A/N: I don't own Harry Potter. This pairing was discovered by me, so gimme a little mention if you write them, thanks! And if you write the, NOTIFY me, I would like to read it. I couldn't find Sir Cadogin amongst the list of characters – why not? Oh, and I'm not sure if he has a moustache or not, but here he does.
Odd things.
Odd things, they were, paintings. Not alive, but not dead. Odd things. The oddest. Helena Ravenclaw was always fascinated by these moving, talking, breathing, eating images that were alive, yet not entirely. Crazy. Her mother would've disapproved of the way she was poring over these creatures. Were they like her? Too scared to pass on from this life to the next? No, because Dumbledore wouldn't be scared of death, yet there's a painting of him.
What were these beings?
"Scoundrels! Mongrels! If I didn't know better I'd stick this sword right up your... oh, hello, milady."
She was startled by the little man, banishing a sword that was obviously too heavy for him, and a fat pony following him. He'd been chasing a bunch of painted thieves – they were carrying food, if she saw it correctly.
"Good day." She grinned, unsure of what to do. The fat pony whinnied a greeting to her.
"How can I help you, milady?"
"No need, sir, I'm merely admiring the paintings."
He appraised her. She sure was a beauty, even in her ghostly form one could see that.
"I've seen you around the castle." He mused, picking at his moustache. "Ravenclaw, I believe?"
"You are correct." She confirmed.
"Some call you the Grey Lady."
Immediately her anger burned. She hated that title! She had a name! And she was proud of it! But how was this painted little man to know this? It wasn't his fault, was it? Her gaze softened.
"Helena." She said. "Helena Ravenclaw."
"Oh!" He squealed, delighted. "I was hoping to meet you! You're quite legendary, you know."
"I do know." She replied. "The students don't realize who I am, though – and I prefer it that way."
"Indeed." He twirled his moustache. The pony nudged him forward. "Right. Forgive me, milady, I must be off. Have yourself a nice day."
He didn't wait for her reply as he picked up his too heavy sword and ran to the next painting, screaming about shoving his sword into their... well, Helena liked to think she heard ears.
She watched him go, a tad heavy hearted. But she was certain she'd see him again, for he had her at a disadvantage. He knew her name, but she didn't know his.
The pony straggled behind him, surprisingly not tripping and falling on his short, stubby legs.
Indeed, paintings were odd, odd things.
. . .
A/N: Odd, odd pairing. Please leave an odd, odd review.