Disclaimer- I own nothing (Helen is still Harry so still JK's)
Of Troy
Helen of Troy had been renown for her beauty.
One which led to death and desolation.
Helen Potter had been cursed like her namesake.
The petit young girl stood slender as a wraith, her frail skin glowing the white of bleached bones, her hair so black it seemed to absorb all light.
Her eyes were as green as the curse that had struck down her parents, as the curse that had mottled her forehead, leaving a raised white scar slashing down the length of her face, over her eyelids and flaring over her cheeks like a stab of lightening.
Her lashes, spikey and black like they perpetually clung to tears, were unchecked by glasses or makeup.
She was thin, too thin, and silent as death.
Even at 12 she was eerily beautiful.
Not something akin to some fantastical Valkyrie but rather some terrible spirit slunk from the shadow where she had spent her childhood.
She looked wrong and misshapen in her school robes, like some awful joke of a demon forced into uniform.
Even the relatively muted colours of her navy and bronze striped tie were overwhelming.
And yet… despite the wrong-ness of her garb, her skin glistened harmoniously in the dank chamber. The sinister icons and heavy atmosphere merged with her skin so beautifully that Tom ached to see her blood splatter the flooded floor.
He wanted her violent, red blood smeared on these walls and statues, on her skeletal face, on his slowly solidifying hands.
He wanted to keep her.
The book that she gently cradled in her lap, one pale claw softly caressing the worn cover as the other smoothed the sticky red head of his victim, was worth just as much as she.
The little girl with the hair of flame shuddered her few last breathes as Tom felt his feet solidify against the mottled marble floor.
Helen Potter kept up her caresses, her tiny hand, filled with small bones like a bird carcass, grazing down to close the girl's glassy eyes.
Her bloodless lips twisted with detached sorrow and acceptance.
She knew well the circle of life and death would run its course.
Death was her friend.
The strange cloak that hung heavy on her slight frame, the clasp seeming to grip her throat like an asphyxiating promise, shimmered with malicious intent.
Tom's mouth had opened before he'd even considered what he planned to say, his hand already extended in an invitation both knew she was in no position to deny.
The shattered remains of a holly wand lay uselessly in a nearby puddle, the phoenix feather core giving two final feeble sparks before it crumbled into ash.
"Helen of Troy brought much pain and suffering with her beauty."
Those murderously green eyes met his with dispassionate resignation.
Her hand, cold and white as the corpse at their feet, limply slipped into his.
"…I hope you beat her record."