Summary: Nobody listened to the truth. At some point, Helena Ravenclaw stopped trying to tell it. The Grey Lady's conversation with Harry, from her perspective, and what she never told him.

Thank you to Kat-Knife for beta-ing this!

Helena Ravenclaw's Tale

Ten centuries. That is how long I have been watching Hogwarts, giving advice when asked and otherwise staying in the shadows. I have watched as Headmasters changed, as Ravenclaw descended into the disregarded House it is today, as Slytherin became the epitome of everything its Founder hated, as Hufflepuff became regarded as the hardworking, loyal House - an insult to everything I know about the true Founders - and as wars raged, Hogwarts the epicenter.

And in those ten centuries I have learned, oh yes. Ravenclaws come to me quite often for help, and I gladly converse with them. I have talked to my fellow House ghosts (except for the Baron) and found them amicable. Sir Nicholas, in particular, is the kind of man I have always wanted to meet, brave with a good heart if a touch foolish. Yet I have had very limited contact with the other Houses. Hufflepuffs, I avoid on principle, but neither Gryffindors nor Slytherins speak to me. Like most Ravenclaws, I am ignored, bypassed, skipped over like part of the scenery.

The one time a Gryffindor or Slytherin - this one was a Slytherin - spoke to me, I was eager. He was even of the blood of my Uncle Salazar, my favorite uncle. It was my folly. He maneuvered around me so cunningly I didn't realize until far too late, until he fooled me into revealing the diadem's location.

So when another dark haired boy from the same background as he, a Gryffindor this time, came to speak with me, I was understandably skeptical, even hostile. He was, like a true Gryffindor, undeterred.

I would have ignored him - it was the middle of a battle, for Merlin's sake, as they say now. (It is funny to reconcile the sometimes awkward, sometimes conniving, but always eager boy Merlin I knew with the venerable hero they imagine). But this was Harry Potter, who Sir Nicholas had invited to his Deathday party, who was said to have championed House Elves and goblins alike. Even among ghosts he is famous. So I stayed.

Then he asked about the diadem and Harry Potter or not, I turned to leave. Generations of students had badgered me about the diadem and generations had failed - except, of course, for one. Long ago I had decided that the diadem was too potent a weapon to fall in anyone's hands. Perhaps Nicholas, who had always been good-hearted and even naïve, had been wrong. He shouted that it would help defeat Riddle and I faltered. How did he know? How could he possibly know? Then he added that he did not want to wear it and that got my attention.

Harry Potter had been called many things, but selfish had never been one of them. Neither had been unreadable. I decided to test him.

"It - it is not a question of my mother's diadem," I stammered, not needing to feign the off-balance sound.

As I expected, he grabbed onto the two crucial words. "Your mother?"

Once upon a time, I would have insisted on the truth and probably not have achieved my goals. I would have wanted recognition. But ten centuries can tame a fiery, intellectual spirit and teach the patience Uncle Salazar tried so hard to ingrain. I pulled a look of anger onto my face and said stiffly, "When I lived, I was Helena Ravenclaw."

He tried to pry the information from me. I considered letting him have it openly, but anyone intelligent would have been skeptical of the quick turn-about, even if I hadn't still been skeptical. Not for the first time did I wish I could still preform Legilimancy.

Instead I resisted his attempts until he turned away, and then I spoke. "I stole the diadem."

This much was true, though what I said later was not. "I sought to make myself cleverer, more important, than my mother."

I could have told him the truth, how I was frightened that Helga would abuse it, though my mother did not believe it, firm in her faith in her friend. I could have spent precious time convincing him that it was Helga; that it had always been Helga, who had acted so eager and sweet during the whole process of building the school. I could have told him that the only reason she had brought up the idea of a school of magic for all was to achieve her dreams of power and influence.

I could have told him that Uncle Salazar had never opposed Magbobs - Muggleborns, they call them now - but Uncle Godric had, and history had reversed the two because of Helga. I could have told him how Helga had played Uncle Godric and Mother and even Uncle Salazar like fiddles, whispering betrayal and suspicion in their ears and only Uncle Salazar had ever suspected anything, which was why Uncle Salazar had been the one she had destroyed.

I could have told him how I had been the only one to see, and Uncle Salazar had acted too late, because by then his power had been all gone, and the only thing he could do was help me run, run away and keep the diadem from Helga's hands. I could have told him how eventually, on her deathbed, Mother had finally seen the truth but could not refuse Helga when she demanded that I be there for her death and sent the Baron.

I could have told him how Helga had both won and utterly lost, for she had destroyed everyone except Uncle Godric, who humored her in everything, and yet Hogwarts had flourished and grown away from her former iron control, and she had eventually been written off as the kind Founder who had never really done anything.

But I did not, because we did not have the time, though I ached for someone, anyone to listen. Even now, I detest it when people believe incorrect facts.

Instead, I watched his reaction to his words, the flash of distaste and confusion all at once, and decided to continue. I could admit that I had been prideful, for it was the truth. Had I not insisted on persisting with the truth, desiring the world to know that I had been right and the true heroine, perhaps Hogwarts would not be in the state it was.

I was a Hogwarts ghost, and my devotion was to Hogwarts alone.

So all I told him was about the Baron killing me and then himself, leaving the diadem in the tree for what should have been eternity - that much was true, and finally, he put the pieces together.

"You've already told another person this story, haven't you? Another student?"

I hoped that that was a sign that he was honest, as hope was rising up now, that perhaps, someone could right the wrong.

"I had…no idea…He was…flattering. He seemed to sympathize…to understand." I had been thoroughly tricked by Riddle, to my eternal shame, who had pretended to believe my story when nobody else did and really just wrote me off as insane. It was partly comforting, partly distressing that he was of Uncle Salazar's blood, and I held no doubt that Uncle Salazar would have been proud of his skill and shamed by his views at once.

The boy ruffled his brow sympathetically, clearly deep in thought, revelation overtaking confusion like a wave. Suddenly he burst out, "The night he asked for a job!"

"I beg your pardon?" I was honestly bewildered by the strange outburst.

"He hid the diadem in the castle, the night he asked Dumbledore to let him teach! He must've hidden the diadem on his way up to, or down from, Dumbledore's office. But it was still worth trying to get the job - then he might've got the chance to nick Gryffindor's sword as well - thank you, thanks!"

Completely nonplussed, I stared after him as he dashed off.

I felt it as the diadem was destroyed, guilt lifting, something tying me to this world loosening, and I felt a moment of sadness for the great artifact I had attempted to protect for so long before relief settled in.

I was free.