Chapter 22: The Problem with Friends/Girlfriends/Snouts

The friendship of Helga Hufflepuff was a difficult thing to recapture. It required heart-felt apologies, a sincere wish for forgiveness and an admission of all one's mistakes.

Throwing an onion bahji at her bottom was not the standard way of going about things. Fortunately for Rowena Ravenclaw, however, the practise proved successful; after breaking down into an ridiculous frenzy of tears and generally working herself into such a pitiable state that you'd need a heart of stone to snub her, Helga managed to say, 'Ok, stop it Ro – Ro, stop – please, you're upsetting people. I forgive you! – Just stop it,' and all was well with the world.

One day she'd explain that the throwing of the bahji was the accidental outcome of a wrestle with the Divination teacher at the lunch table, rather than – as Helga preferred to see it – the physical manifestation of a plea for forgiveness and desire for her company.

One day she'd explain. When at least one of them was dead.

Until such a time came, Rowena benefited greatly from reeling off a list of all the problems she'd accumulated since they last spoke – excluding the ones about a certain Mr Gryffindor, which she conveniently skimmed over – while they lounged about her office between lessons.

Once Rowena had finished speaking, with a cathartic sigh, Helga paused thoughtfully and wrapped a strand of hair around her finger.

Then she said, 'Up a tree?'

'Yes!'

She unfurled the yellowy curl, which bounced back magnificently. 'In the cupboard?'

'Yes!'

'My God.'

'I know. D'you ever get that feeling that you're – kind of…' She twisted her hands into head-shaped puppets and banged them together, with hope of articulation.

'Violent snogging?' Helga suggested.

'No. I wish. I mean – ever get that feeling where you kind of step back and look at what's happening and think "how the hell did I get here?" And not in a good way.'

'Often.'

'How did I get in a cupboard with a Glaswegian hat and Slytherin's itsy-bitsy girlfriend? How did I get into a secret criminal auction and clubbed to near-unconsciousness with a stuffed cat? How did Malfoy get up that tree?' She frowned and lowered her puppet-hands. 'How did he get up that tree?'

'I'm sure he has his…Ways.'

'His Ways?'

'Mysterious Ways and Methods.' She shrugged. 'One minute you're in idle chatter, the next you're spread-eagled on a blanket in the woods, rutting about amongst the trees whilst throthing blissfully.'

Rowena's jaw dropped slightly. 'What story were you listening to?'

'Hm? Oh…ignore me.' Realising exactly what she'd just said, she repeated, 'Ignore me. Really. Dear God! I must be desperately lonely.'

'You don't need to be lonely,' said Rowena, sitting up. 'You've got me to fulfil your emotional needs, and Finkles to fulfil your sexual ones.'

'What – my owl?'

'Stranger things have happened.'

'Not in the Hufflepuff household they haven't!' Then she paused, in remembrance of cross-dressing, hair-collecting, war-waging, wife-stealing badger enthusiast, Uncle Ulrich. 'Well, it'd be a close second. Besides, I think Finkles is dead.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.'

'It's alright. He's already died seven times in the last three years.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yep. He's a biological miracle.'

'Oh. That's…nice – anyway, what do you think I should do about this Heather situation?'

Helga returned her attention to her hair. 'I can't believe you asked Slytherin if he loved her.'

'I know,' said Rowena, with a wince. 'I feel like such a idiot.'

'So you should. Why did you even ask?'

'I don't know,' she replied honestly. 'Morbid curiosity? Picking a scab? Emotional suicide? Take your pick.'

'You don't…' She wrinkled her nose.

'Don't what? Smell? What?'

'You don't…love him, do you—?'

'No!' she exclaimed, leaping to her feet, 'No! No, no, and no! No-oo! I'd rather lick a cat's arse and massage a dog's feet than…no! Definitely not!' She sat back down.

Very calmly, after a suitable pause, Helga said, 'I'll take that as a "no", then.'

'Very firmly!'

'Alright. Please lower your voice.'

'Am I shouting?'

'Yes!'

'Sorry!' She released a deep breath. 'Sorry. You sent me hysterical. Let's just - yes. Enough of…that sticky mess of a conversation. Let's talk about you. How are you doing?'

Helga groaned in response.

'Glad to hear it.'

'I spent all day yesterday hitting my head against hard surfaces in the hope that it'd work some kind of common sense into my brain,' she admitted.

Rowena grinned. 'Me too!'

'Ye-es,' said Helga, recoiling slightly, 'yes, I can tell.'

'I'm sorry,' she said again. 'It's been a bit of a week.'

'Yeah. It's alright. Worse things happen at sea, and all that.'

'Helga, if we were near the sea, and indeed knew people at sea who were in danger of having worse things happen to them, then perhaps I'd take comfort from that. However, as it stands, I honestly couldn't care about the sea or anything that happens near, by, at or in it. No offence.'

'Um. Alright.'

Rowena stared at the fireplace for a while and, from her position on the sofa, prodded it with the leg of a hat stand until the embers reignited. Helga shook her head in despair at her friend's inability to differentiate the roles and purposes of a hat stand and a poker, but kept her mouth firmly shut. Now wasn't the time to provoke Rowena. Not now there was a hot hat stand involved.

'Who are we teaching this evening?' she asked, as the prodding continued with a bit more force than was honestly necessary.

'Seventh years,' said Rowena, with a wince. 'Gravy.'

'Again?'

'Have we already done gravy?'

'Twice.'

'Different gravy.' She glanced at Helga and, seeing her doubtful expression, added, 'We'll put potatoes in it. We'll call it…potavy, and it will be delicious.'

Helga nodded slowly.

Rowena nodded back.

'Right,' said Helga. 'I'll, er, teach the lesson on my own, if you want. Just for today.'

'No, no. I can do it.'

'No,' said Helga, firmly, 'I'll do it. Really. It takes a certain kind of mind to come up with potavy. You should, er, get to sleep, or something. Something…immobile.'

'I'm fine, Helga, really.'

'Your arm's on fire.'

'Oh yeah.'

Someone knocked at Salazar's door. He quickly lowered his legs from the desk and assumed a position which implied he'd been working, and stared at it.

Let's see. Quite a delicate knock, with an undertone of slight disgust at the state of the door – which, if he remembered correctly, had absorbed a lot of damp of late. Three knocks – well, that didn't mean anything. If they knocked again –

They knocked again.

Alright, slightly louder this time, as well. Obviously starting to get a bit annoyed. Will probably break down the door if they don't get a reply. Who isn't teaching at the moment? Well, that would be…

'Ravenclaw?'

'No.'

'Ah.' As the door creaked open, Salazar added, 'Sorry.'

Heather, though clearly far from pleased, wasn't the kind of girl who'd chase the issue. Was that, he wondered, a sign of emotional maturity that most girls could only dream of? Or was she just the kind of person who didn't like to argue with him?

Or was it a sign that she didn't really care?

Whatever the meaning, she stood before his desk as – well, Heather-like as ever; hair carefully tussled and decorated with braids, dress clean and crisp and shapely, porcelain skin as clear as well you get the idea; she looked pretty good. Even if her forehead was a bit big.

All she said on the topic of her mistaken identity was, 'Never mind. Now, Sally—'

'Hm,' said Salazar, in the tones of someone who wishes to establish their annoyance before the conversation progresses any further.

'—I know we've only been at school a few weeks – well, I have anyway – but I was curious as to when you're going to organise some kind of shin-dig.'

'Hm?' said Salazar, in the tones of someone who wishes to establish their annoyance but is interested in the possibility of free booze and dancing.

'It'd have to be alcohol-free, obviously—'

'Hm-mm.'

'—Unless, and this is my idea, unless we just have a party for seventh years. Although there aren't many of us so maybe you should invite the sixth years as well.'

'Hm…'

'Although, now I think about it, most of the sixth years are gimps.'

'Hm.'

'But so are most of the teachers as well.'

'Hm?'

'Excluding your presence.'

'Hm.'

She dithered onwards, planning the mental guest list; Salazar left her to dither. His anger would be known, regardless of its feebleness and futility.

Eventually, annoyed at his silence, she demanded, 'Have I done something wrong? Or do you have lockjaw?'

With all haughtiness possible, he said, 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Lockjaw,' she repeated, 'it's when your jaw locks together.'

'Hm.'

She rolled her eyes and sat down, his agitation finally clear. 'Honestly, Sally, she had set me on fire! What was I meant to do?'

'I told you not to do anything!'

'Well that's alright for you to say – you weren't alight! I don't see why I should allow one of my teachers to set my eyebrows on fire without doing something about it!' Then she took a deep breath and added, 'And I don't care how much you fancy her! You're with me!'

She marched out. Salazar let her march, mainly due to his sudden immobility.

It was only five minutes after the door had slammed shut that he removed his gaze from the spot on the table that was suddenly so interesting and said, 'Well.' A few seconds later he said, 'I certainly do not.'

Godric Gryffindor, leader of heroes, slayer of Vikings, God among men, sighed and wondered if his nose was too big.

It was, apparently, a strong nose. A straight, sharp, manly nose; it pulled his face together in a way many people found dashing and attractive and so on and so forth. But he'd never really liked it. Five nights a week it was a snout.

His nose wasn't the reason Helga had left him, of course, but the snout was. Well…that and the fact that he'd lied to her all those years and lost his temper when she said she was pregnant. And then the fact that, when she told him she wasn't pregnant, he'd promptly continued to act as if nothing had happened.

Yes, but as well as that, it was the snout. The entire "wolf-man" issue, really. It wasn't the kind of thing that attracted women, when all was said and done; they might admire your bravery and fawn over your good manners and respect the way you treat others, but the fact that you are, in fact, a mutated, howling, murdering freak is bound to be a sticking point.

Could she really blame him for hiding it? Well, of course she could. Being sub-human could only get you so far in life, but God knows you're unworthy of complete happiness. That was why he'd never get it.

That, and the fact that his nose was too big.

Night fell. So did Rowena.

After a few moments of intense thought while she calculated her position – Helga's office, by the desk, near a very interesting collection of confiscated items, under a chair – she set about clambering to her feet. It was easier said than done, but after a brief struggle with a chair leg and a box of jam she was up on her feet once more and conscious enough to ask:

'Huddywhafflehuh?'

Had she missed a day? – No, it had only been three hours since she last checked the clock, so…

Oh God. She'd fallen asleep? In the middle of accounting, of all things? Those heart-racing, adrenaline-pumping, brain-tingling seven hours of accountancy? How was that even possible?

With a wince, she checked the final figure once more. It didn't look good.

But then again, neither did the page and a half of figures next to it, either. The one she'd cross-referenced all the class registers to come up with.

The one that said, beyond all reasonable doubt, that the two students – Hazel McAllen and Terry Cook, to be precise – had died at some point during the last full moon.

Not to jump to conclusions, or anything, but…

Helga – I don't want to worry you, but I think…

…I'm fairly certain that – well, Godric –

Helga, I hate to have to tell you this, but Godric may have – probably has – killed two perfectly innocent students, and maybe some parents as well—

Godric, I don't want to worry you, but—

The door creaked open, and Rowena very nearly jumped out of her skin. 'Helga!' she gasped.

Her blonde, curly head peered into the room, grinning apologetically. 'Sorry, Ro. Did I wake you?'

'Nope,' said Rowena, covering the information with a discreet hand, 'I've been awake a while.'

'Did you get any work done?'

'No,' she lied, because she was an incredibly bad person.

'Oh, Ro—'

'Well, a bit, but nothing really important. I've had a lot on my mind, and, er…such.'

Helga nodded again. 'Alright, Ro. I just came in for my book, if you could…' She gestured towards the desk.

Very tentatively, being careful not to reveal the disturbing figures she'd been working on, Rowena passed across her book. 'Are you going to bed?'

Helga nodded tiredly and said, 'Thought I might. You can stay in here a bit longer if you want, but—'

'Er, no,' she interrupted, quickly. The thought of all that had happened – Salazar, Godric, Xavier and the inescapable matter of the murders – resurfaced all at once. The last thing she wanted was the opportunity to think about them further. She continued, 'Could I, in the least homosexual way possible, sleep in your room tonight, Helly?' She caught Helga's expression and added, 'Please?'

Her eyebrows lowered. 'Erm…alright,' she said, after a moment or two of thought, 'but you're not sleeping in my bed—'

'I already expressed a lack of lesbian desire!'

'—I meant instead of me, but thanks for clarifying that anyway.'

In "the least homosexual way possible", Rowena and Helga exited to the latter girl's bedroom. Continuing in this asserted non-lesbian fashion, Rowena threw a bed together at the foot of Helga's and, in a way that was only slightly gay if you really set your mind to it, changed into a nightdress.

Once the lights had been extinguished, and only the waxing moon illuminated the two girls, Rowena said, 'Nice bedroom, this.'

Helga's bed squeaked as she changed position and said, 'Yeah, it's alright. Bit round, though. Can't really fit anything in the corners.'

'View's nice.'

'You have been in my room before, Ro.'

'Not at night time.'

'Never knew there was a difference, to be honest.'

Rowena shrugged and pulled her blankets further around her shoulders. 'You never know with this place. Changing rooms and moving staircases, and all that. I got chased out of the bathroom by a sink yesterday.'

'Mm?' said Helga, through a yawn. 'Which bathroom's that one, Ro?'

'Boys' bathroom,' Rowena admitted, 'which may have had something to do with it.'

Helga yawned further. 'What were you doing in the boys' bathroom, Ro?'

'Getting chased by a sink, Helly.'

'Ah right. Night, Ro.'

Rowena wasn't tired, but she said, 'Night, Helly,' anyway.

A couple of minutes later, Rowena said, 'Helly?'

There was a short pause while Helga stirred before she said, 'Humphy?'

'No, not Humphy. Helly?'

'What?' said a voice that was slightly muted by a pillow.

'Do you…' she trailed off for a second, unable to find the right words. It was a silly question really, but it was still the kind of silly question that kept her up at night. 'Do you mind working here?'

'Umph,' said Helga, 'right now?'

'Well, no. In general.'

''M tired.'

Rowena reached out her arm and gave Helga's blankets a sharp tug. She groaned loudly into her pillow.

'Helly!'

'Wha'? 'M tired. Being eaten by a licky monster—'

'I know you're tired, but this is important. I'm in emotional turmoil.'

'Eatta san'wich.'

'I don't want to eat a sandwich.' She awaited further response and, hearing none, tugged Helga's blankets again.

'Humphy! What?'

Very slowly, Rowena said, 'Do you, Helga Hufflepuff, mind working at this establishment, Hogwarts School of…Thingywhatsit?'

'Is that what it's called now? No one told me—'

'Helga!'

'Oh, God!' The bed creaked again as she rolled onto her front and pulled a cushion over her ears. 'Not at this exact moment in time, Rowena, seeing as I'm knackered as an old pit pony and you keep talking at me—'

'But in general?'

'—No! I don't mind it here. I like it here. If I could just be a bit more selective about the staff we employ, I think I would marry the entire damn castle. It's lovely. Its loveliness can only be compared to that of a fine, sunny day in one's homeland, surrounded by friends and loved ones while bluebirds swoop overhead and rainbows appear spontaneously throughout the bright blue sky covered in pink, fluffy chocolate! It's lovely. Now shush!'

Rowena smiled slightly and lay back in her makeshift bed. 'Oh,' she said, 'good. I'm glad to hear it. Night, Helly.'

'Night.'

'Helly?'

'Eugh—'

'Do you ever wish you were pregnant?'

There was another spell of silence, but this one was a lot less sleepy. Everything in the room stayed purposely still.

Then, in a very calm, even voice, Helga said, 'Yes.'

'Right,' said Rowena, quietly. 'Alright.'

'Night, Ro.'

'Night, Helly.'

Sleep came, but it didn't last very long.

She woke with a jolt as something hit her full in the face; something heavy and smooth and cold. She dragged it off herself and stared through the darkness.

It was her cloak.

Very slowly, Rowena looked up. And sat at the foot of Helga's bed, his face pale and earnest, Salazar Slytherin looked straight at her.

Very quietly, he whispered, 'Coat on.'

Rowena looked down at her cloak and back up at his face. He made a strange spectacle – not concerned, confused or in any way angry, but for the first time since she'd known him, completely serious.

She nodded, and did as she was told.