Come and Go
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially...The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
― Anais Nin
Part II
1942
“Successive Headmasters and mistresses, as well as expert historians have searched the castle, combing the halls of Hogwarts for the fabled Chamber. Perhaps, when he first constructed the Chamber, Slytherin wanted no more than a place in which to instruct his students in spells of which the other three founders may have disapproved, speculates renowned historiographer Philomena Potter-Sark. However no definitive evidence has been found that the Chamber is anything more than a myth- ”
He was distracted from the heavy tome in front of him by a warming in his pocket. With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and carefully made room on his work table, moving the stacks of leather bound books and handwritten scrolls for the journal that had sat in his robe pocket, magicked to get his attention. ‘What a useful spell’ he thought, pleased at his hand in its creation and potential future uses for the journal.
Tom opened the diary to Ixchel’s well known cursive.
“The usual: please help!”
He shook his head, but stood up from his research without complaint. It was as good a time as any to take a break. And as he stepped through the door, he was sure to first look to confirm no other students had seen him exit through the threshold opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.
The walk to the Ravenclaw Common Room was only a few short minutes at his brisk pace, and the corridor that held his destination soon came into view. Ixchel sat untroubled on the stone floor by the door, her belongings beside her and her corresponding diary twinned with his own sat neatly in her lap. She had tucked her dark hair- hair the colour of dried tea leaves behind her ear and was chatting politely to a painting.
His pace slowed and he studied her soft features. Her face was still rounded with youth but the full curve of her cheek was feminine rather than childish. She smiled gently at whatever the collection of paint and magic had said to her and her cool eyes crinkled charmingly at their corners. She sat on the floor but held herself with such ease she could just have easily been seated on a throne. Ixchel was no English Rose, her lips fuller, her skin deeper, and hair darker, but Tom had never been interested in what was customary.
She must have caught his movement in the corner of her eye and turned to face him, giving him an exasperated smile, and he was oddly glad to see she had not lost the slight gap between her front teeth.
“I’m sorry, I hope you weren’t too busy.” She gathered her belongings and stood up gracefully, bidding goodbye to the painting.
Tom raised a brow and motioned towards the door, “What was it this time?”
“Well,” she shot an irked glance to the door, “to be fair I suppose it was my fault. I forgot the damn thing has no sense of humour and it won’t let me re-answer.” She straightened her uniform skirt and brushed herself off of imaginary dust. “You know what they say though, hope springs eternal.”
He ignored her optimism with a roll of his eyes and stood in front of the entryway.
“What is always pronounced wrong?” The eagle knocker asked.
He gave her a puzzled look before turning his attention back to the door. “Wrong is always pronounced wrong.” He stepped in the path of the door once it opened to keep it from closing. “How did you make a mistake with such an easy question?”
Ixchel gave a light laugh and moved towards him. “I said my name. I thought it was funny.” She made an exaggerated miming of kicking the door.
“Stick to spell-work.”
She pushed him good-naturedly. “It’s not fair, I have plenty of answers but it’s never what they want. You always know what people want. It’s a gift.”
“People are simple.” Tom supplied, bewildered by her praise for something so terribly mundane. “They want fame or wealth or power and rarely stray. It’s a matter of seeing them for who they really are. There’s very little mystery.”
“Always the cynic. What about me, what do I want?”
Tom raised a brow and looked her over. “I suppose you want to get in your Common Room now.”
Ixchel smiled at him fondly before she put one foot through the door frame. “Would you like to come in?”
He considered it for a moment. He had been in the Ravenclaw Common Room enough that the others no longer batted an eye at seeing the Slytherin amongst their ranks, though at the start of his visits many of the older students grumbled unhappily at the outsider in their midst. But the Chamber…
“You go on ahead, I still have a few things to do.”
“You mean you need hole yourself away to study?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug, but smirked. “You’re a Ravenclaw aren’t you? I thought you’d be pleased by my dedication.”
“You’re a man possessed! Alright, alright, I’ll see you later, then.” She waved to him before stepping fully through the door, and Tom’s eyes drifted down the length of her body, settling on the swell of her bum.
Catching himself, embarrassed that he had looked at her in such a way, Tom quickly turned back down the corridor ignoring the blush that threatened to stain his cheeks, intent on returning to the Come and Go room and his research. Hogwarts: A History had sparked his fervoured search into Hogwarts’ secrets. Those secrets belonged to him. He could feel it.
He had found the reticent room that was now his favoured area of study during his third year Christmas term. The door had appeared to him after more attempts pacing the corridors of different floors than he cared to admit, and when he stepped through the threshold he was initially surprised the room had shown itself to him as the cosy study of Thistledown. When he had first seen the mirrored room he was relieved he had never told Ixchel about this space.
The room seldom varied from the warm wood floors and bookshelves, plush chairs and roll top desk, smell of cinnamon, and sea view that wasn’t truly there. His scrolls and books on the Chamber were laid out just as he had left them and he returned to his floor-plans and the rumours. Tom knew in his bones the Chamber was real and was his for the taking.
It was his. Truly his.
Tom paused his reading, finger still placed on the page, pressed into the words. Parseltongue was difficult to research, most texts mentioning it in passing and Tom now understood Professor Dumbledore’s hesitancy when asked about his speech with snakes; it was considered dark. The books seemed to agree that it was a suspicious trait to speak to serpents as they were oft used in the darkest of magic. But Tom had no interest in the perception of his gift. Much more importantly to Tom, it was not just rare, it was hereditary.
He felt dizzy with the revelation, blood pounding in his ears and he nearly trembled with his excitement. Tom had come to terms with the fact that there were no Riddles in the wizarding world. He had scoured every book possible, at first determined to prove his pernicious roommates wrong as he knew himself to be more important and of more worth than any of them and that he had the pedigree to prove it, no matter what they said. However, with no mention of the surname Riddle, Tom had to slowly and begrudgingly examine his belief that his father was a wizard of great significance searching for him. Chipping away at that core belief was a difficult task as that meant the mother who left him, the mother who died in that grey, somber orphanage like a weak willed muggle was his tether to magic.
But if Parseltongue was hereditary….well then it must be the case. He had been told at Wool’s his middle name was in honour of his maternal grandfather and he had always pondered the strangeness of the name Marvolo. Mrs Cole had told him she suspected his mother’s family were circus folk but now that he knew the peculiarity of Wizarding names he had demanded books of ancestry from his roommates and had scanned them tirelessly until he came across the name Marvolo Gaunt. He was not only no mudblood, but had more claim to magic than anyone in the walls of Hogwarts. He was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself.
Tom had reread those words and felt the deep, steely feeling of vindication.
His relationship with the other Slytherins had changed drastically from those first few months of looking over his shoulder for jinxes and hexes shot his way and being the recipient of slurs and icy receptions. The knowledge he was related to Salazar Slytherin himself as well as the mask he had refined over the years meant the others listened to him, deferred to him and followed his lead. Cold threats and hexes aided him with the more obstinate ones. However, if he were to find the Chamber, when he found the Chamber his position would be secured.
The heir of Slytherin.
Ixchel huffed as she swiftly plaited her hair to keep it from knotting in the windy quidditch stands and she tied the end before tucking the thick plait into her scarf. She thanked Husna with a smile as she handed Ixchel back her mittens and she watched her friend’s nose and cheeks quickly flush red in the chill.
“Where’s your hat? You look like you’re already going to freeze!” She smiled at her Housemate.
“Olethea “borrowed” it about three weeks ago and I have yet to see it since.” Husna scowled.
“Well navy is much better suited to her than you.” Ixchel teased. She took off her own woolen beret and with a quick mutter, charmed it a pleasing carmine colour before placing it on Husna’s head. “There, absolutely lovely!”
Husna blushed prettily and t gave the hat a ginger touch with a smile. “You don’t think the colour is a bit too traitorous? The others take their quidditch quite seriously.”
She laughed and gestured to the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw banners in her hands. “I think you’re safe. I’ll be getting the brunt of it.” Ixchel was not very interested in the sport more than anything casual, but Socorro had been made captain of the Gryffindor team, and well, family surpassed House alliances. She was quite proud of her sister even though all the training Socorro had insisted upon had come at the expense of Ixchel’s free time during summer holidays.
"You’re braver than any Gryffindor waving both flags in the stands.” Husna joked. “I’ll sit between you and the others, give you a buffer, or at least a head start if you need to make a run for it.”
“Always a true friend, Husna.”
She looked ahead of them, closer to the stands and saw Tom walking along the autumn browned grass, his own green scarf fluttering in the musky-sweet smelling autumn breeze. He was surrounded by other Slytherins, the boys in his year speaking in that terribly boyish manner - loud and brash - and many of the girls fluttered their lashes appreciatively his way.
Her lips pursed. They only simpered and embraced the handsome, sharp, boy now that they knew what he had told her years ago in a victorious whisper, secreted away in their moon drenched courtyard. Now that they knew he was the descendant of Salazar Slytherin, proving it so by speaking the hissing, breathless language of the serpents to the garden snakes hidden away in the grounds of Hogwarts. As if his skills were only worthwhile now that there was history to his name. She remembered when he had told her of his success with his Housemates and the way she had swallowed down her trepidation.
He spent more and more of his time with his Housemates now that he held their favour, no longer needing to seek her out for comfort and companionship in the same way he had as an outcast child. Whilst they kept their steady, quiet friendship and knew the depths of each other, he now had a life separate from her and selfishness grew in the soil of her heart.The feeling of jealousy was foreign and sticky and Ixchel, who had never known want before was uncomfortable with the unfamiliar, black emotion.
He turned his head and his eyes met her own across the distance. He raised a brow like he knew her thoughts and she hid her guilty blush in the folds of her oversized scarf whilst sliding her gaze away from his as nonchalantly as she could.
The two girls made their way up the dizzying tower of the Ravenclaw seating, the wind whipping stronger, bringing tears and chapping their lips.
“Why aren’t there nice, comfortable Top Box seats at Hogwarts? Making us sit out here like cattle.” Husna groused.
She laughed. “You’re a terrible snob.”
“I’m a Shafiq, darling.” Husna said with an affected arrogance. “A Shafiq with hair too nice for such treatment.” She combed her fingers through the tangles already forming.
“Boo! You double crosser! Fraternising with the enemy!” The others heckled her and Ixchel coyly draped the Gryffindor banner across her shoulders like a cape.
“Oh this old thing?”
She allowed the others to razz and jeer good naturedly and she settled into her seat beside Husna and Juliet, letting the conversation and the voice of Alcott Prewett who was commentating the game, speaking of odds and statistics and other terribly in depth quidditch facts she unfortunately understood wash over her. Gryffindor appeared to have the stronger team with a well rounded offense but their Seeker was less experienced than Ravenclaw’s own.
"Mount your brooms, please." The amplified voice of the referee carried to the stands and Ixchel watched as the players climbed onto their brooms, her eyes on her sister’s dark head. When the referee gave a loud blast of his silver whistle. Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the whipping autumn wind. They were off.
As the game began in earnest Gryffindor quickly took a strong lead and possession of the quaffle, the Chasers led by Socorro and playing with far more teamwork than the less coordinated Ravenclaws.
“Come on, Olethea!” Elis and Juliet screamed in unison as their friend made an impressive block of the Quaffle.
The game was fierce and Ixchel received a strong glare from Elis after whooping appreciatively when Socorro made a daring score that was a near miss.
“Sleep with one eye open tonight, Eztli.” Elis then shouted angrily to the Ravenclaw Keeper who in no way could hear him. “Get that ridiculous ginger hair out of your face, Olethea and watch the damn Quaffle!”
"I suppose we should be thankful we’re not playing Slytherin." Ixchel drawled.
“Ack! Terrible cheaters, they all are. It’s as if the real sport is going through all possible fouls in a single game.”
“It’s certainly cheeky. They definitely take a ‘winning is winning’ approach."
"You only say that because you’re sweet on that friend of yours. They’re positively mercenary.” Husna interrupted.
“Hmmph.”
"Gryffindor Captain, Socorro Eztli has the Quaffle and what- what is she doing?!"
Prewett’s commentary drew them out of their own conversation to watch Socorro spiral up to the heavy grey clouds at a reckless pace, Quaffle in hand. The Ravenclaws followed but were obviously confused by the strangeness of her flying and the stands seemed to share a collective gasp as Socorro abruptly stopped her ascent, gripping her broom and free-falling to the pitch below. In her plummet and the chaos it caused, she threw the Quaffle to a fellow Chaser and pulled up at the last possible moment.
The stands erupted in cheers.“That was mad, that was utter madness! What a play!” Prewett cried. Even the Ravenclaws were caught up in the excitement of the play and nearly everyone missed that Ravenclaw Seeker, Edmund McKinnon had caught the snitch and it took a moment for Ravenclaw to realise they had won and they stood to cheer.
They walked onto the pitch to congratulate the team and Ixchel heard more than one of the Ravenclaw team begrudgingly compliment Socorro.
Olethea swooped down and jumped off her broom, the hair that had escaped her bun frizzy and tangled but her face was jubilant.
“Party in the Common Room!” And the Ravenclaws all cheered.
“Just because you say something with conviction doesn’t mean you’re right, Tom.”
“Right is a blatant falsehood, Ixchel. You can argue anything being ‘right’ depending on perspective. It only matters if people believe you. Truth is an illusion bent to suit people's ideologies. There is no good or evil in magic or right or wrong.” He paused. “But I am right.”
He had a splodge of ink on his cheek that she would normally discreetly point out to him, but he was acting so smug she kept it to herself.
Their Defense assignments were spread before them, forgotten in favour of their debate.
“I don’t disagree that D.A.D.A is taught in a harmfully dense way! I believe I’m the one who brought it up to you first that the idea of light or dark magic is Euro-centric and asinine. Intent is nearly always more important than the spell itself. Incendio can be used to warm a hearth or burn down a home. One of the first spells we were taught as first years can lift a feather or fling someone off a cliff. But there are some spells where there is only one intent and that intent is to do harm to others. It’s up to the caster to determine whether the cost is worthwhile, but the imbalance is too great long-term. How can you argue that there is anything beneficial with the Unforgivables?”
“You’re looking at too small a picture. I understand the question you’re asking, I’m not trying to be obtuse here, Ixchel, but right and wrong keeps people subjugated to the whims of others who determine what those wrongs and rights are. There is only truth in power.”
She leaned back in her seat, regarding the boy she had grown up with- handsome and fierce under the ink stain from his quill and felt her heart flutter and goose pimples raise on her flesh.
“Why do we let them tell us how to do magic? Most people don’t look past their assigned reading and what their professors say to really examine what magic means, what they could wield.”
“It has been known for wands to burst, absolutely bored stiff with summoning slippers and the paper in the mornings year after year.” Ixchel agreed.
“It was you who said it.” Tom conceded. “There’s far more to the magic in this world than they’ll ever teach us. It’s up to us to seek it out.”
Feeling magnanimous after his admission and a little flustered by the weight of his gaze, Ixchel smiled gently and patted his hand. “You have ink all over your face.”
Her clear laugh rang out too loudly at his scowl as he hastily wiped his pale cheek with the sleeve of his robe and they were quickly hushed by the librarian. “You know, I think I would miss you, even if I had never spotted you that day, scowling in the park.” She whispered.
They returned to their essays, the only sound for many minutes the scratching of their quills against parchment.
“Your mother’s library has books Hogwarts would deem too dark, correct?”
“I suppose so. I’ve gone through most of them but I don’t exactly broadcast it.” She tilted her head and regarded him with cool, bird-black eyes. “What are you looking for, Tom?”
He leaned forward in a fluid motion, his face close to her own as he spoke in hushed tones. “Do you know anything about immortality spells?”
She felt the sensation of ice water dripping down her spine and let her face smooth into blankness as she lied. “No.”