"Unspoken" for zephre
Title: Unspoken
Gift for: zephre
Author: chimbomba
Pairing: Helga/Salazar
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: none
Genre: light romance and angst
Summary: She considered the horrible possibility that he had not grasped the significance of her stolen glances, and it made her want to vomit.
Author’s Notes: Infinitely many thanks to peskywhistpaw for her patience and cheerleading. To zephre, thanks for the wonderful prompts, and I hope you enjoy this! :D
The day, Helga remembers, had been falsely cheery. The grounds were bathed in summer’s sunlight, yet the air was mysteriously sharp and bitter like winter. From her window, she did not see the wind blowing nor the grass browning. The day appeared to be still. Quiet. Peaceful.
As a result, she had dressed inappropriately for the weather. He chastised her, not quite playfully, and proffered her his cloak, though at the same time he was loath to part with it.
Little did she know that she was also unsuitably dressed for the occasion.
He leaned against the tree, which seemed something that only Godric would do, and stared at the ground soberly, perhaps even self-consciously. His eyes read immeasurable melancholy. In that motherly way of hers, Helga reached out and tenderly touched his shoulder, ready to offer comforting words.
Flinching, he was not comforted, but steeled.
She stood aback, her mouth agape, her fingers closing around nothing. Immediately she realized that she had no reason to be surprised. After all, she was in love with Salazar - the supposedly non-chivalric, unromantic, cold-hearted sorcerer.
She tried again anyway.
“Helga,” he said tersely.
“Salazar,” she responded impudently - demanding an explanation.
He stared at her. She waited.
“There is much I owe you,” he at last offered.
“Indeed,” she concurred, “But I am not seeking repayment.”
“Nor can I give it. But if you do not seek compensation, then for what purpose do you follow me here?”
“If you do not already know, then I shall not answer.”
She considered the horrible possibility that he had not grasped the significance of her stolen glances, and it made her want to vomit.
“Helga,” he sighed. “You are not to come with me.”
The look on his face was so doleful that immediately she knew what was happening; they had all known this day would come to pass. Helga had, however, anticipated a much more violent departure.
“There is a burden I can no longer carry. I would like you to be its keeper.” Salazar ceremoniously retrieved a small, gold cup from his cloak. It bore no markings and appeared to be of little consequence at first glance, but she knew the meaning it held for Salazar, and trembled.
“Can you do this for me?” he asked both quietly and brusquely.
“Yes,” she whispered, taking it into her hands, her tears splashing into it. He would not drink from it again; his communion with them was ended.
“It is finished, then.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant - what was finished? The words echoed eerily in her mind. But she did not get the opportunity, for he walked away from her and vanished from sight.
The occasion called for black dress; Helga mourned in her summer yellow.
Years before the founding of Hogwarts, Helga recalls after a while, she ran a small shop in her homeland: she sold spices and herbs that she dug up and ground herself, and patrons came from around the country seeking her wares. She also had a store of potion ingredients that she kept secret from the public, but anyone with an ounce of magic in their blood knew when to ask for a share.
One day a blond Englishman stooped in below the door frame, as it was several inches too short for him, and requested powdered moonstone. She gave it to him, he paid his due, and he left without incident. The following day he returned and pointed at the syrup of hellebore. Again, he paid and went away without a word. But the third day he hit his head on the door frame and began shouting incoherently at her for a good five minutes.
She shook her head and pursed her lips, indicating that she did not understand him.
“DRAUGHT - OF - PEACE!” he shouted.
As calmly as possible, she asked him to slow down and speak clearly so she could try to help him.
Exasperated, the man jabbed at his chest and said, “Salazar.”
“No,” Helga responded, thinking he was naming a foreign ingredient. With that the man left again. He returned every day, asking for things she did not have.
After several months business began to slow, and despite her shrewd business sense, she could not keep the shop running any longer. People were beginning to suspect she was a witch on account of the queer folk that seemed to appear there in recent months.
The blond man approached her whilst she was packing up her items - by now she had learned that ‘Salazar’ was his name, and not some kind of salt.
“You are leaving,” he accused.
“I must,” Helga replied simply.
He said nothing, and looked at her disassembled shop. There were still a few items on the shelves that she had not yet organized into sacks - vials and powders and herbs and the like. He did not see anything that interested him, until something small and gold caught the sunlight for a brief moment. Peering at it closer, he discovered it was a simple gold locket - and how heavy it was!
“This must be worth quite a lot,” he said casually.
Helga looked up at him and gave him a small smile. “Take it. I cannot keep it safe anymore.”
“Are you certain? I do not mind paying, and you must be in need of some funds.”
“Never mind me. Please, consider it my parting gift.”
He acquiesced and took the locket into his hands, utterly mesmerized by its simplicity. Then he pulled out a silver wand and engraved a serpentine ‘S’ into its surface.
“I shall find you one day,” he decided, and he left her to her packing.
Godric, Rowena, and Helga sat for dinner a week after The Incident, and not a word was spoken - not of Salazar, not of their students, not even of the weather.
That is, until Godric noticed the cup from which Helga drank.
“Why,” he began, sitting up straighter and leaning forward. She raised her eyebrows at him bemusedly.
“Yes, Godric? Is something the matter?”
“That is his, is it not?” He waved his own silver cup about to show what he meant.
“Of course not,” Helga said. “The only things he left behind were his students.”
“It is very much like his old cup, I must say. The ridges about the handles are familiar to me. Are you sure he did not give it to you?” he pressed, aware that there had been something between Helga and Salazar.
“Godric, look upon this cup closely, then tell me why my mark is on it, and not his.”
Revolving the cup slowly so he could see it, she revealed a badger engraved on its surface.
“Ah,” he said, surprised, and sat back. “I apologize, Helga. I did not know you were in possession of such a treasure.”
“Nor did I,” she smiled mysteriously.
Gift for: zephre
Author: chimbomba
Pairing: Helga/Salazar
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: none
Genre: light romance and angst
Summary: She considered the horrible possibility that he had not grasped the significance of her stolen glances, and it made her want to vomit.
Author’s Notes: Infinitely many thanks to peskywhistpaw for her patience and cheerleading. To zephre, thanks for the wonderful prompts, and I hope you enjoy this! :D
The day, Helga remembers, had been falsely cheery. The grounds were bathed in summer’s sunlight, yet the air was mysteriously sharp and bitter like winter. From her window, she did not see the wind blowing nor the grass browning. The day appeared to be still. Quiet. Peaceful.
As a result, she had dressed inappropriately for the weather. He chastised her, not quite playfully, and proffered her his cloak, though at the same time he was loath to part with it.
Little did she know that she was also unsuitably dressed for the occasion.
He leaned against the tree, which seemed something that only Godric would do, and stared at the ground soberly, perhaps even self-consciously. His eyes read immeasurable melancholy. In that motherly way of hers, Helga reached out and tenderly touched his shoulder, ready to offer comforting words.
Flinching, he was not comforted, but steeled.
She stood aback, her mouth agape, her fingers closing around nothing. Immediately she realized that she had no reason to be surprised. After all, she was in love with Salazar - the supposedly non-chivalric, unromantic, cold-hearted sorcerer.
She tried again anyway.
“Helga,” he said tersely.
“Salazar,” she responded impudently - demanding an explanation.
He stared at her. She waited.
“There is much I owe you,” he at last offered.
“Indeed,” she concurred, “But I am not seeking repayment.”
“Nor can I give it. But if you do not seek compensation, then for what purpose do you follow me here?”
“If you do not already know, then I shall not answer.”
She considered the horrible possibility that he had not grasped the significance of her stolen glances, and it made her want to vomit.
“Helga,” he sighed. “You are not to come with me.”
The look on his face was so doleful that immediately she knew what was happening; they had all known this day would come to pass. Helga had, however, anticipated a much more violent departure.
“There is a burden I can no longer carry. I would like you to be its keeper.” Salazar ceremoniously retrieved a small, gold cup from his cloak. It bore no markings and appeared to be of little consequence at first glance, but she knew the meaning it held for Salazar, and trembled.
“Can you do this for me?” he asked both quietly and brusquely.
“Yes,” she whispered, taking it into her hands, her tears splashing into it. He would not drink from it again; his communion with them was ended.
“It is finished, then.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant - what was finished? The words echoed eerily in her mind. But she did not get the opportunity, for he walked away from her and vanished from sight.
The occasion called for black dress; Helga mourned in her summer yellow.
Years before the founding of Hogwarts, Helga recalls after a while, she ran a small shop in her homeland: she sold spices and herbs that she dug up and ground herself, and patrons came from around the country seeking her wares. She also had a store of potion ingredients that she kept secret from the public, but anyone with an ounce of magic in their blood knew when to ask for a share.
One day a blond Englishman stooped in below the door frame, as it was several inches too short for him, and requested powdered moonstone. She gave it to him, he paid his due, and he left without incident. The following day he returned and pointed at the syrup of hellebore. Again, he paid and went away without a word. But the third day he hit his head on the door frame and began shouting incoherently at her for a good five minutes.
She shook her head and pursed her lips, indicating that she did not understand him.
“DRAUGHT - OF - PEACE!” he shouted.
As calmly as possible, she asked him to slow down and speak clearly so she could try to help him.
Exasperated, the man jabbed at his chest and said, “Salazar.”
“No,” Helga responded, thinking he was naming a foreign ingredient. With that the man left again. He returned every day, asking for things she did not have.
After several months business began to slow, and despite her shrewd business sense, she could not keep the shop running any longer. People were beginning to suspect she was a witch on account of the queer folk that seemed to appear there in recent months.
The blond man approached her whilst she was packing up her items - by now she had learned that ‘Salazar’ was his name, and not some kind of salt.
“You are leaving,” he accused.
“I must,” Helga replied simply.
He said nothing, and looked at her disassembled shop. There were still a few items on the shelves that she had not yet organized into sacks - vials and powders and herbs and the like. He did not see anything that interested him, until something small and gold caught the sunlight for a brief moment. Peering at it closer, he discovered it was a simple gold locket - and how heavy it was!
“This must be worth quite a lot,” he said casually.
Helga looked up at him and gave him a small smile. “Take it. I cannot keep it safe anymore.”
“Are you certain? I do not mind paying, and you must be in need of some funds.”
“Never mind me. Please, consider it my parting gift.”
He acquiesced and took the locket into his hands, utterly mesmerized by its simplicity. Then he pulled out a silver wand and engraved a serpentine ‘S’ into its surface.
“I shall find you one day,” he decided, and he left her to her packing.
Godric, Rowena, and Helga sat for dinner a week after The Incident, and not a word was spoken - not of Salazar, not of their students, not even of the weather.
That is, until Godric noticed the cup from which Helga drank.
“Why,” he began, sitting up straighter and leaning forward. She raised her eyebrows at him bemusedly.
“Yes, Godric? Is something the matter?”
“That is his, is it not?” He waved his own silver cup about to show what he meant.
“Of course not,” Helga said. “The only things he left behind were his students.”
“It is very much like his old cup, I must say. The ridges about the handles are familiar to me. Are you sure he did not give it to you?” he pressed, aware that there had been something between Helga and Salazar.
“Godric, look upon this cup closely, then tell me why my mark is on it, and not his.”
Revolving the cup slowly so he could see it, she revealed a badger engraved on its surface.
“Ah,” he said, surprised, and sat back. “I apologize, Helga. I did not know you were in possession of such a treasure.”
“Nor did I,” she smiled mysteriously.