Note: This happened because I realised I've never written anything Helena-centric before, yet she's quite fascinating. It's a bit different to what I usually do as I don't write in the first person very much anymore, but it seemed to work (I think!) for this. Reviews would be greatly appreciated!
The Castle My Mother Built
My mother had a lot of sayings – so many, in fact, that in the end they contradicted each other. Words were hers to play with. She bent them to her will, made them sparkle as she pleased. She could turn them against people, too.
Life is short, she once said, and death so very long. No doubt she was thinking of my late father, a man who was just a shadow in my life.
When I was very little, I didn't question my mother.
But to enter the Ravenclaw common room, you must answer a riddle and one day it asked me this: "Which is longer: day or night?"
"Day," I said, without pausing, "because living is the longest thing any of us will ever do."
"Well put," said the musical voice and the door swung open.
I don't remember where that answer came from, but I remember giving it as vividly as if it happened yesterday.
Now I think the lines between life and death are blurred.
Living was only a heartbeat compared to the thousand years I have wandered this castle.
Dying, though, I will remember forever. That's the trouble with coming back: you are not afforded the privilege of forgetting.
I threw the diadem in a gap in a hollow tree. It didn't work for me. It never had.
He'd been following me for hours – quietly at first, like a dog tracks a rabbit. Then he lost patience, grew tired of the chase and I heard him crashing through the forest, branches snapping underfoot. My own legs were heavy and aching, and I knew I couldn't keep running. I'd been running too long.
The baron emerged from amongst the trees, pale eyed and breathless.
"Helena."
I nodded dumbly, watching him, this man who had long lusted after me.
When I didn't speak, he quickly filled the silence. "Your mother sent me to find you," he said, smiling as if we had simply met in the halls of Hogwarts. His was a cold, strange smile, though his jaw was strong and his eyes a clear, light blue. Girls loved him, I knew.
"How did you find me?"
He shrugged. "You always talked about coming east."
"Yes, I did." East, west – anywhere, as long as it was out of my mother's shadow. Even now, after all I'd done, the thought made my cheeks flush with shame.
"Come home," the baron continued, stretching a hand towards me. "Your mother is dying and she wishes to see you just one last time."
Dying? "Never," I said.
"Never?"
He didn't like that word.
Coming back is like waking up and falling asleep at the same time. You're awake, but you're still dreaming. You dream the same moment, over and over. It's real and it's not real. Dead and alive, as one.
I went back to Hogwarts. It was the place where I spent most of my life and the castle my mother built. Nowhere else held stronger ties.
The baron returned there, too, after turning the knife on himself. We never spoke. A thousand years passed and not a word between us. Whenever I caught his eye across the Great Hall, I felt a phantom blade grinding between my ribs.
I wonder if he felt blood on his hands.
At first, I glided around the astronomy tower, wanting to be close to the sky. I watched the sun set and the moon rise and stars and planets shift across the black sky. I could not quite remember all of their names. Time moved very slowly – or so I thought.
One day, Helga ascended the tower and I saw how changed she was, how weary.
"Oh, Helena," she said, her eyes glassy with tears. She held out her hand for me, like the baron had done in that dark, death-filled forest. This time I did not flinch away. My fingers drifted bonelessly through the palm of her hand. She shivered.
"It's curious," she murmured. A sad smile flickered across her face. "Your mother's house is famed as one of logic and intellect. She was my greatest friend, though a slightly intimidating woman. And yet… she died of a broken heart."
I blinked. "No. It is not possible. A broken heart cannot kill a person."
A knife can.
Helga looked down. I saw the lines at her cheeks and the grey that was snaking through her fair hair. "They can, Helena. I saw it happen to your mother. She would not eat or sleep. Nothing, after you left. No will to live."
It felt like an accusation: you broke her heart and killed her.
But Helga was never truly accusatory. Her expression remained soft and gentle. She spoke to me as if I was a naughty child in potions class. I both resented and loved her for it.
"I'm sorry," she said, as she turned to leave.
I knew I should say something. Wasn't this why I was still here? To repent? Memories flickered through my head, like a candle flame wavering in the wind. Blood and steel, the forest and the diadem. My mother's blue eyes.
I said nothing and Helga left.
We never spoke again. Soon, she went on.
I stayed.
"Never," I repeated, my voice quivering. "Come home? To a dying woman, to be accused and scolded and told how awful a daughter I am?" I laughed without humour. The noise rang around the clearing and a startled blackbird went spiralling into the air, wings beating furiously.
Then silence.
"I love you, Helena."
I took a step backwards. Mud clung to the bottom of my robes. There were tears in my cloak and leaves threaded through my hair. "You love the idea of me," I corrected. "You don't know me – "
"I can give you anything – everything." He wasn't listening. "Marriage, money, security. You'll want for nothing, I swear it."
"There's just one thing I want in this world," I told him. "Can you give me freedom?"
He frowned. "Freedom?"
"From everything you just said." I attempted a smile, but knew it was twisted with bitterness. "Freedom from marriage, duty and expectation. Freedom from my old life. That's all I want – and I have it."
I turned to walk away, but hesitated, remembering the diadem lying abandoned in the hollow tree. Before I could make a decision – leave it and walk away? – I heard a roar of anguish and the baron had thrown me against a tree trunk. He pressed his full weight upon mine. I could feel his breath on my neck, hot and laboured.
My nails clawed at his face. "No, no! Get off me – don't you dare touch me, don't you dare – " I struggled and twisted and scratched at him. He would not shift.
I had no idea what he planned. I don't think he knew.
When I saw the blade, a sharp slither of silver, the world stopped. "Here," he whispered, his lips close to my ear, "have your freedom."
I didn't realise what had happened, until his weight shifted off me and he staggered away, moaning. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
Something spurted from my chest, hot against cold skin. Blood? "What have you – what have you done?" I fumbled for my wand, but I didn't seem to have it anymore. My fingers were numb and clumsy.
Distantly, I could hear the baron wailing his grief. I'm not dead, I wanted to say, I'm not dead yet. The words wouldn't come.
The branches above me blurred and swayed. I didn't remember lying down. My fingers groped along the forest floor, clasping handfuls of dirt.
I shuddered, as a sudden wave of cold washed over me. Was it snowing? I dreamed that it was: I was walking in the grounds of Hogwarts, my boots crunching in the freshly fallen snow. I was very young and my mother stood opposite me in blue velvet robes and a wolf-skin cloak. She was smiling and her mouth was moving, but she was too far away and I couldn't hear what she was saying.
Was it memory or fantasy? "Mother," I murmured, blinking furiously as the world grew dark. I had something to tell her… what was it?
I opened my mouth and began to cough. I could taste blood.