Day 7

Harry's shoulder hurt terribly, and it was still bleeding as he sat on the cold stone floor in the corner of McTavish's dark office. It was slightly dusty in the room, as though McTavish spent far more time in his lab than in here, which Harry thought was likely true. His thoughts of this did not last long, however, for his shoulder gave another large throb, causing him to grimace. At one point he had tried to wipe some of the grime from the cut, but without water this was difficult. It was however, not the difficulty that made him so very unwilling to attempt it again. Instead this unwillingness stemmed from the fact that he had almost thrown up when he had wiped away the blood, for he had seen a glimpse of white. He had been sure it was bone. Harry took a shuddering breath, and trying not to think of the wound, he began instead to wonder what was going to happen to him. The trip up to the Potioneer's Society had been rough, and he had been dragged along quite unceremoniously. But now, despite all the anger that McTavish and his men had shown, he had been left all alone, unable to go anywhere. He had tried to open the door earlier, and even stood silently in concentration, trying to unlock it with magic like he had done with his cupboard by accident when he was younger, but closed the door remained. Locked in the room, he had collapsed on the ground, trying to think his way out while he fought the pain. He did not wish to be here when McTavish returned.

It was sunrise now. The small window in the office allowed beams of light to spill into the gloom, but Harry closed his eyes. In all of this he could not quite forget the hurried message that he had last read on the parchment - Snape's last words to him. He tried not to think of what would happen if those words truly were Snape's last, and not just the final words said to Harry. He wondered what had made Snape stop writing. Had the problem been quickly resolved, and did Harry simply miss their message because he left so soon? Had Snape still planned to come get Harry, and had he only missed him by minutes? Had he waited all night outside the Potioneer's Society in the shadows, wondering where Harry was? What had he done when Harry did not show? Had Snape even been able to make it to the Potioneer's Society? What if something had happened, and Snape and Evelyn were dead, or captured? What if McTavish had found them earlier?

"No," Harry muttered aloud to himself as the last thought went through his panicked mind. McTavish would have mentioned it at the meeting. He had been convinced Evelyn would not try to thwart them again. Despite this, the many possibilities of what could have gone wrong besides McTavish finding them made Harry feel cold and sick to his stomach.

He heard a door open across the hallway, and a sudden surge of hope washed over him. Mr Peakes surely would have noticed his absence. Of all people, he should at least have an inkling of what was going on, what with his insistence that McTavish had something to do with what happened to his last apprentice. Yet, the very same thought that had at first inflated Harry's hopes punctured it upon further consideration. Mr Peakes' last apprentice ... what had they done to him? How had they covered it up so well, and made sure that Mr Peakes did not speak? Whatever they did, with a sudden rush of fear and adrenaline, Harry suddenly realized that they could do it again. This thought engulfed him in despair, but he could focus on it only for a moment, for within seconds of this idea occurring to Harry, the office door creaked open.

"Get up, boy," spat McTavish.

Despite aching all over, Harry did so immediately. Years at the Dursleys had taught him when not to disobey, and this moment was one of those. As soon as he was standing, McTavish dragged someone into the room by the collar. It was Mr Peakes, and he was looking every bit as frightened as Harry felt.

"See?" said McTavish cordially, all contempt within his voice gone. "The boy is going to be fine, Gregory." His tone became ever so slightly more forceful as he continued. "He simply hurt his shoulder last night. He fell down the stairs while exploring past his bedtime. Didn't he, Gregory? He is lucky I found him. I will mend his shoulder, and give him a little talking to. He will be staying with me for a few days, until I can determine that he is properly healed, because you do not know a thing about this sort of thing. Is that clear?"

While Mr Peakes did not respond, it was plain to see that he did not believe such a story. It was quite obvious McTavish did not intend him to.

"Breathe a word otherwise, and the entire Society will stumble upon evidence that will reveal your last apprentice's death as more than just an accident, and point them straight to you, which of course means your life's work will be put on hold forever, and your research will never see the light of day. I assure you there will be no way for you to disprove such allegations."

Mr Peakes went a delicate shade of grey, swallowed thickly, and let another of McTavish's goons lead him back into his quarters. Before the door was shut, Harry caught one last glimpse of his face, and it showed utmost sorrow. Still, he made no move to help Harry.

Harry looked down at his feet, blinking back a sudden rush of tears. He wondered why he wasn't used to this sort of thing. It hadn't been that long since he had been free of the Dursleys, and they had always put other things before him. With a wry thought Harry remembered that even Snape couldn't stand the sight of him because he looked so much like his father. Why then did it sting so much that Mr Peakes put his research before Harry, his apprentice? It was his life's work after all ... but still, the fact of the matter was that it was Harry's life at stake. It was Harry's neck on the line, and was that really worth ignoring for a stack of dusty research, albeit years of it? Harry thought not, but from what he had seen, Mr Peakes disagreed.

McTavish was still in the room, and he sneered at him.

"Thought you would snoop around, eh boy?" he hissed. "Who are you communicating with?"

"Nobody," Harry murmured, not allowing himself to look away from McTavish's icy eyes, because he had been taught from years of lying to Uncle Vernon that eye contact was essential if you were going to be convincing in the least. "I wanted to pick up tips on how to be a successful potions master. You're much better at what you do than Mr. Peakes." He sneered slightly as he said the name, feeling more and more like the sorting hat had been right about him. He pushed this thought away as he continued. "So ... I followed you. I shouldn't have, I know, but I want to be a success someday, like you."

Harry hated the words, but the time had come for him to swallow his pride, and lie through his teeth. It was the only thing to do.

"Is that so?" said McTavish, narrowing his eyes, trying to decide if Harry was being honest. "I'm not quite sure that I believe you, but you are right about Gregory Peakes. I am far better a potions master than he is, and Gregory has no idea the scale of my research, nor could he comprehend it were I to enlighten him. Why, not even Simon Kendrick would be able to understand what I have accomplished, and his research on potion based explosives for wizarding mining operations is considered cutting edge."

Harry did not speak, but stood there as straight and still as he could, waiting.

"Even so, I can't take the risk that you were communicating with someone," he said coolly. "I think I'll leave you here a while. I have a hunch that someone is going to find you, whether an accomplice or someone else. Peakes blabbed to his last apprentice's parents, so I have no doubt that yours will show up. Of course, Gregory never knew that little Zachary Benson's parents actually came for him when he sent them a letter that their son was in danger. But the Thames knows."

With a sick grin, he turned on his heel, marching into his lab and shutting the door with a snap.

Harry swallowed thickly, fighting the bile rising in his throat, the sound of his blood pounding in his ears reminding him of the rush of a river. He didn't dare close his eyes for the images that his mind was coming up with, of cold, pale bodies floating in the dirty, swirling river. He only hoped that Evelyn and Snape were smarter than Mr and Mrs Benson, and with a slight feeling of relief, he felt quite safe to say they probably were. The fear did not leave him, however, and nor did the pain in his shoulder.