Serpentine [T.M. Riddle]

Don't They Look Like They're Crying? (Part III)

The blatant shows of extravagance, overabundance, and immoderance[1] don't bother him (much) anymore. It's something he's used to, no matter how different the styles of the different houses might be. Once you've seen one priceless heirloom, you've seen them all. All halls, all paintings, all chandeliers.

The Yule celebrations seem to be cheerier this year. He places the reasoning behind Grindelwald's latest triumphs in the surrounding countries, most of the attendees here are too dull to realize the man isn't a purist. He briefly recalls someone calling him a fascist a few years ago. Who was that?

Well whoever it was, they were partly right. Grindelwald's campaign has ignited a furious show of jingoistic patriotism among the magical elite (and even among the poor). Being a part of his campaign meant you were a hero to your kind. That you valued traditional viewpoints and had military ambition.

As a child, Tom didn't have much of an opinion on the man or his views. But now he rather finds them to be tantalizingly dangerous. If Muggles can destroy cities, what could witches do?

He watches the younger crowd of witches dance clumsy waltzes, observing the awkward box-steps and hesitant hands on shoulders and backs.

"Dance with me." Hedwig tugs at his sleeve, "Da's looking."

He replicates the twisted, frankenwaltz perfectly. Leading Hedwig around like a music box charm, despite her distaste for dancing. Their massive height difference makes it a tad awkward, perhaps, but he is no worse a partner for it.

It really is like dueling.

Tom compliments Hedwig on her dress robes. She tells him to shove it up his ass.

-

The house in Mexico is dark. Silent. Only Churro comes to greet him at the door when he walks in, the wards of the house submerging him in familiar magic. It is late at night (or early in the morning), just a few minutes into the last day of December. It's chilly, for the location, and he's wearing a light sweater that Churro rubs his face on when Tom bends down to pet him.

Then there's a light. A spark. Fire. His first instinct is to cower, because a bright light in the darkness shows the planes where you are, but he is not in London, he is here. Mexico. Veracruz. Far from any great war...

He sees Balam. Ximena. Their welcoming faces aglow in the golden light. Looking excited. Anticipatory. Tom thinks, for a moment, that they're conducting a ritual of some sort and he had interrupted, but then...

They're singing. Not a song he's ever heard before, at least not sung to him. He heard it at the Summer party. He's heard variations of it, in English, sung to other children. Other adults. But not him. Never him.

He feels separated from his body. Like he's viewing the scene before him through a third-person lens. Who is this for? This food, these gifts, this splendor? The smiles on their faces? The warmth in their magic?

There's a real birthday cake in Balam's hands. Not just the image of one, a drawing of one, the idea of one. Like he had for the first few years of his life. It has form, casts a shadow. Takes up space. The frosting is chocolate and his name (his actual name, not Tomás) lays written on the top in white icing. It's his. It's his cake. For him. For his birthday. Why can't that thought connect in his head?

They did this for him. Kept it a secret. Made his favorite for the day he came into this world.

There's something odd in the pit of his stomach, swelling in the middle of his chest. Burning in the back of his throat. He flexes his fingers, swallows, opens his mouth. "Thank you."