His prefect letter is delivered alongside his Hogwarts supplies letter, at his window in his room at the house in the woods. Dumbledore knows he's here. Not at Wool's. Was that reported to him? Or does the owl just know?

Inside a thick envelope is a strangely conceited congratulations from Slughorn, telling him (and the other Slytherin prefects) that there is no higher honor for their year. His pin: a silver serpent poised on an emerald green shield, hissing at him. Tom's fingers do not run themselves over his new possession, but rather stay perched at the edges of the metal. Afraid to dirty it with fingerprints: this new symbol of status. The ticket to being let out of the dormitories past curfew.

Would Salazar be proud of him, if he knew? Or would he see prefects as a Muggle invention, Muggle invasion, and turn his nose up at it?

Would his mother be proud?

Prefect status was always his, as good as his. No one else could have taken his place. He's left the rest of the boys in his year behind long ago. The next runner up would be Evan, for grades but mainly for status. Every other boy doesn't put in half the effort as Tom. They don't need to. They never will.

.

He meets Hedwig in the prefect carriage, being greeted with a "shut your jaw, Tom, don't look so surprised", and an update on several things within the pureblood circles. All fluff talk, for appearances. As if Tom really cared about the Gamp's summer social or announced engagements.

Slughorn looks proudly at his chosen snakes in the prefect carriage, as if he had anything to do with their success. An absent father claiming credit for the glory of his offspring. Tom still wonders how he managed to evade getting fired after Ian Rosier's little stunt three years ago.

The man comments on what a good match he and Hedwig make, and Tom holds back a chuckle at how revolted Hedwig's magic feels at the mere idea. He holds no offence to it, even if Hedwig were the type to enjoy the company of wizards. It is simply how she is: honest to him. And what else is there to value?

Faking his little fling with Hedwig is easy. People buy the charade without any real persuasion, not once critically thinking about his and hers clashing personalities and magicks. Even outside of pureblooded circles, no one bats an eye. She would have made a wonderful spouse and partner, being so disinterested in the ways of submissive femininity (and most importantly: in coupling), but luckily Tom has no pressure to marry. One of the better silver linings of not being born into a noble family.

At least he can help keep her from wasting away under an ignorant husband for as long as she can formulate a plan for herself and her Puff. Dear Sophie Powell feels like a polar opposite to Hedwig's fury and clamor, and it seems highly unlikely to Tom that she'd raise a finger in protest or rebellion against an institution much larger and older than her. But who knows! Hedwig likes her, for some reason, and he has never known Hedwig for a fool.

It's surprisingly natural walking with Hedwig on his arm, despite her ridiculously short height. She makes sure not to touch skin, and always wears gloves for Hogsmeade outings and parties ("I wasn't raised in a fucking sty").

Most amusing (and bemusing) is the way a good handful of the witches in their year look at Hedwig. With tremendous envy. As if Tom were a prize they were hoping to win, snatched up by someone who wasn't even competing.

"Ridiculous." She scoffs when he brings it up, "Like they don't have their own sodding engagements to worry about."

"Agreed." As if Tom would ever give them attention if they weren't of use to him. "I'm surprised I've only noticed it now. Were they subtler when it was Ximena?"

"The hell are you going on about? Even when you were courting, they didn't consider Ximena real competition." She takes a glass of punch from an elf, "Backstabbing bitches were waiting for you to upgrade to one of em."

Something sour fills his mouth.

"Has a snake no true friends in Slytherin?"

Hedwig shrugs, "If you know how to make them. Maybe that's why she always hung around that Falcon muddie."

Martha. No pressure from family to marry right, or perhaps even marry at all. Ximena tells him she writes to her, sometimes. One of the few she keeps in touch with.

"Hm. I can't say she always has the best judge of character."

"Clearly." Hedwig snorts. "But she made right enough decisions with us."

Yes, Hedwig and Nemesis are her friends. Witches to rely on. Trust. If only she had stayed in Hogwarts. She could have been a part of his future coven…

He asks how Hedwig's parents are.

"Da's asking for ya."

"Asking for the in-law already?"

"He wants ya to visit again." Hedwig scowls. "Like you weren't already just over."

"It's been a good while, Hedwig, and it's much needed for the charade. Incidentally, how is your sister?"

.

More and more of his free time is spent with the basilisk, despite having previously stated that snakes aren't good conversationalists. Maybe it's because he needed a better speaking partner. King of Serpents, above them all. It makes sense. Even if some words (some feelings) don't translate well into Parsel. She doesn't seem to mind.

Mostly she speaks about her time with Salazar, brief encounters with the other founders in her infancy, and Tom's ancestors. The Slytherin line, once returned to Hogwarts, would come down into the chamber to speak with her. Awaken her from slumber and patrol the school in the dead of night for dangers. But there has never been a threat bigger than that of petty fights, assaults, bullying, and the occasional hazing that's gone too far. The wards are too strong. Built up by four of the most powerful wizards Europe has ever known. Added onto by countless teachers and staff over the course of centuries. What sort of threat could ever break through those walls and harm his Hogwarts?

None of his ancestors ever let her roam outside, for fear of her being sighted. Killed. Or worse. A necessary sacrifice, he understands, but a creature of this age and power knows how to hide. Salazar wouldn't have neglected to give her those (teach her those!) life skills.

When he asks, she speaks about how things were before. Witches in hiding, the terrible lack of communication. Witches who kept to themselves and helped no one outside their own coven. Not much has changed, regrettably. All the more for Tom to take power and…

He hasn't exactly figured out what to do. Using the basilisk as a means to keep his circle under his thumb isn't needed, he does that all on his own. Once he's out of Hogwarts?

If he one day reveals his hand of controlling such a creature, then will people fear him? Or the basilisk?

.

Though one of the more tedious parts of his newfound job, Tom thanks the 'lesser desired' patrols being pushed onto the fifth year prefects. He can spend late evenings to himself in isolated parts of the castle. Exploring (will he ever discover every nook and cranny?) and admiring his heritage to his heart's content. A personal date with his home.

At least until he catches the younger students out and about where they shouldn't be. Already he's had to break up several disgusting, amorous couples and he's quite tired of it. He thinks that's what awaits him behind this classroom door; after all, who else could this student be talking to?

Yet when he opens it, Tom only sees one wizard in the room. No other.

"-Riddle!" It's the obvious half-giant. Rubeus. He knows Tom, naturally, but Tom does not know him much, just little snippets of gossip. In passing. That his size is not just strange genetics or distant ancestry. Perhaps once (thrice) in the child's first year, he saw him at Ximena's tutoring table.

Tom might not know him well, but he knows his posture: because it's one Tom's familiarized himself with since he could walk. The younger student is hiding something. In this room. Contraband. Or another person. A diary? No no, more serious than that…

Tom paces, watching for a reaction. "All alone in an empty classroom? Studying?"

There are no study materials out, save for perhaps a textbook (not one Tom has seen before), and a small journal next to a quill. And a box. A big box. Sturdy but unlocked.

There's stuttering, then clumsy movements from the second year. The box falls to the ground. Something scurries out and dashes to the dark corner of the room, under a desk. A spider the size of his foot. Tom recoils in surprise. Rubeus attempts to thread together a defense, an excuse, but Tom cuts him off.

"An acromantula is incredibly dangerous, Hagrid." It's ridiculous how a second year could so easily meet his line of sight, and a part of him (the part that talks mostly to Evan and the rest) is disgusted by it. What wizard was crazy enough to woo and bed a beast of a giant? To create this poor creature later on abandoned by his mother?

Tom tells himself what he feels isn't pity.

Rubeus, despite his size, cowers. Begs Tom not to tell. Assures him with all of his heart that 'Aragog' would never hurt anyone. That he's smart and understands human speech at a young age. He's well behaved and followers orders and sticks to his diet. A list of things he couldn't possibly care about. And yet, the more Rubeus rambles, the more an idea grows in Tom's head…

"...Hagrid, you're a magical creature connoisseur, aren't you?" Tom's smile is quick to appear, reassuring and purposely a little mischievous. Boyishly conniving. "That means you're a bit of an expert."

The oaf (he's almost as tall as him despite being three years younger) still appears nervous. But more secure. He nods his head meekly. Tom continues, "In fifth year, we're doing our first big research assignment in Care of Magical Creatures… Would you happen to know, hypothetically, how to take care of a Basilisk?"

.

She's preparing for hibernation, this time of year. Swallowing as much fatty prey as she can find in the forest (the hunt is better out there than in the pipes, that's for sure). The basilisk will slumber all throughout winter (throughout Tom's time outside of Hogwarts), and awaken in spring: refreshed and with her old snakeskin shed.

Tom's taken to collecting the countless lengths of discarded skin for use in potions (and more importantly: to sell them to shops back in Mexico and possibly Diagon Alley). While hatching basilisks is heavily illegal, selling their products and body parts isn't. And it rakes in a pretty penny. Anything to build upon his independence.

The basilisk finds it silly that her old skin is worth something, and shares with him old superstitions about her scales attracting wealth, ensuring the birth of a girl, and repelling strangers. How Salazar had to keep her hidden for fear of his father culling her and selling her for parts.

«Their relationship was…under pressure. They were too alike to each other.» He listens as she coils around his body, allowing him to rest against her like a giant chaise. «They even looked alike. I often mistook one for the other as a snakelet.»

He asks her to talk about something else.

.

Winter in Mexico is different. It always has been, but this time is special. He gets to spend it away from Hogwarts (but away from Wool's) and with his ex-classmate.

He has plans for Christmas, but the Hidalgos ask him to be here for New Years, and he relents, preferring to spend his birthday quietly than with the large fanfare of pureblood New Years parties.

As he contemplates asking just where he could unload and sell the basilisk skins, he runs his finger over his luggage, old and doctored to appear somewhat decent. Not falling apart. Middle class at best. He could try Diagon Alley, but there would be questions. Eyes on him. Possibly teachers from school. Classmates who aren't privy to his darker interests.

Balam would…Well he would understand, wouldn't he? Be curious about where he found the items but not ask questions. He's respected his privacy so far (according to the privacy charms he's placed on his own room, anyways), it wouldn't be so unusual for Tom to ask (hypothetically) if he knew any shoppes who would pay well for…

There's a knock on his open door, "Oye," Ximena's voice sounds sleepy, just awoken from a nap. "Have you seen Churro? I made him a new sweater." He turns and there's a little knitted mauve sweater in her hands, "He gets cold during winter."

Tom knows; the cat of the house has crawled under his sheets at night often enough (there's still scratches on his legs). "Don't you get cold?", Tom says. Ximena hasn't worn long sleeves since she's come here. At least, not that he's seen. She always looks unbothered by the weather, perhaps accustomed to the much harsher winters of Britain.

She shrugs, her bare shoulders rising up to pierced ears (when did she do that?), "I'm always cold."

He finds himself staring at her arms, grown muscular from whatever life she's been living here, away from London. A winding black snake has been inked onto her right arm, head at her hand, tail arching over her shoulder, and disappearing down her back. Few other tattoos and scars scatter over her body, varying from rune symbols to simple pictographs.

Tom had once found tattoos, particularly on women, unattractive. They are mars on the skin, often ugly and without meaning. They are associated with delinquency and gangs. But on Ximena? They look right. Like stripes on a tiger or spots on a leopard. Embellishments on glass artwork. When he focuses, he can see the slivers of magic they hold and give to her. Protection spells, mostly. Others are still unknown to him, nestled deeply in the green of her magic.

"Would you like to go to the pictures with me?"

.

Ximena picks the movie: a Spanish dub of Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman, which upon first impression leaves him doubting the quality of the film. But he presumes it's proper etiquette to let the witch choose the film, so he makes no fuss until after the movie when they both emerge from the cold, dark theater.

She makes the first comment. "It's not as good as other movies with Frankenstein."

"Agreed." He remembers sneaking into it as a child. "It's a load of exploitation and chicanery. No substance. A disgrace to the original text."

"You're so dramatic."

"I'm right."

"There's good things in this." She pops a roasted peanut from her bag into her mouth, "I liked the wolfman. He was interesting, and I felt bad that no one believed in his curse."

"He was a fool for thinking he could get anyone to believe."

"You're so mean." She tosses a peanut at him.

"I'm being realistic."

"It's because the movie was in Spanish, you couldn't understand all the little details."

"Oh I understood the nuances quite well."

"I don't think you did." She's disagreeing with him for fun again, "You seemed distracted the entire showing."

Partly true. It felt strange to watch a picture again, after so many years. That part of his life, the Muggle part, feels so in the past. Left behind for greener pastures. How surreal it was to see moving images accompanied by sound. He wonders why he suggested it. "It wasn't very engaging, is all."

Ximena hums, unsatisfied, but accepting. "I disagree. I thought it was very engaging...Engaging means entertaining?"

"It means it held your attention."

"Then yes. Engaging. Very sad though. I think Larry deserved Elsa's love." A frown, thoughtful, "I'd have loved him."

There's something in that sentence that squeezes his heart in his chest. He tries to speak, but it comes out as barely a breath, and when he tries it again, he pushes amusement in his voice, "You'd love a monster?"

"I love all monsters. Since I first saw Frankenstein in 1932[1]. It was a few months before I was...gone. One of the few memories I really have that's clear: I was six and I loved the creature. He fascinated me. How something so horrifying could be as lonely as me. As misunderstood. The memory of him comforted me in my time at the abbey..."

'When I still didn't know what I was. Local urchins all gathered to hear the dark one talk about her brush with death.'[2]

"...I think, maybe, I saw myself in him. For a little bit."

He is silent for a moment, reaching back into his early childhood, and recites as if possessed, "I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.[3]"

Tom's gaze lies on the dark horizon of the dying sun. But in his periphery, he can see her turn to look at him. Stare quietly.

[1] 1931's Frankenstein was released in the UK and Mexico in 1932 (January and July respectively)

[2] From Chapter 20: White Noise, at the end of the chapter when Ximena is telling Mali her drowning story.

[3] HUGE HISTORIC LICENSE: this quote is never said in the books, but rather it's from the 1994 movie. The original book quote is simply "If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear". So is Tom "quoting" the book or the 1931 movie? Is he monologuing? Idk. But this line BELONGS here.

This chapter feels weird, partly because I've only been writing the parts I WANT to write rather than the parts I think are needed for the story to be cohesive… Late update because a bitch is heavily depressed and being a teacher is stressful. If you're still in any sort of schooling, please be nice to your teachers/professors. Give them a lil card with ur thanks. thanks jac for editing this.