The Matchmaker

TanninTele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

VI:

The Lost Girl

Several hours later, reality caught up like a rabid dog on a hunt, messy and mad.

Tom certainly felt like a mess.

His mind seemed to buzz, and although he was bone-tired, a sense of duty and pure spite kept Tom on his feet. He blinked the sunspots from his eyes and gestured vaguely at the pile of dirt sticking out of the weeds. "That's it," Tom said with a weary sigh. It had taken him an hour to lead the police back to the excavation site. He'd gotten lost twice, before finally finding his way to the clearing. Squinted as though in pain, blue eyes trailed across the weeds and the splintered wood, spotting a faint trickle of Harry's blood. Tom shook his head stiffly. "That's where the son of a bitch put us."

Time passed slowly as forensics quarantined the area, using a crane to excavate the coffin. Or what remained of it. Tom took the opportunity, leaning against a land rover they'd borrowed from the park reservation, to fill out his victim statement. He hated it; the word 'victim', like he was some damsel in distress. He wasn't. He was anything but.

Sucking in a deep breath, Tom grabbed the bottom of his shirt and lifted it over his mouth. "We're going to break the lid," he said, nudging Harry to do the same. "It'll take both of us working together. Do you think you can manage it?"

Harry blinked. "N – now? We're doing this now?"

"Unless you'd prefer to stay? The accommodations aren't great - "

"Stop with the snark. I'm ready."

When the EMTs had arrived, taking Harry away and leaving Tom to deal with the police, they'd tried to give him a shock blanket. Tom gave the first responder a look that could and has inspired even hardened veterans to turn tail.

His stomach was all in knots, twisted and burning, but he adamantly kept going. He waited with the local police until Kingsley and the cavalry arrived, forensics in tow, and reporters not far out. Rita Skeeter had beat them to the crime scene, having heard of his recovery from god knows where - likely their mole. It took Kingsley threatening her with 'obstruction of justice' to give them some damn space, although Tom knew she was just waiting for him to emerge from the Forest of Dean.

He supposed he'd have to go to the hospital eventually; his mother would force him to, no doubt. Tom had borrowed Kingsley's phone and called her immediately, but the signal was poor, and - truthfully - Tom really could not stand getting lectured right now. It wasn't as though she could really 'march right down there and teach that psychopath a lesson'.

Tom pursed his lips, staring down at the police report. As much as he wanted to write 'none of your business' in each blank slot, Tom was above all else a professional. He tried to recall their time in the coffin. It was easy, seeing as the memory of green eyes and a soft voice was burnt into his brain. Determined, Tom licked the tip of his pen and put it to paper.

"Shirt up," Tom beckoned.

Harry gave a soft laugh as he wiggled his shirt up to his mouth. "At least take me on a date before asking me to strip."

Lucky for Tom, his shirt covered his blush. "You're a smart mouth, you know that? Regardless," Tom pressed on. "Brace your feet against the middle of the lid. And don't say a word about flexibility."

"I wasn't gonna," Harry defended. "I think you're the one who needs to get his mind out of the gutter."

"Let's worry about getting out of this coffin, first," Tom grunted, pulling back his knees. "On the count of three, we're going to push until it cracks. The coffin is going to fill with dirt, and we're going to have to shove the dirt to the sides of our bodies. Fair warning; if we're buried any deeper than six feet, we're going to die," he said bluntly. "If not – we should be able to stand, so long as our mouths and nose are covered. Alright?"

Harry's breathing picked up. "No! That's a lot of information to process, Tom. What – what if we get trapped under here? What if we suffocate?"

"I am not going to let that happen," Tom said firmly. He watched verdant green eyes flutter shut. "We're going to live. We're going to make it out alive, and once we do," Memorizing Harry's features in the dark, Tom took the chance. "I'm going to kiss you. How's that for incentive?"

Tom lifted his head as Kingsley approached. The man looked haggard, exhausted. You're exhausted? Tom thought in exasperation. Try living my life for a day.

"Finished?" Kingsley spoke gruffly.

Nodding, Tom glanced over the statement for spelling errors. He had glossed over their conversations within the coffin, outlining the only two important events; the woman in the alley and chloroform-soaked rag. She was the closest connection Tom had to the Matchmaker; he would find that damn wench if it killed him.

Kingsley eyed him closely, startled by the fury in Tom's eyes.

". . . Good," he hedged. He brushed off the unease. "I've sent a man to follow Mr. Potter to the hospital for his statement. Are you certain you'll not be joining him at Saint Mungo's?" Tom gave him a deadpan look and violently capped his pen. Kingsley sighed. "Of course. Well, I called for a car. We've got you set up in a motel so you can wash up and rest before heading back. "

Tom stood straighter. Exactly. A little thing like live burial wasn't about to set Tom back from investigating the bastard -

"Heading back home, Tom," Kingsley finished. "Your mother worries."

"I spoke with her," Tom said sharply. "She's fine, trust me. I need to be on this case, Kingsley," A wet, misty breeze brushed his dirty fringe off his forehead. His eyes seemed manic, pupils blown.

Kingsley spoke sternly. "It's a conflict of interest, and you know that. You should take a break, maybe a sabbatical - for your own mental health, if not my own."

"Screw that. You want me mentally sound? Let me get some closure. I know this case inside and out - quite literally. I'm your best chance at catching the Matchmaker," he pounded a fist on the Range Rover. "Remember, I'm your superior, Kingsley. I can make your life hell." Tom aimed the pen at Kingsley's chest, body tense. "We may be colleagues but we sure as hell aren't equals."

Kingsley's jaw trembled, but he refused to step back. "Sir - "

"I'm not repeating myself." Tom folded the statement and slipped it into Kingsley's front pocket. "If you have any further questions, you'll know where to find me."

Even as he stalked away, Kingsley staring at his back, Tom's mind wandered. His mind kept going back to that moment - when he made his attraction clear, when they were on the verge of getting out - and he'd tossed away all semblance of propriety just to see Harry smile.

"I'm going to kiss you. How's that for incentive?"

Harry's eyes shot open. Tom's heartbeat thumped in quick succession, and he prepared for rejection - Harry, however, smiled, his eyes crinkling.

"Why didn't you just say so? I'm ready when you are, Tom."

Tom couldn't help the smirk that crossed his features. He forced it away just as swiftly as it had appeared. "Alright, on the count of three, we push," He turned away, brows furrowing in concentration. "One - two - three - push!"

The lid groaned and creaked under their efforts, Harry grunting lightly beside him. "Push!" Tom growled. Sweat dripped down his brow. "Push!"

"What, were you a midwife in a past life?" Harry snapped back, bracing one hand against the lid while the other held his shirt up. With a groan, the wood cracked, the nails popping. Tom pushed harder, and within seconds, the coffin collapsed. Someone screamed.

He stalked his way through the brush, meeting Diggle at the edge of the forest. Diggle led him to the car.

The ride was silent, contemplative, though Tom could sense Diggle was bursting with questions.

Tom met his gaze in the rearview mirror and gave Diggle a withering look. The man's fingers tightened on the steering wheel and Diggle remained blissfully silent.

Finally able to breathe, Tom leaned his forehead against the cool window. A low soreness spread across his limbs, as though he'd gone through a puree machine. His eyelids wavered, before slipping shut. He rested fitfully the rest of the way, his memories serving as prime nightmare material.

Dirt flooded the casket, their vision consumed with black. Dry soil brushed their skin as they shoved the dirt aside, standing shakily. Gasping and writhing, they pulled themselves up through the rainstorm of dirt. Tom's hands clawed at the grass. Hoisting himself onto land, he coughed up dirt, his throat dry and eyes watery. "Harry," he croaked out, blinking rapidly. "Harry!" Scrambling back to the hole, he grappled blindly for Harry's arm, hearing the boy let out a pained shriek. "I've got you," Tom pulled him out, shoving the boy onto the grass. "I've got you."

Even with his pale skin splotched with dirt and eyes burning red, Harry looked – in a word – radiant.

The diminishing sunlight was soft and warm, and if Tom was a believer, he would say this is what heaven felt like.

Hiding his grimace in the grass, Harry pawed at his upper arm. Tom noticed a rip in the sleeve and a shallow cut on his forearm. Harry's blood coated his hands from where he'd grabbed him. "I cut myself on a nail," Harry said, face scrunched in pain. "Fuck, that's probably infected."

"You'll be fine," Tom said, his heart thumping in his throat. He couldn't help his gaze from lingering on the boy's dirty, dry lips. God, how he wanted to make good on his promise. "We'll get an EMT out here to stitch you up."

Harry grimaced, glancing back at the hole. "My phone's down there."

"Insurance will buy you a new one," Tom said dismissively, although it would've been nice to call Kingsley and get forensics down here. "Do you even have insurance?"

"Mm," Harry paused. He looked down at his bloodied, dirtied hands. "No. Slughorn doesn't believe in hospitals."

"Let me guess, he believes in healing balms and herbs?" Tom grunted, rising to his feet. "Because we've got a lot of weeds out here that might work," They were in the middle of a clearing, a collonade of trees surrounding them. "Fuck," Tom whispered. "We could be anywhere."

Harry struggled to get to his feet, vertigo hitting him hard. He squinted, the sudden exposure to light painful. Tom lifted a hand as if to steady him, but hesitated, afraid to hurt the boy. Harry righted himself and stared up at the clouds. "It's around twilight," he said, almost subdued. "There might be some people headed home from work, if we find a road."

With a stiff jerk of his head, Tom nodded. He wiped the dirt from his clothes. "Well, we know we weren't the only ones out here. Whoever stuffed us underground might've left some tracks. They had to drag our bodies and get the coffin out here somehow. Let's start there."

Slightly amused by Tom's logic, Harry pointed at the trampled, muddied grass. He regretted it, as pain lanced up his arm. "That way, then." He scowled, rotating his shoulder. "That hurt."

With a sudden rip, Tom tore off a piece of his clean(er) undershirt. "Come 'ere."

Harry shuffled over and allowed Tom to gingerly wrap the wound, blood bubbling up from the cut. He wound it tightly, efficiently.

Harry winced. "Thanks." He didn't pull away. Tom could see the dirt dangling from his eyelashes, green eyes watery.

The boy determinedly did not cry, and Tom - Tom wanted to cry, too. But he refrained.

"Anytime," Tom said, almost breathless. He swallowed tightly. Regret tasted strongly of soil and brine. "Shall we?"

Tom jerked awake as the engine cut off.

The rookie was swift to open Tom's door, prepared to escort the man inside. Heart thumping rapidly, Tom dismissed the man's efforts, achingly clambering out of the car. The motel was plain and rustic, clearly designed as a one-night stay for hunters trekking through the Forest of Dean. Tom avoided the main lobby altogether, as Diggle palmed over a key and shoved a duffle bag into his arms. "Kingsley had me grab some essentials," he mumbled, the wild-haired, usually exuberant man unsure of how to act around Tom - was he a victim of a heinous crime, or was he Detective Chief Inspector Riddle, Diggle's uncompromising, tough, jaded boss? He clearly had trouble reconciling the two ideas.

Tom made it easy for the man.

"Thank you, Diggle," Tom said gruffly, hoisting the bag in his trembling arms. "Now get out of my sight. I expect an update every three hours," he warned.

Diggle paused. "We didn't retrieve your cell phone, sir."

"Well. Get me a new one, then."

Diggle lingered, biting his lip. Tom's eyed narrowed. Were his colleagues always this incompetent, or were they - god forbid, worried about him?

"I'll be alright, Diggle," he told the man, smoothing his expression. "You did well today."

Diggle's flighty eyes met Tom's with a surprised, almost shocked look. "Not well enough, sir. You were still . . . " he trailed off, bushy brows drawing. "Kingsley's giving us the guilt trip. I think he thought this could have been prevented if we were better detectives."

Tom paused, feeling a peculiar, warm sensation that he associated with sunshine and laughing green eyes. Pleasure, he distantly identified the feeling. Gratefulness. He thought back to Kingsley's dark, concerned gaze and strange insistence that Tom take time off. "He's incorrect," Tom spoke brusquely. "If the Matchmaker was intent on making me a victim, it would have happened regardless of your - or even my - training. And perhaps this is for the better." Tom moved awkwardly, shifting the bag in his arms. "At least now we have a better idea of what the Matchmaker wants."

"Did you - did you have a break in the case, sir?" Diggle asked, almost probing.

A short, strangled laugh erupted from Tom's throat. "Both a literal and figurative breakthrough, Diggle," he said. "Let me sleep on it, and I'll . . . " he sighed, closing his eyes. "And tomorrow, we'll be one step closer to catching him," 'that bastard' lingered on Tom's tongue, but somehow it didn't settle quite right.

Bidding Diggle adieu, Tom slipped into the motel room, relishing in the clean air.

An hour passed.

Twining the cream-colored, rubber cord around his finger, Tom finally succumbed and dialed St. Mungo's. After rattling off his police ID number in a gruff, no-nonsense tone, Tom was patched over to Harry's physician. "He's stable and resting," the woman told him softly. There was only so much she could tell him, but Tom had made quite clear that he would keep calling until he received an update on Harry's health. "We treated him for dehydration and shock. We had to administer a tetanus shot for that nasty scrape on his arm. We've decided to monitor him for another day, but Mr. Potter will be absolutely alright, sir. Don't you worry," she soothed.

Tom maneuvered his sore body onto the uncomfortable hotel bed. He'd borrowed a spare change of clothes while his suit was dry-cleaned, courtesy of the hotel. He was dressed in a cotton shirt and boxers, but neither were the correct size. The shirt was a bit baggy on his shoulders, while the shorts brushed against his kneecaps.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"And . . . mentally?" he bit out. "Has he shown any signs of trauma?"

The physician paused, and he could hear the pity in her voice. "We've suggested numerous resources for therapy, but he's turned them all down. I suppose you'll just have to ask him yourself, won't you, detective? I can put you on the visitor's list - "

Tom winced. "No. No, thank you," he coughed. "That won't be necessary."

As he lay in bed, in the darkness, he turned on his side and tried not to imagine a warm body beside him, tired green eyes staring into his.

' . . . victim claimed to have been attacked by woman, sized around 5'5, features indistinguishable - '

'Traces of chloroform were swabbed from around the mouth . . . '

Tom flipped through his paperwork, face drawn in an exasperated growl. He had already read and reread the report numerous times, his bloodshot eyes drifting across the document. Most of it was useless jargon or things Tom already knew. 'No recording device was found at the excavation site, a stray from the unsub's M.O.'

Shoving away from his desk, Tom shucked off his suit jacket. It was far too warm in his office, and he resisted adjusting the thermostat. He'd already changed it three times today, first because it was too warm, then too cold, and back again. Tom wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, brow furrowing at the glistening droplet. Was he coming down with something?

He wiped the sweat onto his dress-shirt, but when he pulled his hand back, it was dirtier than before.

Tom stared down at himself.

He was covered in dirt, his clothing absolutely filthy - why hadn't anyone told him he was a mess?

Tom anxiously tried to shake the soil from his skin, but everytime he brushed it away, more collected. Dirt was falling, cascading, from the roof, which had cracked open with a large groan. The room was suddenly too small, too confining, too dark. He was in a coffin - he'd always been in a coffin, he'd never been in his office -

And he was alone.

He called out Harry's name, pounding against the coffin's lid. Dirt was filling the coffin quickly and although he tried, he couldn't seem to move it aside fast enough. He was suffocating under the weight of it, his mouth open in a silent scream. Tom choked, gasped, cried, pleaded - "Harry!"

But the green-eyed boy never came. With a thundering snap, the coffin broke, and Tom was enveloped with darkness.

His eyes snapped open.

Heaving out a breath, cold air met his skin. A window was open, the smell of sage and geraniums drifting into his bedroom.

It was just a dream.

Skin coated with sweat, Tom pulled himself out of bed. He lifted long-fingered, quivering hands to his face, feeling unconsciously for the dirt that had seemed to enter his every pore and infiltrate his lungs. He was clean. He was safe.

Raking a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, Tom nodded to himself. "You're fine, you son of a bitch," he told himself harshly. "You're alive."

The night terror - for that's what it was - was a recurring one. It had been a week since the unfortunate incident (as his mother liked to call it, denial clearly hereditary), and Tom doubted he slept more than a few hours each night. That was alright. Poppy had left him a cup of coffee in anticipation. It was kept warm by a thermos. Tom took a grateful sip of it. The warmth suffused his system, bringing him to full awareness.

He tried not to make noise as he pulled his laptop computer out from under his bed. He flipped the lid open and logged in, wincing at the webpage left open from the night before.

He'd taken to stalking Harry on social media, finding Slug & Jigger's online web page, where sales, bargains and the occasional link to interesting botanic journals were shared. It was clear the site was run by Harry. Tom suspected Horace Slughorn was as useless with the internet as Tom was with . . . feelings.

Harry didn't have a Facebook or MySpace page - or whatever the youth constituted as communication these days - but the Slug & Jiggers site at least served as a slice of Harry's personality.

Tom had the 'About Us' page open. He scrolled past Horace Slughorn's long-winded synopsis of his hopes and dreams, ('Slug & Jiggers seeks to reconnect our community with nature through the use of botany, raw materials and ancient philosophical practices . . . ' ), finding a small picture of Harry.

'Employee of the Month', it read, and Harry's crooked grin clearly showed his amusement. Harry was Slughorn's only employee. The picture was a few years old, as Harry's riotous locks were shorter and his features softer. But he had the same glasses and the same sparkling green eyes.

Tom felt a pang of regret.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Tom quickly minimized the tab and opened a his email.

He was surprised to see a message from Tonks, sent at one in the morning. She was up late at night, concerned about a missing person's case that had been opened the same day Tom and Harry were found. Frowning, Tom opened the attached picture. 'Luna Lovegood,' it said. 'Age 24, reported missing by her father, Xenophilius -'

"Motherfucker," Tom hissed, sitting up straight in bed.

He recognized the girl; although the one time they'd been acquainted, her hair had been matted and her cheeks stained with tears. She'd been grasping the hand of another girl, Ginevra Weasley if he was not mistaken -

Right after Lovegood and Weasley were released from the Matchmaker's clutches.

Luna Lovegood was missing, again, and this time there were no leads. She was seen last by a friend, Neville Longbottom, who nervously explained that Luna had headed back to her shared apartment with the Weasley girl.

Luna hadn't been seen since.

Tonks had investigated the case personally and found Ginny holed up at her parent's home in Ottery St. Catchpole. The Weasleys were a stern, fiercely protective sort. They hadn't appreciated the police coming to investigate their baby girl, but Ginny had emerged from her room, tearful but brave.

Tonks had sat with her at the dining table, a plate of biscuits angrily slammed down beside her. Molly Weasley was a helicopter parent, no doubt, but left when Ginny asked.

With permission, Tonks was allowed to record their conversation. Tom clicked the audio file.

"Where were you on the night of - "

"Drop that whole Sherlock Holmes spiel, would you?" Ginny had interrupted, exasperated. "I'll tell you what I know, but I swear, I'm so sick and tired of the DLE. You guys harassed me and Luna for weeks after the whole Matchmaker thing, and then Rita Skeeter got all up in our business. I work with the woman, isn't that torture enough? Can't we just be left alone?" she was close to begging.

"I wish we could," Tonks told her gently. "But this isn't about the Matchmaker, Ginny. This is about your friend, Miss Lovegood - "

"Girlfriend," Ginny emphasized, sharp. "We're dating. Or - we were."

"Past tense, hm?"

"She . . . I think she's cheating on me. With that stupid, anxiety-ridden, dough-faced boy, no less," she grumbled. "The day she - the day she went missing, we had fought. I admit it. But she left our apartment and - " Ginny shook her head. "I haven't heard from her since. I couldn't stand being alone in our apartment, so I came here, and this is where I've been for days - surrounded by my mother's love and her excellent cooking," she took a violent bite of a biscuit, the crunching loud and obnoxious. "I've been to work, too, so that attests for my location during the day. I've got an alibi, officer, and I intend to use it."

Tonks pressed on. "So . . . you haven't seen her? Haven't gotten a call, a text, anything?"

"Luna probably just got distracted or went on holiday, " the girl sniffed dismissively, reluctant fondness creeping into her voice. "She's always had her head in the clouds, but she always finds her way back home. Back to me."

Tom pursed his lips.

Suspicion crept in. The girl was too nonchalant, unworried and flippant. Either she was just a bitch or -

He rewound the audio recording, pressing play just before Ginny's final statement. 'She always finds her way back to me.' The possessiveness in her tone shook him. That obsessive, almost raging love - it was terrifying. And familiar.

Weren't Ginny and Harry friends? Peculiar that they were both victims of the Matchmaker.

Mind racing, Tom typed 'Gilderoy Lockhart' into the search engine. He knew that out of all the Matchmaker's victims, Lockhart was the closest to a celebrity. There had to be news on him.

And damn it, there was.

Tom clawed a hand down his mouth.

'Honeymoon Turned Deadly.' Rita Skeeter's article began with a photo of Lockhart, blue eyes tearful and his golden-skinned body donned in a fashionable black suit. 'Drug bust. . . ' Tom skimmed the article, 'arrest of veteran Alastair Moody' . . . 'human shield' . . . 'til death do we part'.

Apparently, 'Mundungus Fletcher hadn't changed his ways in the least. The former veteran was found buying drugs from former General Alastair 'Mad-Eye' Moody, using Lockhart's hard-earned money to fuel his cocaine addiction. The Spanish police had been on Moody's trail for weeks - so much for 'constant vigilance' - and interrupted his deal with Fletcher. Faced down with a dozen guns and red dots pinpointing his chest, Moody moved fast, shoving Dung in front of him as a human shield.

. . . The man's body was littered with bullets; he bled out before the EMT could arrive.'

Tom felt a bit . . . ill. He had no sympathy for drug addicts, but - staring at Lockhart's despondent, broken-hearted photo - he couldn't the tingle of sympathy.

'Olive Hornby,' he tried next. Last he heard, Hornby and the plain-faced barista - Myrtle, was it? - were in a loving girl-on-girl relationship. Tom snorted at Hornby's Facebook page. Relationship: Complicated, it said. The most recent post was of Olive and a handsome, long-haired man attending a fancy dinner. She looked unhappy with his hand placed possessively at the small of her back.

Myrtle's Facebook was much, much worse, filled with quotes about sadness, betrayal, and pain. 'Just when you thought you found the love of your life, they tear out your heart and stamp on it with their high-heeled Jimmy Choos.'

The sentiment was sickening, but Tom got the point.

Is this what the Matchmaker did? Twisted his victims' love and affection for one another until they ruined each other's lives? Led women to cheat and led men to their death? Grindelwald and Dumbledore were just quicker to the uptake, Tom realized dully.

Was this what awaited Tom and Harry? Would they eventually come to despise one another, spitting hateful words and taunts, until one of them snapped and -

He couldn't finish the thought.

"Occam's razor," Tom told himself, trying in vain to calm his rapidly beating heart. "The simplest solution is often the correct one."

They would just avoid each other. Simple as that. They would keep their time in the coffin in the past, where it belonged.

It shouldn't be too difficult.

They led such different lives; Tom as a Detective Chief Inspector, accomplished and respected, Harry as an apothecary apprentice. He would just - have to avoid Slug & Jiggers, then.

Tom winced, thinking of his mother. She needed her medication, damn it.

Clenching a fist, he returned to the Slug & Jiggers tab, quickly clicking away from Harry's face. He went to the menu tab, face twisted in determination. It said it right there - they delivered packages. It would cost a bit more, sure, but . . . it was worth it.

Wasn't it?

Tom was most certainly beginning to panic.

He took another sip of his coffee, barely able to keep his hands from shaking.

As a member of the DLE, it was difficult to ignore the constant mantra of protect and serve, protect and serve from his mind. Avoiding Harry would difficult, painful - achingly so - but it would have to be done. For Harry's own protection.

Deep down, Tom knew that if he pursued this strange infatuation with the other man, it would only end in tears and heartbreak. He knew, that out of the two of them, Tom was the darker one. Harry deserved so much better than a bitter old man; Harry deserved the world. He deserved someone who could make him laugh, make his eyes sparkle, make up for the awful childhood he'd had. He deserved the chance to find a love that 'transcended life and death', and Tom knew . . . he couldn't provide that.

I barely love myself, Tom thought, swallowing the bitter coffee. He leaned his head back against the headboard, thumping his skull against it in a sort of self-flagellation.

How could he ever love Harry the way he deserved?

To be continued . . .