After the spectacle of having two respected witches dance like Muggles at a wholly pureblooded event, Ximena had dissolved into the crowd. Disappearing as usual, leaving people to murmur. To speculate.
Tom remembers Nemesis cooing over the dance. Over Ximena's dress. Asking him if he knew anything about this, if he knew how to dance like that too. It's truly one of her only downsides, being enamoured over such frivolity. Particularly in public. Back at the Acwellan residence, he found Nemesis much more subdued behind closed doors. Perhaps it was the comfort of knowing she was among friends (he still finds hers and Hedwig's bond strange, but he doesn't question it).
...Does Nemesis know? About Hedwig? Does it make her uncomfortable, or does her preposterous need to be kind to everyone extend to witches like Hedwig? (If he were a sap or a weaker person, he'd admire her need to be nice, but he's smarter than that, so he knows it's only getting in her way.)
...Was Nemesis like Hedwig? No no, she likes him. Or at least, he was told so by... By Hedwig. You couldn't possibly like both men and women. That's not allowed. Is it? Is that allowed?
No matter, it's not important at all. It probably won't ever come up again.
For the next few days, though, he carefully observes the two's interactions. Looking for anything queer or out of the ordinary. A sign of knowing or disgust. Of acceptance or collusion.
By now he knows that every pureblood, even the rich ones, are vastly different in their stances and views, even if they're equally blanch and stale. Like having porridge and a crust of bread for all one's meal, nonstop. What changes is how the meal is eaten. The rules, manners, requirements, expectations... And they all think that their way is the only way. The best way.
He had commented on it to Evan during the party, as a way to gauge how the dance would go over.
"Which opinion of the crowd will be the right one, I wonder?" He had sipped some of his drink, something apple-like and bubby, "There seems to be some mixed reviews."
Evan scoffed, "Listen to them all chattering... Like a flock of seagulls. Do you think such a vulgar display is going to be popular soon?"
He'd have to learn to dance. "Not at all." Tom bit out quick.
"Imagine if people started seeing it as a mechanism for courting...Ridiculous. Avery and Lane's age ranges are completely inappropriate." A glance at Tom, "Though not as scandalous as the gap between you and Lane."
Excuse him? "Well, not everyone has to have an age difference of ten years." Tom brooded, "Pureblood or not."
"Who told you that?" Evan scrunched his face, looking perturbed.
"Hedwig, of course."
His companion scoffed, "Archaic... She thinks everyone else should bend to the traditions of her family."
That sounded like every pureblood Tom knows. "Well you know how headstrong she is." To say the least. The witch is a raging fire. If she lived in biblical times, she would have been described as a plague or tyrant. Possibly both.
Evan continued, "A seventeen year age gap is...Muggle." Tom almost snorts[1],
"Then, what of the Malfoy heir and his rumoured young bride?"
Evan twisted his face again, displeased at either being countered or at the thought of marrying someone so young, "Malfoys...Their ancestor came over from France, you know. That might explain their vulgarity."
And Tom supposes that the French branch of the Rosiers were equally vulgar, "That explains Vinda Rosier's...choices."
The tense magic from Evan could not be missed. Tom waited.
"--You speak of things you know nothing about." The defensiveness was exquisite. "My...cousin's tastes are nothing but rumours."
Tom blinked. What on earth was Evan talking about? "I would have assumed you'd support those tastes." The Rosiers aren't public supporters of Grindelwald, but they certainly hadn't denounced him either.
That made Evan flinch. His undying loyalty to his family conflicting with whatever Tom had just implied. He tried to remember everything he's ever heard about Grindelwald's fearsome lieutenant. She has the right idea, but poor execution...Bowing down like that to another outside her family...Such desperation...And that's not mentioning the vicious little rumors regarding her...preferences. Lucretia told him that. Why the distinction again? Preferences and choices are so similar yet carry entirely different connotations.
Perhaps to Tom's surprise, Evan chuckled, "You hold so much over me...Must you hold more over my family?"
Yes.
Here, in the present, he understands now. Understands so much which he didn't before.
So then, homosexuality is like that with wizards as well? Different? Worse? Will Hedwig be taken to a doctor or asylum for her preferences? Or simply scolded? Allowed to live her debauchery in secret so long as she bears heirs?
Maybe it's just within a small circle that it's taboo. Something strange and meant to be cured.
He wonders who else knows. Or suspects of it. As Tom looks around the table at the others gathered for the Slug Club, he thinks he knows who. Those would be the ones he has to make the most convincing act at, because gossip is terribly powerful. An insurmountable amount of news and rumors leaves this castle through letters home every week. The news that his courting has moved to Hedwig from...
He's been told that it's been almost forgotten. The return of the bracelet. With so many new engagements and news stories breaking out every week, and with no parents or family formally circulating the news... It helps that no one has any stake in his or Ximena's engagement, as they come from no-name families (well, almost). His little wooing was charming back in second year, but now as a fifteen-year-old wizard, he's apparently meant to set his sights on bigger fish.
It doesn't keep people from speculating. Relating he and Hedwig walking out together to Ximena's withdrawal from Hogwarts. Some bloody idiot said he had her killed, which resulted in a delightful hex that landed the sod in the hospital wing. It's amazing what delusions people will come up with to entertain themselves. Couldn't be him.
Professor Slughorn immediately approves of the match, raving about two of his finest students being a perfect partnership. How his club and classroom have often been the scene of many a match between outstanding, remarkable wizards.
"If he asks to give a toast at our wedding, throw him out." He jests to Hedwig as she snorts in response, lightly smacking his arm. She's taking his jesting very well, he expected disgust or even worry, but Hedwig seems to trust him well.
He'll reward her loyalty.
If his retinue suspects of the arrangement, they do not comment on it. Evan and Nemesis continue their daily chatter with the two of them as if nothing has changed, and the rest don't bat an eye. Surely learning from past comments about the subject of courting and Tom. The ones present at the party merely extend their approval of the idea and wish them well, though he expects a handful of them to ask about it in the privacy of the boys' dorm.
The conversation moves to the subject of Tom, his favorite topic. Slughorn suggests that one day, he will be Minister of Magic. Tom would be lying if he said the idea doesn't appeal to him, but the thought of continuing his tirade of pretending, of smiles and docile policies, of having everyone believe he's a meek, benign wizard... He'd sooner rip his hair out. Yes, he has placed so much value into what others think of him because their opinions matter to the whole. But he doesn't want that. Not for the rest of his life. It sounds like hell. A personal purgatory custom made for him.
He'd rather stage a coup and reign that way. Rather be openly himself. Not bothering with policies or laws or bureaucratic red tape. He'd look divine as king, if he does say so himself. King Riddle[2]. Long may he reign.
.
Balam and Tom's father are sitting across from each other at a table inside the Three Broomsticks. The surrounding conversation is low, and the lighting from the candles and fireplace golden. There might be music playing on a staticky radio, but Tom doesn't recognize it. It drones on like a drunken slur, repeating and skipping over itself, creating a drowsy, uneasy melody.
Tom sits beside his father, who looks like him. Taller, more rugged, experienced. But it's him. His face. His nose, chin, jaw, brow... But his father's eyes are black. Not at all blue, like Tom's.
Ximena sits beside Balam, not paying much attention to the discussion, preferring to knit away at a long blue blanket instead of looking up and completing the much-desired eye contact with Tom. He knows she wants to. To look at him. Why doesn't she? Why is she knitting? What is she knitting? Right right, how could he forget, it's her dowry.
Their fathers are arguing, half-heartedly. With spirit and seriousness. They're discussing the dowries of their children. The inheritance. Who will take whose last name.
Tom doesn't want Riddle. It's a marring moniker that's never helped him once in his life. To have it attached to Ximena would be an insult. Would soil her image. But he can't open his mouth to voice this, when he tries, he struggles to speak. To even breathe.
"How many children are they going to have?" Tom doesn't know which one of them asks this, but both of the fathers reply with 'one' immediately.
"I want a big family." Ximena finally speaks up, putting her knitting down, "I don't want to be lonely anymore."
Balam's eyes soften, he touches his daughter's cheek, whispers something Tom's brain doesn't process in words, but in feelings. Regret. Resignation. Resentment?
"Will it be a son or a daughter?"
Tom's father argues for a daughter, and Balam offers no resistance, but insists that there not be a penalty should Ximena give birth to a boy.
"What if it's like me?" His betrothed speaks up, her hands busy not with knitting but with a cat's cradle.
"That would be best." Balam nods, the man across from him agreeing. Tom wants to interject here: What do you mean if it's like you? What are you?
But he doesn't speak. He cannot.
Balam asks whose eyes their child will inherit. Tom's father is insistent on not having his son's blue eyes passed on, says it with a tone of fear. Urgency. Of course, blue eyes are a sign of evil. How could he have forgotten? That's why his father doesn't care for him. Why he fears him.
The concept of any child of his looking like him makes Tom uneasy in a way that's hard to describe. He hates the idea of it. To have small creatures partly made of him walking around with his face. They should all look like Ximena. Take after her. Have her eyes, her nose, her lips, hands, skin...Tom glares at his father in the hopes that the man will voice this.
He does. He doesn't like the thought of his face being copied over to his grandchildren.
But then Tom's mother is there. Merope. Her face isn't clear, it morphs and changes so much that he can't properly capture her image. But looking at her makes him unbearably sad. Unreasonably bitter. He looks away.
Merope argues against the decision. She wants her son's sons to all look like him. Like her husband. Perfect little copies. She drags her hands on the table and her claw-like nails scrap against the surface. Tom's father cowers. Balam looks impassively. Ximena stares in fascinated curiosity.
His mother reaches for her, "You understand." She says, "You've seen him: my son. My darling. I died for him. Look how beautiful he is, the most holy of all creatures." Tom feels her eyes on him, and he's terrified of meeting her eyes, "He looks just like his father. My love. Just like I wanted. Just like I hoped. He's such a good boy, he took after his father as I dictated.
"You are so lucky. So lucky, such a lucky lovely. To have been chosen for my son. I know you'll keep him safe. You'll keep him alive. You're like me, you'll die for him, won't you?"
Tom's hands curl into fists and his nails dig into his palms. How can she talk like this? How can they allow her to talk like this? Like she knows him. Anything of him. She is dead. Cold in the ground in a pauper's grave, among Muggles. He doesn't remember her face, her voice, her touch. He's never even visited her grave.
Don't touch him don't touch him don't touch him don't touch him...
Ximena doesn't respond to his mother, merely stares. He wishes she'd stare at him instead.
His eyes open.
All he remembers from his dream are his mother's bright, watery blue eyes.
---
[1] Remember in Chapter 11: Soft Hands, where he explains that it's not common with Muggles at all. The myth of large age gaps like that are hugely misleading. Large age gaps were only really done among the nobility/upper classes, if at all.
[2] The first time Tom refers to himself as a king is in Chapter 6: Lavender's Blue. What else does he mention there?
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