Chapter Twenty-Five

Lord Tyrell

Matt was exhausted. He had tried to sneak out of the tower sometime in the evening, and they'd brought him here, and he'd been sitting here tied up for hours. It wasn't daylight yet, there was a little slit of a window that would tell him if it was, but it could be anytime before full dawn. All he really knew was that it was way past his bedtime.

He hadn't been tired at first. In all the excitement of being abducted and carried off, of worrying about Bear after she'd been Stunned ten feet in the air—the sight of her still body sprawled in the grass was there every time he closed his eyes—and what with all the death threats, he'd had a busy night. His mind had been going in circles. He'd spent at least an hour or two trying to wiggle out of the twists of packing twine he was tied with, while the others argued about what to do with him and didn't pay attention.

His blackened eye ached and throbbed, and Matt wished Mum were here, or Grandma. They'd put some ice on it, give him something to take down the swelling. They'd hold him for a minute and at least give him the illusion that everything was all right. But what was the use of wishing for that? Nothing was all right, not now.

He glared at Thomas Tyrell with the one eye he had available to him at the moment. Tyrell had finally noticed him trying to break free of his bonds, and had walked over to where he was curled on the ground, and had kicked him. In the face. Matt's eye was almost completely swollen shut, and it really hurt. Not as much compared to the pain of having the entire side of his face burned when he was six, but that had been healed pretty quickly. Matt's eye had been bruised for hours and hours. Once Tyrell had caught him trying, he'd made sure Matt couldn't make any more attempts. He'd had one of his little henchman tie the twine tighter, and then tie Matt's hands to his ankles behind his back. His shoulders were aching badly from being pulled into such an awkward position. The corners of his lips were sore and rubbed raw from trying to bite past the gag they'd tied onto his mouth. He didn't think he'd ever get rid of the taste of the sweaty cotton handkerchief, no matter how many times he brushed his teeth.

If he ever brushed his teeth again, he thought miserably, still glaring at Tyrell and nearly hoping the evil boy would take notice. Tyrell had been getting more and more agitated as Harry Potter continued to fail to mobilize his forces, or respond in any way. He'd sent one of his followers to see Dad for his answer two hours ago, and the man had come back with the message that Dad wasn't paying up unless he saw some proof of his son's wellbeing. Tyrell was pissed off that Dad wasn't shaking in fear of him, and utterly unable to think of a way to prove that Matt was alive and well that wouldn't get him caught or cause him to lose the valuable hostage. Tyrell's mood was rubbing off on Matt, not to mention the ache in Matt's back, eye, and hands and feet. Actually, his hands and feet were more numb at this point. Either way, he'd stopped crying by now, and was nearly to the point of sleep.

Tyrell did notice him, and turned to face him fully, cocking his head to the side mockingly to meet Matt's gaze while Matt lay on the ground. "What do you think, Matthias?" he said, his voice deceptively pleasant. "Do you think Daddy would accept a vial of my memory of this moment as proof you're alive?"

Matt, gagged, was unable to answer, but Tyrell seemed to enjoy asking him questions anyway.

"Do you think seeing you all tied up would make him anxious to give me what I want? Or should I give him a memory of your blood?"

Tyrell had a little knife in his hand. Matt's good eye widened with fear, and he strained against his bonds uselessly. It made his wrists and ankles wake up and flare with pain. Tyrell chuckled.

"You know, after I get the information from Potter," Tyrell said conversationally to one of his friends, "I might keep the boy. He's such a fun toy."

The man grunted, sounding amused, but when Tyrell turned away from him, the man rolled his eyes. Matt wished he could smile, but the gag was hurting his mouth, so he worked to keep his face straight.

"Where in blazes is Max, anyway?" Tyrell snapped, his mood abruptly turning. His moods did that a lot. Matt had seen him joyous, depressed, angry, laughing, and deadly cold in the space of the last few hours. "It doesn't take all night to pick up a few artifacts from an abandoned building."

"Probably stopped off to sell them to some fool and steal them back," someone said in a sour voice. No one really liked Max, Matt didn't think.

Matt thought he was the only one who knew Max's real identity, and as he had a gag in his mouth, he hadn't told. Max wasn't a Muggleborn, and his mysterious access to the Malfoy house wasn't all that mysterious to Matt. Max was Draco Malfoy. It had to be him. The face he'd seen from his bedroom door when he was a small boy had been in this room only a few hours ago, had been there at Hogwarts to help restrain him. And that was why Matt didn't want to go to sleep. He was afraid that if he did, Malfoy would come back, just like he had five years ago, and blow the place all to hell. That would be something Dad couldn't ignore, just like before. He could do it again, Matt fretted, and this time, Matt was all tied up and he wouldn't be able to get away.

Still, he would have welcomed the sight of Dad and Aunt Tonks rushing in to save him. He was drifting into sleep, although he didn't realize it, and visions of flames and blood and wild blue hair were waiting behind the soothing darkness in sleep. He tried to fight it, tried to stay awake. He didn't want that, not now. He was having enough trouble keeping it together as it was.

The only other thing he could think about was Bear. What if she was dead? She'd fallen off their improvised rope, and her body had made a terrible thud when she hit the ground, and she hadn't moved at all. She had only been coming along to protect him, she was always trying to protect him, and now she might be dead. Matt tried not to cry. He'd cried earlier and Tyrell and Malfoy had just sat there and mocked him until he got angry enough to stop. Now the effort of not crying was keeping him awake, so he welcomed it. He tried to lay still, to hold the pain at bay, to hold the creeping panic back.

Tyrell had been pacing and muttering to himself, while his four friends gave him a wide berth. He'd slashed one of them open earlier, and though it had been healed, there was still a huge stain of dried blood on his shirt. "Well, I'll just have to continue without him, then. It's not as though I really need any of that stuff. I'll be immortal by noon," Tyrell laughed.

He walked over to Matt. Matt held himself still, and fought to breathe carefully. It was harder to breathe, with the gag, and he didn't want to work himself up so he was breathing too hard. He didn't want to die, oh, please, no, I don't want to die, don't hurt me, no, leave me alone!

"Unhhhh," he whimpered, while Tyrell put a knife to his swollen eye.

"I think we'll just bring the swelling down. Would you like that, Matt?"

Matt didn't know that the injury was too old for that to be of any use, but Tyrell did, and Harry likely would, too. He jabbed into the swollen skin just at the browbone, apparently not ready to damage Matt's eye yet. Matt screamed against the gag, more from anger than fear, and a great deal of pain as he involuntarily bucked his body in an escape attempt. Warm blood flowed down his cheek and he could feel it soaking into the gag. He shuddered at the taste of his own blood, and sobbed. Tyrell laughed with an awful childish delight, like Sirius laughed when he was running Mum ragged. Matt cried helplessly.

Tyrell stood up, nearly giggling, and grabbed an empty bottle of rum. He put his wand to his temple and drew silvery threads away from his head, directing them cautiously into the bottle he held.

"That ought to do it," he said. "Don't you think?" he asked his accomplice.

The man hesitated, looking doubtful. "Potter might be angry. Sir, I—"

"Don't say 'sir' to me, West!" Tyrell shouted, gripping both bottle and wand tightly. "You will call me 'Lord'!"

"You ain't a lord yet, Tyrell!" the man shouted back.

Tyrell's anger abruptly vanished, and he looked at West coolly. "You think not?"

That gave West pause, and he licked his thin lips. "Well, I—"

"Avada Kedavra," Tyrell said, his face and voice as dead as West was a moment later as the green light faded. "I have no use," he said calmly, turning to his remaining three associates, "for the disloyal. Is there anyone else who does not wish to call me Lord?"

The other three stared at West and said nothing. Possibly didn't even breathe, Matt thought, for it was so quiet.

Then the door opened and laughter filled the room as two men entered in obviously high spirits.

"I like that one," Max was chortling. "You're a cruel man, you are."

Tyrell turned on them fiercely. "Max. You're late, you're empty-handed, and you've brought a man I don't know into my place. Give me a reason not to kill you right now."

Max's eyes fell on West and he stopped laughing. He went pale. Then he smiled like a predator. "I'm not empty-handed. I've brought you something you're going to love."

"And what's that?" Tyrell snapped.

Max swept his hand toward the figure beside him.

Matt gasped through his gag, and stared. Professor Stevens?

"I've brought you Draco Malfoy. He's going to get your information from Potter."

Matt felt his heart skip a beat. He looked at his professor in shock. How was that possible, when Max was the real Draco Malfoy?

"See, that's what I didn't tell you about myself," Max said, obviously enjoying the moment. "I'm Lucius' bastard boy that nobody knew about. That's how I was going to get you Malfoy's stuff. So imagine my surprise," he laughed, "when I get there and find my long-lost half-brother already inside! And he tells me, I'll have to be real polite if I want his stuff!" He was lost in a fit of amusement.

Tyrell turned to . . . to the man Matt had thought was his professor—no, was his professor, but was apparently something a bit more than that—and met his gaze. The one-eyed, blond-haired man was calm and impenetrable. Tyrell smiled like a boy who was receiving a Christmas gift.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said, and held out his hand.

Draco Malfoy, the bane of Matt's nightmares and the Head of Gryffindor House, shook it. "I'm here to help, Lord Tyrell."

Then he flicked his gaze to Matt. Matt knew he was crying, he was so shocked, but he jutted out his chin and fixed the man with the most ferocious stare he could muster up.

"Let's talk business, Mr. Malfoy," Tyrell said gleefully.

As Tyrell turned away . . . Malfoy winked.