Chapter 14: Limpet

Rowena blinked.

It was more than a mere moistening of the eyeballs. It was a blink that spoke volumes.

Three notes, crumpled and hastily scribbled, graced her in-tray. All of them confused and upset her. It was now a mere matter of organising them by priority.

Right:

Dearest Sir/Miss Rowena Ravenclaw,

Good afternoon or indeed evening. I write to contact you in regards to a correspondence received from a Mr Salazar Slytherin several weeks ago but inevitably delayed in its delivery by the incompetence of my house elf staff, who have yet to acknowledge my death or indeed the presence of my corpse in the drawing room.

I am delighted to receive Mr Slytherin's letter, who no doubt fondly remembers me from his youth in the North Country. I would be honoured to accept your offer of a position as resident ghost at your school, beginning as soon as the house elves are kind enough to perform an exorcism.

Yours with ever-present sincerity,

Mr Wellard Boob.

(deceased)

Rowena blinked again. She began to re-read the note, thought better of it, and stared at his name for a few minutes.

She blinked again.

Moving on:

Dear Ro, Ro-Ro, Rowwy, Rowena, oh Rowena I'm so sorry, I love you Ro I really do, I'm in such a fuss I don't know what to do, oh hang on I haven't formatted the letter properly,

Much better don't you think? Oh Ro, dearest lovely Ro, I'm so sorry, I really am. But I can't go on not telling you any longer because I think you ought to know, you know? Even if I'm wrong, and lord I hope I'm wrong because you're curiously attached to him much like an emotional limpet, and my mother told me that if you touch a limpet with your bare hands you'll grow hair on your palms.

I just don't want to risk it, Rowena, I don't!

It's Salazar you see? I mean of course you see, you see a lot of him. Not that I'm implying anything slanderous about your reputation, I wouldn't do that, I'm sure you're not a whore. I mean there has been talk of course, but I turn a blind ear to that kind of gossip, and of course I'm in no position to judge. Who is? Sexuality is a very broad church, Rowena! I wouldn't judge you! I mean, the things I've done, Ro, the things I've done. I've never known such an interesting and unholy use of vegetables—

Rowena flicked a few pages ahead.

--but only in casserole, Rowena, only in casserole. And gravy stains the skin, and is difficult to remove from undergarments—

She skimmed a few paragraphs further down, shaking her head as vigorously as possible.

But Rowena – oh dear, I just re-read that, I do apologise – but this is more important than any amount of inter-genital contact. What I'm trying to say, Rowena, is that Slytherin is – that is, I don't think he is a good man. Indeed, I rather hold the opposite belief! What I'm trying to say is he may be, oh, rather evil!

Oh dear, please forgive me. But Rowena, please believe me, I wouldn't lie about any of this. I wouldn't. This is what I believe to be true.

Heather was a spy, Ro. A nasty little bastard of a spy. She was spying for a Malfoy man – was it Malfoy? It could have been Mallory, or maybe Valerie…no, Valerie is the lady who sells me lettuce on a Tuesday, yes, it was certainly Malfoy. He wanted to know about all of us, certainly you and Slytherin. And a young boy – the young boy who was found dead and chewed by the forest! He was her cousin.

Oh, does this make any sense, Rowena? I've tried to re-read it, but all I can detect is a pornographic tangent about radishes.

But, yes, yes, Heather. She was terrified when I saw her, Ro; she thought Slytherin was going to kill her. Or Malfoy. She was a bit unclear on that really. All she said was that Slytherin had killed, or had been responsible for the deaths, because of someone called Cray. Was it Cray? Yes, I'm fairly certain it was Cray, because it made me think of Crayfish.

Cray is…oh, who's Cray? Yes – Cray was his grandfather, Heather told me. Slytherin's grandfather. He raised Slytherin for years because he…oh, what was it? Slytherin volunteered himself, I think. He helped him. And there was a curse, and, oh, I don't know, the important part is that Slytherin killed Cray. He did! At least, Heather told me he did, and she seemed convinced. He killed Cray as he slept.

Oh, Rowena, I don't know what to do. I think he's out to destroy us. I think he's out to destroy all of us. I think he's somehow killing the mixed-blood students and I think he's planning to kill more and more people, and I don't know where he's run away to but he's run away from the castle.

How are you anyway?

Love

Helga.

Rowena smoothed out the creases in the letter and folded it neatly in half. She swallowed, and thought it was odd how significant her every move suddenly felt. Everything felt weighted and uncomfortable.

She reached into her pocket, and retrieved Heather's destroyed note she'd stolen from Salazar's pocket. Correctly assembled, and joined at the tears, it read Salazar Slytherin is going to kill me.

She tore it again.

She frowned.

Right.

Last letter.

I have to go. I'm sorry.

-- SS

Go. I have to go. Wonderful. Just what exactly did that mean?

I have to go home? I have to go away? I have to stay away?

I'm sorry. He's sorry? He'd gone away, so soon after the kisses they'd shared, and he was sorry?

She looked at the back of the note:

And would it be inappropriate to say you have fantastic knockers?

She glanced down, and blinked again.

Everything hurt.

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Richard looked up. His rubber duck squeaked.

'Eh, do pardon me—'

Helga closed the door behind her. 'Have you seen Rowena?'

He lowered his loofah. 'She's certainly not in here.'

'Are you sure?'

He spared the length of the bathroom a quick look. 'Er, yes, Helga. I'm fairly sure her presence wouldn't have gone unnoticed.'

Helga stared vacantly at his left knee, a traumatised expression painted across her face. It stirred every ounce of Richard's manliness to see her in such distress. Unfortunately, his ability to offer a comforting shoulder was somewhat hindered by the ever-thinning layer of soap suds floating atop his bath water. He attempted to convey concern with an empathetic eyebrow move.

'Dear Helga, you appear in a state of distress. Is there nothing I can, ah-ha, do for you?' He scowled at himself afterwards. He was sure he hadn't intended for the euphemistic "ah-ha" to be there; it was a subconscious force of habit. Helga deserved more than a filthy innuendo delivered by a pervert in a bathtub.

Fortunately, his faux-pas appeared to have gone largely unnoticed. 'Oh, I've done something terrible. Something so terrible…'

'What is it?' he asked, squeaking as he sat up.

'I should have just kept it to myself!'

'My dear Helga, whatever it is I insist you should tell me.'

'I can't – I shouldn't. Oh god, what if she doesn't come back?'

'Who?' The water was getting rather cold now.

'I can't – oh god! What if she went after him, and he's dangerous?'

'Who's dangerous? And, ah, do you think you could hand me that towel?'

'Anatole's looking, but he can't even smell her around the castle—'

'I beg your pardon?'

'—of course he can't smell everything, his powers aren't that strong, but—'

'Helga, please dear – if needs be, I will chuck the duckie at you. Please tell me what's going on?'

Helga appeared to suddenly snap to realisation. Her expression registered a few startling facts about her surroundings, and immediately discarded the majority of them for reasons of confusion.

'Oh, Richard – I'm so sorry, it's all my fault! I told Rowena that Slytherin could be – well, he may be – dangerous, and he's run away and now I don't know where Ro is! She's not in her room! What if she went after him?'

Richard slapped his hand against the side of the bath. 'Helga dear, avert your young eyes! I'm thoroughly incensed!'

Helga obediently did as told, as Richard launched himself from the bath, spattering water everywhere and hoisting a towel in it's appropriate place.

'My sister!' he raged, in as dramatic a manner as a man with an incredibly mellow disposition could. 'I will not allow her to go harmed! I cannot stand idly by as my own flesh and blood faces peril from this – this corrupting, evil, dangerous, depraved—'

And he stopped there, because Helga's mouth was suddenly attached to his and it was all rather moist and lovely, although he couldn't seem to close his eyes.

He felt a very peculiar bubbling in his midriff.

After an enjoyable ten seconds or so, she wrenched herself away and let go of his shoulder, hand flying to her mouth. 'Oh god,' she squeaked, taking half a step back.

'Er,' said Richard, doing the same.

'Oh god.'

'Er.'

'Oh god. Oh dear.' She released a brief high-pitched squeal and averted her eyes. 'Oh dear god, I'm so sorry!'

'Er…' said Richard, still rather dazed and confused. 'That's quite alright. It was rather pleasant.'

'No, no, no!' she squeaked. 'Not pleasant! Not good! – well, I mean – sorry,' she added, 'I just mean – oh no! I'm sorry, I seem to be doing that increasingly nowadays—'

'Doing – pardon?' said Richard. 'You've never done that before, I'm sure I'd have remembered it—'

'No, I mean – oh god! It's whenever I feel tense or nervous, I seem to be dealing with it with either sex or warm desserts…oh god! I'm sorry.' She fiddled for the door knob, backing further out of the room. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'I'll just go and – er – go. I need a pie.' She looked him briefly up and down. 'I'm sure I need a big, hot pastry.'

The door slammed after her.

Richard blinked.

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'I smell pastry,' said Anatole, some time later.

Helga coughed. 'No you don't.'

His nostrils flared. He sniffed sharply three times. 'Yes I do,' he insisted. 'Definitely some kind of apple crumble—'

'Nope!'

'—tinged with bath bubbles, panic, and sexual frustration.'

'No you don't!' she squeaked, with increasing desperation. 'Stop procrastinating! Track Rowena!' She pushed his face against the nearest wall, grip very firmly around his neck. 'Sniff!'

He wriggled free. 'Dammit, woman, she's not here.' He pulled his cape tightly around his shoulders, attempting to recover from the indignity of the scene. 'Anyway, even if she was still on the castle grounds, why would she be hiding near an overgrown potting shed? Which, by the way, I'm fairly sure constitutes a health hazard.'

Helga's nose wrinkled. 'Great big sodding monster going around killing everybody, and you're worried about a potting shed?'

'Well, it's manky.' He sniffed again. 'Eugh. Anyway, what monster? I thought you said Slytherin was killing people?'

'I didn't say that...'

'Yes you bloody did.'

'Not – not definitely, I didn't. It's just, er, the information I've got to go on.'

'The information you conveniently dumped on Rowena without warning?'

'Don't judge me, Vampy,' she warned, prodding his chest with her wand. 'I'm not the only one being selective with the truth around here.'

'Ouch. Well, maybe it's better to keep things to yourself sometimes, that's all I'm saying!'

'And maybe sometimes it's better to know!'

'Know what? Some semi-coherent half-truth you heard from a youth with a stick up her bum?!'

'Up her what?' said Richard.

'Argh!' said Helga. 'Where did you come from?'

'The potting shed.' He brushed some soil from his tunic. 'It's very dirty in there; you should think about giving it a once-over.'

'Why on earth were you in the potting shed?'

'I think Clarence is nesting. He keeps cavorting around in there with a bunch of roosters I'm not sure I approve of.'

'Oh.'

A short, uncomfortable silence followed.

Richard said, 'Not really; I was looking for my sister. Clarence isn't that sort of chicken.'

'I would never question the virtue of your poultry,' said Anatole, solemnly.

Helga coughed. 'Lovely. Made any progress, Richard?'

'You would know.'

'I meant with Rowena!'

'Oh. Right. No.'

'Excellent.' She took a deep breath. 'Right.' She reviewed her troops. Her troops grinned back, with all the enthusiasm of two rather strange people who weren't entirely aware of the situation they'd gotten themselves into. Time to step it up. Time to whip out the big guns. Time to kick into Action Gear:

'Right! Time's up, you smelly little men! Now is the moment to get Serious. No more farting around. No more farting at all, if you can help it – this is serious business! Every second you spend breaking wind is one second you spend not puzzling Rowena's whereabouts, and in that space of time she could be getting eaten by a great big fucking bear! Got that?!'

Richard raised his hand. 'While entertaining a Flemmish Princess last July, I was taught an age-old method of retaining gas for up to eighteen hours at a time—'

'Not good enough!' She whipped his ear with her wand, and raged on: 'If Ro's gone running after – after that Slytherbitch, we need to know what kind of a threat he provides to her! And where he is! And – and why he is! And what he's done! And – stuff like that! Are you listening to me, Anatole Amery?!'

'Yes miss!'

'But are you HEARING me, Anatole Amery?!'

'YES MISS!'

'GOOD! Now – set to it, immediately!'

He immediately set to it. Seven seconds or so later he returned to where he'd been standing, hand raised hesitantly. 'Er,' he began, 'what exactly am I setting to—?'

'DO IT!'

'Right!' He made off hastily in the direction of the castle. Helga wheeled around to face Richard.

'Well?!' she demanded.

Richard coughed. 'Who's taking care of the, ah, running of the school, if you don't mind me asking?'

'Godric can do that!'

'On his own?'

'Bloody yes!'

'You're, ah, still shouting—'

'Am I?!'

'A little, yes.'

'Very sorry! Give me a bloody second!' She exhaled a few times, finding the calm, chocolate-flavoured place in her mind. 'Right.'

'Better?'

'Yes.'

'Lovely.' He brushed a little more dirt off his tunic. 'Do you really think Slytherin to be that dangerous?'

Helga shrugged. 'I don't know. But it doesn't really matter what I think, does it? The only one of us in any potential immediate danger is Rowena, and the swing of my opinion isn't going to change that—'

'I just mean,' he interrupted, with a short, embarrassed cough, 'I mean – I mean, I wouldn't, er, approve of the situation at all, but facts are facts and I'm in no position to judge, and...well, are we certain that the situation is how we believe? Are we positive they haven't just absconded for a bit of...er...' His nose wrinkled in disgust. 'You know. How's-your-father.'

Helga's brain vomited slightly.

'And in any case,' he hurried on, 'perhaps I'm being simplistic, but if he's been exposed as a threat and a murderer and has accordingly run away, does that slightly neutralise his level of evil?'

Helga shrugged. 'Could be a standard psychopath habit. That's not what's important! The important part is that, knowingly or not, Rowena may have put herself in very serious danger by following him! And as much as I trust and respect her decisions, she is, when all's said and done, an utter tit sometimes, and I'd hate for her to get cut open like a – a haddock!'

Richard nodded. 'There is that.'

'So let's go!'

'Yes!'

'Let's track her down!'

'Indeed!'

'Let's take weapons!'

'Big ones!'

'Let's – let's stab stuff up!'

'Ok!'

'VIOLENTLY!'

'Er.'

'With knives!'

'Scaring me a bit now—'

'Great big bloody bastard knives!'

'Helga—'

'Great big metal—!'

Rather than continue her sentence, she chose instead to launch herself, yet again, at Richard's mouth, rather painfully clashing teeth. He managed to close his eyes this time, and held on to her as tightly as he dared for a few lovely, wet, wiggly seconds.

'...knives,' she muttered, as their lips parted with a soft tick. 'Oh dear.'

'Yes.'

'I did it again, didn't I?'

'Yes.'

'Oh dear.'

'Mm. Not really. Helga—'

A soft voice, perched comfortably atop the potting shed, interrupted the exchange.

It said, 'Drop your wand this instant, or I kill you both.'

It wasn't a voice to be trifled with. Helga dropped her wand.

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Anatole continued to dash towards the castle entrance: vampyric senses temporarily abandoned, and fuelled purely by a mind-numbing adrenaline rush. Being shouted at by a five-foot blonde cookery teacher will do that to you.

No students crossed his path; the only other figures around at this time of night were that of a slender man and woman by the staircase. He walked straight past them.

A few seconds later, his confused brain caught up with him. He turned back.

'Er, excuse me,' he said, politely.

The male figure – blonde, and finely dressed – raised an eyebrow. 'Yes?'

'Er...I'm afraid I must ask you to explain your presence at this time. If that's alright.'

The man smiled. 'Of course! Sophia?'

Anatole felt a sudden dull, weighted pain against the back of his skull. The world filled quickly with black, and his body fell.

Xavier Malfoy observed his companion with a look of distaste. 'My dear, a cosh?'

'And why ever not?' Sophia demanded.

'Hm.' He pointed his wand at Anatole's back. 'What do you think – quick death?'

'Oh, no, no. He looks rather fertile.'

Xavier sighed. 'Sophia, darling, you can't attempt sex with every hostage we take.'

'Mean.'

'Just get him tied up, would you?' He glanced around the entrance hall. It was as silent as he had anticipated. 'With the vampire and the werewolf down, I can't foresee much resistance from elsewhere in the castle.'

Sophia's white smile flashed in the darkness. 'Wonderful. Should we beat the mutt? Soften him up for our William?'

'No, darling; that would be cheating. Salazar needs to kill him without our aid.'

'Unfair—'

'Shush. Get him moved. We'll let Salazar take care of the rest.'