It's been a long time, hasn't it? But this chapter's pretty long. Hope you like.
The village of Winding Creek had much to talk about over the next weeks. Godric Gryffindor, the magical prodigy of the known world, was getting married to Helga Hufflepuff, who was no Squib herself. It was to take place on the day of Lammas in mid-summer, and nearly everyone had been asked to attend. The preparations had been made by the families involved and were extravagant, even by wizard's standards, and Ronan Weasley was telling everyone who would listen that they had hired a choir of real, Mediterranean mermaids to sing during the ceremony.
The cake was an amazing creation of white sugar and butter that looked like it was (and probably actually was), supported magically, and there would be a seven-course meal as part of the reception. Flowers had been shipped in from all across Europe and had, from the looks of them, cost half the Hufflepuff family fortune. But the real masterpiece was Helga Hufflepuff's wedding gown. It was a staggeringly beautiful dome-shaped dress made entirely out of yellowish-cream silk that she would wear with a ten-foot long train and a pale yellow veil to cover the bright blonde hair that was to be worn high up on the crown of her hair.
So it was that the town was in a state of shock on the morning of the wedding when, to everyone's immense surprise, the bride and groom didn't arrive.
It wasn't as if they were merely late, or had become nervous and were delaying too long in walking down the aisle of the church. It wasn't as if young Godric and Helga were trying to build suspense by coming in ten minutes past the beginning of the ceremony. No, they were simply lost. No one in the village could find them, even after searching "The Glen," which was the Hufflepuff family manor, and "Valley Broad" (the Gryffindor residence), and after thoroughly questioning "that Cepheus Black," who everyone was suddenly quite suspicious of for reasons unknown to him. The villagers were so busy and so frantic calling their names and searching for them that no one seemed to notice that Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin also seemed to have gone on holiday, and it was not for another three days that anyone, including their parents, thought to get worried.
By the time it was established that the young pair had simply run off, the four of them were in London.
Yes, they had all gone, with much relieved sarcasm on Rowena's part and overwhelming worrying on Helga's, for she had been dragged along forcefully by Rowena and Godric, who insisted it was for her own good. Salazar had done his best to persuade the two of them to let her stay, explaining as kindly as he could that, if she was brought along, he'd "go mad by the end of the first hour, hex her halfway into oblivion, then bring her back, spear her on my sword, and roast her slowly until she's golden-brown."
Godric had told him equally kindly to shut the goddamned hell up and spend the ride thinking of inns in London they might be able to stay at.
In the end, they had chosen a tiny, dark place called "The Drunken Cherry." Rowena liked it because it was cheap; Godric for the simple reason that it was not The Leaky Cauldron; Helga because it meant an end to the dreadful day of riding; and Salazar because the ale was cheap and the innkeeper's wife very pretty. Slytherin being the best at bargaining, they sent him in to get rooms while the rest tended four very displeased horses.
The stables were not pleasant, so the three of them worked themselves into extremely foul moods inside. Rowena had her pale, golden mare, Layne, tended to quickly, so she was assigned the task of taking care of Ophiuchus, as well. Gryffindor did well enough with Turais, but Helga spent forty-five miserable minutes trying desperately to coax Acacia to do as she was told. Finally, Godric shouted, "Are you a witch, or not? Pull out your wand and do it the easy way!"
"But magic scares—" began Helga, but Rowena swooped over to her agitated friend and whispered, "Go along with him, love. Just let him think he's won. At least until we get out of this dunghole."
So Helga magicked Acacia calm and finished the job. The three of them then emerged into the dazzling sunlight to find Salazar leaning against a wall of the inn, casually talking to a young woman who looked as though she'd just been Stunned. Rowena scowled at him and pulled out her wand, but before she could aim it at him, Helga had it from her and said, "Don't hex him, Rowena. Remember, we have to live with him for the next Christ-knows-how-long."
"I was only going to give him a few warts, Helga… Come on, give my wand back—Hi, Salazar." They had arrived in front of him.
"Hello, Rowena. Did you take Ophiuchus—"
"Yes, of course. Who's your friend?" she added icily, glaring at the girl to whom he'd been speaking.
Slytherin smirked at his girlfriend. "This is Saeran Kettledore. She works in Eyelop's Owl Emporium down the street. Saeran, these are Rowena Ravenclaw—" Rowena nodded stiffly to Saeran, "—Godric Gryffindor—" Godric bowed, "—and Helga Hufflepuff."
"Nice to meet you!" chirped Helga. Salazar made a face behind her back.
The girl, who couldn't've been more than sixteen, had flaming red hair and the greenest eyes Godric had ever seen. "Salazar was just telling me—"
"—About how we're planning to start a magic school in the north," finished the black-haired man quickly. "And about, um…" Saeran opened her mouth in confusion, but Godric saw Slytherin step on her foot.
"Oww!" she said instead. "Why'd you do that?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," snapped Slytherin impatiently.
Rowena glared at both of them. "Oh, yes, I'm sure you were talking about magic schools. Just like Godric and I were talking about eloping."
"You what?" gasped Helga. Saeran looked highly interested and asked, "Are you really?"
"No!" said Godric loudly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Kettledore, we have things to discuss. Goodbye." And he grabbed Salazar's shoulder and Rowena's arm and steered them away to the back of the building. Helga ran after them, grumbling, "Will you people please make an effort to be somewhat normal for once?"
"This coming from you?" Salazar asked under his breath.
"Shut up, all of you," snapped Gryffindor, glaring around until they all fell silent. "Thank you. Now, Salazar, did you manage to get rooms for us all in between chatting up girls?"
"I did, as a matter of fact, and I wasn't chatting up anyone," he retorted sourly. "I got three on the top floor."
"Oh, lovely," said Rowena. "One for me, one for Helga, and you two will graciously share the third, allowing us refined and proper ladies our own rooms? How thoughtful of you, Sal—"
"No, one for Godric, one for Helga, and one for us," interrupted Slytherin with a wicked grin.
Rowena sighed and covered her forehead with a pale hand. "And I go from 'refined and proper lady' to 'promiscuous and filthy whore' in twelve seconds flat. Thank you, Slytherin," she muttered.
"You're not a whore until you sleep with a few others, too," Godric reminded her cheerfully.
Helga, however, squared her shoulders and faced Slytherin, drawing her wand. Salazar eyed it warily. She was quite a good witch, even if he didn't want to admit it. "Get your bags and move them into a room with Godric," she instructed.
"Yes, mother," he snapped.
"Thank you," Helga said with a calm smile. "Rowena? Shall we?" She gestured towards the stairwell and the women made their way up to their rooms, leaving their friends where they were.
"She's quite forceful when something needs to be done, no?" said Godric, almost admiringly.
Slytherin mumbled something unintelligible which may have contained the words "conceited bitch," but picked up his bags anyway and stalked off into the inn.
The Drunken Cherry was owned by a short, stubby little man called Zotico Dertwitch and his pretty wife Auva. It was very dim and very small but clean enough and serving more than passable food in abundance. The three large rooms on the ground level were used as a kitchen, a bar, and a dining room, all of which were packed to the bursting point with people of all descriptions the night the four friends arrived. The dining room was inhabited mostly by old witches and large, harassed-looking families with many small children and a pile of wailing infants, while the bar was jammed full of wizards, hags, dwarfs, a severely intoxicated centaur, and ten or twelve women of less-than-glowing repute. And Rowena Ravenclaw, of course, who was deep in conversation with an ancient warlock with a floor-length white beard, a flashing purple and green pointed hat, and a passion for blowing neon-colored smoke rings. Through these rooms and the piping hot kitchen darted a minuscule house-elf dressed in a ragged old blanket pinned around itself.
True, Auva Dertwitch was beautiful, but she was also a shrew and Godric got to know her voice painfully well over the three-and-a-half hours he spent with Rowena and Salazar in the bar. (Helga had refused to go down, saying, "You'll all just get filthy and drunk and Rowena will probably be raped. But have fun being idiots"—they'd assured her they would.) Mrs. Dertwitch spent a third of her time shouting at her husband, a third of the time shouting at the residents, and the rest bellowing out orders to the overworked house-elf, who turned out to be called Briar Whipcrick, though Godric wouldn't have known it if it hadn't been for the roughly forty-seven people calling out said name at any given time.
So it was in this environment that Godric was forced to think his decision through. There was still time to turn back, to return to Winding Creek and marry Helga, after all… He finished his butterbeer and called Mrs. Dertwitch over.
"What do you want, lovie?" she demanded in a slightly lowered voice that was still deafening.
"Another butterbeer," he said.
She cupped her hand around her ear, roaring over the crowd, "You'll have to speak up, dear!"
"Another butterbeer!" he shouted at the top of his voice.
"Beer?" she yelled back, her face only a few inches away from his.
Godric held up his empty bottle. "BUTTERBEER."
"RIGHT," she called, then turned around and screeched, "BRIAR WHIPCRICK, GET YOUR LAZY BONES IN THIS BAR RIGHT NOW. AND BRING A BUTTERBEER FOR THE GENTLEMAN IN RED."
"As subtle as a bludger in a china shop," Godric mumbled.
"WHAT'S THAT, DARLIN'?" Auva bellowed in his face.
"I SAID, THANKS," he shouted, and turned away, rolling his eyes. Thirty seconds later, he felt a sharp tug at the hem of his scarlet robes and looked down to see the beleaguered house-elf at his feet.
"Here is sir's butterbeer, sir," squeaked Briar, handing it up. Gryffindor accepted it, saying, "You look exhausted, elf."
"Briar Whipcrick is always tired, sir! Briar Whipcrick is always working for Miss Auva, sir!" And the house-elf scampered off to tend to the other fifty men and women who were calling him.
Meanwhile, Helga was talking to Auva's husband, Zotico. "Haven't you got any clean sheets?" she was asking desperately.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the little man, running his fingers through his thinning black hair. "But a scouring charm will have to do until Briar and Auva have time. If you like, I can—"
"No, no," she murmured. "It's fine, I can do it myself. Thanks." Helga closed the door to her room with a soft click and sank down into the hard wooden chair nearby. "All I can say is, we'd better move along quickly."
Two hours later, Salazar Slytherin wound his way unsteadily up the stairs and into the room he was sharing with Godric. Gryffindor made his face at his slightly inebriated friend, whose emerald robes were wrinkled and stained with substances Godric had no desire to identify. Slytherin sank down onto his bed, combing his midnight-black hair through his fingers. "Gods," he said, grinning. "I hope we can stay here for a while."
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