Chapter Four: Brain

'Do-de do-do doo.'

Godric glanced over his shoulder, waited in silence for a few seconds, and briefly giggled. He'd never realised men could giggle before! He tried it again. It was…it was quite humorous, really.

He returned his attention to the unmarked work on his desk, which he loomed over in a fashion that was almost comedic. The frame of Godric Gryffindor looked as out-of-place at a desk as a llama at an aquarium.

He giggled at this image, as well. A llama at an aquarium! What would a llama be doing at an aquarium? And llamas are such comical creatures to begin with…

He felt distinctly alive. This was – this was rather a pleasant change! The large cloud above his head had evaporated; the cross on his shoulders had fallen off. The boulder around his ankle had rolled away, causing death or injury to seventeen people. He was, in some way, freed…

After a joyous fifteen seconds or so of silence, he attempted another, 'Do-de do-do doo.' Amazing…and to think he'd never hummed a non-existent tune beneath his breath before! He felt he was doing rather well. 'Do-de do-do doo' was actually quite catchy. Most other people wouldn't have created anything so catchy on their first attempt, he'd wager. Not that he would wager. Although, why not? What better time in his life to begin a gambling habit?

Well, let's not go too far. Early days yet; you don't want to end up with a headache…

'Do-de do-do doo.' He hadn't even marked this essay! His mind was wandering. He kept giggling for no reason. Ah, the sweet joys of being human!

And yet, three straight days of unconsciousness had, ironically, really taken it out of him. He hadn't left his room since being returned to it. The more he thought about it, the more he longed to be outside and try all the things he'd never allowed himself to do before – frolic, for instance. He was fairly certain his life had contained a disproportionate amount of brooding thus far, and he was confident that half an hour or so of frolicking would put this right. He might even find time to skip lithely through the meadows.

What exactly did "frolicking" entail?...Giggling must be involved somewhere. And singing in a cheerful manner. And – and daisies, and things.

The box in his head marked "Slytherin" said, 'Alright, now this is becoming a little bit gay.' He decided to drop the subject.

He'd get outside again soon, though. And because old habits die hard, he'd probably chase some sticks. But at least he'd be aware he was doing it, this time.

Professor Amery – Anatole – had taken over his lessons, and all of Gryffindor house. This was rather nice of him. He liked Anatole, in a distinctly heterosexual sense. He reminded him oddly of himself, but noticeably shorter.

A few of the younger students had posted him hand-made "Get Well Soon" cards under the door, which he found to be rather touching. He wasn't completely aware of what they believed to be wrong with him, but the card that wished him a "speedy recovery from your explosive diarrhoea" suggested Rowena's excuses were becoming increasingly creative.

Yes…things were beginning to look up. Perhaps he'd contact his parents. Tell them he'd found a cure. Well he – he had, sort of. He was fully prepared to spend one week per month in a near-coma if it meant the end of…it. So it wasn't the most practical solution in the world, but he didn't care.

Most importantly – he was human again! For the first time in a decade, he was actually a human being! He wasn't a wolf – he was fully were!

'Do-de do-do doo…'

He giggled again.

'Do-de do-do doo…'

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Heather returned to the Slytherin common room wordlessly. Anyone who knew her well enough might have noticed something distinctly unsettled about her appearance, somewhere beneath the layers of casual self-centeredness. Fortunately, no one really knew her at all.

Magdalena Marsh, a raven-haired girl with eyebrows that made her look particularly special, was the first to notice her reappearance. 'Oh,' she said, briefly looking up from her homework, ''lo, Heather.'

'Yeah,' said Heather, making room for herself between Magdalena and Jasmine King, 'hello.'

'You alright?'

'Yeah.'

'This Transfiguration essay's a bitch, isn't it?' Heather didn't respond. 'Heather?'

'What?'

'Have you done your Transfiguration essay?'

The words seemed foreign. She stared at the ground, expression trapped somewhere between regret and disbelief. Very quietly, she said, 'I know who's died.'

'Oh?' said Jasmine, tuning in for the first time. 'One of Gryffindor's lot, is it?'

Again, she didn't reply. Instead she said, almost to herself, 'And I know who's killed him.'

'Really? Who?'

Heather stared at the ground.

'Who?'

Very slowly, as if the simple action required immense thought, she rose to her feet. She took a sheet of parchment from Magdalena's lap, hastily scribbled a few choice words across it, then folded it up so it couldn't be seen.

'What are you doing?' asked Jasmine.

'Now,' said Heather, 'which one of you has the least imagination?' Magdalena shrugged. Heather thrust the paper into her hand and said, 'Seal this with wax. Take it to Professor Amery at this time tomorrow, unless I tell you otherwise. Got that?'

'Er – ok, Heather. Can I read it?'

'No. Now I'm – I'm going out. It's very important. Don't tell anyone.' She left the common room, pausing only to collect her cloak and wand.

When the door slammed shut after her, Jasmine said, 'Think she's making it up again?'

Magdalena shrugged, and disobediently opened the parchment. She read it a couple of times, and frowned. 'That's weird. Why would she write that?'

Jasmine read the words over her shoulder. She shrugged, and sealed the note.

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Rowena returned to her office in the early evening, laden with pies. Pies. She was beginning to hate the damned things.

Nevertheless, she dutifully lined them up along her desk and examined each one, annotating notes and grades as she did so. Three pies along the line, she found herself wishing for instantaneous death.

She glanced at the door. No one approached it. She glanced at the fire. Nothing.

Enough mourning the death of her social life – back to the pies. Back to the serious stuff.

Because when I was a little girl, I could only dream of owning an ugly castle that lures children towards an inevitable grizzly end. I've taken up a teaching post as the Angel of Death, for Christ's sake.

The Angel of Death is currently employed as a pastry chef...

And not even a very good one.

Right, said her brain, enough of this. Let's do something productive before I run away with your sex life – which has, by the way, been living quite happily in the Bahamas for the past eighteen years without your knowledge. Maybe you ought to send it a postcard, or something? That's right. Act disgusted. You know it's true.

Deciding she wasn't prepared to take this kind of verbal abuse from her own brain, Rowena threw down her quill and left the office. The common room was empty, other than a nervous first year who said "meep" and hid behind a plant, so she passed through it largely unnoticed. And Helga always said she was the maternal sort. Ha. Bollocks.

The corridors were equally deserted. This was beginning to grate on her nerves. What was the point of owning a massive castle next to an ominous wood if no one was going to use it? Where were people when you needed them? Where were all the Beards?

…"Beards", she decided, was quite an apt collective noun for the teaching staff. She'd never seen so much facial hair in her life. Even the women were lightly stubbled. Would that happen to her one day? Was this the effect teaching had on the skin? She gave her neck an experimental stroke. Ah, no. Smooth as a baby's…something. Did she really want to compare her own neck with the arse of a young child?

Point was, it was pretty smooth. Smooth and lovely. "You've got a smooth and lovely neck, Rowena." Goddammit, why did no one ever compliment her neck?

Calm down, Rowena. You're pacing. You're actively pacing. You know how you get when you pace up and down – it's not good for you. Now, shut up this mental narration and eat a sandwich, or something.

A sandwich? What good would a sandwich do? She was trapped in the Castle of Death and nobody even listened to her due to her complete lack of beard! She was a co-founder, for god's sake! Alright, she may not have made much of a financial contribution, but she'd have a much bigger say on how things were run if only she hadn't got lumbered with teaching stupid cookery and —

Yes, but I do quite fancy a sandwich.

Yes…sandwiches are quite nice, aren't they? Ok: first sandwich, then rant against the System. Throw things. Light oil rags. That kind of thing.

Or – or perhaps just have a quiet word with somebody when it's convenient…or, you know, whatever. Sandwich, please.

Certainly not for the first time in her life, Rowena wondered what the hell was wrong with her brain. The distant memory of a young Salazar Slytherin appeared, and reminded her, 'They think you're mental, you know. The teachers. I heard them.' Well…she had to admit, it wasn't a complete impossibility.

And then the more recent memory of a ravaged corpse – 'No man could do this, unless he was in some kind of insane frenzy…'

She paused, briefly, and glanced at her hands. Now, that was an impossibility. Because she didn't do it. And – and neither did Godric. Because it was, of course…

Well, it wasn't her, so…

Sandwich. Sandwich, sandwich, sandwich.

Yes – sandwiches make everything better. And obeying the tiny voice in your head dispels all possibilities of homicidal mania.

Er…

Just get me a goddamn sandwich.

Right.

She made her way towards the kitchens, and was relieved to notice an increased amount of students wandering the halls. A couple of them even registered her presence, which cheered her up a treat. Then a voice called out her name—

'Er, Professor Ravenclaw!'

And that must have been a real person, because the voice in her head was usually a lot less formal. She turned, mere metres away from the kitchen, to face Anatole, who hovered patiently by a classroom door. He gestured for her to approach him. Rowena bid goodbye to her dreams of snack time and obediently followed him inside.

'Sorry to interrupt,' he said, hastily closing the door after her, 'but I think it's rather important that I speak to you.'

'Oh.' Please don't let this lead to a proposition of sex, or I might just be forced to accept it. 'What is it?'

'I'm afraid it's a rather…serious issue. It, er, concerns Professor Gryffindor?'

'Oh. Right – I see.' And then sprang, briefly, the rather horrific mental image of Anatole and Godric in a passionate embrace. And "passionate embrace" was putting it euphemistically. She quickly dispelled the thought. 'About his illness, yes?'

'Yes. Afraid so.'

Thank God for that. 'Well, you…you know what's wrong with him, don't you?'

'Yes. And, er, I'm afraid I'm not the only one who knows it.'

'What do you mean?'

'It has been brought to the…attention of the, er, staff, and—'

'You told them?' she demanded, suspiciously.

'No!' He paused, significantly. 'I didn't.'

'But you're the only one who knows!'

'It wouldn't seem that way.' He looked very uncomfortable. 'Er. Needless to say, I'm not allowed to tell you who did—'

Rowena slumped. 'Anatole, I swear to God, I am not in the mood for this. Who else knows?'

He shot the door a conspiratorial glance and confessed, 'Heather Bettany might have—'

'That son of a bitch!' Anatole surveyed her in mild alarm. 'I'm actually going to break her nose! I forgot she knew—'

'But how does she know?' Anatole interrupted, before she had the opportunity to detail the various methods of torture she had in mind. 'I thought that only a select few people knew about it?'

'They do,' she muttered, 'in theory.'

There was in mutual pause, in which the two of them appeared to be thinking much the same thing. But Anatole was the first to speak it: 'She does appear to have some sort of dalliance with Professor Slytherin—'

'No,' Rowena interrupted quickly, 'that's…no. I mean – no.' Urge to throttle: increasing. 'He's – they're sort of – I mean, they're not actually communicating much these days. They're, er—' Perhaps now isn't the time to offer a full analysis of their decaying relationship. It would probably make her look jealous, or something equally unrealistic.

Anatole just stared at her, uncomprehendingly.

'I mean,' she continued, weakly, 'he's sort of' – (not really, but sort of, sort of) – 'with…you know. Er. Me.'

Anatole stared. After a brief pause, during which Rowena's blush practically smothered her, he said, 'Oh. I see. Er—'

'I mean he's not really,' she added quickly, as the blush reached her toes, 'I mean it's more of a – of a – well, you know.'

'Yes, I see.'

Of course you don't, you idiot. Even I don't. Oh God, did I actually suggest that…?

'Well, congratulations,' he mumbled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. 'I certainly wasn't aware of it.'

'My point was,' she said hurriedly, deciding that the only way to now undo her rambling speech was to cover it up with even more rambling speech, 'that she must have heard it from someone else. Salazar wouldn't have told her.'

'Right.' He cleared his throat again. 'Well, that's all academic, now. What's important is that the entire teaching staff is now aware of Godric's illness and many are, naturally, jumping to conclusions.'

'Right,' said Rowena, in a very tiny voice.

'So you shall have to address this problem at tomorrow's staff meeting, I expect.'

'Right,' she said again.

'Since Godric himself is too ill to attend, you'll need some help arguing his defence.'

'Right.'

'Helga and – and Slytherin, I expect, will lend a hand.'

'Mm-hm.'

'And I shall do my best.'

Oral prowess having long-since left her, she squeaked, 'Okie-dokie.'

'Then, er…well, good-bye.'

'Toodles.'

Anatole exited the room, sparing her one final glance and, no doubt, marvelling at just what shade of magenta her flesh could achieve.

OH kill me now, kill me now, kill me now…

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Sometime later, Helga Hufflepuff brushed her hair and felt quite good about it. Yellow – always yellow, never blonde – well, it wasn't so bad, was it? If you squinted (a lot) it actually looked quite…quite...

Yellow. And who doesn't like yellow?

She grunted and turned the mirror against the wall, mentally adding Take that, you shiny bastard. Smug mirror, with its insatiably reflective nature…

There was a rather tuneful knock at her bedroom door. No body else could knock like that. 'Hang on a second.'

She opened the door a fraction. Sure enough, there stood Rowena; expression caught somewhere between false perkiness, concern and sheer horror – basically what she'd come to expect from the girl who spent all her waking minutes with her foot in her mouth.

'Yes?'

Rowena hovered for a few seconds, before squeaking the word, 'Hello.' Helga noticed the dying blush across her face, and recognised a nerve case when she saw one.

'Oh dear,' she said, sympathetically, 'what have you done?'

'How dare you assume it's my fault?' she asked, but weakly.

Helga rolled her eyes. 'Let's put it down to experience, shall we?'

'Can I come in?'

'Well…alright. But hurry up, because I want to get to bed soon.'

'It's only six o'clock, you know.'

Silence.

'Helga?'

'Oh God,' she muttered, opening the door and ushering her in, 'six o'clock bedtime. What have I become?'

'Your own grandmother?'

'Ugh.'

Rowena flopped down onto Helga's bed, immediately destroying the neatness she had so painstakingly created not five minutes before. Helga refrained from commenting, but made a mental note to mess up Rowena's bookcase next time she was in the area.

'Helly,' she said, forlornly, 'I've done a Bad Thing.'

'A Bad Thing?'

'A Very Bad Thing.'

'Oh dear.' She summoned a cup of tea – neither of them actually drank tea, but it made the situation feel much more complete – and sat down gently next to her. 'Tell me everything, so that I may mock you in the future.'

She sighed. 'Oh, it's nothing, really. I just told Anatole that Salazar was my boyfriend when he is in fact nothing of the sort – that's bad, isn't it?'

Helga tried to keep a straight face, but failed. 'Yes, Ro. That is a Bad Thing. Why the hell did you do that?'

'I don't know,' she said weakly, gripping the cup of tea tightly, 'it seemed like a reasonable idea at the time! I had to – I had to prove that he wasn't romantically entangled with Heather Bettany, you see?'

Helga nodded, slowly. 'So to prove that he wasn't going out with Heather Bettany, you merely stated the fact aloud and expected this to alter the truth of the situation?'

'See? It does make sense!'

'What a tosser.'

'Thank you.'

'How did he react to this news?'

'Stunned silence and occasional stammering.'

'Oh dear.' She shook her head, and pretended to drink some tea. 'Why do you even bother with Slytherin, Ro? The man's a cynical, hate-fuelled, hypocritical, lying, vicious, callous, manipulative sociopath.'

Rowena shrugged, because there are some things that can't be verbalised easily.

'And a complete arse,' Helga added, as an afterthought.

'Enough about my problems,' Rowena said, pointedly, 'you've got one, too.'

'An arse?'

'No. Well, yes, but that's an unrelated issue.'

'Damn nice arse,' Helga muttered, to herself.

'I'm sure it is, but let's focus on what's important.' She briefly relayed Anatole's information regarding Godric, and inserted a few possible suggestions for Heather's punishment for good measure. Helga stared at her, and pretended to drink more tea.

'Oh dear,' she mumbled, eventually.

'I know.'

'Do you think we should tell him?'

'Who, Godric? No. His personality is forever in a delicate balance.'

Helga nodded. 'Right.' Of course, when she was upset she just ate sugar from a large bowl. Godric, of course, has to turn into a giant bloody dog and eat flesh. Typical. 'Then what do we do about it?'

'Well, here's my detailed plan of action: first, we go to the meeting and tell everyone Godric isn't a murderer.'

'Right. Then?'

Rowena looked thoughtful. 'Then we…go home…and…eat a sandwich.'

'And that's your detailed plan of action, is it?'

'That's the cut and thrust of it, yet.'

'Wonderful. Why do all your plans involve sandwiches, Ro?'

In response, Rowena pretended to drink some tea.

'Excellent. And how do we convince them he isn't a murderer, Ro?'

Rowena stared at the ground for a while, before weakly suggesting, 'Sandwiches? I don't know! We've just got to…be very persuasive, I suppose. We know he isn't a murderer, don't we?'

Helga didn't reply.

'Well,' Rowena continued, determinedly, 'he isn't. He's Godric. And Godric is, if you don't mind me saying so, a great big beardy ponce.'

Helga sat back, and set her tea to one side. 'But he isn't though, is he? He's a werewolf. Everybody knows that. And the majority of these deaths have occurred during the full moon.'

'But he…he just can't have done!' Rowena insisted; not, admittedly, her most compelling argument. 'It must be something else.'

'Such as?'

She shrugged, pathetically. 'I don't know. It just can't be Godric.' She found herself suddenly nervous as she admitted, 'I actually started wondering if – if I'd done it, earlier.'

Helga spluttered. 'You? You're the least homicidal person I've ever met!'

'Oh, I don't know,' she said, with a slight scowl, 'I find myself pretty tempted to make a Hufflepuff kebab right now. Stop laughing!'

'Sorry, sorry.' She sobered up. 'Sorry. But why…I mean, how could you have done it? You have the physical prowess of a wet sheep.'

'Thank you,' Rowena said, dryly, 'but please, stop your flattery. It's embarrassing.'

'Sorry.'

'It's just that – well, back at school—'

'Oh, god. Who did you kill?'

'Shut up! At school, somebody once told me that the teachers had been…you know.' She shrugged. Helga looked on, blankly. 'Well, to phrase it one way,' she continued, through a sigh, 'the entire staffroom had been discussing the possibility of me being completely off my metaphorical trolley.'

'You?'

'Mad as a mad hatter having sex with a mad March hare on the maddest Friday of the month of Mad-tober.'

'Why would they think that?'

Rowena shrugged. 'No idea! But I might be, might I? Even the sanest of people can be completely mental underneath all the sanity.'

'No need to worry there, then,' said Helga, plumping a pillow, 'you're far too insane to be mental.'

'I hate you.'

'We'll just have to…I don't know. Will Slytherin be helping?'

Rowena shrugged. 'Can't find him. But if he doesn't, I'll hurt his testicles.'

Helga winced, and muttered, 'Eyes…images…eyes…burn…' until Rowena slapped her. 'Alright,' she said, eventually, 'tomorrow, then, we shall expose you for the lunatic you truly are.'

Rowena slapped her again. 'Shut up. I can't stop thinking about poor Thomas now, or his poor parents—'

'Who the hell's Thomas?'

Rowena paused on her way to the door, and explained, 'Thomas Jape – the body you found?'

Helga shook her head.

'Second year?' Rowena went on desperately.

'Nope. He wasn't Thomas Jape.'

'He wasn't? But Salazar said—'

'Nope.' She began the arduous yet oddly thrilling task of making her bed. 'Not Thomas Jape. Not even a student, actually; just a child who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

Rowena wavered by the exit. 'What, really?'

'Mm-hm. They found out this afternoon – probably comes from the village, or something.'

'Oh. Who was he?'

'No idea.' She smiled, grimly. 'Cause for some celebration, isn't it?'

Rowena gave a thoughtful, 'Huh,' and left. Actually, it was – and talk about depressing. Why would any young child be hanging around a school they didn't even attend? Who was he?

As she made her way down from Helga's tower, the thought briefly occurred: Dammit, Godric, if you've killed anyone I'll rip your damn ears off.

She endured a futile search for Salazar for half an hour or so, before deciding to call it a night.