5.

(WARNING: the third section of this chapter, opening with Apollyon, contains some fairly severe corporal punishment. It's not crazy by my standards but Dillion gets put through a rough one with a cane. If that's going to make you uncomfortable or stress you out, read with care & you can just skip to the end of the chapter. The only key bit are the final few paragraphs, if you don't want to miss the important bits.)

"NOW, I could forgive brothers fighting, but when one of those brothers is a teacher, I can't excuse that as easily." Headmaster Dippet says as he sits at his desk, looking between the two Lux boys. Dillion hasn't acknowledged his older brother since he was summoned to the headmaster's office, refusing to even look at him. "I understand things are difficult right now, but attacking a teacher is never a good idea, Lux– uh, Dillion."

"I understand, sir." Dillion answers, cooperating so the meeting can be done with. He doesn't like being stuck with his brother for longer than necessary.

"I will defer the punishment to Michael this time." Dippet continues, waving a hand in the older man's direction. This is the only time Dillion looks to his brother, to gauge his reaction. Michael's expression remains neutral and unchanging, providing no indicator of what punishment might lie in store for the younger. Dillion is sure it won't be good, no matter what. It would be the first time Michael has been allowed to punish him. That kind of power could go to his head. "But if this happens again, I will have to step in. That goes for both of you."

"Of course, sir. This will be the first and last time — I promise you." Michael responds this time. There's something about his tone of voice that just makes Dillion want to punch him again. He supposes that wouldn't end well, though it would be satisfying. The last time would have been more satisfying had Dillion been more aware of what he was doing. But he hadn't been. One second, the rage was filling his body, the next second he was punching his brother. He doesn't regret it; he just wishes he could have been conscious when he did it.

The only thing he does regret is being caught by Tom. He's not sure how much the older boy heard and that worries him. He definitely saw them fighting, but that could be easily explained away. Dippet proves that. However, despite Dillion's better efforts, his and Michael's conversation hadn't exactly been subtle or quiet. If Tom had walked by at the right time, he'd know the exact reasons for why he'd been disowned. And that's dangerous. Too dangerous. Dillion can't sleep at night kind of dangerous. He's not sure where to go from here.

The first move would be to ensure he had something to hang over Tom's head, a piece of information he could use to blackmail him with. But Tom's history is an open book: everyone knows he's the poor orphan raised by muggles, though one of his parents is magical by his own claims. If he could determine if Tom is lying, that would work, but that requires sources and time he doesn't have. He needs another secret. Then, when he has that secret, that safeguard should things go wrong, he can figure out how much he knows.

"Well, you two are dismissed. We don't want you late to supper." Dillion gets to his feet first, eager to leave. He doesn't wait to hear his punishment, to say anything to either teacher. Unfortunately, Michael is quick and still catches him outside the headmaster's office. Dillion turns to him, ensuring he looks thoroughly unimpressed.

"I had to tell him. I mean, I literally had to — you forced me to when you gave me this black eye." Michael gestures at the dark bruise that has swelled around his eye.

"There are ointments for that."

"You know how Father feels about those. Or, how he feels about me using them." Dillion does know. His reasoning is something stupid about experiencing the pain — just because magic can solve a problem, doesn't mean you should always use it. That grows dependency. Then when you're suddenly without it, you can't function. Except, Dillion never had to worry about that. One tear and they'd have whatever ointment or potion that would fix his troubles. And look him now — completely independent.

"Father feels a lot about unimportant things and little for what really matters. Anyway, I shouldn't be lurking around the halls during dinner. It's not safe for others." Michael doesn't wince, per se, but he's certainly visibly regretting his previous comments. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to let you know, I won't give you any sort of punishment if you promise to start being honest with me."

"I can't promise that. Just give me detention." Michael goes to say something, something that will inevitably draw them into an argument that sends them running around in circles. It's not something Dillion feels like participating in, not when he's hungry and has some urgent planning to attend to. "You don't trust me, I don't trust you. Let's just leave it there. I'll take the punishment."

"Fine. Go– I'll organise something with Apollyon." Dillion immediately recognises his mistake. He had underestimated his brother. He had assumed his brother would give him a punishment designed to spite him — something that keeps him close to him or stuck doing a task all evening. He hadn't thought his brother would pass it over to their caretaker, infamous for his punishments. Dillion has fortunately never done anything to warrant detention with him until now, but he's heard the stories. He suspects this is because of the black eye. "Tomorrow night. Meet Apollyon after dinner."

"Fine." Dillion responds simply, keeping any sort of emotion from his voice. He won't give his brother the satisfaction of sensing even a hint of regret. With that done, he turns to leave. He really is hungry.

"Dillion!" The younger pauses to glance over his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Really."

He shouldn't have bothered stopping.

*

"Excuse me, Myrtle. Could I squeeze past?" Tom asks, startling the younger girl as he tries to move past her. He offers her a smile as she turns, eyes widening further as she realises who it is. She's quick to move out of his way, clearing the space in the library aisle. He only moves to the next bookshelf, scanning the books for anything that might relate to wizarding families. He can sense a pair of eyes watching him and, sure enough, Myrtle is still watching him. "How are you today, Myrtle? Hornby still giving you trouble?"

Tom has never liked Myrtle. She's too weak, too pathetic. The Hornby girl isn't much better. That girl has absolutely no creativity or thought in her taunts. A first year could do better than her. And yet, Tom thinks that makes Myrtle even worse; she's the one constantly getting worked up by them. God, if Tom could wake up one morning knowing there was zero chance he'd hear her whining and moaning...

"She is. Today, she called me five names before breakfast. I was counting." Myrtle informs him. Pitiful. But Tom just gives her a sympathetic smile and shakes his head.

"You should hex her." He suggests, completely serious. The Ravenclaw giggles like it's a completely scandalous idea. As he finishes searching the books, finding only a few that might be relevant, he begins to make his escape. "Don't let Hornby give you too much trouble. It will all go to her head."

"Okay, Tom." Myrtle giggles again, though nothing particularly funny has been said.

"Now, I have some reading to do. Take care." With that said, Tom leaves the girl to return to his group of Slytherins. Studying amongst the group has long since finished and, in his absence, discussion seems to have dissolved into a debate over whether or not pumpkin juice tastes good. Eric Nott seems rather adamant that it does; Mulciber is leading the against team. Tom feels the need to contribute, "I quite like the taste of pumpkin juice."

He doesn't. But he needs Eric's help.

"Exactly!" Eric explains far too loudly for the library, punctuated by an aggressive gesture towards Tom. The brunet pulls himself from the conversation and turns his attention to his pile of books. His hope is, within these pages, the answer to his heritage will be revealed. This has been his hope for the last few bookshelves, where there were more books and yet no leads. His hope is begin to wear as thin as his book supply.

The first book quickly becomes useless as he realises he misunderstood the title; Great Wizarding Families is not an informational book about great wizarding families, but rather a novel about two wizarding families. Why that is in the library, he doesn't know. Or, at least, he doesn't until Dominic Rosier leans across the table to pick it up.

"Great Wizarding Families," He reads, dark eyes scanning the cover. With little care, he throws it back onto the table. "That's that book some blood traitor wrote."

"Is it any good?"

"Not sure. We weren't allowed to read it." The boy gives a careless shrug. "Most Pureblood families banned it because of the scandal it caused. It doesn't paint us in a nice light. Why do you have it?"

"I thought it was non-fiction." At this, Dominic laughs. It's a small scoff rather than a proper laugh, but the amusement is clear. While he does shake his head as if he can't believe Tom, there's nothing remotely condescending in his demeanour. He's one of the few people Tom can tolerate, as he treats Tom much like anyone else and doesn't seem to want anything. It took the brunet several years to determine this, paranoid he was just skilled at keeping his secrets close to his chest, but that just led to him being more comfortable around him than anyone else. By Tom's standards, in any case. He still doesn't trust him completely.

"Well, why would you want to read about great wizarding families anyway?"

"I'm trying to find a name."

"A name?" As if summoned by the chance to be useful, or simply his love for knowing absolutely everyone that matters, Eric pulls himself from his continued debate and enters Tom's conversation. He looks to Tom curiously, as does Dominic.

"Marvolo. He was my grandfather."

"Got a full name?" Tom shakes his head. "It's not much to go off, but Father has a scary number of books on old families. I can ask him if you can borrow them, if you want."

"If it's no trouble."

"The only trouble will be how much reading you'll have ahead of you." Eric jokes, snorting softly. Tom gives him an amused smirk, though the amount of reading hardly concerns him. It's whether there's any worth to the reading that's his concern. But, he supposes, it can't be any worse than his current books.

"Thank you, Eric." The other boy gives him a slight smile in acknowledgement, before he returns to Mulciber. Unsure whether these books might still be useful, Tom takes the first from his pile and places it in front of him, unopened.

"What happens if you don't like what you find?" Dominic asks, still watching him. Tom looks up from his book, already eager to have a distraction.

"I have to know."

"What if it's better not knowing?" There are many things Tom wants to say. He wants to point out that Dominic simply can't understand that knowing something bad is better than not knowing at all, that the sheer desperation burning inside him threatens to consume him if he doesn't know. He wants to point out that Dominic has always known his parents and his magical heritage has never been questioned, that he will always have had two parents that cared for him and never have to wonder what he did wrong to be abandoned at birth. But all of those betray too much about Tom and would be far too aggressive.

So, instead, he just repeats himself, "I have to know."

*

Apollyon Pringle is a tall, skinny man that wouldn't be at all intimidating if it weren't for the sadistic glimmer never far from his eyes and his reputation amongst the student body. Dillion has only ever seen him in passing, in the Great Hall or throughout the school as he goes about whatever his job is. As a result, he's fortunately never actually interacted with him.

"You're late." The man tuts as Dillion approaches him, far too gleeful at this. When the younger doesn't respond, the smile drops into cold annoyance and he beckons impatiently. "Come on, let's go."

The walk to Pringle's office is silent and a rather short one from the Great Hall to the Entrance Hall. Just off the large entrance is his small room, cold and poorly lit. The room is cluttered, full of papers and confiscated objects carelessly tossed to the side. On the wall hangs various pieces of equipment likely used for his punishments — chains, canes, a concerning mace. It looks like a torture chamber and a teacher's office had one horrible baby. It looks exactly like the horror stories described and somehow worse.

"Stand here." With a sweeping, skeletal hand, Pringle gestures towards the empty space between the desk and the wall. There's nothing particularly remarkable about the space, except for its lack of any instruments of torture — or of anything of note, for that matter. But Dillion still moves towards the spot, confused but not willing to antagonise the man that has given students nightmares. There was a rumour, at one point, that he was one of the student's boggart. As he stands inside the spot, nothing immediately happens. Pringle watches him for a few seconds, before he waves his wand in a small circle. This conjures an even smaller circle of light in the air, right in front of Dillion. "You'll stand under that, so your nose is touching the circle, and then you'll stay there."

"For how long?" Of all the punishments Dillion could dream up, of all the instruments capable of creating pain and suffering, this is far milder than what he had expected. It seems too easy.

Pringle gives an uncaring shrug, "As long as I say." This, Dillion doesn't like. He's only supposed to be here a few hours, but perhaps that's the trick. He's not exactly sure what might happen if he tries to leave when his time is technically up, but before Pringle says he can stop. Maybe that's when the chains and maces come in. "Come on. Stopping wasting time, boy."

Eager to get this over with, and to avoid further punishment, Dillion does as he's told no matter how little he understands. The concept in itself is simple enough — the circle is just too tall so he has to stand on the tips of his toes and bend his neck back. In practice, this proves a little more difficult at first, as he tries to keep his balance. There are a few false starts as he gets into position, with his feet slipping and swaying. But once he finds a focus point, he manages to steady himself and remain still. This seems to be what Pringle was waiting for as he waves his hand once more and moves from the spot in front of him to behind his desk. He moves out of Dillion's sight, but the boy hears a chair grind against the floor and assumes he's sitting down.

His ankles quickly grow uncomfortable — it isn't painful, but it certainly isn't pleasant. A dull ache rests where they bend, the first sign of the difficulty awaiting him. The next is his neck, also protesting against being bent back for so long. It's only been a few seconds, but these aren't positions natural to the boy. And it's only beginning.

The discomfort in his legs turn into the growing pain of his muscles, a slight burning that starts in the bend and creeps up his calves like muted fire. But as it catches, the flames only grow with every second they're allowed to feed. Even while focusing on a spot, his legs start to shake, threatening to push him out of position. And then they slip.

It's barely a stumble, a split second where one foot falls before he manages to regain his balance, but it's long enough. In that time, he drops ever so slightly below the circle. As he does so, without any movement from Pringle, a different kind of pain shoots across his calve. This one is sharp like a slap, only longer and thinner than a hand, more like a rod. The sudden blow jolts his entire body forward in surprise, made worse by his precarious position on the tips of his toes, and he falls again. This fall is greater than before and brings more sharp, stinging blows, enough for him to realise they are connected to the circle. Every time his nose isn't touching that circle, the pain spreads across his legs.

This makes standing harder. He gets back to the tips of his toes, nose touching the ring, but not only has his legs had a chance to relax — they are also now more hurt than they had been before. They ache in protest against returning to this spot, and against the sharp slaps they received. Everything hurts now, but the fear of punishment keeps him in position. He can feel a lump settling itself into his throat and he thinks his bottom lip quivers for just a second before he reigns it in, choosing to bite down on it instead. However, this only shows Pringle how much it hurts and draws a cold chuckle from the older man.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The scraping of the chair is all that tells Dillion the man is on the move again. The boy doesn't like the sound of that. In a room full of torture devices, with limited peripheral vision, Dillion doesn't like the idea of him moving around. Trying to watch Pringle, he slips again and the sting pushes him back into his spot. The shock of the blow — which hasn't lessened — caused him to bite down on his lip and he can taste the faint hint of blood against his tongue.

It's not just physical pain. Each time, his pride also takes a blow. He's hardly even given a chance before the weakness betrays itself to Pringle. Each time he slips, he can't keep the shock and hurt from his expression, the struggle to hold himself there. He's certain Pringle can see it all and there's no doubt he's revelling in it. Desperate to gain control of the situation, Dillion closes his hands into fists and digs his nails into the palm. It still hurts, but at least this hurt is caused by him. It gives him something to focus on. When he's focused on his palms, the other pain becomes a little bearable. He becomes detached. He becomes a statue. Statues don't move, they can't feel. Pringle can't hurt a statue. This spell can't hurt a statue. Statues can only be broken with brute force, and that's so long as they haven't been protected with charms. There's a supposedly unbreakable statue in a museum in France, that was charmed so well no one can even figure out the counter-charms. There's a reward for whoever figures it out. Dillion would like to go there one day.

It's not the pain but the loud crack that drags Dillion from his thoughts. The pain comes second, when reality is brought back to him. As he trips, he spots Pringle standing beside him, cane in hand. He must have seen through Dillion's trick, or simply didn't like how long he'd gone without slipping.

Dillion returns to the circle, and to his thoughts about statues. But every time Pringle thinks he's lost focus, the cane goes swinging towards his calves and pulls him back. It doesn't take much for his aching legs to collapse underneath him. In fact, he doubts it would even take the cane, but that is certainly effectively in worsening everything. Then, as he's getting himself back to his feet, the magical punishment of being out of position adds to the growing mountain of pain. It quickly becomes clear that his previous plan is no longer going to work.

Dillion's second plan is similar to his first. As the pain grows too much, he digs into his palm. This works for a few seconds, until Pringle catches on and slaps his hand instead. Now, Dillion's legs are shaking with exertion, burning with pain, and his hand has a growing weal on it. It's possibly the worst he has ever felt in his life. In physical pain, it wins without question; he just can't decide if it feels worse than when he was disowned, emotionally. He's not sure how much time has passed but he doubts it's as long as it feels. He's almost certain, if he had any method to check, he'd be unfortunate to discover only a few minutes had passed. He might not know how much has passed, but he's sure there's an eternity to go.

Lux protego. Please.

It's a desperate bid for some type of relief. Dillion has never quite mastered the art of wordless, wandless spells, not when it comes to pure Light magic. He can barely manage them with a wand, as it is. But he has nothing but desperation.

Pringle slaps the cane right into his leg for seemingly no reason. It still hurts. The Light remains as silent as it has always been. Dillion shouldn't have expected any different, but he had hoped. His parents had always assured him that, sometimes, it takes Light wizards sometimes to feel the connection. There was one story they would tell him often about a witch who had always felt disconnected from the Light until, one day, in her lowest of days, it reached out to her. Today feels like one of Dillion's lowest hours. But the Light isn't here for him now, just as it hadn't been for him when he was cast out. If the Light had wanted him as badly as his parents claimed, it would have protected him from the Dark Arts like they prayed every day for. It would have been there when he took that first step. But it hadn't been. The Light hadn't, and neither had his parents. They were only there for the aftermath, in his lowest of lows, to tell him where he had failed.

Well, that ritual is starting to look more like a success. At least the Dark had been there for him. It healed his wounds, made him a home, treated him with warmth.

I need help, He thinks pitifully as Pringle sends him to his knees, as if he were praying. It's almost fitting, in a painful kind of way.

Dillion doesn't bother getting up. He gets hit when he's up, he gets hit when he's down — he might as well just get hit on his own terms. This brings the sharp burn of both the spell and Pringle's cane, all desperately trying to push him into doing something he doesn't want to do. But, for the first time ever, he feels free. It hurts, but it's his hurt caused by his decisions, not by some arbitrary rule made up by an adult with too much time on their hands.

Perhaps he's simply delirious from the pain, but Dillion laughs. It's a surprisingly relieved sort of laugh, freeing. The enraged growl from Pringle only makes him laugh harder. The wicked blow to his back, that pushes him to his hands, knocks the laughter out of him, however. A second blow knocks his hands out from under him and he falls to the ground.

"You think you're funny, boy?" Pringle hisses in Dillion's ear, uncomfortably hot breath fanning across his skin. A hand presses into his back, keeping him on the ground. The spell is still attacking his legs. His head is starting to hurt.

"I have my moments." Dillion responds, an uncontrollable tremor in his voice. The hand presses harder and the stone floor starts to get a little painful. Everything hurts so much, it's hard to distinguish the cause.

"The hour isn't up. There's plenty of time to make you reconsider." Dillion is hoisted up by the back of his shirt, in a way that pulls his collar tightly against his neck. He can't tell if it's intentional, but he really wouldn't put strangulation past this madman. To ease the tension, he catches his footing. Then promptly loses it as the man drags him to the wall. "Where do you want to start?"

Dillion looks at the wall through half-lidded eyes. He wonders briefly what happens when a student loses consciousness in the care of Pringle. Probably wakes up in chains.

There's an itch on Dillion's forehead, one that grows with every second he tries to ignore it. Rather than answer the man, the brunet raises shaking fingers to scratch the itch. His fingers come back red. It takes him far too long to realise what this must mean, rubbing it across his fingers as he remembers red means blood and blood means hurt. He really hurts.

It's this realisation that pushes him over the edge. Detachment turns to tears that — appropriately — burn his eyes but never fall. He doesn't answer Pringle's question, but he does let out a little hiccup.

"Can't even answer a simple question." The man mutters. He lets go of Dillion to wave his wand, unlocking the chains, but the lack of support sends the boy crumpling to the ground again. As he gets picked up, as the imprisonment grows closer and what little freedom he has gets snatched away, tears turn to desperation once more.

I don't want to hurt anymore, He thinks once more, doing what little he can to fight against Pringle. He doesn't want to be trapped. He was free. He liked it there.

Please. Help me, His pleading changes direction. No longer is he begging the Light, or anything that will listen. He's asking the one thing that was supposed to damn him.

And, surprisingly, it's the only thing that answers.

As Pringle lifts his first arm to the chains, before he can be trapped, the Dark takes his sight. It also takes his entire consciousness, leaving him in the sweet, soothing darkness. But before he's truly gone, as it cocoons him in its warmth like the hug of a mother who cares, he's certain he hears it whisper — 'Mine'.

The next thing Dillion knows, he's waking up in the Hospital Wing to Madam Reselda fussing over him. The older woman is pressing cold and wet something against his temple, gentle but hard enough to cause a sting. He jolts at the sensation, surprisingly sensitive, and Reselda withdraws her hand.

"How are you feeling? You had quite the fall." She says and her voice is kind, like that of a grandmother. Or what Dillion thinks a grandmother should sound like. He never met his. She looks how he imagines one would look too — with thick grey hair that bears the memories of the dark colour it once was and warm brown eyes crinkled with wrinkles that make her look like she's always smiling. Before he can respond, the nurse returns to dabbing his head, though she's far more careful this time.

"I'm fine." Dillion answers, though he's not sure how accurate that is. He's certainly better than before, but his body still aches and he's rather tired.

"I've told the Headmaster time and time again, that man is not fit to be punishing students. It's just not right. But I think our Headmaster must be fond of him, for whatever reason." Reselda lets out a disappointed huff, shaking her head softly. "We'll be able to put some salve on your forehead and I've already put some on your legs. It should reduce the pain and speed up the healing process. Unfortunately, Pringle's spell works a little differently so the salve won't get all of it."

"Thank you." Reselda offers him a warm smile. This one he can recognise as motherly. On very rare occasions when he got sick, his mother would give him that same smile. It's the sort of smile that makes it feel like everything is going to be alright. And, for the first time in a while, Dillion thinks that might be true.

He's not sure he promised the Dark, exactly, but he knows he must have promised it something. There was no trade with its protection, so his payment must come later. If he were more awake, and less glad to simply be free from that detention, he might have been more concerned about what he has sold away.

"Don't mention it, dear. I'm just doing my job, after all." She pats his shoulder gently, encouraging him to lie back down in the bed properly. "You can stay here for the night — save your trying to walk all the way up the tower. If you need anything, just call out."

And with that, Madam Reselda disappears into her room, leaving Dillion alone. He doesn't get much chance to give this evening's events much though, as he's drifting to sleep before he even realises it, but he is able to relish in the optimistic feeling that rests in his stomach. He's finally free. His body aches, his head and legs are tingling and sticky with that salve, and yet he's never felt so good.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
It took him five chapters but now we get Dillion in all his unrepressed glory. I'm proud of him

Is the warning at the start helpful? I decided to move it to the start of the chapter to avoid any potential immersion breaks and whatnot, but I still can't decide if it was necessary or not. Normally I would just put a "warning - severe corporal punishment" or something right before the relevant section, but I thought I'd give this way a test run. Is there any preference on which warning method?