Hi guys, incredibly sorry for the long hiatus.
Thanks for baring with me! I got sidetracked with another fic and it took me ages to get back into the headspace to write this.
TWs this fic for physical abuse/violence and panic attacks/ PTSD. It's as intense as this fic will probably get, so please handle with caution. Additional notes at the end for the particulars.
I hope you enjoy!
Sal woke up slowly, his back cramping and his head heavy from a night of tossing and turning. His jaw ached from his temple to his chin, and he knew he'd been grinding his teeth in his sleep again. He often did that when he was stressed. He reached up a hand to massage some of the tension away, as he shuffled his way into the bathroom to wash for the day. The past week had not been going too well for him, and his nights had been invaded by an ever-changing series of nightmares. Sal blearily supposed that this was just the latest way for the fucking world, or Almighty, or whatever to torture him; usually he was far too exhausted to dream. But his mind had been occupied of late by flashes of green light and a chilling high-pitched laugh. He shuddered at the thought. The light was familiar; his previous master had used it on a muggle once. She'd died instantly, soul fleeing from her body with a whispered word. It was no wonder he was having nightmares about that day. The laugh, however, was new- yet another fun way for his brain to fuck him over.
The bathroom floor was freezing beneath Sal's feet, and he shivered as the chill ran up through his toes. He yawned widely, and his jaw screamed at him in protest. He winced and rubbed at it sluggishly, as he walked over to the stone basin and turned on the tap. Splashing some water over his face to try and wash away some of the cobwebs clinging to his thoughts woke him up a little, the shock of cold making him gasp loudly. Biting down on a rather explicit curse, Sal forced away the memories of mornings spent breaking the ice on the top of the well and freezing hands hauling bucket after bucket of water, and turned on the hot tap. He grabbed a flannel before stripping and seeing to the rest of his body. Sal could, of course, have used the bath, but he had no doubt that he'd be asleep within minutes if he were anything other than vertical. No, he would brave the basin and hope it woke him up a bit. In the end, half a minute of exposure to the freezing early-morning air was quite enough for Sal, and he was clothed and ready for the day with impressive expedience.
The kitchen was busy, as per usual, with elves rushing to get breakfast ready for the rest of the castle. Sal sidled over to the fireplace and loitered, trying to restore some feeling in, well, in any part of his body at all. He had just begun to feel the stab of pins and needles in his fingers when a very small, very red-faced student rushed in, looking terrified and confused. Sal felt the kitchen pause, although the work continued around him; all the elves were watching this young student out of the corner of their eyes.
"Are yous being okay?" one of the elves responsible for the Ravenclaw tower asked, rushing over to the girl.
She shook her head violently, like a dog fresh from the river.
"No," she wailed in a truly awful, warbling, high-pitched voice. Sal winced.
"How can wes…" the elf began again, but he was cut off by the girl almost immediately.
"Him!" She declared loudly, pointing a finger at Sal. The whole room froze, and Sal felt his body turn to ice, despite the warmth of the fire. Just what the fuck was he supposed to have done this time?
"Me, miss?" Sal asked numbly, after a long moment.
"He told me to get you and take you to the seventh floor!" The girl wailed again. Sal tried not to wince, but her voice was one of the most painful things that he'd ever heard. It took a while longer than it really ought to have done for his brain to process just what she'd said, but he was tired; his thoughts were heavy with too many disturbed nights and too many disturbing dreams. Eventually though, his brain forced coherency out of the girl's warbled words, and his stomach sank to his feet.
"Who d-did, miss?" he asked, as his heart started to flutter in his chest. Did his master want him back? Had he finally remembered his fuck-up of a slave? Or was Lord Gryffindor just in another vile temper and looking for something to beat the crap out of until it was alleviated? Sal tried to take in a breath, but his chest felt painfully tight. It might not be Lord Gryffindor, Sal reminded himself. The seventh floor, he forced himself to think; that could be Harry, or maybe Colin. It was possible; there was no need to panic. He tried another breath, but his lungs refused outright to cooperate. "You'll be fine." He told himself. "Whatever it is, you've been through worse. You'll be fine."
With a great deal of effort, he forced his breathing back under control, and opened his eyes. He hadn't even realised that he'd closed them. The girl was staring at him, and he knew that she was expecting some kind of answer from him. He didn't dare admit that he hadn't been paying attention, so he just nodded dumbly and followed her out through the portrait hole. They wandered through the deserted halls of the castle, Sal trying (and failing) not to feel like a man on his way to the gallows. All too quickly, Sal found himself walking down the familiar corridor where he had learnt to read with Harry and his friends, all those weeks ago. He felt sick. What if his master had found out? Oh God. His master knew, he knew what Sal had been up to and Sal was going to pay. Fuck. Why had Sal thought that he could get away with keeping such a huge fucking secret? Fuck. His frantic thoughts sounded a jarring cross rhythm to the slow beat of his lagging footsteps. He didn't want to enter that room; he didn't know what he might find.
The girl paused in front of the familiar stretch of wall, and Sal took a deep breath. His hands were shaking, but that was hardly anything new. He could do this. He'd have to do this, he had no choice. He had to face the consequences of his actions. He had no choice... Fuck. He couldn't do this. But then he was following the girl through the door and to whatever Fate had planned for him this time. He walked like a man on his way to execution, dread weighing like a millstone around his neck. He was barely into the room before he stopped completely, taken aback.
The room within was not at all what Sal had expected. Instead of the small, comfortable sitting room, complete with lurid wallpaper and comfy sofas, where Colin had taught him his letters, the room that greeted Sal was cavernous. The vaulted ceiling stretched high above him, complete with intricate patterns carved deep into the ancient stone. That wasn't the only difference from the room he had expected, however; it was an absolute mess of clutter and debris. Instead of comfortable chairs, there were piles upon piles of strange and wonderful items, all thrown together like wood on a bonfire. Broken owl cages lay on top of slightly charred, ink-stained desks, and broken mirrors propped up listing stacks of cracked cauldrons and empty portrait frames. Wardrobes vomited books out onto the cold stone floors and armchairs spat up clouds of dust every few seconds, filling the air with a strange, musty scent that tickled at Sal's nose. There was a sense of pure chaos to the place, as if magic herself were hiding around a corner, waiting to knock over a stack of books or upend a statue the minute that no one was looking. It was amazing, and it was almost enough to distract Sal from the reason that he was standing there in the first place. He took a deep breath, trying not to cough on the dry, dusty air, and followed the girl into the room.
They were not walking for very long before Sal heard a very soft hissing noise. He glanced to the side and saw, to his complete surprise and slight terror, a pile of wands. There had to be at least a dozen, all heaped unceremoniously in a small basket, lying under a table just ahead of him. Sal's heart clenched with sheer want. The feeling was almost palpable. He tried not to stare at the basket as they walked; he did not want this girl, inattentive as she seemed, noticing his gaze and reporting back to his master. Reading was one thing, coveting a wand was quite another. Still, he couldn't help the terrible feeling of need that encompassed him, as they drew level with the wands and the hissing grew louder. The girl didn't seem to notice; it seemed like the noise was just for him. It was almost as if they were calling to him, telling him to take them up, put them to use, and make them do magic again. It took every ounce of his self-restraint, but he resisted the urge. He forced himself to look straight ahead, although he still saw, out of the corner of his eye, one of the wands let out a sluggish stream of golden sparks. His heart called painfully for it, but he knew there was nothing that he could do. He walked on.
They rounded a corner and came to an abrupt stop. Right in front of them was the backside of a dishevelled wizard, the rest of whom looked as if it were being eaten whole by a very large, very ornate cabinet. The girl who had been leading Sal coughed, an incongruously deep sound for such a young child, and the figure jumped. There was a loud bang and some muffled cursing from within the cabinet, and then the figure seemed to rally and extricated itself with a familiar grace.
"Draco," Sal greeted coolly, his terror turning to relief and then to annoyance with a fluidity and speed that would have been disturbing to Sal, were he not completely bemused by the entire situation.
"Lord Slytherin," Draco greeted smoothly, with a delicate inclination of his head. The girl beside Sal let out a grunt and quickly followed suit. Her hands had grown to almost double the size that they had been only moments before, and her shoulders had become far more muscular than any eleven year old's ought to be. She was, in fact, beginning to look more like a troll than a little girl. Draco cast a disparaging eye over her and tutted, pulling a vial from his robes and levitating it towards her with a quick flick of his wand. "You need more Polyjuice, Crabbe," he drawled, and waited until the vial was drunk before he turned back to Sal. "My apologies, Lord Slytherin, but certain precautions were necessary."
"Of course," Sal agreed amiably, even though his heart had only just returned to its normal rhythm. He did not think that being scared half to death first thing in the morning was ever entirely necessary, but he held his tongue. He was also a bit confused as to why Crabbe, one of Draco's hulking, brutish friends was currently disguised as a small girl, but decided not to dwell too long on that question. Why anyone would want to be a child again was beyond him - his own childhood had been decidedly unpleasant- but he supposed that some people must have had parents that gave a shit about them. He also had it on the reliable authority of most of the women that he'd met in his life that they had a rather shit time of things, but he supposed it was each to their own. Besides, it was really none of his business.
Sal had also decided to ignore Draco's use of his supposed title, despite how strange it was to hear. They had not spoken since the incident with the poison and so Sal had no idea how the land lay between them. Also, Sal kind of liked it. No one had ever spoken to him like that before, with reverence, as if he was someone of note and not some skinny, uneducated brat. It was nice.
"Crabbe, leave us" Draco ordered tersely, and the girl scrambled to obey. Sal was constantly in awe of the way that Draco got people to do things without having to raise his voice, without having to threaten violence or promise retribution. It was actually very impressive. The overall impression of power, however, was ruined by how clearly nervous Draco was feeling. His left foot was tapping an erratic rhythm on the stone floor, and he kept half-raising a hand to his head, as if to run a hand through his hair, before catching himself. Draco did not say a word until the door slammed shut and they were left alone. Almost immediately afterwards, he leant forwards and, with a look that was halfway between desperation and elation, met Sal's questioning eyes. Sal felt a sudden rush of terror and a high-pitched laugh echoed faintly from the depths of his recent nightmare, a startling bolt of green light flashing across his vision. It was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived, but it left Sal feeling shaken on edge. Sal forced himself to focus on the tightness around Draco's eyes and the raw spot on his lower lip, still red with the imprint of teeth.
"I've got something to show you," Draco said in a voice just shy of a whisper, "it's a secret." He flushed, and his eyes flickered over to the large cabinet that he had nearly been consumed by only minutes before. "I shouldn't be telling you, really," he continued softly. His eyes found a spot somewhere just over Sal's left shoulder and stayed there with unwavering focus. He swallowed thickly. "But… I think I might need help."
Sal raised an eyebrow. Anything that could unsettle Draco and his unwavering faith in his own invincibility had to be serious. He hoped this had nothing to do with the snake tattoo on Draco's lower arm and the mysterious case of the poison that had found its way to Harry's friend, but he wasn't that naïve. He found himself thinking that Draco really should have verified that Crabbe had left the room and not just slammed the door before doubling back to eavesdrop. But perhaps Draco had more faith in people than he did. Sal sighed deeply; he really didn't want to get caught up in the problems of another man and his master, he had more than enough of his own to contend with. But Draco had been helpful to him, and he owed it to the other boy to lend a sympathetic ear, if nothing else.
Across from the cabinet sat a large, plush armchair that may once have been mauve. Sal lowered himself into it, ignoring the plume of dust that it spat at him for daring to do so, and stared over at Draco.
"Why don't you explain it to me?" Sal asked as gently as he knew how, although his words rang through the air much more harshly than that they had in his head. He took a deep breath and forced aside his growing trepidation, swallowing the leftover terror from his journey upstairs and sternly reminding himself about the virtues of patience and charity. He tried to smile at Draco, and hoped that it looked less like a grimace than he imagined it did.
Draco finally gave in to his nerves and ran a hand through his hair, making it look ever so slightly dishevelled. Sal could only guess at the amount of spell-work that was used to keep it looking so pristine, no matter how much Draco would protest that it was merely good genes. He felt a sudden pang of longing and envy for the way other wizards could just use their magic for such mundane purposes. Draco cleared his throat and regained Sal's attention with a gentle cough, as he gestured to the cabinet behind him.
"I have been given a task by the Dark Lord," Draco began haltingly. Sal nodded; he had surmised as much. "It is not an easy task," he continued, and Sal nodded once more. He had guessed that too- they rarely were. Draco went quiet for a very long moment. His eyes flickered back over to the cabinet and then down to his feet. He brought his hands up to rub at his eyes, as he spoke again. "I don't think I can do it," he said in a very small voice, muffled almost to the point of incoherency by the hands covering his face. Sal sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He was too tired for this; he didn't need Draco's worries on top of his own, but he couldn't just ignore Draco's obvious distress. Draco sniffed quietly and continued to stare at the floor. Sal's heart clenched and he immediately damned himself for a sentimental fool. He couldn't just leave Draco like this.
"What is the problem?" Sal asked in resignation. He tried to avoid the flash of relief that stole its way across Draco's aristocratic features, before the other boy was able to get his emotions back under his control. Draco let out a deep breath and looked deliberately up at the vaulted ceiling.
"I've got to kill someone," Draco said bluntly, eyes still trained anywhere but Sal's face. Sal blinked once, then twice. He went to speak and thought better of it for a moment. He blinked again and tried to gather his thoughts into some kind of coherent response.
"I know," he finally replied. He just hadn't expected Draco to admit to conspiring to murder quite so openly. Surely even nobles could be executed for that?
Draco jolted as if he'd been struck. "What do you mean, you know?"
"The poison wasn't exactly subtle, Draco." Sal replied with a raised eyebrow. Draco barely covered his flinch, but Sal pressed on coolly. "We also had an agreement. Whatever you're up to, you keep me and mine out of it." He laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. "I'm not helping you stick a knife in a man's back."
"That's not what I meant!" Draco exclaimed in frustration. "I'm not asking you to do anything like that, alright?" He was almost shouting by the time that he'd finished, and he took a few deep breaths, visibly attempting to restrain himself. Sal's knuckles which has turned white with their grip on the arms of the chair, slowly relaxed their hold. "I have found another way," Draco said in a carefully measured voice. "It was my plan all along, really. Only I…I got…concerned…over the time it was taking. The poison was not my best idea." Sal was impressed that Draco had managed to keep from blushing as he spoke; he had not thought the other boy to be capable of humility.
"My true plan is, of course, far superior," Draco continued, much more sure of himself. Sal sighed; he didn't know why he thought Draco might have shed some of the arrogance that he wore like a warm winter cloak, but he couldn't help feeling a little disappointed. Perhaps he had been hoping that Draco was genuinely asking for help, rather than trying to manipulate him into giving it. Sal sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. There was a long moment of silence. When Draco did not continue, Sal realised that this was his cue to speak.
"What is your plan, Draco?" Sal asked with a hefty dose of trepidation. He could sense Draco drawing him in like a horse salesman, on a back road, the day after market. He was in grave danger of buying the nag disguised as a prize stallion. Draco beamed, and Sal's gut clenched in dismay.
"This," Draco replied casually, rapping nonchalantly against the side of the large cabinet, as if he had not been nearly consumed by the thing mere minutes ago. "This," he stated grandly, "is a Vanishing Cabinet." Sal tried to look suitably impressed, rather than confused and suspicious, but knew that he probably hadn't done a very good job of it. Draco rolled his eyes and continued. "They are built in pairs. There is an identical cabinet in the possession of my allies. In theory, when one places an object in one of the cabinets, it will immediately vanish, and then reappear in the other. It was initially intended for moving supplies between trading points, but since the war they have been much more useful as escape routes for wizards in danger." Draco pushed against the door and watched as it swung gently on its hinges. He turned and looked Sal directly in the eye. "They can bypass wards, you see?"
Sal breathed in sharply. Yes, he did see. He saw very clearly indeed. He could almost glimpse the image of an identical cabinet, hidden away in some dingy back room, surrounded by dark artefacts and darker wizards. He let the realisation wash over him for a long moment and then exhaled deeply before he spoke.
"In theory?"
"That is why I need help," Draco admitted. He turned his attention away from the cabinet and back to Sal. "This cupboard is broken and I've been trying to fix it." Draco did not blush, but it was a close call. He even danced dangerously close to an actual sheepish expression, as he continued to explain. "I've not had too much success."
"Hence the poison." Sal was beginning to see the whole picture now, and it was making him very nervous.
"Yes."
Sal sighed again. He had to nip this in the bud now. There was no way that this would end well for anyone, least of all Draco. "Perhaps it is for the best," he said quietly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose to avoid seeing Draco's reaction. "Leading an army into a school doesn't sound like the most subtle way to kill a single man. You'll still have to wield the wand, Draco."
"No, you don't understand!" Draco exclaimed. "If they come with me, I won't have to." His words sped up as he continued, tumbling out of his mouth with a lack of the usual grace that Sal had come to expect from the Malfoy heir. "I won't have to do anything. I don't think…well. I don't want…really…but Aunt Bella would! One of them…surely?" He looked at Sal with a desperation that Sal found painfully familiar.
"You don't want to kill him," Sal stated calmly. It wasn't a question.
"I can't," Draco admitted in a whisper, his voice hitching painfully on the last word. "But I can't not. He's…my mother…and." Draco's words tapered out and he stared at the floor. Sal waited, allowing him to compose himself. After a long series of deep, controlled breaths, Draco continued. "This is the only way. I don't know what else to do. I can't fail."
Sal rubbed his temples firmly, trying to alleviate the oncoming headache. Why the hell had Draco trusted him of all people with this bloody revelation? What exactly was Sal supposed to do? If he turned Draco in to the teachers, he'd be risking the life of a boy who had shown him kindness, had helped him when he was in direst need of aid. He'd be risking the life of that boy's mother, an innocent woman. Could he live with himself if he did that? Surely two lives were worth more than the one that Draco had to take? Besides, even if Sal did come forward, no one would believe him; he was only a slave, and a slave without evidence, at that. He'd be flogged senseless and then made to apologise for the insinuation. He didn't even know who Draco was supposed to kill. He had his suspicions, of course, but that wasn't the same thing as knowing. But this was murder that they were causally discussing, murder and betrayal of the whole castle, by bringing an enemy into their midst. Could he really condone that? Sal shook his head to clear his thoughts and noticed that Draco was still staring at him intently. He sighed and turned his thoughts away from the moral quandary; it was a moot point anyway.
"How exactly do you expect me to help you?" Sal asked the other boy, tartly. "I don't have a wand, and I barely know any magic. There is no way on Heaven or Earth that I could do more for that box in five hours, than you could do in five seconds with your magic."
Draco opened his mouth to contend the matter, as he usually did when Sal referenced his own inferiority. Draco could be very protective of Lord Slytherin's reputation.
"That's not what I…" Draco ran a hand through his hair in irritation and then pulled himself to his full height. "I need you to talk to Ravenclaw, to ask for her help. I would count this as a personal favour to the House of Malfoy."
Sal stiffened in shock. His immediate instinct was to deny all knowledge of Lady Ravenclaw's existence, let alone any kind of familiar relationship that he could presume upon in such a way, but a personal favour from someone like Malfoy was not something that anyone should sniff at.
"You presume that I am more intimate with Lady Ravenclaw than I really am," Sal began, but he was cut off by Draco.
"Everyone and their toad knows that you're holed up in the library with her and the other two nearly every day." Draco scoffed. "So don't try that with me." Sal blinked and swallowed around the rising fear that was gathering like a noose around his throat. Draco seemed to sense that he'd pushed too far and averted his eyes back to the cabinet. "It's my only chance, Sal. I can't do this. I can't…kill," he whispered desperately, almost to the point of tears. Sal winced in sympathy; he knew that feeling. His former master had made him do things that made his stomach turn to ice, had made him hurt and harm and kill. He hadn't wanted to, but he'd had to; there had been no other way for Sal. So, really, who was Sal to deny Draco his?
"I can't do that," he finally answered shaking his head, "I am not getting her involved in this mess." Draco frowned and moved as if to speak, but Sal barrelled on. "But I can ask her for some research tips, for her to point us in the right direction." Draco's head shot up, eyes widening in half-terrified hope. "I can't make any promises," he added quickly and Draco scowled. "I'll do what I can, but I don't know how much Lady Ravenclaw will know on the subject, or if she will be willing to help me." Draco nodded quickly in agreement; Sal strongly suspected that the other boy had reached such a point of desperation that even the slightest chance of help was as valuable as gold. Sal knew that feeling very well.
"Thank you, Sal," Draco replied, practically beaming. It was that salesman's smile again, and it was an unfamiliar expression on the other boy's face.
"Was that all you wanted?" Sal asked stiffly, he was beginning to feel like he'd bought that nag, after all.
"Yes, we're done here." Draco stuck out his hand for Sal to shake, which he did, tentatively. "I have to get to breakfast," Draco added, as soon as Sal had snatched his hand back. "I'll show you the way out."
They parted ways at the bottom of the seventh floor corridor, Crabbe falling in line a couple of steps behind Draco's left shoulder, like a trained dog. Sal began the long walk back to the kitchens with his shoulders up almost to his ears, head staring blankly at the floor. It was useful that his feet knew the path so well that he could walk it by instinct and sense memory alone. His thoughts were preoccupied with the conversation that he'd just had. It was entirely possible that he'd just made a huge mistake. Either that, or secured a very strong alliance. Sal wasn't sure which one made him feel less safe.
He had barely reached the bottom of the sixth floor staircase when he realised he was being followed. He could faintly hear the soft scuff of shoes on stone, and the swish of fabric at his back seemed too loud to him in the still air of the empty, early-morning corridors. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and a sharp thrill of fear darted its way from his stomach to his chest. He hurried on, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder. He improvised, making use of the polished metal of suits of armour and the warped glass in ancient window panes to try and steal a reflected glance of whoever was following him. There was no one. The corridor was deserted. Sal took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. It was possible, of course, that he was just being paranoid. His route back to the kitchens took him perilously close to the entrance to his master's chambers, and that brought the risk of being found somewhere he was not meant to be, doing something that he hadn't been ordered to do. Sal twitched at the sound of what he swore was a whisper. He took another deep breath; it was possible that his nerves were simply getting the better of him. He walked on and tried to shake the claustrophobic sense of being watched. The castle was old, he told himself at the soft sound of an exhaled breath. It was saturated with magic; he tried to think firmly, at yet another swish of fabric. He was letting his imagination run wild. A cough, quickly muffled by a hand, was the final straw. Sal knew he wasn't just being paranoid; there was definitely someone following him.
He was barely paying attention to the corridors around him now, totally focused on the sounds of his pursuer, the incongruous little noises that were screaming out at him to run, to hide, or to just get away. Up ahead, the corridor turned sharply. Sal took his chance. As soon as he rounded the corner, he ducked behind a suit of armour and held his breath. Hopefully they'd go straight past him, and then he could double back on himself. Whatever this other person wanted with him, it would not be good. It never was. He counted the seconds, eyes tightly shut and ears straining for the sound of movement, but he couldn't hear anything at all.
"We know you're there, Sal," Harry's voice called from behind the armour, startling Sal so hard that he almost banged his head on the shining gauntlet. Harry sounded tired and a little concerned; Sal's breathing automatically grew shallower. "Can you come out, please?" Harry called softly. "We just want to talk."
Sal frowned and peeked out from behind the armour. There was a sudden swish of fabric, and Harry's invisibility cloak was pulled away to reveal Harry, Hermione, and the red-headed boy that Sal had seen all those weeks ago, when he'd first been discovered in the kitchens. Ron, a distant part of Sal's mind supplied for him- Ginny's brother: good with panic attacks. Sal stared blankly at them all for a moment and then slowly crept out from behind the armour. He kept his back to the wall and a sizeable distance between them and him. It wouldn't give him much protection if they were using wands, but if someone went to grab him, he would have a better chance of getting away. He and Harry had not parted on the best of terms; whatever Harry wanted with him could not be anything good.
"We just want to talk," Harry repeated gently, as if talking to a spooked horse. Sal tried not to roll his eyes; they never just wanted to 'talk'.
He eyed them warily, inching further away into the empty space of the corridor.
"About w-what?"
"About last time," Harry said gently, still eyeing Sal like a foal about to bolt. "I- we, we wanted to apologise."
That stopped Sal short. Complete confusion was better than anxiety, if nothing else.
"W-why?" he asked cautiously. For not beating him there and then? For not turning him over to his master immediately? No one ever apologised to Sal, and certainly not in ways that he ever thought were good for him.
"We- well we might have had the wrong impression," Harry admitted sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "We, well- I might have jumped to conclusions and, well…look we just need to talk to you, alright."
"How d-did you find me?" Sal asked tightly. Harry's hand twitched towards a scrap of parchment sticking haphazardly out of his shirt pocket, as if it had been stashed there in a hurry, but it was back by his side in less than a moment.
"It doesn't matter. Look, can we talk?" Harry rubbed at the back of his head again, messing his hair up into even more of a bird's nest.
Sal studied the three of them closely. Harry looked tense, but not angry, not like last time, anyway. Hermione was wringing her hands nervously and biting at her lip. Ron, Sal didn't know well enough yet to get a proper read on, but he just looked sad and a little tired. They seemed sincere enough. If not, he could probably still make a run for it. Sal nodded once, sharply, and cast one last glance down the corridor and his escape route.
"Right," Harry heaved out a deep breath in apparent relief. "So, I wanted to say sorry. I think I might have gone a bit too far last time." Hermione winced slightly; Sal caught the expression out of the corner of his eye, as he continued to watch Harry closely. "We thought you were someone, who, well in our time-" Hermione cut him off suddenly with a loud cough. "Well, I can't say much because of the whole 'messing with time' thing, but we're at war and…" Hermione cut him off again with another loud cough and Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"How can he explain any of this stuff if you won't let him say anything, Hermione?" Ron chimed in, rolling his eyes. She shot him an unimpressed look and his face blushed fuchsia, as he looked a little…apologetic? Sal wasn't entirely sure.
Hermione shook her head in irritation. "We can't say too much. We might risk causing irreparable damage to the timeline. But, I can say this. We thought you were someone dangerous, Sal, and we've realised that we might have been wrong." Sal waited in silence as the three of them stared at him. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
"You're not…" he said quietly, staring at his feet. "You were r-right, I am d-dangerous. I'm evil." He hunched his shoulders up to his chin and waited for the fall out. He wasn't going to lie to them. They were right to be wary about him. He was damned and he was dangerous.
"I bloody…" Harry hissed, spinning around and running a hand through his hair. Sal flinched at the action and slid a little further away. "Why? Why would you just say that? That doesn't- that doesn't make any bloody sense!"
"You know I…" Sal shot a glance at Ron, but he assumed that the others would have probably told him Sal's dirty little secret already. "You know that I speak the serpent's tongue." He was so fucking confused. What was Harry's point, why were they going over this again?
"What? That's not…" Ron looked very confused. "Of course you're a Parselmouth. What's that got to do with the price of cauldrons in Casablanca?"
Sal stayed quiet and stared at his feet; he was not going to have this conversation.
"You thought that was why we…" Hermione's voice trailed off and she looked a little ill. "Because you're a Parselmouth?" Sal stared resolutely at the floor. He was cursed with the language of the Deceiver; it was proof that he was a dangerous, dark wizard. What other reason did they need?
"That's not…" Harry shook his head, looking a little sick. "That's not it. It's what that makes you…" He trailed off, looking at Hermione and her stern gaze. He huffed in exasperation. "I can't explain why. Look, we want to trust you, okay?"
Sal glanced up in shock. He had not been anticipating that.
"But, look. You keep doing really suspicious things," Ron added, crossing his arms.
"Like hanging around with Draco Malfoy in the Room of Requirement at half past six in the morning," Harry added. Sal froze; no one was supposed to know that he'd been meeting up with Draco, what if it got back to his master? "You can see why that makes it hard for us to trust you," Harry added grimly. Sal's heart dropped to his knees. Fuck, what if they knew what Draco was planning? Sal could be implicated now! Fuck, he was so screwed. Fuck!
"I…he…" Sal scrambled for an excuse, something with enough truth to it that the others would just leave him alone and not dig any deeper. "He th-thinks I'm Salazar Slytherin," is what he actually ended up saying. He had no idea what had made him go with that, with the truth. That was the heart of Sal's Draco problem anyway and had been since the moment the other boy had laid eyes on him.
The rough clang of a door opening cut through the startled silence that had fallen over the group. They all spun around to look at the interruption. Two men had just stepped out from the door to what Sal could have sworn was a broom cupboard, the taller of the two was muttering angrily under his breath at the other. His robes were of fine quality and of elegant red and gold. They were also terrifyingly familiar. Sal flinched and tried to duck behind Harry, ice cold panic coursing through him. He had known he was near the entrance to his master's chambers, but he had thought it was a few corridors away. He'd thought he'd be safe. Harry swore softly and fumbled to get the cloak around them as the two men approached, but it was too late- they'd been seen. Sal closed his eyes so tightly that his vision flashed white. For one desperate second, he prayed that he hadn't been noticed, but it was to no avail. When he snapped his eyes open, Dunstan was striding towards him, looking furious. His master looked startled, but then his eyes snapped to Sal, and his face went pale with fury. Sal flinched again; his hands were shaking.
"What do you think you're playing at, you disobedient little bastard?" Dunstan asked, striding forward and reaching around Harry to grab Sal harshly by the elbow. He dragged Sal away from the group to stand in front of his master. Sal went numb and his mind went blank. Even if he'd been able to find any words to explain himself, however, it wouldn't have made any difference. Dunstan's backhand crashed into the side of his face and sent him stumbling, dizzy into the castle wall, before he'd even had a chance to open his mouth.
"Hey!" Harry exclaimed angrily. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Sal took a couple of deep breaths, sliding to his knees and steadying himself with a single hand against the nearby wall, before he dared to look up. When he did, he was shocked to see Harry, Hermione and Ron all standing between him and Dunstan, wands drawn.
"Leave him alone," Harry warned quietly. His voice was icy and rang with a heavy warning. Sal shivered, despite himself. He was beginning to see just why Dobby had been so in awe of the wizard.
"Begging your pardon," Dunstan replied tersely, without a hint of begging in his voice at all, "but this little brat has been hiding from me for days- avoiding his work, the ungrateful little whelp."
Sal felt himself flush in anger. That was so blatantly untrue; the prick be damned as a liar. Sal hadn't been avoiding anything. Hell, he hadn't seen his master, or any of his servants for that matter, in a good few weeks. He knew he hadn't; he'd been enjoying the reprieve, counting the days before it ended. Sal knew all too well that good things never lasted, not for the likes of him, anyway.
"Well, you're not taking him anywhere," Ron announced loudly. Sal realised he'd missed a good section of the conversation, and cursed himself for being an inattentive fool.
"That's not really any of your business now, is it lad?" Dunstan sneered, nastily. While Harry and Hermione clearly came from well-off families, judging by their carefully tailored, clean robes, their friend was obviously not so fortunate. He was hardly a peasant, of course; his clothing was too fine for that. His robes were a little too worn to be new, but they were far too fine to have been woven at home. The son of a wealthier farmer, perhaps? Regardless, it was clear that hr didn't merit the same level of respect as Harry, and that Dunstan knew it.
Harry stepped forwards, raising his wand in fury, but was cut off by a sharp crack and a shower of red sparks from the tip of his master's wand.
"You will stop this this instant, children," Lord Gryffindor ordered, his voice like ice. He frowned at the wand points focused on them as if they were nothing more than well carved sticks. "Lower your wands immediately. This boy is my slave and you are interfering with my property; you have no more business here."
Harry's eyes blazed with fury, but he glanced over at Sal and his expression faltered at whatever he saw there. Sal shook his head minutely, pleadingly. He wasn't sure what to expect of Harry and his friends. He thought that he'd driven them away for good with his unholy serpent speech, but their earlier apology had sounded sincere, as if they actually wanted to help him. Sal didn't know what to think and he hardly dared to trust them, but hope was a strong force, and his eyes pleaded with Harry not to push the matter any further. It would only rile his master up even more, and that would not end pleasantly for Sal. Lord Gryffindor did not handle challenges to his authority very well. Slowly, Harry lowered his wand. The other two followed suit, looking sick. Hermione's eyes were flooding with angry tears
Sal's master turned to him and fixed him with a look that chilled him to the bone and set his heart pounding with terror. "You, boy," he threatened darkly, "will pay for your disobedience."
Dunstan stalked forwards, shouldering Ron out of the way and pulled Sal to his feet, his grip like a vice around Sal's arm. Sal went stiff with terror, and stopped breathing altogether for a long moment. Sal kept his head down, not daring to look up and see the faces of the students. He knew what a spectacle he made. The grip around his arm tightened and Sal cried out in surprise and pain as Dunstan yanked him harshly away from the group and away down the corridor. Sal tried desperately to keep his feet under him as he was dragged along at an unrelenting pace. His master strode furiously ahead of them, boots clapping loudly against bare stone and echoing in the empty hallways.
They walked further and further down through the castle, and the stones beneath his feet grew colder and shinier, worn down with years of footfall. The corridors were deserted; it was breakfast time. Most of the students were usually eating in the Great Hall by that time, but there were always a few exceptions; someone would wake up late or have to double back to the dormitory for some forgotten item, but there was no one about as Sal was dragged through the school. Sal found himself wishing for someone to be around, though he had no idea what good it would do; it wouldn't change what was about to happen to him. He closed his eyes and tried to disappear into his own head, but the grip around his arm was keeping him painfully grounded in the present. Finally, his master began to slow, peering through doorways as he searched for something. The floor felt like ice beneath Sal's feet, and he shivered; they were in the dungeons. His master finally came to a stop in front of a thick wooden door, and indicated to Dunstan to go inside. Sal's heart leapt to his throat, constricting painfully, as his breath fell from his lungs in ragged pants.
Then there was an empty room and an iron hook in the wall. Sal dragged his feet and begged, wild with panic, but Dunstan's grip was as unyielding as stone. A few words from his master and Sal was shirtless and chained by his wrists, toes scrambling to find purchase on the floor, the weight of his barely supported body dragging agonisingly down on his shoulders. He was breathing so quickly that he was starting to feel light headed, as he stared at the damp stone in front of his nose. For one horrible second, time seemed to hold still, and Sal's heart all but stopped with terror. Then the air split with a sharp crack, and his back was on fire. Another crack and he jerked forward with the force of the blow. He let out a soft whine and tried to brace himself for the next blow, but it arrived almost immediately and took his breath away. Fuck. His master wasn't holding back, Sal realised, as a fourth blow crashed across his shoulders. The tell-tale trickle of blood meandered its way down Sal's right side. That last one had broken skin.
It had been a long time since his master had wielded the whip against him. Normally the task fell to servants with far more time for such trivial things as the punishment of disobedient slaves. But there was a reason that Sal was so terrified of the man who owned him, and it was not just that he could kill Sal without a second thought. Lord Gryffindor wielded a whip as if the blows came from the hand of the Almighty, Himself. Every lash fell with a calm righteousness that made Sal cringe almost as much as the pain, and they didn't abate until his master was satisfied that he'd flogged Sal to absolution.
The air continued to crack with every lash of the whip, and Sal groaned louder and louder. One blow fell low on his back and whipped around his right hip, as he instinctively tried to twist away from the onslaught. A scream tore its way through his throat, and he let out a garbled sob. Another fell almost on top of the one before it, and Sal's vision went white. This wasn't right, he thought dimly to himself. Something was different, his master wasn't slowing down. Usually his master would have started sermonising by now, coating each lash with the weight of his disdain, forcing Sal to wait in terrified expectation for the next, inevitable blow. It was its own cruelty, but at least it gave him a moment's reprieve. It wasn't the relentless force of blow after blow that fell on Sal like a storm on a cottage door. For one moment of icy clarity, Sal realised that this might be it, and that his master just might not stop this time.
His eyelids were flickering and his dim focus of the stone wall before him was starting to grow hazy. His throat felt torn and raw from screaming, and his every breath was torture. Blood dripped trickled steadily down into the top of his trousers and his back blazed with agony. Another lash fell, and Sal jerked violently where he stood. There was a sickening popping sound, and white hot pain shot through his shoulder. Sal screamed again, begging incoherently for mercy through gasping sobs. The lash fell one more time, and everything went white. Sal wasn't sure if he had passed out, but when his vision cleared, the whipping seemed to have stopped. Sal could hear his master behind him. Lord Gryffindor was panting harshly, as if he had been fighting an immense battle, but his voice came out strong.
"I hope you learned your lesson this time, whelp," his master bellowed as he strode forward and grabbed Sal by his hair, forcing his head back at an unnatural angle. Lord Gryffindor was seething with anger. "I have far more pressing matters to deal with," his master hissed just above Sal's right ear, "than a worthless, insubordinate slave- you ignorant, pathetic, little brat." Sal cried out as his hair was yanked again. "Disobey me once more, and I will have you strung up and flogged every day for a week." Sal whimpered in terror. "Do you understand me?" his master hissed, yanking once more at Sal's head. Sal gasped out a 'yes', and his hair was released. His forehead smacked heavily into the wall in front of him, but he barely felt it. He was in agony, with his back torn to shreds, but his master's threat broke through the haze of pain clouding his thoughts. It wasn't unheard of for slave's to die under the lash, and another whipping would kill him, let alone a week's worth. He understood perfectly what his master was threatening him with.
He sobbed brokenly into the wall, as his master stepped away from him, praying to any deity that would hear him that the whipping was finished, and that he'd be let down. Footsteps sounded behind him, walking away, and Sal tensed, waiting for the crack of leather to being once more. Instead, there was a hurried, muffled exchange between his master and Duncan, followed by the sound of the door swinging shut. Then there was quiet, the only sound in the room Sal's ragged breathing and his choked sobs. He didn't know how long he hung there. His sight was dim and beginning to fade around the edges. Every breath that he forced into and out of his lungs was sheer agony. He might have passed out, he didn't know.
Eventually someone appeared at his side, fussing over him in a high-pitched, panicked voice. Sal flinched when small hands touched him, and a hoarse cry fell from his lips. The hands withdrew, as if they'd been burned, and then the voice was back, talking to him softly and reassuringly. Mipsy, some part of his mind supplied vaguely. Safe. He held onto that thought as magic flashed around him and his hands were released from the chains. He could trust Mipsy, she wasn't going to hurt him. She continued to talk to him as she laid him down on the cold floor of the dungeons, but her words sounded fuzzy and distant to him. His arms were still above his head, muscles cramping and frozen where they'd been forced to take his weight for so long. His right shoulder had long since gone numb, but as soon as Mipsy tried to move it, it flared with agony. Sal's scream was cut off and his eyes rolled back into his head, as the tension fled his body and he passed out cold on the dungeon floor.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, thoughts hazy with pain and confusion. There was Mipsy, panicked and crying at his side. Then a tall man with dark hair, angry and brandishing a wand. Sal flinched away in terror, and then his vision faded once again. He stirred into awareness to find himself moving, being carried by strong arms, as clipped words flew by over his head. Then, darkness overwhelmed him once more. The next time his eyelids flickered open, he was lying in his bed in the kitchens, a glass of water and several potions bottles lined up on a small table that sat directly in his eye line. He stared blearily at it for a moment, and then cast his gaze blearily into the room behind the potions bottles, trying to blink away the confusion. What the hell had happened to him? He slowly tried to sit up and suddenly Mipsy was at his side, telling him to lie down and that he needed to rest. He tried to explain that he was fine, that he didn't need any rest, but his voice trailed off as he noticed the bandages wrapped around his chest.
"What happened?" he asked faintly and Mipsy ran a comforting hand over his head, smoothing down his hair. He suddenly felt sick, terror coursing through him and then the hand in his hair wasn't Mipsy's but his master's, and he was cold and petrified and in so, so much pain. A hand grasped at his and then a low, calm voice was in his ear, telling him he was safe, that it was over, telling him to breathe.
"Professor Snape?" Sal asked blankly, trying to slow his breathing as the room around him came back into focus. The professor was by his side, his hand firmly placed on top of Sal's helping to ground him in the present. "Why are you here?"
"One of the elves found you in the dungeons and found Mipsy," Sal flinched as the professor spoke, his memory was coming back to him in fractured bursts, and he felt sick. "You were too injured for her ability to heal, so she came and enlisted my aid." Professor Snape's was calm and detached, his words filtered through a mask of unemotional professionalism, but his hand tightened over Sal's ever so slightly as he spoke. Sal felt an unexpected rush of warmth in his chest; he had assumed that the professor had cared about him on some level, but it was nice to know that that hadn't just been the wishful thinking of a child, desperate for some kind of father figure.
"Thank you," Sal replied softly and was startled to find that his throat didn't hurt. He glanced up in shock. Professor Snape was watching him closely, a slightly disapproving look on his face.
"I've been feeding you potions since yesterday afternoon," he said tightly. "I've done the best that I can, but I am no healer. You would be better to go to the Hospital Wing, but I doubt you are any more amenable to that this morning than you were yesterday."
Sal frowned; he didn't want the Hospital Wing. He didn't want some random healer poking around at his back, to have to face their disdainful glares and tolerate strange hands touching his scars. No, he didn't want that at all. The thought made him feel sick with panic.
Sal lay quietly for a few minutes, pondering what the professor had said. He'd been found yesterday afternoon, which must have meant that he'd been hanging there in the dungeons for a few hours, at least. He felt sick. His master hadn't come to let him down; he'd been completely forgotten about. His throat tightened with panic and he struggled to breathe once more. Two voices, one sharp and low and on squeaky and kind urged him to calm down and counted his breaths for him until he was once more under control.
"Thank you," he said softly to both Mipsy and the professor. "I'm sorry you had to…" he trailed off indicating to the bandages and potions bottles.
"Do not be being ridiculous," Mipsy told him sternly, putting her hands on her hips. "You is needing help, that is what we is being here for."
Sal looked down at the blanket, idly tracing the hem. As he moved his hand, a sharp pain rain through his shoulder and his arm spasmed. The professor was at his side in less than a moment, running his wand over the injury.
"Will you not rethink your ridiculous decision not to go to the Hospital Wing? I have done what I can for your back and shoulder but you really should see Madam Pomfrey. Your shoulder was dislocated for several hours and there may well be damage beyond my ability to heal." Professor Snape's tone was sharp, and his words harsh, and Sal cringed away from both him and whatever spell was flowing from his wand. The professor sat back immediately, regarding Sal heavily. It wasn't anger or irritation, or even pity, in his eyes as he spoke his next words, more a kind of grim understanding. "I thought not…" the professor sighed and turned to Mipsy. "Perhaps we should content ourselves with the fact that this morning, at least, we his accidental magic does not assault us for merely making such a suggestion."
"Wait, what?" Sal asked in utter confusion. Accidental magic? What on Earth was that? He grimaced as another spark of pain shot through his arm, and a low throb started to make itself known across his back. He had no idea what was going on, and that made him feel deeply uncomfortable.
Mipsy just shushed him as she reached over and handed him a vial of potion. "You is being due your next potion. You must be drinking this one now," she told him sternly, glaring at him until he downed the whole thing. "It will be making yous sleepy, but you is needing rest to heal."
Sal felt the magic hit him as soon as he finished swallowing. A wave of warmth flooded through his body, followed by the sudden, overwhelming scent of valerian. He spluttered, but his eyes were already beginning to droop. Whatever was in the potion, it was potent.
"Thank you Mipsy, you have done very well," Sal faintly heard the professor say, as his eyelids slid shut.
"He is being a good boy, Professor Snape," Mipsy replied gently, as she ran a hand over his forehead, "I would be being looking after him without yous asking me to." Sal's head felt very heavy, and it drooped down further into the pillow, the words resonating with something at the back of his mind, but the thought slipped away before he could catch it. The room was silent for a long moment and then then the professor cleared his throat quietly. Sal felt a slight pressure on the back of his hand as the professor patted it once, softly and tentatively, and then sleep stole Sal away.
He stayed in bed for the next few days, under Mipsy's orders. He had tried to protest that he had done more with worse injuries in the past, and that had been without painkilling potions or expert medical help, but that just made her look sad and angry, so he tried his best to be obedient and accept her help. Professor Snape had also come back a couple of times to drop off more potions, but his visits were very fleeting, snatched moments between classes and meals. Sal understood that they would probably come to a stop as soon as Sal was considered fully healed, but he enjoyed them anyway.
His back was healing slowly, helped by the bruise cream and healing balm that Mipsy helped him to apply every few hours. Professor Snape had used a spell to seal the wounds, so there was little chance of infection. Once the swelling went down, Sal knew he'd be right as rain. He hadn't seen the extent of the damage (Mipsy wouldn't let him near a mirror) but he knew that it had been bad. His arm was also still twinging every now and then, but Sal kept that to himself. The first time he had mentioned how numb it had gone before Mipsy found him, Professor Snape started a long lecture on potential nerve damage and nearly dragged him bodily to the Hospital Wing. It took a lot of persuasion on Sal's part to be spared the pain of that visit, and he was not about to risk it again for the sake of a bit of pins and needles.
By the time that he had been in bed for four days straight, Sal had had enough. Mipsy refused to let him so much as sit up until the professor had given him the all clear, and so Sal spent the few hours before breakfast practically itching to get up and moving about. Thankfully, the professor judged him healed enough to be allowed out of bed, so long as he didn't push himself too hard. Sal couldn't help but grin at hearing that. It was one thing to be allowed to sleep in, to stay in bed at one's own pleasure, it was quite another to be forcibly constrained there.
As soon as the professor left, Mipsy ran him a bath and he took a good, long soak in the hot water. The bandages around his torso were made impervious to any external substances, so he was able to submerge himself completely, without fear of them getting wet. The warmth was so relaxing to his aching muscles that he nearly fell asleep again, but he shook himself awake at the last minute. He was not surviving a whipping like that, just to drown in his own bathtub. When he was finally done there was a slight pink tinge to the water that Sal tried very hard not to think about. He dressed quickly and wandered back into the bedroom, debating what to do with himself. He would ordinarily go and help Mipsy with her work, but there was more chance of it snowing in Hell than of her allowing him to do any work. He also flat out refused to leave the kitchens. Although he knew, logically, that the chances of his master catching him somewhere he was not meant to be were very slim, he didn't dare risk it. His master's threat still rang in his ears. A bit of entertainment was not worth his life. In the end, Sal decided on practising some reading. He very carefully, and very gingerly, leant over to take his book from its hiding spot.
There was a sudden crack behind him, and he flinched violently. The familiar walls of his bedroom disappeared and he was in the dungeons once more, waiting for the whip to fall, the horrific snap of leather echoing through the tiny room. Then he was back in the kitchens, breath coming to him in small, pained gasps, as he stared into a pair of protuberant, and exceedingly apologetic, eyes.
"Dobby," Sal managed to wheeze out, as he tried to calm himself down.
"I is being so very sorry," Dobby apologised frantically. "I is not thinking. I is so sorry."
Sal took a series of deep breath and nodded at Dobby in acknowledgment. It was hardly Dobby's fault that he was a cowardly mess who flinched at the mere memory of a whipping.
"Can I help you, Dobby?" he asked politely. It wasn't that he had a problem with the other elf per se, but he was very tired and a little more shaken than he cared to admit. He just wanted to be on his own.
"I is thinking you might be wanting to talk," Dobby said quietly. Sal's blood froze and he schooled his features into what he hoped was a polite smile, as he lowered himself onto his bed.
"What about?"
"About what has been being happening," Dobby replied calmly, head tilted slightly in challenge. "You is not being talking to anyone about it."
"Well, it's not really worth talking about, is it?" Sal said in the most apathetic tone he could muster, looking down at the bed. "I disobeyed my master, I got p-punished." He shrugged and winced as the action pulled at the wounds on his back.
"It is not being right," Dobby said quietly, voice thrumming with some emotion that Sal couldn't quite place. The elf walked over and lowered himself onto the bed next to Sal, sitting just out of arm's reach. "You know it is not being fair."
"Since when is anything fair?" Sal scoffed, shooting a bitter smile at the elf. "Besides, it was my own fault. I was supposed to be in the kitchens, my master ordered me there. I shouldn't have disobeyed."
"And you is thinking that is why you was being whipped?" Dobby asked him derisively. "You is knowing it is not. He is giving you that order weeks ago."
Sal shrugged again. "I still should have obeyed it. I should have obeyed him. And I shouldn't have been talking to Harry and the others. I'm not supposed to do that." He picked idly at the blanket with his left hand. His right had been a little slow to respond for the past few days.
Dobby sighed deeply. "You is being hurt because you is being there," Dobby told him sadly. "You is not being stupid, Sal. You is knowing this."
Sal felt vaguely nauseous at Dobby's words, and he couldn't look up to meet the elf's gaze, which he could feel focused on him completely. It was if the air between them was charged, something forbidden and dangerous resting just out of view. "It's not- I mean-" Sal stuttered out before trailing off. He did not know what to say. Of course he knew that he was often punished for things that weren't directly his fault and, on the odd occasion, for things so far beyond his control that it would be laughable were it not so terrifying, but it was quite another to just go ahead and say so. Sal had never dared to question his whether his master's punishments were just, not out loud. Partially from fear of reprisal and partially from the sheer terror that someone might just answer him. Because what if his master was right? What if he really had damned himself by learning how to use evil, forbidden magic? What if he really was cursed, a bad omen bringing bad luck down on all those around him? If his master was right, then he deserved everything that came to him.
Dobby smiled at him sadly. "My old family is being bad," Dobby admitted quietly, his fingers clenched tightly to prevent himself from inflicting the self-punishment he felt compelled to perform for insulting his masters. "They is making me hurt myself for things that is not being my fault." He traced a hand over the scarred skin on the back of his left ear. "I is thinking it is being my fault," he admitted gently, "I is trying to be a better house elf, but it is not making things better." Dobby's eyes glazed over and he was looking off into the distance, hands fidgeting on his lap.
Sal waited whilst Dobby got himself together. "So what changed?" Sal eventually asked. It was the question he'd been itching to ask, ever since he'd found out that the elf was free and not tied to a master, but it had seemed impolite to just bring the matter up out of the blue.
Dobby turned to regard Sal very seriously. "I is hearing talk about bad things. Things that would hurt the great Harry Potter and his friends." Dobby took a deep breath, and reached over to grab Sal's hand. Sal only flinched a little, and so Dobby continued. "I is not wanting Harry Potter to be being hurt and so I's telling him about the plot." Sal frowned, but let Dobby continue. "It is being hard for house elves to disobey our masters, our magic is being bound to them."
"But you managed," Sal noted quietly, in awe of the elf next to him. Dobby nodded. "But, didn't that just get you in more trouble, when your master found out?" Sal asked, trying to contain the shock of fear that coursed through him at the thought of the multitude of disobediences that his master had no idea had been committed by Sal over the years. He knew, deep down, that he'd have to pay for most of them, eventually.
"I is being free before that is happening," Dobby replied with a slight smirk. Sal couldn't help but grin; Dobby was something else.
"Well thanks for cheering me up," Sal said with a wry smirk, "but my master has lobbed plenty of dirty laundry my way in the past, and I still owe a life debt. Not sure your way is going to work for me." Sal rolled his eyes and tried not to think how much he wished that it would. He'd heard the story from several of the elves, how Harry Potter had tricked Draco's dad into freeing Dobby one day, a few years back. The tale was already a House Elf folk legend. Sal would bet all of the money that he didn't have that they'd still be talking about it in a few hundred years. Sadly, he didn't think that Fate would ever be so generous to him.
"I is thinking," Dobby said quietly, his voice soft and uncertain. "I is thinking that I would be being free eventually, without Harry Potter's help." Dobby let out a deep breath and shook himself slightly, as if relieving himself of the monumental confession that he had just unveiled.
"What?" Sal wasn't sure he'd just heard what he thought he'd heard.
"I is thinking that I would be being free eventually, without Harry Potter's help," Dobby repeated himself, although with more confidence the second time round. "I was being able to do more and more magic without my master's permission. He was not wanting me to be helping Harry Potter. I was taking my magic back."
"Dobby, that's remarkable," Sal breathed out in wonder. He did not consider himself the authority on, well… on anything, really, but certainly not on house elves. But he did know that what Dobby was suggesting was widely considered impossible. House elves couldn't betray their masters. They couldn't take their freedom for themselves; their magic was bound too heavily to that of their masters. But yet it sounded like Dobby had been on the verge of doing just that, even before his emancipation by flying sock. Sal studied Dobby's shaking form and suddenly he understood why the other elf delighted in the legend so much. It was far safer to be notorious for being freed by a twelve year old's prank. Far safer to just let everyone assume that you were a bit eccentric, and had fallen incredibly lucky, rather than letting anyone see how close you had come to demolishing one of the fundamental beliefs of wizard- house elf relations. Sal felt his respect for Dobby shoot up a good few levels.
Dobby shot him a tentative glance, and took a quick fortifying breath. "I is thinking you could be being free that way too." He turned to look Sal straight in the eye. "Magic is being a weapon. They is not liking us to have weapons because they is not wanting us to fight. I is taking back my freedom from my master, you can be taking yours too."
Sal froze at the suggestion and blinked slowly. What Dobby was talking about wasn't just terrifying, it was revolutionary. It was also dangerous as fuck. Sal felt a little hysterical, panic rising in his chest as he realised that Dobby was waiting for a reply.
"D-Dobby," he finally managed to stutter out, "I c-can't. It's not like that f-for me! I owe a life debt! I can't just take my freedom back!"
"It is not needing to be no ore master straight away," Dobby said simply, face utterly serious and totally composed. "But you is being free every time you is doing something your master is not liking." This time Sal let out a quick bark of slightly unhinged laughter. If that were true, he'd have been a freeman fucking years ago.
"You c-can't be serious!" he gasped out. "It d-doesn't w-work that way." The whole idea was ludicrous! As if there weren't a million reasons why disobeying his master at all for the foreseeable future was anything other than a tremendously fucking stupid idea!
"They is telling you 'do this' and 'do that'," Dobby told him seriously, jumping off the bed and moving to stand in front of Sal, "they is taking away your magic and saying 'we will hurt you if you say no'. So they is controlling you." He took Sal's shaking hands in his own and squeezed them once, tightly, in silent solidarity. "Dobby is not saying you is having to be doing anything," he said firmly, turning away to the bedroom door, "but they is going to keep hurting you just because they is angry or bored. It is not going to be getting better." Sal flinched, hardly breathing, as Dobby turned around and looked him dead in the eye. "You is needing a wand."
Dobby didn't disapparate on his way out, but he may as well have done with how hard Sal flinched as he left the room. He felt wrung out and shaky. He had not expected such a…revolutionary…conversation with the house elf. The other elves had said that Dobby was a little odd, but no one had ever even hinted that he had such dangerous views. Sal took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face. He knew the sensible thing to do was to ignore Dobby completely, but he couldn't help the way that his mind kept replaying the words over and over.
There was an insidious little voice at the back of his head that kept nagging at him, telling him that maybe Dobby had a point. Sal had already started to disobey his master, hadn't he? He had been taught reading by Colin and some magic by Professor Snape. He'd taken to Draco's lessons on high society and politics like a duck to water. He had been spending time with Rowena and Lady Hufflepuff, discussing magical theory and learning what it felt like to be treated like an intellectual equal. He had even become somewhat convivial with Lord Godric. Admittedly, not all of those things had come easily, or pleasantly. Sal had no idea where he stood with Harry and his friends, and he doubted that he would ever be truly regarded as an equal by the ladies and Lord Godric, and, well, the less that was said about the increasing likelihood that Sal was going to be drawn into Draco's murder conspiracy, the better. But Sal had still done all of those things, things that would greatly displease his master, that were intended to directly aid his freedom. He'd done them anyway and it'd felt glorious. It was like he'd been trapped underwater, holding his breath for so long, and he'd finally surfaced to breathe free air. Fuck, Dobby was right. It was a kind of freedom.
Sal shook himself forcibly, squashing down the intoxicating feeling that rose up within him. Perhaps it might have been worth it, before. But Dobby had been right about another thing: his master was getting worse. Even if Sal had been deliberately disobeying his master, talking to the students of the castle when he should have been working in the kitchens, he had not deserved a flogging like the one he'd taken from his master. It was too much, and his master had gone too far. He knew that. It was a vaguely terrifying thought. Even when he had been beaten in the past, he'd still felt, beneath all the fear and the humiliation and the pain, that there would be an end to it all, and that his master would call it off when he felt justice was done. Sal hadn't felt like that the other day. In fact, there was a moment, towards the end, when it felt like the whip would keep falling forever. He'd truly believed, for the first time, that his master just might beat him to death. His master's behaviour was escalating and yes, Sal was not stupid, he knew that it was probably fuelled by the impotence Lord Gryffindor felt at being trapped within the confines of another man's castle. He knew that his master's punishment was disproportionate, but since when did that matter? It wasn't up to Sal, or Dobby, or anyone else for that matter, how his master dealt with him; he just had to take what he was given and try to keep on breathing.
The thought chased its way across his mind for the rest of the day, and the day after. He tried practising his reading, as he had originally intended, but it just made him feel sick with terror. What if his master came in and saw him reading? It was a ridiculous thought- his master would never enter the kitchens, let alone the slave sleeping quarters- but once it was in his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about it. He nearly threw the book away, just in case someone came across it and word got back to his master, but stopped at the last minute. What if someone found it in the rubbish and traced it back to him? Sal knew that he was being paranoid, but he couldn't help tensing with fear, remembering the crack of the whip.
Mipsy let him help with some simple chores, knowing, without him having to say a word, that inactivity was making his fear worse. But his hands kept shaking, and he was working too slowly for the busy pace of the kitchen. The other elves were getting annoyed at him, he could tell, even if they were too polite to say otherwise. It all came to ahead when Mipsy asked him to sweep the floor. His hands were shaking too much, and he dropped the brush; it landed with a sharp crack on the stone floor. It took the combined efforts of three elves to coax him out of the corner and the panic attack that he'd found himself in, and he'd retired immediately to the bedroom in abject humiliation. He felt like such a fucking failure. He'd tried to rise above his station, he'd tried to better himself and he'd only ended up worse than useless. He should just keep his head down and pray that he go unnoticed by his master for the remainder of their stay.
A few hours after the incident with the brush, Mipsy arrived at the door with Professor Snape. Apparently Sal's bandages had been on for long enough, and it was now better for his wounds to be exposed to the open air. Sal tried to seem like he cared. He knew that the professor could sense that there was something wrong, as he kept shooting irritated looks at Sal's blank expression, but he didn't say anything about it. He only gave him a very stern look and told him, as he swept out of the room, not to do anything that might make the wounds any worse. Mipsy patted Sal's hand gently on her way out, but Sal knew the professor well enough by now to know that it was his way of saying "be careful".
Sal didn't know where it came from, but he'd been alone for all of five minutes when the compulsion to look at his back came over him. He knew that it was probably a bad idea, that seeing the actuality of the state his master left him in would probably only make him even more terrified, but he couldn't help himself. It was like an itch that he just had to scratch. He warred with himself for a good few minutes, before his common sense finally surrendered and he hurried into the bathroom.
He had expected it to be bad. Sal had been prepared for it to be ugly. But the sight that greeted him in the mirror was worse, much worse. He spun back round almost immediately, leaning on the sink for support as he drew in ragged breaths. He honestly didn't know how he'd walked away from the mess that was his back; if he'd been left there without Professor Snape's help, he probably wouldn't have. Fuck. Perhaps his master really had meant to kill him. Sal felt dizzy as the realisation struck him. He probably owed another fucking life debt to Professor Snape too, who would have the final right to own him, then? Perhaps the good professor and his master could sort it out over wands at dusk, like proper gentlemen.
Sal grasped tightly on the sink and tried to breath around the ragged, hysterical sobs that were forcing their way out of his chest. Fuck, he had nearly died. Again. He hadn't been exaggerating, that beating would have finished him. Fuck. He sank to the floor, pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forwards as he used to do when he was a child. Dobby had been right, his master had almost killed him, and over what? Sal being somewhere he shouldn't? That wasn't even the first time that had happened since they had been at Hogwarts; Sal hadn't deserved that beating. Fuck. Dobby was right, if his master could lose control like that, there was no way Sal could predict his behaviour, no way that Sal could prepare himself for what to expect. Fuck. What if next time he did something wrong his master just said 'fuck it' and ran him through? Sal's sobs grew louder, and his blood pounded in his ears. Dobby was right. Dobby was fucking right.
Slowly but surely, the thought solidified in his head. Dobby was right. Perhaps Sal didn't stand a chance in Hell against his master, but that wasn't going to change by rolling over and baring his throat. He was fucked no matter what he did, so he may as well embrace it. One last half-sob-half-laugh tumbled from his lips, and then calmness and resolution washed over him. If he was going to die, he was going to die free, even if it was only in his own mind. Dobby was so right.
It was easy for Sal to sneak out of the kitchens and up through the darkened hallways of the castle. His heart pounded loudly in his chest, but for once the terror was exhilarating, rather than crippling. He honestly didn't care if he got caught, or what it would entail for him; it wasn't really a question of 'if' anymore, just 'when'. It was still quite early in the night, and Sal knew that the student prefects were still walking their rounds of the castle, but he seemed to hear them coming towards him with just enough time to duck behind a suit of armour, or into an empty classroom. It was also late enough that the professors not on patrol duty should have nearly finished playing cards in the staff room, unless Professor McGonagall had already cleaned them out for the night, of course. House elf gossip had it that the Headmaster had lost ten Galleons to her in February alone. But when Sal sneaked past the staff room door, he could still make out the muffled sound of voices on the other side, and he slunk past undetected. It was almost as if the castle itself was helping him on his way, clearing a path for him as he made his way along empty corridor after empty corridor.
When he finally reached the room he was looking for, Sal paused. He took a deep breath and focused on what he wanted to achieve, what he was risking his neck for, out and about in the middle of the night. The room was exactly how he remembered it, chaotic and cluttered, but he knew exactly where he was going; his feet remembered the path clearly. He made his way through the shelves of stacked detritus, following the faint hissing sound. This time, when the wand called to him, he didn't ignore it. Sal beamed as he held the wand in his hand and it shot out a scattering of emerald green sparks. He didn't know if his heart was beating so frantically out of excitement or terror, but he decided it didn't matter. He was taking back his magic, his freedom. Fuck his master; he would take whatever that prick decided to dish out, he didn't care. Anything was worth that one moment, the power he felt at having a wand at his fingertips. He euphorically cast a Wingardium Leviosa on the desk in front of him and whooped in joy as it rose three feet off the floor. Sal forced more power into the wand, and the desk shot up and crashed against the ceiling, shattering into smithereens. The wand burned like hot iron in Sal's hand, but he clutched it tightly, standing dazed an elated in the falling cloud of sawdust and splintered wood. The power he had felt in that moment was intoxicating. It was liberating. He was taking his fucking magic back. Fuck, but Dobby was right: he had needed to get his hands on a wand.
Hi there, I hope you enjoyed!
TW particulars: Sal is whipped by Lord Gryffindor and he dislocates his shoulder. It's violent and Sal is in a very bad state. The panic attack/ PTSD is a consequence of this.
Man, this got dark! I apologise profusely, but this is the turning point for this fic. Sal has hit rock bottom and he's realising he can't wait around for everyone else to help him. Harry, Snape, Draco, they all mean well, but no one is able to actually help him when it comes down to it. Dobby is pretty clear about the way to move forwards- Sal is saving himself.
Also, I have very strong feelings about Draco in book six. My beautiful beta has compared my Draco to a terrifying mix of Henry Higgins and Glinda, but I think of him as the kid who was living the British Blyton-esque boarding school ideal, with rich, loving parents and a pesky rival who thwarts him at the school sport, and then Lucius is arrested and his whole world falls apart. Suddenly Draco is playing in the big leagues and he's fucking terrified by it. He's conflicted and so not a good character, but I think it makes him all the more interesting. Harry's known the score from book 1- it's been life or death for him since he was a baby. Draco is suddenly in his worst nightmare, and he really just wants his old life back. Being a Death Eater was not all he thought it would be.
Anyway next chapter we start to unravel a bit more about Sal's past and the Founders clue the fuck up. Also Dumbledore gets shouted at, which he richly deserves.
