There are some delicious rumours that Tom's in line for becoming a prefect next year, and while naturally he knows it to be true, he still pretends to be humble to fellow Slytherins and say that 'he has an equal chance as any other'. Preposterous. No one else can even see his level, much less reach it. That's saying nothing on how easily wrapped around his finger he has Slughorn. That man would allow Tom to sit in on his NEWTs level classes, if it were legal.
The law continues to work against him. But at least the thought makes him feel better about only being allowed in fifth year potions. If he continues to excel as he has, he has no doubt that he'll be allowed to skip it entirely next year. Merrythought and Alder are already impressed with his progress, so if Tom plays his cards right, he might be able to do similar with their classes.
Something to work towards. Alongside deciphering this accursed Parsel. A mere thirteen percent (if that) of the diary of his ancestor is translated in full, though the more he works at it, the easier the rest is to decipher. The problem is, of course, that his main assistant in translating the damn words is stuck thousands of miles away from him. Did she really have to drop out of Hogwarts like that? Inconveniencing him with this distance when before she was a glance away.
...So she could help him with this translation, naturally.
At a time like this, his Transfiguration assignment is not nearly as enticing. He taps his nail against the table, and re-reads the Parsel instead:
Where pure waters run.
A poem, if he had to guess. A lot of Parsel translates that way: into something floral and romantic. Not structured. Ximena mentioned many great Maya poets wrote in Parsel ("It was considered very stylish at the time.") He continues.
Where pure waters run, I will show you the way.
He circles the word that's meant to represent the self, 'I'. Writes a question mark beside it. Every other time 'I' appears in the diary, it's written differently. Why the change?
Just something else to ask Ximena about in his letter. Maybe if he had asked any of this sooner, he could have discovered the Room of Requirement much earlier: this paragraph is directly sandwiched in between mentions of a secret room. It could only be a clue as to its location.
Ambrose croaks from beside him, perhaps reminding him that his transfiguration homework still needs polishing. He quiets him with a pellet treat.
He's unsure of how long letters take to be delivered to her because she always seems to take her sweet time with writing back, if at all . Her father seems to have a similar habit, though all of his letters are delivered by a barn owl ('his name is Rubio') whose stare makes Tom uneasy. Sure, he's not owed their constant thoughts and waking moments, but the issue of the diary and Parselscript has become phenomenally critical to him.
If, perhaps, he could share why this was so, they might rush their own research for him. In thanks. In gratitude. In...Understanding. The need to know where you come from. That you're worth something. That there are people waiting for you.
Tom shakes his head of the thought because he is worth something. He doesn't... He doesn't need this legacy to prove that. To himself. Or anyone. He's never had anyone waiting for him and he doesn't want...
He looks over at his textbook and sighs. Then, he opens up to the right page to begin reading,:
Transfiguration in nature is as easy as a hen's egg hatching under a toad...
-
Practice charms are easy with Hedwig. Her dark magic flows well with his and she never hesitates to correct anything perceived as 'wrong' or 'fucking awful, Tom, did you go blind over the weekend?' It's competition, certainly, but not the same type of competition as with the other Slytherins. In a way he cannot yet explain. Perhaps it's the comfort in knowing that Hedwig does not wish to get the best of him.
"Mexico has treated me well, despite the heat." His once wan skin has hints of health about it thanks to the sun and copious amounts of sunscreen.
"Surprised you haven't died from all the pollen during your little apprenticeship." Hedwig almost sounds impressed, "Or even from the culture shock: I hear they eat bugs down there."
They do. He has yet to try it. "Many things are different down there, Hedwig..." He wonders how much he should share, "Even my magic feels different there." A shug, no big deal.
"Well ya, you eedjit." Hedwig rolls her eyes, "You're outside your homeland."
Tom blinks.
"Tsk." She shakes her head, "The sort of thing a Pureblood upbringing will get ya, Tom. I shutter to think how more pompous ye'd be if you were raised like a Malfoy or Avery." A sniff, "Though then again, I guess it's not so common knowledge, what with everyone refusing to migrate anymore."
"My patience is thin, Hedwig."
"Aye aye, calm yourself, you gobshite." Her wandhand splays out, "Your magic is rooted in nature, ye? That's the origin of all magicks. Even us who come from fae and creatures." Another sniff and she curses her allergies under her breath, "If you're away from the earth where you were born, it'll feel off. You've been around Ximena, yeah?"
He raises a brow, because how does she know that? "Who's to say?"
"Aye, don't be coy." Another roll of the eyes, "Well have you noticed anything different about her magic since she's gone back home?"
He's noticed several things that are different, least of all her magic. He hasn't had that time to...personally inspect it. But if magic can affect moods and personalities, then... "Ah."
"Ah." She mocks, "It's why you have to be careful around the foreigners... One step in their ancestral lands, and they'd tie your bollocks around your neck without breaking a sweat. Tch. Why do you think my father refuses to step foot in America?"
"Don't tell me he's afraid of your mother."
"Eh." A shrug. "More like her family."
Hedwig's mother is powerful. He already knew this, but looks to be like it's genetic. Or at least inherited.
"Don't tell me your father has animosity towards his in-laws." He smirks. Friendly teasing.
"In-laws." Hedwig sticks her tongue out, "What a modern word. Muggle, innit?"
Changing the subject? He'll remember that.
The door to the empty classroom opens.
"Apologies," Nemesis brushes her hair out of her face, "I was stopped on my way here by a prefect. Said I looked too in a hurry."
"Eugh, Mudblood Turner?[1]"
Nemesis scrunches her nose, at the slur or at the mention of the prefect, he's not sure. "He graduated last year, I believe." She straightens out her robes, "Though his distrust of Slytherins certainly left a legacy...One would think I was a criminal by how I was treated."
Tom chuckles quietly under his breath at the mere idea of Nemesis committing a serious crime. "A lion's nature does not change."
Hedwig snorts, "They're worse than us."
This pleases him, for various reasons. "Because we move as a unit. Success for one means success for us all."
"Very Hufflepuff of you, Tom." Nemesis compliments.
"Our houses are very similar." He nods. "Though herding snakes is harder than badgers." A smirk, "Our fellow Slytherins have needed a bit more motivation in realizing what's good for them." He raises his chin, "But I'm getting ahead of myself: let's go."
Tom leads them to the Room of Requirement, "Ladies first."
If the two notice that there is a door in the hall that was not there before, they do not mention it. At Tom's open arm, they enter the unremarkable doorway and gaze around at the room that Hogwarts constructed for him and his plans.
He closes the door behind them.
The two are quite curious, but refrain from asking questions; instead, they look around the room and observe. Take note. Predators ensuring that they were the strongest thing in the forest. This is why he chose them.
Tom does not open with his blood purity spiel. The two of them have differing opinions and it would be hard to play them both. Instead, he reminds them of what makes them alike. Astute witches made for greater things, tossed to the side for not meeting a ridiculous expectation. Denied their birthright from those who hold power.
"How absurd is it that I'm the only Slytherin in our year who sees just how far you two could go if you would only just reach out and take what's yours?"
He's not much of a feminist. Growing up, he heard plenty about the Equal Franchise Act of 1928[2] from both women and men on the orphanage's payroll, and most of it was very rude indeed. Even if women are somehow less useful than men, Hedwig and Nemesis are magical women. Already superior. Nevermind their skillset.
As he speaks to them, he finds he doesn't have to lie as much as with his boy's group. Actually, he finds himself not lying at all.
"I trust you two the most." He puts his hands behind his back, "The others... They see what they wish to see. You two see me as I am." A pause, "They believe this is all for the purity of our kind. You both know better."
Hedwig's chin jutts out. Nemesis' gaze is stony.
"Purity is important, yes... But change is inevitable." He grips his fist, empowered, "And who better to guide that change but us? The strong. The ones kicked to the side for trivial reasons... My second year, Nemesis, you told me of a manifesto that's given to the heirs of pureblooded families[3], illegal, yes?" To have or make copies of, he's not sure; she and Hedwig had conflicting information. "It's surely old. Outdated. Made by those who would enjoy the thought of crushing us under their heel." He spreads his fingers, pressing the pads together. "It's time we update it."
Both witches are vastly different. Physically. Personally. Magically. But right now, they look at him as a unit: with matching looks of fealty. As cavaliers surely once looked at King Charles I.
-
"I've heard of this room, from Eric." Hedwig looks up at the ceiling, "She was looking for a place to pass out in after midterms...Thought she was full of shit."
Nemesis chuckles, "I used it, once." She clears her throat, "Needed a...private place."
"To snog?"
"Hedwig!"
Tom sits nearby, comfortable in a chaise upholstered with green velvet. He reads over the most recent letter from Ximena almost greedily. Impatient. She's taken her time in replying this time, and he's wondering how he can make her know it. There's nothing he holds over her. Not anymore. Not really. And he's not so certain that any kind of silent treatment would work on her. No, she'd enjoy the silence. See it as shared camaraderie.
The 'self' in that sentence is referring to a snake. Parsel isn't supposed to be spoken or understood by humans, so all mentions of a snake in that context translate to 'I'. You're always speaking as a snake.
He purses his lips.
The other way to translate it could be 'Where true Spring runs, The Serpent (me) will show you the way.' It's a bit crude, I think it's a riddle.
And then he hears something interesting.
"--inside the bathroom that floods every spring."
"The one with the snakes on the faucets?"
"That's the one."
"I fucking hate that bathroom. It smells like mildew all the time."
His hands freeze between the pages.
"I always wondered why that was there, you know. Do you think maybe there was some secret club held in there in the past?"
"In the girl's bathroom?" Hedwig snorts, "Doubt it. That'd be fecking priceless. Bunch of munters meeting up in a bathroom? What would they talk about?"
He stops listening. Sinks into his seat and thinks.
-
It's the dead of night because how else can he get away with walking into a girl's bathroom? Sneaking around during the dark hours isn't even any trouble, thanks to his experience in both sneaking around the orphanage and in his disillusionment charm.
The actual bathrooms themselves are uninteresting. About as remarkable as the Slytherin boys' bathrooms, though he notes the windows must let in actual sunshine rather than just murk from the lake The stone is a different shade of grey, and there's no blatant animal motifs obnoxiously declaring the bathroom's allegiance.
At least, not at first glance. He's always prided himself on his attention to detail.
There's s-curve emblems raised up on the sides of the faucets, rubbed from time: people running their hands up their sides. But there's just enough detail left to know that they're meant to be serpents. Poised and baring their fangs. Ready to strike.
Gooseskin rises on his arms, his chest, his whole body. He feels as if he's touching a live wire. Something wholly charged with wonderful, terrible magic. Where true Spring runs, the Serpent will show you the way.
He speaks.
The sinks shift. The ground before him opens: revealing a dark hole from which cold air flows.
---
[1] Turner was the prefect who stopped Nemesis from getting help/a professor back when Ian Rosier attacked Tom.
[2] "It was not until the Equal Franchise Act of 1928 that women over 21 were able to vote and women finally achieved the same voting rights as men. This act increased the number of women eligible to vote to 15 million." There was no mention on parliament.uk on whether or not this included non-white women, but I assume not :/
[3] See towards the end of Chapter 11: Autumn
Thanks to Diesel on AO3 for their lovely reviews, you've helped keep this hiatus real short lol.
As a lot of you probably figured out, the secret room that Tom's ancestor was talking about in his diary was NOT the room of requirement, but instead the chamber of secrets. If you didn't know, well now you do, lol.
New update for Leonine, Meline, and the Rest... ! If you're interested in a lil Dark Lady Ximena, read it :) There's also a new oneshot within this fic's series on AO3: Golden and Green, which features Tom/Nemesis...
Thanks to Jaq for looking this over.