Hi All, thank you so much for reading and reviewing! To everyone who's stuck with me so far: thank you. To anyone new: welcome!
Specific TWs this chapter for the aftermath of a whipping/ physical abuse, and for the discussion of abuse. Also TW for injury and blood. As usual, there is nothing graphic, but it is there. This chapter also explores the psychological impact of trauma and abuse quite a bit, so please be aware of that before reading.
Please let me know what you think, I've got the next chapter ready to be edited, so I should have that up within the next day or so. But, until then, enjoy!
Sal woke up slowly and painfully. Awareness crept from the back of his mind like a limping dog, drawing him tortuously – step by step – back into the world of the living. He felt sluggish and empty. The light, when he managed to pry his eyes open, was far too bright. He closed them tightly against the burning, as his stomach churned and black spots danced across the backs of his eyelids. He was lying on his front; his left arm was pinned uncomfortably against his body and his right was thrown up to his face to shield his eyes. It was too bright; it had to be late. His throat was very dry, and his tongue felt too big to sit behind his teeth. He wetted his lips; there was a strong metallic taste to his mouth. He shifted slightly and noticed that he was lying on something soft. With a dim sense of horror, he realised that he was sprawled on a pile of blankets, on top of the bed in his small room. His back throbbed fiercely, and he choked back a sob. Sal slowly remembered what had happened: he'd been flogged.
He moved carefully, shifting his arm out from under him. He forced himself to focus on the tingling pain in his hand, as blood rushed back to his fingertips. That was good. That was manageable. That wasn't the bite of leather crashing down again and again and… Sal tore his thoughts away from the memories of the night before, trying to bring back the dull detachment that he'd awoken with, but it was no good. His eyes burned fiercely, and his chest ached almost as much as his back. His mind kept replaying the same awful moments over and over; he desperately tried to remind himself that it was over, that he was safe. He sniffed once, sharply, and then again, trying to convince his treacherous mind to believe itself; but, despite his best efforts, his heart still pounded fiercely. Sal opened his eyes again, wincing as they steadily adjusted to the brightness of the room. Nothing looked out of place; he was, thankfully, alone. The curtains had not been drawn the night before, and the sun shone brightly through the window on the far wall, in pure defiance of the pale frost that coated the glass pane like moss on stone. It was going to be a cold, but beautiful, day. Sal burrowed his face deep into the blankets and started to cry.
He didn't know how long he was left alone for, but he was grateful for the reprieve. He let himself sob until the pressure in his chest subsided and his breaths were coming in deep, shuddering gasps. He had never been a silent crier, no matter how many people had tried to beat it into him, and he was glad that Filch hadn't heard and come to accost him. He was usually granted a couple of days to recover after a particularly bad whipping, but he didn't know if he'd be that lucky this time around. Fate had not shown Her favour to Sal in years.
He'd passed out in Filch's office the night before, hanging from the chains on the wall that Dunstan had dragged him to and strung him up in. He had no idea how long the whipping had lasted before he'd fainted, or how long it continued once he was unconscious. He felt faintly sick, wondering who had taken him down and put him on the bed – or why. He was not normally permitted to use the furniture. Sal was lying shirtless, and the air was cool against his inflamed skin. Dunstan had forced the rough material over his head the night before, with a promise that Sal would feel the full bite of the whip. He'd kept his word; Sal had only lasted two blows before he'd started to scream. Sal tried not to think about that memory too much – or what it meant that, despite the pain and humiliation, he was still pathetically grateful not to have ruined his shirt.
Sal stayed in the same place for most of the day, anxious that Filch would storm in at any minute and berate him for his laziness, but in far too much pain to motivate himself to move without any immediate cause. By the time nightfall came and the room fell dark around him, Sal was hungry enough to push himself out of bed and wincingly make his way out of his room. Before heading to Filch's kitchen, he stopped off in the bathroom, deliberately keeping his gaze away from the door that led to the office. He did not want to think about that room.
The bathroom itself was an oddity that Filch had introduced him to on their first day together. There was a heavy, stone tub for bathing the full body, which Sal was instructed to do daily (much to his bemusement) and another, smaller basin for washing the hands and face. There was also a seat made from a strange stone, the use of which Filch had been forced to explain, blushing fiercely at Sal's confused questions. The whole room utilised some incredible magic that made water appear and disappear at the turn of a metal tap. Sal had even discovered that a couple of the taps gave out hot water, on demand and in large amounts. That was, quite frankly, one of the most miraculous things he'd ever seen. He knew that he probably wasn't meant to use the hot water, but Filch hadn't expressly forbidden it, so Sal took advantage of it every chance he got.
Sal hurried into the bathroom as quickly as his sore body allowed, the hollow ache in his stomach reminding him of the need for haste, and filled the basin with lukewarm water. He took a deep breath and turned to examine his back in the long mirror on the wall. The mirror let out a shriek and started blabbering at him about hospitals and healers, calling him "dear" a remarkable number of times. Sal wasn't really sure what all the fuss was about; the skin had only been broken in a few places and although there was blood, it wasn't much. He would scar again, of course, but not too badly. He was covered in welts and thin, black bruises from neck to waist, but those would fade. All in all, it could have been a lot worse. He shot the mirror a confused look and grabbed a small cloth to wipe away the dried blood. One wound was oozing slowly, and he forced himself to push down against it with the damp cloth until the bleeding stopped. He would need to dress the cuts with a poultice, before they became diseased, but he didn't think he'd need to have them stitched –thankfully. He hatched stitches. He dunked the cloth back in the sink and rinsed it until he washed away the last traces of blood. He then drained the water from the basin and looked carefully around the room to make sure that he'd left everything exactly as he'd found it.
His shirt was waiting for him when he left the room, hanging on the handle of the door and looking cleaner than he'd left it. Not wanting to run the risk of staining it, should his back start bleeding again, he clutched the shirt tightly in one hand and limped into the kitchen. Filch was sat at the table, staring at his hands. He looked up as Sal entered; his skin was a sickly pallor in the flickering light cast by the torches on the wall. He took in Sal's form in one long look, before averting his eyes back to his hands.
"What do you want?" Filch asked gruffly. Sal jumped and nearly dropped his shirt.
"S-sorry sir, I just…Sir I need b-bandages and some herbs for…for my ba-ack, sir," Sal answered hesitantly, as Filch still refused to look at him. Sal was used to people casting their eyes away from him – he was hardly anything worth looking at, after all –but it was unusual coming from the older man, who usually watched him like a hawk.
"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that, lad," Filch told him decisively, looking up for the first time. He didn't look angry, or scornful, and something in his expression looked very peculiar to Sal. It was almost as if Filch were uncomfortable, although Sal had no idea why that would be the case. It was not Filch, after all, who was limping around half-dressed the day after a flogging. "You earnt that fair and square, lad," Filch continued, looking at Sal sternly, "so don't go whinging about it, because you won't get any sympathy from me."
"Yes, sir," Sal answered obediently, casting his eyes to the floor. Certain that he wasn't going to get any pity (let alone any dinner) from the irritable older man, Sal turned to go back to his room. As he moved, allowing Filch a clear view of his back for the first time, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him.
"Stop," Filch told him abruptly; Sal froze, flinching. There was a long moment whilst Sal stood stock still, shivering under the weight of the older man's gaze. "What…" Filch's voice was hesitant and strained and he spoke haltingly. There was a brief moment of silence, before he recovered himself. "Put that shirt on, now!" he ordered Sal in a tight voice and waited as Sal rushed to comply, before continuing. "Go to your room. There's a plate waiting for you there. But don't you dare make a mess, or there'll be hell to pay."
Sal limped back to his room and found, much to his delight, a slice of chicken pie and some green vegetables waiting for him on the side table. It was slightly cold, but very good, and it disappeared very quickly, without a crumb left to mar the bedspread. Sal guessed that Filch must have left the food whilst Sal had been tending to his wounds in the bathroom, but he couldn't for the life of him guess why. He sat down very carefully on the bed and puzzled over the strange behaviour of the irritable caretaker, until he fell into a pained sleep.
Filch's strange behaviour continued over the next couple of days. Where he had previously been scrutinising Sal's every move, he suddenly couldn't look at Sal for longer than a few seconds, without his gaze darting awkwardly away. He spoke very little to Sal, instead directing orders and then vanishing for increasingly longer periods of time. It was that quirk that had been the strangest development for Sal. Filch had started leaving him to do his work alone, where only days before he had refused to trust Sal to hold so much as a dust cloth without supervision. The amount of work Sal had been given was also much lighter, which made sense in light of his injury; only a fool would damage valuable property by forcing it to overwork, not before it was fully repaired. But Filch had also taken to insisting that Sal find his way back to his rooms alone, as soon as his tasks were completed, without checking with Filch that the work was up to standard.
If he didn't know any better, Sal would have thought that the older man was suddenly uncomfortable around him, but the thought of that was ridiculous. Sal hadn't done anything particularly egregious that he hadn't been duly punished for with that flogging. As for the punishment itself, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Filch had done as etiquette demanded by calling for Dunstan to deal with his master's errant slave, and Sal knew that the caretaker was well within his rights to demand the punishment that he had for Sal's disobedience. Unless Filch was avoiding Sal out of embarrassment for how Sal had taken it. But that was also a strange thought, the best of men cowered or pleaded when faced with a whipping, and Sal was only a slave; he should have been below disdain for things like that. It was hardly as if Sal was the first person that Filch would have seen flogged either; there were chains hanging from his office walls for that precise purpose! Sal couldn't think of any legitimate reason that Filch would be treating him so oddly. But still, after two whole days of the strange new dynamic (which included another stressful worked Sabbath for Sal) Sal had been forced to admit that Filch was avoiding him.
That was, in itself, a remarkable relief, as it granted Sal a level of freedom that he had not experienced for a number of years. For the first time in quite a while, he was free to work at his own pace and to rest as he wished, without the fear of heavy blows to chasten him from his indolence. It also allowed him to move more slowly, with greater care for his injuries. His back throbbed fiercely whenever he moved, and his ribs had come up in some brilliant bruising that told him Dunstan had, yet again, been quite literal in exploring the phrase "kick a man whilst he's down". But with a couple of days of light work, Sal was starting to feel a lot better. By some blessed miracle his wounds had scabbed over nicely, without the aid of a poultice, and Sal had half-convinced himself that he'd misjudged their severity in the first place. Therefore, with a bit more freedom and his injuries on the mend, Sal was loath to look a gift horse in the mouth; he chalked Filch's strange behaviour up to an act of Providence and left it at that.
Unfortunately, the other students seemed to have noticed that Filch was suddenly leaving his charge alone, which was not especially helpful for Sal. The older children, who had taunted Sal before, now doubled their efforts and applied themselves to the task of bullying with, as Sal judged, admirable devotion. He had been pelted with flying ink pellets, tripped as he walked down the corridor, and subjected to a great number of (surprisingly accurate) taunts about his birth, manners, dress, and behaviour. Sal had even heard his first new insult, "squib", which he had no clue as to the meaning of, but thought it to be a nice change from the usual litany of curses that he heard from Dunstan. To get himself through the day, Sal had started making up elaborate plans for devastating revenges that he would never get to enact. He knew that half the thoughts (and curses) that he had in his head were probably enough to tarnish what, if anything, was left of his soul's innocence, but Sal thought eternal damnation couldn't be as tortuous as withstanding the petty barbs of ignorant children, without something to distract himself. So he gritted his teeth and delighted in picturing the painful deaths of the – mainly green-robed – students.
Sal had also seen an increased effort by both Harry and Draco to try and talk to him. Sal avoided them as much as he could and kept his head down, unwilling to incite Filch's wrath again, especially when his back was still bruised from his last indiscretion. Draco had not seemed to take the hint, but was not particularly affected by Sal's indifference; if anything, it had made him more determined to solve the "mystery" (as he put it) of Sal. Sal had responded by dropping increasingly ludicrous 'hints' that he was brewing some kind of master plan. Draco had fallen on them like a hound on a fox. Sal was content that, by the end of the week, he'd have Draco following his every command like a doting puppy. He might then get some peace and quiet from the insufferable nuisance. No, Draco was quite easy for Sal to manage. It was Harry and his irritating entourage that ultimately disrupted his planned apathy.
It was Tuesday afternoon before Harry finally caught up with Sal; his previous attempts at communication had all been masterfully foiled by the very dedicated Professor Snape. Harry finally managed it, in partnership with Hermione, shortly after Sal had finished sweeping the charred remains of feathers out of the Charms classroom. They cornered him in a quiet section of the second floor corridor and bundled him into an empty room, behind a heavy tapestry. Hermione immediately launched into a long monologue that was beyond Sal's comprehension, particularly as he'd caught his back on the stonework on his way into the room, and he was trying very hard to remember how to breathe. He was also stunned that they'd bothered to seek him out again. He'd been perfectly convinced that Hermione would forget all about him and any promises she'd made, over the course of the weekend, even if Harry had proven himself to be dedicated to his word. Hermione smiled warmly at Sal, and he forced himself to focus on her words.
"So you see, Sal, we've worked out the perfect solution. Colin will teach you how to read and in the meantime I'll keep looking in the library for anything that might help us," she said hurriedly, words tripping over themselves to get out of her mouth. Sal had no idea who 'Colin' was, but forced himself not to dwell on that and instead to pay attention, as Hermione continued. "Of course, it's very likely we'll find something before you're able to manage any research on your own, but we still need to teach you how to read. It's despicable that no one ever bothered to show you." Hermione fixed Sal with what was meant to be an encouraging look, but Sal thought she looked rather frenzied. "Also, having clear, achievable goals is meant to be incredibly useful for helping people in abusive circumstances to feel in control of their situation." Hermione rattle off the words as if she had been practising them for weeks. Sal thought, with deep distaste, that she sounded like she was reciting her Creed.
Sal sighed and tried not to let her see his irritation. He desperately did not want to engage with these two again. The last time he had done so, he'd ended up bloody, bleeding, and humiliated. It was not an experience he wished to repeat. The difficulty, however, would be in convincing Harry and Hermione to leave him alone, without confessing to them that he was an absolute coward who was scared of getting into trouble again. There wasn't really much more of a reason in his avoidance than that, and he sickened himself with his own weakness. The air was heavy with an uncomfortable silence, as Sal tried to think of the politest way to tell them both to fuck off.
He finally decided on a quiet, "Thank you for all your help," as he smiled and bowed his head courteously. Hermione's face fell; she had clearly been anticipating more enthusiasm. Sal continued on dauntlessly. "However, I don't think this will work. I'm very sorry, but I don't think I'll be able to find time away from my work. I think it will be better if you leave this alone." Hermione looked confused and upset, but Harry was watching him closely, with a shrewd look in his eye. He'd been doing that since they'd first caught up to Sal in the corridor.
"Are you okay?" Harry asked quietly. "We didn't get you into trouble the other day, did we?" Sal stilled abruptly and found himself lost for words. He didn't think anyone had ever been bothered about getting him into trouble. It was, in fact, Dunstan's prime source of entertainment. He swallowed quickly and tried to reaffirm his resolution. He was not getting involved with these people – they would cause him nothing but trouble.
Harry was looking at him with terrible understanding. To his horror, Sal found that his eyes were starting to prickle; he nearly broke into tears for the second time that week. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and he was pleased when his voice came out cold and impersonal.
"No," Sal replied calmly, "you didn't get me into trouble." Harry raised an eyebrow, and Sal resisted the urge to glare at him. How dare Harry see through him so easily? Years of practise allowed Sal to hide his irritation, and he bowed his head, patiently waiting for Harry's response. Sal saw Hermione shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye, but deliberately ignored her. It was Harry that he was worried about; Harry was shrewd.
"Alright," Harry finally replied, his voice soft, "just…look, if you need any help…we can help you, okay? If you need it." He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he shot a quick glance at Hermione, and he stopped himself. She had turned to look at Sal with wide eyes, pale with sudden realisation.
"Are you hurt?" she asked abruptly, and Harry winced behind her. "I mean, did someone hurt you?" She drew herself up with righteous fury, and Sal was torn between confusion and sheer awe at the concern in her voice.
"It's fine," he replied quickly, "I just…" He searched again for a way to get them to leave him alone, without confessing his abject cowardice. He failed. "May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb" he reminded himself sternly, and took a deep breath. "I found myself on the wrong side of Mr Filch the other day. It was my fault, of course, but I don't want to risk doing anything that will…m-make anything worse." He looked directly at Harry, who seemed to understand what Sal was trying to avoid saying.
Hermione, clearly, did not. "What kind of trouble?" she asked tensely. Sal didn't reply. "What kind of trouble?" she repeated, voice rising as she spoke. Sal flinched and looked at the floor; he didn't want to answer, but it would be unpardonable to ignore a direct question twice.
"He had me whipped," he confessed quietly, blood rushing to his cheeks in embarrassment. There were certain things that one didn't want to admit to, even if being punished wasn't considered that shameful, if the recipient was a slave. It would be like expecting a horse to blush when it was whipped into a gallop. Even so, Sal found himself feeling incredibly ashamed. Despite numerous attempts to beat it out of him and against his own best interests, Sal maintained the same obstinate pride that he'd carried from childhood – back when he'd been free.
There was a long silence following his words, and Sal couldn't bring himself to look up; he didn't want to see the disdain on the faces of the other two, as it finally sunk in how pathetic a creature Sal was. How he was so disobedient that he'd had to be flogged to make him toe the line, and how he was so cowardly that he'd scorn their offers of help, rather than risk being punished again. That is, if they were still offering their help, which Sal highly doubted. Nobody ever stuck around very long after they realised what Sal truly was. Harry cleared his throat, and Sal fought down a flinch.
"Right. Okay," Harry spoke quietly, but firmly. "Listen, if you don't feel safe, or comfortable, or whatever, talking to us, then I understand. But we still want to help you." He waited until Sal glanced up and then met his eyes steadily. "If you need anyone to look at you, at your back or whatever," Sal flushed, but Harry ignored him and carried on, "then we can do that. Just say the word." Sal stayed silent, and Harry let out a soft sigh. "Okay, we'll leave you alone. For now. But I'll come and find you tomorrow, after lunch. We're not giving up on this, mate. Or on you, okay?" Sal nodded tightly, not believing Harry's promise, but not willing to contradict him. Hermione's eyes were darkening with frustration, but Harry ignored her. "We'll teach you how to read, and we'll help you find a way to escape your master, and we'll do whatever else we bloody can to help you, alright? Because we want to help you. And because no one should be laying a finger on you. Not here at Hogwarts, not like that." Harry's voice was soft, but resolute, if not a little pained. It was a good speech, it was everything that someone hurt, and alone, and scared wanted to hear. Sal suspected that Harry had had a version kicking around his head for a while.
Sal nodded once and left as quickly as he could. Hermione had looked as if she were about to explode, and Sal had not wanted to wait around for the aftermath.
The rest of the day he spent thinking over what Harry had said to him. He wasn't certain that he could trust the other boy, but Harry's words had come from the heart, that Sal was sure of. Sal strongly suspected that Harry was attempting to help him, in an effort to save something within himself, but Sal declined to contemplate that too much. Whatever Harry's motivations were, they were his own. Even if it was an exercise in futility; Sal was a slave, and he very much doubted that a couple of teenagers could do very much to change that fact. But still. He couldn't help but dwell on the other part of Harry and Hermione's offer: he could learn how to read. That…that was enticing. For as long as he could remember, he'd found the idea of reading and writing to be, for want of a better word, magical. The idea that someone could have a thought and write it down, and then another person could come across it months (or even years later) and read it and know exactly what the first person thought? That was completely incredible. Besides, the sum of all wizarding knowledge of magical theory was tucked away in heavy books, locked away from the common, illiterate man: the province of the nobility. If he could read, then endless information would be at his fingertips. He could learn anything. Even if Hermione failed to find a way out of his debt, and he stayed a slave for years to come (which was the most likely outcome of events), he'd still be able to read. He'd still be able to learn. That was a thought worth risking another whipping for.
When Harry came back the next day, Sal had his answer ready. He agreed to meet with Harry and his friends that evening after dinner, on the seventh floor, outside the portrait of the dancing trolls. Sal was nervous, but confident that he could avoid Filch for long enough to meet his new reading instructor. He spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous tension, not quite sure that he was actually going to go through with it, but shivering with anticipation regardless. The closer it got to the arranged meeting time, the more Sal was convinced that something would come along and stop him; Filch would lock him in his room, Dunstan would arrive and demand his services for the master, or the heavens themselves would open and strike him down before he could attend the meeting. But none of those things happened. It was, in the end, embarrassingly easy for Sal to 'retire' early to bed and then sneak out of Filch's chambers. He made the journey up to the seventh floor on shaking legs, waiting for the unseen axe to fall. By the time he found the right painting, Sal was about ready to give up the whole endeavour and run back to Filch with his tail between his legs. But the thought of reading kept his nerves firmly in check. He swallowed down his fear and clasped his hands behind his back, willing them to stop shaking. He took a deep breath and waited for Harry to arrive.
Harry had learnt his lesson last year about being a moody git, but he was very close to losing his temper with Hermione in the middle of the library. He bent his head back over the page, gritted his teeth, and forced himself to reread the same paragraph he'd been studying for the past ten minutes. He had organised a meeting with Sal later in the evening, and was trying to finish his Transfiguration homework before it. Trying, being the operative word.
"Honestly, Harry, we should go to Madam Pomfrey with all of this. I know you disagree, but you have to think about this carefully," Hermione was speaking very quickly and very urgently at the top of his head, as she had been for quite a while. "Sal could be in danger. I've been reading, and there are all sorts of complications that can come from wounds being left untreated! Besides, what's the point in trying to gain his trust, if all the good faith we establish teaching him to read can be blown away the minute his master decides to get involved?" Harry closed his eyes and fought back a sigh; reminding himself that he did care for Hermione very much. "This could be very serious!" Hermione continued fiercely, leaning forwards and plonking a book of medical spells on top of Harry's textbook. "Look at this! He could get septicaemia!" Harry let out a long sigh, forcing his temper back into a tight knot in his chest. "Are you even listening to me?" she hissed at him, and Harry felt his control snap.
"Yes, Hermione, I've been listening to you for the past half an hour, and I still don't agree with you." Harry's voice was a low growl. A frantic voice at the back of his mind was telling him urgently to stop, but his blood was already boiling. "I know that he should go to the Hospital Wing and get it checked out. I know there's a risk of him getting blood poisoning if any of those wounds get infected. Hermione, hell, I bet he know that himself, even if they don't call it the same thing where he's from, or understand what the hell is going on medically." Harry felt the irritation he'd been supressing for the last thirty minutes flooding out of him with his hissed words. He loved Hermione dearly, but there were some things that she just couldn't understand. "But he won't do that, Hermione, he can't risk going to the Hospital Wing, because that will just make things worse!"
"But how?" Hermione sounded frustrated, "I don't understand." Her face was set in the wrinkled expression she got when Professor McGonagall posed a difficult question, or when she was trying to last five minutes against Ron at chess. "Since when is asking for help a bad thing?"
Harry felt his anger leave him abruptly, like someone had flicked a switch somewhere in his brain. He suddenly felt very tired, very old, and very glad that this was one thing Hermione had never had to learn. He took a deep breath, and tried to think of the best way to explain it to her. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and fixed his eyes on the gruesome medical pictures in Hermione's textbook. "So he goes to the Hospital Wing, Hermione. They heal him," he told her quietly, watching as her expression smoothed out at his changed tone, "but they tell his master."
"Where are you going with this?" Hermione asked in confusion.
Harry held up a hand to hold off her response. "Let me finish, Hermione," he told her calmly. "They tell his master, who whips him again for running off and whining to someone." He held up one finger. "That's the first scenario." He met her eyes squarely, and she nodded for him to continue his explanation. "The second scenario," he held up another finger, "is that he goes there and they can heal him, but they won't." He shrugged. "And they still tell his master." Hermione was looking at Harry with a very focused expression on her face. Harry dropped his fingers and reached back to rub his neck, feeling very self-conscious. He sighed and leant back in his chair. "Or worse than either of those two…He goes to the hospital wing, makes himself vulnerable by asking someone for help, and they laugh him out of the room." Harry stared at the ceiling. "They tell him it's not that bad, that he deserves it, that he's being weak and should know better than whining about it." Harry shrugged, looking back at Hermione, as he smiled at her wryly. "And then they tell his master."
"Harry…?" Hermione was looking at him oddly, and she had gone very quiet. "That's not what would happen. Not at all. Madam Pomfrey would be disgusted – any teacher would be disgusted – at what Filch did. He had no right! This is Hogwarts! They'd be outraged." Her voice was very insistent, and Harry suddenly felt the need to change the subject very quickly.
"No, Hermione," he said firmly. "Just trust me on this one." He hurried to get his next sentence out, before she could interrupt him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe the teachers would rush in and sort everything out, and this whole bloody mess would be wrapped up in time for tea and toast before bed. But if you're wrong… Sal won't risk it." He looked at her sternly, hoping that, for once, she'd trust something he said over something she'd read in a book. "You push him on this and he won't trust you at all. He'll stop talking to us completely."
Hermione looked very tearful. "Then what can we do?"
Harry shrugged as he closed the medical textbook and handed it gently back to her. He forced his eyes back to his Transfiguration work, trying to ignore the churning feeling in his gut. "We try and help him as much as we can. I asked Professor Slughorn for a bruise salve, earlier. Told him I got hit by a nasty bludger in practice, and the Hospital Wing had run out." He flicked back to the paragraph that he had been trying (and failing) to understand before. "I have some antiseptic cream in my bag too. We can tell him to go to Madam Pomfrey later, but when he says no…well it'll be better than nothing." He looked up at Hermione and shot her a quick smile. "That's what I'm going to do anyway; what about you?"
The silence was so brittle he could have cracked it with a feather. Thankfully, the library was almost empty. The only other students were a couple of frantic looking seventh-year Ravenclaws who looked to be on the brink of NEWT-induced nervous breakdowns, so no one had been paying attention to their hushed row. Hermione waited for a long moment, before getting up and walking away. There were a few anxious minutes where Harry half-hoped and half-feared she'd run off to find a teacher; it would not have been the first time in their friendship that she'd not trusted his judgement. She returned to the table with a rueful smile, carrying a large stack of books in her hands. Harry let out a sigh of relief.
They worked in silence together for a while. Harry tried to focus on his homework, but his mind was too busy turning itself inside out worrying. The truth was that Hermione was probably right; it was probably better to tell someone. In an ideal world they could run to the Professors and trust them to solve all their problems with a flick of a magic wand. He'd thought that way too, when he had first come to Hogwarts, entranced by the sheer possibilities that magic presented. He'd thought it could make everything better. He knew better now. He'd gone to McGonagall the week before with his concerns about Sal, and she'd sent him away with a pat on the head. She'd done the same thing in first year, when Quirrell was after the stone, and the year before when Umbridge was making him slice his hand open almost every night. Snape was, well, Snape; it would be a cold day in hell before Harry ran to him for help. The rest of the teachers, Hagrid sadly included, pretty much let Dumbledore sort everything out and deferred to the Headmaster's opinion. That was Harry's biggest problem. As much as it pained him to think it, it was Dumbledore who'd sent Sal off with Filch in the first place; he'd left Sal in the hands of a vindictive bully who delighted in intimidating people smaller and weaker than him, and Sal had been hurt. Harry wasn't sure he could handle it if he ran to Dumbledore, told him what had happened to Sal, and got brushed aside. No, he couldn't trust the teachers, as much as he wanted too. It was safer for them to help Sal on their own.
He closed his book with a resigned sigh, accepting that he'd probably never comprehend how and why silent casting affected the exponential growth of bone density in mammal to reptile transfiguration. He took a quick look at Hermione; she was scanning through a very thick tome with a determined expression on her face. Harry worried that he'd upset her, even if he knew he was right.
"Sorry, Hermione," he began in a whisper, knowing that it was much easier to start with an apology and work from there.
"For what, Harry?" Hermione asked wryly, sinking further into the chair opposite him. "You're just doing what you think is for the best." For the first time, Harry noticed the deep purple bags under her eyes; she looked exhausted, and he berated himself for not noticing sooner.
"Found anything interesting?" he asked her, with a smile. It was a terrible attempt at a peace offering, and Harry knew that Hermione had not left the Sal problem drop, but she smiled anyway and let the conversation move on.
"Actually, I think I might have. I'm researching life debts," she told him quickly, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. Harry gestured for her to explain, and she immediately jumped at the opportunity to teach him something that was both confusing and probably beyond his ability to understand. "When I found that book the other day, I realised how little I knew about the magic involved. They're part of this fascinating branch of obscure magic. I think I've found something related to fealty oaths…oh, but to understand that, I'd need to explain about the power coefficient in spells of obligation…"
Harry smiled as Hermione began an academic rant that he had absolutely no hope of understanding. He let her talk for almost an hour as she pulled books from shelves and pointed his attention to important paragraphs. She excitedly pushed tome after tome of heavy academic prose in front of him and then pulled them from under his nose (before he'd had time to read them), replacing each book with another, even more incompressible than the previous. By the time she'd talked herself to a standstill, they had managed to smooth over the earlier argument, and Harry had learnt quite a bit (though doubtless not nearly as much as Hermione would have wished him too). He had learnt, for example, that life debts were very serious magic brought about when a wizard or witch saves the life of another. He also now knew that this made some kind of contract, meaning that the person who had been saved quite literally owed their life to the person who rescued them; that made a debt that they then had to pay, one way or another. That was the one thing that Hermione had made abundantly clear; if you saved someone's life, you could force them to do anything, for as long as you wanted, and they'd be forced to obey. If they didn't, the magic of the debt could kill them. The thought made Harry sick.
The only exception that Hermione could find was one tiny reference in some ancient, nearly illegible, old diary. She had pointed to a single line that said life debts didn't apply to those "þat trewest wer knauen". Harry had stared at the page for a good few minutes before he gave in and asked Hermione to translate. At that point she'd huffed in frustration and explained that she didn't properly know. Apparently it could mean people who were known to be very trustworthy, in general, or it could also mean people that were particularly trusted by the person who held the life debt. Harry hadn't really understood what that meant, but he'd thought that the second option sounded much better.
Harry allowed himself a few moments to process as much of the information as he could. There was a lot to take in. The whole concept of a life debt made him feel ill. Sacrifice was an act of love; he didn't like the idea that magic could turn something that pure into something as evil as slavery. In fact, the more that he thought about it, the more it didn't make any sense. Harry's mum had put herself between him and Voldemort, in order to save his life. She'd died to protect him, but he didn't have some kind of magical noose around his neck because of it. Her sacrifice had given him something; it had gifted him the protection of her magic, it hadn't demanded something of him in return. Harry decided there and then that half of the stuff in Hermione's books had to be rubbish. He bet that the magic only enforced a debt in special circumstances, like if you didn't really know or like the person whose life you'd saved. Or maybe if it were a certain Tuesday of the year, under a full moon – magic could be weird. He thought of rescuing Ginny from Riddle in second year; he didn't like to think that she owed him anything for that, at all.
He told Hermione his theory with probably a little more bite than was necessary. She tried to argue the lack of academic evidence, pointing at book after book, before he snapped and lost his temper for the second time that evening.
"I think I'd know by know if I owed life debts to my parents, Hermione," he said tartly. She shrank back and apologised profusely, but Harry was busy shaking his head; he already felt guilty for bringing it up. This whole thing with the Founders and Sal was making him very uncomfortable, and he knew that he was taking his frustration out on her. "Sorry," he sighed, "that was out of order. I think I'm just a bit tired. This is a lot to take in." Hermione smiled at him and nodded. It might just have been his paranoia speaking, but it seemed like her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. He felt about three inches tall. He was a complete git. They fell into an awkward silence, whilst Hermione quietly tidied away the books with a terrifying efficiency that paid testament to just how intimately she knew the Hogwarts library. She nodded to Madam Pince on the way out, and they headed off to the Great Hall for dinner.
The house tables were, as usual, laden almost to the point of collapse with large dishes of food, silver trays full of plump sausages and mounds of fluffy, white mashed potato. The sight made Harry forget about the last remnants of his bad mood, as he sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped himself to spoonful after spoonful. He drenched the whole lot in gravy and tucked in. Half a plate later, he finally surfaced for air and caught Hermione's eye; she was looking at him with a mix of fondness and exasperation, and he realised that he was probably forgiven. He sent her a sheepish smile and waved apologetically at the plate in front of him, stuffing another forkful in his mouth. She outright laughed at his antics, and he felt a sudden rush of affection for his friend.
There was a particularly loud bark of laughter, and Harry glanced down the table, looking for the source. Ron was holding court with a bunch of fourth-years – and Lavender Brown, of course –, bragging about his final save in the last Quidditch match. To hear him tell it, he had all but single-handedly rescued the match from outright ruin. Harry was a little annoyed at Ron for that; it had been a close call at the end, and he thought his head-to-head chase to grab the snitch, and victory, from the grasping hands of the Slytherin seeker had been rather daring. As Ron's story became more and more ridiculous and elaborate – at one point Harry swore he heard Ron say that he'd taken a direct bludger hit to the face, as he caught the Quaffle by the tips of his fingers – Hermione's smile started to slip away. Harry felt a sudden desire to deck Ron in the face. Making a snap decision for the sake of both of his friendships, he stood up and beckoned Hermione to follow him out of the hall. As he cast one last, mournful look over his shoulder at his half-eaten plate, he saw Lavender almost sat on Ron's knee, fawning over him like Pansy Parkinson did with Malfoy. He took one look at Hermione's miserable expression, and decided that he'd made the noble, chivalrous decision. But he had really wanted those sausages.
They made their way up to the seventh floor, where they had agreed to meet Sal. They were also going to be joined by Colin Creevey who, on Ginny's recommendation, had been chosen to teach Sal the basics of reading and writing. Harry had been a bit uncertain about trusting the excitable fifth year with the responsibility of actually teaching anyone anything important. Ginny had sent him a withering glare and informed him that Colin was a very good teacher, who knew a lot more than people gave him credit for, thank you very much. "Sound familiar?" she'd asked, pointedly. Harry had flushed bright red and quickly (and wisely) conceded the point.
As they reached the Room of Requirement, Harry was quietly thrilled to see that Sal was waiting for them. He was standing under the portrait, arms crossed and looking massively uncomfortable. As he saw them approach, however, he stood up straight and tried his best to look unaffected. It was a good effort; his expression was neutral, his eyes betrayed nothing, and his body language gave nothing away. If Harry hadn't seen him moments before, he would have sworn that the other boy was bored. Harry shivered slightly in distaste; with a small upturn of his nose and a slight look of disdain, Sal could pass for the perfect Slytherin, even dressed in rags.
"I'm glad you showed up," Harry told him honestly. "We're just waiting on Colin and then we can get cracking."
"I've picked out a few books to get you started," Hermione chipped in brightly. Sal nodded courteously at them both, but said nothing. Hermione's smile faltered slightly, and the three of them fell into an awkward silence. Thankfully, Colin was punctual and they weren't waiting around for too long. He hurried up the corridor towards them, out of breath, dragging a large wicker hamper behind him.
"Sorry I'm late," he told Harry cheerfully and waved at Sal in greeting. "Just had to pick up a few bits and bobs."
As Colin was going to be teaching, they collectively decided that he should be the one to open the Room. He paced back and forwards in front of it with a focused expression, whilst Sal looked on in complete confusion. As soon as the door appeared, Colin's face broke into a wide grin.
"I did it!" he exclaimed, and rushed forwards to open the door.
Harry followed him in and was impressed at what the Room had become. It was a cosy sitting room, with a few soft looking armchairs and a large sofa, all arranged around a bleached walnut coffee table. There were pretty watercolour landscapes all over the walls, and a large amount of framed muggle photographs jumbled together on top of the mantelpiece, each vying for prominence. Mismatched throw pillows lay over the chairs, scattered over fleecy blankets, and a small fire crackled away to itself in the fireplace. If it weren't for the hideous brown anaglypta wallpaper and contrasting, painfully bright, multi-coloured floral carpet, Harry would have found the place quite cosy.
"It's my nan's lounge," Colin explained with a blush. "It's where I learnt to read."
Sal followed them in cautiously, trying his best to look unmoved by the appearance that the room had taken. But Harry could see his wide eyes flickering around the room, soaking up the sight of the strange objects. Sal's eyes went to the photographs and stayed there for a long time.
"Right," Colin declared, rubbing his hands together and striding forward into the room. "Pick a pew, everyone. Let's get started. I took a trip down to the kitchens on my way here, because I thought we might need a bit of an ice-breaker."
Harry sank into the cosy armchair closest to the fire, as Colin pulled something out his hamper and set it on the coffee table. Harry was pleased to see that it was a tea tray, complete with a huge steaming teapot, milk jug, and bowl of sugar cubes.
Harry grinned at Colin. "I'll be mother, then," he informed the room, leaning forwards to pour the tea. He had just handed Hermione her cup, when he realised he had no idea how Colin drank his. "Milk and sugar?" he asked, a little embarrassed.
"Please. Two sugars," Colin supplied distractedly, as he coaxed Sal into sitting next to him on the sofa. Sal sat down warily, perched on the edge of the seat.
"Tea?" Harry asked Sal, as he found a coaster and put Colin's mug in front of him, carefully placing it just out of arm's length. He'd once seen Colin get carried away with a story and launch a full mug of coffee over half the Gryffindor table and a passing Professor Flitwick. It paid to be prudent.
Harry looked up to see that Sal was staring at him very blankly indeed. Harry indicated to the pot, as Sal continued to look at him like he'd just offered him poison. Hermione coughed politely from the armchair on the other side of the room. It suddenly occurred to Harry that they most definitely did not have tea in the Dark Ages, and he blushed slightly.
"It's a drink," he explained quickly, "Do you want one?"
Sal looked at him warily for a long minute before nodding slowly. Harry heaved a sigh of relief and busied himself with the familiar ritual of making a cuppa. He had no idea what Sal would like, so he just made two versions to his own taste and hoped for the best. He served Sal quickly, anxious that he was holding up the room, and sank back into his chair, cradling his mug in his hands. He wished that Colin had brought a plate of biscuits.
"Right, I think we're ready to start," Colin announced suddenly. He had assembled a selection of picture books on the coffee table, along with a variety of muggle literacy guides. Harry vaguely remembered them having something similar at his primary school. "So, here's how I was thinking we should do this," Colin continued, turning to look directly at Sal, who seemed half-excited, half-terrified at the whole situation. "I want to figure out how much you know already, so I can get a sense of where you're starting from. I'll plan where we go from there."
As Colin spoke, Harry studied Sal. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, as if he were uncertain about sitting on it. Harry was struck with the sudden memory of the first time he had slept in a bed, back on his first night in Dudley's Second Bedroom. He'd been terrified his uncle was going to come upstairs and beast him for having the gall to touch Dudley's furniture; it had seemed too good to be true. Harry shook himself and brought his mind back to the present.
"Is that okay?" Colin was asking Sal.
"Yes, master." Sal replied obediently, nodding his head. There was a pause as everyone processed what he had just said. Hermione almost wailed in distress, and Harry jumped slightly, nearly spilling hot tea down his front.
"No, no I'm no one's master," Colin stuttered hastily, looking stricken. "Just call me Colin, please."
Sal looked at him for a long moment, looking confused.
"You are to be my teacher?" he asked Colin cautiously, as if afraid of being contradicted.
"Well, yes."
"Then I should call you master." Sal decided briskly. He seemed uncharacteristically insistent on that fact. Hermione went to speak, and Sal shot her a surprisingly stern look. "It's a mark of respect," he said firmly. "It was what I called my teacher when I was his apprentice. I understand you call your teachers 'Professor' here?" He waited for them all to nod in agreement. "It's the same principle."
"Um…thank you?" Colin replied awkwardly. "But I really don't feel comfortable being called that. I'd rather you called me anything other than that, actually. Christ, even 'Professor' is better than master."
Sal smiled suddenly, and Harry was startled by how young it made him look. It was an impish grin, sly and sudden. It was gone almost as soon as it had appeared, but Sal's eyes were still laughing as he replied to Colin. "Then I shall call you 'Professor', Professor," he said with excessive demureness. Harry couldn't help but laugh at the appalled look on Colin's face, as the younger boy reluctantly agreed to his new title. He was pleased to see that Sal was comfortable enough with them to show a little bit of his sense of humour.
Colin started leading Sal through a couple of basic exercises, but it became apparent very soon that his student had no grasp of even the basics of letters and punctuation. Harry suspected that Sal had never held so much as a pencil in his life.
"I'm sorry," Sal said quietly, face burning with embarrassment. Colin had just shown him a series of cards and asked him to identify the letters on each. Sal had stared blankly at them until Colin took them away and made a note with his quill in a spiral-bound notepad.
"Don't be sorry!" Colin told him firmly. "It's not your fault you've never been taught. Like I said, I just needed to get a grasp of how much you know. Now I know where we're working from. We'll start from the beginning and go from there."
Colin placed the letter cards out on the table and patiently took Sal through the alphabet, explaining the difference between capital and lower case letters and teaching Sal the different sounds that they made. Colin digressed briefly to quickly explain vowels and consonants, and Harry was suddenly struck by how good a teacher Colin was proving to be. He was patient and calm, answering Sal's questions quickly and confidently. Harry was very glad that they hadn't left this to Hermione, as had been originally planned. She was incredibly clever, but Harry somehow doubted she'd be able to go through something so basic, in such a systematic method. When Colin next declared a break, taking a long sip from his undoubtedly lukewarm tea, without casting a warming charm over it, Harry spoke up.
"You're a great teacher," Harry said, smiling as Colin blushed.
"Thanks," the younger student replied. "I've been doing over the summer for years. I really struggled to learn myself. I have this thing, I don't know how much wizards know about it, but it's called dyslexia." Harry nodded, surprised. He knew what it was, of course. Harry and Dudley's Year Three teacher had told Aunt Petunia, one parent's evening, that she'd like to have Dudley tested for it. Uncle Vernon had pitched a fit when he heard. To the Dursleys, having a learning difficulty was almost as bad as having magic, and no son of theirs would be branded abnormal. They had refused to talk about it any further, and that had been that. So Harry thought he knew the basics, but no more than that. He hadn't been allowed to ask questions, after all.
"I've heard of it," Harry told him, finally. "But only in the muggle world." Colin smiled ruefully and nodded.
"Yeah, it's a muggle diagnosis, though a fair few wizards have it too – they just don't have a definition for it, yet. We're still learning loads about it. Still, research has come a long way in the past ten years." Colin turned to look at Sal, who was sipping his tea with a very fixed look of polite enjoyment and trying hard to mask his confusion. "Basically I struggle to read, too," Colin explained to Sal, "For me, the letters get all jumbled together, and I can't tell one from the other. It's not really that common in the Wizarding World, so I doubt you'll have it too. But I know loads of tricks for making things a bit easier, if you do. Like we can change the colour of the parchment or use this charm that makes weird handwriting easier to read. Professor McGonagall showed them to me way back in first year, to help me with my homework; I used them all the time, before I found out about self-correcting quills and got a bit lazy." Colin smiled brightly at Sal and changed a scrap of parchment from bright pink to blue and then back to its original colour. Sal stared at the casual display of magic, before he sighed slightly and picked up the alphabet cards again with quiet determination.
Harry refreshed the pot and poured another round of tea as Colin ran through the alphabet a few more times, before calling it a night. As they were packing up, Colin had a sudden brainwave and scribbled something on a piece of parchment, handing it to Sal with a beaming smile.
"What's this, Professor?" Sal asked cautiously, staring at the sheet. Harry smiled to himself as Colin blushed at the honorific; he'd been doing it all night, and Harry only found it funnier the longer it went on.
"Do you recognise the letters?" Colin asked brightly. At Sal's tentative nod, he continued. "Sound them out then!"
Sal stared at the paper in front of him for a long minute. "This one's 'suh'," he said, pointing to the parchment. "And this one's 'ah'. But I can't remember the last one. I'm sorry, Professor." He hung his head as he indicated the last letter on the parchment.
"Don't be sorry, you're doing incredibly well!" Colin insisted. "That's 'el'." Sal looked at the letters again and repeated the sound with ferocious determination. "Try sounding it out now," Colin encouraged. He broke into a large smile as Sal brought the sounds together for the first time. Harry felt his chest lurch as he found himself grinning widely; there was something incredible about watching a person read their own name for the first time.
Sal repeated the sounds, an odd look on his face as he started to understand what Colin was trying to show him. He tried again and stuttered on the letter 's', looking vaguely sick.
"Professor, that one's in my name?" he asked Colin quietly, his voice taut with some strange emotion.
"It's the first letter," Colin assured him confidently. Sal took a deep breath, his fingers fluttering up to touch his chest, just above his heart. He nodded tightly, and added the scrap of parchment to the pile on the table. Harry had no idea what to make of that interaction.
They parted ways soon after, with Sal and Colin agreeing to meet back at the room in two days' time. Harry didn't feel the need to join them for the next lesson, and he suspected that Hermione felt the same way; Colin clearly knew what he was talking about. As Sal peeled off to head towards Filch's office, Harry quietly slipped him the jar of salve and the antiseptic cream that he had brought to the meeting. Sal was clearly startled, but didn't say anything. Harry nodded at him briefly and then continued up to Gryffindor Tower, with Colin and Hermione in tow. Colin was chatting eagerly with Hermione about the books that she'd brought with her. They had been far beyond Sal's level of ability, but Colin thought that they could be useful later down the line.
As they entered the common room, Harry headed straight for the dorms, leaving Colin and Hermione to their academic conversation. He was exhausted, and Hermione was on a roll; Harry suspected that they'd be talking for hours yet. He yawned a quick "Goodnight," as Colin rifled around in his wicker basket for a book to show Hermione. Harry was pleased with how the night had gone; Colin had proven himself to be an unexpectedly good teacher – well-organised and focused.
"Oh fuck!" Harry halted, foot on the first stair, at Colin's sudden exclamation.
"What is it?" Harry asked as he turned round, wand ready. Colin blushed, waving a small packet in his right hand.
"Sorry, it's nothing," Colin hurried to explain, "I just forgot that I'd brought biscuits for us all."
Harry turned and marched up the stairs without another word. He took back every nice thing he'd just been thinking about Colin; that had been a packet of shortbread.
Later that night, Harry was lying in bed, unable to sleep. He'd tried to get an early night, but he had failed miserably. The rest of the dorm was snoring loudly, apart from Ron, whose bed was suspiciously empty. Harry tried very hard not to think about what exactly that meant, as he was pretty certain that Ron hadn't found a way around the charmed staircase that led up to the girls' dorms, and he didn't want spend the rest of his time at Hogwarts feeling uncomfortable every time he walked past a broom cupboard.
Harry had managed to fall into a light doze when Ron came sneaking through the dormitory door. Harry sat bolt upright, startled, reaching for his wand. Ron jumped half a foot in the air.
"Fucking hell, mate, it's just me," Ron whispered, holding his hands up, as Harry lowered his wand and wrapped the duvet up to his chin. Ron picked his way with startling dexterity through the piles of clothes, books, and assorted junk that were strewn around his bed. Harry was impressed; that was quite a feat in the dark. Ron finally hopped over his last obstacle, a dog-eared copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, and threw himself on his bed, fully clothed, letting out a loud yawn.
"Sorry," Harry said quietly, conscious that the others were sleeping.
"It's fine," Ron yawned widely, again, and pulled himself into a sitting position, lighting his wand with a silent lumos. "I was trying not to wake you up, but I see it's a bit late for that." Harry lit his wand in return and the two friends smiled at each other across the dorm. "You alright , mate?" Ron asked him nonchalantly. "Busy week?"
Harry frowned, feeling guilty. He'd been neglecting Ron for the past few days, what with his ongoing (and fruitless) investigation into the Founders and his long chats with Hermione. He felt like a terrible friend. He went to apologise, but noticed that Ron was smiling widely at him.
"Git," Harry told him, and chucked a pillow across the room. Ron ducked, chuckling quietly, catching the pillow with impeccable Keeper precision.
"You going to fill me in, then?" Ron asked, smiling widely as he tucked Harry's pillow behind his back and settled down comfortably, waiting for the story.
Harry quickly brought Ron up to date on the events of the last week, including Hermione's research into life debts. Ron looked thoughtful for a moment.
"I can ask Bill what he knows. I reckon curse breakers probably deal with that sort of thing all the time." Ron scratched his forehead as he thought. "Our best bet would probably be someone in the DMLE, but I don't know anyone who works in contracts. That's mainly all old pureblood families."
Harry agreed that asking Bill was a good idea and politely ignored the fact that Ron hadn't mentioned Percy, the brother who would probably be the best source of information for magical legal trivia.
"So what's this Sal bloke like then?" Ron asked casually. "He any chattier than he was the other night?"
Harry hesitated slightly before continuing. He didn't quite know how to talk about Sal, or how to bring up his concerns. He settled instead for telling Ron about the incident with the spilt bucket, but that led to Filch's reaction, which led to Sal's revelation about the whipping, which led to the fight that he and Hermione had had.
"I don't want to get into anything, because I know you two are at each other's' throats at the moment," Harry warned Ron firmly, "but I think she's wrong on this one." Ron had gone very quiet across the room. "If we go blundering about telling teachers, we're just going to make everything worse, aren't we?" Harry sighed and threw his hands up in frustration. "I just wish that she'd trust that I might have a bit of an idea about something other than flying."
"You're not half bad with Dark Lords either, mate, don't sell yourself short," Ron reminded him with a grin. Harry rolled his eyes.
"You're all sympathy."
"Alright, you want my opinion, Harry?" Ron suddenly looked very serious. "I think you both have a point." He held up a hand to quiet Harry's protests. "If someone's being hurt, then, yeah, they really should tell someone about it… an adult, someone who knows what they're doing… But I also get that sometimes things aren't that black and white. I mean… The teachers aren't always the best at looking after us, are they?" Ron smiled ruefully. "At least none of them have tried to kill us so far this year. That's probably a new record, right?"
"Third year," Harry said after a moment's thought, and Ron deflated.
"Fine, whatever, but it's better than normal, and that says quite a bit considering that this is a fucking school." Harry had honestly never really thought about it that way. Hogwarts had always been better than Privet Drive, murderous staff members or no. Ron sniffed and scratched his nose. "It wasn't nearly this bad in Bill and Charlie's day."
"Hermione's convinced that Sal's going to collapse from blood poisoning, like he's had some kind of mortal wound," Harry told Ron bitterly. "She says if we don't say anything to the teachers, or persuade him to go to Madam Pomfrey then there's a chance he could get really ill."
"What do you think?" Ron asked quietly.
"I think he's fine, this time, and I reckon if we push him on it, he's not going to trust us when he really needs help. I left him some ointment and stuff, in case he needs it."
"This time," Ron echoed quietly. He had grown very still across the room.
"So you think I'm doing the right thing?" Harry prompted.
"Harry, mate, I don't think we're really meant to have the answers to this. Stuff like this…It's complicated, right? I don't think it's as simple as Hermione reckons it is, but I don't think that means we shouldn't do anything about it."
"I wasn't saying that," Harry bit back angrily.
"Didn't say you were, mate," Ron agreed smoothly. "For what it's worth, I agree with you. If you push him to tell you too much about himself, he's never going to trust you enough to tell you when things are properly wrong, and he'll probably run a mile if you start asking too many questions." Harry nodded firmly in agreement. "Sometimes you've just got to be there to pick up the pieces for other people, and that's the best you can do." Ron continued quietly, with a small sigh. "You can't do anything if he won't tell you anything, mate. And even then, we're sixteen! We can only do so much."
Harry bit back a retort on that one. They'd already done tons of things fully grown wizards would balk at, and they'd survived to tell the tale. "So you don't think we should say something to the teachers then?" Harry asked Ron quietly. He just wanted to clarify that he wasn't alone in thinking that. Last summer had proven that he couldn't always trust his gut, and he wasn't going to put anyone else in danger because he refused to take any advice. He owed Sirius that much.
"I think," Ron replied slowly and hesitantly, "I think that if you tell the teachers, they might tell you you're overreacting and that there isn't anything to worry about." Harry nodded again, he'd thought that too. "They might tell you it's out of their hands, but that you should keep an eye out in case things get worse." Harry hadn't thought of that one, but he thought that it sounded like something Dumbledore might say. Ron took a deep breath and looked Harry in the eye. "If Sal finds out that you went to someone about this…Then he might not trust you again. He won't tell you if anything is really bad, even though he really, really should." Ron looked very pale, very young, and very earnest in the light from his wand. Harry smiled and thanked him for his advice. He was glad that it wasn't just him that thought that way, and he was pretty certain that Ron wasn't just taking his side to get one over on Hermione.
Harry muttered a quick "Goodnight," and lay back on his pillows, as Ron let out a heavy sigh in return. Harry doused his wand with a quick nox and listened as Ron's breathing steadily evened out into deep snores. He stared up at the canopy for a long time, contemplating what Ron had said, before he finally fell asleep.
More nerdy notes below the line:
The line Hermione quotes "þat trewest wer knauen" is Middle English, it's based on the dialect of the Pearl poet, which is considered to be from around Cheshire, in the 14th Century. It's been a while since I last studied it though, so I defer to anyone with greater knowledge: if the grammar is off, please let me know.
Harry's comment about Sal probably never having held a pencil before is true, but mainly because pencils weren't around in the tenth century. Harry sleeps through history of magic, it's a miracle he remembered that tea came to England with colonialism.
