Tom

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Crabbe paused, "You... You alright?"



"Could be better," Goyle grumbled, moving to sit up.



"Don't strain yourself now," Professor McGonagall put her hand on the boy's shoulder.



"I'm fine," Goyle protested, continuing to sit upright propped against the bed's headboard, "Just thirsty's all."



"Oh, well then. Here you go," McGonagall reached for a pitcher and a glass beside the bed, pouring Goyle some water.



"So the book is still in the common room?" Professor Snape questioned Goyle.



Goyle nodded, drinking in large gulps, "It fell under the couch when Draco stood after Tom showed up. Should still be there I guess."



Snape turned to Flitwick, "Filius, fetch that book and bring it straight here. For Merlin's sake, pray that no students have stumbled across it."



Professor Flitwick agreed and quickly left the room. Goyle and Crabbe stared up at the two Professor's left in the room.



"Where's Draco?" Goyle glanced around the room.



Professor Snape paced alongside the bed, muttering to himself.



Professor McGonagall held out her hand, clasping Goyle's, "We... don't know."



Goyle's eyes widened as he glanced to Crabbe's face searchingly, "Where is he? What did Tom do to him!?"



"I- I dunno," Crabbe whispered, "After Tom broke four of my ribs with the damn fire poker he went after Draco."



"Did he hurt him!?" Goyle was trying to sit up now.



Crabbe tried to push his friend back down this time, "No, no he just grabbed him and they- they... vanished."



Goyle sat back against the bed on his own, now deep in thought.



"I did everything I could," Crabbe started, "Pomfrey says I had a punctured lung along with the broken ribs." Crabbe lifted his shirt to show his bandaged side. The bones were not yet fully mended but the nurse had managed to fix up his lung right away. "I- I couldn't stop him, Goyle. I couldn't stop Tom-"



"He took Draco somewhere," Goyle interrupted.



Professor Snape paused at the foot of the bed, listening.



Goyle shook his head to the professor, "I don't know where. But the diary! The diary had a new entry!"



The boy turned to Crabbe, grasping him by the shirt, "Remember? Draco said something about an entry. But before he could finish, Tom appeared. Caught us all off guard. The diary might have a clue!"



"Professor Flitwick has gone to retrieve the book. He should be back any moment," Snape frowned, "So 'Tom' has been leaving clues in this diary?"



"Yeah. It wasn't until last night we figured out who he really was. Can't say I believed it at first."



"You stupid, stupid boy!" Snape took a menacing step towards Goyle.



"Severus!" Professor McGonagall had her wand out and raised in seconds. The elderly woman rounded the bed, putting herself between Goyle and the furious professor, her wand still raised, ready to fend Snape off, "Calm yourself! How dare you act like that! And to a student!"



"They have no idea what they've done by not telling us sooner!" Professor Snape did, in fact, collect himself. But his anger still raged on, "Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, you just about damned Draco Malfoy by not telling us right away who was writing in that diary!"



"It wasn't our fault! We tried to protect him!" Crabbe yelled, unable to hold his sharp tongue, "For fuck's sake what else could we do!? Draco was afraid to go to anyone about the book! This is Voldemort we're dealing with! Not some damn bully!"



Flinching at the Dark Lord's name, Snape turned away with a swoosh of robes, "You've damned your friend. Now I have to find a way to try and save him, if he's not dead already."



Snape left the room, dramatically slamming the door behind him.



Professor McGonagall sighed, "I am truly sorry for Professor Snape's irate behavior. But you really should have gone to a professor sooner concerning this- this 'diary'."



Crabbe turned away from the woman, angry at Snape, angry at the professors for not understanding the three Slytherin boy's reasonings, "He would of taken Draco anyway. You can't stop him. No one can."



"That's not true, we could of protected the boy!" McGonagall frowned.



"You and what army!" Goyle growled, wincing as he slid off the bed and turned to Crabbe, "Where's my shirt?"



"Burned up. You were a bit of a mess there, bud." Crabbe pointed out.



"Damn," Goyle sighed, "Whatever, don't need a shirt. Let's go."



"And just where do you think you're going?" Professor McGonagall placed her hands on her hips.



"Gotta see what that diary said. We're goin back to Slytherin. Snape is there. So is Flitwick. It's safe now, right? You can protect us, right?"



McGonagall was taken aback.



Crabbe glanced at Goyle, surprised to watch his friend talk like that to the Professor. He quickly followed after Goyle as the boy limped from the room, shirtless and, for the most part, looking like himself again.



"Young man, I suggest you do not speak to a professor in such a way!" the old woman said hotly, although she followed the boys from the room, angrily escorting them to the Slytherin common room.



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"Damn all this... damn it to hell!" Crabbe muttered, on the verge of a violent break down. The door slammed open to the dorm room belonging to Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and the now-absent Draco Malfoy as the two remaining Slytherin boys stepped inside.



Crabbe stomped to his bed across the room, ranting all the while, "Try and get some rest they say! Sleep on it and let the bloody teachers worry! Hah! How can we not worry when Draco's in Tom's hands? What do they think we are? Heartless bastards? Draco's our friend! Merlin knows what's happening to him right now..." At that, Crabbe paused, shaking his head as if to rid himself from the mere thought his friend might be hurting somewhere at that very moment.



Goyle's demeanor was more relaxed, strangely so, as if the boy was distracted. He quietly latched the door behind them and moved across the room to the lone desk by the window.



Crabbe continued his rant, not paying Goyle any mind, "Did you hear Snape? He's going to tell old man Malfoy what's happened! I'd love to hear that conversation, oh I can imagine it now!" Crabbe lowered his voice, speaking in the angry growl Lucius Malfoy was famous for, "My son is missing!? Kidnapped?! And by a bloody ghost! How could you let this- oh, The Dark Lord you say? Well, that's alright then. He's in good hands..."



Goyle frowned from his seat at the desk and turned to Crabbe, "You think Lucius wouldn't care about his own son?"



"Sure, especially if it has anything to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! I don't think he'd give a rats ass what happens to Drac!," Crabbe threw his arms up in the air, unable to contain his rage with just words, "You've seen how Lucius treats him! Even worse than your daddy dearest! Although mine is a close contender with Lucius Malfoy for the 'Father of the Year' award." Crabbe tried to settle down, taking a seat on the edge of his bed across the room. He let out a sigh and paused, his attention on the thing laid out on the desk in front of Goyle. "Say, what've you got there?"



Goyle quickly held his finger to his lips, indicating Crabbe's silence, and motioned for the boy to come to his side.



"You didn't..." Crabbe quickly sat on Draco's bed beside the desk. Sitting open in front of Goyle was Tom Riddle's diary. "But I thought Snape confiscated it! How did you-"



"The professor has your Herbology journal instead," Goyle flipped through the book before them, "The pages were blank just like the Diary. It's not like you ever take notes. I just wrote Tom's name on the first page when no one was looking."



Crabbe let out a snort, "That's why Snape said the 'diary' entries were gone! I'd thought it was Tom's little trick. So does his real diary actually read anything?"



Goyle flipped through the pages, paused, then paled an ashen gray.



Crabbe nearly backed away at the look on his friend's face, "What!? What's it say?"



Goyle simply snapped the book shut and stood from the desk. He walked slowly to the window and paused, facing the cold night landscape with his back to Crabbe.



Confused and alarmed, Crabbe grabbed the book on the desk and flipped it open, quickly thumbing through the pages until the last entry was visible.



"Oh..."



The page was jammed full of text from top to bottom, reading 'HE'S MINE MINE MINE MINE..." until the hand writing was nearly illegible and each letter carved into the page as if with a knife. Seeing this, obviously the writing of Tom Riddle in a state of deranged rapture, was truly unsettling. But the most disturbing part, the one that caused Crabbe's palms to sweat and his throat to tighten, had little to do with the actual words. The text started in black ink and, as the handwriting deteriorated, the ink changed from a bold black to deep blood red. Unable to resist his own sick fascination, Crabbe reached out and touched the last word on the parchment, a deeply carved 'MINE' that went well through a good ten pages.



"It's damp... Goyle, it's still damp!," Crabbe whispered, rubbing the red smudge between his thumb and index finger. He wanted to believe it was just ink. He really did.



Crabbe glanced up at his friend still standing silent by the window, "What do we do now? Something's not right. What do we do!? Goyle?"



"Can't write back, it'll just fade away remember?" Goyle mumbled without turning.



"We can't just sit here and do nothing," Crabbe insisted, "We just can't!"



Gregory Goyle stood stock still, eyes fixated on the window panes before him. This feeling of dreaded despair, utter uselessness, not knowing what to do next, it was eating away at the boy. They've always had Draco to tell them what was next. If it wasn't for Draco, he would never know which foot to put in front of the other let alone how to handle a situation like this! Draco was their backbone. Crabbe and Goyle only knew how to handle their problems with violence or with Draco's words. But violence seemed to get them nowhere. And Draco was gone.



Goyle could feel his heart in his throat and the tears welling up in his eyes.



If Draco was dead, I'd know, Goyle thought, unable to bring the words to his lips, Crabbe and I, we'd just know it... wouldn't we?



Tears threatened to fall, hanging from the corners of his eyes and somehow defying gravity. If Goyle let them fall, this would be the first time he cried since he was six years old.



"No", the boy spoke now, his voice thick with a rising, bitter anger, "Not until I see Draco's dead with my own damn eyes..."



Crabbe frowned, "'No' what?"



Goyle turned around to face Crabbe, "We gotta help him, Crabbe. Just the two of us, alone. The bloody teachers are useless and so outta the loop with what happened, they wouldn't be any help now. Not to mention, without Dumbledore ordering them around, the teachers bicker and fight among themselves like mindless animals, even Snape! Even he can't be trusted, I mean, we'd never know his real intentions. Professor Snape is dealing his cards in Voldemort's favor, not ours."



Crabbe cringed at the infamous 'V' name being spoken aloud.



"Don't do that!" Goyle was angered by his friend's reaction, "Just don't! We aren't gonna be afraid of a stupid name anymore! That's what Tom would want. No more! I'll say Voldemort whenever I damn well want!" Goyle turned to the empty room, raising his hands at his sides as if waiting for an invisible confrontation, "You hear me fucker!"



Crabbe glanced around, suddenly nervous, "You think he's here right now?"



"Hell if I know," Goyle spat, "Look Crabbe, Draco's life is in our hands now. It's our turn to deal our own cards. I mean, it's true, Tom isn't exactly playing a fair game, but we gotta try and match his offense with a strong defense. We gotta get Draco back. He would do the same for us. I don't know about you, but I won't let Tom get the best of me. We have to match wit for wit, play for play, action for bloody action! We have to beat him at his own damned game!"



Goyle turned back to the windows suddenly and, with a lightning fast reflex driven by the sheer force of his balled-up frustration, the boy's fist shattered through a large pane of the old glass.



"Fuck, bro," Crabbe watched with wide eyes as Goyle withdrew his bleeding knuckles from the gaping hole.



Like some who have trouble expressing emotions, when Goyle was mad he punched things. These 'things' were usually other student's faces. But Goyle wasn't about to swing at the only other boy in the room, his life long friend, so the window had to go. The pain from the new cuts helped direct his anger elsewhere which, although, not the best way to vent, it worked just fine for the time being. Goyle stared down at the deep cuts on his hand. The blood was red, bright red, and fresh just like the 'Mine, Mine, Mine' scrawled across that wretched diary. Staring down at the self-inflicted wounds, Goyle suddenly had an idea.



Would it work? Maybe...



Although he wasn't sure about much, Goyle could be certain wherever Tom Riddle was, Draco Malfoy was with him. And whatever Tom Riddle saw, Draco, if he was still alive and conscious, would see it as well. Goyle marched over to the desk, grabbing a quill.



Crabbe took a step back. He knew now wasn't the time to question his friend's random acts of violence or, for that matter, any bizarre actions that may follow. Crabbe had never seen Goyle so emotionally charged. Throughout their friendship, Gregory Goyle was a rock, a rather large, immovable and impenetrable one. Now Goyle was a rock rolling down hill fast, gaining speed, and more than ready to crush everything in his path.



Crabbe watched in awed silence as Goyle dabbed the blood from his bleeding knuckles with the quill and started to write.



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