Little Hangleton
“Love is hard to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer.”
― Yann Martel, Life of Pi
It was a fairly small class seeing as very few could bear the thought of completing a History N.E.W.T with Professor Binns, but Tom was determined to receive an ‘O’ in every class possible. He was exceptional after all.
He was seated with the scattered few Slytherins in the class, reading a book on Saxon curses disguised as his textbook. A few desks to his left the Ravenclaws sat together in a cluster of blue and bronze - some taking notes, others doodling, or like Ixchel, slept; heads cradled in their arms across their desks.
Tom would have chuckled had he not been in class. Ixchel had insisted on continuing with History of Magic as she said she did her best charm creation whilst Professor Binns droned on. Background noise she called it. Today however, it appeared the minutiae of census taking during the Goblin Rebellions of the 17th century only inspired drowsiness not creativity.
His own eyes grew heavy and the words of his book began to run together when a queer, sleepy sound caught his attention. Ixchel had uttered it. He turned to observe her; her brow was furrowed, and the faint noise of what sounded like distress had been murmured in slumber. She made another small noise before waking, appearing at first confused before her body language grew into something nearly panicked.
She left the room, a vision of dignity as the others whispered and gawked at the display. No one had ever thought to just leave. Immensely curious, Tom returned the bookmark to his page and waited to see if Ixchel would come back to class.
He nearly gave up on the idea of her return and thought perhaps she had gone to the Hospital Wing with some sort of complaint when the doors of the classroom opened again and a very composed Ixchel returned to her seat, back straight and quill and parchment out in front of her. Tom took out his latest diary, the one currently linked with Ixchel’s own, and in his neat, meticulous handwriting he wrote out his question regarding her whereabouts.
Tom observed her twitch, knowing she had felt her own diary heat up to alert her of his missive, but the stubborn bint ignored him. That wouldn’t do.
Entering a mind was never like reading a book where the information was spread out before you and you simply needed to turn a page in order to obtain further details. No, minds were generally complex and chaotic, composed of layers of disorderly colours, snippets of thoughts, and streams of memory. The real skill of a Legilimens lay in understanding the portents.
Ixchel’s own mind was an especially frustrating landscape. Years ago they had discovered she was a natural Occlumens and Ixchel had quipped that she was rather reticent so why wouldn’t her mind be as well?
He swam through her mind as cautiously as possible in order not to alert her, but was vexed when the only experience he could grasp was a cloudy, pink feeling of embarrassment. Tom was fortunate however; one of the girls sitting next to Ixchel tittered and under her breath asked her, “What was that ?”
Snippets of images and sensation broke through the rosy haze.
The two of them in their courtyard. Her breasts pressed to him. The roll of her hips flush against his own. The sounds of her moans and his name on her tongue.
Startled and clutching his book at the unexpected revelation, he allowed himself to sink into her mind as his breath sped up and he felt the familiar ache and throb of arousal. With those visions still eddying around him, he bridged the gaps with his own daydreams. Her quick hands unbuttoning his shirt, gliding over the breadth of his chest whilst his hand cupped her naked breast, thumb brushing her nipple into stiffness before taking it into his mouth. He imagined grabbing her soft thigh, hitching it over his hip as she rocked into him, her breath hot on his neck as she told him all the things she needed from him.
He released a shaky breath. Was this just a dream, caused only by their proximity as friends and his good looks (for Tom knew he was attractive the way one knew the sky was blue or the grass green. It was simply a fact) or did she think of him ? Did she think of him, blurring out Warbeck’s face when the dishwater dull Hufflepuff touched her like that, wishing it was him instead?
Tom could not ignore the temptation to delve deeper.
However, his prodding alerted Ixchel to his presence and she met his gaze, pinning him under a sharp glare as she lifted her shields none too gently.
Getting shut out so abruptly was an unpleasant sensation, and his blood quickly cooled. Her shields were like being dropped into the sea. He was suspended in darkness and quiet, his senses muffled and it was as if thoughts sunk out of reach to the ocean floor where sunlight couldn’t touch.
She was still glowering, but how could he feel guilty when all he felt was satisfaction?
That evening he stood in the Chamber, having called a meeting. He resisted the urge to pace, and stood before the followers he had called upon, twisting the black ring upon his finger.
Mulciber’s hurried steps could be heard echoing through the Chamber before he turned a corner and appeared before him. He bowed in apology. “My Lord."
"Mulciber. You have kept me waiting."
The boy dropped to his knees, head bowed subserviently, accepting the curse that hit him. Mulciber was tiresome and uninteresting, but at the very least the howl of pain he gave was satisfying. Tom could not risk torture as any outward sign could draw Dumbledore too close, and he was convinced the codger was a Legilimens. The Professor was always looking for a reason to lay blame on Tom and he was probably more skilled in Legilimency than Tom himself was at present, as detestable it was to admit.
Tom had discovered Legilimency through Dumbledore in fact. Those years ago as he sat in his spartan room at Wool’s Dumbledore had performed his asinine little trick with the paltry treasures hidden in his wardrobe, He had made Tom feel exposed, shocked that perhaps the man had somehow read his mind. He had brought his question to Ixchel upon being denied entry to the library’s restricted section, and she brought him a heavy tome from home on the subject that he never would have had access to otherwise. Hatred for Dumbledore renewed.
He allowed the boy a generous few minutes to catch his breath before questioning him. "What have you got to report?"
“My Lord, Avery and Lestrange both are to interview for Auror positions. As Lestrange’s father and Avery’s aunt are members of the Wizengamot there is no concern that they won’t be hired on.
“Abraxas is to assume his father’s role on the board of Governors when he secedes and the Blacks are eager benefactors.”
“And what of Rosier?”
“I believe Nott is better suited for the Department of Mysteries and Rosier,” Mulciber appeared disquieted, “has been distracted by Miss Selwyn. She has been speaking of moving to the continent after graduation.”
He scoffed at the idea of being distracted by a woman, ignoring his own distraction earlier that day. “See to it or I will.”
“Yes my Lord.”
“Have you found any information regarding the locket?”
“No sign yet my Lord.”
“Keep looking.”
Tom lay in bed that night, curtains drawn and warded in silence. He stared up at the darkened ceiling cast in the watery, green light of the lake, but his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts were focused on what he had seen in Ixchel’s mind, and the answer he had never received. Was it a meaningless dream out of her control, or wishful thinking on her part? He remembered that night in their fifth year, the heat of her body in the cage of his arms, the ferocity of her anger and wondered what would have happened if he had kissed her that night. She would have been too breathless and heated to offer those sweet smiles she gave when unexciting, safe Warbeck kissed her. Warbeck kissed like she was breakable when Ixchel was made of stronger, sharper stuff than nearly everyone else.
He imagined the soft curves of her body beneath him, dark hair spilling out across his pillows, the locket of Slytherin between her breasts in a sign she was tied to him, was his . His hand slipped low and he started to stroke himself. He was quick and efficient, body jerking into his own fist and he came with a quiet groan, heart banging against his ribs.
She returned Tom’s copy of Advanced Potion-Making to him, sliding it across the library table with a mostly mock frown. “Fine, you’re right this time. But don’t let it get to your head.”
He smirked and whispered back. “You should be used to this by now. I’m never wrong.”
“I would laugh if I thought you were joking.”
They were in the library together with her Ravenclaw friends and one of the less insular Slytherins, Hyacinth Greengrass, studying for an upcoming Potions exam. Ixchel had gotten over the worst of her embarrassment regarding that unfortunate History of Magic class and was glad she had lifted her shields before Tom had seen anything.
She had spent the rest of the day holed up in her room, stewing. ‘Just look at the bloke’ Ixchel reminded herself of Olethea’s words in an attempt to rationalise her attraction. Olethea was right, Tom was attractive, and they knew each other’s shadows. Ixchel had sat on her bed that day, curtains drawn, reading her slim copy of Muggle poetry.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
She still thought about the dark yearning described, turning the concept in her mind like a stone in hand. Wouldn’t that sort of passion be overwhelming? What happened after the fire was spent? Nothing lasts forever.
Still, all consuming passion was a thrilling notion.
She touched her lips, tracing the sensitive flesh, thinking back to the kiss that never truly happened. ‘I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.’
Husna gave her an appraising look from across the table, noting the far off look upon her friend’s face, but Ixchel merely raised her brow and returned to her research, allowing the table to fall back into a comfortable quiet. The sounds of scratching quills and Husna and Hyacinth quizzing each other washed over her.
“You must partner with me for Professor Slughorn’s Polyjuice Potion lesson.” Husna declared to the equally studious Slytherin girl who blushed prettily at the attention. “Elis will spend the entire time trying to weasel out of as much work as possible and this one,” she gestured sharply to Ixchel who did her best to appear innocent, “will no doubt try to add her blood or something equally heinous for the sake of experimentation and I have no desire to end up in the Hospital Wing for the rest of the year!”
“I resent that!” Ixchel exclaimed. “I would never add my blood, much too strong. Now I do have a theory about powdered nail clippings adding to the efficacy of Polyjuice…”
The librarian was quick to hush them and threaten to ban them all from the library for the rest of the day if they could not stay quiet. Tom raised a wry brow to her when the librarian left, and she laughed and shook her head.
“You’re a bad influence,” she whispered to Tom, “I always end up scolded when we’re in here together.”
“That is your own fault. I’m Head Boy after all, a model of good behaviour.”
The others, overhearing him, laughed at the joke but Ixchel gave an unladylike snort at the falsehood. “Yes, I’m sure it’s your good behaviour that keeps you very busy.”
He pasted on the false smile he was aware she hated. “You’re a Ravenclaw. I thought you’d be pleased I keep so busy.”
“Not with some of your extracurriculars.” She muttered.
His fair face twisted in a scowl and he flicked his Head Boy badge. It was an empty warning as he knew she cared little about House points. She rolled her eyes and gave him a cool, secret smile to accompany her gentle admonishment.
Tom turned his attention back to the scrolls laid out before him, picking up his quill and scratching out notes and Ixchel’s steady look lingered on the heavy, black ring on his long finger.
1943
They had to take the train. Ixchel knew better than to complain as she had invited herself along after Tom had shared his plans with her, but it was strange to meet on the Muggle side of King’s Cross. She felt a bit out of her depth, but held her head up as she walked through the crowd of Muggles.
Tom spotted her before she saw him, and he stood from the wrought iron bench he had sat on as he waited. He greeted her with a nod, a bit nervous. It wouldn’t be noticeable to most, but then Ixchel was not most.
“Hullo, Tom. Shall we?” She said before gesturing to the ticket counter.
“Do you suppose you can handle Muggle currency?” He asked with genuine curiosity whilst she fished for the necessary notes in her purse.
“I think I can manage,” she reassured with a laconic quirk of her lips, “It’s quite a logical system, not at all like Wizarding money. I don’t know how you managed to figure it out without being raised with it.”
Ixchel paid the Ticket Clerk for first class tickets without a second thought and cast a cooling charm to their clothing as a measure against the summer heat, confident the bustle of the station would hide her underage magic. They boarded the hunter green carriage, and the interior was terribly grand, even more so than the Hogwarts Express and certainly more luxurious than anything Tom had experienced. Tom however appeared completely at ease, much more so than Ixchel who noticed the occasional upturned nose from the other passengers. It took her a moment to pinpoint the cause of the unpleasant glances and nearly snorted when she recalled Muggle racial prejudices. Tom seemed completely unawares and took his seat with aplomb.
Ixchel sat across from him, smoothing the powder blue silk of her skirt and peering out the window of the train as they pulled out of the station. “Kings Cross to Little Hangleton with a change in York.” She reiterated mostly to herself.
“You didn’t have to come along.”
“Of course I did. How else would you have funded this trip?”
He rolled his eyes, and she grinned at the boyish gesture. “I would have apparated.”
“And I told you that underage apparition would definitely be flagged by the Ministry.”
“It’s absolute rubbish,” he groused, “Ministry measures that restrict and smother. We’re limited so arbitrarily.”
“I completely agree. How turning 17 has anything to do with apparition when we’ve been slinging curses at each other and creating life altering potions for years is beyond me.”
“Is it the same everywhere?”
Ixchel was startled by his question as like most British witches and wizards, Tom seemed to forget there were other countries and other approaches. “Yes, but not always. The International Confederation of Wizards has seen to the unification of Wizards but at the expense of many.” She frowned. “Age restrictions are too broad. They don’t take into account countries where floo travel is not as widespread, or the isolation of Muggleborns or Wizards like you, raised amongst Muggles. Imagine a child who lived with a parent fearful of magic. They would be cut off from their culture and punished for trying to access it, or even punished for trying to protect themselves if the need arose.”
He grimaced in distaste at the mention of Muggleborns but conceded, leaning back into his chair and his long legs brushed her own. “I received a letter from the Ministry the summer after second year,” Tom mused, “they wrote stating they would take action if I performed underage magic again. I had used a bubble-head charm; the building across the street caught fire in the bombings and smoke was getting into my room. I quickly learned to be more clever about hiding my usage of course.”
“Horrific! I would change things if it were up to me.” She sniffed.
Their conversation turned to lighter topics as they continued their journey and Tom taught her how to play Muggle poker, his eyes sparkling in mischief, and she was pleased she could distract him from the task at hand. They played for a few shillings and Tom did not go easy on her.
It was several hours later when the two stepped over the boundary onto Gaunt land. The untended grass brushed her calves, burrs stuck to their clothing, and the strong wards which appeared to be the only aspect of the ramshackle house that had been maintained felt heavy and oily against her skin. The door hung at an odd angle, clearly just as neglected as the rest of the home and Ixchel shot Tom a skeptical look. He ignored her as she had expected and continued forward; the closer they came to the door the clearer the steady stream of hisses could be heard. There was a snake nailed to the door that she had originally thought was a strange carving, but it was a real animal and the blood was fresh. Whilst no stranger to blood magic, she still found the sight rather gauche.
Tom hesitated for a moment, and not wishing to stay in such a place longer than necessary, Ixchel knocked herself, making sure she avoided any particularly soiled surface of the door. The hissing which she knew to be Parseltongue, though she had no idea what was being said, stopped for a beat before picking up, just as quick and fervoured. Heavy steps on the other side of the entryway reached her ears and she took a moment to confirm Tom had his wand in hand as well. She didn’t fancy being a pessimist, but couldn’t imagine this going well. The door cracked open a sliver, creaking loudly in protest at the small moment and a man peeked through the crack. He was terribly bedraggled, his matted hair falling into eyes that didn’t quite look in the same direction and the scraggly beard on his face covered his mouth and was filled with what looked like the remnants of past meals.
“Who are you? What do you want?” The man who could only be Morfin Gaunt demanded, scrutinizing the two suspiciously. His survey of both her and Tom was surely made easier by his exotropia, she thought uncharitably.
Tom was uncharacteristically mute, so Ixchel hid her concern for him and answered.
“Mr Gaunt? Good afternoon. I am Ixchel and this is Tom. We would just like to ask you a few questions if you are not,” her gaze slid to the dead snake, “too busy. May we come in?”
“You pure?” He muttered suspiciously.
Finding the topic terribly tedious, Ixchel stifled a sigh. “I am an Eztli, Mr Gaunt. A descendant of Acamapichtli, first Speaker of Tenochtitlan, and through my maternal grandmother’s line we claim a direct descent from Lady K’able and the high priestesses of Chichén-Itzá. My father -”
“I get it, you’re pure.” He grunted, and shoved out of the way to let them both inside the dilapidated shack. Morfin didn’t ask Tom for his pedigree, likely worn out from the history lesson and the Mayan and Aztec names he would never be able to pronounce himself.
The shack was just as dismal inside as the exterior had been, and when Morfin placed a stubby knife on the filthy countertop that she had not noticed before, Ixchel caught Tom’s eye and mouthed, ‘Where have you brought us?’ When Morfin pulled out a rickety chair for her in some strange attempt at chivalry, she thanked him with an uneasy nod and cast a cleaning charm to the seat under her breath.
He didn’t offer them any refreshments, which was a relief as Ixchel was sure she did not wish to ingest anything served in the hut.
They sat in an increasingly uncomfortable silence, Ixchel unwilling to break it as this was not her task.
To her relief, Tom found his voice, but it was not to question the man. There was a snake, quivering in the corner of the hovel and Tom hissed to the animal that bobbed its head and returned a hiss of its own.
The fog of Morfin’s madness seemed to fade for a moment, and he gazed at Tom with appraising eyes.
“Parseltongue.”
“A rare skill, I’ve read. Hereditary.” Tom supplied.
“You look like that uppity Muggle. The one Merope took off with...” Morfin muttered, potentially frowning under his beard, but it was difficult to say.
“Merope?” Tom leant in, and Ixchel could see the slight tremble of his hands.
“That useless bitch! My sister, bah! If you can call the blood traitor that.” He started hissing and spitting in Parseltongue, no longer in the room with them but consumed in whatever thoughts he had of Merope.
“How was she a blood traitor, Mr Gaunt?” Ixchel asked as placidly as possible, trying to corral the disturbed man back to the present.
“She was always looking out the window for that Tom Riddle fellow. She liked looking at that Muggle, didn’t she? Out in the garden, looking through the hedges when he rode home, peering out the window, waiting for him to pass by. Nearly a squib she was,” He spit on the floor in disgust, saliva slapping against a mouldering floor board, “but managed to bewitch him somehow. Ran off with that Muggle when we was in Azkaban for trying to discipline her. The Muggle came back, but she didn’t. Good riddance.”
“He came back? Is he still alive?” Tom asked and Ixchel could read his excitement, could practically hear his thoughts; a Muggle parent was better than none.
“Back in that estate of theirs. A Muggle with an estate! Makes me sick.”
Tom tried to ask his uncle more questions, but he only answered one for every three, and his responses were vague and often incohesive.
Sensing they would get no further information out of the man, Tom said their goodbyes and guided Ixchel to the door, who was not reluctant to leave.
Morfin swung open the door, inspecting the dead snake nailed to the door as if admiring his work and Ixchel’s eyes lingered on the heavy ring upon his finger.
He noted her scrutiny and his chest puffed up proud, moving the ring so close to her and Tom’s faces, Ixchel nearly went cross eyed to study the signet ring. “Smarter than you look, girl, noticing this. See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it’s been in the family, that’s how far back we go; centuries! We’ve been pure-blood all the way. Know how much I’ve been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?”
“What an impressive heirloom.” Ixchel murmured, demure.
Tom didn’t speak to her until they were far from the Gaunt grounds, down the dirt country path that led to central Little Hangleton. The sky was a clear mirror blue and fat, lazy bees crossed the path, flying from the dog roses and kingcups that grew along the border and bounced in the faint breeze.
“I had heard the gossip about the Gaunts, but seeing it…”
Ixchel reached for his hand and though he didn’t shake her off, he was tense. She didn’t say anything and simply walked the path and breathed in the scent of sun-baked earth and wildflowers.
“She was practically a squib. My… mother ran off with a Muggle. A Muggle who left m- her. She named me after a Muggle.”
“Tom, you are magic embodied in a way I’ve never seen and you know how much I hate to flatter you.” She squeezed his hand to soften her jest. “Damn the Gaunts. You are the heir of Slytherin. They have given you their pedigree to open doors and that is all you need from them. Where you’re going is tenfold more important than where you’re from. We don’t even know if your father knows about you,” she added softly, “you can’t be hasty. Shall we go?”
He smoothed his expression, the tension left his shoulders and he slid his hand out of her own to fix his hair. “Let’s go.”
She floo’d back, but had swiftly left the house for the rocky shores Thistledown overlooked. Vision blurred and hands shaky, she tore off her shoes and hosiery, balancing poorly on one foot then the other before stepping into the ocean. It was summer, but it was still Kent so the water was frigid and Ixchel relished the shock of the temperature and the goose pimples that raised on her skin. Waves crashed against her calves and the hem of her skirt outlined her legs before following the waves back out to sea, fluttering in the dark, bitter waters.
Ixchel had tried to convince Tom to come back with her not wanting him to be alone after that, but he had shaken his head stiffly after they were thrown from the Riddle Estate.
“No, I’m staying.”
“Tom…”
“Ixchel, just go.”
She hesitated for a moment, surveying the angry, heartbroken boy before her.
“ Please. ”
She disagreed with his choice; he was impulsive and heartsick no matter how much he tried to bury it under fury, but she did as he asked with soft words to write to her as soon as he could. She couldn’t comfort him, not after that. Only time could.
The sun had sunk behind the cliffs by the time Ixchel climbed the steep steps up to Thistledown. An evening breeze rustled the coastal grass upon the dunes and caught in the damp fabric of her dress causing her to shiver lightly. She left the hem sodden, too troubled to bother with such trifles. The House Magic recognised her and when she reached the flower laden entry, the door opened to Ixchel in welcome.
She stepped into the house, lights dimmed and windows open to the sea breeze. Socorro had already left for Tarapoto for pre-season practice and the others had gone to bed if the stillness of the home was anything to go by. Catching his gentle snores through his bedroom door, Ixchel tread silently to not disturb Tully, hand gliding up the banister as she climbed the staircase.
Feeling like a young child - wobbly and in need of solace - she gingerly opened the door to her mother’s bedroom. Mum was asleep, breath even and gentle and Ixchel stepped into the room that carried the scent of her perfume and clean linen. ‘I have no son. You’re one of those freaks like that Gaunt tramp and you are not my son.’ She lifted the duvet and crawled into bed next to her mum. ‘This is slander. Get out of my home and never show your face here again or I shall call the police.’
She lay there, soaking in her mother’s comfort and scent, mind still whirring over the events at Little Hangleton. Thinking back to the crestfallen look Tom had tried to hide when they had met the man who fathered him, she felt so sorrowful. What would it be like, hoping desperately there was someone out in the world that was searching for you, loved you and when you finally found them you were confronted with that? With fear and disdain, looking at you like you were burdensome and unwanted.
Ixchel sniffled, eyes welling.
Her mum shifted, waking up and without a word rolled onto her side and gathered Ixchel in her arms to spoon her. She cried silently, tears sliding into her hairline as her mum rubbed her back in slow circles, murmuring soothing nonsense. She cried for Tom and she cried for herself.
“Why did you have us? Why did you have Coco and me when you knew it would make life harder? That people would judge you for it.” She rasped.
She felt the kiss her mum dropped on her hair, and Rosalía was silent a long moment as she considered the question. “I knew I wanted you, that I was waiting for you and your sister. An easier life holds no joy compared to the life we have now. I have been blessed with strong, clever, fierce daughters. We laugh much more than we cry, no?”
Ixchel read of Tom Riddle Senior’s death in the muggle papers later that week. It was a small article, hardly a paragraph and when she saw Tom next, he wore the ring Morfin had so jealously guarded.
She couldn’t find it in her to care.