8.

A cold wave of air washes over Tom. That should have been his first warning, but instead he mistakes it for a breeze. The hands that wrap around him and pull him into the shadows get rid of any false impressions. The grip on him turns him around, bringing him face to face with Dillion. Eyes wide, the younger looks slightly faint as he trembles. Tom realises that whatever is holding him still is invisible — magic. Struggling, he attempts to break free, but the binds only grow tighter.

There's a split second where it feels as if the pressure releases but, within an instance, Dillion has his own hand covering Tom's mouth. His hand is warm and slick, washing the tang on metal over Tom's tongue. In the edge of his vision, he can see red on Dillion's hand and assumes it's blood. The Ravenclaw pushes him into the wall, his other arm pressed against his torso, making it impossible for him to grab his wand. The sudden impact sends a sharp spike of pain through Tom's head and back, causing him to glare at the younger. All of Dillion's weight is on him, to the point where Tom suspects he might also be holding Dillion up. Up close, the heady smell of perfume washes over him: burnt sugar, cinnamon, and sweet flowers blossoming in a forest.

Tom has never noticed what Dillion smells like before. It's sickening.

"I know you know about me." The boy spits in a venomous whisper, the coldest Tom has ever seen. There's a dangerously violent glimmer in his eyes, a malicious grin pulling at his lips. A shiver runs down Tom's spine involuntarily. "So let's just stop playing stupid. I know about you, too. I know your secret."

Tom can't answer, so he just raises an eyebrow.

"I saw you sneaking into the girls' bathroom and started making all sorts of strange noises in there. So, you're either a pervert or you've opened the Chamber of Secrets." Dillion drops his hand from Tom's mouth, smearing blood down his chin. Fortunately, a glance at Dillion's hand confirms it isn't his blood. The Ravenclaw's hand is still dripping.

"How do you know about the Chamber?" Tom doesn't bother denying it. There's no point. He'd prefer to get information he can actually use, rather than playing dumb.

"He's an infamous Dark Lord; my family made sure we knew all about them. And I also read a lot about the Slytherin line when I was little. I went through a phase where I wanted to be the heir." At Dillion's admission, Tom can't help but let out a condescending chuckle.

"Our secrets are two very different things. Yours will get you arrested, mine will prove to people my blood is more magical than they think." Dillion's lips curl into a unnerving grin and he pushes a little closer to Tom, as if forgetting himself in his excitement to unveil something only he knows.

"You're a Gaunt before you're a Slytherin, and a Riddle before that." Dillion whispers, taunting him. "You could reveal you're related to the great House of Gaunt... and then reveal your magic is so inbred your family produces more squibs and psychos than they do proper wizards. That not only do you have no money because your orphan, your family was incapable of maintaining any sort of wealth. You're the first fresh blood that family has seen in generations and that blood is impure. At least, as a Riddle, you're an unknown. You're judged on your own worth. Are you sure you want to be known as Tom Gaunt, heir of nothing?"

"So we're at a stalemate?" Tom presses his lips together to hide his disappointment. He'd known his family wasn't in a good state, but he hadn't realised it was that poor.

"I'd say so." As Dillion continues to grin, Tom pushes him off as roughly as he can. The sudden movement catches the boy off guard, giving Tom the opportunity he needs to escape the confines of his grasp.

"If you so much as touch me again, I will make your life miserable. I don't need to know your secrets to do that." The words roll off his tongue in a fiery rage, but Dillion seems unperturbed. He runs his hand across his chin, feeling the drying blood roll against his fingers. Dillion's blood. Dillion's perfect, pure blood, dripping all over the floor as if it's nothing. "Why is your hand bleeding?"

"I cast a Dark spell." Dillion answers surprisingly easily as he glances down at his hand. It has stopped bleeding — in fact, it looks as if it's completely healed. The Ravenclaw cleans the mess up easily, going so far as to point his wand at Tom's face. The older boy pushes it away.

"That cuts you?" He asks, before raising his own wand to his face. Spelling the blood away is slightly more difficult when he can't see the extent of it, but it's better than Dillion casting spells on his face.

"Sometimes. It depends on the deal made."

"You should try casting a bigger spell. Maybe it will kill you." Dillion chuckles at this, rolling his eyes. Before Tom can make any move to leave, to go to Slug Club as he had been intending, Dillion grabs his arm. Quicker than the Slytherin can react, Dillion has licked his thumb and wipes at a spot on his cheek.

"Missed a spot." He explains, before he gets a wand in his face.

"I said, don't touch me."

"Come on, Tom, we're going to be late again." Dillion walks past the wand as if it's nothing. His uncaring attitude only infuriates Tom further. All he wants to do is hex the boy into oblivion. But, all he can do is follow, because the boy is right. If they don't hurry, they will be late.

Unfortunately, Tom and Dillion are seated together again. Looking around the room, everyone seems to be in the same spots as last time, making Tom worried a seating plan unofficially formed over the two sessions. All things considered, there could be worse dinner partners, but it's the principle of it. Tom doesn't care that Dillion looks like royalty when he eats, as if he's been trained to eat properly since birth — and he probably has. He doesn't care that Dillion has perfected the art of listening attentively and eating, that he can somehow laugh with his mouth full of food and still look incredibly put together. And it certainly does not make him feel at all self conscious about his own orphanage-trained table manners.

When Tom was younger and consider weaker, food theft was a potential concern for him. As a result, early on, he developed habits of eating in a way that protected his food, whether that be gulping it down or holding an arm around it. The matron would scold anyone who dared to put their elbows on the tables, but there was only so much she could do when moving between the rows of children. Since coming to Hogwarts and surrounding himself with the Slytherins, Tom has tried to be more careful with the way he eats. But old habits die hard. He almost always has one hand resting on the table as if to shield his plate from others, disguised as something else.

One of the other students must have said something funny as Dillion starts laughing. Tom only knows to laugh along because he'd been watching the way the brunet's expression suddenly lit up, noticing the way it didn't quite meet his eyes. He's playing a role too. Tom wonders just how deep that role goes, who it extends to. How many people have seen Dillion bloodthirsty and manipulative? How many people know the cruelty that must rest beneath that dull exterior?

If he wasn't so infuriating, Dillion might almost be intriguing.

"That reminds me of ritual I once attended." The brunet speaks, his voice still ringing with laughter. All eyes are on him. "We were using beatum and it must have been a bad batch because it was the worst high I had ever experienced — and the only one. Everyone was chanting the same thing they always did but it sounded like nonsense to me. I was convinced they were some kind of Dark demon."

"Tricky stuff, beatum. Inhale it the wrong way and you can get yourself into all kinds of trouble." Slughorn responds.

"Father made sure I understood that." Dillion's mask cracks just enough for Tom to see the true effects of his father's discipline. He has the detached look of someone reliving memories too strong to fight. When he smiles again, it's weaker than before. "Anyway, this dinner is nice."

As one of the other boys takes a hold of the conversation in a far livelier manner, Tom asks quietly, "What did your father do?"

He's not sure why, exactly, he wants to know. It's not sympathy or pity. He doesn't have an interest in the younger beyond general curiosity. He doesn't want to know him.

"After the paranoia went away, he made me his personal servant for the day." Dillion chuckles softly, looking down at his food. "It was pretty mild but I got a lecture and I never liked disappointing Father. If I upset him, it always felt like I was the worst person in the world. I'd cry for the entire day... Except that time I couldn't, because of the beatum."

"I thought you said beatum was underwhelming."

"I'd actually forgotten about that memory." Dillion finally looks up at Tom and he doesn't look the least bit vulnerable. The mask has returned. If it is a mask. Tom could be giving him more credit than he deserves. "I must have locked it away somewhere."

Tom simply hums in response, no longer interested in the conversation.

After dinner, the group moves from the table to more comfortable arrangements around the fireplace for dessert. Tom suspects the ice cream they're eating is enchanted as it doesn't melt despite the proximity to the fire. This ice cream is pistachio-flavoured and it isn't quite as good as butterscotch. He doesn't think having to watch Dillion lounge about the place like some sort of emperor, as if he owns the place, does anything to sweeten the treat.

"How are you, Tom? You've been awfully quiet." Slughorn comments, drawing Tom from his thoughts.

"I'm fine, Professor. I've just been distracted." There comes a sudden snort of amusement from one of the other boys and Tom glances around to find a wide grin on Eric's face. He narrows his eyes at the other boy, trying to figure out what's so funny, but Eric gives no answer. Typical.

"It's all those essays, I bet. Relax, Tom! I'm sure your studies can wait." Tom offers Slughorn an amused smile, even though he's completely on top of his homework. It's easier than having to explain what is actually distracting him.

Tom makes a concerted effort not to even acknowledge Dillion's existence for the rest of the evening. Of course, that means he still spends more time thinking about not thinking about Dillion than he might have otherwise, but he'd never admit to that.

*

"Today, we'll be putting the last two weeks into practice." Merrythought explains as class begins. There's a little red ribbon resting in front of Tom, similar to the ones that lie in front of his classmates' but different in its shade. It seems everyone has a different colour. "It's no use you knowing their purpose is if you can't also cast it. So, in pairs, one of you will attempt to cast an impediment jinx on your opponent, while the other will be attempting to deflect it. You will only use those two spells. I'm sure you're all wondering what those ribbons are for. They each connect with another ribbon, which will decide your partnership based on skill. If there aren't any questions, you may go find your partner."

There are none and the shuffling of chairs soon fills the room, followed by the commotion of trying to find their matching ribbon. Tom has no doubt whose his would match with. For most of his schooling, he's been unmatched in duels. Even in his first year, he was able to get a grasp of the spells far quicker than his classmates — he suspects it was the pure determination to prove himself giving him an edge that the others, who had had everything handed to them on a silver platter, would never be able to achieve. In grades, the situation has always been similar. Except for one boy.

Tom comes to a halt in front of Dillion's table. Despite expecting this, he's disappointed to see their ribbons match. He fights back a sneer, aware of the attention he is receiving from Dillion's friends. His eyes remain fixed on the brunet, who holds his gaze with ease.

"Clay, we're partners, aren't we?" The girl, Solas, asks as she leans behind Dillion. The curly haired boy two seats away from Dillion, sitting beside the Ravenclaw prefect, nods his head. Realising his partner must be elsewhere, the prefect says goodbye and leaves to find his. Dillion and Tom maintain eye contact.

"I'll be jinxing first." Tom announces, taking any opportunity to potentially cause some irritation for the younger. Dillion just smirks.

"Okay, Riddle." The use of his surname feels drenched in mockery, a cruel, sneering taunt designed to twist that knife exactly where it hurts. Good. Make him angry. It just gives Tom more power. Nothing empowers a jinx like bitterness.

Once everyone is partnered and the students have moved from their desks, the space in the centre of the classroom is cleared; the desks and chairs are magically removed, leaving only an empty space. This gives the students plenty of space to move around in, one partner standing on either side of the room in orderly lines.

"You get ten attempts and then you switch roles. This will continue until I call for an end." And then, with a clap of her hands, Merrythought announces the start of the duels. Tom doesn't hesitate. He doesn't give Dillion a second to prepare himself. The moment the duels have started, he fires off his first impediment jinx.

Dillion's reflexes are quick, Tom will give him that. The sudden attack barely throws him off before he manages to deflect the jinx. The Slytherin had prioritised speed over power, leaving the strength of the jinx with plenty to be desired. The perfect balance would be preferable but that will come with practice. He isn't too hard on himself, this time.

The second time, which he puts more effort into — even mutters impedimento under his breath as he swings his wand in a straight line, still doesn't land. This one is more infuriating and Dillion seems aware of that. A cocky grin spreads across his lips as he flicks away the jinx with a lazy swish of his wand. Tom swears he even winks.

The third jinx lands. With all of Tom's frustration flowing through his arm, the jinx is too powerful for the brunet to deflect it with his careless attitude. Tom gets the satisfaction of seeing Dillion halt, as if frozen, for a few seconds. Then, as the jinx leaves his body, his expression completely drops. His lips curl downward, neither angry nor frustrated — something more akin to nervousness spreading across his face. Tom doesn't give him a chance to consider whatever is going on inside his head before the fourth jinx is cast. This, he manages to deflect, but Tom suspects this is because he had already settled into a more focused stance.

The fifth and sixth don't land either, but there is more intensity in Dillion's efforts to deflect them. When the seventh lands, that same expression pulls at his lips and Tom finally grows curious. It's not pride. It's not frustration. Tom has seen both those expressions on him. The way he steels his gaze after recovering from the jinx makes it seem reflexive, something he isn't in control of, rather than a controlled emotional response. This curiosity gives Tom all the motivation to have the eighth break through Dillion's deflection, just to see it again.

He looks like a puppy about to be beat. Or the other orphans when Tom looks at them the wrong way. Those two girls that couldn't even look at him without bursting into tears. Pathetic.

Two more unsuccessful jinxes later and it's Dillion's turn. The brunet stands there, watching Tom with a calculating glint in his eye. The beaten look is gone from his expression, replaced with that obnoxious grin of his. While he grows bored of waiting for the younger to make his move, Tom doesn't once let his guard down.

And it's a good thing he doesn't. When the brunet does attack, he attacks in quick succession; one jinx is followed by another, giving Tom little time to think between the two. Tom deflects them both, but a third is close behind. This one breaks through his deflection, hitting him square in the chest. Ice fills his body, freezing it until all he can do is look at Dillion. Time feels as if it slows, the few seconds he's trapped in the paralysis dragging out into minutes. But then it shatters and he can move again.

Dillion doesn't give him a chance to recover before the next jinx is thrown at him. His tactic quickly becomes clear: he overwhelms Tom with jinxes until one lands. This makes it easier to counter. He becomes predictable.

Until, with three jinxes left, the Ravenclaw suddenly pauses. The first is cast but none follow as expected. Tom deflects reflexively but there is nothing to deflect. The gap between that deflection and his next is when Dillion throws his next jinx, landing right in that narrow opening. He casts his final jinx while Tom is still frozen as if to rub it in.

When Tom breaks free, he attacks him without so much as pausing. This leaves him clumsy and the jinx is deflected with ease, as are the few following. One, however, is deflected much like the rest, but also nothing like the rest. Dillion does much the same as he has always done with a loose flick of the wrist, but this jinx instead hits Tom.

As the jinx spreads across his body, a tingling sensation consumes him. At first it feels like fire, then it turns into the burn of cold fingers in winter. It's a numb sort of agony that Tom can do nothing but suffer through as the jinx paralyses him. This lasts far longer than the first, dragging out second after second. Dillion watches him coldly. His nose is bleeding.

Unfortunately, Merrythought calls the duels to a close before Tom can get his revenge. In proper duel etiquette, the pairs bow to one another. Once the manners that Merrythought has so carefully engrained into him have been met — 'No proper duel will start or end without a bow!' Her voice commands in his head, even when she doesn't say it — the Slytherin closes the distance between himself and his partner. The brunet has now noticed his nosebleed, choosing to deal with the manner by pressing his fingers against his nose.

"Don't you have a handkerchief?" Tom asks in disgust as the blood begins to stain his fingers. Dillion shakes his head. Reluctantly, and only because he's growing sick of this sight, Tom withdraws his own from his pocket and passes it to him. He wants to tell Dillion to keep it, that he'd rather burn it than hold onto a handkerchief that he has used, but it's his only one. Instead, he asks what is actually bothering him, "How did you deflect that last one?"

Dillion gives a frustrating shrug, "The same as the rest."

"There must have been something you did different." Tom insists. His fingers are still tingling with the ghost of the jinx.

"Your face was more annoying than the other times." Tom's expression contorts into one of contempt as he rolls his eyes. He's not sure why he thought he'd be able to get a proper answer out of the younger. "No, really — I was more annoyed with you. I was trying to think of some way to annoy you when it flew back and hit you. And..." Dillion gestures at his nose. "I may have had help."

"That wasn't a fair fight." Tom fully understands the implications behind the gesture.

"I didn't mean to. I didn't even realise until I got a blood nose." Dillion's nose seems to have stopped bleeding, but he continues to press the handkerchief against it all the same.

"You should learn how to control yourself before you go meddling in things you don't understand." Something in Tom's words must have struck a nerve as Dillion's expression grows as cold as ice. He shoves the handkerchief into the older boy's chest, very obviously wiping it down his front. Tom doesn't even flinch.

"Says you." He spits, lashing out in a clear effort to hide the effect Tom had on him. The Slytherin frowns softly, confused.

"What do you mean?"

Dillion moves in closer, so only Tom can hear as he speaks in a low tone, "Opening the chamber when you don't know the first thing about what lies within. At least I knew what I was getting into."

Before Tom can ask anything further, his annoyance forgotten as his curiosity takes over, Merrythought reminds them of where they are as she calls out, "Mr. Lux, Tom, break it up. You both get five points for your duelling, so there's no need to fight over who was the better duelist."

"This isn't over." Tom mutters before he moves away, heading back to his recently re-summoned desk. Merrythought continues on, explaining where they might improve their techniques, but Tom isn't listening. The other boy's words are swirling around his head. He doesn't trust Dillion on most things, but holding information above someone's head to show superiority is something he feels he can trust. This means he's underestimated Salazar's chamber. There must be more inside.

What, exactly, and how he can use it is what's setting his imagination on fire.

"Excuse me, I need to borrow Dillion." Tom approaches the group of Ravenclaws with his most affected, polite smile. It pains him to act so familiar and friendly when all he wants to do is pull Dillion apart, drag every little piece of information out of him at maximum discomfort to the younger. It pains him even more to direct his smile to Dillion, to pretend to be his friend. It does, however, pull the boy from his friends with as little suspicion as possible. They leave the classroom together, walking down the opposite direction to everyone else.

Dillion walks as if he's the king of the world, completely untouchable and carefree. There's a pep in his step that shouldn't be there, hands shoved into his pockets in a casual manner. He doesn't walk like any other Pureblood Tom knows, who he knows has gone through rigorous amounts of training to ensure they are always presentable. This is stroll of someone who simply doesn't care anymore.

"What did you mean about the chamber?" Tom asks once they've moved past enough people to be fairly private. His gaze is entirely focused on Dillion so he sees as the corner of his lip quirks up in a smirk. It's only brief, but that doesn't matter. The image is already seared in Tom's mind.

"Are you asking for my help?" There's a calculating tone in Dillion's voice that Tom doesn't like. The Ravenclaw takes one quick step forward, turns on his heels, and rests against the wall at the end of the corridor in a relaxed manner.

"No, I'm asking you to show off like you're so fond of doing." The younger's lips curl into an amused grin, a quiet chuckle passing through them. He doesn't seem particularly insulted by the comment. "I'm going to figure it out, with or without you. No trade is going to be occurring here."

"You assume you have something I want."

"I don't assume, I know." Tom leans forward, a smirk passing over his lips, as he continues in a low voice, "Even if you grew out of that phase, wouldn't you like to know even the smallest truth about the chamber? Wouldn't you like to know you're right?"

Dillion is silent. His expression is an attempt to remain impassive, but Tom knows the desires that burn within him. He betrayed as much in his lust for knowledge, in his pride.

"I know you do." Tom lets the smile drop as he pulls away. "This is simply an opportunity to be a part of its discovery."

There's a long pause filled with heavy silence that drags on long enough to make Tom begin to doubt. He thinks, for a brief moment, that Dillion might have won. Only for the boy to let out a resigned sigh and ask, "What are you planning to do with it?"

"That depends on what is inside."

"What's inside is one of Salazar's best kept secrets. Even the guy who revealed all the other secrets managed to keep that one under his belt. I know there's a horror of some sort which, knowing Salazar, was bound to be horrific." Dillion rolls his shoulders in a casual shrug. He knows a disappointing amount, but still more than Tom knew prior as his pride likes to remind him. "Most people are terrified of the chamber being opened because they believe it will unleash the horror. Only the heir of Slytherin can control it. That's what the other heir threatened, in any case. He might have just been ensuring no one tried to find it and take it down when they were building."

"If I find this horror, you'll be the first to know." Tom responds coolly, receiving a chuckle from the younger. As repayment for the little information he gained, the Slytherin offers some advice, "You should control your Dark Arts better. Sooner or later, someone is going to figure it out."

"It's easier to say that when it's not happening to you. I don't know what's going on with my own magic. It just happens."

"Are you the Dark Lord?" Tom asks. He doubts he'll get a genuine answer, but he wants to gauge the younger's reaction regardless. A confused frown passes over Dillion's expression, clearly taken aback by the question. The confusion settles into thoughtfulness that continues long enough to give Tom his answer. "You're not."

Something in his response very visibly upsets the younger who exclaims, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you knew, you wouldn't have spent so much time thinking about it. Perhaps it's Grindelwald after all."

"It's not." Dillion says vehemently. The disgust in his voice rises instantly, almost instinctively, and disappears as quickly as it appeared. "I don't know why, but it's not him."

"It must be someone." There is a glimmer in Dillion's eye that tells Tom he's leaving something out. There are words pressed against his closed lips that he's holding from the older boy. Tom maintains silent eye contact with him for longer than necessary, hoping to pressure the secrets from him. They don't spill forth, disappointing him. "What do you know about Dark Lords?"

"They're born, not made. Some people make it sound like it's like selling your soul for power but it's not — it's just that Dark Lords are typically people who would do that. Dark Lords are worse because, so long as the Dark is powerful enough, they can't be stopped." Dillion pushes himself off the wall and begins walking as a few students begin to move their way. The pair wander over to a nearby window overlooking the grounds, where Dillion decides to sit. "They died out because the Dark got weaker, as its practitioners were culled. That's the closest they could get to stopping them. But with Grindelwald, it's becoming more popular to practice the Dark Arts which, in turn, feeds the Dark and allows it to pass its power along."

"Do you know why they're chosen?" If Tom didn't innately dislike Dillion, he would almost consider this conversation... pleasant. It's nice to be able to talk freely with someone without being forced to play a part, to say only what will keep him in their graces. While he still remains dancing around the boy, choosing his words carefully, he's not trying to please him. It's a brief reprieve from the usual exhaustion.

"To do the Dark's nefarious bidding." Dillion says in a mocking tone that makes it clear his mimicking his father. Tom can't help but roll his eyes, both at the sentiment and the boy's theatric performance. "I don't know, really. I don't know enough about the political structure to know if it decides the leader, or if the Dark chooses people to fulfil something it can't do on its own. There aren't any Light Lords so I can't compare, either. We just had... priests, I guess."

Tom's thoughts drift back to attending church every Sunday with the orphanage. It was always an ordeal and the church members never made him feel welcome. It was as though he was an abomination to God. Perhaps he is. Tom has never felt the need to please an invisible man in the sky, not when he had made so much of Tom's life miserable. Some plan for him...

Dillion notices the grimace that has passed over Tom's face and says, "Exactly." It pulls Tom back to the present, away from his memories of the orphanage. "My guess is it's connected to Grindelwald. It's the only thing occurring in the world right now."

"And the war." Tom adds.

"Right." Tom can tell the war means nothing to Dillion. He shouldn't be surprised; purebloods are always out of touch with muggles. The younger's gaze drifts away from Tom to something behind him. Before Tom can turn around, Dillion says, "I think your friends are waiting for you."

Tom glances over his shoulder and, sure enough, a few Slytherins are waiting a few metres away. While they're giving him space, they're very clearly waiting for him.

"You're right. They probably know something is off," Tom returns his attention to Dillion and his casual disposition, "Me associating with you outside of class."

"I could punch you."

"In what world is that the right response?" Tom stares at Dillion incredulously, certain this has to be a deadpan joke. The younger can't be that stupid. "That's only going to get you several enemies in Slytherin and do nothing to explain why we were interacting."

"Just a suggestion." Dillion bounces to his feet, his hands back in his pockets. "But you're right — I don't want to give those purist freaks reason to hate me."

"Don't." Tom warns. Whatever degree of civility they might have had is quickly dissipating.

"I'm just saying. You're the blood traitor associating with them." Before Tom can respond, the younger is running off. He watches as the brunet disappears around the corner and wants nothing more than to hex him in the back. But he doesn't. Instead he joins his friends, who naturally want to know what he was doing with Dillion.

Rather than answer them, not wanting to dedicate any more thought to that walking annoyance, he simply says, "It doesn't matter."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Dillion gets violent
Tom: