She was NEVER scared. Brave girl, people said, when she watched her parents die. Brave girl they said, when she took refuge in knowledge. Brave girl, smart girl, little girl.
She could have been best friends with Godric. They were more alike, they were regarded as competent, they were the orphans, the creators, everything the same. But her magic wasn't purely white, wasn't purely clear, and she couldn't. Her magic was color, light, and yet darkness and shades of grey. She understood Salazar, related to his talent.
Parseltongue is an ugly word, Salazar was, and always will be, to her, a snake whisperer. And to him, she is a code talker.
Parseltongue, avias-speech, gooblegof, Mermish, Elvin, all the unlearnable languages: she learns them. Learns them, speaks them, lives them.
Later on, she becomes the peacemaker. When the boys (her boys, her's and Helga's) begin to fight, she makes them stop. But in the construction, things go missing, lives are lost, and no one knows everything. Still. She manages to, and the fighting stops.
Gryffindor's tower is made chivalrously. Hufflepuff's to maximize creature comforts, and yet emphasize the need for work. Slytherin's is forbidding. Hers is made for beauty and brains to live happily in. To outsiders, the common room is cool, bright, and yet forbidding. To her students, it is a huge, dark, dusty library filled with treasure to them: books, trinkets, technology, and dark corners. Her students are the happiest. NO one ever accused smartness of the need for chastity. Look at the muses.
Death is unknown to her, but she has the wisdom not to fear it. She dies for her school and her students and their dreams and for people to remember her. It was the best death she could hope for, except for her daughter. In life a genius, in death all knowing, in heaven perfect, rest in peace, Rowena Ravenclaw.