Serpentine [T.M. Riddle]

A-Tisket, A-Tasket

A-tisket a-tasket
A green and yellow basket
I wrote a letter to my mom
And on the way I dropped it,
I dropped it, I dropped it,
And on the way I dropped it.
A little boy he picked it up
And put it in his pocket.

.

On the end of the boulevard where Wool's Orphanage is situated, there is a little used-to-be-white chapel that has seen better days. Built in 1858, its walls are cracked and crumbling, the pews creak when the slightest pressure is placed on them, and it seems as if the original congregation is still around--Or so Tom thinks based on their deeply wrinkled faces. He and the other children find themselves there every Sunday on behalf of the matron, and usually he spends his time there swinging his legs back and forth in his seat and looking up at the grotesque wax statues of saints and saviors long dead. During the rainy season, it always floods terribly, leaving slippery floors and puddles throughout the building. Despite all these factors, it was (and is) a good thinking spot. The clergy there are fond of silence and disdainful of music or any sort of ruckus, and so he associates with it peace. No loud playing from the other children or scolding yells from the caretakers, just him and whatever knick-knack he had taken from another child that week.

It's this same atmosphere from the chapel that he encounters when he and Ximena return to the Slytherin common room. Even the fire in the hearth doesn't seem to crackle, and the rain outside has calmed down enough to be properly muted by the Black Lake. There's a moment of pause at the fork in the room where the corridors divide into the boys and girls dormitories, and Tom looks at Ximena out of the corner of his eye, calculating.

"I'll see you at dinner?" His question pops the metaphorical bubble surrounding her, and she blinks at him as if she had awoken from a deep sleep.

"...Okay." No eye contact is made, she turns her body away from him and walks to her designated side.

"Ximena."

She turns to him, and makes eye contact.

The silence sinks deeper into the room, into their skin, making Tom feel like a stone being pressed down upon a strong current, lying in a riverbed. A part of that feeling though, he is loathe to admit, comes from the taller witch opposite of him. He's not sure what part, though. The cold washing over him? The deep pressure he feels against his skin, against his chest? The not being able to breathe? Being able to see what's in front of him so clearly yet hazily. Separated by power.

"...Nothing." [1]

---

All of Hogwarts is in an uplifted mood the following day, and when walking through the hall, one can find themselves around cheerfully harmonizing ghosts, chattering students, and teachers with a little dance in their step. Warmth from the sun rays on his cheek is a foreign feeling after the great flooding of the past week, and the warmth from the school around him only contributes to the alienation.

Ximena stands out like an ink stain on a colorful dress.

As usual, Tom is right: the moment the last rain cloud cleared the school grounds, Ximena was left alone for the next big thing. Apparently someone's cousin in Durmstag was a gifted fortune teller, and was open to receiving questions about the future via owl. While the idea appeals to Tom, he's not so comfortable with sharing any goals or desires with someone he can't make eye contact with or keep tabs on. Besides, he doesn't need to talk to any distant fortune teller: He has decided for himself what his destiny is. Not fate or some God.