Chapter 9
He was deeply perturbed.
And enraged.
"Tell me, my good man, what caused you to sell out my company—I hope you received a good price, for the personal cost to you will be rather exorbitant," he said, eyes glittering dangerously. The innkeeper licked his parched lips, his beetle eyes moving to and fro, looking for an escape route.
As far as Tom was concerned, there wouldn't be one.
Not for him.
Not for any of them.
They were standing in the innkeeper's room, a plain chamber with simpler furniture but neat linen, and the proprietor was effectively cornered. He was slow to cooperate, slower to comprehend the danger his life was in, and he hadn't answered a single question since Tom had walked in, disarming and trapping him against his will.
"You understand my language, yes? We got along rather well last night, didn't we? And even though I have enjoyed your hospitality immensely, I'm afraid it's time for me to pay up and go, no?" He scanned the wooden ceiling, frowning slightly, and glanced at the unarmed man in front of him. "However, I find my crew to be greatly reduced—you see, and even though I have other sources, I'd like to hear it from you—why did you do it, for you certainly did it, and what was the per head prize?"
The man held up his chin, not speaking.
Even now, Tom mused, he was considering escaping.
Yes, his life was forfeit.
He kept tapping his foot on the floor—tap, tap, tap—and his hands played idly on the smooth, white surface of his wand.
He better finish this soon, there were plenty of things to do.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom noticed a sudden movement and faster than a hawk swooping down on his prey, he snapped his fingers causing the man to levitate a few feet above ground.
A silent red gleam crossed his grey eyes—his patience had worn thin and there was work to be done.
"I won't ask again," he said quietly, pointing his wand at the man floating above him. "And you can choose silence but there are other tongues in this puny village that wag, in this very inn, no?"
A pause.
His eyes bulged in pain as Tom jerked his fingers and cut off air supply in his windpipe.
"Grindelwald," the man rasped, his legs flailing about in empty air and his fingers scratching the skin on his neck. "Grindelwald's men. Always come—have to alert him ven strangers come."
For a tiny second, Tom found himself—panicking.
Wild, unbridled panic that he hadn't felt in a long, long while. Not since—
But only for a second.
His lips twitched slightly, a very small movement, and a bright green light escaped the tip of his wand—the small room lit up in shades of green, multitudinous, reflecting, and almost ghostly—he averted his eyes towards the door and the man fell down with a thud, his body spread on the floor in strange humourless, angles.
The soft stench hit his nostrils as soon as the door creaked open and even though he had been quick in disposing of the bastard, with as little blood spilt as possible, a dead body always smelled.
He paused on the threshold, scowling.
Grindelwald.
Grindelwald.
But why?
He shook his head; there was no time to be lost in reflection.
At least not just then.
Crossing over, he scooped the small form of Hermione in his arms—she was still unconscious and even though he had tried to heal her to the best of his abilities, fixing her ruptured nose, the few cracks in her ribs and sealing off cuts in her skin to stem blood loss, there was no telling is she would be fine and there was no way he could seek a healer just then—he hoped she was strong enough to survive. He pocketed his wand, slinging a small bag over his shoulders and took one last look at the room before closing the door behind him.
The man who had attacked Hermione was dead, as was the proprietor of the inn. He clambered down the steps quickly, shifting the girl's weight in his arms, and sneaked his way to the back.
Grindelwald had sent the men. One of them had remained behind, the one who had attacked Hermione, and they would come to seek him as soon as he was missed.
Best leave no witness or evidence.
He shifted Hermione's weight once more and put her down, holding his wand between two fingers, pointed casually at the building in front of him.
The inn erupted in orange-red flames, reflected in his glassy grey eyes, and he found the corners of his mouth twisting in a smile—a small satisfaction from a Fiendfyre curse created well—it drew away his wrath and instability, his panic as well and he could think clearly once more.
He had to flee.
He picked up the girl once more, pocketed his wand, and walked away without a second look behind him—the uproar and madness of an uncontrollable fire rising heavenwards, swallowing wood and stone alike, the screams of the burnt and dying provided a good distraction and no one paid any attention to the young man leaving the small confines of a primitive village.
No one.
At first there was pain and then awakening.
The pain was intense and then awakening hazy—she was conscious of the textures, the hard ground under her bones, the chipping tree bark that her fingers grazed, and the dim light that guided her eyes even as multicoloured spots danced in front of them.
She shuddered awake, gasping for breath.
"Don't—get up," someone said, feeling her forehead.
"Where are we? What happened? The man—" a string of words flew her lips and she shuddered once more, closing her eyes. "We're not at the inn anymore."
"Yes. How do you feel?"
"Better perhaps. I'm still—my bones hurt and everything is a blur." She didn't open her eyes, using her fingers to seek his hand. "Where are we?"
"I fixed you as well as I could but I could not risk consulting a healer just then." He tapped at her forearm, his hand cold, and she felt him squeeze her fingers. "And we are in the woods, as far away from the village as I could get—I had to stop for a break."
She opened her eyes and clearer images rushed to her mind this time—the tree overhead was a striking green colour with broad leaves and a wide canopy with lasting shade—she turned her eyes and caught sight of Tom sitting close to her, leaning against the thick bark and staring into space.
And then she remembered.
The men—the boys—the assault—
She sat up and immediately regretted her decision for her back felt like it had knives sunk into it but she didn't lie down again.
"I thought I was dead for sure," she said, looking into his eyes. "The man—"
"Dead."
Uncomfortable, sinewy vines twisted in her stomach.
"Dead? How—you didn't do it, did you? You couldn't have—you wouldn't—and the boys, rest of the group—Malfoy and other-?"
He picked up a small stone and flung it as far as he could.
"There was a fire at the inn—everyone panicked; I took you and ran." His right chin puffed and she realised he must have rolled his tongue behind it. "And as far as the boys are concerned, I don't know where they are. I could barely save you and myself."
"Oh God." She put a hand over her mouth, horrified. "Who—why would anyone do that? And what do we do now?"
A knot twisted in her throat, gagging her voice.
He did not answer her for a long time, choosing to gaze at a bird instead, absently running his hands up and down on the ugly ring he wore.
And she chose not to ask him how he knew that her assaulter was dead.
She chose not to.
"This is a country plagued by civil war—I told you about it, did I not? I can't go back without them; Avery, Malfoy and others," he said quietly, desperation clinging to the faint notes in his voice. "I need to find them and I don't know how."
Her face scrunched up in pain as a short sting hit her left foot.
"No, it wouldn't be right to abandon friends when they are in trouble. But do you think—can't we alert the authorities to their disappearance and maybe they can look—" she said, stretching out her legs to gauge the damage and the subsequent amateur treatment she had received. "I'll help you, you know I would. But I don't think I'm much good right now and we don't even know who took them."
A small bug crawled over Tom's pants, making way up to his torso as he gazed vacantly ahead of him.
"Grindelwald."
"What?"
"They were Grindelwald's men. We can't tell the authorities because our presence here is illegal. We weren't supposed to be here, you know that, and no matter how strong the Aurors maybe, they will never catch Him. He runs a parallel government in this country—no, this can't be reported."
She acknowledged his words with a tiny nod, feeling dread settle down in the pit of her stomach.
"He hit me hard, the scoundrel." She spat on the ground, massaging her neck. She wanted to stand up but something told her that her legs wouldn't be quite as supportive. "Tried to choke me too—and I couldn't do a fucking thing; I've never felt this helpless before, not even when I met you the first time—this is the second time you've saved my life, Tom."
A small smile played around the corner of his lips, a genuine smile that lit up shadowy corners of her heart.
"You're in my debt then," he said, looking away quickly as soon as his eyes met hers. He stood up and brushed off the dirt clinging to his pants with his hands, squinting to his right. "We can't stay here; I'll scout ahead and then we move. You need to recover but I'm sure you'll be fine to walk in another hour, especially now that you're awake. But we'll leave this place, and quickly too."
She nodded and leaned against the bark, watching him go.
He returned an hour later, frowning and scowling at the same time.
"I have sighted something up ahead—a strange something but it didn't feel like a trap," he said as soon as he reached close enough to speak. His face was redder now, perhaps from exertion of walking or maybe it was the sunlight but it became him well. "We should go before the sun sets—can you walk?"
"I could try," she said, taking the hand he offered and put her other hand on the tree bark beside her. Her feet stung as soon as she put her weight on them but she ignored it. "I'll be slow but I think I can manage. What did you see though?"
"It's a village—deserted but well preserved." He slung the backpack around his right shoulder and used his left arm to support her. "I don't think it's a trap or anything but it's—well preserved. That's all I can say to describe it."
They walked quietly, their silence companionable, and Hermione suddenly remembered something.
"I don't have my wand."
"What's that?"
"They took it—must have broken it, I don't know—"
Its absence crippled her substantially, yes
How could she help anyone without her wand?
Tom cursed and almost lost hold on her; she stumbled a bit but he caught her just in time and she cursed him, using choicest swearwords to denounce her frustration and fear.
"You could use the cubes, I suppose," he said after a while. The scenery hadn't changed much—there were trees everywhere, broken by small patches of shrubs and even small clearings. "It will take longer than a wand but it will be more potent."
"I can use the cubes for simple spells?"
"Yes, indeed. They'll come to you easily too, since you've already mastered them in practice with a wand." He paused and dug inside his bag, drawing out the Arithmancy cubes a few seconds later. "Keep them at hand. Put them in your pocket."
She did as he bid and cursed again when she stumbled over a rock, stubbing her good toe.
Tom watched bemusedly as she hopped on one leg, cursing, spitting and throwing him angry looks.
It was everything Tom had said; only he had downplayed it.
The village was small, very small—houses erected in no organised fashion, small cleared patches and dirty paths, a few water fountains littered here and there for no apparent reason, carts and carriages resting in front of houses that no one inhabited—it was bizarre.
A predominance of the colour blue could be discerned everywhere.
"Well preserved indeed." She took a few steps towards the small house closest to her. "Why do you think it was abandoned?"
She looked back at Tom and he shrugged, sniffing at the air haltingly. He licked his dry lips and tilted his head.
"We'll stay here for the remaining night and see what we can do tomorrow. You're able to walk without a lot of pain, aren't you?"
"Yes." She touched the window sill, running an idle finger over the sheet of dust that was omnipresent. "We have no food though."
"I have some snacks here, and fruit. We'll worry about other things as they come, won't we?"
She nodded and followed him through winding lanes, overcome with a strong nostalgia—this was a village trapped in time.
They found a smallish house close to the edge. Its front door was open and when Hermione peeped in, she realised that all the furniture was intact, if a little dusty. Tom decided that they could pass the night there and so he scourgified the sitting room and the bedroom, erected alarms and protective shields around the house.
They ate in silence—the food would last them a while—and then retired to the solitary bedroom. Hermione didn't think she would have had the courage to sleep in a different room even if there had been one.
And since there was only one bed, they shared.
"Where will we go?" she whispered, her head buried deep in a pillow that smelled stale. Tom reclined close to her, playing with his ring. "Aren't you worried, Tom? We have no idea of the terrain, no idea of whom to pursue or even how to return home if we wanted."
He rolled the ring between his fingers, his eyes fixedly staring out of the one window in front of them.
"We could go back," he said quietly, closing his eyes and she knew that he was scared. He was scared but he didn't show it. "We could Apparate, I suppose. Back to the first village we came from—but returning isn't an option, especially now. And as far as going ahead is concerned, I don't have a solid plan—I don't know the geography or the polity—but magic, I do know. Magic leaves traces. I'll find them, they are bound to me."
She turned her head, scrutinising his pale face closely.
Magic, he did know.
And he excelled at it.
"That man—the one who attacked me," she shivered, "he had the same sign embroidered on his cloak, the Hallows' sign."
Tom's hands stilled for a second, before he turned towards her, his silverine eyes darker now.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded, smiling wryly. "Yes." Her eyes searched his face for some sign of emotion, some clue as to what he was thinking but she failed. This was his most aggravating trait, his ability to hide his emotions and thoughts behind a veil of casualness. "Do you have a plan in mind?"
"Not at the moment, no." He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. Something unknown fluttered in her stomach and she cracked a smile. "But I will know soon."
She didn't ask him how.
She didn't have to.
She knew him well enough to believe that when he said he could do something, he would do it.
There were no two ways about it.
"Do you think… can you hold my hand while I sleep?" she asked softly, staring up at the discoloured ceiling. His simply looked at her, his gaze devoid of emotion once more. "I'd feel a lot safer, especially after—"
Without a word, he entwined his fingers in the blank spaces between her fingers, and gave them a squeeze.
She closed her eyes and the world subsided, a small smile playing on her lips as she faded and dreams took over.
'Mudblood!"
"Books and cleverness,"
She woke up, cold and shivering.
Tom wasn't there.
"Tom?" she called out, just in case he was around, but no there was no reply.
She flung her legs over the edge of her bed and crept out of the room, making as little noise as possible. Peeping around the corner, into the sitting room, she saw him.
He had knelt down on the floor, holding his ring in one hand, and he seemed to be speaking to—a ghost?
It must have been-a flickering grey shadow that seemed solid and gaseous at the same time. She seemed so—sad and out of place, a study in misery and despondence.
"You will return as I bid or I will find a way to bind you here, permanently," he seemed to be saying, and even though Hermione couldn't quite see his face, she felt the note of threat in his voice. Her flesh erupted in goose bumps at the chill in his tones and her feet froze in place.
"Tom?" she croaked, involuntarily drawing his attention towards her.
The flickering woman vanished in the blink of an eye and Tom whirled around, his face sliding into impassive layers of blankness before she could catch a glimpse of his true emotions.
"You woke up," he stated casually, straightening. "Do you need something?"
"No, I'm fine…" She tried to smile but failed in the face of fear and unknown. "What was that.. shadow?"
"An echo," he said, his eyes moving searchingly all over her features. "A guide, if you must—we finally have a marker and a destination."
Hermione looked at him in confusion.
"What do you mean?"
A small vein twitched in his temple.
"Grindelwald's men took our friends to Saramira, a small trading town, west of here—a day's walk. That is where we'll head. Tomorrow. Or today since it's after twelve."
Hermione was shocked at the accuracy and certainty in his voice.
"How—can you know that, for sure?"
He rubbed the ring in his hand and paused. Turning over the cloth on his wrist, he exposed his scarred skin to her once again—the black skull, the serpent invading bones, and the uncanny feeling in her stomach that the mark was somehow alive.
"We are bound, my friends and I—we've pledged association and loyalty to each other in pursuit of common goals, Hermione. This magic that binds us together—it always lets me know where they are. I told you this before, didn't I?"
"Yes." She furrowed her brows and reached out to touch his blacked skin hesitantly. The snake hissed and crawled deeper into the skull and Hermione flinched. "But how can you know for sure? And what was that an echo of? The sad woman you were threatening?"
"She told me about the exact whereabouts—I told you I know magic, didn't I?" He smiled arrogantly and started walking away, towards the bedroom. "It's a long story, for some other time. We should rest for now, alright?"
Her head buzzing with confusion, she followed him to the room and lay down beside him, rankled and harried by questions and lack of understanding but she knew that even if she were to ask now, he wouldn't tell. That was one of his most infuriating traits. He never told all. And he always determined the right time for revelations.
So she held her tongue and took solace in the safety of night and his shadow.
Not before long, his nimble fingers were intertwined between her soft ones and sleep was quick to come.
Hi guys, I hope this isn't bad. Let me know please, need some inspiration. Tell me if it sucks and I'll stop.
