"The Four Chambers of the Heart," for themirrorofsin
Title: The Four Chambers of the Heart
Gift for: themirrorofsin
Author: liliths_requiem
Pairings: Helena/Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw/Slytherin, Bloody Baron/Helena
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: peripheral lesbian relationship, murder-suicide reference, Ravenclaw portrayed in a negative light.
Genres: angst, romance
Author's Notes: Thanks to my lovely girlfriend, K, for betaing. Themirrorofsin, I really hope you liked this. :)
Summary: The four people who broke Rowena Ravenclaw’s heart.
They are sitting in a room that should be empty, and would be, save for the mirror hanging beneath the window and the chair upon which Helena is sitting. There are many rooms in Hogwarts that serve no purpose other than to fill up the empty space created by the exterior design. Sometimes, Helena feels just as hollow as the hallowed halls she grew up in. Not that she will ever tell her mother such things; Rowena doesn’t like to discuss emotions, not even with the ones she loves.
Helena is brushing her hair, each stroke methodical as she watches the woman in the reflection smile beneath the brush’s gentle caress. Her reflection looks peaceful, accepting. But there’s a glint in her eye that belies the calm, and both women in the room know that this is only the silence before the storm. Rowena keeps shooting her daughter looks of pain, almost as though she wants to embrace the child she never wanted to raise, almost as though there are now ties that bind them together, when ties had never existed before.
“Why are you being so difficult about this, Helena? The Baron loves you.” The words are so rational, so sure that logic is the only way to deal with matters of the heart. The Baron of Ord Muir is a good man, with a nice fortune, and a beautiful castle not too far from Hogwarts. He would worship her, given the opportunity, he would adorn her so wonderfully she could rival England’s queen. Unfortunately, Helena does not return the affection. Unfortunately, Helena quite hates the Baron.
Helena shakes her head resolutely, “The Baron does not even know who I am,” she argues, the brush held tight in the arm that has gone limp at her side. “He does not care, either. He simply finds me beautiful, and believes that is enough.”
“Beauty has protected many women in this world,” Rowena replies, pausing in her constant stroll across the room. “You would not be the first woman to win a man by looks alone, and you are lucky enough to inherit my skin. You will not age poorly.”
“I want to find love, mother!” Helena watches as her reflection’s face turns unbecomingly splotchy, with red painting all the pores that stand out too harshly against her pale skin. “I want to be with someone who could love me for who I am, without the mask of beauty.” She does not dare to name the person she wants to find love with. Her mother, Salazar, Godric-they would all be painfully disappointed in both of them. And with their disappointment, Helga would never speak to her again.
Helga Hufflepuff-the one person Helena would give up everything and anything to be with-is the one person who will forever be off limits. She was one of the Founders, and perhaps the most important of them all. Although she is only ten years older than Helena, she has accomplished so very much in the thirty years she has spent on earth. At fifteen, she convinced her brother in law, Godric Gryffindor, to build a castle in which to teach students. At seventeen, she talked Salazar Slytherin, the strongest wizard in England, into joining the school as a teacher. And at eighteen, she convinced the newly widowed Rowena, and her young daughter Helena, to move into the wild Highlands and help with the construction needed. The school opened a year later, and Helena was the one to give it the awkward name that outlived them all: Hogwarts.
For ten years, Helga was the teacher and Helena was the student. Then, on the eve of Helena’s nineteenth birthday, Helga entered her room and quieted her curiosity with a kiss. They made slow, careless love until morning, and one year later, Helena couldn’t imagine a night not spent in her lover’s arms. Marriage to a Baron who lived half a day’s journey from the school would mean rarely being in Helga’s arms. What’s more, she isn’t sure if God considers them married or not, and the last thing she wants is to damn herself to Hell by committing adultery.
But the words needed to articulate their relationship, what she and Helga shares, are intangible, and every time she goes to speak, her throat closes tight and fear clouds the icy clearness of her eyes. She thinks Rowena knows there are words unspoken between them, but her mother will not breach the distance between them and demand an explanation. She will let this pass, as she lets all things pass. Helena used to believe it was because her mother didn’t care about her, now, Helena wonders if her mother cares about anything at all.
“Love is a luxury you cannot afford. You are twenty years old, Helena. At your age, most women have already birthed their first child.” She looks bitter, almost, and Helena wants to throw that bitterness back in her face. She wants to scream at her mother, tell her that just because Rowena had to marry young to a man twice her age, Helena should not be forced to share her mother’s loveless fate. Rowena had been lucky enough to find love later in life, with Salazar Slytherin, the only man strong enough to handle her. Helena isn’t sure if she’ll ever find someone whom she loves the way she loves Helga. She doesn’t think God gives you two soul mates in one lifetime.
Instead, Helena uses logic, because she knows that her mother thrives on rationality, and will only respond to an argument she thinks she can win. “Helga never married,” Helena says, hoping to use her mother’s favorite against her. Rowena has always adored Helga, the young prodigy who has the whole world at her feet. If Helena weren’t so in love with her, she would be jealous of Helga. As it stands, she doesn’t have the heart to hate her.
“Helga will never need a man to provide for her,” Rowena counters, moving her diadem to better fit upon her long braids. “You do not have that security.” It was a slap in the face without the necessary movement, and Helena recoiled back into the chair, her cheeks burning in response. Her mother always underestimates her, always did, most likely always will. It hurts, to know that she will never live up to the high expectations set by her brilliant mother. It hurts even more to know that even if she could, Helena will never win her mother’s approval.
“I can teach. I can stay here, and I can teach.” She argues, the passion ripping from her heart without her permission. The one thing her mother hates more than anything is emotional outbursts. “I can take over your classes. Or Sal’s, when he leaves.”
This time, her mother actually does smack her. The slap across her face brings tears to her eyes, and Helena knows she has crossed a line no one is allowed to cross. No one speaks of Salazar’s impending departure to Rowena. He keeps threatening it, but she talks him down every time. Eventually, they all know, Salazar will leave, and Rowena will die of a broken heart. Maybe not right away, but eventually. Despite what her students believe, Rowena’s will may be strong, but her heart is very weak.
“Salazar will not leave,” she says, resolutely, and Helena hates how easily her mother has deluded herself in her desperation. She cannot find the words for her anger, so she remains silent. As Rowena continues to speak, Helena uses all of her strength to bring the brush back to her hair, in an effort to affect an air of aloofness. “And you will marry the Baron of Ord Muir in the morning. I have given my word.”
Rowena looks at her daughter a final time, and Helena drags her eyes up to meet her mother’s. “Good night, Helena,” the founder of the Ravenclaw house whispers, her voice torn between anger and sorrow. Her eyes whisper words of comfort that Helena knows her mother will never say. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, and Helena wonders if she can get away without saying goodnight. In all her twenty years, she has never refused her mother a goodnight kiss.
Helena stands gracefully, the way her mother taught her when she refused to go to etiquette classes. She places the brush down on the chair and walks to her mother with sure, steady steps. “Goodnight, mother,” she answers, reaching on her tiptoes to press a kiss against her mother’s cool cheek.
Neither of them knows for certain that this will be the last time they will see each other on this earth, but there is an ominous feeling that drapes the room in silence as Helena pulls away and rocks back onto her heels. They hold eye contact, and for a moment, Helena has an intense need to throw her arms around her mother and weep for everything they never had. But that would be wrong in ways neither one of them could even begin to comprehend. Instead, Helena offers up a small, sad smile, which is almost reflected by the older woman. But Rowena is in love with a potions’ master, and almost is never good enough for her. So Helena curtsies low, gathers up her robes, and moves across the room to a door that seems to share her feeling of being alone. As she exits the room, she cannot help feeling as if she is turning her back on the entire world.
:::
The silence hangs between them heavier than the fog rolling in from the lake, but neither woman on the rooftop garden acknowledges the awkward quiet that has settled upon them. Rowena’s garden is nestled in the far corner of the balcony attached to Ravenclaw Tower, and holds muggle plants from around the world. Helga has always been slightly envious of the beauty of her mentor’s garden, which far outstrips the green and brown that paint the walls of the greenhouses. Three months ago, she would have expressed her wonderment at the way the lotus flowers are blooming and the calla lilies are reaching towards the sun. But three months of loneliness have left her bitter and bland, and unwilling to appreciate the beauty in anything.
Rowena is the first to break the silence. She looks as though she has aged since Helena’s disappearance. Her movements are slower, her words measured for their weight even more so than they used to be. Helga has tried not to notice, but in her mourning she has found solace in seeing that other people miss Helena as well. Not as much as she does, obviously, but the fact that they notice her absence at all is comforting. Everyone besides Helga spent most of Helena’s life taking her for granted, and she thinks that maybe this, more than the argument with her mother, was the reason for the young woman’s departure.
“You are unnaturally silent as of late, dear Helga,” Rowena observes, as she pours more soil into the hole she has just filled with seedlings. It is late August, just the time to start planting snowdrops for the upcoming winter. Helena used to love her mother’s snowdrops, with their innocent purity and their ability to weather the cold storms that attack the Highlands in December and January. “Is there something you wish to share with me?”
Helga freezes. Rowena has always been very wily in the way she holds a conversation, and Helga knows without turning that her mentor is giving her an accusatory look. She knows, in that moment, that her secrets are on display, and that nothing she says from this moment on will be acceptable unless it is the truth. Bloody legilimancy. Helga has yet to learn effective Occlumency. It isn’t that she cannot handle the intensive magic that such a practice requires-rather, she prefers not to have to lie to anyone. This is the one secret she’s decided to keep, and now she wishes she could have kept it well.
“What do you know?” she asks, finally turning around to face the anger etched on Rowena’s face. “No, never mind, there is only one thing we have to hide between us,” her words are fumbling as she tries to win this war of wits with the one woman who thrives on intelligence. “How much do you know?”
Rowena looks at her coldly, and it makes Helga want to shirk back against the railing or burrow into a hole. She’s never been good at confrontation, and Rowena has been her mentor for almost two decades. She isn’t sure she can handle an argument with the woman she’s supposed to worship. But this is about Helena, so she knows she cannot back down. The older woman draws herself up to full height and says, “You have been corresponding with my daughter. You, who espouse the virtues of loyalty and truth, have betrayed me and gone behind my back with the only other person who has sworn their loyalty to me.” She pauses, and for a moment Helga thinks that pain has chased anger from Rowena’s face. But then the older woman takes a deep breath and adds, “I know you know where she is, at this moment. I want you to tell me.”
Helga knows she can try to lie. It’s a possible reaction to this situation, and it’s not the worst course of action that exists. But she also knows that lying to a trained legilimens is basically useless, and Rowena will catch the falsehood without even a moment’s hesitation. So instead she remains silent, and tries to focus on anything but Helena’s immediate location. She’s sure clearing her mind will make the mindreading more difficult, but she isn’t sure if that’s enough to save either of them.
“You choose not to speak?” Rowena continues, raising her wand just a bit. Without words, Helga can feel the spell activate, can feel the magic sifting through her brain, looking for her lover’s location. Helena does not wish to be found, does not wish to be followed, and has trusted her with this. It’s the closest thing to a declaration of love that Helga’s ever going to receive from the younger woman, and without those letters, she isn’t sure she’ll be able to survive. It sounds unfashionably romantic, but it’s true. Since Helena’s disappearance, she’s clung to the random letters like the Elixir of Life, as though it is Helena’s words alone that keep her breathing.
For a moment, there is only the magic, working between them like a bond neither one wants but neither one wants to break. Helga tries to fight against it, but she isn’t even sure how to go about such a thing. Scenes of making love to Helena in dark fields, where her pale skin is bathed in moonlight and glowing against the dark grass, dance across her mind, and Helga wants to reach out and bring them too her. The disgust Rowena feels as she sifts past them is obvious, not only because of the mind melding magic, but also because of the look of absolute horror on her face.
Helga can feel the location as it is discovered, the images of snow and solitude she’s associated with Albania for the last few months, and it hurts to know that Rowena can touch something as sacred as this. The magic recoils the moment the location is found. It leaves Helga feeling slightly violated, and she turns her back on Rowena.
“I have no further need of you, Helga Hufflepuff,” Rowena says, her voice unnaturally formal, considering she is speaking to her favorite student. “I no longer wish to see your face, nor hear your voice, nor speak your name. You have taken my daughter from me.”
Helga was almost content with leaving the garden and never speaking to Rowena again, until the last sentence was spoken. She rounds on her heel, her mind still slightly broken from the invasion and her heart hurting. Tilting her head up so she can look Rowena in the eye, she says, “I did not take Helena from you, you cold-hearted banshee. You pushed her away with your callous words and your empty attempts at emotion. You know nothing about either truth or loyalty. You abandoned your daughter to a loveless marriage because of your own insecurities. So do not place the guilt on me. This is the hell that you have created for yourself, do not call me Lucifer and hope that I will carry your blame.”
Rowena does not break while Helga is still on the roof. She does not recoil, nor does she look defeated. She says nothing as Helga gives her a parting glare of hate, and she remains silent as Helga opens the back door and begins the descent down the stairs. It is not until Helga has reached the bottom of the tower that she hears the first pot crash against the door. At first, she thinks it is an accident, but then the shattering ceramic is followed by a howl that is part-human, part-soulless scream. Helga pauses with her hand on the doorknob. Others may consider it weakness, but it is her last strand of love for the woman that makes Helga hesitate.
But it is her loyalty to Helena that makes her turn the knob, open the door, and shut out the screams as she leaves. Rowena may be falling apart, but the older woman has already broken Helga’s heart, and for once in her life, the youngest daughter of Earl Hufflepuff cannot bring herself to feel sympathy.
:::
It is dawn when Salazar enters her bedchamber, throwing open the door with unnecessary strength and smirking as it bangs against the marble walls and reverberated through the room. A lesser woman would cringe at the sound, but Rowena does not even pause in her needlework to look up at him. There is no need for superfluous acknowledgement, they both know why he’s here. She can feel the goodbye hanging in the air, and it’s suffocating her in ways that feather pillows never could. She wants to scream, but she’s sure if she opens her mouth no sound will come out.
“Godric has asked me to leave,” he begins, his voice calm and cold, like the glass inside her window. She wants to shatter him, drive a nail into his calm and slam hard against it until he’s nothing more than broken shards. But she’s almost certain that the broken glass will cut her if she tries to clean it up, and she’s not ready to get blood on her hands.
She looks up, but pulls the needle through again. That’s the beauty of repetition-she doesn’t have to think about it. She prefers not to think about things when she doesn’t have to. “Godric is always asking you to leave. What makes this time any different?” She isn’t sure why she continues to fight. If he wants to leave, she really should just let him go.
Salazar moves to kneel beside her. He is not often one for emotional outbursts; he has, for example, much more self control than either Helga or Godric. But the pain on his face is so perfectly etched into his pores that it could have been engraved, and she can’t help but recoil at the sight. “I have no choice, this time, Rowena. I have dueled him. There is no more between the two of us but hate.”
“And between the two of us?” he’s always been able to reduce her to pathetic vulnerability, and a part of her wants to put the robe she is working on down and throw herself into his arms. But she fears that everything will fall apart if she demeans herself like that, and all the work they’ve put into these walls for the past decade and a half will be for naught. Three years ago, she lost her closest friend and her only daughter, she is not about to give up her life’s greatest accomplishment for a simple matter of the heart.
He leans over so that their eyes are forced to meet, and she can feel herself getting lost in the dark shadows that shine with a light she knows cannot be rivaled. “I would prefer it if you would come with me. There is a vessel sailing for the Continent come morning. I have relations in Italy. I believe you will find them beneficial in your never-ending search for your daughter.”
It kills her that he always knows exactly what to say. If he had made this about the two of them, she could have refused him in a heartbeat. But playing Helena against her is a mark of shrewd genius, and she almost wants to give in. But Helena has been lost in the wilds of Albania for almost three years, and if she does not wish to be found, Rowena has a very strong feeling she will never again she her daughter.
“Helena will return when she wants to,” she replies, quickly using her gift at Occlumency to block whatever tricks Salazar may attempt. “I am not going to bombard her without warning. And you know very well that I cannot leave this place. Hogwarts is my home.”
A flash of hurt is quickly replaced by anger. Salazar has always had a very small emotional range, if he is not happy, than he automatically reverts to anger, regardless as to whether he is sad, or bored, or frustrated. “It is my home, as well.” He stands up, their façade of being a perfect couple quickly destroyed. She never loved him for his perfection. “I built it, and I have just as much a claim to live inside its halls as any of you. But I am no longer welcome here, and as the woman I love, you must follow me.”
She puts down the robe calmly and gathers her hands in her lap. “You have no right to order me about, Lord Slytherin,” she responds, her own voice now as cold as his was when he first walked in. “We are not married. We are not even betrothed. You had not interest in being my man, so you may not make demands upon me.”
It is perhaps the worst subject for either one of them to breach. Salazar never wanted to marry her, as he felt it would make running the school more difficult. He has never been the type of man to settle down, and try as she might to accept that, the lack of security has been hard. She doesn’t comment on his immorality-they both know that if God exists Slytherin will spend eternity in Hell. Adultery is adultery, with or without the vows.
“I was under the distinct impression that you were in love with me, my dear,” he answers, aiming for the heart with his words that hurt more than any curse ever could. How dare he question her love for him? Did she not spend hours awake at night waiting for him to return from his dangerous quests into the Black Forest? Did she not always have hot tea and a warm bath waiting for him upon his return? Was she not his biggest supporter, his lone friend whenever he and Godric had a disagreement?
If anyone’s love should be called into question here, it is his. So that’s exactly what she does. “You have claimed to love me as well,” she replies, trying to fight the tremor in her hands and the slight hysteria in her tone of voice, “And yet you are leaving me here, alone.”
He sputters, and she has a feeling that she is the first person to make him lose his composure. Besides Godric, of course. But Godric has never adhered to the rules of this world when dealing with Salazar. Their friendship exists on a plane untouchable by anyone else. Only the divine can venture where those two choose to walk. She knows she could follow if ever she were invited, but neither one has vouchsafed their secrets to her. So she has remained on the physical plane, hoping for a taste of the emotion Godric receives from Salazar every day.
“I guess we have both been lying then,” he answers, finally, his face still red and his pride still wounded, “Because I am still about to leave, and you still refuse to follow.”
She says nothing, does nothing. There is only a blank stare in reply to his painful words. He adjusts his cloak and clasps her hands, one last show of emotion before they never see each other again. She returns the squeeze with her own fingers, relishing in the moment of weakness shared between them.
Then he stands, bows, and says, “I take my leave of you, old friend.” She smiles in return, and if it doesn’t reach her eyes, he does not comment on the emptiness. He closes the door quietly behind him, and her world ends with a whimper.
:::
Contrary to what the history books will lead one to believe, Helena is not the first ghost of Hogwarts. She may be the longest expired, as it is said that the Baron killed her first and then committed suicide, but magic is a tricky thing, and there’s a chance his end was met a moment or two before his beloved’s death. Either way, he is the first to arrive within the hallowed halls of Helena’s home, and his first order of business upon arriving is to find Lady Ravenclaw and tell her of his failure.
He knows Lady Ravenclaw to be a fair woman, but he doubts very much that she will tolerate the murder-suicide that has resulted in the death of her only daughter. However, it is not her wrath that he fears the most. If Lady Hufflepuff ever knows that he killed her dearest friend, he has a distinct feeling she will find a way to cause him pain, even in his very incorporeal form. History may say differently, but he has always known Helga Hufflepuff to be the most powerful of the Founders.
“Lady Ravenclaw,” he begins, as he enters the room she has been using as a hospice these last few months, ever since Slytherin took his leave. She claims to be dying of a broken heart, but the Baron knows she has simply forsaken her will the live. At the sight of his ghostly form, she sits up hurriedly. It is as though she already knows what horrors he is about to speak. He takes a deep breath, although ghosts are not required to breathe, and gathers his thoughts quickly. He knows that he will only have the will power to say this once, and after that, he will never speak the words again. “I have failed your request to bring your daughter back. In fact, I have failed in my own quest to make her love me. And so, I have come to tell you that My Lady Helena is dead.”
Lady Ravenclaw’s long hair drapes around her face to hide the terror in her eyes, but he catches the look just before the dark curtains close, and he wonders if she has every looked this terrified. It is not the sorrow or the anger he has been expecting, and for a moment, he does not know what to do. All of the training his mother has tried to instill in him fails him at this moment, and he does nothing more but float a few feet off the ground in a way that is so blatantly ungraceful and awkward that his mother would slap him, if she were not long dead. He wants to say the right words, but he isn’t entirely sure what they are.
Luckily for him, Helena chooses that moment to appear in the bedchamber beside him. He does not know that this is the very last time she will ever let him catch a glimpse of her beautiful frame. “Hello, Mother,” she greets, choosing to not even acknowledge the Baron. He would feel slighted, if he hadn’t just murdered her yesterday. “As you can see, My Lord Baron has failed in his attempt to marry me, and so decided that death was the only other option.”
When Lady Ravenclaw says nothing, Helena continues on. “I was expecting at least the show of concern, or anger, or some emotion other than the terrified look you are trying to hide, Mother Dear.” He remembers Helena as a sweet-tempered young lady. But she has spent two years in the Albanian wilderness, doing Merlin knows what, so perhaps that is where she developed her bitterness. “Is it your diadem? Is that what you fear for?”
Lady Ravenclaw, in her defense, does not actually admit that she now cares more about a simple piece of jewelry than she does about her only child. But there is movement behind her hair, and both Helena and the Baron take that as a yes. “It is in the castle, and it is safe, but you shall never see it again.” The Baron does not know the whole story behind the diadem, but Lady Ravenclaw requested that, should he fail in bringing her daughter back to Scotland, he at least attempt to secure the diadem. Perhaps it is a family heirloom, or a priceless gift from the elves, or-
“Lord Slytherin bought you that diadem, didn’t her, Mother?” Helena asks, clearing up the Baron’s confusion. “At market with the goblins. It is priceless, is it not? And so very beautiful.” She pauses, pulls at a gossamer tendril of hair that once was blonde but now looks almost silver. “You once called me beautiful, but never priceless. You were willing to sell me to the highest bidder. And look mother, he has claimed his prize. You will gain the Baron’s fortune, and the cost was simply your only daughter’s life.”
Perhaps Lady Ravenclaw is stronger than the average woman, as the Baron has a sneaking suspicion that any other mother would be crying for forgiveness by now. Lady Ravenclaw simply moves her hair from her face and looks her daughter in the eye. There is no remorse in her gaze, and she looks almost empty. The Baron wonders if this is what a person looks like when attacked by a Dementor. He wonders if Lady Ravenclaw even remembers how to smile.
“Salazar is gone, and I am dead, and Helga will never speak to you again,” Helena recounts. “The Baron has told me that you claim to be dying of a broken heart. Well then, die, Mother. There is nothing left for you here. Perhaps you will find redemption on the other side. Here, we will never forgive you.”
With that, and a final look at her mother, Helena left the room. She floated through the far wall, towards Lady Hufflepuff’s quarters. They, too, have unfinished business that must be settled. The Baron watches his love leave, somehow knowing that, while they will forever share the same home, he will never see her beautiful face again. Lady Ravenclaw also watches her daughter’s departure, but the Baron cannot read the look in the mother’s eyes. It is only when Helena has completely gone that she speaks for the first time.
“I hope she will forgive you, in time,” she whispers, “though Helena is very good at holding on to her anger. It protects her, I believe.” She takes a shaky breath and continues. “If Lord Slytherin ever returns, tell him I should have followed him, as there was nothing left for me here when he disappeared. When you next see Lady Hufflepuff, tell her I apologize. And upon greeting Lord Gryffindor…” she looks straight at the Baron, perhaps straight through him, and says, “Tell him I always loved him best.”
He does not comment on those last words as she breathes her last and closes her eyes. He does not want to acknowledge that the last words of Lady Rowena Ravenclaw were a lie.
Gift for: themirrorofsin
Author: liliths_requiem
Pairings: Helena/Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw/Slytherin, Bloody Baron/Helena
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: peripheral lesbian relationship, murder-suicide reference, Ravenclaw portrayed in a negative light.
Genres: angst, romance
Author's Notes: Thanks to my lovely girlfriend, K, for betaing. Themirrorofsin, I really hope you liked this. :)
Summary: The four people who broke Rowena Ravenclaw’s heart.
They are sitting in a room that should be empty, and would be, save for the mirror hanging beneath the window and the chair upon which Helena is sitting. There are many rooms in Hogwarts that serve no purpose other than to fill up the empty space created by the exterior design. Sometimes, Helena feels just as hollow as the hallowed halls she grew up in. Not that she will ever tell her mother such things; Rowena doesn’t like to discuss emotions, not even with the ones she loves.
Helena is brushing her hair, each stroke methodical as she watches the woman in the reflection smile beneath the brush’s gentle caress. Her reflection looks peaceful, accepting. But there’s a glint in her eye that belies the calm, and both women in the room know that this is only the silence before the storm. Rowena keeps shooting her daughter looks of pain, almost as though she wants to embrace the child she never wanted to raise, almost as though there are now ties that bind them together, when ties had never existed before.
“Why are you being so difficult about this, Helena? The Baron loves you.” The words are so rational, so sure that logic is the only way to deal with matters of the heart. The Baron of Ord Muir is a good man, with a nice fortune, and a beautiful castle not too far from Hogwarts. He would worship her, given the opportunity, he would adorn her so wonderfully she could rival England’s queen. Unfortunately, Helena does not return the affection. Unfortunately, Helena quite hates the Baron.
Helena shakes her head resolutely, “The Baron does not even know who I am,” she argues, the brush held tight in the arm that has gone limp at her side. “He does not care, either. He simply finds me beautiful, and believes that is enough.”
“Beauty has protected many women in this world,” Rowena replies, pausing in her constant stroll across the room. “You would not be the first woman to win a man by looks alone, and you are lucky enough to inherit my skin. You will not age poorly.”
“I want to find love, mother!” Helena watches as her reflection’s face turns unbecomingly splotchy, with red painting all the pores that stand out too harshly against her pale skin. “I want to be with someone who could love me for who I am, without the mask of beauty.” She does not dare to name the person she wants to find love with. Her mother, Salazar, Godric-they would all be painfully disappointed in both of them. And with their disappointment, Helga would never speak to her again.
Helga Hufflepuff-the one person Helena would give up everything and anything to be with-is the one person who will forever be off limits. She was one of the Founders, and perhaps the most important of them all. Although she is only ten years older than Helena, she has accomplished so very much in the thirty years she has spent on earth. At fifteen, she convinced her brother in law, Godric Gryffindor, to build a castle in which to teach students. At seventeen, she talked Salazar Slytherin, the strongest wizard in England, into joining the school as a teacher. And at eighteen, she convinced the newly widowed Rowena, and her young daughter Helena, to move into the wild Highlands and help with the construction needed. The school opened a year later, and Helena was the one to give it the awkward name that outlived them all: Hogwarts.
For ten years, Helga was the teacher and Helena was the student. Then, on the eve of Helena’s nineteenth birthday, Helga entered her room and quieted her curiosity with a kiss. They made slow, careless love until morning, and one year later, Helena couldn’t imagine a night not spent in her lover’s arms. Marriage to a Baron who lived half a day’s journey from the school would mean rarely being in Helga’s arms. What’s more, she isn’t sure if God considers them married or not, and the last thing she wants is to damn herself to Hell by committing adultery.
But the words needed to articulate their relationship, what she and Helga shares, are intangible, and every time she goes to speak, her throat closes tight and fear clouds the icy clearness of her eyes. She thinks Rowena knows there are words unspoken between them, but her mother will not breach the distance between them and demand an explanation. She will let this pass, as she lets all things pass. Helena used to believe it was because her mother didn’t care about her, now, Helena wonders if her mother cares about anything at all.
“Love is a luxury you cannot afford. You are twenty years old, Helena. At your age, most women have already birthed their first child.” She looks bitter, almost, and Helena wants to throw that bitterness back in her face. She wants to scream at her mother, tell her that just because Rowena had to marry young to a man twice her age, Helena should not be forced to share her mother’s loveless fate. Rowena had been lucky enough to find love later in life, with Salazar Slytherin, the only man strong enough to handle her. Helena isn’t sure if she’ll ever find someone whom she loves the way she loves Helga. She doesn’t think God gives you two soul mates in one lifetime.
Instead, Helena uses logic, because she knows that her mother thrives on rationality, and will only respond to an argument she thinks she can win. “Helga never married,” Helena says, hoping to use her mother’s favorite against her. Rowena has always adored Helga, the young prodigy who has the whole world at her feet. If Helena weren’t so in love with her, she would be jealous of Helga. As it stands, she doesn’t have the heart to hate her.
“Helga will never need a man to provide for her,” Rowena counters, moving her diadem to better fit upon her long braids. “You do not have that security.” It was a slap in the face without the necessary movement, and Helena recoiled back into the chair, her cheeks burning in response. Her mother always underestimates her, always did, most likely always will. It hurts, to know that she will never live up to the high expectations set by her brilliant mother. It hurts even more to know that even if she could, Helena will never win her mother’s approval.
“I can teach. I can stay here, and I can teach.” She argues, the passion ripping from her heart without her permission. The one thing her mother hates more than anything is emotional outbursts. “I can take over your classes. Or Sal’s, when he leaves.”
This time, her mother actually does smack her. The slap across her face brings tears to her eyes, and Helena knows she has crossed a line no one is allowed to cross. No one speaks of Salazar’s impending departure to Rowena. He keeps threatening it, but she talks him down every time. Eventually, they all know, Salazar will leave, and Rowena will die of a broken heart. Maybe not right away, but eventually. Despite what her students believe, Rowena’s will may be strong, but her heart is very weak.
“Salazar will not leave,” she says, resolutely, and Helena hates how easily her mother has deluded herself in her desperation. She cannot find the words for her anger, so she remains silent. As Rowena continues to speak, Helena uses all of her strength to bring the brush back to her hair, in an effort to affect an air of aloofness. “And you will marry the Baron of Ord Muir in the morning. I have given my word.”
Rowena looks at her daughter a final time, and Helena drags her eyes up to meet her mother’s. “Good night, Helena,” the founder of the Ravenclaw house whispers, her voice torn between anger and sorrow. Her eyes whisper words of comfort that Helena knows her mother will never say. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, and Helena wonders if she can get away without saying goodnight. In all her twenty years, she has never refused her mother a goodnight kiss.
Helena stands gracefully, the way her mother taught her when she refused to go to etiquette classes. She places the brush down on the chair and walks to her mother with sure, steady steps. “Goodnight, mother,” she answers, reaching on her tiptoes to press a kiss against her mother’s cool cheek.
Neither of them knows for certain that this will be the last time they will see each other on this earth, but there is an ominous feeling that drapes the room in silence as Helena pulls away and rocks back onto her heels. They hold eye contact, and for a moment, Helena has an intense need to throw her arms around her mother and weep for everything they never had. But that would be wrong in ways neither one of them could even begin to comprehend. Instead, Helena offers up a small, sad smile, which is almost reflected by the older woman. But Rowena is in love with a potions’ master, and almost is never good enough for her. So Helena curtsies low, gathers up her robes, and moves across the room to a door that seems to share her feeling of being alone. As she exits the room, she cannot help feeling as if she is turning her back on the entire world.
:::
The silence hangs between them heavier than the fog rolling in from the lake, but neither woman on the rooftop garden acknowledges the awkward quiet that has settled upon them. Rowena’s garden is nestled in the far corner of the balcony attached to Ravenclaw Tower, and holds muggle plants from around the world. Helga has always been slightly envious of the beauty of her mentor’s garden, which far outstrips the green and brown that paint the walls of the greenhouses. Three months ago, she would have expressed her wonderment at the way the lotus flowers are blooming and the calla lilies are reaching towards the sun. But three months of loneliness have left her bitter and bland, and unwilling to appreciate the beauty in anything.
Rowena is the first to break the silence. She looks as though she has aged since Helena’s disappearance. Her movements are slower, her words measured for their weight even more so than they used to be. Helga has tried not to notice, but in her mourning she has found solace in seeing that other people miss Helena as well. Not as much as she does, obviously, but the fact that they notice her absence at all is comforting. Everyone besides Helga spent most of Helena’s life taking her for granted, and she thinks that maybe this, more than the argument with her mother, was the reason for the young woman’s departure.
“You are unnaturally silent as of late, dear Helga,” Rowena observes, as she pours more soil into the hole she has just filled with seedlings. It is late August, just the time to start planting snowdrops for the upcoming winter. Helena used to love her mother’s snowdrops, with their innocent purity and their ability to weather the cold storms that attack the Highlands in December and January. “Is there something you wish to share with me?”
Helga freezes. Rowena has always been very wily in the way she holds a conversation, and Helga knows without turning that her mentor is giving her an accusatory look. She knows, in that moment, that her secrets are on display, and that nothing she says from this moment on will be acceptable unless it is the truth. Bloody legilimancy. Helga has yet to learn effective Occlumency. It isn’t that she cannot handle the intensive magic that such a practice requires-rather, she prefers not to have to lie to anyone. This is the one secret she’s decided to keep, and now she wishes she could have kept it well.
“What do you know?” she asks, finally turning around to face the anger etched on Rowena’s face. “No, never mind, there is only one thing we have to hide between us,” her words are fumbling as she tries to win this war of wits with the one woman who thrives on intelligence. “How much do you know?”
Rowena looks at her coldly, and it makes Helga want to shirk back against the railing or burrow into a hole. She’s never been good at confrontation, and Rowena has been her mentor for almost two decades. She isn’t sure she can handle an argument with the woman she’s supposed to worship. But this is about Helena, so she knows she cannot back down. The older woman draws herself up to full height and says, “You have been corresponding with my daughter. You, who espouse the virtues of loyalty and truth, have betrayed me and gone behind my back with the only other person who has sworn their loyalty to me.” She pauses, and for a moment Helga thinks that pain has chased anger from Rowena’s face. But then the older woman takes a deep breath and adds, “I know you know where she is, at this moment. I want you to tell me.”
Helga knows she can try to lie. It’s a possible reaction to this situation, and it’s not the worst course of action that exists. But she also knows that lying to a trained legilimens is basically useless, and Rowena will catch the falsehood without even a moment’s hesitation. So instead she remains silent, and tries to focus on anything but Helena’s immediate location. She’s sure clearing her mind will make the mindreading more difficult, but she isn’t sure if that’s enough to save either of them.
“You choose not to speak?” Rowena continues, raising her wand just a bit. Without words, Helga can feel the spell activate, can feel the magic sifting through her brain, looking for her lover’s location. Helena does not wish to be found, does not wish to be followed, and has trusted her with this. It’s the closest thing to a declaration of love that Helga’s ever going to receive from the younger woman, and without those letters, she isn’t sure she’ll be able to survive. It sounds unfashionably romantic, but it’s true. Since Helena’s disappearance, she’s clung to the random letters like the Elixir of Life, as though it is Helena’s words alone that keep her breathing.
For a moment, there is only the magic, working between them like a bond neither one wants but neither one wants to break. Helga tries to fight against it, but she isn’t even sure how to go about such a thing. Scenes of making love to Helena in dark fields, where her pale skin is bathed in moonlight and glowing against the dark grass, dance across her mind, and Helga wants to reach out and bring them too her. The disgust Rowena feels as she sifts past them is obvious, not only because of the mind melding magic, but also because of the look of absolute horror on her face.
Helga can feel the location as it is discovered, the images of snow and solitude she’s associated with Albania for the last few months, and it hurts to know that Rowena can touch something as sacred as this. The magic recoils the moment the location is found. It leaves Helga feeling slightly violated, and she turns her back on Rowena.
“I have no further need of you, Helga Hufflepuff,” Rowena says, her voice unnaturally formal, considering she is speaking to her favorite student. “I no longer wish to see your face, nor hear your voice, nor speak your name. You have taken my daughter from me.”
Helga was almost content with leaving the garden and never speaking to Rowena again, until the last sentence was spoken. She rounds on her heel, her mind still slightly broken from the invasion and her heart hurting. Tilting her head up so she can look Rowena in the eye, she says, “I did not take Helena from you, you cold-hearted banshee. You pushed her away with your callous words and your empty attempts at emotion. You know nothing about either truth or loyalty. You abandoned your daughter to a loveless marriage because of your own insecurities. So do not place the guilt on me. This is the hell that you have created for yourself, do not call me Lucifer and hope that I will carry your blame.”
Rowena does not break while Helga is still on the roof. She does not recoil, nor does she look defeated. She says nothing as Helga gives her a parting glare of hate, and she remains silent as Helga opens the back door and begins the descent down the stairs. It is not until Helga has reached the bottom of the tower that she hears the first pot crash against the door. At first, she thinks it is an accident, but then the shattering ceramic is followed by a howl that is part-human, part-soulless scream. Helga pauses with her hand on the doorknob. Others may consider it weakness, but it is her last strand of love for the woman that makes Helga hesitate.
But it is her loyalty to Helena that makes her turn the knob, open the door, and shut out the screams as she leaves. Rowena may be falling apart, but the older woman has already broken Helga’s heart, and for once in her life, the youngest daughter of Earl Hufflepuff cannot bring herself to feel sympathy.
:::
It is dawn when Salazar enters her bedchamber, throwing open the door with unnecessary strength and smirking as it bangs against the marble walls and reverberated through the room. A lesser woman would cringe at the sound, but Rowena does not even pause in her needlework to look up at him. There is no need for superfluous acknowledgement, they both know why he’s here. She can feel the goodbye hanging in the air, and it’s suffocating her in ways that feather pillows never could. She wants to scream, but she’s sure if she opens her mouth no sound will come out.
“Godric has asked me to leave,” he begins, his voice calm and cold, like the glass inside her window. She wants to shatter him, drive a nail into his calm and slam hard against it until he’s nothing more than broken shards. But she’s almost certain that the broken glass will cut her if she tries to clean it up, and she’s not ready to get blood on her hands.
She looks up, but pulls the needle through again. That’s the beauty of repetition-she doesn’t have to think about it. She prefers not to think about things when she doesn’t have to. “Godric is always asking you to leave. What makes this time any different?” She isn’t sure why she continues to fight. If he wants to leave, she really should just let him go.
Salazar moves to kneel beside her. He is not often one for emotional outbursts; he has, for example, much more self control than either Helga or Godric. But the pain on his face is so perfectly etched into his pores that it could have been engraved, and she can’t help but recoil at the sight. “I have no choice, this time, Rowena. I have dueled him. There is no more between the two of us but hate.”
“And between the two of us?” he’s always been able to reduce her to pathetic vulnerability, and a part of her wants to put the robe she is working on down and throw herself into his arms. But she fears that everything will fall apart if she demeans herself like that, and all the work they’ve put into these walls for the past decade and a half will be for naught. Three years ago, she lost her closest friend and her only daughter, she is not about to give up her life’s greatest accomplishment for a simple matter of the heart.
He leans over so that their eyes are forced to meet, and she can feel herself getting lost in the dark shadows that shine with a light she knows cannot be rivaled. “I would prefer it if you would come with me. There is a vessel sailing for the Continent come morning. I have relations in Italy. I believe you will find them beneficial in your never-ending search for your daughter.”
It kills her that he always knows exactly what to say. If he had made this about the two of them, she could have refused him in a heartbeat. But playing Helena against her is a mark of shrewd genius, and she almost wants to give in. But Helena has been lost in the wilds of Albania for almost three years, and if she does not wish to be found, Rowena has a very strong feeling she will never again she her daughter.
“Helena will return when she wants to,” she replies, quickly using her gift at Occlumency to block whatever tricks Salazar may attempt. “I am not going to bombard her without warning. And you know very well that I cannot leave this place. Hogwarts is my home.”
A flash of hurt is quickly replaced by anger. Salazar has always had a very small emotional range, if he is not happy, than he automatically reverts to anger, regardless as to whether he is sad, or bored, or frustrated. “It is my home, as well.” He stands up, their façade of being a perfect couple quickly destroyed. She never loved him for his perfection. “I built it, and I have just as much a claim to live inside its halls as any of you. But I am no longer welcome here, and as the woman I love, you must follow me.”
She puts down the robe calmly and gathers her hands in her lap. “You have no right to order me about, Lord Slytherin,” she responds, her own voice now as cold as his was when he first walked in. “We are not married. We are not even betrothed. You had not interest in being my man, so you may not make demands upon me.”
It is perhaps the worst subject for either one of them to breach. Salazar never wanted to marry her, as he felt it would make running the school more difficult. He has never been the type of man to settle down, and try as she might to accept that, the lack of security has been hard. She doesn’t comment on his immorality-they both know that if God exists Slytherin will spend eternity in Hell. Adultery is adultery, with or without the vows.
“I was under the distinct impression that you were in love with me, my dear,” he answers, aiming for the heart with his words that hurt more than any curse ever could. How dare he question her love for him? Did she not spend hours awake at night waiting for him to return from his dangerous quests into the Black Forest? Did she not always have hot tea and a warm bath waiting for him upon his return? Was she not his biggest supporter, his lone friend whenever he and Godric had a disagreement?
If anyone’s love should be called into question here, it is his. So that’s exactly what she does. “You have claimed to love me as well,” she replies, trying to fight the tremor in her hands and the slight hysteria in her tone of voice, “And yet you are leaving me here, alone.”
He sputters, and she has a feeling that she is the first person to make him lose his composure. Besides Godric, of course. But Godric has never adhered to the rules of this world when dealing with Salazar. Their friendship exists on a plane untouchable by anyone else. Only the divine can venture where those two choose to walk. She knows she could follow if ever she were invited, but neither one has vouchsafed their secrets to her. So she has remained on the physical plane, hoping for a taste of the emotion Godric receives from Salazar every day.
“I guess we have both been lying then,” he answers, finally, his face still red and his pride still wounded, “Because I am still about to leave, and you still refuse to follow.”
She says nothing, does nothing. There is only a blank stare in reply to his painful words. He adjusts his cloak and clasps her hands, one last show of emotion before they never see each other again. She returns the squeeze with her own fingers, relishing in the moment of weakness shared between them.
Then he stands, bows, and says, “I take my leave of you, old friend.” She smiles in return, and if it doesn’t reach her eyes, he does not comment on the emptiness. He closes the door quietly behind him, and her world ends with a whimper.
:::
Contrary to what the history books will lead one to believe, Helena is not the first ghost of Hogwarts. She may be the longest expired, as it is said that the Baron killed her first and then committed suicide, but magic is a tricky thing, and there’s a chance his end was met a moment or two before his beloved’s death. Either way, he is the first to arrive within the hallowed halls of Helena’s home, and his first order of business upon arriving is to find Lady Ravenclaw and tell her of his failure.
He knows Lady Ravenclaw to be a fair woman, but he doubts very much that she will tolerate the murder-suicide that has resulted in the death of her only daughter. However, it is not her wrath that he fears the most. If Lady Hufflepuff ever knows that he killed her dearest friend, he has a distinct feeling she will find a way to cause him pain, even in his very incorporeal form. History may say differently, but he has always known Helga Hufflepuff to be the most powerful of the Founders.
“Lady Ravenclaw,” he begins, as he enters the room she has been using as a hospice these last few months, ever since Slytherin took his leave. She claims to be dying of a broken heart, but the Baron knows she has simply forsaken her will the live. At the sight of his ghostly form, she sits up hurriedly. It is as though she already knows what horrors he is about to speak. He takes a deep breath, although ghosts are not required to breathe, and gathers his thoughts quickly. He knows that he will only have the will power to say this once, and after that, he will never speak the words again. “I have failed your request to bring your daughter back. In fact, I have failed in my own quest to make her love me. And so, I have come to tell you that My Lady Helena is dead.”
Lady Ravenclaw’s long hair drapes around her face to hide the terror in her eyes, but he catches the look just before the dark curtains close, and he wonders if she has every looked this terrified. It is not the sorrow or the anger he has been expecting, and for a moment, he does not know what to do. All of the training his mother has tried to instill in him fails him at this moment, and he does nothing more but float a few feet off the ground in a way that is so blatantly ungraceful and awkward that his mother would slap him, if she were not long dead. He wants to say the right words, but he isn’t entirely sure what they are.
Luckily for him, Helena chooses that moment to appear in the bedchamber beside him. He does not know that this is the very last time she will ever let him catch a glimpse of her beautiful frame. “Hello, Mother,” she greets, choosing to not even acknowledge the Baron. He would feel slighted, if he hadn’t just murdered her yesterday. “As you can see, My Lord Baron has failed in his attempt to marry me, and so decided that death was the only other option.”
When Lady Ravenclaw says nothing, Helena continues on. “I was expecting at least the show of concern, or anger, or some emotion other than the terrified look you are trying to hide, Mother Dear.” He remembers Helena as a sweet-tempered young lady. But she has spent two years in the Albanian wilderness, doing Merlin knows what, so perhaps that is where she developed her bitterness. “Is it your diadem? Is that what you fear for?”
Lady Ravenclaw, in her defense, does not actually admit that she now cares more about a simple piece of jewelry than she does about her only child. But there is movement behind her hair, and both Helena and the Baron take that as a yes. “It is in the castle, and it is safe, but you shall never see it again.” The Baron does not know the whole story behind the diadem, but Lady Ravenclaw requested that, should he fail in bringing her daughter back to Scotland, he at least attempt to secure the diadem. Perhaps it is a family heirloom, or a priceless gift from the elves, or-
“Lord Slytherin bought you that diadem, didn’t her, Mother?” Helena asks, clearing up the Baron’s confusion. “At market with the goblins. It is priceless, is it not? And so very beautiful.” She pauses, pulls at a gossamer tendril of hair that once was blonde but now looks almost silver. “You once called me beautiful, but never priceless. You were willing to sell me to the highest bidder. And look mother, he has claimed his prize. You will gain the Baron’s fortune, and the cost was simply your only daughter’s life.”
Perhaps Lady Ravenclaw is stronger than the average woman, as the Baron has a sneaking suspicion that any other mother would be crying for forgiveness by now. Lady Ravenclaw simply moves her hair from her face and looks her daughter in the eye. There is no remorse in her gaze, and she looks almost empty. The Baron wonders if this is what a person looks like when attacked by a Dementor. He wonders if Lady Ravenclaw even remembers how to smile.
“Salazar is gone, and I am dead, and Helga will never speak to you again,” Helena recounts. “The Baron has told me that you claim to be dying of a broken heart. Well then, die, Mother. There is nothing left for you here. Perhaps you will find redemption on the other side. Here, we will never forgive you.”
With that, and a final look at her mother, Helena left the room. She floated through the far wall, towards Lady Hufflepuff’s quarters. They, too, have unfinished business that must be settled. The Baron watches his love leave, somehow knowing that, while they will forever share the same home, he will never see her beautiful face again. Lady Ravenclaw also watches her daughter’s departure, but the Baron cannot read the look in the mother’s eyes. It is only when Helena has completely gone that she speaks for the first time.
“I hope she will forgive you, in time,” she whispers, “though Helena is very good at holding on to her anger. It protects her, I believe.” She takes a shaky breath and continues. “If Lord Slytherin ever returns, tell him I should have followed him, as there was nothing left for me here when he disappeared. When you next see Lady Hufflepuff, tell her I apologize. And upon greeting Lord Gryffindor…” she looks straight at the Baron, perhaps straight through him, and says, “Tell him I always loved him best.”
He does not comment on those last words as she breathes her last and closes her eyes. He does not want to acknowledge that the last words of Lady Rowena Ravenclaw were a lie.