Serpentine [T.M. Riddle]

Advance

The rest of the Hallowe'en party is somewhat of a blur. He knows that somewhere in the middle, he finally meets Hedwig's Puff (not her cousin like Ximena had surmised, but a timid girl whose surname he never caught), is introduced to a few of Slughorn's colleagues (all heavily informed on the trial and asking him where they might find Ximena), and holds a surreal conversation with Druella Rosier. A surreal, civil conversation.

It starts with a treacle tart. All the sweets left in the hall are bitter, lemony treacle tarts, and of course there are only treacle tarts left when Tom hates the taste of lemons and where are the house elves coming to refill the trays of puddings and cakes and tortes--

"Ugh. Treacle tart." The heavy-lidded girl purses her lips distastefully at the sight of the pastry, "Nasty little things--They're a favourite of Dumbledore, you know."

Tom blinks, looking up at his senior, "Are they?" The man would have terrible tastes regarding pastries.

"It's practically all that was served during his birthday social last year." Tom wouldn't know, he was at Wool's, "Mother almost got sick whilst eating one." What pleasant imagery, "..Do you like them?"

Unsure of what exactly her intention is, he decides to indulge her, "Not at all. I don't like the taste." Especially since the Lemon Tree Incident of 1932. "I prefer figgy pudding."

And then something even stranger than Druella having a civil conversation with him: she gives a hint of a smile before hiding it away, "I do too."

His chin tilts upwards a degree or two, "How are you, Druella?"

At his first use of her given name, she hardens; Tom muses over whether she's furious at the casualness, or surprised at his directness. Her hand tightens around her cup, "...Did you know?" What doesn't he know? "The...That Ian, at the trial...Did you know?"

Tom hums lowly, half sure he knows what she's referring to, but wanting to drag it out of her anyways, "Know what?"

Her fingers bend, nails scratching across the surface of her glass, filled with pumpkin juice, "That it wasn't him." she says, voice barely above a whisper. As if she's afraid that someone will hear her.

He takes his time with answering, letting the suspense sink into her skin, relishing in the small amount of dominance he holds in this moment, "Of course." It insults his intelligence to think otherwise.

Unsure of what the confirmation does for Druella, he watches as she intakes breath through clenched teeth, seizing up her shoulders and cursing under her breath. He braces for an outburst, but she does no such thing. Everything is kept inside. Secured. Fidelian. "...Evan won't tell me where he is."

Oh? "Are you sure he knows?"

The lour she gives is something fierce, "Obviously he does. Otherwise he wouldn't be speaking so...so lowly to me. Treating me like a nipper[1] and telling me not to worry about it...Evil little--" Apparently she doesn't go as far as to complete the insult towards her family's heir, but Tom thinks she'd like to. He wonders if he can push her to do so. "No one's telling me anything."

"Do you think they sent him to the same place they did his sister?"

Her eyes are fire. Explosive and accusatory, confused and vulnerable, "Colina wasn't sent anywhere, she died as a child." Yes, that's what he read, but not what he was told, "It was dragon pox, nothing could be done for her."

"My apologies," he inclines his head, "I had heard otherwise."

The desperation sinks back into her body language, "What do you--Who, who told you that--"