"It's okay, Sals," Harry assured her, stretching out his arm. "You're cold, huh? Can you reach my hand? Just coil around my wrist like you used to, and I'll take you up and light you a nice fire, okay?"
He strained to hear a reply, but the only noise he could detect was that stressed breathing.
Sighing, Harry drew back from the hole, and after a minute, announced, "I'm going to make the vent wider so that I can get in there to help you, Sals. Don't be frightened at the noise."
With that, he was using a loose brick to carefully chip away at the opening. It was slow going, but Harry was afraid to slam brick against cement, for fear that shards of it would be propelled backwards into Sals.
"Okay, I'm coming in for you now, Sals," Harry finally said, this time insinuating his head and shoulders into the space. It was still a tight fit, but he managed, wishing he could do a spell to see just where Sals might be curled up. It was absolutely pitch black in there. "Sals?"
No reply. Again, just that breathing, along with a slight slither. A restless noise with no direction, but it told Harry that Sals was a bit further down the air space. He slithered forward on his belly, feeling a bit like a snake himself, and reached out his hand, gently patting it in a semicircle in front of him as he gingerly felt for Sals. His fingers clattered against odd bits of junk as he searched.
Hope she doesn't bite me, Harry suddenly thought. Normally Sals would never do that, he felt sure, but if the snake was ill, and startled, it could happen. Keep talking, don't surprise her . . .
Harry inched forward a bit farther, still whispering, "Sals? It's just Harry, nothing to be afraid of . . ." He angled his feet to get them through the air vent, and made his way forward again, still reaching out for the snake.
Then he felt her, a cool shivering ribbon only loosely coiled. Gently scooping Sals up, Harry cradled her between his palms and brought her close to his face. He squinted in the darkness, and thought he could almost see a faint shimmer of gold. Blowing some warm breath on her, he whispered, "It's okay, Sals. I've got you now. I'm just going to back up, and then we'll climb up to the warm place, all right?"
He felt the swaying of a tiny head lifting, the flickering of a tongue coming out to taste his skin. "Harry?" Sals slowly asked, the name sounding like slurred English to Harry's ears.
"Yeah, it's Harry," he repeated, blowing warm air on her again. The little snake seemed to sigh in pleasurable response, relaxing in his hands. Harry delicately transferred Sals to just one palm so that he could use the other to start pushing himself back out of the vent, whispering that everything was fine and Sals would be upstairs in the nice warm place in no time at all.
And that was when it happened.
Quite what happened, Harry wasn't exactly sure. All he knew was that one second he was ensconced in the calm, cool, dark, talking quietly to Sals, and the next, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place shook on its foundations. The walls surrounding the air space ripped like paper torn in half, and the wooden beams above him seemed to blast apart before they rained down all around. Instinct had him cupping his hands around Sals and ducking his head behind his arms.
Daylight streamed onto him, the light harsh and unforgiving on eyes that had spent too long indoors.
And then a snarling laugh as a pair of black boots thudded to the earth in front of him. Disoriented by the explosion and the brilliant sunlight, Harry squinted, and tried to see, but the image before his eyes wavered like a half-formed mirage. Before he could so much as reach for his wand, he felt himself wrenched to his feet, the hand on his shoulder so fierce that nails punctured shirt and skin both. He was yanked against someone tall and very cold, someone whose entire bearing screamed menace in a way that not even Snape ever had.
The fog across his mind clearing, Harry flailed with all his strength and reached for his wand -- sheer instinct overriding all knowledge that it was useless to him, these days. The man was stronger, though, easily able to hold him secure while he plucked the unused wand from between Harry's clenching fingers.
"None of that now, Mr Potter," a smoothly polished voice announced. "The Dark Lord has no interest in duelling you again. Oh, no indeed. He has much better use for you than battle."
"Malfoy," Harry gasped, the man's sleek curtain of white-gold hair coming into focus.
"Draco will be so pleased to see you," the man murmured against his ear. Harry struggled, but felt himself pinned. "I've had no end of letters from him lamenting your mysterious absence from school."
Harry abruptly dropped Sals to the ground. "Get Remus," he hissed in Parseltongue, though he had little hope that the sick little snake would even be able to. "For me. Make your way past the wreckage and back up to the warm place. Hurry!"
"You think to frighten me?" Malfoy mocked the hissing sounds. "I rather think you are the one who should be frightened, Mr Potter."
And then he was pulled even more closely against the man, his face smashed into thick velvet robes until he couldn't breathe, and he felt the sickening sensation of the whole world melting into him as Lucius Malfoy and he both Disapparated.
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It was worse than it had ever been with Snape. Much, much worse. Harry found himself deep underground again, falling to hands and knees on a hard stone floor, throwing up what seemed like everything he'd eaten for the past three days. Even when there was no more point to being sick, dry heaves convulsed him until he thought he'd black out.
It's because my magic is blocked, Harry thought as he writhed against the floor, agony twisting his intestines into knots. That's why it's so bad.
When the contractions wracking his belly finally calmed to slow, roiling tremors, Harry pulled himself into a sitting position, knees tight against his chest, and tried to assess his surroundings. He was in a stone room, but not the one he'd seen in his dreams; this one was larger, though like the other it had no windows, or even doors. Just blocks of pebbled granite on six sides, and magical light infusing the air with a moderate glow.
Definitely, not the dream room, though, because in that one, he'd been all alone. And here, Lucius Malfoy was standing a short distance off, examining his gleaming nails with a studious air of indifference as he waited for Harry to recover.
"All better now?" he lightly sneered when Harry's breathing began to resemble something normal. "My, but you are quite the weakling, aren't you? Draco hasn't carried on like that since he was nine."
Aware that Malfoy was trying to get him to look up in retort, he closed his eyes and found that place deep inside himself where the fire dwelt. He didn't know for sure that the other man was a Legilimens, but he didn't know that he wasn't, either. What he did know was that Legilimency required eye contact, except perhaps from Voldemort himself.
Lucius' voice grew deliberately contemplative. "Of course, Draco comes from decent stock. What can one expect of Mudblood spawn like yourself? I dare say Severus is right, and it's only luck that's kept you alive until now."
Harry said nothing, the mention of Snape snapping him into a state of instant alert. Whatever happened, whatever was going to happen, he knew he couldn't risk betraying his teacher's true allegiances. Just so much as a thought out of place could do it. Harry instantly began to think of all the reasons he'd collected, year after year, to hate one Severus Snape, layering those thoughts along the top of his mind as he strengthened the rest of his mental defences.
Snape, greasy git, sarcastic arsehole . . . dropping Harry's nearly perfect potion so all that hard work would add up to another zero . . . twenty points from Gryffindor . . . Snape practically foaming at the mouth at the prospect of the Dementor's Kiss being forced upon Sirius . . . "I see no difference," . . . Hermione bursting into tears . . . "When I want you to spout nonsense, I shall have you drink a Babbling Beverage, Potter . . ."