11.

(WARNING: There's an exorcism in this chapter. Nothing is crazy graphic or rough, mostly just praying and Tom being unhappy, but if it's going to upset you, you can skip from when a voice says 'Only united can you defeat the true evil', to the new section when 'The sounds of the classroom suddenly flood back'. I'll summarise the important bits of the section in the author's note at the end.)

TOM sits across from Dillion, watching him rather than reading his book.

The boy is sitting beside Cessair, the younger so quick to sidle up to someone interesting and new. They've been talking about classes for the past few minutes, trading opinions on teachers and coursework, Dillion's book on Communicating with the Dark forgotten. Cessair has taken particular interest in Dillion's opinions on Care for Magical Beasts, apparently wondering if he should pursue it next year, or if he'll be able to persuade his parents to. Dillion, in his responses, can only be described as diplomatic. Tom has seen Dillion interact with Merrythought, so he knows when the boy claims to agree with Cessair's liking of her, he's lying.

Tom didn't know Dillion prior to his disownment, so he never saw what he was like playing the part of the Pureblood son. He thinks this is probably what he looked like. Just like everyone else. Boring.

He isn't sure what bothers him more: the fact Dillion is clearly pretending, or the fact he does it so well. There's a smile on his lips as he listens to Cessair and, when it brightens into polite laughter, it's so charming even Tom forgets he's looking at Dillion Lux, a boy he'd previously thought wouldn't know charm if it punched him in the face. Even the others get caught up in his conversation, dragged away from their studies with his attentive gaze and tame anecdotes.

It's easy to forget Dillion is the son of — if Eric's information is to be trusted — one of the most powerful Light-aligned Pureblood families. It's easy to forget that, once, he might have classed as an aristocrat, a little lordling that would never know what it's like to suffer. Tom has never once considered him particularly modest and yet, now, as he recognises Dillion's beginnings, rarely so obviously displayed, the thought passes over his mind. He quickly brushes it away. If there is one thing Dillion will never be, it's modest. The sin of pride comes too easily to him. This is deception. This is the snake, coiled around an apple, daring you to trust him.

"Your brother is very passionate about the Dark Arts." Cessair's comment brings the first crack on Dillion's façade, the smile dropping almost instantly. Only Tom seems to notice the sudden change, covered quickly by a laugh that doesn't appear quite as natural as the others have. "I mean, he's passionate about defending against them, but he's still passionate."

"I was wondering what his classes would be like. He never struck me as the teaching type."

"He's painfully prejudice, that's what he is." Eric pipes up from behind his book, not even bothering to lower it. He then adds, as if remembering his company, "Sorry, Lux."

"No, you're right. My whole family is." The only indicator that Eric is listening is the quiet chuckle that comes from him.

"Something went horribly right with you." Something about the compliment fills Tom with annoyance. It's been too easy for Dillion to settle in amongst the Slytherins, for them to warm up to him. By the second meeting, it seemed as though they had adopted him as one of them. He would have been their enemy for years — a relatively known one, too — and yet they welcomed him with open arms. It had taken Tom months to gain the same level of respect from them. Tom suspects it might be because they all want him to be the Dark Lord, and they all want the Dark Lord to like them. Sycophants, the lot of them.

Dillion catches Tom's eye and, as they make eye contact, winks at him. It's as if he knows they're all putty in his hand, how easy he has it. It's as if he's rubbing it in Tom's face.

Tom's marked hand curls into a fist.

*

A week passes with barely any incident, from Dillion or others. The Ravenclaw boy becomes a common face amongst the Slytherins, attending small study groups whenever they could without raising suspicions. When Dillion could escape his friends easily, they spent the evenings in the Slytherin common room, perusing Tom's books in search of an answer. When he couldn't, breaks were spent on the grounds, under Eric's thoughtful eye as he skirted around the questions he really wanted to ask. Before long, Dillion knows the password to the dungeons as if he was one of them.

And then, by the next week, Slytherins he'd never interacted with are greeting him as they passed in corridors.

This alone, in Jude's eyes, is cause for concern. He doesn't have anything against Slytherin students inherently — he actually respects a few, like Riddle, Mulciber, Rosier. But they are in the middle of a war and a large majority of Slytherin families have expressed support for Grindelwald. It certainly doesn't help that the boy waving to Dillion is none other than Dolohov, whose parents have not hidden their support for Grindelwald.

"Do you know who that is?" He hisses once they pass the boy, clinging close to his friend's side so he can speak in a lowered voice. Dillion, who had all too casually waved back, shakes his head.

"Some Slytherin, I guess." Jude can't believe Dillion doesn't know who he is. But, Dolohov's family were exposed after Dillion was disowned. It likely hadn't been at the top of his lists of concern, nor would he have been in the right circles to receive that information. Just this once, Jude decides to let him off the hook.

"That was Dolohov. His father was arrested recently for terrorising muggles and his mother supports Grindelwald. The only reason she's not in Azkaban yet is because they can't pin anything on her." Jude recites what his father had told the family. His father had been there when the Dolohov patriarch's trial had occurred and had received all of the information surrounding it. Of course, Jude's father was also a big believer of the distinction between 'work talk' and 'home talk'. According to him, some things just shouldn't be discussed in great depth with the family, due to their sensitivity. This is one such thing.

Jude's older brother, of course, is exempt from that rule and Jude has never found that particularly fair, especially when his brother is far too loyal to betray his father's secrets.

"Oh, that's who he is." Dillion's reaction is far too blasé, to the point where Jude isn't convinced he truly understood what he said.

"Dill, his family supports Grindelwald." Jude emphasises as he links their arms, so they're walking shoulder to shoulder. It's not the first time they've walked like this, it likely won't be the last, but this time it feels different. Dillion stiffens ever so slightly, as if he wasn't expecting the sudden contact, and walks as if he's forgotten how to. Jude almost pulls away, fearing his instinctual action has made things awkward. He knows being the youngest of four has warped his perception of boundaries, but his friends have also adapted to that. When they were younger, they'd made it clear what was fine and what wasn't. He learnt what he could and couldn't do. This has never been a problem.

Jude knows this year is different. His best friend no longer has a family, his entire life being pulled out underneath him with one foul tug. He still doesn't know what caused Dillion to be disowned, because Dillion won't talk about it and neither will Solas, who Jude suspects knows. Even Clay knows more than Jude, watching Dillion with the meaningful gaze of someone who is keeping another person's secrets. Jude feels like he's been kept out of the circle, like he's untrustworthy, and he's not sure what secret he unknowingly betrayed to gain that reputation. He hopes it's simply his family's lack of closeness with the Luxes, unlike the Haells who had all but engaged their children or the Donahues who simply know everyone.

"He could be different. Not everyone is the same as their parents." The second meaning is clear behind Dillion's words, an empathy gained from his own circumstances. Jude lacks that empathy, even if he can recognise it. All he can see is the risk that might come with being friends with someone like Dolohov.

"Regardless, you don't want to be associated with that sort." 

"I already am associated with that sort." The rumours that surround Dillion are numerous and never-ending. Disownments are rare, with even the most disgruntled children being too well trained — or scared — to act out enough to warrant it. Which is what makes Dillion's case all the more interesting. Prior to the holidays, he'd been a perfect child. Or, perfect enough, if you excused the occasional disappearance, questionable grades, and tendency to flaunt his knowledge to authority figures that hadn't gained his respect. But, to most people, he seemed to be everything the Luxes wanted in their youngest and he seemed to be perfectly content. He'd defend Light, spit at the Dark, and say his prayers even at Hogwarts when everyone else had started eating.

And then, suddenly, the Luxes refused to acknowledge his existence and Jude found out through Solas that no one knew where Dillion was, except for that he might be at Diagon Alley and he definitely wasn't at home. He'd been glad when he'd found the boy on the train, fearing he might never see him again.

"They don't... Not like that." Dillion raises a disbelieving eyebrow at Jude. He can't deny those rumours, as they do exist, so instead he chooses to deflect, "People think a lot of things and a lot aren't even true. Last I heard, they thought you were disowned because you were caught with a boy."

Jude knows he's fishing, hoping Dillion might betray some of the details to what happened, but he can't help it.

"Maybe Dolohov is my boyfriend." Jude uses their contact to shove Dillion lightheartedly — enough for him to get the message, but not enough to send them both toppling.

"Dolohov is twelve, or close to it. That's just gross." While he might not be any closer to solving the mystery that is Dillion Lux, Jude is glad to see his friend's face light up in amusement and to feel the tension ease from his body.

"So, they're still talking about me?" Dillon's expression might suggest an air of arrogance, but Jude can sense the lightness was short lived. Dillion can't hide the underlying concern from him.

"They stopped, briefly, but something sparked it back up again. Someone must have decided you had been caught with a boy and it spread from there. That's all I know." Clay knows more, Jude is certain. He's far too zealous in shutting that rumour down, the way someone who knows the truth might get. But if he's not telling his friends, there'll be no getting the information out of him. Jude is far too good at choosing friends who'll clamp their lips down the second they're interrogated and won't open until they want to. He wonders if it's because of their upbringing.

"Even that's decided for me..." Dillion mutters, though it's clearly to himself than to Jude. The silence that follows is thick with tension, radiating from Dillion again.

"Professor Dumbledore invited me to these special Transfiguration classes he's running." Jude tries to change the subject to something lighter. His other two friends are already aware of his recent invitation, but Dillion had left the class it occurred in as soon as it was over and Jude hasn't had a chance to mention it since. He tries not to think about how distant they've grow. He's trying to change the subject. Come on, Jude. "We get to work on some more advanced spells and theories. The first one's this week."

"Do you mean a Slug Club for Transfiguration?"

"Sort of. It's not quite as elitist." Dillion raises an eyebrow at this. "You know what I mean — Professor Slughorn rarely chooses students who aren't the children of rich purebloods. And everyone knows the Slug Club is actually a social club pretending to be a Potions club."

"Dumbledore is elitist too."

"He isn't. As far as I'm aware, all sorts of students got invited, so long as they got too Transfiguration marks. Even that first year — McGonagall — I heard she got an invite." Jude knows he's been caught the second the words leave his mouth, the second Dillion's lips curl into that grin that says he's about to trap him in an argument he can't win. If he's not careful — if he doesn't surrender immediately — they'll be arguing in circles for as long as it entertains Dillion.

"Technically, that's a form of elitism. Only the best Transfiguration students." Jude rolls his eyes, not bothering to grace Dillion's argument with a rebuttal. "Anyway, how many Slytherins are there?"

"I don't know, I don't talk to many Slytherins. You'd have more of a chance knowing than me, what with all your new Slytherin friends." Dillion lets out a quiet, humourless laugh in response. "I suppose I'll find out tomorrow evening."

"I bet there's barely any — and the ones that are there are muggleborns or halfbloods, no purebloods. No one in any social positions of power or reputations for the Dark Arts."

"He'd probably have good reason to avoid that sort. They're not the most cooperative... and they're Dark wizards." Jude says the last part quietly, afraid to be overheard by the wrong sort. Nowadays seems like the worst time to show clear indication on which side of the war one stands.

"Their parents might be, but their children don't deserve to be judged as just an extension of them. The sins of the father aren't the sins of the son." They're back here again. This time, Jude can't help but frown. He has little issue in admitting he doesn't understand; he simply cannot comprehend that the Dark wizards he's been warned away from aren't, in fact, Dark wizards. What Dillion is saying is surprisingly sympathetic for someone who would have condemned them all just the same a year ago. Too sympathetic.

Defending the Dark Arts beyond just wanting to prove a teacher wrong. Spending time with students they had all been strictly forbidden to stay away from. Fervently defending them when they're judged for their parents' actions. Jude thinks he might know why Dillion was disowned.

Dillion has never been particularly connected to the Light. There are tests — special spells, certain indicators. His Light spells have always been weak, below his father's expectations. When they were much younger, Dillion would get bored during rituals and find ways to create mischief without getting caught. Then he got caught once and his father made sure he behaved. He can recite anything he needed to serve his purpose — one-up someone, calm his father, flatter some Light family, play the role of the perfect son of Light — but he has not once, in the entire time Jude has known him, shown he's meant it.

Dillion has always rested on that slippery slope, one very obvious push away from disgracing his name. Jude had just never believed he'd ever receive that push.

He wonders where Dillion stands now. Has he fallen to neutral territory? Has he fallen further, into the shadowy depths of no return? He wonders what he'll do if it's the latter. Dillion is one of his best friends but, if he's truly gone down that path, Jude isn't sure he can follow.

The following day, despite everything, Dillion's words still ring in Jude's ears as he attends Dumbledore's Transfiguration Club. He enters optimistically, unable to carry that same pessimism Dillion holds for the professor. The man is a genius, too smart to be spending his time teaching students. And yet, here he is, running additional classes for those with a passion for Transfiguration.

Apparently, as Jude is dismayed to discover, few Slytherins have such a passion. Dillion had been right, to the letter. The Slytherins that are there are clearly social nobodies, some shy first years that Jude doesn't recognise the surnames of, and the few purebloods that have made the club are people within Jude's circles or those who have established themselves on neutral grounds. No suspected Dark wizards, no high status children.

He pushes that concerning discovery to the side as the session begins. Jude is sure there's an explanation for that. He can't handle much more doubt or upheaval, all centred around Dillion.

*

Another week passes to no avail.

"This class, we'll be working in pairs." Mancio announces at the start of Divination, pacing at the front of the class. Rather than pay attention, Dillion's focus remains on the crystal ball. He's certainly he can almost see something. Something undefined shifts within its glassy surface. "Today, we'll be learning about oculamancy — not to be mistaken with occulmency. A slight break from dreams, though they're still technically connected. Can anyone tell me the difference between oculamancy and occulmency?"

For a few seconds, there's silence. Then, eyes fixed on the ball, Dillion raises his hand.

"Dillion?" Mancio calls out.

"One's for telling the future. The other is just an invasion of privacy." Dillion's answer is met with a titter of quiet chuckles spread throughout the class. Even Tom lets out a small noise that sounds amuse. As the older boy shifts forward, Dillion realises he'd just been staring at Tom's reflection in the crystal ball. Reluctantly, he raises his gaze to Mancio, who'd been watching on in approval. "Otherwise, they're basically the same thing."

"Correct. Someone's been doing his reading." Tom's hand goes up, quickly spotted by the professor. "Yes, Tom?"

"If they are essentially the same thing, what stops oculamancy from being an invasion of privacy?"

"Occulmency involves tearing through the memories of an individual, whereas oculamancy is focused on the future. It uses dreams, subconscious and — for more experienced practitioners — fate, rather than memories." Mancio explains, receiving a small nod from the Slytherin. His question asked, Tom settles back into his seat. "To do this, we'll be using the eyes — the window to the soul, if you will. You'll be getting close and personal with your partner, because you'll be staring into each other's eyes for extended periods of time.

"There isn't a spell, per se, like there is with occulmency. Instead, you have to use the eyes like a crystal ball. Look at the reflections, the shadows. Allow the vision to overtake you. The meditation we've been practicing will be useful here, as well. This sort of divination works best when you're relaxed." Mancio finishes his pacing and instructions with a clap of his hands. "This is going to work best if we just get started, and I guide you all as we go, so let's get into position. On the floor, facing your partner, hop to it."

The class has done this enough times to quickly settle onto the floor, chattering amongst themselves. Tom and Dillion sit across from each other, crossed legs almost touching. When Mancio instructs everyone to hold hands with their partners, the boys reluctantly intertwine theirs. Tom's hands are cold, bitten.

"Dillion, I understand you're going for some kind of fashion statement, but this works best skin to skin. Gloves off."

Dillion looks to Tom in alarm, silently asking what to do. The brunet stares at him with a frown that provides little real answer, beyond disapproval. His heart thudding in his chest, Dillion pulls his gloves off and quickly grips Tom's hands again. He hopes the older boy's hands hides the markings spread across them. Tom's holds his hands with his palms facing down, so only his fingers poke over the top. Smoky lines still trace around his fingernails, tingling as contact is made.

"Okay, now, look into each other's eyes. While we're getting comfortable, I want you to note what colour they are." Tom's eyes are brown but, as the light shifts around them, the colour grows warmer, redder. They look almost like rust, with little dark flecks in them. "Are they blue? Then your partner might have a higher pain tolerance, emotional insight. Brown? Then your partner might be confident, loyal, and good with interpersonal relationships. Green? Creative, intelligent, but poor with emotions."

"What colour are mine?" Dillion whispers as Tom's eyes flit around, looking all over the younger's face.

"Brown." The other boy responds simply, eyes still moving. Eventually, they pause, holding the eye contact. Once his gaze has settled, it's unwavering. Dillion can't help but waggle his eyebrows in an attempt to diffuse the tension, though it's only met with the same intense stare.

"Let everything but the eyes fade away. For now, unless you know who's your dominant scryer, I want you to both focus on the question: 'What does my future hold?' Verbalise it. I want to hear your voices."

In discordant chorus, the students all repeat his question.

Dillion lets Mancio's instructions fade away as he focuses entirely on Tom's eyes. He realises the older boy's eyes aren't any uniform colour — a range of shades that shift in the light, greens and browns all mottled together. In the darkened room, his pupils are large, threatening to encompass the entire iris. The dark shadows that surround them seem to suggest his sleep might not be as great as he pretends.

Suddenly and without any warning, Dillion's vision starts to blur, then dark, and then it feels as if he's falling. When he regains his vision and his balance, the Divination classroom has faded away and only Tom remains. They're now standing in darkness, hands clasped, and Dillion has the strangest sensation he shouldn't let go.

"Did you do that?" Tom asks hesitantly, as he looks around.

"I don't think it was me." Dillion answers and risks letting go of one of Tom's hands, so they can stand side by side. The darkness around them almost feels alive. It shifts like shadows, warm, breathing. "I'm awful with the crystal balls."

"Ask the question." Tom prompts after a few seconds of silence, nudging Dillion with his shoulder. Neither have let go.

"What does my future hold?" The second the words leave Dillion's lips, his marked hand burns. A gold string breaks through the darkness and wraps around his finger, tugging him forwards. Neither boy has any choice but to move. Their footsteps make no noise, the darkness silent except for their own breathing.

As they move, the shadows start to tremble. They grow more distinct, forming shapes. Soon, the pair find themselves walking through the edge of the Forbidden Forest, guided only by the distant hint of light and voices. The ground beneath them is wet with midnight dew, forest full of the sounds of life. Only a little deeper inside, a small gathering of witches and wizards chatter excitedly.

Dillion sees Tom first, as they break through the tree line into a clearing. The other boy stands unsteadily on his feet, covered in blood. He's surrounded by other students — Dillion can recognise the Slytherins he's always surrounded by — all touching and holding him like he's some sort of messiah. The future Tom appears oblivious to them, eyes fixated forward. He pulls away — their hands immediately retreat — and then drops to his knees, crawling forward. That's when Dillion sees his future self.

Future Dillion is lying on the ground, in a pool of blood, equally bloodied. His skin is pallid, as if all the blood inside him is now the blood surrounding him. Though they're at a distance, Dillion can't see any sign of breathing. Any sign of life.

Future Tom crawls on top of him, shaking his robes roughly. His future self doesn't respond, doesn't even unconsciously react. Two dirtied fingers press against Dillion's neck, feeling. Tom remains there, so still they could easily be mistaken for some strange statue, before he withdraws. With the care of someone uncertain of their balance, he rises to his feet and turns to the group.

The future Tom doesn't say anything, just shakes his head, but that's enough.

Dragging present Tom with him, Dillion moves closer to himself. The boy lying on the ground doesn't look much older than himself. The uniform and location alone places this moment within the next few years.

"I'm going to die." Dillion whispers, horrified. Before he has a chance to examine the scene further, figure out when or where this is, what Tom's role is, the world around swirls and fades like memories in a pensieve.

Dillion doesn't know if he's moved forward or backwards, but he suspects backwards as, the next time he sees himself, the future Dillion is alive and kicking. Almost literally. He struggles within a man's grip, a wand casually pointed at his throat. Grindelwald holds him as if he was a fly, an insignificant speck of existence that could be crushed with the flick of his finger. The older man stares at the present Dillion and Tom curiously, waiting.

"I hope you rot." Future Dillon spits with far too much venom for someone who looks like he's at the mercy of Grindelwald. Despite his situation, a smile curls across his lips. There's a scar on his cheek that stretches with the action, one the present Dillion lacks. Grindelwald does not seem to be pleased with his rebellion, as Dillion suddenly stiffens and contorts within the man's grip. As whatever he is suffering continues, a scream passes his lips — whether in rage or pain, it's hard to tell. Then, screams turn into words. A word. A name — a cry for none other than the boy beside present Dillion.

"Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for your friend, boy?" Grindelwald asks, still looking directly at the present pair. Glancing over his shoulder, Dillion realises a future Tom is standing behind them.

"No." The Slytherin doesn't hesitate to answer.

"You bastard!" Dillion exclaims, turning his gaze to present Tom. A smirk curls across the older boy's lips.

"You're not my friend. I don't blame me." As the pair argue, the conversation between the future group grows muffled and then disappears entirely, along with the scene. When Dillion looks around next, they're in an empty museum. The only other person in the museum is a smaller boy.

The shadows threaten to consume them all before one face breaks through the darkness. Dillion doesn't recognise this face: a scrawny boy, with wild hair and broken glasses. He has the wildness that rests in Tom's own eyes, though his eyes are green. Almost obscured under his mop of hair, a dark lightning scar is burnt into his forehead.

The boy mutters something in a language other than English and the scene finally materialises. They're standing in front of a statue.

"Who's he?" Tom whispers as he examines the boy curiously.

"I don't know."

"Do you think you could figure it out?" The stranger asks, turning his head towards Dillion. It feels as if the stranger can see him, is talking to him.

"What did he say?" Dillion only realises the stranger was still speaking another language when Tom requires a translation. He'd spoken French. They must be in France. With a furrowed brow, Dillion repeats the question in English. "Figure what out?"

"I don't know." Dillion echoes himself, frustration starting to blossom inside him. "There's so much pain in my future."

"Pain — that is the burden of those who tread the Dark path." A voice, tinkling like a choir of bells, floats through the air. The lights in the museum grow brighter and brighter until the scene burns away, leaving the stranger's question unanswered. "The Dark has paid her offering and so I will bestow upon you one gift. To prepare for the future, you must first consider the past."

Before either of them can speak and question the voice's words, the ground beneath them gives away and they both go plummeting. Briefly, their grip on one another slips, though whatever has found them seems to keep them together in this moment.

The ground they hit is cold and knocks the air out of Dillion's lungs, filling his back with pain. With a groan, he pushes himself to a seated position. The room they're in almost looks like Hogwarts, though everything is brighter, fancier. Columns jut out from the wall, following the shape of the room right to the tip of the high ceiling. Dillion and Tom have managed to land just outside a large mat that lines most of the floor, onto a stone floor instead.

The quiet rustle of clothes draws Dillion's attention to the entrance of a woman. Her appearance would not look out of place amongst wizards but, even then, there is certainly an antiquated element to her clothes. A long, green dress is void of almost any adornment, except for a loose shawl and a belt full of pouches and sheathes. Another dress pokes through the sleeves of the green dress, tighter and even more plain. Dark hair hangs in loose curls, decorated with golden balls that shine in the light.

"Myrddin," The woman greets someone behind Dillion, a smile flitting over her lips, bearing teeth. Dillion turns to see a man standing by the fire. His robes are more drab than hers, with dark shades of brown. He looks as though he might be as old as Slughorn, maybe even Dippet, though he carries his potential age with far more grace and strength than anyone Dillion has seen. The Ravenclaw feels as if he'd lose in a fist fight to the man. "I'm glad you came. How are you?"

Somehow, Dillion knows they're speaking another language. And yet, he understands them as if he were fluent.

"Dillion, do you know who that is?" Tom hisses, as if they might be overheard, and gestures at the old man.

"I am well, Morgên. And you, I hope?" Myrddin responds to the woman, moving from the fire to a table that rests nearby. Morgên lowers herself into a seat first, looking like a queen atop her throne. She holds herself with otherworldly grace.

"Who?" Dillion matches the older boy's volume, going so far to lean in closer as he watches the pair. Slowly, as Tom starts moving, he drags his gaze away. Tom pulls a card from his pocket and holds it out to Dillion. It's an old, severely battered Chocolate Frog card that has a few fold creases in it. But, still resting in the frame, miraculously avoiding the folds, is Merlin.

"He might be younger, but they are clearly the same person." The more Dillion alternates between looking at the card and the man seated across from Morgên, the more he starts to see the resemblance. "That must be Morgana."

"Your history books will tell you Merlin and Morgana were archenemies, as Morgana chose her path within the Dark Arts, and Merlin within the Light." The melodic voice confirms their suspicious as she whispers in their ears. "But that is a modern revision and an inaccurate one for allies so closely connected."

"The burnings are growing more frequent." Morgên informs Myrddin. "The muggles are killing more and more of our kind."

"They are scared." Myrddin is infinitely calmer than the rage that seems to be simmering beneath Morgên's composed surface.

"They weren't before. Before, they practiced alongside us, came to us for help. Their fear is new — and deadly." Where Merlin is a tranquil lake, Morgên is dark, heavy clouds in the sky, never certain when they might break and pelt you with their rain, hail, and thunder. "Something has to be done. I say we give them a taste of their own medicine."

"That will only lead to more fear. We have to be careful, or we will worsen things."

"Magic was never meant to be divided the way that narrative is spun for you. There is no good, nor is there an evil." The voice interrupts their planning, floating around them. "Magic is above morality."

The door's open again and a man marches in, all grace and power. Dillion is certain this must be King Arthur. He's sitting in a room with Merlin, Arthur, and Morgana. The legends everyone grew up on, in the exact same room as him. It hurts him to know no one will ever believe him.

"Myrddin, Morgên, I didn't expect to see you here." The king confesses as he comes to a halt, taking in his company. Dillion rises to his feet and walks so he's standing right in front of Arthur. The man stands taller than Dillion, thicker in his armour and presumed muscles. Dillion can't see a single flaw on him. Blond curls swirl around his head like a halo, similar to Dillion's own curls in a way that makes himself oddly pleased to note.

"I loved him as a child." Dillion informs Tom, barely looking away from the king. He wants to commit every detail to memory. "He was always my favourite character– or person, I suppose."

It feels like confessing his dirty, little secret.

"Not Merlin?" Tom asks from behind him. He's moved during Dillion's examinations, now peering over his shoulder.

Dillion shakes his head, "Everyone loves Merlin."

"Times grow darker, my brother." Morgên earns a severe nod from Arthur, as the older man moves forwards to join them at the table. He walks right through Dillion without even the slightest sensation.

"Only united can you defeat the true evil."

Then, without warning, a tug at his ankle pulls Dillion through the floor and away from the ancient past. The invisible hand remains tight around him as it drags him through moment after moment, barely giving him enough time to even register what he's seeing. He hears screams in agony, tears and begging, people desperate to stay alive. He sees fire, ropes, red hot metal, water. Pain and death.

When it stops, they are in a small room, barely space enough for the bed, table, and drawers that fill it. The room is cold, both in temperature and feeling, like it's sucking the heat out of everyone. In the room, there's a boy tied to the bed, a man standing above him, and a woman kneeling at the foot of the bed, mumbling fervent prayers.

"We shouldn't be here." Tom's voice is barely a whisper, tight. Scared, Dillion realises. He looks to the older boy, whose eyes are glued to the bed, and he realises Tom is genuinely terrified.

"Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur..." The man beside the bed drones in Latin, while the boy struggles against his bindings. The ropes pull taught against his thin wrists, but all they do is rub against the pale skin. Red marks are already wrapping around his wrists, raw.

With little conscious thought, Dillion silently translates: may God restrain him, we humbly pray.

"I want to get out of here." Tom continues, louder and firmer, demanding. As Dillion watches the small boy, pale with dark curls atop his head, scared brown eyes, the expression mirrored in the Slytherin, a second realisation comes to him. The boy is Tom. They're in his memories.

...and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host...

The man takes a flask and flicks young Tom with water. There are three flicks: one atop his head, one in his face, and another on the tongue the man forcibly pulls from the boy's mouth.

...by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell...

"How old were you?" Dillion asks Tom. The older boy has grown more distressed as the memory drags on, emotions crushing his mask into dust. Eyes wide, Dillion thinks he can see the hint of tears welling within them. His hands are trembling, the rest of his body frozen. He doesn't even seem to hear the boy's question.

...and with him those other wicked spirits...

The boy in the bed is small — smaller than a first year. Dillion doesn't think he'd be very old at all.

"Six." Tom eventually confirms. His eyes flick towards Dillion briefly, holding his gaze for only a second, before he goes straight back to his younger self. "They had caught me talking to a garden snake and thought it was the devil."

"So they tortured you?"

"Essentially." Tom's voice is absent, detached.

...who wander through the world for the ruin of souls...

"You must break the cycle." The voice rings out, light in a dark place. "With this gift comes your charge. Forget your past grievances with Light, unite against your common enemy."

"I'm starting to think magic has a funny idea of what 'gift' means." Tom mutters bitterly through gritted teeth.

"Depart, then, transgressor. Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent." The man cries out, announcing their departure.

The sounds of the classroom suddenly flood back into his hearing and Dillion becomes very aware he's lying in a heap on top of Tom. His face pressed against the other boy's chest, he can hear a relatively steady pace grow faster before he's roughly shoved off. As he rolls over, he finds Mancio staring down at him. The whole class seems to be staring at him.

"Was that a success, or did I just bore you both to sleep?" He asks, receiving only a groan from Dillion. His entire body tingles. There might be a bruise on his elbow from one of the times he's landed on the ground.

"It was a success." Tom answers for them, recovering far quicker than Dillion. Though, Dillion supposes, they went through more of his future than Tom's. Perhaps that's taken a greater toll on his body. "We both saw a vision."

"Care to share, if it's not too personal?" Mancio crouches down to help Dillion up into a seated position. The professor's grip remains on his shoulder even after he's upright, likely the only thing holding Dillion up as he gets his bearings. "Though, I should remind you, nothing you saw is set in stone. Divination is largely situation and hypothetical, at best. Sometimes Fate gives you a clear answer, sometimes she just wants to give you a warning — like the Scrooge, for example."

"What's a Scrooge?" Dillion asks, frowning.

"A character in an old muggle story. He gets visited by the spirits of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet To Come to teach him a lesson."

"It sounds stupid." Except for King Arthur, Dillion has never really been one for stories. His father thought they were silly, childish things. Not good for anything. The stories of King Arthur and Merlin had been Dillion's guilty pleasure. But his father has been wrong about other things — why not this as well? "I saw a boy in a museum. I don't know who he was, where we were, but he spoke in French and asked 'Do you think you could figure it out?'."

"Someone tell me what museums in dreams mean. You can use your book." Mancio says to the rest of the class, bringing the sudden ruffling of pages. It goes on for a few long seconds before someone cries out the answer.

"It can mean an agreement must be kept, or– uh– your elders are proud of you, or somebody might stab you in the back. Was there anything else in the room?"

"A statue."

"You might be putting someone — or yourself — on a pedestal. You might be being influenced by someone and Fate wants you to break free."

"Remember," Mancio comments as he releases Dillion from his grip, "This is similar to scrying dreams. It could be fate, it could be your subconscious. If any of that spoke to you, maybe consider some introspection. Your vision explicitly wants you to figure something out. Listen to it."

As Mancio's attention drifts from him to some of the other students who must have had varying degrees of success, Dillion looks towards Tom. The boy is barely hiding his glare, directed right at him.

"That was an invasion of privacy." The boy mutters as he leans forwards, loud enough for only Dillion to hear. "If you tell anyone, I'll murder you."

AUTHOR'S NOTE
To those that skipped: Fate basically just told them to break the cycle and that was their job, in exchange for these vision.

I'd wanted to get this published on Dillion's birthday because I thought that'd be fun but that didn't happen. So, happy late birthday Dillion & Tom

Question, because I wanna know what vibes Dillion gives off to someone who doesn't have my level of knowledge + maybe I can get new music out of it: if you had to assign Dillion a theme song, what would it be? There are no wrong answers, only right ones

Back in the day, when I was assigning theme songs, I gave Book 1 Dillion 'Look What You Made Me Do' by Taylor Swift (but I was restricting myself to songs that were in the playlist, not sure what I'd give him if I had free reign)