Disclaimer: yes, I hereby disclaim all things to do with the Potter.

Chapter 10 I: Oliver

Tom eyes stirred gently out of sleep, his gentle movements disguising his panic. He couldn't quite remember the dream, but he could remember the sick, empty feeling that it left behind. He still recognised the shivers passing over his skin as if the cold creatures still crawled across it, squirming around him, the scratch marks on his chest and neck where he'd tried to tear them off.

'Wake him up,' whispered Grace from somewhere around Tom's head.

'You wake 'im up,' replied Oliver sharply.

'You told me not to.'

'I never.'

'You did. Besides, you've known him longer.'

'Aye, and I'm not stupid enough to wake 'im. We have rules about 'im. If 'e's sleeping, let him lie, if 'e's dreaming, run like 'ell.'

Tom smirked beneath his pillow. He'd heard that one a fair few times in the orphanage. It was nice to know they were still afraid of him.

'What if we just –'

'Grace leave 'im; 'e'll wake up in his own time!'

'We don't have time. He'll get hurt –'

'You'll both get hurt if you don't get out of here and let me sleep,' said Tom irritably, the novelty of still being feared instantly replaced by sheer irritation.

'But the bombers!' Grace moaned. 'Aunty Rosa said to get you up!'

'There aren't any bombers,' Tom sighed, turning over to face the wall. 'It's safe. That's why were all stuck here, isn't it? You were dreaming.'

'Aunty Rosa said –'

'Well tell dear Aunty Rosa that I'd rather stay here. Now go on down to Grace's imaginary shelter like good little children, unless you want your legs blown off.'

'The bombs aren't here yet.'

Tom scowled. 'I never said the bombers were going to do it. Go on, off you go.'

'You've got to come with us,'

'Grace, I don't care.' Ignoring the child's protests he pulled the covers over his head. 'Go away.'

'But –'

'Don't make me hurt you, Grace. Not over a dream. It's not worth it.'

There was a very tense pause, the silence dragging on for nearly half a minute. Tom soon relaxed, and began attempting to remember his own dream. It hadn't just been snakes, though that was the only image he could recall in his mind. He hated remembering dreams; it was so frustrating, knowing the pictures were just out of his mind's eye. There had been a real story to it this time, a real, normal dream – the snake had just been the ending. The punishment.

Tom suddenly found his train of thought rudely interrupted. Oliver had ripped the blankets off him, now standing terrified by his bed, the sheets in pile on the ground, as if dropping them could have absolved the boy from his crime. The dream vanished, even taking the images of the snakes with it. Oliver quailed under the look Tom gave him.

'What do you want Oliver?' he said coldly, not taking his eyes off the boy. 'Do you want to make me angry? Because if it is, you're well on your way to getting it.' He paused waiting for a reply but Oliver seemed frozen to the spot. Grace was gone, he noticed. Probably to spread her ridiculous rumour around the rest of the house. 'Now I want to go back to sleep, so I strongly suggest –'

'You've got to come,' Oliver interrupted. 'Gracie – I mean – Grace ain't lying. The warden's been knocking on doors all night – everyone else is on their way out. You know they'll go for the big 'ouses first,' he added, spurred on by Tom's silence. 'And they might not 'it you, but they might.'

'And?'

Oliver's eyes widened. 'And you don't deserve to die. Not really. Devil shouldn't die by his own means. Ain't right.'

Tom still didn't speak, vaguely relishing the boy's discomfort. The majority of his thoughts, however, were somewhere else entirely. The orphans had missed the first waves of evacuations, and the lack of activity that stretched on did nothing to inspire the matron of the time to get things organised. It had been a long, dull summer, going through the motions of war in circumstances a person could easily mistake for peace. Tom for one had been extremely bored, something that spelled disaster for the other children.

Alienated and feared he was well into his habit of uneasy sleep and violent awakenings. He'd been asleep when the first raid had come, in symphony of roaring engines, wailing sirens and the screech of metal through air. The orphans hadn't heard anything. They mind didn't make the connection. And when the walls began to shake, and the people joined the music with their screaming in the streets? They'd thought it was him.

Of course he'd been annoyed. They were all so stupid. A gang of the older ones had charged into his dormitory, joined by those forced to sleep there every night. Tom wasn't sure what they'd planned to do, but when they caught him awake, staring out the window at the unrecognisable scene of planes and luminous searchlights that was the London skyline, they'd lost their nerve. The younger ones still weren't convinced he was innocent. After all, he seemed to control everything else in their lives.

Devil shouldn't die by his own means. Oliver's mind, it seemed, worked the same way as the other orphans: Tom was everything that was wrong with their blinkered little world. There was no room for any other kind of evil; it was Tom or nothing. It had never occurred to him before how much damage he was doing to the children by acting the way he did. Ruling by terror had affected some of the weaker one psychologically. He didn't particularly care, but it was interesting.

'I don't bring the bombers, Oliver,' he said calmly, almost patronisingly.

'You bring everything else.'

And suddenly, Tom cared. He cared what would drive the orphans to a point where they would honestly believe he was capable of instigating an air raid. He cared that Oliver was so totally afraid of him.

'What did I do to you?'

The silence hung in the air, and then stretched. Oliver had lost all his urgency, staring at the floorboards with an unnerving intensity. Footsteps could be heard downstairs, a slamming door as the last of house's occupants scrambled into the street. Outside a voice could be heard, screeching something about a photograph. Dear psychotic Rosa. At least she was consistent.

Oliver was still focussed on ground. Exhausted after so many interrupted nights and more than a little irritated by the prospect of having his life threatened by yet another air raid, Tom was beginning to lose patience.

'Oliver. Answer me.'

Silently, his face set in a mask not unlike Tom's own, Oliver rolled up his left sleeve. There, vivid scarlet on his forearm, was a strange mark – a handprint of someone a good four or five years younger than Tom, twisted and lengthened by Oliver's own growth. Oliver let his sleeve drop.

'That's what you did to me,' he said unnecessarily. 'When you were asleep. So don't try and pretend to me you're normal. You know 'ow many people you've marked like that? Some of them 'ave got away from you, got themselves new families. But they've still got that scar.'

Gaining control of his emotions had always been a high priority for Tom. The ability to switch of guilt and remorse had been mastered years ago. And right now, watching Oliver's expressionless face, Tom couldn't remember how he was meant to feel. He was almost disappointed. He'd expected something more than a strange scar.

'It's nothing,' he said, calmly voicing his thoughts. 'Nothing worth founding so much fear on.'

''Spect you'll say stranger things 'ave 'appened,' Oliver muttered. 'Well I 'aven't seen them. Not unless you were there. And you got Grace, didn't you? I saw 'er 'ands. I knew it were you.'

Tom shrugged. There was nothing he could say. He wouldn't apologise for accidents; not unless he felt even vaguely guilty about them. He had slipped back into not caring. Oliver was just like every other orphan. Every other muggle. Cowardly, narrow-minded, and stupid.

'Are you going to just stand around here, or are you heading down to the shelter? Apparently there's an air raid.'

'They don't have a shelter, mister,' said Oliver fearfully. 'Just a great old church.'

'A church? Fantastic, oh yes, that'll protect you from the bombs when even the London underground has trouble staying intact.' Tom sat up and was pleased to see and Oliver take a nervous step back. 'Go to the church, I'll catch up. Go!' he added angrily as they hesitated, and didn't climb out of bed until he'd scrambled out of the door.

Of course he didn't intend to go anywhere near the church – it was one of the first places the aircraft would aim for. Nothing would be more demoralising than the loss of a place of worship. He intended to go somewhere safe, like the forests outside the village unless – Tom glanced up at the window and swore under his breath. There shone the moon, a rich buttery yellow against the charcoal clouds, beautiful yet unmistakably full. If he was smart enough not to take shelter in the church then he was smart enough not to hide in an unknown forest during the wolf's moon. There had to be somewhere, Tom thought vaguely, quickly changing into day clothes and heading out the door.

It wasn't like him not to think his plans through. The immediacy of the situation had wiped his mind blank and left him wandering the village streets in the dark.

He'd been outside during air raids before in London, dodging the sad piles of rubble and the ragamuffin looters that darted through the abandoned houses. He'd often laugh at them – they were petty thieves, filching small prizes like cheap jewellery and food. Precious to them, perhaps, but Tom knew there were far more valuable things in the world than loaves of bread and pretty paste necklaces.

There was no rubble in the village; no derelict houses; no looters furtively stalking through the alleyways with armfuls of trivial treasure. Every window was dark, every light extinguished – more than once Tom had stumbled on the uneven road with a muttered oath and an angry gesture at the old fashioned street lamp. An unsophisticated reaction, perhaps, but a necessary one.

'Tom!'

Tom groaned, then glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Min running toward him, her usually unmoved hair streaming down her shoulders, a tartan dressing gown at least two sizes too big wrapped hastily around her more for decency than warmth.

'Min go up to the church.'

'That's where I'm going – I came to find you, come on –'

'I'm not going,' said Tom flatly, shaking the girl off as she tried to grab her wrist. 'It's no safer in there than anywhere else – probably less safe, considering it's a large stone building with a great cross on the spire light pouring out of the windows.'

'What is it really?' asked Min kindly. Tom paused for a second and Min managed to seize his arm and begin pulling him in the direction of the church. 'I know some people don't think magic and religion mix, believe me, I've met some of them, but there are plenty that do –'

'It's not that,' Tom snapped.

'Then what is it?'

'I…don't know. It's not safe. Something's going to happen Min, I can feel it.'

Tom wasn't lying. He could feel it in his chest, putting pressure a sense of concern he didn't even know he had. He was worried for these people, as if his being there would hurt them somehow. He was even worried for Rosa, though he was still subconsciously happily planning his revenge.

'Where else are you going to go?' asked Min calmly. 'Safety in numbers, and all that.'

'I don't think the maxim applies to air raids.'

'I think you can afford to lower yourself for one night. Trust them to look after you.'

Miles away, a sudden light flashed across the fields. Not a bomb, but a searchlight. Tom scowled and began walking toward the church, leaving Min to hurry along behind him.

A/N: Yes, chapter 10 I. Mostly because usually when I start a new chapter I start a new scene or time, but the next one runs straight on. Anyway, though you may not notice a thing, this seems weird to me lol. R&R people, I love getting your comments – and they make me feel guilty when I don't update :P

O, and regarding characterisation - I'm guessing if you didn't like him at the end of the last chpater, you didn't like the way he dealt with oliver either. I did have a mental image of Tom going out into the corridor after talking to Rosa and trying very hard not to laugh, but I ignored it. Basically I'm trying to make it so he sees somthing of himself in these people. But yeah, I think he's back on track after this.

And yeah, I'm a poem skipper to. But until i think of something better, I'm leaving it in