Chapter 27: Wolf's Den

'Miss?'

Rowena's eyelids flitted reluctantly open. After the usual moments of early morning confusion – where am I, what am I sleeping on and what the hell is that thing on my foot? – she managed to drag herself upright and rub the sleep from her eyes. Groggily, with a headache that threatened to push the eyes straight out of her head, she removed the weighty tome from the foot of her bed and back to the bookshelf from whence it came. Then she crawled back into bed.

'Miss?'

Dammit, the voices were back.

'Er…professor?'

My, the voices were very formal today.

'Professor? Are you there?'

'Who's the –? Oh. What?' Not the voices, then, but the other irritating noise in her head: a student.

'Can I see you?'

Rowena glanced briefly downwards and, to herself, mumbled, 'Hope not, this nightgown's a devil.' Slightly louder, she said, 'Hang on; I'll be out in a second.'

A look in the mirror, a disgusted frown and a dressing gown later, she passed through the door that connected her bedroom to her office, where a small and ugly blonde child of indeterminable sex sat patiently at her desk. Patience was a necessity for Ravenclaw students.

Rowena asked, 'How did you get into my office?'

'Er – you said your door was always open to a student in distress—'

'But it was locked!'

'—And you said that enterprising young students would be favoured above all others, Miss.'

'Yes, but – lock-picking? My God. Didn't I tell you that honesty was the best policy?'

The child shook his/her head.

'Well…good, because that's just a lie spouted by honest people.' She surveyed the child suspiciously, and added, 'And if you break into my office again, I'll box you. Alright?'

The child nodded furiously.

'Now, tell me what's bothering…' She trailed into silence as she caught sight of her reflection, and squinted appraisingly. 'Dear God, I look rough. I must be coming down with something. Does my tongue look funny?'

The child recoiled in fear as Rowena swept down upon it, yellow tongue waggling in a way many would consider intimidating.

''Ell?' said Rowena, through her gaping mouth.

The child nodded fearfully.

'Buggeration.' Served her right for throwing up and then hanging out on a rooftop, she supposed. She swallowed a couple of times, feeling the unpleasant lump on her throat, and massaged her throbbing temple. Oh, how the mighty hath fallen. What was it – feed a cold, sweat out a fever? Very good advice. But was she cold or feverish?

'Er, professor?'

'Would you say I was cold, or feverish?'

The child shrugged.

'Eugh. I'll have to eat and sweat.'

'Er...professor?'

Rowena examined her bloodshot eyes in the mirror. 'Yes?'

'I'm – I'm a bit worried.'

'Hm?'

'John's disappeared.'

Rowena lowered the mirror. The word made her mouth dry. 'Dis—disappeared?'

The child nodded.

'Is he a student?'

The child nodded again.

'Quite small?' She flicked open her diary – the moon was still waxing…full moon three days away…

'He hasn't been back since yesterday.'

Three days…but could it be possible?...

'Right,' said Rowena quietly, her mind racing. She swallowed. 'Right. Well, that's fine. We'll – erm – we'll have a look for him, don't worry. What's his name?'

'John Richards,' said the child, evidently taking some comfort from Rowena's impersonation of a woman at ease, 'he's in second year.'

'Alright – I'll find him for you. Don't you sodding worry.'

Twelve minutes later, dressed and brushed, Rowena had darted down the stairs, through Ravenclaw common room and along the second floor corridor. She didn't know where she was going, who she was looking for or what she would tell them, but in moments of panic she found it very comforting to dash. If she dashed enough, she'd find someone – John or Helga or Godric or –

'Salazar!'

The Man Himself wheeled around to watch her dash towards him. Slightly breathless, and a lot worse for wear, she roughly grabbed the collar of his shirt.

'Ravenclaw,' he said, with half a smirk, 'you look…dilapidated.'

'What are you doing here?'

'Well,' he said slowly, with a mocking expression she had no time for, 'it's a Monday, we're in school and I'm a teacher. Perhaps if we pool together our collective intelligence, we can make some sense of these mad clues—'

'Oh God – I'm going to be sick.'

'Not again, I've just had these washed—'

'Godric, he's – Godric —'

'What?'

'He's got someone…'

For a moment or so, Salazar didn't move. Then, very slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders and said, 'Are you sure?'

'No! I mean, I – he – someone's missing. A student. I don't know—'

Salazar faced her very directly, but his eyes stared pensively over her shoulder. For a minute or so, all was silent. Then the squeak of a shoe told them life was approaching, and he lowered his hands.

'Come on,' he said gently, nudging open a classroom door, 'in here.' The door swung closed after them. Rowena was mildly surprised to find herself in Anatole's usual classroom.

'OK,' said Salazar, sitting in Anatole's chair, 'what's happened?'

Very quickly, Rowena recounted her conversation with the ugly child. Salazar remained still.

'There's still three days until full moon,' Rowena reminded him, as he absorbed the facts.

'Can't be Godders,' he said, pensively.

'What else is there?'

Salazar didn't reply.

'He might – he might not be missing,' said Rowena, more optimistically than she truly felt, 'he might just be, you know, missing. Yes?'

Salazar nodded. 'Yeah. Still – we've got to do something.'

'We'll tell the teachers; search the grounds—'

'I meant about Godders. We can't have him running around like this once a month…'

'Anatole has something planned.' She explained his intention to perform a spell in three night's time, guarded from any "outside forces" by everyone willing to stand by with a sharpened stick.

'I'll do that,' said Salazar. He didn't declare it bravely, but dutifully – almost reluctantly.

'Me too,' said Rowena, 'and I expect Helga will want to.'

'Hm.'

'In the meantime, I think we should impose a curfew. And – and perhaps confront Godders.'

'And I'll look for John. Are you alright? You look disgusting.'

Rowena glanced down at herself, and recalled the state of her appearance. 'I am disgusting. I think I'm ill.'

'How's your temperature?' For the briefest moment his hand twitched, as if he was going to hold it to her cheek or forehead. Rowena instinctively flinched, and it was perhaps this move that made him subtly change the course of his hand, and instead tidy his own hair.

'I've feel as bad as I look,' she mumbled, 'which is bad luck for all of us.'

'Are you teaching?'

'In about half an hour, yes.'

There was the slightest of pauses. Then Salazar said, 'You get ready, then. I'll look for John.'

'Yeah…bye.'

She bathed, dressed and brushed once more, but there was little hope in disguising the fact that Rowena was, in fact, desperately ill, and ready to regurgitate every meal she'd eaten in the last three months.

With that pleasant thought in her mind, she once again descended the staircase and set off in the direction of her cookery classroom. Already two minutes late for lesson, the corridors appeared to be deserted; there was no sign of student life and, to her disappointment, even less sign of Salazar.

Now three minutes late, she took a deep, unsteady breath outside the cookery classroom and entered. The mixed class of sixth and seventh year girls stared at her through the cloud of flour that filled the room, greeting her with the obligatory "Morning, Professor".

Helga greeted her with a smile, which quickly faded upon seeing her expression and turned into a wince. Rowena took a seat at the communal teacher's desk, rifled through her notes and let Helga begin the lesson herself.

'What's up?' Helga asked quietly, once the class set to work.

Rowena told her.

'Bollocks,' said Helga.

'Exactly. And I'm ill.'

'You look it.'

Rowena sighed. 'Everyone is so very complimentary this morning.'

'Why don't you go back to bed? I'm sure I can—'

'I'll manage.' She gestured to the small mountain of unmarked homework stacked upon the desk and said, 'I'll sort these out; you circulate. And keep your eye on that one,' she said, gesturing to Jasmine King, Heather's ginger-haired friend, 'because I've no idea what she puts into Yorkshire puddings, but it shouldn't make your urine turn blue.'

Helga obediently left to circulate around the desks and bubbling cauldrons, making a point to loom over Jasmine menacingly. For a few minutes, to the background noise of student chatter, Rowena attempted to mark the homework but found herself unable to do so. Her mind raced and throbbed.

And then – hooray for salt in the wound! – the door swung open, and Heather Bettany herself strolled in, looking as pristine as ever while Rowena silently rotted.

'Oh, hello Miss,' said Heather, smiling her ironic smile.

'Hello, Heather. Nice of you to join us. And that's Professor, thank you.' I'll scratch your beady little eyes out, you preened jezebel…

'So sorry I'm late,' she said, voice dripping with mock-sincerity as she stood before Rowena's desk, 'I ran into Salazar on the way over, and…well, he missed me, bless him.' She smiled. 'You look terrible, Miss. Hungover again?'

'I'm ill. What's your excuse?'

She chuckled. 'Professor Slytherin doesn't think I look terrible. Do you know something, Miss?' Heather mimed a furtive glance over her shoulder and whispered, 'He's a fantastic kisser.'

Don't say it Rowena, don't say it –

'Yes he is, isn't he?'

Heather's smile dropped slightly. With a horrible sinking feeling, Rowena realised she'd said it.

'Now go to your seat,' she said, desperately pretending she hadn't, 'and do your work, for once.'

With a final hateful smile, Heather flounced away and joined the red-haired Jasmine.

Oh dear Lord, Rowena…you idiot.

Well…how much of an idiot was she, really? She'd practically admitted her feelings to Salazar on the night of the shin-dig, and he'd…practically returned the sentiments. Practically. "It's just easier with Heather"…

Yes – that part of the evening she could recall, with crystal clarity. The cold window, the whiney music and the quiet mumbles, and Salazar's face…oh, why couldn't he just have sex with her and get it over with? The man was a mystery, bathing in riddle and towelling himself down with an enigma. Even now, even after confession, she had no idea where she stood with him. And it would help, of course, if she could remember what had happened afterwards…

Sometime later, Helga rejoined her at the teacher's desk. Very quietly, so not to be heard by the girls on the front row – which included, to all-around dismay, Heather Bettany – Helga said, 'Ro, are you alright? Seriously?'

'Fine,' Rowena mumbled.

'Only you've been staring at that piece of paper for the last twenty minutes, and it's upside down.'

'Oh. Right.'

'Are you OK?'

Very quietly, Rowena groaned. 'I think she's going to rip out my spleen with her perfectly manicured fingers, Helly.'

'Heather?'

'Yep.'

'Ignore her.'

'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Well…watch her.' While Helga obediently did as she was asked, Rowena let her gaze scan the room, resting on one of the anonymous students on the back row. And then It happened: Heather nudged Jasmine, Jasmine nudged Magdalena, Magdalena nudged Kristen and all four of them stared, silently, at Rowena's forehead.

After a few moments, Rowena returned her gaze to the homework on her desk, and felt the stares gradually leave her.

'See?' she whispered.

Helga nodded. 'Yes, I see. But it's not as if she went for your liver.'

'Oh God – don't you get it, Helga? I'm Mrs Trethewick!'

Helga stared searchingly at her friend for a moment or two. 'Wow,' she said, very slowly, 'this is like the conclusion of a really bad detective novel. Who in hell's name is Mrs Trethewick?'

'Mrs Trethewick!' Rowena repeated, desperately. 'Don't you remember? The Herbology Mistress, Mrs Trethewick! We all used to stare at her Adam's apple until she had to look away from us, and then we'd all giggle and salute each other. I'm Mrs Trethewick.'

'Oh,' said Helga, gently, 'don't be silly. Your Adam's apple is much less pronounced, for one thing.'

'But—'

'And you're clean shaven. And you don't start gargling in delight whenever someone mentions mandrakes—'

'My point is—'

'You're not Mrs Trethewick, Ro,' said Helga, with a smile, 'you're just a bit unhinged. And Heather's a scabby old rat with bad breath and a penis.'

'A what?'

'Probably.'

Five minutes before the lesson ended, Rowena made a hasty exit before Heather had the opportunity to impale her with a shoe. This early exit also gave her the chance to lay her hands on Godric before he could escape – but she had to confess that the risk of impalement was still the driving force behind her decision.

Strangely, she didn't even realise Salazar was out of her thoughts until she saw him appear at the foot of the staircase. And when she saw him, her stomach did a strange flip that had little to do with illness.

'Are you looking for Heather?' she asked, by way of greeting. Her subconscious was still sore about what she'd said about him.

'Er – no,' said Salazar, caught temporarily off-guard by her random questioning, 'why, where is she?'

'No idea,' she lied. 'Have you found John?'

'Yeah, I found him – and he's fine.'

A huge sigh of relief flooded through her body. 'Thank God. Where was he?'

'Stupid bastard locked himself in the Owlry,' he reported, flicking a tawny brown feather from his shoulder as he spoke. 'The gamekeeper found him hiding under the windowsill, half pecked to death by carrier pigeons. But we managed to get him out, between us.'

'Who looks after those owls?' Rowena asked, noticing the talon scratch that scored across his cheek.

'I think we forgot to look into that. They've gone savage.'

'Oh. Bum.'

'To put it lightly. Have you spoken to Godders yet?'

Rowena shook her head. 'I'm on my way now. What am I meant to be saying?'

'I'm sure you'll think of something.'

Further down the corridor, a door creaked open and a motley crew of students spilled into the corridor. Remembering Heather's presence nearby, Rowena said, 'I'll be off, then. Do you know where he is?'

'Fourth floor, I think.'

'Right. Thanks.' Still cursing 'flu, illness and bacteria in general, Rowena ascended the nearest staircase, silently praying Salazar would clear off before Heather got her mucky paws on him.

But, unbelievable as it seemed, she did have bigger things to worry about. Bigger, hairier and sharper things, to be precise, on the fourth floor.

She arrived as the final student – a bespectacled fourth year with acne – bid Godric his farewells, promising to hand in his homework tomorrow as he did so.

'That's quite all right,' said Godric, 'as long as I see it – ah – hello, Rowena – before Wednesday afternoon. Goodbye, Daniel.'

Rowena waved at him nervously. She'd never really had much of a rapport with Godric; in her mind, he'd existed solely for her amusement and Helga's sexual gratification. And now she was about to confront him about his nocturnal activities and accuse him of the murder of at least two students. What better way to spend an afternoon?

'Hello, Rowena,' he said again, pleasantly, 'did you wish to see me?'

'Er, yes. Yes please, Godric, if you don't mind.'

'Not at all, do come in.'

Rowena closed the door and perched herself at the edge of a student's chair, while Godric tidied away the bric-a-brac that littered his desk. The faint tapping and buzzing of a fly under a glass echoed from his desk, before he carefully released it out of the open window. Oh, he would be the werewolf.

'There,' he said, conversationally, 'I'm sure that will, er, suffice.' They shared an uncomfortable silence for a moment, before he attempted: 'You look…well.'

Rowena groaned. 'I'm ill! Ill!'

'Yes – yes, of course. The weather's getting cold, and – er –'

'I'm not usually this inflamed!'

'No, no, of course—'

''Ook at my 'ongue!'

'Yes, it's – er – delightful.'

Rowena retracted her tongue and rubbed her eyes. 'It's not been a great day, to be honest with you, Godric.'

'Yes, I…I see.'

The uncomfortable pause returned. Rowena rose to her feet, swayed uncertainly for a moment and perched herself on the edge of a desk. Revealing your yellow tongue to someone doesn't make the accusation any easier.

Godric cleared his throat. 'Is it about…Helga?'

'What? Oh – no. No, not Helga.'

'Oh.' He sighed slightly and said, 'I rather hoped it would be.'

Yes, thought Rowena, me too. She sighed. 'No, it's not about Helga. It's about something…marginally more difficult to introduce.'

Godric sat down. 'Ah?'

'Ah. Yeah. Well…frankly, I know you're a werewolf.'

The pause was longer this time. Godric's whole body stiffened for a minute, exaggerating his usual stance – his shoulders further back, his chest wider, his jaw higher – then all at once, like a deflating balloon, he relaxed. His shoulders sagged, and the air of formality vanished. He sighed.

'Yes,' he said, looking her in the eye, 'I thought you might. Helga told you, I suppose?'

'Yeah,' she said quietly. She couldn't fully explain why, but having removed everything formal and familiar about him made her feel immensely guilty.

He shrugged. 'Well, I knew it'd get out. Have you told anyone else?'

Rowena shook her head.

'Right. That's, er…that's good.' He sighed again, gently. 'Did you want to talk about it, or…?'

'Well' – and here's the difficult part – 'those kids—'

'No,' he interrupted, quickly, 'I didn't kill them.'

'Oh. Er, are you sure?'

He nodded intently, but diverted his gaze. 'I'd remember. I'd remember killing them.'

'Right.' It seemed to Rowena that he was trying to convince himself more than her. 'Er. Only, you see, they died at the last full moon—'

'It wasn't me,' he repeated, more sternly than before, 'it wasn't me.'

'How do you know?'

He looked up at her sharply, and Rowena found herself subconsciously clenching her fists…just in case. 'I stop myself. I can control it.'

'Oh.' Now he wasn't even convincing himself. 'I see. Where do you go?'

'Dungeons,' he mumbled, 'and I barricade the door and lock myself in.'

'But how do you know—?'

'I didn't kill them!' It wasn't a shout, because the volume of his voice hadn't increased. But the intensity had. As soon as the words were delivered, his face twitched and he scratched his forearm in a way that, while not dog-like, was certainly not human-like. Then he sighed and shook his head.

'Sorry,' Rowena mumbled. Had she heard of werewolves wolfing before full moon? Triggered by, say, anger? Annoyance? Guilt?

Godric shook his head again, and quickly composed himself. 'I can control it, Rowena. Most of the time.'

'How can you control it? How do you know you're doing it?'

'Because I'm – strong,' he muttered, feebly, 'mentally. I can control the wolf. You wouldn't understand.'

'No,' she agreed, 'probably not.'

'And if I killed them – well, I'd know. You wouldn't understand that, either.'

She dared one final question: 'What do you mean, you can control it most of the time?'

Godric stared at her intently for a moment. Then he laughed, and hopped lithely to his feet. Rowena, for feelings of security, followed him. 'I suppose,' he said, sweeping the final knick-knacks from his desk and into the cupboard, 'I'm two beings, really: half were and half wolf. And the were's always watching the wolf, and the wolf's always watching the were. And even though we take it in turns to be in control, we've always got the other one at the back of our head, ready to take over whenever we get half a chance.' He smiled and scratched his ginger hair, which curled around his fingers. 'If ever I'm angry or frightened or upset as a human, the wolf in me stirs. But whenever I'm a wolf, the human in me keeps watch. But it's a delicate balance, you see Rowena? And if I'm a wolf, and the human in me is angry, frightened or upset – well, sometimes he joins in with the wolf.' He smiled again. There was nothing happy about it.