Chapter Seven: Helga

Or:

Helga Hufflepuff's Super-Special Adventures Through Space and Time and Things Like That

Helga Hufflepuff was a girl with many problems; first among them was the name "Helga".

It wasn't, she supposed (while absentmindedly removing a wand from a first year's nose) the most terrible of names her mother could have chosen, but…Helga Hufflepuff? The alliteration? Really, mother?

What kind of nickname could you take from it? Rowena had always used "Helly", which she couldn't honestly claim to be very fond of. When she brought this up, Rowena said she could refer to her as "Hell-beast", if she preferred? To which Helga had said, forget I mentioned it.

Besides which, people automatically assumed she was Danish. She remembered all too well the time her village had come under attack from Viking raiders, and a particularly dim-witted neighbour had dragged her through the streets and planted her in front of a heavily-bearded Dane, begging her to negotiate terms of release before running away, screaming.

Helga, thirteen years old and more concerned by the neighbour than the Viking, had simply shrugged and said "I'll give you his address if you like", and ended up teaching him how to make paper aeroplanes.

Lovely chap, actually…

'Ow!'

'Shush.' She gave the wand a final tug, having safely established that it wouldn't singe his nasal hair or anything similar, and presented the wand to its owner. 'There you go, Dennis. And what have we learned about picking our nosey-wosies?'

Dennis, who was old enough to know the definition of "patronised", reluctantly mumbled, 'Paper is better than fingers; fingers are better than wands.'

'…And?'

He sighed. 'And if I do it again, Professor Hufflepuff's going to smash a bottle over my head.'

'That's right,' she beamed, patting his hair affectionately. 'Nice to see you've learned your lesson. Now, I think it's past your bedtime.'

Dennis' face crumpled at the injustice. 'But it's only half-past seven!'

Helga, still beaming, raised a warning finger. 'What else did I teach you, Dennis?'

Dennis sighed again, but obediently recited, 'If I argue with teacher, Professor Hufflepuff will string my body from the castle walls and deny all involvement.'

'Very good! Now; bedtime for you.'

'Yes, Professor.' Dennis reluctantly traipsed away, wondering the precise likelihood of Miss Hufflepuff actually inflicting Grievous Bodily Harm upon him. He didn't like the odds. Alright, so the worst punishment she'd ever actually submitted anyone to was an hour-long lecture on the mating habits of European badgers, but still…

Anyway, it was hard to dislike Professor Hufflepuff, from a pupil's point of view. Mainly because she genuinely didn't care what kind of grades you achieved, as long as you were trying your best. Also because anyone accused of bullying was taken into the Forbidden Forest for an hour of badger spotting until they emerged a reformed character.

Helga watched Dennis leave, breathing a contented sigh at a job well done. She took a seat – her current location being one of many vacant classrooms on the second floor – and sighed thoughtfully.

And now…what to do, what to do? She checked the clock, confirming the time Dennis had given, and wondered what Rowena was up to. Probably embarrassing herself somewhere in a futile attempt to avoid further embarrassment somewhere else. (In fact, at that precise moment in time, Rowena was just listing "U-boats, barges, skiffs and flyaks", so no surprise there.)

She wondered what had happened to Godric…

…and if it would kill her to check…

'No,' she mumbled aloud, scolding herself, 'bad idea, Helga. He'll bite your face off.'

'Pardon?'

'I said he'll bite your face off.' She paused. She looked around. She saw Anatole Amery, glancing nervously at her above an armful of books. She groaned.

'Er,' he said, taking a cautious step towards her, 'were you speaking to somebody?'

Helga smiled weakly to compensate for a lack of words. In a slightly sing-song voice, she replied, 'Oh no, just, you know…talking to myself...about face-biting…'

Unsure how to respond to this, Anatole said, 'Ah?'

'Yes…'

'Er, I'm sorry to interrupt,' he continued, apparently deciding that Helga's prior statements could be temporarily ignored until he had a better opportunity to make sense of them. 'I was looking for Professor Ravenclaw…'

Unsurprisingly, thought Helga. 'Oh yes? Anything important?'

'Er – not really, no.'

'Nothing else to report about the missing students, I suppose?'

He shrugged, dropping a book in the process. 'We're still running a few tests, and things. Nothing ground-breaking, I'm afraid. Oh – although Heather Bettany – do you know Heather Bettany?'

'Yes,' she said wearily, memories of a thousand rants resurfacing, 'I know Heather Bettany. What about her?'

'Well, I think – I'm not sure – but she may be aware of the victim's identity, though she hasn't said as much.'

'Really? Why? How?'

'Well,' he said eagerly, dropping the rest of the books in his excitement, 'when she came into the staffroom to expose Godric's illness—'

'Ugh.'

'—she caught sight of the most recent victim's face and immediately looked forlorn—'

'Wait wait wait,' she demanded, interrupting him with a wave of her hand, 'you kept a dead child in the staffroom?'

'Yes,' said Anatole, evidently seeing nothing wrong with this.

Helga looked suitably disgusted. 'Jesus, Anatole, I eat in there!'

'He needed somewhere to defrost!' he cried, defensively.

'Eugh, goddammit man—!'

'The dungeons made him smell funny!'

'The dungeons made him smell funny?! He's a corpse! For the love of Saint Beryl's eye patch! Did the vaguely moist dungeon air interfere with the sweet odour of the fetid flesh?! Did the otherwise ambrosial scent of putrid organs become fusty with the dampness?! Did—'

'Stop it,' Anatole pleaded, clutching his stomach. Helga quickly did so.

'Oh,' she gasped, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, 'I'm so sorry! I didn't realise you were so queasy—'

'It's not that,' he rasped, subsiding to the floor with his hands still clamped to his stomach. 'It's not that, it's not that.'

'What's wrong?'

'You're making me hungry!'

Helga straightened up. She withdrew her hand. She took a thoughtful half-step back. After a moment or two's silent contemplation, she concluded, 'Bugger me. You're kidding?'

His head bowed into his chest, so his face was obscured by his fallen hair. His position was almost foetal. 'Just give me a minute,' he breathed, in deep concentration, 'I'll be alright.'

Helga, realising her eyebrows had shot so far up her forehead they were hidden in her fringe, quickly lowered them. As his breathing shallowed and his body relaxed, she repeated, 'Bugger me! I mean, really, bugger me. You're not a werewolf, are you?'

He shook his head, and again muttered, 'I'll be alright in a minute…give me a second…'

Helga sat down. She needed to. Vaguely wondering why she didn't feel more panicked, and why her fight-or-flight reflex wasn't kicking now it was truly needed, she sighed. 'Jesus H Christ.'

Anatole's breathing resumed a natural pace.

'I had no idea. Not going to bite me, are you?' she added suspiciously, looking him up and down.

'No,' he panted.

'Promise?'

'Promise. I'm not one of those sorts.'

'No,' said Helga, confusion apparent, 'you're one of those nice, non-biting, tastefully dressed vampires, aren't you?'

He looked up, with a sheepish grin. 'Yes. One of those sorts.'

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Meanwhile—

'I can't believe he stabbed me!' Salazar yelped, gesturing to his chest – more specifically, the blood-spattered pitchfork embedded within it. 'Me! His own cousin!'

'It's your own fault,' Rowena scolded, taking advantage of his stillness to mop the blood from his face.

'Moi? What did I do?'

'You singed his body hair off! After I specifically told you not to!'

'But it was funny,' he insisted, sulkily. 'And I didn't know the pitchfork had magical powers, did I?'

'Yes you did.' They were outside Hogwarts, hidden from public view – not that there was much public around to see them – in the shadow of an old turret. Deciding that walking through a heavily populated castle with a pitchfork embedded into the headmaster's chest was just asking for trouble, Rowena had caused a diversion and hurried them both outside. It was most definitely for the best.

'You never told me,' he complained, despite knowing he was fighting a losing argument.

'That's not a valid point. I was going to tell you, but the Forehead Fairy turned up' – Salazar snickered – 'and the opportunity passed me by. Besides which, you knew it was still my wand, regardless of the shape it was in.'

'Alright,' he conceded, 'you win.' He flicked the wooden handle of the pitchfork a couple of times, experimentally. The metal prongs that punctured his torso jutted out of his back and scraped the stone wall. 'Good job it was your wand, really. I don't have any outfits that would match this.'

'Looks great on you,' she mumbled, wringing out the blood-drenched flannel that had mopped his face. 'Aren't you feeling a bit light-headed?'

'No more than usual.'

'Poor Godders…I feel quite bad about it now.'

Salazar raised a bloody eyebrow. 'You're telling a man with an agricultural tool in his torso that you feel quite bad?'

'He took it well,' she continued, ignoring him, 'apart from the bit where he stabbed you. But, you know, he only did that once he was sure it was a wand, and not an actual tool of death.'

'I'm still not convinced about that,' Salazar muttered.

'Still, he looked so…hurt.'

'Yes, he must feel terrible,' he replied, flatly.

'Like we'd really betrayed him.'

'I don't know how he'll survive.'

'But it's like I told him – it's not that I don't trust him, we just need to be sure, you know?'

'Yes, it's always best to be sure. Now can we get this bloody fork out of my lungs? I am not a sushi.'

Rowena gave him a withering look, but obediently grabbed hold of the pitchfork's handle. 'Now you're just being silly. Sushi is traditionally eaten with chopsticks.'

'How silly of me, indeed. The blood loss must be playing with my culinary know-how.' He braced himself for the pull, fingertips gripping the gaps between the bricks.

'Shut up.' She pulled. It didn't move. She tried again.

'Bloody hell, woman—'

'Shut up or I'll leave you like this.'

'—you're a butcher from hell! Give up!'

She sighed, pushed a stray hair from her eyes, and went in for a second attempt, ignoring Salazar's feeble protestations. 'I need a better grip. Stay still.'

'What the – what the hell are you doing?'

'I'm – I'm…' She took a moment to realise just what the hell she was doing. 'I'm getting a better grip,' she mumbled, at last.

He stared at her. 'With your leg?'

She'd raised one leg, planted her foot on his stomach and pulled the pitchfork again. In her mind, this was to keep him still while the aforementioned pitchfork was removed. In reality, the scene looked a lot less innocent than it actually was.

Still, with a final look at Salazar, she continued this way with a discreet giggle. It was the only time she'd actually made him blush.

'I've got it!' she declared, as the prongs began to emerge from his ribcage. 'Just a bit—'

'Ow ow ow—'

'—more…argh!'

Salazar released his grip on the wall. Rowena lost her balance. She released a pained squeal as the pitchfork's handle flew from her grip and into her stomach, the transfigured wand sinking through her body and out of the other side. A stunned pause ensued.

She looked down at the handle in her stomach. She looked up at the prongs in his chest.

A minute passed while the complexities of this scenario sunk in. Then, breaking the silence with a childish giggle, Salazar declared, 'Look, Ravenclaw…we're a kebab!'

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Helga shook her head. 'Jesus Christ.'

'I'm sorry,' Anatole said politely, now as near to normal as he ever looked. 'I'm sorry to put you in such a position—'

She waved him into silence. 'It's alright. I'll not tell any body.' She shook her head again, and repeated her blasphemy.

'Sorry,' he said, weakly. 'I'm usually quite safe about it; I'm just slightly…tense.'

'Tense,' she repeated, deciding she needed to sit down again, 'right. Tense. Can't imagine what that feels like.'

'I've been teaching students how to defend themselves against vampires all week,' he added, by means of explanation. 'And I've been locked away with a dead body every evening for the past fortnight.'

She wrinkled her nose, and asked the inevitable: 'You haven't licked it, have you?'

'What? No.'

'Just checking.'

'And on top of that,' he continued, using the oft-employed method of conversation where Helga was concerned (i.e. chuck it on the backburner with the rest of the things you don't understand), 'being told of Professor Ravenclaw's marriage to Slytherin has…well, unbalanced me, slightly. I'm usually a lot more on top of it – and I've never bitten anybody, I swear.'

'I believe you,' said Helga, sympathetically.

'To be honest, I'm hardly a vampire at all – only through genetics. My grandfather was at least one hundred and twenty when my father was conceived.'

'Impressive?' Helga suggested, with no idea of the correct response to that statement.

'Yes,' he smiled, evidently relieved to have a sympathetic ear, 'I've been desperate to tell somebody about it ever since I arrived, but it's never really come up.'

'Naturally.'

'And – and I only hanker for blood when it's out in front of me, and I can walk around in daylight, and I don't even like bats! It's more of a minor inconvenience than a life-threatening curse.'

Helga nodded encouragingly. 'I understand.' She cleared her throat lightly, and added, 'Now, do you think you could run that bit about Rowena being married by me, one more time?'

Anatole's eyebrows rose. 'Pardon?'

'Er…you said Rowena was married to Slytherin,' she reminded him, diplomatically, 'and it was making you tense. Care to elaborate?'

He stammered unintelligibly a couple of times, and dropped another book. 'Is – isn't she?'

'I sure as hell didn't get an invite.'

'He said – he said – they eloped,' he mumbled, face burning furiously with the realisation he may have been had, 'to…England…with…Roger.'

Helga tried very hard not to make him feel like an idiot. 'Roger?'

He avoided her gaze, and mumbled, 'Er…blacksmith.'

'Roger the blacksmith.'

'Er – yes.'

'Married.'

'Yes.'

'Slytherin told you this?'

His shoulders sagged with self-disappointment. 'I'm – I'm not very good at being lied to, am I?'

She once again patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. She had to admit, she liked Anatole. In a distinctly platonic sense. 'There, there,' she offered, as his cheeks continued to burn red, unattractively, 'if it helps, neither am I. But it has its advantages.'

'Really?'

'Yes. You can get away with being sweet and naïve, for one thing.'

He looked up. 'That's a good thing?'

She shrugged. 'Better than being a plain idiot. Besides, I wouldn't worry too much about Ro and Slytherin. Their relationship is something best left unexplored by external forces.'

'She did suggest they were an…item, of some sort,' he argued, as if in defence of his own "sweet naivety".

'As I say,' she sighed, 'best left unexplored. Really.' She continued to pat his shoulder, as he melted into a lovelorn puddle of semi-vampiric goo. 'Rowena's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. If he ever does anything to hurt her, I'm going to rain down the pain big time. And you can bite him, if you want.'

'Don't encourage me.'

As they sat there, Helga patting Anatole's shoulder while he mumbled about organs and comparative tooth lengths, it occurred to her that, in a very depressing way, they were both a little bit in love with Rowena Ravenclaw.

…In a distinctly heterosexual sense.

In Helga's case, at least.

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Having successfully experienced life as a cocktail sausage, Rowena wasted no time at all freeing herself from the pitchfork. Salazar wriggled free soon after.

'Well, that was pleasant,' he concluded, as Rowena returned her wand to its original form and wiped the blood from it. 'I think it's been a learning experience for everybody involved.'

She glowered at him, as much as a girl who'd been forcefully locked to the object of her affections for at least five minutes could manage. 'Oh yes? And what have we learned today, Slytherin?'

'Gryffindor still looks funny when he's bald and beardless.'

'Ugh.' She made a futile attempt to wipe the wide patches of blood from her stomach with a look of distaste. 'That's all you've learned? Nothing about, say, keeping still when I tell you to, or when there's a pitchfork involved?'

He just chuckled. 'Like a half-melted elephant foetus. Let's pray he dies before he goes bald.'

'That's what I thought.'

'So,' he said, leaning against the wall and making no attempt to tidy the plasma from his shirt, 'what's the plan? Will I definitely be skewered, or is it just a possibility?'

'A very distinct possibility, if you don't stop complaining.'

Salazar looked quite pleased with himself.

'Well,' she said, returning to the plan she'd formulated previously, 'this is – I know it's a bit radical, but – well, you know Xavier Malfoy?'

'The hateful bastard I spent half of my childhood with and am forced to grudgingly accept as a blood relation?'

'Him.'

'Vaguely, yes.'

'Well, I think he knows something.'

Salazar was silent for a moment or two, as if she'd just said something of greater importance than she actually had. Finally, he said, 'He can't be involved.'

'I'm not saying he's involved,' she argued, his reaction puzzling her, 'just that he knows something. When the first student died, he started talking about their blood status and about Gryffindor being a werewolf and – what?'

'Nothing,' he muttered quickly, lowering his alarmed eyebrows. 'Just – well, he would know about Godders – the Slytherins, Malfoys and Gryffindors are all part of a big happy family.'

'Yeah – alright,' she persisted, unwilling to abandon a plan now she'd thought of it, 'but there's no reason he should know so much about the students themselves, or take a special interest in the matter. I think it'd be stupid and negligent of us not to see what he knows.'

Salazar's face wrinkled. 'I don't want to see him.'

'Well…we have to,' she pleaded. She wondered if now would be the time to unleash her womanly charms. 'You can contact him, can't you?'

He pointed at her clenched fist. 'What's in your hand?'

'Splinters,' she mumbled, wincing. 'That pitchfork was a real bitch. Now…are you going to contact Malfoy?'

He shook his head, apparently realising he could provide her with no solid argument against it. 'You'll kill me, woman. I'll be two minutes.' He took a few steps away from her and, drawing his wand from his pocket, began communication with his blonde-haired cousin.

Rowena tightened her grip on the shreds of parchments in her hand. With a pitchfork through your torso, who'd notice a hand in your pocket? Confident she was unseen, she stashed the unread note into her pocket, which dripped blood into the snow.

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It was some time later, when shoulders had been patted and advice sagely offered, that Helga left Anatole in the abandoned classroom and made her way back to Hufflepuff tower. She'd been told sympathy and warmth were her best selling points, and had to grudgingly agree that this was, indeed, the case.

Sharp hearing, a calm disposition and a keen sense of impending danger were not among her list of virtues, which was why she never heard the careful footsteps that followed her around the corner, nor the rustling of a cloak as a hand lunged forwards and caught around her neck—

'Don't move.' The sharp tip of a wand dug into her lower back.

Very quickly, with no pause for thought between words, Helga squeaked something that sounded like, 'OH bugger-bugger-fuck-malarkey-chickenpox-Jesus-keratinous-Christ-badger-knob!'

The grip around her throat loosened very slightly, apparently in awe. It quickly tightened again, and the voice added, 'Don't talk, either.'

Still squeaking, Helga demanded, 'Who the hell are you?'

'It's me, you idiot,' someone snarled into her ear, 'your star pupil.'

She relaxed, very slightly. 'Heather?'

'Who else?'

'You are getting a detention, young lady—ow!'

'Shut up!' she hissed, prodding the wand deeper into her back and out again. 'I don't want to have to hurt you.'

'Course not,' she managed to gasp, as the grip around her neck tightened.

'But if you attempt to fight me, or scream for help, I will kill you. Got that?'

'Meep!'

'Good.' Heather checked briefly around the corridor and, seeing it deserted, hissed, 'Hold still.' She took a step to her right and, after only the slightest hesitation, hurled them both sideways, into the wall. Helga, expecting the harsh smack of solid stone, gasped; but it never came. They just continued to move sideways, tripping slightly over each other's feet, until the ground beneath them was replaced by deep snow, and the warm, recycled castle air became a wintry breeze.

They had emerged outside, beneath one of the Great Hall's windows, in the darkness. Helga gasped again. The grip on her throat finally loosened, but the wand remained unmoved.

'I didn't know it could do that!' she squeaked. 'How long has it been able to do that?!'

Heather, unseen, shrugged. 'You really ought to get it fixed.'

'Yes…that's my first priority.' Always panicked, but never scared: all Hufflepuffs apparently existed under the delusion that they would never die. It was perhaps this, combined with the surreal experience of travelling through a wall, that prevented her from collapsing to the ground in a fit of tears, or demanding to know what she was going to do to her, or any of the other clichés. Instead she noted, 'That wand bloody hurts, thank you very much.'

'It's meant to,' Heather snapped, 'you're being held against your will. Are you a complete bozo?'

'That's Professor bozo to you.'

She sighed. 'Walk forwards.'

Helga did as told. Her wand was buried somewhere in the depths of her pockets…did she really want to risk it? She'd always known Heather was a bitch, but walking-talking-nutcase? That really took the biscuit.

'Er,' she asked, gingerly, 'where are we going?'

Voice almost eclipsed by the sound of crunching snow underfoot, Heather replied, 'I'm leaving.'

'Er…great. Do I have to come too?'

She rolled her eyes. 'Yes, I'll really need a pastry chef while I'm trekking through the Highlands.'

'Trekking?' she repeated, wincing at the shock of cold that reached her calves. 'Nasty weather for it, isn't it?'

'You are such an idiot.'

'I'm sweetly naïve, actually.' The wand prodded deeper into her back, so she quickened her pace slightly. She has no idea where they were going, or if she should be scared, so she wasn't. The castle entrance loomed ahead, and there was always the remote possibility that someone would see them—

'Turn left,' Heather demanded. After a momentary pause, she obediently did so; stepping away from the light cast by the entrance. After a minute or so of frozen silence, Heather said, 'I need your help.'

'Going the right way about it,' she muttered.

'Shut up. Hufflepuff – true, loyal, unafraid of toil. That's you, isn't it?'

'In all fairness, I didn't actually write that—'

'Well, I need you to do a bit of…toil. Alright?'

'How could I possibly say no?' she asked, honestly.

'You couldn't. Not if you're even vaguely fond of your liver. Stay still!'

She did so. Hands hanging by her sides, she could just about feel the outline of her wand in her pocket…

'Don't think about it,' she snapped. Wand still pointed at her hostage, Heather slowly walked around her until they were face-to-face. It was then that Helga noticed the redness of her captor's eyes, and the vague tremble of her hands. Of course, the cold weather could have accounted for it, but something told her otherwise. She repeated, 'I'm leaving. I've got to get out of here, straight away.'

Helga raised her eyebrows in disbelief. 'Well, I'm not stopping you.'

She rolled her eyes again. 'It's not that simple, is it? I haven't been able to magic myself off campus since Anatole's spell.'

'Well…neither can I,' Helga pointed out, awash in a sea of confusion.

She sighed angrily, and spoke as if the words were being wrenched from her stomach. 'I just need someone to walk me to the village and…make sure I get there…safely. Alright?'

'Why?'

She scoffed. 'I'm not telling you—'

'Rictusempra!'

The instinctive flinch was only momentary, but enough for Helga to take advantage of: she whipped her wand from her pocket and, by the time Heather had recovered, held it against her cheek. As if caught in a Mexican stand-off, Heather simply glanced at it and held her own wand steadily outstretched, pointed at Helga.

The wind whistled past them. Very evenly, Heather said, 'I really have no problem killing you, Professor.'

Helga shrugged. 'You need my help, I need my organs. I suppose we're both a bit buggered, aren't we?'

Her wand lowered. Very slightly. 'What do you want?'

With mild alarm, Helga realised she actually had no idea. "Stop pointing that damn wand at me" had it pretty much covered. Still, she was in an inadvertent position of power now, and so it was time to ask the immortal question: What Would Rowena Ravenclaw Do?

Eventually, she managed to demand, 'Why are you so desperate to leave?'

Heather moistened her lips nervously. 'I'm hiding.'

'Why?'

'He's going to kill me.'

Jesus Christ, talk about a result. 'Er…who?'

'I don't know; either of them.' She licked her lips again, and insisted, 'Look, I was going to tell you this anyway. I could still kill you where you stand, so don't think—'

'Either of who?'

She shook her head and lowered her wand, so it hung by her side. Helga kept her eyes fixed upon it. 'I've – I didn't mean to, alright? I've owed him ever since I was a little girl and he got me out of an arranged marriage. I hadn't seen him for ages when he found me again and told me—'

'Who?'

'—and I really do like Salazar, I never lied about that—'

'Who the hell are you talking about?!' Helga demanded, waving her wand impatiently so it sparked gold.

She lowered her voice and, looking furtively over her shoulder, explained, 'Malfoy. Xavier. And this weird woman he lives with who's obsessed with the frailties of her womb and crushes spiders—'

'Who?' Helga repeated, beginning to sound like a broken record.

'You don't know him?'

'I don't think so. Who is he?'

'He's…he doesn't matter. He's a cousin of Salazar's, I think.'

Helga groaned. 'How did I know he'd be involved?' To her eternal shock and torment, Heather actually began to cry.

'It's worse than that! He killed him!'

'Wha'…what? Who killed who?'

'Everard!' she breathed hoarsely, tears now streaming down her face. 'My little cousin, Everard – he was the last one to die—'

Helga's face crumpled with the effort of thought. 'The body in the staffroom? What was he doing here?'

Sniffing, she managed to mumble, 'Spying. Ever since Anatole's spell, he's been helping me – spying – going between me and Xavier, and he killed him!'

Helga was beginning to feel ill. 'You've been – you've been spying for someone?' Heather nodded, without remorse. 'For this…Malfoy? What did he want to know about?'

'Salazar,' she whispered, lowering her voice to control the volume of her sobs. 'And – and Gryffindor. And you, sometimes, but more often Ravenclaw. How you were all getting along, and what you were doing…'

Helga stated in disbelief, momentarily lowering her wand before remembering herself. 'Jesus Christ! I don't even know the man!'

'He doesn't know much about you,' Heather sniffed, defensively.

'Well, I suppose that makes it ok, then.'

'I need to get out!' she pleaded, taking a couple of desperate steps towards Helga, who looked on in alarm. 'He's going to kill me if he finds out about that stupid note—'

Helga sighed wearily. 'Ok, for the final time: who? Who's going to kill you? Who killed your cousin? Who's killing everyone?'

Managing to gain some control over herself, she shrugged. 'Malfoy or – or Salazar or the werewolf or…something else. Everybody lies to me! I don't know!'

'Salazar?' Helga repeated, her mouth going dry.

'I don't know. Maybe. Malfoy said he killed Everard! My little Everard! And he's going to kill again, because of Cray—'

'Cray?'

'—because Cray told him so…please…I don't want to play anymore!'

She was suddenly reminded that Heather, in all her spiteful, treacherous glory, was still only seventeen. The wind blew again, almost knocking her off balance, and Helga sighed.

'Right,' she said, holding the other girl by the shoulder, 'I'll walk you to the village. You'll be safe. Just stay close. Oh, and Heather…?'

The girl gasped suddenly, as a frozen handful of snow hit her in the face, shocking her into complete silence.

'Never spy on me again,' Helga finished, smiling sweetly.