Chapter 8: The Many Faces of Mr Potato Head

Helga stared into Rowena's eyes, her face a picture of absolute joy with only a touch of wistful envy. Very slowly, she said, 'That was the best story I ever heard.'

Rowena laughed. 'It was rather amusing.'

'Bollocking badgers.'

'It wasn't that amusing.'

'I'm so jealous!'

'Jealous?' she repeated, with another laugh. 'Why would that be, Oh Bollocker of Badgers?'

Helga opened and closed her mouth several times disbelievingly, as if shocked Rowena couldn't see why it wouldn't be. 'You got Slytherin!' she said at last. 'You got him!'

'I didn't get him, Helly! He's still alive, you know.'

'Unfortunately,' Helga mumbled.

'I'm sure you don't mean that.'

'Want a bet?'

'My point is, all I did was hit him with a couple of basic spells to cause a few ouches—'

'—And pull his trousers down—'

'—Yes, yes, thanks for reminding me. It's not like I knocked him unconscious or anything.'

Helga lowered her voice conspiratorially, her expression suddenly sombre, and asked: 'Be honest, Ro…what do his legs look like?'

Rowena recoiled in horror at the thought.

'It's a very important question!' Helga insisted.

'I beg to differ! Why on Earth are you asking?'

Helga's giggles died down. She shrugged. 'I've no idea. I just think it's the kind of thing I should know, having hated him for so long. It's a privilege!' she insisted, as Rowena shook her head disbelievingly.

'I can't believe you're asking me this.'

'I can't believe I'm asking. Come on Ro, tell me!'

'I'm trying to block this experience from my memory, Helga! This could lead to severe trauma in later life, you know.'

'Like the frog thing?'

'Yes!'

'Well, that worked out fine! Ish.' She hit Rowena with a pillow. 'Come on. Share the pain.'

Rowena took a deep breath and relented. Speaking from memory of the cupboard incident, rather than the duel (when she had looked away rather quickly to avoid further humiliation), she said: 'Well, they're sort of…' She crinkled her nose. 'Sort of…'

'Spotty?'

'No!'

'Hairy?'

'Well, sort of—'

'Uncontrollably hairy?'

'Helga!'

'Like a pit bull terrier?'

'Helga!' Rowena screeched, launching the pillow at her face. 'It's bad enough you're making me relive this experience – I can't live a full and happy life with images of pit bull Salazar in my mind forever. Eurgh,' she added, after a few seconds of wildly inappropriate mental images.

Helga smiled and nodded in sympathetic understanding. 'So not as hairy as a small dog,' she pressed on, 'but still hairy.'

Rowena, realising there was no way of escaping the conversation now she had reluctantly climbed into it, nodded. 'Naturally hairy, I suppose. Look, can we…can we use another word instead of "hairy"? It's making me feel slightly ill.'

'Alright, so they're quite…er…' she glanced around the room in search of inspiration, before settling on: 'wardrobe. They're quite wardrobe, but not as wardrobe as a dog. Anything else?'

'What like? Helga, I swear, if I die now with the forced memory of…them in my mind, I'm dragging you down to Hell with me.'

'Were they smelly?'

'Helga! I did not smell them!'

'Wiry?'

Rowena nodded reluctantly. 'Yes, I suppose they were pretty skinny. But that's no surprise; he's a pretty skinny person. Oh, and pale,' she added quickly, before Helga had time to interject with something disgusting, 'from what I could gather.'

Helga stared at the floor for a while, mentally piecing together the information and constructing Salazar's left leg in her minds eye. 'So,' she said eventually, 'you're saying he's hairy, malnourished and pasty?'

'Basically, yes.'

'With a possibility of odour?'

'Well…yes.'

'Eugh.'

'I told you,' said Rowena.

Helga didn't reply, but looked slightly ill and shuffled about Rowena's bed – the place they were both seated – uncomfortably. 'Now my depraved curiosity is sated and I may die in torment.'

'Indeed. Well, what happened to you?'

'When?'

'You know when! When you and darling Godric went for a stroll—'

'Oh, Lord,' Helga groaned, her shoulders slumping at the memory.

'Ah. That bad?'

'It was awful, Ro!' she cried dramatically, dropping immediately into a foetal position.

'Surely not awful—'

'Oh, you would say that! You weren't there! I mean, at first I thought "hooray, I'm walking with Godric Gryffindor—"'

'The Godric Gryffindor!' Rowena chipped in.

'Yes, "I'm walking with The Godric Gryffindor, and we're making casual conversation, and—"'

'Casual conversation occurred? That's good.'

'No!'

'No?'

'No! Because the casual conversation soon ran out, and I had nothing left to say!'

Rowena could imagine the scene all to well. She winced. 'You didn't flash your knickers and do the dance, did you?'

'No.'

'Well then, it could have been worse.'

Helga hung her head despairingly and, her tone quiet and calm, mumbled, 'No, it really couldn't.'

'Did you lick his face like a dog?'

'No.'

'Did you tell him you wanted his red-headed babies?'

'Ro…'

'Yes?'

'I…I said…'

Rowena braced herself. 'Go on?'

'I said…I said…"Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"'

'Oh, Helly!'

Helga hugged a pillow tightly and shook her head. 'Why did I…?'

Rowena patted her friend's shoulder comfortingly. 'It still could have been worse,' she promised, in a desperate attempt to make her feel better. It didn't seem to be working.

'How? How could it have been worse?'

'You could have said…er…'

'Exactly!'

'Helga,' Rowena said, more sternly, deciding the "get-a-grip" method would have to suffice, 'it's not the end of the world.'

'Oh, I wish it was! I should have just dropped the dress and shimmied, at least I would have—'

'What was his reaction?'

She groaned again at the memory. 'He said, "Um, yes, very nice." Dammit all—'

'And then?'

'—Then he gave me a bit of a funny look, then he looked away very quickly and I spent the next few minutes gazing vacantly at the ground, wishing it would swallow me up, grind my bones to powder and sprinkle it into his stupid fuzzy head.'

'Oh, Helga—'

'Enough!' She raised one hand limply, in a feeble display of command. 'Enough of your sympathy, Miss Trouser-Dropper. If you don't quite mind –' she made her way towards the door, '– I'm going to find an empty room and scream in it.' The door swung shut after her with a clunk.

Very weakly, Rowena said, 'Have fun.'

Rowena balanced atop a shaky wooden ladder and struggled to add the last ribbon (of many) to the ceiling of what would one day be the Great Hall. She prodded it with her wand until it stuck, before moving it 0.2cm to the left.

Then back to where it had started.

Then a millimetre or so to the right.

Then, a look of mild annoyance on her face, back to the left.

From floor level, a familiar bored drawl said: 'If you don't stick it somewhere, Ravenclaw, I won't think twice about tipping over this ladder.'

'Shut up,' Rowena replied automatically.

'You know, you could have just charmed it into the perfect position—'

'Shut up.'

'—Which would have taken about five seconds, instead of the half an hour you've been up there.'

'Shut,' Rowena replied, slowly, 'up.' She began her descent down the ladders, shaking her head and considering the many faces of Salazar Slytherin she had discovered during the previous two hours they had spent decorating the Great Hall together:

First there was the "What you see is what you get" Slytherin she had met six years ago. This was a Salazar based on first impressions: he was grouchy, defensive, judgemental and arrogant. At eleven years old she had first met this Salazar, and since then he had coldly greeted many others.

The next face was named "Slytherin", pronounced with an edge of venom. He teased and taunted and generally made a nuisance of himself, and Rowena was quite happy to beat him soundly with a stick.

"Salazar" was the friendlier side of him; the side that flirted and chatted and made generally okay-company, though he didn't seem to surface much. "War Slytherin" was the toughest side Rowena had seen of him, though she had only one recollection of his appearance in the face of Godric. "Sally" was the more pathetic and idle version of him.

There were many more: "Show-Off Sally", "Happy Sally", "Brooding Sally", "I-know-a-song-that'll-get-on-your-nerves Sally", "Out in public Sally"…

As she touched down on the cold stone floor, Rowena wondered which Salazar she was about to come face-to-face with. The only way to find out was to complain:

'You could've told me there was a charm two hours ago, you know, before I started putting the decorations up.'

He shrugged in response and agreed: 'I could have done, but I could see up your dress while you were up there.'

Rowena wheeled around to face him, a sudden tinge of red appearing in her cheeks. 'What?'

'I'm kidding,' he said, with a superior grin. Rowena released a breath as the redness faded. He seemed to be a "Salazar" and "I-know-a-song-that'll-get-on-your-nerves Sally" cross this evening.

In a desperate attempt to change subject, Rowena said: 'I'm beginning to wonder the point of this party, Salazar. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I'm starting to wonder if it's just an excuse for you to be annoying.'

'Of course not, Ravenclaw. Only someone completely paranoid and self-obsessed would think that.'

'Good point. You don't need an excuse to be annoying.'

'Touché.'

Unintentionally using a defensive tone, Rowena said, 'I'm not paranoid and self-obsessed.'

Salazar raised his eyebrows for a split second and, with his back to her, busied himself with taking the ladder down. 'I know. I was just being a prat.'

'No change there, then. Need a hand?'

'Bloodyfuckinghellouch. No, this is a man's job.'

Rowena nodded in understanding and took a few steps back, mainly to admire her handiwork but also to watch Salazar struggle with the enormous ladders, which were currently threatening to collapse on his head.

'You could always charm it away,' Rowena smiled, enjoying the role-reversal.

'I know, I'm going to. Shut up.'

Rowena grinned again, finally understanding the joy that came with irritating a failure. No wonder Salazar got such a kick out of it.

The would-be Great Hall was looking very…decorative. Sort of. Well, it was like getting a piece of mud, painting it pink, adding tassels and bells and a smiley face. Decorated? Yes. Pretty? In a strange way, yes. Different? Yes. But still a piece of mud. Regardless of how many enormous red ribbons donned the area where the walls met the ceiling, and regardless of how many banners were on the walls and how many tables and chairs and suspicious ale-keg looking things sat around the floor…it was still a big, stone room. Big, chilly, empty, imposing and, well, stony.

'I have a splinter,' Salazar complained grouchily, once the ladders had been successfully charmed away.

'Oh dear,' Rowena replied, without much sympathy. She didn't want to encourage him. 'If you'd just done a spell on them straight away, like I said, you wouldn't—'

'It's not that. I got it from my wand.'

At this, Rowena had to giggle. Salazar's face remained as stony as the hall around him.

'It's not funny,' he said, sulkily, 'it's about an inch long.'

Rowena giggled so hard she almost doubled over. Lord, she had a mind like a privy sometimes.

Salazar caught up. 'Oh, very funny. I meant the splinter, you idle-minded pervert.'

Rowena sobered up. 'Sorry,' she mumbled, allowing herself to smile only very slightly.

'Well, are you going to get it out for me? Oh, don't laugh. I meant the splinter.'

Rowena re-sobered herself. 'Yes, fine. Where is it?'

Salazar raised his left hand, so the palm faced upwards. They were stood at least seven feet away from each other but, apparently acting on principle, Salazar didn't approach her. Rowena sighed and walked towards him.

She grabbed hold of his hand in a firm, no-nonsense sort of way and proceeded to prod the area for about thirty seconds, to a chorus of "ouches" from Salazar, who eventually said, 'Yes, very good, it's out,' and pulled his hand away from her.

Rowena regarded him sceptically. 'No it isn't, I can still see it.'

'Well, I'll find a charm later. You'd think a simple Accio would work—'

'I thought about that, but who's to say it's not going to just shoot off into my hand?'

'Better yours than mine.'

She grabbed his hand again and continued to poke. He continued to flinch in a pathetic manner.

'You know,' she said, as the prodding continued, 'your complete inability to touch a member of the opposite sex without physically baulking reveals a lot about your relationship with women.'

Salazar rolled his eyes, but finally ceased his flinching. 'Thank you, Doctor Freud.'

'You're welcome, Mr Potato Head.'

'I don't want to worry you, but you clearly have the hands of a butcher – argh! Give up, she-devil—'

'Oh, do be quiet,' she sighed, as he snatched his hand away. 'Why can't I just get it out the muggle way?'

Normally, Salazar made an effort to keep his gaze locked on whoever he was speaking to; mainly, Rowena suspected, in an attempt to put them off. Now he suddenly looked away and mumbled beneath his breath.

'What was that?' Rowena asked, theatrically.

'I said, it nips a bit. Kind of painful. Who knows what internal damage you might be inflicting?'

Rowena stared at him disbelievingly for a while. 'I cannot believe you just said that,' she said, eventually.

'Well, it's true.'

'Do you realise you're being a complete woman?'

He rolled his eyes again. 'Oh, yes. "Do my breasts look big in this?"'

'It's "bum", Salazar. "Bum", not breasts.'

He waved his splinter-free hand at her impatiently. 'I'll never understand your language. Is that all the decorating you're going to do?'

Rowena sniffed in a disapproving manner. The phrase Salazar had just used was the interior design equivalent of "so, is that what you're wearing?"

'Yes, that's all I'm doing. Is that quite alright with you?'

He shrugged and examined the decorativeness of the Hall. 'We probably didn't need as many ribbons.'

'Just shut up.'

'Helly?'

'Mm?'

'I feel like…'

'Yes?'

'A horse.'

Helga reluctantly removed her gaze from the dog-eared pages of her book and surveyed her friend sceptically. 'A what?'

'A horse,' Rowena repeated, glaring at her reflection despairingly. 'It's this dress, that's what it is.'

'Um, Ro?'

'Yes?'

'The dress is blue.'

'Yes.'

'Horses aren't.'

'That's not very comforting, Helly, but thank you for the observation nonetheless.'

'No problem. Are you nervous, Ro?'

Rowena tried to shrug casually and failed; the gesture looked more like a shudder. She tore her eyes away and turned to the window. Twilight was approaching, and the sky was heavy with dark grey clouds. Villagers swarmed up the hill to the castle, illuminated by points of white wand-light.

'A few people are on the way,' she announced, to avoid answering Helga's question.

'How many?'

'I don't know…twenty, maybe? Twenty-five? They're all in a group.'

'Oh Lord, I hope they're not muggles on a witch-hunt. Remember when that happened at school?'

Rowena nodded, and allowed herself to laugh at the memories. 'I remember you turning one of them into a goat when they tried invading the transfiguration classroom…'

'That was an accident!'

'…And Salazar whipped off his tunic and started riding it around the room singing an inappropriate song about French girls?'

'I remember! He was lucky not to get kicked out!'

'He was lucky? Helly, we turned two of them into fish and poured them down the latrine!'

'In self-defence! Besides, we were only in our second year, we were naïve and shocked, and couldn't be held responsible for our actions…'

'…And that's our story and we're sticking to it! Oh Lord, remember when Crispin Lightfoot went into the latrine a week later and—'

'Poor Crispin!'

'Shock of his life, poor lad. He still walks a bit funny, you know.'

'Like a duck, so I hear.'

Rowena's smile faded again as she caught sight of the second group of villagers heading towards the castle. There were perhaps thirty points of light above them.

'I look like a horse,' she said again.

Helga shook her head and assured her, 'You look fine. Just concentrate on smiling at people and handing out biscuits, and all will be well.'

Smoothing the none-existent wrinkles from her gown, Rowena pondered, 'I wonder what the plan is for tonight, exactly?'

The worried expression on Helga's face suddenly worsened. 'You don't know?'

'No, I've really left it up to Salazar to plan things – I mean, I can't plan everything, you know…'

Helga sat down. 'Oh god.'

'Can't be that bad,' Rowena said, uncertainly. She figeted with her hair. 'I mean...OK he's a massive arse and intolerable git-head, but if it wasn't for him we would never have even bought the castle. So let's try and be nice,' she added, subtly.

'I will if he will,' Helga grumbled, crossing her arms.

Any further conversation was interrupted by a single knock on the door. It was the knock of someone who knew full well they were interrupting something and, if their knock went unanswered, would probably wander in anyway and be obnoxious. Only one person could knock like that.

'Come in, Slytherin.'

He obediently did so, looking mainly bored and faintly amused. The only effort he had made regarding his appearance was to clean his tunic and tie back his hair; he hadn't even shaved his beard, and one trouser leg had a funny orange stain at the bottom.

He drew a deep breath, and then greeted them with a slight overstatement: 'Hello, friends.' Diverting his attention to Helga alone, he added: 'Blondey, get downstairs. Tall, dark and ghastly needs some help.'

Helga stared. 'Who?'

'Godders.'

'Oh! Godric, well, OK.' She hoisted her breasts an inch or so higher. 'Are you coming, Ro?'

Ro, giggling silently, sobered up and shook her head. 'I'll be down in a minute or two. I have another five minutes of self-nullifying hatred scheduled.'

'Oh, alright. I'll see you in the hall, then. Good luck.'

'Yeah…'

The door slammed shut after Helga as she left the room, leaving Rowena and Salazar alone together. Rowena stood up.

'Alright, how much did you hear?'

Salazar smirked and leant against the closed door. 'Not that much, actually. From about "Poor Crispin" onwards— and, by the way, I don't see why you care so much, because Crispin Lightfoot is a complete tit.'

'Oh. So you heard—'

'Rowena, I'm surprised the entire castle didn't hear you call me an arse.' He sniffed. His glare faltered. 'Actually, it...sort of hurt my feelings.'

Rowena blinked. 'Really?'

'Don't be an idiot.'

Yet again, she smoothed the none-existent wrinkles from her dress and combed the none-existent stray hairs on her head. 'You say that, Salazar,' she said, her eyes locked on the reflection of the one hair that dared stick out, 'but I know you're dying on the inside.'

'Yes. Of course.'

'Salazar, do I look like a horse?'

'No.'

She waited a while for him to add something to that assertion. He didn't.

'Oh. Thanks.'

'No problem. Do my breasts look big in this?'

'Absolutely.'

'Fantastic. When are you planning on coming downstairs?'

'As soon as I stop feeling like I might vomit on the first visitor I lay eyes on…what's going on, by the way?'

'In the hall?' He shrugged and made himself comfortable on Rowena's chair, flicking through Helga's discarded book. 'Not much.'

'"Not much"? There must be something.'

'Fine, there's much frolicking and frivolity, some schmoozing and an ample amount of recreation. Archery, that sort of thing. Badger baiting. Whatever.'

Rowena turned on him, hands on hips. 'What in hell are you talking about?'

'No idea.' He shrugged and, catching her look of concern, said, 'Look, it's going to be fine.'

Rowena gave a bitter laugh. 'How can you possibly be sure?'

'Because I planned it,' he said, calmly, 'and my whole life has been a series of rolling successes.'

'You brought ale, didn't you?'

'Of course.'

'Salazar!'

He grinned, stood up and held the door open for her. 'I'm kidding, Ravenclaw, of course. I'm not the sort of person who would involve alcohol in such an important and formal occasion.'

As she began her descent downstairs, Rowena replied: 'Yes, you are.'

'There you have it, then.'

'Just…behave,' she mumbled, glancing back at him. 'I'm the one in charge of this evening.'

'Sure you are.'

'I am! I'm a mature, responsible adult.'

'Yes,' said Salazar, sarcastically, 'and I am Eros, God of physical love.'

'A small, demonic child in a nappy.'

He considered the thought briefly, then answered, 'Damn straight.'