Gobstone: yellow, first love: (accuracy) twinkling, (power) slate grey, (technique) comply

Romance awareness month: Write about someone casting a spell (or getting a spell cast) to find their soulmate.

Optional claimed pairing: Helena Ravenclaw/Bloody Baron (officially dubbed Septimus)

Optional prompts: Yule Ball (+5 points), (setting) common room.

Beta'd by The Kawaii Neko and WritingBlock.


Old English guide:

Thou/thy - you/your (2nd person singular)

Hast - have

Dost - do; doth - does

Mayst - may

Shallst - shall

Wouldst - would

Ere - before


Helena Ravenclaw slipped out of her room at dusk, making her way silently across the common room she shared with Septimus in slippered feet. If he ever found out what she was doing, she might just die of embarrassment.

Making sure her dressing gown was firmly tied around her waist, she walked down three flights of stairs to the Hufflepuff basement, where she quickly tickled the pear to the kitchens. She crossed no one in her path, for they were all busy preparing for the Yule Ball, which would start in thirty short minutes.

It wasn't the most ideal time to cast a spell, but then when were spells ever compliant to a witch's wishes?

'Polly,' she called hurriedly. 'Art thou here?'

'Mistress Helena asked for Polly?' the house-elf asked, rushing out from under a pile of dishes and curtsying as low as her tea cosy would allow.

'Dost thou have the item?' Helena demanded.

'Yes, Mistress, Polly picked the flower at dawn as Mistress requested,' the house-elf curtsied once more before presenting the seventeen-year-old with a yellow flower, perfectly preserved.

'Thank you Polly,' Helena breathed. 'Thou mayst return to your duties.'

'At once, Mistress,' Polly curtsied a third and final time before running back into the kitchen.

Helena walked carefully out of the kitchens, holding the St John's Wort aloft for fear of breaking the petals. Taking the steps as quickly as she dared, she arrived in the heads' common room with twenty minutes to spare. As predicted, Septimus was still in his room, getting ready for what he probably thought was the most important night of his Hogwarts career.

'Incendio,' Helena murmured to the fire, not bothering to take the wand out of her pocket.

Kneeling in front of the blazing hearth, she stared into the flickering flames.

'This is the moment thou hast waited for, Helena,' she whispered to herself. 'Tonight, thou shallst know the name of thy first and only love.'

Gently kissing each yellow petal, the Ravenclaw thrust the flower into the flames, inhaling deeply as it crumbled to ash.

'Thou silver glow-worm, oh! lend me thy light,

I give thee the mystic St. John's Wort to-night;

The wonderful herb whose leaf will decide

To whom the coming years shall see me a bride.'*

The fire suddenly burned a bright and blinding yellow.

Satisfied that the spell had worked, Helena nimbly climbed the stairs to her room, eager to get ready for the ball.


Septimus eyed his reflection in the mirror, giving his ruffle one last tug. His cuff links were of a polished silver, his robes of the finest green velvet. The blue accents on his shirt would go nicely with Helena's dress, which was certain to be representative of her House colours. After all, this was the Yule Ball, and even if Helena had problems with her mother, she could never say sorry to a formal dance.

Satisfied with his appearance, he buckled his shoes and made his way down the stairs, conjuring a bouquet of irises just as Helena appeared at the opposite side of the room.

She was truly a vision to behold.

Her raven hair was bound by fine silver thread in a thick braid, framing her face like a halo save the few strands that were artfully left out. Her long, elegant neck was graced with the simplest of jewellery, a white gold chain inlaid with oval sapphires. Her eyes, with their long dark lashes, were a slate grey, as cold and biting as the wind. Her robes were of blue-grey silk and would be in defiance of her mother's name if not for the royal blue of the sleeves.

She was nothing short of perfect.

'My Grey Lady,' Septimus bowed, his voice low with emotion.

'Septimus,' she nodded, the disdain clear in her voice.

He ignored it.

'Shall we?' he gestured to the door.

'We shall,' she replied, taking his arm with one fluid gesture and allowing him to lead them to the Great Hall.


The Great Hall was an incredible sight. The Four Founders had pulled all the stops, as they did for every Yule Ball. Snowflakes fell in gentle spirals, promptly vanishing on contact with the stone floor, though the ceiling was enchanted to show the twinkling stars of a clear night. Fur trees lined the walls alongside two of the four long tables, laden with food appropriate for a Yule feast.

Helena swept her eyes across the room, unconsciously lifting her head a little higher as she saw her mother seated at the head table, which had been kept in its original position. Trust the Founders to keep themselves apart from the festivities, as though they were above the rest of the common folk.

'Wouldst thou care to dance, my lady?' Septimus asked from her side, holding the tips of her fingers between his own.

There were worse ways to be asked to dance, Helena thought. Septimus was very charming, in his own way. Still, as she accepted and he led her to the floor, she could feel her mother's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head.

There were worse ways to be asked to dance, but a dance was all that Septimus would ever receive, so long as he had her mother's blessing.


Septimus glanced over to Rowena Ravenclaw, who gave him the smallest of smiles. A weight lifted off his chest. Even though he knew he had the founder's permission to court her daughter, it was one thing to ask and another to do. The first hurdle had been overcome. The second was to convince Helena that she didn't always need to fight her mother. This was one battle that was unnecessary.

As one dance transitioned into another, their bodies moved in synchronisation, a wonder to behold. Septimus knew that he was a good dancer, it was in his genes, in his blood, and the result of hours of practice. Yet he never moved quite so gracefully as when he was with Helena, who seemed to transcend life itself, never putting a finger out of place, gliding as though she never touched the ground.

He knew in his heart of hearts that they were destined to be. He was Head Boy, she was Head Girl. He was clever, she was intelligent. He was cunning, whereas she was wise. He was as passionate as the ocean's tide, she was as cool as a moonless night. Two sides of the same face of a coin, and yet Septimus believed that they had only scratched the surface.

He knew in his heart of hearts that they were destined to be, but Helena did not.


As the night drew to a close, Helena realised that she had fallen into her mother's trap. She had agreed to open the dance with Septimus - it was only befitting as the representatives of the school, but then she had resolved to be left free to her own devices.

She had planned on captivating as many souls as possible, attempting to find her soulmate before the evening ended. After all, there was no other Wizarding school in Britain, and she couldn't bear to live a life without magic. Instead she had found herself to agreeing to yet another dance, yet another glass of mulled wine, drawn into yet another discussion about the dangers of spell creation.

Now the bell tolled midnight, and she would have to leave if she were to reap the fruits of her earlier spell.

'I must leave,' she said to Septimus, releasing the hand she hadn't realised she had been holding.

'But the ball doth not end 'til witching hour,' Septimus replied, confusion marring his aristocratic features.

'Nevertheless, I must beg my leave,' Helena repeated, with only a hint of regret.

She all but fled, not waiting for his response, not waiting to be drawn in by the man she felt herself falling in love with as the days went by.

It is but a mere infatuation, she corrected herself. A foolish girl's fancy, nothing more than the result of the anticipation of this night's revelation.

The sooner she found out who her true love was, the sooner she could find him and defy her mother and her all-knowing counsel. She would prove Rowena Ravenclaw, wisest witch of the age, wrong.

As she raced up the stairs, she heard Septimus following, so she ran faster, harder, casting a spell of haste upon her slippers. Once she had found her way to their Common Room, she all but bellowed the password.

'Wit beyond measure!'

'Very well, very well, hold thy horses,' the portrait grumbled, his eyes wide with surprised. 'Why I never. Helena, art thou quite well?'

Helena ignored the portrait, slamming him shut and whispering another password to lock the door for several moments. Septimus would guess, he knew her too well not to, but it would buy her valuable time, enough time for what she required.

She threw herself in front of the fire, kneeling on the wooden floors, splaying out her hands on each side so that her sleeves would not ignite. Desperately, she began to recite:

'Thou silver glow-worm, oh! lend me thy light,

I gave thee the mystic St. John's Wort to-night;

And now upon the bell's twelfth peal,

My true love's face to me reveal.'

For a moment, there was nothing. Helena began to fear that she was too late, closing her eyes with disappointment. It was common lore that the spell could only be performed twice in one's lifetime, on midsummer night's day or midwinter night's eve of the year whence one came of age. Helena had decided on the latter, as the flames would burn brighter in the dark.

Suddenly, a bright light flared against her eyelids.

Eagerly, she opened her eyes, forcing herself to look into the deepest part of the fire. A face began to form, wide blue eyes flickering through the flames, joined by high cheekbones as pale as the moon.

Helena cried with anguish, dousing the flames. She needed not look any longer; she had seen that face before. She had spent the entire evening staring into those eyes, trying to avoid the inevitable.

For the face of her true love, her soulmate, the one to prove her mother wrong, was none other than that of Baron Septimus Rosier.


*Old Germanic poem. It was believed that if one placed the flower beneath one's pillow, then one would dream of the person they were to marry.