Disclaimer/Dedication: The Harry Potter series is not my original work; thus, I profit from nothing. The following is strictly for entertainment purposes. To my lovely friend, Azzie - blessings to you, for the ever-flowing river of support.
:~XO~:
Oh….my….
The heavens burn scarlet and lavender, the forest dank, dark and, by all accounts, depressing. Fury neutralizes all discomfort as she turns, fingernails blue complimentary of bone freezing temperatures.
His presence rocks her core incensing her to the point that unintelligible phrase known to magical community spills, blood boiling. It takes all harvested energy to keep steady.
"Helena, sweet Helena, at last I've found you!"
The host of the voice happily strides forward, prompting Helena's nose to disapprovingly wrinkle at the level of disregard for the muck sullying up to the shins of his stockings. Dark circles mar the skin beneath his eyes and a putrid aroma now circulates.
Sleeping and bathing, obvious luxuries.
Moments ago, blue fingernails were a concern. Whether to look for dry space to perform Incendio. How fruitful migrating would prove. Feet frozen to the muddy path, she chances a nervous glance backwards at the tree sheltering the cerulean sapphire-bearing diadem.
Big, bold hands clutch her face, dragging Helena into a passionate kiss. His nerve is highly surreal, initially inconceivable. A low growl frees itself as she strains to relieve herself of this….this cretin.
"Worry not, my darling! You shall have this and more, abundantly, when we are married!"
Thin lips purse, the last woman in the world who should be speechless. Her chest rises and falls with each arrogant breath. She's never been so indignant. This wizard sounds like a fool and looks like even more of one, tip to toe. A white wig she considers far too old for him (though ten years her senior) protects chocolate mane from unfriendly elements. Coal eyes sit opposite his head so badly he is akin to a fish. Through the mist, she swears a glint of fire gives temporary luster to what are generally dull pupils.
"How did you…." Infinite destinations waited when she left Britain. The probability of Merlin's providence guiding this nuisance to Europe's southeast corners was one in a million. She halts, positively stunned how elementary her would-be inquiry truly is.
A bitter croak is released. "My mother."
It's the dead of night when the letter arrives. An owl pecks feverishly at his window, suffocating the rare and peaceful slumber. He is airborne, soon after his mind digests the quill's markings, Apparating to rural Scotland.
Slowly, he ascends the snow covered hill on which the cottage rests. Ink on the crumpled parchment smears in his grasp. She is in a pitiful state, when the door opens - skin dry and blotched by liver spots, formerly sleek, thick, black hair now grey and withered. Regrettably, he sees the widespread rumors boast credence and his heart drops at the deterioration of this once regal, unparalleled beauty. Rowena Ravenclaw very much like mirrors an abused flower. She is nearly as thin as a Dementor. He finds it challenging to glance in her direction, much less dead on.
Why has she summoned me?
"Close the door, boy; I'm not what I used to be."
A double entendre, in her condition. Of course the harsh weather will affect her. Of course she doesn't want to be seen.
Kneeling to bedside in subservience after the fact, thousands upon thousands of scenarios ransack his brain. Impulsively, he reaches for her left hand then prays for the instantaneous ability of time reversal: Rowena's bones are keen. It's a wonder they haven't punctured her flesh and his.
"My precious daughter has fled the country."
Grey eyes are solemn, unfocused and swimming. What a hell of a confession. Branded into his mind is the representation of a tall, slender, doe-eyed woman flaunting skin of ivory and hair of night. Lovely and witty had been used to describe her, even headstrong. Most were not startled by her absence; the Ravenclaws were notorious for being on the move. He took exception, however, generating alibis to compensate for Helena's absence at such a critical time.
"Mozambique," the old woman gasps, free, wrinkled hand she patting his heart with each syllable. "Always a family favorite. India. And….Albania. Albania, naturally."
Only after eternity passes does he understand her wish.
"Find her. Bring her back before I am no more. Please."
"Yes."
The prolonged drawl has potential (and is most likely designed) to drive her mad. His index finger traces her prominent jawline, the tip of his nose inches from hers. Arrogance, one of his many detestable qualities.
"I won't be returning."
"Pardon me?"
"I have my own aspirations."
Gone as quickly as it is there is the flicker of danger in his orbs and, all of a sudden, black orbs are again lusterless. Herds of deer trot into the clearing, appear to think better of it, and continue. Just as they do, he roughly seizes her chin, ordering respect to be shown when making an address.
"Five years ago, today, you professed your love to me! Say that you recall, love!"
How easily distracted. Nothing's changed. Helena reckons most in this world did not easily forget nor fancy recalling their most recent grave illness. Then again, most are fortunate not to be a madman's stalking victim, aren't they? How unapologetically Slytherin….
"The fever said a lot of things I would not."
Helena is vaguely aware his hand is placed above her head, back now pressed to the bark of the familiar plant while showers descend. They remain too close for comfort. "And even if this weren't the case, I don't love you. I never have." The words are harsher than she intends but, also, a mere continuation instead of an archetypal apology. Is one in order? Only fools take to heart the ramblings of an ill witch.
Calmly, he studies her before breaking the sly expression. "We are both refused, I see. Next, I suppose you'll feed me that laughable line the muggles use….what is it? 'With age comes wisdom.'"
Blood robs her of all opportunity. Blood, blood, blood. The thick, frothy substance is everywhere - even her vision is made crimson. Eagle thrashes violently against snake; her limb is nearly ripped from its socket. The bird is no match for the older serpent. He more experienced; he is stronger. Ruthless. A stab per second (maybe more) is dealt - they are fast; they are deliberate; they are deep. "Months - on - end - I - go -" So paralyzing is the agony, Silencio is purposeless. It has always been, for the mute. My ribs, my stomach, my shoulders. There is no shame in one begging for swift relief but her tongue has gone rogue.
What purpose can my life serve if I must live restrictedly?
Helena's head lands on the base of the trunk, the blade tearing through one of her most vital organs and pinning her. Mercy from above falls in sheets, erasing all sin including her lips' red coating. She does not hear the delirious sobs nor does she sense fingertips shakily lower eyelids so glassiness is no more. She is not conscious of the knife being ripped from her corpse nor that it too shall, in seconds, be the culprit of his demise.
All she's known, and all that matters, is that he's kissed her before their lights burned out.
Fin.
Author's Note: I've no idea what information Rowling might add in the yet-to-be released Pottermore chapters. For this reason, I refrained from naming the Bloody Baron.