Chapter three-
The air between them was tense for the weeks following, and when they passed each other, there was nothing but the occasional terse nod and cordial smile.
Helena was unused to the silence between them, and the realization startled her. She had grown used to his presence, and if she was anybody else, she might have said that she missed his company. But since she wasn't anyone else, she dismissed it as a preposterous idea, and reassured herself that it was perfectly normal to 'get used to somebody' when you spent an hour with them everyday, and it was even more understandable considering they were engaged.
"You and the Baron haven't been spending much time together," Rowena commented idly two days after the disastrous lunch. "Did you do something to scare him off, Sweetheart?"
"Of course not, mother," Helena sneered, "He's just having some difficulty deciding whether it's me or you he wants to marry."
Rowena raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and stared at her daughter. "Oh, do try and act a little more mature, would you Helena?"
"Oh, but mother, you're thirty nine. He has twenty six summers in the bag. I think it's perfectly grand that he's considering marrying the more mature Ravenclaw. He did mention something about taking childbrides— you're much more suited to his tastes," Helena gave Rowena an insincere, biting smile.
Rowena placed her quill to the desk and leaned back in her seat, giving her daughter her undivided attention.
"I raised a respectable, mature young lady. Now, I'd appreciate if you'd act like it. Leave, Helena. I have paperwork to finish up. The students are due back to school in three months, and I still have yet to find a way to contact all the unlisted muggleborns in Hogwarts' jurisdiction." Rowena picked up the black quill and took out a clean sheet of parchment, effectively dismissing her daughter from her office.
"Magical signatures," Helena said, her hand pausing before the doorknob, and Rowena looked up, irritated, from her work.
"Excuse me?"
"Magical signatures," Helena explained, opening the door, "Can be mass-traced with a tracer spell. You can find the muggleborns that way."
Rowena shook her head exasperatedly.
"Tracer spells are unreliable, especially when performed on multiple people, Helena. You should know that from your fifth year wandwork studies."
The eighteen year old shrugged tersely, and left the room.
It was only a suggestion,she thought angrily.
"Helena." The voice came from her left, bouncing off the stone walls, but she knew who it was, and stopped, despite her senses telling her to continue forward and ignore the bastard. "I— can we talk?"
"I have nothing to say, and I think I made that pretty clear."
He showed no sign of being offended by her words, and continued to speak. "Well then, I wanted to apologize for my crass behavior the other day. It was out of line, and I should have held my tongue."
She turned on him, eyes blazing. "Held your tongue and then what, Baron? You just would have been thinking it— you can apologize all you like, but it doesn't change the fact that when you said it, you meant it." Her arms folded, and she took an offensive stance, absolutely prepared to trudge headfirst into another explosive argument.
"But I hurt you," He said simply, crossing his own arms as he stared at her through hooded eyes. He looked entirely too sure of himself, confident of her forgiveness. "I hate to hurt you, Dearest," and that was as sincere as he was going to get.
"I'm going to go prepare tea for my mother, since she's in a frightful mood." she said finally. "You can come with me to the kitchens if you'd like—but that doesn't mean I forgive you."
He nodded solemnly and fell into step with her.
Rowena liked her tea with two spoons of honey, one mint sprig and 'warm, not hot, Helena, it's not as though I'd enjoy having my tongue scalded, now is it?'
Helena stirred quietly, three times counterclockwise with the Baron watching her methodical motions with a curious sort of look on his face.
"You know," he started conversationally when she was done, "I'm perfectly aware that it isn't anything like cooking, no matter how similar they may appear, but since I didn't attend Hogwarts the same time you did, I'm harboring the guess that you're rather excellent at Potions."
She looked up at him, startled. "It was my best class," she conceded slowly, and the way her eyes widened at his deduction of her skills showed that she was reassessing the man standing before her. "You could tell just by the way I prepared her tea?" she asked, a little ashamed by the curious tone she took.
He shrugged, and a lazy smile crept across his handsome features.
"It's the method," he revealed, "You're careful, very precise in the way you stir and the measurement of mint you picked up."
She leaned back against the counter, impressed despite herself. "You really are smarter than I give you credit for. Tell me, what's your hidden talent, Oh Great Fiancé of Mine?"
He laughed (and it was such an attractive laugh, she found) and began walking to the door, and she followed along with the tea in her hands.
"I'm not entirely sure whether I should be insulted or flattered," he admitted, opening the door to allow her to pass first, "But, while you may not expect it of me, I rather enjoy Transfiguration."
To be quite honest, she really hadn't expected it. "But that's Godric's class," she said, surprised.
He gave her a charming smile. "So just because Professor Gryffindor teaches it, I'm not allowed be good at it?"
She blushed. "That's not what I meant—it's just that you're…"
"A Slytherin?" he completed the sentence for her, his amused smile turning into a full-fledged grin.
"No," she said impatiently, "You're just someone I'd expected to be better at DADA—you just seem the type is all," she shrugged.
Never faltering in his long strides, he cast her a disbelieving glance.
"I do?"
"Yes," she answered simply.
"I'm terrible with defense," he admitted, and for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, he surprised her.
"Really?"
"Absolutely— my Patronus is a pathetic wisp of what I think should be a wyvern… or a dragon, maybe. It's some beast, but it's such a sad sight that I truly can't place its full-form. Please don't tell anyone."
She stared at him in disbelief when they stopped in front of her mother's office. "I won't," she promised. "But, Baron, that's ridiculous!"
He shrugged again good-naturedly, but quickly turned the tables on her. "But I figure, why should I worry when I have my lovely, talented fiancée to protect me from our bed at night?" he leered.
"You're a pig," she shot back disgustedly (though she found that it was a little difficult to say it with as much vigor as she had intended), and opened the door.
His laughter followed her into her mother's domain as the door closed shut behind her.
"I brought you tea," she sat the cuppa down in front of the working witch.
"Thank you," Rowena said shortly, never once looking up from the parchment.
"I'm leaving now," Helena announced after a moment's silence, and Rowena waved her off, reaching over to take a sip of the tea before her.
Helena slipped out quietly into the hallway, and a small (very miniscule) part of her hoped that the Baron was still there.
When she was faced with an empty corridor, she forced down the feeling of disappointment that welled up inside of her and walked back to her room.
Don't be ridiculous, Helena, she told herself. Spending so much time with him really is getting to your head.
