IV.
The other Champions were already gathered when Helen arrived for the Wand Weighing Ceremony. In the days since her arrival, thirty-nine Hogwarts students, two Beauxbatons girls, and the only girl from Durmstrang had come before her and sworn the vow all Hunters swore to Lady Artemis. It had been strange, having her mother's gift to bless maidens with immortality flow through her. Of them, Daphne Greengrass ascended to a position of leadership among them. She had been the first, approaching Zoë herself and took the vows without question or hesitation. While the seven former Gryffindors chaffed at taking orders from a Slytherin, she was stringing together a strong sense of unity and Helen hoped when departed the school, they would all see each other as sisters. They will be proper Hunters, more than ready to meet mother.
"Ah, there's our final champion," said a burly man who was clearly gaining weight. He reminded her of the bumblebee her mother had created from a drunk mortal who'd stumbled upon them, naked and delirious, in South Dakota. "I believe we can star—"
"Oh, Ludo, could I speak with her first?" asked a thin blonde with ugly glasses and a poisonous voice. Helen's fingers twitched for her wand. "I am writing the piece for The Daily Prophet and I would be remiss to speak with the youngest Champion about her…return home." She then shot Ludo—the burly man—a pleasing smile more fitting upon the Furies than a mortal. There is no mist around her, so she is no monster. However…
"If you wish to interview me, I would prefer to do so once the ceremony is over," Helen said, forcing a sweet smile onto her face. "I doubt the others would like to continue waiting. Surely, you've already spoken with them."
The woman pursed her lips, which swiftly became an amused smirk. "Of course, forgive me. Oh, where are my manners." She walked over, heels clicking on the stone floor and held out a hand. Her nails looked primed to maim, even with teal and silver paint on them. "Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent."
Helen tensed at the name, though she shook the hand before her as if the name didn't set her on edge. There had been a terrible uproar decades ago when it was revealed that Hermes had sired a child with Circe, the witch exiled to Aiaia for turning the mortal Glaucus into a god and the nymph Scylla into one of the most infamous monsters of the Greek world. The child turned out to be a girl, so Zeus let her live as long as she was kept unaware of her divine heritage. Hecate, as a favor for Circe, hid the child among her magicals. Only the name given to the child was known, thanks to who Helen now suspected was Dumbledore. Of all people to meet, it would be her.
"A pleasure, Ms. Skeeter. Your work is…known in America." She ignored that, at least in America, Rita alone had turned the British press into a laughing stock. The few American magicals she had met considered the Prophet to be little more than a propaganda paper with a gossip writer at the helm. Mortal gossip rags were viewed with more legitimacy as a source of news than the magical British paper. Even Lovegood and The Quibbler—and wasn't that a grand surprise, Luna Lovegood coming to join before being claimed by Apollo as if they were at Camp Half-Blood—was well regarded compared to the Prophet.
Rita smiled. It unnerved Helen.
"If we may," Dumbledore cut in and Helen was thankful for the interruption. He held out a hand and a curious old man came forward. He was lanky with bushy eyebrows hiding piercing eyes. If he weren't 150 years old, Helen would suspect he was an immortal instead. "This is Mister Garrick Ollivander, the best wandcrafter in Britain. He will be weighing your wands to ensure they work properly for the Tournament."
Helen watched as Ollivander made his way through the other Champions. Fleur Delacour, the Champion of Beauxbatons, had a wand with Veela hair—"my grandmother's," she had proudly declared—for its core. She had heard of the Veela, for it was said they descended from a child Hephaestus had with a siren. Victor Krum, Champion of Durmstrang and Seeker of the Hungarian National Quidditch Team, was unimpressive. Helen had first through he may be a Legacy of Ares, but the boy showed none of the violence or cunning those children were rumored to have generations separated from their godly progenitor. He still wasn't pleasing to look upon, especially since she just couldn't figure out how many times his nose had been broken. After that, Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts' Champion and a Hufflepuff, handed his wand to Ollivander. He admitted to polishing his wand—the only one made by Ollivander, it turned out—daily, which created a rolling giggle across the room.
Ollivander turned to her and she hissed low in her throat as his blue eyes found her silver ones. She felt as if every secret she bore was his to peruse at his leisure. "Our final champion, Helen Potter." He paused and frowned. "Or perhaps it is Helen Khryselakatos now. I confess myself disappointed when you failed to arrive with your brother three years ago to receive your wand. His was most curious—holly and phoenix feather. Most curious indeed…but what about yours?" He held out a wrinkled hand and she handed over the pale wand Hecate had made as a birthday gift years ago.
"Ah, white poplar and powdered horn from a—" He looked away from the wand and to her. A chill ran down her spine. "I wonder who made this wand. Few would dare approach a Cerynitis for a purpose like this. And the craftsmanship… It feels more powerful than any wand I have ever crafted." A ripple of whispers pulsed through the room. He gave the wand a flick and a silver mist appeared. It pulsed, trying to take shape, but faded before it could. "Extraordinarily loyal. This is a wand that shall not change its allegiance. You may just overshadow your brother, Lady Helen."
Ollivander returned the wand. He shot her a final curious look and then departed. The four champions were then forced to stand in various poses and formations as Rita Skeeter and her cameraman argued with press members from France and Bulgaria. Others from across Europe and a vaguely familiar face from America stood back, amusedly watching the bickering. One of them approached the French cameraman and handed over a small pouch. Paying for a copy of their photos. Smart. And, I would suspect, easier than taking a photo. Eventually, they all shot a picture of Krum sitting in a simple chair of oak with Cedric behind him and the girls on each side.
Helen tried to slip away once they finished, but Rita's eyes had been tightly focused upon her the entire time. "Come, dear Helen. Time for that interview you promised before the old goat interrupted me." She was then dragged out of the chamber and into a nearby broom closet before she could protest. Skeeter sealed the door behind them. "Don't need anyone barging in. I don't mind them listening, though." She smiled—a conspiratorial look. "They will hear what they wish. So, where to begin with you…"
"I suspect you wish to know where I went after that Halloween?" Helen asked, seizing what initiative she could.
"You're sharper than I thought," Rita said, drawing a parchment pad and quill from her purse. "Do you mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill?" Helen tried to answer but was cut off. "Good. So, please tell me—and my lovely readers all desperate to know—where have you been these long, long years?"
Helen frowned but decided to go with the momentum. I wonder what she will write… I have heard about Quick-Quotes Quills and I cannot remember a single good word about them. "America, as you surely know by now. My mom, Lily, used a ritual to ensure I was born as hale and healthy as Harry. She was aware if nature ran its course, she would have no daughter to match her son." It was the same story Artemis had told her when she had been seven and learned about James and Lily Potter and how her twin brother, Harry, was called the Boy-Who-Lived. She would have to pass over the fact mom performed a ritual was illegal and considered dark within Britain, punishable with the Dementor's Kiss. Many over here revere mom, after all. "The ritual, in part, was responsible for my disappearance to America."
Rita nodded as her quill scratched away, writing much more than what Helen said and likely nothing resembling her words. She watched it with narrow eyes.
"What do you know about this ritual? It would be of great benefit to us, having means by which to increase our terribly low birthrate."
"I'm aware that the blood politics of Britain has it leading the magical world for birth defects, squib births, and, as you mentioned, low birth rates. Even magical societies in regions with widespread incestual practices are better at mixing in new blood than Britain. My mother does not have the power to correct those problems."
"Mother?" Rita asked. A feline grin sprung upon her face. "Could you expand upon that?"
Helen grimaced. Tartarus take you, Skeeter. "The ritual summoned a…power that raised me as…her own."
Rita nodded and Helen had a feeling the Quick-Quotes Quill was writing something completely different. It was positioned so she couldn't read the pad, but the scratching heavily suggested that the article was being written here and now. "And what about the odd pamphlet those girls who came with you have been handing out? Several parents are worried you're drawing their children into a cult. I know Lord Greengrass is most furious you've taken his daughter."
"Lord Greengrass has driven Daphne away well enough on his own." Helen crossed her arms. "If you want to know more, get a pamphlet yourself. There's surely enough floating around you can find one before the Headmaster bars you from the castle."
Before Rita could continue, Dumbledore opened the closet door. "Miss Potter is correct," he said, eyes twinkling. Thank Trivia for small mercies. "I believe it is time for you to leave, Miss Skeeter. I may speak with Barnabas Cuffe about sending a different reporter. Dependent upon your article, of course."
Rita Skeeter departed in a huff, taking her parchment and quill with her. Helen glared at the woman's back until she was gone. She then turned to Dumbledore, who watched her with a ponderous look.
"I would recommend being careful, dear Helen," he said, turning on a grandfatherly persona. "Rita Skeeter is a most terrible enemy to have. I just happen to have the political clout to survive the worst of her, how do the Americans put it, hit pieces? That sounds right. She has called me the most terrible things."
"I am not worried," Helen said, looking away. "At least, not for myself. The girls who have sworn themselves to my mother, however, will come under threat. There are already whispers about Lord Greengrass and his efforts to take his daughter back. She is staying with us right now, for the dungeons are too dangerous to live among her…housemates. Her sister, Astoria, is a Ravenclaw and thus safe in their tower. That and her friends have closed ranks around her. Good day, Headmaster." With that, she left the broom closet and stepped into a hallway.
The American pressman leaned against the wall near the closet, waiting. He smiled at her, a bright expression that clued Helen onto who he was.
"Hello, uncle. What brings you out this far?" Helen started down the corridor, heading towards a staircase directly to the Entrance Hall.
"Can I not come to check in on my favorite niece?" Apollo asked, falling into step beside her. "Father noticed from Olympus that your mother has gained a great number of followers, yet the number of those with her Hunt has yet to change. What do you know about this curious phenomena?"
"That many girls belonging to Hecate's special world are willing to abandon it for my mother's promises." Helen glanced over. "Phenomena is a large word for you, uncle. Do know that another of your children has joined the Hunt. One Luna Lovegood."
Apollo sighed through a small smile. "Disappointing but not a surprise. I had meant for her to help your brother. He's the most likely candidate to fulfill the prophecy concerning the Dark Lord who killed your mortal parents."
Helen froze on the staircase and turned to her uncle. "There's a prophecy? Is it like the ones your Oracle gives to Chiron's campers or like the Great Prophecy that got Grandpa and his brothers to stop having kids?"
"In between," Apollo admitted with an immediate look of regret. He then sighed and continued. "Eh, in for an inch, in for a mile. I did say it's why your mortal parents are dead. You should know that the prophecies of Hecate's world have always been…odd. The Pythia of old denied witches and wizards for that very reason. False branches, uncertainty, it is enough to make a normal Oracle go made. Their—your—magic can defy the Fates should it be powerful enough."
That is more than I ever wished to know. Yet I won't deny it makes me feel a little better, knowing magical prophecies contain uncertainty. "The words, Uncle Apollo. What are they?"
A moment passed as he made his decision. "Not here," Apollo said, turning to ascend the castle. "Come along, dear niece. Hecate told me of the coolest room ever created." Helen followed, keeping track of every hallway and stairwell, of every portrait and even a false door near a fifth-floor landing. They eventually reached the seventh floor of a narrow hall near Gryffindor Tower and she was led to a tapestry of a man wrestling with trolls or something like that. Her uncle paced before it three times and then a door appeared across from the tapestry. They passed through the door, entering a room where two comfy chairs sat beside a lit hearth.
"Can I expect Auntie Hestia?" Helen asked, smiling at the flames.
"Doubtful," Apollo said and she could feel the disappointment. Hestia was a favorite of both the Olympians and any demigod willing to seek her out. He sat down in one chair and held a hand towards the other. Once Helen sat, he began. "This is a prophecy spoken by a distant legacy of mine around the time of your birth. Remember with other prophecies that not everything means what it sounds like." He cleared his throat and then spoke in a low, raspy voice.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."
Helen leaned back, eyes fixed on her lap. "Are you absolutely certain the prophecy points to Harry?" she asked, slow and methodical with her words.
"He fits every condition," Apollo said. "He has a scar on his forehead, one just like the wand movements for the Killing Curse. I would say from that alone he was marked. The bit about dying at each other's hand and not living while the other survives—"
"It means the one of prophecy will vanquish the Dark Lord, for that's the only way they can live their life. And…there's something you need to see." Tugging at her shirt, Helen pulled the neckline down until Apollo could clearly see her collarbone. There, like on Harry's forehead, was a lightning bolt scar identical to the 'sowilo' rune. A sign of power, she knew all too well. There had been an encounter with a Norse demigod that'd revealed the truth of the rune that marked her, along with how strange the world of gods and their children was. "It could mean me. I could be the child of prophecy."
"Yes, but the prophecy uses 'he' and 'him'. Those are generally pretty specific words." Apollo leaned over to place a hand on her knee. "I suspect this is difficult for you. Dear sister has always complained about your insistence about finding Harry after learning of him. If she didn't have the Hunt, I suspect she would have allowed you to spend more time with your brother or even grow up side by side. You have always valued family, unlike most of the Gods."
"That would've been nice, just the three of us. Though, I wouldn't give up life with the Hunt just for that." Helen sighed, closing her eyes. "Do you know anything about the First Task? I was told it involves courage and daring in, and they did say this, 'the face of the unknown.'"
"The Goblet of Fire acts in the same manner an Oracle prophecy does."
"It would mean violating the Ancient Laws," Helen groaned. "I can't even get a single hint from the God of Prophecy?"
Apollo rubbed his chin, thinking. He then nodded, as if her playing to his ego wasn't part of his decision-making process. "Snatch a mother's egg. Visit Poseidon with weeds. Touch the cup alone." With that, he vanished in a flash of silver.
"Of course it's a haiku," Helen grumbled, standing.