Hi guys, I said I'd have the next chapter up, and it's here!

TWs this chapter for: panic attack/ flashback and dissociation.

As always, thanks for reading, please review and let me know what you think.


It was a cold day in mid-December when Severus Snape finally managed to pull Draco into his office for a chat. Draco was significantly unimpressed; he'd thought he'd manage to avoid his Head of House until the New Year at the earliest. Apparently, Christmas brought out the conversationalist in some. He collapsed gracefully into the chair opposite Snape's desk, without waiting for an invitation; Snape stalked furiously around the desk to his own chair, as Draco basked in the radiant glow of his teacher's temper. Draco smirked to himself; he was not above a bit of petty vengeance, and he was particularly annoyed at being pulled into what would undoubtedly be a pointless meeting, this close to the Christmas holidays. He had things to do, and he was far too busy to indulge Snape's nannyish fretting about his progress. Draco could manage quite well on his own, thank you very much. He was sick of being underestimated, and he had lost a lot of respect for Snape over the past few weeks because of it.

"What is this about?" he asked coldly, before Snape had a chance to speak. Snape looked at him sternly and clasped his hands in front of him, looking the picture of a reliable, helpful teacher. Draco wasn't fooled – he'd seen the man cast a cruciatus.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Draco. It's beneath you to try. We both know what I want to talk to you about." Snape sighed, dragging a tired hand across his face. Draco pursed his lips and gazed intently at the jars on the shelf behind Snape's head.

"Of course, my apologies, Professor. The first years are settling in nicely and we've finally worked out a patrolling system amongst the prefects that will take better account of Quidditch Practice. We can't have another game like the one against Gryffindor, this year." Draco kept his voice just an inch shy of insolent, and smirked. "That is what you meant, sir? You wanted to discuss my prefect duties. I can't think of any other reason you'd want to talk to me." Draco let his smirk drop and stared his Professor directly in the eyes. "If it were any other reason, I might accuse you of intervening unnecessarily." Last year, he wouldn't have dared talk to his Head of House in such a way, but a lot had changed since then. He'd spent the summer in the direct presence of both his psychotic Aunt and the Dark Lord himself, he was hardly about to be scared by the threat of detention: not anymore.

"I am trying to help you, Draco." Snape hissed at him through gritted teeth. Draco eyed him shrewdly. It was well known that Snape was close to the Dark Lord, that he was very much in their Lord's favour, even more so than some of the more enthusiastic Death Eaters, such as Draco's Auntie Bella. Draco knew that it was probably a little stupid to spurn Snape's offer for help, but he wanted to prove himself to the Dark Lord. He'd been hand-picked for this mission, chosen above all others. He wasn't about to go running to his Professor for help, just because it got a little difficult.

"And I've already told you. I don't need your help!" Draco spat disdainfully, as he went to stand up. "I am not discussing this with you anymore!" Snape sighed in defeat, and Draco leant back in his chair; he was not entirely relaxed, but nor was he as close to storming out as he had been mere moments ago. A long silence fell over them, as they both paused to regain their composure.

"As it so happens, there is something else that I wanted to discuss with you." Snape's voice was ice-cold, devoid of all emotion; his face was unreadable. Draco had to hand it to the man, he had an impeccable mask.

"Our illustrious visitors, I assume," Draco replied calmly. His fingers itched to go for his wand and curse that damned apathetic look from his teacher's face, but he kept his emotions under lock and key, and his face carefully blank. Draco had learnt a thing or two about masks, himself.

"Indeed."

"You have been following one of them rather closely," Draco allowed. He'd watched Snape circling Sal like an overprotective hippogriff for the past few weeks. It had amused Draco to watch Potter routed from his investigations time and time again – particularly as Potter had taken an uncomfortably deep interest in Draco's extra-curricular activities this year – but Snape's damned mothering had prevented Draco from his own analysis of Sal, and he was starting to get a little annoyed.

"As have you," Snape replied, looking at him shrewdly.

Draco flushed, despite himself. He thought he'd been quite careful in his little missions. He'd taken care to have Crabbe or Goyle stand watch and alert him whenever Filch was approaching. Of course, trusting those two idiots had been, as always, a risky endeavour. There had been a couple of occasions when he'd just barely slipped away before Filch arrived. He might no longer fear detention, but it was still an insulting waste of his time. He was not particularly desirous to earn any more of them, not while he had better things to be getting on with.

"Have you discovered anything to your interest?" Snape asked him mildly, but Draco could read between the lines to the real question.

"Do you mean: have I discovered that our dear Sal is actually the great Salazar Slytherin himself?" Draco tried to keep the pride from his voice; his mother had always told him that it was uncouth to gloat, and he was trying to listen to his mother more often these days.

"I do." Snape looked at him levelly. "I will not insult your intelligence asking how you came to the realisation; a concussed troll could probably make the connection" He paused and smirked slightly. "Potter does not suspect. Yet." Draco smiled widely in response and nodded, absolutely unwilling to admit that the only reason he'd known anything at all was that he'd accidentally overheard Professor Dumbledore having a quiet word on the subject with the portrait of Wendelin the Weird, near the Arithmency classroom.

"We have months before Potter realises anything," Draco dismissed the comment airily. "He takes months to discover anything of consequence, even with that filthy mudblood whispering in his ear." Draco raised an eyebrow and looked at his teacher in amusement. "Do you know that it took him most of third year to realise that Lupin was a werewolf, even when you all but told us outright in Defence. Merlin…" He shook his head and laughed. "I imagine that Potter will be almost into his dotage, before he finds his way round to the stick end of the broom."

"Do not completely underestimate Potter, Draco. The Dark Lord does not, and he is a far greater wizard than you." Snape looked at him firmly, and Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. There was no point stating the obvious.

"Yes, of course. But even if Potter discovers the truth tomorrow, it will hardly be of any concern to the Dark Lord. Not when he himself has known for weeks!" Draco smirked and leaned back in his chair, happy to have won that particular point. Snape, on the other hand, stilled immediately and fixed Draco with a piercing look. Draco felt the smirk fade from his face.

"Draco, do you mean to tell me that you've spoken about this with the Dark Lord?" Snape's voice was disturbingly emotionless. Draco felt a deep thrill of fear strike through him.

"Yes, of course," he drawled arrogantly, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Had he done something wrong? "Why should I not tell the Dark Lord about his illustrious ancestor's presence at Hogwarts?" There, that was a safe way to ask if he'd done something unutterably stupid. But then, because he couldn't help himself, and because he was feeling rather defensive, he spoke up again. "You told the Dark Lord about the other Founders!" Draco was nearly seventeen years of age, almost a grown adult, and he most definitely did not whine, so there was no real excuse for the pitiful whinge that slipped past his lips. He blushed furiously, but met Snape's eyes despite the burning in his cheeks.

"Why not? Draco, do you even realise what you've done?" Snape looked slightly perturbed, and Draco felt his stomach drop to his knees. This was serious, then. "You stupid child. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I don't see what the problem is." Draco protested faintly, but he knew that there had to be one. Either that, or Snape had discovered a heretofore unknown sense of humour and was making malicious use of it to give Draco stress-induced heart palpitations.

"The problem, Draco, is that the boy walking these halls bears no real resemblance to the Salazar Slytherin that we know from legend." Snape's fists were clenched knuckle white on the table in front of him. "I am sure that has not escaped your notice."

"I couldn't work it out, at first," Draco admitted quietly. "I thought he was playing some kind of elaborate game with us. But then I realised: how could Salazar Slytherin be a slave?" Draco looked up at his Head of House, pleadingly. Sal had started to trust Draco enough to drop a few hints that he had something more at play, which eased Draco's concerns a little, but it was still fairly evident that Sal was nothing more than a scared teenager, no matter what he could become in the future. He might have even been able to convince Draco that he truly was the great Salazar, disguised for some nefarious purpose or scheme, if not for the fact that Draco had spent the entire summer with a real Dark Lord. Sal's manipulations were good, but they weren't perfect, and Draco couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in the reality of his idol. It went against everything he had been told about the illustrious founder, yet the evidence was indisputably thrown in Draco's face every day: Salazar Slytherin truly had been a slave.

"And thus you see the problem. How do you think the Dark Lord will react when he learns the truth? I'm assuming that you have not told him yet?" Snape asked shrewdly and Draco shook his head. Of course he hadn't, he wasn't suicidal. "Do you imagine that the Dark Lord will rejoice at the news?" Draco winced and shook his head again, he was beginning to understand. He should have known better. He'd been carried away with the glee of his initial discovery, and he hadn't thought through his actions properly. His father would be ashamed of him, and his mother, too. "The Dark Lord may even question the authenticity of the information." Snape pressed on relentlessly. Draco felt very cold and his face went as white as a sheet.

"But…but it's obvious. Isn't it? You agreed with me!" He blurted out indignantly. Snape looked at him levelly.

"Yes Draco, it is obvious – to anyone who wishes to look. But the Dark Lord may not be so inclined. He is very…proud…of his relation to our illustrious Founder. He might not wish to see the stark reality behind the legend." Snape sighed and Draco forced his hands in his lap to avoid running them through his hair in irritation. It was a terrible habit for which his mother always scolded him. Besides, it had taken half an hour this morning for him to charm his hair into place, he was not messing that up in deference to his own weakness.

"What can I do?" Draco felt very young all of a sudden, like he had when he'd been sent deep into the Forbidden Forest as a first year, with only a wandless Groundskeeper and a bunch of Gryffindors to protect him from the monsters in the dark.

"You will do nothing. If the Dark Lord questions you any further, inform him that you have been forbidden any contact with the Founders, which is true enough." Snape looked at him sternly and Draco felt his heart plummet. "Draco: I forbid you to have any further contact with Sal. You will not make this any worse with any further interference. You will leave the resolution of this matter to me." Snape held his gaze until Draco nodded.

"Fine." Draco ground out bitterly and stormed out of the office angrily, slamming the door behind him. He was sick and tired of being treated like an idiot child. He scowled at a group of passing first year Hufflepuffs and was vaguely pleased when they squeaked in terror. He couldn't sit quietly and wait for Snape to clean up his messes; he needed to figure this out for himself. He kicked at the stone wall of the dungeon corridor in frustration and nearly broke his big toe. Swearing luridly and trying his best to be dignified as he hopped about in pain, Draco cursed the whole bunch of Founders for even coming to Hogwarts in the first place. Why couldn't Sal just be like he was supposed to be? Why couldn't he just be the Salazar Slytherin that the Dark Lord was expecting? The powerful dark wizard that he was meant to be? That would solve all of Draco's problems.

Draco froze and stood still, aware that he was receiving some very odd looks from a group of passing Ravenclaws. But he didn't care, he'd just thought of something completely incredible. If Draco needed Sal to be Salazar Slytherin, why couldn't he just make him so? Why couldn't he turn the slave boy into the greatest dark wizard ever – until the Dark Lord, that was? It was a ludicrous idea, really, but weren't they all, these days? He had been tasked with killing the wizard who took down Grindelwald in a straight duel; compared to that, a bit of heavy weight character manipulation would probably be light work. Also, it was an honour really, wasn't it? To be the one who showed Salazar Slytherin his true potential? To be the one who showed him what power really meant? The Dark Lord would never need to know. It was highly probable that the whole time-travel debacle would be resolved before Christmas. With a couple of Draco's lessons behind him, Sal would be well on his way to becoming the man that history remembered, and Draco would be able to smile and honestly give the Dark Lord positive news, should he ever be asked to describe what Slytherin had been like. But even if, by some terrible twist of fate, the Founders were still traipsing the grounds of Hogwarts by the end of the school year, then Draco would have had a good six months to teach Salazar everything he needed to know. Sal would be unrecognisable and the Dark Lord would be content.

Draco smiled to himself, raising his chin proudly, as he strolled up to the seventh floor to make another attempt to tame the broken Vanishing Cabinet. Draco always worked best when he had a plan behind him, and this was a good one.


Sal sighed and ducked further behind the large shelves of the library. He was standing in the vague area that Hermione had pointed him to, looking vainly for some sign that would confirm that he was, actually, in the 'Old English' section, as he was meant to be. The irony of being illiterate in a library of this size was not lost on him, and he had to force down the sick shot of bitterness that rose up at the back of his throat. It was so easy for the students of the school. They had, according to Hermione, learnt how to read years ago, so they found the action of prying sense from a few squiggles on parchment to be as simple as breathing. For them, it was as intuitive as the spells that tripped from their wands, like raindrops falling from the stormy heavens. Sal hated it, and them, and himself for being such a jealous child. He knew better than to complain about things that were beyond his control. That way led only to disappointment, or madness (depending on how melodramatic he was feeling at the time).

He cursed quietly and wondered, for what must have been the hundredth time, why he was even doing this. He frowned and reminded himself sternly (again) that Hermione had told him that this was important. He peered at the carefully ordered spines of the books on the shelf, tracing the rough bindings with his finger. He was looking for something that 'jumped out at him', although what Hermione had meant by that was anyone's guess. Apparently he'd 'know when he found it'. Wasn't that just the most useless load of bullshit he'd ever heard? He sighed again and stared at a particularly thick, leather bound manuscript. It was a particular kind of torture to have so much knowledge in such easy reach, but for it to be locked away in some indecipherable code, particularly one that he was having doubts he'd ever be able to decipher.

Colin had been trying his hardest to teach him, over the past few weeks. They'd moved beyond the basic letters after a couple of lessons, and Sal had been pretty confident that he'd known the alphabet back to front and upside down, along with the different individual sounds that each letter made. That was until they'd tried to move onto simple words. Sal had drawn a complete blank there. Nothing that Colin could suggest had been able to make it any easier for him, either. Sal had tried every technique presented to him until he was blue in the face and his brain was half scrambled from the effort, but nothing had worked. He had been able to identify the letters, and had been able to sound them out, as Colin had suggested, but no matter how hard he had tried, he hadn't been able to make the letters into identifiable words. They were just complete gibberish. Finally, after three long, painful hours of Sal trying and failing to eke the word 'dog' out of the intractable letters, Colin had given up and called in the cavalry. By which he had meant Harry, Hermione, and Ginny.

"What's the problem?" Hermione had asked, the minute she had walked into the magically appearing room. Colin had immediately launched into a very long-winded explanation that ended with Sal protesting that the letter sounds just didn't fit together to make any words that he could recognise.

"Oh dear," Hermione had replied very quietly, after a long moment. "I think I know what the problem is." She'd then written out the word 'folde' and asked Sal to sound it out. Sal had done so and had been thrilled to find that it actually made sense. He'd read the word for "earth", as clear as day.

"That's incredible." Sal had beamed at the others, until he'd seen the frown on Hermione's face.

"We have a problem," she had told him, apologetically. "I didn't even think about it. You see, the problem is we've been teaching you to read the wrong language." Sal had blinked at her stupidly, as he had waited for her to continue her explanation. "You see the English language has changed over time, the version that you speak is much more Germanic, and it's the language the Anglo Saxons brought over from Northern Europe when they invaded. We call it Old English. The language we speak is Modern English, and it's completely different, it's had another thousand years to change and develop, not to mention the influence of the Norman invasion…which I should really not have mentioned at all. Oh Merlin, I hope I've not just destroyed the timeline." Hermione hadn't stopped from breath for almost thirty seconds, and Sal had almost been impressed, despite the fact that she was talking absolute nonsense.

"But Hermione, he's been speaking English with us for weeks," Harry had informed her gently, as if afraid he was about to get his head bitten off. Hermione had looked at Sal as if she could make him understand through sheer will alone, but she'd shaken herself as Harry spoke.

"What? Of course he hasn't!" Hermione had looked so offended, Sal had half expected her to challenge Harry to an honour duel from sheer academic indignation alone. Sal had been very glad that he'd not spoken up, as he'd been thinking the same thing as Harry. Hermione had frowned at them all sternly. "Have none of you even picked up a copy of Hogwarts: A History?" Sal had looked at her dryly and she had the decency to look embarrassed before she continued. "Hogwarts is a magical school…"

"No shit," Ginny had interjected, but shut up quickly at the look on Hermione's face.

"I mean that the building is, in itself, magical. The staircases move, the classrooms move around between floors, and the mirrors talk to you and give you fashion advice. Things like that. Which means that the building itself has its own magic. It's the same for any old magical structure. The floo network around Diagon Alley has been famously unreliable for decades, and the buildings there aren't even that old – apart from Ollivanders, of course – Hogwarts is ancient in comparison."

"Hermione, you've lost me," Harry had replied honestly, and Hermione had rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Look, old magical buildings have their own magic. Hogwarts does too, but it doesn't really do all that much. It just kind of lingers in the air. But one of the things it does do is learn. Over time, it picks up elements of the personalities and cultures of the teachers and students who've lived there. There's a fascinating article on the influence of atmospheric magic on local wildlife, which would go a long way to explaining the Burrow's gnome infestation, but your mum refuses to let me lend it to her, Ginny. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is language. Over time the school has heard all the different languages spoken by students, and it has absorbed them – to the point that they've become part of the school itself. The magic sort of alters everyone's perceptions so that we can all understand one another. So when we speak modern English to you, the school's inherent magic makes it sound like Old English to you, and vice versa. How do you think we communicate with portraits and ghosts that have been around for centuries?"

"But what about during the Tournament, Hermione? Are you telling me all those English lessons were just an excuse for Krum to spend time with you?" Harry had asked with a knowing grin.

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry, it only applies to languages that have been spoken every day by hundreds of students for hundreds of years. Bulgarian is not one of them." She had sighed and turned to look at Sal, apologetically. "This is where we have a problem. The school's magic only applies to the spoken word. There's a whole lot of law around the importance of the spoken word in magic, but suffice to say, the school doesn't magically grant the ability to understand the entire library at a glance. If it did, you'd already be able to read, Sal. As it is, we've been trying to teach you to recognise words in the wrong language. We just didn't notice because none of you knew you were speaking a different language."

Hermione had finally come up for breath, and Sal had asked her what they could do to fix the problem. He had come so far already, he was not about to stop because of some pesky language barrier. She'd told him to try and find a book in his own language that he could work from; she'd said that he'd know the right one when he found it. It was for this reason and this reason alone, that he found himself combing through the darkened shelves of a dusky corner of the library, searching the shelves in the vain hope that one of these dusty tomes might spark some inspiration and jump off the shelf at him. Sal sighed deeply again, and tried to convince himself that Hermione knew what she was doing. He'd wolfed down his dinner at breakneck speed to come and search through the library, but it was taking a lot longer than he'd thought. He was going to be late getting back to Filch, if he wasn't careful. But there were just so many books! He'd never thought that so many could exist in one place!

Just when he was about to give up hope and call it a night, a thin volume caught his attention; he spotted it out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what it was about that one book that enthralled him so much, but something perhaps in the shape of the spine, or the colour of the binding, had intrigued him. He pulled it from the shelf and blew off the dust, he flicked through it and was disappointed to realise that the letters continued to make as little sense as they had been for the past two weeks. He shook his head, irritated at himself, and went to put it back on the shelf. He turned round and, to his complete horror, found himself face to face with Lady Hufflepuff. There was a moment of stillness where Sal found himself too frozen to speak, before she broke the awful silence.

"Are you trying to steal that?" she asked in a terse whisper, pointing to the book in his hands.

"W-what? I…I mean, n-no, m'lady," he replied quickly, his hands starting to shake. He knew he should probably be insulted at her insinuation, but he was too terrified at having been caught to care.

"So you're reading it then?" she asked him with an arched eyebrow and a huffed laugh. The silence was eloquent. Sal felt his heart fly to his throat. "You can read?"

Sal flinched and shook his head quickly. "Not yet, m'lady," he told her honestly. Better to confess to illicit reading lessons, than to the attempted theft of a book from their hosts. The moment the words passed his lips, he realised that he could have pretended that he was running an errand for a student, or for one of the staff. No-one would have questioned him for doing his work, although they might have wondered who had left such a valuable object in the hands of a mere slave. Unfortunately, he couldn't take back what he'd already said. As always, hindsight was a wonderful thing.

"This isn't something that Lord Gryffindor has approved, is it?" Lady Hufflepuff asked slowly. Sal shook his head miserably, eyes fixed on the floor. He was dead. Fucking dead. She was going to report this to his master and then he was going to die. Probably painfully. His master could be creative when the mood struck him.

No-one wanted an educated slave, not unless they chose for them to be educated, that was. Sal's master had expressly forbidden Sal from learning anything not directly related to religion or the daily chores of the household, without his master's explicit permission. It was testament to the lesson in irony that was his life that he hadn't even had chance to learn anything properly yet, considering Hermione had only just discovered the whole language barrier issue. He'd been pleasantly surprised to find out that it wasn't entirely his own fault; he'd thought for certain that he was just too stupid to learn. People had been telling him that his whole life, after all. He'd always ignored them, convinced that, even if he wasn't educated, he wasn't entirely stupid and that if someone would just give him a chance, he would be able to prove them all wrong. When he'd failed at even the most basic words, he thought, with grim certainty, that he was the ignorant moron that they always said he was. Too stupid to learn, too stupid to be taught, too stupid to be bothered with. He'd learnt enough of his lessons at the end of a fist, or a whip, that he'd begun to wonder whether he was just a dumb animal, there to be put to work for his betters. To find out that it wasn't just him, that there was a whole language issue at play, had been indescribably relieving. Sal had thought that he'd have another chance. Clearly, Providence was not working in his favour. He should have known better than to get his hopes up.

"I'm s-sorry, m'lady," Sal said quietly. He was still holding onto the book, and his hands were shaking slightly, clenching and unclenching against the binding.

"I assume that you didn't get this idea into your head all on your own. Who has been teaching you?" she asked him.

"Some of the s-students, m'lady. I don't know their names," well there was as blatant a lie as he'd ever told. Sal wondered if she'd believe it, or call him out on it.

"Hmm?" she looked at him closely. Sal kept his eyes fixed to the floor, forcing himself not to look up and discover what that ambiguous noise meant. Her hand reached out in front of his nose, and it took an embarrassingly long minute for Sal to realise what she was asking him for. He handed the book over with shaking hands and watched as she examined it critically; she was presumably looking for whatever damage he had done with his filthy, illiterate hands.

"I just wanted to learn m'lady," Sal said miserably, as she put the book back on the shelf with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics.

"Well, that I can understand," she said quietly. She looked Sal up and down, and he tried his hardest to convey to her just how earnestly he meant what he'd said. She hummed slightly and then laughed quietly. "You know, I think I just might believe you." She wrung her hands, looking conflicted, and then peered at Sal closely. "What if I were to pretend that I'd never seen you?"

Sal's head shot up and he was momentarily too shocked to speak. She raised an eyebrow at him and he stuttered his thanks, hardly daring to believe what was happening.

"You wouldn't be doing anything Lord Gryffindor wouldn't approve of?" she asked him sternly.

"N-no, m'lady," Sal shook his head and tried his hardest, despite the tremendous lie he'd just told, to look innocent and earnest. It was an expression that he'd never quite managed to perfect. Lady Hufflepuff looked at him shrewdly, but seemed content to take him at his word. Sal tried his hardest not to judge her for that; it wasn't her fault that he was a lying, delinquent little shit.

"Alright," Lady Hufflepuff told him, "I won't tell anyone. But you'll have to be careful." She smiled tightly, and Sal felt his shoulders slump in relief. He took a deep breath, gratified that Lady Hufflepuff wasn't going to run off and inform his master of his latest indiscretion, or at least that she didn't seem about to do so anytime soon. He wasn't able to revel in the feeling for long though, as, moments later, from behind the next rack of shelves, the voice of Lady Ravenclaw cut through the air in a loud whisper.

"Helga, I've just found the most amazing book, it's full of riddles." Lady Ravenclaw sounded very excited. "Right, see if you can solve this one: 'I am a…'" she rounded the corner, large book held in one hand, wand twirling casually in the other, a bright grin on her face. "Oh…" she stopped as she saw who Lady Hufflepuff was talking to, eyes flicking from her companion to Sal, and then back again. Sal looked desperately at Lady Hufflepuff, but she didn't seem nearly as panicked as he felt. Perhaps she was better at concealing things than he was. "Well, well Helga, deserting me for a slave boy, are you? How scandalous!" Lady Ravenclaw's eyes lit up with merriment, as she teased the other woman. "What will poor Godric do, his heart will be rent in two, his hopes shattered, his dreams cast adrift on the…" She was cut off abruptly, as Lady Hufflepuff turned around and slapped a hand over her mouth.

"You are in the library," she reminded Lady Ravenclaw tersely. "We are supposed to be quiet here." The other woman had the decency to look slightly abashed, and she wilted slightly under her companion's stern gaze. "Are you quite finished?" Lady Hufflepuff asked, although she sounded as though she were holding back laughter. Lady Ravenclaw nodded quickly, and Lady Hufflepuff moved her hand away.

"On the tattered remains of his spurned love," Lady Ravenclaw finished with glee, although she kept her voice low. Her companion looked at her fondly and shook her head in exasperation. Sal stared at the two women in complete bemusement. Was that how ladies normally behaved in each other's company? He honestly hadn't been around enough of them to say either way, but Hufflepuff seemed remarkably familiar with her mistress, for a mere companion. But then again, that might just be how companions were expected to behave. Sal had no idea, but what he did know was that Lady Ravenclaw had just insinuated that he was meeting Lady Hufflepuff for an illicit liaison, the woman who was (apparently) the object of the affections of his master's son. Sal felt the blood run from his face. This was very not good. That kind of rumour, however ludicrous, would be bad. Sal swallowed and took a deep breath. It would be very bad indeed.

"I told you not to bring that up again, Rowena," Lady Hufflepuff said with a groan. "The poor boy is completely lovesick."

"Oh, but my dear, you wound him so terribly! What was it he wrote, 'Fair Helga's heart, my hope to win. In battle bold, thus bravely I stand?' Or was it 'arise'? I forget," Lady Ravenclaw laughed outright as Lady Hufflepuff hid her face in her hands.

Sal got the strong feeling that these two women were being indecorously unguarded with their conversation. In all the times that he had seen them back in Lord Gryffindor's Hall – them seated elegantly by the fire pit, him pouring mead in the corner and jealously eyeing the scraps that were thrown to the dogs – he had never seen them behave so casually. But then again, why shouldn't they talk to each other as friends? He was the only witness, and he was only a slave. It didn't matter what they said in front of him, because he didn't matter.

"Leave poor Godric alone, he means well," Lady Hufflepuff said sternly, raising her face from her hands. Her cheeks were flushed pink with embarrassment.

"Yes, but his verse is terrible, and that is inexcusable," Lady Ravenclaw said primly, and then turned to face Sal. "Now, tell me, what were you doing back here with this slave, Helga?"

Sal had been trying his hardest to fade into the bookcase behind him, in the (apparently) vain hope that he would be forgotten about and allowed to go on his way. But of course, he should have known better than to hope.

"Having a conversation, Rowena dear," Lady Hufflepuff replied blithely, "and quite a scintillating one at that. He's just full of surprises."

"Oh?" Lady Ravenclaw asked, looking Sal over with more interest. He felt the back of his neck prickle, and he kept his eyes forced to the floor. "Now that is interesting. What have you been keeping from us all?" Her voice sounded slightly mocking and Sal had to force himself not to clench his fists in anger. If there was one thing he hated, it was being patronised. He could tolerate the taunts, the curses, the cruel disdain that he was met with as soon as people realised his status. But what he couldn't handle, what made fire burn in his stomach and his eyes smart in indignation, was being treated like an idiot, or a child. He hated being seen as some mere joke, as a curiosity to be poked and prodded by supercilious nobles with too much time on their hands and not enough sources of entertainment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I do believe I've upset him," Lady Ravenclaw said with a slight laugh. "Helga, I'm sorry, I think I've made your new friend all cross." She sounded almost awestruck, and Sal bit the inside of his cheek as his temper flashed again.

"Rowena, stop it," Lady Hufflepuff said sternly. "He wasn't doing anything wrong. Leave him alone."

"I'm just teasing him," Lady Ravenclaw's voice dropped its edge, suddenly sounding a lot more vulnerable. Sal glanced up, and he could see the pleading look in her eyes. She looked a lot younger than she had a moment ago, and Sal was struck with the sudden realisation that she was only a few years older than he was. He tried not to stare or to let any confusion and irritation show on his face. He was stressed beyond all measure. Within the past few minutes, he'd had his reading lessons discovered, been accused of illicit liaisons with a noble women, been mocked by another, and learnt a great deal more about the heart of his master's son than was entirely judicious. He was also almost certain that he was running late to meet Filch. Of course, all of this meant that he was going to remain illiterate for the rest of his life; the duration of which would probably be very short, because if his master didn't have him hanged for having an unchaperoned and highly suspicious meeting with one of his wards, Filch would probably beat him to death for being late so soon after being flogged for the same transgression. So what right did Lady Ravenclaw have to look so wounded? He was a dead man; what was her excuse?

"You're being cruel," Lady Hufflepuff confirmed steadily, and Lady Ravenclaw winced. "It's beneath you." There was a long moment before Lady Hufflepuff let out a deep sigh. "But I'll forgive you, this once."

"Oh thank goodness," Lady Ravenclaw said and swept her companion into a close hug, "I am sorry, my love." Lady Hufflepuff whispered something into her ear, and Sal strained to listen in, but he couldn't hear what it was that she said. Sal eyed them warily, certain that he was intruding on a private moment, but unsure if he was meant to leave. He would have been quite happy to just put the whole conversation behind him, but he hadn't been dismissed yet. Finally, Lady Ravenclaw broke off the hug and turned to face him. "I'm sorry," she said to him, with what sounded like genuine remorse, "that was unkind of me. I shouldn't have teased you like that."

Sal nodded tentatively. He had no idea what to do with an apology, and from a noble at that, even if it was, most likely, not particularly sincere. He risked raising his chin, to take a look about the room, trying to find something to focus on that would distract him from the awful blush rising in his cheeks. The room was silent around them, none of the other students seemed to come anywhere near these shelves, preferring to cluster around the tables in the better-lit centre of the library. That was probably for the best; although their conversation had been held in whispers, Sal was certain that any nearby students would have heard what he, Lady Ravenclaw, and Lady Hufflepuff had been saying. He let out a quick sigh of relief and looked over at the women.

"So you're trying to learn how to read," Lady Ravenclaw said with a smile. Sal felt his blood turn to ice, and he couldn't help the slight gasp he let out. Lady Hufflepuff had betrayed him, he shouldn't have been surprised. He really shouldn't. "Oh don't look so wounded," Lady Ravenclaw continued airily, and he gritted his teeth and forced his head down. "Helga and I don't keep secrets from each other." She smiled fondly at Lady Hufflepuff. "She's said that she promised not to tell anyone, so I won't either. But I'd advise you to keep your silence about it." She looked at Sal sternly and raised a haughty eyebrow. "I highly doubt that your master would be pleased to find out." Sal nodded quickly, looking at Lady Ravenclaw out of the corner of his eye. He didn't think that she had just threatened him, necessarily; it had sounded more like a warning. But he wasn't taking any chances; he decided to watch her closely and try his hardest to endear himself to Lady Hufflepuff – she seemed to have some influence over Lady Ravenclaw's behaviour.

"T-thank you, m'lady," he said quietly, staring at his bare feet.

"Come on, Rowena," Lady Hufflepuff said quietly, "let's leave him to it."

"Fine. This library is useless anyway," Lady Ravenclaw said acidly. She paused and smiled self-deprecatingly. "Perhaps the illiterate boy will make more sense of these dratted books than we could." Sal looked up curiously. He wasn't sure if he understood her properly, but if she was having difficulty too…?

"My lady?" he asked cautiously. She started slightly – apparently she had not expected him to speak.

"Yes?"

"Are the b-books in a s-strange language?" He cursed inwardly as he stuttered again; he hated that they made him so anxious. Reading was going to be a good thing for him, and he was pretty sure that they'd just ruined it for him. He knew he'd be nervous as fuck the next time he tried to practise with Colin, terrified that his master would be waiting to catch him in such a disobedient act. Sal sighed internally. He knew that it was highly inadvisable to engage the ladies in any further conversation, that he should keep his mouth shut and run back to Filch as fast as he could, praying that it wasn't as late as he feared it was, but he understood the frustration of things just not making sense and he didn't want to inflict that on anyone. Well, maybe Dunstan; he was a prick.

"What?" Lady Ravenclaw asked sharply. "How could you…Why do you ask that?" She looked at Sal steadily, assessing him, as if she were seeing him properly for the first time. Sal forced himself not to flinch back under the weight of her gaze.

"I th-think I know w-why that is," he told her quickly, and her eyebrows shot up.

It didn't take long to explain Hermione's theory about the language filter in the school's magic, despite the irritating stutter that broke up his hurried whispers and slowed him down. When he was done, Lady Ravenclaw looked completely thrilled; Lady Hufflepuff was looking at him appraisingly.

"That's fascinating," Lady Ravenclaw gasped, far too loudly for the library, and Lady Hufflepuff hissed at her to be quiet. "How did you discover this?" Sal flinched and searched his mind for an excuse that wouldn't incriminate Hermione and her friends; he had no idea what trouble they'd be in if it was widely known that they'd been helping him to rebel against his master. Thankfully, he was spared, as Lady Ravenclaw turned to Lady Hufflepuff, and the two women began a rapid exchange of thoughts and theories that left him awestruck. He knew that these women had to be clever to have been permitted to travel to Lord Gryffindor's court to study – instead of having been married off years ago, as was the custom – but this was beyond his expectations. They threw around terms he couldn't even begin to guess the meaning of with warm familiarity, and they discussed figures and equations with the confidence of a tax collector. Sal watched in delighted incomprehension, as he futilely tried to follow the thread of their discussion.

Finally Lady Ravenclaw turned to him. "This is simply fascinating. What other theories do you have?" Sal blinked slowly for a moment, uncertain that he'd heard her correctly. She hadn't just asked for his thoughts about something, had she?

"I think we've kept him long enough, love," Lady Hufflepuff cut in. "If you get stuck on an idea, you'll be here all night. Don't ask him any more questions." Sal blinked again. Apparently she had. "Go on," Lady Hufflepuff told him with a small smile, "I'm sure you're long since expected somewhere else."

Sal bowed and went to take his leave, but paused as Lady Ravenclaw cleared her throat noisily. He stilled and she sighed in frustration and sternly pointed a long, graceful finger at him.

"Come back tomorrow, at the same time. I want to talk more with you about this." He was so shocked that he felt his mouth drop open. He had been asked back? That was just…That was ridiculous, surely? Lady Hufflepuff smiled benignly at him, and he quickly composed himself and rushed to agree. For some strange, ridiculously improbable reason, Lady Ravenclaw wanted to speak to him: about magic. That was just…That was fucking incredible. He wasn't sure he liked the woman, but he damn well respected her intelligence. It was legendary within Lord Gryffindor's hall.

He left the library in a daze, still completely in awe at the conversation he'd just had. The ladies Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were not what he had expected when he'd seen them across Lord Gryffindor's hall. They had seemed so elegant and untouchable then, not at all like the dynamic, teasing young women he'd left behind in the library. There was an energy to them he hadn't anticipated, a sharpness of perception that both terrified and exhilarated him. He knew that he was better off forgetting the whole interaction and going back to meekly bowing and scraping to them from a polite distance, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to. It was like standing too close to the fire; he knew that he would probably get burnt, but the flames were too enticing to leave alone.

He was halfway down the corridor before he realised that he hadn't even had chance to properly look at the book that he'd picked out, before Lady Hufflepuff had found him. He cursed and came to a slow stop. He contemplated going back for it, before sternly reminding himself of the futility of such an action. Just because he liked the pretty pages did not mean that it was worth risking a whipping to go and stare at them dumbly for another half an hour. He wasn't stupid. He knew he wouldn't miraculously gain the ability to read them through sheer willpower alone. Besides, he had the terrible feeling that he was already inexcusably late.

He grumbled to himself and slumped off to Filch's office at a brisk walk. There was no way he was running for that bastard of a man, but he was prudent enough to realise that a bit of haste wouldn't go amiss. He kept his eyes open in case Malfoy decided to waylay him in the corridors, again. Sal's attempts to manipulate the boy had stalled a bit over the past week, and he was willing to admit that he had perhaps underestimated Malfoy's sagacity, or perhaps overestimated his own ability to convincingly play a figure of legend. Either way, Draco still would not leave him alone. In fact, he had spent the entire morning looking at Sal contentedly, like a cat surveying a trapped mouse. Sal was perturbed, and not exactly in a hurry to find out what Draco had planned. Besides, he was running late. He picked up his pace and arrived at the office door slightly out of breath; he took a moment to collect himself, smoothing down his errant hair and straightening his threadbare clothing, in an effort to look more composed. He pushed open the door and his stomach drop at what was on the other side.

Standing in the middle of the office was a triumphant looking Dunstan. He smirked maliciously at Sal and turned towards the corner, where Filch was stood looking decidedly awkward and vaguely green. Dunstan laughed then and said something to the caretaker, but Sal couldn't hear what it was. It sounded like he was underwater. Sal felt his hands start to tremble. The room around him was getting smaller and smaller, and he was struggling to draw in a breath. His eyes found the chains on the wall, and his knees shook unsteadily beneath him. Distantly Sal could hear the warbled sound of Filch's reply, but it was faint behind the noise of his own blood pounding in his ears. He felt the cool clasp of metal around his wrists, and sharp flashes of pain burst across his back. He gasped, and his vision flashed momentarily white.

He swayed on his feet. A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, as his legs fell out from underneath him. He flinched violently, and his vision started to dim at the edges. His breath was coming in frantic gasps, and he couldn't seem to slow it down. Something dry and crackly was placed over his mouth, as he continued to struggle for air. Slowly but surely, his breathing started to slow, and his vision started to clear a little. He was slumped in the doorway of Filch's office, panting heavily into a brown bag that seemed to be made of very thin parchment. It crinkled in on itself as he inhaled and then billowed out, with a loud crackle, as he exhaled; steadily it began to expand and contract more slowly, and his breathing slowed to steady wheezes. The bag was carefully removed, and a glass vial was placed in front of his lips.

"Drink this," stated a quiet voice, from somewhere off to his right. Sal didn't even question the command, and he gulped down the liquid immediately. Following orders was safe. He could do that. He was supposed to do that. Within a few seconds, a sense of deep calm washed over him, and he felt himself relax absolutely. He felt very light, and he found himself taking deep, slow breaths. He looked around the room idly; everything seemed very detached, which was nice. The light was very strange, almost dimmed, and the sounds of the room seemed very far away. Dunstan was looking at him with revulsion, which was not very nice, but Sal wasn't worried. Something about that seemed wrong to him, and a thought niggled at the back of his mind, but he swatted it away. He didn't want to be worried. He liked the calm.

"That was a calming draught," the voice said again. "You were having a panic attack." Sal turned around slightly to see that Professor Snape was crouched next to him, a hand on his shoulder. Sal looked at the hand and blinked slowly. He hadn't realised that he was on the floor.

"That's nice," Sal said mildly. "Why am I on the floor?"

"You fell," Professor Snape told him calmly. Oh. Sal hadn't realised, he'd been panicking. "I know," Professor Snape told him quietly, and Sal blinked slowly – had he said that last part out loud? "Yes, you did. You will find yourself lacking a filter for at least the next ten minutes or so, it is a side-effect of the draught. So I advise you to remain quiet." Ah, that explained things, and it seemed like a very reasonable suggestion. Sal could remain silent. He was very good at that, he'd had lots of practise. "I'm sure you have," Snape smirked at him, "perhaps you should demonstrate your skill now." Snape looked as if he was laughing at him, which Sal didn't think was very nice. "Oh for Merlin's sake," the Professor sighed, and pulled out his wand. "Silencio. There, maybe that will work."

"What have you done to him?" Dunstan asked quietly. Sal thought that was quite nice. Dunstan never cared about him, he was usually very mean. Well, a right bastard to be entirely honest. It was nice of him to show some interest in Sal's wellbeing, for once.

"I've given him a calming draught. He was hyperventilating, for some reason he was scared half to death." Snape had stood up and was walking towards Dunstan menacingly. Sal didn't think that was very fair. He hadn't been scared half to death; he had just been struggling to breathe for a minute. It would have passed, one way or the other, and if he'd passed out before Dunstan whipped him, well that would have been a blessing, in Sal's book.

"You shouldn't be interfering, the boy was late. Again. He knows better." Dunstan's voice was harsh and uncompromising, and Sal had to fight back a shiver, despite the calming effects of the potion. "He was getting what was coming to him."

"I'm afraid that's my fault," Professor Snape said smoothly, and Sal looked up, blinking in surprise. He hadn't known it was the Professor's fault that he was late; it would be very interesting to find out what he'd done. "The boy was with me in the dungeons. I needed someone to prepare ingredients, and he happened to be nearby when I went looking for a student to assist me." The Professor was a very good liar, Sal thought to himself, as he watched Filch tremble with indignation in the corner.

"The Headmaster entrusted him to me!" The caretaker bristled, and walked over to Sal, pulling him to his feet. Sal swayed and felt very woozy. Professor Snape looked very angry, and Sal shrugged Filch's grip from his arm. He didn't like to be grabbed, especially not by some malodorous prick of a caretaker with an overgrown sense of superiority. His mouth stung, and he tasted blood, as the back of Filch's hand snapped across the side of his face. He stumbled backwards, as pain rushed through the protective barrier of calm in his mind. He bowed his head submissively, and the easy tranquillity swelled back to him. This was good. This was safe. He could do this all day, and no one would get angry at him for it. Sal looked down at his hands; they weren't shaking. They were very pale, and thin; he had very thin fingers.

"Be that as it may," Professor Snape continued, "I find myself in pressing need of his assistance. Professor Dumbledore requires a disproportionate number of quite complex potions this year, more than he has done before." He fixed Filch with a meaningful look and paused, waiting.

Sal wasn't sure what was going on, or why the Professor was lying through his teeth on Sal's behalf, but he was loath to look a gift horse in the mouth. He kept his head low and poked with his tongue at the cut his teeth had opened in his cheek when Filch slapped him. It stung and tasted strongly of iron.

"You want the boy?" Dunstan asked slowly, as if completed bemused as to why anyone would want Sal. Sal privately agreed and tried to say so out loud, but his voice was stolen by Snape's silencing spell.

"I do," Professor Snape nodded calmly. "For at least the next couple of weeks." Dunstan looked at Filch and then back at the Professor.

"But I need him around here," Filch argued, angrily, grabbing at Sal's elbow. "The amount of work I have to do with all the little brats running around here!"

"Is surely your job, is it not?" Snape asked coolly. "I am sure the Headmaster will be most concerned to hear that you are struggling to manage, and can only complete your duties with Lord Gryffindor's slave to help you. Perhaps it is simply too much to ask of one man, without the aid of a wand, of course." Filch dropped Sal's elbow as if it were a hot coal.

"You-" he seethed at Snape, who raised a single, unyielding eyebrow. "Fine."

"Indeed." The Professor stepped back and looked at Dunstan. "Are we then agreed? I will take the boy for the duration of my work." Dunstan let out a deep breath and eyed Snape shrewdly.

"You can have him, if you're certain you can handle him. He's an unholy terror, sir. He'd steal from his own grandmother, if he knew who she was." Sal looked up at this, mildly offended. He didn't think he was all that bad, and he most certainly wouldn't steal from the elderly – or anyone, for that matter. Not anymore – he'd be hanged. He wasn't stupid.

"I assure you that won't be an issue." Up until that moment, the Professor had seemed quite kind, or at least the closest to kind that Sal had known from an adult in a great number of years. Snape had helped him to calm down when he started to panic, and he hadn't hit him for being troublesome and inconvenient. But, as the Professor spoke those words, Sal felt a thrill of terror, despite the potion he'd taken. That was a scary voice; he didn't want to get on the wrong side of it.

"If you're sure…" Dunstan sounded decidedly uncertain. "The little bastard's yours. Just don't let him anywhere near anything too dangerous. Or let him get hold of your wand. He was apprenticed under a right evil bastard of a dark wizard when we found him. Little bastard knows magic that would make your skin crawl."

Professor Snape turned to Sal at that, pinning him with an unreadable look. "Is that so?" he asked ponderously. Sal blushed and felt a faint sense of unease clawing at the back of his mind. He tried to sink back into the blissful calm of the potion, but it seemed much harder to reach than before. It seemed to be wearing off.

"Yes, sir. Lord Gryffindor was all set to run him through alongside his demon of a master; he would have been well within his rights to do so. But then he felt the power of the Spirit moving him to show mercy." Sal thought that Dunstan sounded like he was going to wet himself with his adulation of Lord Gryffindor. "So he spared the boy and took him into his household, the better to show him the true path to righteousness."

"I see." Professor Snape didn't take his eyes from Sal as Dunstan spoke, and Sal felt his shoulders hunching under the weight of that gaze. He knew it was only a matter of time before his sordid past was bandied around the halls of the castle, a stern warning to all the little witches and wizards not to get caught up in the evil ways of the dark. He was a cautionary tale in the flesh, and he hated it. He hated it almost as much as he hated his master for not just killing him that day, when he'd had the chance. It was a curious definition of mercy that had him bound in slavery, even as an alternative to the eternal suffering Lord Gryffindor was convinced that Sal had waiting for him; sometimes, when he was feeling particularly miserable and blasphemous, Sal thought that he might have preferred damnation. There was a long pause, after Dunstan finished speaking, before anyone spoke. Finally Snape spoke up.

"Well I shall take extra care then," Snape's voice was studiously calm, but there was warmth behind his words. If Sal didn't know better, he would have thought that Professor Snape was trying not to laugh.

"Alright then. If you're sure." Dunstan rubbed his hands together briskly. "Just pass him back to Mr Filch here, when you're done. No need for me to get involved with loans amongst friends." He seemed pleased that the transaction was over with. "But," he turned to face Sal with a malicious grin on his face, "you're owed a flogging for tonight. I don't care if you were helping the Professor here, you know the rules. When the Professor's done with you, you'll get what's coming to you. Understand?" Sal nodded miserably. He was foolish to have expected anything else.

"Come on then, boy." Professor Snape swept towards the door, not bothering to look behind him to see if Sal was following. Sal bobbed a hasty bow to Dunstan and Filch and hurried after the Professor.

As they moved down the corridor, away from the office, Sal felt his shoulders loosening, shedding tension that he hadn't even realised he'd been holding. God above, he hated that office. Professor Snape had a long stride, and Sal was forced to hurry to keep up with him; so many people in this godforsaken castle were so inexplicably tall. It irritated Sal to no end. He'd always been the runt of the litter; a childhood spent scavenging for scraps and eking out what pitiful fare he could from the pennies his mother had thrown at him (after she'd converted the rest into enough cheap wine to fell a giant) had not exactly left him towering. He didn't blame her for that now, of course, although he had at one point, when he was younger. When he was a small child, he'd often thought that if only his mother had been a good, sober, and pious woman then perhaps his life wouldn't have turned out so unconditionally atrocious. But he'd grown up a lot since then, and he thought he understood his mother a lot better now; she did what she had to do to survive, regardless of the cost. It must have been fucking horrendous for her. Sal was honest enough with himself to admit that, even after seeing what drink did to his mother, if he had a way of dumbing down the unrelenting deluge of crap that was his life, he'd probably take it too.

He shook himself from his thoughts, as he realised he'd fallen behind the Professor. He broke into a brisk trot and hurried to catch up. The corridors were empty at this time of night, dark and cold with the absence of students. The portraits whispered eerily on the walls, the figures contorting into grotesque shapes in the dim half-light of the Professor's lit wand. Sal shivered and forced himself to keep pace. He was still under the Professor's silencing charm; if he fell behind he'd have no way of alerting the Professor, and he didn't know where he was going. He did not want to be left alone in the darkness.

"Keep up," the Professor told him sternly, and Sal flinched; he did not need to be told twice. It didn't take long before they reached the dungeons; by which point, Sal was grateful for the swift pace. The night air was freezing, and Sal had to fight down his shivers. "This is my office," Snape told him, as they drew to an abrupt halt in front of an unassuming looking doorway. He cast a quick spell, muttering the incantation under his breath, and ushered Sal into the room.

Sal frowned and wondered at the point of all the secrecy. It was unlikely that he'd be able to replicate the spell's effects, without a wand. The best that he could manage were a few simple charms, levitations, sending up sparks, things like that, and none of them were particularly strong. He was also particularly adept at creating an impressive looking, but safely cool ritual fire, but he hadn't used that skill since he was a child, so he hardly thought it worth acknowledging. Besides, it didn't do to show that you had the skills to observe a proper ritual, not unless you were around those who still kept to the old ways, which was precious few these days. Not even his previous master had dabbled in the 'pagan' traditions. Sal only knew enough to properly observe the festivals and to cast a few basic spells and charms, which he'd had to bribe and cajole the local healer into teaching him, back when he still (ostensibly) lived with his mother; it had been deemed far too dangerous for him to know any more, if the Church had found out…Well, things probably would have turned out the same in the end, but Sal would have been forced to run a hell of a lot sooner.

"Well, are you coming in?" Sal jumped and flinched, startled out of his reverie by the harsh voice of the Professor. He bowed his head and muttered an apology that came out completely silent, as he hurried into the room. The Professor had lit the torches on the walls and seated himself behind a sturdy looking desk. It was a fine mahogany table, covered in neatly organised piles of parchment and orderly rows of quills; Sal desperately wished that it were his. A solid looking oak chair was placed in front of it, directly opposite Snape. The walls behind him were lined with tall shelves, filled with row after row of small glass jars and vials. Sal peered intently at one particular container, which was filled with a thick, glutinous liquid that churned and sloshed against the glass walls that encased it. He found himself oddly transfixed by the sight and had to tear his gaze away, to look at the Professor.

With the effects of the calming potion now almost completely worn off, Sal felt a strong sense of trepidation for the man before him. This man had lied to Filch and to Dunstan, just to get Sal alone. Why would he have done that? What could he possibly want? Sal had thought that they were odd allies, of a sort. In as much as Sal's desire to avoid Harry and Draco had aided Snape's ongoing campaign to make Harry Potter's life as difficult as possible, anyway. Snape had helped him avoid a few over-zealous children, but Sal really wasn't sure that he could trust him any further than that.

"Sit down." The Professor told him firmly and Sal slid into empty chair immediately. Snape shook out the sleeves of his robes and peered closely at Sal's face. "Are you alright?" Sal nodded his head slowly, not sure what to make of the question. "Do you need any bruise salve, for your face?" Snape indicated to where Filch had hit him earlier. Sal raised a hand and slowly felt the cheek at the corner of his mouth. It didn't feel swollen; he doubted that it would bruise. He shook his head and shrugged slightly. He'd honestly forgotten about it, until Snape had pointed it out to him. "You can speak to me, you know?" Sal's eyes shot up to meet the older man's, raising an eyebrow, as he tried to simultaneously convey his bitterness and exasperation – along with the phrase "you put a fucking silencing charm on my you bloody imbecile" – through the sheer power of expression alone. Apparently it worked, as Snape quickly waved his wand and coughed slightly, shifting in his seat. "My apologies, I assumed it would have worn off by now."

Sal blinked in surprise. That was two apologies in one day; he should probably burn a good deal of sage to cleanse himself, at the first opportunity. He never got that lucky; it was undoubtedly an omen of ill things to come. Sal forced back the cynical voice at the back of his mind and made sure to properly thank the Professor for his kind consideration. He made sure to emphasise just how grateful he was at being compelled into silence for the better part of an hour, he used his most deferential language and made sure to bow suitable low in thanks.

"Would you have preferred that I left you to babble out your every thought under the influence of the calming draught?" Snape asked him lightly, as soon as Sal had finished his last exaltation. "Would you have remained dutifully silent and not contradicted my story, had I left you to your own devices?" Sal froze and the obsequious smile that he'd fixed to his face slipped away onto the cold stone floor of the dungeon. He shook his head abruptly, suddenly very aware of how very wrong the evening could have gone, had he been allowed to keep his voice. Dunstan would have had him flogged for some of the more tame thoughts he'd been cultivating, let alone the worst of the lot. He didn't know what the Professor would have done if Sal had proven him to be a liar with a few slips of his errant tongue.

"Thank you, sir," Sal replied tonelessly, genuinely grateful at last. Snape regarded him coolly and leaned back in his chair. He looked like a fox stalking an injured rabbit: patient and full of unshakeable confidence. Sal couldn't meet his gaze. He looked down at his hands and tried to force them to stop shaking through sheer bloody determination.

"I am glad that we understand one another," Snape told him coolly. Sal winced and dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He could handle this. He reminded himself to stay calm, stay obedient. He knew that he would be okay if he just remembered to keep his head down and his mouth shut. "I'm sure you're wondering why I rescued you from the gentle care of Mr Filch and brought you under my wing for the foreseeable future?" Snape asked sardonically. Sal nodded; it was safer if you just agreed with them. Usually. Besides, he had been asking himself that question since he'd been coxed out of his panic and had a potion shoved down his throat. "I will be brief then: I'm going to help you." Sal glanced up in confusion; the Professor managed to simultaneously sneer arrogantly and look painfully awkward, which was quite a feat.

"Thank you, sir" Sal said earnestly, partly just to see if the other man would squirm. He didn't, but he managed to look even more uncomfortable than before, to Sal's horrified delight.

Snape cleared his throat and then appeared to rally himself. "I will keep you out of the way of your master and his minions, as much as it is in my power to do so." He pinned Sal with a stern look. "In return, you will stay with me and aid me in my work, as much as you can. Do you have any experience in potions?" Sal nodded enthusiastically; it was only a partial lie, he could brew well enough, but when it came to the theory he was as much use as a broken wand. Snape didn't seem to notice, and he smiled, looking pleased. "Good. You'll work with me during the day and study as much as I am able to teach you, in the evenings. The time between the end of classes and dinner is yours. Is this agreeable?"

Sal tried his best not to let his jaw fall open in shock, and vehemently nodded his agreement. He forced back the prickling tears that swelled dangerously in the corners of his eyes and swallowed hard. Was it agreeable? It was more than bloody agreeable! Someone was going to teach him? He'd scarcely dared to hope that anyone would ever want to teach him how to use his magic like a proper wizard, especially not after hearing what a nasty, evil, touched-by-the-dark-magic-of-the-devil boy that he was. Sal still didn't know if he could trust Snape properly. He could still be a malicious sadistic bastard of a teacher, but Sal decided then and there that he didn't care. He'd been there before and made it through to the other side.

Sal smiled cautiously and stood as Snape opened a hidden door in the wall and ushered him through to his private quarters. The older man was cold and aloof as he showed Sal into his new room, and rather terse as he explained the layout of the chambers and a few basic rules. They were hardly difficult: stay away from Snape's bedroom, tidy up after yourself, don't tell any of the students where the entrance was, and so on. Sal nodded obediently, and tried to keep the smile off his face, as Snape stared at him icily. It was entirely possible that he was going to regret ever meeting the dour man that had miraculously agreed to tutor him, but Sal really couldn't bring himself to care. He was going to learn, properly learn, about magic, from a proper teacher. He could put up with almost anything for the chance to do that.


No nerdy notes below the line this time, my friends. Although, if anyone else is remotely geeky enough to want to chat about Old English literature and the history of pre-Norman Great Britain, please feel free to DM me. None of my friends will let me talk to them about it anymore, including the ones who studied it with me at Uni.