Chapter 20: Who the Hell is Betty-Lou?

Salazar tapped the nib of his quill against the unmarked essay in front of him, flecking ink across the page as he did so.

He continued to tap away, eyes skimming vaguely over each alternate sentence, desperately trying to ignore the strange scrabbling noise coming from the window. "Any potion brewed in under five minutes using only a…and the same applies to the brewer's hands. In this instance, I found…which may or may not be true for all potions of this nature…"

Finally, the scrabbling noise appeared to stop. He paused and lowered the quill, counted to five and…

The scrabbling noise began again, slightly louder this time. Honestly. If he'd knock at the damn window, Salazar would let him in. But no – he was forced to carry on with this ridiculous charade of temporary deafness until His Holiness finally worked out how to lift the latch and appear stealthily by the fireplace. Cue shocked, admiring and awe-stricken gasps of surprise all around, and a massive ego-boost for He Who Can't For The Life Of Him Figure Out How To Open A Bloody Window.

Pillock.

He carried on skimming over the essay, doling out a surplus amount of ticks in red ink until the scrabbling noises stopped. There was a short sigh, a sound like metal scraping over brick, then a cool blast of air from outside and a muffled cry of "ooh – shit". Then a soft, careful noise as the window shut, a very tiny creak of floorboard and then a loud creak from by the fire place.

Then he cleared his throat.

Salazar finally looked up and raised his eyebrows in rehearsed surprise. 'Malfoy, is that you? I didn't even hear you come in.'

Xavier Malfoy, with windswept blonde hair and a slightly ruddy tinge to his usually pale skin, smiled knowingly. 'You weren't meant to.'

Relighting the candle the open window had extinguished, Salazar sat back in his chair and pushed the schoolwork to one side. 'You wanted to talk to me, then.'

Looking slightly perturbed that his moment of awe-stricken surprise had been so short-lived, Xavier merely nodded and brushed some of the dust from his immaculate sleeve.

'That's right. I'm rather curious as to how business is progressing for you here, Slytherin.'

'It's going fine.'

'Is it.' One disbelieving eyebrow twitched in a manner that Salazar's eyebrow simply couldn't match. 'You said you lost a student.'

'Just the one.'

'Someone else said you lost three.'

Damn. 'Who told you that?'

'I have my sources.'

'It was four, actually.'

'They're not very good sources.'

'Clearly.'

Malfoy reclined in the creaking sofa and delicately put his feet up. 'Were you planning to explain those losses at any point?'

Salazar shrugged. 'No.'

'Some would consider that a mistake on your part.'

He winced, very slightly. 'What kind of mistake?'

'The kind that results in your head falling off.'

'I hate those ones.'

'I don't.'

It was true; from what Salazar had seen, he enjoyed them far too much. Fair enough, the Slytherin family was hardly free of bastards – and he'd know – but it took a certain kind of depravity to reach Malfoy level.

Eventually Salazar replied, with a curt shrug and an eyebrow twitch, 'I don't know. Family tragedies.'

'Perhaps I should explain,' said Malfoy, with a calculated coldness, 'That, as a pro-active and involved member of the local community, I'm very curious as to what has happened to these children. Perhaps I should also explain that, as the owner of the land this castle is built on, I am very curious as to what happened to these children. And perhaps I should explain that, as your primary benefactor in this business, my curiosity about the lives of these children is almost through the roof…Do you understand?'

Looking him directly in the eye, Salazar said: 'You're very curious about young children.'

Surprisingly, Malfoy didn't crack a grin.

'Dead,' said Salazar, relenting at last. 'They're dead.'

Malfoy straightened up in his chair; evidently, it hadn't been the answer he was expecting. 'Dead?'

'Two are. The other two have had family members die, so they can't afford the teaching. Either way their attendance records have plummeted.'

Malfoy seemed to consider this for a while. He picked up a hand mirror from the table beside him and examined it closely while his brain processed the information. Then he replaced the mirror and said, 'Interesting.'

'I thought so.'

'There was a man found dead between this castle and the village some time last week.'

'That's true.'

'Was that you?'

'Found dead? No.'

'You know what I mean.'

'No. That wasn't me. You?'

'No. Before that…' Malfoy cast his mind back for a while, leaving Salazar to wait in silence. As much as he hated to admit it, Malfoy was probably a lot more knowledgeable about outside events than he was. 'Before that, a man was found dead by that forest of yours, but that was weeks ago. Know anything about that?'

'No.'

'And the students…' He frowned in concentration, then announced, 'There was a funeral yesterday—'

'Two funerals. I was there.'

'Just you?'

'I didn't tell anyone else.'

'Did you do those?'

'No.' In response to Malfoy's unbelieving glare, he added, 'I haven't killed anyone in ages. The last time it nearly happened was your fault, if you remember.'

'Oh yes. Not since then? I'm disappointed.'

'Return to subject, please.'

'Which was…?'

'The dead students.'

'Oh yes. Who were they?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Not in my house. Gryffindor's, I think.'

Malfoy spat at the mention of the name. To be precise, he spat at Salazar's very expensive silver-plated hat stand.

After a dignified pause, Salazar said, 'Thanks.'

'And how did they die?'

'No idea; didn't catch that part.'

'Mauled?'

'Could have been.' Though exactly how he got to "mauled" from "no idea" was beyond the reach of logic. 'It was a very nice funeral, either way.'

'Mudbloods?'

'Possibly.'

'You didn't check?'

'I thought it distasteful to ask.'

'Oh, it was only a funeral. They'll have more.'

'That's one way of looking at it.'

Malfoy stared into the fire for a while further, furrowing his brows in contemplation while Salazar merely waited for him to finish. Then he sat up and said, 'Right, now onto more important matters. Where's your lady friend?'

'Hm? Er…in her office, I expect.'

A sneer spread across his pale and pointy face. 'I was referring to dear Heather.'

Shit. 'In bed.'

'Who were you referring to?'

'I just didn't realise you knew all the intimate details of my love life.'

Malfoy wrinkled his nose at the reference. '"Love"?'

'It's a turn of phrase.'

'I know much more about Heather than you might think,' he said, with an all-knowing smirk. The all-knowing-ness was undercut slightly by the realisation that his hair was still windswept, which he quickly endeavoured to correct.

Salazar winced slightly. 'Really.'

'Oh yes. Age, appearance, hat size—'

'You've measured her head?'

'It's another turn of phrase.'

'I don't think it is.'

'Be quiet.'

'What do you know about Heather?'

'Quite a large head.'

Salazar resisted the urge to kill someone. The sky was beginning to lighten as dawn appeared, washing the black sky blue. Somewhere, a bird was tweeting.

Salazar attempted subtlety: 'Well, I'm sure you have plenty of maidens to be dissecting, don't let me keep you—'

'Speaking of which,' Malfoy interrupted, a small grin shaping his lips, 'how is my favourite stooge? That lovely…what's her name – Bronwyn Birdfoot?'

'Rowena Ravenclaw,' he mumbled, fairly sure he was walking into a trap. 'I'm sure she's fine.'

'How's she coping with all these deaths? Must be playing havoc with her cheery demeanour.'

'Fine,' he said again. His brain added: Though she has been spending a lot of time in cupboards recently.

'I wouldn't worry too much about her; I'm sure there's still opportunity for you to raise children together on a hilltop.' Salazar didn't reply, so he continued, 'Possibly on a farm…although I always imagined you two weaving together in your old age. I suppose you could still have Betty-Lou help you out on weekends.'

He sighed. 'Who the hell is Betty-Lou?'

'Your eldest,' he replied simply.

'Right. Of course it is. Anyway, the sun's rising and I'm sure you don't want to melt, so—'

'She has your eyes.' He performed a dreamy sigh. 'But Ravenclaw's complexion. Oh, you really must stop worrying about the way she blushes, old boy. Her attraction to me was merely due to my overwhelming sense of sexuality, which must have made a nice change from this place, which just isn't a healthy environment for a growing girl.'

'I'm sure she'll survive,' he muttered.

Xavier pretended to give him a scrutinizing look, and said, 'I don't know…not much to look at around here. You could at least shave.'

'Hmpf,' said Salazar – which, he realised, wasn't the wittiest or most articulate comeback available to him.

Xavier began to pick at his nails idly. 'I've known you since infancy, and I can honestly claim you've never struck me as being remotely attractive.'

'I'm glad to hear it. I suspect your fiancé would be, as well.'

'Oh yes. Her.'

Salazar glanced out of the window – he hadn't even shut it properly, the idle bastard – and briefly considered grabbing his old friend by the leg and throwing him bodily into the lake. He could have his ladder back while he was there.

'How is your finacé?' Salazar asked, with only the slightest passing interest.

Malfoy sneered again, and sat back in the chair. 'Fine,' he said. 'How's yours?'

Rowena stared silently at the overbearing figure of Heather Bettany, mouth slightly agape. Heather stared back. She smiled.

'You don't look comfortable,' said Heather.

''M fine,' Rowena mumbled.

'Don't you want to stand up?'

'No.' There was a reason it was called "legless"; even in her newly sobered state, the thought of stumbling to her feet in front of Satan's lovechild was enough to turn her stomach. Instead she stared up at It, attempting to look as superior as was possible for someone who'd just been discovered talking to a hat.

'I thought I ought to find you, Miss,' said Heather. 'People were beginning to wonder where you were.'

'Hmpf…really?'

'Yes.' Something about the saccharin-sweet tone of her voice said otherwise. 'I'm sure people are always asking themselves where Miss Ravenclaw is – why she isn't doing her job properly.'

And there it was. Would now be an inappropriate moment to be violently sick? Would now be a bad time to shove a pie down her throat and grind salt in her eyes?

'Oh,' she said at last.

'And don't bother trying to be the superior teacher, Miss. It's a bit late for that.'

'And don't bother trying to be the snotty infant, Heather, I'm already familiar.' Damn! Wasn't meant to say that. SHUT-UP-ROWENA.

Judging by the position of Heather's eyebrows, and Hat's brief chorus of "fight, fight, fight, WHORES", it was certainly the wrong thing to say.

'Alright then,' she said, ignoring the talking rag. 'Let's talk like grown-ups, shall we?'

'Alright.' I can't, said the tiny voice of Rowena's subconscious, I can't, I can't, I can't. I want to be sick. I want to kill you. Do you not realise how much I want to kill you? Of course you do, that's why you're here. Dammit.

'You haven't been in the staff room recently, have you?' Heather asked. 'You've missed some pretty important stuff.'

'How would you know?'

'I go to meetings.'

Rowena attempt to scoff, and accidentally spat on herself. 'You can't go to meetings,' she said, subtly wiping it off. 'You're not a teacher.'

'I'm the student representative of Slytherin house.'

'We don't have – do we?'

'Slytherin does.'

'Oh. Well he would.'

'It's just nice,' she said, 'talking to people who actually care about the school. Being one amongst the important people. You know?'

'Is it nice being the only person who has to bonk a teacher to get invited along?'

Heather raised a smile. '"Bonk"?'

'Yes,' Rowena snapped, 'bonk. It's a lovely word our Lord gave us to describe what some people do to feel important – and thank God I never got so desperate!'

The "fight" chorus struck up again, until Rowena beat him with her shoe.

'Funny,' said Heather, 'that's not what I heard.'

Dammit again! Not the cupboard time – not the party time – not the kissing time, he wouldn't! They had an understanding!

Putting a lot of effort into keeping her voice steady, she replied, 'Really.'

'Yep. Sally tells me everything, you know.'

'Does he? That's nice of him.' With a sudden surge of venom, she added, 'I bet he didn't tell you who gave him that nickname.' The darkness disguised Heather's reaction, but Rowena was fairly confident it wasn't of a positive nature. 'How did you know I was here, anyway? I'm sure it's against school rules to follow your teachers.'

'And it's probably against school rules to set your students on fire.'

Rowena cocked a superior eyebrow and said, 'It isn't, actually – I checked.'

'The hoary old rag-thing told me, if you must know.'

'Hoary old…? Hat! You traitor!'

Hat dodged behind an abandoned bookshelf with the kind of dexterity not usually seen in someone quite so drunk, with a cry of "Ach, it meant nothin'!" and a muffled curse.

'Judas,' Rowena hissed after him. 'No more ale for you, you…tart!'

'Don't let me interrupt,' said Heather, with a superior smile.

'Don't worry, I won't! You're not going back to Hogsmeade brothel as long as you live, you swine! I don't care how much you cry. Treacherous, lecherous, odorous…git!' She turned back to Heather. 'And what do you want, exactly? Your massive forehead's blocking out my light.'

Oh dear God, said her subconscious, there's no going back now. We're going to kill each other right here.

'I want you out of the school.'

'I want you out of the atmosphere!'

'And I want to kick you sharply in the shins for setting me on fire all day!'

'Then do it! I'll just have you expelled!'

'And I want to talk to you about all your dead students.'

'You—' She froze. Suddenly, the small, dark cupboard was smaller and darker. 'All my what?'

Heather ran a finger through the dust and, very calmly, said, 'All those dead students Sally never told you about. I think there were two of them—'

'No,' Rowena interrupted desperately. 'No, no students have died – there was one parent, but that's—'

'Two parents. As we were discussing at the last meeting—'

'Shut up about your bloody meetings! What happened to the students?'

'I don't know. They died.'

'But how? Who…where? What—?'

'They weren't yours,' she said, with a slight shrug. 'And I don't know who they are. Were. Young, I think. Sort of…eaten.'

'Eaten?'

'Cut up in some way, I'm sure. They carried them out at night time, and—'

'Who did it?'

She shrugged again. 'I've no idea. It's not as if we have a hairy man-boy running around the grounds every full moon with an appetite for blood, do we?'

Rowena's insides churned to a halt.

'Certainly,' Heather said, very slowly, 'no one I know about. Do you?'

A werewolf…not Godric? Not Helga's Godric?...Oh God, poor Helga! Poor Godric – but especially poor Helga!

'Of course,' Heather began, 'I—'

'Shut up. You poisonous tramp. Go away!'

'No need to be such a nasty drunk, Miss.'

'Professor,' Rowena snapped, staring at her own knees while her brain worked very hard at not getting anywhere at all. Just Godric – Helga – werewolf, and dead children – full moon – he couldn't have – he's Godric!

Heather slipped carefully from the table and to her feet; dust swirled in her wake, illuminated by the outside candlelight. She kneeled before Rowena, a menacingly playful smile on her lips, and whispered: 'I'll let you investigate that one.'

And then there was light.

Xavier Malfoy, Lord of all that was wrong with the world, left. He took his ladder with him.

Salazar watched him walk – no, strut – out of sight from the window, which wasn't difficult considering it's proximity to the ground. If Malfoy had been built like anything sturdier than, say, a water sprite, he'd probably be able to climb up the outside wall. But no; ladders had so much more finesse.

What an utter cocknob that man was.

What a disgrace to the aristocracy.

What a shame to the forces of darkness.

What a tit.

Salazar left in the direction of his office, mind buzzing with a thousand curses, and wondered what happened to his dignity.

No, not dignity – what was the word? Money, that was it. What happened to his money? When did life deem it fair that he should spend the rest of his life persuading the Malfoys to invest in everything he did?

Probably around the same time he'd killed his own grandfather, now he thought about it.

Well, it wasn't as if his parents had ever been so fond – surely it warranted a raise in allowance, if anything?

No, he supposed, that probably wasn't the point. There was something wrong in killing everyone who didn't treat him nicely though, wasn't there? Alright, he'd learnt that now. Now the prophecies had been handed out and the income had stopped. Now the rest of his life had been scripted and ruined. That was really a very fair punishment, wasn't it?

Now that he – shit, shouldn't have kicked that – had absolutely no chance of reform, because that was just an example of fairness, wasn't it? Condemning him without a chance of escape. Thank you so very much, grandfather. Thank you very, very much.

The cupboard door had opened; Rowena and Heather were caught and blinded by the light of the corridor, and there stood—

'Sal—?'

'Anatole!' said Rowena, recognising the Defence teacher at once.

Heather groaned, failing to disguise her disappointment, and jumped to her feet. 'Oh, it's you, Professor.'

'Yes,' he said, with the uneasy realisation that he'd just interrupted something strange and was clueless as to what it was. 'It's me. I'm just making a routine—' he squinted with the effort of imagination, '—cupboard check, and…ah…fate brought me to your…cupboard. Are you alright?'

Rowena nodded, hoping that if she did so enough she could make some of her headache go away.

Heather shrugged. 'Just on my way to my dormitory.'

'And you got lost in a cupboard?'

'Yes.'

'Alright.'

'Can I go?'

'If Professor Ravenclaw says so, yes.'

Rowena said yes very quickly and so, with a final look of contempt, Heather Bettany flounced away.

Anatole said, 'What an interesting flounce that girl's got.'

'Hmpf,' Rowena managed to say.

With the door still open behind him, Anatole sat down opposite her. His sturdy, friendly features were invisible in the darkness, though the corridor's candlelight gave Rowena a silhouette to talk to.

Sturdy, friendly features. Like a table.

'Are you alright?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Rowena, in as much of a normal voice as she could manage. 'Do I look drunk?'

'A bit.'

'Well I'm not.'

'No?'

'I'm hung-over.'

'That's certainly preferable.'

'I disagree.'

'Well, it is for a teacher.'

Rowena groaned.

'Sorry. Is that a bad word?'

'Yes.'

'Alright. I won't say it again.'

A slightly uncomfortable silence passed. Then Rowena said, 'You're probably wondering why I'm in a cupboard.'

Anatole shrugged. 'I am a bit curious.'

'Well—'

'You don't have to explain.'

'—thank Christy. My head kills. Er, do you think you could keep this—?'

'I will.'

'Promise?'

'Promise. Want a hand?'

'Ha! I'm perfectly capable of…of…where's the floor gone?'

'Give me your hand.'

'Eugh. They're crispy.'

'Sorry.'

'Oh – sorry. I thought I was just thinking that.'

'Quite alright.'

Rowena was dragged to her feet, and found herself eye-to-eye with Anatole Amery. It was a pleasant change; with Salazar, she was usually eye-to-jugular. And though Anatole may have been shorter, his hands may have been crispier and his attempt to drag someone to their feet was a lot more painful, at least she could stare at him without getting a stiff neck.

'Are you alright?' he asked again.

'Yupsies. What time is it?'

'Er – three. Ish. Shall I walk you to your tower, or—?'

'No, because if he's eaten anyone, we're all done for.'

Anatole watched her stumble away down the corridor, looking as confused as he felt. Not only because he'd discovered her in a cupboard with a student; not only because she smelt of fried apples; not only because she didn't make much sense when she spoke; but also because what appeared to be a potato sack had just asked him if he was a whore.

And that kind of thing just wasn't usual.