This story was written for the Tenth Round of the Fourth Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as Beater 1 for The Wimbourne Wasps.

Name of round: Of Ghosts & Portraits

We're giving some love to some minor characters this round. I'm not talking about regular humans though. Instead, you will be writing about the folk whose souls are either captured in a magical portrait, or wandering the wizarding world as a ghost.

You may write about your character in their human life if you wish, however he or she must feature as their ghost or portrait self somewhere in your story. Likewise, your ghost or portrait doesn't have to be the main focus of your fic, but he or she must play an important role to the plot.

As Beater 1, the character I got was: The Bloody Baron

And these are the two prompts I'm using to block our opponents, the Pride of Portree:

5. (word) history

9. (quote) 'Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.' - Emily Bronte

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created; it's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.

Thanks my dear Wasps – you're more like worker bees than any other insects, such diligent and such amazing providers! Sophie, Ellen, Xanda, thank you! Buzz, buzz!

PS. Word-count provided by MS Word—

Slytherin Pride
Words: 1 906

What can be said about Slytherins? What should be said about people of such extremes that suffer such bad repute? They are proud and stubborn. Ambitious and ruthless. Successful and flawed. Heroic and tragic. They can be the very best people or the very worst.

I know. I am a Slytherin, and I have observed every Slytherin student to pass through the halls of Hogwarts. If you think the current professors are old, you need to broaden your perspective, little snake. When I attended the school, the stones were freshly mortared, and the stairs were not yet worn smooth by the stepping feet of a thousand children. I was taught by Salazar Slytherin himself. Outside of class, I practised magic with Merlin. Once my schooling came to an end, I courted the-

No. That is not what this story is about. I do not wish to tell you about the woes of my life.

I wish to speak about history, the history of the past millennium and a group of people that has shaped the magical community for better or for worse. Your history.

It begins with a dream, shared by four of the most skilled witches and wizards of their time, a dream which the Sorting Hat alerted you to at the sorting ceremony. History also remembers that one of the Founders did not stay at the school. A disagreement about Muggle-borns, it is said. Yes, the leaders of Hogwarts could not agree on how Muggle-borns should be received. Yet, had it not been for pride, an accord might have been struck. As it was, bold Gryffindor would not back down, patient Ravenclaw's endurance ran dry, diligent Hufflepuff tried too hard, and proud Slytherin could never admit to a mistake.

He sustained his unforgiving attitude until it drove him away—away from his friends, away from the dream he had helped to build. His family left with him. I remember the trouble in their eyes at the uncertain future they faced. I remember the tear tracks on the cheeks of Salazar's youngest child; she was being torn away from her home. I remember the last nod my mentor gave me; he believed that I would be able to fill his vacated position, staying at the school and leaving everything I was bound to do by title to my sister.

I remember the small hand coming to rest on my arm as the large doors closed behind the Slytherin family, and I remember the whispered words of a promise: "This is only temporary, dear Baron. The Slytherins will always have a place at Hogwarts. My mother will make them both see sense given time."

She was wrong. It would be many years before a member of the Slytherin family came back to Hogwarts. Rowena Ravenclaw's many messages to Slytherin did not convince him to end his exile, nor did her cajoling soften Gryffindor's resolve to stay angry with his one-time friend. Despite the whispered promise never coming true, the memory of it, of her, burns stronger than any other from those days. I should have known better than to think that the touch meant anything, that the words were meant to do more than comfort. Yet, her proximity was precious to me in its rarity. I-

Well, the years passed, and through my own tragedy, I remained as a ghost, and I was able to see how the argument that had driven Slytherin away became his only legacy. The children sorted into his House upheld the tradition—an easy thing to do when all that was required of them was to take pride in their family history and the magical blood flowing through their veins. The people they admired told them that they were better than others. The power they held in life, the power that was theirs because it had been gathered over generations, validated their superiority. They would not blend with outsiders in fear of what their peers might think. Their pride isolated them, and it made people on the outside frown and whisper suspiciously. One thing strengthened the other in a spiral seemingly without end. A new society where the higher classes were independent of a king took form. Where once everyone had sought the favour of a supreme ruler, they now sought wealth, legacy and blood-ties.

With time, however, people forget—unlike ghosts. It might have ended, had a Slytherin of different character risen. It never happened.

The Slytherin name died, and the Gaunts rose. They came to Hogwarts centuries after their ancestor left, spreading the word that they were the Founder's descendants and that they had a right to be at the school, that they had a right to decide how the school should be run. They were prideful, precisely the kind of people the purebloods wished to be. Pride turned to jealousy. Jealousy led to hate. Hate led to violent actions. The Gaunts fell into poverty and were not heard from again, as mute as the beautiful-

My thoughts betray me. No, little snake, I do not wish to speak of what troubles me. We have yet to reach the present day. We have not yet reached the concluding page in the book of the Slytherin family.

They rose to power one more time, and with them, the whole house's future was put at stake. A young boy who never knew his family dreamed of belonging, dreamed of being like his classmates who all could trace their history back through the ages. A young boy dreamed of proudly announcing that he too was someone worth paying attention to. I spoke with that young boy and gave him what he wanted, hoping that pride would lift him up rather than suffocate him. I told him that he was searching in the wrong direction. His father would never give him what he wanted; it was his mother who was connected to greatness. He was the last Slytherin and a last chance for the house that I had abandoned. From silent observer, I now made myself the catalyst. House pride drove me on. I wished for things to change.

I should have known better. My pride had led to my fall, so his pride lead to his. The Last Heir of Slytherin went too far. Once he had a taste, he wanted everything. Humans are not meant to have everything. In pride, he rid himself of the past he did not want, grasping greedily at the parts others would admire. Admiration turned to fear. Fear turned to hate. Hate turned to action. Greatness turned to dust.

Perhaps, now that there are no direct descendants left, those sorted into Slytherin can forge their own destinies. A path where honour is not given up for pride, forgiveness is not given up for pride, and pride does not stand in the way of reaching for the future.

Hmm- what was that, little snake? She? No, I said I did not wish to speak about it.

Is it my pride holding me back? Clever. The Sorting Hat did well with you, I see.

No! I will not talk about her.

o-O-o

The House Ghost of Slytherin, the Bloody Baron, floated through the wall of the common room, leaving a startled fourteen year old girl with long brown hair behind. It was rare for the Ghost to interact with the living. The students were all scared of him, even the Slytherins, and for years to come, their fear was strengthened by the recount provided by this chosen girl.

The Baron had been in a bad mood ever since Voldemort's fall. For half of his life and all of his death, the Baron's thoughts had been on two things: the House of Slytherin and Helena Ravenclaw. The family that had chosen him and the woman he had chosen.

In life, he had loved the daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, yet the young woman had never returned his affection. It had never stopped him from trying to change her mind. After they died, both at the end of his sword, and she remained as a pearly grey imprint of the witch she had been, his quest had been to gain her forgiveness. It was what had bound him to Earth, while his pride held him back from severing his tether. He clung to the pattern he had known in life, wishing to be near her, selfishly seeking her affection.

Seldom over the millennium they'd had together had she allowed him the pleasure of her company. In the year that had followed the Battle of Hogwarts, he had only seen her once. She had told him not to seek her out. When she was ready, she would come to him.

A year should not be much, not to an ancient ghost, but the Baron had never been patient. Hot-headed, stubborn and single-minded were a more apt description. He had tried to distract himself; that was why he had spoken with one of the students. Talking about the only topic he knew that wasn't Helena. He tried to keep his mind occupied with Slytherin history, yet his thoughts trailed back to the same topic. As he spoke he'd tried to convince himself that he had not approached his chosen audience because the girl because she looked and acted like the woman he missed. It was pitiful.

He roamed the halls, the chains of repentance carried around his arms dragging noiselessly behind. He was a prideful fool. He used a symbol because he could not muster words or actions. The forgiveness and love he sought were selfish. It was not for Helena. He ought to stop searching and allow her peace.

"Baron!" called the Fat Friar. The Hufflepuff ghost was the only one who dared greet him so loudly and with a smile. The obnoxious little man had no sense to be afraid.

"What do you want?" asked the Baron, his gravelly voice low and toneless.

"Our dear Lady asked me to let you know that she wishes to speak with you. She awaits you by the lake."

"The Grey Lady?" He was stunned. If he'd had a beating heart, it would have pounded hard in his chest.

"Do you know of any other Lady who might be ours? Of course I mean her."

"Thank you for relaying the message."

"Of course, old fellow. Go ahead now, don't keep her waiting."

The Baron nodded to the Friar and left, speeding through walls, high above the courtyard and down the slopes to the shores of the lake. Helena was difficult to detect against the steely colour of the lake, but he found her, driven by an insistent need. He came to a stop before her, watching her hungrily. Her clear eyes. The upward set of her mouth. The lack of a frown crinkling her brow.

"You did not do as I asked," she said. "You sought me."

"Helena-"

"I had to flee from you again and again. I understand that you will never stop, not until I give you what you want, and I am capable now. I understand what it means to make mistakes that you cannot take back, and the relief that seeing them undone gives you. I understand that clever words are not everything." She took a deep breath. "My mother's diadem is no more."

"What are you-"

"I forgive you, my dear Baron, and I accept your request to court me."

The End

A/N 21st August 2016

When we got our respective ghosts and portraits I thought that I'd lucked out, and my team mates agreed. I was wrong in a way. I struggled with this story, delaying the writing as long as I could. Still, I think it ended up rather interesting. I enjoyed the strange style of the first part and think it works together with the more traditionally written second part. Please let me know what you thought!