It was on the coast where she met him.
The frigid winds clashed with the spray of the sea. Salted waters waged an unending battle against the smoothed stones of the cliffs. Pure white snow bathed every surface like a heavy blanket. The sun remained elusive in the grey sky, sentinel clouds obstructing him from view, leaving only a sense of unease in her. Teetering over the brink. The silver circlet held in her hands felt as if it weighed ten thousand stone.
But then she met him.
"A little far from home, aren't we?"
He looked to be the oldest man Helena had ever seen. Hair white as the snow around him brushed against his shoulders, framing a weathered face like hewn rock, wrinkles more like chasms, reaching from the peculiar scar on his forehead, to his bushy white eyebrows, and down past eyes green as emeralds to an unkempt white beard. His robes were of wizarding make, worn as they were, and the walking stick in his hands looked to be fashioned the mundane way. She didn't see a wand, and when the old man turned back to face the sea and patted the space next to him on the uneven stone, she doubted he would be able to hold one at all.
His hands shook like a feather hit with a weak Levitation Charm.
"Indulge an old man, would you?" His eyes were trained on the horizon, the crash of the waves below spraying up at his feet. "I've to take my leave soon, and you look to be in need of some sage wisdom from an old man past his prime."
Helena didn't know what to do. The silver circlet in her hands weighed down on her just as her past decisions did, a near crushing weight the further she ventured, in search of an answer that so far eluded her. Absconding with it in some futile attempt to leave her mother's shadow. To be more than just the daughter of a great witch. She looked down at the circlet, ran her thumb across her mother's favorite saying etched upon the steel, and found her feet moving.
The rough stone was a more comfortable seat than she imagined. Too comfortable in fact. When she looked to the old man, she found him gazing out into the distance, unaware of her quandary. Helena decided that it must have been a Charm of some sort. Yet it wasn't one she recognized.
For a moment, only the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below filled the air, the rest a mere stoic silence.
Then the old man gave a soft chuckle, as if he were laughing at a jest that only he knew of, and reached into the folds of his robes. From within he drew a smooth piece of metal with a mirror shine, only it was no simple looking glass as she first assumed, but in fact a metal water skin. His thumb quivered as he loosened the metal cork, then he took a drink, and smoke billowed from his mouth as he gasped in relief.
Helena had never seen such a thing before.
"Firewhisky," explained the old man, as if she knew what such a concoction was. "Ogden's finest. Don't make it like they used to… or will do for that matter." A chuckle escaped him. "My sense of time has been sorely lacking as of late. Would you be so kind as to remind me again of the year?"
Has he gone senile? "It is the first day of February, in the year of our Lord Jesus Christ nine hundred ninety-seven," she said.
"Ah," sighed the old man, "isn't that something? The years slip by quicker than I can grasp at them. I fear that if I close my eyes, I may miss it all, and I've so much to do, to see."
In a shaking hand, he offered her the metal water skin, but when she didn't accept it, he merely rested it on his thigh. His other hand kept hold of the walking stick, gnarled fingers tapping against the wood to a beat she couldn't hear, and when she looked closer, she saw that there was a faint scarring on the back of that hand. It almost looked to be words…
"I love this view," he pointed with his finger. "Reminds me of home. My true home. Up in the mountains and amongst the tall trees. In a castle so wonderous and grand. But I won't burden you with the ramblings of a time already past, for we have something far more important to speak on."
Beside herself, Helena was interested. "What would that be?"
"Why, you, and your reason for being so far from home."
The old man looked away from the horizon and met her gaze. His green eyes were bright and alight with a sense of being that his weathered body belied. There was an intelligence there, as if it were piercing through her very body and soul, unhindered. How much have these eyes seen? How many days and months and years? How many great vistas and stunning views? How much did they see in her right that moment?
The weight of the circlet suddenly became intrusive in her hands. Weighing her down with much more than just the metal.
"I… know not what you speak of." Helena said, meeting the old man's gaze once more, only to find him gazing up at the grey clouds above.
"I think you do. It is not every day one steals a priceless artefact."
She was on her feet in an instant, but she got but three steps before her foot caught a wedge in the stones, and she went down with a cry. The diadem clattered against the snow with a dull ring. The trees around them stood watch, silent vigil broken only by the crashing waves. Helena scrambled for her wand, rifling through her robes for it, hands coming up empty. He knows. He knows. He knows. He…
… is still sitting there? Helena found her wand, but the old man hadn't moved from his seat, nor did he do so when she pointed it at him. He was as serene as he had been when she first laid eyes upon him. When he did look at her, it was with a sense of humor, and it rankled at her. Cheeks flushed with heat, she made to stand, a fury alight within her.
"Calm, child. I mean you no harm." Another sip of the firewhisky produced another billow of smoke. "I would suggest you put that wand down before you hurt yourself. We are many ways away from a healer and my hands are not as steady as they once were. Come, tell me. Do you know what made your mother so great? It certainly was not that."
He pointed at the diadem as if it were a trivial thing. Like they were observing a passing group of sheep. He made no move to stand and take it for himself. Not even when Helena got to her own feet and retrieved it, holding it close to her chest. It was worth a fortune. No. It was priceless. A wealth of knowledge without end.
"You think it is her mind that makes her revered. That her intelligence, her wisdom, set her apart from us mere mortals. But I can tell you this, young lady. That is not what makes her great."
What? "Do you hear yourself speak?" she demanded. "My mother is one of the smartest witches of her generation. She founded Hogwarts! Created numerous spells, Charms, and curses! How can you say that her mind is not what makes her great?"
"Is one's mind all there is to sustain a legacy? I think not. The answer of what makes her great is not so simple as that, my dear. If it were, then that little tiara there would have provided the answer, and we would not be speaking as we are now. Yet I do not believe that you have even worn it."
"I have!"
"Oh?" The old man leaned back slightly, shaky hands clutching his cane. Green eyes widened slightly before his bearded mouth quirked. "And what great piece of wisdom has it imparted upon you? Many have said that Ravenclaw's Diadem will grant great knowledge and intelligence to those who wear it. That it can solve any problem, strengthen one's mind, and enhance wisdom of the wearer far beyond their natural years. But less my eyes have truly failed me, I do not see a wise witch standing before me, far from it."
"You- You-" Words eluded her. She could not think of what to say. Everything that came to mind simply caught in her throat, as if her tongue had gone lame, as stricken as her mind was. Anger coiled within her at the insult, bending and tensing with indignation, and as she sputtered uselessly at the old man, she felt something snap.
"Protego!"
Helena screamed as a shimmering blue shield appeared beside her, and she fell when she looked through it to find a tree suddenly falling right for her, wood splintering and snapping as it went. Time seemed to slow as she watched the tree fall onto the shield. Snow and stone felt wet to her hands as she scrambled back even as the shattered trunk rolled off the shield and crashed beside her.
Looking up, she watched as the Shield Charm dissipated into nothing, and the old man leaned back in his seat and tapped his cane against the stone. He let out a grunt, succinct. Helena held the diadem close, her wand forgotten in her hand, and it might as well have been without use for all that her skill was worth. She never could manage to live up to the heights her mother had achieved. Not even a simple Shield Charm…
"Your destiny need not be as the next coming of Rowena Ravenclaw," said the old man, a drink of that firewhisky and the clouded cough following it. "To ask that of you is unreasonable. Illogical even. You are your own witch, Helena, you need not live up to anyone's expectations but your own."
She started. "H-H-How do you know my name?"
Those old green eyes so filled with life met her own. There was a piercing look to them. Sharp like the goblin forged steel blade of Godfrey Gryffindor. Then all at once they seemed to dull, fading into a more minute shade, and the old man chuckled at her confusion. He drank another sip from his strange metal water skin and coughed up a small puff of smoke.
"Legilimency," he said, "and because you wear the Ravenclaw sigil upon your Hogwarts robes there." A finger was pointed at her breast, and Helena looked down to see the little patch. It hadn't even occurred to her to remove it when she had set out. Why hadn't it? "You also didn't correct me when I referred to Rowena as your mother."
"You speak of her as if you know her." Helena stood and wiped the snow from her. The old man patted the space beside him, and she sighed as she sat. Her mother's diadem winked at her even though there was no true sunlight to be had. They shared the sight of the horizon. "But you can't have met. My mother spends most of her time at Hogwarts, and you don't look like a member of King Constantine the Bald's court."
The old man simply hummed. "It feels like it's been a lifetime since I've spoken to her. Or Godric and Salazar and Helga too." He sounded wistful, like his words would be carried off by the wind if she didn't listen closely. "So many years," he murmured. "But I do know of her, Helena. Your mother was a good friend of mine. Even taught me some things about magic, funnily enough. Ah, but you're not here to hear of an old man's past, you're here to run off with your mother's diadem in search of…"
Helena found herself anticipating the answer, even though she was the topic of conversation, and that she didn't know it herself. Not truly. When the old man turned to look at her, white eyebrows raised, mouth slightly ajar as if the next word was ready to leap from his tongue, she knew he was waiting for her to speak it. But she didn't know why.
"Come now, you must have some great plan to achieve your glory." The old man tapped his cane. "To not have one would be brash and stupid. But that is not you, Helena. No, it could not be. You are top of your class I hear. Smartest in your year. Your fellow students sing your praise. Both for your mind and for your beauty. No, I'm sure I have missed something in your intentions. Surely there is more of a reason for your running off in the middle of winter with but the clothes on your back. Am I right in this or am I mistaken?"
All through it, Helena felt smaller and smaller, even though his tone was light and thoughtful. "I… I…"
"You thought to make yourself someone greater than your mother," he said quietly. The answer that Helena couldn't put to words or thought, yet she knew to be true. "To step from her shadow, to be known for something more than just the daughter of a great witch, even if in a flight of jealousy and anger." The diadem winked at her, steel cool to the touch. "That this little piece of magic taken form would grant you all the answers. But it hasn't, no?"
"No."
"No," sighed the old man. "Because it is not what made her great, and it won't make you great." A tap-tap-tap of his cane came and then the old man was on his feet. Helena looked up at him. Why was her vision blurry? Her cheeks wet? "Rome was not built in a day, my dear, nor at the snap of the fingers. Though, it did burn in one, but that's beside the point. That diadem won't suddenly make you smarter and greater than your mother. For such to be true we must assume that your mother's mind is what makes her great. But that is not what makes her great. Do you know what does?"
Helena wiped the tears from her eyes and shook her head.
"Me neither." The old man smiled. "So how about we pay her a visit? It's been some time for me and though my bones are weary, my skills at Apparition are still honed. Could use myself a pint of ale down at Hogsmeade as well, come to think of it."
"But I-" Helena looked down at the diadem again. "She would have known that I ran off by now. How can I… I can't…"
"Don't say that now. A dear friend of mine was a staunch Chudley Cannons' fan all his life, even though they never won the cup in his lifetime. Many said it couldn't be done, but that didn't stop Ron from supporting them all the same, and that was a hill he'd have died on if need be. He had faith in them until the last breath. Are you telling me that you don't have faith in your mother forgiving you?"
"How can I face her after absconding with the diadem?"
"Like this is how." The old man stood with his back straight, head held high, as if the years hadn't beaten him bow backed and white with wrinkles. "You made a mistake, now own up to it, instead of bowing to defeat. Come with me back to Hogwarts and we'll seek your mother's forgiveness together, and then you'll return to your classes, and I'll find Godric to share my firewhisky with. I hear the man knows a fellow who can brew."
Helena looked down at the diadem, with its sloping silver ornaments, and the saying etched in the steel. All the hopes and dreams she had on it ultimately led her to nothing. No answer came from it, no fountain of knowledge when she adorned her head with it, nothing. All that had met her was startling silence. She found herself on her feet with her back straight and head held high.
"I… I still want to be someone more. To be known as more than just Helena, daughter of Rowena, daughter of a Founder."
The old man shrugged. "A worthy goal. We can make a start of it by heading back and having a chat with her." He stuck out the crook of his arm, cane held firmly in his other hand. "Shall we?"
A moment's hesitation gripped her then, haltingly so, as if she were standing on an edge. To jump off into the unknown depths of the crashing waves or to return to the warm halls and the scent of ink and parchment. Between unassured fame and glory or the warmth of her mother's hearth. A moment basking in the exalted glories of the sun or a life of it catching glimpses of her in that looming shadow.
In the end, she did not need the diadem to know the right choice.
