In the months leading up to his seventh year, he finds people watching him. Asking him for his opinion on current events, political leanings, and even the economy.

The mark of his coven is glorious. Stark against the skin of his followers and flowing with power. Their shared magic. His magic.

The exhaustion following the bonding, the creation of their coven, is indescribable. The members are out for two days in their fatigue, but Tom is brimming with power. Even throughout his weariness. He stays standing past his usual sleeping hours studying. Researching more. How to feel more of this energy. This qi. How to lift the boundaries of what magic his coven can share with him.

He'll be unstoppable.

He looks at the woven bracelet around his wrist.

They'll be unstoppable.

The world is at war, and Hogwarts looks much the same. As it should. As it always will. No smog or fires or destruction will touch his sacred home. Space. Not like he's alive—And that will be a long long time.

The world is at war, and it looks to be stopping soon. The Muggle Studies classroom is all but empty these days, with very few half-bloods and well-meaning purebloods sitting by the radio listening to broadcasts with baited breath. A routine that brings them there every free hour. Every weekend. They skip Hogsmeade, even, to be here. Distractions are a luxury few can afford.

The world is at war, and there are whisperings that Dumbledore has made contact with Grindelwald. A skirmish, if that. Barely could be counted as a play duel. People speculate that the lack of bloodshed has to do with their past friendship. That it was so strong that it didn't matter that Dumbledore wanted to stop Grindelwald in his ambition. His goal. His life's dream. Because they were friends once. Ridiculous.

Grindelwald didn't kill Dumbledore because his work isn't noble. It lacks passion. Unlike Tom's. It's not enough that the world knows about them. That the world stay separate despite this. It has to answer for its wrongs. For what it did to him, and others like him. Not that Grindelwald could ever understand. Like asking the Basilisk to understand the struggles of a garden snake.

The Basilisk comments on his decision to create a coven with those 'outside of his nest', calls it odd. He calls it revolutionary, though there is no word in Parsel for that.

After all, isn't it silly to expect for new abilities to form and for magic to grow when you have so much of the same in one coven? Isn't it better to pick the fruit of other trees to cultivate your own personal garden of power?

The Basilisk doesn't shrug, because she has no shoulders, but simply replies with something like If you say so, and leaves it at that.

Really, what would a beast know of ambition? When he shares his actions, his vision with Ximena, she'll understand. That magic is might, and those undervalued are too often left behind.

Undervalued. How he was left to rot in his orphanage with no magical guidance. How the women in his coven are treated simply for existing as women. How Ximena herself was forgotten and deemed unimportant simply because no magical family claimed her.

It'll be different. Soon.

If only she would answer his letters appropriately.

We're too young for that. For what? Several other witches their age have already been engaged for years with less history than they have. Others don't have their memories. Their experiences. She's already subjected him to the horrifying ordeal of having feelings, this is only the proper reparations.

Don't touch him don't touch him don't touch him.

It will be different with them. There'll be a foundation. Reason. Passion.

He clears his throat. Adjusts his collar. The memory of her touch heats his face. Now isn't the time for that.

But later.

Later.

For the first time in his life, he cannot cast a spell. He can't do it on the first try. Or second. Or fifth. Tenth. Hundredth.

There's sweat on his brow, he's horrendously frustrated. Gritting his teeth together and wringing his nerves together like he were losing his magic or something equally absurd. It wouldn't be so bad, so terrible, if others in his class did not rise to the occasion and perform a lesser version of the spell.

"Your happy memory should be strong, not necessarily elaborate." Nemesis explains, performing the charm effortlessly: a ghostly white wolf emerges from the tip of her wand and runs through the Room of Requirement. "It doesn't even have to be real, really. Just something that sparks joy."

His first instinct is to draw from when he first learned (no, first confirmed) that he was Special. Different. That he would be able to leave this place, escape. Wipe away any trace of him that reeked of London. Of Wool's. When Dumbledore came to him on that rainy day and set his wardrobe on fire—No, he remembers that emotion. Fear. Betrayal. Desperation. That all he owns, all with any worth, was on fire and gone. Set to ashes.

The memory of buying his wand. Having it call to him. Affirm that he's worth aligning with. The wand chooses the wizard. His chose well. His wand was waiting for him. For a wizard worthy of all the power within. Of all the awesome, fantastical things that could be done with it. He remembers the interest (dare he say the fear?) that was in Olivander's eyes. The man knew he witnessed greatness that day, it'll be something he remembers for decades to come. A story he tells his grandchildren. The day that Tom Riddle came to his shop. Everything about the moment felt predestined. Even his wand core, the phoenix, immortal and always rising. The phoenix feather that came from…

The next memory he tries to focus on is the memory of first seeing Hogwarts.

The sound of the water beating against the boat, creaking over darkness. The lights that seemed ethereal. A fae kingdom floating on the current, inviting him into warmth. Into his destiny.

The first real home he ever had. Where he found his past, his heritage. That which aids in his Specialness.

A wisp of something comes out from the tip of his wand. Nemesis claps and congratulates him. "Good! Yes! Great start!"

He doesn't want a start, he wants mastery. He swallows his anger because he knows Nemesis to be sensitive. "I should have been here hours ago."

"Oi shut up, you bellend." Hedwig cracks her back, standing up from her seat in a nearby chaise, "She's helping you out of the goodness of her heart."

She's helping Tom because he is her coven leader. Though he supposes that he would publicly admit to being her friend.

Nemesis giggles, because she knows when Hedwig is serious about her anger. "It's strange not being at the top of the class anymore, isn't it?"

Tom narrows his eyes at her quip. "For now."

"His head's so far up his ass, I bet he's still focusing on shallow memories. Like seeing Hogwarts for the first time and shit." Hedwig sniffs, her famous allergies only barely receding, "You need something deeper than that. Something at your fecking core. That represents what you want, what you are, what drives ye."

"It doesn't have to be that serious." Nemesis reassures, "Well, it could…But that's a lot to ask of someone. I think it's best to stick to memories that really make your heart burst."

Briefly, his mind skitters over Ximena. The first time he saw her. Talked to her. Her awkward spectrum of humanity. How he felt when she first smiled at him.

He gulps. "Perhaps we should take a break."

She's more forward, in her letters now, only because he has been forced to be vulnerable enough to tell her that he wants her to be. She takes it to mean that he's a romantic and—And isn't he not? Isn't romanticism favoring emotion over logic? He's always felt. Strongly. Anger, triumph, pride. The emotions in his body too big for him to keep. Like a faerie. Like Tinkerbell in Neverland.

As a child, perhaps he did want to be whisked away to Neverland. To whisk others with him. Or maybe just one. One other.

His thumb brushes over the end of the page, where Ximena pressed her painted lips against the paper. Is it normal to be jealous of a piece of paper?

Her like and curiosity of the dark arts cannot be overlooked. Overstated. He might know little about her personal practices, but he's not moronic enough to believe that she, herself, has never delved into black magic. Into the forbidden. Not with a father like Balam, or a teacher like Wáng. Would she accept his decision? His choice to tear something as holy and divine as the soul? Before all this, he didn't truly believe in souls, not like that. Like the way the church would have wanted for him to believe.

He still doesn't. Not really.

He can see it now, her look of curiosity. Her calling him stupid. Telling him that she likes that about him. Asking him to tell her more. The details, the steps, the process. If he's planning to do it. If he's already done it. How it felt. If maybe he would consider helping her…

He stares at the ring on his finger.

He wonders if she would choose the bracelet for her horcrux. Or if she thought the act would defile it. If it would somehow change its effects. He, himself, wonders as well. Feels, perhaps, that it's worth it to investigate. If only to document. To see what homes work best for the seven pieces of his soul. Of hers…

Seven is a perfect number. Magically speaking, mathematically speaking. She was always talented at maths. At arithmancy. To the point where others around her accused her of being a Muggle in disguise (most of these accusations were jokes, but he always suspected…) Numbers are the ultimate truth: unable to be fudged or faked. Never changing. He remembers the professor declaring that she had never once changed her curriculum or workload over the years, the decades. Because numbers don't change. One plus one will always be one. Seven will always be the most magical number.

Will she understand this? His decision? Dangerous and risky but necessary. To cement his life and power. A single soul, separated into seven, it can only lead to seven ultimate souls. Seven pieces of the same magnificent being, each part capable of razing cities and defeating all who stand in its way.

He can hear her, in his head, calling him a moron.

Is it moronic? No one else had ever done it before, so who knows what doing it might bring? The cure for the horcrux is regret, and while he will never regret anything that brings him power and eternity, if it all goes to hell in a handbasket, he has the best and brightest at his side to help. If his plan is truly moronic, truly ridiculous, he can recover. He can go back. Always have an escape plan when working with dark magic. Balam told him that, that night. Among other things.

Your soul will scream, when you tear it out of your body[1]. It will sound like you, the way you see yourself. If you get startled and let go, the consequences will be disastrous.

He wonders where his soul would go if he let go during the process. Little Hangleton? The Gaunt Shack? The Riddle Manor? Or maybe Wool's. Hogwarts. Ximena. What would she have done with it? Or would it have taken her by surprise? Entering her body like a possession. Wanting to be fused with her so badly that it tries to thread itself with her own soul like a weaving needle. Would his half-soul be strong enough to overpower her? Overtake her?

He presses his lips together. Re-reads her words over and over:

Pureblood romance is being yourself with your lover and putting a mask on with others. I guess, in that way, you've succeeded. But wouldn't it feel better to not hide?

Always on about this. Wasn't it she who once told him that a luchador dons a mask not to conceal his identity, but to become it? He is most himself when the mask is on, he is all he wants and all he plans to do. Why, it's why he fashioned masks for his coven. His Knights. They have nothing to hide, nothing to fear. They are themselves when they are with him. They are his will because that is all they have to ever be.

There she is in his head again. You're so stupid.

He wants to hear her say it when his mouth is on her skin. All this time it's been her touching him. She's learned what parts of him to touch, what parts to leave alone. An ever-evolving map that changes like the tides and slowly grants her more and more access to himself. He doesn't like to think about it, because it's admitting to himself that he wants for something. He likes thinking about it because she's not touching anyone else that way. With that consideration. That thought. Like he's a sacred, cursed object. One that can give repercussions if handled incorrectly.

He wants to touch her. Learn her body. If there are parts of her she does not want touched. If there are parts of her she wants especially touched. With his hands or mouth or tongue. Inexperienced he might be, but he's always been eager to learn. To become the best at anything he tries. He could be the best at touching her, couldn't he? Could know her more intimately than any other before. Memorize her body like a star chart. A passage in his textbook. The songs played at dances.

He would like to dance with her. Just her. Not as a group. As partners. He's been practicing. Purely for appearances. Because it's becoming in fashion and the better you dance, the more expensive your tutor. No one would expect he has firsthand experience watching these dances. Watching Muggles twist and turn and dip. He could do that with her. Dance better than his mentor did at his wretched birthday party. Lead her with confidence and trust. She wouldn't be disinterested, then. Wouldn't be looking like she would rather be anywhere else. She would be in the moment. With him. Enjoying herself. Reciprocating. Wearing a robe of emerald green, her hair and shoes in the style of witches. Not Muggles. No, if they were to dress otherwise, they'd have to be behind closed doors. A private dance, away from the eyes of those lesser than them.

He gulps, swallows his thoughts. Imagination getting carried away again. He wasn't even reading the…the depraved part of her letter. The one that talks about how much she loves it when red bleeds into his face to the point where it takes minutes to get rid of it. How she used to make it a personal game to make him blush as often as possible, as long as possible. How easy it was, all it took was looking at him. Smiling at him. Touching his hand.

She says sometimes hands are the most intimate part of a person, witch or otherwise. Witches naturally use hands to cast and channel magic, but all humans with hands use them for daily tasks. Mundane things. Important things. Feeding themselves or writing a letter. Changing a nappy or harvesting crops. It makes him think about what his hands have done and what hers have done to him.

Damned woman! She's playing her game and she's not even in the same room.

Is he mad because she's winning? Or because she's not here?

He remembers the desire to be like Adam—To be the type of person who could seduce that which he wants, to be able to make Ximena blush. If he put on an act, an aire of utter confidence. If he could convince himself completely without a shadow of a doubt that Ximena was mooning over him as Nemesis was in their early teenage years, then maybe he could be suave towards her. If he could delude himself into believing that he had the reigns. That he wanted the reigns…

It's blissful just to be cared for. To be taken care of. To have someone's attention solely on you, only you matter. What you want, what you feel, what you do not want.

Let me take care of you. He shudders as he remembers it. How it didn't repulse him. How he wanted to lean into her touch rather than shove her away.

Her forwardness is a double-edged sword. One that cuts him twice. One that he allows to cut him.

The beginning of summer break is a quiet affair. Invites to several cotillions, box-socials, and garden parties. He has not yet touched Mexico, though the anticipation is, perhaps, gutting him.

Currently, he's graced his presence to the Ackwellans: they are formally celebrating the engagement of their eldest, Eric, who is a vision in puce. Mature and refined. Robes tailored just for the occasion, and probably to be discarded once the affair is all over. It makes him want to hex her. More than he did before.

Her unfortunate fiancé is a wizard from Germany (Still called Almain by the magical world) with Turkish ancestry, who looks more feminine than she, and not just by the Muggle standards which Tom was raised with. Around the party, he can hear whisperings of his alleged sexuality and unnatural behaviors—Of which is apparently an everyday thing within his homeland.

Hedwig immediately calls him a wand swallower. "I know one when I see one, you can see it from the heavens."

Crass as Hedwig is, he notes that she does not antagonize him beyond advising him to run away from her sister as fast as he can. It seems she sympathizes with a kindred spirit when it comes to these matters. Tom wonders if maybe Hedwig's future in-law sees her for what she is as well. If they'll acknowledge it between themselves. Tom doesn't ask her about the possibility.

He asks about her sister, instead.

"Eric? Nah, she's not like me." A pause. "But she's not unlike me…I don't know what the feck is up with her, really. I've never seen her with anyone. Doesn't even like being touched."

Tom can relate.

He almost seizes when he spots Yami walking around the gardens, looking royal in indigo and gold alongside a chaperone.

"Late arrival." Hedwig scoffs, "Fucking drama queen. Always has to have the attention on herself—That's an Acarya for ya."

"I didn't expect to see her here."

"Right? Would be the scandal of the century if my folks weren't so open-minded." Tom almost snorts at this. "My new good brother's her cousin or something, you really can't tell with what a fecking mess that family tree is. Doesn't even have incest in it and it's so complicated."

As if she knew they were talking about her, Yami's dark eyes flicker over to Tom's. He gives a nod in greeting, a gentlemanly smile. Yami raises a brow, but doesn't look completely offended at him. Instead, she turns to her chaperone and murmurs something to him.

"I didn't know she was being courted."

"Courted? That's her fucking brother, you idiot, she's not British."

He didn't know she had a brother. "A bit past her due date then." He tilts his head, curious, "Or are those customs different with her family?"

"Eh, every fucking family is different, really. I suspect no one's entered into a marriage contract with her because she's scarier than a banshee and twice as deadly. Ha. Mum's not pressed about it either, I think her sister's married now. Speaking of, I swear she should be here…"

"I see. And her brother?"

"Wot, ye interested?" She sniffs, complaining about her allergies, "Fuck–Boys don't matter much to the Acaryas, you can't prove their children aren't bastards without magic or strong genetics. If ye ask me, I think that's how it should be everywhere." Hedwig chuffs, amused with her personal little joke. "I think they're shipping him around to some families that got scammed off the Pureblood Directory. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they tried matching him up with me."

"And undermine my clear claim on you? Separate young love so heartlessly?"

"Worse's been done for a lot less, you prick. I'm a fucking catch and you know it."

He does. He thanks his choices in life for getting Hedwig on his side as quickly as possible in his early years at Hogwarts. "You are a swordfish in a sea of minnows, Hedwig."

"You're Circe-damn right I am."

Tom watches Yami and her brother cycle through guests and formalities, aware that she knew she was being watched (any snake worth her salt would know). Wondering if the faux-pas of showing up in more gold than the guests of honor was on purpose or if she really just went about her normal day like that. Perhaps both.

He zeros in on her when she picks up a conversation with Eric, by an obnoxious fountain carved with Celtic knots and motifs. The two are interestingly juxtaposed in the fashions of their frocks, but oddly matching in the colors they wear. Neighbors, side by side. Separated only by the color violet.

"I see you're getting acclimated to the change in climate, Ülkü." There isn't a teasing tone to her voice, though maybe that's what her words mean to convey. "I sense the warming charm on you is weaker than it was when you first arrived."

It's typical small talk. He's used to it. Biting remarks hidden behind word choice and passive-aggressive observations. There's chatter back and forth about how Eric's fiancé is getting along, and where they plan to marry. If they have plans for where they'll send any children to school.

"Hogwarts is best, no?" Tom says, watching the way Eric avoided skin contact with her betrothed.

"Obviously." Eric makes a point of this towards her fiancé or Yami, he's not sure. "But Durmstrang and Berchtentag are solid choices as well."

"Hogwarts is…a very small pond for big fish." Yami starts, thinking over her wording, "It's only truly fantastic if your worldview is your own small periphery."

Perhaps he would be insulted if his circumstances were different, but having experienced so much of the world, so much of magic outside the confines of his home, he can't quite find it in him to counter that.

"Typical." Hedwig rolls her eyes, "Alright, where would you ship your kids off to, then?"

Amusement in Yami's eyes, like there's a shared joke between her and Hedwig. "I quite like the custom of private tutoring, even if it's old fashioned. Barring that, because one must grow up to make connections, we don't nearly bring young witches together enough anymore to rely on just that." She turns to her brother, asking him where it was again that he attended school.

He looks surprised at being given permission to speak, ".گارشاسپ مقدماتی"

"Right, thank you." A nod, and he returns to being nothing but a figure in the background of the conversation. "Exceptionally militant prepatory school, but worth it. Obedience can't be brought like that."

Tom tilts his head, "What about the school your sister went to? The one in Nepal?"

If Yami is impressed or surprised that Tom knows this information, she hides it well, "परीक्षणको गुफा. A very crude but…effective name." She sips her drink from the goblet in her hands and does not elaborate.

"Quite literally, it is Cave of Trials." Eric's fiancé speaks, clearing his throat, "Quite difficult to get in, the survival rate is ludicrous."

"Survival rate?" Hedwig blinks, "What the fuck have you all got going on on your side of the world?"

"Nothing as barbaric as say, the Tri-Wizard Tournament." Yami clarifies, bored with Hedwig's scandal, "It's just a very…traditional school. Not run by witches at the top."

Tom wishes, not for the first time, that Ximena or one of her family members were here. He makes a note to ask her about the place later. "I see 'traditional' is just a synonym for more deadly?"

"Traditionally, yes." Eric hums, "But for different reasons."

Tom's heard of how it used to be, teaching magic. The Basilisk's recount of there being no universal, or even regional standard. Education being largely taught from parent to child, thus leading to largely ignorant masses. Hence why, of course, the Founders did what they did. It's a story he's repeated to himself many times. As a reminder for what his ancestor wanted and for what he, himself, is fighting for.

Salazar–Hell, any of his pureblooded contemporaries could never fathom the ways in which Muggles can destroy. Can create and advance and innovate. The ones that know they're using Muggle inventions deny their origins, and the ones that don't know still think Muggles don't know their own arse from a hole in the ground.

Muggles are dangerous, yes, but so are all humans. Muggles are inferior, sure, but those cast upon and lost in the mud do not deserve to suffer in it. Muggles are weak, naturally, but even weeds have their uses[2].

"Speak of the fucking devil." Hedwig mutters, and Tom turns his head to gaze at a stunningly beautiful woman cloaked in orange, her long brown hair in a thick braid over her shoulder.

Yama looks remarkably like her sister, if only in the physical features of her face. The shape of their eyes, the slope of their noses, the sharpness of their cheeks. Yama looks remarkably like her sister, except not. Her smile is bright, shining. Eyes radiant with warmth and interest. Her bubbling personality makes it look like she and her sister are distant strangers. From different ends of the universe.

Yama takes care to greet everyone in the circle personally, not in the same way that Nemesis or Hedwig would have: as a diplomat or airheaded hostess. But as a close relative that hasn't seen them in a long time. Asking each person how they are, what have they been up to, and (upon greeting him), telling him that she's heard a lot about him. That their meeting was long overdue.

Tom knows a fake smile when he sees one. He shakes the woman's hand, her skin is warm. He doesn't bother with remembering her husband's name.

"How interesting to see you here, Riddle. You know I just met with someone I believe you know a few months ago…"

Very few parties afterward are as interesting as that one.

As usual, the social events blur together the more he attends them. At the very least, his date isn't consistently boozing herself up anymore.

Hedwig is…doing better. All things considered. Her parents are none-the-wiser about her knowing that she's illegitimate, and as far as she knows, her mother's husband has no idea about his wife's infidelity. Or about Tom and Hedwig's bollocks relationship and her attraction towards a muggleborn witch. The man is delighted that his secondborn will have such a fine breeding partner to bring forth more Acwellans into the world—Because of course, Tom should take her name after marriage, it's only right. She's the one with the higher pedigree.

How arrogant. It makes his look of stark surprise and greed when Tom tells him the truth about his heritage all the more delicious. He even demonstrates: speaks Parsel and summons a lingering snake hiding in the rosebushes. Has it come up to him and climb his arm, as if it were his familiar. Hedwig's father is enraptured by this display of dominance. This show of superiority. Like in all his wildest dreams, he could never have hoped for one of his bloodline to meet, let alone mix with the blood of Slytherin.

"It does the world good that Slytherin's bloodline should return to the Emerald Isle, you know, his grandfather was Irish." Ah. Tom's back to feeling like a prized bull.

Tom knew that, of course. "Yes, and his maternal grandfather was Turkic. Did you know, they value the magical bloodline of the mother over the father in that age?"

It's fun to see grown wizards trip over themselves when speaking to him.

He does it more in the oncoming days, finding that ever since the joining of his coven, he's grown bolder. Peacocking around the upper crust of magical society and shoving aside those who step in front of him. Tiptoeing all the closer over that little line that most people wouldn't even think about crossing. What a thrill! What a lovely way to pass the time while forced to socialize with these haughty people.

His next party takes him with the Rosiers, who (not to be outdone by the Acwellans) are formally announcing the engagement of Evan and Nemesis: both of whom look to be astoundingly uncomfortable with the concept, though used to it, at the same time.

The Fawleys are spread out like a bag of spilled marbles, and no one is acknowledging that Nemesis, while identical in her facial structure to the rest of her family, has starlight blonde hair and golden eyes. When Tom looks at her mother, it seems she's too smugly pleased about something else with Evan's mother to really care.

Good. Even if this is all procedure and pomp and circumstance, she shouldn't have to ruin this day for her. For them. Nemesis is in her element: practicing being a hostess and attending to every guest who gives their well wishes to her. It's a part of her mask that she enjoys, the being popular and at the center of people's adoration. Maybe even their envy: Evan was a very viable pureblooded bachelor for a while (the thought of which is vile: Evan is so young). Tom suspects that the smaller available pool will cause more people to press him to formally propose to Hedwig.

At least until news of his bloodline spreads. Then people will press themselves onto him. Their daughters, sisters, widowed cousins. Ridiculous. As if any of them are interesting or worthy enough.

Don't touch him.

It is here that he finally expresses his real goal. His desire.

"Wouldn't it be better to simply pluck those Muggleborne and such away from their families?" He says this casually, as if what he's saying isn't complete taboo. For a variety of reasons. "Certainly much safer, as well. For us and them. Even Slytherin himself had a similar idea when they were first drawing up plans for the school[3]."

The rumors of his true heritage have done their job in silencing anyone daring to oppose him. After all, it's always the desire of the heirs to uphold the wishes of those that came before them. Legacies are worth more than originality.

Instead of laughing uncomfortably, the witches around him stop. They listen.

"It's come up in my studies of the man, as a matter of fact." It's come up in Ximena's studies, she's quite generous with her notes. "How he was accepting of mag-bobs, if only they renounce their non-magical heritage. Quite smart, mind you, considering the tumultuous time he lived in. The other founders, of course, weren't ready for his innovation. A shame, really. Think of how brighter the world would be if every Muggleborne were raised right." A wistful look, rehearsed, and a shrug. "That's not to mention all the half-bloods and even the poorer purebloods who are left orphaned and without resources."

Like him.

"Look to the past to solve the problems of the future." Evan raises his glass, a little flourish for his own personal showmanship, "None of this radical thinking I've been hearing at school. One of the great big faults of education in the modern age: knowledge at the cost of being radicalized."

At his arm, Nemesis nods along with everything Evan is saying. She's spectacular at playing dumb. Empty headed. "I've seen it happen firsthand." A hand to her heart, a reference to her ousted relative. "It's a killer. A horrible dishonor done upon us and the rest of our generation—The generations after us! What sort of things will our own children be exposed to?"

Justice, with any luck.

"Yami told me you had been to see her?"

"No she didn't." Ximena looks over at him from the bookshelf, "She doesn't like you."

Succinct as always. "Right. It was Yama." Who knew, somehow, that they were associated with each other. Did Ximena mention him? Was Yama privy to the rumors that surrounded them a few years ago? "You didn't tell me you had gone to see the Acaryas."

"I didn't think it was important."

"So it was just a friendly visit?"

"Yami and I aren't friends."

He's stubborn, he knows this. Not pig-headed, but he knows what he wants. That he doesn't rest until he gets it. Or destroys it, maybe. So he pushes. "I've never known you to tolerate people you don't consider friends for very long."

Something about his statement makes her huff in amusement. A brief shake of her shoulders as she rummages through her bottomless bag. "Well, you would know."

He blinks, wondering if it was a jab at how much he followed her around during his first year at Hogwarts. If she ever noticed he was doing it. "I would say that I know you best out of the majority of your friends."

"You would."

"Most especially the most out of anyone we went to school with."

"Mm. That's not saying much."

True. Even when she tried to make friends, tried to be near others, she was closed off. He understands that for Ximena, Hogwarts wasn't the haven it was for him. Even if they met there. Even if many of her friends were found there. Even if that's where she and her father reunited once more.

He wants her to like it, at least a little. To want to visit. To see it. With him. Alongside him. Could she do it for him? Maybe?

"Surely there was some part of Hogwarts you didn't mind."

"Hmm. The forest, I suppose. The Care of Magical Creatures class. The food. My…friends." She toys with the ring on her finger, "You, sometimes."

Sometimes. He's not stupid enough as to ask why.

"But they were less silver linings and…more matches in the middle of a cave. Rare and unlikely to light up. Flickering out quickly."

"How poetic."

"My English has gotten a lot better." She holds a familiar book to her chest, its dark magicks calling out to him.

He wonders if it'll also call out to her one day.

"Come here," she gestures to him, suddenly, setting the grimoire in her hands down. Her beckoning intrigues him, and against his wishes, his body perks up like a dog on command. "I want to bite you."

Ah.

It is difficult to think about anything regarding his coven while in Mexico. It is very difficult to think about anything outside of the Hidalgos while he's here. Sharing their space, eating their food, sleeping under their roof.

He spends a lot of time with his head in Ximena's lap. Sponging up as much of her attention as he can. As he wants. As he's wanted for years. Almost as badly as the skin-to-skin contact he was denied as baby.

A part of him always has to be touching Ximena.

She doesn't dispute his filthy neediness. His cravings for affection like some sort of trollop. She withholds it when he's coy, trying to manipulate the situation. She indulges him when he's forward and blunt. What kind of Slytherin is she?

He doesn't tell her this in case it makes her stop indulging him.

It doesn't take long for Ximena to ask him about his activities, his goings-on, what he's been up to. Especially pertaining to the night of April the 30th.

"I felt something." She explains, her fingers threaded in his hair, palm resting on the back of his neck. "And I think you had something to do with it."

Her hand alone brings shivers, but her words bring smug satisfaction. He leans into her hand, emboldened and self-satisfied. "Oh?"

Her hand tightens into a fist: firm but not unpleasant. "What did you do?"

A part of him wants to derail the conversation and lean over to kiss her. The part of him that wants her to compliment him and his actions steers forward. "I bonded my coven together, officially."

Ximena blinks, because it's a strong sentence to digest. Sharing your magic openly like that with those not in your family…Well, she's the one who told him all about it. "That's why you feel different?" Her other hand hovers over his, he can feel her cool magic pulsing over him. He's all too eager to reach out and let his meet hers. "You feel…more…and less."

Ever the observant one. When she wants to be. "I'm still getting used to it. I'm sure you remember how strange it was, at first, to be tethered to the magic of your family."

"Your family…" She clings to those words, and he is not surprised. He remembers their conversation. Her hand lingers over his, studying his magic. Her other hand stays in his locks, gripping firmly. "You are… You did something else. Something stupid." Ah.

"Did I?" His thumb twists the side of his ring around his finger. Debating. Wondering. Playing with the idea. Enjoying having the ball in his court. Having himself surrounded in mystery, with her picking at and wondering about him.

Her fist tightens pleasurably. Her magic sinks deep into his skin. His heart quickens.

Almost forcefully, but definitely with purpose, he takes her hand in his and lifts it up to slip the Gaunt family ring on her index finger.

It resizes to fit her immediately. Looking dainty but powerful at the same time. He can feel her identifying the magic on the ring. The ancient and powerful wisps of every one of his ancestors who had worn the ring. The dark and low humming of the horcrux within. He can feel her magic twist and glide over and under and in between the currents of the ring's magic. It blends together harmoniously, like he knew it would.

She accepts it. The ring accepts her, "I knew you were up to something stupid."

He gives a boyish half-smile, "Who, me?" of course she knows, "What don't you know?"

Ximena turns back to his face, and he gazes into her gimlet eyes, "Something you don't."

"It looks lovely on you." It does. Her skin compliments it perfectly.

"Be ready to face the consequences of your actions."

"I have forever to do so."

"Hm." She brings her magic back, its cold touch leaving him wanting. Moreso when her hand removes itself from his scalp. For a moment he thinks she'll remove the ring, but she doesn't. Instead, she stays quiet for a minute.

"... I'd like to show you something." She rubs her thumb against the tips of her fingers, thinking. Or maybe hesitating. He stares at her hands.

"Show me what?" Ashamedly, disgustingly, he expects for it to be something physical. Hoped for it, maybe. But instead she wants to give him a chance to look into her father's penseive.

"Something that's been on my mind for a while…Constant. Even through all the blurs and black spots."

Balam's study is the same as when he first snuck into it. As when the man explained horcruxes and the consequences of soul-altering magicks. But there's something about being in here alone with Ximena that makes it all the more mystical. Exciting. Perhaps even romantic?

"He doesn't know we're in here, it's…It's more something for me, I guess." Her voice is thoughtful and quiet. Missing that confidence he's come to enjoy. Whatever it is, she's nervous about it. Apprehensive. The thought brings mixed feelings. "This brew is special, you see…You pour it into the penseive and you'll see just about anything. It takes a while to make, I shouldn't be using it on you but I'm curious."

He raises a brow, intrigued, but cautious. The bottle is labeled with her name. The sudden thought of being immersed in her is oddly intoxicating.

She continues, "It's not…all-seeing, it's more like, you'll see memories that are important. Open or closed doors." A pause, "Well that's not right either. They're not all memories, they're more like…possibilities?" She hesitates, making vague hand gestures, "Parts of other places, other times. It's circular, you know. It just keeps coming back."

He nods, though he knows little about what she's just said.

"It's…it's like this forest. Concentrated essence of the forest. You'll…understand soon. Maybe." She has the audacity to boop his nose, and he has the audacity to enjoy it. "You'll just see what you need to see. Or want to see. I'm not always sure. I think it'll help."

"Help with what?"

"Everything."

What a delightfully vague descriptor. Still, he trusts her enough to know she won't put him in any danger, and he's still high off the effects of his first horcrux. He's untouchable.

"Kiss me."

She does, on the forehead.

"Kiss me."

She does, on the cheek.

"Kiss me."

She does, properly this time. His heart is a hummingbird.

"Alright."

Ximena pours the liquid into the penseive, and it comes out like waterfalls of mist. Like falling petals from a tree. Like vines from the top of a cenote. It's color is pale periwinkle: concentrated and opaque at the mouth of the bottle, but translucent the closer it gets to the basin. When it touches the water, it spreads and fogs the bottom of the penseive, almost in slow motion. Like he was sedated and viewing the world from behind a drugged mind. He doesn't even remember sinking his head into the surface to enter.

The memory begins cloudy.

Ximena was small. This shouldn't have surprised him, all children are small at some point, but he's grown used to seeing her as someone big. Towering. Seeing a small girl teetering around and knowing that she would grow to become his classmate is strange.

Her hair was always short, it seems. Always wild. She has an enamel comb tucked in her curls, as an accessory, but Tom suspects it was stuck due to its awkward positioning. She's wearing a clean, white dress with colorful floral cross-stitching and little huaraches on her feet. She's casting feed for the hens in her grandmother's yard: some of them are still adolescents, and most are still chicks. Behind her, Balam is folding laundry from a clothesline and Churro is snoozing on top of the roof of the house.

She sings to the hens, a song he's never heard before, but assumed to be a nursery rhyme. Singing about the sounds chicks make, and what a good mother they have. How they would be helpless without her.

Los pollitos dicen 'pio pio pio' cuando tienen hambre, cuando tienen frio.

The sound of it makes him feel like a hippogryff is sitting on his chest.

And then a bell rings in the forest. A bell only Ximena seems to hear: her father is oblivious to it.

She runs off into the woods and her father does not see her for almost ten years.

The memory ends, and he's not quite sure if he wants to continue, but he does so anyways. He has no choice in the matter.

Ximena is six and she's at the abbey. He sees himself through her eyes and through the eyes of the padre before her, all at once, all at the same time. The padre approaches her, his limbs like a spider and teeth like a jackal. And she looks into his eyes and feels dread. Fear. Inside her, her magic erupts and at the same time, so does the padre's head.

Tom watches. Experiences the moment of death from both sides. Feels triumphant for her. Feels anger for her.

The memory skips and she's in the arms of Señora Rivera. The nuns are calling her touched by God. Protected by Saint Nicholas. Ximena does not feel very holy.

Tom knows the feeling.

Now she is sitting across from a bearded man in the most peculiar outfit. He is telling her that she's a witch but that's silly because she's always known that. Then she pauses, because she's always known that. How has she always known it, why has she always known it. Why does she know that she's always known it?

The man does not provide answers, but he tries looking into her head. She decides she does not like him. Tom knows the feeling.

Her first night at Hogwarts is terrifying, away from the only place she remembers as home. Being stared at and whispered about when she sits on under the hat for eleven minutes. Arguing with it. Not understanding what it's saying. Not being aware that she's wearing a hat at all.

Tom is dizzy, trying to keep track of the words, the languages rushing through the head of his friend. Like the dreams he's had where he can't read the words he's written down. Where he can't run or breathe or speak. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees things that should not be there. Does Ximena see them too? Are they lingering in the memories, this concentrated essence of the forest?

"Stubborn child! Slytherin!"

The wary looks of the snakes lighten up at hearing that she's one of them. One of them and not like one of the others. Tom knows the feeling.

Her days at Hogwarts pass through him. Rain and shine and parchment and quills, and wandering around the library at night. Faster than he can process. Slower than he can bear. He feels her disconnection, walking through life as if in a glass box. Sounds muffled, colors dulled, bonds unformed.

He smells licorice.

He sees himself, eleven years old (Salazar, was he ever that small?), looking up at her. He sees her, looking back at him, twelve years old. He feels what she feels. Curiosity. Dismissiveness. Defensiveness. Hungry. Cautious.

He wants to claw his hands into this moment and stay. See, witness, what she thought. What she felt–

This disturbs the memory.

In the next one, he does not see Ximena.

He is a salesman, traveling of course, he doesn't have his own shop yet but one day he will. One day soon. He'll have enough to provide for himself and his sick mother at home, and then ask his darling to marry him. The way she deserves.

But first he has to find his way out of this damn jungle.

Not many people, especially around here, get their wands from people like him. Most prefer to make their own or to inherit theirs. But his product is good, his boss assured him of that. Cheap to make, cheap to sell. They sell themselves, he said So far, this hasn't been true, not really, but he has a home. He's never been a pessimist and he's not about to start now–

…has that little cottage always been there?

It's something whimsical. Something out of the fairy tales his mother always read to him and his siblings at home: a witch's hut. Herbs in the front, smoke coming out of a chimney, a cat on the windowsill–He approaches the young lady sweeping out in front, lifting his hat off his head, "Good afternoon!"

The girl stops and looks at him, a brow raised, a look of strange, mischievous interest in her eyes. There's no denying she's handsome, just the look of her is enough to make him blush, but there's something undeniably dangerous about her as well. Like she was the type of witch to turn unsuspecting Muggles into pumpkins and flowerpots.

"You're not from around here, are you?" She brushes some of her long brown hair behind her ear, where it curls and doesn't much listen to her instructions. "Are you lost?"

"Xóchitl!" An older woman calls from inside the house, "Don't bully the poor man, send him on his way."

Xóchitl pouts, maybe, looking at him like she wanted to eat him, "Wouldn't you like to come in for a cup of coffee?"

She twirls a curl around her finger.

The memory dissolves as he walks into the front door.

He's himself in this memory that's not a memory at all. Ximena and him are looking up at their most recent common ancestor: summoned through their magicks and their will. She looks down at them, impassive. Knowing and judging of what her legacy will bring, countless centuries into the future. She looks nothing like them. She looks like she spit them out of her mouth. A mother they never had.

She speaks, it is a language unknown to them, yet they both understand as she talks because she knows their True Name. As the ancient words slip over their ears. She tells him You can change it. And he knows she means Ximena.

When he turns to look at her, she's not there because he's in another not-memory. A possibility. He's a Muggle, in an apartment, cooking. Someone comes up behind him and embraces him. Flushes their entire body against him. Nemesis. Nemesis is some woman. Not like the women his mother tries to set him up with, and not like the women his father tries to insist are worth knowing. Nemesis does everything he asks, she's everything he needs her to be. A support system, a friend, an ear to bounce ideas off of. And she's beautiful. And she's his. His. He's never truly had anything that was all his.

They're going to go out tonight. A club that plays mambo and salsa and all sorts of new sounds. He's meeting Evan there, the club belongs to him. Or his father? Yes, he remembers now.

At the club, Nemesis is glowing. They're dancing. And someone borrows her to dance, an old classmate from boarding school. Tom lends her and is speaking with Evan in low tones about business and about dealings with the mob. The immigrants that work under the heel of the upper crust folk like them.

Tom's mother was one of them. He doesn't think about it.

A singer dances up on the stage with the musicians. He stares at her. Dark skin, tight curls, a bright smile. Evan says her name is Ximena.

The dream shifts again, and he knows it's a dream because it could be no other thing. Not a chance. He's no longer in the penseive, he has to be asleep in his bed.

The dream shifts again and he's watching himself possess a red-headed girl of eleven. Riding atop of a dragon. Seeing himself run meetings with his new coven. Inside the body of a giant lindwyrm and consuming half a village. He is an unseelie king in pursuit of a girl with curls. A peasant boy with the power of the sun looking up at the royals with envy.

He's a father, with his father, his father is alive and his mother is alive. His father is dead and his mother is alive. His parents are happily married. Happily in an alliance. Happily enemies.

He's embracing Ximena. Nemesis. Elle. Other witches he's never known or seen before. Witches born before him, witches born after him. Together with him by fate or time or circumstance. He has one daughter. Two daughters. A son. Two sons and a daughter. His son's name is Tom. Marvolo. Herakles. Cassius. Bartholomew. Cadmus. His daughter's name is Delphini. Meissa[4]. Proserpina. Lyra. Belinda. Melusina.

He's in worlds where his name isn't Tom. It's Thomasin. Merope. Morfin. Salazar. He's not himself but others, as he was or would be. In the body of his father, his mother. Grandparents. Ancestors.

He is his great ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, getting married under a juniper tree. His bride, Shirazad, ephemeral and blushing.

He is his great ancestor's mother: Arrosa de Aragon, giving birth to Salazar Slytherin. Holding him pridefully in her hands, blood and afterbirth making labor as dangerous and as triumphant as the battlefield. He knows his (her?) son will lead thousands.

Tom is the Basilisk, being named by Salazar as she hatches. Tom is the snake on the vine, watching his teacher birth Ximena at the bottom of a grand cenote, the full moon cloaking them and the water in silvery light.

Tom is facing a witch who has wronged her—him? His self is that of a woman, cursing, spitting, ruing. All of this at another: some distant ancestor who wears the face of Ximena. Of Balam. Of Inés.

Live on. Live on knowing what you did when you abandoned your people. Betrayed them. Your kin will live on, their children will live on, in agony. Every second on this earth will be full of suffering, and you will all long for the comfort of death. Separated from your children, separated from your mother. It's what you deserve, for what you did.

It is the language of Quetzalcoatl. Sacred and ancient.

It is his ancestral magic. However changed, however different. It is the gift of serpent speak, given down by another god. But it is still his. It will always be his.

In the dream, the memory, the future, the past—He looks into the waiting eyes of Ximena, and he understands. What she wanted him to see. What he saw. Why he saw it.

And he understands why he can't do a single thing about it.

He gasps and recoils from the penseive, the liquid inside splashing. Sweat running down the back of his neck. Gooseskin rising.

"What did you see?" She asks, and there's a tremor in her voice he's never heard before. It makes him still. Because he knows. He knows that she wants him to do something, something he doesn't want to do.

It would mean separation. Eternally. Away from him.

He presses his lips together. "I'm not…sure." It was the truth for most of it. "I need to…I need to think."

She watches him leave the study, tense. Waiting.


End Notes

[1] This idea is taken from the fic 'Seven Devils' by sunder_soul

[2] Weeds are a dumb invention. Its natural wildlife that often carries culinary and medicinal uses, which people purposefully kill off for the sake of what? Making your lawn look pretty? Not giving people free food? It's a plant! Leave it alone!

[3] This idea is taken from the fic "Quite Harmoniously" by TheAmityElf, which I love. I recommend it if you enjoy yandere and reader inserts.

[4] Meissa as a name for Voldemort's daughter taken from the fic "surrogate" by 913718, which is also a favorite and a huge influence on my understanding and interpretation of Tom's character

Thank you so much to Jac for looking over this3 I love you so much :c

The title is a reference to the song, Nunca es suficiente, by Natalia Lafourcade. The lyrics work very well here, particularly "Nunca es suficiente para mí/Porque siempre quiero más de ti", and "Acostumbrado estás tanto al amor/Que no lo ves, yo nunca he estado así" from Tom's POV, while "Te perderás dentro de mis recuerdos por haberme hecho llorar" is definitely from Ximena's, bahahaha.

There's a deleted scene from Serpentine that you can read in LMR that might help clarify some things if you're lost, as well as many a hint throughout the fic. Even though it's a deleted scene, i've decided it's still, in fact, canon.

The woman at the start of the dream, Xóchitl, is meant to be Inés–She's described as a witch who would turn others into pumpkins and powerpots, which is a reference to the song, La Bruja. You might also remember the dream Tom had where when Ximena said the word 'abuela', flowers fell out of her mouth: Xóchitl means flower in Nahuatl. There's a lot of callbacks in this chapter, and some details which only make sense if you've read the extra/bonus chapters.

I'm debating on uploading the kiss chapter through Ximena's POV to LMR, because that was finished ages ago, but I never got enough comments at the time. Wattpad's had a lot of interaction recently with Serpentine, which feels nice, but this fic just feels so…much. Like something to leave in the past.

There's a lot of thoughts I have re: this fic and it's ending that I could share, but to cut out all the fat, I think I rushed the ending too much because I was afraid of it dragging on despite my desire to truly create the most agonizing slow burn known to tiddles fics. I also just enjoy world building and playing with ideas and characters… But whatever. I can fix it all one day when I re-write it as an original story. Because I really can't enjoy Harry Potter anymore as a queer person. I just feel so… icky. I want to finish it because it's important to me, but it'll be my last HP work. Unless Ms. Terf dies soon (fingers crossed, lmao).

I'm on tumblr! Talk to me on my writing blog, skoofuskalid! I did remake my rp blog tho, that's at fragmentmemories now.