Hi guys! The next chapter is here!
Tw for references to abuse, but nothing major.
Please read and review and let me know what you think.
The days following the students' departure had been very quiet for Sal. He had turned up to Professor Snape's classroom the morning after he had said goodbye to Harry and the others, ready to brew as per usual. The professor had, however, looked at him scathingly and asked him if he did not understand the concept of a holiday. Sal had not even stuttered out a reply, before he was unceremoniously banished from the professor's presence with an order to take a break from work. Sal had rushed from the room, and spent the rest of the day terrified, convinced that the professor had grown tired of him and was going to call a stop to their lessons. When Professor Snape had called him into the sitting room that evening, Sal was certain that he was about to banished, but to his great surprise and immense delight, the professor had only barked at him to revise his knowledge of cheering charms. Sal had been forced to accept that the professor genuinely expected him to take a holiday.
Over the next few days, he began to realise just how little free time he had on his hands. Most of his life had been spent busy at one task or another; even as a small child, he had spent countless hours looking for small jobs that might earn him a coin or two, or scrounging the streets for scraps to feed himself and his mother for the night. Sal found that he did not know what to do, now that he had whole days to himself and all of his basic needs met for him by the professor. He had felt horrendously guilty that the headmaster would not be receiving the urgent potions that he needed, simply so that Sal could lie aimlessly around in his room. He had haltingly expressed his concern to the professor, and had been rewarded with a blank look and a command to put such concerns from his mind, and a reassurance that looked as if it had hurt in passing through the older man's lips that the headmaster would be fine. Sal had begun to suspect that Professor Snape had been having him brew a surplus of potions, more than the headmaster actually required, to fill up the stocks. Sal thought this was basic common sense, but he dared not ask the older man to confirm his suspicions.
Without chores to occupy his time, and with no one bothering him with demands and orders, Sal had retreated to his bedroom and practised reading with a fervour that was almost possessed. He found that with continued hours of practise, he could finally string together a few basic sentences. He felt a deep thrill of pride every time he managed to link together the words in his stolen book, which was something that he hadn't felt towards himself in a good few years. Afterwards, his head would ache and his eyes sting so badly that large black spots would dance across his vision (as they often did when he was particularly hungry or exhausted), but he thought that the headway that he was making was definitely worth such minor annoyances.
It was not only Sal's reading that had been trying his wearied mind; his lessons with Professor Snape had started to increase in both complexity and length. The older man had still not mentioned anything about a wand (for which Sal was very grateful), and so their lessons stayed focused on the theoretical. Sal tried his best to be as diligent and attentive as possible, but he was painfully aware of how slowly he was progressing. He didn't know why the professor was being so patient with him; had Sal been the teacher, he would have kicked himself out and back to Filch days ago. For some reason, however, the Professor was allowing him to stay and had even begun to nod curtly in approval whenever Sal finally comprehended a new concept. The older man was a strange presence in Sal's life; he was curt and abrasive, but he was not needlessly cruel. He didn't shout, or manhandle him about the room, and he hadn't hit him once. Sal thought that the man was bloody miraculous; he could not remember ever having gone so long without being struck in his life.
Christmas had approached and then passed very quietly, with Sal occupied in his quiet study. The professor had not mentioned anything about fasting ahead of the Christmas feast, and Sal had not seen to remind the older man of religious observances. After all, who was he to dictate the actions of his betters? Thankfully, Sal hadn't been requested to serve at the Christmas feast, and had been allowed to stay within Professor Snape's quarters. He had been delighted to receive a plate of food from the kitchens, full of tender cuts of roast beef and of butter coated vegetables, all doused in a thick, salty gravy. Having seen the amazing quality of the food served even to servants such as Filch in this time, he had no doubt that he was eating leftovers from the main table. He was sure that that was the case for most of the food that came his way, but he was incredibly grateful nonetheless; he was eating better than he had ever before, and he even thought that he might be starting to put on a little weight.
He had passed the whole of Christmas day in his room, alone, as the professor had been required to watch the students. No one had bothered him, accosted him, or leered over him with breath stinking of alcohol. He had even been able to burn a small log in the corner of his room. It was nowhere near a proper Yule ritual, as he'd performed it in a manic rush, heart pounding and hands shaking as he lit the flame, convinced that the professor would walk back in on him at any moment. But it was the first time that he had been able to perform the rites since… well, in a very long time. Professor Snape had returned back to the quarters later that night, and called Sal into the sitting room. Sal had been terrified that his heretical little stunt had been found out, but the professor had just told him to sit down and then presented him with a cup of tea and a mince pie. Sal had been so nervous he could barely hold the cup of the disgusting brew in his shaking hands, but he had enjoyed the pie immensely. They'd sat in silence by the fire for a long while, before the professor had summoned a glass and a decanter of sharp smelling honey-coloured liquid. As soon as the older man started drinking, Sal had quietly excused himself and retired to bed. It had been, in short, one of the best Christmas days that Sal had ever experienced.
A few days later, with the festive period still at its height, Sal was sat in the library. Over the past week or so, he had continued to meet with Lady Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, rejoicing in his abundance of free time and how it allowed him to sit with them for long hours. There wasn't much that he was able to contribute to the conversation, but it was incredible to him that the two women tolerated his company. He often found that the two of them shared jokes and smiles that passed straight over his head, but he was thrilled that he could just sit and bask in their company and incredible intellects. Lady Ravenclaw, in particular, had a fierce and biting wit, but Lady Hufflepuff was cheerful and charming enough to counter her friend's more acerbic nature. He knew it was only a matter of time before they got bored of him and he was cast back into the obscurity of his former life, resigned to chance glimpses of their amazing intellectualism. But, he firmly reminded himself, until they realised how contemptible and odious he truly was, he was going to enjoy every second that he got with them.
Lady Ravenclaw cut through his thoughts with a loud scoff, and he smiled faintly. She had been expounding on her latest theory on the importance of wand movements in spell strength for almost a full ten minutes and was clearly disgruntled at whatever response Lady Hufflepuff had given. Sal stayed quiet, as usual; he had precious little to contribute to the discussion, as he had only used a wand on a handful of occasions, so he just watched the two women talk. Lady Ravenclaw's eyes were bright with enthusiasm, as she leant forward in her seat, gesturing emphatically to stress her point. Two spots of colour sat high on her cheekbones as she continued to talk, and her hand kept jolting upwards to brush aside the strands of long, dark hair that kept falling in front of her eyes. Lady Hufflepuff watched her with a wide, affectionate smile; her eyes were soft and faint wrinkles formed in the corners, as she regarded her friend. She was nodding along and humming softly in agreement whenever Lady Ravenclaw paused for breath, although it seemed she was far more occupied in her observation of her friend than she was in the words that she was speaking.
Lady Ravenclaw's gestures grew just a touch too enthusiastic and she nearly knocked over the stack of books that were sat before her on the table. She grabbed them and righted them with a rueful look, and both ladies burst into quiet laughter; they did such things frequently and Sal had already grown used to the lack of proper decorum. Lady Hufflepuff reached into her pocket and pulled out an elegant green handkerchief to wipe a stray tear from the corner of her eye. It was a beautiful piece of cloth, dyed the deep colour of a fir tree, and heavily embroidered in golden thread.
Sal was, once again, acutely aware of the sorry state of his clothing. The professor had offered to source him something else to wear, but Sal had been too mortified to do more than squeak out a refusal and then hide himself away in his room until he was sure the professor would had forgotten his original offer. His master was supposed to provide his clothing; Sal did not want to think what kind of insult it would be if he were to walk around in something provided by anyone else. He had, however, been embarrassed by the professor's remarks, and had done his best to wash his shirt in the bathroom. The cloth was at least now a clean - if not faded and worn - grey, but it was still filled with an embarrassing number of holes. Sat in the company of two elegant ladies in their brightly coloured and immaculate dresses, Sal couldn't help but feel very dirty and low indeed. He desperately wished that he'd accepted the professor's offer, even if it would have meant swallowing what little he had left of his pride and exposing himself to his master's affronted temper. Sal brushed his hands once more over his ragged clothing, and then shook his head to clear his thoughts. He shoved his mind away from the deep shame that lay over him like a heavy winter cloak, and focused back on the conversation at hand; the ladies had moved on from the topic of wand movements, and Lady Hufflepuff was again talking.
"The wording of the spell itself is integral to the power though, is it not, Rowena?" she questioned slowly, a look of deep contemplation on her face. She tapped her wand idly against her cheek as she spoke, ignoring the faint shower of golden sparks that tumbled from it with every gentle strike. "Therefore, shouldn't the language be important also?"
Lady Ravenclaw paused, and then smiled brightly, her eyes bright with the look of delight she assumed whenever she was posed with a question to which she did not know the answer. "I propose a question: is there then a perfect language for magic?" the question rolled off her tongue like honey, and she looked delighted with herself. "A tongue through which magic is rendered in its purest form?"
"Surely that would be Latin?" Lady Hufflepuff shot back, a smirk on her face. "That is the language of our beloved church, my love." Her voice was just an inch shy of sarcastic, and it was only careful control that kept Sal's eyebrows from shooting up his face. Lady Hufflepuff ignored him, however, and leant forwards, her chin resting on the palm of her hand, as she quirked an eyebrow at her friend. Lady Ravenclaw's eyes went wide and flickered over to Sal for a brief moment, before she smiled tightly and nodded quickly, all amusement swept from her face.
"You're quite right of course, Helga," she replied quietly, her eyes focused on the hands that she held tightly clasped in front of her. Sal was so transfixed by the sudden change in demeanour that he almost missed the look of concern that Lady Hufflepuff sent towards her friend. Sal did not fully understand what was going on between the two women, but he sensed that either one or both of the ladies had some form of issue with the church. That was something he could entirely empathise with, but Lady Ravenclaw clearly did not want to broach the topic with him. He was a little wounded at the lack of trust that showed in him, but then again, he was endlessly careful about his own heresy, and would probably not have uttered a word on the subject either. He knew very well that one did not outright criticise the church in front of another living soul, pitiful and insignificant slave or not.
He averted his eyes to the table in front of him, and traced the countless words carved into the wooden surface. He could make out most of the letters, ignoring those whose handwriting he was pretty certain would be illegible even to Hermione, and he smiled slightly to himself. As he ignored the silent conversation that he knew the two ladies were holding above his head, his thoughts drifted idly to the room on the seventh floor. He dragged his finger over the ragged letter 'R' on the table top, and was reminded of one particular evening, just before the other had left for the holidays. He had been sat, nursing a cup of the vile tea that Harry insisted on serving, listening as Hermione explained all about different alphabets, and runes, and all the different kinds of writing out there in the world. He had been particularly interested in the concept of hieroglyphics, but Hermione had clasped a hand over her mouth as soon as she realised that she'd drifted so far off topic and had refused to say anything more about them; she had been terrified of revealing something to him that had not yet been discovered in his time. Sal had quietly mentioned that there were a great many things known by the scholars of his time that Sal had no idea about, but Hermione had remained resolutely tight-lipped.
A stray thought niggled at the back of his mind, something to do with languages and magic. He vaguely recollected that Hermione had mentioned something about how runes were used for warding, and that the magic was stronger because the runes were written down. He glanced up at the two ladies, but they were both staring at each other, mouths tight and devoid of their usual humour. The tension lay over their group like a dark storm cloud, and Sal's throat tightened in dismay.
"Wards," Sal found himself blurting out suddenly. Both women turned to look at him, started, and he clasped a hand over his mouth, embarrassed and shocked at his own forwardness and at the nonsensical statement that had just passed his lips. Instead of reprimanding him, however, Lady Ravenclaw looked at him in curiosity, and Lady Hufflepuff smiled at him warmly. Her eyes were alight with gratitude that Sal did not feel as though he had earned; he had not meant to speak up and break the awkward silence, at all.
"Yes?" Lady Hufflepuff encouraged, and Sal slowly dropped the hand from his mouth. He scratched at his forehead as the two women looked at him expectantly. He couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes, however, so he stared at the table and hurriedly mumbled out the thought that had been pressing at the back of his mind.
"Wards are written in r-runes, not the Latin alph-phabet. If Latin were the b-best language, why don't we use that instead?" He kept his eyes low, waiting for their reaction, and hoping desperately that he hadn't just made a complete arse of himself.
"Habit, perhaps? A last concession to ancient Pagan practices. They may well use Latin in this time," Lady Hufflepuff replied not unkindly. She smiled at him warmly, but Sal felt his stomach shrivel in humiliation, convinced that he had just proven himself to be very stupid indeed.
"But they don't!" Lady Ravenclaw blurted out instead, and Sal felt his heart leap as he turned to look at her. She was staring at him with unabashed interest. "I had a long conversation with the runes teacher at this school, and she informed me that the Elder Futhark and Futhorc alphabets are still in use in this time, for all sorts of magic." She leant forwards again and gestured towards Sal. "You have raised an interesting point," she told him sternly, "please continue it."
Sal gulped and stared down at the table again. He felt very uncomfortable at being the focus of attention. He fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt, feeling very out of place. He wasn't sure if he should continue speaking, but the prideful part of his mind was quietly thrilled that something that he had said had been considered interesting and important, and it very vainly wanted more of Lady Ravenclaw's praise. Besides, Lady Ravenclaw had ordered him to continue his thought, he thought to himself, and he really should follow her commands…
"Well…" he began slowly, trying to find the best way to voice his thoughts. "Magic is all about intent," Sal knew that one very well. He had learnt that lesson the hard way the first time he had tried, and failed, to cast a blood-boiling curse. He had seen what the curse could do, and his stomach had revolted even before he got the words out. His former master had been displeased. Sal had succeeded the second time; if he hadn't, there wouldn't have been another.
He forced himself to focus on the conversation at hand, and not at the demons that haunted his mind. "P-perhaps it isn't the language that matters, b-but that the spell is written down at all?" Sal asked quietly, his hands still fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, and looked up to see both women staring at him intently. He gulped, and dropped his head, hunching his shoulders. He'd said something stupid, and revealed himself for the uneducated imbecile that he truly was. Now they were going to throw him out, and, once more, Sal would only have himself to blame.
"No, please go on," Lady Hufflepuff encouraged gently. She reached an arm over the table as if to take his hand in her own, but Sal flinched away immediately. He shook his head quickly, and Lady Ravenclaw let out a sigh of exasperation.
"You cannot stop there!" she told him sternly, and he flinched again. "Continue with what you were saying!" Sal risked a quick glance at her face, but she did not look angry at him, instead she looked frustrated and a little sad. Cursing himself internally for being the cause of yet another annoyance, Sal took a deep breath and forced himself to continue, determined to get the whole thing out this time, so long as it would wipe that look from Lady Ravenclaw's face.
"If something is written d-down, it's p-permanent and the writer's th-thoughts are spread to every p-person who reads them," Sal stuttered out quickly. He had always found writing magical, and he did not know how to explain himself to the two brilliant women before him. It had been a struggle to convey quite how he felt about literacy to Hermione, who found her casual comprehension of the written word as mundane as breathing; Colin, however, had understood. Sal took a deep breath and tried to find the words he needed. "Every t-time the message is p-passed on, it is strengthened. P-perhaps writing d-down a sp-spell makes it stronger? Maybe that's why we use certain sp-spells as well, if everyone says 'wingardium leviosa' when they want t-to make an object f-float, eventually just saying the words will make it happen." There was a long moment, after Sal had finished speaking, before he dared to look up. When he finally did, both women were staring at him with wide smiles on their faces.
"That's fascinating," Lady Ravenclaw told him, leaning forwards to pin him with her bright gaze. "I had never thought of it that way before."
Lady Hufflepuff nodded, and started tapping her wand against her cheek again. "But then why is the wand movement so important? In fact, why would we even bother to use spells at all?"
Sal shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly (a terrible habit that he had picked up from Harry). "I d-don't have a wand," he muttered in embarrassment, and felt his cheeks flush, "b-but I can still d-do some magic, it's just a lot weaker."
"That's because the wand acts as a focus for one's magic," Lady Hufflepuff told him kindly. "Without a wand, it's almost impossible to channel one's internal magic into the outside world. The spells just determine what affect the magic has."
"Which only makes the question of intent and repetition even more fascinating, Helga. If the wand movement and spell are incidental and serve only to support the caster's intent then this could open up an entire new line of academic theory. One is taught magic as a series of specific spells and actions; I had never thought that they might not all be necessary, or perhaps not even universal." Lady Ravenclaw gushed with academic enthusiasm and smiled widely at Sal. Lady Hufflepuff was tapping her wand against her cheek with greater force than before and idly singed her curly blond hair with the sparks that shot from it. With a tender smile, Lady Ravenclaw gently pulled her friend's hand away from her cheek, and then she turned back to Sal. "Your theory is truly fascinating…" she began, but stopped abruptly with a blush. "You know, I don't think we ever asked your name?" She looked at Sal, cheeks bright pink with embarrassment. Lady Hufflepuff let out a small gasp, and hid her face in her hands. Sal froze, blushing himself in mortification; he should have thought to introduce himself. That was probably what a proper man would have done; and not simply insinuated himself into their conversations without giving as much as a name.
"It's Sal," he told them quietly, and stared resolutely at the table. He was endlessly glad that all of the peasantry went by a single name. He thought that he would have died from excessive mortification if they'd asked for a father's name that he did not know, and that he would have no right to claim, even if he did.
The table was silent for a long, awkward moment. Sal felt sweat bead at the back of his neck and his hands started to tremble. It was just when he was feeling too tense to stay at the table any longer, and was ready to stutter out his excuses and scurry back to Professor Snape's quarters, when heavy footsteps rang out in the quiet of the library. Sal flinched and froze, not daring to look up, as the footsteps approached them and stopped. The library was silent again for what felt like an eternity, before they were replaced by a voice that made Sal's heart skip a beat in panic.
"Helga? Rowena? What is going on here?" The gruff, low tone, of a young man just on the far side of adolescence, full of command and expectation, was painfully familiar to Sal. It was Lord Gryffindor's son, Lord Godric. Sal sat trembling in sheer terror for a long moment, before his instincts took over. He pushed back his chair and dropped to his knees, bowing as low as he could, as his master's son rounded the table and approached him.
"We were having a perfectly fascinating conversation, Godric dear. I would invite you to join us, but I'm sure there are far more pressing matters for you to attend to – I know those boars don't hunt themselves." Lady Ravenclaw's voice came out sharp and biting from far above Sal's head, and he winced at both the volume and the patronising tone. They were normally very careful to keep their voices low and quiet, in deference to the place of study, but Lady Ravenclaw's sounded far too loud. He half-hoped that the indomitable Madam Pince would storm over to tell them to be quiet, if only so that his impending humiliation would not be audible to the entire damn room.
"What are you doing with this slave?" Lord Godric's voice was equally sharp, and Sal flinched at the anger he heard there. His vision, as he stared at the floor of the library, was growing darker around the edges, and he forced himself to stay focused on the present; it would not do to panic and lose time in the presence of his master's son.
"His name is Sal," Lady Ravenclaw replied indignantly, as if that were not something that she had only learnt herself mere moments ago. "And as I said, we were having a conversation. Now do run along and leave us all alone Godric; this is a place for intelligent conversation and I do tire of repeating myself in futility."
Sal flinched violently at her words. He had no idea how she dared to speak so rudely to Lord Gryffindor's only son and heir, but then he doubted that the consequences of such behaviour were the same for respected ladies and worthless slaves. He knew, however, just who would feel the ramifications of this particular insult to the young noble's dignity. Lord Godric had never outright beaten him before (that task had always been left to others), but Sal had long ago learnt to not to expect consistency, or mercy, from his betters. Sal focused on the feeling of the cold stone against his head and reminded himself that he could take whatever pain was coming- he would have to.
"Rowena, this is unacceptable!" Lord Godric all but hissed. "Do you know what he has done, why my father had to make him a slave? He's dangerous. He could have hurt you! And you, Helga, I expected better from you than this. This is most improper." Sal flinched with every statement, and ground his forehead into the stone floor beneath him, desperately trying to keep himself in the present. There was too much noise. Everything was too loud. His head was pounding, and his lungs were so tight that he could barely breathe. This was it; he was going to die. He was going to die, and it was all because he had been stupid and prideful and had forgotten his place. Because he'd dared to dream that he might have something more than soul-crushing drudgery before him for the rest of his life. He should have known better; a long life of drudgery was a far better fate than a short trip to the noose.
"Godric, you are being ridiculous. Look at him, he's only a boy. I doubt he's look less than four winters younger than the three of us! What possible threat could he bear to us? He doesn't even have a wand," Lady Hufflepuff replied soothingly, and Sal felt a rush of gratitude flood through him. He would never have expected the ladies to stand up for him against their lord's son; ladies and slaves were alike in that regard, they all had to remain aware of who ultimately owned them.
"He could have struck you, knocked you down," Lord Godric replied mulishly, although he sounded a calmer than he had done before Lady Hufflepuff spoke. Sal had no idea what magic had soothed the other man's temper, but wanted to learn it very much.
"Him?" Lady Ravenclaw laughed with disdain. "Look at him, he's all skin and bone, he could hardly strike down a particularly underweight doxie." Sal flushed in humiliation, particularly when Lord Godric huffed out a quiet laugh. He knew he was hardly an impressive physical specimen, but it was not something he ever enjoyed having pointed out to him.
"He was just talking to us, Godric dear," Lady Hufflepuff continued. "Nothing more. He is no threat. In fact, his conversation has been very enlightening. Why not sit with us, and see for yourself?"
There was a long pause, whilst Lord Godric decided what to do; Sal didn't dare breathe as his fate was decided by the three nobles talking over his head.
"As you wish, my lady," the young lord finally replied, and Sal almost sobbed in relief.
Seconds later, heavy boots were clumping towards him. He froze and went limp as a large hand wrapped itself around his arm and yanked him to his feet.
"Stand there." Lord Godric told him sternly. Sal nodded immediately, his eyes firmly focused on his bare toes.
"No Godric," Lady Hufflepuff said quietly. "He sits at the table with us."
"What?" Lord Godric hissed, and the hand around Sal's arm tightened painfully. "He dared to sit in your presence?" Sal flinched as he was shaken harder. He tried to cringe back, but he was held fast.
"Lord Godric, you are making a scene," Lady Ravenclaw said sternly. "Release him and let him sit. If you insist on inflicting your presence upon us, you will at least attempt to behave civilly." Sal flinched again at Lady Ravenclaw's sharp tone. There was a long moment of silence, and then Sal found himself being shoved immediately into his seat. He stared at the surface of the table in shock, shoulders hunched up by his ears. Lord Godric flung himself into the chair next to him, heaving out a disapproving sigh.
"Very well then," Lord Godric intoned curtly. "If the ladies insist."
"We do," Lady Hufflepuff replied with a laugh. Sal risked a quick glance up; the small, blonde lady was staring at him with open concern. His eyes flickered up to meet her own, and she shot him a reassuring smile.
"You need not be concerned," Lady Ravenclaw drawled, eyeing the young lord with open disdain, "Lord Godric here is all bluster; he won't hurt you." Sal almost laughed at the ridiculousness of that statement. Lord Godric was his father's sole heir; he would one day own all of his father's property, Sal included. There was no way that Lord Godric would not hurt him. To think otherwise was ludicrous.
"Why are you here, Godric?" Lady Ravenclaw continued tersely, her eyes fixed on Lord Godric. She reached over and caught Lady Hufflepuff's hand in her own, linking their fingers together tightly, and smiling thinly at the young lord. "You should be outdoors on such a fine day." Sal glanced out of the window; it was tipping down with rain. "Or have you taken up poetry again?" Lady Ravenclaw continued, tone alight with malicious glee, "Helga read your last composition to me; I do believe that it moved me to tears." Lady Ravenclaw's grin was vicious as she spoke, and Lady Hufflepuff sent her a disapproving glance.
"I wished to join your research project," Lord Godric replied quietly, blushing. "My father's temper grows more intolerable the further we are confined to this time, and he to another Lord's homestead. I had hoped for some more…pleasant…company." He had been staring at Sal in open distrust up to that point, apparently ignorant of Lady Ravenclaw's vehement condemnation. But, as he spoke, his eyes flickered over to Lady Hufflepuff.
Lady Ravenclaw smiled, and Sal shivered. It was not a kind smile; it was bright and sharp, fresh from the whetstone, with the promise of blood. "And you assumed that you could assist us?" Lady Ravenclaw's laugh was as cold as the stones beneath Sal's feet.
"More so than a slave, I would assume," Lord Godric retorted sharply, and Sal flinched as the group's attention returned to him.
"That was terribly rude, Godric dear," Lady Ravenclaw replied, after a long moment. Her eyes had not left Lord Godric since the moment he sat down at the table. Lady Hufflepuff sighed and rubbed at her forehead with her free hand. "I think we should ask Sal if he would like you to join us," Lady Ravenclaw continued, her tone light and mocking. "As it was he that you so rudely insulted. What do you think, Sal?"
Sal flinched and stared at the table, as the three nobles all turned to look at him. He got the distinct impression that he was being used as a mere pawn in some longstanding power-play between Lady Ravenclaw and Lord Godric. It was not an unfamiliar position to find himself in, at the mercy of the whims of his betters, and he felt the old fury rise within him. But it was an ancient anger, and one that would not and could not get past his strongly fortified walls of self-restraint. He knew too well what the consequences for speaking his mind would be, and, even if he were capable of ignoring his own sense of self-preservation, he was still far too shaken to speak. He sensed the seconds ticking by, as he shifted nervously in his chair, and he felt altogether far too aware of everything in his surroundings. The soft scrapes as Lord Godric shifted in his chair, the flickering shadows cast by the candlelight on the table, and the ridged surface of the table beneath his shaking hands all felt far too much, far too loud for him to focus properly on his own twisting thoughts. He shook his head softly, and looked to Lady Hufflepuff, desperately hoping (as he rarely allowed himself to) that she might understand what he was trying to convey, and that she might intercede on his behalf. She met his eyes, and smiled at him sadly.
"He's terrified, Rowena," Lady Hufflepuff said quietly, and turned to look at the other two nobles. She unlaced her hand from her friend's grip, crossed her arms, and regarded both of them with a stern look. "You are being unkind again, the both of you. Rowena, stop baiting Godric. Godric, if you wish to join us, you must provide your word that you will not harm Sal for his presence here, or for anything that he may say or do whilst he is with us. You will also need to swear yourself to secrecy about our meetings here; I do not believe that this should go any further than the three of us." Sal blinked in surprise at the commanding tone that had come from the petite lady, and was impressed at the way that she held the attention of Lady Ravenclaw and Lord Godric so well. He had not expected such force to come from such a charming and unassuming young lady. "Those are my terms," she finished with a bright smile, "do you agree?"
"I don't go about beating my father's slaves for fun!" Lord Godric exclaimed noisily. "It pains me greatly that you, of all people, would see me as such a brute, Helga. Aside from which, I can clearly see who had the idea for this latest affront to convention. I can hardly punish him for something he was clearly strong-armed into by Rowena." Sal winced again and peeked at the nobles. Those words sounded very nice; if only he were able to believe them.
"Then you will have no problem making such a vow, will you, Godric?" Lady Hufflepuff asked sweetly, and Sal felt a chill run down his spine. He sensed very strongly that he would never, ever, want to cross Lady Hufflepuff.
Lord Godric gaped openly for a long moment, before he shook his head slowly, as if in shock. A slow smile crept over his face as he regarded Lady Hufflepuff with obvious affection. He let out a low chuckle and bowed his head graciously.
Lady Ravenclaw leaned over abruptly, and gently stroked Lady Hufflepuff's hair; her eyes were again fixed on Lord Godric, almost as if in challenge. There was a strange expression on her face, and Sal's mind took a moment to supply him with the proper description for such a look: jealous. Lady Ravenclaw was jealous. Sal's own eyes widened in comprehension, and he cursed himself for being a complete dullard. Suddenly so many things made sense about the two ladies. The lingering glances and touches, the effortless synchronicity and wordless communication that they had with each other, and the viciousness with which Lady Ravenclaw treated Lord Godric. Sal was an idiot. He had spent the first eight-or-so years of his life (his age was, and would always be, a mystery to him) sharing a small hovel with his mother. There had been an endless stream of both men and women in and out of their door, up until the day that she died. It wasn't as if he had ever been unaware that such relationships existed, or that he particularly cared that they did, so really he should have noticed sooner. He glanced at Lady Ravenclaw in shock. She turned to meet his gaze, and seemed startled at whatever she had read there. She dropped her hand from Lady Hufflepuff's hair so quickly that is was almost as if she had been burnt.
A short cough broke through Sal's moment of realisation, and he spun back to face his master's son in shock.
"I give my word, on my honour and my magic," Lord Godric rattled off quickly, "that I shall not needlessly harm my father's slave, Sal, or punish him for anything that he says or does in these meetings, so long as he does not attempt to hurt or harm either Lady Ravenclaw or Lady Hufflepuff. I also swear not to tell another living soul what transpires within these meetings, so long as no harm shall come to another as a consequence of my secrecy." Lord Godric looked at Lady Hufflepuff, and smiled again. "Will that do, sweet Helga?"
The vow was made quickly and assuredly, without hesitation. Sal looked at the other man, but he did not seem to have reached the same conclusions that Sal had about Lady Ravenclaw and Lady Hufflepuff. Either the other man already knew, or he was painfully unaware of the situation. Sal suspected that it was the latter.
"Is that sufficient?" Lady Hufflepuff turned to Sal and smiled at him. Sal nodded immediately, although it was only a few moments later that his thoughts finally caught up to what had been spoken, and he realised just what his master's son had promised to him. Lord Godric had all but granted Sal amnesty for anything he said or did, for as long as these research sessions lasted. The sole stipulation was that Sal would not cause harm to the ladies, which was an idea that would never have even entered into his mind. The only price for such a privilege was that Lord Godric would join their daily meetings. Sal was not at all thrilled about the other wizard intruding upon his time with the two ladies, but he was too in shock that he could essentially say or do as he pleased in the presence of his master's son to truly care. Sal was a cynic and normally prone to extreme amounts of pessimism, but even he knew what that oath had meant. Lord Godric was a man of honour, his word was his bond, and he had promised that Sal would not be harmed. Even if Sal were feeling particularly distrustful, the other wizard had sworn on his magic; that was not an oath that one could break and survive.
"I don't know why you want him here," Lord Godric stated, his brow drawn in confusion. "But I will not question your terms, Helga."
Sal felt the years-old anger flare to life, and he curled his hands into fists. It was difficult to have to swallow down the humiliation and the pain at being underestimated, or ignored, or openly disdained, time and time again. It grated on him and reminded him painfully of his subservient state. But not this time, a small and wondering thought chimed, from the back of his head. This time, he didn't have to roll over and submit like a beaten dog; he could speak up. Lord Godric had sworn on his magic that he could. The thought made Sal giddy with a strange mix of fear and awe. The part of him that remembered beatings and pain and fear, told him desperately to sit still and shut up. But the louder, more overwhelming part of his mind- the one that still remembered what it was like to be free, that cringed in self-loathing at his flinches and his fearful stutter- urged him to say something. He felt his control slipping as he felt the growing urge to push the boundaries and find out how far this new freedom really went, if it was truly there at all. Deciding that he would forever hate himself if he let even the potential for some kind of freedom slip away from him, Sal spoke up.
"P-perhaps they f-find my conversation interesting," Sal he stated quickly, before his nerves failed him. He froze and waited in blank terror for the consequences of his defiance. His mind unhelpfully reminded him that those were probably the first words that he had spoken to Lord Godric that had not been some variation of "yes", "no", or "sir". Lord Godric let out a sharp laugh, and Sal flinched.
"You're braver than I thought," the older wizard said ruefully, "I'll give you that." He smiled and cuffed Sal gently on the arm. Sal flinched, and then froze in wonder when the blow did not fall. He timidly looked up to see a considering look on the young lord's face. "I must confess to discover quite what about you has so caught the attention of these two brilliant ladies." Lord Godric smiled brightly at Lady Hufflepuff, and Sal let out a long breath in relief. He forced himself to meet the other wizard's eye and nod in reply. His hands were shaking, but he managed it, and felt inexplicably proud of himself for that one small action. Lady Hufflepuff shot him a small, gentle smile of reassurance, and Sal felt all of the energy flood from his body. It was as if someone had fed him a Sleeping Draught; all of the panic had fled from his body leaving his mind exhausted and his limbs feeling unnaturally heavy. Lady Hufflepuff's brow wrinkled in concern, and she watched him for a long moment. Nodding slowly to Sal as if she had reached some kind of conclusion, she gently touched Lord Godric's arm and rose to her feet. Both Sal and Lord Godric immediately jumped to their own in response.
"I suddenly feel very tired. Would you be so kind as to escort me back to my rooms, Godric?" Lady Hufflepuff asked quietly, putting her hand to her forehead, as if she were about to swoon. Sal thought that the gesture was a little overdone, but Lord Godric rushed to her side in concern, linking her arm in his.
"Of course, Helga my dear, all of this discord must have upset you. We shall commence our research tomorrow, if you are feeling well." He bowed a courteous farewell to Lady Ravenclaw and stared awkwardly between her and Sal; just as Lord Godric was about to say something, Lady Hufflepuff made as if to faint again, and his attention snapped back to her. Within moments, he was ushering her away towards the exit, murmuring quiet and reassuring phrases. Just before they turned the corner out of sight, Lady Hufflepuff looked over her shoulder and shot a reassuring smile at Sal and a wink at Lady Ravenclaw. Seconds later, they were gone.
Sal was left standing awkwardly next to the table, unsure if he should really be alone with Lady Ravenclaw, yet not wanting to leave her presence without a dismissal. She regarded him for a long moment, whilst he tried very hard to keep his hands from fidgeting nervously, before she gestured for him to sit.
"You have finally realised about Helga and myself," she told him bluntly, and he looked up in shock. He had not been expecting to have this conversation, at all. He nodded slowly, and she let out a long, shaky breath. "And what are you planning to do with this information?" she asked him quietly. She was obviously trying to convey the cold and aloof tone, with which she had spoken to Lord Godric, but she did not quite succeed; Sal could hear her voice catch and shake.
"I…wasn't, m'lady," he told her quietly. She blinked and stared at him in open confusion. Sal knew that look, it was the one he saw in the mirror when he had given Professor Snape every reason to beat him for being idiotic, and yet the older man had not. It was the look of shock that came when someone chose not to hurt him when they so very easily could. He hated that he had been the one to put it on her face.
"You will not inform your master?" she asked him, very quietly, and Sal froze for a long moment. He knew what she was asking. He really, really ought to inform his master that something so heretical wass going on under his roof, but Sal did not really have the inclination. Lord Gryffindor owned his body, not his mind. Sal privately thought that his master was foolish if he expected loyalty from someone that he could sell at a market, like livestock. Even the best trained dog would bite, if kicked too often. He met her eyes and shook his head.
"No, m'lady," he told her very seriously. "I will not."
She studied his face for a long moment, before giving him a short nod.
"And…you do not think we are…" she trailed off, clearly unable to say whatever word she was thinking of.
He let out a short, bitter laugh, and glanced at the table. He was amazed that she seemed so concerned about his good opinion; he was only a slave, what did it matter what he thought?
"I do not care m'lady. And I do not think any ill of either of you," he smiled self-deprecatingly and met her eyes again. "I should hardly be one to judge you, m'lady." He surprised himself by how honest he was being, and the fact that his words did not stutter once.
Her eyes widened with shock, and she tapped out a slow rhythm on the table with one long finger. "Are you…?" she asked him quietly, eyes darting from his face to the table top and back again.
Sal started at the unexpected question. "No. I don't know. I … I don't know what I am," Sal replied honestly. "It hardly matters anyway. It's not as if I'll ever marry. I'm a slave. And I don't want to father some bastard child who winds up like m…" He cut himself off, cheeks flushing bright red with embarrassment, surprised at what he had just confessed. She thankfully looked away and allowed him a moment to recover himself. He waited until he felt the blood being to fade from his cheeks before he continued. "It is not a pleasant thing, to be trapped, to be unable to be who you truly are, m'lady." Sal had not been so forward with another person in a long time, but vulnerability was a great leveller. He found that it was surprisingly easy to speak to Lady Ravenclaw when he could see her as just a fellow human in distress, as opposed to the elegant, intelligent lady he had always seen her as. She smiled at him, and it was the softest smile that he had seen on her face that had had not been directed to Lady Hufflepuff.
"Call me Rowena," she told him quietly, and he nodded his acceptance.
It was two days before spring term was due to commence, and Severus Snape was in a particularly awful mood. For once, however, it was not the anticipation of the imminent return of hundreds of over-excited students that had soured his thoughts. His day had started off abysmally, when one of his potions experiments had exploded in his face and nearly singed his eyebrows off; it had then grown substantially worse when he found Mrs Norris skulking around his office, tail dripping black and the contents of an upturned ink pot spilling all over his parchment and spitting down onto his floor. It had transformed, however, into the truly monumentally atrocious day that it was, just twenty minutes prior, when Lord Gryffindor's oaf of a servant had shown up to his quarters and demanded that Sal be returned to his master's service.
Severus had taken one look at the boy's pure-white face and had tried everything within his power to stop such a thing from happening. He had protested that he needed help to produce the headmaster's potions. That was a lie, as Severus had enough stock held under a preservation charm by that point to see the headmaster through to Easter, and had actually stopped asking for Sal to complete any specific chores back when the school had broken up for Christmas, but it was a convenient enough excuse. Dunstan's resolve, however, had remained unshakeable. Severus had then invented a dozen other pieced of busywork that he professed to need the boy to help him with, but that had not worked either. He had finally objected that Sal had not been any trouble for him, and had in fact been excessively useful. Dunstan had scoffed at that, but refrained from outright calling him a liar. Severus would not have taken that well at all, even if it weren't painfully true. Severus told Sal very firmly that he would like his help again soon. He hoped that the boy understood that he meant that he would try and get him back from his vile master as soon as he could, but Severus knew that they boy still did not completely trust him.
As soon as Sal had reached the door with slow, reluctant footsteps, Dunstan had yanked Sal harshly toward him, by his arm. Snape had called upon years of practise watching people tortured at the feet of the Dark Lord to not react and curse the man into oblivion. It was far harder than not stepping in for the muggles had been. He had clamped his lips together in a thin line, as Dunstan had turned to him, a strange look on his face. "Don't know what worth you see in the boy," he had said, as he stood in the threshold, "he's a useless scrawny little shit, but who am I to judge. If you want him again soon, I'll see what I can do. But this is the Lord's orders." He had spoken with familiarity and camaraderie, even as he dragged Sal along by the arm, and Snape had stopped breathing, for a long moment, from sheer rage. Seconds later, the door had closed behind Dunstan, and Severus had let his temper loose. He had blasted his spare chair and half of his potions ingredients into smithereens. He'd also set the spoiled parchment on fire with a vicious snarl, and hatefully watched it burn into cinders. After a couple of minutes, when all that was left of what had previously been his January lesson plans was a small pile of ashes and the lingering scent of smoke in the air, Severus had cast a reparo or two, and set his office to rights. He had then stormed straight up to the headmaster's office.
It was there that he now found himself, glaring down at the headmaster. Dumbledore was sat calmly, as always, behind his desk, peering at Severus through his damned half-moon spectacles. He had listened to Severus's account of the interaction in silence, and had waited for the younger man to rant himself to a stop before he began to speak.
"There is nothing that we can do, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly, and Severus felt his blood boil once more. He had heard a rumour, passed from Minerva to Filius to Pomona and then to him, that Potter had destroyed most of the headmaster's office after the debacle at the Ministry last summer. Severus balked at sharing anything in common with Potter's spawn, but he understood the compulsion to smash the headmaster's belongings very deeply in that moment.
"Did you not hear me correctly, Headmaster?" Severus replied coolly. "He was removed from my care on Lord Gryffindor's orders. Surely you can intercede with him on the boy's behalf?"
Dumbledore sighed deeply, and helped himself to a sherbet lemon from the desk. He had long since given up on offering Severus his muggle sweets, for which Severus was grudgingly grateful.
"I understand that you have come to care for the boy, Severus. But I am afraid that I cannot help. In fact, I believe that I may have been the cause for the young man's removal."
Severus kept his face carefully blank. "How so?" He asked.
Dumbledore sighed again, and reached up to rub the bridge of his nose with a single, gnarled finger; he looked very tired. Severus refused to feel guilty, as he was hardly underworked himself.
"Please sit down, Severus," Dumbledore told him as he ceased rubbing at his eyes, and righted his glasses. Severus sat, and waited patiently for his explanation. Dumbledore winced.
"My apologies, my boy. I know that you are concerned for the boy, and my dallying is hardly helpful." The headmaster smiled wryly at him; Severus nodded curtly, and the older man sighed. "Well then, I suppose I must begin at the heart of the issue: some discord has arisen between myself and Lord Gryffindor. These past weeks, he and his retinue have concerned themselves with the matter of returning to their own world; they have not made any substantial progress in this area." Severus grimaced; he had been expecting some form of progress to have been made. "Lord Gryffindor has instead elected to dedicate his time to discovering as much about our time as possible." Dumbledore paused for a long moment.
"You assured me that would not be a problem," Severus reminded him, "or have you changed your mind? Are we to expect countless problems now that these time-travellers have begun to truly learn about our world?" His tone was as caustic as the Scouring Solution that he'd be using on his office floor later that evening, but the headmaster did not react.
"No, Severus, I am still certain that the presence of these people will not have any effect whatsoever upon our world. It is another concern that troubles me." The headmaster sighed, and Severus raised an eyebrow, indicating for the older man to continue. "Lord Gryffindor has found out about Voldemort."
Severus studied the headmaster for a long moment. "I do not see how this causes a problem," he replied. "I have come to understand that the great Lord Gryffindor has a strong aversion to dark magic of any kind. I highly doubt that he will take the Dark Mark." Severus sneered the name of Sal's so-called master; his loathing for that man and his minions was so great it was almost tangible.
"Lord Gryffindor considers himself a powerful dark-wizard catcher," Dumbledore replied quietly. Severus paused and allowed all the implications of that statement to sink in.
"He wishes to take on the Dark Lord," Severus stated finally, and Dumbledore nodded.
"Directly. In a duel," the headmaster told him, and Severus let out a huff of bitter laughter.
"Then let him," Severus replied, completely sincerely, "he can tear himself apart trying when he experiences the Dark Lord's version of 'fair play'. At least then there would be some kind of justice reaped upon that odious man." He all but spat out the last statement, and Dumbledore regarded him with disappointment.
"That is beneath you, my boy," the headmaster replied sternly, and the tight grip that Severus had maintained on his temper collapsed.
"Beneath me? Do you have any idea how that man has been treating Sal?" Severus stood from his chair and began pacing the room. "The boy flinches at every movement I make. He's nothing more than skin and bones. He can barely string a sentence together without stuttering in terror, and I know that he can do so. I had to dose the boy with Calming Draught to bring him out of a panic attack and when he was still half-delirious from the solution, he was incredibly sarcastic towards me. He didn't stutter once. I know for a fact that he doesn't remember that, or I think he'd have fainted the moment he saw me, the next day." Severus had been growing louder and louder when he spoke, so that his last few words were all but shouted at the headmaster.
Dumbledore's face had grown chalk white, and his eyes held a quiet fury. Severus refrained from scoffing. The headmaster could feel all the righteous indignation that he liked; they both knew that he would not do anything about the situation, not when it would hinder the Greater Good. It was one of the greatest issues that Severus had with the older man. "It is that bad?" Dumbledore asked quietly, and this time Severus could not hold back his scoff.
"Bad? The boy has one pair of clothing, and walks around barefoot. I offered to buy him new clothes and he hid in his room for hours afterwards." Severus spat, taking a sadistic delight in the way that his words were clearly affecting the headmaster. "He's incredibly intelligent, he's picking up theory at a rate that is terrifying to behold, and yet he cannot read and write. He has panic attacks every other day and he's lifted his head so rarely that I couldn't even tell you the colour of his eyes, and I've been sharing my quarters with the boy!" There was more, so much more that he could say, but he doubted that it would do Sal any good. Dumbledore's face had assumed that regretful frown that meant he was going to do something that Severus wouldn't like, but that he would feel very bad about it afterwards.
"I am sorry then, my boy," Dumbledore began, "but I believe that I have only made things worse for him." He sighed and stared down at his hands. "I have refused to allow Lord Gryffindor to seek out Voldemort in an open duel. I cannot condone sending a man to his death, when I know the truth of the prophecy." The headmaster looked up to meet Severus's eyes. "I believe that he has revoked the use of his slave as a means of retaliation." Dumbledore's eyes flashed bright blue, and his tone grew much more biting. "A petty gesture, perhaps, but I sense that Lord Gryffindor is a man that is used to getting his own way. I believe that he feels it is his religious duty to rid the world of dark magic and all its users." Severus raised his eyebrows at that; zealotry of any sort had long since turned his stomach, and there were countless witches and wizards who dabbled in a bit of petty dark magic. Severus wondered just how many would be condemned by Lord Gryffindor's exacting standards.
"So this is petty revenge?" Severus spat back in annoyance. "And you will not challenge him." It was not a question; he knew that the headmaster had long since made his decision.
"I am sorry, my boy."
"He does not even have a wand, Albus," Severus shot back. He was still disgusted by that particular abuse. He could not imagine life without his wand, living like a muggle when there was a world of possibly just out of reach. He frowned in irritation and addressed the headmaster again. "His master won't even let him use his magic."
Dumbledore did not reply. He sat silently, his eyes shadowed and distant. After a long moment, he spoke. His voice was hesitant, and it crackled as he spoke, betraying both his age and the ravaging effects that the curse was enacting upon his body. "That may be for the best," Dumbledore said slowly. "We do not need another Dark Lord to contend with, my boy. We must not forget who this child will become. We ought not to arm him prematurely."
Severus stared at the man who had rescued him from a life sentence in Azkaban, who had thought the best of him time and time again, no matter how copious the reasons that Severus had provided to the contrary, and did not recognise him. The Albus Dumbledore sat in front of him looked old and tired, and far too unforgiving for a man who had always advocated forgiveness above all.
"He's a child," Severus said slowly, "a terrified child who is so desperate for affection and approval that he looks to me for such things." Severus met the headmaster's eyes. "He is not about to become a dark lord!"
"You may well be right," Dumbledore told him quietly. "But if he is not? Lord Gryffindor has informed me that Sal trained under a dark wizard for a number of years. He is no stranger to dark magic, my boy. Can the world survive two dark lords? I am dying, Severus, and when I am gone, the outcome of this war will fall on young Harry's shoulders. I will not increase his burdens needlessly, not when those he carries are already so great."
"So you will do nothing?" Severus asked quietly. "I had thought, perhaps, that you would sympathise. The boy made a terrible decision in his youth, yes, but he was, and still is, a child. He found an approach to magic, an ideology, that he thought would help him, only to find out it was fickle and full of false promises." Severus forced himself to keep his mind away from the bitter memories of his early years as a Death Eater, when wielding power and inflicting fear had made him feel superior, made him feel like he belonged, before a half-heard prophecy and a terrible mistake had sent it all crumbling down around his heels. Dumbledore had gone very white indeed, and reached over to touch the blackened skin of his cursed arm.
The headmaster did not answer him, but he did not need to. Severus knew that, yet again, nothing would be done. He concluded that he must find a way, again, to help the boy on his own. He stood swiftly from his chair and swept out of the office, slamming the door behind him. He left Dumbledore still sat at his desk, alone with only his thoughts and the stirrings of faint, mournful notes of Phoenix song.
Harry had been back at Hogwarts for less than a day, and he was already making a total arse of himself in public. He was standing awkwardly in the Advanced Arithmancy section of the library, map clutched in his left hand, and an Extendable Ear in his right. He had been waiting for an opportunity to check up on Sal ever since he got back to the castle, and had finally found a spare minute to track him down in the library. Ron had told him that the Sal would be fine, but Harry had to make sure for himself. Christmas could be a very bad time; Harry knew that. There was too much expenditure, too much alcohol, and too much emotion. He needed to make sure that Sal was okay. He also wanted to see how Sal had been getting on living with Snape. When the other boy had first told him that he was going to live and study with the grumpy former potions master, Harry had felt nauseous at the thought. His own experience of private lessons with Snape had left him exhausted, with a splitting headache, feeling as if his mind had been torn to shreds. He doubted that Sal's basic magic lessons would have been quite so intense, but he would not put anything past Snape.
Harry also felt rather guilty, as he had barely thought about the other boy since the disaster that was Slughorn's Christmas party. His thoughts had been too occupied with whatever Malfoy was up to, and then he had been swept up in the madness that was Christmas at the Burrow. He had been feeling distracted when Percy and the Minister showed up and then quickly departed in a huff on Christmas day, and he had barely spared a thought to the time-travellers still at Hogwarts for the rest of the holidays. Harry reminded himself that he should know better, and that he was the one who had told the others that they needed to keep an eye on Sal. He had spent the first morning back nervously praying that Sal would be alright, with a fervour that matched Ron's yearly ritualistic end-of-season pleas that the Cannons wouldn't finish last for once. So when he finally got a spare minute, he had grabbed the map to search for Sal. He had spotted that single, short name entering the library, and had rushed off to intercept it, with a hastily muttered "Mischief managed". Harry had bounded into the deserted corner of the library, expecting the other boy to be alone, and had been forced to quickly duck behind a bookcase when he saw that Sal was not.
Harry had not wanted to intrude on the conversation, as he had no idea what that might mean for Sal, and had cursed himself for not checking the map properly before leaving the common room. He had therefore reconciled himself to waiting, wandering aimlessly amongst the tall shelves until Sal had a free minute. Harry was loitering, he knew that, but his curiosity was nagging at him, and he really wanted to know who Sal was talking to, and what about. He had been attempting to look inconspicuous, pretending to be interested in 'Numerology: first principles of the astral plane' for over five minutes, and had received some very odd looks from Terry Boot for his efforts. When the Ravenclaw had finally finished selecting his books from the shelves, and stumbled off to a table, wand clasped between his teeth and arms stacked high with dusty tomes, Harry was finally left alone. He carefully situated himself at the edge of the shelf, and peered round the corner. Sal was sat at a table with Lord Godric Gryffindor and two ladies whom Harry had not yet seen. He frowned and examined Sal carefully. He was sat listening to the thin brown-haired woman talk at an exceptionally fast speed, with a small half-smile on his face. He didn't seem tense or nervous around Gryffindor, but Harry knew well enough that it was easy to plaster on a fake, polite smile when necessary.
The woman finished speaking and the other, blonde woman laughed loudly at whatever she had said. Sal turned his head to acknowledge her, and Harry caught sight of a deep purple bruise on the side of his face. His stomach dropped to his feet, and he forced himself to quash down the instinctive rage that rose within him. He looked Sal over once again; the other boy seemed to be holding himself very stiffly, as if something had happened to his ribs. Harry's wand was in his hand before his brain had fully processed his rage. He was just about to step out and curse the lot of them, when Sal's face broke in to a wide grin, pulling him up short. It was a fleeting expression, and gone almost as soon as it was there, but it made Harry stop and reassess the situation. He had perhaps jumped to conclusions.
Fidgeting with the Extendable Ear in his palm, Harry weighed up his conscience against his curiosity. Seconds later, he placed the listening device in his ear and started as the voices came through loud and clear. Harry knew that this was eavesdropping, and that he really shouldn't be doing it, but he couldn't help himself. He felt like he had a responsibility to Sal, and he couldn't help anyone if he didn't know exactly what was going on. His mind bitterly reminded him of the summer before fifth year and the agony that had been not knowing what Voldemort was up to, not knowing whether or not that madman had been seconds away from murdering another person that Harry cared about. He shook his head and reminded himself that it was all for the cause of helping Sal. Besides, most of the things that Harry had learnt in his life had been through eavesdropping, through listening in on conversations and watching the lives of others to study how to copy and mirror their actions. Tying his shoelaces had come from watching Aunt Petunia patiently teach Dudley in the front hall, as had putting on gloves in winter, and sun cream in summer. He'd learnt how to judge the moods of others through half-distorted conversations and the pounding of heavy feet overheard through the door to the cupboard under the stairs. Finally, and most recently, he'd learnt what a genuinely loving family looked like, by watching the Weasleys. Harry was very good at following an example. When asking questions was out of the question, Harry thought wryly to himself, one had to find other ways to figure stuff out. Not that his method didn't have its flaws; he'd gone for seven years of his life thinking Timbuktu was a mythical place, before someone had shoved an atlas in his face. But then again, he'd also gone eleven years thinking that magic didn't exist…
Harry shook himself forcibly out of his thoughts, and tuned into the conversation that was pouring into his ear.
"I just don't understand it!" the brown-haired witch was complaining. "It doesn't make any sense!" She looked over at the blond-haired woman, who patted her arm sympathetically. Harry sensed that this was a common theme of conversation by the way that Gryffindor rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"There, there, Rowena," the shorter witch replied. "You'll figure it out in no time. You always do."
Harry whacked his head painfully on the bookcase, as he reared back in surprise. She had just said "Ravenclaw". That was just fucking insane. He cursed quietly, rubbing at the lump that was already forming on the back of his head. That lady, he thought with a slight edge of hysteria, was Rowena Ravenclaw, which could only make the other one…
"No, Helga", Ravenclaw replied. Harry let out a quiet breath, his suspicions confirmed. He didn't know why he was so shocked; he'd known that the Founders were at Hogwarts, but somewhere between their arrival and that particular moment, he kind of had just accepted it. He suspected that the fact that no one had seen hide nor hair of them since they'd arrived had helped him just push them to the back of his mind. Some part of him had reconciled the idea that the Founders were there, just that they were out of sight, but it was incredibly shocking to be confronted with the reality of flesh and blood people before him. He blinked, shaking his head, and took a deep breath, tuning back in to the conversation.
"…think, there's no way we could have moved forwards so far in time!" Ravenclaw was leaning forwards, glaring at Godric Gryffindor, who looked incredibly awkward. "It doesn't follow any of the theories from our own or this time in regards to time travel. It just shouldn't have happened. I don't understand it." Harry gulped at the thought of that, and tried not to think how strange it was to hear the mythical Rowena Ravenclaw profess ignorance of something.
"Could something have interfered with your spell?" Hufflepuff asked thoughtfully. She was tapping her wand against her cheek, an intense look on her face.
"Perhaps another force? Something from this time?" Harry was shocked to hear Sal speak up, and doubly surprised to hear the boy speak without his stutter. As far as Harry had observed, he only did that when he was comfortable around people, such as in their reading lessons. It had also taken several sessions for Sal to reach that level of security and trust with Harry, Hermione, Colin, and Ginny, and he wondered just how frequently Sal had been meeting with the three founders. His suspicions only grew when Ravenclaw turned to Sal with a wry grin, and spoke to him very familiarly.
"I thought of that, but the sheer amount of magic that it would take to move so many of us so far through time is inconceivable. Unless time itself ran wild and crashed into my spell, there is no reasonable way this could have happened."
"Or we are at the whim of Providence, and it was the interference of the Almighty himself." Lord Godric pointed out with a grin.
"I thought you said 'reasonable'," Sal remarked to Ravenclaw, under his breath. Harry's breath caught, but Gryffindor did not seem to have noticed that Sal had spoken. Ravenclaw, however, shot him an amused smirk in return. She let out a loud, irritated sigh and turned to regard Gryffindor with a stern expression.
"Do not look for the divine in the profane, Godric. This is all my doing, and I intend to find out just what I have done." Ravenclaw told Gryffindor firmly. Gryffindor nodded curtly, and shifted slightly in his seat. He looked very much like a scolded child, and Harry's errant imagination immediately threw up an image of a red-faced Gryffindor sat in detention with McGonagall. He nearly laughed out loud, but stopped himself at the last minute. He continued to listen in as the conversation moved away to some teasing remarks about Gryffindor and poetry. Harry watched them all talking with a grin on his face. It was so bizarre to see the Founders sat causally in the library, taking the piss out of each other, like he and his friends did all the time. He was also pleased to note that Sal seemed genuinely happy amongst them, which was great, because Harry would have been properly pissed off to find that the school's Founders were bastards. Well, the three that mattered, and who didn't go round stuffing giant killer snakes into the piping, anyway.
The conversation moved onto some point about casting spells in different languages, which went straight over Harry's head, but he was pleased to see that Sal seemed genuinely engaged in the discussion, and was contributing quiet observations every now and then with a strange gleam in his eyes. Harry knew that look; it was the look of sheer surprise and awe he had always worn before Hogwarts, whenever anyone included him in a game of tag, a shared secret, in something, in anything, just for once.
Harry put the Extendable Ear away, satisfied that Sal was okay and sensing that the other boy would be occupied for a while. He paused for a moment, watching the Founders sat in the middle of the Hogwarts library, and felt a strange tingle trip its way down his spine. The sheer passion in their academic discussion, and the respect with which they all spoke to one another was incredible. Looking at the four of them together, he could see why they would want to open a school. He could see how they could one day build an institution what was the closest thing to a home that Harry had ever known. Harry smiled to himself and turned to head back to the common room, when that last train of thought brought him up sharply. He'd just thought of the Founders as 'the four of them'. That didn't make any sense, unless… He whipped back around to stare at the group for a long moment, and then closed his eyes in abject humiliation.
He turned and thwacked his forehead against the heavy wood of the bookshelf next to him, and bit back a groan at his own unrelenting stupidity. Harry ground his brow further into the shelf, using the pain to push back the rising swell of mortification, as his brain rushed at an unforgiving pace, reassessing conversation after conversation and image after image. It all made sense: why he had appeared with the Founders, why Snape and Malfoy were so interested in him; the slave boy from the kitchens was Salazar Slytherin. Harry groaned quietly to himself again. His name was fucking Sal, for fuck's sake. How had he not seen that?
Then, through the deep rush of embarrassment, came an icy thrill of dread. If Sal was really Slytherin himself, then what did that mean? Had all of this been an act? Wasn't Slytherin meant to be a pureblood prick just like Malfoy? Had he been playing Harry and his friends all along? Had he only been pretending to be weak and vulnerable in order to get closer to them? Harry's temper flared and he squashed down the cold kernel of betrayal that grew in his chest. Sal, no - that would be Salazar - had probably been off with Malfoy having a great laugh at them all. They had probably spent hours in the dungeons with Snape having a right laugh at how easy it was to get the stupid, noble Gryffindors to trust him. Harry frowned and tried to think objectively. It was no use letting his hurt feelings cloud his judgement. For all he knew, he could have simply jumped to conclusions. There was a deep certainty at the back of his mind, however, that told him that he was right.
Harry took a deep breath, and spun on his heel. He shoved the map deep into his pocket and stormed out of the library. He needed to talk to Ron and Hermione.
That's all folks. Next chapter should be up in a couple of weeks, work permitting.
Please read and review, and let me know if you enjoyed this.