Chapter 16: In Which a Cupboard Plays a Major Role

Rowena stared determinedly at the ground as she walked. Now she was fully-dressed, presentable and slightly less shell-shocked than half an hour ago, the last thing she wanted to see was that lanky, pale, smug, cynical, heartless, greasy, big-nosed rat-arse with a surprisingly artful tongue.

The stupid pillock! Why, why, why? Why did he have to ruin it? Now they'd have to avoid each other for ever, which would make a successful school all the more difficult to run.

On the bright side, she thought, ducking into a third-floor doorway to avoid a pair of giggling first years, at least she wouldn't be the one to go. Slytherin could quite happily live in his dungeon for the next fifty years.

There might be a slight problem at meal times, though…

Easily solved! She'd create some kind of pulley system out of drapes and ribbon, and deliver baskets of food down to him thrice daily.

Or, even better! He could choose a first-year student to act as his slave for the duration of their stay at Hogwarts. Slytherin would love that! He could create some kind of bell device, attach it to the slave's collar and let it ring whenever he needed something.

Oh, but the parents might complain…

They'd never know. We could keep him silent.

If all else fails, kill him.

Rowena banged her head against the nearest wall. She'd come up with a few bad plans over the years, but that really took the metaphorical biscuit.

Dammit. She was going to have to live with this, wasn't she?

Finally, she arrived at the hive of student activity that was the Great Hall. Eyes turned towards her, though the conversation remained constant as she budged her way through the chattering crowd in pursuit of Helga and Godric.

'Bugger off,' she mumbled, swatting her hands impatiently at a tribe of fourth years. 'And don't giggle at that,' she added to a first year, 'I expect better of you. Yes, you. Now move; I've had a bad morning.'

As she moved on, Andrew Parkinson explained sagely, 'She's part-psychic, y'see…'

'Shut up,' Rowena mumbled, though this was mainly to herself.

After a lifetime of elbowing, she finally reached Godric and Helga –

'— But really, Helga, I –'

'Oh, forget it –'

'I didn't mean it like that – '

'– Just be quiet, will you? Ro!' She turned to Rowena, who half-grinned nervously. 'I'm glad to see you're up. Lovely day isn't it? It's boiling in here though; too many students, I think. I think the seventh years are outside anyway, and some of the sixth years. Anyway, how are you?'

According to the Hufflepuff theory of conversation: To undo one line of speech, simply cover it up with as much inane babble as you dare say until everyone in range has forgotten what you said prior to aforementioned babble.

'Oh,' said Rowena, as Godric forced a smile and bowed, 'I'm fine now, thank you.' Oh, big, dirty lies. 'How are you?'

Helga and Godric both paused before mumbling, 'Fine, absolutely fine.' It seemed Rowena wasn't the only one spouting big, dirty lies, which cheered her up considerably.

Oh dear; now it was time for an awkward silence.

'Er,' said Rowena.

Helga nodded.

'Well,' she tried again, 'I think I'll go for a walk outside and make sure the seventh years aren't, er, having a big orgy, or anything. Helga?'

Helga nodded again. 'Yes, yes. I'll go with you. I'm sure you couldn't break up an orgy on your own.'

'It would be very difficult…'

Godric watched them sail off through the assembly and banged his head against the nearest wall, ignoring the curious looks he attracted from nearby students.

Thirty seconds later, he said, 'Ouch.'

It wasn't until their third silent lap of the castle grounds that Rowena said, 'Care to tell–?'

'No,' said Helga.

'OK.'

They carried on walking.

Helga said, 'Would you care to tell –?'

'No.'

'Right.'

'So we can just assume that—'

'Yes. Nothing's wrong.'

'At all.'

'Indeed.'

'OK.' Rowena glanced over to the gang of seventh year girls who sat by the lake. One amongst their number was actually a young, pale man with a beard. 'Oh, Gods.'

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Alright.'

Bloody Slytherin.

'Ach!'

'Be quiet.'

'What ye woken me up for?'

'I need a word.'

'Tough tits!'

'Just be quiet, will you? Someone's going to hear you.'

'What do I care? Ach! He's having his whassit with me!'

'Shut up. I'm not having my way with you—'

'Ach, this is vile! Put me down! Wimmin'!'

Salazar sighed, rolled his eyes and stuffed a nearby book in Hat's mouth. 'There,' he said, 'that'll—'

'Ach!'

He sighed again and nursed his aching jaw. 'Very funny, Hat. Spitting books. Very clever.'

'Just you try it again, laddy boy! Just try it! Whores!'

'Listen, you raggedy old pervert, I'll send you off to a place with as many whores and women as you like if you'll keep your snout closed for just two seconds and listen to me. Got that?'

Hat considered the offer. True, where he now sat – atop a dusty, broken bookcase in the seventh-floor store cupboard – had its perks. It was always dark enough to suit his hangover, for one thing. And the look on those kiddie's faces, when he shouted at them as they passed! Ach, the constant pools of terrified urine were a wee bit annoying after a while, but he'd only been here a couple of days; perhaps things would soon get better for him?

Besides, as the kiddies became more used to his presence, he could become a kind of local treasure. They might sing to him outside the door. Bring him strawberries and kittens, and whores with pipes and ale. They might grow to love him.

'Hat?' Salazar ventured, one eyebrow raised questioningly, 'You're button-like eyes seem to have misted over—'

'Ach! Shut ye mouth, ye poof!' He sniffed delicately. 'I just want to be loved.'

'…Right,' Salazar said eventually, deciding the last twenty seconds were probably better off deleted from memory. 'It's very dark in here, Hat. I'll just—'

'No,' Hat interrupted quickly, shuffling towards the edge of the bookcase, 'nay, you leave that wand where it is, laddy. No one needs to see what I've drawn on that wall. Or its nipples.'

The mind reeled. 'Right, Hat. You just be quiet now, and listen to me.'

'Ooh aye?'

'Yes, aye! I know you're a sorting hat, Hat, so I want you to sort this for me:' he glanced towards the door, careful to ensure no one was at the other side, 'I need to know about...decisions.'

Hat felt this was something of an anti-climax. 'Yeh what?'

'Decisions,' he repeated, seating himself on a fallen cupboard opposite Hat, 'and how they effect things. Prophecies, and such.'

'Prophecies?'

'Yeah. Look,' he sighed, leaning forwards to explain, 'if you make a decision one day to follow a prophecy—'

'Aye?'

'—but change your mind another day, can you decide to go against the prophecy? Or has your original decision made it an inarguable fact?'

'Er…'

'Since a prophecy never prophesised that a person might chose to change their mind, does that mean you're not yet living the prophecy and can therefore chose not to? Or is it inevitable?'

Hat shuffled nervously backwards. 'Ale?' he suggested.

Salazar sighed again. 'Hat, if you don't give me a word of advice I'm going to have to pick you apart, thread by thread, until you do.'

'Ach! Laddy! Don't be hasty! Re-phrase the question at least! Whores!'

'Fine!' He punched the cupboard impatiently, and slowly said, 'If one person, let us call him Ralph-'

'Nay,' said Hat.

Salazar glared at him. 'What do you mean, nay?'

'Nay Ralph.' It wasn't physically possible for Hat to shake his head, but he twitched in a way that was a vague approximation of it. 'I dinnae like the name.'

His eyes narrowed. 'What do you suggest, then?'

Hat thought it over. He decided: 'Bootsy.'

'Bootsy?' He sighed. 'Right, Bootsy. Well, let's say Bootsy one day agreed to carry out someone else's evil wishes by destroying all the...I don't know, let's say rabbits-'

'Nay!'

'You don't like rabbits?'

'Pickles,' said Hat, firmly.

Salazar shook his head. 'Right. OK. Bootsy agreed to destroy the world's supply of pickles, bringing ruin to the—' he paused before tentatively continuing, '—the pickle sellers, once upon a time. He can still change his mind about that, can't he?'

Hat nodded. 'Aye, course he can. Though pickles are better off dead!'

'Alright. But now let us say that, when Ralph agreed to destroy all pickles and pickle sellers, he was, in fact, quite happy to do so. Therefore, someone made a curse binding him to his fate, thus rendering him...sort-of...contractually obligated, as it were. Now, Bootsy hasn't yet destroyed the pickles or pickle sellers, so is he still able to change his mind?'

'Ach.'

'Stop saying ach, will you?'

'It's a tricky one! Curses aren't made to be broken, laddy boy.'

'Bootsy knows that. But can it happen?'

'He, er, might change some of it,' Hat said, privately wondering why Bootsy would be so concerned about the welfare of pickles, 'but it can't just be destroyed! Not without the say-so of the original curse-maker!'

'Right.' Salazar pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Right. And what if the original curse-maker has been dead for about ten years? And what if it's all bound up in prophecies and riddles and psychic visions?'

'Er…wimmin'!'

'Right.' He sighed. 'OK, then.'

Scanning the flock of people gathered in the Great Hall, several things passed through Rowena's mind. The first concerned the new banner that donned the far wall and the irony of its statement. "Welcome, Staff!" suggested that the new teachers would, in fact, be welcomed warmly into the school by their new employees. However, Rowena had effectively murdered the welcoming atmosphere around her by standing in a dark corner, arms folded, mumbling "hello it's very nice to meet you" in a dark voice whenever she was approached.

Helga, meanwhile, stood in the centre of the room with a tray of sausage-based snacks, occasionally scowling at Godric, who rushed around greeting, briefing and introducing the teachers with a forced grin.

Slytherin was nowhere to be seen.

For this reason, the second of Rowena's thoughts concerned the phrase "bloody Slytherin".

The third of her thoughts was focused on the staff themselves – a handful of baffled old men, two old women who refused to leave each other's sides, and four or five who couldn't have been much older than Rowena herself. Still inarguably older, though. Good Gods, what had she let herself in for?

And why wasn't Slytherin there?

She supposed this was some kind of divine punishment for attempting to befriend a Slytherin. Not that she'd even attempted it, of course. Not that they were actually friends, now she came to think about it – a friend was someone you'd entrust with your life, and Slytherin certainly didn't fall under that description! He was just an enemy who, for the sake of success and ambition, she'd been forced to peacefully co-exist with.

Honestly, officer.

The thing with the lips and the tongues had, obviously, come about because of the, er…the amount of, er…and the…things…

Why had that happened, actually? Cold, hard logic had served her well for eighteen years, and she'd be damned if it was going to let her down now! Think, Ravenclaw, think!

'Excuse me, are—'

'I don't know, I'll think of something—'

'Pardon?'

'Er…oh,' Rowena snapped out of it in time to realise the voice didn't belong to her sub-conscience, but rather a greatly confused member of staff. 'Oh,' she tried again, 'er, hello? Pardon?' She shrugged helplessly. Perhaps now would be a good time to pretend to be Danish?

Silence, brain!

The man agreed, 'Er. Are you a member of staff?'

'Sort of. I'm, er, Rowena Ravenclaw. Head mistress,' she added.

For years, Rowena had hoped the mention of her name would invoke an impressed reaction. That evening, her dream was realised.

'Bloody Hell,' he muttered.

Rowena beamed. 'Thank you. And you are?'

'Anatole Amery,' he replied, attempting to extend a hand while bowing, and consequently hitting himself in the face, 'I'll be teaching Defence against the Dark Arts.'

Anatole Amery was perhaps half an inch shorter than Rowena, but certainly less than ten years older. Something about his muscular, clumsy appearance suggested a less sincere version of Godric, this time with untidy brown hair and eyes.

She asked, 'Has Godric spoken to you yet?'

'Oh, yes,' he replied, nervously daring a glance in his direction, 'yes, very much so. For ten minutes, in fact. The same few lines,' he added, 'over and over again, while shaking my hand. Vigorously.'

Rowena winced. 'Ah, yes. I think something may be distracting him this evening.'

The something in question, at the other side of the hall, forced a cocktail sausage into the hands of an elderly woman with more violence than what was really necessary.

'If you don't mind me saying so,' Anatole said, 'the three of you seem slightly – er – preoccupied this evening.'

'You could say that, yes. Three of us are preoccupied and the other is nowhere to be seen.'

'There's another one?'

A voice in Rowena's ear – one so familiar it made her twitch – said, 'Damn right there is. Move over, shortarse, I need a word.'

Anatole looked slightly injured as he smiled and complied, nodding his goodbyes and moving away. Salazar took his place in front of her.

After an uncomfortable pause, during which Rowena gathered up the courage to look him in the eye, she finally declared, 'That was very insensitive, Slytherin. He's a member of staff, you know.'

Salazar waved a hand dismissively. 'So?'

'Well, you're supposed to be polite—'

'Who says?'

She sighed wearily, forgetting all the anxiety over seeing him again and replacing it with that old feeling of mild annoyance and disapproval. The feeling of her lips against his already felt like a long-lost memory, or the dregs of a dream. 'Nobody says, Slytherin. You just are.'

'Oh dear.' He travelled to the nearest corner and leant against the wall. Rowena, resenting her lack of willpower, followed him. 'It's his own fault.'

'How?'

'He shouldn't have got in my way.'

'He wasn't in your way!'

'Ooh. Now you're defending him,' he said, with a sneer.

Knowing the statement was inappropriate as soon as she began to say it, Rowena folded her arms and muttered, 'At least I'm not jealous.'

Up went the eyebrows. 'Jealous?'

Rowena didn't reply.

'Why would I be jealous, exactly?'

Damn him. Damn his face. Damn his eyes. Damn his mouth.

'Slytherin, I don't think this is the appropriate time or place.'

He shrugged. 'Fine. Third floor potions lab at eleven o'clock, then?' And with that he walked away, leaving Rowena gawping after him.

'N-no!' she managed to stammer, as he left her field of vision, 'No, I think not! I'm not going to just turn up wherever you say at whatever hour you please, you know! I'm—' She sighed. 'Dammit.'

And so, at eleven o'clock that night, Rowena Ravenclaw, the wise, ambitious and commanding Founder, shuffled into an empty potions classroom and declared: 'Bugger, bugger, bugger! Damn Salazar bloody Slytherin and his damn…self! Bugger!' before punching a table and sitting down in the darkness huffily.

Against all her better judgements, there she was. A flickering strip of outside light illuminated the room, revealing the enormous lack of any other life. Bloody Slytherin; she certainly wasn't going to wait any more than five minutes for him! Well, ten perhaps – but certainly less than fifteen!

She sighed despairingly. In just a few hours, Hogwarts would come to life. And where was she? Sat alone in an empty classroom waiting for the phantom snogger to make an appearance.

It wasn't as if it was a particularly bad kiss, but Slytherin was a bad person and his lips were guilty by connection. It wasn't as if she…well, liked him. In any way. At all. But even if she did – which she certainly didn't! – he was far too much up his own arse to respond with anything but cynicism and a few sarcastic comments. He didn't even like her, so –

Rowena's eyes shot fully open. Oh God, she thought, horrified, I've become Salazar Slytherin's tongue puppet!

The arsey bastard! The nerve! He lures people into a state of confused co-existence and then sticks his tongue in their mouth! He –

'Surely you can at least let me explain—'

'No, I can't! Don't you understand what "quiet time" means, Godric?'

Crap!

With all the grace of a stuffed goose, Rowena launched herself from the table and onto her hands and knees, shuffled off to the nearest cabinet –

'I understand, but I really think—'

- which was locked –

'I don't want to talk to you right now!'

She dashed to the other side of the room and hurled herself into a cupboard, then held the door closed from the inside and –

'Well, Ravenclaw, I must say this is getting all-too familiar.'

'Argh!'

The cupboard was small, dark and dusty, and made all the more cramped by the presence of…

'Are you going to close the door, or what?'

…which was frankly ridiculous!

Rowena stared at him. He really had to be in such close proximity again? So unavoidable? Did God really hate her this much? Of course, she could always jump out of the cupboard, avoid the confrontation and hope for the best, but…

'Close the door, will you?'

She obediently did so, and subsided down the cupboard wall with a groan.

Salazar whispered, 'Leg room! Move it or lose it,' so she adjusted herself accordingly. There she sat: Rowena Ravenclaw, the wisest of the Founders, playing a game of three-dimensional twister inside an old cupboard, with Salazar Slytherin practically stood on her ankles in an attempt to maintain his balance.

Only bad things could come of this.

'Salazar,' she began, 'I'm a bit –'

He hissed a "shush" in her direction as Helga and Godric's squabbling grew louder and louder as they approached the room. Rowena gave a resigned sigh and glanced up at Slytherin as he tried his best to maintain his current pose – which, unintelligibly, involved one foot between Rowena's knees and the other by her elbow, and at least one body part in contact with all four walls.

The squabbling faded away. Salazar and Rowena were once again left alone in a confined, uncomfortable storage space.

He finally diverted his attention to her and, in the most inappropriately cheerful and comfortable tones imaginable, said, 'What ho, Ravenclaw. You appear to be staring at my crotch.'

'I am not staring at your crotch!' she hissed back, much to his amusement.

'Really? It's rather dark down there; you could be looking anywhere—'

'I think I'd know if I were staring at your crotch!'

'Why? Been looking, have you?'

'No! I –' And how had it come to be that Salazar Slytherin, with whom she had recently shared a tentative, delicious, lip-based moment, was now the man accusing her of gazing at his privates within the confines of a cupboard?

'Alright,' he said, 'I'll believe you, this once.' Both his voice and expression, she saw, as she dared glance upwards again, were strained with the effort of balancing. If he should collapse, she'd undoubtedly end up with a thigh in her mouth and in need of urgent medical attention, and that would be very difficult to explain.

'Well, thank you,' she replied, as sarcastically as her position allowed, 'but what are you doing here?'

'What does it look like I'm doing here? Other than receiving the old eye-up from yourself—'

'I am not—!'

'I'm hiding, of course.'

'You were supposed to meet me five minutes ago,' she muttered, "accidentally" elbowing him in the calf. Saying "five minutes" sounded a lot less suspicious than the precise time, which was eight minutes and twenty seconds at last look.

'Ouch. I was late, what can I say?'

'Oh, so you decided to fly in via cupboard?'

'I ran in just ahead of Hufflepuff and Godders,' he replied calmly. 'I did look for you, but at that precise moment you were in the midst of hurling yourself to the ground and crawling around on all fours.'

She didn't reply, but swore many times mentally.

'You alright down there?' he added, adjusting the position of his arms above his head.

Unable to fathom whether this was sarcasm or not, she just shrugged and said, 'Well, this is all very nice, but I think we should probably get out now.'

'Oh! But the night is young. Let's start a fire and crack open the champagne, I've left it chilling in my trouser pocket—'

'Come on! I'm boiling. You must be sweating up there—'

'—And if that isn't a sordid come-on, I don't know what is—'

'—Salazar! Open the door, please!'

'I can't,' he replied, with a shrug, 'it's locked.'

'Locked?'

'Yes,' he replied, with the same level of calmness as before, 'it locked when you closed the door.'

'But—'

'Just use your wand, woman. I didn't bring mine.'

Silence.

'Ravenclaw, you did bring a wand, didn't you?'

'Slytherin, I didn't imagine I'd get stuck in a cupboard tonight!'

He sighed wearily. 'Why? You should know that whenever we're together, your chances of getting locked in a cupboard immediately double!'

'Bugger! You just stood on my dress!'

'Oh, diddums! My arms are killing me, trying to balance above your head! I am not an umbrella!'

'Oh, just…shush! Shush!' She took a deep breath and paused. 'Now. We're going to have to keep quiet, or someone's going to hear and this is going to take some explaining.'

'Pfft. What's an innocent crouch in the cupboard, between friends?'

'Oh, be quiet,' she mumbled distractedly, trying the door. 'Hm.'

'Hm?'

'It's stuck.'

'Really, Sherlock?'

'Shush.'

'At least stand up,' he demanded, voice becoming increasingly strained, 'if we're both at ninety degrees, I should be able to put my arms down and probably not fall on your head.'

'Uh,' she said, uncertainly. Standing up would mean a certain unavoidable amount of body contact. Rubbing, if she had to be precise. And a strong possibility of concussion.

'In your own time,' he muttered.

'Alright, alright, just…raise your chin up, or I'm going to bang into it. Right…'

Dear, dear – she never was very good at athletics. Still, moving carefully, with her shoulders backed against the wall and her knees at unnatural angles, she began her shaky descent upwards, until—

'For the sake of my vital organs, Ravenclaw, do not move that knee any higher. Oh Gods,' he added, through a gasp, 'my back bloody hurts. Hurry up!'

Time for a quick shuffle, and a certain amount of limb re-arrangement.

'Hurry up!'

'Be a man, Slytherin—'

'Only if you move that knee!'

'Oh, I'm—' awkward moment of silence, as a certain amount of chest-based friction occurred, '—ouch, move your arm—'

'—Trying—'

'—On three—'

'—Three!'

The cupboard teetered and groaned uncertainly for a few seconds, threatening collapse, until it finally stilled. There was a joint sigh of relief.

Now Rowena's only problem was the small issue of Salazar's smirk, and the fact that it was in perfect alignment with her forehead and mere centimetres away. In fact, if she stuck her tongue out far enough, she'd probably make contact with his jugular.

Oh, bother.

'Salazar,' she said carefully, pulling her head back as far as possible, 'I realise this may not be the most ideal time or place, but we need to talk about…things.'

Salazar said, 'Is this conversation going to lead to sex?'

'No!'

'Oh, alright. I'll keep my trousers on, then.'