16.

"JUDE, words cannot express how much I love you." Dillion confesses as the older boy finds him outside the Divination classroom, alongside Tom Riddle. The Slytherin stands silently with an intimidating aura, made worse by his unreadable, watchful gaze. Without any warning — though, to be fair, none was needed — Dillion pulls Jude into a tight hug, one fat kiss planted atop his head. A feat, for the shorter boy. "You're just the bee's knees. Did you know that?"

"It's just a sandwich." Jude responds, chuckling at what he considers to be an overreaction. He hands the sandwich, which he'd swiped from the Ravenclaw table during lunch, to the younger boy. Dillion still has one hand wrapped around Jude's neck as he digs into the food. He eats as though he hasn't eaten in days. It's disgusting. "You're disgusting."

"I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. I'm starving." Dillion says, through a mouth full of chewed up food. He really is disgusting. "Come on. Walk and talk."

Surprisingly, when the two Ravenclaws head down the Divination tower, Tom follows. Though, once Jude thinks about it, it really isn't that surprising. There's only one way out from here. Of course Tom would follow.

"I know why you missed lunch, but why breakfast and dinner?" Jude asks, frowning.

"Well, lunch, as you know, was because Reselda wanted to check my bandages after class yesterday but I didn't show." Dillion answers, though it seems more for Tom's benefit than Jude's. The younger had been complaining about the fact he had to skip lunch for a check up during Transfiguration, which was the only reason Jude knew to bring him anything. "But last night I got caught up reading, skipped dinner, then stayed up so late that, by the time I woke up, I didn't have time for breakfast."

"Oh, no. Not again." Jude almost wants to ask what topic Dillion has chosen this time, but he doesn't want to listen to the rant that will follow. He already knows too much about the difference between petrified, preserved and fresh fingers, or the conspiracies and legends around the creation of Expelliarmus, or even whether the taboo around necromancy is just propaganda spread by Death itself. Asking Dillion what he's reading is a commitment that has to be penciled in, not done on the fly in a hallway.

"He does this often?" When Tom speaks, it's with a dry, judgemental voice — simultaneously surprised and unsurprised. There's no effort made to be charming or polite, beyond what might be expected for a friend of a friend. It's just casual. Jude has never seen Tom's casual before.

"Regularly." Jude's response draws an odd quirk of a smile out of Tom, a half-chuckle. Tom, he decides, is an odd person. Not a bad odd, just different. The sort of person where immediately, upon breaking past just one layer of their polite front, you can tell there's something different about them. Something that sets him apart from the rest. "I'm pretty sure one term, we banned him from picking up a new book because he was in danger of failing all his classes."

"You're lucky you have friends who won't let you waste away, Lux." Tom says, though it doesn't sound like he finds it all that fortunate. His comment is met with a scowl from the younger. Neither seem like they're joking. Anyone would think the famous 'couple' hated each other.

They'd make a strange pair, that much is certain. Jude has always assumed Dillion would end up married to Solas, if only to save them both from even more loveless, arranged marriages. He's rarely entertained the idea of what sort of person they might all end up with if they had any choice in the matter, because it's just never been a possibility. But now Dillion has a world of possibilities. A Slytherin, one friends with the children of families rumoured to be deep in the Dark Arts, isn't one Jude would have picked for Dillion. Though, in recent times, that's probably exactly who the younger would pick. Even in hindsight, that's who Jude should have guessed. Rebellious, dangerous, in need of saving — it's just the sort of disaster Dillion would run right into.

"Yeah, it's nice having friends who care about me." There's a brief flash of annoyance in Tom's eyes, only caught by Jude because he'd been looking at him anyway. As soon as it arises, it's hidden behind a polite chuckle, clearly just humouring Dillion. It's the same look Jude and his friends have perfected for dealing with older relatives and friends of the family at dinner parties.

"What have you been reading?" With just a few simple words, the tension between the two boys melts away like butter over heat.

"I was reading about what muggles think are fantasy." This is a new one. For once, Dillion isn't reading to further some skill set. Jude can't think of a single reason as to why knowing what muggles think might be useful, except for interacting with them. But they've never interacted with any muggles. They've barely even had any interactions with muggleborns. Except for Tom who is essentially a muggleborn in everything but blood. And Myrtle, who no one wants to interact with for longer than necessary. "Did you know they used to be a lot more open minded? But they weren't as easy to control, so they were convinced creatures and magic are bad."

"Obviously I knew that. I grew up in it." And just like that friction between them returns. Jude can't keep up.

"Well, I have to get to Transfiguration Club. I'll see you. Nice talking to you, Riddle." After saying their goodbyes, Tom and Dillion continue down the corridor while Jude heads in the opposite direction. As they leave, Jude can still hear them squabbling.

In the classroom set aside for the Transfiguration Club, Minerva McGonagall is waiting for Jude. Well, she's waiting for Dumbledore to start the lesson, but she has also saved a seat for the older boy. Unintentionally, through frequent pairings and proximity, Jude has fostered a strange sort of friendship with the little Scottish girl. He isn't quite sure what to make of her, besides that she's brilliant at Transfiguration and scarily assertive for an eleven year old.

"Hello, Adams." Minerva greets Jude with a wide smile, small legs swinging on a chair designed for a much taller person.

"Hi, Minerva. You do know you can call me Jude, don't you?"

"I do. I just think Adams is nicer." Strange, indeed. "Are you looking forward to the Gryffindor and Slytherin game?"

"I'm not sure. Should I be?" If Jude is being honest, he doesn't really follow the quidditch. He knows when Ravenclaw has lost a game because Clay is in a foul mood afterwards, but he has little invested interest in it. Sitting down to watch a group of people fly around on brooms isn't particularly enjoyable.

"Maybe. Our team is." Jude doesn't doubt that. If there's one house that takes their Quidditch seriously, it's the Gryffindors. "I'm hoping to get on the team, once I'm old enough."

"If your Quidditch is anything like your Transfiguration, the other teams don't stand a chance." It isn't even flattery. Jude hasn't quite yet come to terms with being outshone by a first year, but even he can't deny her skill. Besides, she has a fierce determination that means, now that she's set her mind on it, that spot on the team is hers. In a year or two, Jude will be watching her fly around, pretending he knows what she's doing.

Minerva lets out a pleased, shy giggle that dissipates once Dumbledore takes his place at the front of the classroom and the Club is clearly, officially, in session. Jude prepares for another day of being beat by a little girl.

"You make the circle with your wrist, not your whole arm." Minerva corrects Jude's wand work with a demonstration of her own, twirling her wand in a circle with the sharp flick of her wrist. The Gryffindor watches him replicate the action with the intensity of a teacher. When Jude successfully turns his mat into a bat, her face lightens into a pleased smile. "That's right!"

Jude doesn't like getting gratification from a first year's praise.

"Our first two successful transfigurations." Dumbledore comments as he approaches their table, examining both their bats. Minerva's, as expected, is almost perfect. The inaccuracies themselves are nearly imperceptible without a real bat as a reference. Jude's bat's fur, on the other hand, still has the texture of the mat when pat. Despite this, the professor still seems pleased with both their attempts. "Well done, you two."

"Thank you, Professor." Minerva says as Dumbledore turns their bats back into mats. With the session coming to a close, she swings herself off the chair designed for one of the upper years and collects her things. "I have to go see Professor Slughorn about an essay. I'll see you in class. Bye, Adams."

"Bye, Minerva." Jude feels like he should go too, but he doesn't want to look like he's following her. Instead, he sits there as he watches her go.

"How is Mr. Lux?" Dumbledore asks in the silence that follows. For a few seconds, Jude thinks he's referring to Dillion's father. Which is absurd now that Jude thinks about it. Dumbledore could just ask Michael if he wanted that sort of information. As if sensing this confusion, the professor adds, "I hear he's out of the hospital wing."

"He's okay. Recovering." Jude has caught sight of Dillion's injuries only once in the bathroom, when the boy wasn't able to get in the showers before anyone else had woken up. Bruises and cuts in various states of healing have turned his body into a colourful, gruesome display. If Pringle hadn't already been fired, Jude would have had a stern talk to the headmaster. As it is, he's still considering sending an anonymous Howler to Pringle.

"It is unfortunate, what happened. A good thing Pringle's spell backfired." Dumbledore's words settle heavily in the air, weighted by an undercurrent of doubt. There's something in Dumbledore's light tone that makes Jude uncertain, as if that's not really what happened. But there's nothiclasses ng on his face that would suggest that implication. In fact, Jude can't even pinpoint what it is that makes him feel that way. Maybe he's just imagining things. "Mr. Lux has been in detention a lot more this year, hasn't he?"

"I think he's just recovering from, well, everything. Adjusting."

"Reinventing himself." Dumbledore echoes the sentiment, fortunately. There seems to be a pang of empathy in his voice, as if he understands what Dillion is going through. Jude briefly wonders what the professor's childhood was like. It's impossible to see him as anything but the man standing in front of him. There's too much wisdom in his face, too much experience. "I noticed he's been making new friends. And Reselda mentioned he got a tattoo — a large one, too."

"Yeah. I'm not sure when he got that." Dillion had never told Jude he'd got a tattoo. He'd only seen it because Dillion had had his shirt off, and no comment had been made about it. He's still not sure why the other boy got it.

"So it's a new change?" Jude nods his head. "Do you think it could be his new friends' influence? They are certainly not a group I would have picked for Lux."

"We have classes with the Slytherins this year. I think he's been studying with Riddle because they challenge each other." Jude feels the need to defend his friend, and his choices in friends. It's a change even he didn't see coming, but he hasn't expected a lot that has happened to Dillion lately. Regardless, he doesn't want Dumbledore to paint him with the same brush as the Slytherins. Not unfairly, in any case.

"Are they his friends?" Dumbledore asks, as if doubting himself. It feels wrong for him to be questioning himself. He's too self assured and knowledge to be capable of doubt, in Jude's mind. "He fights with Tom quite a bit."

"I think they're both too headstrong." Jude theorises, though even he doesn't really know. He only knows Tom by reputation — which is impeccable, without a single tar besides his blood — and that one brief interaction. Jude doesn't think Tom would be the sort to let Dillion have the last word, based off that conversation, and he knows Dillion is never the sort. "Dillion is naturally argumentative, and if he's with someone who won't back down then that will likely just lead to escalations."

"So long as he isn't in any danger." It seems strange for a professor to suggest another student might be a danger. Especially a prefect, who is largely well liked. But then Dillion and Tom did have a brutal fight recently, and he has been hanging around the families with known reputations. With the threat of Grindelwald looming, maybe it isn't so strange. Maybe the threat really is closer than Jude thinks. "Thank you for humouring an old man's concerns and thoughts, Mr. Adams. I hope, if you ever have any, you know my door is wide open."

"Of course. Thank you, professor." The old man's eyes twinkle warmly as he smiles. Jude hopes he never has any reason to seek support or solace from Dumbledore, but it comforts him to have that invitation all the same. These are uncertain times. It's good to have some certainty. Especially when, in some cases, it's his own best friend right in the centre of the chaos.

"I'll let you go, then. I'll see you in class."

It doesn't take long for Jude to find Dillion. He wasn't actively looking for the boy, nor did he expect to find him before the dinner he was headed to, but he still manages to happen across him. He hears him before he sees him, though he doesn't register that what he's hearing is his friend. All he hears is the sounds of argument which, in hindsight, he should have expected to find his friend at the centre of it. Because that's exactly what awaited him as he turned the corner.

He arrives just in time to see Dillion punch one of the Slytherins — Eric Nott. Just in time to see the Slytherin fall and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Typical.

*

"Lux." An argument between Dillion and Tom over whether or not ghosts can be considered fantastical is interrupted by the passing greeting of an older Slytherin girl, who doesn't pause to do anything more than nod her head but brings Tom to a complete stop in the hallway. He watches as the dark haired girl continues walking, a frown forming on his face. Dillion follows his gaze, struggling to discern the importance of such a brief interaction. He'd hardly even call it an interaction. The other girl didn't seem particularly interested in hearing his response — it was as if the act of her greeting him was the important part, and the only important part.

"How do you do it?" Tom asks once she's out of earshot, turning back to Dillion. The younger stares at him blankly, unsure what he's referring to. The greeting barely seems noteworthy to him. In fact, as far as greetings go, it was fairly underwhelming. Rudely underwhelming, even. "You're not better than me. In fact, you're worse. My mother died; yours thought you were such a disgrace they didn't want to associate with you."

"Thanks." Dillion says dryly. He's not even sure he deserves it this time.

"My point is, even your family didn't want you." For once, Tom's delivery suggests he isn't trying to insult Dillion. Despite this, every single word that leaves his lips is like salt on a wound. "And yet, somehow, that makes you interesting to Walburga Black."

Ah, there is the girl's importance. No wonder she seemed so self-absorbed.

"Maybe it's my winning personality." Dillion suggests, though he's met with a quiet scoff.

"The only thing your personality is winning is the award for Most Obnoxious." Tom sighs, shaking his head. "Some people just have no taste."

"I'm not poor, I'm attractive and have good blood, and I was disowned for something most of those families support. One of them could marry me in and the disownment wouldn't hurt their reputation that poorly." Dillion offers up. He doubts any Pureblood would really try to bring him into their family, not when his reputation has been on a downward spiral since his disownment. He could be shaped up, in theory, but that would take work. No Pureblood would expend that effort when they have plenty of eligible bachelors to choose from. "Purebloods are like vultures. Incredibly picky vultures, but still vultures."

"You're not poor?" Dillion is almost insulted by the disbelief in Tom's voice. Does he seem poor?

"I was allowed to keep my personal savings from my allowance and then I inherited money. I'm not rich, but I can fend for myself." Dillion explains, before he adds, "Compared to before, I've got nothing, but that's because my parents are loaded."

Tom scoffs again, not hiding his bitterness. It dawns on Dillion that this probably isn't a conversation he should be having with an orphan who, presumably, has nothing. At least, not with this level of sensitivity — or, more accurately, lack of. But Tom started it. It's not his fault.

"Anyway, it's probably just political. I don't think it's a reflection on me, personally." He tries to return the subject to its original topic, to escape rubbing his comfort in Tom's face.

"What are you two talking about?" Eric asks as he suddenly comes up behind them, clapping a hand on either one of their smiles. He looks between them with a smile on his lips, as if expecting some sort of gossip. Mort and Cessair accompany him, settling in on other side of the group.

"Why Walburga Black would be interested in me and not Tom." Dillion answers. In response, Tom scowls, as if this was meant to be private.

"Well, it's the blood, obviously. No matter how brilliant he is, Tom's a halfblood and Black is never going to be able to overlook that." Eric says matter-of-factly. He's too direct, as if stating a mere fact and not insulting one of his friends. Tom's jaw clenches, the only tell that the comment remotely bothers him. But Dillion catches it. Eric might not, not focused on the other Slytherin, but Dillion does. "They're the sort to marry their siblings just to make sure they stay pure."

"Which is disgusting." Dillion mutters. The thought of being married to his brother — even if he wasn't a prick — churns his stomach. Though, he supposes, no one would force him to marry Michael, as they can't have children together. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

Eric makes a small and surprising noise of disagreement, "It is, but I can understand why they'd do it. The practice is gross, but the theory is sound."

"Marrying your sibling to avoid something that barely even matters is sound theory?" Dillion retorts incredulously. He makes no effort to hide the judgement from his tone, pure disgust dripping from his words. Even his parents were never this militant in their feelings towards muggles. It was, naturally, forbidden to see one and taint the blood, but this was largely because that is the standard around here. Having a muggle in the family meant they would be be less than the other Pureblood families. Even Dillion's father knew it wasn't the magic that's at risk. Tom's expression reflects his own - one of the few times they're in total agreement.

"Blood does matter." Eric insists earnestly. "You start diluting it and you weaken everything."

"Barely. Blood isn't that important, especially if it's all you're bringing to the table." In Dillion's family, political power and strong magical conviction were the two most important qualities in a suitor. It was no good marrying one of their boys off to someone who would weaken their position, or would taint their Light-worshipping ways. They were so desperate to maintain their social status.

"And that's all Dillion would be bringing to the table." Tom murmurs. It's a comment meant entirely for Dillion, rather than contributing to the disagreement. In retaliation, Dillion takes a swipe at the older boy. Before he can make impact, Tom steps out of the way, glaring at him. Dillion is about to try again when he's interrupted by Eric's reponse.

"You're both underestimating the power of blood. You, Lux, offer a type that's in short supply: pure, powerful blood, but also outsider blood. You haven't been interbred yet." His minor quarrel with Tom is forgotten as both their attention and annoyance is redirected toward the boy they mutually disagree with. "Anyway, the child of a Lux and, say, a Parkinson is going to be more powerful than if Black decided to elope with a muggle."

"Do we have to talk about her like this, out in public? What if she hears?" Cessair complains, glancing over his shoulder nervously. He looks as though he expects her to turn around the corner at any moment and catch them discussing her, only to curse them into oblivion. He's ignored by everyone but Mort, who only chuckles at him.

"But if both children can do magic, it doesn't matter! They might start off uneven, but the Black child could catch up." Dillion insists, entertaining this stupid scenario. There isn't any way he'd marry a Parkinson.

"The fact that there is an unevenness means someone obsessed with being on top isn't going to want to risk it all. All Purebloods care about is staying on top. Why make that harder than it needs to be?" Eric has a point. Though everything he's saying is utter nonsense, a Pureblood isn't going to care about that. Dillion's parents don't. But it's that exact stupidity that makes this sort of attitude possible. The entire group is full of it. That knowledge alone frustrates Dillion, making him wish he could shake some sense into them.

"Probably because that's not even how magic works. Magical cores are just another type of muscle." Dillion lashes out in an annoyed slew of words, thick with contempt.

"Yeah, and some people are born with weaker muscles. They might not be bad, but they're not going to be able to do everything someone with stronger muscles can. Someone who cares about muscles isn't going to marry someone with no muscles."

"No one's marrying anyone for their muscles!" Dillion exclaims. This is all so incredibly moronic! That makes him more annoyed than the topic himself. He'd thought Eric, the brains of the group, would be smarter than this. If Eric is stuck regurgitating what his parents tell him, then there's no hope for anyone else in the group. This is the group Dillion is supposed to be getting help from. This is who Tom trusts to help him escape from the curse that is being glued to Tom. How on earth are they going to break a bond made by the Dark Herself when Eric is marrying people for their muscles?

"It's an analogy, you idiot!" In his frustration, Eric's voice rises to a shout — angry and bitter. How dare he call Dillion an idiot.

"The analogy is just as stupid as basing everything around blood, when there's so many other thing to consider. Like, maybe, whether or not they're related to you, for a start. Or personality. Or grades! Even money would be better! You'd be an idiot for choosing someone purely because they have a large muscle, and you're an idiot for choosing someone purely because there's no muggle in their blood!"

Eric rolls his eyes as if it's Dillion that's the moron. The gesture feeds the angry sparks inside the younger boy.

"Don't get all high and mighty with me. Your parents did it. You're a product of that mindset." Eric snaps. He sounds as livid as Dillion feels. "Your father agreed with mine about blood so much so that mine completely overlooked Lux's prejudice against the Dark Arts so he could consider him one of the sacred families."

"Clearly my father and I see eye-to-eye about so many things." Dillion snarks bitterly.

"Just because you were disowned doesn't mean you've lost all capability of understanding how our world works." The other boy's voice is low with anger. "Anyway, cores aren't the only reason. If that's not good enough for you, there's a whole list of reasons to avoid muggles and muggleborns."

"Like what?"

"Like, I don't know, maybe their complete disrespect for tradition. Or maybe because they're scared of anything they don't understand — like the Dark Arts — so they make it a crime to practice them and lead to the weakening of magic as a whole. They all but wiped out the Dark." Eric answers, counting off each reason with his fingers. Pure hatred spills from his words. There's an angry tremble to his voice and it's impossible to determine who it's directed at — Dillion or muggles. What is clear is that Eric is no longer just reciting what his parents have told him. It's gotten personal now. "And that's what they want. If they can't control it, if it's different, it has to be destroyed. They've been killing my people for centuries — longer! They'd hunt us to extinction if they could."

"If they don't understand, maybe teach them–"

"They. Don't. Listen!" Eric interrupts him, punctuating each word vehemently. Cessair touches his shoulder lightly, as if to try and pull him away, but he's only shrugged off. Nothing is going to calm either of them down now. "How on earth do you not know how much of a losing battle this is?"

"How many muggleborns do you even know? Tom doesn't count." At this, indignation flashes over Tom's face and he opens his mouth to say something. He isn't given a chance. "You act like you've tried, but I don't think you've spoken to a single muggleborn in your entire life."

"Neither have you! Why do you even care? Do you feel like some kind of newfound sense of comradery with them now that you've been kicked from your Pureblood group?" Eric takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. When he speaks again, his voice is low and it almost sounds like a threat. "They are not your friends. They are not even your allies. They are going to throw you to the wolves the second they get even a sniff of what you are and they will not allow you the chance to explain yourself. Even people as stupid as your father can at least recognise they're a lost cause."

"Guys–" Cessair goes to speak. At the same time, Mort makes a move to separate them. Unfortunately, they're both too late. Without even thinking, motivated by pure anger and insecurities, Dillion punches Eric in the face. The boy crumples, falling straight to the floor, before he even has a chance to retaliate. He tries to stop his fall, but that only makes things worse. For a few seconds, Dillion feels great. The rage and adrenaline is surging through his veins like a drug; it feels the same as the Dark.

Then, Eric screams and Dillion realises what he's done.

Within seconds, another scream is cut off as the boy goes limp and Dillion thinks he's killed him. Horror fills him, washing over him like a cold shower. His anger no longer matters — Eric's stupidity doesn't matter. All Dillion can think is he's killed one of the few people to treat him like a normal person after everything that's happened. He's gone and killed one of the few people to accept him into their group no questions asked. He punched him. And he liked it.

Tom is the first to react, kneeling down so he can roll Eric over. He's calm — too calm. The movement jostles Eric, eyes suddenly snapping open. For a brief moment, it's fine. And then it's not. Eric tries to move and that action causes him to scream again, body spasming.

"Nott, I am so sorry." Dillion says, as if that is going to help him. He's useless. Utterly useless.

"I hate you, Lux," is somewhat garbled in his agony, barely comprehensible. He's crying, so every word comes out a sob. Regardless, he doesn't need to say the words. The sentiment is clear as day on his face. "I'm going to kill you– Fuck– Shit– Tom!"

The string of expletives — or screams, more accurately — end with the sharp gasp of Tom's name, who had been gingerly touching his shoulder. It's all his manages before the boy's eyes roll back and he grows as limp as a corpse again. Tom manages to grab his head, stopping him from hitting it on the hard ground.

"What's happening here?" A voice startles Dillion, causing him to jump. He's certain he must look guilty. He feels guilty — is guilty. This is his fault. Merlin knows what's wrong with Eric, but he did it. He threw the punch. When he looks up, Dumbledore is standing there. That makes him feel worse. He'll be thrown out of the school at this rate, considered a danger to the other students. Maybe it's what he deserves.

"Eric fell, sir." Cessair explains, not once incriminating Dillion. It doesn't seem fair. "Then he started screaming. We don't know what happened."

"He's hurt his shoulder." Tom corrects, still too calm. How is he so calm? "It's out of place."

"Move aside." Dumbledore orders and the younger is quick to do so, shuffling around so the professor can take his place. Tom's hand doesn't move from where he's holding Eric's head up.

When Eric's eyes flutter open again, he grows startled at the sight of Dumbledore hovering over him. He tries to scramble backwards, landing in Tom's lap. He wouldn't get far, regardless, as he groans the second he moves. A sob and a whimper escapes him as he tries to touch his shoulder, which seems to be another poor choice as it only brings another cry of pain.

"Try not to move, Nott. You've dislocated your shoulder." Dumbledore says softly. "I'm going to put you under, so I can take you to the Hospital Wing. Is that okay, Nott?"

Eric nods once, then winces. With little more than a wave of Dumbledore's hand, the boy's eyes close slowly and he settles into a peaceful unconsciousness. He finally looks at ease, free of pain. He's levitated from Tom's lap with ease, floating in the air.

"I'll be taking Mr. Nott to the Hospital Wing now, as I said. I suspect Professor Slughorn will want to speak with you all once I've informed him of what happened." Dumbledore's eyes travel over to Dillion. He knows. He has to know. The guilt is stricken right across Dillion's face — in the pink of his knuckles. He'll never be trusted again. But all Dumbledore says is, "And Professor Favian, for you, Mr. Lux."

"A parade will likely only draw more attention to Mr. Nott, which I am sure he won't appreciate. You can visit him once he's awake." Cessair slumps disappointedly, but doesn't push it. Dumbledore takes his leave after that, Eric in tow. Silence falls over the group, suffocatingly heavy. Dillion is sure they'll hate him now. Why wouldn't they? He'd just hurt their friend and leader, and reduced him to screams no less. He can't even look at them. He doesn't want to see the hatred, or the fear, the disgust — anything in their eyes. He saw enough in Eric's.

Curse his temper. Curse his instinctual need to lash out. He didn't use to be this bad. But then, back then, he was held back by societal expectations, by friends. He finally gets freedom and this is what he does with it. Why must he push everyone away?

"You need to breathe." A quiet voice cuts through Dillion's clouded, panicked thoughts. He looks up from his feet to see Tom standing in front of him. It's a good thing he was the first person Dillion made eye contact with, because there really is nothing in his gaze. No hatred, no judgement — not even concern, which he's not sure he'd be able to handle, either. "Dumbledore is going to think you're guilty if you look the part. Then we all get in trouble."

"But I am guilty."

"No one but us needs to know that." Tom says plainly, as if it's nothing. Dillion glances at the other two boys: Mort looks vaguely amused and Cessair looks more concerned for Dillion than anything. None of their reactions are what he expected. It only confuses him further.

"The prick was going to get hit eventually." Mort comments and there really is the hint of laughter in his voice. "Better it be someone who likes him. More likely to hold back."

"But I dislocated his shoulder..."

"Eric just doesn't know how to fall. All you did was punch him." Even Cessair manages a quiet snigger at this. "If you really want, we can throw you under the broom, though."

"I–"

"He's joking, Lux." Cessair says quickly, before Dillion can answer. "That's up to Eric and he's too proud to admit you beat him, even to a teacher."

"I can't believe you punched him in the face!" Mort guffaws, practically cackling. "I've been wanting to do that for years."

"Dillion!" Jude calls out from behind him. Dillion recognises his voice instantly, whirling around to catch his friend running up to him. "Are you okay? I saw–"

Jude cuts off suddenly, as if slowly becoming aware of his company. He looks at the other three with concerned eyes, clearly preparing for an attack.

"I'm fine. I just–"

"Eric brought it on himself. Lux is fine." Mort says firmly, bringing even more concern to Jude. The Ravenclaw looks between Mort and Dillion, looking for an answer. Mort seems to recognise this, continuing, "Dumbledore's taken care of everything. You don't have to worry about all that."

"What could you have possibly been arguing about to warrant that?" Jude hisses, to Dillion only. "The way he was screaming– it was like you'd hexed him or something. It looked like Dark magic."

"I just punched him, Jude. It was just a bit of bad luck."

"That's not what it looked like." Jude insists. His comment makes Dillion suddenly aware of the audience they've gathered. There aren't a lot of students around — but there's enough. And they're all whispering, all looking at him. If Jude has reached that conclusion, who knows how many more have too. By tomorrow, the whole school will think he cursed Eric. "So, what were you arguing about?"

"Muggleborns." Dillion answers simply. It's enough for Jude. He can tell, because the second he says it, the boy starts looking at him with new eyes. Dillion sees the way his gaze travels from Dillion to Tom. There's a thought happening there, a conclusion being reached. And there's nothing Dillion can do about it.

And why should he? Maybe he deserves it.

AUTHOR'S NOTE
Well this is the last time I write a dialogue-heavy with very specific emotional undercurrents I have to hit in the subtext! (I say that, but I'm certain I won't learn) I did not think it would be this difficult when I was plotting the two interactions

In other news, I got a laptop that can sorta handle premier pro and to break that in I messed around & made a little clip-trailer-thing for this fic. I will put the warning here is there's like technically spoilers at the very end — more so implications for where future sequels are headed, nothing major (I think). So it's sorta more like a trailer for the main duology of the whole Dillion series, I guess

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

It was a first go, so don't judge it too harshly