Hi all! The next chapter is up!

This chapter: Draco's plots continue to fail and Sal suffers the consequences. Harry begins to question whether or not he made a mistake.

Warnings for depression and references to abuse.


The weeks dragged haltingly onwards, with all the haste of a sinner on his way to confession. February slowly gave way to March, and by the time that the last vestiges of frost had melted from the castle windows, Sal had found his place amongst the kitchens of Hogwarts. To begin with, he had noted the passage of time with the calm indifference that marked most of his actions. He had realised that he had missed Imbolc whilst serving in his master's quarters, and so performed a very late ritual in one of the many, many empty store rooms, lighting a small fire with some old sacking and a bit of magic. His heart, however, had not really been in it, and he had started to feel his mind slipping away from him even further. The numbness and apathy that had taken over his mind had dug their claws deep into to his thoughts, and so he floated through his days, as if nothing could touch him. Mipsy had not been impressed with this, and, within a few days of his sudden appearance in the kitchens, she had taken to cajoling him into activity whenever she could.

He had tried, on first coming to the kitchens, to help the house elves with their tasks, but they had been reluctant to let him work, insisting that it was not his place to do so. Sal had understood that, and had tried not to feel too embarrassed by his own inadequacy; he knew that he was nowhere near as magically powerful as the house elves. Nor was he as diligent in his work, without someone supervising him and the imminent threat of violence. So he had blushed and retreated back to his room, lying quietly on his bed and feeling utterly useless. With nothing to do, he had sunk into the vast emptiness that was his mind, allowing his thoughts to dwell on his sorry lot in life, and torturing himself with thoughts of "what could have been". It had taken two days of his utter idleness, with Sal lying on his bed and only joining the house elves for meals that rankled at his conscience for enjoying, having not helped to make them, before Mipsy had had enough. On the third day of his self-imposed seclusion, she had dragged him out of his bed, scolded him soundly about isolating himself unnecessarily, and planted him in the kitchen. She had then sat him in front of a large tub of a strange vegetable, handed him a knife, and told him to peel. The task had been mindless, but Mipsy had taken her place at the counter next to him and talked to him all through the day, telling him various anecdotes about the castle and the ridiculous hijinks of Winky and Dobby (a pair set to try the most patient of house elves, if Mipsy's stories were to be believed). The day had passed quickly, and Sal had found that he felt a little better, a little more human, for having spent the day in company.

The next day, Mipsy had done the same thing; she had pulled him from his bed, set him some repetitive task, and talked to him whilst he completed it. The day after that, she had done the same, and kept doing so day after day, until it had become a routine. As time passed, Sal found himself pulling further away from the terrible numb state of apathy that he had been living in since the New Year, and found that he was able to enjoy his time in the kitchens. Within a couple of weeks, he was chatting amiably with Mipsy and feeling more happy and contented than he had in a long time, even more so than when he was living with Professor Snape. Under Mipsy's watchful eye, he woke with the other house elves, ate with them, and then went about whatever tasks that she had set him for the day. The other house elves had also become comfortable with his presence; although they had, at first, been very wary and respectful, treating Sal as if he were a master. Sal had balked at that, and was tremendously relieved that they had finally grown used to his presence, and accepted that he was one of them, even if he was a human. They had even started to joke with him, laughing whenever he shared a sarcastic comment with Mipsy, and sharing their latest Peeves the poltergeist stories with him. By the end of February, it was as if he had been living in the kitchens for years.

Helping Mipsy in the kitchens was not, however, the only demand that had been placed on his time. Draco had continued to turn up in the kitchens in the early morning to drag Sal to a series of lessons. After the first couple of times that this had happened, Sal had observed the way that every house elf in the kitchen tensed as soon as Draco walked into the room. He had suspected that his apparent closeness with the other boy was part of the reason that the house elves were struggling to trust him, and had set himself to the task of investigating. He had soon discovered from Mipsy that Draco did not have the best reputation as a master, and that he was known for being a bit of a brute, and a bully. Nonetheless, every time Draco turned up in the doorway of the kitchens, Sal followed him, not daring to challenge someone of his standing, and also far too invested in what Draco had to say to him. Thankfully, the other boy had been nothing but pleasant to Sal, if not a little condescending. As the weeks dragged on and Draco's lessons continued, Sal had begun to realise that it was just in Draco's nature to be supercilious, and so tried not to take his behaviour too personally.

Draco had started with a series of lectures on wizarding history, going back over the past few centuries, and then moved on to discuss the implications of lineage and magical blood in social hierarchy. He continually refused to accept that Sal could be anything less than something called 'Pureblood'; the implication being that he was from an ancient and noble wizarding family. Sal found this laughable; he knew that his blood was probably the farthest thing from pure this side of Sodom or Gomorrah. Sal had professed that his low birth was evidence that he couldn't be Draco's Salazar Slytherin; he knew very well who he was, and who his mother had been, even if he didn't know his father. He had always had suspicions about the blacksmith, back when he was a boy, as there were few men in town who shared his green eyes. But his mother had slapped him upside the head the one time he'd asked, and Sal had realised that she didn't know herself. It was better not to dwell on such things. Draco had refused to listen to Sal's protests that he was not some noble's son abandoned, and left to live with some random woman. Sal doubted that such things happened outside of tales told by bards, but he had given up attempting to convince Draco otherwise. The other boy got quite angry the more that Sal disagreed with him on the subject of lineage, and Sal decided that it was safer to just quietly allow Draco to continue with his delusions.

As the lessons progressed, Draco had moved on to discuss etiquette and manners. There was, apparently, a whole code of behaviour for how the nobles treated each other: how they ate at the table, how they greeted each other, what they wore, and even how they used their magic. Sal had, over his years as a slave and out of sheer necessity, closely studied the actions and behaviour of Lord Gryffindor and his household, and he could safely say that he had not observed half of the actions that Draco said were basics social manners, in any of the people that he had watched. He would have accused Draco of mocking him, had the other boy not seemed painfully sincere in his lessons, and were it not for the fact that Draco practised the things that he taught in his deportment and dress. Sal had not been certain that all of the things he was learning were entirely useful, but he had been certain that Draco thought that they were, and so he had resigned himself to learning them anyway. There was, after all, no such thing as useless information.

By the end of the first couple of weeks, Draco had moved on to discuss something called politics. From that point onwards, Sal had been fascinated. Draco had put into words concepts that he had observed for himself over the years in the petty fights amongst the pack of roaming children that he had played with as a small child, and in the internal power struggles of Lord Gryffindor's household staff. Draco was slowly showing Sal the tools of influence and intrigue, of power and privilege, and teaching him how to make them work for himself. For so long, Sal had stayed in the shadows, not daring to interfere too much with the actions of others. He had good instincts, and he was observant; he knew this, but he had never been brave enough to pull against his tether too much. He had a place, and there was a certain safety in that, even if it was a hideous and frustrating position to be in. But Draco's lessons were showing him so much possibility, and so many opportunities, and Sal had started to want to out some of the theory into practise, himself.

As winter slowly faded, and daffodils began to spring up all over the grounds of the castle, Draco had started to become more sporadic in his lessons. He had insisted that there was nothing wrong, but he had begun to look more drawn and more tired with every passing day. Finally, one day at the start of March, everything came to a head. Draco turned up to the kitchens at a horrendously early hour, looking shaken and stressed. Sal was sat enjoying breakfast and joking with Mipsy, when the other boy came barrelling through the entrance as if the hordes of Hell were on his heels. The room immediately fell silent, as the whole table jumped to their feet. Draco didn't let anyone speak, instead before he stormed over, and seized Sal's arm in a frantic grasp. His mouth was set in a thin line, and Sal immediately felt his body go limp, his heart pounding in terror at the force of Draco's anger. Draco dragged him out of the kitchens, and through to their little room. As soon as they were in front of the fire, he released Sal's arm and started to stalk the length of the room, running his hands through his hair. Sal quietly sat down in the chair that he had slowly come to think of as 'his', and waited for Draco to speak. His heart was still pounding fiercely in his chest, and Draco was not doing anything to calm Sal's nerves.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of Draco storming up and down, shooting Sal desperate glances, opening his mouth as if to speak, only to immediately close it again and shake his head, Draco threw up his hands and stormed out of the room. Sal didn't dare move for a full half an hour afterwards, just in case Draco changed his mind and came back. He had grown much more comfortable with the other boy over the past few weeks, even to the point of trading the odd joke (something that always made Draco look absolutely thrilled), but Sal was not so stupid as to deliberately disobey, or antagonise someone who was already angry. Finally, as the room became steadily warmer, Sal decided that Draco was not coming back, and so headed back to the kitchens.

The room was buzzing the minute he entered, elves chattering nervously between themselves as they hurried to prepare breakfast for the castle. There was heavy feeling of dread hanging ominously in the air, sinking down and settling heavy on the shoulders of all the elves, making them hunch forwards on themselves. Sal swallowed nervously. Something had happened, something bad, and Sal would bet anything (if he had anything to bet with) that Draco was somehow involved. He spotted Mipsy over in the corner of the kitchen standing on a very tall stool, frying long strips of bacon, and hurried over to speak to her. Her eyes were bright red, and swollen, and she looked very much like she'd been crying.

"What's wrong?" he asked her urgently. "Are you alright?" She sniffed and took a deep breath. She turned to him, and smiled at him indulgently, as she flipped a rasher of bacon out of the pan and over to him. He instinctively caught it and set about demolishing it, relieved that Mipsy seemed to be okay, as he felt his pounding heart begin to settle. The whole situation had robbed him of his appetite, even though he had barely had chance to eat anything at breakfast, before he was dragged away by Draco. But Sal was not one to waste food, and Mipsy made incredible bacon.

"There is being nothing wrong with Mipsy," she told him slowly, and he felt himself relax against the worktop he was leaning against. "Wes been hearing from the portraits. One of the students was being hurt last night." She spoke quietly, and seriously, as she turned her attention back to the pan. "They was being poisoned." Her hand shook slightly as she flipped the bacon over, and Sal felt his heart skip a beat. No wonder everyone was so concerned, the kitchen was the source of the vast majority of food in the castle. If there was a poisoning, the elves would be the first ones under suspicion.

"Do they know what happened?" Sal asked quietly. "Do they think it was one of us?"

Mipsy glanced at him, emptying the pan into a serving dish with a click of her fingers, and then refilling it with fresh rashers of raw meat with a wave of her hand. They held each other's gaze for a long moment. "We is not knowing," she finally admitted, nervously. "The masters are not telling us. We is having to wait and see."

"It wasn't anyone here," Sal said quietly, with a firm conviction. He had not felt this certain about anything for a long time; he knew that the loyal, hardworking elves of Hogwarts would have sooner faced a dragon than hurt any of the young wizards and witches of the castle. He had seen them, day after day, stopping their work to rustle up illicit picnics for the first years, or to brew some late-night hot chocolate (often with shot of a little something extra) for the sleep-deprived and stressed seventh years. There was nothing they wouldn't do for the students; they would never hurt one of them. No, Sal knew that they were not responsible for this. Mipsy turned to meet his eyes, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and they shared a look of understanding. They both knew who was truly to blame; it was obvious to anyone who had seen him that morning. The question was, who would be found guilty of this act? Who would be the 'scapegoat', that Draco's political lessons had taught Sal all about? Sal was under no illusions that Draco would be found responsible; that was not the way that the world worked. Nor did he think that he himself had any reason to fear being found guilty of the crime. He had spent far too much time in Draco's company of late; it would draw too much suspicion if Sal were to be implicated in the poisoning, so he could probably consider himself safe. That meant that it would probably be one of the house elves who ultimately took the fall. Sal tried not to think about what that would mean. The death of a slave who harmed a freeman was never pleasant, nor painless. Sal only hoped that Dumbledore was as good a master as Mipsy promised, and that he would grant the inevitable scapegoat a quick and clean death. Sal had seen people die from torture; he did not wish such an end to anyone.

The week following the poisoning was one of the longest of Sal's life. The kitchens were incredibly subdued; everyone was waiting for one of the masters to swoop in full of righteous fury and start interrogating them all. On the Tuesday morning, Sal had seen a young elf quietly sobbing in one of the store rooms, and had calmly coaxed her from a panic attack by talking aimlessly about potion recipes and magical theory, until she had come back to herself. That was not the first, nor the last such incident that happened that week; Sal knew that he was not the only slave in the castle to have experienced life with a cruel master. He had barely slept at all himself, out of sheer terror that one of his master's servants or, God forbid, Lord Gryffindor himself, might come down to the kitchens and drag Sal to one of the dungeon cells for questioning. The more time that passed without a culprit being named, the more Sal's paranoia grew. It would hardly be the first time in his life that he had been unjustly accused and punished for crimes that were not his own, and he knew that his master was quick to believe the worst of him.

The weight of their combined anxiety and fear pressed down heavily on them all, to the point that Sal hadn't been able to bring himself to leave the kitchens for the usual meetings with the two ladies and Lord Godric. He had tried to join them in the library after dinner, as he normally would have, but terror made his body intransigent, and his legs would not cooperate with his will. He had eventually given the whole thing up as a lost cause and then ended up fretting for the rest of the week, as he missed day after day after day. He had been worrying endlessly that Lord Godric and the ladies would view his behaviour as suspicious, or worse that they might forget about him completely and he would lose the pleasure of their company and conversation forever. By the end of the week, Sal was a tempestuous mix of panic and rage, and was certain that his conversation would have been bitter and hateful, were he able to muster the strength of will to go to the library, at all.

"You is being silly," Mipsy told him sternly, jolting him from his brooding thoughts. She gestured towards him with the wooden spoon with which she was stirring a large vat of soup; Sal stiffened and drew back from her slightly. He trusted Mipsy far more than he had trusted anyone since, well since Isolda, in all honesty. But he had felt far too many blows from the cook in Lord Gryffindor's kitchen to not be wary of a wooden spoon. Mipsy looked at him appraisingly, and then glanced at the spoon in her hands. Her expression softened, and she turned back to the pan. "You is being silly," she told him again, pointedly not looking at him, and he flushed in embarrassment. She was right, he knew that, and he was being ridiculous.

They had received news that morning - a full week after the poisoning had occurred, Sal thought, with a deep thrill of fury- from one of the teachers. A very small man (Sal had been pleased to note that not everyone in this time were fucking giants) had arrived after breakfast and announced that the student, one Ron Weasley, was fine, although the culprit had not been found. Sal had barely registered the name as that of Harry's friend, before the professor had continued his speech, reassuring the kitchens that the elves were not under any suspicion whatsoever. Once the threat against the elves had disappeared, Sal had felt inexplicably relieved that Draco had not been caught, and then hated himself for thinking in such a way. Draco had hurt someone, another student, and had caused countless hours of anxiety for Sal and the elves, but Sal did not feel nearly as aggrieved towards the other boy for that as he did towards the staff of Hogwarts. Sal had, after all, done many an immoral thing in his time, and he would have considered Draco an idiot, had he stepped forward to take the blame. But Sal also knew that forgiving another of attempted murder was something most people frowned upon.

Grappling thus with his own conscience, Sal had missed most of what the professor had gone on to say, although Sal had surmised from the blank looks of the other elves around him that it was more of the same of what had been said earlier. The very short man had seemed very apologetic about the whole affair; apparently in all the initial commotion, no one had thought to let the elves know what had happened. The poison, the man had told them in an exceedingly squeaky voice, had come from a bottle that had been sent from outside of the castle. Such dreadful business, he had explained, was obviously very upsetting, but the elves were not under any suspicion, and the teachers of the school dearly hoped that the elves had not been worrying.

The professor had left to a room of smiling elves, to the chorus of "No problem, professor sir," and "we was only being worried about the little master," but Sal knew that behind the polite expressions and kind words, that a lot of the elves were very angry. He understood that feeling. Even hours later, impotent rage still clawed deep within his chest. They'd known for a fucking week! A whole fucking week, and no one had thought to reassure the elves that they weren't in any trouble! Sal didn't know why he was so surprised. They were slaves; why should the masters tell them anything? Why should the masters care that neither Sal nor Flossy nor Polny had been able to sleep, kept awake by the threat of nightmares, and grappling with constant fatigue. Why should the masters care about their fear, their panic, their terror? They were only slaves, after all.

Sal felt his eyes burn with an ancient anger as he remembered the Professor's jaunty wave as he had left the room. The kitchens had fallen silent as soon as the portrait swung shut behind him, smiles dropping immediately from the faces of the staff, and staying off them for the rest of the day. The Hogwarts elves were very good at playing contented and happy, Sal noted to himself, but sometimes things were just too much. There had been too much terror for the relief to properly sink in yet. Too much pain. The injustice of the whole thing tore at Sal's heart, but he knew that there was nothing he could do. He took a deep breath, and looked over at Mipsy again. She was watching him very closely, as she stirred away at her pan. He exhaled slowly with a deep sigh, allowing the resignation to wash over him. There was nothing to be done, and getting upset about it wasn't going to change anything. Mipsy nodded her head approvingly and smiled gently at him, eyes sad and soft and understanding. Sal sniffed, and turned his attention back to the dishes he was supposed to be washing. He flung himself into his work, scrubbing harshly at the plates. He winced at the sting of the soap suds against the torn skin around his bitten fingernails, and let the sharp pain take over his mind, blocking out the other bitter thoughts that slunk about in his head.


Harry let out a sigh of irritation as he stared resolutely down at his Defence Against the Dark Arts essay. He had three feet on flame-based curses due the next day and he only had a foot and a half written. It was already half-past ten, he was absolutely shattered, and if it wasn't that he strongly suspected that Snape would use him as a target for said curses if he turned up to the lesson without his homework, he would have been in bed hours ago. Harry sighed, and reread the last line that he had written, sensing his train of thought slipping away from him. 'When blocking flame-based curses, the wizard must also consider the environment around them…' A loud guffaw rang out from the other side of the common room, and Harry desperately focused on his work, clutching the quill so hard that he was in serious danger of snapping it. 'The environment around them, or…' Harry's eyebrow twitched in irritation as another booming laugh echoed through the room. 'Around them, or…' Another laugh cut through his concentration, and Harry threw down his quill in irritation, looking up to glare at McLaggen in the corner of the common room. Over the past couple of days, the seventh-year had taken to setting himself up within earshot of Harry, and then loudly lamenting the outcome of the game against Hufflepuff to anyone who would listen. The pompous twat had been steadily pissing Harry off more and more, and it was getting to the point where Harry knew he was going to snap, New Year's resolution to control his temper be damned.

"Of course, Potter was probably too preoccupied with the thought of Wealsey in the hospital wing," McLaggen declared loudly. "I told him that he should have let me captain the match, but he wouldn't listen!" Harry growled, and clenched his fists. "Of course, that probably cost us the game…" Harry snapped and reached for his wand, a dozen creative hexes springing to mind. He was just about to hit McLaggen with a malicious little jinx he'd learnt from the half-blood prince that left the victim experiencing painfully similar symptoms to an advanced state of the Clap, when his view was blocked by a wry grin on a familiar freckled face.

"I know he's a prick mate, but he really isn't worth it." Ron smiled, easing himself into the chair, as glanced down at Harry's parchment. "You know Snape will kill you if you don't get that essay written."

"Honestly, Ron, Professor Snape is hardly going to kill Harry over an essay," Hermione chimed in, moving to sit next to Harry. Harry and Ron met each other's eyes, silently communicating in solidarity against Hermione's relentless faith in the teaching staff of Hogwarts.

"Well he is the DADA teacher this year," Harry pointed out with a grin, lowering his wand and deliberately forcing thoughts of hexing McLaggen from his mind. It had been the twat's good luck that Ron and Hermione had returned from their prefect rounds at precisely the right time. Harry's grin widened as he looked at both his best friends together. "It would be a shame to break tradition." Ron snorted, and leant back languidly in his chair, ignoring Hermione's look of disapproval at the action. Harry smiled at his friends, a warmth settling in his chest that had been missing since before Christmas. He had missed this. He had missed spending time with Ron and Hermione, just chatting together, being friends. It might have taken a poisoning to bring them back together, he thought to himself ruefully, but it had taken a Troll to make them friends in the first place; perhaps the three of them just needed something terrifying to remind them why they needed each other.

"Don't tempt fate," Ron warned sagely, around a yawn. "Better get writing."

Harry bent his head back to the parchment, trying to force the goofy grin of his face. He had loads left to write, and he could not afford to get distracted by his friends.

"Have you finished yours already, Ron?" Hermione asked somewhere above Harry's head, as he tried to recall the incantation for the blistering hex for his essay. It was really testament to how tired he was that he couldn't remember immediately; he had been considering using it on McLaggen during dinner.

"I've got an extension on homework, Hermione," Ron said triumphantly, rocking back in his chair. "Because of my recent hospital stay." Harry could hear the smile in Ron's voice, as he continued writing. "Madam Pomfrey said I need to pace myself." Harry frowned at his quill, and paused in his writing for a minute to peer up at his best friend.

"Mate," he said seriously, "do you really think that's going to matter to Snape?" Ron froze at Harry's words, the smile dropping from his face almost immediately. He rocked forwards on his chair, landing on all four feet with a resounding thud.

"No," Ron said quietly, face ashen-white, looking almost as ill as he had in the Hospital Wing. "I don't think it will." He ran up to the dormitory, and came back minutes later with a haphazard pile of notes, parchment, quills and ink. Harry turned back to his work and began scribbling furiously, very aware that he'd need to have his work finished if Ron wanted to copy off him. Hermione started grumbling about avoiding homework until the last minute, even as she pulled Ron's notes towards her and started to help him make sense of his half-formulated plans.

An hour or so later, Harry finally put his quill down. He leant back, stretching his arms above his head as he gazed around the empty common room, now deserted except for him, Ron, and Hermione. He yawned loudly, grimacing as his jaw clicked. Hermione looked up at him. She had been leaning over Ron's shoulder, reading his work closely so that he didn't make any mistakes and dictating the odd line to help him finish more quickly. She smiled tiredly at Harry, and beckoned for him to hand the essay over for her to proof-read. Harry did so with a grateful smile; he didn't think that it would take her too long. He was certain that he'd written everything that he knew about flame-based curses, and had even thrown in a little bit about freezing charms, which he thought would help to strengthen his argument. Really, he should have had this homework done ages ago; he was normally alright at Defence, even if essays were never going to be his strongest suit. But he had been a bit distracted of late, what with Ron's poisoning, and wondering what the hell Malfoy was up to, and Dumbledore's lessons, and the memory he still needed to get from Slughorn. Not to mention the fact that he hadn't seen Slytherin for weeks and was half-suspicious that the other boy was up to something evil, and half-terrified that he wasn't.

"It's good, Harry," Hermione told him a few minutes later, pushing the parchment across the table towards him. Harry shook himself from his thoughts and smiled at his best friend. "You could probably elaborate a bit more in the section on protective potions, but I doubt Professor Snape will penalise you too much for that." Harry pulled the parchment back towards himself with a tired groan, ignoring Ron's scoff of amusement. Harry rolled his eyes in irritation; the Chudley Cannons would win the League before Snape missed an opportunity to bully Harry in some way or other. He scribbled another couple of sentences describing the sensation and effects of flame-freezing potions. As he wrote, his mind wandered back to first year and that horrible race for the stone. Harry smirked to himself, and wondered if Snape would have any idea how much he had inadvertently helped with Harry's homework.

"I'm done," Ron declared, throwing down his quill and rubbing his hands over his eyes. Hermione drew the parchment towards her to read over it, and Ron leant back in his chair. "I don't even care if I get a 'T'," he announced tiredly, "I've got three feet down on parchment. It's finished." Hermione tutted in disapproval, as she continued to read, making small marks with her quill. "I thought you'd have finished ages ago, mate," Ron said through a yawn, looking over at Harry, "didn't we cover some of this in the DA?"

"Some of it, yeah," Harry relied quietly, reading over the last few lines that he'd added for the fifth time, his vision starting to blur, before putting down his own quill. "But I just didn't get round to writing it. It's been a bit mental round here." Ron winced and nodded sympathetically.

"Fair point."

"Here," Hermione interrupted them both, shoving Ron's parchment into his hands. "Your handwriting is huge, Ron, I really don't think Professor Snape is going to let you get away with that." Ron rolled his eyes, and blushed a little; he looked over the notes and groaned in dismay, before dutifully pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment to begin rewriting his work.

Harry sighed, and pushed his glasses up briefly to rub the bridge of his nose. "You've been making work for yourself, Harry," Hermione told him sternly. "This obsession of yours is getting a little out of hand. You haven't stopped talking about him for weeks."

"I just don't like not knowing what he's up to," Harry remarked grimly, thinking back to Malfoy at the Slug Club Christmas Party. There was something going on with Malfoy and Snape and the Death Eaters, and Harry just new that it had something to do with the attacks on Ron and Katie.

"I thought you told that Slytherin bastard to piss off?" Ron asked blearily, resurfacing from his work for a brief moment of respite, before Hermione's glare made him start scribbling again with purpose.

"What? Malfoy?" Harry asked in confusion, not aware that he'd told the blond git where to get off any more so than he usually did.

"No, Sal," Ron replied abstractly, quill still flying over the page. "Thought you told him to leave you alone."

"Oh." Harry said quietly. He hadn't actually been thinking about Sal, but that was another point of concern. "I mean, I did. But…" He trailed off absently, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked in concern, taking her eye off Ron's parchment to face him.

"I just don't know what he's up to, whether he's off making up some evil plan, or whatever." Harry winced at just how weak that particular statement sounded, and Hermione looked at him shrewdly.

"Is that all?" She asked wryly.

"Yes… I mean. Well, no." Harry rubbed his hand over his forehead in frustration. "I mean…" He took a deep breath. "I think… I might have made a mistake." He spoke quickly, avoiding Hermione's gaze as she reached over and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Oh Harry," she said gently. "What do you mean?"

Harry shrugged and looked off into the fire. It had started to properly burn down, seeing as it was getting on for midnight, and he suspected a house elf would have long since been round to put out the last of the flames, were it not for the three of them still occupying the common room.

"I'm not sure," he admitted eventually, still not meeting Hermione's eyes. "Just something about this all feels wrong. I keep waiting for him to make a move, but he disappeared off the map for weeks, and then just appeared in the kitchens last month." Harry sighed and rubbed at his eyes, underneath his glasses. Merlin, he was tired. "I saw him in the dungeons with Malfoy a couple of times," he continued, "but he just went straight back to the kitchens afterwards. At first I thought he was involved in whatever Malfoy was doing, but the timings just don't add up." Besides, he'd had Dobby and Kreacher following Malfoy for a couple of days, and neither of them had reported that Malfoy and Sal had been up to anything. He looked back at his friends to see that both Ron and Hermione were watching him intently.

"But he's Slytherin," Ron said in confusion. "We established that, right?"

"I'm not sure," Hermione said quietly, looking straight at Harry. "I mean, he speaks Parseltongue, and he's with the Founders, but I'm just not sure he is the Salazar Slytherin I've read about. Maybe something happens to make him into a dark wizard. His behaviour just doesn't make sense. He's not some blood-purity obsessed tyrant; he's just a nervous, scared…"

"Slave," Harry finished her sentence for her, nodding miserably. "I know." He sighed and stared at his hands. "I think I might have fucked this up." He looked up at his friends, expecting to see them judging him harshly. What for, he wasn't quite sure. Perhaps for being too impulsive and jumping to conclusions, for threatening a terrified, abused person his own age. Or perhaps for being too weak after the fact, for giving in too easily to sentimentality and letting himself be manipulated once again by Salazar Slytherin. He didn't know what to think. His instincts were telling him the Sal wasn't an immediate threat, but his brain was telling him not to dismiss him out of hand.

"Hang on, mate," Ron said quickly, homework all but abandoned in the face of the new conversation. "He's Slytherin, I thought we said we couldn't trust him. He might be trying to lull you into a false sense of security." Harry's gut twisted as Ron echoed the doubts that had been at the back of his mind since he'd first figured out Sal's true identity, that day in the library.

"You didn't see him, Ron," Hermione said quietly. "That night. He was terrified of us. I think…" She took a deep breath, her face twisted with guilt. Harry frowned; he too had been dwelling on the sal's expression as he backed out of the room that night; the terror and misery had seemed genuine. But then again, Harry thought, he was Salazar Slytherin, it could have been an act. "I think Harry might be right. I think we've made a mistake." Harry winced at Hermione's words, and rubbed at the back of his neck in distress. He really hated not knowing what to do. Usually he found it so simple to see the path forward, to know what he needed to do next. Save the stone, fight the basilisk, stop Umbridge etc. He hated not knowing what the right thing to do was.

"So what do you want to do?" Ron asked with a deep sigh, leaning back in his chair. Hermione looked up at Harry and smiled wearily. Harry felt a rush of affection for his two best friends; he could always count on Ron and Hermione to be there for him, regardless of whatever hare-brained, fucked-up scheme he'd dragged them all into. It had been horrible being stuck between them both this year, torn between the two people who he cared about most in the world.

"I think we need to talk to him," Harry said quietly. "Properly, I mean."

"Didn't you tell him to fuck off mate?" Ron asked quietly, his tone a little sceptical. "He's not going to want to sit down with us over a butterbear and a cauldron cake."

"I know," Harry groaned, leaning forwards to rub his forehead in irritation. "We need something to make him listen. Something he wants."

"Careful, mate, you're sounding a bit Slytherin yourself there," Ron interjected with a grin. Harry shot him a dark look, and ran his hands through his hair. Ron smirked at him, and Harry gave him the finger. They settled into silence to think about the problem at hand.

"What about that life debt research you were doing Hermione?" Harry asked quietly, after a few minutes thought. "Did you end up finding anything?"

Hermione bit her lip, and looked down at her hands. "Maybe. Well, it might be. But I don't think it's right to use information like that against him."

"Come on, Hermione," Ron cajoled. "Do you think he's going to just tell us what he's up to, because we ask him nicely?" She frowned, and shook her head, looking conflicted.

"Please, Hermione," Harry pleaded quietly. She looked at him for a long moment, wringing her hands.

"Alright, fine," she said with a huff. "But if he doesn't want to talk to us, I'm just going to tell him anyway." She held a hand up against Harry and Ron's protests. "No, I'm not holding this over his head, it isn't right." She waited as the two boys nodded their reluctant agreement. "I found a book in Diagon Alley over Christmas. It's this brilliant analysis of wizarding case law, well as far as we have case law and legal precedent, I mean. Our entire legal system is really just a series of different ministerial edicts and the odd Wizenagamot vote." She broke off with a huff, and flushed as Harry and Ron looked back at her blankly. "Anyway," she continued quickly, "it describes one case of an Unbreakable Vow that both parties wanted to negate; apparently there was a ritual that could be done to invalidate the Vow. I don't know if it would work the same way for a life debt, I don't think the magic works the same way, but I'm going to keep researching. There must be a record of the ritual somewhere!" Hermione's face was flushed, and her eyes were bright and passionate. Harry smiled at her; she was amazing.

"Hermione, you're brilliant!" Harry told her and pulled her into a sideways hug. She blushed and patted him gently on the arm.

"Give me some time before we speak to Sal though. I want to see if I can find anything else in the library." She told him firmly. Ron yawned loudly, and Harry pulled away from the hug.

"Thanks," Harry told them both seriously. He felt so much better after having spoken to his friends, especially now that they had some kind of plan in place. Ron yawned again, and rubbed at his eyes.

"Bed," Hermione ordered sternly, and started ushering them all upstairs. Ron took a long look at his essay.

"Finish it in the morning, mate," Harry told him with a shrug. Ron yawned again, and nodded slowly in reply, gathering his parchment and notes together. They slowly made their way up the stairs to the dormitory, and then in to bed. For once, Harry was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.


It was a couple of days after the professor had come to visit the kitchens to deliver their exoneration, when Draco had finally come back to the kitchens. By the time that Draco had appeared in the portrait hole and beckoned for Sal to follow him, Sal had had plenty of time to stew over the events of the week. Released from the paralysing fear of retribution towards himself, or one of the other slaves, Sal had had time to properly process his feelings about the whole affair. The more he thought about what had happened, the more confused that he felt. Draco had poisoned another student, one of Harry's friends. Now, Sal was very well aware that Harry currently viewed him as a detestable, odious wretch, but that did not change the fact that Harry and his friends had been kind to Sal, at least for a little while, and so he did not like to think of anyone attempting to harm them. But on the other hand, Draco had also been kind to him, generous even; the young noble had been showing him how to utilise his own power, how to become more than some pitiful slave. Sal did not know what to think, or what to do. He was very well aware of what his master would have to say about the whole thing, Christian morality would blame Draco and condemn him for all eternity, but Sal did not think that things were quite so black and white. He also was very aware that he did not have all the facts. Besides which, he did not think that he of all people really had any right to pass judgement on the actions of others.

As he had lain in bed the night after the professor's visit, thinking over the events of the past week, his mind had come to one very clear conclusion. Regardless of the moral complexity of the situation, he could not let something like this happen again. The week spent in torment, waiting for the axe to fall had been hellish, and none of the castle's slaves had been deserving of such a mental torture. It was unfair, and it was unacceptable, and Sal was not going to let it happen again. With a specific goal in mind, Sal set his mind to the task of how best to accomplish it. So when Draco came to collect him from the kitchens that morning, Sal had already developed a plan. He was ready to deal with Draco.

Sal took a steadying breath, as he reminded himself of exactly why he was doing this. He and Draco were sat in the same dungeon room in which they always met. Draco was in the chair closest to the fire, staring into the dancing flames. His right hand kept twitching up towards his hair, as if to run his hand through it, before stopping at the last minute. Sal watched him closely out of the corner of his eye, taking steady deep breaths. He needed to stay calm if he was going to do this, and he had to do this. He owed it to Mipsy and the others.

Draco heaved a deep sigh, and scratched at his nose. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but Sal cut him off.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Sal asked quietly.

"What?" Draco froze, and then slowly turned to face Sal.

"The poisoning."

"What would make you think that?" Draco asked very quietly, his voice little more than a whisper. Sal stiffened at the tone of warning in the other boy's voice, but he had promised himself that he would get through this. He found himself pushing on, despite the voices at the back of his head screaming for him to be cautious.

"It's obvious," Sal told him, pointedly raising an eyebrow in disdain. His hands were shaking, so he forced them into tight fists; this was not a time for such displays of weakness. Draco pulled out his wand, and Sal's gaze snapped to the end of it.

"What do you mean?" Draco asked in a deceptively calm voice. Sal's heart was threatening to break from his chest with the force with which it was pounding, but he refused to back down.

"You turned up early to the k-kitchens that morning," Sal began slowly, cursing himself for his stutter. He took a deep breath, and slowly relaxed his hands from their fists. Draco flinched, and his wand jumped in his hand. Sal took another deep breath, and continued. "You've been avoiding me ever since." Draco looked up at him, and Sal forced his face to remain as emotionless as possible. "It's obvious."

"That's ridiculous," Draco began, but Sal interrupted him again.

"Don't try and lie to me," he said quietly. He paused for a long moment, and mustered up all his courage to deliver his next line. He had practised this all of last night, and a lot depended on his delivery. "I mean, I am Salazar Slytherin." Draco flinched and lowered his wand, putting in into his pocket, and curling inwards on himself. Sal sat, frozen, waiting for the other boy's reaction. There was a long moment, and then Draco slumped forwards in his chair, his head in his hands. Sal let out a long, slow breath of relief. They sat in silence for a few minutes; Sal was waiting for the other boy to make the next move. He needed Draco's confession, otherwise this was all for nothing. Finally, Sal heard a sniffle, and saw that Draco's shoulders had begun to shake. Sal winced at the awkwardness of the situation; he rarely cried in front of anyone else, and had certainly never received any comfort when he had done so. He had no real experience to fall back on for such situations and wasn't sure what to do. He stared at his hands, and hoped that Draco would stop very soon.

"I-well, I" Draco haltingly began, sniffing back tears, as he sat up and rubbed angrily at his eyes. "I had to. You don't understand!"

"I thought the nobility only did what they wanted," Sal answered sarcastically, with a raised eyebrow, even as his throat tightened with terror at his own audacity. "You said that Malfoy's only answered to themselves." Draco sighed, and sat back; he had managed to dry his eyes, although his breathing still fluttered out in quick gasps.

"Everyone has to answer to somebody, Sal," Draco answered wearily, as he finally gave in to his nervous tic and ran a hand through his hair. He looked like he had aged several years in a moment. Sal sat back slowly, processing the new information.

"You have a master?" he asked in disbelief. This changed things substantially. Draco nodded miserably, and rubbed at his lower arm.

"The Dark Lord- he- I, he ordered me to do something…" Draco began in a faint whisper. Sal took a deep breath and let that revelation wash over him. Draco had told Sal all about the Dark Lord Voldemort and his ideas on blood purity; it shouldn't be such a surprise to hear that Draco was in his service. Draco coughed gently, and continued. "Weasley wasn't meant to…It wasn't meant for him." He hissed in irritation, and sunk his head back into his hands.

"You don't have a choice," Sal stated quietly. Draco had told him all about the last wizarding war and the actions of the Dark Lord; Sal had no doubt that such a man would not be a kind master. Draco flinched, and shook his head slowly. "And you weren't trying to harm a student?" Draco shook his head again, this time much more emphatically. "Or the ladies Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw? Or Professor Snape?" Draco shook his head at both, still firmly covering his face with his hands; he looked the picture of misery. Sal took a deep breath and girded himself against the oncoming conversation. He leant forwards and waited until Draco hesitantly looked up, and met his eyes.

"You won't do anything like that, again," Sal ordered grimly, his heart beating wildly at speaking in such a way to anyone, let alone Draco. He stared resolutely into Draco's eyes, ignoring the horrible desperation that he saw there. "Whatever your master has you doing, I don't care. You won't be that reckless again. Nothing that will incriminate the house elves, do you understand?" Sal was staring unblinkingly at Draco, whose hands had begun to shake. There was a sickening thrill at the back of Sal's mind at the thought of someone like Draco being scared of him. He quashed it down with all the force that he possessed; he was not going to be like his previous master, he was not going to enjoy the pain of others.

"They're only house elves," Draco objected tentatively, "they hardly matter."

"They matter to me!" Sal exclaimed loudly. Draco looked at him out of the corner of his eye for a long moment, and then nodded his agreement.

"I won't do anything that will implicate either you or them," Draco promised, a slight gleam coming back to his eyes, "if you swear not to tell anyone about this." Sal looked at him steadily, and then nodded; he had not been planning on doing that anyway, he owed Draco that much.

Draco heaved a long sigh, and then held out his hand to Sal. Sal took it, and they shook on the deal. It was the first time in a long time that a wizard had treated Sal so much like an equal, like someone to be respected, to be feared. Sal smirked at Draco, steadfastly avoiding the part of his brain that was telling him not to antagonise his betters, and forced himself to play the part that Draco expected of him, the part of the manipulative, pureblood wizard Salazar Slytherin. Draco looked at him steadily, a kind of wonder entering into his eyes. Sal looked back as emotionlessly as he could, and then Draco suddenly smiled widely, his eyes alight with the flush of success. Sal frowned back at him, not understanding the sudden change of mood. Draco stood up, and headed over to the door, turning on the threshold to offer Sal a low bow. Sal froze, staring in wonder at the other boy.

"Lord Slytherin," Draco addressed him politely, turning on his heel with a snap of his robes and promptly striding out of the room.

Sal sat there for a few minutes, fighting back against the sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm him the second that Draco had left. Had he done the right thing? Had he overplayed his hand with Draco? Sal had been up all night, trying to think of the best way to protect himself and the house elves, and he thought he had found the best solution. Over the past few weeks, he had come to know Draco quite well. He knew how the other boy thought, and he knew that a show of power was the best way to get him to toe the line. Sal had gone through every lesson that Draco had given him on politics and manipulation, and had mustered up his best attempt to perform the role of Draco's beloved Salazar Slytherin. He sat forward, putting his own head in his hands, mirroring Draco's posture from earlier. Draco's parting words echoed in his mind, and he shook his head in disbelief. He let out a shaky laugh, as the sheer enormity of what he'd just done washed over him. He looked down at his hands, and they were shaking badly. He let out another laugh that turned into an almost hysterical giggle. Moments later, he was gasping in deep gulps of breath, letting out deep barks that could have been either sobs or guffaws, but Sal could not tell the difference. He couldn't quite believe what he had accomplished. He sat there for a long time, revelling in the sheer ridiculousness of his actions. Finally, when he had managed to calm himself down, he slowly got up and left the room.

The corridor outside was quiet and it was cold after spending so long sat in front of a roaring fire. Sal shivered and hurried along the long expanse of cold stone to the kitchens. He slipped in, and headed back to his bedroom, hoping to have five minutes alone, before he was needed to help with the lunch rush. A few days after he had first been sent to the kitchens, the book that he had stolen from the library - that he had left in Professor Snape's quarters - had appeared on his bed, hidden under his pillow. There had been a note left inside the cover, but it was in modern English, so Sal had no way of reading it. He hadn't dared ask around to find out who had left it there, in case news that he was learning to read got back to his master, but he had a strong suspicion that Professor Snape was behind the gift. Since then, Sal had been spending a little time every day, trying to improve his reading. He was coming along nicely, and could even get through whole paragraphs at a time, although his head always ached terribly afterwards. After his meeting with Draco, he wanted to get some time in with the book, to feel like he was doing something familiar and comforting, rather than defying every lesson of correct social conduct that had been beaten into him over the years.

He rushed back through his bedroom, and was just about to slip the book from its hiding place under the mattress of his bed, when a small noise behind him grabbed his attention. Dropping the mattress quickly and spinning around, Sal came face to face with an unfamiliar house elf. Instead of the usual toga, the elf was wearing a maroon jumper, and had several woolly hats piled on top of his head. His bright, protuberant eyes were staring very seriously at Sal, and he had his spindly arms crossed sternly in front of his chest.

"Can I help you?" Sal asked politely. Most of the house elves usually left him to Mipsy, but occasionally they would come and ask his help with something or other that required an extra pair of hands.

"You should be staying away from Master Malfoy," the elf replied firmly.

"Excuse me?" Sal's stomach dropped in fear. Had Draco calmed down from his earlier panic and sent someone to threaten Sal already?

"Master Malfoy is not being a nice wizard," the elf replied quietly, and moved further into the room, towards Sal. "You should not be trusting him."

"Who says I trust him?" Sal asked slowly, not wanting to admit to anything. If this wasn't an elaborate power play from Draco, it was conceivable that this elf had been sent by his master. He was not going to admit to anything that might incriminate him, particularly meeting with students of the castle. He shook his head in confusion. "I'm sorry, who are you again?" The house elf drew himself up proudly, and smoothed out his jumper.

"I am Dobby," the elf replied proudly, "and I am a free elf!" Sal's stomach fell completely to his feet, and he immediately bowed his head. He had not been expecting to see anyone free in the kitchens. Truth be told, he had honestly thought that all house elves were slaves, he had come to treat them all as equals without thinking; he berated himself for jumping to conclusions, and immediately apologised to the elf for his rudeness. There was a long moment of silence, but Sal didn't dare move out of his bow.

"Why is you…bowing to Dobby?" the elf asked tentatively. The sheer amount of confusion in his tone encouraged Sal to look up. The elf was standing awkwardly, twisting the bottom of his jumper and shifting from foot to foot.

"I th-thought" Sal began, but didn't know how to finish his sentence. He was hardly about to tell a freeperson that he had believed them to be a slave. That was the height of rudeness, and would undoubtedly earn him a beating, or at least some form of punishment; Sal was very well aware that the elves were far more magically powerful than he could ever dream of being. A heavy silence fell over the pair of them, as they both shifted awkwardly under the gaze of the other. Finally Dobby broke it, and spoke tentatively to Sal, as if not sure what to make of him.

"You is not needing to be bowing to Dobby," he said slowly, as he inched towards one of the empty beds in the room. "Dobby is being an elf. You is being a wizard." Sal looked at the elf in confusion.

"But you're free!" He objected quietly, and found his eyes wandering back down to focus on his feet. He had no idea what he was meant to make of this conversation, and he had no reference for how he was meant to behave. He forced his gaze upwards when the elf did not reply; Dobby looked at him with wide eyes, before suddenly bursting into tears.

"You is not being free?" Dobby asked, water streaming from his eyes.

"I'm a slave," Sal admitted quietly, sitting down slowly on his bed.

"You is not belonging to Master Malfoy?" Dobby asked desperately, eyes wide and solemn, as he continued to weep openly.

"No…" Sal admitted cautiously. "My master is Lord Gryffindor." Dobby sank onto the bed closest to him in relief, and began sobbing even more loudly. "Dobby…" Sal began quietly, not sure at all how to deal with the elf in front of him. He rubbed at the back of his neck, and tried to think of something to say.

"Master Malfoy is being a bad master," Dobby told him seriously, his sobs starting to abate. "He is not being a nice wizard." Sal looked at him in confusion, and Dobby hesitantly continued, as he wiped at his eyes and blew his nose with the hem of his jumper. "He was being the son of Dobby's old master."

"He was a bad master?" Sal asked quietly, sensing Dobby's distress. Dobby nodded miserably, before stiffening and running over to the nearest wall and banging his head loudly and repeatedly against it.

"Dobby, stop, please!" Sal begged desperately, disturbed by the display. He had seen some of the house elves punish themselves over his weeks in the kitchens, but that usually amounted to no more than a missed meal, or an extra set of chores. Sal did not understand the compulsion at all, firmly believing that if someone wanted him punished then they could damn well do it themselves, but he had not seen anything as violent as Dobby's display. Finally, after almost a full minute of Sal's increasingly frantic pleas, Dobby staggered away from the wall, and sat down on the bed woozily.

"I thought you were free?" Sal asked quietly, and Dobby winced, rubbing at his forehead.

"I am," Dobby replied, with a self-deprecating smile. "Sometimes I is having trouble remembering." Sal nodded his understanding. When he had first been made a slave, he had often had the opposite problem.

A dull creak sounded through the room, making them both jump, as the bedroom door swung slowly open. A couple of elves, clearly drawn by all of the commotion, peered into the room from the doorway.

"Oh," one said with a quiet sigh, spotting the house elf on the bed. "Hello Dobby." The elves at the doorway looked relieved and left the room immediately, with no more than a quick nod to both Sal and Dobby. Sal had heard enough stories from Mipsy about Dobby's behaviour; he supposed that such the other elves must just consider such strange antics to be as a matter of course for the free elf.

Sal waited until the sound of footsteps had faded before continuing. "How do you know I've been meeting with Master Malfoy?" Dobby looked up at Sal, as soon as he spoke. There was a dark bruise already forming across the elf's forehead.

"I is following him for the Great Harry Potter," Dobby replied. His beaming smile looked even more disturbing when his head bore such a terrible bruise.

"Since when?" Sal asked, his stomach dropping with dread, trying not to stare at Dobby's forehead.

"It is being a couple of days." Sal dropped his head to his chest, as Dobby continued. "I was seeing you talking this morning."

"And did you hear what we said?" Sal asked as casually as he could manage with his heart resting somewhere just below his jaw. If Dobby had heard them discussing the poisoning, then all of his effort with Draco would have been for nothing. Draco had promised that the first thing that he did whenever they met was to put up a silencing charm, but Sal was not certain that he could trust Draco's magic against that of a house elf.

"No," Dobby admitted quickly, "I was not being able to hear from outside the room." Sal let out a deep breath of relief, and tried to will his heart to stop pounding with the force of a blacksmith's hammer swig. Thank God in heaven and all His angels, Sal thought in sheer relief, his secret was safe. He looked up to see that Dobby was eyeing him shrewdly. "You should not be meeting with Master Malfoy," he repeated again, his eyes deadly serious. Sal felt his throat tighten at the warning. He took a deep breath, and weighed his options. He could just promise Dobby that he would stay away from Draco, but he had no real intention of ceasing his lessons with the other boy. Whatever Dobby might say, Sal had put too much effort into his lessons with Draco to just abandon them, even if the other boy was a bad master. But if Dobby really was watching Draco at all times, then the minute Sal went to another lesson, Dobby would know that he had lied. In which case, if Dobby was really reporting back to Harry, then Sal would just look incredibly suspicious, and he did not need that kind of attention, particularly when Harry had already threatened him and accused him of being a dark wizard. He took a deep breath, and decided to simply tell the truth.

"I have to, Dobby," Sal admitted quietly. "He's helping me". Dobby looked at him with what could almost be pity, and Sal tried to think of a way to turn the attention away from himself. "Why are you doing this for Harry, anyway. You're free, aren't you?"

"Harry Potter is a Great Wizard!" Dobby exclaimed with a beaming smile. "He is freeing me from my master!" Sal jolted in surprise; he had not expected Dobby to say that. It did, however, seem to be in character for Harry; the other boy had been attempting to help free Sal from his own life debt, before he had discovered the true darkness in Sal's soul and declared that he had wanted nothing more to do with him.

"He freed you?" Sal asked softly, and Dobby nodded, still beaming. "Then you understand." Sal spoke quietly. "I need to keep meeting Master Malfoy. He is…helping…me."

Dobby looked at disbelief, and shook his head. "You should not be trusting him,"

"You don't understand. I don't trust him," Sal said sternly. "I need him."

Dobby nodded slowly, and a sly smile spread across his lips. "I is understanding," Dobby replied quietly, and patted Sal's knee. "But you must be being careful."

"I will," Sal promised quickly.

Dobby patted his knee again, and then stood up. "I cannot be staying any longer," he said with a small sigh, "I is leaving the watching of Master Malfoy to Kreacher, and he is not being very good at it."

"But Dobby," Sal rushed to say, before the elf left the room. "You can't, I mean." Sal took a deep breath, and tried to find his words, "You can't tell anyone about this. Not even Harry." Dobby looked very hesitant, and shook his head gently. Sal felt his stomach drop. "Please" he begged, "my master can't hear about this. No one can know!" Dobby still looked reluctant, and Sal dropped to his knees in desperation. "Please, Dobby." He begged, and put his forehead to the floor. A wrinkled hand fell on his head, and Sal looked up. The elf looked severely uncomfortable, but he nodded his agreement. Sal let out a breath of relief that came out more as a sob, and Dobby disapparated away. Sal took a series of deep breaths as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, and allowed himself to collapse back on the bed, his mind whirring.

A few hours later, and Sal had not left his room all day. He had been moping in his room ever since Dobby had left, thinking over his interactions with both Draco and his former house elf. Sal was not certain if he'd done the right thing with either of them, or if he could trust them to do as they'd promised. He'd been fretting all afternoon, pacing the floor and replaying the conversations over and over in his head. Finally, Mipsy came in to drag him out for dinner. He ate his meal half-heartedly; he was not hungry, but he adamantly refused to waste any food. Mipsy eyed him throughout, and fixed him in his seat with a stern look, as soon as he went to leave the table.

"You is not going back to mope in your room," she told him firmly. "It is not being good for you." Sal sighed, and rolled his eyes in exasperation. She shot him a disapproving look, and he sighed again, this time in resignation. "You is leaving the kitchens tonight."

"And where exactly am I meant to go?" Sal muttered sarcastically, "It's not like anyone else wants the pleasure of my company."

"That is not being true, and you is knowing it," Mipsy told him firmly. He met her eyes in surprise. "You is having your friends in the library."

He tried very hard to protest that they were hardly his friends, and that he did not even know if they still wanted to see him, seeing as he had been avoiding them all week, but Mipsy wouldn't take no for an answer. Half an hour later, he found himself nervously walking into the library, still not entirely certain how he had been bullied into such a position. He spotted Lord Godric and Rowena at their usual table, pouring over a couple of heavy tomes, seemingly in some kind of intense discussion. He hesitantly walked towards them, not quite sure what to expect. Rowena was whisper-arguing quite vehemently with Lord Godric, but broke off immediately when saw Sal.

"Sal!" she declared loudly, as Sal approached the table. Madam Pince shot her a very stern look, nd she blushed slightly. Sal let out a quiet sigh of relief; he had not been certain if they would want to see him. There had even been a ridiculous part of his mind that had been telling him that neither of the ladies would even recognise him at all, and that they would laugh him out of the library the minute that they saw him. He smiled broadly as he reached the table. "Come an join us! Godric and I were just discussing this fascinating text!" Rowena exclaimed brightly, indicating to a book, as Sal took his seat. "It's fortuitous that you have joined us at this precise moment. I think that this topic will be of great interest to you!" Sal glanced over at Lord Godric, and saw that even he had a slight smile on his face. Sal felt a strange warmth settle in his chest at the thought that these people were happy to see him. He smiled back at them broadly.

"I am afraid, I cannot read it, Rowena," he admitted quietly, his smile still firmly on his lips. His reading had improved significantly, but he highly doubted that he could make sense of something that Rowena found intellectually stimulating. Lord Godric stiffened at Sal's use of Lady Ravenclaw's first name, but did not object to it, as he had done the first few times that Sal had used it in his presence.

"It's a treatise on druidic magic," Rowena said with enthusiasm. "There are some fascinating descriptions on pagan rituals." Sal tensed at her words, unsure as to why she was mentioning such a topic to him. Did she know that he still practised the old ways? He rubbed at the back of his neck, as she turned towards him. "There is a particular focus on intent and resolution in the performance of the rituals. It seemed very fitting in regards to your own theory about intent being supreme in the process of spell casting."

Sal relaxed back into his chair, relieved that they had not found out one of his best-kept secrets, and smiled at Rowena.

"I agree. I quite like being proven right," Sal said with a grin.

"It has to happen sometimes, I am sure," Rowena replied, smirking. Lord Godric looked between the two of them with quiet disapproval.

"One text hardly proves a hypothesis," he said sternly, "especially not one concerning pagan traditions. We ceased to practise heathen magic for a reason, do not forget."

"Of course," Rowena replied, shooting a quick glance over to Sal. "The Church is obviously the supreme knowledge of all magic." Lord Godric looked at her approvingly.

"I am glad that my earlier comments have convinced you, dear lady."

"Naturally, Lord Godric," Rowena said with a smirk. "That is of course why the Church has yet to discern the magic to turn one into an animal." She smiled widely, and raised an eyebrow at the young lord. "The same magic that the druids were performing for centuries."

"According to legend only!" Lord Godric shot back. The two of them quickly descended into a debate on the usefulness of pagan tradition in modern magical theory, clearly continuing an earlier conversation. Sal held his tongue; Isolde had taught him the importance of animal transformation in some rituals, but had not revealed to him how the process worked. He doubted very much that she had known herself. Besides, even if he did know the theory, he would hardly announce it to his master's son. There was a substantial difference between the theory of pagan magic and the actual practise of it, and he did not want to be condemned for daring to dabble in heathen arts.

The argument continued for what felt like hours, moving away from pagan magic and onto animal to object transfiguration. Sal had long since deduced that Lord Godric and Rowena could argue about whether or not the sky was blue, should the mood take them, and so left them to their own devices. He pulled the book towards himself, and tried to see if he could pick out a few familiar words. He had managed to read a full sentence about the festival of Samhain, which made his heart ache with familiarity, when Lady Hufflepuff joined them at the table. Her arms were laden with books, and she plonked them down in the middle of the table with a deep sigh of relief, cutting off the whispered argument between Rowena and Lord Godric.

"Sal!" Lady Hufflepuff exclaimed with a bright smile. "Just where have you been all week?" She turned to face him with her hands on her hips, but her lips were spread in a wide, warm smile.

"I was in the kitchens, Lady Hufflepuff," he admitted quietly, with a slight, sheepish twist to his lips. "It was very busy last week, and I could not get away."

Lord Godric leant forwards in his seat, and huffed out a loud sigh. "Of course, the poisoning, I am sure you were all busy being questioned by the headmaster." Sal bowed his head to conceal his frown of irritation. It was not the lord's fault that he immediately assumed the worst of the kitchen staff; it was, after all, the most logical conclusion. But it still stung a little at how quickly Lord Godric had blamed the castle's slaves.

"On the contrary, Lord Godric," Sal replied tightly. "The school staff immediately exonerated us all." Now that was a lie, but it made Sal feel a little better to see the look of shock on the young lord's face. Sal assumed that his master was still holed up in his quarters, grumbling about Dumbledore and the many indignities that he had been subjected to by the headmaster; Sal highly doubted that any of his master's household had any clue whatsoever what the kitchens had or hadn't been told. Sal was actually surprised that they were even aware of the poisoning at all, but he had also come to learn how expediently rumours and news spread around Hogwarts Castle, and he suspected that this was no exception.

"You see, Godric!" Lady Hufflepuff exclaimed with a pretty smile, as she took her seat. "Didn't I tell you that it couldn't possibly be one of the house elves?" She turned to look at the young lord, and he blushed bright red as soon as she turned her smile on him. Sal smiled gently, glad that someone didn't immediately think the worst of the slaves. Lord Godric beamed stupidly at Lady Hufflepuff; Rowena clenched her fists together, and glared down at the table.

"You did indeed, dear Helga," he replied with a nod, and Lady Hufflepuff turned back to Sal.

"I just knew that none of those dear elves would hurt a student!" She continued, smiling brightly. "They're such sweet, simple creatures."

"What do you mean, my lady?" Sal asked, his tone just a touch shy of snappish. There was something in the way that she spoke about the house elves that made him feel a little uncomfortable. She turned to him in surprise, and Lord Godric sent him a stern look, silently warning him to mind his manners.

"Well they are such dear little things," she replied. "They so love to serve the castle. I went down to visit them when we first came here, and they couldn't do enough for me." Sal frowned, and looked down at the table, feeling very uncertain. He didn't like the way that she made the house elves seem so…pathetic, as if they were not strong, intelligent beings in their own right. He bit his lip, and reminded himself that it was not his place to challenge her. The ladies had granted him so much freedom to converse with them casually on academic matters, but he was certain that that leniency did not extend to outright contradiction of their opinions.

"You have something to say?" Lord Godric challenged, and Sal looked up in alarm. Both ladies and the young lord were watching him very closely. Lady Hufflepuff's face was a terrible mix of confusion and alarm. Sal swallowed and looked back down at his hands.

"It's j-just…" Sal took a deep breath, and steeled his nerves; Lord Godric had, he reminded himself, asked. "The elves have been very good to me, they're very powerful and intelligent."

"Oh Sal!" Lady Hufflepuff exclaimed, leaning over the table, expression aghast. "I did not mean to slight them, I am sure that they are wondrous beings! I was complimenting their dedication to their service!" Sal swallowed and looked back to his hands.

"But they're more than just their service to the castle," Sal objected quietly, staring desperately at his knuckles.

"I'm not sure that that is the case," Lady Hufflepuff replied thoughtfully. Sal forced himself to look up at her face and the expression of deep concern that she wore. "But you must understand that they are not human, Sal." He flinched and tore his gaze from her face, bowing his head to hide his disbelief and anger. "All of my research suggests that they are descended from a species of the common Hob. They are little more than simple fae; their sole purpose in life is to serve witches and wizards." Sal stared resolutely at the table, and forced his anger down with a efficiency born of long experience. "I don't mean to upset you, Sal, but you have to know that beings such as they can never be our friends." He glanced up at Lady Hufflepuff; she looked exceedingly regretful, as if she were spouting such horrible words to help Sal. She met his eyes and smiled gently. "They are dutiful servants, but they will never be anything more than that."

Sal took a deep breath, and forced his hands underneath the table, so that no one could see how much they were beginning to shake. Rowena was watching him very closely, concern filling her eyes. Lord Godric looked stern, if not a little sad. "I understand," Sal replied quietly, and forced himself to ignore the stinging in his eyes. It had been stupid to assume that such brilliant, intelligent people would ever think of him as an equal, let alone as a friend. He himself was only a slave; to most, his sole purpose in life was to serve others. If they thought so lowly of beings as brilliant as the house elves, then Sal didn't want to hear what the nobles truly thought about him. He wanted to leave there and then, but he hadn't been dismissed, and he didn't want to draw any attention to the fact that Lady Hufflepuff's words had upset him. He hardly wanted them to know that he had been daring to hope that they might see him as more than a simple slave, a "dutiful servant" that came running when they called. His stomach sank, and he closed his eyes briefly as he thought of all the foolish thoughts that he had contributed to their discussions. They had probably only been humouring him, laughing behind his back at the idiotic slave who thought himself intelligent.

He sat silently over the rest of the meeting, letting their words wash over him. Lady Hufflepuff kept shooting him concerned glances, and Lady Ravenclaw kept trying to bring him into the discussion, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to do more than smile blandly and murmur his agreement to whatever had been said. When they finally parted for the night, Sal hurried down to the kitchens as quickly as he could, and went immediately to his bed. He sat quietly for a long time, contemplating pulling out his book and doing some reading practise. He knew that he should, and that he would feel better for doing something constructive, but he just didn't have the stomach for another challenge. For once, he wanted something in his life to be easy, to go the way that he wanted without any complications. He sighed, and curled up under the covers of the bed.

As he lay huddled in the warmth of the blankets, he reminded himself that he should be grateful, that he currently had a damn sight more in his world than he had done in a long time, and that he did not need the approval of anything or anyone beyond his own conscience. As hard as he tried to think that way, his errant mind would not let him be. His thoughts kept returning to the look on Lady Hufflepuff's face, as she told him that she could never be friends with a servant. He tried to muster up the rage that he had felt earlier to quash the sickening sense of betrayal that had been growing in his chest all evening, but instead he felt instead only a terrible weariness. Sal knew that he would not be able to sleep, and he racked his mind trying to devise a suitable distraction. He thought again about the book lying hidden under his bed, but he couldn't bring himself to face his own inadequacy for a second time that day. He was too tired, and too empty to read. Instead, Sal curled up tighter in the blankets, and promised himself that he would go back to it tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after.


Thanks for reading :) Please leave me a review if you've enjoyed! e

The next chapter should be up within the next couple of weeks!