Hi all, next chapter here!
TWs this chapter for physical/psychological abuse and also for references to prostitution (Sal's mum).
BlueWater5: Thanks for your questions! Glad you're enjoying it. Harry needs to learn that things aren't always black and white when it comes to morality, but he will slowly figure it out (not this chapter though). Also, very little is actually known about the Founders; how much of what Harry and Co think they know about them all is true? About life debts: you're asking the right questions. ;) All will be answered in the next couple of chapters...
Harry rushed back to the common room, mind whirring with the revelation of Sal's identity. He felt sick; his stomach was churning almost as badly as it had when he'd learnt that Death Eater had been masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody. He tried not to draw the comparison, to remind himself that he didn't have all of the facts and that he often let his imagination run a bit wild, but he couldn't help himself. At the end of the day, Slytherin was a Dark Wizard, and truly evil; Harry couldn't just ignore that fact because he'd let himself fall for a sob story, because he'd seen something of himself in the fellow green-eyed, miserable-looking teenager… Merlin, he swore emphatically to himself; he'd been so easily manipulated.
He finally reached the portrait of the Fat Lady and all but hissed the password at her. She gave him a very affronted look, but seemed to get that he wasn't in the mood for a lecture on manners, and so let him into the common room with only a quiet tut. Harry looked around the room, and spotted Hermione reading in the corner. His churning mind relaxed in relief; Hermione would be able to help him. She was good at looking at things logically. He was just about to make his way over to her, when Ginny and Colin called over to him. He cursed quietly; he had not noticed them coming through the portrait behind him. He must have missed them completely on his way up to the tower.
"Harry…" Colin wheezed, bending over double and gulping down deep breaths. "We've been trying… catch up… with you… need… to talk."
Ginny smiled sympathetically, and patted Colin consolingly on the shoulder.
"You were walking like you had a Dementor on your tail, Harry," she told him with a concerned look. "Is everything alright?"
Harry looked at the two of them for a moment. He contemplated keeping his concerns about Sal to himself, but he'd learnt that lesson last year. People got hurt when he kept things to himself.
"No, it's not." He told them finally, ignoring their apprehensive faces, as he started walking over to Hermione. "Come on, I'll fill you all in together."
In all fairness, they took the news far better than Harry had anticipated. Ginny and Hermione went very white, and shared a long, concerned look. Colin squeaked loudly, and then flushed bright red with embarrassment. Harry leant slowly back in his chair, glancing around the room to see if anyone was paying a bit too much attention to them. He had, of course, cast a Muffliato, but he thought it was better to err on the side of caution.
Hermione and Ginny seemed to be having a silent conversation through their eyes. Ginny shook her head emphatically, but Hermione rolled her eyes and took a deep breath, turning to Harry.
"So you think that Sal is really Salazar Slytherin?" She asked quietly; Harry nodded tightly. "Are you sure?" Harry nodded again, this time a bit more forcefully. If the others weren't going to believe him…
"I saw him with the other Founders, in the library, and it was just so obvious." Harry noticed how Hermione looked rather taken aback by that. He wasn't sure if it was the thought that Harry had been in the library without her, or that the Founders had just been casually hanging out there, and that she hadn't seen them. Knowing Hermione, Harry thought, it was probably both. He noticed that the others were all looking at him very intently. "It's not just that…" he rushed to explain. "It's loads of things: he's been hanging around Malfoy and Snape, his name's Sal, and he's been getting in close with all of us. He's been fooling us all for weeks."
Hermione looked at him a little nervously. "It's not that we don't believe you Harry," she told him quietly. "But you have to see that that isn't very much evidence to support such a huge leap…" Harry bristled, but Hermione continued on forcefully, cutting him off before he could speak. "It's just…you've been suspicious of Malfoy all year." Harry huffed in irritation; he knew Malfoy was up to something, and he didn't know how Slytherin fit into it just yet, but he had a few ideas. "Not everyone's out to get you, Harry." Hermione finished quietly, and hesitantly put her hand over his clenched fist. It was meant to be a gesture of consolation, but it just wound Harry up. He let out a deep sigh of frustration; he didn't know how the others failed to see what was just so obvious to him. Besides, he had every right to be paranoid; he had fucking Voldemort after his head, and now he was stuck in a castle with Slytherin, the wizard Voldemort aspired to be as bad as.
"If I'm right, Hermione," Harry told her seriously, "this is the man who believes all Muggle-borns should be killed. Who left a basilisk in the school to finish the job, when he got kicked out! Who knows what he's really here for?" Hermione stilled and looked sick; Harry doubted that she'd thought about that.
"We could check," Ginny suggested calmly, although her fists were clenched on the table, knuckles white. "If he's really Slytherin, I mean." Colin looked at her in concern, and Harry had to shove down the sharp stab of envy that flared in his chest. He had bigger things to worry about.
"How?" Hermione asked quietly, forcing Harry's eyes away from Ginny's drawn expression.
"If he's really Slytherin, he'll speak Parseltongue. " Her voice was quiet and sure, said with the same certainty with which she'd accosted Harry for worrying about being possessed by Voldemort the year before. Harry flushed, and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck; he often forgot that Ginny had almost as much reason to fear the wizard who left a basilisk in the school as he did.
"We just need to get him to speak it." Harry agreed quietly. "I can say something to him next time we meet in the Room of Requirement. We might need to conjure a snake, though."
"Can't he pretend not to understand you?" Colin asked nervously, looking at Harry with wide eyes.
"I can never tell the difference between Parseltongue and just normal talking," Harry admitted quietly. "I don't think Voldemort can either." Colin flinched fiercely at the name, and Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "He'll just answer me normally."
"He might not be able to," Hermione cut in quietly. Harry shot her a look, eyebrows raised; she sighed, and rushed to explain. "I've been doing some research into life debts; apparently the terms of them can be really strict. Didn't he say his master had forbidden him to do any magic? Parseltongue is a magic language- he might not be able to speak it. Even if he can, that doesn't necessarily prove that he is Slytherin; you're a Parselmouth too, Harry. "
They all shared a look of concern. Harry thought that it would be just his luck that he alone in the whole damn castle would have the one obscure skill that could prove that Sal was really Slytherin, and it might not even help. There was a certain irony that Slytherin, of all people, might have lost his ability to speak to snakes. But Harry found that he couldn't laugh at the situation, he was far more concerned that he would have no way to prove his suspicions correct. He needed to know for certain.
"Well we have to try." He said quietly, and the other three all turned to look at him expectantly. "Besides," he shrugged, "if I'm right, who knows what else he's been lying about. He might only be pretending to be a slave, to get our sympathy, to get close to us." Ginny looked slightly sick at that suggestion, but she bent her head to the matter at hand, and soon they had devised a plan to catch Slytherin.
A day later (Harry couldn't wait any longer), they were all up in the Room of Requirement and sweating nervously. Colin was running through a few reading exercises in one of Hermione's books (a version of Beowulf in both modern and old English), proving his courage by managing to speak with only the slightest hint of a shake to his voice. Harry was trying his best not to glare daggers at Slytherin's back, but was not sure that he was particularly successful. The other's boy's shoulders were very tense, and he kept sneaking glances from the corner of his eye, in Harry's direction. Harry forced himself not to feel guilty, knowing that this was all part of an act; he instead channelled his discomfort into anger. If he didn't prove that Sal was Slytherin, and find out what he was up to, who knew what he could get up to? Harry would not allow Slytherin or any of the Pureblood fanatics that he'd influenced over the years to hurt him or his friends again. Not after Sirius. He wouldn't be fooled again.
It had not taken much to get Slytherin to meet them that evening, which Harry thought was a sign of overconfidence from the other boy. Harry had caught him as he was leaving the library earlier in the afternoon. He had been following Gryffindor, a couple of steps behind, but had jumped and the gone still when Harry had reached out to grab him by the arm. Harry had barely had time to whisper "Tonight. Seven o'clock?" as Slytherin darted nervous glances between him and the retreating figure of Gryffindor. He had nodded very quickly, before tearing his arm from Harry's grasp and rushing to catch up with Gryffindor, as the other man rounded the corner. Harry had not been certain what to make of the exchange; Sal - no, Slytherin- had looked scared.
Harry's conscience had prickled at him all the way through dinner, and he had been feeling less certain about his initial conclusions. He must have looked pretty pathetic, lost in his thought, because Ron had dragged himself away from Lavender's face for long enough to pull him aside and ask if he was okay. Harry had been startled; he had forgotten to tell Ron about the latest development in the Founders situation. He assumed that he had grown so used to Ron and Hermione simply being there, over the years. Now that Hermione refused to be in the same room as Ron for anything other than lessons, it was hard to remember who had been told what, and when. The loss had hit Harry like a bludger to the stomach, and quelled the embarrassment that he felt at having forgotten Ron, as he quickly updated his best friend on his revelation about Slytherin. Ron had shared Harry's shock at the revelation, but encouraged Harry to go through with the plan. He had wanted to come along, but he'd landed himself in detention with Filch all week for selling some of Fred and George's products to the first years. But Ron had encouraged him to go ahead with the plan as soon as possible; his exact words had been "it won't hurt to check, mate." It had been enough to reassure Harry that he was right to be suspicious. It was better to be safe than sorry, after all.
Harry shook himself, and turned his attention back to Colin's lesson. He was telling Slytherin that he was coming along in leaps and bounds. Harry seethed in anger; of course the other boy was advancing quickly, he could probably already read. This was just one more thing that he'd lied to them about, wasting their time, so that he could get close to them all. He clenched his teeth tightly, and pointedly ignored Sal's flinch. Deciding that he had had enough of the farce, he sent a quick nod to Hermione, who got up and silently conjured a small grass snake in the corner of the room. Ginny flinched, and drew her wand, just in case. The snake hissed, muttering in irritation about wizards and perfectly good naps, as it slithered towards the warmth of the fireplace. Sal flinched again, but pointedly kept his eyes down at the table, which was full of Colin's notes. Harry's eyes narrowed. He stared at the snake, and willed his word to come out as Parseltongue.
"You okay, Sal?" Harry asked quietly. Hermione nodded to him, and vanished the snake. The plan was working, so far. Slytherin's head snapped up to Harry.
"You…speak?" He asked Harry quietly, and looked nervously at Hermione and Colin. They gasped, and Slytherin flinched, but kept his eyes very focused on Harry. Harry took a deep breath, his heart somewhere around his feet. That proved that, then. Sal was indeed a Parselmouth, which meant Harry was right: Sal was Slytherin.
Harry nodded to Colin, and the other boy started to quickly gather up his notes. Hermione came to stand over by Harry, wringing her hands nervously; Ginny stayed put on the sofa, wand drawn. Sal was starting to look more and more nervous. He stood, and started backing towards the door. Good, Harry thought, let him think twice about messing with us again.
"We know who you are, Slytherin," Harry seethed, spitting the name with so much venom, he wasn't entirely certain that he hadn't spoken in Parseltongue again. The other boy flinched and looked confused. Harry pressed on, enraged. "We know the kind of wizard you really are! You think you've got everyone fooled, but we can see through you." Slytherin flinched again, and the blood drained from his face. He kept moving cautiously away from Harry, eyes flickering from Harry's face to Ginny's wand. "I don't know what you want, or what you're up to, but you're going to stay away from us." Harry noted that the boy had edged almost to the door, and was nodding emphatically, eyes huge. "You try and hurt anyone," Harry promised him quietly, "I will stop you." Slytherin didn't say a word; instead, he backed out of the room so quickly it was almost as if he had Disapparated.
The room was quiet for a long moment. Harry slowly calmed his breathing, which had grown more erratic with his temper, and noticed that he'd drawn his wand. Quickly shoving it into his back pocket, Harry shook out his hand. He had been clenching it so tightly, he was surprised his hand wasn't cramping. Hermione slowly walked up to him, and put a hand on his shoulder.
"We did the right thing," she said quietly; Harry slowly nodded his head, fury still colouring his thoughts red and raging. Later on, when he was lying in bed, plagued with memories of Harry-hunting and his Uncle's purple, furious face, interspersed with Slytherin's tense, frightened expression, as he backed out of the room in fear, Harry was not sure that they'd done the right thing, at all.
The weeks following the New Year had not treated Sal well, at all. He had been ordered back to his master's service, just when he had started to relax in Professor Snape's presence. It wasn't that Sal had minded being put to work again - if anything he was glad to have something useful to do - but he would far rather have been working for the professor. He missed the older man's lessons, and the quiet, steady acceptance with which he had taught Sal. Back in his master's service, Sal was once again treated with less care than one would give to a common animal, and with far less regard. He was also bored. Embarrassingly so. He had grown embarrassingly used to stretching his mind to its limits, to learning as much as he could in whatever time he had available to him, and he was feeling the loss intensely.
His mood had not been improved, either, by the abrupt dismissal he had been handed by Harry and his friends. But, Sal reminded himself, he only had himself to blame for that. He should have known better than to reveal that he spoke the tongue of serpents. It was magic of the devil, a sign of the darkest, most corrupted soul. After all, it was a serpent that had tempted Eve with forbidden knowledge. Sal had been astonished to hear Harry, of all people, speak that damned language, and he had let his guard down. He had thought that that meant that Harry could be trusted, that he wouldn't judge Sal for the darkness, the evil that tainted his blood and his magic. Professor Snape hadn't. But, of course, such a thought was sheer foolishness. Sal should have known better; he had grown complacent, had trusted too easily. Once again. There could be plenty of reasons that Harry possessed that talent; Sal shouldn't have assumed a kinship so easily, not when Harry had shown himself to be the furthest thing from dark that Sal had known in his life.
So he couldn't blame Harry and the others for casting him away from them, not when he had just proven to them how dangerous he truly was. He couldn't blame them for betraying his trust, not when he had given it so casually, and when they had every reason to be scared of him. It was obvious that the others had set him up, conjuring a snake to catch him out; they had already known of Sal's cursed ability. Dunstan must have been announcing it all over the school, warning all the children to stay away from the evil slave child. At least no one had started making signs of the cross whenever he crossed the path, as had happened the first time his talent was discovered. It had been during the harvest before last, and one of the field hands had caught him persuading an adder not to bite him for spearing it with a pitchfork. He had been dragged straight before his master and Lord Gryffindor had ordered his men to flog the evil out of Sal. Sal had been in bed for a solid week afterwards, the fever bringing him dangerously close to the point of death. The beating hadn't worked; he could still speak to the creatures of the devil. Lord Gryffindor had been quick to explain what that meant for Sal's immortal soul.
Despite understanding why he couldn't continue them, without Professor Snape's lessons on magic and Colin's on reading, Sal felt like his mind was too big for his head. He had spent so long in mindless drudgery, only to have been able to think again, to allow his mind to focus on more than the present moment, the next task or chore, or the next beating. Ever since Dunstan had appeared to drag him back to his master's quarters, Sal had been more bored than he could ever remember being. He had too many thoughts, and nowhere to channel them. Worse than that, he found himself chafing more and more at the limits that were placed upon him by his state of servitude. He felt himself grow even more resentful and hateful, as he was forced to spend hours stood in a corner, holding a jug of wine, and waiting for the signal to refill his master's goblet. It was tedious, and it allowed him far too much time to think about what might have been. Too much time to dwell on his burning envy of the students of the castle, running to and fro from their lessons, oblivious to how fucking lucky they were to have such freedom.
The first night that he had been back in his master's presence, he had been inattentive, mind far away in the dungeons with Professor Snape, and had almost missed his master's cue. He had been forced to run to his master's side, the heavy wine jug trembling in his hands. Dunstan had beaten him properly for that slip. But as the days drew monotonously on, even the memory of a boot in his ribs and pain from the still-healing scars on his back had not been sufficient to keep Sal's mind focused properly on his tasks. He had earnt any number of slaps and curses for his clumsiness, and his laziness, but he had started to find it harder and harder to care. Some part of his mind acknowledged that it was not a good thing that he was becoming so apathetic to himself and his own wellbeing, but it was crushed down by the overwhelming sense of emptiness that was plaguing him day after day. A thick fog was creeping slowly over his mind, obscuring his emotions and making his frantic thoughts grow more and more sluggish. This was not the first time that Sal had been visited by such a curse; the terrible apathy came and went, creeping up on him when he least expected it, and left him feeling like an empty vase, hollow and devoid of purpose. It had not grown so bad yet that he was unable to pull himself from his bed in the mornings, but Sal suspected that it was only a matter of time. He couldn't bring himself to be concerned about that, either.
It was only the daily meetings with Lord Godric and the ladies that were keeping him from going out of his mind. He looked forward to the meetings, invigorating himself with the hour or so of intelligent conversation, grasping for the brief moments of joy like a drowning man gulping for oxygen. He had not been certain how he was going to continue the meetings once he was back in his master's service, as he had been all but confined to his master's quarters and given explicit instructions not to associate with any of the other residents of the castle, but he had been rescued by Lord Godric, of all people. It was the first day after Sal had been dragged back to his master by Dunstan. The young lord-to-be had had half a foot out of the door, on his way to meet the ladies, when he had spotted Sal stood in the corner. Something in Sal's expression must have encouraged the other man to mercy, as he had asked his father for the loan of his slave for the evening. Lord Gryffindor had acquiesced with barely a nod, and Sal had been granted his reprieve for the evening.
"Thank you," Sal had told Lord Godric quietly, as they made their way up to the library. His back had still been stinging fiercely, and the quick pace that the young lord set was not helping his still-healing cuts, but he had been so grateful to be free of the stifling room and its odious inhabitants, that he hadn't even cared. Lord Godric had shot him a look of surprise, which turned to concern, as he slowed his pace noticeably.
"Keeping to close quarters is not good for my father's temper," he had admitted quietly, into the awkward silence. "It was only some wine," he had continued, referencing the incident with Sal's slow response the day before. "You should not have been whipped for that."
Sal had nearly stopped in surprise, but caught himself at the last moment. He had stared at the young lord's back in incomprehension, as they continued on their way. Lord Godric had not said anything else, until they had reached the library and greeted the ladies. Sal had felt a strange warmth gathering in his chest towards the young lord, and had even dared to joke a little in his presence. Neither of them spoke about the moment that they had shared again, but something between them had altered infinitesimally after that night.
From that day, Lord Godric had requested use of Sal whenever he went to the library. Of course, he hadn't stepped in when Sal had been punished for disappearing off to meet Harry and the others; but Sal had deserved that beating, and he'd anticipated it from the moment he'd agreed to meet with Harry. Thankfully, that brief indiscretion hadn't stopped Lord Godric from bringing him to meet with the ladies, and Sal didn't think it was just because Lord Godric was terrified of Rowena's sharp tongue, and Lady Hufflepuff's quiet disapproval. Meeting in the library had swiftly become the highlight of Sal's day, and quite frankly, it was now the only thing keeping him going. Lord Godric had been right, his master's temper was growing shorter day by day, and it was Sal who was feeling the consequences. It seemed that Lord Gryffindor and Dumbledore had come to some sort of disagreement and, as he was trapped in another time and so unable to storm out of the castle in anger, Lord Gryffindor had instead confined himself and his household to their quarters in retaliation. Sal would have found such behaviour amusing, had it not been for the fact that he was a pawn in his master's pettiness.
Sal sighed, forcing back the memories of the past few weeks, and shuffled slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position to stand in. It was nearing the end of January, and he was, once again, stood in the corner, holding on to a jug of wine. It seemed that all he ever did anymore was pour wine; Sal suspected that it was just some arbitrary task to keep him busy and out of the hands out Dumbledore and his staff, but it was very dull. His master was pacing up and down in front of him, and talking with Dunstan, growing increasingly irate. Sal knew he should be feeling nervous at the look in Dunstan's eye; it held the promise of violence. But instead he only felt a vague sense of annoyance at the nuisance that would be another set of bruises, following whatever beating he had coming. He felt strangely hollow. The stone floor felt cold under his feet, and he hadn't been able to feel his toes for hours. He glanced out of the window; the sun was still low in the sky, as it had been minutes ago when he'd last looked. Only a few more hours, he reminded himself, then he could escape to the library. He could handle a few hours.
"This is intolerable!" Lord Gryffindor shouted, and Sal flinched. If the jug had been any more full, his movement would have spilt the wine, but it wasn't. Lord Gryffindor had been drinking all morning; it was nearly empty. "Who does that man think he is, to doubt my word? Have I not proven my worth with wand and sword?"
"Of course, milord," Dunstan interjected quickly. Sal noticed that even he was starting to look nervous. Lord Gryffindor was a proud man and quick to anger if his honour was ever put to question.
"Hiding away behind castle walls when there is a dark wizard loose about the country!" Sal winced, as his master's voice grew even louder. "It is cowardice!"
"You could leave, milord," Dunstan suggested quietly. It was rare for Sal to think of the prick as brave, but in that moment, Sal could not think of anything more courageous than daring to draw their Lord's attention. All of the other servants had long since fled to their rooms, leaving the main sitting room to the Lord, Dunstan, and (by default) Sal.
"We cannot!" Lord Gryffindor shouted so loudly that the glass shook in the window panes; Sal suspected that his master had released a bit of his magic, as well. A thin tendril of fear broke through his apathy; he had never seen his master lose control in such a way. "That damned man has put up wards! We cannot leave the grounds of this damned castle!" The windows rattled even harder. Sal gulped and stared down at his feet, wishing with all of his might that he had Harry's invisibility cloak.
"Perhaps a drink, milord," Dunstan suggested nervously, beckoning Sal over. Sal blanched and quickly took back any thoughts he had had on Dunstan's clearly non-existent bravery. Cursing through the intense dread that settled over him, Sal hurried over to his master's cup and refilled the half-empty goblet. His master tossed back the wine in one motion, and gestured for another. Sal poured quickly, and retreated back a step, but stayed close. He did not want to be too far away if he was required again.
"To be treated as an errant child," Lord Gryffindor muttered to himself, his hand clenching tightly around the stem of the goblet, "it is intolerable." He lifted the drink to his lips, and took a long sip. "I only wish Lady Rowena would hurry and discover how to return us to our own time." He paused, running a hand over his face and then continued on, as if speaking to himself. "She and Lady Helga spend enough of their time away in study together, I do not wish to add to their burden when I know they spend every spare minute at work, but I wish that they had made some progress." He took another long gulp of his wine. "Perhaps Dumbledore would take down his damned wards and allow me to take down that filthy dark wizard, if he could see how close we were to leaving him alone with his burdens." He slammed the goblet onto a side table, and turned to stare out of the window; the glass slowly began to rattle again, growing louder and more emphatic as the seconds drew on.
"Milord?" Dunstan asked quietly, indicating for Sal to refill the goblet.
Lord Gryffindor spun round immediately, as the glass in the lower window pan cracked sharply. Sal flinched violently at the loud noise, and jarred the jug that he was pouring from. A large dash of wine missed the goblet and spilt onto the floor. Sal stared at it blankly, mind blank with terror. The room was deadly silent. Dunstan reached over, wrenching the jug from his hands with his left hand, and slapping him hard around the face with his right. Sal felt a familiar panic rising within him, as Dunstan reached out to grab him. He flinched away, but before the other man could get a hand on Sal, he was shoved out of the way, as Lord Gryffindor advanced on Sal, with a roar of outrage.
Sal flinched and backed slowly away into the corner. Lord Gryffindor stalked towards him, eyes blazing.
"You pathetic little wretch. Clumsy, worthless, little beast!" Sal flinched with each word, stepping away until his back hit the wall. His master followed, his tall figure looming over Sal, as he continued to spit venom at him. "I am the only reason you are alive, boy. I should have slit your wretched throat that day and been done with you."
Sal curled into himself, shoulders hunching over. He could feel his heart pounding manically in his chest, and he shook so badly that he thought he might shatter apart where he stood.
"I should have thought better than to try and save the soul of such a damnable brat." Lord Gryffindor was shouting; his face was so close to Sal that he could feel the man's spit landing on his face. The rest of the room was silent, the air palpable with tension; even the crackling of the fire seemed to have ceased. Sal tucked his chin into his chest and screwed his eyes shut tightly. He tried to find the part of his mind that he knew he could retreat into, the part that would make him detached and calm, but he couldn't find that place inside himself.
"Are you listening to me, boy?" His master shouted at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him fiercely. Sal's head snapped back against the wall and his vision went white for a moment. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. His master shook him harder, as if he thought he could shake the words he was looking for right out of Sal's lips. Sal tried to breathe, to take in the air that he needed to reply, but he was frozen in fear. His throat was too tight and his mouth too dry to speak.
A firm push sent him crashing into the wall once more, and pain flared across the most recent, still-healing wounds on his back. His master looked down at him with utmost disdain.
"Get out!" Lord Gryffindor commanded curtly. "Go to the kitchens; go to Hell, if you will. Just get out of my sight." It took Sal a moment to realise that he had been addressed. But he couldn't make his feet move. His master stalked back to the table, and picked up the goblet for another sip. His eyes flickered over to Sal, and, seeing that he had not moved, he roared in anger. His master looked at the goblet in his hand for a long moment, and then hurled it straight at Sal. "Get out!" He bellowed, as the cup flew through the air. Sal flinched, and the silver goblet crashed against his shoulder, the contents flying up in the air and drenching Sal in the strong-smelling, thick, red wine. The shock of the cold red liquid running down his face, trickling into his eyes, startled Sal out of his fear. His legs finally obeyed his panicked brain, and he scrambled past his master. He rushed out of the door, without bowing, and fled straight down to the kitchens, dripping wet and shivering.
He ignored the stares of many of the students as he rushed through the castle in a blind panic. He skidded to a halt in a secluded corner of the entrance hall, and searched madly for the secret entrance. He found the hidden door behind the tapestry of the dancing golden-haired witches, and rushed inside. It was the servants' entrance, and the way that he had been taken to the kitchens when he first arrived in the school. He stumbled in, and let the door swing shut behind him. The kitchen was loud and bustling and at that moment it felt to Sal, for some ridiculous reason, like it might be the only safe place in the castle.
"How can wes be helping young master?" A kindly house elf asked him. He realised that he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, stained red and shaking violently. He shook his head blankly, trying to tell her that he wasn't anyone's master, but all that came out was a slightly manic laugh; it sounded strange even to his panicked brain. The house elf looked at him sternly, putting her hands on her hips. "Now yous be listening to Mipsy, young master." She guided him over to a stool at the table, and placed a hot mug of milk in front of him. "Yous be sitting here, and be drinking that, and be telling Mipsy what's wrong." Sal cradled the milk in his hands, feeling the heat warm his palms. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip of the hot, sweet liquid. He felt the warmth settle in his stomach, calming him. He had been eating his master's table scraps for weeks, and it was the most delicious thing to pass his lips since the mince pie he'd had on Christmas Day.
"I'm not a master," he found himself saying into the mug. Mipsy slowly sat down on the other side of the table and looked at him calmly. The rest of the kitchen bustled around them, as if they were in the eye of the storm that was the frantic lunch preparations. It was almost as if the kitchen staff were used to distraught young wizards bursting in at completely inopportune moments. Mipsy continued to look at him calmly, allowing him time to speak. She was tiny, far smaller than the other house elves rushing about the kitchen, and wearing a small towel that bore the Hogwarts crest. Her large, protruding eyes were kind and endlessly patient. "I'm not a master," he repeated, putting his mug down on the table. Her expression grew confused, but she still let Sal take his time to speak. "I'm a slave," he said finally. "Lord Gryffindor's slave. He sent me here to help you out."
Mipsy looked at him blankly for a long moment. Sal waited for her reaction, but she only reached over, and nudged the mug closer to him. Sal was halfway through another sip, before he realised that he really should be helping the house elves, not sitting around drinking milk like an infant. He jumped to his feet, panic gathering again in his chest, as he sketched a short bow to Mipsy.
"I'm so sorry," he rushed out quickly. "I d-didn't mean to stop you working…what can I d-do to help?" His hands were shaking again, and he nearly knocked over the mug.
The kitchen had gone completely silent, all of the house elves had stopped to stare at Sal, and he felt a blush rising over his cheeks. They probably thought he was some ungrateful little brat, sitting around when they were all busy. He looked down at his shaking hands in embarrassment. He started and flinched, as Mipsy placed a hand back on his arm and guided him back to his seat.
"There's being nothing to see here," she told the room sternly, with a disapproving look. The other house elves immediately rushed back to their tasks, although they kept shooting curious looks at Sal. "Yous be sitting here," she told Sal again, much more firmly. "And yous be drinking your milk." Sal obediently took a long sip. He felt incredibly chastened by the diminutive elf in front of him. "A wizard being acting like a house elf," Mipsy said to herself in wry amusement, "yous should be meeting Dobby."
"Dobby?" Sal asked. But Mipsy just shook her head.
"Never yous be minding about that." She smiled, and reached over to gently touch his hand. "Yous be telling Mipsy what's wrong."
It was a gesture of kindness, of care, that Sal had not experienced in a long time. It was also from someone safe, someone who he was almost equal to, even if she was probably more magically powerful than he could even dream of being; Sal was the only slave on his master's estate, and Lord Gryffindor rarely had visitors who brought their own staff. He hadn't had anyone truly safe to talk to in years. He found himself fighting back tears, as the words rushed out of him. He told the small elf all about the jump in time, about Harry and Ginny and Hermione and Colin, and about Professor Snape. He didn't tell her about his magic lessons, because, fellow slave or not, that was a secret between him and the professor. He was not giving anyone the kind of leverage over him that that knowledge would provide. He had just finished telling her about his master's temper, and had to fight back the feeling of nausea that rose as he realised how close he'd come to a truly horrific beating.
Mipsy absently patted at his hand. "Don't yous be worrying," she told him with a warm smile. "Mipsy will be taking care of everything." For a brief moment, Sal thought that she meant she was just going to click her fingers and send them back through time, or magic him somewhere very far away from his master and his dreadful wrath; but she merely summoned over a large plate of roast pork and crackling, with creamy mashed potatoes and plump garden peas, all drizzled in apple sauce. He was salivating just looking at it, and he assumed it must be for his master; it had come straight from the freshly plated food, not the scrap bucket. To his great surprise, she plonked the plate down in front of him and told him, in no uncertain terms, to eat. She disappeared for a few minutes, whilst he stuffed his face. He tried to eat slowly, knowing that his stomach would revolt if he filled it too quickly, after eating so sparsely for so long. That was something he had learnt as a very young child.
By the time that she returned, he had only managed a quarter of the plate. She looked at him very sternly, but, when he blushed bright red, she didn't press the issue. Instead she pulled him up from his stool, and through the kitchens, into the house elf quarters behind them. She brought him to a room that had several beds in it, and a bathroom off to the side. Inside the bathroom was a large tin bath, full almost to the brim with hot, soapy water. Mipsy told him to have a bath, and wash the wine from his hair. He sat in the water for what felt like hours, but every time it started to grow colder, Sal felt a flare of magic, and it heated itself up again. It was marvellous; he hadn't felt so relaxed in ages. A bar of soap and a small flannel had been left on the floor, next to the bath. Sal washed his hair and his body several times, flushing as the water grew murky and grey; he had not realised he had been so filthy. Finally, when his skin had grown wrinkly, like it used to after he had spent hours swimming in the sea, back when he was a small child, there was a quiet knock on the door. Mipsy walked in, holding a large, fluffy towel and his freshly laundered clothes. He had no idea that she'd come into the room to collect them, and told her so.
"Wes being used to looking after lots and lots of young wizards and witches. It is not being hard to be being quiet." She smiled warmly at him, and he felt very embarrassed for his naiveté; he should have known better than to doubt the magic of house elves.
She left him to dress himself, and then reappeared a minute or so later to lead him back through to the bedroom. She pointed to a bed in the corner. It was far longer than the others in the room, and looked to have been magically elongated. He slowly sat down, and then, under Mipsy's coaxing, lay down. The bed was nowhere near as comfortable as the one in Professor Snape's quarters had been, but Sal had been sleeping on the stone floor of the fireplace in his master's sitting room all month, and so it was far more comfortable than he had been used to, of late. Mipsy reached over and pulled the blanket up to Sal's chin. He flinched, and tensed as her hand neared his face, but she only tucked the soft fabric up around him. She looked at him sadly as he eyed her warily, and then sighed softly.
"It will be being all right in the morning," she promised him quietly, and gently patted his side. Sal lay frozen, as she slowly stood and walked towards the door.
"Why are you doing this for me?" Sal asked quietly, when she reached the doorway. She turned to face him with an expression that was half sadness, half quiet anger.
"Professor Dumbledore is being a good master," she said softly, walking back over to his bedside. "But not all of us is having nice masters before we came here." She looked at him with sympathy and understanding. "Wes be having to look after each other."
She pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead, and then quickly left the room. The torches immediately extinguished as she left the room. Even though it was still the middle of the day, Sal slowly fell asleep to the sound of his own quiet sobs.
The spring term of Draco's sixth year at Hogwarts had not been going particularly well so far; in fact, it had been going bloody abysmally. He was struggling with Apparition lessons, and his mother was sending him letters every other day emphasising the need to learn such a useful skill, as if he wasn't aware that his fellow Death Eaters already saw him as a miserable failure of a wizard. He was performing terribly in lessons, and skipping Quidditch practice- one of the few things he enjoyed at school, aside from winding up Saint Potter and the rest of the Gryffindors – in order to work on the Vanishing Cabinet on the seventh floor. He had not had much luck on that front, and he was beginning to get concerned. The Dark Lord had told him, in a chillingly understated series of threats, exactly what would happen should Draco fail in his mission. It was not the most pleasant Christmas that Draco had ever experienced. His life had taken a dramatic turn for the worst since his father had been arrested and, considering how truly atrociously his year had been going so far, Draco firmly believed that he was owed some tremendously good luck in the near future.
Which was why, when he walked into the kitchens early one morning, looking for a quick breakfast so he could get in some time with the Vanishing Cabinet before the rest of the school awoke, he was only slightly surprised to see Sal standing at the counter. The other boy was stirring a vat of porridge that was almost as tall as he was, and talking quietly to a house elf. Draco broke into a wide smile , and waved away the house elf that had come over to greet him, instead walking over to where Sal was stood. There was a smile on the other boy's face, but it fell immediately as Draco approached, his features forming a polite, neutral expression. Draco tried not to be too offended at that, and instead focused on his good luck. He had just found the solution to another one of his problems.
"Here you are!" Draco announced, with a quiet huff of disdain. "I've been looking for you for weeks, and now I find you, of all places, in the kitchens." Sal flinched slightly, and Draco felt irritation crawling up his spine. He wasn't that intimidating, was he? Certainly not compared to his Auntie Bella, or the Dark Lord himself. But then again, he reminded himself, he was a Malfoy; perhaps he was more frightening than he had thought. He smiled slightly at the thought, but shrugged it off quickly. Whatever the case, he was quite certain that the great Salazar Slytherin should not be intimidated by a sixteen year old teenager, no matter his lineage. That was something that they would need to work on. Quickly revising his plans for the morning, he grabbed Sal's arm. "Well, come on then," he told the other boy sternly. Sal went completely still under his hand, and so Draco was able to drag him away from the vat.
"I'm sorry, sir." Sal quickly interjected, as Draco dragged them both over to the portrait hole. "I have to b-be here." He shot a quick glance over to the house elf that was by the vat of porridge.
"Master Malfoy, Sal be needing to work here today," she told him quietly, her hands twisting at the hem of her bedraggled tea-towel toga. Draco had no idea why all the house elves were so terrified of him. He was always perfectly civil to his family elves, and only ever told them to punish themselves when they really deserved it; well, apart from Dobby, but his father had sold him at the end of Draco's second year, apparently to teach Draco the value of respectful inferiors. Draco had to admit that it was a lesson that he'd needed to learn; he'd been a spoilt brat when he was younger. As he had made prefect last year, hit was clear that his father's teaching method had worked.
"We won't be more than an hour," Draco announced calmly, in what he thought was quite a nice compromise. He'd been searching the castle for Sal ever since he'd come back from the holidays; he thought that Sal could give him at least an hour of his time. Besides, Draco thought to himself with a small smirk, he was sure that the house elves could handle the porridge on their own. Sal still looked like he wanted nothing more to Disapparate on the spot. Draco idly wondered if he could, and felt a familiar frustration rise within him. He hated the process of apparition with an intense passion; almost, in fact, as much as he loved the idea of it. The house elf looked very nervous, but opened her mouth as if to say something. Draco, tired of the deliberation, merely rolled his eyes and dragged Sal out of the kitchens. He pulled the unresisting boy along down the corridor, and into the room that he had had Goyle set up weeks ago. He flicked his wand a couple of times to light the fire and cast a few warming charms against the chill of the early morning air, before dumping Sal in one of the comfy green armchairs in front of the fire.
Draco himself sat down slowly and gracefully in the second chair, and watched Sal for a long minute. As he went to berate the other boy for leading him on a wild snitch hunt around the castle all term, he was rudely interrupted, by a low growling from his stomach. He realised, with intense embarrassment, that he had not eaten breakfast, and so quickly called for an elf. To his surprise, it was the elf who had spoken to him in the kitchen that appeared. She bowed gracefully to his request for food, and disappeared, only to return promptly with a tray complete with a pot full of tea and a couple of racks of freshly buttered toast. There were a couple of jars of jam and marmalade on the side. She placed the whole lot on the table between the two chairs. It was not the breakfast that Draco had been hoping for, but he supposed that it was better than nothing. The elf bowed lowly to him, and then again to Sal. Something quick and urgent seemed to pass between the two of them in the moment before she disappeared, but it was gone before Draco had a chance to work out quite what it was. He decided not to concern himself, and instead reached over to serve himself a couple of rounds of toast. As he quickly ate - with a lack of decorum that would have his mother fainting, were she to see him - Sal poured a cup of tea from the pot, adding milk. When Draco had finished inhaling his breakfast, Sal quietly handed him the cup. Draco gulped down a few sips, then added a couple of spoonful's of sugar. He pushed the tray away from him, and turned to face Sal.
"My apologies, I had completely forgotten to have breakfast," he said in his most dignified manner, flushing with embarrassment. He was sure that his mother - and his father, for that matter - would have had a great deal to say about Draco's uncouth behaviour, but Draco had found himself very short of time this year. He had learnt to grab both food and sleep whenever he had a spare moment. Sal just watched him quietly and closely. Draco cleared his throat, and continued. "I believe I told you before Christmas that I was going to help you discover your true potential." Draco waited until Sal slowly nodded his agreement. "Well I have been trying to uphold my word on that front, but you've made it very difficult." Sal flinched, as Draco's tone grew colder. Draco sniffed in disdain, glad that the other boy seemed to appreciate just what a nuisance he had been to him. He had drawn up a complete schedule of lessons; he had allocated time specifically for teaching Sal how to become the real Salazar Slytherin, which was a real sacrifice considering how time-starved he was that year. He had therefore been very disgruntled when Sal had proven more difficult to pin down than a Demiguise under a Disillusionment Charm, and the whole thing had been thrown into disarray.
"I apologise, sir," Sal said. Draco tutted, once, just to emphasise how great an inconvenience the whole affair had been to him.
"Well, good," Draco said sternly. "The fact of the matter is, we are now very behind where I had planned for us to be." In reality, Draco was endlessly glad that he'd stumbled upon Sal so serendipitously. The Dark Lord had been intensely curious about his prodigious ancestor, and had asked Draco questions all through the holidays about what the real Salazar Slytherin was like. Apparently no one else had even been aware of his existence in the castle. Well apart from Snape, but he was pretending to have only caught fleeting glimpses of the boy in the corridors. Draco was quietly impressed and also very, very scared at the ease with which his professor could fool the Dark Lord, but Snape had also warned Draco not to give away the fact that the great Slytherin was a slave of any form, and had seemed to know what he was talking about. So Draco had trotted out the line that this professor had given him, that he had been forbidden to speak to any of the Founders, and had then quickly begged his leave to do his homework. The other Death Eaters had laughed at him for that, but it had provided a convenient excuse to stay in his room for as much of the holiday as he'd dared. He had not wished to test his pitiful Occlumency skills against the Dark Lord. All of this therefore meant that Draco had a very pressing urge to turn Sal into a respectable Pureblood wizard, before Easter if possible. He needed to be able to tell the Dark Lord honestly that his ancestor was a man to be proud of. Otherwise, Draco thought to himself with a shudder, the Dark Lord would not be impressed with him.
Draco regarded Sal and sipped at his tea. Now that he had the other boy in front of him, he was not sure where to begin. It was quite a different thing to sit in front of another person to teach them something than he had imagined when he had first sat alone in his dormitory, inventing lesson plans. It was also daunting to think that the boy in front of him, no matter his current pathetic state, would one day turn into the great Salazar Slytherin. Draco forced himself not to forget that fact; he did not want to unintentionally offend the Founder of his house, but it would be impossible to progress his current plan if he were fawning over the other boy like a love-sick teenage girl. He racked his mind in panic for where to begin, although he forced his face to stay fixed in a small smirk. If there was one thing that he had learnt in his years at school, it was that a teacher should not show their students any fear. There was a reason Trelawney drank like an Auror. His mouth felt very dry, and he took another sip of his tea. He cleared his throat quietly, and Sal's eyes shot to focus on him.
"Perhaps if we begin with a bit of history," Draco suggested. Sal nodded quickly in acceptance, and Draco felt himself flush with the thrill of achievement. Perhaps this teaching thing would not be as hard as he'd feared.
Half an hour later, Draco was not so certain that his initial confidence had not been a bit premature. He had rattled through the most prominent Pureblood family histories, and rushed through the most important wizarding events of the past few centuries. That part had not been so bad; Sal had been an attentive student, and seemed to have a good memory for facts. Draco had offered him quill and parchment, but Sal had refused with a blush. Draco had been grateful, rather than too offended, that Sal had not wanted to make notes, as he was not entirely certain that he was getting all of the facts correct. There were a lot of goblin rebellions, and he had forgotten nearly all of them the minute he had finished his History of Magic OWL. The real problem had come when Draco had started explaining the basis of the most recent wizarding wars. Sal had seemed to understand Grindelwald's ideals, but did not seem to comprehend the Dark Lord's.
"But what is the problem with those born to non-magical parents?" Sal asked, looking completely baffled. "Aren't they magical too?"
"Mudbloods." Draco corrected quickly, before repeating himself for the third time in five minutes. "They're not the same, though." Sal did not look convinced. "Look, you understand that Muggles are dangerous, right? That they don't understand magic and will hurt any wizard they find, out of fear or greed?" Sal nodded slowly, a dark expression crossing his features, his eyes very far away. Draco swallowed thickly; he was not sure what bad experience the other boy had endured at the hands of Muggles, but he was sure that it must have been terrible. One of the first lessons that his parents had taught him was 'Muggle Safety', about how he should behave very carefully if he found himself without his parents in a Muggle area. It might have been centuries ago, around the introduction of the Statute of Secrecy, that Muggles had last killed a wizarding child for having magic, but the old families did not forgive, nor did they forget. Besides, Draco knew from listening to one of Potter's pet Mudblood's rants about the superiority of Muggles, the wretched creatures now had weapons that could kill hundreds of people at the press of a button. Draco shivered at the terrifying thought, and forced his attention back to the conversation. Where had he been? Oh , yes, Mudbloods. Right.
"Mudbloods are just like Muggles," he told Sal seriously. "They don't understand our society. They come to Hogwarts and try to change everything. They don't understand our traditions, or our culture, and they pollute our magic with their filthy blood by breeding with blood traitors." He all but hissed the last part. The decreasing number of truly Pureblood families was beginning to become a point of concern for Pureblood wizarding society; inter-marriage was one thing, but inbreeding was quite another. The Blacks had been marrying first cousins for generations, and it was well known that they were all a bit…unbalanced. Draco very firmly did not think about the fact that his mother had been born a Black, and instead turned his attention back to Sal. The other boy was looking at him with a strange look.
"I'm a Mudblood," he said very quietly, and very seriously. Draco looked at him for a long moment, and then burst out laughing.
"That's impossible!" He told the other boy, once his giggles had trailed off. "You're Salazar Slytherin. There's no way you could be anything other than a Pureblood."
Sal shook his head. "I'm just Sal," he said with quiet certainty. "And my b-blood is probably the furthest thing from p-pure you could find."
"Preposterous." Draco waved the suggestion away with a flick of his hand. The mere thought that Salazar Slytherin was a mudblood was so ludicrous that he almost started laughing again. "Clearly you are ignorant of your true parentage. Perhaps they were very weak wizards. It has been known to happen, even in families with the purest blood. Just look at Crabbe and Goyle." He smiled sympathetically at Sal, but the other boy didn't look reassured, instead he looked amused. Sal took a deep breath, and looked Draco straight in the eye.
"I'm the bastard son of a Muggle prostitute." He said very seriously, and Draco felt his face flush with embarrassment. The straightforward way that he spoke about such things was shocking to Draco; one did not talk about things like that in polite society. It seemed as if the other boy truly believed that; but Draco knew that it was simply impossible. There was no way as powerful a wizard as Salazar Slytherin could have come from such ignoble roots. Draco felt so sorry for the other boy, to have grown up believing yourself to be from such a lowly social position must have been truly humiliating!
"No," Draco told him in return, leaning forwards, and fixing Sal with his sternest look. "That is impossible."
"I was born and raised in a hovel, and only baptised because the priest saw me with my mother, and threatened to have her fined if she didn't have me at the church that Sunday." Sal smirked slighted at the thought. "Considering I remember the experience, I am quite sure she was far past the thirty days grace period." Draco had no idea what Sal was talking about, but one thing was becoming painfully clear to him; Sal had no idea who he truly was. He therefore took the time to explain to the other boy how there was no way he could have such powerful magic, if he truly was the lowborn son of a Muggle… scarlet woman. Draco told him in no uncertain terms that he must have been the child of a great Pureblood family, and that some terrible circumstance must have left him stranded in the arms of a common Muggle, when he was only a baby. Draco thought that the story was rather exciting, if not a little tragic. Sal did not look convinced.
"Perhaps my father was a wizard," he said thoughtfully. "It's possible…" He shrugged casually, and Draco blushed in mortification at the other boy's easy discussion of such…things. But he shook his head emphatically in return.
"No, because then that would make you a half-blood," Draco explained patiently. "And that wouldn't work either." He fixed Sal with a very stern look, and the other boy shrank back slightly, expression turning wary. "No, I am sure I am correct. You are clearly Salazar Slytherin, the descendant of an ancient Pureblood line; you must find out about your true heritage at some point in your own future. That is the only possible explanation that makes sense." Sal flinched and nodded quickly in agreement. Draco was not entirely certain that the other boy believed him, but he was sure that he would in time. Draco knew very well that he was correct- there was simply no way that Slytherin could have been a Mudblood!
The mere thought set Draco off again, and he fell into another fit of laughter. Sal looked vaguely unnerved and leant away from him, angling his body towards the door. Draco forced himself to calm down, and took a quick glance at his pocket watch. It was his Grandfather Black's, and was meant to have been gifted it to him on his seventeenth birthday, but his mother had given it to him the day that his father had been arrested. She had told him that he was now the man of the house, and would have to act accordingly. It was an honour that Draco had not been, and still was not certain he was quite ready for, but he had been forced to take it on regardless. War makes all children grow up to quickly, his mother had said; Draco had scoffed, but with the ever-mounting pressure of the Dark Lord's mission at his back, Draco was starting to understand what she'd meant. He closed the watch with a sigh. He was running low on time, and he really wanted to get some time in with the Vanishing Cabinet before Transfiguration. He couldn't skip another of McGonagall's lessons; he was almost as scared of her wrath as he was his mother's.
"I believe we shall finish there," he told Sal curtly, putting the watch back into the pocket of his robes, with a flourish. He was proud that he'd managed to pull the gesture off so fluidly; he had spent hours before the mirror perfecting just the right amount of casual elegance, when his mother had first gifted it to him. Considering Draco's current predicament, it would have seemed rather a useless waste of his time, had he not just managed to pull the gesture off so perfectly. He was a Malfoy after all, and there were appearances to maintain. "I will see you here in two days' time," Draco told Sal firmly. "I had been hoping to have these sessions every week, but we are now frightfully behind where I had hoped for us to be." He fixed Sal with an irritated look, and the other boy flinched.
"Yes, sir," Sal agreed quietly. "B-but I might not be able to g-get away, sir. I'm meant to b-be in the kitchens."
"I am sure the house elves can do without you for an hour or two," Draco told him firmly. Sal flinched again, and Draco sighed in exasperation. "Look," he said, attempting to make his voice softer, "there's no need to be concerned. I'm going to help you. By the time we are through, you will be the greatest wizard of all time. Then you won't need to waste your time with servants."
Sal looked up at him, his expression guarded. "I'll still be a slave though, sir," he said slowly.
Draco tutted in exasperation and rose to his feet; Sal jumped to his own, and watched as Draco strode towards the door. As soon as he reached the threshold, Draco spun around and fixed Sal with a haughty look.
"You are Salazar Slytherin," he told Sal firmly. "You are nobody's slave." With that, he turned on his heel and strode off to the seventh floor, quietly pleased with the unexpected, and pleasantly surprising, turn that his morning had taken.
Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review and let me know what you think!
Nerdy notes below the line :
In Anglo Saxon England, children had to be baptised within 30 days of their birth, or the parents would be fined. Sal's mum was considerably later than that...
Next chapter Sal makes a big decision and takes a big risk, Harry gets a reality check, and a house elf has an important message...
