The long, dark hallway faces him. Doors stare out like threatening faces. Tiny lamps cast unceasing light upon his drawn face. At the end of the gauntlet lies the door, the one door he can't bring himself to open. The one door he knows he must open. One foot after the other, sweat dampening his high brow. He is afraid, more afraid than ever before.
He is in front of the door now, close enough to reach out and touch its dull brass knob. It is dull, like everything else in his life. Everything but her. He takes a deep breath, summons up his courage, twists the knob and pushes open the door. It is open. Open.
Inside, millions of tiny candles flicker from their dull brass sticks. Dull. Lifeless save for the gentle flicker of flames. All around him they flicker, taunting him with their spritely dance. And in the corner, she lies in her bed, reminding him of why he ever feared this room. Her jet black hair spreads out across the pillow like a fan. She is still as regal as ever before. Still the great Rowena Ravenclaw, despite the fact that her life was slowly draining from her.
As she hears him, she turns her head the slightest bit. It is all she can manage and therefore it means the world. "Win." Her voice comes out in a hiss of breath. Every word is a struggle. That word melts his heart. It was what she always called him. Before she left. She was gone.
"Mother," he whispers. She wasn't his mother, of course, but she had always been that to him. Never anything less, no need to be more. She loved him as a son and he had failed her. He forces himself forward, until his knees hit the edge of the bed.
Before she can speak again, the door slides open. A short wizard in deep purple robes gives a slight bow and enters. "I am afraid she hasn't much longer, Mr. Ryder. She is ready to go now. Be ready to say goodbye."
What a strange thing to say, Winslow thinks. And I'm not ready. Never will be ready. But I must say goodbye. He turns back to the bed as the short man leaves them alone once more. "Mother," he says again. "Mother, you are going to be fine."
She shakes her head, just the merest twitch of muscle. "No. I'm fading. You must-" She stops suddenly, sucking in a deep tug of air. "You must do something for me, Win."
And then she falls silent. He understands that each word taxes her. He knows she hasn't much longer. "Anything."
"Win, I've raised you as my son. Since your parents were killed, you have been as my own flesh."
It was true. Never for a moment had he doubted her maternal love. He would give her his very life if she asked it of him.
"Helena."
Three syllables. Three syllables that strike deep in his heart. He wants to scream. Shout. Bellow her name to the rooftops. Anything to rid his mind of her, tear her from his heart like she so cruelly did.
"Winslow, she has taken something. Something very precious to me. But I forgive her. She is gone. Gone. But I forgive her. You must forgive her, too. Tell her, tell her I forgive her. Find her, Win. Take care of her for me. If not for you, then for me."
She was telling him to do the impossible. Find Helena? Forgive her? No, not for him. He could not forgive her. He would find her, forgive her, but not for him. For his mother.
"Mother, you know she no longer loves me. I would have gladly taken her as my wife, as you wished. But she would not have me." His voice is bitter, sharp and cold as stone against her skin.
"I know. But it is my wish that you take care of her. I know you will. You cannot fail me." Not again.
The unspoken words hang in the air between them. "I will do my best," he promises, and with those words, he knows he must do it.
"Tell her, Win, tell her. I forgive her. And, please, for my sake, keep your temper with her." Rowena Ravenclaw is a wise woman. She may not know why the two young lovers had parted, but she is wise nonetheless and knows her son, knows her daughter.
He takes a deep breath, smelling the sickness in the air and trying hard not to gag. "No, I won't." Not like before, he adds in his head, although he isn't quite sure how his mother guessed it.
"My son, if you can make a sure promise, I can rest in peace."
"How do you mean a sure promise?"
"An Unbreakable Vow."
He gasps. "Are you sure? I do not know-"
But she breaks in, cuts him off. "You must, Win, or I shall never rest."
Winslow Ryder, adopted son of Rowena Ravenclaw. Rowena Ravenclaw, Foundress of Hogwarts School or Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hands intertwine. Sparks of light dance between them as they speak the words of the Unbreakable Vow. He is bound to it now. There is no way out. He will find her, bring her home, keep his temper. He will keep this promise or die.
"Thank you, Win. I can rest in peace knowing she will be safe, that you will love her. Love her as I have loved you." The deep blue eyes pause and lock on his brown ones for but a moment and then flutter closed.
"Goodbye, Mother."
The dark plains weave a story of fear as he Apparates into the country. Albania. He knows she is here. How does he know? He has his ways. He always has had his ways. Perhaps that is why she hates him so much, for those ways of his. Perhaps he will never know.
The forest awaits him, dark and foreboding. She is in there, he can feel it. He still loves her. Always has loved her. For some reason, he believes she still loves him. His cloak pools behind him as he makes his way into the wood. What is in here he can hardly guess. He would rather not know. But she is in here.
He stumbles his way through the brush, through the mud. Stumbles his way towards her. She is here somewhere. She is. Where? Behind that tree? In this clump of bushes? No. Can't find her. Not here. The darkness disguises her, cloaks her, hides her. He cannot break through the darkness.
But suddenly, through the darkness, cuts a sound. Misery, filling his ears. It's the sound of sobbing. Heartbroken cries, drifting through the darkness to him. And in an instant, he knows it is her. He has found her. Helena.
The word falls from his lips like a cold drop of water, heavy, tugging itself down to meet the earth. He dodges a tree, a bush, she's there, fallen on the ground. Her arms wrap around herself to warm her, something clutched in her arms, held to her chest. Something wrapped in heavy brown paper. The something very precious.
He pushes himself forward, reaches out a tentative hand, brushes her shoulder.
She jumps, startled, a quiet gasp escapes her lips. And then, through the darkness, she sees him. Is it a dream? Does she really see him? Is he there? Or is he simply a figment of her overworked imagination? She cannot tell. But she wants it to be him, more than she would ever admit. "Win?"
Her large gray eyes widen as she takes in the full expanse of him: dark, scuffed boots, long, lean legs, broad shoulders, kind, open face, tousled black locks of hair falling into his honest brown eyes. And then she knows it is him. For no one but him could look at her that way.
"It is me, Helena." His silky tone reaches out to her in a plaintive greeting, as if begging her to accept him as she once did.
Her head bends, she turns away, unwilling to believe. "Why are you here? Why can you not leave me in peace."
"Your mother, Helena. She has died. But she sent me here, on a mission for her." If the girl is phased by this news, she does not show it and so he continues. "She said you have taken something. Something precious."
Now Helena is listening, for he has caught her attention with this news. For she has indeed taken something precious. She is just now clutching it beneath the folds of her gray cloak. Gray to match her eyes. Gray from him.
"But she forgives you," he pushes on. "She sent me to tell you that. With her last breath she forgave you, Helena. And now I must care for you."
"You never cared for me, Win. No, you know you never did." Her voice is bitter now, full of unresolved anger. "You cared for her, though, that wicked woman."
He winces. "Helena, I do love you."
"Not as you loved Elizabeth."
The name hangs between them, evidence of the troubled past.
"I am here as proof of the fact that I love you," he forges on. "I am here to take you home, make you my wife, and to get on with our life."
"No, Win. I have done horrible things in my life, the worst of which condemned me here. I am content to stay here for the rest of my days."
"In this wretched place! No! You are coming home with me! I made a promise to your mother, a promise I do intend to keep. Helena, I made the Unbreakable Vow."
She climbs to her feet now, angry and surprised. "The Unbreakable Vow! Why? Did you love my mother that much?"
"You know I did. And you must come with me."
She bristles at the certainty in his tone. "I cannot go home."
"It is what your mother wanted, what I want. Can you not see this is best?" He is pleading now, his heart pulled into the fray like a soldier at war.
"No, Win. I will not come and you must go. You have ruined your chance with me, ever since you loved another woman. I could not love you then, and I will not love you now."
Anger fills his dark eyes. "You must come back with me! Or my last promise to your mother shall be broken and I shall die!"
She gives him a hard look and in it, he can read the mix of emotions floating there: sadness, regret, anger, love.
He does not know which emotion is strongest but he knows that somewhere, deep down, she must still love him. He reaches down and grabs hold of her hand. "Please." The one word, all he can ask of her.
But she is cold as stone. "I shall stay here, to suffer and die for my sins. And you shall suffer and die for yours."
Overcome with passion, he lets out a terrible roar. Emotions rip through his veins – the white-hot of anger, the shivering-blue of fear, the dancing-orange of pain. But suddenly, the moment cools and through his haze he can hear her words drifting back to him. His mother, a woman he loved so very much, a woman he knew he was going to let down.
Win, you must forgive her. Please, for my sake, don't lose your temper.
Her last warning. His promise. His temper. He always lost his temper. He must keep his temper.
Don't lose your temper…
But he throws her words from his mind, tosses them away into the darkness that surrounds him, away into the blaze. From deep within his cloak, he draws out a knife. Helena gasps and pulls away but she cannot escape. He has given in, he is done. If she will not come with him, he will die, and if he must die, she will die with him.
And then, before he knows how it has happened, she lies dead at his feet, the gray of her cloak seeped in bitter red, her gray eyes wide but unseeing.
As he realizes what he has done, he sinks to his knees beside her, feverish tears rippling from his eyes and coursing down his face. His hands, cloak, face are stained with her blood. The bitter red of her blood. And as the Unbreakable Vow comes to claim him, comes to tear his soul away from him, he knows the stains will last forever, a sign of broken promises and lost love.