Chapter 18: Horrible Memories of Flaming Pastries

The black, heavy scent of smoke filled Rowena's nostrils, and suddenly she was thirteen again: Helga squealed and giggled as she prodded the logs on the common room fire, spitting yellow sparks across the floor and glowing in the darkness. Rowena, the shiny highlight of her sweaty, pink face visible by the light of the fire, fell backwards and laughed until tears formed in her eyes and spluttered sentiments of glee.

Further back still was her grandmother's kitchen fire, which Rowena would loll about near, lost in her own world and under firm house arrest. She stared at the tapestries, mind fixed on school work and her spot near the river, and how she would keep Elvina Hart away from it by any means necessary. She thought about Helga, and their afternoon spent shopping with the money they may or may not have stolen from Helga's uncle Ulrich while he was drunk. She thought about that Slytherin boy from her school house who threw a potato at her, and why Godric Gryffindor would ever associate with him.

The thick, black scent of the fire filled the air, and somebody screamed –

'Rowena! Your bloody pie's on fire!'

'Christ in a dinghy!'

'Sorry about that, Helly,' Rowena mumbled, once the fire had been fully extinguished, 'I was in my own world.'

'So I saw,' Helga muttered, a hint of resentment in her tone.

'No need to sound so angry.'

'Rowena, you were asleep.'

'Was I?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.' She shrugged helplessly and pulled an apron around herself. 'Sorry, Helly. Now, class,' she said, turning to the terrified girls before her, 'there's a wrong and a right way to make a pie. That,' she said, pointing towards the scorched stove, 'was the wrong way.'

The girls – a combination of first and second year pupils – nodded in horrified obedience.

Rowena also nodded, and asked, 'Did any one notice my deliberate mistake?'

Silence.

'Anyone?'

A short girl, dwarfed by her huge robes and red hair, raised a tentative hand.

'Yes, Christina?'

'Er, Miss fell asleep, Miss.'

Rowena nodded enthusiastically. 'Yes, yes, Christina, the Professor went to sleep. That was my deliberate mistake.'

'Er, Professor also made the oven too hot.'

'No, Christina, Professor did not make – oh, did I?' Beside her, Helga nodded gravely.

'Yes, Professor. Professor also made the pastry too thick.'

'No,' said Rowena.

'Yes,' said Helga.

Christina nodded. 'You also didn't cook the meat properly.'

Rowena sighed. 'I did!'

'You didn't,' said a short-haired second year, 'it was still pink.'

'It was rare!'

'It was poisonous.'

Helga nodded. 'I was going to point it out, Ro—'

Another first year said, 'It was also the wrong kind of meat.'

'And you forgot to add the gravy.'

'And you left the skins on the vegetables.'

'You're supposed to!' Rowena cried, shrinking backwards slightly. 'That's where all the nutrients are!'

'Not freshly-dug vegetables, Professor,' said Christina, 'that's where all the germs are.'

'And the poison,' Helga added.

'You don't get poisonous vegetables!'

Another student said, 'Not in the kind we've been using, Professor. You dug the wrong vegetables.'

'I didn't!'

'You did, I saw you.'

'Then why didn't you tell me?'

As one, the class retorted, 'Deliberate mistake.'

Rowena gave a forced grin, then slowly turned to Helga to whisper, 'I hate these bastards.'

Helga's eyes closed. 'Ro…you've still got sonorous on.'

A tiny part of Rowena Ravenclaw shrivelled up and died.

'Right,' she said eventually, not daring to turn around, 'now I've demonstrated how not to make a pie, I'm going to leave you in the ever-capable hands of Professor Hufflepuff, who will show you how to do it just right. I want you to remember all my mistakes, write them down and bring it back to me as homework. You might want to start with "Dared to dream of a successful future", but leave out "Swore at class of wealthy students".'

Behind her, there was a simultaneous chorus of, 'Yes, Professor Ravenclaw.'

'Ro,' said Helga, warningly, 'you're not leaving me.'

'I have to, Helga. Or the world will collapse. And God knows, we don't want that to happen. Adieu.'

As Rowena drifted back to Ravenclaw Tower, she wondered what people would think about her in one hundred years' time. Would historical inaccuracy and legend paint her as a wise, witty, noble genius? Or the idiot who spent God-knows-how-long torturing herself over a scrawny fellow with a nose like a rapier?

Clearly, she was a failure. Somewhere along the line she was supposed to take someone's advice or ignore someone's opinion or…something. Whatever it was, she hadn't done it properly. Now the school was going to fail and Salazar was going to go traipsing off into the sunset with the girl with the large forehead, and even though she didn't care, well, she did.

God, she wanted a…something. Not a drink. A lie-down? A wrestling match? A tobacco pipe? A slap around the face? A sharpened stick and something to hit with it?

Ale. Whores. Wimmin.

Oh gods above, where was she now? And why did that storeroom smell like a tavern?

Helga knocked on the door of a dungeon classroom; lightly at first, but with increasing force as her knocks went unanswered.

Finally, a voice from inside the room said, 'It's open.'

She pushed the door open and went inside. Through the thick clouds of smoke that billowed out of the room, she could just about make out the thin figure perched on the end of his desk. Looking slightly closer, she could just about see the rows of seventh years sat in front of him, gingerly tapping their cauldrons.

'May I have a word, Professor Slytherin?' she asked.

Slytherin raised an eyebrow. 'I'm afraid I'm supervising a class at the moment.'

Lowering her voice, Helga said, 'You're sat cross-legged on a table in a room that smells of dead goat, Slytherin. I'm sure you can lend me a minute of your time.'

'Oh yes,' he said, without lowering his voice, 'I thought I recognised that odour. I was thinking of something in the bovine family initially, but then I remembered the donkey—'

'I don't have time to discuss your sexual history, Slytherin. I'd like a word.'

'I'm afraid I'm busy.'

'I want a word.'

'As you can see, I'm teaching.'

'If I don't get a word,' she said, through gritted teeth, 'I'll have to cut off your ghoulies and have them cast in stainless steel to be used as very small paperweights.'

Slytherin smiled. 'Well, that'd certainly solve all your filing problems.'

'Now, Slytherin. I don't have time for this.'

'Fine, fine.' He turned to his class. 'Amuse yourselves for a minute or two, I'll be just outside.'

There was a mumble of "yes, Professor" as they exited the room, Helga closing the door after them.

Slytherin smirked and leant against the wall, arms folded as usual. 'Yes?' he prompted. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of being threatened by you today?'

'The pleasure's all mine. What have you done to Rowena?'

Slytherin's eyebrows rose again, and for the briefest moment he glanced away. 'What do you mean?'

'Have a guess.'

'Gone on a homicidal rampage, has she?'

'No.'

'Wouldn't surprise me if she had. She's always had that look about her.'

Helga took a deep breath, as if summoning the courage to continue: 'Don't act as if you're friends, Slytherin. I know Rowena, and I know what's best for her.'

He cocked an eyebrow. 'There's a grand statement.'

'It's not subtle,' she conceded, 'but it's true.'

He just smirked.

'Whatever you've done or said,' Helga continued, keeping her voice down, 'it's had an effect. Well done. And if you cared about her even slightly you'd undo it – because - because you're not her friend, Slytherin. Whatever you are, you're not her friend. Could you argue that?'

Slytherin lowered his eyes. He didn't stop smirking.

'Right, then,' said Helga uncertainly, turning on her heel, 'I'll leave you to your goat smell.'

'Someone's in a bad mood.'

She stopped in her tracks and turned around. 'Well,' she said, 'we can't all be jolly Mr Marshmallow, can we?'

'Godder's gone and got your knickers in a twist, has he?'

'Don't sound so delighted.'

'Relationships often fall apart when people keep secrets from one another.'

'Oh, really,' she snapped, his falsely sincere tone making her fists itch. 'And what would you know about relationships?'

'Did you punch him when he told you? I'd have punched him.'

'Shut up. Good bye.'

Her escape was prevented as he held onto her arm, and demanded, 'When did he tell you?'

'That's none of your business.'

'Must've been a shock - finding out what he really is, after so long-'

'I thought I was pregnant,' said Helga, quietly.

Salazar quickly released her arm.

'But I'm not,' she mumbled. She sniffed and brushed the creases from her sleeve. 'But I thought I was.'

The classroom door opened, and Heather Bettany appeared. 'Have you finished, Professor? Crispin's on fire.'

'Yes,' said Slytherin, not taking his eyes off Helga, 'yes, I'm coming.'

'Ach,' said Hat, 'the man's an arse!'

'I know, I know,' said Rowena, 'he's poisoned my mind. He's done something. He's…' She gesticulated wildly for a moment or two, before concluding, 'He's woven his magic juju all over me.'

'Ach, pervert!'

'No no,' said Rowena, hurriedly, 'that was a metaphor. Not…not whatever you think it was. No. God no.'

Rowena had plunged to many lows during her career, but none could quite match the situation she now found herself in: hunched in a storeroom, drowning her sorrows with a talking hat. She took a gulp of ale.

'I'm just saying,' she continued, 'that a year ago – less, even – I wouldn't have looked at him twice, unless I was going to spit on him.'

'Fair enough,' said Hat.

'But over the last few days he's had me following him around like an idiot – a shame to the female race!'

'Wimmin!'

'Exactly! What happened to my, to my…ambitions?'

'Ach,' said Hat, 'are ye sat on them?'

'No, no. He is!'

'Bastard!'

'Yes! Only – only metaphorically, of course.'

'Ach. Ale!'

'Yes, ale! Oh – for you, you mean?'

'Aye!'

'Right…' She clambered to her feet, climbed over a mop and reached over to the battered cabinet Hat lived above, then poured a bottle of unlabelled liquid into his tip.

'Aye, aye,' he said, 'that'll do, woman! Go steady on the hard stuff.'

'Right, right. Sorry.'

'I'm only made of a potato sack!'

'I said I was sorry.' She sat back down again, and sighed forlornly. 'What are they going to think of me, Hat?'

'Who?'

'Everyone! In, in a hundred years' time when I'm dead, and that. Are they going to think I'm some drunk, lusty idiot with nice hair? A girl who sat in storerooms and cupboards and did strange and unusual things?'

'Well,' said Hat, 'you are!'

'I know I am! But I don't want them to think that!'

'What about me?' said Hat. 'What will they say about me?'

'Oh…I don't know,' she said, waving her hand dismissively, 'we'll tell them something good about you. Say you were Godric's, or something.'

'Ach! The big red lummox?'

'Yes, that one.'

'Whores!'

'He most certainly isn't, I'm sure I'd know if he was.'

'I wants me some whores!'

'Well, you can't have any!' She sniffed and folded her arms. 'Isn't my company good enough?'

'Could be better,' said Hat.

Rowena climbed to her feet and pointed at Hat accusingly. 'Look, Mr Hat! I've talked to you, I've, I've fed you and I've clothed you!'

'Lies!'

'Not lies, truth! And I will not hear of that kind of…slander.'

'But—'

'I will not hear you!'

'Ach, you're a pal!'

Rowena beamed. 'I am, aren't I? I'm really very good. And I made a tapestry, once.'

'Aye?'

'Aye. It had birds and bees on.' She frowned and sat back down. 'Of course, looking back at it now I see it's all a coded phallic metaphor. Oh, Hat!'

'Aye?'

'What am I going to do?'

'Er…ale!'

'Eugh. Really?' She frowned, stared at the bottle of ale and shook her head. 'No, I don't think so. It knows me.'

'I know ye!'

'I know you know me, you know I do.'

'Er…whores!'

'What?' She looked up and shook her head again. 'I don't go in for that kind of thing, Hat. It's all very sordid.'

'Ach.'

'You know, you remind me very much of my brother. Wherever he is now.' She rubbed her temples, and continued, 'I imagine he's in a port somewhere, with a breast in one hand and a bottle of shiny red stuff in the other. Well bravo to him, I say!'

'I'll drink to that!'

'No, no,' said Rowena, sitting back down, 'no more to drink. Last time I got drunk, I…' Vague, distorted memories of the Hogwarts "par-tay" slowly surfaced, causing her to shudder. 'Let's put it this way: I don't want to wake up in the corridor with your wand in my hand, Hat. It's all very...very phallic, and I don't have time for that kind of thing in my busy. Ouch. My busy schedule.'

'Haven't got a wand!'

'Well, I'm still not risking it.'

'Ach. Ye bastard.'

'Stop being rude. Go on then, Hat: any other suggestions to cheer me up?'

'Wimmin!'

'Hm. Thought so. Ah,' she subsided further down whatever she was subsiding down and sighed, 'life is a very…impromptu affair, Hat.'

'Ach,' said Hat, recoiling slightly, 'ye's getting philosophical now!'

'Shush, you nasty drunk. Stop wiggling.'

'I'm not!'

'Shush. Shush. Life's very impromptu.'

'You've said that.'

'It's all…' She waved her arms about. 'All dash dash dash, isn't it? You only get to guess what's going to happen if you press the big yellow button, don't you?'

'What button? Ach, ye's lying to me now!'

'I'm not, Hat! Hatty boy. I'm not. There's a great big yellow button somewhere, and I thought to myself – do you know what I thought?'

'Ale?'

'Yes. No, I thought, "Rowena," I thought, "you can walk past this button and get on with your life, you can. You'll look back over your shoulder and you'll still see it – this big yellow button, getting smaller and smaller as you walk away, and even when you're…when you're really old and married and making beads and things, you'll look over your shoulder and you'll see this yellow button, and you'll think, I wonder what would've happened if I pushed that button? Oh, I wish I could push it and find out, but I can't, because it's really, really small now. Really small. Like an ant." That's what I thought.'

'Er…aye?'

'Yes. And then I thought, "Or I can not walk past the button, and I can press it instead, and see what happens." And you know what happens when you press the big, yellow button?'

'Whores?'

'No Hat, not whores. Everything...explodes. Do you know that?'

'Wimmin?'

'Yes, them too. All the future, with your husband and your beads, that all explodes. And all the other people explode, and even a lot of you explodes, but you hold on to this button, you really hold on—'

'I thought ye were pushing it?'

'I am, I am, but I'm holding it as well, and you can't let go of the button, you've got to just…keep…pushing. Until…'

'Aye?'

'Until…'

'Aye?'

'Until it becomes un-pushed.'

'Ach,' said Hat, 'that's something ye've got to be wary of…un-pushy buttons.'

'Yes,' said Rowena, 'yes, yes, exactly! Hat?'

'Aye?'

'You're the only one who understands me…' She froze. 'Oh.'

'Aye?'

'Balls.'

'Whores?'

'I've got a lesson in five minutes.'

'Ale!'

'NO!'

Ninety minutes later, Rowena looked out across the sea of staring pupils and said, 'Well.'

The fourth years waited.

'I can only apologise for that.'

The fourth years nodded.

'Did anyone notice my deliberate mistake?'

Every hand shot into the air.

'Ah. Very good.'

Rowena dashed through the Ravenclaw common room, ignoring the swarm of students, and slammed the door of her office. She exhaled deeply and turned around.

After a second or so, she left the room again. She said, 'Balls, balls and buggery,' then entered the room again.

Salazar raised an eyebrow, as was his custom. 'Having fun?'

'Hokey-cokey,' she mumbled, dropping her notes in an untidy pile.

'The "teacher" image suits you.'

'Don't,' said Rowena, warningly.

His eyebrow dropped. 'Alright.'

'What do you want?'

'The pleasure of your company, maybe.'

'I'd have thought you'd had enough of that recently.'

'Well, there's nothing like a cupboard to bring people closer together.'

Rowena privately disagreed. 'If you say so. But what do you actually want?'

'Trying to get rid of me?'

'Only slightly.' She shooed him away from her desk and took a seat there, sighing discreetly when his back was turned. Horrible, snakey monster. Couldn't he just disappear, for once?

'What's wrong, Ravenclaw?' Slytherin asked, unemotionally. 'Aren't we friends?'

'Yes, Salazar. We're friends. Like a bloody monkey and an organ-grinder. Would you please tell me what you want? I'm quite busy.'

He sort-of grinned. 'I just came to see how you were.' The statement would have displayed concern, if only his voice had expressed some. Instead, he sounded like a scientist checking on a specimen.

'I'm fine. I'm perfectly happy. In fact, I've realised I possess special magical abilities. All I have to do is see an attractive female and state the fact, and you start going out with her!'

'Ah. Heather?'

'Hey presto.'

'Well—'

'Sorry, Salazar, but I really am quite busy. I have priorities, you know.'

'Yes,' he said, voice as detached and emotionless as it had been throughout the discussion, 'well done.' Without another word, he left.

Rowena stared at her desk, biting her bottom lip. She took a few deep breaths, stifled a sob, and began writing a lesson plan.

An hour or so later, someone knocked at Rowena's door.

She looked up. 'Yes?'

'Er, Professor?' said a small voice.

'Yes?'

'Michael's on fire.'

Rowena sighed. 'You'd better put him out, then.'

'Er…alright.'

Rowena continued her work.

The voice said, 'Er, Professor?'

'What?'

'Michael really is on fire.'

'Well, you'd really better put him out then, hadn't you?'

'Er…alright, Professor. Does that mean we can use magic?'

'Yes. If another student is on fire, I give you full permission to use magic to extinguish them.'

'It's just, it doesn't say that in the leaflet—'

'For God's sake man, extinguish him!'

'Yes, Professor!'

Rowena silently prayed she was never quite so dim as her third years, and continued to work.

There was another knock.

'He's not still on fire, is he?'

'No,' said Helga, 'they rolled him up in a carpet.'

'Come in, Helly.'

Helga did so, closed the door and silently slumped into a chair.

After a minute or so, Rowena said, 'Helga, are you dead?'

'Not sure. Sorry for not turning up earlier.'

'Hm?'

'Cookery lesson.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, horrible memories of flaming pastries arising from the grave, 'that. It's alright, Helly. Serves me right for abandoning you this morning.'

'I just...needed some time to think. About things.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Yes.'

'Yes?'

'Yes.'

Rowena raised her eyebrows and looked up. 'Yes?'

Helga continued to stare at her feet. 'Yes.'

'Er…are you going to tell me which things?'

'Yes. I'm leaving Godric.'

'Leaving him where?' Realisation slowly dawned. She dropped her quill. 'What, you're leaving him?'

'Yes,' Helga said, glumly.

'Leaving him, leaving him?'

'Yes. I'm…' She sought the right words for a second or two before giving up, making the noise of a deflating balloon.

'But why?' asked Rowena, walking over to her friend. 'What happened? I know you've been arguing, but surely—'

'Circumstances,' she mumbled, 'conspired against us. All…crap. I thought - oh dear. Ro, if you were seeing somebody, and you hadn't had the, er, painters in for a while, what would you think?'

Rowena's eyes darted urgently around her sockets in search of assistance. 'Which painters are these, Helga?'

'The painters, Ro. The Painters of Menstrual Euphemism.'

'Oh, them. Oh. Oh! You're not pregnant?'

Helga shook her head. 'Apparently not. But I thought I was.'

'Oh. Ah. So…?'

Helga just shook her head.

'You told Godric, then? When you still thought you were?' Helga nodded. 'And his response was…?'

'His response,' Helga mumbled, 'was of a negative nature.'

'Oh. Dear. Panicked?'

'To say the least.'

'And then…?'

'Then,' said Helga, 'then he told me something that would've been nice to know slightly earlier in the relationship.'

'What—?'

'Then I found out I wasn't, in fact, carrying his child, and he continued to react very, very badly. All the wrong reactions, you might say. And now he thinks everything's going to be hunky-dory because I'm not, but things haven't changed because he never told me that he was.'

Rowena glanced over her shoulder. 'Godric's pregnant?'

'No, Ro.' Helga sighed and, unable to look Rowena in the eyes, stared into her hands instead. 'No, Ro. Godric's a werewolf.'