Later, he intended to overhaul the protective enchantments of the entire house. The security measures these Death Eaters had implemented were amateur at best, leaving far too many blind spots and structural loopholes.
After securing the basement, the two returned to the second floor. The four Death Eaters remained unconscious; it appeared Alan's experiments had exacted a heavy toll on their physical and mental reserves.
Alan pulled a vial from his pouch and tossed it to Karkaroff. "Wake Torquil up. Use this."
Karkaroff nodded submissively. He hauled the man into a sitting position and roughly forced the potion down Torquil's throat, as if using the moment to vent his own lingering resentment.
"Cough! Cough!"
With a violent, lung-racking cough, Torquil gradually clawed his way back to consciousness. A rhythmic throb hammered behind his eyes. He felt as though he had just endured a hellish nightmare—one where he had been captured and systematically dismantled by a Hogwarts student.
As his vision cleared, the first thing he saw was that same youthful, demonic face watching him with cold curiosity. Fear surged. *Is this still the dream? Or is the nightmare reality?*
Torquil's pupils contracted, his mind fracturing under the weight of self-doubt. It was clear he was teetering on the edge of a total psychological collapse. Alan, seeing the man staring blankly, grew impatient. He tightened his brass knuckles and delivered two sharp, ringing punches to the man's jaw.
"Agh!"
The flare of white-hot pain anchored Torquil to the present. Seeing Alan pull back for a third strike, he shrieked, "No! Stop! Don't hit me anymore, please!"
"Are you awake now?"
Alan's voice was slow and heavy, vibrating with an underlying threat. Torquil nodded frantically, his eyes wide and wild.
"Good. I brought you back to ask a question." Alan held up the brass key. "Do you recognize this?"
Torquil's entire demeanor shifted. His breathing hitched, and he stared at the key as if it were a venomous snake. He looked from the metal to Alan's face, his voice cracking. "How... how did you find that?"
Alan offered a disdainful smile. "Are you asking how I found the basement? Or how I bypassed the blood-lock on your safe?"
The revelation hit Torquil like a physical blow. His heart sank. *How is that possible? The mental protection wards should have held!* It was over. If the boy had the key, it meant the anonymous deed was also in his hands. Torquil's body went limp, and he would have slumped to the floor if Karkaroff hadn't caught him.
"Answer the Master's question," Karkaroff barked, his tone stern as he shoved Torquil upright. "Be honest if you want to keep your skin."
"Karkaroff? You've sold us out too?" Torquil sneered, a flicker of aristocratic rage briefly overcoming his terror. "Just wait. When the Dark Lord returns, he'll ensure you die a thousand deaths for this betrayal!"
*Bang!*
Alan, tired of the posturing, drove a fist into Torquil's midsection. The man doubled over, gasping for air as tears leaked from his eyes.
"Enough nonsense. I don't want to waste my Veritaserum, and I don't have all night. Speak," Alan said, pointedly flicking the cap off a potion bottle.
The burst of violence drained the last of Torquil's defiance. He spoke timidly, his head bowed. "It... it is a key to a mid-level vault at Gringotts."
"What's inside? And what are the access requirements?"
"The vault doesn't belong to me. It is Julia's private box. It requires her physical presence and the key to open; the goblins accept no substitutes. The key is unique—it cannot be reported lost or replaced by documents. Inside... it contains..."
Torquil hesitated, his eyes shifting toward the shadows. But as Alan tilted the Veritaserum bottle toward his lips, the man squeezed his eyes shut and shouted, "It's full of ledgers!"
"Ledgers?" Alan's mind began to connect the dots. "What kind of ledgers?"
"Just... business dealings. Family transactions." Torquil refused to meet Alan's eyes.
After a night of systematic trauma, the man was too fragile to construct a convincing lie. Alan leaned in, his voice a low, predatory purr.
"Smuggling records, isn't it? Secret transactions between the Travers family and high-ranking Ministry officials? Perhaps even incriminating evidence against other pure-blood houses?" Alan bluffed, watching for a reaction.
"How could you possibly know that?" The words were out of Torquil's mouth before he could stop them. He clamped his jaw shut, but it was too late.
"I'm curious," Alan continued, his eyes gleaming with insight. "Why keep such dangerous evidence in a bank? Unless... the key itself is the product. You were planning to trade it, weren't you?"
Torquil said nothing, but the frantic flickering of his gaze confirmed the hit.
"Who was the buyer? Another pure-blood house? A Wizengamot rival? Or..." Alan paused, watching Torquil's face like a hawk. "...Millicent Bagnold?"
At the mention of the Minister's name, Torquil's pupils dilated violently. Alan pulled back, his lips curling into a mocking smile.
"I see. This was your family's insurance policy. On one hand, these records allow you to blackmail your peers. On the other, if the Ministry truly cornered you, this key was your ultimate bargaining chip—the one thing you could offer the Minister in exchange for political asylum. Am I wrong?"
Torquil had no answer left. His silence was a total confession.
Alan had to admit, the ancient houses possessed a certain ruthless foresight. They didn't just hide in holes; they built legally invisible fortresses and hoarded the very secrets that kept the wheels of the Ministry turning. Compared to the simple strategy of fleeing the country, this was the calculated maneuver of true nobility.