15.

IT'S a week before Dillion can go back to the dormitories. A week. All because someone had had the bright idea to irritate his scratches, leading Reselda to assume they were either infected, cursed, or he was intentionally harming himself. He'd been allowed to go to class a few days later, once she'd decided bandaging and movement wasn't going to worsen them, but he'd still had to return every night.

Now, he walks the halls a liberated man. A pained, but free man. It feels as if he's been gone for years. The routine has remained the same, and yet he has the disorientation of an outsider. In classes, they reference lessons he missed; time has passed without him. He knows, realistically, there's little he needs to catch up on. But he feels as if everyone is miles ahead him. He never wants to miss another class again.

Another sign that the world continued while he was absent is that the preparation for the career interviews has been and gone. Dillion doesn't even realise they've started until Favian informs him he has his interview the evening he was allowed out. He's missed the pamphlets, the chance to gather information. He's barely even had time to prepare mentally, or find out from his friends what this entails.

Nerves rattle around Dillion's body as he stands outside the door and, if he had been asked, he wouldn't be able to say why. The career interview is there to help him, to guide him in his preparation for his future. It's not a test. It's not a trial. And yet, his mouth is so dry, his heart rate so heavy, he'd have thought he was about to pitch happiness to a den of dementors.

Favian's office is impeccably orderly. Everything seems to have its place, not a single parchment, book, or quill out of place. The bookshelves that line the walls are full of books arranged both in height and colour. The neatness only adds to the intimidation of the meeting. Dillion feels, just by sitting down across from the professor, he's somehow knocked dust particles out of their place.

"So, Mr. Lux, what do you want to do with your life?" Favian asks as he takes a few sheets of paper and places them in the centre of his desk, in front of him. When they've found their spot, he clasps his hands together and rests them just underneath the paper. From where he's sitting, all Dillion can read is his name and a list of his classes. "Where do you see yourself in five years?"

What does he want to do? The question rolls around his head as if charmed with some echo spell. No answer awaits it, mind drawing blank. He should have an answer. There should be one waiting on the tip of his tongue, full of confidence, a plan already laid out for him. There should have been little point to this interview, save for perhaps checking in that his grades are on the right track. He's been preparing for this question for years. This question is his existence. He'd lived and breathed this question for fifteen years.

Michael, as the eldest born, had had a career laid out for him. He would enter the Ministry, play the perfect host, and take over for his father within the Wizengamot when he resigned. The only reason that would ever not be his life is if he disgraced the family or chose to abdicate. Otherwise, that would be his fate. As it would be his child's, when he had one. But the chances of it every being Dillion's life had been slim. With Michael's record and insufferable enthusiasm, it had been essentially impossible.

Dillion, on the other hand, had a world of choices — so long as it fit his father's expectations, didn't shame the family, and was spectacular. A regular Ministry job wouldn't do, nor would anything common. As the second born, Dillion had been expected to improve the family's prospects further. His father had wanted him to invent, pioneer, discover, lead something. He'd been expected to be the sort of person students would read the books of, or read about in books. What he did, his parents claimed, was up to him. He had been offered the illusion of a choice, and then unwittingly led straight into the options they wanted.

"Quidditch is unreliable. You'll just as soon end up on the streets as you might end up in the stadium. You'd be better off focusing on your studies." His father had claimed when Dillion had begged him for a broom, wanting to follow in his adored brother's footsteps and try out for Quidditch once he was old enough. Dillion had taken his word as gospel and barely touched a broom outside of necessity.

"Stop reading those childish books and read something useful." His father had scolded when he took his last, secret Arthurian book away and replaced it with a book on Potions. Dillion had read that book, forgotten about his fairytales, and rarely picked up another book that wasn't written to teach him something. And he'd forced himself to liked it. He'd liked it so much he now can't even read a fictional book.

"Do you have any hobbies?" Favian's voice carries through Dillion's thoughts and, for a moment, Dillion thinks he's his father. But he can't be. His father would never be interested in his hobbies. His father had never been interested in him. He had just been a commodity to his father, Dillion realises. This is not the place to have that realisation.

"No." Dillion's voice is clouded, thick with the brewing breakdown. It comes out a stutter, a false start and a hesitation. He's not sure he's telling the truth, but he's not sure he's lying either. After all, does he even have any hobbies that his father didn't cultivate? How does he know everything he likes isn't just because his father told him to like it? The only thing he can be certain on is the Dark, which in itself is an uncertainty, but definitely not something he's going to confess to Favian.

"What about a favourite subject?"

"Divination." He thinks he can trust his opinion on that when so much if it has been formed by Mancio. Sure, his mother raised him with a particular focus on Divination, but it had been Mancio that had instilled the love. From the very first lesson, the professor has accepted and challenged Dillion's sometimes difficult personality. He's the only one who never got offended with the corrections or additions — instead, after class, he'd just give Dillion extra reading.

But, he could never get a career in it. His third eye is thoroughly closed.

"My notes say you excel theoretically, but you struggle in practice. Could you still see it being a career path?"

"No."

"Well, what classes could you see yourself pursuing?" Dillion, yet again, doesn't have an answer. All his classes, with the exception of Care for Magical Beasts, had been chosen by his father. His father would be pleased with any one of them as an answer. He doesn't want his father's acceptance anymore, though. He just wants to be himself. But when he ignores the last fourteen years of his life, all he's left with is the last month of picking up the pieces, of walking another path set out for him. He has nothing.

Suddenly, the future is so much more terrifying than he could have ever imagined. He's never been afraid of the unknown before. The unknown has always just been a book he hasn't read yet. But this doesn't have a book for him to pick up. This is entirely up to him.

"You receive good grades in Ancient Runes." Favian suggests as he looks over his notes. "In fact, you don't seem to have trouble with the homework, either."

"It's– That's just translating. My parents were teaching me that stuff before I started school. I don't even have to think about it."

"May I offer my own suggestion?" Dillion nods his head, indicating for the man to go ahead. "I don't think a rigid desk job is for you. I think you'd work best in a career that offers you freedom, where your passions can thrive without being stifled by a long set of rules."

Dillion nods his head, lips pressed tightly together.

"For the moment, I think you should look into some extracurricular activities, like Ancient Studies and Art. Take up as many as you can, figure out what you like. And," Favian passes a small collection of pamphlets over. At the top is one on Curse Breaking, the others seem to be other careers like taming beasts, solving cold cases. Once Dillion has finished flicking through them, the professor continues, "Take a look at these. They're not all the options available, but they're ones I think you'd be good at."

"Thank you, professor." Dillion manages.

"If anything appeals to you — even the smallest thing — and you're not sure how to turn it into a career or you'd like to find out more about it, my office is always open. I'll find some people working in the industry, someone you can talk to, or more pamphlets at the very least." Dillion had always assumed Favian had disliked him. But, right now, he's being so nice to him. It doesn't feel like the bare minimum duties of a professor. It feels like someone who actually believes in him, who wants the best for him. "And, one last thing — are you okay, Dillion, with... everything?"

That's the final straw. Dillion nods his head quickly, jaw clenched, eyes blinking as much as possible. He doesn't want to cry in front of Favian.

"I'm fine. Thank you, professor." His voice isn't much louder than a whisper, too afraid to speak too much.

"Alright, well, off you go. Unless you need anything else." Dillion shakes his head, rising to his feet. He wastes little time leaving, rushing out of the room before he loses control. There's already another student outside, who he nods his head to in greeting before continuing on. Fortunately, it's late enough in the evening that there aren't many people around. The corridor is completely empty as he leaves Favian's office.

By the time he reaches the end of the corridor, Dillion is crying. He can't fight it anymore, tears streaming down his face, breath catching in his throat, coming out in sobs. He tries to suppress it and bites down on his palm, but all that does is leave himself with a bite mark, spit sticking to his hand. Legs shaking, he lowers himself down onto the ground, sitting against the wall. He doesn't want to go back to the common room like this. He doesn't want people to know.

"Lux?" It seems his wish won't be granted. Dillion tries to hide that he's been crying as he looks up, but that's near impossible when there's tears still clinging to his cheeks and his nose is running. Peeking out from behind a portrait is Dominic, watching him with concern. "Are you okay?"

Dillion nods his head, though it's pointless to deny it. The older boy leaves his hidey-hole, sitting down beside him. For a few moments, only silence passes between them. The company doesn't ease Dillion's tears. In fact, having someone sitting there, pressing one hand against his shoulder, seems to only make it worse. As if it's silent permission to let it all out.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dominic offers as he takes the pamphlets from him. If he hadn't, they might have been in danger of turning into tissues, or crumpling past legibility. "Did the career interview not go well?"

"I– I– I don't know." Dillion doesn't know Dominic that well. He doesn't know if he can trust him. Despite this, after only a few seconds of hesitation, the words spill past, needing release. "I don't know who I am. Everything I thought I liked was just what my father wanted. He's– He's controlling everything in my life."

Dominic is quiet for a few seconds, as if making sure Dillion has said everything he needs. He continues to rub circles into the younger's shoulder. Michael used to do that when Dillion was sick — when they were close, when age and responsibilities hadn't caused them to drift apart. It's then that Dillion finds himself missing his brother so much it hurts. Michael would know what to do. Michael always knows what to do — that's how he was raised. But Michael wouldn't want the best for Dillion. He wouldn't even want the best for himself. Just the best for their father.

Eventually, Dominic says, "He can't control you now."

"But he is. He's in my head." Dillion presses his fingers into his temple, perhaps a bit too roughly, leaving a dull pain. His fingers slide into his hair, tangling and tugging his curls. All he wants to do is pull his father's influence from his head, take everything he's ever said and throw it far away. "Every thought I have is his."

"Hey, hey, Dillion!" As Dillion pulls his own hair, Dominic reaches up and takes his hands, carefully detangling them. He holds them down in the younger's lap, warm and firm. "Listen to me — the fact he disowned you is evidence enough that your thoughts are your own. Trust me, parents like that only throw you out when they think they can't control you."

"I just don't know where he ends and I start." Dillion whispers.

"That can be wherever you want it to be. You're entirely free now." Dominic offers him a smile, squeezing his hands comfortingly. He's warm. "He has no hold over you."

It's so overwhelmingly supportive — so nice — that all Dillion can do is cry. Deep down, he knows he's surrounded by support, but it's so easy to forget when he feels so undeserving of it. He hasn't done anything for these people. He certainly hasn't done anything for Dominic, who he barely knows. And yet here the boy is, acting as if they're the closest of friends.

"And, if you want, whenever you're acting like some Light fanatic, I'll pull you up on it." Light laughter breaks through Dillion's tears, a weak chuckle that's more of a cough than anything. "Cheer up, Lux. You're a Dark Lord. No one can touch you — let alone someone like him."

The sentiment is nice, even if the thought still fills him with an instinctual repulsion he hasn't quite overcome yet. Dillion couldn't be the Dark Lord. He wouldn't have the stomach for it.

"I'm not the Dark Lord. I think Tom is — but don't let him know I think that." The words slip past unintended, his tongue loose with heightened emotions. Dillion immediately regrets it. It's not something he's even told Tom yet, and if word got back to him that Dillion has been sitting on something like that... Tom will probably kill him before whatever was in his vision does.

"Your secret is safe with me." Dominic promises, barely even batting an eye at the confession. The mood lighter, he shuffles through the pamphlets before passing them back to Dillion. "Anyway, I know what will take your mind off things."

"What?"

"Late night Quidditch match. The Slytherin's won't say no to some extra practice — even relaxed practice — and Slughorn will cover for us if another teacher tries to tell us off. He wants the trophy again." The Slytherin helps Dillion to his feet. Pain spreads throughout the boy's back with the effort, as the bandages shift against his skin.

"I'm not sure I can play with my back." This doesn't deter the older boy, who waves him off with a dismissive hand.

"You can play Seeker, or just referee. We'll see how your back goes."

Dillion ends up refereeing. He sits in the stands beside Tom, who showed up with the others all dressed in their pyjamas, a tired look on his face as he shuffled over to the seats. Tom stands out amongst the others, the only one with plain, pale blue pyjamas that are definitely not personally tailored and look itchy. Everyone is dressed in expensive, likely one-of-a-kind sets — much like what Dillion has back in the dormitory.

"I don't know the rules." Dillion comments as the Slytherins, having teamed up, now take to the skies. He's watched enough Quidditch to know the basics, but he's never been involved enough to know the intricacies.

"Neither do I, but it doesn't matter. They referee themselves." Tom gestures towards the players with the loose flick of his hand. The cold has turned his fingers pink, as well as added a flush to his cheeks and nose. "They just say we're the referee to make us feel included. Trust me — in five minutes, they'll have forgotten we're here. Less, even."

"Why did you come then? It's getting late."

"To feel included, obviously." Tom tears his eyes away from the skies to look at Dillion, gaze travelling all over his face. There's no judgement in his eyes — yet. His expression is blank, coolly searching. It feels as if the younger is being stripped bare. He feels vulnerable, like a mouse cornered by a lion. "You're clearly here because one of them felt pity on you. Did you get told you'll never amount to anything or something?"

The casual delivery of Tom's question reduces the sting of his words. There isn't any weight to them. Tom clearly doesn't care about Dillion's problems, but he does care about the cause. Likely so he can use it against him later. It's what Dillion would do, if the roles were reversed.

So, he answers carefully, "No... Is it that obvious?"

"Sort of. I assumed someone, one day, was going to break that news and career interviews seemed as good a time as any."

"According to Divination, I'm going to end up dead." Dillion hasn't quite come to terms with what he'd seen in Divination. It haunts him, always in the corner of his mind, never lingering long enough for him to properly comprehend it. He doesn't want to think about how long — or little — he might have to live.

"Soon, I hope." Tom's lips curl into a cruel smirk, eyes alight with amusement. "Anyway, I felt you get upset. Or... Well, it felt like you were in danger."

"I felt the same thing at our detention." Dillion looks down at his hand. Since creating the lie that it's a tattoo, he hasn't bothered putting the gloves back on. The people he'd really been trying to hide the mark from already know, the rest will come up with their own stories. "One mystery down, I guess."

"And the ever elusive 'why' still taunts us." Tom sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. The cold evening breeze tugs at his curls, pulling them apart and releasing them from their neat confines. With only the moonlight illuminating him, he looks like a wraith. "What do you plan on doing with yourself, Dillion?"

"I'm not sure. I've been told to take up art." Tom lets out a laugh, a staccato sound that's still full of gaiety despite its briefness. There's no ill-will in it, as his amusement so often has. In the distance, the Slytherins are shouting at one another. The evening doesn't feel as heavy as it did before. "What about you?"

"Isn't it obvious?" When Dillion doesn't respond, the older boy makes a wide gesture with his hand, covering the entire quidditch pitch and further. "I'm going to rule the world."

As he looks to Tom, not a single hint of exaggeration in his tone or face, only the fierce ambition of his House, Dillion believes it.

At some point into the match, Dillion fell asleep. This wouldn't be much of a problem if it weren't for the that fact, in his sleep, he's since started using Tom as a pillow. The younger's head rest against Tom's shoulder, body leaning against him. Tom has tried shoving him off. It didn't work. He could try waking him up but, surprisingly, Tom doesn't have the heart for it.

The magically-induced reaction to Dillion's distress must still linger. Tom will never admit it, but it had felt awful. It felt like what he assumes it must feel like to lose a friend. Or worse. Family — a loved one so intrinsically linked to his being. Grief beyond compare. He'd only joined the other Slytherins because he'd been in need of a distraction.

And then there stood Dillion, looking like he'd only barely recovered from his distraught. It had taken every ounce of Tom's being to act like he didn't care. Which he doesn't. Just because the Dark has decided he should care, forcing him to feel things he doesn't feel, doesn't mean he actually cares. In fact, it makes him care even less. He wishes he'd been the one to make Dillion so upset.

What are you going to do now, Dark?

The younger shifts. His face ends up pressed against Tom's shoulder and one arm rests against his side, holding Tom's own arm closer. He's practically hugging the older boy. Every time he breathes, warm air sinks into Tom's thin pyjamas.

He wishes Dillion would stop breathing.

*

"I want to be a teacher, sir." Tom answers Slughorn's question regarding career aspirations, sitting in his cramped office for his interview. The old man's eye brows rise high on his forehead in response, as if he can't believe that this would be his dream.

"Just a teacher, boy?"

"You're not just a teacher, are you, professor?" Of course, he isn't. He's also a bumbling fool, a collector of greatness, so desperate to find another addition to his collection that he's completely blinded by even the slightest bit of flattery. Tom doesn't even have to try with him. Even now, the man laughs lightheartedly as Tom's compliment goes straight to his head. "I must confess, professor, it's you who inspired the desire to teach in me."

Tom doesn't think he'd be a poor teacher. He'd certainly be a better teacher than Slughorn, here. He wouldn't mind playing a part in the shaping of the future bright minds, pushing them down the right path rather than whatever nonsense is being put into them now. He's not sure he'd be able to handle it if he got a stupid student. He certainly wouldn't be able to handle the lower years. He can barely handle them as Prefect.

"But you could be a Minister with your brains, Tom. Most professors have worked up to teaching, except for Professor Mancio — it's a retirement job, my boy."

"I'm afraid I lack the connections to aim for such a lofty career, professor."

"Well, if it's only connections you lack, then I can help you there." There it is. Slughorn winks humorously, though he's played right into Tom's hands. Tom knew, going into this interview, that his grades wouldn't prove any issue. He's doing well enough to get whatever he wants, if they were all that matters. But they're not. He's well aware that certain careers are popularity contests over actual indicators of skill or suitability. Tom hardly knows anyone outside of the school; he isn't going to know the people that might secure him a position of power.

Slughorn, on the other hand, prides himself on knowing everyone that truly matters.

"I don't want to see you teaching until you have gone and worked in a place that really needs you." Slughorn continues, putting all his pamphlets away. "I want to be able to say I taught Minister Riddle when he was at school before I'm telling everyone I taught my coworker."

"Is there anything I should be doing, then, professor?"

"I expect you'll be staying at Hogwarts over Christmas." Tom nods his head. As if he'd stay anywhere else. Even here is better than that hellhole of an orphanage. "Make sure you come to my Christmas parties. I'll have you shaking so many hands, your own will fall off!"

Tom manages a polite laugh. It's hard to hide his pleasure in how this is unfolding. If there is one person he is sure might have the connections he needs, it's Slughorn. The man would propel him forward if he thought it might get him something to brag about.

"I'll see if I can get Minister Moon himself to come. He knows the muggle Minister — did you know that?"

"No, I didn't. Fascinating."

"That will be you one day soon, boy. Mark my words." The professor says firmly, before muttering under his breath, "A teacher! A Slytherin settling for teacher!"

"Will that be all, professor?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. Your grades are fine." Slughorn waves him away, still amused by his previous goals. "Send Black in, if he's out there. No point in him waiting for his allotted time if we can start early."

Orion Black is, indeed, waiting there. The boy hardly acknowledges Tom with more than a polite nod, before he slinks into Slughorn's office. Walburga, similarly, hasn't changed her treatment of him. Only Dillion. He supposes Dillion likely gets extra points for being a Pureblood. And a Dark Lord, as everyone likes to think.

As if summoned by Tom's thoughts, the boy's stomach churns, promptly followed by a shadow disconnecting from the wall. It wastes little time, once the boy behind it has clearly got his bearings, hopping and skipping around Tom as if serenading him.

"Oh, Tommy, oh, Tommy! How can you love?" The shadow sings. Tom doesn't know what's more obnoxious — the awful, intentionally grating tones of his singing or the fact that, underneath the idiocy, is the hints of someone who could actually sing, if they wanted. Perhaps not a star, but certainly not tone deaf. Sometimes it feels as if Dillion was unfairly gifted with far too much natural talent, his only weakness being his irritating personality.

"We're alone." Tom barely bats an eyelid at the display. His unenthusiastic response causes the shadow to sigh, disappointment visible even in its indistinct darkness.

"What's the point of a code song if you don't follow it?" The shadow complains, to which Tom informs him that it had been his idea and his alone to decide on a code song. Tom has no interest in breaking out in song just because Dillion has decided to ambush him with a shadow. "It's still poor safety."

"What do you want?"

"I wanted– oh, I am so sick of these blood noses." The shadow wipes its featureless face, looking down at its hand afterwards. As it shakes its head, Dillion continues, "Anyway, I wanted to find out when Nott was organising that study session."

"After Slug Club. It means a late night but you'll be able to get to our common room more easily." Glancing over his shoulder, Tom is uncomfortably aware that Orion Black is only a room away and liable to exit at any moment. "If you're not done, walk and talk. I'll take one of the back corridors."

"I have no idea how we remove the toxicity from hellebore..." Dillion sighs as he follows Tom through a secret tunnel connecting two of the corridors, frustration laced in his tone. His shadow doesn't emote, barely even moves — but rather floats as an empty shell beside the older boy. They're slowly figuring out the best way to use this mode of communication, though it has mostly been Dillion as Tom prefers to avoid him as much as possible. It's easier to talk and move if energy isn't being wasted on making the shadow look like as if it's walking.

"Are you doing the Potions report?" The younger gives an affirmative hum. "I'm not sure, either. I just wrote about it being a calculated risk."

"Apparently, it came from a girl's tears and magic turned her guilt into a flower."

"That doesn't seem very likely."

"I've heard stranger. Like... robots." Tom is once again reminded he and Dillion come from entirely different worlds. The concept of robots is strange even to him, but at least he doesn't act like those or plant-sprouting tears are plausible. "It's like muggle necromancy, but without magic. Not-human humans."

"They're not real, either. Don't you have an essay to write?" Tom asks in a desperate attempt to get the boy to leave. It doesn't work. No wonder what little homework Tom has seen be passed from teacher to student has always been so abysmal.

"Mhmm. Have you seen a movie, Tom?"

"No."

"I'd like to see one, I think." Tom won't admit he's always wanted to see one. He doesn't want to encourage Dillion, nor does he want to make it seem as though they share some similarity. His desire to see a movie isn't the same as Dillion's. Dillion's is a sudden fixation on the muggle world, a fleeting fad that will pass. Tom's has been years of teasing, finding flyers and occasionally passing posters, years of wishing he could just pretend he was somewhere else for just a few hours.

"Unless you have something important to say, I'm almost at the Dungeons." This is a lie, but Dillion doesn't need to know that. Tom just wants to be rid of the boy.

"I asked all I wanted to ask. Good night, Tom."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This chapter hasn't cooperated with me in the whole time it's been sitting in my drafts, but it's functional so I'm waving the white flag. I just wanna get to the good subplots coming up