Power He Knows Not

Demented Distortions

Tom is still Harry to everyone else, just to remind everyone, in case it gets a bit confusing.

Tom strode through the halls, letting his feet lead him to the great hall, while his focus was on creating a silent and wandless glamour on his face. He didn't know how big the scar had grown, but the last thing he needed was questions. Longbottom finding Harry unconscious was already one danger too many, even if the thick headed Gryffindor was unlikely to figure him out. Suspicion was enough of a problem, and Longbottom could clearly tell something was wrong. 

When Tom entered the great hall he almost turned towards the Slytherin table, before remembering Harry was in Gryffindor. No one appeared to have noticed his split second hesitation as he sat down, and began filling his plate with food.

He was only a few bites in when Oliver Wood came down the table, and clapped him on the shoulder,

"Quidditch practice later."

Tom's fork paused halfway from his plate to his mouth as he stared at the Gryffindor, trying not to showed his mounting horror.

"It's Sunday, Oliver." He protested, oblivious to his fork hitting his plate with a clang.

"Which means we'll have more time before curfew. Our first match is Saturday, and we need all the practice we can get. We're winning the cup this year, no matter what!"

Without waiting for a reply, Wood headed off towards the other players, obviously to inform them as well.

Tom stared after the seventh year for a moment, before slowly pushing his half eaten plate away. He detested broomsticks. Almost as much as he despised that insipid game.

There was no way he would be able to fly well enough to not raise suspicion. He almost wished

 he had let Longbottom drag him to the infirmary, then maybe Pomfrey would've banned him from flying for the week.

Unfortunately, there wasn't any way he could get out of it.

He silently cursed Wood, Quidditch, flying, and Gryffindors in general, as he abandoned his now unappetizing breakfast, deciding he would rather spend the morning in the library.

T-M-R = H-J-P 

Despite Tom's efforts, Wood cornered him at dinner and dragged him away with the rest of the Gryffindor team, the moment he pushed away his once again half eaten plate.

The whole walk down to the pitch was spent listening to Wood give a rousing speech, which only made Tom more irritated. It was a sport. And not even a very good one.

From the looks they were giving Wood, the rest of the team felt similarly about losing their sunday evening, though no one even tried to argue.

Tom tried to ignore his trepidation as he marched out onto the pitch with the rest of the team, Harry's Nimbus over his shoulder.

Once he was in the air, Tom ran on pure instinct, as he never had before. He was thankful Harry was so naturally adept at flying, otherwise he was certain he wouldn't have gotten more then a few feet off the ground.

Still, as the team trooped back to the common room later, sweaty and covered in dirt, Tom heartily hoped Harry would recover before the game Saturday. He did not want to fly more then he had to.

T-M-R = H-J-P 

Saturday finally came, and found Tom thoroughly cursing Harry, as he flew against Hufflepuff in a downpour.

As he narrowly dodged a bludger, Harry's thrice damned glasses slipping from the rain, Tom cursed Harry, for being completely unresponsive, and the damned diadem, for being so bloody resistant despite agreeing to go with it.

As he straightened, Tom pushed up Harry's glasses, the impervious charm he had placed on them barely helping, as he tried futilely to find the tiny, inconsiderate ball.

He had just spotted it, at the same time as Diggory, when an odd heavy feeling started to creep up his limbs. Ignoring it, he sped towards the blasted Snitch, hoping to end the game already, whatever plan Wood had be damned.

He was neck and neck with Diggory, both stretching for it, when a familiar chilling feeling swept through him, making him jerk away suddenly. Tom leveled out, Diggory zooming after the Snitch still, and looked down.

A hundred feet or so below him, dementors were swarming the pitch. There were so many, they resembled the dark clouds above, coming together with one horrid purpose. The flash of lightening was lost behind blinding green light, the rumble of thunder gone to the sound of explosions. The shrieks of the crowd turned to screams of fear; of death.

The pelting rain gave way to the lash of a belt, the dark closing in was a closet door closing. the cramped cupboard on a freezing winter night.

The sounds of joyous laughter rang in his ears, so distant, and so apart from his own pangs of hunger, and the lonely hole tearing through his chest. They were happier when he was locked away, forgotten in a closet, out of their lives. They wished he had frozen on the doorstep with his mother. He heard them. Abandoned like the unwanted freak he was. Unloved and hated. Ruining everything. Bringing trouble. Maybe it was better if he never came back. If one day, he never woke up...

The screams rang through his ears one last time, the wind whipping at his face, and he knew no more.

A bit shorter then usual, but I feel it's a good place for this chapter to end.

Let me know if anything is weird, or you have questions, or really anything.

Hope you enjoyed!

Bakeku67