"You have in mind another suitor?"

Rowena gave the mirror another smile, sharp and charming as she could imagine. She didn't need to turn; she could see Helga's reflection just fine just beyond the mess of black curls she was trying to tame. "Really, Helga, it's just a dance. I go there to. . ." She searched her mind for a word. "Socialize. It's a lovely way to meet people. You should try it some time."

Helga laughed and shook her head, returning to her needlepoint. "Yes, Rowena. Socializing. I'm very sure of it."

Helga was too good a tease, Rowena thought, and this time she did turn around. "You don't believe me!"

"The only reason I don't believe you is that anytime there is anything to attend, it's an excuse for you to 'meet' someone that you are already quite familiar with it. So. . . who is it this time?"

She choked back a giggle. "I don't have to listen to this. Jonas is attending this. Terminus is attending this. For crying out loud, Marigold is breaking away from motherhood to come!"

"At least I'm not going as a common whore." Marigold stepped past the drawn purple curtain into the room, her red hair braided tight behind her neck and an infant son, also blessed with red hair, slung at her hip. "I don't think you have any idea how loud you are, Rowena."

Rowena let the laugh out this time. All the teasings, the tortures she received from Helga, Marigold, Lady Gryffindor... hell, everyone, she took in fun. She wasn't a whore, at least not in the proper sense. She hadn't done or lost anything, if that's what the mockingly suggested. It was just that, well, she was a rather attractive—if she did say so herself—sixteen-year old witch that hadn't been landed with a husband yet. And with all the eligible young wizards around. . . a girl couldn't lock herself away, could she? "You're just jealous. Both of you."

Marigold gave a short laugh. "Hah. Of what? I've got a wonderful husband and four children." She gave the baby a peck on the nose. "And you. . . "

"Am still delightfully worthy of courtship." Rowena returned to the mirror and yanked at a snarled curl. With all her accomplishments over the years one would think she could come up with a charm to untangle hair. And not sit around while Helga discovered one that as of yet still remained in blatant secrecy.

"I can help with that," Helga said sweetly, not even looking up from her needlepoint. Damn, but she could be perfect, all the angel sitting in the corner with all that beautiful blonde hair spilling around her like a fountain. Never did anything wrong. If Rowena didn't like her so much, she would hate her.

"You could whisper me the charm."

"I second that motion."

"Marigold, you intend to charm no one."

The only response was a tiny laugh oozing superiority.

It was strange, somehow, to have Marigold Weasley in the Clearwater Manor. Not that she was at all banished by any means; nor was it that Rowena didn't adore the older woman. But for eight years it had been so few others. She managed to free the lock of hair. Black and smooth, like a raven's wing, and dark like the manor could be. Marigold wasn't like that. She was alive, a mother with a family of her own and all that bright red hair of the Evans women that had spread to her children. She was Godric's nasty aunt, the one who had tormented him as a child in all the stories he still liked to share. She had never come to the manor before that night. In a way, it was almost beneath her. And then it was above. Others had come to see Lord Clearwater. Her own parents, Rose Gryffindor, her cousin Heather and her husband Caspian Evans. Even Helga's own father had come, on rare occasions that always ended in ice. But they were the rare, few guests who still had managed their own imprint upon the dark stone walls. Even in the classroom, the only warm spot there was.

She cringed. Sometimes there were too many dark memories. But it had been years. Eight long years that should have done their job in erasing memory.

Marigold didn't know such things, even though she was so older.

But that didn't matter, she thought, again smiling at her reflection. Tonight wasn't about any of that. It was a party down in Terminus' dusty hall, and anyone Godric or Salazar or Jonas wanted to invite was certainly welcome.

Including Lord Cordor's son.

"She's thinking of someone," she heard Helga whisper in a sing-song tone to Marigold, who laughed.

Of course she was. Derek was his name, and tonight she would dance with him.

And maybe Salazar would be watching.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Rose could hear the girls in the other room, clattering on like a bunch of noisy snidgets. It made her smile, and deep inside came the urge to join them. She wasn't too old for that, was she? Sometimes she almost thought Marigold was too old to gossip and joke with Helga and Rowena, but what did she know? Marigold was about the same age as Helga. But there was one difference that had always made such an effect. Marigold was married with a family, and Helga wasn't.

She wondered if it were best that way. Rose loved Helga—who possibly couldn't? But the girl worried her. There were times, rare, but still there, where Helga was but a pale shadow against the wall, quiet and forgotten until Rose almost dared think it was some sort of glamour charm against the world. Perhaps it was—Helga had survived her first few years of Terminus' tutorship and had proven herself worthy of Terminus and Jonas' little game. She had become a talented witch, a beautiful young woman. True, not in the dark and stunning manner that Rowena Ravenclaw so flaunted around, but there was much beauty there, soft and pale and gold.

Sometimes Rose had to wonder what her son was thinking. Sometimes she had to wonder what everyone was thinking. Which son? She corrected herself, and her heart melted like it had first done eight years before.

Salazar was her son. It was a thought that she scarcely dared accept, but it gave her so much joy when she could. When she had been allowed to take him back, away from whatever painful darkness that bastard Siythe had thrown upon him—had it been so horrible? Salazar showed no scars, only a deep regret and mourning for everything that his father was. But when she had been allowed to take him back, it was everything to her. Everything. And he was her son. She could blind herself to everything contrary and still rejoice. He didn't know, of course. But he still called her mother. For that is what she had been, for the first time eight years ago.

She slid a brush through her red hair, admiring herself in the mirror. Goodness, she was turning into Rowena. Her sons spent too much time with that girl. Which they had to, of course. Terminus and Jonas still insisted on carrying out their silly little lessons. Oh well. Whatever made them happy.

Not that there was anything wrong with it. In fact, as the years had passed and more information had come her way, Rose found herself becoming excited about it, against her will. Sad that everyone could drag her to such a state.

"Ricky and Sal are destined for great things," Jonas had told her. "You know of the prophecies, you have to. You know how good this could be."

And even then. . . she felt a chill run down her spine. Even then she could see where the Fighters were coming from. Pity she had to see such things.

Well, the future was always in motion. And she held no love for the Fighters. For everything that they had done. . .

Her wand was in the pocket of her robe, always ready for action. But nothing big, nothing major. She hadn't done that for eight years.

She balked at the memory, the darkness of the cave and all those skeletons and his face. . . and to her horror it still gave her pleasure.

But some secrets were best left covered.