them looking like nothing but wild strokes to Tom, "It's from her boyfriend."
Wáng. Tom perks up, suddenly enraptured by the simple brown package tied up on Ximena's hands, "I'll hand it to her."
She doesn't question it, as expected, and hands it off to him before wandering away towards the edge of the clearing without another word. He watches her, for a small while, before heading inside.
Señora Rivera (he still slips once in a while) sits on the large leather armchair with muslin embellishments on the arms, looking every bit like a regal witch on her throne, giving audience to her subjects. Or a criminal. The way she looks at Tom is curious. Like she's waiting for him to do something, like a trick or a flip in the air.
"Didn't you just leave?"
He ignores this, irritated from Ximena's treatment, "—You have a package, Doña Inés."
"From whom?"
Still, he tries for humor: his perfect facade without a crack. "—Ximena referred to him as your boyfriend."
A snort, "Brat."
"Is it more serious, then? Oh, not that I mean to intrude, it's just that—" He gives just the right amount of pause, turning the small parcel over in his hands, "Looking at how you two interact, it makes me curious."
"A-huh." Her fingers slide out from under her chin, "Do you need me to give you The Talk?"
Befuddled, he makes sure to look sheepish, though he needs little help in that. He hasn't met a witch this damn blunt since Hedwig, "No, I—" He clears his throat, opting to change the subject, "He's a professor, right? Of immortality."
Inés nods once, "Among other things. A leading expert, if his books are to be believed." She smiles, taking pleasure in teasing her significant other, even when he's not in the room, "He wanted an interview with my mother if I remember correctly."
Asking her age—How old she was, is out of the question. Tom is smart enough to know that. More than enough, actually.
"It must have been a few years after Balam was born."
"His father wasn't around?"
"Oh no, of course not, Balam has no father." Spoken as if he were dead to her. "They're not very fond of us, mortals."
Tom tilts his head, "Mortals?" Muggles have shorter lifespans, but to call them that is very old-fashioned. So like the purebloods of yore.
Inés throws her hand out, shooing the word away, "Don't take it that way, Muggle is just such an ugly word. I know everyone must one day die. Hopefully. Especially us."
He's not sure just how he's supposed to take what she said the right way, but— "Must they?"
She looks sympathetic, "Not very fond of death?"
"Nothing is worse than death."
Her head shoots back sharply and immediately, her mouth lets out a howling cackle. A laugh so full of mirth and genuine amusement, that he sits in shock for a moment. Then he feels embarrassed. Flushed. On the spot. Angry at her blatant disregard of his views, his fears. He sees tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and he refrains from huffing like a child. Her fingers wipe away at her eyes as her laughter dies down to just giggles.
"You're stupid. I like that in a man."
Tom blinks.
"I will allow you to pursue my granddaughter."
His mouth opens to protest—That's not what their talk was about, right?—But she silences him before he can speak with a raised palm, "You are dismissed."
Tom leaves the parcel on the table.
[1] Wáng is the writer of the Yi Jing translation that Tom read: the one that introduced him to the ouroboros. Wáng means King and Zǐmò means Refined Ink. As a side note, his character was meant to be included in the story from the very beginning, but I have since ceased contact with his creator, so his role will be much smaller, and more of a homage to the friendship we once had. If you ever read this: I hope you are well.
[2] From Tom's dream at the end of Chapter 40: I lost you (Part II)
[3] This is what I use to get rid of my acne, lol. It's a miracle cream. Unsure if it could be used for sunburn, but Balam is magic so ~artistic license~
[4] El Santo is Mexico's most popular masked wrestler. He debuted in Mexico City in 1942.
[5] Pretty much completely lifted straight off of a t-shirt I brought from J. Gonzo's booth at Phx Comicon. He's the author of La Mano del Destino (a lucha libre comic) and is a really nice guy.
Ximena Paz is the OC of a friend of mine (hi Mar), and though her part is minor, her appearance is...very important. I wonder who will be the first to figure out why (if at all, considering it's been 47 chapters and no one has guessed that mugwort question from chapter 3...Damn.)
Depression has been hard for me, so despite a lot of this chapter being pre-written for years, it took a while to put it out. Not counting the recap chapter, this is officially the 50th chapter of Serpentine...wow! Can't believe this trainwreck is still going. Thanks to everyone who's read and commented and enjoyed this fic. We're almost to the end, promise. Thanks Jac for looking it over.