A/N: I received such a flurry of beautiful comments over the week. Thank you!
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Granger was quite the organizer. In less than a month, she had taken Tom's suggestion and built a Colosseum from it with Harry the gladiator at center stage. The tournament was all anyone could talk about, appearing daily on the wireless and Daily Prophet. Tom was not remotely nervous, but he understood how the constant blaring from every corner of the country had chiseled away at Harry as he was the main topic on everyone's lips, regardless of the house elves Granger kept reminding everyone of whenever she was interviewed by the presses. He wondered if Harry would have agreed to blatantly promote his name for anyone other than Granger or Weasley. He suspected not. It was obvious Harry found his fame discomforting, disliking how people inevitably stared at his scar whenever they met him for the first time. It amused Tom how Harry sometimes forgot his fame. While walking down Diagon Alley, the boy would be genuinely startled when he spotted his own face splashed across a newsstand or would fumble and blush when stopped without warning by a father and his beaming young son, asking for an autograph.
Though most of the witches and wizards who'd signed up to compete in the tournament were Aurors who had sparred with Harry in mandatory training sessions, a scattering of other departments had thrown their hats into the ring to 'take Potter down a notch'. The leader of this particular, little group was a blond-haired, square-jawed wizard named Cormac McLaggen. He was a year old than Harry and it was clear the two had history. Tom was quite looking forward to watching Harry flatten the oaf.
The flap of the holding tent opened and Weasley appeared. His eyes scanned the crowd of contestants waiting for the starting gong, before he hurried over to Tom.
"Have you seen Harry?" he asked, tense.
"No," said Tom, eying the slip of stadium visible through the gap in the tent's mouth. The benches stacked around a raised platform were as packed as a Warbeck concert and just as loud.
Agitated, Weasley checked his watch.
"Got cold feet, has he?" McLaggen said loud enough for everyone in the tent to hear.
"Shut your mouth," Weasley barked.
Snickering, McLaggen turned back to his group of lackeys.
Weasley's eyes cut to Tom.
"Did he say he wasn't showing?" he asked in an undertone.
"He gave me every impression that he would," said Tom. Harry had left him shortly after their talk last night. He'd looked slightly less tense, but no less pale. But now Tom wondered if he should have stopped by Harry's cottage before Apparating to the forest.
"It's not like him to be so late," said Weasley, nettled, glancing at his watch again.
Weasley made to leave the tent, but was blocked by Granger, rushing in through the gap.
"Where's Harry?" she demanded in a strangled voice. "I can't hold it off any longer."
On cue, the loud voice of an announcer sounded through the stadium. An upsurge of cheers greeted his words.
"Where is he?" Granger repeated wildly, her bushy hair falling out of its clasp.
"I'll run over to his place," said Weasley. "See what's up."
"And our first contestants are—" the announcer said over the shouts outside. Granger and Weasley both departed without another word to Tom.
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Eddie Parker was far more aggressive in his spellwork than Tom had anticipated, but Tom was quicker.
"Expelliarmus!"
Parker's wand flew from his hand to the delight of the crowd. Smirking, Tom tossed it back.
"You're incredible!" Parker cried, panting. "How'd you get so good?"
"Practice," said Tom casually.
Parker laughed. "All the practice in the world wouldn't make me as good as you."
Tom couldn't stop the smirk from growing further. They walked down the steps from the platform together to the whoops of the crowd. Already, he'd gained a following, the stands chanting Thorne! Thorne!
"I don't think anyone can beat you," Parker continued.
But Tom had stopped listening. Granger and Weasley stood beside the holding tent, speaking to Robards and Shacklebolt. He made his way to them as Parker joined his fellow Aurors who had already been bested.
Granger spotted him first and the expression on her face had him pausing.
"Harry's missing," she told him.
"What?"
"He's nowhere. He's not home. He's not at Grimmauld Place. He's not at the Ministry. He's not with Andromeda. No one's seen him."
"There are no signs of a struggle at his cottage?" asked Shacklebolt sharply.
Weasley shook his head. "It's like he's vanished."
Suddenly, all eyes were on Tom. He kept his voice composed, but fury licked his insides.
"As enjoyable as it has been to beat your Aurors, I assure you, if I'd taken Harry anywhere I wouldn't still be here."
"He's been kidnapped, hasn't he?" said Granger, terrified.
"When was the last time any of you saw or heard from Potter?" Robards asked as McLaggen and Maybelle stepped onto the platform and took their positions. "You weren't expecting him earlier to help with setting up?"
Granger shook her head. "He wanted to, but what with all the press, we decided it would be better for him to come an hour before the start, like everyone else. Ron and I haven't seen him since lunch yesterday."
"He came to the Cornithia last night," said Tom, "and left half-past midnight."
"Why?" Robards asked, his eyes narrowing.
"He wanted to talk."
"Talk? About what?"
"About the weather," said Tom coolly.
Robards ground his jaw.
"So it's just your word, then," said Robards, taking a step closer. "What have you done, Riddle?"
"I don't believe Tom took Harry, Gawain," said Shacklebolt firmly. "But if someone did, we don't have time to waste. Have any of our pardoned Death Eaters been behaving strangely?"
"None worth causing an alarm," Robards admitted. "If Potter was snatched by one of them, it's not the ones we're tracking."
"Check them out anyway," Shacklebolt ordered. "We need information."
"Malfoy," said Weasley at once. "Malfoy would know if something's going on."
"Be quick," Shacklebolt urged as Maybelle sent McLaggen flying ten feet to the delighted groans of the crowd. "I want word the moment you have it."
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Tom Apparated before the gates of Malfoy Manor. A second later, Granger, Weasley and Robards cracked into existence behind him. The lock sealing the gate twitched into life.
"Who is calling?" it asked.
Robards stepped forward. "Open this gate right now, Malfoy. I'm not in a kidding mood."
There was pause and then the lock sprang open. The tall, wrought-iron gate swung inward. They marched down the pebbled drive, flanked on either side by trimmed hedges. Lucius and Narcissa were waiting for them on the front steps of their white bricked house. Tom had not seen them in person since the Battle of Hogwarts, but he'd followed the press clippings. Even with his greater aspirations, it took a massive deal of restraint not to murder them in their beds for all the spilling they'd done to save their skins from Azkaban. If he learned that they'd played a hand in Harry's disappearance…
"Where's Potter?" Robards demanded.
"Not here," said Lucius with a disdainful sniff. "Why are you asking?"
"Because he's missing," said Robards, watching the Malfoys for a guilty twitch. "I wondered whether you knew anything about that."
Lucius' lip curled.
"I do not. Though I'm not surprised. Isn't the boy always going missing?"
"Dad? Mum?" Drawn out by the noise, Draco peered around the front door. "What's going on?"
"Go back inside, Draco," said Narcissa sharply.
"Why?" Tom asked.
He knew that Lucius nor Narcissa nor Draco recognized him in this body, but there was a glimmer — just the faintest hint of fear in Lucius' eyes when he met Tom's gaze that made Tom wonder if he saw the shadow of his former Lord standing before him.
"Why should Draco leave?" Tom expanded, clasping his hands behind his back. "Does he know something?"
Draco looked even more confused.
"Of course he doesn't know anything!" said Lucius. "None of us do! I will be filing a complaint, Robards."
"Know what?" Draco asked. Narcissa grabbed him by the arm, attempting to pull him back inside, but Weasley shouted, "Harry's missing!" and Draco stilled on the threshold.
"And so you come to my door, insinuating that me or my family had a hand in it?" raged Lucius. "We have been cleared, Robards. You have no right—"
"Missing?" Fear spread over Draco's face.
"If you know something, boy —" Robards growled.
"He doesn't!" seethed Lucius, furious. "Draco, go back inside—"
"Draco, please!" Granger cried.
Draco swallowed, looking terrified. "I didn't think they'd do it."
"They?" Robards pressed.
A tremor shook Draco's hands and Lucius and Narcissa no longer looked angry, but worried.
"Draco," said Narcissa, "please tell me you don't know anything about this."
Draco licked his lips. "It's Theodore and Gregory. They've" — he nervously cut his eyes to his mother and father before looking at Robards — "they've been talking about paying Potter back, but I thought it was just talk. I didn't think they'd actually—"
But Tom and the others were already running back to the gate.
"I'll head to Goyle's," said Robards as they rushed to the Apparition point. "Go to Nott's."
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Unlike Malfoy Manor, the Nott House was located in London in a high-gated neighborhood, protected by a host of anti-Muggle wards and charms, but to Tom the townhouse was crystal clear. Its door stood wide open.
They entered with wands drawn and Tom knew instantly that Harry had been here. Upended furniture, holes blasted in the walls — a fight had taken place.
"Where is everyone?" Weasley whispered.
Granger dove down a hallway, searching rooms and Weasley followed Tom as he entered a side sitting room and then kitchen. Tom's neck prickled with unease. The house was dead silent.
"Ron!" Granger screamed. "Ron, get up here now!"
They hurried out of the kitchen. Following her voice, they found her on the second floor.
"What is it?" Weasley demanded, pushing past Tom. "What—"
Weasley gasped and for the first time in his life, Tom swayed on the spot, clutching the door frame for support.
The room was small, its furnishings pushed against the walls to make more space. In the center, still wet and glistening, were long streaks of blood made by the thrashing of limbs. A scarlet handprint was pressed into the floor.
"Where is he?" Granger cried. "Where is he?"
Tom's brain lurched back into action. "He must have escaped and the others followed." For the first time in his life, Harry wriggling free of capture did not upset him. It did quite the opposite.
Weasley's freckles stood out in sharp relief on his white face. "If this is his blood, he hasn't gotten far."
Tom spun on his heel, charging down the stairs and bursting back out of the house, looking up and down the quiet, neighborly street. No one was out. Not even a dog walker.
"There — right there!" Weasley shouted, pointing to the sidewalk. "Blood!"
But the trail ended at the end of the lane.
"He couldn't have Apparated, could he?" said Granger.
Tom rotated on the spot, gripping his wand. It was useless to him. All the magic in the world — every spell at his disposal — useless.
"He might have," Weasley babbled. "We should go to Mungo's —"
But he cut off, letting out a startled exclamation at the same time as Granger. They both dug into their pockets and extracted a very similar galleon to the one Robards had given Tom on his first day in the department. They read the message etched on its face.
"King George Hospital!" they said together.
"How do you know?" Tom asked at once.
"It's from Dean," said Granger. "He was in our year. His mother's a nurse and a patient just came in who has a lightning bolt scar."
xXx
He was burning alive. The whip had stopped, but the flames continued, tearing through his every cell. If he still wore his glasses, they weren't doing him any good. His vision was misted over with pain. He lay on a gurney, moving quickly down a florescent-lit hallway. Someone — an elderly couple? — had seen him stumble on the street, had put him in their car. People were all around him, shouting, running, but it was just noise to Harry.
The stretcher stopped. Hands gripped the edges of the sheet he lay upon and with a heave, he was lifted onto a bed, and still the fire continued. Blazing. Searing. Consuming. Let him turn to ash. Let him die. Let it end. Please, please let it end.
Everything was white. The walls. The lights. The doctors and nurses bending over him. It was like dying all over again, except death had been painless. Death had been a blessing.
The doctor's and nurses' heads jerked upward, looking at something Harry couldn't see.
"You can't come in here!"
"Stupefy!"
He felt that he stood at the end of a very long tunnel, watching events unfold from far away, the voices and actions muffled and distant. Contorted and confused. The doctor fell, the nurses scattered and Harry watched it all with the same detachment of someone viewing an uninteresting television program. His mind slipped further away. Had the nurses given him something? Or had his heart finally grown too tired?
A face bloomed into focus above him. Not a doctor. Not a nurse.
"You're going to be all right, Harry. I'm getting you out of here."
Tom's fingers were gentle, but they trembled against his cheek. The haze clouding Harry's eyes made it seem that a halo surrounded Tom's head. It struck him as funny. Tom? An angel?
Ron's and Hermione's faces appeared on either side of Tom, staring down at him with horror.
"Oh my god, Harry—"
"We have to get him to St. Mungo's!"
Tom's fingers left his cheek. His hands slid underneath him and Harry was lifted from the cot. He screamed so loudly he felt his vocal cords rip. Tom's touch was agony, but Tom didn't lower him back down. Tom didn't release him. It was like he was a Horcrux again, every nerve ending severed. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. His mind disengaged and he was swallowed by darkness.
xXx
The waiting room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's was more crowded than usual with witches and wizards appearing by the minute as word spread that Harry was fighting for his life. Tom stood at the farthest wall from the doorway before a stretch of windows. It had been mid-afternoon when he'd carried Harry into the hospital. Now it was evening, the sky a blaze of color from the setting sun.
"Any news?"
Tom saw Minerva McGonagall's reflection in the window. Behind her stood Filius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout, Poppy Pomfrey and Rubeus Hagrid. Hagrid was bent double to keep his head from scraping the ceiling.
"None yet," said Granger.
Behind Granger were tight-knit clusters of Harry's year mates. Tom had caught one of their names — Dean Thomas. If Harry survived, Tom would repay that boy's Muggle mother tenfold. Shacklebolt had already come and gone, seeking news like everyone else and then departing to deal with the reporters swarming the hospital.
Tom's jaw clenched. He focused on the skyscrapers before him. He shouldn't be here. Waiting and waiting and waiting. His fingers twitched to grasp his wand and Apparate away and find the scum who'd had the audacity to lay a finger upon Harry. He shouldn't have let Granger and Weasley stand in his way.
Four hours ago, after depositing Harry to the Healers, Tom had turned on his heel and was inches from the door when Granger and Weasley stepped before him, blocking his path.
"Get out of my way."
The entire reception area was in chaos — witches and wizards who'd been waiting in line horrified by the state of Harry. The witch at the front desk kept calling for order. No one listened to her. No one noticed the lethal waves radiating from Tom.
"No," said Weasley.
"Boy, I have no interest in hurting you, but if you do not step aside—"
"Harry believes you've changed," said Granger fiercely. "Don't prove him wrong. Stay here. Leave tracking down Goyle and Nott to Robards. Do this right."
The sounds of a chair crunching under Hagrid's weight caused a momentary distraction for those gathered, letting them, for a split-second, forget that Harry barely clung to life in a room somewhere down the ward. A red-haired, balding man hurriedly repaired the seat as Hagrid, apologizing, clambered back to his feet. He was Arthur Weasley, Ron's father. Six seats down sat Andromeda Tonks, bouncing the werewolf's son on her knee, trying to appear cheerful but her smiles were too tight — a woman struggling not to cry. Luna Lovegood and Rolf sat next to her, holding hands and saying little. Next to them, with his head in his hands, staring at his feet, was Neville Longbottom. He was surrounded by Harry's loved ones. He was surrounded by his enemies.
Don't die. Don't die. Don't you fucking dare die.
Tom imagined grabbing Harry's soul tight in his fists and holding him down, tethering him to the earth.
"Here."
Tom's eyes jerked to the right at Granger's quiet voice. Her eyes were bloodshot. She held out a cup of tea. He sensed more than saw Weasley sit in the chair just to his left.
Tom's hands and clothes were clean due to a simple spell, but he could still feel Harry's blood on them. His hand shook as he took the offered cup. He stared at the long, pale fingers as if they belonged to someone else. He did not shake. He was above such reactions. Such emotions. Or so he used to be. Like a windstorm, Harry upended everything. Without Harry …
Without Harry what was the point in anything?
Granger and Weasley did not speak, but they stayed, Granger standing with him at the windows, Weasley sitting in the chair by his side. He wondered if they were acting as guardians for the rest of the grieving visitors in case Tom sought to expel some of the fear and pain tearing through his soul, but deep down, Tom knew that was not the case. They had seen him. They had seen him the way Harry had seen him, straight through his carefully crafted armor of cold indifference to the quaking, terrified child within.
A commotion behind them had Tom turning. Robards marched into the waiting room. He looked worn and almost shrunken inside his heavy robes. At once, he was surrounded.
"We got Goyle," he said loud enough for everyone to hear. "But Nott made a run for it. He's got relatives in Germany. I've contacted the German Patrol. They've agreed to keep an eye out for him in case he pops up."
"Bastards," Weasley spat under his breath.
Spotting them, Robards made his way to the windows. "Any hideaways Nott might use?" he asked Tom quietly.
"Edgar had an unplottable house in Wales, but it was destroyed by a chimera over a decade ago. He never bothered to rebuild."
"Theodore might have, though," said Robards. From his inside pocket he pulled out a map. "Give me a ballpark estimate?"
Unplottable properties were unplottable for a reason, but Tom was able to narrow down the location to a small circle near the coast.
"I never visited," Tom told him, regretting the decision.
"Never you mind," said Robards, rolling up the map and putting it away. "I don't think Goyle was the mastermind behind the attack. Moment we got him, he spilled faster than a leaky cauldron. Said Nott was the instigator. Apparently, Goyle was under the impression they'd just scare Potter. Beat him up a bit, but Nott pulled out a fire whip the family had been keeping in storage."
Furious, Weasley leapt to his feet. Tom felt bile rise up his throat. Harry had been a mess. Flesh ripped and torn. Burned. A fire whip. He himself had never bothered with torture equipment. The Cruciatus Curse had always been sufficient. Eloquent. But if you wanted things to get messy … if you wanted to paint the floors and walls with blood … if you wanted to have a bit of extra fun … a fire whip would be a most excellent choice.
"Goyle told us that Potter grabbed hold of the whip," Robards continued. "Gave it a yank and overpowered Nott, startling the hell out of them both." He sniffed, sounding suddenly that he had a head-cold, his hard-lined face a grimace. "That boy's got more guts than my entire department. You let me know the moment he's in the clear," he said, looking them each in the eyes. "You let me know."
Granger nodded, tears falling in rivets down her cheeks.
"Goyle had this." Robards held out Harry's wand. Fleetingly, Tom registered surprise that Robards would pass it to him and not Granger or Weasley. He took it, holding it gently.
With another fierce glare, Robards departed, ten Aurors in tow.
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"What?" Harry asked. The small smile grew on his lips. He thought Tom was teasing him, but Tom wasn't doing anything of the sort. They were lying in the grass under the apple tree. Harry smelt of dirt and basil. He'd been working in his greenhouse all morning, picking tomatoes and Tom, missing him, had sat under the tree, watching and waiting for him to reappear.
"Nothing," Tom replied, staring down at him. Slowly, he traced his thumb along Harry's bottom lip, mesmerized by how the sunlight filtering through the leaves danced upon Harry's face.
Harry's smile turned knowing and once upon a time, that look would have sparked annoyance and even anger in Tom, but not now. Harry settled more comfortably in the grass.
"Do you know how to make a treacle tart?"
Tom's thumb stilled in its movements. "Why in the world would you think I'd know how to make treacle tart?" he replied. "Do I look like someone who would know how to make treacle tart?"
Harry laughed and Tom's stomach swooped as if he'd missed a step going down stairs.
"Just figured I'd ask. You know pretty much everything else."
I know nothing, he wanted to say. Every second with Harry was new and terrifying and mind altering.
"It can't be harder than bread, can it?" Harry considered, watching the leaves overhead flutter in the breeze. "I just need to make a crust. How hard could that be?"
"None of those cookbooks have pies?" Tom asked.
"No," said Harry, sounding thoroughly flummoxed. "Nothing but puddings and cakes. Do you know how to you make a crust?"
Tom lowered down onto his side and kissed Harry's cheek, tasting the sweet salt of his skin that he'd been craving ever since they'd parted at breakfast. Ever since Harry snatched up an apple from the table, flashed him a smile, and departed with a casual Later!
"I never worked in a bakery, Harry."
"Well, you should have," said Harry lightly. "It would have come in handy."
"I'll remember that next time," Tom whispered, turning Harry's face more toward him and kissing him on the mouth.
"Tom — Tom!"
Tom jerked awake. He was slumped in a chair. He'd fallen asleep. He straightened as Granger released his shoulder. A Healer entered the waiting room and the entire floor rose to its feet, Tom included. For a moment the Healer seemed to hesitate, wondering who to address her news, before deciding to speak to the group at large.
"We've stabilized him."
Wonderful, glorious relief. The entire room breathed.
"We've induced him into a dreamless sleep," the Healer continued. "I can allow two visitors at this time."
"You two go ahead," said Molly Weasley to her son and Granger. "We'll wait here."
Granger and Weasley looked at each other.
"Would it be too much to add a third?" Granger asked the Healer. She glanced at Tom. "It's important."