Chapter Two: Much Frolicking and Frivolity

Rowena was embarrassed.

This, much to her dismay, was not a rare occurrence.

However, there was only a very select amount of people in the world who could honestly claim to have woken up and stepped into a bowl of someone else's cold porridge, and Rowena was now, grudgingly, a member of this elite force.

Her embarrassment faded upon realising the only witness to this incident was the vacant-as-ever Elvina Hart, who sniffed in a dramatic manner and declared:

'I'm in a self-destructive vessel upon the harsh and choppy seas of distraught frenzy.'

Rowena stared at her for a while. She looked down at the porridge, and then back at Elvina. The voice in her head said, What the hell kind of morning is this?

Elvina said, 'I'm just a stain of black despair in the vast, ethereal whiteness.'

'I'm stood in your porridge.'

'I'm just a meaningless jumble of shattered emotions and the dying embers of a once-bright passion.'

'I'm – I'm actually in…your porridge.'

'My broken future is a shard of jagged glass, splintering under foot and cutting deep into—'

'I'm in your porridge!' Rowena repeated, with an edge of hysteria in her voice. 'I'm in your goddamn porridge! Why? Why am I in your porridge, Elvina? My foot is in oatmeal!'

Elvina gave a short, angry sigh; evidently, the poetry of the moment was lost on her dorm mate. 'Bronwyn, my life is in tatters around me right now. Could you please show some manners?'

Rowena's mouth twitched a few times to frame words like "foot", "breakfast", "porridge" and "why", but they found no release. Instead she focussed her attention on removing the aforementioned limb from the aforementioned foodstuff, and felt slightly better about things.

Then, confident it was a bad idea but a slave to curiosity nonetheless, she said, 'What's wrong with you?' and mentally added, Other than the obvious stuff.

Elvina sniffled, and tucked her (unseen but probably perfect) knees under her (perfect) chin. 'How did it all go so wrong, Bronwyn? How did it come to this?'

'Er…I don't know,' she replied, honestly.

'Why does fate treat me as it does, hm? Why am I such a slave to passion?'

Oh dear, thought Rowena, we've somehow got on to passion. Yes, she knew very well what passion was. It was the thing that woke her up at two o'clock in the morning and asked her to leave the dorm for half an hour or so, or until the noises had died down. When you shared a room was Elvina Hart, "passion" was always something to be feared.

'Slave to passion,' Rowena repeated, desperate for a hasty escape from the conversation. 'Er, I don't know, Elvina. Did that kneazle try it on again?'

'What?' Evidently, Rowena's lack of poetry was really affecting her sorrow. 'No, don't be silly. This is serious.'

'Right. Could you pass me a towel, or something?'

'Serious,' she continued, improvising desperately, 'as the – the swell of the midnight sea in the, er…ocean of my…soul.'

Realising that Elvina was probably not about to respond with a towel, Rowena discreetly wiped herself clean on one of her nightdresses. 'Please,' she said, with feigned enthusiasm, 'I can see you're upset; you simply must share with me your painful pain.' Painful pain? It's come to this. 'You're clearly a hapless soul aboard a despairing vessel, tossed across the withering sea of, of—'

'Desperation!' Elvina cried.

'—desperation, headed towards the jagged rocks of, er—'

'Sorrow that cannot be described by a mortal tongue!'

'—armed with only the vomit bag of eternal torment – no?'

'No, Bronwyn' said Elvina, severely, 'vomit doesn't figure into it, this time. No – for my lust-fuelled affair with Crispin Lightfoot, although doomed from the start, came to an abrupt and unforeseen ending last night. Like a butterfly, its beauty crushed prematurely in the hands of unforeseen and tragic circumstances, all hope begins to fade as my heart pounds with the intensity of —'

While Elvina continued to describe the strength of her heart's pound, the boat of lust amidst the sea of true love and many other strange metaphors to do with the sea, Rowena wondered if she'd been talking to Henrietta Bagman, the plump girl who wrote a certain type of romance novel with descriptions very similar to the ones Elvina was repeating. Rowena's theory was confirmed when Elvina finished:

'…and, er, the word Bagman said and I couldn't pronounce, but it sounded a lot like—'

'Yes, of course,' Rowena interjected quickly, sure that if Henrietta Bagman had said it and Elvina Hart couldn't pronounce it, it wasn't something she'd want to hear at this time in the morning.

Elvina sniffed. 'I believe someone may have told him my whereabouts last night, when I met with Michael Birdman for a bit of, er, late-night weeding behind the old gamekeepers hut…' Her eyebrows twitched suggestively. 'If you get me.'

'I get you,' said Rowena, flatly. Elvina, like syphilis, remained very easy to get. And Elvina, like syphilis, made your mind wander and your ears drop off.

At that moment, the sad excuse of a morning was interrupted by the arrival of Rowena's snowy owl, Samuel. It fluttered into the room, knocking things from the dressing table and causing a small whirlwind of paper as he steadied himself and landed at the foot of Rowena's bed. Upon arriving, both the owl and Elvina gave Rowena a look of intense dislike.

'Bronwyn, do you think this is really the time? That nasty bird is getting in the way of my sorrow.'

'Sorry, Elvina. Naughty Samuel,' she added. Samuel gave her a very evil look. She extended a hand to retrieve the rolled-up parchment attached to his talon, but he nipped her thumb in a way that was definitely not playful and was certainly meant to hurt.

'Argh! Heartless bastard, give me the letter—'

Following a great deal effort, which included a lot of beak evasion and a few dramatic sobs, Rowena successfully managed to retrieve the letter. Reading it was rather difficult when she could feel Samuel's steely gaze on her thumb.

The letter said:

Dear Ro,

It's nine o'clock, where are you? In case you've forgotten, I'm in the dining hall, as is usual for a Saturday morning. Hurry up woman. The loins and groins of Professor Harper desire gyration.

Yours,

Helga (Hufflepuff)

PS- Samuel is a lovely animal, oh Hater of All Winged Beasts. I would gladly swap him for Finkles; the stupid old owl is old and senile and keeps trying to have sex with me.

Rowena met the beady black eyes of Samuel and scowled, 'Oh, you'll be good for Helga, will you?'

Samuel made an attempt to snap at her hair in response.

Turning the letter over, Rowena scribbled:

Helly,

So sorry I'm late (again), was kept up late last night due to circumstances out of my control. Really. Shall explain after I've got changed and had a bath; I seem to have stood in Elvina Hart's porridge. Pity me.

Yours,

Ro

PS- Am slightly concerned that you're not more bothered by Finkles' love-making attempts. Will try to hook you up with Samuel if you fancy it.

She sent Samuel on his way with a scornful look. Mary Croswell, the dormitory's only other occupant, had apparently long-since made the wise decision to run away, leaving Elvina without an audience.

'Elvina, I'm going to get a bath and meet Helga. Will you be alright?'

Elvina sniffed despairingly, yet again. 'I very much doubt it.'

'Oh dear. Here's your nightdress, I think someone's spilt porridge on it. Bye-bye.'

'Fornicate! That was it.'

Rowena froze and turned around before she reached the door. 'What?'

'The word I couldn't pronounce! Fornicate.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, 'er, well done. Do you know what it means?'

Elvina rolled her eyes. 'Really, Bronwyn. I'm not a brain.'

Rowena skidded to a halt outside the dining hall at seven minutes to ten, slightly out of breath and regretting the long run from Winter house. It was a hot morning in June and, after her third collision with an innocent and sweaty bystander, she was beginning to wonder if she should have stayed in bed. After chasing Elvina from the dormitory with a harpoon, of course.

She made her way over to Helga, sat in their usual place under the small window, and fell down heavily into the seat beside her.

Gaze still cemented to her book, which she'd been reading for over a week, Helga greeted her friend with:

'Five to ten.'

'Seven to ten.'

'Six.'

'Same difference.'

'Your time-keeping is horrendous.'

'I know. Did they stop serving breakfast?'

Helga finally looked up and put her book away, smiling. 'I saved you some. Nothing hot, though, because I didn't know what time you'd be down.'

'Eugh, is it fruit?'

'Sorry.'

'Hm. Oh well, I'll have it.' She accepted the various selections of fruit Helga had stashed away for her and made a start on the apple, relieved to have some kind of breakfast that wasn't oat-based.

Other than a few third years studying in a corner the dining hall was empty, so there was no reason for Helga to conspiratorially lower her tone as she did to ask: 'What were the "circumstances out of your control" that kept you up late last night?'

'All Slytherin's fault, naturally.'

'Slytherin? What did he do? Was it the pixie dust? Can we kill him?'

'Er…Yes, not much, no and naturally, yes.'

'Excellent.'

She sighed at the memory, which is difficult to do with a moutful of apple, and explained, 'I just went into the common room to finish my charms homework, and the Prince of Smug happened to be there, too. All terribly exciting, as you can imagine...'

Between mouthfuls of breakfast Rowena ran through the details of their conversation – conveniently ignoring all mention of Godric and Helga – finishing:

'…the slimy kid he is. Honestly, I'm beginning to understand why his family crest has a great big snake on it, the dirty creep.'

'Not talking about me again, are you?' said Slytherin, appearing silently between them and causing both girls to jump.

To his credit, he waited until Rowena had finished choking on her apple before laughing at her.

'Yes, actually,' she managed, wiping away the stray spittle. 'You, and only you.'

'Of course,' he said, 'though I'm not the one who stayed up all night talking to me in a dimly-lit room, mon amor.'

Helga gurned at the implication. Rowena said, 'Oh, shut up. What do you want?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Just to tell you I won't be able to meet you at five o'clock on Wednesday.'

'Why not?'

'Prior engagements.'

'Ritual virgin sacrifice?'

'That's the one.'

'What time then?'

'Six,' he said, with another nonchalant shrug.

Rowena said, 'Quarter-past six. I wear the trousers in this temporary partnership, Slytherin.'

'No…you're wearing a dress, and I'm not swapping clothes with you. Didn't Hufflepuff's uncle Ulrich start doing that with random wenches on the battlefield?'

'Great Uncle,' Helga mumbled defensively.

'Mad as a hatter,' Slytherin grinned.

Rowena attempted to swat him away with her hand, mumbling, 'Ok, whatever, get lost.'

Clearly taking pleasure in irritating her, Salazar continued to ramble: 'Lovely day, isn't it? Shouldn't you be outside? The birds are singing, the trees are swaying, the statues are dancing, love is in the air…well, not for you two. I know house elves who get more action than you two.'

'Yes,' said Rowena, 'but there's no need to bring your personal life into this.'

Helga giggled and Slytherin stalked away, leaving Rowena feeling rather pleased with herself.

'Let's go outside, Ro,' said Helga, following Slytherin's retreating form with a steely glare, 'it's boiling in here.'

It wasn't much less boiling outside, where Rowena and Helga sat in their habitual spot on the edge of the woods beneath a cluster of trees. Her back resting against the trunk of a silver birch, Rowena tore the grass in front of her from the root, short of anything else to do, and moved it into a little pile of dead grass and weeds.

The sky was light and cloudless, the yolk-like sun waving in the heat like an illusion. A short distance away, far from the comforting shade of the trees, some of the younger students ran around, squealing. Some of the older students threw sticks at them.

Looking up from the ground and instead at the students, Rowena wondered aloud:

'What is it they say about children playing?'

'Er,' said Helga, '"one for sorrow, two for joy…"?'

'No…I think that's magpies.'

'Really?'

'Pretty sure.'

'Oh, children playing – "there's no sweeter sound"?'

'That's it. "There's no sweeter sound than children at play". Who the hell said that?'

Helga shrugged. 'I don't know, but it's pretty cute—'

She was interrupted by the cry of a first year as he ran past:

'….baaaaaaastaaaaaaaard!'

'—if you don't listen to what they're actually saying,' Helga finished, looking rather distressed and picking up her book again.

Rowena chuckled slightly and moved to a new patch of grass to tear. 'Lo and behold,' she declared, 'that is the sound of happiness.'

'Hm. Not really a scene of harmless frolicking and frivolity, is it?'

'At least they've stopped setting each other on fire.'

For a minute or two they shared a companionable silence; Helga hunched over her book and Rowena stretched out, resting against a tree. The only noise came from the irregular rustling of leaves as a much-appreciated breeze swept through the woods; the sound of a thin page being delicately turned by Helga; and the cry of obscenities from the angelic first years.

Rowena shattered the silence, slowly and thoughtfully saying, 'Helga…'

Helga looked up. Rowena was still staring at the pile of grass. 'Oh dear.'

'I've been thinking.'

'Oh dear.'

'Thinking deeply, in fact.' For a while it didn't seem as if she was going to continue, but Helga waited it out while she gathered her thoughts into order. Eventually she finished: 'Thinking about…my parents, and things.'

'Ah,' said Helga. She set down the book. 'Yes?'

'Yes. You see…I don't remember them much.'

'I know you don't Ro, neither do I. You were very young.'

'Yes, I know. I remember that. I remember...I remember they were idiots.'

'Okay.'

'But…they were nice idiots.'

'Oh. Okay.'

Rowena sighed and continued to kill the grass with her fingers. Helga frowned and watched her.

'They were very nice people, Ro, everyone says so,' she told her, reassuringly. 'It wasn't their fault you were born a girl and Richard was a boy—'

'Oh, it's not that, not the inheritance…rubbish. Well, I don't think it is, anyway.'

'Why? Is there something wrong?'

'Not really…wrong, so much as…oh…' She sighed and turned to her friend, before declaring: 'Helly, I want my own school.'

'…Ah?' Helga managed, slightly taken aback.

'I know I don't have enough money or enough characteristics or—or a penis,' she added, hurriedly, 'and I don't have enough knowledge to teach all the subjects, but that's what teachers are for, aren't they? If we could just…if we could just combine me and you with rich and male then…it could happen, couldn't it Helly?'

After a rather startled pause, Helga replied, 'Um…'

'Couldn't it?'

'Well…I don't know Ro, I've never started my own school before. It'd be very difficult.'

'But we could,' she insisted. 'We could do it. We can do anything, remember? That's what you told me.'

'Ro, when I said that I was talking about sneaking into the boy's dormitory to put lizard eyes on Slytherin's pillow in fifth year. This is different. This is serious. This is a…a career!'

Rowena refrained from saying, "You didn't think sneaking into the boy's room was serious? I was groped by Matthew Smith!"

Instead she said, 'Careers are good Helly! We've got sturdy brains between us; wouldn't it be a shame wasting them raising demonic little children on a farm somewhere? Wouldn't you rather do something with your life?'

'But…but...failure!' she cried, desperately. 'Doom!'

'Live for the moment, Helly! Look at Lady Summers,' she said, gesturing to the red-haired elderly witch, who stalked the grounds like an angry, wrinkled cat. 'She took all the chances we'd have to take, and look at where she is now! The most reputable school of magic in the world…hell, the only school of magic in the world.'

'That undermines it's reputability a little bit, Ro.'

'Come on, Helly. I don't want to be snuffed out the same way my parents were. Completely…poof…forgotten.'

'Oh, they're not forgotten,' Helga chipped in, reassuringly, 'they're—'

'Yes they are,' Rowena interrupted, 'and don't tell me otherwise. Leaving their only daughter in the care of a drunken old lady who talks to her stuffed animals, that's no way to go! I want to do something, Helga! Come on, please…can we?'

Helga gargled for a moment. She managed: 'We're seventeen, you mental bitch!'

'So if it fails,' Rowena pressed on, grabbing desperately at her sleeve, 'then we give up! Then we launch Operation Snare-a-Man, with our young and lovely fertile bodies! Besides,' she added, as Helga wrinkled her nose at the thought, 'I'll be eighteen in a couple of months.'

'Ro…you're insane.'

'Does that mean we can do it?'

Helga rolled her eyes exasperatedly, but smiled anyway. 'We can try, Ro. But I'm not promising anything.'

'Wheee!' said Rowena, and threw the pile of dead grass in the air in celebration.

She leaned back against the tree as Helga shook her head and continued to read. The sun was still burning, the sky was still clear and the children still screamed curses at each other. But, for Rowena, the future was quickly taking shape…

She threw a shoe at a first year for good luck.

Right on the nose.

Yes.