Disclaimer: The characters are not mine (I might have mentioned this before), nor is Monty Python, but the idea is because I have a twisted sense of humor (another thing to blame my dad for).
A/N: This is my first attempt at a humor fiction so if anyone has comments, constructive criticisms or corrections to make, please let me know.
Love Potion #9
As inevitable as an impending explosion. As limitless as stupidity. As unreasonable as a brick wall—the arguments of Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor. They argue and bickered and quarreled and fought like an old married couple—though no one had the guts to use that simile aloud.
Rowana liked to think that over the years she had built up a tolerance to their squabbles. By now she should have heard every possible topic torn apart by sarcastic comments and vulgar cursing, and in a volume that shouldn't have been legal. It had continued day and night, about every conceivable absurdity two male minds can possibly imagine, so this really shouldn't have come as a surprise.
But it did.
"Could you repeat that Helga." Perhaps she hadn't heard right…or maybe they had at last run out of topics.
It was probably the hearing.
"Arguing about arguing," Helga enunciated.
Not the hearing then. For a moment Rowana thought about taking a peek, just to see how one went about arguing such a topic; even her formidable intellect couldn't quite wrap itself around the concept. But no, her inevitable downward spiral to certain insanity did not need any more help.
"How can you be so calm about this?"
"Well I'm tired of getting practice! It's time to put an end to this nonsense."
That would be akin to halting the revolving earth, but Rowana—proving why she founded the house of wisdom—kept her mouth shut. Helga was nothing if not a determined witch, but there are three things that always will be: death, taxes and Godric/Salazar spats.
"What exactly do you have in mind?"
Helga produced from her pocket a small vial filled with a very familiar light pink potion. "Just to help them relax a bit."
Rowana decided that even if this wouldn't work, it had the potential for good humor and better blackmail.
Sore, throbbing head. He registered that much. Sometime during the night a Percussion ensemble moved in for practice. They had yet to stop. Unfortunately, given his taste in drink, this was not an uncommon way for Godric to greet the morning. His tongue still had the lingering flavor of Meade on it, blending with a salty, foreign flavor that he had never tasted before. Soothing his aching skull as best he could, the Gryffindor Lord felt fit enough to move.
A weight pressing against his chest prevented it. He attempted again before his brain fully reconnected with its meager common sense and told him not to bother. A blacksmith had joined the ensemble and he really didn't feel like lifting more than the weight of his eyelids this morning.
From the corner of his eye, Godric saw long black hair pooled on his torso. Also not an uncommon way to wake up, though indefinitely more pleasurable—a pity his mind didn't see fit to recall last night.
Details slowly filtered in. The Meade—a little off tasting—but not uncommon for The Hogshead. A strange urgency to cast aside inhibitions; an unavoidable but sometimes useful effect of alcohol. Unexplored pleasures that brought a satisfied smile to his leonine visage.
One that vanished once he actually saw his companion. Instantly he was awake, hangover promptly forgotten, mind cleared and ready for denials.
But they died swift deaths as his companion awoke. There was something wrong with his throat. Godric could only stare into deep cobalt eyes reflecting his own torrent of confusion, dying denials and "this-did-not-just-happen!"
Breakfast that day was entirely too peaceful. Godric and Salazar came downstairs, sat as far away from each other as possible, avoided eye contact with anything that wasn't food and left in opposite directions.
Not a word was spoken between them for the rest of the week.