Draco Malfoy had not had a very good summer. In fact, it had been the worst summer of his life. He could safely say, without any hyperbole or exaggeration, that the last few months had been so intolerably miserable that he had even started counting down the days until he would be able to return to school. Not even the thoughts of months of lessons, of teachers, or even of petty children (who had no comprehension of the war that was breathing down their necks like an impatient dragon) could still his anticipation. It wasn't just that his father had failed in his mission - and then been arrested in front of half the Ministry of Magic - that caused his holiday to go sideways, or even the fact that aurors hounded his and his mother's steps if they dared to leave the house. He had far greater reasons to hate every moment trapped in his room in the manor, avoiding his homework. Because Draco Malfoy had caught the attention of the Dark Lord and that was a very dangerous thing indeed.

Of course it was also a great honour that he, above all others and at the tender age of sixteen, had been given the dark mark and set to do the Dark Lord's bidding. His Aunt Bellatrix told him endlessly about how proud she was of him, interspersed with crowing recollections (in vivid detail) of how she had duelled and killed Sirius Black: her cousin. Draco did not know how to feel about his aunt. She was clearly unwell and suffered greatly during her time in prison, but her faith in the Dark Lord verged on the fanatical. Also, regardless of how much of a filthy blood traitor his mother's cousin had been he had still been family. So Draco had done his level best to stay as far away from his aunt as possible and therefore avoided a great many arguments with his mother about respecting Auntie Bella.

An unexpected and very welcome consequence of becoming hyper-conscious of his aunt's every move was that it helped him stay out of the Dark Lord's immediate attention. She was permanently falling at the feet of their master and fawning over his every word. As her nephew and someone who had been raised with good, old-fashioned values regarding the sanctity of marriage, this repulsed him; as a teenager trying to avoid the focused attention of the greatest dark wizard since Slytherin himself, it was a blessing that he remained very grateful for. It wasn't that he was afraid of the Dark Lord. Draco had, after all been brought into his service and mercifully been granted the opportunity to save his family's honour after his father's shameful failure. But the Dark Lord was still the Dark Lord and Draco would be a fool to not be wary of that.

As such, he had been unable to relax all summer and had been looking forward to releasing some tension baiting Potter and his cronies come September. He had immensely enjoyed breaking Potter's nose on the train, but it was still insufficient revenge for the embarrassment that his little study group had caused his family at the Ministry. So when - on his way back to the Slytherin dorms in the middle of the night and after another failed attempt with the vanishing cabinet in the room of hidden things - Draco happened to spot Potter, Weasel, and the Mudblood following another Gryffindor boy into the kitchens, he knew that he had the perfect opportunity for vengeance. He knew that Professor Snape did not really believe his story that he had stumbled upon them during 'prefect rounds', but Draco strode away from his Head of House's office, side by side with his favourite Professor, knowing that the older man would be far more interested in catching Potter up to mischief to care. Besides, his mother had told him that Professor Snape would help him, that he was loyal to the Dark Lord no matter what Aunt Bella said. So if all else had failed, he could have thrown himself on the mercy of his mission to avoid detention. But that would have been a last resort: Malfoy's do not plea for mercy.

He had immensely enjoyed watching the bunch of assorted Gryffindors jump out of their skins, although he had not expected the girl Weasel and the other two non-entities to be hiding behind the portrait too. Professor Snape had flayed them alive for being out of bed and Draco had gleefully enjoyed watching Potter get punished for something he had been equally guilty of. He was a proud and unrepentant hypocrite and would remain so until he died. It was only when the Mudblood opened her mouth to say something that Draco felt a need to step in, he refused to allow filth like her to say anything in his vicinity unless it was absolutely necessary or distressingly unavoidable.

"Professor," he spoke quietly, smirking at Potter's irate expression as the Mudblood snapped her mouth shut in outrage, "it's awfully late, perhaps we could head to bed soon?" The Professor turned to look at him, his flat expression informing Draco that he was laying things on a little too thickly and should leave it there, before giving him a slight nod.

"Indeed, Draco," Professor Snape replied, turning back to the group of blood traitors and Mudbloods. "Fifty points from each of you and a week's detention."

Draco actually sniggered at the punishment, delighting as the Gryffindors moaned in dismay. If he were still concerned with such petty things as house points – which he was not, having moved onto far bigger things over the summer – then he would have noted with glee that Gryffindor would have just dropped down to twenty points. But, he wasn't concerned with such childish pursuits, so he didn't notice – obviously.

"Get out of my sight," Professor Snape continued, "and if you make a single detour on your way up to bed, you will be scrubbing cauldrons until Christmas!"

Draco outright grinned as the two non-entities all but ran out the room, heads bowed and eyes so focused on the floor that Draco was convinced that he'd get to watch one of them run into the wall. He looked back at the others. Potter, the Weasels, and the Mudblood were still stood in the same place, forming a protective huddle in the back of the room. Foolish Gryffindors, Draco thought, safety in numbers will not protect you from Professor Snape.

"Professor-" the Mudblood began to say, but was cut off again, much to Draco's glee, this time by his Head of House.

"I do not doubt, Mr Potter," Professor Snape began, glaring at the Boy-Who-Lived and completely ignoring the Mudblood, "that you think yourself above every other student in this school." Draco would have to send the Professor a thank you card after tonight - he hadn't been this entertained for months. He smirked as Potter bristled like an angry kneazle. "You have, after all, shown a careless disregard for the rules from the very first moment that you set foot in this building." Draco nearly snorted, undignified as it was, but Professor Snape's tone was sharp enough to cut. Potter looked ready to throw a curse, both Weasels had gone bright red, and the Mudblood's hair looked as if it had grown even frizzier in response to her rage. The Professor smiled maliciously and stalked closer to Potter.

"I would have thought," Professor Snape continued softly, "that recent events might have taught you the necessity of doing as you are told. But perhaps it is simply too much to ask of the Chosen One. Apparently scurrying about the kitchens in search of a midnight feast is far more important to the Boy-Who-Lived."

Potter all but snarled. Draco would have bet whatever galleons he had left to his name that the idiotic Gryffindor would have thrown away his wand and launched himself like a muggle at the Professor, had the Mudblood not intervened.

"Professor Snape," she snapped abruptly, sounding rather like Professor McGonagall did when Draco had forgotten his homework, "Harry is not scurrying anywhere and we are not down here for a midnight feast!" She sounded quite angry on Potter's behalf, he noted. The girl Weasel flushed and looked guilty as Professor Snape raised an arm and pointed at some half eaten snacks on the table; whatever they said, someone had been down here for food. "Sir, there's something we need to show you," the Mudblood continued, flapping her hands to cut off the outraged cried of Potter and Weasel. Well, Draco thought, this could be interesting. "No Harry," she continued, looking apologetically at Potter, "I know what you're going to say, but we need to trust Professor Snape. This isn't something we can deal with on our own!" She stepped aside and glared at the others until they followed suit. Draco blinked, waited a moment and then blinked again, his brain not quite processing something so entirely unexpected. He had thought they'd be hiding some kind of creature, an injured house elf or, he thought with remembered terror, another dragon. But instead it was something somehow even more bizarre. There, crouched in the fireplace and looking particularly feral, was a teenage boy.

Well, Draco thought, this was indeed interesting.

Harry cursed under his breath as Hermione shooed them out of the way of the fireplace. He loved her like a sister, but she was far too trusting of authority figures. Hadn't she just heard what Snape said about Sirius! He had stood there, having a go at Harry as per usual, acting as if hadn't taunted his schoolyard rival out of Grimmauld Place and in front of the waiting wand of Bellatrix Lestrange. Besides, Harry was pretty certain that the bloke in the fireplace was not going to react too well to a bastard like Snape. He'd woken up swearing blindly at them all and seemed to have a bit of a temper, even if he was scared out of his mind and half-awake. Harry knew from five years of constant, mutual loathing that that kind of personality would clash loudly with the austere Potions Master. Or Defence Master- whatever he hell he was calling himself now, anyway. He knew he should probably say something to explain what the hell they were doing, but he wasn't certain he'd be able to manage it without swearing at Snape, so he wisely kept his lips firmly sealed.

"Me, Colin, and Dennis found him, earlier," Ginny said quietly, finally breaking the silence, as Snape and Malfoy looked on in shock. "We'd come to the kitchens for a… snack. As soon as we found him and checked he was… alright, Coin went to get a prefect." Harry sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Ginny's nerves under pressure when Snape accepted her simple explanation with a silent nod. He hoped that Snape was too shocked at the presence of the odd boy to wonder why Colin hadn't gone looking for Professor McGonagall instead, or to question Harry on why he had accompanied Ron and Hermione (especially as he was the furthest thing from a prefect left in Gryffindor Tower, now that Fred and George were gone). Snape turned his attention back to the boy in the fireplace and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Ginny noticed and smiled at him; Harry nearly forgot how to breathe. The strange purr that had been rising up in his chest since summer came back with a sudden roar and Harry knew he was in trouble.

He'd been oddly pleased earlier when Ginny and Dean had started a massive row in the middle of the dormitory. He'd come up late, after Professor McGonagall had caught him in the entrance hall after dinner; he had been trying to hang back and listen to what the teachers were talking about. She'd escorted him up to the common room and told him in no uncertain terms that, Quidditch captain or no, he'd be in detention for the next month if she caught him out of the Tower for the rest of the night. He'd sulked all the way up to the dorm, pissed off that he'd only managed to overhear Professor Sprout say something about Ravenclaw and portkeys before he'd been whisked away. He threw himself on his bed in a huff and immediately spotted Ginny sat on Dean's bed, which had then put him in a right foul mood. When they started rowing about football he had peaked over the charms book that he was reading and started listening a bit closer. He tried to tell himself that it was a brotherly relief that he was feeling, when he watched Ginny leap off her boyfriend's bed and storm out of the room, but he was fighting a losing battle.

He smiled stupidly at the memory and caught himself quickly. Thankfully Professor Snape stalked forwards and pushed them out of the way, in order to get a closer look at the teenager, so Harry could glare at the back of the greasy git's head and try not to think at all about Ginny. Harry knew he should be leaving thoughts of Ginny Weasley far from his mind; she was Ron's sister, after all. Besides, he was now half convinced that she'd dumped Dean for one or the other of the Creevey brothers, so unless he found something else to occupy his thoughts, he might start fantasising about hexing them whenever they came within five feet of her. Merlin, he had a problem.

"Harry," Hermione hissed, shaking his arm and dragging him back to the teenager-shaped elephant in the room. He flushed in embarrassment and hoped that Ron was too preoccupied to notice him gaping aimlessly like a troll at his little sister.

Snape was crouching down in front of the boy, wand out but not pointing anywhere. He was moving very slowly, like the boy was a wounded hippogriff, although he looked furious. Harry glanced around to see the others' reactions. Hermione was holding onto his arm with a grasp that was beginning to hurt, Malfoy was hovering awkwardly in the background, and Ron had not looked more serious since the time that the Cannons' sneaker had taken a bludger to the head the practice before their Kestrels match. Harry forced himself not to look at Ginny, at all.

"What's your name?" Snape asked the boy sternly.

He was wide eyed, gaze focused on Snape's wand, as he took a quick fortifying breath.

"Sal, sir," he answered quickly.

"Your full name," Snape clarified sharply, tapping his wand against his leg in irritation. The boy flinched every time the wand moved and Snape stilled abruptly.

The boy, Sal, looked around at them all in confusion. Harry tried his best to look reassuring, but considering he got an odd look in return, he doubted that he'd done a very good job of it. Snape cleared his throat in irritation, getting impatient at the lack of response. Malfoy snorted. Harry sent him a blistering glare.

"I'm sorry, sir" the boy began meekly, "I don't know what you mean, sir." He looked up at Snape in desperate confusion and Harry felt a sudden, deep sense of sympathy. He had been in the same position enough times, terrified and perplexed, saying words of a similar nature. Although, he'd never felt anywhere near as scared when he was stood in front of Snape than he did with his Uncle Vernon. He went to step forwards, about to tell Snape where to shove his questions, when Hermione shook his arm again and sent him a look that told him to stay put. He was about to object when he saw Ron shake his head. With a quiet sigh, he narrowed his eyes in disapproval, allowing this to play out. But, he promised himself if he saw Snape about to try anything, he was going to get involved: teacher or not.

"Your full name, you foolish child," Snape demanded, rolling his eyes, "You do have one, I assume?"

The boy looked at him blankly for a second before he leaned back slightly. His eyes flickered round the room. He's reassessing, Harry thought, he's figured something out. The realisation made him look a bit closer at the boy in front of them. Harry hadn't read him as a threat, but then again, he hadn't seen Mad Eye Moody as one either – not until he turned out to be Barty Crouch Junior.

"That is my full name, sir," the boy replied simply. Harry hadn't heard of anyone in the wizarding world who only went by one name, aside from House Elves that is – apparently, neither had Snape.

"I will not tolerate cheek, boy," Snape hissed and the boy flinched again. "Now tell me the truth."

"Please, sir," the boy began, looking terrified, "I'm telling you the truth. That's my name, as I was baptised." Snape sniffed and glared at him.

"What house are you in?" he demanded in exasperation. Harry was almost impressed. He hadn't found anyone that annoyed Snape as much as he did since fourth year; the year that Neville had somehow stopped making his potions explode if he were left unattended for longer than five minutes.

"I belong to Gryffindor, sir," the boy replied, looking slightly relieved. Harry couldn't tell if he was happy that Snape had stopped prying into a fake name, or that he had been given a question he could answer.

"He's not a Gryffindor," Hermione said suddenly. Snape spun to look at her, annoyed at the interruption. "Well, it's just, since I became a prefect," she carried on, masterfully ignoring Snape's withering glare, "I've made a point of learning the faces of everyone in Gryffindor and I don't recognise him at all."

"I'm not a Gryffindor, sir," the boy hurried to explain, as Snape turned a furious glare back on him, "I belong to Gryffindor. I'm of his House."

Harry had no idea what that was meant to mean, but apparently it explained something to Snape. His eyes widened as he looked the boy over again, apparently seeing him in a new light. Ron, however, was less concerned with what Snape had seen and was instead staring at the boy like he was barmy.

"What do you mean, you aren't a Gryffindor, but you belong to Gryffindor?" he asked with all of his usual tact. "Mate, you sound like a bloody sphinx!" Hermione hissed disapprovingly at the language but shut up when Snape whirled around to glare at Ron, his robes snapping behind him.

"Weasley, be quiet!" he snarled. But the boy in the fireplace was already obediently answering the question.

"I mean that I belong to Lord Gryffindor," the boy said simply, "I'm his slave." He shrugged slightly, eyes flickering between them, looking for a reaction.

Harry didn't know what to say. As ridiculous as it sounded, he half expected someone to appear with a muggle film camera and declare the whole thing a massive joke – like the people did on that VHS that Aunt Petunia's friend Yvonne had bought for Dudley on her holiday in America. Uncle Vernon had been furious at her; he'd had to go and buy a special video player just to get it to play. He'd spent the whole morning muttering about stupid American imports and inconsiderate neighbours and then whisked Aunt Petunia out for dinner whilst Dudley watched the tape, presumably to avoid being tainted by any of that 'foreign rubbish' he so hated. Dudley had grown bored and left it playing when he went out; Harry had watched the whole thing from the kitchen whilst doing the ironing. That programme was, quite frankly, one of the most muggle things he'd seen during the brief time he'd spent at Privet Drive over summer and yet he still found the idea that he'd somehow ended up the subject of one of their setups more plausible than the reality of the boy in front of him saying those words with complete sincerity.

Malfoy scoffed and crossed his arms in disbelief.

"Clearly someone has him under a confundus," he announced imperiously, "I'd recognise one anywhere."

Snape, however, did not seem so convinced by Malfoy's diagnosis. He stepped back suddenly and walked over to the table, glaring at Harry as if whatever he had realised was both irritating and Harry's fault. He then pulled out a miniature piece of parchment and self-inking quill from his robes and enlarged them, scribbling a quick note. Harry suspected that the Professor had realised something (before the boy dropped his bombshell) and that it was almost entirely to do with why they had been sent to their dorms after dinner. He tried to get a look at what Snape was writing on the parchment; but before he got the chance, Snape signed it with an abrupt motion and flicked his wand at it. It folded itself up into a paper aeroplane and flew out of the room. Harry thought back to the memos flying round the Ministry of Magic and thought that it was a nifty little spell that would be quite useful to learn.

"I have just notified the headmaster," Snape explained as soon as the note had flown off. "We will await his response and then we will be resolving this matter in his office. Until then, none of you will speak another word. Am I clear?" He met each of their eyes individually, including Malfoy's; Harry would have suspected him of using legilimency, had he not been intimately familiar with how it felt when Snape broke into his head.

Harry went to protest Snape's command, but stopped at the look on Ron's face. He had gone so white that his freckles were standing out over his nose in clear contrast. He was staring at the boy in the fireplace, looking vaguely sick. Harry glanced at Ginny and Hermione and saw that they both looked the same way.

Snape walked over to the corner and fixed the boy with a stern glare.

"And you," he said quietly, "will please stand up. The fireplace is hardly an appropriate place to sit." Harry couldn't say for certain, because he was not sure that such a thing could actually be possible, but Snape almost sounded – kind. Or, at least, kinder than usual.

The boy complied at once, standing up swiftly. He stood with his head bowed, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

"I apologise, sir," he said softly, "The stone is often warmer in the hearth, when the fire has been lit all day, sir. I did not mean to sit somewhere inappropriate-"

"Sir?" Malfoy mockingly finished the boy's sentence for him. Harry went to snap at him to shut up, but Snape had already quelled him with a glare. Good, Harry thought to himself, serves the bullying little bastard right.

At that moment a parchment aeroplane flew in through the portrait hole. Snape grabbed and unfolded it, quickly reading through the contents.

"All of you, to the headmaster's office, immediately," he commanded abruptly, stashing the note in his pocket. "I trust that I do not need to tell you the way, Potter."

Harry seethed and shared a glare of outrage with Ron. If there was one thing, he thought to himself piteously, that could be relied upon no matter what the situation, it would be Snape's eternal hatred of Harry Potter.

As they all started to file out of the kitchens, Harry noticed that the odd boy – who seemed to think he was the slave of an alive and kicking Godric Gryffindor (which Harry just could not get past) – had not moved with them. Snape, apparently, had noticed too.

"Come along," he commanded.

"I'm sorry, sir," the boy replied, staring at his feet. His whole body was tense. "I am supposed to stay in the kitchens."

"According to whom?"

"My master, sir."

"Well Professor Dumbledore has informed me that your master is in his office and that he is expecting you shortly," Snape's voice was curt but not unkind, although the boy still tensed at the mention of his 'master'. The boy shifted from one foot to the other before nodding his head tightly. "Good, I will join you shortly," Snape told him, "please follow Mr Potter. If he insists on loitering to eavesdrop on the conversations of others then he may at least be useful and show you the way."

Harry blushed and glanced over his shoulder. The others had gone through the portrait hole already, leaving him incriminatingly alone with the Professor and the strange boy.

"Yes, sir," the boy nodded and Harry saved himself from further mortification by spinning on his heel and heading over to the portrait hole.

He waited outside for the boy, unable to bear another minute in the same room as Snape. Not long after, the boy stepped through, looking intensely uncomfortable.

"You okay?" asked Harry, but the boy did not reply. He stood hunched into himself and his head hung low. He looked like Harry felt whenever he had fucked up around the house and he heard his Uncle's car pull up on the drive. "Mate?" he tried again, but the boy still stayed silent. Harry sighed and started leading him upstairs.

Harry tried his best to make conversation all the way up to Dumbledore's office, but he couldn't get a word out of the other boy. Harry suspected that, whilst he was waiting outside the kitchens, Snape had told the excessively obedient stranger not to talk to Harry. Either that or the bloke was just a rude git.

Harry had lapsed into a disgruntled silence. Something weird had been going on since dinner. Snape hadn't seemed that surprised to find a random teenager squatting in the kitchens, so he must have been expecting there to be strangers around. He hadn't even done any security checks, which seemed incredibly suspicious to Harry. Even if his git of a Professor was a Death Eater – and, Harry reminded himself sternly, he trusted Dumbledore's promise that Snape wasn't – he should still have asked him a bit more than his name and school house – even if it was just for show. No, Snape hadn't wanted the stranger to say much at all. As soon as he'd started talking weirdly about Gryffindor, Snape had made them all shut up. So, his Professor knew what was going on, but didn't want the rest of them to know too much about it – which was an irritatingly familiar position for Harry to find himself in. He gritted his teeth and forced back the old frustration that had plagued him all of last year. Getting angry would not help anything, it made him sloppy and stupid; he had learnt that the hard way. He forced himself to focus; the rest of the teachers had been gathering in the entrance hall after dinner, so he suspected that they had all been told something important then. He remembered the snippets that he'd overheard about portkeys and Ravenclaws and nearly led them both down the wrong corridor. He dearly hoped that some students had been dicking around with illegal portkeys and had been turning up all over the school spouting nonsense all evening. Because if they hadn't, his only other conclusion was so completely fucked up that, prophecy be damned, he was leaving school and retiring to Antigua; at least if any ridiculous magical events found him there he would face them with a decent tan.

Thankfully, before Harry could work himself up into a proper panic, they had found themselves in front of the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office and he could busy himself reciting every sweet he could think of, from both the wizarding and muggle worlds. He had just tried his luck with 'cola cube' and was trying very hard to ignore the unimpressed look that the boy next to him had assumed after he tried 'hundreds and thousands' for the second time in under a minute, when Professor Snape came stalking down the corridor towards them.

"Acid pops," he told the gargoyle promptly and it jumped aside with a jaunty bow. Harry felt that he really should have known that, considering how often he was in Dumbledore's office for this year's secret lessons. In fact, he realised with a blush, he should have remembered the password - it was only the other day he'd used it to get in. He ducked his head and followed Snape up into the room.

Harry stopped suddenly in the doorway and caused the other boy to walk into him. Stepping aside to let him through, Harry muttered a quick apology and felt himself blush. The room was a lot fuller than he had anticipated. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were stood in front of Dumbledore's desk, which the headmaster himself sat behind, as usual; Hermione was saying something very quickly and very quietly to him, as if she were afraid of being cut off. Malfoy was lounging against a book case, arms crossed and sneering at the world in general; although as soon as Snape turned to look at him, he stood up straight and assumed an expression of polite disinterest. He had expected them all, of course. But what he had not anticipated were the three men stood over by the pensieve.

The oldest of the trio was also the tallest, although that wasn't saying much as all three of them were pretty short. He looked to be around Uncle Vernon's age, although he looked like his complete opposite. He was slim and muscled, where Harry's uncle was fat and beefy. He had long, dark brown hair, where Vernon considered anything longer than a short back and sides to be the province of hoodlums. He was dressed in long, amber robe, held at the waist with a thick leather belt and Vernon Dursley would never be caught dead in anything so brazenly unmuggle. He did, however, wear an expression of disapproval and distaste that was so uncannily similar to Uncle Vernon's own whenever he looked at his loathed nephew, that Harry caught himself attempting to flatten his hair out of sheer reactive instinct.

If Harry took an instant dislike to the older man, it was nothing compared to the automatic revulsion he felt for the man by his side. He looked like the young Wormtail that Harry had seen in Snape's memory last year, only a decade or so older and about three stone lighter. But it was his smile that set Harry's teeth on edge; he looked up at the older man with the same sycophantic smile that Peter Pettigrew had once given to James Potter. He was wearing a tunic and trousers, like the boy from the kitchens, only his were a deep blue and looked to be of a lot finer quality. He was also wearing odd-looking shoes that seemed halfway between a boot and a sandal. Harry had been staring at them for a good half a minute before he realised why they seemed so strange – the boy from the kitchens was walking around barefoot. Harry was feeling vaguely appalled and was all set to hate the strange group in its entirety when the last man turned around. He had long reddish-brown hair and was dressed in deep red robes. He had a small, gentle smile on his face and his gaze didn't linger on Ginny as he looked about the room, which automatically endeared him to Harry. But it was what he wore around his waist that made Harry's jaw drop open. Because there, sticking out of a long silver sheath and looking terrifyingly at home, was the very familiar, ruby encrusted hilt of the sword of Gryffindor.