mild cw for a severe HR violation, teenage hormones, and child death.
like winning the lottery / or finding God in your sock drawer.
I think love is something
that happens to other people-nebulous,
distant, an invention of the movies; I think love is like death/as in,
it happens to everyone but you [...]
I Think Love is Something That Happens to Other People by Michael Gray
His first instinct, of course, is to immediately corner Ximena and demand that she explain what in Merlin's name she has done to him. What spell has she poisoned his mind with. Blinded his inhibitions with. Drawn his affection with.
His brain tells him to sit down and wait.
A love potion is out of the question. Not only would it have killed any respect he held for her, but it would also be downright embarrassing to have been slipped such an elementary level potion from someone he trusted. To be victim to the same barbarity as his Muggle father, and have Ximena equated to someone like his mother.
Don't touch him don't touch him don't touch him.
He recognizes the effects of the potion, despite not having been under it-Tom can still think very clearly. He can think thoughts unrelated to the subject of...aff...attention. And he can see and acknowledge traits he finds attractive in other people. His mind isn't clouded with delusions of things like kissing or marriage or sex-Really, he's not sure what he'd like to do with her other than chat and be around her, which is nothing different than usual, so then...
Does he want to possess her? Like a man possesses land or wealth or power? Parade her around like families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight show off their new brides? Incubators of the next generation of inbred, untalented, sycophantic purebloods? Absurd. She isn't a broodmare. She isn't a house elf. She isn't a pretty empty vase. He knows she would sooner die than be owned by another, as good as she would look on his arm (and really, if anyone were going to own her, wouldn't it be him? Naturally?)
So then...what? What is left?
He thinks back on their time at school together, is this why he attached himself fast to her side? Was all that absolute nonsense about crushes and puppy love true? Did everyone in Slytherin house (and outside Slytherin house) read him for what he is? A fool?
Upsetting. He didn't want this. This suffocating, constricting feeling. The weight of revelation on his ribs. The raw, dryness in his throat and ache behind his eyes. The warmth in his stomach.
He wants...What does he want?
Well, to stop feeling like this, for one. That's a given. It's not at all an unpleasant feeling (to his irritation), on the contrary, it feels...on the better side of neutral for him. Nice. Despite everything. How terrible.
And what would she think? If she knew? Suspected? Disgust, of course: affection is uncouth. Pathetic. Just as she would have (should have) felt when she saw him display his anger, his hurt, so freely at the Riddles'. It would be a mistake to make her aware. To let his mask slip again. Even if she's accepted the ugly parts of him, she could never welcome something so… Conflicting from him. Surely. Probably. Maybe.
He can suffocate this feeling. Drown it and leave it buried with his other emotions. His other traumas. Kill it and gut it so it can never bother him and stir in his chest ever again. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. What could come from it? Other than ruin. The decimation of, perhaps, his only honest friendship. Honest after much trial and error. After much demasking. After being left with no other option.
He killed his desire for a father and family, so he can kill his desire for…this. It's just another distraction, another obstacle. Something to crush under his heel and forget about. This sort of thing is what happens to others, not to him. He was not born for this. Affection and fondness is a thing that happens to others. Others weaker than him. Different than him. More fortunate than him. Not to him. Not ever.
You look good. When you're not pretending.
On the way to Euston Station, he thinks about how his hand felt in hers.
On the train to Hogwarts, he reads the Prophet that was being sold at the station: STUDENT MURDERED AT HOGWARTS: ANCIENT SCHOOL TO CLOSE?
.
"Somebody died over the break."
The castle feels cold. As if a shroud had been placed on it. In front of him, Nemesis looks sick and pale with grief, "Somebody died over break and…I…I didn't know her, but she was only a third year. I saw her sometimes, at breakfast or in the stands at Quidditch matches."
Evan only touches Nemesis' shoulder. Familiar with her sentimental ways. Hedwig, usually always quick to quip something sarcastic or insensitive, is soft. Merely resting a hand on Nemesis' opposite shoulder, "She was just some muddie, Nem. It's fine."
"It's not fine!" Nemesis snaps, quaking, "She was not just some… Hedwig, I…I talked to her, I saw her in the halls, she wasn't some random Muggle, this was a witch! A witch who went to school with us and she's just dead and no one knows how she died! It could have been an accident or a murder or Circe forbid, some sort of suicide–Nobody's ever died at Hogwarts!"
She's crying now. Face scrunched up and ugly. Red. Puffy. Hedwig provides the comfort he can't. The pats on her back. The shoulder to weep on.
He presses his lips together, "...Where was she found?"
Hedwig swallows, "That's the thing. No one's found the sodding body yet. Her ghost just started fucking around the halls a little after New Year's… It wasn't until a professor recognised her that Dippet was even bloody alerted." A scoff, "They keep trying to ask her where she died, but all that muddie does is cry."
A choked sob from Nemesis. Hedwig falls silent.
Evan finally speaks, "They say the school will close. The Ministry is in an uproar, father won't stop talking about it. They all believe the girl was murdered. A victim of the rise of Purism."
Tom swallows. "I can't imagine all of the chaos happening… I saw in the Prophet that all trial dates and appointments have been pushed back or canceled."
Evan scoffs, "I wouldn't be surprised if this scandal has caused a greater number of crimes to slip through the Ministry's watch. It's as monumental as somebody breaking into Gringott's." He no longer sounds like he's just repeating what he's heard from his parents. He sounds like himself. "If you ever wanted to break the law, now is the right time."
Classes pause for a week to mourn the loss of Myrtle Warren. The Ravenclaws are deathly silent, particularly the Muggleborns. Individuals, they may be, but when one of their own's life is cut so suddenly…
Tom watches them take the body out of the castle. There's something dark about the reality of the situation: Muggleborns are supposed to be safe at Hogwarts. There's no war here. No hunger. No crime.
It had taken days for officials to make heads or tails of the ghost's speech–It was so marred by warbling. Screeching. Laments. It wasn't until the dawn of the fifth day that she was able to tell them where her body was. Where she died.
Tom's fist hasn't been unclenched since he was told where the girl died. He hasn't dared go himself, even under cover of night or his impeccable disillusionment charm. Because it's just not possible. It can't be.
"Tom?"
Dumbledore's voice calls to him. He clasps his hands behind his back and turns to face him, "Professor Dumbledore."
.
Dumbledore confirms his worst fears. He knows not who to confide in: most are either more upset by the death of the girl or furious at the closure of the school due to the death of a mudblood. None of them are fearful. No one in his closest circles, anyways.
He could write to Elle. She could understand. The situation. The gravity. How absurd it all is. But she has problems of her own to carry, what would she care about a little school when she's out worrying over her family? What would she care about him?
No, she would care. Expend her empathy towards him like the perfect Hufflepuff she is. He couldn't do that, even if he wants to. It would be an insult to his Puff, to use her like that. Stretch herself out to take care of him when he's more than capable of doing so himself–
…There's Ximena but…
Hogwarts isn't home to her. Not like it is to him. Hardly an escape from the hardships of her life, perhaps going here only amplified them. The discriminatory practices, casual condescension, and pitying looks. She might be happy about it: Hogwarts closing. Though would be smart enough to hide it from him, because she knows what this school means to him.
'I suggested he formally adopt you, but we know you'd miss Hogwarts.'
This isn't one door closing and another one opening. It's his entire home burning down while another home waits an entire town over. An entire country. An entire ocean.
He's…not sure if he can be around her right now. With how he views her. He's not sure how to interact with her, how to approach her, and speak to her about the usual subjects. Things are different now. Changed and evolving. He half suspects she'd look him in the eyes and just know. Know that he…feels things.
The concept of Baroness Ximena still lingers in his head. It could happen. Maybe. Still. A marriage purely of convenience and…friendship. Having her exclusively to himself and no other. Two birds with one stone. And all he'd have to do is open his mouth and…
'You're fond of me?'
'You brought me back to my father. How could I not?'
Fondness in a marriage is important. More than love. Affection. Even if it's…desired. Fondness and loyalty. Commitment. Knowledge that the other will always protect you. Be on your side.
'You don't want to be married?'
'Whatever for? I am better alone.'
'I would have thought otherwise, from you… I don't know, you're just very traditional. You seem like the type to want to marry before living with someone. Or to ask a father's permission before walking out.'
'I can believe those things are proper and still not desire marriage.'
'I guess. I just thought…'
'You thought?'
'You always seemed worried over the...allegiance of your friends in Slytherin… So I would think, then, that something as committed as marriage, where you're legally and spiritually bonded… But maybe it makes sense. You can only marry one person at a time, after all.' [1]
He could do it. Woo Ximena, if he tried. He can already pretend to like and flirt with witches who have something he wants. Whom he barely tolerates. How much more difficult could it be to try doing the same to someone he actually…someone he…
He thinks about the way Ximena looked at Adam. That bright, shining, golden boy with the beautiful smile. How she spoke when he was the topic of conversation. How hurt she was when she realized it couldn't be. Is it a shared emotion? One experienced by sentimental fools taken in by the neurochemical con-job of affection? Did Nemesis feel the same when she realized her desires were folly? Silly and ridiculous, like a madcap hoping for the coveted affections of a veela? Like the Devil was dancing on her chest?
What was it he said to Ximena, back then? When she confessed to feeling stupid. Naïve. Foolish. I know how you feel.
Yes. He knows how it feels.
.
The Chamber has never been welcoming, not in the traditional sense. But it was a place of belonging. Ownership. Now, it only brings him unease. A sense of death.
The Basilisk is coiled comfortably near one of the open pipes. She addresses him with curiosity and sleepiness, and he addresses her in a frenzy about the murder.
«What happened?» He's shaking now. Like Nemesis was when crying. «What did you do?»
The Basilisk seems to stretch awake, appearing oddly feline in her yawn, «Nothing. I was in my territory, wandering the pipes, and the little witchling was where she should not have been. Out of nest. Stalking the dark where she cannot see. My stare is lethal. She died instantly.»
Of course, just an accident. An accident the Basilisk didn't even bother to hide. Couldn't she have eaten her? A girl gone missing is still better than a girl being found dead. Even if her ghost would still be lingering…How complicated is an exorcism? The removal of a spirit not wanting to go on into the afterlife?
Death is so close. So close to him. His grandfather. Grandmother. Myrtle Warren.
«They are closing the school.» His mouth is dry. «There are talks of closing Hogwarts unless the killer is found. They cannot find you. They cannot close the school, I…»
'I have nowhere to go' almost escapes his lips until he remembers that he is no longer that pitiful, helpless little orphan boy that he was when he first walked into this castle. No. He has alternatives outside of Wool's. Outside of the gunsmoke smell of London.
Mexico is far. Far from any place he's known up until now. He can travel further, still. Under Balam's tutelage. Wáng's help. Ximena's…
«Hogwarts is my home. My first home.» He cannot just abandon it. He cannot let this haven close. Not when there are so many others (other, more pathetic, weaker than him students) who call this place refuge. From the violence, from the bombs, from the war.
He is not a champion of justice. He cares not for those outside his inner circle. But what kind of wizard would he be if he turned a blind eye? The same kind as the ones who didn't help him. Who knew there was a witch within Wool's and still did nothing. Left him there. Who know there are thousands dying, many of their own kind, and still do not reach out to help them hide from the war.
His promise made in the Chamber echoes in his ears. The faces of his half and dirty-blooded compatriots pass his mind.
Without Hogwarts, he wouldn't be the witch he is. Wouldn't be where he is. Would never have met any of his classmates. Any one of those who meant something to him.
He presses his lips together, «They'll kill you if they know. So I'll point them towards another…» Another, absolute red herring. One that couldn't possibly be the killer, but one that they'll happily accept to confirm their own biases.
Rubeus would be fine. All he has to do is not admit knowledge of the acromantula. Not admit that it was he who took it into the castle and nursed it. Took care of it. Fed it. The only sacrifice here will be a poor creature and not a fellow student. No one has to get hurt. No one has to leave the only home they've ever known.
And they will have him to thank.
.
The boy had sniffled and cried over it. Kept denying that it would ever happen. Not remembering, or acknowledging, that a creature is primal. Instinctual. Regardless of any perceived intelligence. Perhaps it wouldn't have killed Myrtle Warren. Perhaps not yet. Not while the venom in its system had yet to develop, not while the pinchers on its body had yet to fully come in. It's naïve to think it would have never harmed anyone. Would have always listened to Rubeus when he told it to stand back and not bite. Not kill.
"They are not understanding of us, Rubeus. Of things they fear. They tried to accuse you too, didn't they? Though they had no proof, they did it because you are not them. The other." His voice is smooth. Comforting. A spider on the shell of the other's ear.
You cannot keep animals caged and controlled, catering to your every whim. Nature has its own will. Monsters don't make good pets.
.
He does not get to visit (return to?) Mexico for the Eostre holidays. He had been invited to events weeks before the…incident. It's not taboo to change plans or cancel, but he needs these people to still believe he is on their side. Fighting for them and their rights.
You look good. When you're not pretending.
Tom rubs his eyes. Tries to focus on this insipid garden party.
The talk of the year seems to revolve around the death of the mudblood, though no one respectable seems to want to use that word. But they don't say her name either, they probably don't even know it. When the topic of conversation is not about Myrtle Warren's death, it is about the almost closure of Hogwarts. About the acromantula and the rumored student who had apparently been seen with it. About that student's rumored creature blood.
Needless to say, Tom avoids these conversations like the plague. Which makes actually speaking to others difficult, as it was he who discovered the girl's murderer. He got an award for it, of all things. Special Services to the School. For keeping it from closing. For saving the education of countless of pureblooded witches.
His Knights are proud of him, or rather: proud to be a part of his circle. Though they are not so secretly upset that Rubeus wasn't expelled 'as he should have been'. Some, very little, are relieved that what killed the girl is out of the castle, because even Muggleborne deserve a more dignified death than one at the hands of a filthy creature.
Most, though, are chittering about a rumour. A rumour he can't seem to trace or stamp out: that it was Slytherin's monster who killed the girl. Awoken from his secret chamber, opened by his ghost himself, finally arisen to rid the school of Muggleborne and give power to his people. His Chamber of Secrets is an urban legend that had died out, almost, with the last generation to attend Hogwarts before him. Until now: it's back in full force at a pace he cannot control. Many of his fellow snakes, and even some outside his house are convinced that the murder is connected to Salazar Slytherin directly. An absurd thought as it is nervewracking.
He frowns, attempting to get his mind off it, as Hedwig sneaks champagne from a snatched coupe class.
"It's a wonder how I got through any of these shit-circuses without alcohol." Hedwig's rosy cheeks compliment her well, but he knows it's better to keep her away from anyone outside their retinue while she's like this. Salazar knows just what she might do to mar her standing or his. He's brought them to a secluded enough part of the garden where only a few distant party-goers roam, alongside arrogant, strutting peacocks.
"You'll do well to pace yourself." Evan scolds, Nemesis at his elbow, looking somehow both natural and uncomfortable.
"Fuck off."
Tom tuts, "You know he's right, the last thing you need is to tell someone what you really think about them."
"Eh, they all have it coming." But she protests no more. "If I have to hear one more time about what a handsome couple we make, I'll eat a thunder egg."
"Well you do." Nemesis nods once, fanning herself with her pink and yellow fan, "A very convincing one. You're the envy of several in attendance." She seems proud of this, "At this rate, you'll be the most sought after debutants by the time the next season rolls around."
This information doesn't really please him, but it's only natural that he be the most impressive, the most desired. Even if he's not known to be from a noble house. "Even if we're technically already spoken for?" People always do want what they can't have. "I suppose being told I have the face of a heartbreaker had some merit." Tom all but rolls his eyes.
"Oh please," Hedwig actually does rolls her eyes, "I bet ye've never touched a tit before in your life."
Tom coughs, choking on his drink, "Hedwig."
"Merlin's balls, Tom, I was just kidding–You've never actually touched one, have you?" Hedwig looks somewhere between concerned and terribly amused. Nemesis covers her mouth with her hand, hiding a grin or a frown. Evan quietly sighs a we are in public from between his teeth.
"Where my hands have been in regards to such debauchery is none of your business." To say the least. "Rest assured, my experience in the matter is adequate, which is to say: not at all, because I am not a pervert."
As Nemesis tells her to leave him alone and Evan seethes (again) that they are in public, Hedwig says, "You're probably too scared ta touch a tit, here, it's not that hard–"
Hedwig grabs Tom's wrist and puts his hand on her breast. The top of it, to be exact, near her clavicle.
Tom wheezes. Nemesis squeaks and immediately pushes her open fan to cover the scene. Hedwig cackles. Evan chastises, "Do you want to force your parents' hand at an engagement, Hedwig, for Circe's sake, you couldn't have stayed sober for another two hours–"
"I'm not even drunk, ya sodding tosspot."
No one thinks to take his hand off her breast. He stays frozen, morbid and terrified. They'll–They'll have to get married. It's only right. Just. That kind of thing is just indecent and improper to happen without something like an engagement to smooth things over. Hedwig is a respectable witch and he cannot just go through with such a disgusting act and not honor her–
Hedwig moves and slaps his shoulder, "You look like you've seen a dementor, fuck's sake. Calm down, it's not that serious." Her gloved hand pats his cheek, little less than a light slap. "It's not like ye dishonored me, you munter, it's just a tit. Wasn't even sexual, you've got the hands of a mortitian."
"You scared him!" Nemesis reprimands, "You can't just do that without warning, Hedwig, you've almost married the two of you off!"
"What? I'm helping him and whatever poor witch gets stuck with him and his clammy hands–Like being groped by a corpse, I can't believe people think he has experience."
"Hedwig!"
"You're above this behavior as a witch of fair breeding." Evan tries to keep a mature, even tone, but perhaps there's something like amusement or frustration clouding his voice.
"Ugh. With talk like that, I bet ye haven't touched a boob yet either. No wonder you n' ghost palms here get along so well. Gods save your poor wives–No offence, Nem."
Nemesis pinches Hedwig's arm, her face pink.
Tom does not think about someone else's chest and how much smaller it is in comparison to Hedwig's. Nor how it might feel.
.
He does not return to Mexico until the summer.
Ximena is sitting in the greenhouse among a small flock of Inés' parakeets, knitting contently. Not expecting him. Not surprised when he shows up. Falling into conversation easily enough, though Tom does not yet know how to broach the subject of…
"You haven't heard of the student death?"
"I have. Hedwig told me." The bright vermillion yarn in her hands almost glows with saturation. "Said it stole the conversation at the Easter Cotillion"
His body tenses. "Oh?"
"Mm." There's a smile on the edge of her mouth that makes his throat tighten. "Among other things. Nemesis sent a photo. You all look good."
He begins to talk, and when he feels his voice crack, he starts again, "You knew him, didn't you? The student they accused of housing the acromantula."
"Yes… Ridiculous, isn't it? They're so worried about being seen as Purists, and then they do something like this. Rubeus doesn't deserve it. He's a good boy. He understood me." Her fingers don't change in their speed as she looks away from her knitting, eyes vacant and thoughtful. "I'd tutor him sometimes. We would talk about the sorts of creatures that lived in the forest outside the school, and how they're misunderstood. Lonely."
I was six and I loved the creature. He fascinated me. How something so horrifying could be as lonely as me. As misunderstood.[2]
Tom presses his lips together, "Well one of them apparently attacked a student. Killed her."
"Mm. Animals are still animals, in the end." She looks back at her work, but he wants her to keep looking in his direction. To keep talking. She does not.
He only has so much time left, there's so many engagements. Parties. Socials. This entire incident with Myrtle Warren's death has him at the forefront of gossip circles again, and he has to reap it. Take advantage of the spotlight. He can't let the little amount of time he has left just waste.
He gets another chance two days later, when he returns from gathering mushrooms in the forest.
Ximena is cutting firewood in the back garden: stocking for a cookout. Or a fire. Or something else. A light sheen of sweat gathers on her ochre skin as she works at cutting firewood, making her look smooth and… shiny. As if she had freshly risen from a bath. Attractive. Particularly wielding the hatchet.
Tom clears his throat, "Forbidden from using magic for this?" His voice adopts a teasing tone, sitting down behind her, two meters away. Watching.
She does not spare him a glance, "Sometimes it's nice to do things with your hands."
A hum, "I agree." To a degree. "It's a bit pompous to magic everything into doing your bidding. I hardly need my wand to pour myself a cup of tea."
She hums in agreement, concentrating more on her chore than on him. Can't have that.
"But there's also something more than nice to it, isn't there?" He baits.
"What's… better than nice?" Her breath is heavy. She takes breaks in speaking to breathe properly.
Tom crosses his legs elegantly and gazes at the back of her neck, "It gives it a little something extra, doesn't it? Using your own two hands rather than magic?"
He can't see her face, but he can feel her smile. He wants her to turn around, "Observant, aren't you?"
"I try to be." False humility.
"And here I thought… You were slacking on your studies." Her smile lingers.
"I am just full of surprises today." If Ximena had been looking, she'd have seen a bashful, prideful yet humble shrug of his shoulders. One he practiced often. "Your father is a masterful teacher. I've learned a lot from him. And you." That one was not so much a lie.
"Me?"
If only she could see his patented Tom Riddle grin-smirk hybrid. "Yes, I think I learn best from you, actually."
"Out of… habit?"
"Something like that." He leans forward, resting his forearms on his legs, "From the very beginning, it was easy. I think it was the similar backgrounds."
"Oh, you never told me you were Mexican."
A snort followed by laughter escapes his mouth unwillingly, "Oh yes, that and of course, growing up far away from anything magical. Without guidance or anyone to lean on."
"I can see what… you mean."
Of course she can. Why wouldn't she?
"I think more than anything, it was the mutual loneliness. The missing of comrades and people to build memories with." This was it.
"Surely… you had memories with the people at your orphanage."
Terrible, awful memories. Memories he wants to tear and claw at and destroy completely.
"Yes yes, of course, but… It's… different." He gestures with his hand, even though she cannot see him, "I didn't know what was wrong with me. I was so focused on figuring out what was going on with my mind and body regarding magic that I didn't get to be a boy." And a part of that is true, for what it's worth, "Even when I arrived at Hogwarts, I was still figuring things out, do you understand?"
Ximena holds still for just a moment. He sees her head nod ever so slightly.
He continues, "-I just wish I could go back to those moments, the crucial parts, and redo them. Or change things. It just feels strange to have missed out on so many… essential boyhood experiences. Or girlhood, for you, of course."
Ximena nods again,, "Well...like what?"
Tom pretends to think, looking up at the sky, grabbing at ideas, "Like...oh...Sneaking out at late times of the night, underage drinking...Or experiencing fooling around. The nervous flutters, not knowing what you're doing and having to learn and practice as you go."
"I don't need… practice in that, I'm already quite good if I do say so myself."
...
"You've… You've been intimate before?" He's not sure why his voice just cracked.
"Yes, a couple of times." She shrugs.
"With whom?" It comes out before he can stop himself.
"You only know one: Carlos." She starts, and Tom knows she will go on, so he stops her there.
"Wh… When?"
Ximena pauses her task, "The first time with him? A few months ago? Maybe a year?" Brows furrowed, she tries to remember, "Oh, I've never been good with time." She sets the hatchet down, "We were bored."
"Bored?"
A nod, "I don't remember whose idea it was, but it was quite nice." Quite nice. "He's a bit clumsy but very sweet."
Tom feels a migraine coming on. "I expected you to be shy about that sort of thing." A distant memory arises in his brain. One of magical energies and fitting into his own.
Ximena hums, "Being ashamed of human wants is silly." He disagrees. "Being ashamed of my body is silly." He eyes her body, scarred and inked with obsidian designs and sigils over toned arms, gentle curves, and a defined back. Soft curls pulled back in a bouncy short ponytail. He agrees.
She chops another log.
"Are you ashamed?" Her question takes him by surprise, to his annoyance, "Of your human urges?"
He presses his lips together, "It's weak."
Her laughter is the ringing of bells. Head tilted back, mouth wide open and erupting with cackles. He derives joy from hearing her laugh with happiness for the first time in his life, and knowing that he was the cause of it, but he also derives anger at being the subject of her amusement. It is also the first time, he notes with reluctant acceptance, that he sees the true resemblance between her and her grandmother.
"You're stupid. I like that about you."
.
It leaves something...distasteful in his mouth to think that she chose to be...vulnerable with someone else. Touch skin with another. He didn't think her the type. Sure, there was Adam all that time ago, but that was the crush of a child. This is different. It's unpleasant. Moreso when he thinks about who decided to be with-The only one he knows. What does that mean? There are others-Hundreds? Dozens?
He's never taken much value in the concept of purity when it came to a witch's 'honor'-Partly because sex is disgusting, and he's never been preoccupied with it, and partly because a witch's honor should be in her magic...Why does it bother him that she's been with others?
You like her.
Debatable. She is a good companion and alright to look at. Why does he want to be first? She isn't land to tame or conquer...Perhaps it's merely the suggestion of competition? It's rare when he's not at the top of a field; while he's the best at charming, he's lacking in the art of seduction...At least seduction in that sense.
Eugh. Hopefully it's just his competitiveness. Competition is something he can understand and analyze. Break down and build a strategy for-Jealousy is not. He's never been jealous. Not once. At all. Ever. Except for that one moment. He has zero experience in this department, who can he confide in?
He could confide in Ximena-She wouldn't judge him negatively. Probably. She'd just (rightfully, this time) call him stupid again. But she wouldn't pry, she wouldn't ask about why he's bringing the subject up, or even assume that there was a 'special someone' involved.
He will not, of course, confide in Ximena. Wasn't she raised by nuns? Alright, one of those nuns was really Inés in disguise, which explains too much, but what about the rest of the women at the abbey? Didn't they instill insane, conservative values into her? She still dresses relatively modest and prays before every meal, why couldn't that particular teaching stay with her? Why does he wish that particular teaching sunk in? Does he intend to marry her? Well...not exactly. The jury is still out. Does he intend to sleep with her? God no. He just...Wants to be considered. In the running.
He can test the waters first. See how she would… hypothetically feel about him holding… a feeling for her. Maybe even two feelings. He doesn't want her to know he was weak but… He wants her to know that she has… options. A very good superior option.
Tom fiddles with the ring stolen from his uncle, fitted perfectly on his index finger.
[1] Chapter 51: Something Like That
[2] Chapter 53: Don't They Look Like They're Crying? (Part II)
say so by doja cat plays in bg
I've always wanted to theme chapter trios after poems and now is the time for that. Exciting!
Recently, some readers of Serpentine found themselves in my writing discord server (TheBlock) by chance, so I guess I can advertise it here: it's a very lax/chill/lowkey place to talk about your writing, whether it's original, fanfiction, or roleplay. Trying to be more active on there, so if you're interested, send me a DM or comment in a review or on my tumblr, skooffuskalid, and i'll send you an invite :)
ty to jac for reading over this