7.

BY the next day, the news of Hinde's trance has spread across the school like all exciting things do. As far as Tom can tell, it seems very few of the student population actually know what she was predicting, but it sounds dangerous and so everyone has been treating it as such. Hinde herself has found herself the centre of attention, approached by everyone just to hear her recount of what occurred. According to her, she can't remember what happened, disappointing everyone.

Eric, in particular, seems quite invested in this piece of gossip. Or, at least, he hasn't shut up about it all breakfast. Tom had stayed up far too late last night trying to finish an essay he'd neglected in favour of his own investigations, and barely has the energy to listen to the boy rant, no matter how interested he might be. And he is interested.

"Has returned, she said?" Eric asks Tom, still stuck on the same point he's been stuck on for the last few minutes. The brunet nods his head tiredly, focusing on his scrambled eggs. For something so basic, his breakfast is rather good. He could probably eat scrambled eggs every day, were he not intent on eating as much of the food as he could in variation. "But that can't be right."

Eric has been saying the same vague things on repeat and they're starting to get annoying. He clearly knows something, but won't divulge this with the rest of the group. No one else seems particularly bothered.

"Apparently Mancio said it was a proper Divination. It's probably right." Samael comments from Tom's side of the table, looking as tired as the younger feels.

"We would have known, though." Eric insists.

"She could have been predicting the future. Wouldn't be much of a prediction if it had already happened." Mort Avery responds from beside Eric, reaching over the other Slytherin to grab some more toast. He doesn't bother putting any sorts of spreads on it, simply bites into the dry toast like a mad man. He gives Eric a pointed look, one that's ignored.

"Then she would have said 'is coming', not 'has returned'. They're too very different things!" How Eric has enough energy to get this riled up in the morning is beyond Tom. From the grin on both Mort and Samael's faces, they're both clearly enjoying the spectacle he's starting to create. The pair of them chuckle silently as he yells, defending his point. "The Dark Lord can't have returned because there was no sign. We wouldn't need the prediction of a student telling us they're back."

"Maybe this is the sign." Dominic suggests, clearly deciding to join the game of 'Rile Up Eric', now that his breakfast is finished. "Hinde's family has some history with seers, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but–" Eric doesn't get a chance to finish what is likely about to be yet another redundant sentence about how the girl must be wrong. Finally growing tired of listening to this conversation go in circles while lacking one critical piece of context, Tom decides to interrupt him.

"What is a Dark Lord? Or who is the Dark Lord?" Somehow, his question seems to shut Eric up. Amazing how, the second he wants to know something, he can't get a word out of him. Perhaps he should have tried this sooner.

"Well, it's– uh–" Eric stammers, after a few seconds of complete silence.

"It's like the king of the Dark Arts." Mort says in a straightforward manner that seems to annoy Eric. Everything seems to annoy Eric.

"Or queen, if we're using that analogy." He corrects. 

"Or queen." There's a mocking tone to Mort's voice as he continues, echoing Eric. "But it's usually a man, especially when they're called a 'Dark Lord'. There's only ever been one female Dark Lord in history."

"Dark Lords are also rare these days. Basically wiped out at this point because of all the policing on the Dark Arts." Dominic continues. His interruption, unlike Eric's, doesn't seem to bother Mort, who simply goes back to eating dry toast. "They were these super powerful Dark Chosen Ones, essentially. Everyone was scared of them because they were scared of the Dark Arts, though, and would hunt them down. Eventually, they just stopped showing up."

"Until now." Tom is met with a few nods from the boys around him. Except Eric, who still isn't convinced on the whole claims.

"How do you tell if someone is a Dark Lord?"

"You don't. Well, most people don't." Eric is quick to answer, glancing around them nervously. His gaze seems to settle on the teachers at the front for a fraction longer, before looking back to the group. "They might announce themselves, but only a Dark wizards would know for certain. Not that anyone would admit to that — or even participate in it — given current opinions on it."

"Guys, check this out." Cessair pipes up from behind his newspaper. Whether he's been listening or not is uncertain, but he's certainly been distracted for most of breakfast. "'Grindelwald strikes again — an attempted capture of the notorious Dark wizard leads to several deaths and even more injuries...' You don't think that–"

The table is silent, all considering the implications of Cessair's unfinished sentence. Since declaring war with the wizarding world, Grindelwald has been sending even the likes of Dumbledore — who, while Tom might not respect, even he can't deny his power — cowering in terror. The man is certainly powerful, and his skills in the Dark Arts is infamous at this point. Tom might not know what the other signs are, but he seems like a viable candidate for Dark Lord.

Eric seems to think otherwise, "He's been around for a while and we've heard nothing. He seems like the sort to announce himself, anyway. We would have known."

"Not necessarily." Dominic's words clearly carry some undertone that only he and Eric must understand, as they share a knowing look. It infuriates Tom, sitting on the outside like this. If he was not so restrained, he would yell at them, demand they explain what they're so obviously skirting around in this conversation they've inflicted on him.

"This has to be a new practitioner, someone recently chosen. It's not going to be an established wizard." At this, Tom thinks of the only Dark wizard he knows personally — Dillion. While he can't date for certain when Dillion started practicing the Dark Arts, he can date when he was caught. And that is enough to stir worry in Tom's gut. He can't have Dillion be better than him to this degree. He doesn't want to even think of Dillion as the Dark Lord.

But the thought is there now, teasing him, mocking him.

The curiosity around the Dark Lord is not limited to the Slytherins and the topic manages to invade one of Tom's favourite classes. One student, as Merrythought makes a call for questions, decides to use this opportunity to ask, "What is a Dark Lord?"

In most cases, Tom would be interested in hearing what Merrythought has to say. Unfortunately, in this case, all Tom can think is the possibility the Dark Lord might be sitting behind him with that obnoxious, smug smirk resting on his lips, likely barely even paying attention to the class. Though, if they are talking about him, maybe he would listen to just have his ego stroked.

Merrythought considers this question for a moment, clearly conflicted on whether she even wants to entertain the student. Her lips pursed in thought, she lets out a quiet sigh through her nose. It looks as if she had been expecting this, but hoping it wouldn't occur all the same.

"Does anyone have an answer for Miss Brown?" She asks the rest of the class. Tom doesn't bother looking around, but he hears the quiet shuffle of clothing amongst otherwise silence — likely very few people have an answer. But one does, as she gestures and says, "Yes, Mr. Lux?"

She sounds about as apprehensive as Tom feels.

"They're corrupt wizards that break magic to do the Dark's bidding. Only the worst of the worst get chosen. They're usually power-hungry and don't know what they're getting into, the sort that sell their souls away," comes Dillion's surprisingly vehement description from the back of the class. It's comforting. A Dark Lord wouldn't talk about themselves like that. "Or, at least, that's all Father would say about them."

"Well, your father is mostly correct." There's a quiet scoff from Dillion. "They are chosen by the Dark and are usually quite skilled in the Dark Arts. Whether they're innately corrupt and power-hungry or if it's simply the nature of the Dark Arts that attracts that sort is unknown, but they have a history of doing horrible things with the power they're given. That is, if they even exist."

"They must exist if they've returned." Another student pipes up.

"A Dark Lord in title might have returned, but that does not mean they are all the myth suggests they are." Merrythought corrects, before she claps her hands together once with an air of finality. It's clear she's finished entertaining this discussion. "Now, this is not at all about anti-jinxes. Let's get back on topic..."

The rest of the class passes as smoothly as all Defense Against the Dark Arts classes do. But Tom is the most distracted he's ever been, mind buzzing with the possibilities of a Dark Lord and, more importantly, the location of Salazar's chamber. If Hinde's vision had been deemed accurate, perhaps his too might be meaningful. This evening he intends on finding out if that's the case. But until then he must wait, and that is insufferable.

*

The second-floor corridor is, thankfully, empty as Tom moves down it that evening. As curfew grows closer, fewer students have reason to be in this part of the school. The corridor looks much like a lot of the rest of the school, except that it is sparsely decorated in comparison. There is nothing remotely remarkable about his surroundings, which brings some hesitation to Tom's steps. He stays close to the wall, searching for any sign of a secret passage.

It's while he's doing so that he gets any sort of indicator that he might be on the right track. As he runs his fingers lightly across the brick wall, seemingly from inside the wall, something whispers, "Come... Come to me."

This causes Tom to halt and he stares at the part of the wall the cold voice came from. The words repeat, growing fainter as if moving away. There is no one else around and Tom is certain it's inside the wall, so he follows the voice. It continues to coax him forwards until he finds himself outside the girls' bathroom. Naturally, he hesitates.

"Come to me," hisses the voice. As he stands at the door of the bathroom, Tom finally recognises that it's speaking Parseltongue. The voice is calling out to him, specifically. It wants him.

There aren't any people around and inside certainly sounds quiet, so Tom takes the risk. He slinks inside, finding a much cleaner bathroom than any of the boys', but nothing remotely remarkable about it either. The hissing continues to call to him, the only sort of guide, leading him to the sink. The sink, at a glance, looks like any other sink. It takes Tom multiple inspections, all filled with the worry that someone might catch him, until he finally finds something of note — a little snake scratched into one of the taps.

If this is the entrance to the chamber — which Tom thinks it is — then he must admit this isn't making the list of Salazar's greatest achievements. Whoever thought it would be a good idea to place the entrance in a bathroom, much less the girls' bathroom, had definitely not considered the potential issues that might arise from it. If this is the chamber, Tom is going to have to find a better way to move around. This is too high risk to work long term.

Needing confirmation, Tom takes a guess and whispers softly in Parseltongue, "Open."

At his order, the tap begins spinning and glowing, disassembling itself in a rather dramatic display. Tom isn't quite sure whoever designed this entrance was even a Slytherin — a Gryffindor, perhaps. Whoever it was, he's certain it wasn't Salazar. This must have been a later instalment.

Eventually, the sink stops, no longer recognisable. In its place, a gaping hole sits in the centre of the floor. The hole is just large enough for a person to slip through, and Tom suspects that was the intent. Or so he hopes, as he takes one reckless step forward and drops into the pipe. The fall is much like a slide, one full of twists and turns, propelling him forward in an alarming and uncomfortable speed. The smooth surface allows little grip to even slow himself down, far too damp. He is stuck falling, until suddenly the pipe spits him out into a dark tunnel.

A long walk blindly through a short tunnel eventually leads to a much larger chamber that echoes with the droplets of water. Rows upon rows of snakes' heads greet him, the first clear indicator that this was likely Salazar's creation. The second is the tall statue, the size of the chamber itself, resting against the wall that Tom assumes must be the man himself. Beyond the sculptures, the chamber is otherwise empty. Eager to explore, Tom follows the chamber through to another hallway, which opens into an unnaturally warm room. Compared to the rest of the chamber, this room appears to be a normal study. Wooden bookshelves line almost all the rooms, except one that has a grand fireplace and painting resting above it. The man resting in the painting bears a striking resemblance to the statue outside. Unlike the rest of the chamber, this room has wooden floor and walls and a warm glow to it — it looks as if someone took a room out of a different building and planted it here.

Glancing at the bookshelves, Tom finds quite a few titles pertaining the the Dark Arts. He can tell from title alone that these aren't the sort he'd expect to see in the library. A time set aside to study these will definitely be in order.

A doorway hidden amongst the bookshelves reveals a large lounge room, containing couches large enough to sleep on and a piano that looks incredibly expensive. Tom presses a finger on a key experimentally, the note ringing loudly throughout the room, and decides it might be worth learning how to play before he attempts that again.

The painting of Salazar is still sleeping when Tom walks through again. While he would like to spend more time here, he knows his presence will be missed if he doesn't return soon. With great reluctance, he begins searching for an exit.

While following a tunnel on the other side of the chamber, Tom suddenly finds himself on the second floor, further down from the bathroom. When he glances back where he came, all he sees is a brick wall. He doesn't understand how that works just yet but, he supposes, at least leaving is more inconspicuous than entering. With a mental note to examine that later, Tom heads off back to the Slytherin dormitory.

What he doesn't realise is that, for all his care, he has already been caught — by none other than Dillion Lux.

Determined to find some taint on the older boy's otherwise clean record, Dillion has developed a habit of following Tom whenever he looks remotely suspicious. When Tom had left his friends that rarely leave his side, Dillion had chosen to see where he was headed. Which led him right to the girls' bathroom. Whatever Tom was doing inside, it involved some snake-like hisses that can only mean one thing.

Tom is the heir to Slytherin. A Dark Lord and the creator of the Chamber of Secrets, a source of unnameable horror. Dillion doesn't like the sound of that combination one bit.

*

By the time Tom returns to the dormitory, some of the students have gathered for what seems to be a rather selective meeting. Regardless, most of Tom's company is there and he approaches them anyway. None seem all too displeased to see him; Cessair even makes space on the couch beside him.

"Hi, Tom. We were just discussing the Dark Lord business." Cessair greets him as the older boy sits down beside him. The conversation has halted briefly at his arrival, attention divided between him and Eric.

"Is this where you explain whatever you weren't explaining at the table this morning?" Tom asks Eric, an eyebrow raised.

"Yes, here is where we can talk about things in more detail." Eric confirms quite quickly, clearly even chattier than he had been this morning. Still, he gives a pointed look to some of the other boys, "The Dark Arts isn't something that we should be talking about so openly. If we get caught for being practitioners, we would probably get expelled."

"Or worse, Ministry involvement." Dominic adds.

"Or disowned for exposing family secrets." Samuel continues.

"You're all Dark wizards?" Tom asks as he looks amongst the boys. They could prove more useful than he had anticipated, if their nods are any indicator. Most of the boys make some affirmative gesture, except Mort who merely shrugs.

"Depends on how you define it." Eric elaborates on their answers. "Some of us have taken up the path, but some of us just use the spells, like Mort and Cessair."

"I'm going to once I'm seventeen. It's just family tradition." Cessair is quick to defend himself, as if ashamed of separation from the group. Mort doesn't seem to mind. Whether it's his attitude or the sweets in his mouth, he doesn't bother responding. "What about you, Tom?"

"I have books, but few opportunities to do more than read them." He leaves out the bit about Salazar's chamber. That he plans on keeping close to his chest for the time being. It's still not technically a lie, though. He has read some introductory level books before, those designed to educate someone on the dangers of the Arts, but very few that actually train a Dark wizard. And now, he likely has plenty of them, but less opportunities to read them. He will have to see if books can be taken from the chamber, so he can read them on nights when sleep doesn't come as easily.

"Anyway, has anyone felt any sort sign recently?" Eric steers the conversation back to the topic at hand, looking carefully from person to person. Everyone shakes their heads, muttering negative responses, leaving the boy unsatisfied. "That's what I thought."

"How would you tell?" Tom asks, quickly receiving various shrugs.

"It's not recorded very well and it's been so long since there was one, there's no one alive that has experienced." Eric answers.

"The books say a Dark wizard would be able to tell, though." Cessair adds, "Like a sixth sense."

"Dark Lords generally have a mark as well."

"Grindelwald has a mark." Cessair pipes up, voice ringing with hesitation.

"The Deathly Hallows are an existing symbol. I don't think it counts." Eric is quick to retort, as ever.

"It is technically a Mark, though. His followers wear it and everyone knows it's bad luck to see it these days." Dominic says, much to Eric's annoyance and Cessair's gratitude. "I don't think we should count him out just because we don't like him."

"He's just another egotistical murderer. He and his bloody followers have caused more wizard deaths than they have muggle — he's going to wipe us out." Eric shakes his head once again, clearly furious. "He does nothing to help our image and the only reason he's one of our most powerful wizards is because the people who can do something about it, won't. The Dark wouldn't choose someone like him."

"The Dark would choose someone powerful. Even in his own right, he's still earned that status. I'm not sure the magic would know to discriminate."

With great reluctance, Eric seems to resign, "What do we do if he is the Dark Lord, then? I'm not following him."

"I don't think we have much alternative, not when we know so little about Dark Lords." Dominic answers. When he continues, there is a determined quality to his voice that suggests a plan in the making, one that they all silently agree to, "We need to find out more."

*

The Dark is angry. Dillion doesn't know how, but he can sense it. It fills his veins like molten lava. It makes him angry.

Jude must sense something is off as he asks, "Are you alright, Dillion?" Concern is ringing in his tone and, if he weren't so consumed by this fiery rage, Dillion might have been more touched. As it is, he struggles to answer his friend. There isn't a lot he can say that might explain the state he's in, and certainly nothing that wouldn't incriminate him. So he just gives a sharp nod of the head and remains silent. "Is it the first years? I can ask them to quiet down."

The first years, as far as first years go, are barely louder than a mouse. The Ravenclaw common room is filled with the quiet murmur of students studying, the occasional louder outburst of students procrastinating, and that is all. It's definitely not the source of his emotions.

"They're fine." He mutters, glancing up at Jude. The boy is watching him carefully, with a worried glimmer in his eye. He doesn't look as concerned for Dillion as he does for those around them, as if he thinks the brunet might suddenly attack at any second. Dillion feels like he might.

A few moments of silence pass between them, filled with an attempt to return back to their essays. But the longer Dillion sits here, the longer that anger bubbles away like a pot on the heat for too long. He knows it's seconds away from boiling over in a painful mess and, in a desperate attempt to take it off the heat, he decides to leave the common room. The dormitories won't provide him the seclusion he seeks, so he heads out of the tower instead.

Behind him, he can hear Jude call out, "Dillion, it's past curfew," but he doesn't care.

Dillion is only wandering aimlessly for a few minutes before a teacher finally catches him. While he's glad it isn't his brother, he's no less lucky to bump into Dumbledore. The Transfiguration professor raises a curious eyebrow at the sight of him, commenting, "It is a bit late to be roaming the halls, isn't it, Mr. Lux?"

"I needed some fresh air, sir." Dillion responds stiffly. Some of the tension is beginning to ease from his body as he feels the Dark's grip on him release, but its presence still lingers.

"Feeling under the weather?" Something in Dumbledore's otherwise conversational tone gives Dillion the feeling that he doesn't believe him. It's as if he is peering right into the boy's very being, prying into his head to find the answers being kept from him. Paranoid, Dillion retreats internally. Every mental wall he knows is built up around him and he feels the Dark curl around him once more. This time, it feels protective; his emotions are his own, but he feels like a dragon's most guarded, prized possession.

"I suppose."

"If you intend on returning to your dormitory, or visiting Madam Reselda, I hope you are aware I will have to accompany you. I can't allow a student to be unsupervised at this time of night."

"It's not that late." Dillion can't help himself. His response is, fortunately, met with an amused twinkle in Dumbledore's eye, rather than any serious scolding.

"Consider me a stickler for the rules." With a gesture of his hand, Dumbledore indicates for Dillion to choose his path. The brunet decides to turn back the way he came, back to the Ravenclaw tower. He doesn't have any reason to visit Reselda. Since Dumbledore's approach, his emotions have settled. And he has plenty of salve for his legs — too much, even. "I am sorry to hear of what happened over the break. I trust you are adjusting?"

Dillion grunts a noncommittal response, already wanting to change the topic. Of all the professors to discuss his recent disownment with, Dumbledore isn't the one. He doesn't have much against the old man, but he's only ever been the Transfiguration teacher to him. Some students — Gryffindors, usually — manage to catch the man's attention and they seem to bond, but not Dillion. Michael, on the other hand, almost managed to get the full Gryffindor treatment from him. Which is all the more reason to remain closed off.

"If you ever need anything, you know where my office is."

"Thank you, sir."

Jude is still waiting for Dillion as the boy returns to the common room. The other students have begun making their ways to the dormitories, far quieter than it had been when Dillion had left. The younger perks up at the arrival of the brunet, rising to his feet and rushing over before Dillion can say anything.

"I wrote some notes for your essay, so all you have to do is write it. I would have written it but you're hard to mimic." Jude fortunately says rather than asking if he's okay. The concern and care underpins his words; Jude wouldn't cheat for just anyone. Dillion gives him a slight smile, one he hopes is enough to quell any worries that might still be rolling around in the other boy.

"Thanks, Jude."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
If you've ever wonder throughout the course of this fic, "I wonder what music Dillion would listen to if he was immortal and a muggle / had a muggle radio..." then boy do I have good news for you. Dillion Lux's Mix on spotify (yungchild) will bring you all the tunes he probably would've listened to in his never ending lifetime (this is just so it's not limited to the 1940s and earlier)