Time went by like a delayed clock, ticking slowly, almost painfully. Harry squirmed in his seat, impatient. Was Remus any good at Quidditch? They had never covered that in their “Harry Lessons.” He chewed viciously on the end of his fingernail, spitting fragments of nail into Malfoy’s hair at intervals.

‘Have you ever seen a Quidditch match before?’

Harry sighed, frowning at the small boy peering up at him. If he had not known better, he would have suspected Zachary of spying on him, the boy followed him like a lovesick puppy.

‘Yeah, I used to – well, in Ireland, of course. But – erm – we mainly just played Botticelli in Accademia. It’s really similar, though.’

Despite his hopes of turning the boy’s attention back to the game, Harry had only managed to get him interested even more. Zachary perked up, his small face bright, freckles glowing in the dewy air.

‘Botticelli?’ he whispered, eyes wide as saucers. ‘What’s that? It’s like Quidditch, is it? Is there a Seeker? Did you play? I’ll bet you did. What position did you play? What positions have they got? I’ll bet – ‘

His shrill voice was lost in the cheers of the crowd and the ear-splitting screech of Madam Hooch’s whistle. Harry waited with bated breath –

‘Mount your brooms – ’

They were off. Beside him, Zachary had fallen silent, lost in the excitement of the game. Harry could just make out Remus’s pale face – a mere blur – as he shot off on the Firebolt like a cannonball. His hands clutched at the handle of the broomstick desperately, as though he feared for his life. It would have been amusing, had this not been so serious….

‘Slytherin in possession of the Quaffle – Quigly shoots – SCORE 1 SLYTHERIN!’

Around him, Harry’s new housemates roared, clapping their hands and laughing. He pulled away, repulsed by their sinister giggles. Above them, Ernie MacMillan droned on, oozing boring statistics and long, droning commentary. It was obvious Ernie had been forced into commentating the match; he had never before shown much of an interest in sports.

‘Potter circling the pitch – wonder if he’ll try the Wronski Feint today. Be an interesting sight, of course, he’s only a sixth year, so he’d probably end up with his face in the dir – Gryffindor in possession. Bell goes for the goal – shoots – SCORE!’

The red and gold-clad students erupted into cheers joined by most of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaws as well. Harry spat bitterly onto Malfoy’s smooth, blond head.

Far above, Remus circled the pitch, hands trembling. Harry wondered if he had any idea what was going. He wasn’t a bad flyer, really. Bit shaky, perhaps, but not horrible overall. Harry bit his lip, eyes glued to his friend’s silhouette. Zachary was chatting amiably about Gryffindor’s defence, versus Slytherin’s.

‘I mean, when Weasley gets the courage, he’s really not too horrible. (Yeah.) Hopefully he stays on the way he is now, give us a clear shot for a few more goals before Potter catches the snitch. I mean, everyone’s always going on about Potter. He almost never misses, did you know that? Never. Wonder what’ll happen this – LOOK!’

The entire stadium moved in unison, fingers pointed skyward, Harry swallowed hard. Remus had begun to weave, the Firebolt dodging from side to side, as though trying to chuck him off. He looked rather ridiculous, really. Harry followed with his eyes – as did everyone else – the breath caught in his throat. This was it.

‘It seems Potter has lost control of his broom. Odd – the only time I remember him doing that was in his first year, but I dare say he has improved a bit since then. He has been looking ill lately, perhaps it was a dodgy breakfast – ’

But no one was listening. A loud gasp tore through the crowd as they watched Remus lose his grip, tumbling to the muddy Earth below. Zachary stood on his bench, ignoring the indigent cries of his fellow Slytherins. Feeling no need to sit around and watch, Harry slipped away. If he could get to the library before everyone else came back to the castle, he might be able to avoid Ron and Hermione. Pushing his way through the throng, he made slow progress toward the ground; he was not unnoticed.

‘Look at Domingart! Ron, look!’

With an excited whisper, Hermione thrust her binoculars into Ron’s hands, pointing to the slowly retreating form of Harry.

‘What’s he doing?’ Ron asked, leaning forward. Without wasting a moment, Hermione snatched the binoculars back, face pink with exertion. Something about the Domingart boy was oddly familiar – almost unnervingly so. Was it perhaps the way he walked? He almost reminded her of –

‘Ron! He’s done something to Harry’s broom and – we’ve got to get to Harry, now! What if he’s cursed him?’

The crowd had risen, with the exception of the Slytherins, and a small party of professors was beginning to form around Remus’s fallen body – Dumbledore at the helm. Harry glanced back once more; silently hoping Remus was all right, before slipping into the forest.

‘ – Never seen such a thing – ’

‘ – In all my years – ’

‘– Awful, fell straight off –’

From the back, Hermione could make out only the vague, trembling form that was her friend. She clutched Ron’s hand tightly, ignoring his surprised expression, and edged closer. It was good they were ignored, she decided. No one noticed as two sixteen year-olds crept between the gaps in the throng, whispering concernedly, wands drawn.

‘You were spotted,’ Snape informed, almost immediately, as Harry stepped through the door to his office. He shrugged, dropping unceremoniously into a chair. ‘By Weasley and Granger.’

Unconcerned, Harry said flippantly, ‘The whole school was at the match, professor, if you hadn’t noticed. I’m sure loads of people were spotted.’

Snape seemed to grow, his pale face illuminated eerily in the flickering candlelight. ‘They saw you walking away from the match, Po – Padriac. They think you have done something to damage their friend in some way, and they will be watching you. For Merlin’s sake! Does nothing penetrate your thick skull, boy? They will be watching you.’

‘They will be watching me,’ repeated Harry, scratching his chin. ‘What happens when I’ve got to use the toilet? I mean, d’you think they’ll both follow me in, or just Ron?’

It was almost fetching, that pale fuchsia blotch in Snape’s skin. Almost made him look human, at first glance. It was a habit of Harry’s to note small details during confrontations and lectures, one of which he knew would occur sometime within the next five minutes. He noticed the bits of fried egg in Uncle Vernon’s moustache while being shouted at during breakfast, the sombre faces of Ron and Hermione when they crowded around him in the hospital. Now he noticed Snape’s blotchy skin, the pulsing vein in his greasy temple, the twitch of his left eye, the way his nostrils flared ever so slightly when he was upset.

‘They won’t bother me, erm, sir. Ron’s my best mate; he’s not about to cast tracking spells on me and sample my bowels or something. He’s not like that, Hermione either.’

This did not seem to calm Snape much, although he decided not to pursue the matter.

‘Tell me a story,’ he said suddenly.

Harry spluttered, nearly fell from his chair, and quickly turned his sniggers into a hacking cough. He could feel the heat in his reddened cheeks, tears welling behind his eyes. Snape wanted Harry to tell him story?

He must be going barmy, thought Harry. Him and the rest of us.

‘Erm ….’

‘Tell me about your aunt. What do you remember, growing up with her?’

Ah, well, that was different, wasn’t it? He just wanted more information. Probably writing a book, or something, Harry mused. The Secret Life of Saviours: An Unauthorised Biography of the Boy Who Lived. He sniggered.

Snape, looking rather pained, began to say something, and Harry cut him off quickly.

‘She took me shopping once. Well, more than once, but this one time – it was, er, you know, before I’d got glasses. And, er, Dudley – he’s my cousin (Snape snorted) – he was whinging about sweets or something. He’s fat, Dud is.

‘Erm, Aunt Petunia, she was, ehm, talking to the clerk – in the supermarket – and told me to bring Dud’s favourite crisps up, but I couldn’t see the bag all too well. I mean, it was all blurry, so I, er, took the wrong ones, and then she sent me back again and again, but I always took her back the wrong packet of crisps. I couldn’t find the proper ones, and everything was blurry, and then the clerk said I looked blind, and Aunt Petunia convinced Uncle Vernon to get me to see an eye doctor. It took loads of convincing, but he let her when she told him she’d turn of the television – the Whites were playing – so they took me a few days later, and I failed (‘Horribly, I am sure.’) and they gave me these glasses. Well, not these ones exactly. Aunt Petunia wanted me to pick the ones with square frames, but I liked these. Circles were my favourite shape when I was four.’

Besides raising an eyebrow, Snape did nothing as Harry ended his story. Finally, after a rather pregnant pause, he hissed, ‘You cannot take anything seriously, can you, Potter?’ Harry frowned. He had thought his story was serious enough. ‘I give you a simple task – tell me a story about your aunt – and you joke.’

‘Ah – but, sir –’

‘Leave, Padriac. We will continue these lessons at another time, perhaps once you have learnt to hold that infernal tongue of yours every time you think of something clever to say.’

Before he had the chance to respond, Harry found himself in the hall. He returned to the Slytherin common room, ignoring the sideways glances and whispers of his housemates, and settled into bed early.

‘Dinner,’ announced a smooth voice from just beyond his green hangings.

‘Sod dinner.’

‘You’d like to, wouldn’t you?’

Not that voice. It was worse than an angry Ron, suspicious Hermione, and annoying Zachary put together.

‘I’m not hungry either,’ Malfoy smirked, flicking the hair from his face.

Harry’s head was swimming. What was he getting himself into this time, following Malfoy – Draco Malfoy – to the Room of Requirement while everyone else was busy with their dinner and would most certainly not realise their absence until he was a cold, glassy-eyed carcass stashed under a table somewhere.

‘We need to speak, in private,’ Malfoy had informed him,

So, here they were, Malfoy in the lead, their cautious, purposeful strides taking them quickly to the tapestry of the disastrous troll ballet. The room was luxurious, certainly not something Harry could ever have dreamt up, with thick wooden tables and stately leather armchairs. The posh carpeting beneath Harry’s trainers depicted a garden scene; he found himself fighting to hold back laughter, yet Malfoy seemed quite comfortable.

Settling himself in a winged armchair, he turned to Harry and said lazily, ‘Sit down, Domingart. You look awkward standing, like some idiot Mudblood.’

Harry sat. The leather beneath his backside squeaked and clung to the fabric of his robes.

‘I am not going to waste my time, Domingart, so you had better pay attention.’

Harry straightened, doing his best to look as though he didn’t care.

‘As I’m sure you well know, my father is a very influential man,’ Malfoy sniffed. Harry snorted, leaning back in his chair carelessly. Was this all? Malfoy wanted to intimidate him by boasting his father’s now nonexistent power?

‘I’m sorry, Malfoy,’ he interrupted rudely, sneering, ‘but I thought you father was in Azkaban? Not so powerful now, is he?’

Draco’s face took on the ripe shade of rotten tomatoes. His silvery-blonde hair shone in the light from the fireplace, casting a reddish glow upon his pale skin.

‘My father is one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted followers! He is in prison for serving his master nobly, something I’m sure you could never even dream of.’

‘You’re right,’ Harry retaliated, swallowing hard. ‘I couldn’t dream of Azkaban. My parents died in there, and I don’t plan on visiting it anytime soon. So, if you’ve got a point to this – ’

Malfoy smirked. ‘Of course, I have, you dolt.’

He seemed pleased, for some reason, with Harry’s answer. What was Malfoy planning with him, and what had he just jeopardised with his spontaneous lying?

‘You’re Snape’s apprentice, Domingart. Surely you must be talented at potion-making?’

Oh, no.

‘I guess.’

The smirk widened, until it was situated across the entire bottom of Malfoy’s face, from ear to ear.

‘You’ve noticed by now, I’m sure, how Professor Snape favours certain students above others? (Harry nodded, confused.) Snape has long been close to my father, Domingart. My father will be out of prison soon, you’ll see. The Dark Lord will get him out as soon as he feels it’s time. But you,’ here, Malfoy flicked his wand. A tray of biscuits appeared beside him (‘Have one, please.’); he took a Ginger Newt for himself.

‘You could be useful, you see. Do you ever wonder what would have happened, had your parents not died?’

More often than anyone knew.

‘You want revenge, don’t you?’

More than you know.

‘I can give you that. I can help you; guide you, to your revenge on the people who took your parents away, who threw them into Azkaban without a second thought. Without thinking about their son and what he would do without them, how he would cope in an orphanage in Ireland.’

Suddenly, Harry felt a very new, very frightening tightness in his chest. He wanted this. He wanted to take revenge on the people who took his parents from him.

‘Who stole your parents from you, Domingart?’

It came without thinking, escaped his lips quickly, as though afraid it would be stopped had he paused for thought.

‘Dumbledore.’

Dumbledore ruined everything. Dumbledore kept the prophesy from him. It was Dumbledore’s fault Sirius was dead, Dumbledore who tainted the image of Lily Potter and took the only father Harry had ever dreamt of. It was Dumbledore who let him put himself in danger every year, every year, to fight for the cause, to be programmed into a saviour.

It was at that moment that Harry forgot every kind thing Dumbledore had ever done for him. All he could remember was the twinkle in those blue eyes, Dumbledore taking him from Gryffindor, from his friends, and placing him in Slytherin with Malfoy. It was Dumbledore’s fault everyone hated Harry Potter – no, Padriac Domingart.

‘I can help you,’ Malfoy breathed, his eyes taking on a strange, daemonic glint. It was clear he had found exactly what he was looking for. ‘Brew me a potion. Brew me a poison, and we’ll get our revenge on Dumbledore.’

‘Erm …’