[...]

desde que fui fundado,

y aun antes de que fuera

proferido, empujado

por mi madre a esta tierra codiciosa

que de los pies me tira y del costado,

y cada vez más fuerte, hacia la fosa.

[...]

Sino sangriento by Miguel Hernández

She breaks the kiss, "You're an awful kisser."

The cockatiel on top of her head squawks.

He chuffs, but her words bruise him, however lightly. However playful her tone. "I imagine I should practice then." Smooth recovery. The kiss has emboldened him. He wonders how long it'll last.

She lets him kiss her again, thankfully.

Elsewhere, there are people running to bomb shelters. To the tube tunnels, to the cellars. Elsewhere, there are people quietly suspecting their neighbours of being Grindelwald sympathizers. Elsewhere, a group of Slytherins and a prefect car are wondering about the whereabouts of Tom Riddle.

He stands on the platform in Hogsmeade. Waiting. Shaking, still. Heart like a hummingbird again, unable to keep still. Head racing and dizzy simultaneously, swimming with…thoughts and feelings–More than one. Maybe even three.

It feels like he's been drugged, but he doesn't feel sluggish or tired, it feels like his blood has been replaced with caffeine and his bones charged with electricity. Like he could stand toe to toe with a dragon and come out of it unscathed.

The feeling is similar to how he felt when he killed his grandparents.

He doesn't know what comes next–after this–after he has…made his feelings clear. Out in the open. He was late, running late. The train is due to arrive, and he wonders if he can speak to his court while still feeling like a foolish little boy with a crush.

Are they…Are they an item? Surely they are, they didn't discuss or establish anything, but–It's obvious, right? That they are exclusive and they are to be officially something. Maybe. Tom's never had any interest in a sweetheart, and the one (sometimes two or three) feeling he has is… Well, it's an insult to say that it's something as mild as a girlfriend.

But what else is there?

They could…get married. That's the natural course of action, isn't it? The right and proper thing to do. He would rightfully inherit the title of baron and the deeds to the Riddle house, as well as the legacy of Slytherin. And she would…be Baroness Riddle? Missus Tom Gaunt? Lady Slytherin? No, she would keep her name, she's worked so hard to find it again. Very untraditional, the rabble would gasp and gossip about it for years, but once he's able to come into his power, it won't matter what they say about her. About them. They'll be family. Bonded in magic. It was his plan, anyways, before he even realized how he felt…

He plays with the Gaunt ring. Toys with the bracelet.

She…does she like him? Does she want him? She must, she kissed him, after all. Or rather, allowed him to kiss her and… Yes, she reciprocated. He thinks. There wasn't protest or neutrality. Rather, it felt like she was curious to see what he would do. How he would lead. Like a test. She was still, only slightly leaning towards him, hand on his thigh.

He touches his lips. Face warm. Stomach in a flurry. Heart bursting.

He slips on the mask just as he sees the lights of the Express coming into his line of sight.

When he lies in his bed that night, in the dark, curtains closed, silencio cast, the mask slips off. He covers his face with his hands. Breathes deeply. Allows himself to smile. Laugh. Be giddy.

Tom dreams about her that night.

The sudden inclusion of Rubeus at his breakfast table is met with skepticism by his Knights, but Tom silences it with merely a glance. The boy is young, too young to be involved in any of Tom's immediate plans, but he can be molded. Sat amongst the younger snakes with their Puffs and influenced.

He's an oaf, but he has his brilliance: in magical creatures. Ravenclaws all have their strange, niche obsessions, and he's no different. Rubeus is cautious around the Slytherins, no doubt because a good handful of them have hissed their share of unkind words at him, but the moment Tom brings up any sort of animal, he opens up like a book: full of knowledge and with a complete lack of awareness to the prejudices around him.

"Magic blood should stick together, don't you think?" He reminds his boys when they scowl at the sight of the less-than pure mingling with the younger Slytherins. With their younger siblings and cousins. "Besides, even if he does have creature blood, at least he's not a Gryffindor."

No, that's proven to be the hardest house to touch. He'd blame it on the famous rivalry between the two house founders, but he doesn't like blaming his failures on others. Instead, he continues to speak amicably with as many of its members as he can. Ignatius is all but in his pocket, which Tom suspects has something to do with his and Lucretia's newly announced engagement:

"It's a dream, Riddle. I never thought it could happen."

Idiot. As if something as arbitrary as house politics would keep two pureblooded well-off witches apart. Even if one of them is poorer than the other. Money is secondary to these people when it comes to blood.

"I'm happy for you, Prewett." He smiles with his teeth, "Why don't you and Lucretia sit down at my table today? I'd love to hear about your wedding ideas."

"Actually yes, but perhaps without Lu today… I was wondering if you noticed anything wrong with Cygnus?"

"Cygnus?"

"Yes…Lu's been worried about him. He's been on edge apparently ever since Druella's debutante ball."

Curious.

Two weeks into the school year, it takes him five hours to pen his first letter to Ximena. His first draft of the letter, that is. Which is fair! He's never done such a thing before. Address the…current state of affairs via writing. How does one address such a thing? Courting customs among his pureblooded contemporaries are worthless, and besides: she wouldn't like it. She's said as much (what would she think about his plans, then?), and the least he could do is…try…maybe.

The letter asks about the health of her family. About what she's doing. If, perhaps, she's finding herself with a strange amount of free time.

…No, that's not direct enough.

Gingerroot. The sound of bells. The smell of citrus.

Tom turns his head to the entrance of the common room, almost expecting to see her. Instead, he sees a fluff of bright, hot blue coming towards him. But he feels no danger. No malice from the wispy, spectre-like vision of what looks to be a bear cub come tumbling towards him. He's seen this before, in books. In illustrations. Read about them in lectures: Merrythought's is a dolphin. She released it one day, his second year, to the utter joy and delight of the students.

He presses his lips together, watching.

"Hey." Ximena's voice rings in his head. "Did you take my book with you? I'm looking for it."

He releases his breath. The bear cub lingers a bit, sitting down and staring up at him. Tom sucks his teeth. Something as exclusive and important as a patronus sending such a dullard message. Was she teasing him again? Or just genuinely unware of the tangle of nerves in his stomach? Both is likely.

The bear cub dissolves like smoke. A bear as her patronus? It's odd. He would have anticipated a crow. Or even some type of aquatic creature. What was her happiest memory, then? Who was it with?

He pens down a new letter, Yes, I have it in my trunk…

Tom orders the Basilisk to stay as far away from students as possible, lest another absolute disaster happen. The loss of Myrtle Warren isn't of any consequence, only thanks to the immediate damage control done. Only because he did not know her, or really anything about her. Other than what that chit, Olive Hornby, complained about.

Hogwarts is the Basilisk's home. But she does not remorse at his choice, preferring to roam the forest and take in the sun. Catch fresh game and be left to her own devices. Snakes don't normally have a conscious, but it does pique Tom's curiosity that she doesn't seem at all bothered by the accidental death.

«Once, I would have rejoiced at the death of one of them.» She explains to him, «But my duty is different, now.»

The ghost of Myrtle Warren is a sorry sight, according to the student body. It's a sorry sight he avoids at all costs. As if laying her eyes upon him will announce to her that it was his carelessness that led to her untimely death at thirteen. As if she will look at him and know. Announce it to all the castle and have him expelled from school. Taken away from his first home. His only…

The money from the Basilisk is enough for him to treat himself whilst at school. Eat at the restaurants in Hogsmeade, buy treats from Honeyduke's, have extra supplies, the works. He doesn't need to abstain from indulgence nor rely on the pockets of his acquaintances. He is independent, finally, financially. Corresponding with shops within Mexico and Knockturn alley for his suspiciously steady supply of basilisk products. Soon, he'll learn to milk her for venom and earn even more.

He'll have that manor upon a hill that his father had. Better. Better than all the manses of his peers.

At the Three Broomsticks, Tom treats his knights to a drink and food. A reward for their loyalty and friendship these past years at Hogwarts. Not knowing just how much he intends to test them through. The majority of them, anyways. Evan, Hedwig, and Nemesis need no such testing.

They toast to him. His name. His future legacy as a wizard. That he may find and make his fortune.

Tom drinks.

The Room of Requirement is full of him and his. Dressed to look like a study or solar, much like that of the fathers of his followers. Tailored to Tom's taste, only slightly more opulent than the study in Riddle Manor.

His court stands still. Silent. Waiting.

"I've been busy," he picks lint off his robes (new and tailored), "researching my ancestry, as a matter of fact."

The interested looks return. Many of the boys lean in, eager to hear about how much higher in tier they are to him. To hear how they could possibly hold power over him. Tom refrains from sneering at their expressions. He loves a captive audience.

Only his main three do not hold any hope at him being lowly, for various reasons.

"It had begun, actually, around the time of the Pureblood Directory publication… After a little time looking through Nature's Nobility and making trips out to the countryside of England, I found them: The Gaunts."

And then Tom opens his mouth and speaks Parsel.

"—How do we even know you're a natural speaker? It's possible to learn Parseltongue. You're just some great pretender, aren't you? Some mudblood—"

He crucios Abbas. Successfully. The magic surging through him like lighting. Fantastic and powerful. Hogwarts does not stop him, even though he is torturing a student. It's as if he had the approval of the school itself. Of the founders, of his ancestor.

Abbas screams, Tom's never heard a scream like that. Even in London. He doesn't flinch. He cannot show weakness. Not now, when he's putting a member of his retinue in their place. Abbas reminded him too much of Ian, in that moment. Too much like the little boy who had almost killed him.

Why, if Abbas had been allowed to keep talking, he might have gone on to speak about Ximena.

Tom stops, noticing the panicked faces of his peers. "Oh Yaxley, so I'm a muggleborne now? Not some possible great, lost heir of a pureblood family? Is it only because I am no longer under your heel? Because I have proof that my blood is as good, nay, better than your own? Were you hoping to gain some kind of authority over me? After all I've witness, all I've learned from you?"

Abbas whimpers on the ground, muttering and in tears. Tom steps on his hand. "Do not dare to question your betters, Abbas. I thought your parents taught you that." His eyes meet the others in his group, "Would anyone else like to contest my ancestry?"

The group is dead silent. Topaz is trembling. Katux is looking at him with a strange mixture of respect and disgust. Dion appears to be close to throwing up.

Nemesis is gripping Hedwig and Evan's hands tightly. Their resolve to follow him is unbroken.

Good.

"It's time for the Knights of Walpurgis to become an official coven," he moves on, helping Abbas up with a flick of his wand (he's so merciful, after all), "secret, of course, our mission is one of great importance and opposition." Mainly by it's own members, but they don't need to know that Tom's only using them. Not yet. "We'll meet here an hour til midnight, on April the thirtieth."

Ximena carries a giant tub of roses to the table outside her home, the world is quiet. The sky grey. She plucks the sepals off the flowers and pours cold water into the tub. Presses her hands into the pile of roses and squelches them. Closes her fists and mashes the roses together as if they were clay.

Tom rolls up his sleeves and joins her. The petals are soft against his skin, reminding him of her lips. Her hands—The rose pulp pink and fleshy, the syrup being created reminding him of blood.

Their hands meet under the pile of roses. Their fingers interlace he squeezes her hands. She gasps. It seizes his heart. His body. He practically throws himself across the pile to kiss her. Be embraced by her. On top of this pile of petals. Of flesh. The sky blooms pink. Red.

In the morning when he wakes, his body shows his reaction to the dream and he spends an hour laying in bed staring up at the ceiling in thought.

He does not make it to Mexico for winter holiday until the day before his birthday. And when he does, he's trembling like a man dipped in ice. In the middle of the warmest country he's been in, this might seem like a blessing. But all it does is petrify him. Make him wring his hands for nerve. Out of nerves.

He spots Ximena at the kitchen window, smiling and leaning down towards another: A girl, shorter than her by at least a foot, with long, wild curls. She leaves a kiss on Ximena's cheek that lingers too close to her jaw. They wave goodbye to each other as Ximena backs away from the window, and the girl runs off into the treeline.

Tom walks inside.

"Oh, it's you." She says. Casual. Brief.

"...Who was that?"

"Nora." Ximena knows who he's talking about, doesn't even pause about it as she puts away a saucepan. "My girlfriend."

"...Your friend who is a girl?"

"No, my friend who is my girlfriend. She's fun to kiss."

His wand hand flexes, perplexed. "...Then what…" Burning at the back of his throat, "What am I?"

"Hmm?" She turns to look at him, unbothered and expectant. "Did you want something?" She rests her chin on her hand, "Walk out together, solely together? Go steady?"

"If you are mocking me, I don't appreciate it."

"I don't appreciate your…assumptions that I'm not allowed to kiss who I want. If you wanted to be my paramour, you should have said something."

"Well, I'm saying it now."

"No you're not."

A blink. "Excuse me?"

"You never said you wanted to be my boyfriend. You should say the words."

He presses his lips together. Is this a trick? "I… I would like…many things."

"You want to kiss me again?"

"-I want more than that."

"You want to kiss me multiple times?"

What is she doing? Purposefully trying to push him? Rile him? Make him upset? Confess something?

She continues, "You know, you never actually told me you liked me… Right? You said it was past." A shrug, "You're good with words. Speaking. I know you are. Why is it hard for you?"

Why indeed.

He swallows, mouth dry. Sucks his teeth. Presses his lips together. "You know why."

"I seem to know a lot of things. I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want. You had all your first semester to send me something."

How utterly un-Slytherin like. She should know this, she has to know this. She's doing this on purpose. What does she want from him? A guarantee? Proof? Reassurance for her own doubts?

No, he knows what she wants. She's been very honest about it, after all.

"I want…" He swallows. Trembling. Fist tight. "I don't want there to be anyone else. I don't want you to consider anyone else, to even look at anyone else. I want to be the only one–"

Ximena pecks him on the mouth. Quick. Hardly a brush of her lips. "Kay."

"-Wot."

"You're too intense. Nora isn't my girlfriend, I just think a good motivation for you is anger. I didn't think you'd actually say anything, so I'll try it. For now. But you have to make an effort, okay? Use your words."

He gulps.

"...Alright."

She smiles, sharp like Inés. "Good boy."

On his birthday, she teaches him the tradition of eating as many grapes as you can before midnight. Full of two glasses of champagne, he tells her about the folkloric tradition of kissing the first person you encounter.

"Later," she says, "When dad isn't around. Since you're being so bold."

Her approval has him glowing for the rest of the night.

He remembers going to the beach. The older children telling the littluns to jump into the cold water rather than ease in inch by inch. No matter how afraid they were. Because it was better to get it over with than suffer through the slow burn of the cold.

He can't jump into Ximena. He tiptoes in.

They kiss sometimes, and that is okay. He has accepted that it is something that will happen, and it doesn't bother him as it might have a few years ago. He never has to worry about Ximena's oral hygiene because she's the cleanest person he knows, and he never has to worry about her doing something uncouth like shoving her tongue into his mouth.

She tells him what to do. How to kiss. How to move his lips and his head. Her directions are as plain and occasionally vague as her normal tutoring is, but by now he knows more or less what her non-verbal signs mean. Yes. No. This is good. Better. Stop that. Softer.

He feels like he's floating out of his body when they kiss. Disassociating. It's easier if he doesn't see it as his body. If he feels a disconnect. Because if he thought about how her body touched his body, he'd perish. Even if it's not his lips she's kissing, but merely his cheek. His nose. His forehead. All suddenly sacred spaces reserved for her lips and lip color. Sometimes he waits to clean it off, looking at the marks left on him in the mirror of the hallway bathroom. Smug. Prideful. Preening.

He likes it when she tells him he's doing a good job.

If it was only kissing, maybe things would be okay. Yet somehow, even without them speaking, he knows something is coming. It's nothing, at first, just lingering touches to his hands. Idling. This, he doesn't mind, because Ximena's hands run so cool, his palms never seem to sweat and cause him discomfort. But then it evolves. Her hands find their way to his arm or shoulders. The top of his thigh when they sit next to each other. Still light, always light, it hardly feels like she's really touching him, but maybe that's why he's so...driven to frustration with it.

Tom's seen other couples, he knows what these touches mean. They're signifiers of possession. Ownership. A part of him is deeply pleased that she would want to strike her claim on him, and another part of him is even more deeply pleased that she's hesitating...At least, that's what he thinks she means by her gossamer touches. Contact is a sensitive subject for him, it always has been, and she knows this. She knows him. She's thinking of him.

A completely other part of him, separate from the first two, wishes her touches were heavier. Firm. One shouldn't misinterpret him, he belongs to nobody. But he would like to be wanted by her in particular. Coveted. He wants it as much as her attention. But he wants it to happen in private. Between them, and not at all shared with the outside world. But a claim is made to be public! Nonsense, people can see that they're...coupled-adjacent just by looking at them. No need for public displays of aff…Of ownership.

It scares him, the idea of touch. Intimacy. Even if before he realized his (sometimes two!) feelings, he did something as brazen as going under the covers with her. That was innocent, though, obviously. The thought of trying something similar now, however, makes him feel like he's going to break out in hives.

But oh, the thought of her touch.

He hates it. How much he covets it. How the only way he'll get it is if he cooperates. How the only way to have access to her is to give her access to him.

So all of this is why he is currently allowing her to continue what she is doing. That is, resting her full hand on his chest. Pressing into it, really, he'd be less than surprised if she announced she was going to try to pull his heart out. In fact, he thinks he'd rather have that happen than have her continue on just...pressing. It astounds him that he isn't disgusted. Isn't shoving her away. There's nothing repulsive about her touch.

"You're nervous."

Damn. "Am I?"

"Yes."

"My magic is as calm as a sleeping kneazle."

Ximena snorts, "I'm not feeling your magic, I'm feeling your heartbeat: it's pattering." Fucking damn. He forgot about that.

"Maybe I'm just tragically unhealthy."

"Don't be stupid."

"I thought you liked that about me."

"When it suits me."

"Spoken like a true Slytherin."

She finds no amusement in his words. Her hand retreats. He misses it. "I'm not a Slytherin anymore."

"You don't stop being one just from leaving school." Which he still hasn't forgiven her for.

"Am I marked for life then?"

Yes, "Not exactly. People change. If they want to."

Another hum.

"You're a virgin, aren't you?"

He almost coughs up a lung.

"What-"

She cackles so loud, it's a wonder the rest of the house doesn't hear it, "Guau! That was a better reaction than I was expecting-You really are prim and proper, aren't you?" He suddenly wants her hand removed from his chest forever, never to return. "Your face is so red-Hedwig said you were a prude."

The memory of Hedwig placing his hand on her breast haunts him, "Ximena-"

"I'm asking because by now, Carlos would have tried to do something. Or I would have, depending."

He almost chokes on his own spit.

"It makes sense, actually, thinking about it...But you were always so...in control of yourself. So dominant of others...The gossip the girls would spin about you in the mornings and evenings...Well, it would be enough for one of those novels you were looking at back at that bookstore-"

"I was misled as to the contents of that novel."

Ximena snorts, "Right-You're a perfect gentleman, I forgot."

He can feel his heart begging to escape his rib cage. He hates it.

"...I am aware of the sorts of things spoken about me by the older girls." And some of the younger girls unfortunately drawn into the gossip, "It's all hogwash."

"Well now I know that." Her fingers tap tap tap rhythmically, "But then, it was hard to filter out a lot of what was obvious hogwash."

"You never struck me as the type to listen to gossip."

"I like to dabble."

That's a little too close to Inés and her interests. The idea of Ximena being anymore similar to her grandmother is terrifying.

"It was considered a right of passage, you know, to dream about you. Among the Slytherin girls."

"Excuse me?" Really, he shouldn't be so surprised, the minds of teenagers were always filled with muck.

"It's true. Even the ones who had no interest in you would eventually find you in their dreams." She suppresses a yawn, "I remember how guilty Nemesis was when she had hers-She was near crying in the bathroom." He refrains from rolling his eyes at this, "You should have heard Hedwig-Oh shut up, everyone's had dream sex with Riddle."

He feels like he's going to die.

"...Have you?"

"Twice."

He loses the air in his lungs.

"... Was… Was…"

"Were you good?"

He coughs.

She laughs, "I don't remember, really. I don't think it was that sort of sex dream…"

"There are types?"

"Well of course, I'm sure you've had them: some of them you reach orgasm and others–"

He's coughing again.

"Are you sure you weren't raised in a monastery?"

"I am simply not used to speaking openly about such topics."

"You know, I think that's unhealthy. How will you communicate what you like and want to me if you won't talk about it?"

Tom wheezes and squeaks. Has all of his terrible dreams rush back into his memory as quickly as the tide rushes to shore. Ximena, unfortunately, finds this delightful.

"Mm. Do you dream about me too?"

He can only be himself in measured amounts. "I dream about many things."

That look of disappointment. Familiar. "I thought we were past this."

"...Past what?"

"Your guard is up all the time-Don't look at me like that. It's true."

However he's looking at her, he's not sure how to stop because what is she talking about? He's never been more open, more vulnerable than with her, how can she say that and mean it? "I don't understand."

"You don't let yourself go. Everything is...mechanical with you. Like you read an instruction manual on how to snog-You kiss by the book. It's...I want to see you sigh, you know? Whimper or moan, something. I know it's hard for you to...give up that controlled persona, but...sometimes it feels like you don't even want to be there."

He swallows a lump in his throat.

"Let me take care of you." She murmurs, coming closer. So close. Too close. She's too close, please come closer.

His hands are shaking.

"Tell me what you want."

Another gulp. He licks his lips. Presses them into a thin line. "What don't I want?"

She rolls on top of him. It is at this moment that it really hits him: she is experienced and he is not.

"It's okay." Despite what his head is telling him, he knows she's not being condescending, "You can touch me."

He knows, that's what makes it absolutely terrifying-Did she always have this much skin? He supposes it was just hiding under that black work robe everyone wore to Hogwarts, and it's so silly to forget that a person has skin, and what is she doing, why is she grabbing his wrist where is she-

Her hip is cool. In comparison, his hand must feel like a hundred degrees, he feels flush. Feverish. Like the walls are closing in on him, it's not just her closing in. Yet he doesn't want to move his hand. Not yet. It feels good. Right. There's needles pressing into his heart and anxiety filling up his lungs, but this is good. He knows he's safe, somehow.

Ximena waits, her eyes never leaving him, and it's doing something to him to not have her eyes move from his form. She's never looked at him for this long, not without being furious, anyways, and not without a lively conversation being shared between them. What does she see? A scared little boy pinned down underneath a witch he's known since he was eleven? Like someone inspecting a bug under a magnifying glass-But her eyes are soft. Alert, but soft.

He relaxes. Her weight sinks into him comfortably, it's almost as if they were made to fit together: a thought he chastises himself for thinking about because of how tacky and unoriginal it was. He likes the weight of her. The temperature of her body. He likes her attention. He hates that he likes her attention.

She places his other hand somewhere safer-Or perhaps more dangerous: her thigh. Oh it's quite a different texture. Texture? No no, it's the same good skin as before (good skin?), but it's… A thigh is not like a hip. Why is it not like a hip? It's like comparing a drumstick with a chicken breast and God no, Tom, what the fuck, do not compare the body of your companion to meat, who are you, Mulciber?

Okay, she noticed he stilled again. Her voice is almost a whisper now, "It's okay." Why does he believe her? "I won't hurt you for taking a little pinch." A-A pinch?! Why would he take a pinch? Why is he considering it? Why does that sound like a tantalizing idea-

He gulps, against his will, and blinks back the hesitation building up in his muscles. He has permission, that's the most important part, right? Hell, he has an invitation. He's sure if she were the type, Ximena would have sent him something more formal: proper card stock with inlaid pearls or lace or some other frivolity to mock his learning of highblood customs.

Why is she giggling, "You're blushing." Oh. That's why his face is warm, "I can't believe it, you look so… boyish." Not exactly what he wants to hear right now, "It's good. You look good. I could look at you all day."

"-The view I have isn't so bad either." His throat clears, finally able to find some words that weren't just what are you doing?

She smiles again, but the playfulness is shaded with something, "Yeah?" What is… What did she do to the tone of her voice to sound like that-It was… It was good. It felt good, somehow, physically. In his chest and down to his stomach and-Can he stop using the word good? Isn't there another word to use for these...sensations? No. If he wanders into the territory of using words like amazing or wonderful or (Merlin forbid) delicious, then it's only a slippery slope from there. How can somebody's words be delicious anyways? He can't… he can't consume words, even if they were spoken by a witch, even if he wanted to and he… wants to. Consume what she's giving. Ridiculous.

He tries moving his thumb, the one on her hip because that one feels like the least offensive, even if he has permission, and wow, her skin is still very cool, how cold is this room? She's getting goose pimples. They're getting goose pimples. Little pinpricks rising all over her body even over her chest-

He looks away.

Ximena does not laugh like he expects, but he does hear a breath of amusement sigh out of her mouth, "Are you okay?"

He's… he is very conflicted, "Fine."

"Fine?"

He clears his throat, "Very fine."

"Mm." She hums, pushing forward and leaning into him-She's very light, even with the whole weight of her torso pressing up against his and okay, do not think about how she's pressing herself right up against him, "You can tell me to stop. I'll understand."

He knows that. He's not stupid. He… He doesn't want this to stop, he just wants it to end. To have already done through with it. To have the experience and know what to improve on for later-Later? Is there going to be a later? Sweet Circe.

Tom presses his lips together, "Slowly." He begins, eyes looking back in front of him now that it was safe to do so without reminding himself that Ximena has breasts, "Go slowly."

This time, when she hums, he can feel it vibrate pleasantly against his chest, "I can do that."

And she does.

The morning light is pleasantly warm, but the bright ray pressing into his eyelids is not so pleasant. He raises his hand to block it out and finds it is immobilized by a pillo-

No, that is not a pillow.

He opens his eyes.

Of course, there is Ximena, laid over his arm and inconveniencing him. Breathing deeply, on the very verge of snoring. Mouth open and body twisted, her clothes wrinkled and shifted. Eyelashes fluttering and every so often mumbling. It's very unattractive. He watches her anyways, for a while. Searching for something. When she breathes out, the air from her lungs flitters a curl of hair hanging in front of her face, and when he tires of watching that, he looks at her steady breathing. Her chest rising up and down.

It's absurdly warm in the room-That explains the kicked off covers. It makes him want to discard his own clothes, but the thought of being disrobed in any capacity with her in the room brings a whole other level of morbidity into his thoughts. Could he ever reach that? Nakedness in the physical and emotional sense?

Ximena rolls over, moves against him in her sleep. She's uncomfortably close now. Again. Pushing into his side. He can bend the arm trapped underneath her now, but when he does, all there is is the sensation of pins and needles. It bends anyways, and his wrist hangs: his hand brushing barely against loose curls.

Nothing had happened. At least, nothing that would result in procreating. Or even a proper detention back at Hogwarts. That's...That's a far away step. He's barely stepped into the water, right at the edge. Not even a centimeter in. His feet are hardly wet. He's not used to the temperature of the water! It was cool. Very cool. She was cool-

There was touching. Just touching. Growing familiar with each other's… bodies. Shoulders and cheeks and elbows and (for a strange and tantalizing few moments) ears. She spent a whole eleven minutes (he wasn't keeping count) just playing with his fingers. Running her nails over his palm and interlacing her hand with his. He spent twenty minutes (he did not keep count) building himself up enough to move his hands down her legs.

It was nice. He would like to do it again. Repeatedly. Often.

Ximena yawns. Stretches and rolls over like a cat. Blinks awake. Looks at him. "Your bedhead is terrible. I like it."

What he found in Balam's study in the previous year plagues him. For various reasons. There's the book in parsel, which attracted his interest more than the diary in parsel found in the Slytherin common room–Ximena is still busy with that one, he's not touched it beyond what he has already touched.

Then there's the penseive.

He's never seen one before, not outside Dumbledore's office, anyways. Not made from any stone, but rather clay, sitting quietly in the corner of the room beside a glass cabinet full of vials. Memories. The sight of it made his heart pound. Next to the cabinet was Ximena's Rememberall–His gift for her sixteenth birthday.

There were dozens of vials, some glass, some ceramic, others a material he could not place. All were labeled. Spanish, mostly, though he did see languages from other continents. Other times, species. He imagines they're not all Balam's, but rather inherited or passed on. Perhaps traded? His studies at Hogwarts mentioned how sometimes fae liked to be payed in memories. In joy and emotions. Who was it that told him that for the first time? Ximena?

He didn't take. It's not his, and he knows better than to try. But he did indulge. Even if he couldn't quite satiate his curiosity. Even if what he saw was confusing. In need of clarification.

He stands across from it now as he inhabits the room with his teacher.

"I was wondering, actually," Tom plays with the bracelet on his wrist, "if you could help me with something. See, I was reading through a book a few months ago, when I came across a peculiar word I didn't recognise…Horcrux?"

Balam snorts, "What type of book were you reading?"

"Just something I picked up, it might have been your library, actually." Tom sets his shoulders back, trying to appear taller.

"Ay, you children… Always getting into things you shouldn't." He sighs, suddenly, appearing older than he really is. In his tired eyes, his slumped posture. "A horcrux is a poor man's guide to destroying the soul, as Wáng once put it. Greek magic, interestingly enough."

"For what purpose would one make a horcrux, then?"

Balam shrugs, "Aside from idiocy? I suppose it's somewhat like insurance. If something happens to your body, a part of your soul is still encapsulated in another object."

Sweat runs down the back of Tom's neck. "Fascinating. I don't suppose, maestro, that you would know the steps to create one? Simply curious, for academic reasons."

Balam looks at him dead on. Unamused. He has Ximena's eyes. "Why are you trying so hard to barrel towards the grave?"

"..."

"Immortality is more often a curse than a blessing, and I've met enough people and lived through enough to realize that. And it's not that shit about watching all your loved ones die… Though, that's no picnic either, I'm sure. It's your body. Your magic. It can't last that long without repercussions. All magic requires sacrifice." Balam glances away, rubs his eyes. "You're so young. So young."

Normally this sort of talk would have infuriated him: a wizard almost of age. But something about the way his teacher talks, the way his age shows in his eyes, makes him pause. Shouldn't Balam understand? This need, this fear? He's seen what he's gone through. How he grew up. He knows better than any other adult in his life. More than his own father.

"If it's not a horcrux, then it's going to be something else." He speaks honestly, because it's starting to become a bad habit. "It'll be a celestial peach. Unicorn blood. A philosopher's stone." Anything, truly. To get what he wants. To be truly untouchable by death.

"You're a fool." Balam scoffs, "But I know you'll try and find the information from less knowledgeable sources and end up killing yourself by accident. Come. Sit. Take notes." The man rolls up his sleeves.

Tom takes out the black diary he purchased in Bavaria.

—End Notes—

Been a while hasn't it? u_u

It took me a while to settle on the poem chosen for the last chapter and this one. Some other candidates were "Desire Like This" by Mark Van Doren, "México" by Pablo Neruda and "Romance de las estrellas" by Ruben C. Navarro. All of them would have changed the tone/theme of this chapter, so I'm glad I went with this poem.

The end is in sight and I think (spoilers, lol) that I might write multiple endings if I'm up for it. THANK YOU TO JAC for all you do for this fic

i have a few new stories tied in with this universe (more or less) that you might want to check out on AO3:

Ximena The Expert Babysitter: Ximena provides childcare for the Death Eaters while they have their meetings and raids

"Euoi!": a parody smutfic

Step Dark Lord: Tom cucks Druella Rosier and becomes step-parent to the Black Sisters

there is also a collaborative fic between me and my friends in the works that takes place during Tom's time after Hogwarts, featuring new and familiar faces