His fingers wrapped themselves tightly around the handle of the wand, the grip he'd grown used to in recent months but never having fit his hand like his first wand had. Thomas, in all the torture they'd put he and Saoirse through, grew angriest at the audacity of these criminals to think that they had the right to use them for their radical agenda.
Breaking their wands because squibs couldn't perform magic, it---what did taking two quidditch players who had never said a word against the group of magicless people do for their cause? It didn't make sense, and Thomas was a man who needed things to fit accordingly, he needed to understand why before he could accept and he knew that his lack of understanding was going to plague him until an answer was found.
"I'll do my best," he said, keeping his wand at the ready in case they were ambushed at the last second.
Saoirse would be able to manage the disapparation, he knew for certain, but as Thomas felt the squeezing feeling taking over his entire body, he wondered if he'd make it through the travel without splinching himself. He had to focus on getting out of here, on getting home, on getting---away.
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