Chapter 1
TommyInnit was slain by Dream.
He was floating, alone. It was dark. It hurt.
His body ripped apart at the seams, slowly stitched itself together, and tore apart again. He still felt nothing. Quiet voices faded into his ears and he reached longingly towards them, craving any kind of interaction. It was deathly silent, and the voices seemed to call to him, promising finality and sweet relaxing peace.
"Am I dead?"
His voice echoed through the blackness, floating, disembodied, until another voice responded.
"Hello, Tommy."
Tommy sighed loudly. Wilbur. He was dead because his brother was dead, and he was hearing his brother. Eerie calm washed through his body. Normally, just the thought of his brother would send him into another mental breakdown. Now, he was glad to find some escape from the sheer pain ripping through his body.
"Hey."
A smile from Wilbur. He could not see his deceased brother,
but he felt the expression radiate through the air.
"How's it goin', man? You alright?"
Tommy's fingers twitched and his voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Yeah. I'm- I'm better than ever."
It was half true. The excruciating pain was...undesirable, but he still felt calm. It was as if every drop of anger had abandoned his body. He couldn't feel angry, not yet. Wilbur's voice twinkled with laughter.
"You're better than ever?"
"Better than ever."
A pause.
"You could say you're straight vibin’?"
"Fuck off. Fuck off."
The two stayed silent and the pain returned. It returned, stronger than ever. His body ripped apart again; blinding, sheer, pure agony. His mouth opened to scream, but he couldn't. It was silent pain and silent suffering.
"How long- how long is left?"
He waited patiently for a response. A minute passed by.
Two minutes.
Three.
"Wil?"
His brother did not respond. The pain grew only stronger, and Tommy began to panic. The calm slowly dissipated.
"Wilbur?"
"Wilbur, please?"
Hysteria began to set in. Wilbur was abandoning him, yet again. Abandoning him like Phil. Phil had handed him off to his brother. Like Tubbo. Tubbo had forced him into the hands of that monster. Like Sam. Sam had left him for Dream to play with. To play with. To murder.
Tommy's breath sped up, faster and faster, and he slowly curled into a ball, knees over feet, head over knees, back bent, arms wrapped around the top of his head. He had to protect himself. Everyone was going to leave him again, just as he thought he had someone to confide in, just as he thought his brother had returned to him. The air around him grew hotter and hotter and pressed into his sides, squeezing the air out of his lungs in short, ragged breaths. His body was ripped downwards into a free-fall, mangled, twisted, shredded until he could no longer withstand the torment and he was out like a streetlight in a relentless typhoon, whipped and cracked and beaten until he caved and shattered into delicate pieces, ruined by his fragility.
The Triwizard Tournament was a disaster.
Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge strode side by side through the Ministry, bantering back and forth as if they had the time and luxury of arguing. The building was eerily silent; it was night-time, and the stillness was only broken occasionally by some winded wizard retrieving documents he had forgotten or a Ministry guard circling through her patrol route. Fudge's footsteps were loud enough to echo through the chamber of the main hall, but the headmaster's were soft and quiet.
A presence filtered into the room and Dumbledore stopped in his tracks, leaving Fudge to skid to a halt and send an angry remark his way. The headmaster slowly turned around, and the Minister followed suit, peeking around Dumbledore's robes. A young boy stood, silent and twitching erratically, around two metres from the headmaster. The dim light glinted off of something, blood, pouring down his forehead. Fudge let out some noise that sounded similar to a yelp and jumped back, pulling out his wand. "Were you sneaking up on us?!"
The boy stayed silent and Dumbledore put out a hand, turning to the Minister. "Fudge, put your wand away. There is no need." He returned his gaze to the boy, taking a careful step forwards. "Hello? Are you injured?"
The boy's lips parted and his head tilted gently to one side. The first half-word came in a breathy whisper. "He..."
Fudge crossed his arms. "Pardon? Spit it out. You're wasting our time, and we have pressing matters to discu-"
"Quiet, Fudge. Let him speak."
The boy's fingers curled into his pants and his voice became clearer, though still winded and shaky. "Hel...he..." He took a ragged breath in, sucking air into his lungs. His next word was painfully clear. "Help."
As if some switch had flipped in the boy's brain, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forwards with a wet thud. Tommy had passed out after finding himself in a strange hall with two even stranger people, and he didn't know why.