Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

[A/N]: Read this first. Seriously. Just the underlined bit. I CANNOT GUARANTEE THAT I WILL FINISH THIS STORY BECAUSE I AM, FRANKLY, TERRIBLE AT COMPLETING STORIES.

There. That wasn't so hard, right? Anyway, yeah, I swore ages ago that I would only post stories I have already completed, but well, here I am. Read this at your own risk.

Now, about the story. This is a Harry Potter AU, obviously. It's also heavily inspired by the manga Superior. At least, the beginning is. After that, anything goes. So in a way, this is a crossover. But not really.

Pairings: This will be Tom/Harry. Whether it's pre-slash or slash, I don't know yet. My stories write itself, and as of right now, I only have a vague idea of where this is going.

I'm writing this story pretty light-heartedly, it's more of a fun thing for me to do, and I'm not taking it too seriously. So it's not going to be very dark. Frankly, I just want to write a Tomarry story with minor, kind-of gaming elements (i.e., the whole hero on a quest to defeat the evil overlord thing).

I think that's pretty much it. Enjoy (hopefully)! Don't hesitate to tell me what you think :)

Note: I'm still haven't figured out a title, so the current one is just a placeholder until I figure enough of the story out to come up with an appropriate title.

Tom hid a smile as the people around him exploded into heated discussion. The crowd was split into two sides, separated by a long table between. On each side, ten people sat, while Tom himself sat on one end of the table, with another man seated on the opposing end—James Potter.

"James is clearly a better choice," argued Sirius Black. "He is dedicated, good and his magic is Light-based! Unlike Riddle here, whose magic is about as dark as the Demon Lord himself!"

Regulus Black, who was seated on the other side of the table—Tom's side—sneered. "I hope you recall that the war criminal Gellert Grindelwald was of Light-affinity himself. It is a known fact of magic, my dear, ignorant brother, that Dark or Light magic does not suggest anything of the wizard's character."

"Perhaps we should settle it with a duel," suggested Amelia Bones. Some days, Tom thought that she was the only one with any hint of sense amongst the Light faction. "The stronger wizard would obviously have a better chance of defeating the Demon Lord."

"Aye!" roared Amos Diggory, slamming a fist on the glossy surface of the marble table. Severus Snape, who was seated opposite him, pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

"That would be horribly unfair to your silly little Champion," cackled Bellatrix Black. Today was one of her better days, so she was only half-mad. "But I shall delight in seeing the looks on your pathetic faces when you realise how weak and useless your Champion is."

"Now, now, Bella," murmured Lucius Malfoy. His grey eyes danced with mirth that was at odds with the sombre look on his pale face. "Be polite."

"Surely, we can settle this without resorting to violence," said Albus Dumbledore, the thrice-damned old man. He tried for a kindly smile, but Tom delighted in seeing the hidden worry in his twinkling eyes. "We are civilised men, are we not?"

"Afraid I'll kill your Champion, are you, Dumbledore?" asked Tom. There was a flash of something cold in the Leader of the Light's eye, and Tom revelled in it—for it was that look that told him all he needed to know. Dumbledore knew that Potter was vastly outclassed by Tom, and knew that if pitted against each other, Tom would not hesitate to, at best, humiliate Potter. At worst, Marlene Potter would end up a young widow.

"I trust James," said Dumbledore easily. The foolish Potter looked smug at that commendation, and tilted his chin upwards at Tom ever so slightly. Tom smiled back.

"I see," said Tom. And he did. Dumbledore's statement, on the surface, could be taken as a statement of Potter's skills—but, in truth, Dumbledore had dodged Tom's question, referring, instead, to Potter's character, rather than ability. In short, Dumbledore was lying. Not that any amongst the light were smart enough to see that—except, perhaps, Bones. The woman had narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing.

"How about a battle in skills?" asked Arthur Weasley, his eager eyes turning to Dumbledore, like a puppy seeking approval from its master. "Enchanting, perhaps, or warding. The Champion shall be the person who is capable of creating the finest piece."

"We are selecting a Champion to fight the Demon Lord, Weasley. Not the winner of some contest," sneered Lucius. The man had composure almost on par with Tom's—until Weasley opened his mouth. "Not that I would expect you to understand. Did you think that, perhaps, you could take the enchanted pieces? To decorate the doubtlessly ill-furnished shoebox you call a home. The only luxury it will or has seen for a long time, I am sure."

Weasley turned red with fury and embarrassment. "See here, Malfoy—"

"Gentlemen," called Dumbledore, cutting off the building argument quickly. "I think Arthur's idea has some merit." Weasley shot Malfoy a triumphant look, as though to say: Dumbledore likes me best. Dear Merlin, if Tom wasn't so disgusted by how in love Dumbledore's followers were with the man's arse, he'd be impressed by how Dumbledore manipulated and inspired such devotion. As it were, he found his temper running short. "But Lucius has a point, as well, though he could have put it more delicately."

"This isn't your school, Dumbledore," said Lucius, his eyes narrow slits. "We are grown men and women, are we not? We do not need to hear you chastising us like we are as unruly as the children you teach."

"Apologies, Lucius," said Dumbledore. His blue eyes twinkled on, undaunted. "I propose that we hold a competition. Each Champion must defend against a demon attack—simulated, designed to behave like demons and attack like demons, but not true demons. Throughout the night, they will fortify their bases against the demons. The Champion with the most heavily fortified area shall be the winner."

"That sounds reasonable," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, breaking his usual, stoic silence. To you, thought Tom scathingly. This was a defensive game, more of Potter's area of specialty than Tom's, who favoured offensive magics. Obviously, Dumbledore knew that. No matter, decided Tom. Even if he wasn't as adept at defensive magic as he was at offensive magic, even what he considered subpar would be far better than what Potter could produce.

Griselda Marchbanks nodded. She was, much to Tom's irritation, the only Dark-affiliated Council member that was not under his influence. Andromeda Tonks, at least, was influenced by her familial ties with Bellatrix, however fragile those ties may be.

"I would like to volunteer myself to evaluate the fortifications myself. The battlefield will also be selected and warded by me, with the assistance of some of my trusted colleagues—none of the Council members apart from I will be privy to the details, of course," said Marchbanks, her papery voice strong and clear despite her apparent frailty. Tom suppressed a frown—Marchbanks was smart enough to cover all potential leaks in information.

She gave everyone in the room a beady-eyed look, as though daring them to challenge her. Even Dumbledore was subjected to it. "I believe I am the most capable of being impartial, and at the very least, I think I have proven my own ability in the magical arts to be considered a worthy judge."

That much, Tom could admit was true. While Marchbanks was an irritant when she stood against him, she was equally as much a pain in Dumbledore's side. The latter part of her statement, too, was somewhat of an understatement, as Marchbanks was famous for her work in enchanting. Since the emergence of demons some one hundred years past, when Marchbanks was a young woman, she had pioneered some of the most effective spells and enhancements for combating the creatures.

Dumbledore could not deny her statement either, nor any of his Light sycophants. "Of course, Madam Marchbanks," he murmured, his ever-present smile on his lips, a hint of stiffness in his posture the only suggestion that he was not entirely happy with the turn of events.

It was only undesirable if one had no faith in their Champion, mused Tom after the meeting adjourned. Therefore, Tom found himself quite indifferent to the outcome. The battle—contest, really—would take place tonight, after sundown. It was necessary if one wished to properly imitate demonic attacking strategies. The creatures were strongest at night, often attacking in hordes. They had magics of their own, though their shamans were rarely involved in minor attacks. Often, only minor demons were seen, raiding outlying villages in waves. Their attacks were purely physical, favouring their weapons and claws.

Still, this was a contest to select the Champion to defeat the Demon Lord. Tom wouldn't be surprised if Marchbanks managed to replicate a demon shaman's attacks, even in the short time span she was given.

He would need to prepare.

Tom suppressed a bloodthirsty smile—he dearly hoped that he would be on the same battlefield as Potter. Perhaps, he could arrange an accident for the irritating man who had dared looked at him with such condescension.

Night fell.

Tom was already deep within the forest that edged the city of Hogwarts. It was a scholar's city, widely known for its library that boasted the largest collection of books on magic in existence. It was also well-known for housing the prestigious Academy of Hogwarts, Tom's alumni school that was currently headed by Dumbledore.

Usually, at this time, students were milling about in the forest, either on late night dates, or collecting herbs and ingredients for potions. But tonight, there were none, for they had all been warned off the forest. Students would approach at their own peril, risking death. Some had seemed interested in coming anyway, just to watch the contest. But a few sharp words, along with threats of expulsion from the Headmaster, and threats of arrest by Bones had deterred them.

The clearing Tom stood in was the spot he was designated. Unfortunately, the forest itself had been off-limits since Marchbanks announced it as the chosen battlefield an hour after the meeting. So, he had spent the afternoon scouring maps of the forest, instead, studying them until he could remember every turn of the path, every clearing, every landmark. He knew he was stood somewhere in the north-eastern side of the forest, and that there was a lake further east of him.

He studied his surroundings. He would have preferred somewhere less open, but he had little choice in the matter. At the very least, the clearing would force the demons to run across open ground to attack him, and the trees that edged the ground were low and thin, offering little coverage.

The contest begun at sundown, which had been five minutes ago. There was no loud declaration of 'Begin', nor any sort of signal—only the assumption that the competitors would understand the implicit rules. Tom understood immediately. He was sure Potter did, too, if only because Dumbledore would have ensured it.

Tom had spent the time building up his base. He had waved his staff and conjured low blocks of granite from the ground to take cover behind—rudimentary, but effective and energy-conserving. He raised basic wards throughout the clearing; he managed an alert ward several feet away, an offensive ward at the edge of the clearing and a defensive ward layering it before he heard it.

Rasping noises. Hissing. Muffled chatter in a strange language.

Tom threw his senses wide, readying himself.

The first demon that appeared from the shadows was a short, ugly thing. Its skin was blackened tar, with glistening fangs and claws as it ran blindly ahead, snarling. Glowing red runes were carved on its forehead, and its beady eyes were dark and cruel. It ran headfirst into Tom's offensive ward and was eliminated with a whip of water, so condensed that it sliced the creature in half.

Tom was grudgingly appreciative of Marchbanks' work. The detail was remarkable. The dead demon went sailing back into the shadows, leaving its lower half bleeding black blood on the dirt.

The rattling breath of the demons died. Tom took advantage of their momentary hesitance and slammed his staff against the ground, a long incantation leaving his lips. A stream of water bled onto the ground from within the east side of the forest, drawn from the lake nearby. It followed the cracks of the earth out into the clearing, circling around Tom. He drew his wand and waved it once. The water roiled and stretched into the air, defying gravity as it reached higher and higher, curving inward until they joined together above Tom to form a dome.

It was a water ward, one of Tom's own invention. It would let Tom's own spells and magic through, but would attack and drown anyone else who tried to go through it. Tom was particularly proud of this one, however, because it was also able to trace perpetrators of magical attacks back to the caster and attack them.

Just in time, too, for the demons seemed to have gotten over their friend's death.

More padded forth from the shadows, vicious snarls on their lipless mouths, circling the ward cautiously. Another tested the ward, in a different spot. It died quickly.

They kept on testing the wards, and kept on dying. Tom knew not to be satisfied so quickly—this was the first wave of demons. Often, the weakest, sent forth like pawns to check their enemies' defences. A strategic line of thinking that did not exist before the Demon Lord took up his mantle.

When it became clear that there were no holes in the ward, they fell back. Tom erected a few more barriers in quick succession in the moment's reprieve. Summoned daggers lay in wait, traps laid and a few more offensive wards raised. He was careful not to expend too much of his energy. The contest would last all night.

The wind shifted, and Tom could taste the sickly sweet scent of the demons. There was a hint of something metallic in it, like blood, but it was mostly masked. The chattering returned, louder.

The minor demons reappeared suddenly. They surged forwards as one, hundreds of demons pressing against Tom's wards. The wards strained under the pressure, even as the demons were sent flying backwards, water lashing out violently at them. Yet, Tom could see that the power behind his ward's attacks were getting weaker and weaker, as the demons continued to drain it of magic.

He poured more of his energy in, using his wand to channel his magic. But he couldn't just do that, as the demons were quickly overwhelming his ward, clambering atop each other. Their combined weight itself would crack his defence. His staff slashed through the air, a sideways sweep that cut down at least fifty of the demons in half in one blast of pure power. It did little to help, as instantly, more stepped forwards, and pressed against his ward again.

One of the demons triggered a trap, and there was a loud explosion. A demon leg landed mere inches from where Tom stood. A crater remained where the trap once was, but that was quickly filled by more demons.

"Ardens sanguinem," incanted Tom, his staff weaving through the air, while his wand continued to channel magic into his damaged ward. Demons fell, screaming and twitching, as he boiled their blood with his magic. Some of the weaker ones died within seconds, their eyes and ears dribbling thick, black liquid.

He used the end of his staff to draw a series of runes in the ground. They glowed briefly, and another ward flared into existence just beyond the boundaries of his first ward. He had worked a replication rune into his first ward when he had drawn the runes along the edges of the clearing at the beginning of the contest. It allowed him to activate another ward in a shorter amount of time with less energy required, and he didn't need to be within immediate vicinity to do so.

It cut the constant stream of demons off nicely. The new ward had all the power of a freshly established one and sliced the demons in half while Tom dealt with the creatures caught in between the two wards. He reinforced the older ward quickly, patching it together and pouring more of his Dark magic into it.

The demons looked restless, but not fearful, noted Tom. Perhaps Marchbanks simply didn't design them to display emotions, though he doubted it. She had shown a remarkable sense of detail so far—surely, she had included this, too.

Tom deduced that the demons were most likely waiting for something.

His assumption was proved correct when a crimson red ball of power slammed straight into his boundary ward. There was a loud cracking sound as spidery lines spiked through his ward. Small gaps appeared, fraying magic falling like singed pieces of fabric, crumpled and wilting. Tom growled.

Demon shamans.

The first appeared from within the west side of the forest, a hulking form. Purple veins stood out, bright and clear on its shadowy hide. A pair of horns adorned its head, pulsing jewels embedded in them. In its clawed hands, it gripped a sword. It stabbed it downwards into the ground, and let loose an ear-shattering roar.

The other demons howled with it, their dark eyes burning with new energy.

Tom sighed, twitching his wand. A condensed, dark blue spear formed in the air before him, mists of magical power practically pouring off it. He pulled his wand back, lifting the tip into the air, and lashed out, throwing his own momentum forwards. The spear pierced through the air and drove into the demon shaman's chest. Skin, flesh and sinew tore, as demon blood spiralled through the air and splashed onto the ground, the grass sizzling into grey ash where the blood touched.

The demons stared, silenced, as their shaman toppled to the ground, dead.

Really, Marchbanks, this isn't even a challenge—

There was a low, growling noise. A larger demon came from the shadows, stepping over the prone shaman's body. Two more followed. Tom glanced at the other areas of the forest—on the east, north and south side, there were four demon shamans each. And all of them were staring at him with hatred in their eyes.

"Well," said Tom. A smile curved on his dark red lips, feral, with a flash of pearl-white teeth. "I stand corrected."