Author's Note: Ah, sorry everyone. Trying to format on here is hell, strongly considering making a second Ao3 account to port this over because WOW. Anyhow, sorry for the lateness, I have a ton more written but I just needed to post. Happy year anniversary to be trying to get this sorted, sorry guys. BUT the Tom and Maeve interaction in this is everything to me and I love them so much. Would anyone be interested in my playlist/pinterest board that goes with this story?

"Decipher me, my love, or I will be forced to destroy you." ~ Clarice Lispector, from The Book of Delights; "The Beginning of Spring,"

"It's not that I don't think you'd do brilliantly, my boy, you must understand-"

Tom kept his face carefully neutral, his grip on the leash of his temper razor thin. Dippet was once again dithering about his office, waving his wand at his kettle and heating it for tea with a kind of distracted air of the perpetually nervous. This interview—or what passed for one, in Dippet's world–-had already taken much longer than he anticipated and with less than satisfactory results. It didn't help that Dumbledore himself was there, always insistent upon attending these sorts of audiences. Tom, tired of watching Dippet flutter around preparing tea, shifted his gaze to Dumbledore's. The man had not ceased watching him since he entered the office, patient and careful as an alley cat observing a garden adder. If he wanted to glare at him, Tom would give him something to look at.

"-but you are simply too young at the moment. Why, you're barely older than our seventh years, even if you are infinitely more responsible and Merlin knows you're capable! Why, exposing Rubeus and that wretched creature he was keeping-"

"Armando." Albus cleared his throat slightly, not dropping Tom's gaze so much as a dismissive sort of denial to partake in their silent staring contest by turning his attention to the tea set.

"-in the meantime, we have Albus here filling the position and everyone at the moment is quite taken with him since his feat duelling Grindelwald-" Tom gritted his teeth at the name and Dippet, in a surprisingly perceptive showing, clucked sadly. "Yes, you're quite right to grimace, he was a terrible man, truly-"

"Armando," Dumbledore spoke again, something brittle even in the relative softness of his voice. "Gellert was a man capable of terrible acts, his ambitions misguided. I'm sure that this vein of conversation is something already well known to Tom. If we could return to the topic at hand?"

"Ah, yes, thank you, Albus. I'm afraid it wouldn't be appropriate that you take on the position at present, my dear Tom. However, if you apply again in a few years-" Containing his eye roll with supreme effort and accepting the cup of tea the elderly headmaster pressed into his hands, Tom let a smile flicker across his lips and nodded.

"I am disappointed, Headmaster. I won't pretend otherwise." It really did look like it pained Armando to deny him; a testament to the years of work he'd spent convincing this man he was trustworthy. He set the tea cup aside and fixed Armando with one last hopeful, chastised look. "I had so hoped that my scholarly efforts and the recommendation of your peers would be favourable enough that you might be willing to make an exception. But you are right to deny me and a few years of experience will only bolster my skills so that I might better serve my beloved Hogwarts."

"I…my boy I am touched by your dedication. Graceful even in defeat, you are as much a credit to your House as Slughorn always claims!" Armando sweeps about with considerably more confidence now that he's discharged this horrible news, shaking Tom's hand enthusiastically so his sparkling red bell sleeves flap like wings. Tom stands, reaching for his coat and not bothering to dignify Dumbledore with a glance. Dippet beams merrily at him, taking up his own cup of tea and toasting. "Oh, surely you needn't rush away so soon?"

"I have a previous engagement, headmaster. One that I mustn't miss-" He tilts his head, lets his eyes meet Dumbledore's and savours the frown on the man's face. "-with someone I am sure misses me even more dearly than I miss this school."

The way he words it is a knife that finds it's mark; Dumbledore's piercing gaze a lance of focused distrust. It was no use trying to appeal to Albus, who had never liked him nor could be convinced to. But, the man had always been soft towards Maeve; foolishly believing he could somehow guide her out from under Tom's influence. As if she wanted to be guided away, as if he could. As usual, Dippet hardly noticed their tension.

"Miss Sinclaire will be delighted to see you, I'm sure! I'm certain she's been sending you letters but you should know, she's Head Girl. An incredible accomplishment! Not to mention she's nearly completed her N.E.W.T.S…isn't she just short her defense against the dark arts and transfiguration-"

"My transition to take over for Merrythought has taken precedence over administering Maeve's tests." There is a silky sort of coolness to the way Dumbledore delivers the words, dismissal wrapped in confident reprisal. It urks Tom and even knowing this is bait, this is a dangled promise of a threat, he can't help but rise to it.

"I don't believe that anything should take precedence over the scheduling and administration of a students' tests, especially one as exemplary as Maeve."

"Ah…" Dippet seems to glance between them in a dither, anxious once more. "Tom, perhaps your bias-"

"I am biased, of course. But it is food for thought; how many other students have had to wait for their tests? I'm sure Tarquinus will be less than pleased." Tom watches Dumbledore's lips twitch ever so slightly. "But, perhaps, you are still recovering from the events of this past spring. Taking down Grindelwald must have taxed you, it's little wonder you're struggling."

Dippet sucks in a sharp breath that makes it seem as though maybe he's understanding more of this exchange then he lets on. Dumbledore takes a steady sip of his own tea and smiles, so serenely the clink of his cup in it's saucer is the only possible indication these words have hit home.

"Fear not, Tom. Her tests will take place when she is not so busy with her extracurricular pursuits. She has a dissertation she's writing on magical genealogies that I am sure you could aid her with." That threat is a bared blade. Tom plucks his scarf-still the silver and emerald striped colours of Slytherin house- and winds it around his neck.

"Surely I can…and I'm loath to keep her waiting. It was good to see you again, Headmaster. Albus." He slips from the office and closes the door, the sound of the two old men nattering back and forth already fading in his ears.

"Maeve."

At the sound of his voice her breath catches, her steps falter. No, I'm hearing things. There's no way he's…

"Sinclaire." She turns and he's there, leaning against one of the gothic arches that line the hall with his hands in his pockets, as casually as though he'd never left.

"Tom?" A slow, easy smile spreads across his lips at whatever expression of shock she must be making, his intent, quicksilver grey gaze meeting hers. That air of smug assurance and of confident grace as he steps out to meet her, shabby coat flapping around his long legs in the wind off the courtyard. She takes a few running steps to him before she can stop herself, her heart leaping. "Tom!"

Joy, pure and unadulterated and stronger than any spell could make it, sings through her every chill of the courtyard cant touch her as she steps into his embrace, pulled tight to his chest in an instant in a way that drives the breath from her. The smell of melting snow and his cologne fills her nose as he lifts her and spins her, laughing at her gasp. A dream, I must be dreaming. He sets her down lightly, beaming at her with such a genuine expression of delight she feels her heart twist with fondness for him.

"What are you doing here?" She knows it cannot be simply to see her, much as the selfish thought might appeal to her.

" I was applying for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position." Something flickers in his expression, a minute change in the way his fingers grip her elbows. She swallows, steps back a half step and gently takes his hands in hers. The natural way he accustoms himself to the touch, how he laces their fingers together fills her heart to aching.

"How did it go?" She tugs gently at him and he follows her from the courtyard, brow furrowed and snow caught in the dark strands of his hair.

"Dippet told me that the position has been filled by Dumbledore temporarily. Your father's recommendation went far enough that I was able to interview but…" Tom looks away and she can see the rage in his tightly clenched teeth, the arch of one imperious brow. "...he told me to try again in a few years."

"Ridiculous," She says exactly what she knows will soothe him. "Dumbledore has hardly recovered from what went on with Grindelwald. He's been delaying my Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T and they have him installed as a teacher? Dippet is a soft touch."

Tom is quiet, his anger too fierce to be mollified by her attempt at reconciliation.

"Can we change his mind?" She tries instead, keeping her tone light and soft so as not to be overheard. Few students chose to stay over the holiday, but they pass a Hufflepuff and a harried looking Gryffindor, both of whom look stunned by Tom's presence. Maeve stares them down until they vanish down a side corridor, abruptly finding somewhere else to be.

"I have considered it, but not in a way that Dumbledore wouldn't catch. He's too clever; he suspects too much. If I was to be caught I would be blacklisted from ever applying again." She can feel his frustration, even through her elation at seeing him again. I would do it, she wants to tell him. I would do anything for you.

"But it doesn't matter; Dippet will surely be just as biddable in a few years." A breezy confidence entered his tone and he inclined his head, dark hair falling into his eyes as he gave her a considering look. "And you will have graduated by this spring and can surely apply as well."

"Yes…if only I could decide on a focus. What can you see me teaching?" Maeve had come to the profound realisation only recently that no, she never truly wanted to leave Hogwarts.

Graduating and going back to the Aerie held a profound kind of dread for her. And besides, where but at Hogwarts could she and Tom find the resources to continue researching the horcruxes? Was overseeing generations of witches and wizards not largely the point of what they were doing? To teach magic that had been forgotten, forsaken because of prejudices and short sightedness. She felt Tom relinquish his grip on her hand…only to run the backs of his fingers against hers in a light caress as they walked the hall.

"Transfiguration, perhaps? Or charms, you have always shown a proclivity towards maximising the potential of a magic so often underestimated in it's , you could teach any subject you wished." She felt herself flush with pleasure at this compliment, scant though it was. Tom glanced around the mostly deserted halls, hands going back into his pockets. Merlin, she had missed him with a longing so acute it was almost painful. "How are things in my absence?"

"They…" She hesitated. "Have been going as well as can be expected, I suppose. The Deatheaters haven't been as subtle as I would like."

"Foolish. I will address them. I assume some of them will be at Slughorn's ridiculous party?" Her heart leapt at that and she glanced up quickly, only to find him gazing at her with a smug look on his angular face as they walked. "My viper, did you truly think I would leave you without a partner?"

"I…didn't want to assume." The answer cannot fully encompass her joy, her relief. "I mean it truly is rather frivolous in the grander scheme of things and you have more important things to concern yourself with-" Tom stopped and she paused at the foot of the stairs to the Head of house dormitories, embarrassed by the tide of emotion she was rather poorly trying to repress.

"This is important. Slughorn's parties are valuable for their networking potential. The man himself is insufferable, yes, but it is not him I am here to see." Of course, she knew that, too. Tom was here for his own ends, he always would be. Having a date to Slughorn's party was nothing to become overwrought about. "-I am here to see you, Sinclaire."

She tripped on the stair she'd just attempted to mount, the uneven stone rising up suddenly to meet her as Tom's arm shot out and caught her before she could hit the ground. Merlin kill me. She straightened, his hands lingering on her waist as she turned to face him.

"Is that so shocking? That I have missed you?" His gaze stripped her bare, vulnerable. There was always something so intent about Tom's piercing looks, like she was the most fascinating secret he'd ever beheld. Like he was seeing more than what she could express. It was a comfort and a terror all at once being what held his focus.

"I…" It's too much, surely. She takes half a step back, bumping into the stone bannister. "Why?"

"Do I need a reason? You are a beautiful, capable witch and you are mine." She shivered, every word from him was something she had so wanted to hear. It was hard to trust it.

"Flattery." Her huff is too breathless to be the confident scoff she wants it to be.

"Maeve." He speaks her name in a way that no one else does, no one else ever has before or since. His voice a dulcet, rich murmur like she's a taste on his tongue; like she's a spell. "Did you forget?"

He reached up, fingers under her chin guiding her to meet his eyes. Every breath she took was full of the scent of him, an intoxicating and indefinable aroma. Something herbal and woodsy all at once, mingling with the wet stone smell of the castle harmoniously. She had missed that, these little details that had set her heart to aching, that eased her now to rediscover. His clever, wicked smile at whatever recognition he saw in her eyes.

"No, of course not." She breathes the words into the scant space between them, drawn to him like tides to the moon.

"Shall I remind you?" He's so close then, head inclined and voice soft, pupils like drops of ink in silver. His lips are at her ear, his fingers at her throat, thumb pressed gently to the place where her heart beats. Even these faint touches have it hammering in her chest, traitorous and too eager to dance to whatever tune he plays. "How you and you alone are in my confidence, in my thoughts?"

Yes, she wants to say. Remind me what it is to be missed. But it's a shameful thing, to be so utterly starved of affection that the craving for it makes you lose yourself in wanting. It's not that she wasn't confident that some part of him, however small, might have thought of her. But was it for more than just her usefulness? He made it seem so compelling that he had missed her…whether by art or artifice. Maybe she had forgotten how to tell what was true and what was false with him, maybe she'd never known the difference.

Someone clears their throat. In a single swift step, she's out from under Tom's arm and standing between him and-

"Father?" He stands in the halls of Hogwarts for the first time she can remember since her first year, wearing the formal robes of a Senior healer of St Mungos under a coat of royal blue brocade. His dark red hair is pulled back so tightly in it's tail it makes him look even more attenuated and forbidding than he normally does. Seeing him here fuses an already fraught tension with a feeling of dissonant unreality, like she's missed a step on a stair.

"Daughter. Riddle." There is something unnaturally clipped about his tone, even for him. The pointed way he says 'daughter' is enough to send a shudder of trepidation through her. She is rarely in trouble with Tarquin and if anything, she'd felt they'd been getting closer since he'd started teaching Tom. But in his dark green gaze-such a mirror of her own-is a distance of a thousand fathoms. "Maeve, join me for a brief lunch in Hogsmeade. There is much we must discuss."

"I've got to-" His look may frighten her, but she's not about to be called to heel like a hound. Even as she thinks it. Tom's arm snakes through her's, cool fingers clasping her wrist in a protective, possessive grip.

"You can spare the time. It is about your Aunt Cassandra." That simple sentence is like a dagger to her heart, a twist of a knife she'd long thought buried. Maeve's mouth felt dry, her tongue a listless and woolen thing as she struggled to come up with a response.

"I…is she dead?" Maeve immediately winces at the wave of relief and remorse she feels in equal measure. Tom's presence behind her is a comforting bulwark against the news, against Tarquinus' sudden and unexpected appearance.

"No," Tarquin murmured, his tone softening slightly. "But she has suffered one of her episodes…in front of Arria. We will discuss the details over lunch."

With a bare, brief nod; he turns from them both, coat whirling with the movement. Tom is behind her still, stepping up to her side and watching her Father's retreating back with the intensity of a threat. She could feel the suspicion, the jealousy of hidden knowledge, radiating off Tom in waves.

"What more could he have to tell you about the mad aunt who tried to kill you? I thought your family locked her away." Tom's grey gaze is piercing in the afternoon winter light. His voice is casual…but she knows better than to believe his interest is.

"They did. I…can you get into the Head of House dormitories on your own?"

"Hiding me in your room? How the tables have turned." Maeve lets out a long-suffering sigh, some of the tension leaking out of her at the uncharacteristically mischievous suggestion. Tom twirls his wand in a lazy circle that trails emerald sparks, leaning against the bannister with casual grace. She never saw him draw it and she briefly wonders why he'd felt the need to. "As much as torturing Macmillan into leaving for the evening and waiting for your return might appeal to certain lowly urges I possess, I did just claim I'd make an appearance to the younger Deatheaters."

"Oh, right." She feels her heart fall slightly when confronted with this reality.

"However-" He says this with a kind of leading tease to his soft voice, grey gaze gleaming in the halflight of the torches and the midafternoon sun. "-you can be certain that I have not forgotten the way to a dormitory that used to be mine. You and I have unfinished business…you'll have to share the gossip about whatever has happened with your aunt with me. And, besides all that, I have a surprise for you."

"You-" Her heart is pounding again, sharp and sudden as she tries to guess what he could possibly mean by that.

"Maeve, patience. Go, try to enjoy your lunch. I need to go remind the Deatheaters who it was who elevated them in the first place." His mouth presses to hers; a slow and intimate intent that takes her breath away as he steps back with a small, even smile. "Later, my viper."

"So yes, as you can tell, your aunt had much to say."

Maeve is quiet for a long moment, her fingers toying with the stem of her goblet. The fire whiskey - an uncouth drink for a school girl but one Tarquin had placed in front of her regardless- has left her buzzing. There is a certain and dissociative calm that has crept over her like a shroud as he spoke, revealing all that had been kept from her for years.

"I can only relate to you what Arria shared with me and what I have gleaned from my sister's past ramblings. As I am not the primary subject of this prophecy, I am limited in my understanding. But, she has made others like it."

"She's…repeated them?"

"Yes." Tarquin looks away from her and for the first time in a long time, Maeve can see his age. Silver laced through the carmine hair at his temples, noble face lined around his grim mouth and forbidding brow. "But I have done my best to keep her both suppressed and comfortable."

Yes, she'd known of Aunt Cassandra's confinement but she'd never realised that they'd been suppressing her visions. Or, their strange acuity to her and Arria. The orb sits between them on the table, like the milky clouded eye of a dead sea creature, visible only to her and Tarquin in light of the charm cast to prevent anyone else from observing them. How odd they must look, solemn and stony faced in the middle of the bustle of activity that is the Three Broomsticks on the eve of the new year. Everyone is happy, bright and laughing and the very soul of joy. It's a strange venue to choose for such a serious conversation and they are painfully out of place.

"So, this is about me." Illegal, to possess a prophecy like this. But then, Tarquinus Sinclaire had never been above using his position at the ministry for such things.

"In part, I believe. Arria seemed to think it had to do with you both, she has been ignoring my owls for a month and desperately attempting to contact you."

"I haven't received any letters-"

"I prevented them from reaching you. However, she's been invited by Slughorn to tonight's party which is why I came so swiftly. I did not want her nonsense to reach you before I did." Maeve frowns, unsure who to trust but knowing she'd rather believe Tarquin.

"Why?"

"Maeve, you are not your sister. You are smart enough to know that these prophecies only ever beget chaos. They do not warn of anything that has not already set itself surely in stone. It's why the ministry locks them away and never puts any stock in divination. Your sister-on the other hand-believes that she can somehow prevent things if she just speaks to you about her suspicions."

"You didn't want Arria to do what? Convince me to do something foolish?"

"I didn't want her to startle you with a half baked revelation she only barely understood herself. I wish you to be armed with knowledge: This prophecy is also about…well, I cannot say for certain…I have a theory it may involve Riddle." Maeve feels a chill run through her; Cassandra's prophecies are never kind.

"What? I need to tell him-"

"Yes," Tarquin heaves a tremendous sigh and looks pained. "He…I believe…many things are becoming clear. Things I had hoped would be…different. But what matters,"

Tarquin pours himself another fingerlength of whiskey, taking a mouthful of it like penance. Maeve also finds herself lifting her own goblet to her lips, struggling to contend with these sudden revelations.

"What matters, my dearest daughter, my heir…is that you will survive this. By making yourself indispensable, by being who you are with the skills you have always possessed."

"Is that what the prophecy says?" There is a long moment of interminable silence as Tarquin gazes out the window with tired eyes.

"The prophecies of your aunt are as they always were: The rise of a great witch and wizard, each a scion of their once mighty houses. You are wise enough to know the truth of oracular visions: Anything you do to attempt to forestall their outcome will inevitably prove to be their catalyst. We are all the prisoners of fate and when we fight her, she rewards our folly with our promised end."

It was a nonanswer that inspired a profound dread inside her.

"Cassandra tried to kill me because of what she saw," It's soft, a half whisper into the glass of fire whiskey she's holding. Tarquin's green eyes light on her with a sorry look over the rim of his own glass.

"Cassandra was—is—mad, Maeve. Seeing things one cannot change would drive anyone to madness, I think. That, and her softness for muggles brought her more pain than she was capable of coping with. What she saw is irrelevant…but you should know the truth of it, regardless."

"What about Tom?"

"He…" Tarquin let out a breathless sound, looking at her with something like pity. She felt her heart seize, made to lunge up from the table-Tarquin's hand came down gently on her wrist. "Maeve. He is perfectly safe, this I promise you."

It's the truth; she can feel it with the sense she's always had for these things. She sits back down slowly, taking a deep breath. Tarquin is watching her with the careful contemplation her father always maintained…so why is there something sad and defeated about his expression that she can't place?

"The legend holds that Rowena Ravenclaw died of a broken heart." Maeve watches her father look to the scant sunlight filtering into the dim tavern, his patrician face bleached whiter by it's brilliance. "Heartbroken over a daughter who was lost to her or maybe love for a lover of which no one knew. Most people dismiss this as nonsense and insist she was ailing long before the business with Helena. But…the Sinclaire name has a storied history of being foolish in love. Your aunt and her muggle husband who died young, your great grandmother Ava married a Sallow with a propensity for trouble so strong that even her name couldn't save him from ending up before the Wizengamot eventually. They say his reputation is what leant itself to the scrutiny surrounding our name-" Tarquin is on a tangent now and if she doesn't say something he'll never come off it.

"Father, I don't understand what this has to do with-"

"Cautious at first, but once our hearts are given it is without reservation. Even when the subject of our devotion salts our wounds and poisons our cups, we remain devoted. We are loved for our wisdom, our capability…but I think very rarely for our true selves." Maeve realises then, she is seeing a picture of her father at his most vulnerable. It's uncomfortable, not a normal occurrence by any means.

"You don't need to worry about that, father. I'm…we're fine. So long as he's fine, I am fine."

"Yes. I suppose that's what I'm afraid of…Maeve, I know that you are preoccupied with your plans for the future, but you need…" Tarquin seems lost for words. "You need to know, even though I do not articulate it frequently, that you…have nothing you need to prove, to anyone."

It's a sentiment that makes little and less sense coming from his mouth. Tarquinus had always driven home how important it is that she live up to her lineage, reminded her of Arria's accomplishments and requested she present herself with the dignity befitting her house. To suddenly say she had 'nothing to prove' is a statement too false to be anything but a comfortingly baffling lie.

"I wonder, sometimes, if your grandparents had said that more often to us as children; would Cassandra and I have turned out so poorly in the end?" Another cryptic statement that means little and less.

Maeve glances at the fire whiskey clutched in fathers hand and frowns. Drinking at midday is making him maudlin. She knows that's probably a deflection on her part but the thought persists and they sit together in mutually uncomfortable silence for a moment. He takes a long breath and picks up the prophecy, turning it in his fingers so it catches the light.

"Arria will inherit." She says it swiftly, like ripping off a bandage. Tarquin winces, like what she's saying is causing him pain. This is probably what he wants to discuss, anyway. This prophecy, this conversation, surely it has to do with the sister everyone prefers.

"Maeve, your mother-" No, the very last thing she wants to do is have a conversation about Megaera.

"I don't want to talk about her. I have to prepare for Professor Slughorn's party. Can I be excused?" Maeve feels a sort of soul deep weariness and wants to leave, to get out of the Three Broomsticks and back towards the life she's trying to build free of a family to whom she's already the world's biggest disappointment, despite what they might say under the influence of too much fire whiskey.

"I…finish your drink and let me finish what I came here to say, please." She subsides but pours her own whiskey. The burn of the drink as she swallows it leaves a taste of dragon fire and graveyard dirt on her tongue, an all encompassing, thought obliterating melange.

"Your destiny was always written in the stars of your birth and all that you are and shall become has been foreseen. There is some comfort in that, in the end. I have done what I can to prepare you and your sister…it is all that can be expected of a parent. I am sorry for the ways I may have failed you. I can only give you this prophecy, to do with what you will."

They spoke little after that, her father finishing his fire whiskey and paying their tab, admitting he was leaving before Slughorn tried to con him into going to another of his damnable parties. Long after he'd departed via the floo network, she remained seated at the pitted table alone at the Three Broomsticks, unnaturally still. The prophecy sat on it's tiny plinth, swirling with silvery images that seemed to taunt her. It is about you, it concerns Tom.

That didn't frighten her. Well, it was no comfort but what worried her was Arria's involvement. Arria, with her sudden adherence to muggle fashion. Arria, defying her parents at every turn, abandoning their family. Arria, heir to the family estate. Envy was an ugly emotion, a useless one in the face of all she'd already accepted was never her's. Maeve's fingers clenched around her wand where it lay on the table, white knuckled and shaking.

Cassandra's prophecies were never good, never kind. No true prophecy ever was. Maeve reaches out and plucks the prophecy from the table, standing swiftly. She almost slams into the barmistress on her way out, pushing past an influx of late afternoon patrons and into the streets of Hogsmeade.

She's halfway across the square before she can register what she's doing, clutching the prophecy in her hand like a quaffle. The afternoon winter sun seems too bright, her breath a plume of white against the colourful robes of the witches and wizards milling through the cobblestone street. Someone calls her name, someone greeting her, but she's too determined, storming towards the nearest bridge, the rushing water beneath that she knows leads out to the lake.

All Cassandra's prophecies had ever wrought was pain. No more. Maeve won't let another one of her aunt's treasured delusions ruin the life she's fighting to build.

She flings the prophecy as far out into the river as she can. It arcs across the livid purple cloud streaked sky, catching the light against the bruised horizon before plunging into the rushing waters.