13.

(WARNING: It's detention with Pringle again. I would rate this one a small fraction worse than last time, so if you weren't a fan, you can skip from when they enter the room in the second section to 'Tom is no longer in the caretaker's office'. Though, the first few paragraphs of his perspective still reference punishments.)

TOM'S fingers wrap around Dillion's neck in a deep purple mark, dark and splotchy against his skin. It's still tender, aching when he turns it the wrong way, adding a harshness to his voice that wasn't there before. The side of his torso is covered in mottled blues and yellows from Tom's foot. More marks connecting him to Tom. He has become Tom's canvas, painting a gruesome picture of anger. When Dillion looks at himself in the mirror, all he can see is Tom. He can't hide all of them this time. The hand around his neck rests too high, definitely above his collar.

Though, the whole school is likely aware of their fight. There'd be little reason to go to the effort of hiding it.

The past day has settled into a blur of high emotions, details lost to the memory of adrenaline. Settling into the forefront of his mind, the fear of detention has taken its place. He's certain he's given Pringle plenty of reason to have it out for him and, with Dumbledore organising the detention, he doesn't know how it will play out. Dillion's body already hurts and his legs are still scarred from last time — detention with Pringle is the last thing he wants. He just hopes, somehow, Tom's presence softens the caretaker.

With a groan, Dillion reaches for his shirt. He hadn't considered the bend down would ache as much as it does when he'd dumped all his clothes on the floor of the bathroom. Now, all he feels is regret. Regret and pain.

The tap of shoes breaks through the quiet of the bathroom, too early for anyone but Dillion to be using it. He'd taken to waking up earlier just to avoid the rush, so he could get ready without worrying about someone seeing his hand. The boys run on a routine that rarely changed, so the sound raises some concern within Dillion. Instinctively, he bunches his shirt around his hand, eyes glued to the entrance through the mirror. He's surprised to see Solas walk in, one hand over her eyes, slowly feeling her way forward.

"Are you decent?" She asks as she come to a stop at the doorway, her free hand resting against the wall. Dillion wonders briefly what would happen if he said nothing and pretended he wasn't here. Solas would likely just open her eyes and he'd get in trouble for not answering.

"You're not supposed to be here." He responds, rather than answering her question. There's a towel around his waist and a shirt held against his chest, but he doesn't really want to encourage her.

"And yet here I am." Solas tentatively peeks through her fingers, then lowers her hands once she decides he's covered enough. The older girl leans against the doorframe, hands cross over her chest. "I was waiting for you to tell me yourself, but you're taking too long and we need to talk."

"Tell you what?" The longer he stands there, the more Dillion wants to put his shirt on properly. Unfortunately, if he puts it on, he reveals his hand. The only consolation he has is he's grown up with Solas and it isn't the first time she's seen him half-naked.

"About everything. Why you were disowned, why you're so intent on hiding your hand, why you're getting into fights..." Solas's casual acknowledgement of all his secrets brings a stab to his pride, and a spike in his fear. He thought he was being subtle. Not as subtle as a Slytherin, but Solas makes him feel as if he's been as open as a book. He wants to ask how she knows about his hand, why she's suspicious, but doing anything but denying it would only confirm them. "Oh, don't give me that look. Our parents are friends. Yours told mine why you'd been disowned the second it was brought up. Then mine interrogated me to see if I'd either known or had any part in it. You're wearing gloves that are only meant for special occasions and you've always hated them because you wanted mine. The fights — everyone knows about the fights."

In his own self-pity and anger, Dillion had forgotten to consider that his disownment would naturally affect Solas as well. Guilt now wells within him as he realises his closeness would have almost incriminated her as well, no matter her innocence. He'd been so focused on himself, he'd never thought to ask if she had suffered because of him.

"Did your parents... They didn't punish you, did they?" He asks, struggling to find the words. Before she's even said anything, he wants to apologise for dragging her down in his blackhole of destruction and darkness. Relief fills him as she shakes her head, but it's not enough to combat the guilt.

"They figured out I didn't know anything pretty quickly. I just brought out the tears and– well, you know what they're like." A smile flits across her lips, light and amused. The few rays of lightness soon darken into sobriety as she continues, "They told me not to hang around you anymore, in case you try to bring me down with you. But it's not like anyone is going to report back to them. Michael might, but I think he has plenty else to talk about."

"I'm sorry–"

"You don't have to apologise. You haven't done anything." Solas moves from the doorway to one of the ledges jutting out from the wall, commonly used as a bench or chair. She sits down on it, eyes fixed on Dillion. "Clay's watching the door. This is as private as you can get, but we don't have long."

"What do you want to know?" Dillion feels, given she already knows all his secrets, that he owes it to her to be honest. She hasn't cut him off despite knowing, and for that he's incredibly grateful.

"Why did you do it?" There's no judgement in Solas's tone. Not the judgement he'd expect from her, in any case. She isn't condemning him for his choices, all he hears is genuine curiosity, a desire to understand.

"Some book I was reading mentioned the Dark Arts and I needed to learn more. I never planned on doing anything — I just wanted to understand. But there were too many contradictions in the writing. I needed confirmation and there was only one way to get that." Dillion explains and, as she listens, Solas nods quietly. He feels heard. Understood. "Father didn't like that, though. He thought I should just accept his word as fact."

"What did you find out?" She asks. Dillion pauses before he answers Solas's question, thinking carefully about his words. She's seems genuinely interested about his findings, but she still lacks the experience he has gained since his disownment. Dillion had always had a bit of open-mindedness and even he would have been terrified of some of the things he's experienced. It would have just been more evidence of his parents' warnings, in his old eyes.

"The Dark feels alive. I've felt... connected to it, like I haven't with the Light. It's why I've spent so much time with Tom. It pulled us together — I think it was trying to help us." Dillion can see the concern spark behind Solas's eyes, her upbringing warring with her trust in Dillion. He doesn't know how to explain his relationship with the Dark, or even Tom, without it sounding concerning. He's not sure there is a way, when he barely understands it all himself.

"But how do you know?"

"I don't feel any ill intent." The other girl frowns, clearly unable to comprehend what he's saying. "It's hard to explain without sounding insane. You just have to trust me."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't." Th smile that tugs at Dillion's lips is shaky, the relief that's only grown starting to feel overwhelming. She doesn't look at him like a monster, like she wants to run away and never speak to him again. The only fear in her expression is fear for him. "But are you okay? You've been... different."

I'm okay. I promise." Dillion tries to reassure her, hoping she senses the sincerity in his words. He's more okay than he's ever been.

When Solas had heard Dillion had been disowned, she had, naturally, been concerned; it was hard not to be when no one seemed to know where he was, if he was okay or even alive, and only her friends seemed to care. But, there had been a little bit of relief as well. After she'd recovered from the initial shock, she couldn't help but feel he was finally free of something that had kept him caged his entire life. Dillion had never been made for a life of such rigid commitment, without freedom or room for questioning, with rules that dictated everything from what he wore to what he thought.

So, she desperately wants to believe her friend's words. She wants to believe that the thing that freed him really is as safe as he claims. Every fibre of her being is struggling against everything she has ever known, just so she can trust what Dillion says.

Since the moment she was born, Solas had been taught that Light is good and Dark is evil. Dark wizards seek to corrupt and cause pain, are only out for themselves, and perform nefarious acts in the name of self-advancement. That has been law for as long as she can remember. But, for all that time, Dillion has been beside her. She's got to know him better than anyone else. She knows, without a doubt, that Dillion isn't cruel for the sake of being cruel, nor is he evil. He may be self-focused but she's never thought of him as the sort of person to step on another to get a leg up. She doesn't believe being disowned would bring that out in him and she doesn't think it's been lying latent or hidden from her.

But one of them has to be wrong. If Dark wizards are only evil, then Dillion must then also be evil. Or, if Dillion isn't evil, then not all Dark wizards must be evil.  It pains her to even admit that she suspects it's the former that's wrong. Dillion wouldn't have got himself disowned over nothing. Her parents have been wrong before — about muggleborns and muggles and their lack of worth — so it wouldn't be outlandish for them to be wrong about another thing.

It just hurts to consider the belief her life has revolved around — and, unless she gets herself disowned too, will continue to revolve around — might just be prejudice. She's left floating in the world of too enlightened to continue living as blindly as she had before, but too trapped to do anything but watch.

In her silence, Dillion's concern must grow because he approaches her. He crouches down in front of her, hands resting on her knees to steady himself, shirt still wrapped around them. Up close, Solas can see all his bruises, from the cut on his lip to the hand around his neck. It's so hard to trust he's safe when all she can see is pain. As he sits in front of her, he can't suppress the ached groan that escapes, the slight grimace that pulls at his lips.

"I'm okay." Dillion repeats, desperately trying to reassure her despite this.

"I'm not sure if you've forgotten, but shirts are supposed to go on your body." She jokes in an effort to lighten the mood. The younger allows a slight smile, pulling away so he can unbundle his hands from the shirt. She sees the way he hesitates in unwrapping one hand, pausing to stare at it for a few seconds longer than necessary. She can take a guess why. His efforts to hide his hand didn't hide the rest of his arm, which are darkened by shadowy tendrils. The markings seem to be concentrated on his hand, which he soon reveals. It's made worse by the bruising around his knuckles.

Dillion attempts to put his shirt on, but he's stiff and every movement seems to bring him discomfort. With an affectionate sigh, Solas rises to her feet and holds a hand out, explaining, "Let me help."

He hands the shirt over with little argument, helping her pull one arm through the sleeve.  There are too many bruises hidden amongst his skin. Every single one pulls at Solas's heart, brings the concern she'd been trying to fight.

"What about Tom Riddle?" She asks, pulling the sleeve up the other arm. She then moves back to the front, buttoning it up. The younger barely moves as she goes about her work, more like a doll than a human. She knows most of the damage has come from the fight he'd had with the Slytherin yesterday and not any magic. If her reputation wasn't so important to her parents — and she knew Dillion wouldn't disapprove — she might have got revenge. Not that she would have stood any chance against the star student, but it's the principle.

"I antagonised him when he was already upset. I deserved it." Dillion defends the other boy, sincere in his words. Without truly considering her actions, Solas runs a careful finger across the edge of the bruise around Dillion's neck.

"People don't just strangle people because they're upset."

"I don't think it was a simple fight. But... you're right. I won't try to justify his actions." Solas offers Dillion the slightest of smiles, to let him know she appreciates that. "I'm going to have to do my pants by myself. And, if we're going to keep talking, I'm going to need you to turn around."

Solas doesn't need to keep talking. She's gotten what she needs to know, even if she's only scratched the surface. But time with Dillion has grown scarce lately, as she suspects his secret drove a wedge between them, and she's grateful for the moment. So, rather than take her leave, she just turns so she can't see him.

"Did Jude tell you about the Transfiguration Club?" She asks, making conversation. There's a grunt that feels more like fighting through pain than responding.

"Yeah, he said. Some stupid Dumbledore thing." Dillion answers and Solas is filled with the need to defend their friend's co-curricular. Fortunately, the other boy quickly follows with, "Not that the club is stupid. Just Dumbledore is stupid and anything he touches is therefore stupid."

"Jude is enjoying it. He said they're learning spells even seventh years don't touch, sometimes. I couldn't do it."

"Neither."

"Clay has been teaching me everything he's learnt in muggle studies, too. Muggles are surprisingly competent for people with no magic."

"Did you now muggles can perform some magic? Rituals don't require a strong magical core." Dillion's casual fact, despite being delivered as if it's nothing, is almost unbelievable to Solas. She opens her mouth as if to provide a rebuttal, then realises she has no evidence against it. She's never met a muggle before.

Once the pants are on, and Solas has been given an indication, she turns back around to see Dillion struggling with his tie. She steps in once again, tying it with ease. By the time they're done, he's the best dressed he's been all year. He seems more comfortable too, with no secrets hanging between them that need to be skirted around. Solas no longer has to watch her words, lest she reveal too much. Dillion isn't keeping his responses to a minimum, holding himself at a distance.

Everything is as it should be again.

*

"Dillion!" The sound of his name rings out throughout the quiet hallway, causing Dillion to turn around to the source of the voice. Immediate regret fills him as he spots his brother approaching him, looking as serious as he always does. He doesn't bother running, knowing that will only make whatever he wants worse. Better to rip the bandaid off and get it out of the way before Michael has a chance to stew. "I heard about what happened."

"So did everyone else. You're not special." Dillion mutters, much to the annoyance of his brother. The man gives him a heavy eyeroll, displaying irritation Dillion doesn't think he deserves to feel. It's him that is being interrupted on his way to a detention he knows is going to leave him in even more pain, only to listen to whatever nonsense Michael feels the need to spill. That is the true torture. "What do you want?"

"I want to know if you're okay."

"No, you don't. You want to report back to Father." With his newfound freedom, Dillion briefly toys with the idea of giving him something to report back on. He could put on a show, play the lost son they expect him to be. But Pringle and Tom are waiting for him and he doesn't have the time Michael would then need to lecture him. "If that's all, I'm going."

There's a beat. Long enough for Dillion to start walking away. Then, Michael calls out, "I know."

The certainty in his tone convinces Dillion to stop and turn back around. Curiosity bubbles up inside of him, the desire to know what Michael thinks he knows burning. The annoyance on Michael's face has faded into that same exasperated judgement he had the night he was disowned, the 'Brother knows best' expression. Rather than grace him with a response, Dillion just stares at him.

"I know what you're doing. With him." Dillion can only assume 'him' means Tom. There are few other people would try to suggest he is committing nefarious acts with than the boy he was widely assumed to be dating, one who is a Slytherin no less. Prior to their fight, that rumour might not have been so damning with Tom's stellar reputation, but Michael would pull at whatever strings he can find to reach a conclusion that suits him. If Dillion has a handprint around his neck and detention for fighting Tom, then there can only be one person he's skulking around with. For once in his life, Michael is right. Not that Dillion will validate him.

"I don't think you know anything. You've never known anything about me." Dillion retorts coldly.

"I know those are ceremonial gloves and you took your everyday gloves with you when you left. You're hiding your hands, just like Riddle is hiding his." Michael has been watching him. Dillion had assumed he'd do as much, but having confirmation is unsettling. He doesn't like the idea that Michael has been observing him, making note of all the details of not only him but those around him.

"I left my other gloves at my new home." This isn't a lie. He hadn't given much thought to the packing of gloves when he'd prepared for the new year, only packing one in case the cold weather was particularly cold. The ceremony gloves had been the first ones he'd found, thrown in without considering their general purpose or comfort.

"Take them off then." Dillion feels himself being backed into a corner. Obeying will reveal the markings; denying will feed Michael's suspicions. He can't win.

"I don't know why you all disown me for being a Dark wizard and consider me too far gone to be saved," Dillion says as he pulls off the glove without any markings. If he can't win,  he plans on going out with his head held high. He just hopes that if neither he nor Tom can figure out what the markings mean, his brother isn't going to have any chance of recognising them. "And then you act upset and horrified when I act like a Dark wizard. Surely, by this point, that's what you'd expect."

Withdrawing his marked hand, Dillion wriggles his fingers at his brother's shocked face. It brings him some joy that, while Michael had clearly anticipated something under the glove, this must be far worse than what he'd been anticipating. For a few seconds, he's at a loss for words. When he finds them, they're not especially inspiring.

"What have you done?" He whispers, one hand reaching out as if he wants to touch it but is unwilling to commit to the gesture.

"What do you think?" Better to keep it vague. Let his imagination run wild. Then he can send his father some wild story about all the depraved and corrupt things Dillion has been doing.

"Dillion..."

"Why do you care?" Dillion asks. He sees that same saviour complex rising up inside Michael, the need to explain how what he is doing is wrong and dangerous. "Actually, I don't want to know. I have a detention to get to with Pringle, who is bad enough on a good day. I don't have time to listen to you preach."

Dillion doesn't give his brother a chance to react. Spinning on his heels, he turns back the way he had been heading and walks away. The small victory — or, at least, he considers it a victory — leaves him buzzing with adrenaline. He puts the gloves back on, pleased with the way his hand had made Michael react.

The high sobers once he reaches the caretaker's office, where Tom is already waiting for him. Bruises decorate his face, splashes of colour against pale skin. It's the most unkempt Dillion has ever seen him, despite the clear efforts to maintain his usual refinement. His cold eyes drift over Dillion from top to toe in a fluid motion, clearly assessing his appearance without giving any glimpse at his emotions. Once done, wordlessly, his gaze rolls to the door, which he knocks with the back of his hand. As soon as the noise echoes against his fist, the door swings open. No one stands on the other side but Tom doesn't hesitate to enter, closely followed by Dillion.

"I've been waiting for you two." Pringle greets them, moving around from his desk to stand in front of them. His eyes light up when he recognises Dillion, full of malicious glee. "You again. Clearly last time wasn't enough."

"I couldn't stay away." Dillion responds dryly, against his better judgement. He knows, regardless, he's going to leave this detention in pain. It might as well be on his own terms.

"Ha, I like the lively ones!" Pringle cackles. He's far enthusiastic than last time, seeming in a genuinely good mood. He looks from Dillion to Tom, frowning at the older boy, "Haven't seen you around before."

"I normally try to stay out of trouble, sir." Tom exudes refined diplomacy, wasting all his charm on a man who will likely beat it out of him in the next few minutes. The Slytherin even goes so far as to give a small, close-lipped smile, not enough to be considered disrespectful, just enough to place him on Pringle's side.

"They all crack eventually." The caretaker seems to be immune to Tom's charm. He barely spares him a second glance once he's gesturing to the same spot Dillion had stood last time he was here. "Stand here– Not you, boy. Got a better treat for you."

Dillion halts in his step. He'd barely even made one move before he's stopped, that dread from earlier growing. He'd hoped familiarity might be on his side. Knowing what was happening, what was coming, would help him cope when the pain crept up on him. He'd survived it once; he could survive it again. Now, he's back to square one. The only thing he has this time is the knowledge that is will definitely be painful and Pringle won't play by any rules.

"Professor Dumbledore said you two were friends — partners in crime, so to speak — and that you should suffer your punishment together. But," Pringle says as he opens his cupboard — bigger on the inside. With a wave of his wand, a ladder and barrel float out, assembling itself in the space between his desk and the wall. What awaits Dillion is still a mystery, growing only more confusing with the involvement of these two objects. The caretaker continues, "The same punishment wouldn't work for you two. I know you're harder to break, boy."

With a gesture of his hand, Pringle directs Dillion to stand behind the ladder. Through the rungs, he can see Tom standing in his own spot, facing him. The caretaker wraps cold, spidery hands around his wrist, tying them up against ladder with rope. He then moves to Dillion's ankles, securing them the same way, stretching his torso over the barrel. His body is already being pulled into an uncomfortable position, out of its comfort zone.

"And you — stand on the tips of your toes, so you can see him, and don't move past that." Pringle instructs Tom, who is quick to obey. "Both of you, do not break eye contact. If you break eye contact, your punishment becomes their punishment."

Last time, to begin with, there had been rules. No moving, or he got whipped. Dillion assumes the same must be the case this time, holding himself as still as he can get against the barrel. Wood and metal press into his chest, even with a layer of clothing to protect him. Breathing, he soon realises, worsens it. Every breath in pushes his stomach against the barrel, pulling at the ties around his wrists and ankles.

Tom wobbles slightly on his toes as he finds his balance, eyes glued to Dillion's. Determination has set into his face, furrowing his brow, adding an intensity to his stare. Soon, he settles, growing as still as someone can in his position.

Dillion blinks first, an unconscious action that lasts barely even a second. But it's enough. Suddenly, pain spreads across his back in little pinpricks, as if a million little lashes are both whipping and pinching him. He can't stop the cry that escapes his lips, the sensation taking him by surprise. Reflexively, Dillion's entire body arches forward, which only makes it worse as his body hits the barrel, twisting against his ropes. His entire body stings as he raises his gaze back to Tom.

The older boy has a similar expression on his own face, teeth bared in a grimace as he rises back to the tips of his toes. Every breath flares his nostrils, looks like effort.

"How does that feel?" Pringle chuckles beside Dillion, watching the Ravenclaw try to keep himself steady. Still looking right into Tom's eye, the brunet forces shaky lips into an insincere, insolent smile.

"It feels great, actually." He lies through his teeth, between pants that grind torso against wood. The words slip out without much forethought, only wanting to annoy the man hurting him.

"Lux..." There's a quiet, warning whisper from Tom.

Dillion is immediately made to regret his words. In retaliation, Pringle raises his wand and icy cold water trickles down his head. It starts slow, then pours over him as if the caretaker had emptied a bucket of water directly over his head. It provides no relief from the pain, rather worsening it as it makes contact with his back. Pinching pain turns into burning, stinging, like fire. It runs over his lips and he tastes salt.

Once again, though he desperately tries not to, Dillion breaks the eye contact. Another lashing spreads across his back, worse now that he's wet.

"Quiet, you." Pringle then turns his attention on Tom, approaching the boy as he tries to regain his balance. The man takes his cane, smacking it against the Slytherin's calves. Tom goes falling, stops looking at Dillion, and the brunet gets yet another lashing. "If you can speak, the lesson clearly isn't sinking in."

With both struggling to maintain eye contact for longer than a few seconds, the pain only grows more frequent and more intense. Tom spends more time with his feet on the ground than on his toes, sometimes even looking as if he might fall over entirely. A quiet whimper escapes the older boy, something breaking in his expression. Dillion's wrists are beginning to rub themselves raw, twisting and tightening each time his body spasms against the wood. He suspects the only thing keeping himself upright is his bindings.

As Pringle sends his cane hurtling against Tom's legs again, clearly displeased with the time it took the boy to rise, something coils within Dillion's stomach, contorting, constricting. His throat tightens. It feels like fear, but not his own. He feels like he's tainted. The feeling is stealing his breath, lodging a large lump right in his throat, and burns his eyes. He feels as if he's been backed into a corner, a wild animal frightened. Distantly, he's aware that these emotions are not his own.

When his eyes find Tom's, the older boy looks as if he's on the brink of tears. It's like in Divination, only worse.

He didn't mean to scare anyone. He doesn't like scaring people. When he scares people, he gets in trouble and they bring out the cane. If he's lucky. The adults aren't scared of him yet; they don't mind hurting him. They say it's good for him. It teaches a lesson. If you can still stand, you haven't been taught your lesson.

He can barely stand now, but he can't remember what the lesson is.

The pain is never ending and, this time, Dillion can find no refuge in statues or detachment. The fear that feels so foreign keeps him rooted in the moment, feeling every single pinprick of pain, every burn of water hitting his back. Tom is so pale, he looks like he might be a ghost. Some primal state screams in Dillion's ear, telling him the older boy is in danger. Their magic is in danger.

Protect him, it demands.

Desperation builds up within Dillion, feeding off the fear. The need to protect, to fend off the predator.

Then the pain grows too much and Dillion's vision goes black.

Tom is no longer in the caretaker's office. He's back at the orphanage, a small child, being punished for a moment of accidental magic. At that point, he wasn't quite aware what he could do or what he was doing, a moment of impossibility he swore he wasn't responsible for. Of course, as the snake-talking quiet child with no friends, it couldn't be anyone else. He had bore the punishment for it — a caning that left him nearly incapable of walking. The matron and Father were growing exhausted of exorcisms and had started resorting to more violent methods of purging him of sin and evil.

It's only a sudden crashing that draws him back to the present, eyes snapping straight to the source. He regains focus in his vision quick enough to see Pringle crash into the wall before he falls limp on the floor. For a brief moment, Tom assumes he's responsible. The lingering memories of guilt all too easily cloak him, a habit he'd thought he'd long since lost. But he feels the swelling sensation in his core, the way his magic does when Dillion is stealing from it. Then, he hears the screeching of wood against stone and sees Dillion slumped against the ladder, his weight dragging the entire contraption he's attached to with him. It looks as if it may be in danger of falling.

Realising the caning has stopped, Tom risks leaving the spot to approach Dillion. He cuts the rope holding him to the ladder with his wand, carefully lowering him onto the ground. As he's laid back, Dillion coughs, blood bubbling from his lips. The coughs grow more violent, before Tom realises he's choking on his own blood. He's completely unconscious, a rag doll in the older boy's hands, as Tom rolls him onto his side. He has to hold him up to stop him from crumpling on his side. Dillion is wet to touch, entire body drenched in water.

With an unconscious caretaker in the room, Tom doesn't want to risk allowing Dillion to regain his consciousness naturally. Once he's certain he's no longer choking, he shakes the boy, restraining the desperate violence that wants to draw him from his state faster. Despite the agitation, he doesn't feel any desire to hurt the boy for once. The younger looks like a child right now, vulnerable, innocent.

Dillion's eyes clench tightly first, before they open slowly and look up at Tom in confusion. Every movement as Tom helps him into a seated position seems to be agony, as he groans and pants, leaning heavily on the older boy. Upright and conscious, before any words leave his lips, he breaks out into a coughing fit that ends in him spitting the last of the blood both on his own shirt and the floor next to him. Spit and blood stick to his chin, collecting amongst the water and sweat. He looks like a mess.

Tom guides him to the desk, crawling rather than walking, so he can prop him up against it without relying on him for support. Once Dillion can remain upright by himself, he moves over to Pringle's body, rolling him onto his back. The thin caretaker moves more like a sack of bones than a human body and, for a brief moment, Tom wonders if he's handling a dead body. The thought burns his throat, the threat of vomit creeping up it. The movement doesn't awaken him, nor does it draw out any reaction from the unconscious man. Reluctantly, Tom presses his fingers against his neck and, fortunately, finds a weak pulse. Not dead.

He then crawls back to Dillion, collapsing against the desk beside him. His legs are still shaking from the caning, leaving him feeling weak. The two boys sit shoulder to shoulder, all their weight divided between one another and the desk behind them. For a few moments, no words pass between them, recovering in silence.

Then, Tom asks, "What did you do?"

"Nothing– I don't know. I don't remember doing anything." Dillion's answer is frantic, sincerely confused. The older boy turns his head to look at him, so close he can smell the faint hint of Dillion's perfume underneath the stench of sweat, blood and fear. The floral smell is, surprisingly, a small comfort, one he finds himself unconsciously seeking more of. Dillion tilts his head to return the gaze, both too close to properly focus on one another. "It felt scared and then I felt like I had to protect it. I don't remember anything else."

Dillion breaks the eye contact to lean his head back against the table, eyes fluttering shut. He grows so still, Tom thinks he's lost him again.

"Protect what?" Tom pushes, in an effort to keep him in the present. He doesn't want to be alone with the caretaker. With his memories.

"I don't know!" Dillion exclaims, tone laced with tired frustration. His eyes snap open again, turning to the older boy's. Tom has pushed too far. He doesn't want to feel guilty and yet, the awakened child in him does. All the morality and compassion that was beaten out of Tom has raised its ugly head, directed at the bane of his existence of all people. "I just wanted the caning to stop."

Tom doesn't like where his thoughts immediately go. He doesn't like that he can't shake the suspicion that, maybe, somehow, Dillion was protecting him. It's not his pride that makes the idea undesirable, it's the thought of Dillion being anything but insufferable and self-absorbed, that he could have possible acted in Tom's own benefit. He doesn't need those thoughts in his current state.

"You attacked a teacher." Tom informs him, bobbing his head vaguely towards the body.

"No, I didn't." Dillion immediately denies, though Tom doesn't sense any dishonesty from him. There's too much confusion and disorientation to be anything but genuine.

"I felt your magic. You performed something Dark on him."

"I didn't." Dillion insists. A lone cough then escapes his body, bringing a quiet hiss of pain. As he wipes his mouth, the blood that ends up on his hands seems to catch his attention. Slowly, a degree of realisation dawns on his face, which then turns to fear. He turns his hands over and over, trembling. When he speaks next, his voice isn't more than a whisper, "I thought I was in control."

"We have to do something before we get caught. We need to find a teacher." A plan slowly forms in the fog of Tom's brain, a wanted reprieve from his previous thoughts.

"I'll be expelled." The words come out through chattering teeth, nearly incomprehensible.

"That's why we're going to find a teacher, Dillion." The brunet frowns at him, visibly confused. "We're going to find someone who likes us enough to believe us, and we're going to tell them we don't know what happened. He was punishing us and then suddenly he hit the wall, as if his own spell had backfired. I say we find Slughorn. He'll believe anything I tell him."

"His office is too far away. We'd get caught before we find him." Dillion shakes his head, eyes closed again. Just being awake, upright, seems to be torture for him. "Dippet is closer. It's just up the stairs."

"Will he believe us?" Tom asks. His interactions with the headmaster have always been cordial, but never more than what is expected of a headmaster. They have had very few reasons to sit down and talk at any great length that might allow Tom to sweeten him. He's only seen Dillion go to him for punishment, but the boy still nods his head.

"He wants to see the best in me. He's our best option."

"Can you walk?" In response, Dillion attempts to rise to his feet. He successfully manages to stand, wobbly on his feet, though the first attempt at a step leads to a stumble. Tom's calves still haven't recovered, but he's steadier than the younger. He wraps one arm around Dillion's back, ignoring the hiss it brings, and helps guide him. He suspects he's just as much relying on Dillion as the younger is relying on him. "It's better if we go together. Less chance of them claiming one of us stayed behind to stage everything."

"Do you think that's likely?" Dillion grunts.

"I don't know, but it's better to be prepared."

The Entrance Hall is, fortunately, quiet. The large room is void of people, giving Tom and Dillion plenty of time to shuffle through it without getting caught. Stealth is traded for speed, the care lost with their awkward connectedness. Even rushing, neither can move particularly fast. While trying to keep Dillion upright, Tom can't do much more than limp, fighting his protesting legs. Dillion, similarly, is unable to walk without stumbling, suddenly losing control over his body. Unfortunately, before they can truly escape the Entrance Hall, the tapping of shoes herald their impending doom.

"Dillion, Tom?" The voice calls out, clearly every bit confused to see the two boys struggling through the hall. Tom's heart rests heavy in his stomach. With little grace, the pair turn to see Mancio approaching them. The sight of them seems to cause him some concern, evident in his expression. "Are you alright?"

"There was an accident." Tom speaks for them, suspecting he may be the better liar. He then regrets his leadership. Mancio, he knows, likes Dillion; even a poorly told lie might be believable coming from the younger. He's unsure if the professor holds any suspicion towards him. "We were in detention–"

"Is that why you look like that?" Mancio interrupts him. With a flick of his wand, Tom feels the dampness lift from Dillion. "Detention hasn't improved since I was a student, I see."

"Pringle is unconscious." Dillion says with little care or subtlety. "He hit his head."

"In his office?" The two nod their heads. "What happened?"

"We're not sure, professor. He was trying to punish us both at the same time with different spells — I think his magic may have backfired." Tom answers before Dillion can, trusting himself more with the details of the lie than he does the boy who feels as if he's only a few seconds from collapsing in his arms.

"You two had better come." Dread settles within Tom's gut, certain Mancio doesn't believe them. He follows obediently, bringing Dillion with him. While, in this moment, he feels some sort of alliance with Dillion, he can only hope, if they're caught, Tom won't be painted with the same brush as the younger. If he can overstate their relationship, perhaps he can claim he only lied to protect his friend. Or he could play the fear card, afraid Dillion would attack him too. Anything to keep him from returning to the orphanage.

Back in the caretaker's office, Pringle has still not moved. Mancio lets a sharp intake of breath as he steps into the room and it takes Tom a few seconds to realise he isn't even looking at the caretaker. His attention instead seems focused on the man's tools for punishment, particularly that which had bound Dillion only minutes earlier.

"I don't know how any of this is allowed." He mutters, before addressing the unconscious man. Much like Tom had before, Mancio checks for a pulse, determines he's still alive, then begins investigating the area around him. "You said you didn't know what happened?"

"Yes." Tom responds simply. Dillion echoes the statement with a low hum. Since they've stopped, he's started leaning on the older boy, fingers digging into his shoulder. Tom can feel the weight of his cheek against his shoulder.

"He was definitely using some experimental magic." Mancio says as he flicks his wand. The air around them begins to shimmer, strands of sparkling light twist around them like string caught in wind. Two distinct strands spin around each other, both identical and yet noticeably different. Tom doesn't understand it, nor does he know what Mancio is doing.

"What is that?" He asks, curiosity burning.

"Magical signatures. Most magic leaves a trace behind, even a weak one — an echo of what occurred. It only lasts a short time, though some can linger longer. In places where bigger spells or rituals took place, sometimes, they might rest for centuries." Mancio explains, as if he was in class, teaching the pair. "Everyone has a personal signature, too. It's what your Trace is attached to. This," Mancio toys with one strand with the tip of his wand, "is Pringle's."

"How can you tell?"

"I know what his magic signature feels like." The professor lets out a light chuckle. "I'm sorry, it's hard to explain. There is a degree of intuition involved. Usually, in Ministry investigations, they would use the wand to confirm the signature. I've spent enough time here to recognise a few signatures without needing the wand. In this case, I have a good grasp on both of your signatures, so I would know if you had cast a spell to get out of detention."

The neglected strand of magic flickers in the air dangerously, now that Tom is certain that must belong to Dillion. It hangs in the air like a threat. All it would take is for Mancio to turn his attention to it and he would realise their guilt.

There is no denying the professor looks at the strand. Tom is so intent on spotting the moment of their downfall that his eyes are glued to Mancio. He sees the second the man looks at the other signature, pondering it. Then, the two strands fade away. The air grows empty, as if nothing was ever there.

"See," Mancio gestures towards where the strands had once been, "Not long at all."

The relief that fills Tom almost sends him to his knees, worsened by the weight resting on him. He forces his face into a neutral expression, not wanting to give too much away. Mancio's own turns up in a slight smile, as he puts his wand away.

"I think you were right, Tom. It just looks like a case of magic backfiring." The professor concludes, before his examination returns to the two boys again. The smile disappears, replaced with concern and what Tom thinks is a hint of anger. "Let's get you two to Madam Reselda. I'll have Dippet seen to after."

Mancio takes Dillion's other side, alleviating some of the stress on the older boy's body. With more support, the walk to the hospital wing is easier than it might have been. They walk in silence, the younger two too tired to fill the space with words. Mancio seems to sense this, not pushing conversation either. Tom can't shake the feeling he also knew Dillion's magic rest in the air. He's certain the professor is covering for them — covering for Dillion. The loyalty he has for his student is one Tom will have to be careful about.

When they arrive at the hospital wing, Madam Reselda quietly and calmly gets them both in beds, thanking Mancio for his help. There's a silent intensity about her, one that brings immediate compliance from the other three. The professor takes his leave while the boys settle into their beds.

Reselda addresses Dillion first, peeling his clothes off him. Layer after layer, each article of clothing is pulled with as much care as she can, but it still brings quiet whimpers from the younger boy. Eventually, his torso is bare, entire body tense. From his own bed, Tom can see the damage Pringle has done: the Ravenclaw's back is covered in bleeding strikes, prickled with bruising dots. His own bruises cover his side, darker compared to the fresh ones. The skin around his wrists has been rubbed raw as well, pink and bleeding in the low light.

The nurse starts on his arms, scooping a salve from a little jar. Each wrist is coated in it, gently rubbed into each wound. Dillion's eyes close as he all but leans against the older woman, at ease. Treating his arms draws Reselda's attention to the markings travelling up his arm, which she examines with little reaction.

"How did you get this?" She asks, running her fingers over one uninjured section of skin.

"It's a tattoo." There's enough of a delay in Dillion's answer for Tom to spot the thoughts rolling around in his head, but seemingly not enough for Reselda to grow suspicious. If she is, she certainly doesn't say anything more on it. Her main focus seems to be covering Dillion in the salve.

"Why didn't you come see me about these?" She sighs when she reaches yesterday's bruises, her voice light and kind.

"I forgot." Dillion's answer receives a soft sigh, before the nurse helps him lie on his stomach. Once she's cleaned it of blood, she rubs the salve into his back, which coats his skin in a thin sheen and reduces some of the redness.

"I'm afraid I can't heal these completely, as you know, but this should help you sleep. Try to stay on your stomach — it's better if your wounds aren't disturbed." Reselda instructs Dillion, receiving a muffled hum in response. As she turns her attention to Tom, the younger shifts so he can watch the pair. With far more mobility than Dillion, Tom is able to remove his shoes and socks and pull his pants up for the nurse. Much like Dillion, his legs have gone dark red with the angry welts wrapping around them. As Reselda inspects them, she tuts softly. "Mancio should have got a stretcher rather than have you walk here."

"It wasn't too hard." Tom understates the journey here, both to defend the professor who has recently saved their skin and, more importantly, not feel so weak. He feels like a small child in her eyes.

"You shouldn't be walking around with these injuries, regardless. Rest is what you both need." The salve Reselda rubs into his legs is cool, tingling and comforting against his wounds. It feels wrong. Punishment has always ended with him sitting in his room, expected to suffer through the pain. The pain is a reminder of the lesson learnt. To be cared for feels strange. "Did you both have dinner?"

Both boys say yes, though Dillion adds, "Could I have some water?"

"Of course, dear." Within a few seconds, there's a glass of water in Reselda's hand. She helps Dillion drink it, avoiding any spills or unnecessary movement from the younger. When he's drunk his fill, downing the glass like a drowning fish, he flops down on the bed and looks seconds from sleep. "If you two need anything, I'm not far. Just call out."

Reselda then leaves the two boys alone in the silence of the hospital wing. It hangs heavily over Tom, almost suffocating. To fill in the space, he begins undressing himself. Much like Dillion, there are plenty of layers to keep him occupied. The pyjamas provided by the hospital wing remind him of the ones given to him at the orphanage — pale, unremarkable. But, unlike the orphanage's ones, these are warm, soft and fit him perfectly.

"Thank you... for helping me." Dillion whispers as Tom settles back into bed. The older boy looks over at him, still stuck in that same position.

"Don't mention it." Tom responds. He pulls the covers over him, rolling onto his side so he can still see Dillion. "I mean it. People will get the wrong idea."

This earns a chuckle, which then turns into a groan.

"You need to stop making people want to kill you." The second they've passed his lips, Tom regrets his words. He wonders if it's too soon to be making comments like that, when only yesterday it was him who wanted to kill Dillion. There's even a bruise to prove it. Fortunately, Dillion smiles that infuriating smile of his and all concern is forgotten.

"I can't help it. It's in my nature." He jokes and even Tom chuckles. The younger lets out a sudden, loud yawn that seems to exhaust him further. When he speaks again, sleep has already taken over his voice, "I know we're not friends, and I'll take this back in the morning, but... I hope you're okay."

Before Tom can say anything, it becomes quiet clear Dillion is falling asleep. There's no use responding to him as he grows more and more lost to the word. Tom can only watch as the tension eases from Dillion's face, leaving him looking as if he's at peace. Those emotions the child had to suppress in him leave Tom hanging onto those words, taking reassurance in the comfort provided by his enemy.

Then, Tom rolls over, unable to look at Dillion without feeling sick — weak. He smothers the child, kills all the memories that cling to him. There's no place for weakness in this world, in his world.

Sleep takes him more slowly, too afraid that if he closes his eyes he'll be haunted by nightmares. But, when it finally pulls him into its warmth, he dreams the same darkness he dreams every other night.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
For those who skipped: important bit was just that Dillion had this instinctual need to protect something — presumed Tom by both parties — and so he attacked Pringle without meaning to. He also lost consciousness again which, I'll tell you all now because I don't think I'll ever address it in writing, is because the Dark put them in time out & he'd basically gone back to pre-bond with the Dark Arts

I got (and by got I mean I asked for it as a birthday present) the entire Hornblower movie series just so I could watch Loyalty for Chris Coulson (in the gif). I don't regret it because I ended up falling into a deep Hornblower hole but I'm still sensitive about Loyalty & seeing his character puts me through it every single time