12.

The dark clouds overhead promise rain, hanging heavily in the air as if only moments from bursting. The teachers had almost cancelled the Hogsmeade trip, concerned about the weather, but, much to the students' pleasure, they had decided the rain would likely hold off for long enough. The cold air still whips around Tom, burning his nose and finger tips, and the smell of rain ensures the threat is never far from his mind.

He's managed to finally get some time alone, a rarity these days. Between experimenting with Dillion, investigating with the Slytherins, classes, and Eric and Cessair's incessant insistence on starting a Dark Arts group, he's hardly had a moment where he isn't stuck with the company of someone else. He's almost forgot what it's like to be alone.

When he's alone, all he has is his thoughts. There's no need to perform for someone, no worrying about what everyone thinks. It's just himself.

He used to get lonely, at the orphanage. Being alone felt like a bad thing, when so many orphans banded together to compensate for their lack of a family. He'd watch the other children find their little groups, take in newcomers with open arms, all while giving him a wide berth because there was something wrong with him. His few attempts to try and bond with them only led to worsening the bridge, traumatising them. When he discovered he wasn't possessed, he was just a wizard, he realised he wasn't the problem. They were the problem.

Hogwarts was the same, he'd been disappointed to discover. Students had their groups and were encouraged by teachers to create those divides. He was once again an outsider in his house full of purebloods — an unknown name. But, unlike in the orphanage, he still fit in. His talents were encouraged, not feared. By then, though, social connections weren't what he craved. Those are useless. It's the power that truly matters.

It's just so tiring. Tom isn't sure he knows who he really is, anymore. He's the corrupted lost cause. The poor yet talented orphan. Prefect. Heir to Slytherin and son of a Gaunt to Dillion. But who is he when he's alone? Who is Tom Riddle, when all his roles are stripped away?

Tom doesn't know.

This has never bothered him before.  He's never felt such a deep insecurity in his personal identity. It's never mattered, coming second to what everyone else perceives him as. He can only blame Dillion. It's so easy to blame him. Everything bad in Tom's life lately has been directly connected to that Ravenclaw. His friends only seem to have eyes for him; his title as the best is being threatened by someone who doesn't even seem to study properly; his magic is being stolen; pieces of his own vulnerability, private moments of his youth, laid bare to the boy. The one piece of magic he thought he might have found an escape in, a small rebellion, is being corrupted by him.

"Hey, Riddle!" Tom's thoughts are interrupted by a voice he recognises but can't identify. He looks up to see one of Dillion's friends — the Irish one — approaching him, one arm raised over his head in a wave. It's not Dillion, so he's not exactly the last person Tom would want to see right now, but he's still his friend and that's not much better. Still, Tom forces a polite smile across his lips. Better to play that part. That comes easier to him. "I told you I'd see you around."

"You did." Tom says simply, unsure what else to say. As he wracks his brain, he can't find a single reason for Clay to be approaching him right now. The Ravenclaw settles himself in beside Tom casually, leaning against the fence Tom is resting on. Keeping the smile on his lips and his tone light, Tom asks, "What can I do for you?"

"More like, what can I do for you?" Clay returns, much to Tom's confusion. Fortunately, the other boy seems to recognise his confusion. Unfortunately, his clarification adds little actual clarity. "You've been spending a lot of time with Dillion."

Tom nods. He doesn't know what else to do, besides confirm their unfortunate interactions. Clay's tone doesn't provide any indication to his intent, too conversational, without any hidden meaning or intent. Maybe it's the accent.

"How is he?"

"He seems fine. You'd likely have a better idea than me." Tom confesses, still struggling to discern the point of this conversation. He hopes Dillion's friends haven't decided that, because Dillion has been spending so much time with Tom's friends, they're now friends as well. The last thing he needs is more people he's obligated to act friendly with.

Clay shakes his head, "I doubt it. He spends more time with you than he does me, these days." There's definitely something resting under his words. He has a grin on his lips, one that feels like he's playfully teasing Tom. Whatever the joke is, it's going over Tom's head.

"He's started joining in on the Slytherin study groups." Tom decides the best route is a half-truth. It'll be easier to coordinate their lies without talking if they based in reality. He's not entirely sure what Dillion has told his friends, but clearly they've grown distant recently.

"Study, ha!" Clay's humorous disbelief strikes fear in Tom's stomach. At first, he thinks the Ravenclaw has seen straight through the lie. The brunet jabs him uncomfortably in the ribs, invading his personal space as if they were friends. "You don't have to keep pretending at this point. Most of the school knows."

"Knows what?"

"About you and Dillion." When Tom remains silent, watching Clay both nervous and confused, the Ravenclaw looks at him properly. His eyes travel across his face intently, clearly examining him. Then, Clay's expression drops. Within seconds, an even more amused look takes its place. "You mean you guys really are studying?"

"Yes, of course. What did you think we were doing?"

"Dating, obviously," says Clay, though it wasn't obvious at all. "Last I heard, some of the Hufflepuffs had spun some spicy tale about your forbidden love and how a Romeo and Juliet love story ended with Dillion getting disowned. Some people are convinced you've also made some Dark pact."

Tom's stomach drops. Something tightens around his throat like a cold, iron grip. It takes all his will to steel his gaze, to avoid giving any indicator to how badly this news has affected him. And it's affected him badly. It's the worst thing he's heard all week, perhaps even all month. He wants to throw up. His stomach is doing cartwheel, threatening to do exactly that. There is no thought more abhorrent, more sickening, than that of him dating Dillion. Now that the idea is burned into his mind, he can't escape it. It makes him want to scrub himself clean, to rub himself raw until he's free of that.

To make matters worse, according to Clay, the rumour is widespread. A large portion of the student body thinks he's dating Dillion. All the care he's taken to curate a very particular image has been destroyed by overactive imaginations. By Dillion.

"Are– How bad are the rumours?"

"Pretty bad. Dillion getting disowned was pretty big, then the romance made it worse." Typical of Dillion to bring Tom down in every aspect of his life. It wasn't enough that he was ruining everything else in his life — he had to go for his reputation as well.

Tom feels tainted. Itchy. Wrong. All he wants to do, surprisingly, is breakdown and cry, no longer feeling in control. His entire life is spinning around him, at the whim of everything but him. He thinks the company is the only thing holding him together.

"Should I tell Dillion, or would you like to?"

"I will." Tom answers. He wants to see Dillion's face when he informs him of the rumours, determine whether he already knew or not.

If he knew, Tom will make sure he pays.

"We need to talk," is the first thing Tom says to Dillion after approaching him, pulling him away from Solas and Jude. There's an intensity in his emotion, bubbling under the surface of his default mask, that sobers the younger immediately. He shoves his bag of exploding bonbons into his pocket, wondering what to do about the one he'd put in his mouth right before Tom had arrived. With few other options, Dillion bites down on the bonbon. Naturally, as he chews on it, a loud bang can be heard from within his mouth. The sound brings out an annoyed flinch from the Slytherin, earning Dillion a side-eyed glare.

Tom says nothing for an unbearably long time, leading Dillion away from the students. Dillion wants to ask why he's grabbed him, but he figures Tom would have told him by now if it was the time to tell him. The older boy isn't the sort to spend more time with Dillion than he has to.

"The school thinks we're dating." Dillion's answer comes abruptly, without any sort of warning. The words spew past Tom's lips in a rushed mess, barely contained distress hanging behind them. As soon as he processes the words, Dillion implodes. Tom is the boy they think he was caught with. The whole school thinks he was disowned because he's dating Tom Riddle.

"Fuck." Dillion mutters, more of a groan than any real response. "How bad?"

"Likely every single house. The only one I'm unsure on is Slytherin, but if everyone else thinks that, they would have at least heard it." He wonders if his father has heard. He wonders what his father would think of him, if he thought his son was dating a nobody. The Lux family never has to worry about being elevated through romance, but any arrangements have to allow them to gain something with what they would be bestowing upon the other party. They never would have approved of Tom. They'd lose more than they gained.

Another nail in a coffin Dillion isn't supposed to care about. He'd told himself he didn't care about it.

He hopes his father heard about these rumours. He hopes his father thinks he's still dragging the family name through the mud. He hopes his father thinks what everyone does when they first hear Tom Riddle's name — that he's just a muggleborn — and is ashamed of him. If he can't control the rumours, if he still can't choose who he's supposed to be dating, then at least he can gain that from it.

"You need to get a girlfriend." Tom informs Dillion, far too confidently, as if he already knows he's going to do exactly what he says. The brunet raises an eyebrow at him, daring him to justify this. "If you're dating someone else, they won't be able to think we're dating."

"We could just pretend to break up. The outcome would be the same."

"But they still would have thought we were dating. If we play into their fantasy, we confirming their fantasy and I don't want them thinking we ever dated. I don't want that on my record." Tom's mask cracks almost entirely; his voice is full of the stress building up inside of him, gestures lively and emphatic. He'd almost be sympathetic if his stress wasn't coming out as anger.

"Then you should find a girlfriend. It's your problem." Dillion retorts, his own frustrations surfacing. He's only just realised he has this romantic freedom; he doesn't want it to slip through his fingers because, once again, someone else is concerned about what other people think. His answer clearly doesn't sit well with Tom. Something rests on the tip of the other boy's tongue, coming out in only a barely suppressed huff. His lips pressed tightly together, he shoves whatever venomous insults he likely wants to throw at Dillion down.

"It's not as easy. I don't have the luxury of dating whoever I feel like on a whim — I have to choose who I date carefully. Your reputation doesn't matter the same way mine does." They're almost the same, Dillion considers. Both controlled by their reputation, by the arbitrary rules of power. The only difference is Dillion has escaped his chains and Tom wants to impose his on Dillion. "Why don't you pretend to date your friend, the Ravenclaw girl? I'm sure she'd go along with it for you and you're both already close."

"I'm not going to date — or fake-date — Solas." Dillion responds through gritted teeth. Of all the people to be set up with, it had to be her. The girl he's been expected to marry since the day they became friends. The girl he loves too much like a sister to love as anything more. The only appealing thing about their potential arranged marriage was that at least he knew he could tolerate her, and she him. She wouldn't force him to do anything more than their life already dictated.

"Why not? She'd help you fix your reputation. I assume she has money. She certainly seems popular enough within your circles. You can't do worse. It would be making the most out of a horrible situation." Tom sounds like Dillion's father. His mother. His brother. He sounds like every single person who taught Dillion that reputations mattered, that they were some sort of currency. Dillion's one escape has become exactly what he was escaping from.

"I don't care what people think about me. I'm not so insecure I need everyone to think I'm some saint to feel good about myself, that I have to play some part to make sure everyone likes me." Dillion spits at Tom, although all he sees is his family. He takes a few steps forward, entering Tom's personal bubble, getting as close as he can. "I know people still like me at rock bottom. Who would care about you if they saw who the real Tom Riddle was?"

"You don't know me." Tom whispers, weakly. Dillion has hit a mark. He hopes it hurts. "You think you can insert yourself into my life, completely ruin it, and that means you know me. You don't. No one likes you, Dillion; they just like the idea of you."

"At least the idea of me isn't grovelling at everyone's feet, pandering to whatever fantasy they need me to be. The great Tom Riddle will go down in history as the lonely boy who held himself back in his need to be liked. You'll be forgotten. Nothing." Dillion ensures he draws out those final words, making sure each one has personal impact. He can see them swirling around in Tom's eyes, the anger and insecurities. All laid bare for Dillion to use again later.

Tom snarls in response, leaping forward with such speed Dillion doesn't even have time to register it. By the time he realises what's happened, his back has made impact with the wet ground, water seeping into his robes, and Tom's hands are around his neck. Fear flares inside of him as the older boy's grip tightens, perched on him in a way that pushes what little oxygen he had out of his lungs.

"You think you're so much better than me, but you're not. You've spent your entire life doing exactly what I did, but you screwed up and rather than acknowledge that, you'd rather pretend you're enlightened and better than everyone else. You're not. You never will be because you've already proven you can't be." Oh. There are tears in Tom's eyes. He isn't crying, but his eyes are glassy from the welling liquid. Behind the rage, there's an insecurity that makes him look almost human. It's the sort of expression that would never truly be captured by painters, but they would try, and they would get close to capturing it, but it's too human to be caught on any other medium. It's the sort of expression that almost makes Dillion forget Tom is trying to kill him.

Tom's blunt nails are digging into his skin, cutting off his air. A leg on either side, Dillion is pinned to the ground. He claws at Tom's hands, thrashes as best he can within his confines, but the older boy remains rooted firmly atop of him. Something cold and wet hits Dillion's forehead and he's unsure whether it's tears or rain.

"I wish I'd never met you. I hate you." Tom cries, as his grip on Dillion's neck begins to weaken. The anger has subsided enough to highlight his heart isn't truly in the action.

Dillion gathers all his energy and pushes Tom off him. They roll across the mud, catching themselves in a tangle. Once they've landed, Dillion is quick to pull himself away. Tom rises to his knees, clearly trying to stand, but Dillion throws himself at the older boy just to punch him in the face. The impact stings his knuckles, but it makes Tom's nose bleed, so he suspects Tom has come out worse.

The action, however, causes both of them to slip in the mud and they go toppling once again. Dillion ends up scrabbling across the Slytherin's legs. He scratches at Tom's clothes, trying to hit skin. Tom manages to get one leg free from under Dillion, digging his heel into the other boy's ribs. Repeatedly, he kicks Dillion's side, harder each time. Each kick worsens the pain, til Dillion is certain his entire ribs are going to be bruised.

Distantly, going unnoticed by both voices, someone yells, "There's a fight!"

Dillion feels like he's losing. The thought brings a surge of frustration, heat coursing through his veins. There's some scrabbling, clawing, and Dillion manages to get on top. It only lasts a few seconds, before Tom grabs a handful of hair and tugs him down. They become a mess of tangled limbs, unable to discern where one starts and the other ends. At some point, Dillion's mouth fills with blood, his lip throbbing. Blood is smeared across both their faces and hands, unable to tell whose it is.

Tom looks like a wild animal, barely contained in his feral anger. The sun hits the back of his dark curls and looks like a halo. A violent, murderous angel. He ends up kneeling over the younger, arm pressed against Dillion's chest, panting heavily. His breaths match the rapid rise and fall of Dillion's own, oxygen limited even when he's not being strangled. As the boy leans in, Dillion can't help but feel Tom is stealing his oxygen. He reaches for the closest thing within his grasp, gripping the back of Tom's robes, and digs his fingers in.

"Get a girlfriend, Lux." Tom growls. Blood drips from his nose, bubbles through gritted teeth. He says Dillion's name as if it's a bad word, as if it leaves a sour taste on his tongue.

"What would you do then, sweet cheeks?" The look Tom gives Dillion makes him concerned the older is about to strangle him again.

Before either can do anything, the two boys are pulled apart with such force that their already aching bodies are filled with pain again. The invisible pressure holds them down in the mud, softening enough only for Dillion to look at his surroundings. At some point, students have collected around them, watching on with faces mixed with curiosity, concern and excitement. Then, right in front of them, the cause of their current predicament, is Dumbledore.

"I should have know you two would be at the centre of such a violent disruption." The professor comments, coolly disdainful — though it would be easy to mistake him as neutral. "You two will head back to Hogwarts. My office."

With a wave of his hand, the pressure on the boys lifts. Dumbledore is already departing before Dillion and Tom have clambered to their feet. Dillion's robes are wet, caked in mud, and Tom's don't look much better.

"Teachers shouldn't be allowed to do that." Dillion gasps as he rises to his feet. His entire body hurts, but his ribs and neck seem to be where it's concentrated itself. Breathing is effort, made worse by Dumbledore throwing him about.

"That– That–" Tom seems to be suddenly aware of his surroundings, the intensity leaving him at an unnaturally quick speed. Whatever curse he'd planned on throwing at the professor dies on his tongue, replaced with a heavy sigh. With shaky hands, he adjusts his robes, though it does little to help with his appearance. "He has absolutely no reason to expect to see me here. I have a clean record."

"It's because you're Slytherin."

"And that's why the Gryffindors think we're all Grindelwald fanatics." Tom reaches into his pocket and retrieves a handkerchief, raising it to his mouth. Silently, he spits into it, spells the blood and spit away, then puts the handkerchief away. "We'd best not keep him waiting."

"I'd like to. I think he deserves to wait." Despite Dillion's wishes, the older boy stalks off on Dumbledore's trail. Dillion watches and waits for a few seconds, unwilling to follow Tom, before he realises he's been left with the waning crowd. All eyes are on him, expectant. Reluctantly, he jogs on after Tom, his entire body aching.

The tension in Dumbledore's office is suffocating. The older man hasn't spoken for quite some time, letting the two boys suffer in the silence. Dillion is sure he's supposed to be reflecting on his actions, feeling some sort of regret. He can still feel the ghost of Tom's fingers around his neck, the tingling bruise on his knuckles. When he licks his lips, he tastes metal and something stings. In the corner of his eye, Tom is stiff, sniffling.

Dillion doesn't regret a thing.

His entire life has been dictated by appearances and being allowed to forget that in his anger feels freeing. Dumbledore can scold him all he likes, but he'll have nothing on the pain of disappointing his father. Not having to worry about that makes Dillion untouchable. He feels euphoric. There are no rules anymore. He's free.

And, for a brief moment, so was Tom. His classmates had seen him lose his cool and he hadn't care — not then. Dillion doesn't know what he thinks now. That blank mask has returned, impenetrable.

"I am concerned about both of you." Dumbledore breaks the silence, voice heavy with care and worry Dillion knows is fake. The only thing Dumbledore is worried about is whether or not he can pull the pair under his control. The only thing he cares about is how he can punish the two of them. "Violent outbursts are unacceptable. We do not take matters into our own hands. You, Tom, are a prefect; you're supposed to be an example."

"Yes, sir." Tom murmurs emptily.

"And you, Mr. Lux — your situation can only excuse you so much, for so long. If you are struggling, talk to someone, don't take it out on your classmates."

"I'm not struggling." The words leave Dillion's lips before he can think them through. He thinks the rush of rebellious adrenaline that came from fighting Tom has loosened his tongue.

"If your behaviour is not coming from a place of hurt, but a place of intent, then that is inexcusable. Not to mention dangerous."

"It was one fight."

"It has been several, Mr. Lux." Anger flares inside of Dillion again, indignant. He's a monster for showing curiosity. He's a monster for defending himself.

"I'm never the only person involved. Most of those fights, I've been defending myself." He snaps, not caring if he worsens his punishment by doing so.

"Would you count yourself an instigator, then, Tom, and hold yourself accountable for this fight?" Dumbledore turns to the Slytherin, knowing full well anyone would deny the blame. Especially a Slytherin. But, what neither he or Dillion accounted for, is Tom isn't just anyone.

"Yes." He says without hesitation, followed by a pregnant pause. Dillion can't help but stare at him in disbelief. Tom's eyes are glued to Dumbledore, confident, unwavering — a king addressing a tiresome fool. "I antagonised Dillion, just as he antagonised me. We're both equally to blame."

"That is all very honourable, but it doesn't lessen your actions. You'll both spend tomorrow evening with Pringle, together. If you're both so intent on being equally responsible, you can share your punishment." Any pride Dillion might have been feeling rushes away as the caretaker's name brings a cool fear. He's certain a second visit would have to be worse than the first, which still haunts his sleep. The sight of the caretaker alone is enough to stress him out, though fortunately infrequent as Dillion takes care to avoid his routes. "Perhaps that can ensure this kinship you both suddenly share will continue, and we won't have any more of these fights."

"Yes, sir." Tom repeats. Dillion can't find it in himself to answer.

"You may both go and clean up. I'll be speaking to your Heads, as well as the Headmaster."

The two boys' chairs screech in unison as they both rise to their feet, neither bothering to add much decorum to their movement. They walk in silence. Dillion is certain Dumbledore's eyes must be glued to their backs, waiting for them to suddenly speak to one another, expose some alliance. But no words are spoken, not until they are out of the office and well away from the room.

Tom is the first to speak, "You shouldn't get the wrong idea," He says slowly, choosing his words with care. "I just didn't want Dumbledore to be right."

"Thank you." Dillion offers belatedly. The boy brushes him away with a shrug that's then followed with a wince.

"Everything else I said still stands. I don't take anything back."

"I don't either."

"Good." Silence rests uncomfortably between them, lasting only a few seconds. "I think we should be more careful with our investigations. We've been too open."

More words rest unspoken: while the marks remain, the truce continues.

"We have." Dillion affirms, because there's little else for him to say. He thinks it would be harder to be less open than they have been, scurrying around like mice through secret paths, after everyone has gone to sleep. It's all the times they've interacted in class, pulled the other away from groups, arrived late with the other that he thinks has incriminated them. The times they didn't plan.

Neither speaks again. It's uncomfortable again, tension thick. Only a few minutes ago, they'd been at each other's throats. Resolutions haven't been reached, and likely won't be reached while they're magically forced together. They aren't friends, but they can't be enemies. They're just puppets dancing at the Dark's whim.

Dillion feels the urge to pray, to beg the Light for help, for illumination in these dark times. Something that might free him from this cage he's trapped him, along with a dangerous beast just waiting for the opportunity to kill him. The second the thought passes through his head, another suffocates it. He can't. He's too far gone, now. Too deep for its light to reach.

"Letters might work." Tom suggests, reminding the younger of what they had been talking about. He ponders this briefly, before shaking his head.

"If they're looking, they'd notice the owls. But I might have something. Give me a few days." Tom nods his head and sniffs once. It reminds Dillion just how dirty they both are. His robes are still drenched, freezing to the point of unfeeling. "I want to go shower before everyone gets back."

"Me too." There's another beat and, awkwardly, feeling like some gesture is needed, Dillion sticks his hand out. Tom peers at it suspiciously, raising an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"Truce... While we're both stuck?"

"I thought that was obvious." Nonetheless, Tom accepts the handshake. His hand wraps around Dillion's and all the younger can think is the feeling of them around his neck. Another layer of the mask has been ripped off; Dillion grows a little closer to getting a peek at who Tom Riddle is. The wolf hidden in sheep's skin, dangerous and calculating. The older boy's lips curl into the cold smile that Dillion thinks is likely reserved only for him, too malicious to be seen by the general public. "I won't have you bringing me down with you."

*

Tom has been in the shower for too long. He knows this. The dried blood has long since been scraped from his skin, the red running down the drain along with the mud softened by the water. His hair has been cleaned, the cold has been banished from his core, and yet he's still in the shower. At some point, he must have lowered himself into a seated position because he now sits directly under the water, rubbing his arms as if to scrub some invisible dirt away. He doesn't know what he's doing; he just knows it feels good. He just knows if he leaves too early, he'll still be dirty.

It wasn't the first fight he'd gotten into, but it was the first in a long time. It was the first he'd ever lost his head in, the first he'd instigated. Dillion had been talking and all Tom could think was how he needed him to shut up, how his life would be so much better if Dillion just didn't talk. The next thing he was consciously aware of was Dillion punching him. His nose is still tender, still bloody inside.

The unconscious part of him, suppressed, hidden, offers up images of him strangling Dillion. It had been his hands, but they don't feel like his memories. He hadn't even wanted to kill Dillion. Is that Tom Riddle when he's not performing? Were they right all along? Irredeemable, dangerous, unexorcisable, murderous.

Tom has never wanted to be evil, but perhaps it's just his state of being. Everyone else — anyone that has seen more than his front, his act, a lie — would certainly agree. The whole school might, now that they've caught him losing his temper.

"Tom?" A voice calls out and Tom recognises it as Dominic's. He doesn't respond, hoping the other boy might realise the silence means he wants to be left alone. "Still alive in there?"

Tom remains silent. He notices one of his nails still has dirt underneath and begins picking at it. The nail is already so close to the skin, it's hard to get underneath without pain, but he can see the dirt and it will bother him until he can't. The little bit of pain is nothing compared to the ache of his muscles, of newly forming bruises, of his pride. He allowed Dillion to get under his skin. He told Dillion exactly where it hurt most and gave him ammunition for next time. He'd already known Dillion's weak spot is to target his pride, undermine the confidence he doesn't deserve, but now they're on even footing again.

It wasn't Dillion's pride, this time, that had antagonised him. It had been Tom's plan. Something about dating the Ravenclaw girl had upset him. Tom wonders what their history is, how deep it goes. Perhaps Dillion already likes her. Perhaps they once did, and it ended badly. Perhaps he never did like her. He doesn't know. The Ravenclaws were never particularly interesting to him, not when he was still securing himself amongst the Slytherins. Five years on and it's still so fragile. He wonders what they think of him now.

"Everyone thinks it was pretty cool what you did." Dominic answers Tom's unspoken thoughts, as if trying to bring him some comfort. His voice rings with uncertainty — almost concerned. "Stupid, but cool. None of us know how to fight like that."

Tom doesn't respond. He still wants Dominic to think he's not here and leave.

"Are you and Lux...?" Dominic doesn't finish his question, though it still hangs in the air expectantly. "No one that was there knows what happened. You were fighting, but then you were... okay."

"We were never anything." Tom breaks his silence to correct the underlying assumption. The frustration threatens to bubble over again when he realises not even physically fighting Dillion can amend the rumours. He wants to scream. He scrubs a little harder. "We weren't even friends, so the fight didn't change anything."

"Right." There's a long pause. Tom almost thinks he's gone. "I take it Lux won't be around here for a while."

"No."

A longer pause.

"I'll go tell the others. Don't drown in there." Tom hears Dominic's footsteps depart, and only once the boy is gone does he hang his head in his hands.

For so long, he's constructed a careful image of who he is. He's controlled every aspect that might influence what people think of him. Now, he doesn't know what position he holds in their heads. He doesn't know the rumours, the thoughts, the images. He has a mark on his hand he doesn't understand and can't control.

Without thinking, Tom presses down on his nose, irritating it until he feels the telltale sign of newly upset blood. Leaning forward, the blood drips onto his thighs and into the water. He waits until, real or imagined, he senses the Dark's presence.

He isn't sure what he wanted to do, attempting to communicate with the Dark with a blood nose, but once he's there, all that comes past his lips is, "Fuck you."

What he doesn't realise is, in another part of the castle, Dillion is doing much the same thing as he prays, futilely, intentionally — his own stab at the Dark. What he doesn't know is when his insides suddenly surge, it isn't just in response to his own upset words and that Dillion can feel it too. Like a tired mother, the Dark places them both in timeout and, regardless of how aware they are to it, cuts the cord of their connection temporarily.