Romance Awareness Month - You can only be killed by your soulmate OR your soulmate can't harm you at all.
Fortnightly Song Lyrics: Teetering off of the stage, yeah
Treasure Hunt: Penseive
Helena Ravenclaw had always been gifted with an abnormal amount of luck. She had fallen from trees with barely a scratch, been run over by a horse and carriage and dusted off her dress before carrying on, accidentally drunk one of Uncle Salazar's poisons by mistake and lived to tell the tale.
Helena believed herself invincible.
Rowena knew the truth.
For Rowena Ravenclaw had created the Penseive - a silvery liquid of which composition only she knew the ingredients - able to store a witch of wizard's thoughts and dreams. Originally, she had needed it to clear her mind. It was only in her later years that she had discovered other purposes.
If one said the proper charms and wards, plunging oneself into the Penseive at dawn and emerging at dusk could make one impervious to harm. Rowena had been inspired by the wizard of Ancient Greece - Achilles - who had bathed in a liquid she deemed similar to that of her Penseive. So, Rowena had tested her theory on the one most dear to her, the one she could not bear losing… the one she would sacrifice anything for.
She had drowned her daughter at the age of six months. Metaphorically speaking. In fact, the liquid of the Penseive took one to a dreamworld, a different state of being - a memory. Helena was imbibed with all the qualities of the memories - unchangeable by others - and in exchange, Rowena had lost her husband.
She believed that he had been a worthy sacrifice, and one so great that she did not fear reprisal for her daughter.
For the old magic works two ways. Love can take and love can give. It cures curses that seem insurmountable, repairs the soul when it is lost beyond all hope… but it is also the bane to the best of the protection spells. A Secret Keeper's only weakness is himself, the one the protected trusts the most. And the spell cast on Helena would be broken in an instant when coming in contact with true love.
Rowena believed her debt had been paid.
Rowena was wrong.
Helena deftly picked her way along the stage of the Fountain of Fair Fortune - the play Hogwarts put on every year in May. Down below, Septimus called out to her.
'Be careful, my love,' he said, worry evident in his voice. 'I could not bear it if something were to happen to thee.'
'Never fear, Baron dear,' Helena laughed, twirling near the edge of the stage. 'Thou knowst that I am incredibly lucky.'
'Incredible luck doth not beget incredible risk,' Septimus said. 'Please, return to me. At least let the stage be set.'
Indeed, several students were waiting for Helena to leave so they could test the colour coordination of the floating candles. The Charms Professor had decided it would be good practice for the O.W.L.s.
'Very well, spoilsport,' Helena called, stepping daintily down the steps. 'I'll have thee know…'
But what she would have Septimus know, nobody would know, since at that very moment she tripped, sliding down the steps and falling onto a broken wheel of a wagon.
'Helena!' Septimus called, anguish evident in his voice. He ran to his beloved's side, only to find her giggling, unharmed. He let out a sigh. 'Do not do that to me again. I do not care if thou art impervious to harm. I worry all the same.'
Helena smiled, reaching up to cradle Septimus's cheek. She pulled him towards her for a gentle kiss, ignoring the gasp of a fellow student.
'If it doth not please thee, then look away,' Helena said sharply, before laughing again and going in for another kiss. 'If two betrothed cannot kiss, then who can?'
Septimus gasped, taking in as much air as his lungs would allow.
'Then… thou willst accept my offer?' he asked, his voice trembling as though he was scared to even question her response.
'Yes,' Helena replied simply, and Septimus kissed her more fully, taking her hands within his own as he lept to his feet.
'What wonderful news!' he exclaimed joyously.
'Yes,' Helena repeated, drawing out the word as she took up a duelling sabre. 'Yes, but thou must duel me for my hand.'
The Baron looked at her, grey eyes dancing with joy, her black hair tressed for the play, and thought that he could never refuse her anything she desired. Reluctantly, he drew his own sword and held it aloft.
'En guarde,' Helena cried before leaping to her feet, attempting to catch Septimus by surprise.
He easily deflected the sword, but soon enough he was duelling with all of his might. Helena must have been practicing. She never could abide being second best at anything.
'Helena?' a sharp, feminine voice called. 'Helena, where art thou? Thou must come for the reading at once.'
Helena stopped short, recognising the acidic tones of her mother. If Rowena knew what she was up to, she would surely punish her in front of the entire school. Forgetting the duel, she dropped her sabre and looked about for a place to hide.
Septimus, caught in the momentum, widened his eyes as he saw his sword approaching Helena's unprotected torso, having expected her to parry his blow. He tried to stop his arm, to no avail. The movement was in motion.
As cleanly as a knife cutting through butter, Septimus's sword pierced Helena through the middle, meeting no resistance, not even that one would expect.
As though burned, Septimus dropped his weapon, but it was too late. He gathered Helena in his arms, the tears falling fast and thick.
'Helena,' he sobbed. 'I'm so sorry, Helena I didn't mean to…'
'It was impossible,' she said breathlessly, an expression of pure surprise crossing her face. She frowned as she tried to understand, looking at Septimus questioningly. 'H-How?'
But how, Helena would never know, for at that moment her heart gave out and she fell limply in Septimus's arms. All around, students and teachers were gathering, unsure as to whether this was a rehearsed scene or not. When Rowena Ravenclaw pushed forwards to the front of the crowd and let out a cry of despair, the students had their answer.
But all of this went unnoticed by Septimus, who cradled his lover in his arms, whispering her name, waiting for her to wake up and tell him that it was but another of her cruel jokes. When his tears fell upon cold cheeks, Septimus knew of the horror he had wrought, the crime he had committed. With a shout of anger, of pain, and of everything dark that lies deep within the heart, he took up Helena's abandoned sabre and pierced his own heart, welcoming the icy sting as it took away his attention from the pain. If she were to die, then he would spend the afterlife suffering with her, for her, doing the penance he knew his life would never be long enough to endure.