Helena Ravenclaw sat on her horse, perhaps a foot from the edge of the forest, peering down into the valley below her. The weather was typical of the land of Alba: a dismal mist clung to the valley walls, depositing a light drizzle of rain on the little village centred on the valley floor. The wet had soaked through the edges of her cloak; her hair and face was damp. She shivered. There was more than an hour before dawn. Plenty of time to make her decision.

For a moment she mused not on her choice, but the process and emotions preceding it. There was an interesting contrast between the two stages of decision making: surely the difficulty should lie with planning the decision rather than choosing which action to take? Making a choice, after all, was a simple 'yes' or 'no'. It was odd, therefore, that she should find the idea of actively deciding on whether to bring her plan into fruition so trying. Of course, the disposition of the individual in question challenged the hypothesis. She relished the difficulty of the planning, the demanding nature of the work she had tasked herself with. Was it not foreseeable, then, that she would be troubled by the actual decision making? She was no Gryffindor, after all.

'No, you are no Gryffindor. You are a Ravenclaw', a low voice murmured in the back of her mind. The voice reminded Helena of her mother's as it was in the numerous moments – the uncomfortably numerous moments – in which Helena was a disappointment.

Helena let out a breath. If she made this decision, she would not be a disappointment in anyone's eyes. Even her mother would be unable to criticise her! If she did not make the decision, she would return to Hogwarts. Nobody knew she had left the castle: there would be no shame in returning with her task incomplete. Only she would know of her failure. Unless...

Her mother was uncannily good at reading faces; even more so when it came to Helena. If Lady Ravenclaw suspected she was upset with herself, nothing would prevent her discovering the truth and then... And then she would be even more of a disappointment.

Helena closed her eyes. The alternative was just as difficult to fathom. She knew there was good reason to make this decision. She knew countless lives might well be saved. She knew – in an ethical sense – her decision was already made. Risking one life to potentially save hundreds was ethically justifiable, whatever ethic one used.

To be the one life was risked, however, made the decision considerably harder.

Yet was her life even at risk? Her logical side scoffed at the mere thought. She was undeniably the most intelligent witch of her generation. Her spellcraft was unrivalled by her peers. The name 'Helena Ravenclaw' already demanded respect in academic circles formed by wizards four times her age. The likelihood of failure was minute! And yet even so...

It would take courage to proceed, not academic curiosity. It would take bravery to face the task ahead, not a desire to solve a growing problem. However, were not those motivations what brought people to acts of bravery? Was it not the intellectuals who faced the flames for their new ideas? Did she not have a new idea? Would she not have to face the flames? And – unlike countless before her – did she not have a plan?

She drew out a piece of folded parchment from inside her cloak. On its arrival, scarcely twelve hours previously, it had been tightly rolled, but multiple readings had made it flat. The letter had been addressed to one of the young women with whom Helena shared a dormitory, but after only one reading it had been discarded. Helena had stolen the letter, reading it in secret many times. She read it again, the rain making spots on the parchment.

Deerist Maudie,

I wyte withe ye werst newes a soster can saye. No wyrds can help yu fore this. Tis withe gret sorow I wyte yu thus: Papa has gon to God. Ye mugles mistacen his magicks fore dark sorsry und bernt him. I am tolde his payne was soone gon. I holde yur memry close und bid yu to tacke care if yu leeve ye casle walls. Ye bernings are mor comon.

Staye safe, deer soster.

Yur Emma.

Unlike the initial reading, in which she struggled with the strange spellings – if only the country was united under standardised writing! – Helena finished the letter in moments. The burning of Maud's father was the third reported since midwinter, a worrying number. Concern was also rising for the number of unreported burnings: not every wizard had a magical family to spread the news of their burning. All too many of the burnt were children. Helena suppressed a shudder of horror. Ideas had been growing in her mind since the first reported burning she had known, almost a year prior. Plans had been formed for the creation of a spell, a spell that could protect, a spell that could save. She had spent months researching and designing such a spell. Now came the ultimate test.

Down in the village, movement caught Helena's eye. A person – distance preventing her from identifying age or gender – had risen and in the pre-dawn light was performing some task near a small hut... Collecting eggs, perhaps? The appearance of another person alerted Helena to the time. Dawn was approaching. The time for decision making was now.

She let out a shaky breath. To do or not to do? To not do would mean failure. It would mean accepting there was a challenge to great for Helena Ravenclaw. It would also entail a gallop to the stables from which she had stolen the horse and riding equipment, apparation back to the gates of the Castle and a sprint to her dormitory in order for her early morning escapades to remain unknown.

To do would mean a ride down the valley and into the village. It would entail total trust in her abilities as a spellwright. It would mean she would declare herself a sorceress to the people of the village. It would mean being lead wandless to the stake and watching them set it alight. It would be the ultimate test for her creation.

The spell Helena had created would – in theory – protect her from the flames. She had tested on parchment and cloth, both attempts surpassing her expectations. Now came the final test: how would her spell work on a living, breathing person? And who better to test it on than the creator? There was little danger, after all. Her spell worked. It was only for final proof that this step was necessary.

She let out a breath. The distraught face of Maud floated in her mind. Her decision was made. Raising her wand, Helena whispered "Custignis!" and gave her wand a tight flick. Her skin glowed faintly yellow, before fading back to normal. She dug her heels into the flanks of her horse and smiled widely. She would do it. Looking to the south, to Hogwarts, she cried "Are you watching, Mother?" as she galloped towards her fate.

Two years later, Helena Ravenclaw stood before her mother's dressing table. The diadem sat innocently on its velvet pillow, glinting in the low light. With shaking hands, she reached for her last opportunity at success. This, finally, would prove her as wise as her mother. The metal was cool to touch, silver against the red of her burns.

Helena let out a breath. Hurridly, she wrapped the diadem in its velvet and tucked it into her pack. She had made her decision. "Goodbye," she whispered to the large, airy room, avoiding the carved eyes of the eagles that decorated the room. "Goodbye".