9.

A week passes and the blackouts and bleeding continue. It culminates to one confused, desperate evening that leaves Dillion sneaking off after dinner to an abandoned classroom. His friends will be wondering where he is, but he suspects the amount of injuries he's suffered this week will give him enough of an excuse. Any time he has cast a spell with even a trace of the Dark Arts within it has left him with, best case, a blood nose or paper cut and, worst case, losing consciousness. Every spell leaves him buzzing with power he didn't know he had and can't control. He doesn't know what's going on but he knows who can answer his question.

Dillion presses his hand on the door, feeling it close gently under his fingers. There aren't any locks on the door and any charms he might place would be easily broken by a teacher, so he doesn't bother. It would only be a waste of time and, right now, time is his best security. Curfew is rapidly approaching; someone is bound to notice his absence, even if it is Jude.

Dropping to his knees, Dillion takes a piece of chalk and draws a few runes out in front of him — the ones for protection, guidance, assistance, and revelation. This time, in the centre, he places the symbol for darkness, a solid circle. With these drawn, he sits back and allows himself a few seconds to breathe. He still needs to calm himself, even as his heart races with anticipation. Even before the ritual has actually begun, he can feel the darkness settle over him. Shadowy hands wrap around his body, a silken voice whispers in his ear. Her presence makes it easier to ready himself and, once he opens his eyes, he presses his wand into his palm.

Cutting himself is no easier. This time, he doesn't have a knife; he only has his wand and a cutting spell. There's less precision in that, more room for him to mess up. But it's the method least likely to draw suspicions, which is what he thinks is more important right now.

"Secare," He mutters softly, watching as the skin on his hand unravels. The blood takes a few seconds to start ebbing from the wound, as if it wasn't aware it had been opened a few seconds before. Then it begins dripping onto the circle with a steady pat-pat, staining the chalk. He allows his hand to drop, pressing his palm into the circle, smearing his blood across it. He doesn't know what he's doing; he's working on instinct. But it feels right. "I, Dillion Lux, am seeking guidance from the Dark. I–"

"You stupid boy." Dillion's father thunders in his ear, catching his words in his throat. Suddenly, he's back in his bedroom. His father has him in an iron grip, staring down at him as if he's nothing. As if he's tainted — sin incarnate. This is wrong.

'My dearest,' The shadows croon, purposefully dragging him back to the classroom. A velvet tongue laps at his wound, greedily gulping the blood that pours from it. Each lick sends his entire arm buzzing, building every time. The corners of his eyes grow dark as the shadows threaten to consume him, but he fights it. He has to stay awake.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm losing control of my own body and I don't know why." For a second, all Dillion sees is black. As he talks, the energy flees his body as if the darkness is consuming it. Perhaps it is. He wouldn't know. The frustration of not knowing drags his eyes open even as his entire body protests. "I need help. I'm so alone."

'You're not alone, My sweet child.' The darkness whispers in his ear. He feels its breath rustle his hair, a gentle hand on his cheek. It travels to his chin, pushing his gaze up. Heavy lidded eyes stare at the classroom in front of him. As he slips further and further into unconsciousness, he realises he's now face to face with Tom Riddle. As they lock eyes, the older boy's expression fiery with anger, Dillion feels his entire body burn up.

And then he feels nothing.

Tom Riddle had decided to spend his evening exploring Salazar's chamber further, determined to unveil its secrets. This quickly resulted in him buckling down in the study, flicking through many books he's certain wouldn't be allowed in Hogwarts if they were aware of them. While the many books on the Dark Arts and the importance of blood purity are all very interesting, none were unveiling any great horrors in the depths of the chambers. Even the portrait wasn't betraying any secrets.

Running a finger across the books on a shelf, one particular book falls onto the floor, landing open. Tom picks it up, reading the page. The book details a method for gaining guidance from the Dark. The ritual involved is fairly simple, quite often used by beginners, and can be as generic or as specific as the individual wants. Tom wonders if it could direct him towards the answers to the chamber.

Figuring it can't hurt, he collects an inkwell from one of the desks and, much to Salazar's horror, draws a circle on the ground with two ink-covered fingers. He copies the symbols from the book, recognising a few from class. His heart is thumping in anticipation, practically giddy with excitement. This will mark his first Dark ritual. All his reading has led to this moment.

With barely any hesitation, he cuts into his wrist and lets the blood drip from it. As the droplets hit the symbols, the shadows cloaking the room seem to flare. Tom gets the distinct sensation he is no longer alone.

"I, Tom Riddle, state my intent to seek guidance from the Dark. There are secrets hidden within your shadows." Tom calls out, reciting the script from the book. A warm fuzziness fills his senses. "Bestow upon me your knowledge, direct me through the darkness."

He is met with an expected silence. The Dark very rarely makes its presence known.

"There is a lot I don't know and few to guide me. I need assistance to uncover the secrets." Tom continues, dragging his finger across the cut. Ink and blood mix together in a shadowy smear. "Blood for knowledge, that is the trade."

The cut starts to itch, then it starts to burn. But his attention doesn't remain focused on that for long, as the fabric of the room in front of him seems to tear. The small crack opens wider and wider until he sees a classroom, one of the ones in Hogwarts. Sitting in the centre, looking as if he is being held up by something invisible, is none other than Dillion Lux. All Tom knows is rage.

Before he can lunge at the boy, who seems to be losing his grip on consciousness anyway, Tom's body jolts and he falls into his own inky, bloody mess. Something touches his wrist with feathery fingers. The burning settles as his skin stitches itself back together, healing. One secret has been revealed to him this evening and the Dark has taken its price. It isn't the secret he wanted but, for the time, he'll take it.

Pushing himself back to his feet, Tom barely remembers to take care of the mess before he storms out of the chamber.

Finding Dillion is surprisingly easy. It's as if his feet — or the Dark — is purposefully leading him towards the boy, in the first classroom he checked despite not knowing where the boy was. The door opens easily, not even charmed, and Tom finds Dillion lying in a rather obvious mess of blood and chalk. It's no wonder he was disowned.

With little care, Tom crouches down and turns the boy over. It gives him great pleasure to raise a hand, then bring it swinging down to slap Dillion. There's even more pleasure in it not working, as it means he gets to try a second time. The second slap, unfortunately, succeeds in drawing the younger boy to consciousness with a start. Reacting by instinct, Dillion attempts to scramble away but Tom grabs his shirt by the collar, perched over him. His knees pin Dillion's arms down, pressing them into the stone floor. Alertness floods into his gaze, turning alarmed eyes into a narrowed glare.

"I ought to kill you for spying on me." Tom threatens the boy, purposefully gripping the collar just tight enough to start constricting his neck. "They'd find you in a puddle of your own blood and just assume you'd been messing around with the Dark Arts. You'd die a failure and a disgrace."

"Do it. I'd die a disgrace, but at least I wasn't born one." Dillion goads him, leaning forwards against his restraints. The collar digs tighter into his neck as he does so. Keeping his expression steeled despite the anger rolling around inside him, the Slytherin stares at him for a good few seconds. If he didn't move, perhaps Dillion would strangle himself. He's almost inclined to see if he does. But instead, Tom releases his grip on Dillion, letting him fall back onto the floor. Pain floods his expression as his head makes impact, all his confidence leaving. "Fuck you, Riddle. I wasn't spying on you."

"Then what were you doing opening a window between these rooms?"

"That wasn't me. I think it was the Dark." Dillion pauses as he winces. "I was doing a guidance ritual."

Tom's eyes narrow. He's ready to accuse him of lying, but he glances at the chalk they're lying on. At the edges, he can see some of the symbols that haven't been smudged yet. They're the same as the ones he drew.

"You're telling me you were coincidentally doing the same ritual as me?" Dillion nods his head. "How do I know you weren't just asking it to unveil my secrets?"

"I know about the chamber. It's not a secret." The brunet rolls his eyes, before they rest in a bored glare up at Tom. "I wouldn't put myself at so much risk just to catch you doing that. I'd lose more than I gained."

Slowly, Tom's mistrust begins settling to its neutral state. He doesn't trust the strange coincidence, but he does recognise that this is too much risk for such pathetic information. Even for Dillion. Making sure to dig his knees into the boy's arms on the way up, Tom gets to his feet.

While attempting to push himself up, Dillion holds out a hand as if he needs help up. There's a moment of hesitation as Tom considers ignoring it. But, as he notices the fresh blood staining the younger's neck and collar, he takes the hand.

Where their hands touch, the skin begins to burn as if hot oil has been poured over it. Though he tries, Tom can't pull his own hand away. The pain turns his knees to jelly and he drops back to the ground, Dillion soon to follow. A shadowy chain coalesces from the darkness of the room and wraps around their hands. It wraps tighter and tighter, until their hands are barely visible within it.

And then, as soon as it started, it vanishes. Their hands release the other. Dillion is the first to scramble away, holding his hand against his chest.

"What did you do, Riddle?" He spits, panting heavily. His forehead is slick with sweat and blood, pressing dark curls against it.

"That wasn't me. What did you do?" Tom responds, before glancing down at his hand. It's trembling uncontrollably, the ghostly sensation of the pain lingering. Stark against his pale skin, looking like unnatural veins, thin lines that resemble shadowy lightning climb across his hand. It disappears up his sleeve. When he looks back up, Dillion is rubbing his furiously as if it might make it disappear.

They make eye contact again; Dillion's eyes are wild with panic. He looks vulnerable.

"If we can't get rid of this, we're going to have to figure out how to hide it until we know what it is." Tom continues calmly, deciding Dillion isn't going to be any help. He hopes maybe his own calmness might rub off on the younger. The brunet nods once, still rubbing his hand. "We don't know if others will be able to recognise it, but having matching markings isn't going to look good."

"I can't bandage it up. Michael will know I did something." There's a tremor in Dillion's voice, betraying what is scaring him. It's not the mark; it's his family. He hasn't stopped trying to wipe it off his hand.

"Wear gloves, then. I doubt this is going to be charmed away, but we can try." Tom closes the distance between the pair, kneeling down in front of him. He takes the marked hand, which is trembling just as bad as his, and presses his wand against it. Casting the concealment charm they've been practicing in class, he waits to see if anything changes. Sure enough, nothing does.

"This isn't what I fucking wanted!" Dillion shouts at nothing, hitting the back of his head against the wall. "You tricked me!"

Letting out an angry sob, the boy curls up inside himself. This, in the process, pulls Tom's hand into the cocoon and he finds himself trapped. He crouches there, staring at the bloodied back of Dillion's head. He doesn't know what to do.

"What happened during your ritual?" He asks, thinking maybe a distraction is what the brunet needs. It seems to work, as he uncurls himself and looks up at Tom. However, Dillion remains silent, clearly keeping something from him.

"We have had two unordinary results from our rituals. It would be best if we were on the same page as to what occurred." Tom explains, then offers a trade of information. "I asked for assistance in uncovering secrets, my arm started to burn, then I saw you. When I tried to move, I lost control of my body briefly."

"The Dark showed me you after telling me I wasn't alone. I was asking for help." Dillion finally responds, watching the older boy cautiously. Tom wants to ask how the Dark spoke to him, but files it away for a later day. There are more pressing matters for their limited time.

"Maybe the Dark wanted this to happen." The Slytherin suggests, receiving a nod from the other boy. While he lacks an understanding of why, it's the only explanation that makes sense to him. "I'm going to see if any of my books explain this. Do you have any books you can read?"

"Not unless I go home. I didn't risk bringing any with me."

"Check the library, then. There might still be information on it there." Tom looks over Dillion once more. The boy is covered in his own blood, far too much for the ritual. Glancing down at himself, he realises his state isn't much better. He's not sure whose blood is smeared across his sweater, but it's mixed with dark splotches of ink. Fortunately, magic takes care of the mess; a few flicks of his wand and both boys are clean, as is the room around them. "If this is some kind of trick, I will kill you."

"Don't flatter yourself. I wouldn't waste this much effort on you." Dillion's insult lacks its usual bite as exhaustion laces his voice. He looks as if he's about to fall asleep on his feet, swaying slightly every time he pauses. It makes Tom aware that his own energy is slipping from him with every wasted minute. The ritual, and the stress that followed, is more taxing than he'd expected. "I'll go first, so people don't catch us together. See you in class."

As Dillion leaves, a strange sensation sits within Tom's core. It's barely noticeable — he only notices because he has nothing else to focus on — but he feels a slight tug on his insides, as if something has suddenly detached itself from him. He feels slightly emptier, less whole, though he has never felt not full before. Not like this, in any case. He suspects this is connected to whatever has scarred his hand.

Once there's been enough time after the younger's departure, Tom makes his own way from the classroom. While his body is tired, his mind is buzzing with thoughts. He has so many questions, so few answers, and a desperation to solve this puzzle. He can't be connected to Dillion Lux.

Back at the dormitory, Eric is still awake, sitting in one of the couches near the fire. He's nursing his hand gingerly, staring into the flame with a vacant expression on his face. The detachment disappears once he notices Tom's arrival and looks over. Tom quickly puts his hand behind his back, just to be safe.

"You missed our ritual." Eric comments, before promptly yawning. Tom approaches and stands beside the other chair, feeling the warmth of the fire wash over him. "I never asked if you were interested in that side of things."

"What ritual?"

"An old tradition for Mabon. It's not a Dark ritual, but it's mostly Dark wizards and old wizarding families that still honour them. We gathered, made offerings, and celebrated the Dark." Eric explains, before gesturing at his hand. Up close, Tom can see a cut travelling across the palm. "I stupidly decided cutting my palm would be a good idea when the Dark is particularly strong and responsive. I'm hoping it will be healed in the morning."

"The Dark is more responsive?" Tom repeats in question. This information might actually be useful to him.

"All magic is, really — because so many people are collectively feeding it. If you're looking for an answer to something, it's the best time to ask." Eric pauses as he rises to his feet, the chair creaking under him in the otherwise silent room. "Or worse, in a way. Much more likely to get trapped in something just because the Dark was feeling particularly generous."

Tom almost chuckles humorously, his hand practically itching. He's tempted to reveal it to Eric, see what his opinion is, but he's not sure he can trust him. The other boy seems to know plenty of secrets, but Tom has also heard him reveal a fair amount as casually as idle talk.

"If you let me know when they're happening, I'd be interested in attending future rituals." Tom answers instead, getting a pleased smile from Eric.

"Great. Next one isn't until Halloween."

'I've been waiting for you,' A voice whispers in the darkness Tom feels as if he's been treading through for what feels like an eternity. He knows that he's asleep, as he can't remember waking, but he doesn't know if this is a dream. It must be a dream, if it's occurring in his sleep. A dream or a nightmare, but there has been nothing particularly nightmarish yet. He comes to a halt as he tries to locate the source of the voice, but all he can see is the everlasting darkness. 'I was beginning to think you'd never find me.'

"I'm not sure I have found you." Tom is surprised to find the words leave his lips. He had only meant to think them, but they slipped past all the same. "I don't even know who you are."

The darkness suddenly seems full of life, as if it is no longer merely the absence of light; the shadows pulse with energy and Tom believes if he reached out, he could touch them. A laughter rings melodically through them, echoing around him in a disorientating manner. Once again, there is no discernible source.

'I have many names, but you know me as the Dark.' The voice purrs, taking on a feminine quality. Tom imagines a woman as dark as the shadows that cloak her sitting in front of him, brimming with power. Unlike his thoughts, she remains in his head. 'You found me the moment you bled for me. I found you the day you were born, but I waited. Every path is different, but they all lead to me.'

"I've never heard of magic talking to people like this." Tom comments.

'I am more than magic. But you are correct — this is uncommon. You are uncommon.'

"Why?" Tom can't help but ask. The comment settles itself in his head, feeding his ego.

'There are many reasons, but that is for you to find out. I just wanted to say hello.' Tom gets the feeling that, if the Dark had a form, she would now be rising from her chair with clear intent to leave. 'I had been dying to meet you.'

"Why did you mark Dillion and me?" Tom asks the thing he's been dying to know.

'As a gift and an answer to your questions.' The Dark answers vaguely, only frustrating Tom. If he wasn't talking to magic incarnate, he might have objected. But he doesn't feel like tempting the Dark, even in a dream. If the woman was rising before, he feels she must be standing at the door now. 'I do hate seeing one of Mine in distress... But the gifts are for you to discover, not for me to tell.'

"Will this happen again?"

The laughter rings out again, though this time it's softer. She doesn't seem to be mocking him.

'No, Tom.' And with that, he feels her presence pull back. The darkness becomes simply that again, as empty as it has been before. Placing one foot in front of the other, he begins his trek again. Thoughts leave him as he returns to his dreamlessness, soon he doesn't even remember the interaction.

*

Dillion wakes to discover his pillow is covered in blood. It's easy to wave away with the flick of his wand, but no less concerning. In an attempt to find the source of the blood, he feels around his hair until he finds a tender spot surrounded by stiff curls. He must have hurt his head in one of the many falls in the previous evening. It's only fortunate that he woke earlier with the intention of showering, as he'd fallen asleep straight away the night before.

Clay is awake as he attempts to sneak out of the dormitory, still lying in bed but definitely aware of him. The other boy frowns, both curious and confused. Gesturing at the clothes bundled around his newly scarred hand, he hopes that's enough to tell him where he's going. When he receives no further objections, he assumes it must have and goes off to the bathroom.

As Dillion stands under the shower, the water that trickles down his body turns red with the blood. There's more caked under his clothes, missed by Tom's wand. As it warms up, the wound on Dillion's head begins to sting but he doesn't move until the water runs clear. After that, he goes about his usual bathroom routine, enjoying the warm water while he has it.

Before he dresses himself, Dillion takes the time to look at his hand. The scars that travel up it could barely be called scars, but they couldn't be called veins either. The dark markings scatter across his skin like one large lightning bolt. The strands travel up his arm, dispersing before they hit his shoulder. He tries a few experimental concealing charms on them, but nothing works. The Dark has ensured they are there to stay.

"But why?" Dillion mutters as he turns his hand over. On the inside of his wrist, an actual scar rests — a sign of a long term deal with the Dark he doesn't remember making. He understands now why so many might be afraid of the Dark. It seems to like to play with tricks and riddles, skirting around the answer, never really explaining things. Dillion feels like its puppet, dancing blindly as it pulls at his strings.

But it's more than he ever got from the Light and that has to count for something.

Right?

The Deathly Hallows have been painted onto Great Hall's doors overnight, dried drips cracking in a dark red colour. It looks like blood, but Tom hopes it isn't. No one seems willing to cross the path and the Hallows, as if the sign has created an invisible barrier keeping them all huddled outside the hall. Everyone knows what it means: Grindelwald, or his supporters, were here. Given the tyrant's fear of Dumbledore, it's likely a student amongst them declaring their support. They could even be standing there with them, right now.

There's a quiet murmur of conversation spreading throughout the group as the initial shock wears off. One voice carries over the rest, echoing a shared thought, "I wonder who would do that?"

"It's probably a Slytherin." Another student, further away from the first, pipes up with a contemptuous tone. Tom glances over and spots the red and gold tie instantly. Of course.

"What's that supposed to mean?" A younger Slytherin retorts, a fight brewing. House rivalry has rarely been anything worse than friendly, if a tad violent during Quidditch season, but Gryffindor and Slytherin have always had a little bit of tension. The personalities either attracts leads to personality clashes worse than the other house. But it has never been this bad; it has never led to such accusatory generalisations.

"Everyone knows you're a bunch of purist Dark wizards. The whole lot of you probably support Grindelwald." The Gryffindor claims, earning several noises of angry exclamation from the Slytherins. The Slytherin girl goes to attack the boy, but is pulled back by one of her older classmates. "I bet you're glad that murderer is doing all the hard work for you."

"Wherever you got that information from, you've been misinformed." Eric responds in her place, calm and careful.

"That's not a Slytherin's work, anyway." The girl nods her head at the painting, her lips twisting into a mean smirk. "It's dumb enough to be a Gryffindor's, though. Maybe you did it."

Wands are drawn. Tom steps forward, casting a disapproving frown towards the Gryffindor as he warns, "Don't make me deduct points from your house."

The boy stands down, reluctance clear in his form. He's not alone, Tom notices as he glances at the other students; more Gryffindors look ready to defend him, glaring at the group of Slytherins. Something is changing. Tom can't shake the feeling that this a turning point, this marks the start of something new. This tension between the two houses has taken a step forward, worsening. With the Gryffindors so eager to point fingers and the Slytherins determined to defend their pride, this isn't going to end well.

"Oh, my!" Finally, an adult. Headmaster Dippet's surprised cry diffuses the remnants of the fight as all those involved are eager to avoid detention. He pushes through the crowd of students, pausing to take in the symbol. Muttering to himself, he draws his wand and, within seconds, the Hallows are cleaned from the doors.

"It is likely just students messing about, Headmaster." Dumbledore comments, close behind the older man. The Transfiguration professor's gaze travels slowly over the students around him. He locks eyes with Tom, holding the contact. In those few seconds, Tom realises he's a suspect without having done anything. Dumbledore is a Gryffindor so he needs little more than his gut to go off baseless accusations. He will suspect Tom or another Slytherin, perhaps Dillion too given the younger's recent reputation. They will have to be more careful from now on.

"I should hope so. However, joke or not, this is unacceptable." Dippet's tone is laced with concerned disapproval. With the door clean and a majority of the students gathered, he turns to face the crowd. "If anyone has any information regarding this, I urge you to come forward privately. If you are the culprit, I urge you to confess; your punishment will be significantly lighter if you tell the truth and explain yourself."

There's a heavy pause as he lets his instructions sink in, before the doors open behind him. Soon, students are piling into the Great Hall to begin their delayed breakfast. Naturally, the hall is buzzing with conversation of the recent events. First the prophecy and now this.

"His family was killed by Grindelwald." Eric says as they take their seats at the Slytherin table. He nods his head towards the Gryffindors. "I overheard one of them talking about it."

"It doesn't give him the excuse to start making such comments." Tom responds, brow furrowed in annoyance.

"Maybe not, but people will likely just assume it was the grief talking. It won't come to anything."

"What happened to your hand, Tom?" Cessair asks, gesturing at his bandaged hand. He'd had to summon some bandages while hiding in his bed, hoping they wouldn't come from anyone who would go looking for them. He gives a casual shrug as he glances at his hand, hoping it might give off the suggestion that it doesn't really matter.

"I sprained it." There's one chuckle from the boys around him.

"Madam Reselda can probably do something about that."

"It's just a sprain. It will heal on its own." Tom has never sprained his hand before, but he hopes that will give him enough time to figure out what's going on with the markings.

Defence Against the Dark Arts is first. At first, Tom was almost glad to have a class with Dillion so early. But then he remembered their social separation, as well as the company the younger keeps. He has very few reasons to approach him, much less get him alone, without raising suspicions.

As he walks into the classroom, however, he finds them alone except for Merrythought. Tom greets the teacher with extra warmth this morning, putting every ounce of charm into his words, before he comments loudly to Dillion, "I've been thinking about those tips you gave me."

Dillion looks up tiredly as the Slytherin approaches. Tom settles himself on the desk in front of the boy, leaning against the edge. White gloves of expensive-looking leather cover both Dillion's hands. They stand out but, fortunately, hide the markings.

"Has anything changed for you?" Tom asks in a lower tone, hoping their discussion appears innocent. Dillion shakes his head. He rolls the edge of his glove back, revealing the shadowy marks. "I dreamt of the Dark last night. It spoke to me."

"Anything helpful?" Tom shakes his head too. He doesn't want to reveal the details of the dream any more than necessary. He's not sure anything he learnt wasn't what they already knew, and the rest he simply doesn't want to tell. Dillion doesn't need to know he's uncommon. "I tried all the charms I could think of to hide them but none of them worked. They just stay there."

"I suspected as much." Students have begun to enter now, making discrete conversation far more difficult. "Meet me outside the Great Hall tonight, finish dinner early. We'll do some proper investigation then."

"I'll have to tell my friends something."

"I'm sure you'll figure that out." Tom casts Dillion a cautious glance. "Just don't say anything unflattering about me."

"It's not like they'd believe me anyway." Tom allows himself a chuckle before he goes to his own seat. As he settles himself at the front, Merrythought raises an amused eyebrow — as if the thought of Tom associating with Dillion is laughable — but thankfully doesn't comment on or question the interaction.

The rest of the class drags as they learn a new spell. All Tom wants to do is pull back the bandages and see if the marking is still there. It will be. He knows it will be. But it doesn't stop him from hoping, maybe, it'll magically disappear. Even Dillion is quieter than usual; there's no sudden interjections about tidbits no one asked for. When Merrythought asks for volunteers, he still remains silent. Tom suspects the younger is as distracted as he is. He went to the Dark with a single question, and now he's left with plenty more. His first question wasn't even answered.

He's growing tired of having to solve puzzles.