Something Unfinished
“Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”
-Carl Jung
Riddle Manor was the largest home in the village, separated from the rest of the terraced, crooked Tudor homes, stout thatched cottages, and small high street draped in heavy boughs of evergreen and weather worn red velvet bows by sprawling and bleak gardens. Maybe it had been lovely in the summer, in an austere, foreboding way, but the icy hand of winter had not only stripped the land of its green but any charm it could claim.
Whilst the townsfolk spent their holiday with family, tables heavy with roasts, and honeyed parsnips, and puddings, Tom Riddle was spending a very different Christmas Day in his empty manor house in Little Hangleton.
The housekeeper-cum-cook his father - not that the man deserved any such title, really - had employed, who lived in a cottage on the grounds, had been visibly disgruntled at Tom's visit for the holidays. She had done little to hide it. He didn't need a Muggle servant, but firing her might have aroused suspicion and so he'd continued paying her menial wages. He suspected she'd been enjoying a life of relative leisure with him away at Hogwarts and would have preferred he remain at a distance. The house was certainly dusty enough, and meals appeared with apparent apathy to quality.
At least she was gone now. She had prepared enough food for three days and gone to stay with her daughter in Liverpool, whose husband (she'd pointedly told him several times) was home on leave for the holidays.
She wasn't wholly useless. The orphanage had never bothered to teach the boys how to cook and he had little desire to learn. But now that there were no other magical people in the village he couldn't even imperio her to be silent to stop her snide remarks about draft dodgers. The use of strong magic in such a place might attract Ministry attention. It was deeply irritating, and made him nearly regret framing his repellent uncle.
When he had no more use for this heinous estate, he'd leave it to rot. A secret tomb for the ghastly Muggle side of his history.
With nothing else to do, he went out. The manor sat above the village, arrogantly looking out over the little houses, and as Tom left, not bothering to lock the door, he surveyed the frosty landscape, the hills shrouded in a thick mist that had lingered for the past few days rising up behind the house and across the village, enclosing it. To other eyes it might have been beautiful, but Tom was indifferent to the landscape.
Cheshire was bitterly cold - far colder than was usual for England in December - and Tom wished he could wear his expensive new winter cloak, the first he had owned that was imbued with costly warming charms, rather than the overcoat that had once been his father's. His breath turned to mist in the morning air before dissipating, as fragile and transient as the lives of those around him.
As lonely and cold and dusty and Muggle as the house was, Tom took a perverse pleasure in using it, in taking advantage of the dead man who'd given nothing to his only offspring.
(The man who'd refused his very existence, who'd tried to turn him away when he'd arrived that summer night, filled with such cringing fury that his Magical lineage had sunk so low and to then be so consummately rejected by his Muggle one too –)
Unwilling to dwell on that particular memory, he quickly and coldly shut it away, swallowing around the sharp edges as if glass.
There was little else to do on this inconvenient holiday, when a young man would get strange looks for being alone so he couldn't even research the locket. Every shop was closed and transport was extremely limited. The world came to a senseless standstill, and so he followed the pealing bells to church.
As he walked, Tom wasn't sure if he was going out of habit, to prevent suspicion in the village until such a time as it wouldn't matter, or because of his conversation with Ixchel before leaving Hogwarts for the term.
I really can’t tempt you into coming to Thistledown? Again? Well, don’t spend too much time on your own, it’s bad for your complexion.
Tom walked up the pathway and through the open door into the old church, nodding greetings at all the nosey old villagers who liked to gossip about him as he passed them, and took his place in the front pew, his family pew.
The church was damp, as English churches were wont to be, built of old stone and filled with the mingled scents of pine, incense, and mildew. Candles flickered in wrought iron holders, their flames dancing in the drafts that slipped through the cracks in the stained glass.
The organ wheezed with dignified effort as the congregation rose for “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Tom stood smoothly with them, folding his hands in front of him in an imitation of reverence. He did not sing, only mouthed along—his lips forming the Latin verses with an eerie precision, even when his mind wandered.
It was a strange and pointless thing, worshipping something invisible and unreachable and calling that faith. But he understood its utility. People clung to symbols, to ritual, to the comfort of a name whispered in the dark.
It didn’t matter if he believed it. What mattered was the picture he painted; that he looked like he did.
The curious glances from the pews behind him were exactly what he’d expected. This was, after all, only the second time he’d attended a village service, and the first had been weeks ago, quiet and unremarkable in order to mar himself known. Now he was alone on Christmas, seated in the Riddle family pew like some gothic ghost of the manor—tall and handsome, impeccably dressed, and just young enough to be a subject of both pity and interest.
Tom gave them little to work with, which was part of the charm.
He was silent during the prayers, head bowed respectfully. During the passing of peace, he turned to shake hands with the older gentlemen around him, nodding with polite diffidence. “Happy Christmas,” he said, low and clear, voice warm and well-spoken. They liked that. A young man with proper diction. A firm handshake. Not afraid to look you in the eye.
By the time the vicar reached him at the end of service, Tom was already halfway through the performance.
“Mr. Riddle,” the man said, clasping Tom’s hand in both of his. “So good of you to join us this morning.”
Tom offered the faintest smile. “Thank you, sir. I thought it only right. I’m home from school for the holidays, and it seemed a better use of time than sitting alone.”
A few of the nearby parishioners made quiet sounds of approval, touched by the image of him alone at that cold, drafty estate.
“School you say?” the vicar asked.
Tom nodded. “Just finishing my final year.”
“Ah, well. Still a boy, then,” the vicar said, clearly pleased. Too young for the war, he was thinking. Too young to be accused of cowardice for not wearing uniform.
His schooling gave him an easy alibi, and the cut of his coat—the hint of wealth, of breeding—helped shape their image of him as some tragically orphaned heir, fighting his own lonely war.
Tom didn’t correct him. Just gave a modest, private smile and said, “Nearly grown, I suppose.”
“Your father didn’t care much for the church,” said one of the older women as they filed out. Her voice was sharp with the brittle confidence of the long-widowed. “Always had the look of a man who thought himself too clever for it.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know him well,” Tom replied, all soft diplomacy. “But I hope to do better.”
A murmur of admiration followed him out onto the frost-slick steps. Behind him, the bells began to ring again, their peals echoing off the sloping hills that cradled the village in fog. Tom paused at the bottom of the stairs, letting the cold air bite at his cheeks, and slid his gloves back on with slow, deliberate movements.
Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them pity him, or envy him, or see whatever it was they needed to see. He would give them a story they could repeat over their teacups and sherry tonight. A story about the well-mannered boy who had come home for Christmas. A credit to his family. A quiet thing. A Riddle made good.
He turned up the collar of his coat, tucked his hands into his pockets, and walked back through the churchyard—unhurried, composed, mind already elsewhere.
The walk back to Riddle Manor was uneventful, save for the way the frost cracked like old bones beneath his shoes. He took the long way around, past the bare hedgerows and shuttered cottages, letting the winter silence stretch. Fog clung low to the fields and drifted across the hills like smoke, softening the sharp lines of the world.
The manor greeted him cold and still, as it always did. No tree. No carols. Just the quiet creak of floorboards under his feet and the faint ticking of a grandfather clock two halls away.
In the sitting room, the gifts were stacked like offerings on a side table. At least two dozen of them—wrapped in expensive paper and cloying flattery, each from a different lackey eager to curry favor. Lestrange. Nott. Travers. Rosier had sent an enchanted quill set that attempted to correct your spelling in real time, which Tom found both irritating and insulting.
He rarely gave gifts in return. A bottle of oak-matured mead to Slughorn, of course—best to keep the man sugared and stupid. A few other strategic selections to maintain certain illusions.
And one sent yesterday. To Ixchel.
He hadn’t minded sending that parcel, though. In fact, he’d chosen it weeks ago: a pair of books on obscure South American spell theory, impossible to find in Britain, paired with a tiny vial of Re’em blood ink and a satchel of magically treated parchment, reinforced to hold spellwork through rigorous casting. She’d once told him, absently, that the ink from her best notebook had faded mid-theory and she’d nearly hexed her own bed.
The tag on his parcel had been short and precise.
“For whatever comes next.”
—T
He heard Hecate before he saw her—the pernicious little creature— issuing a dignified screech as she landed atop the back of an antique armchair, tail feathers puffed in indignation from the flight. She held out one leg with distinct impatience.
Tom took the small velvet box with raised brows. “You can leave now.”
She gave a sniff—an actual sniff—then took off again in a rustle of feathers, clipping a lampshade on the way out.
He opened the card first, shut with the wax seal of the Eztli insignia.
Inside was a proper, absurd, Christmas card.
The front featured a magically animated gnome dressed as an angel, hovering mid-air by visibly straining wings and looking frankly thunderous.
Inside, scrawled in her elegant hand:
“Dear Tom, because it’s exhausting watching you plan six steps ahead. Try not to lose them. Happy Christmas.
Yours,
Ixchel”
He rolled his eyes, but set the card down beside him before turning his attention to the parcel itself.
Inside the package was a small, narrow box wrapped in silver paper and tied with a satin ribbon that may have been red but shimmered more toward gold, like it couldn’t make up its mind.
The lid lifted with a faint rustle of static, and inside, nestled in a bed of cushioning charms, were cufflinks.
Gold, understated, elegant. He touched one lightly, then narrowed his eyes. There was spellwork—layered, obscure, carefully done. Enchantments too subtle to immediately parse. He couldn’t identify them on touch alone. That was maddening.
He lifted one from its velvet cushion and found a slim sheaf of folded parchment underneath.
Not an explanation.
Not exactly.
The page was dense, cramped with meticulously annotated research—spell equations in what looked like two different runic languages, handwritten glyphs and magical theory notations, with at least one reference to an obscure Calabrian charmwork theory. There were margin notes like: “Too volatile?” and “Does this interfere with muffling if proximity spell is engaged?” One line had been crossed out with furious strokes and replaced with: “Of course not, I’m not an idiot.”
It didn’t take him long to piece it together. She’d built a reactive charm matrix, layered into the gold itself. A low-level proximity ward, keyed to his magical signature, would activate subtle muffling spells the moment anyone approached from behind—particularly useful in crowds, or when surrounded. A temperature fluctuation charm had been woven in—so fine it was nearly undetectable—tied to a subtle variant of the Veritas Pulse: the cufflinks would warm, ever so slightly, when someone nearby lied. Not loudly. Not enough to draw notice. Just enough for him to know.
A contact-sensitive shielding charm sat dormant beneath it, flickering just under the surface like a coiled whip, likely triggered by heightened adrenaline or wand motion. Not a dueling ward, per se—but something that might buy him half a second. Sometimes, half a second was all that mattered.
And—of course—she’d hidden a recording spell in the fastenings. Automatic, looping, purges daily unless manually prompted otherwise. Voice-triggered archival command, if he wanted to keep something. Utterly discreet. Impeccably efficient.
All that, disguised in a pair of cufflinks.
Her cleverness was infuriating. He couldn’t even be annoyed about it. She’d known exactly what he needed—without asking—and made it elegant.
He added the cufflinks to the clothing he had laid out for tonight’s Yule Party at the Black’s home.
Let it not be said he didn’t appreciate a well-constructed gift.
After dressing in deep navy robes, charmed with a subtle spell that made the lining twinkle like distant stars (the most flamboyant he would allow himself as even though he sneered at the insipidity of the muggle world, wizarding fashion still felt preposterous) he detoured through the cellar. The manor’s wine collection was nothing exceptional—it had been cobbled together more for appearances than for actual taste—but even the Riddles had known enough to keep a few bottles worth hoarding. The one he selected had been stashed at the back, buried beneath two decades of dust and neglect.
A 1921 Château d’Yquem. A Sauternes of near-mythical quality, honeyed and golden, from a year spoken of in reverent tones.
Obscene, really.
Overkill.
Perfect.
He wiped the label clean with a flick of his wand, conjured a simple velvet carrying wrap, and checked his reflection in the hallway mirror before stepping into the floo.
He stared at it for a long moment.
His reflection gave nothing away. Not the hours spent researching vintage years and vineyard reputations. Not the quiet theft of a wine book from Slughorn’s office after pretending interest in a “career in international relations.” Not the way he’d slipped out of the Riddle library three nights ago with a dust-choked book of old menus from wizarding galas, underlining the vintages served at Ministry banquets. Cross-referencing. Memorizing.
There had been no grandfather to tell him which label impressed the Blacks. No father to offer a bottle at Christmas and say, this one never fails.
Just him. And the shelves. And a hundred careful choices that no one would ever see.
The cufflinks gleamed faintly at his wrists, cool against his skin and he held his own gaze in the mirror.
The flames roared green.
“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”
He stepped out into the Black family drawing room just as a richly dressed elf scuttled past, balancing a silver tray stacked with sugared ginger thins and mulled mead. The room was aggressively festive: enchanted holly garlands curled along the mantle, twinkling lights hung in sternly perfect symmetry, and a massive Yule log blazed in the hearth, throwing flickers of gold across the polished floors.
Every detail was correct, and oppressive.
Orion and Walburga stood near the fire, drinks in hand, wearing the smug expressions of people who were hosting from inherited obligation. They had both been ghastly at school and had improved very little with age. Walburga had simply traded teenage cruelty for adult sanctimony, and Orion… well, it was always unclear whether he was deeply dull or simply pretending not to understand nuance.
But they were useful. They had power, and money, and blood as blue as powdered lapis. And now, they were deferential to him. It would have been laughable if it weren’t so satisfying.
“Mr Riddle,” Walburga greeted with the warmth of a candle in a crypt. “How gracious of you to join us. I trust your journey was smooth?”
He handed her the wine with a small incline of his head. “Very. I thought this might suit the table.”
Orion accepted the bottle, holding it as one might a small, fragile work of art. His eyebrows rose fractionally as he read the label, and for once, the man seemed to run out of things to say. Good.
“You spoil us,” Walburga murmured, expression unreadable. “This is… quite a gesture.”
His voice was the perfect mixture of polite gratitude and aloof distance upon answering, “It seemed appropriate,” He said smoothly.
He could already see the wheels turning behind her eyes. What did it mean, that the heir of Slyrherin brought them one of the rarest wines in Europe? What was he angling for? Was it flattery? A power play? Was he rich enough to make this casual?
Let the odious cow wonder.
“Excellent taste,” Orion finally murmured, but his eyes said something else. They were sizing Tom up.
“You spoil us,” Walburga repeated, a little too sweetly. Her tone sharpened. “What do you expect in return?”
Tom’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as he watched her. Oh, I expect nothing from you, Walburga. You’re a means to an end. And this— he thought to the room, to the glittering lights and the perfumed air, to the suffocating charm of the place, —is all part of the game.
But he didn’t say it. Instead, he offered her the same indifferent smile, the smile that never showed his cards.
He accepted a glass of elf-made brandy from a passing tray and surveyed the room. The usual circle of pureblood scions clustered in groups of two and three: Rosier, leaning with lazy elegance against a tall cabinet; Cassiopeia Black, sharp-eyed and angular in a midnight blue gown; Alphard, drinking faster than was strictly polite. Lestrange hadn’t arrived yet—or was already ensconced in the corner, too bored by the company to engage.
None of them mattered. Not past their use.
He’d studied them all carefully over the years—the way they held themselves, the manner in which they spoke, the way they played at power and influence. It was all a game, and Tom played it better than they ever would.
He sipped his drink, letting the brandy bloom warm down his throat.
And slipped on his mask.
Tom’s footsteps echoed through the quiet streets of London, the city dark and hushed as the muggles were on blackout orders.
The lamplighters had long since made their rounds, and London held its breath beneath the weight of war.
Tom didn’t mind the dark. There was something clarifying about it. No distractions. No masks but his own.
He passed shuttered shopfronts, a bakery with whitewashed windows, a clothier with half-dressed mannequins like corpses left mid-primp. In the distance, a warden’s whistle cut sharp through the air, then fell silent again. He walked on.
The party—he’d endured it, as he always did, as he endured all things necessary. A flicker of satisfaction lingered, but it was faint and dissipating with every step.
The cost of ambition is repetition, he thought sourly. The same rooms. The same smiles. The same smug bastards who inherited thrones they didn’t earn.
The Blacks. Proud. Rich. Powerful in name and blood, but stagnant. Preserved in their ancestral arrogance like insects trapped in amber. They mistook lineage for legacy. As though clinging to purity were the same as carving history.
They had no vision. Only vaults.
Tom’s lip curled faintly. Wealth makes them soft. The thought was scathing. Soft, and slow, and stupid. Playing at power without understanding it.
The way a lion bred in a cage forgets how to kill.
They whispered about bloodlines and marriage contracts like it was strategy, when true power didn’t need parchment. It moved. It bent. It choked out others like vine weed as it reshaped the world.
The wine, the dull smiles, the fleeting gestures of politeness—it was all just a game.
Walburga’s stilted thanks had barely registered. Orion’s gormless acceptance of the wine… pathetic.
They could never understand him. They could never see him, and that assured and grated in the same breath.
His robes brushed against the muddied cobbled road, and Tom quickened his pace, breath misting in the frigid air.
He absentmindedly traced a finger along the edge of one cufflink.
Ixchel.
Also born to comfort, but never lulled by it. Her magic didn’t drip with ceremony—it sparked. It spoke. She made things. Drew them from nothing with ink-stained fingers and steady eyes that made people underestimate her.
He had watched her at the library once, bent over her parchment with her hair in a twist and her wand clenched between her teeth. She’d looked like a warlock’s muse. A patron saint of beautiful, reckless ideas. Wealth had given her tools, yes—but it had not softened her. It had sharpened her curiosity. Fed it.
He shook his head once, sharply, as if to clear it. “That’s sentiment,” he muttered aloud. “That’s not power.”
A beat. The cufflink on his right wrist warmed—just enough to notice. Barely a whisper of heat.
He stopped walking.
His hands were still in his coat pockets, but his fingers curled reflexively around the fabric at that small betrayal. He closed his eyes and breathed out once through his nose.
Stupid trinket.
But she’d made it. Had wrapped her magic around it with those deft, infuriating hands. Of course it would know. Of course it would call him on it.
He could destroy cities. Bend men to his will. Peel the truth from a mind with a glance. And still—
Still.
He didn’t know what he wanted from her. Not exactly. Just that it had to be more than this—more than shadowed glances and unspoken things. If he could name it, perhaps he could bury it. But there was no name for the shape she made in his life.
He forced his hands to relax. Straightened his spine. Kept walking.
By the time he turned the corner into Diagon Alley, the fog had thinned and the stars were just beginning to blink through the sky above. The cufflink had cooled. But its quiet indictment lingered.
And then—red.
A flicker of motion. Silk. A silhouette like something drawn, not born.
Her.
The hotel suite smelled like perfumes and powder and something vaguely floral that was probably one of Socorro’s teammates’ enchanted hair oils.
Girls were scattered across every surface—perched on the edge of the vanity, sprawled on the bed in half-done hair, digging through shared piles of jewelry with urgent whispers and barked laughter. Someone had spelled the mirror to hum a jazz standard, the soft sway of it just audible over the buzz of conversation and the rustle of fabric. A charmed bottle of champagne was floating midair, refilling glasses when tapped twice.
Ixchel sat cross-legged on the tufted bench at the foot of the bed, holding still while Socorro charmed her hair into a low, elegant twist.
“Quit fidgeting,” Socorro scolded, tugging a little too sharply on a strand.
“I’m not fidgeting. I’m resisting violent urges, Coco.”
“Same thing.” Socorro smirked at her through the mirror. “You’ll thank me later.”
The twist held, sleek and striking. It made her look older. Sharper. Dangerous, in a way that had nothing to do with duels or wands.
Ixchel shifted and adjusted the red dress at her hips, smoothing the liquid silk fabric with a flick of her hand. It wasn’t strictly robes—not really. Closer to Muggle evening wear, if evening wear had clever hidden fastenings for wand holsters and built-in warming charms. It shimmered slightly under candlelight, with a deep neckline and fitted bodice, the hem grazing just below her knees.
“If you’re not planning on wearing them, can I borrow those pearl drop earrings?” One of her sister’s teammates asked Ixchel, gesturing to the spread of delicate accessories beside her.
“Oh, they’re all yours. I’m going gold tonight.” Ixchel smiled and handed the earrings over, earning a pinch from her sister.
“Hey!”
“You’re messing up my work,” Socorro replied before giving her a pat to signal she was finished, “as good as it will get I suppose.” She lamented, but the smile she gave Ixchel in the mirror was sincere as she clipped on her own delicate brooch in the shape of a bird enchanted to gently trill.
Ixchel smirked and added a final touch of red to her lips, the color rich and dark as her dress.
Behind her, Socorro had begun cursing at her heels. “Why do these exist? Who invented this torture?” she moaned, wobbling near the window while another teammate—Marina?—cast a quick charm to fix the seam of her stockings.
“You chose those,” Ixchel reminded her lightly.
“I chose fashion. I didn’t choose pain.”
“Same thing,” one of the others said, laughter fizzing like champagne.
Ixchel rolled her eyes before casting a quick cushioning charm to her sister’s shoes. “There, now stop whining.”
Socorro simply blew a kiss.
The lobby of The Gilded Griffin was all polished walnut and floating chandeliers, soft jazz drifting through the air from a charmed gramophone in the corner. Rhys stood near the bar with two of Socorro’s teammates—one Beater, one Chaser—nursing a tumbler of firewhisky and laughing at something one of them said.
He looked well. Dapper, even. Navy dress robes that fit just right, a gold pin at his lapel catching the light. His curls were tamed into something rakish, and the smile he gave her when he saw her was open and familiar and just a little awed.
“Ixchel.”
His voice was low and fond, the name rolling off his tongue like a compliment.
“You look…” His gaze swept over her, lingering just a moment too long before he caught himself. “You look radiant.”
She smiled, genuine despite herself. “I’m only keeping up with the company.”
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, a courtly gesture softened by the slight flush in his cheeks. “We’re lucky to be in your orbit tonight.”
“You’re impossible,” she said lightly, tugging her hand away, but not unkindly.
She liked this version of Rhys. Charming, a little tipsy, but sincere.
He offered her his glass. “Sip?”
She took it, tasting something honeyed and expensive. Their fingers nearly brushed as she handed it back but she moved her hand out of the way, and she pretended not to notice.
But he did. He always did. His smile faltered for a heartbeat—quickly smoothed—but something lingered in his eyes.
They stepped out of the enchanted wards of the hotel into the cold hush of Muggle London. The shift was immediate. No streetlamps. No flickering neon. Just blackout curtains and sandbags and the occasional glow of cigarette embers behind half open windows.
The city felt like it was holding its breath.
Soldiers moved in clusters along the pavement, their silhouettes sharp in the low moonlight. Some laughed, others spoke in hushed tones, and more than a few eyed the well-dressed witches with curiosity or quiet admiration.
Ixchel’s heels clicked softly against the cobblestone. She watched the soldiers out of the corner of her eye—young, tired, some handsome, some not. Men barely older than her, heading toward a different kind of war.
It made her stomach twist. Not with pity exactly. But something like it. Something heavy.
Rhys stepped a little closer beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. “Still glad you came out tonight?”
“Of course,” she said with faux solemnity. “Someone’s got to make sure Coco doesn’t cause too much mischief,” she turned her attention to him fully, painted mouth smiling, “besides, Tully won’t stop charming the kitchen to snow and it was wreaking havoc on my hair. ”
“Ah, I see,” intoned Rhys, mirth in his eyes, “so this is a tactical retreat?”
“Now you’re understanding.”
The dance hall shimmered like a mirage at the edge of wizarding London—barely visible unless you knew where to look. A carved wooden door tucked between two apothecaries, marked only by a brass star that blinked like a winking eye. A quiet glamour rolled off it in waves: laughter, music, candlelight all muffled by thick wards that kept Muggle London at bay.
Inside, it was another world entirely.
Warm. Bright. Alive.
The floor was glossy walnut, polished to a mirror shine. Fairy lights floated in lazy constellations above the crowd, changing color with the tempo of the music. A stage stood at the far end, flanked by silver columns, where a jazz quartet played a slinky instrumental version of “When We Danced Through the Floo.” Couples spun across the dance floor, cloaks shed and gloves tucked away, cheeks flushed from drink and merriment.
Ixchel loved this kind of magic—decadent, unnecessary, utterly human.
They found a table near the edge of the room, charmed to keep drinks cold and the candle flame from blowing out. Socorro had already kicked off her shoes and was dragging one of her teammates toward the bandstand with wild purpose.
“Five galleons says she bribes the band into playing something ridiculous,” Ixchel murmured, nudging Rhys’ knee beneath the table.
“I’m not betting against her,” one of Socorro’s teammates, Andreas, rumbled, amused. “That girl got us kicked out of a restaurant in Tarapoto for getting the harpist to play a salsa medley.”
Moments later, sure enough, Socorro was speaking with the clarinetist like they were old friends. The band exchanged glances—and the tempo shifted. Something unmistakably South American sparked in the rhythm, the gentle thump and sway of a samba unfolding like a spell.
Ixchel’s mouth fell open. “Oh no.”
The music wasn’t perfect—the band was clearly improvising—but it was enough.
The rest of the room slowly caught on, charmed by the unfamiliar rhythm, enchanted by the joy of it.
Just as quickly as she had left, Socorro returned, tugging her onto the floor.
“You have no choice,” she declared. “For the pride of the family.”
Ixchel laughed. “Well if our pride is at stake.”
“Who’s leading?” Ixchel asked.
“I am,” Socorro said, immediately.
“You wish.”
And then they were off—swinging and turning with practiced ease, teasing steps and dramatic flourishes. Socorro tried to dip her, but Ixchel resisted with a shriek of laughter. Ixchel attempted a spin, only for Socorro to yank her back and whirl her the opposite direction.
“May I cut in?” Rhys grinned, offering a hand and Socorro laughed with a nod, already moving on to a new partner as Rhys pulled a smiling Ixchel to the floor.
“You’ve got the footwork,” Rhys said, breathless with a smile.
“I’ve got the blood,” she teased, turning under his arm. “Try to keep up.”
Rhys had two left feet, and she teased him mercilessly. But he didn’t mind. He was game, always, for anything that made her laugh. He moved with easy grace, warm hands on her waist, spinning her through the crowd like they’d done this a hundred times before.
And for a few minutes—it was easy. Fun. Real.
But somewhere between the laughter and the shimmer of light on her skin, Ixchel felt a pang so deep it nearly stopped her. Because Rhys was good. Steady. Kind. And she should’ve wanted this.
But she didn’t burn.
She didn’t ache.
She never had.
Not the way she did for—
Rhys spun her back into his arms just as the music slipped into its final beat, his grin wide and breathless. They were close—chest to chest, cheek to cheek, hearts stuttering against the same rhythm. He smelled like cardamom and something citrus-bright, some cologne that reminded her of summer without ever quite naming it.
She was laughing, breath caught between exhilaration and the kind of softness that snuck up on her. It would’ve been so easy, in that moment. To lean in. To let the moment write its own ending.
She couldn’t.
She simply couldn’t.
Not anymore.
“Bloody hell,” he said, voice low, eyes lingering on her mouth. “You’re something else, ’Chel.”
Her smile caught. Held. Tilted.
Soft. Sad.
Before he could close the distance, she laid two fingers against his chest. Not a push, not quite—just a hush. A velvet boundary, tender and final.
His brow creased, faintly puzzled. “No?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice quiet enough to nearly be carried away by the music. “I can’t… I…not anymore.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not anger, not even surprise. Just that quiet kind of hurt that comes when part of you already knew. The quiet extinguishing of a candle already halfway burned down.
He didn’t ask why.
Didn’t press.
He nodded slowly, gave a small, tired smile that somehow made her feel worse. “We’ll talk later, yeah?”
She nodded, because there was nothing else to say. Her throat burned and eyes stung.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, warm, brief, a goodbye in disguise.
Then he lingered, just for a second. Like maybe he wanted to say something. Ask something. But his eyes flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes, and whatever it was—it passed.
“I suppose I always knew,” he said quietly, not quite smiling. “Didn’t mean I didn’t hope.”
And then he turned, disappearing into the press of the room like someone walking out of a dream. Like someone who loved her enough not to make her explain.
Ixchel stood there for a long moment, arms loose at her sides, the taste of the evening still on her lips but the dance already gone from her bones.
She didn’t feel like moving anymore.
The fog curled low around the edges of her heeled feet as she stepped out onto the street.
Socorro had kissed her on both cheeks with wine-sweet breath and laughter in her eyes, tugging Marina and Andreas away toward a late-night bite. Rhys had lingered near the floo, like he might say something else—but he hadn’t. There wasn’t anything left to say.
They both knew. They had known for weeks. Maybe longer.
Her heels tapped a soft rhythm on the pavement as she walked, wand tucked neatly into the holster of her dress, the chill nipping now at her legs. The night was silvered and strange. She liked London like this—veiled, almost sacred. No glowing shop windows. No bustle. Just smoke and starlight and breath.
And then—
A flicker of navy in the corner of her vision. Sharp posture. Familiar stillness.
She turned her head.
Tom.
He stood at the mouth of the alley, half in shadow, half haloed by the faintest sheen of wardlight. His robes striking, and the gold at his cuffs winked faintly like a secret.
“Tom?” She asked, surprised.
“You look very smart,” he said, voice low, carrying easily across the silence.
“Apparently red is my color.” She mused, dryly.
His gaze moved over her, unreadable as always, and something in her chest gave a traitorous thump. Of course he was here. Of course they’d find each other in the dark.
“What are you doing out?” she asked, stepping a little closer.
“Walking,” he said simply.
“How illuminating.” Ixchel smiled fondly.
They fell into step.
After a pause, she said, “Did you spend the day with anyone?”
“The Blacks held their annual party,” he smirked as her nose wrinkled at their mention, “I went to church,” he added.
Ixchel blinked. “Church? With the Muggles?”
He looked over, a wry tilt to his mouth. “One must keep up appearances.”
“Of course.” She smiled a little. “Did you sing… hums?”
He snorted—a real, sharp exhale of amusement—and shook his head.
She knew he was laughing at her, and though unsure as to why, she let it be. She tucked the sound of his laugh somewhere soft in her memory. It was rare. Clean.
They passed a doorway tucked between two shuttered muggle shops, where a man huddled beneath a threadbare coat, his knees drawn up to his chest and breath fogging in shallow bursts. Muggle. Drunk. Forgotten.
Ixchel slowed.
Tom didn’t.
She raised her wand without ceremony and removing the handkerchief from her clutch, and murmured a charm. A lumpy, ugly purple wool blanket folded itself out of the air, settling gently over the man’s shoulders. He stirred but didn’t wake.
Tom stopped, just ahead. “He’s a drunk,” he said, tone more curious than cruel. “Why bother?”
She kept her gaze on the man sleeping before them, “To destroy is mundane.”
Then turned to face Tom with a cool smile.
“To create is divine.”
Tom didn’t answer. But something passed over his face—an expression too small to name, gone before it settled. The cufflink at his wrist flashed, catching moonlight.
They kept walking.
Diagon Alley was nearly deserted at this hour. Even the shop signs were dimmed, their enchantments muted in solidarity with the blackout. She stopped just shy of the floo point, a spill of green-glassed bricks where the wards shimmered faintly.
Tom stood with her, hands still in his pockets. The air between them felt thick with possibility, unsaid things swirling like snowflakes.
He studied her—really looked. Like he might memorize the slope of her cheek, the rhythm of her breath, the way she never quite looked away.
And then, low and sure:
“If I believed the stars held our fate rather than ourselves…”
His voice was silk and blade.
“…I would say the shape of you was always meant to be tethered to the shape of myself.”
Ixchel’s breath caught.
Something in his face shifted—eyes dark, lips parted. And Tom—Tom took one step closer, just one.
Her body knew it before her mind could catch up—every nerve lit, her stomach hollowing out like it had been scooped with a silver spoon. She didn’t step back. She leaned in.
His forehead pressed gently to hers, and for a moment—just a moment—they breathed in the same rhythm, suspended in firelight and silence. His lips brushed hers, not quite a kiss. More a question.
Then, a whisper—petulant, demanding, needful:
“Say something.”
She looked up at him, his face was all edges and ache. A great and terrible beauty.
Ixchel’s insides twisted. Her knees felt untrustworthy. She could smell his cologne and the sharp edge of winter air still clinging to his clothes. His mouth hovered against hers like a promise. She could taste the kiss he hadn’t yet taken.
Instead, she whispered, soft and unflinching:
“Not yet.”
And then she was gone, stepping into the floo in a swirl of red silk and green firelight, leaving the ache of something unfinished behind her.