CW: casual misogyny/wh*rephobia
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Twice daily, at the very least, he's been thinking about what happened the other day. It was strange. Intimate. Awful. He would like for it to happen again. The eye contact. It was the most attention she's given him in weeks--Months. Good Merlin, has it been months? He thought this would be over by now...
What was it that made her acknowledge him? His direct addressing of her? That would mean that he should have been pestering her since the moment she decided not to speak with him anymore. And he already knows that's not true. He didn't just go ahead and allow for her to (temporarily) sever their friendship for nothing.
No. It wasn't for nothing.
At his shared table in the Slytherin common room, he sifts through his essay for corrections as Evan and Hedwig prattle on about the nature of the conversation that had passed in the library. It starts off well enough, with concerns that some of the poorer purebloods were treating their children like house elves in making them take care of their younger siblings, but soon morphs into something else––As their conversations often do.
They've been getting along better these past few months. Which, for them, just means they bicker less than thirty percent of the time (he hasn't done the math, but he can estimate) and agree at least forty perfect of the time (he's done the math on this one, and it checks out). It figures, considering they're both his closest confidants and guides in the wizarding world. It makes sense that they'd have to get along, for his sake. Even if he often feels like he's left in the dark when they speak about a topic that out of his depth. Such as now.
"Really if it wasn't for Lane's reputation, her confession would have labeled her The Slag of Slytherin."
Tom sits up straight, "Do you find issue with Ximena's want to adopt?"
"It's noble, Tom, I never said it wasn't." Evan chuckles, "It's about single parentage, not adoption–So quick to her defense despite her stating just the other day that she might just not bear your heirs?"
"What is or isn't in our future is none of your business, Evan."
He concedes. That's better.
"Your children would be pompous pups, just so you know." Hedwig lays her cheek on her fist, leaning on the table, "The both of ya are so infuriating."
"Thank you, Hedwig." She gives Tom a rude hand gesture. "Obviously, such talk is ridiculous, the two of you know we are not courting––but I am curious about the common protocol for adoption with wizards."
"Oh, lots of paperwork and bureaucracy. Background checking, making sure there's no closer, acceptable blood relations for the child. It doesn't usually happen unless their parents are dead or in Azkaban." Evan explains.
"Do wizards have godparents?"
Evan looks bemused. Hedwig looks at Tom like he's an idiot.
"Only half-bloods have godparents, you dense cunt--Why would the rest of us need sponsors?"
Now it's Tom's turn to look confused.
"When halflings want to do a semblance of the right thing, they find a godparent in the form of a reliable, trustworthy pureblood to sponsor their full entrance to the magical world." Evan explains.
"Some mudbloods do it too, but they're harder to guide for obvious reasons." Hedwig shakes her head, "It's pretty old fashioned. I don't think I know anyone with a godparent to kiss ass for them."
Evan turns back to Tom, "Does godparent mean something different for Muggles?"
For Muggles. He tries not to let that question anger him.
"Someone a parent leaves as guardian of their child in the event of their death––Usually a close friend or another family member...It's tied to Christianity."
"Am I supposed to know what that is?" Evan looks bored. Hedwig takes the time to explain an overly simple (and vulgar, of course) explanation of the religion. Regardless of her vocabulary (and definite bias), it's a solid enough definition. It reminds him of how strange he finds it that over half the wizards he knows have never heard of the religion.
"––in charge of the brat's religious upbringing and education nowadays, I guess the Muggles are too dryshite to teach their own piglets how to properly worship."
Evan mulls over Hedwig's explanation, and when he replies, Tom almost has to ask him to repeat himself, "How sensible."
"Come again?" Hedwig says the words for him, "Have I gone deaf?" She turns to Tom, "Tom, are there fucking weasels in my ears? Did Evan just spout some bloodtraitor talk?"
Evan tsks, shaking his head, "Always the close minded one, Hedwig."
"Says the pot to the fecking cauldron." Hedwig cackles, "Are you softening up? Going to go fraternizing with the Weasleys and Potters?"
He rolls his eyes, "We've discussed this, Hedwig, given the time, any lowlife can have an idea resembling gold. It'd be of use to take it for our own purposes."
"What like that shitty music Miller brought into the castle?"
"Jazz, right?" He looks at Tom for confirmation, "It's all noise, but we'll make it better. I quite enjoy the energy."
Tom has to agree: the melodies and rhythm found in jazz are pleasing compared to the sullen, traditional plucks that wizards listen to. But he keeps quiet.
Evan continues, "Placing a trusted family friend in the role of a child's upbringing in regards to religion is sound. You never know who will be in charge of your legacy should the worst happen...Your family name could be made extinct." His leg crosses over his knee, "My third cousin just adopted, actually: a little lowblood from Crimea--The politics are apparently quite nasty there on the Muggle side, and it was starting to affect the standard of living there."
Tom leans in, "Do you know what happened to his parents?"
"Her," he corrects, "they're not sure, even with the translation spells, she refuses to speak. We assume they caught some disease from mingling with Muggles."
"Ya adopted a bloodtraitor spawn?"
"My third cousin adopted a misguided witch who would have been raised in poverty and radical beliefs."
Hedwig rolls her eyes.
"So I suppose, in a way, he and his wife were acting as godparents of sorts for the poor girl." How self-righteous, "She'll bear their name for the sake of allegiances, and their natural born daughter can marry for...affection."
Tom puts a pin in that--Because he wants to know but...
He remembers his conversation with Yami and Nemesis, "They can just add their family name and everyone will just accept her?"
"Of course. We're not...Well, we're not dark like that."
"Like that?"
"Well," Evan gestures with his hand, as if what that was should be obvious to all, "we don't use black magic to add family members."
"Bullshit."
Evan tuts at Hedwig, "You think so lowly of us, Hedwig! We'd never bind foreign blood like that."
"Why would one want to?" Tom prompts, hopefully in a way that doesn't display how ignorant he feels.
"If you're...old fashioned like the Blacks, for example, you'll go forth with the rituals needed to bind the adoptee to you, blood and magic."
"And soul," Hedwig critiques, frowning.
"And soul." Evan adds on, "Blacks are family oriented, they want to be sure that their wards fully accept adoptees. Others might want to ensure the child's loyalty to their new family. It's a subjugation method."
"Not all purebloods do this?" Tom asks, shuffling his essays nonchalantly.
"A wizard's word is his bond, so for most, just the act of claiming a child as your own is usually enough for the wards of your house and the Ministry's records." Evan clarifies, "Convenient, isn't it?"
-
It's not hard (at least not anymore) to figure out whether or not Ximena will be at Hogsmeade on Sundays. The carriages leave at eleven o'clock sharp, and if by that time, he sees her milling around with any of the people she shares classes with, it's more than likely that she'll be gone for the whole morning and afternoon. But if he doesn't see her by then, then she's in the common room.
He holds a paper bag in his hands, nowhere near the amount of fancied up as his first gift to her was. Nowhere near as expensive (he still has those sickles hidden away). But perhaps twice or thrice as important. As dire.
It was his idea, of course. Though, he'll admit that Elle certainly helped. It was made with her recipe and guidance, but the rest is all his. His labor and magic. Love and care, as Elle had put it, but he's not so sure about that. Even after all he's learned from her in Transfiguration and gastronomy, he's unsure about a lot that she tells him.
There are few things as intimate as when you are preparing something that will go into someone's body, Tom.
He remembers the potion for nerves. How it wasn't intended for him, but it was consumed by him anyways. It was something she made. Brewed. Put work into. And he drank it. It had changed his emotions. His magic. It calmed him.
He doesn't like the idea that it was an intimate process. He also doesn't like the idea that she's never made anything for his explicit consumption. Everything he's eaten from her hands has been for hers and Elle's consumption.
Something made especially for him...That's what he wants. Something that's all his. To keep and hide away.
So Tom takes a deep breath, and steps down into the common room.
In a tucked away corner, he expects to see Ximena reading. Instead, she's in the open space before the large fireplace, sitting on the ornate rug with something laid out in front of her.
He walks closer.
It's her robe.
Splayed out like a snow angel, Ximena's robe is displayed before her as if it were for sale at a market. Almost perfectly flat without any visible wrinkles. She kneels before it as if she were about to pray to it. The air is to still and the silence so precious that he dare not break it yet. He lingers, because she hasn't explicitly told him to shove off, nor even really asked if she could be left alone. He stays because her activity is familiar. Adjacent.
With care, Ximena marks out measured spaces on the hem of her robes––So careful, it really does feel like an act of worship. He notes the tattered and frayed ends, the rips and holes, the stretched out fabric...Her runes are different, he notes, they're not from the book he was lent at all, but rather somewhere else. Her writing utensil isn't chalk, but rather a grease pencil, white, which displays the glyphs on the fabric proudly and loudly. He wonders where she got it from.
Then comes a needle, the large kind he's seen the matron at Wool's use for heavy repairs, it's set aside for some thread: almost invisible. A gleaming, glittery silver that catches bright in the firelight of the common room. The spool it's wrapped around is a dull, smooth wood, otherwise ordinary.
He watches. Eyes never straying. Almost unblinking. Ximena begins to weave in the sygils marked out by the grease pencil. Her hands are as steady as that of an expert marksman (not that Tom's ever seen one), and quicker than he's ever seen the matron sew. It's almost inhuman. Her concentration is focused solely on her task, surely she's forgotten that he's there.
The thought makes his fists tighten.
One by one, the runes are mapped out with thread. It's not a professional job, but it's highly legible. And, he supposes, that's all that matters. When she cuts the thread (she tears it with her teeth, he notes), she ties the end twice and slips her tools away in her bottomless bag...
Ximena takes out her wand.
Goose pimples emerge on his skin. As instant as a chemical reaction. There's a small, hallowed intake of breath at the sight of the magical object. It looks so much more different up close. So alive and thriving...
Unable to help it, he feels out for her magic as she lifts her wand and casts.
It's only a small little flick, hardly enough to warrant any movement in her shoulder joint. No words slip through her lips, but the magic that filters through her wand is obvious. Cool and familiar. He remembers the day he almost felt it in full force and does not shiver in memory of it.
The silver thread on the garment glows a hazardous white. Before his eyes, it begins to repair itself. The holes filling in with fabric and the frayed edges smoothing away as if they were chalk being washed in the rain. Stains (from potions class?) lift and disappear, the texture of the robe looking smooth and clean. The sizing goes up too––Lengthening to accommodate her growing height (still the tallest girl in her class) and other areas. The robe looks like new. Certainly not luxury or expensive, but definitely not the old, ratty, secondhand one she had worn for the past three years.
It fills him with an immense feeling of envy and curiosity.
The bag in his hands is forgotten.
"Can you teach me how to do that?" It shoots out before he can really process what he's saying. What he's asking and who he's asking. But he has to know. He has to know now.
She looks surprised to see him. Looks like she just returned from a long, far away trip. Familiar. "Why?"
It's a fair enough question, but shouldn't she know? Hasn't she seen, hasn't she noticed, his ill fitted robes before this? Dragging along the floor in first year and now (before his own repair) flittering around his ankles? She lives in the Muggle world, she knows he'll have little resources on the outside. That he needs every tool and cheat in order to have a semblance of a normal life.
But the way she's looking at him, that's not what she's asking. There's an expectant look on her face. On her half-lidded eyes as she looks down at him (she's still taller than him, even with his little growth spurt), there's expectant doubt––Like she knows what's already going to come out of his mouth. Like she already has an answer prepared for him regardless of what he replies to her. It's a look he's familiar with. It doesn't belong on her face. He doesn't like it on her face. Stop looking at him like that––
He understands, then.
It shoots out before he can really process what he's saying, what he's baring before her. How it'll affect the view she has of him.
"I'm sorry."
There's a moment of silence between them that goes on for far too long. She's thinking. Calculating. Probably thinking about holding this over his head even longer and--
"For what."
Ah. Yes. Of course. She's crueler than she looks, crueler than she's previously displayed to him. Really, he's still not sure why he's apologising, but...
"For keeping something precious from you."
An excruciatingly heavy pause. Under her glassy, black gaze, he feels scrutinized. As he was the day they met. She's measuring whether she should trust him. Extend her hand over and shake his. Share her name. Only her first name. Only what truly belongs to her.
When she parts her lips, he's not sure he hears her right,
"Okay." He blinks. "I don't forgive you."
...
...Huh...He didn't expect this.
"Aren't you going to sit down?"
...Huh.
Ximena's looking at him expectantly, and rather impatiently too, it seems like. Like she's interviewing him for a job, and he's already used up time she could have put towards something more important.
". . ."
He takes his seat besides her.
"A grease pencil is less of a mess to clean up compared to chalk, but chalk is quite traditional; you'll want to use it for older spells because that's what a lot of the creators were using when inventing the process––"
The paper bag is forgotten, sitting in between them as she talks and he asks questions. Without noticing, the two of them begin to reach inside to share the biscuits made.
---
The reaction for Ximena's chapter was interesting. I always joked on how everyone who's never seen me write in her POV think she's a very mysterious, elegant, and composed person...And on some level she is, but she's still just a kid. And a personality of her own. Tom isn't exactly the more reliable narrator. Her plans and motivations will be revealed soon.
The quote Elle tells Tom about intimacy and preparing something that will go into another body was paraphrased from the Youtube video "Pro Chef Breaks Down Cooking Scenes from Movies". It was a really good fucking quote and I had to pause the video to properly digest it. I was shook.
Yeah I know this chapter is the shortest one yet, but I figure y'all wouldn't mind considering these two knuckleheads are on speaking terms again. Sort of.