"I've answered this a million times; Quentin never told his old workmates or friends exactly where he was these last eight years," Gonson said, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips in pure exhaustion. It was late, on the second day of Harry's absence, but Tom wouldn't let his recently returned friends go to bed so soon. "He lost contact with almost everyone he knew at Hogwarts, and anyone else he met before he left for Germany."
"But we're missing something!" Tom reminded them all for what felt like the hundredth time. He was tense, and unable to sleep, which might have fuelled his inability to speak to his friends without yelling, or desiring to hurt them a great deal. "We've contacted all of his old friends and workmates, and questioned even each other about this… But the family! It has to be about the family now. They are the only people he stayed in contact with these last years."
"Barely," Lestrange murmured, his head resting against his folded arms on the table. "He wrote to them maybe once every six months."
Tom decided to ignore this comment. He had only just finished shouting at Avery, Lestrange, and Gonson, who were the latest friends back from England and Germany, to give Tom only futile information. Tom paced the room continuously, unable to rest. His hair was a mess, and his clothes hadn't been changed in the last twenty-four hours or so, but he no longer cared. His friends were in the same state as him for the most part, minus the pure stress that Tom felt with not knowing where Harry was…
"Tell me more about what the family told you – there has to be something about them!"
Tom heard some of his friends sigh and slouch a little more in their chairs, but he didn't bother glaring at them. He was extremely irritated, yet he was trying not to show it, as he attempted to get over it and convince his friends to speak more openly. His friends were concerned and scared of the way he was acting. They would talk behind his back, in whispers and mumbles, and he would see them think about their conversations afterwards. They would only tell him news very cautiously, and he needed them to tell him every seemingly useless detail without fearing him now…
"His family says that he's been working for a small company in Germany that makes broomsticks," Lestrange began bravely. "They think he's been making family brooms, which of course doesn't comply with the information he gave all of us, and some of his old workmates. He's told tens of different stories to everyone to make sure–"
"To make sure they won't be interested enough to ask too many detailed questions," Tom finished, thinking about this as he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. He had heard this information too many times now; it barely had any meaning to him by this point. "Yet what job he told each new person he had is irrelevant to the information we need… Let's go over the family members again."
His friends were restless and bored of this conversation, but none of them said a word about it – they instead only showed it in their body language. Tom forced himself to look away from them all, glaring at the floor as he walked.
"He doesn't have much extended family," Lestrange said, "There's only his parents, sister, and his childless aunt and uncle. His aunt and uncle are a bit wired. They live off in the centre of Germany, and we think they might have tried for a few kids in the past, but they were probably unlucky, and had miscarriage–"
"I don't care about the aunt and uncle," Tom interrupted sharply. "They're too wrapped up in their own odd lives to care about Quentin in the slightest. They have no connections to anyone who might know where Quentin is… Tell me about the parents and sister."
"The parents are surprisingly nice," Lestrange drawled. "They seem to care about their son a lot, and they were very kind when we went to visit them. They're very proud of their son, despite him lying to them about having such a boring job. It doesn't appear that they are at all interested in the Dark Arts, so I must assume Quentin found a passion for the subject mostly through our own encouragement."
"And?" Tom inquired, unsure why Lestrange had stopped here.
"And nothing," Lestrange affirmed. "They're very simple, uninteresting people, and they don't have a clue that we secretly caused their lying son to obsess over the Dark Arts with us."
"I'd say his sister was pretty interested in the Dark Arts, though," Avery cut in. "Or, she's smart enough to know Quentin is up to something odd, anyway. She won't believe the lies he told his parents."
"You never mentioned this before," Tom said, looking up at Avery, to give him his fullest attention.
"Never though it was import–"
"Oh course it's important!" Tom snapped. "Every detail is important! Tell me – what does she suspect, relating to what Quentin does?"
"She said she didn't believe Quentin would waste his life on making broomsticks," Avery explained, appearing unconcerned with this seemingly useless information. "She thinks she knows what he's really up to now – working with his friends on making illegal items like Flying Carpets, and selling Venomous Tentacula seeds."
"Why would Quentin tell her this?" Tom inquired, pondering the though deeply. This was new information, new detail he should have known… He was irked that Avery had mentioned nothing relating to this before.
"He was probably just trying to get her off his back," Gonson remarked.
Tom contemplated this too. He had heard that the sister was a little suspicious about Quentin, but he didn't know that Quentin had told a different story to her. Quentin had told so many people different lies about himself… but this one in particular was off.
"Why would he lie to his sister?" Tom wondered aloud, trying to make sense of it all. "And moreover, how would the sister know she was being lied to initially?"
"They're siblings," Avery stated.
"Bravo, Sherlock," Gonson taunted.
Avery turned to glare at Gonson. "Shut up, Mudblood!"
"My blood is as pure as yours," Gonson boasted, "And I don't need to be a Mudblood to know about Sherlock Holmes."
"But I don't talk about Muggle crap like that," Avery said.
"But you knew what I was referring to," Gonson observed, "So you can't tell me that you–"
"Shut up!" Tom exclaimed, annoyed by their petty argument. "What did you mean to say, Avery, after your blatant remark of 'they're siblings'?"
"They're siblings, so they know when they're being lied to by each other," Avery explained, casting Gonson a cruel look. "I'd know, having a brother and all."
"People don't know that you're lying because you're related to them, Avery," Tom conveyed, aggravated. "People know you're lying because you're an idiot. Quentin, however, is not as obvious as you. He should have merely told his sister that he wasn't lying, for they are old enough to do this now… Instead, he chose to admit that he worked with people who were doing illegal things…"
"She didn't look like the type of person you would lie to," Avery mentioned. "I think she even suspected us of being crooks, but she wasn't scared about it. She looked like Quentin's older sister, so I reckon she probably knows him well."
"She wasn't surprised when seeing you were blatant criminals?" Tom inquired.
"Nah – she probably just though we were part of that Flying Carpet Company."
Tom contemplated this. He wondered why Quentin would bother making sure his sister didn't suspect him of anything worse than dealing in illegal items. Selling illegal items was quite a bad thing to do, and it didn't make sense that Quentin would give her this information. "If Quentin told her a lie to cover up another lie, she must have known something vital…"
His friends thought about this, some of them trying to work out what Tom might be thinking. They often tried to help him work out inconsistencies like this, and Tom allowed them to voice their ideas only because it helped him think of new approaches to the questions at hand. They were rarely right in their simple guesses.
"Maybe he just didn't want to lie to her completely," Gonson suggested.
"That wouldn't make sense," Tom responded.
"He could have wanted his sister to think she was special," Lestrange added, visibly confident in this idea as he waited for Tom's reaction. "He could have done it so she would leave him alone."
"No," Tom said, "This is unlikely, since Quentin has never been particularly sly, and complementing the abilities of others to shield his lies with their sense of self-importance is quite a smart idea… There has to be another reason…"
Tom continued walking back and fourth, trying to make sense of this… Quentin had lied to his sister for an unknown reason… She must have forced him into lying again, to satisfy her own curiosity about something – but what was she curious about? It wasn't as though she was at all near her brother these days, since they were well past their school years, and settled into their own lives… They lived seemingly normal lives now, and it wasn't as though the sister would notice anything odd about Quentin from how far away she was…
"Can we just go to bed?" Avery asked rudely. "There's no way we're going to work anything out by just sitting here–"
"Shut up, and stay where you are!" Tom barked, as he saw Avery attempt to stand. "I need time to think, so won't you all keep your mouths closed for a mere five minutes?"
His friends were silent after this, which gave him space to think. His chest was burning painfully, and as a result his mind began to wander towards thoughts of Harry. He reflected upon all the time he was wasting, and his jaw clenched. He forced the thought out of his mind determinedly, going back to what he needed to focus on. Quentin and his sister lived seemingly normal lives… but Quentin's life was not at all normal under the surface. All it would take was one tiny secret revealed from Quentin's real life to make his sister question his lies… and suddenly, Tom found the answer. It was so painfully obvious, he lifted his gaze to stare wide-eyed at his friends.
"She must have seen some of the people Quentin secretly works with," Tom muttered, informing his friends on his realisation.
"What, us?" Avery asked.
"No, the other Dark Arts fanatics Quentin works for."
Tom heard Lestrange and Gonson laugh at his words. He turned to face them, taking a moment to understand that they thought he had cracked a joke. Their smiles faded when they saw Tom was serious. There was a long hesitation.
"There… there's another Dark Arts group Quentin works for?" Gonson asked.
Tom stared at his friends in disbelief; unsure whether he had heard them correctly. He could feel the tension and agitation return to him, stronger this time. "Please do not tell you don't even know this piece of terribly obvious information yet," Tom pleaded quietly, unsure whether he should be worried or enraged. "Have none of you yet been informed – yet worked out – that this isn't just a Ministry problem, or a bickering between Quentin Pyrites and ourselves?"
His friends were mute, as they glanced at each other quickly. "Well, we had our suspicions–" Gonson began nervously.
"Your suspicions!" Tom repeated, laughing in pure disbelief. He could feel the anger tearing through him, as he came to understand that none of his friends even knew what they were truly looking for…
"You never told us anything about why Quentin kidnapped Jonathan," Lestrange commented uneasily. "We thought that maybe he–"
"Maybe he what?" Tom intervened, the verbal reminder of Harry's disappearance doing nothing to help his increasing vexation. "Maybe Quentin told a Ministry or two about Jonathan's secrets? Maybe he hid Jonathan somewhere himself, to question him about whatever it is he wants to know? This isn't a mere situation involving a conflict between two Wizards! Our protection wouldn't be so fragile, and our search so determined if I was looking for one fucking Wizard who had done nothing more than take Jonathan for a pleasant chat in a undetectable location!"
Tom could barely control his irritation now, and his friends could see it clearly. He no longer cared to try and hide his emotion, as his breath became deeper, his body agitated with pure loathing. He didn't know what to do, or how to calm himself as he tried to think straight. He reminded himself that he had made a breakthrough on the reports his friends had given him on this second day of searching for Harry. He had more possibilities to explore now, and this was some progress, at least…
"Get some of the less exhausted people here to track down and capture Quentin's sister," Tom ordered more quietly, as some of his friends avoided eye contact. "Gibbon, Nott, Macnair, and Ransom have been asleep for the last seven hours, and they should be able enough for this task by now. Send them all, of you must, and tell them to bring the sister here as soon as possible – break into her house, and fight her if she shows signs on resistance. We're going to make Quentin pay for his daring attempt to hide from us, and harm us all…"
–X–
Tom spent the third day of Harry's absence interrogating Quentin's sister. He began questioning her with mere threats of pain, before actually hurting her when she did not comply with Tom's inquires of what she knew about where Quentin was. Tom didn't do any long lasting damage to her, unless you counted mental trauma, and he knew that he needn't truly hurt her, when he had perfect access to her unprotected mind… but pain, and threat of pain, always seemed to help such people remember the exact details on the things he wanted to know.
Past torturing Quentin's sister, and letting her go when he had drained all the useful information out of her, Tom spent the day in an anxious and irked state, trying to forget the fact that he had now wasted three days without even getting close to finding Harry. He could barely think straight in the first two days, but he was trying harder on the third day to both control his fury and find the patience to work out where Quentin was, based on the little information they could find. Quentin had worked determinedly to insure he kept himself hidden, but Tom was sure that his resolve to hunt Quentin down was too strong to be stopped now…
Quentin's sister had told Tom about a few of Quentin's friends, who she had once met when they showed up unexpectedly at Quentin's home. Quentin had been terrified by the arrival of these guests, and this more than anything told Tom who they were – other followers of Grindelwald. Tom had demanded more information when he heard about these strange Wizards, and he got the information quite easily now. He watched Quentin's sister's mind, to be sure that he saw the faces of the people mentioned while she thought back to the memories, but when Tom continued to interrogate her, he didn't find any more interesting information. He decided to describe the followers of Grindelwald to his own friends, even drawing an example of what they looked like from clear memory.
None of his friends had yet seen any of the wizards Tom described, and though they were confused by how Tom knew who these people were, and what they looked like, they all decided to believe that Tom wasn't just making these Wizards up in a crazy strive to solve the mystery of where Quentin Pyrites was hiding. Tom gave many of his friends copies of the drawings displaying the people they were searching for, so they could all pass the photos along to the absent people in their group, to see if anyone had seen the wizards.
But at four days since Harry's disappearance, there was no new information, and they weren't any closer to finding Quentin, or the recently heard of followers of Grindelwald. Tom's chest was hurting more than ever, and he spent hours on end trying to piece together every scrap of unavailing information. His friends spoke to him very little, because he was very close to cursing them all, making them suffer for their continuous failure at the simple task that he had entrusted them all to succeed in far sooner than this…
When five days had passed since Harry's absence, again there was no news. Tom's friends were searching for Quentin all around the clock, but still this didn't seem to be enough. Tom had shrieked at his friends for being incompetent, and had told them all numerous times that he would have to do their job for them if they didn't get him any results soon, but in reality Tom knew that he was too far gone with his anger to question anyone related to Quentin. Tom could barely control himself now, and he was deranged from lack of sleep mixed with increasing worry.
When six days passed, Tom knew his friends wondered, panicked, and questioned why he cared so much about where Harry was. They all believed that Harry kept vital information hidden – information that was interesting and important enough for Quentin to capture and torture Harry for. They thought that Tom cared about what Harry knew, and though this didn't quite explain how unbalanced Tom was about the whole situation, they all stuck to this explanation, believing that Tom could really care about his research in the Dark Arts this badly.
When Harry had been gone for a week, Tom could barely operate. He couldn't concentrate, and couldn't stand still. They hadn't heard anything new in days, and it was driving Tom insane. He wouldn't believe that this is where he would have to stop searching for Quentin. He refused to face the idea that he wasn't going to get any more information out of the people around Quentin, and they hadn't yet found anyone who had even seen the followers that Quentin's sister had described. All Tom could do by now was order his friends to keep searching, keep seeking information…
It was around five in the morning when Tom left his friends' buildings and headed for his own house. He had been adding new protection to his land ever since Harry left, and one could now faintly see the magical barrier around them from the inside, softly glimmering in the moonlight, and causing the stars and distant view around them to appear fuzzier and less clearly defined. Tom had just sent even more of his friends to search for Quentin and the other followers he knew, so Tom was almost completely alone on this land now. He didn't know what do to do with himself, since his remaining friends were all asleep…
He entered his own house somewhat reluctantly, his wand lit before he ignited the torches and candles he needed inside. He stood in the hallway, looking into the empty living room, kitchen, and the staircase that led upstairs. He hadn't been so alone in what felt like days, and he didn't know what he was supposed to do… On second thought, he hadn't been so alone in years, and the silence of his own home was scaring him. With Harry, or even his occasionally silent friends, there was always the sound of other breathing past Tom's own, and the knowledge that the other person was around, thinking and existing. Here, Tom was perfectly unaccompanied, and all was perfectly still…
Tom left his house. He stood outside, breathing in the cold winter's air, and gazing up at the sky as he thought. He didn't want to return to his friends, and didn't want to spend any time in his house. He felt there was nowhere for him to be… He began walking, and after around ten minutes he found that he was heading for Harry's house. For some unexplainable reason, he felt as though going to Harry's house was important. He felt as though it would help him think.
The house was dark and deserted. Tom stood in the doorway, lighting the torches, and reflecting on how he hadn't been here since the morning Harry disappeared. He closed Harry's front door, and began wandering through the house, touching nothing, but examining all of the items around him, as though this were a museum of a famous artist or writer's home. Everything felt so unreal, as though this were nothing greater than a dream…
When Tom entered Harry's bedroom, the last room in the house left to explore, it still felt as though everything around him was a prop, a soulless representation of how Harry's house had really been. Tom stayed in this room, standing just past the doorway, and examining the bed, cupboards, shelves, and anything else he could see. He was calmer than he had been in days, his breath strangely even, and his thoughts tranquil. He spent a long time analyzing the place, and remembering the times he had spent in this very room with Harry… But not much time passed before the situation caught up with him again.
He hated himself for allowing Harry to be stolen from him like this. The unmade bed that Tom stared at was only a reminder that this was the last place Tom had seen and felt Harry. He hated himself for saying Harry was ignorant, and though he understood that Harry wouldn't leave him for this single insult, and though he knew Harry was stronger than to crumble from this when he could incomprehensively accept the idiotic murder Tom had committed, Tom regretted causing Harry even this slight pain now. Tom felt as though this was partially to blame for Harry's absence, somehow…
Harry was likely going to die, trapped in some distant and undetectable prison, and there was currently no way anyone could stop this from happening. Tom winced as this thought formed in his head, and he tried to ignore it… but somehow, as he stood in this empty, silent room, he couldn't get rid of the thought. It was sticking with him now that he was alone. It was almost as though his mind had waited for him to stop for five minutes, to finally accept the one and only truth, which was that Tom might never be able to see Harry again.
Tom tried harder to get rid of this thought, as the unusual, sickening emotion that he hated so much had began to form and spread inside him. There was nothing to distract him from it now. He couldn't get rid of the foreign emotion, or exchange it for anger, now that he was alone. His repressed thoughts were beginning to catch up on him, and he could do nothing as anxiety and sorrow began to grip him. Harry was likely going to die, and Tom wouldn't be able to stop it from happening. He had wasted days battling his own emotions, and forgetting to tell his friends vital details out of distracting worry. Harry might already be dead by now.
Tom's feet began to move, and he found himself pacing once more, his eyes seeing nothing as his hands rubbed his face. Tom's chest was hurting, like it often did, and Tom felt as though this wasn't relative to the strong emotions he was feeling. He had decided, a few days ago, that he impossibly felt pain whenever Harry was in agony… He knew this would sound insane if he ever tried to explain it to anyone, but he solemnly believed it, knowing it was his last hope that Harry was still alive… Harry had to be alive…
Tom's heart was beating sickeningly. His chest was contorted in pain and in response to his maddening thoughts and worries about Harry. He didn't know what to do with himself as he wondered what Grindelwald's people were doing with Harry. His hands were shaking slightly, but he chose to disregard this, tapping is fingers against his hands as he had so recently begun to do in stress. He should have forced Harry into making Horcruxes sooner. He should have insisted that Harry make himself immortal in some way, knowing that Harry had dangerous enemies. He should have thought ahead…
Tom wanted to smash something, to relieve some of his building emotion, but he couldn't bring himself to touch a single thing in Harry's home. Tom's breath was quick, and his chest hurt so very much. Harry was going to die because Tom had been too concerned with Harry's emotions, and not concerned enough with Harry's mortality. Tom felt physically sick, as he paced back and fourth, feeling the realisation and shock crash over him, making him feel drained of all blood. He didn't know what do to, and he felt like he was dying. He was losing the only person he had ever cared about, and it was all because he cared about him far too much…
Then suddenly, Tom stopped walking.
He stood perfectly still, neither breathing nor thinking as his aching body felt sick and expiring. Everything was silent, as terror spread through Tom, numbing his mind and body completely. He took a single breath after perhaps thirty seconds, and continued to feel something that terrified him beyond belief. As he stood in this deserted room, staring into space, he could feel his eyes bleeding. Tom didn't know what to do about this undeniable fact, as he felt more blood pouring out of his unmoving eyes. His felt dizzy, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He could no longer stop himself from breathing as his heart hammered in his ears. He tried to accept that he was literally dying, but he could barely think.
His body convulsed too much for him to breath properly. Before he knew what he was doing, he was moving blindly for Harry's bathroom, heading directly for the sink, ready to puke and watch himself bleed to death from the pain he was going though. When he looked in the mirror, however, he saw no blood. He stared at his own shocked reflection for a long while, watching burning tears running down his unmoving face. For the first time in all memory, he was crying.
Tom turned away from the mirror as though the sight was indecent. He tried to get rid of the foolish tears, annoyed with himself. He wasn't used to crying, and he couldn't understand how it was happening now.
He hadn't cried for anything in his entire life, from what he could remember. The workers at the Orphanage had whispered to each other about how he barely shad any tears as a baby either, as though that was an unusual thing. Tom had gotten angry with the people he lived with, and he had hurt many people just to get rid of his own suffering… but there was no one left to hurt for this. He had never cried through frustration, and nor from any lengthy contemplation on the death of his mother. It appeared to him that this was the only thing that had ever truly gotten to him, in an absence of anger.
There was no one here to judge him on his weakness, no one to feel embarrassment from for him being caught trying to handle this uncontrollable reaction… Yet Tom hated to face the fact that tears couldn't stop blurring his vision, and falling from his eyes. He didn't know why he couldn't stop his body from shaking, his lungs taking in only shallow, repetitive breaths. He had never felt anything this awful in his life, as he tried harder to stop himself from crying. His breath was audible now, and he felt compressed as he tried to fight this. He regretted ever having made Harry cry in the past, now that he understood how it felt. He wished only that Harry could be here now, to help him survive this terrible illness…
Tom couldn't help it when his legs would no longer hold him. He leaned against a wall near the sink, sliding down it to rest on the floor, with his hands clutching his head, his knees brought up for his forehead to rest against. His eyes were burning with tears, his throat becoming sore as he shook and shook irrepressibly. It felt as though his heart was being ripped into pieces as he struggled to accept that he was going to lose Harry if he couldn't find him very soon.
Yet the pain – the agonizing, burning pain in his chest… Surely this meant that Harry was still alive? This was all Tom could hope for, as he fought with himself, to try and remain as silent as possible. The pain would get worse at irregular times of the day, and Tom knew the difference between this and sorrow, anger, or any other emotion. Once or twice, the pain had been so terrible that Tom had felt as though his very chest was being torn open. At these times he could have sworn that, as his surroundings disappeared beyond his eyelids, he could see where Harry was, surrounded by unrecognisable, shadowed figures… Tom understood that this might be an insane claim, but he couldn't deny the possibility to himself, when it felt so real.
Tom couldn't imagine how this feeling was even possible as he listened to his own body tremble in misery that he couldn't suppress. This all felt so unreal, and so alien to him. He wondered whether other people felt this – whether they could feel this. Tom wondered if maybe only he, and perhaps Harry, could experience something so terrible, with the impossibly strong attraction and love Harry and he had for each other. Tom felt it was unlikely that people could feel this regularly… With all the petty tears he had seen children at the orphanage – and even students at Hogwarts – shed, he knew they couldn't have gone through what he was going through now.
All he wanted, as he tried to contain himself on this cold bathroom floor, was for Harry to be close to him again, safe and free from all the pain Tom knew he was going through. Harry would know how to make this terrible suffering stop. Tom had always had an unexplainable weakness for Harry's tears, and he understood now that he had sensed some of what Harry went through in despondency.
This was the most terrible feeling, and Tom knew it would only get worse if Harry died. Tom would do anything to get Harry back now, no matter how many of his friends had to die for it. Tom felt vexation begin to mix with his desolation, and rage was paralyzing his entire body. He would murder anyone it took just to have Harry safe in his arms once more…
–X–
Nine days had passed since Grindelwald's people took Harry away. Nine solid, sleepless days and nights of unbearable anguish… Tom felt as though he was indeed dying. He suffered drastic changes between utter numbness and uncontrollable rage, depending on how the atmosphere around was affecting him. He was exhausted, and wasn't eating enough, but he wouldn't allow any time for rest while he searched for Harry now. Tom's friends had informed him that they were on the trail to finding one of Grindelwald's followers, against all odds, and Tom couldn't stop waiting for information on the chase now.
Tom was constantly surrounded by new waves of his friends, who Apparated in and out of Albania and Germany, spreading the latest information, and getting Tom's approval for every new plan they wanted to put into action, to try and catch this known follower. They were close on the follower's trail now, and all of them could feel it. Tom would have joined in the chase, but he knew information would travel faster to him if he remained in one spot. He already had almost thirty people searching for this one Wizard, and he wasn't going to risk losing connection to all of them now.
His friends had asked him numerous times whether they would be in direct danger if they hunted down Grindelwald's follower, but Tom had assured them – perhaps forcefully – that no one would die, even if they were hurt. He had needlessly reminded them all of how many other friends there were out in the (mainly) Wizarding streets of Germany tonight, and he made it clear, when the worried questions irked him further, that he would shift the risk of them getting hurt to a much higher rate if they didn't stay quiet and do their jobs.
Tom believed that they would find this Wizard tonight – he had to believe it. Depending on the information Tom would get out of Grindelwald's follower, he could either be very close to finding Harry, or just as far away. Tom was impatient to find out which, as he waited restlessly for triumphant news. Few of his friends were on his land at any time now, and the ones who remained here were only visiting for a short time – as long as it took for the next person to give them the information they needed, so they could head off to search for Grindelwald's follower like everyone else. They had been searching frantically for three hours now, some of them seeing the follower with their very eyes, before he escaped. It would be within the next hour when they found him, Tom knew…
And he was right in this hopeful assumption. It was around midnight when Gonson Apparated into Tom's land, to inform him that that they had found the follower at last, running away in the southern countryside of Germany. Mere minutes later, Tom had to bring some of the defences around his land down, to allow Mulciber, Ransom, Gibbon, and about eight others in, accompanied unwillingly by no one other than a dedicated and loyal follower of Gellert Grindelwald.
Without hesitating, and without caring about his friends, who watched him initially eagerly, and then apprehensively, Tom began interrogating the follower. He was mute when Tom began asking questions, and even the use of German didn't loosen his tongue, so Tom moved onto more convincing methods of receiving the answers he craved. Tom could tell as soon as he began the interrogation that this Wizard wasn't one of the strongest followers of Grindelwald. His glossy, fearful eyes informed Tom on how to make the follower cower in fear, brining him closer to giving Tom the answers he wanted to hear. The follower's mind was eerily blocked my Occlumency, and his resistance was equally as unnerving, but Tom knew he would be able to break him very soon.
After about two hours, and past much torturing, and many different techniques of persuasion (including doses of progressively stronger pain, and threats of harming and murdering family members) Tom finally got the follower to talk. The follower was barely able to fill his lungs with air, as he rasped about how Quentin was hiding in the countryside of Germany, and he knew exactly where they would find him. He gave Tom directions to the place, and pleaded to be let go. He never mentioned a thing about being a part of Grindelwald's group, but Tom hadn't bothered asking that. Quentin would give up the answers sooner, and Tom wanted to find him immediately…
"Avery, Mulciber, Gibbon, Ransom," Tom called vigorously, turning away from the bleeding Wizard at his feet to analyze his staring friends, "You're coming with me, to find and question Quentin."
Tom noticed, then, that most of his friends gazed at him with nervous and uneasy expressions, as if he had done something that terrified them greatly. He couldn't work out why they were all acting like this. It didn't cross his mind that they were scared as a result of watching him torture one of Grindelwald's followers, since he knew they had practiced much dark magic, created for the single purpose of forcing information out of people… But he didn't have time to care about why they were so scared, anyway. He had made a wise choice in picking Avery, Mulciber, Gibbon, and Ransom to accompany him, because they were amongst the least fearful friends now. They followed his order without a word, and they began walking from the building.
"What about this Wizard?" Gonson asked as Tom passed him.
"What about him?" Tom inquired impatiently.
"What are we supposed to do with him? He can't just leave him here–"
"Don't let him go until I know he isn't lying," Tom instructed, heading for the exit of the dining hall.
He stepped out into the dead of night without hearing Gonson ask any more questions. Breathing in the cold night air, he noticed that the chill of the snow and ice was doing nothing to him as his heart beat quickly in anger and maddened hope that he would find Harry soon. He was so very close…
"That was mad, the way you made that Wizard talk," Avery said in a mix of shock and admiration. His voice was shaking, probably as a result of the temperature, Tom thought. "I didn't know you'd go that far. He was practically vomiting blood…"
Tom made no response to this, as they headed swiftly towards an Apparition zone. He was likely going to find Quentin in a matter of minutes, and it wouldn't be long before he would know exactly where Harry was. He felt elation pour through him at the idea of rescuing Harry tonight…
"Are you going to do the same thing to Quentin?" Avery asked. "I can't imagine him lasting much longer than that other Wizard… What was his name, anyway?"
They had entered the Apparition zone, and Tom didn't bother to respond to Avery as he continued to talk. His other friends seemed to understand that he wasn't in the mood to chat about his recent torture, and the torture they were about to take part in. "Are you all ready?" Tom asked as his friends gathered around. They responded positively, and Tom reminded them of the location they were travelling to. A few moments later, Tom spun on the spot, and disappeared into the night.
With a deafening 'crack' Tom landed in a dark Wizarding village in southwest Germany. He began walking the moment he found his balance, hearing four more loud cracks echo through the town as he hurried towards a house further along the lane they stood upon. His friends were all quiet as they followed Tom, understanding how important this moment was. This would be a night that Quentin certainly would never live to forget…
Quentin's house was tall and thin, with spindly wrought barriers lining the balconies that stuck out on the upper floors of this old, crumbling building. From the outside, one could only see one faint light, coming from the windows of a room on the lowest floor. This told Tom that Quentin was at home, but not yet asleep. Tom guessed that he was alone… but he supposed that wouldn't matter either way. They headed for the house, and up the steps, being careful to mask the fact that there were five people waiting outside the house. Snow was falling as Tom knocked on the door loudly.
They could see someone moving behind the curtains in the only lit room, heading into the hall rather than looking for who was at the door, to Tom's vague relief. Tom could feel the adrenalin pulsing through his veins, and he could see his own warm breath contrast against the freezing air. They could hear someone moving behind the door, and they all stood very still. Without care, the door of the house began to open. Tom's wand was gripped tightly in his hand, and he was prepared to use it any second…
Quentin's face appeared beyond the door, and Tom was too enraged at the sight to even wait for a verbal sign of shock from the other Wizard. Tom raised his wand to Quentin's throat, and began walking him back into the house, his friends following him with no delay as Quentin began to stumble over his own words.
"W-what are you doing? I didn't hurt – I didn't d-do anything wrong! I swear, I didn't do anything to anyone!"
"Save your voice," Tom advised, as Mulciber grabbed Quentin's arms. "There are a lot of things you'll need to confess to us tonight, Pyrites."
"Let me go!" Quentin yelled, trying to back away from Mulciber, who gripped his arm very tightly. They were all entering the only lit room on the house now, the door to the house closed shut and the curtains drawn securely. "I don't have to con-confess to anything! I didn't do anything!"
"Where's Jonathan?" Tom demanded, glaring at Quentin menacingly.
"I-I don't know," Quentin stuttered, avoiding Tom's eyes as he lied. "I haven't see-seen him since I left a week–"
"Where is he?" Tom ordered more threateningly, taking a step closer to Quentin. Avery levitated Quentin's wand out of his pocket, and Ransom and Gibbon checked to be sure that no one would see what they were doing from outside, and no one would hear it when Quentin was tortured.
"I told you I don't–!"
"CRUCIO!" Tom bellowed, feeling the pure hatred pour through him, and the powerful magic pour from him as Quentin withered and screamed on the ground. Quentin had slipped away from Mulciber's hands, but that didn't matter now. He was in too much pain to run away even as Tom stopped using the spell, to ask him again, "Where is Jonathan?"
"I didn't do anything to Jon–"
Quentin was paralyzed in agony again as Tom used the Cruciatus Curse for the second time. Quentin was collecting dust from the floor, his limbs twisting at odd angles as his body attempted to handle the overpowering pain.
"I'll ask you one more time nicely, Pyrites," Tom spat, the anger clearly audible in his voice. "After this, my punishment for lies will only get more severe… Where is Jonathan?"
"I told you, I don't–"
Before Quentin could guess, Tom raised his wand once more, and with a flash of scarlet light, Tom sliced a deep gash in Quentin's face, cutting all the way from his chin to just below his left eye. Quentin seemed to think this was all, as he recoiled and tried to grab his face, but with another flash of light, and another, and another, Tom ended up cutting up most of his face, slashing across his forehead, his nose, and his lips. Quentin began spluttering and choking as his own blood filled his mouth, after Tom raised his wand one last time to cut along his lips and down his neck.
"Do you feel that?" Tom asked, as he used one continuous spell on the gash on Quentin's forehead. Quentin withered and struggled as Tom held his shoulder to keep him still. Quentin began shrieking, and Tom continued. "This is the stinging sensation you will feel on your entire body if you don't answer my questions. The more I break open your skin, the closer this will feel to the Cruciatus Curse, until it surpasses it in measures of pain. What is more, these cuts will no longer be able to heal with simple magic. So I suggest you start talking now…"
The Cruciatus Curse was perfect for causing great pain with little damage, but Tom couldn't care any less if Quentin's torture was obvious here. It was so much more effective, more gratifying, to cause increased pain with increased visible damage. Tom would break Quentin's skin open in the most painful ways he could, before performing burning, stinging, electrocuting, itching, and a whole number of other, indescribable, sensations pour through Quentin to make him talk. Tom continued letting Quentin's forehead sting unbearably, before Quentin began speaking.
"You'll n-never get him back!" Quentin exclaimed. "It isn't worth at-attacking Grindelwald's followers, not for someone like Jonah–"
Tom pointed his wand at Quentin's arm, and began burning his flesh off. Quentin yelled and tried twisting away, but Ransom used magic to pin him where he was. The mark where Tom's magic burnt Quentin's skin was black and red with blood and bunt flesh.
"Tell me where he is," Tom instructed, anger causing his heart to pound quickly, his patience wearing thin.
"H-he's as good as dead now –"
Infuriation that Tom struggled to control fuelled him as he burn the entire front of Quentin's left forearm and hand, causing Quentin to scream and suddenly plead for Tom to stop. Tom didn't wait for Quentin to speak yet, however. He rested the tip of his wand on Quentin's distorted arm, and sent electric waves painfully up towards his chest. It looked as though Quentin might faint from the pain when Tom stopped, but Tom would make sure he stayed awake.
Tom used magic to force Quentin to look at him, demanded answers as he stared into Quentin's eyes to read his thoughts. He was screaming at Quentin to tell him what he wanted to know, caused Quentin even more pain. Further lies only deepened his craving to hurt the older Slytherin. By the time he had burnt Quentin's entire left arm, and half of his right, as well as scratched and torn most of Quentin's face, he finally got some proper answers. Quentin's voice shook and broke in pain, and it was much quieter than before, but none of this affected Tom at all. Quentin began to blurt out the location where Harry was, saying that they should still be torturing Harry at this time.
"Should be?" Tom repeated, glowering down at Quentin, and refraining from injuring him further when he took a moment to split up blood.
"It's been over a week, who knows what they've–"
Tom used the Cruciatus Curse again, his hands beginning to shake now in fury and anxiety. "When did you last see Jonathan?" he roared.
"About two days ago!" Quentin spluttered. "But I'm sure I heard him yelling… only yesterday…"
Tom turned away from Quentin, pacing the room and clenching his fists. If all of this had been for nothing, if he was too late… But he wouldn't allow himself to think about that now. His friends watched him tensely, preparing to leave already as Tom rubbed his mouth with his hand, trying to think straight.
"If he is already dead," Quentin choked, "I'm sure you'll be able to find someone else to replace him as your right–hand man… or whatever it was you two had go–"
Before Tom could help it, he slashed a deep cut across Quentin's throat, causing the tortured Slytherin to gasp for breath and choke on his own blood. When he was done, Quentin could barely move again. He lay on the floor, his eyes opening only when Tom stood above him, his wand pointed at Quentin's scratched and bleeding face. With eyes on Tom's own, Quentin began laughing. His laugh seemed to fill the whole room, getting louder and only stopping when Quentin had to cough up more blood. He chortled and attempted to breath between words as he spoke.
"You'll never… win… against… our people…"
Tom was very tempted to say the two simple words that would cause Quentin to die on the spot, ridden from the earth like so many other people who had caused Tom pain in the past. He wanted his face to be the last one Quentin saw as he died in unbearable agony… but something was holding Tom back. As he contemplated the killing curse, all he could think about was Harry, and how Harry had been so devastated about Tom murdering that Muggle…
Tom understood that this was a completely different situation, and Harry wasn't even here to witness the kill this time… but still, Tom couldn't bring himself to do this, not when he didn't know how Harry could feel about it.
Tom stood up, and turned his back on Quentin. He faced his four friends, his breath still heavy with vexation and irritation. He didn't want to let Quentin live, and he didn't want to risk Quentin surviving after Tom and his friends left… So Tom decided, after a moment, that someone else would have to kill Quentin, if he couldn't. His friends stared at him in vague unease. Tom began walking past them, unable to get rid of his displeasure.
"I'll leave it to you four to decide upon who gets to murder Quentin," Tom said, as he passed his friends, and began pacing the room.
"What, we have to kill him?" Avery asked, his voice higher than usual in shock.
"Don't you want to risk someone finding him, and describing the people who were here torturing him?"
"No, but… Why don't you do it?"
"Because I'm asking one of you to do it," Tom barked, as he turned to glare at Avery. "I've murdered enough people as of late. You have to learn how to kill too sooner or later, do you not?"
"I-well… I wouldn't say we have to–"
"Well, I would," Tom retorted. He turned away from his friends. "You've failed me in so much lately – all of you. The least you can do is prove you're not completely useless."
His friends were mute for a time. When Tom turned to face them once more, clearly exasperated, they began facing each other, debating quietly about who was going to do it. None of them seemed to be able to decide.
"You're wasting time!" Tom roared, unable to keep his enragement in check. "Mulciber, you do it."
"Why m–?"
"Do it!" Tom bellowed, so close to cursing his friends now. They seemed to guess this, as they recoiled somewhat at the volume of his voice.
Avery, Gibbon, and Ransom turned to face Mulciber. From sheer pressure, if anything, Mulciber turned to look down at Quentin.
There was a long and irksome pause. Tom didn't know why Mulciber was taking so terribly long. Every second they wasted was risking Harry's life further.
"What are you waiting for?" Tom demanded. "Kill him!"
Mulciber raised his wand slowly. Tom waited for him to cast the spell as more seconds passed, and he was about to yell at his incompetent friend once more, before Mulciber cried, "Avada Kedavra!"
There was a flash of green light, and Quentin's quick breathing ceased. Even if Mulciber wasn't the most powerful friend Tom had, Tom had been sure that he would succeed in killing an already half-dead Wizard. Tom's emotions didn't lessen or change at all even after Quentin lay dead on the floor. He turned to leave, his friends following him swiftly.
"Wait," Gibbon said awkwardly.
"What?" Tom requested, turning to look back.
Gibbon indicated the room behind them when Tom glowered. When Tom turned around completely, he saw that Mulciber was still standing where Tom had last seen him, above the new corpse that had once been Quentin Pyrites. Tom hadn't the slightest clue what Mulciber was still doing there, and in full honesty he didn't care. He was impatient to do something about Harry.
"What are you standing there for, you insufferable idiot?" Tom asked.
Mulciber turned to face Tom slowly at the sound of his voice. His face was oddly blank, and Tom wasn't sure why as he glared.
"Sorry," Mulciber said faintly. "I didn't know we were leaving…"
Tom was tempted to turn and leave the house, but something was stopping him.
"Why are you acting so oddly?" he asked, staring into Mulciber's eyes, which had a faraway look in them.
Mulciber gave no answer, as he blinked at Tom.
"You can't just expect him to go on like nothing happened," Ransom said hesitantly, his tone indignant. "He just murdered someone."
Tom's eyes moved to Ransom for a moment, and he was slightly confused by his friend's tone. He was about to question why it mattered that Mulciber had murdered an already dying Wizard… but he then remembered about Harry. His heart beat quickly, as he remembered how close he was to finding his lover now. He could feel the tension rising in him again, and he turned away from his staring friends to head for the door. "Come on, we have to rescue Jonathan."
His friends followed him dubiously, all of them silent as they stepped onto the snowy streets of Germany. Tom's heart was pounding in anxiety and impatience as he thought about getting to Harry as soon as possible. He began informing his friends on this plan.
"All of you, go back to Albania and let the others know where Grindelwald's followers are keeping Jonathan," he instructed. "Gather everyone you can, and meet me at the locat–"
"What, and you're just gonna march in there and take Jonathan back are you?" Avery asked sarcastically. "From what Quentin said, that place is crammed with people! There has to be at least a hundred followers of Grindelwald, or whatever."
"So?" Tom demanded.
"So, you're gonna get us all killed!" Avery exclaimed. "We don't know how to fight that many people!"
"Especially when they're trained as well as us," Ransom added. "They might even be better than us…"
Tom thought about this, wasting no time with doubting this theory just because Avery had suggested it initially. He had to admit that this proved his friends were unable to serve him properly in fighting if Avery had noticed it… They were outnumbered by far, and all exhausted from tracking down Quentin. Tom wasn't sure whether it would even be wise to send his friends fighting if they were fully rested. Too many of them would die if he tried to attack Grindelwald's fortress with them…
Then, Tom found a solution to this problem.
"I shall go there alone," he declared. "It will be far more effective, now that I think of it."
His friends stared at him.
"Are you cra–" Gibbon began. But he didn't continue.
"This is the only way we'll succeed in finding Jonathan anyway," Tom stated, ignoring their reactions. "Jonathan is too valuable to lose now…"
"You're never gonna make it out there alive," Avery said, staring at Tom in vague concern. "You'll get yourself killed!"
But Tom was no longer listening. He was going to find and rescue Harry, and he was going to do it alone… It was the perfect idea, for he could enter Grindelwald's fortress far less detected than he could with thirty or so other friends following him. He looked at the others, thinking about how he was going to do this. But he knew what the perfect plan would be…
"We're returning to Albania," Tom explained, "Where you four plus seven others will help me with one thing – to fly our most trained Dragon all the way to Grindelwald's fortress, to meet me there."
There was a long pause.
"What?" Avery almost shouted.
"None of the Dragons are fully trained," Gibbon reasoned. "How are we supposed to get one of them all the way to Germany? And without your help?"
"You'll manage it," Tom assured them. "It would take too long for me to fly it there myself, and a not-perfectly-trained Dragon might do us better, at any rate."
His friends all stared at him as though he had lost his mind, but Tom didn't have the patience to try and explain to them why this was a perfectly rational and smart idea.
"Let's go," he ordered. "There's one last thing I need to get from Albania…"
