Invictus [Tom Riddle / Tomione]

The Cave

Tom made his way to the gate of Malfoy Manor and apparated away.

He appeared on a rocky shore, just beneath a cragged cliff side.

He ripped at his collar, loosening his tie in frustration as he stood seething. He dragged his breath through his teeth, nostrils flaring.

He suddenly whipped his wand out and threw a curse. The cliffside crumbled in its entirety as sharp rocks cascaded in a thunderous landslide into the gray ocean.

Tom flicked his wand again, and the sea curled around itself as he flourished it, manipulating the currents of the water until a powerful storm began to brew at sea. Giant waves rose, cresting and then falling one after another. Tom wondered if wizards really received their power from the gods. Perhaps his father had been Poseidon. He had always felt a kinship with the sea, capricious and unforgiving as it was. He loved the temperamental nature of water, the way it could swallow whole anything that dared to venture into its jaws. Tom wanted to wield that kind of power. He was at a point in his life where he felt like the unmoving, still waters of the sea; the calm before the storm. He hated the stagnancy. He wanted chaos and eruption. He wanted to demonstrate his powers like a destructive, raging hurricane. He desired to rule as a god. Perhaps the legends were true, after all. The stories he'd read made the gods seem volatile and unhinged. Tom could relate to that.

He craved magic. All of it. He wanted to wield it so readily that his mortal body could not contain its ferocity.

Tom crafted the storm, building it layer after layer like a skilled craftsman only fluent in mayhem.

As if bidden, the clouds darkened and lightning struck. Tom expended a great deal of magical energy to create the force of the storm, but it barely made a dent in his stores of magic. He'd practiced for years, pushing himself like a madman to demonstrate a little more each time.

With a piercing scream of anger, he pointed his wand to the sky and a jagged bolt of lightning lit the dark clouds, falling directly into the heart of the ocean below. Bright white lit the sky, and the electric current spread over the surface of the water like a blanket, creating a plane of death.

Tom craved violence. Perhaps he possessed the power of Ares, god of war. He wanted blood. His anger knew no bounds.

He had not meant a single word he uttered to his death eaters. They were not his brothers. They were his servants. He'd wanted nothing better than to Avada the lot of them.

But Tom was wise, cunning and crafty. He was like the calm sea, beautiful and alluring, with the potential for great death and destruction simmering just beneath the surface.

Dolohov had, for months, been hiding his disloyalty. He'd read the wizard's thoughts; it all stemmed from a woman. Walburga Black.

Dolohov resented Tom's treatment of her.

Tom fumed at the level of irritation that one witch could cause. Was Tom also this delusional about Hermione?

He seethed, knowing that she held such a tight grip on his emotions.

Was this her plan? Did she think that she could change his course with her smiles?

It mattered not. She would have to fit in with his plans. There was no other way. Tom would not allow himself to be distracted.

Tom had read their minds. He was able to do so with subjects who were unskilled occlumens. His death eaters were loyal; they fumed at Dolohov, many of them wishing that Tom had just killed him.

Perhaps Tom should've, but there was something he liked about the man. Tom had always had a strange affinity for those who possessed a streak of madness. Dolohov was as unhinged as Tom, and when wrangled properly, that trait could be quite useful.