Who wants to live forever? Taking their instruments outside on a summer day, some Hogwarts students were having a little jam session tonight. Music was a special kind of magic, a magic that kept touching her every time. A couple performing their very first song together, announcing their relationship to the world. Living forever, loving forever. A false hope if ever she heard one. Living forever – in these days you could count yourself lucky to survive until the start of the next term. Loving forever – as if love was more than a word. And even if you returned to this world after your mortal life had passed, would living as a ghost count as living forever? Be desirable? Be something you would wish for? Nothing could seem to be a stranger notion for her, someone choosing this existence, living a cursed life, half a life. Not being able to touch, to eat, to taste, to live properly. And not even able to die. Yes, she was bound to this existence, she noticed. She still had some unfinished business, she still had to atone for her sins. She still had to be a ghost, for however long it would take to finally move on.

Looking back on her life, she would never had believed it possible that she would end up like this. She would have never thought that she would live, exist that long; that she would live to see her mother’s legacy to flourish and grow and not to crumble away like brittle wood – as her existence did. She was a nobody, invisible, untouchable, unreal. She had always been. If she were invisible in her life, how could she have expected to gain visibility in the afterlife, as a ghost?

As she grew up, it was clear that everyone expected her to be a scholar. While other girls of her age were taught to be a housewife, she was taught to read. While others painted, she wrote. And this, her existence as a scholar, was not the result of her having no suitors. On the contrary, many were willing to marry her. She had to admit that this must have been due to her stature: slender, with waist-length dark hair, and the same haughty expression her mother always wore. And of course, her mother must have been a great reason for some men to desire her. After all, who wouldn’t want their family connected with the famous Rowena Ravenclaw?
At eleven, she was finally able to experience the many wonders of Hogwarts, as hardly anyone before, but many children after her did. This was her time to shine, to prove herself a worthy scholar. However she was never but a student, but took part in the school’s creation. The founders were her family, as there was no one else left for either of them. Not even once was she able to escape the stigma of being the little Ravenclaw, the eternally overshadowed one. Not a single person tried to get close to her for her sake, but only to meet her mother. Though the wonders of Hogwarts, of her home, never ceased to amaze her, Helena was utterly lonely again. Then the rift started to form, the rift that is still widely known; the rift between Gryffindor and Slytherin. It was not but the founders who no longer talked to each other, the hostility was palpable. Being but a teenager, she never understood. But after a while, they duelled. Slytherin fell. Nothing was the same ever again. The castle didn’t look as beautiful, the birds didn’t sing as joyfully. While shocking for the students, the adults were appalled. The remaining founders dove into their work, leaving Helena behind. No matter how intelligent she was, she was never intelligent enough. No matter how much creativity she showed, never did it suffice. She was sick of it. She was never seen for being herself, she was never enough, she was never allowed to be, to live. Plans were made, scheming was the most important thing. No one noticed. Well, no one but the Baron. The Baron. The bane of her very existence. Born into nobility, he was used to get whatever he wanted. But not her. Though her mother insisted, Helena was sure of one thing: She would never return his affections, never let him woo her. She would keep escaping from him until her dying day. How very true this turned out to be in the end.

No matter what she did, Helena never managed to step out of her mother’s immense shadow. It had always been Rowena. She was the intelligent one, prudent and shrewd. She was the important one. She was the one who founded a great school, an important school, enabling all wizards and witches to have an education at a safe place. She was the one with a sense for creativity, creating jewellery, a pearl of beauty, ravishing, heart-stopping, incomparable. She was the enchantress, forming it into the finest piece of art that enhanced the wearer’s abilities. And Helena? She was the little girl, the tag-along. The invisible one, the one that no one ever needed or would ever need. The injustice of this did not sit well with the girl, and she sought to correct it. She needed to enhance her abilities and start anew, far from her mother, at the continent. Then, it would be her who would be important. It would be her who would be praised for their cleverness, their creativity, their work. She would create a new life, her new life.


Seven years. The most magical of all numbers. That was the time her education should have taken. But this didn’t matter anymore. She was no longer aiming at being a simple scholar, but at being more. But what did the years of school actually teach her? Evading, fading, becoming invisible. She had learned nothing of importance, she concluded. This would be the night she would catch the precious object she desired, this would be the night she would step out of the shadows that surrounded her. The summer’s air had never tasted this sweet. No one there to stop her, she went to her mother’s room. Rowena was working late, again, making this even easier. And there it was, the fabled object, the precious diadem. Her diadem. Helena’s. No one would ever need to notice, no one would notice, until it was too late. By that time, she would no longer be little Ravenclaw, she would be Helena. Cradling her precious to her chest, she took only a bundle with her most important treasure. Running away, she only took a peek at the wonderful castle she had been living at for four years before spinning around and disapparating, disappearing into nothingness.
However, living alone was never as promising as she hoped for when planning in her little cabin. She was not sought after, she was not recognised. She was forced to work, to gather food, to survive. Never had the world outside looked that hostile. Men were falling over their feet, not believing that she was not willing to associate with any of them. The non-magical world was dangerous with people starting to hunt for witches. From one secluded community she slithered straight into another one, finally setting up a little space that was supposed to become her home. At least people admired her work as an enchantress, not specifying what her mother would have done better. She rarely used the diadem, ashamed of her treachery, but unwilling to admit it to any living soul. And after several years, though small, withered and jammed, this place was home. Until that one day, a message reached the village. She hadn’t heard about it herself, but it was the only topic anyone talked about. “Have you heard about the famous Ravenclaw?” It was but this little sentence, but it made Helena’s inside freeze instantly. The famous Ravenclaw. Not again. She had managed to establish some place for herself, taking the French Serdaigle as her supposed surname. And yet her mother managed to spoil it, again. Carefully, she listened to the story the villagers told to each other again and again. A story of woe, sickness, betrayal. The story of her mother. She was on her deathbed, apparently. And she had put the word out to find her long lost daughter. She would be sending envoys everywhere, hoping to see Helena one last time.

Said daughter froze. Her mother was sending out people to look for her. She had covered her tracks, but... she was not to take any chances. If her mother sent out people, they would turn every stone until they found her. She would never be safe. Hurrying back to her little cottage, she swept through her things. It would not do for anyone to identify her living place. But nothing in here belonged to Helena Ravenclaw, everything pointed but at Helena Serdaigle, the young Frenchwoman. Except for the diadem. If she had to hide, she would need to hide it, too. Without a plan, she disappeared into the woods, forgetting all about magic, just trying to be safe. To escape. To be alone. Then she heard it, heard him. Not caring to find a better place, she quickly stuffed the diadem into the nearest tree. She was but a young woman, lost in the woods when she wanted to look for some potion ingredients. There was nothing precarious about her situation. No one would know it was her.

“Helena,” a too well known voice intoned behind her. The baron. Of all possible people to find her, it had to be the baron. There was not a snowball’s chance in hell that she would manage to deceive him.

“Oui, monsieur, comment peux-je vous aider?”, she tried to diffuse the situation. Make it work, let it have worked! By asking how she could help him in French, let him believe that she was but a Frenchwoman who had a passing similarity to Helena. Let it work, it has to work.

“Who art thou trying to fool, ye sweet maid? I’ve been looking for thee everywhere.” He went on for a long time, explaining his quest, declaring his love, conveying her dying mother’s wish. But she couldn’t feel but despair. This was her place, her safe place. Defiled, discovered. There was no place where she would be safe if she left.

“Now, fair maiden, it is time for ye to return to thy desperate mother. If we are to wed, she’ll enjoy the joyful moment before watching ye from the Great Beyond. Come, it’s time.” Coming ever closer, the baron circled her. She felt him coming nearer, saw every single hair on his head, smelled his breath, almost heard his heartbeat. No. She would not return. She would never return. And above all, she would never even consider wedding him. How dare he suggest such an atrocious thing!

“No.” Not yelling, not speaking loudly. Hardly more pronounced than a whisper, but as hard as steel, as cold as ice. She would not take this lying down; she would not accept another word out of his mouth. No, never.

“It was only polite to ask ye, fair Helena, but thou art coming with me for sure.”

“No.” If possible, her voice became even more dangerous, more quiet, more icy, harder than ever.
“We are going now, Helena, pack thy things!”

Despite her better judgement, Helena exploded. Not yelling, but cursing him, quietly, but more pronounced than ever. Calling upon spirits to judge his soul, to keep him from finding his peace, to make him live restlessly forever more. To make him infertile, to make his line die out due to his actions. To make whomever he loved betray him, so that he never had a single peaceful moment again. Growing redder by the very second she spoke, the baron’s temper got the better of him. Always, as far as Helena could remember, he had been a hothead. Riling him up was the only way to distract him, to run for her life.

“Like it or not, ye will be mine!” In a fit of rage, he grabbed her. Fear spread through her body, making it impossible to run, to scream, to fight. Kissing her violently, he tried to capture her, but she struggled madly, biting him, a wounded animal. No, she would never allow him the victory, he would never conquer her. Kicking madly, a sharp pain erupted in her side. Ripping, tearing her apart. Agony as she had never felt before, eating her up from the inside. Breathing harder and harder, she did not manage to get any oxygen in her lungs, suffocating slowly. Still fighting to escape the baron, she collapsed. Not being able to scream, not being able to move, she was laying on the rough ground. Slowly, the sharp, omnipresent, searing pain subsided. The world went dark.

Helena was dead.

Dying, Helena decided, was overrated. Her consciousness fading away, her surroundings became dark. Nothingness was everywhere, no defined shape, no colour, nothing at all. She was dead. But she was too young to die, wasn’t she? She hadn’t even started to live properly. No one knew her, no one would miss her. She couldn’t die, not now, not for another couple of decades. She wanted to live, to breathe, to fall in love, to live happily ever after. She didn’t want to leave this existence yet. But death doesn’t wait for anyone. The darkness becoming darker and darker, Helena felt fear for the first time. It was not her time to go, not yet. She wanted to return. And she did.

Slowly, the darkness lifted. Trying to sense her surroundings, not daring to move, not daring to open her eyes, she tried to understand where she was. But somehow, she was no longer able to rely on her senses. She didn’t feel even a gentle touch from where she was lying – was she lying down at all? – she didn’t feel the wind, the sun, the nature. Something odd was going on, something curious. Straining her ears, she tried to discover some noises. It was funnily quiet, not a rustle of clothes, not a whistling song of some bird. The only sound she heard was a person breathing. Carefully, she opened her eyes. Though familiar, she did not have the slightest idea as to where she was. Getting up, she approached a close-by mirror, only to recoil. Gone was her noble appearance, her dark, wavy hair. Gone was the slight blush she always had, enhancing her cheekbones. Gone was the rosy redness of her lips, the liveliness of her dark eyes. She was but transparent, different shades of white and grey. No longer human, her slender figure was now that of a ghost. Gone were the colours of her dress, the rays of sunlight moving in her hair. Gone was her body, her life. She was a ghost, as translucent as those she had seen as a child. Eyes opened wide, she tried to take in her new appearance. Trying to touch her body, to experience the feeling of being a ghost. Trying to hide the hideous wound at her side. As she was taking in her appearance, she never noticed the person behind her, the only breathing person in this room, starting to move ever so slightly, waking up. She never even dared to make a sound, scared of what her voice would sound like, when she was shaken to her bones by the voice she heard. Like when he found her. When he ended her life. When he made her a ghost.

“Helena?” But it was not the deep baritone of him, of her murderer. It was a soft voice, a female voice she had expected to never hear again until her dying day. Weak, strained, as if not used for a long time. Sorrowful, even. The voice of her mother.

Turning ever so slightly, Helena finally realised where she was. It was no longer the deep forest of her home, but the deep forest around the school, Hogwarts; it was no longer her simple cottage, but the room she grew up in. And it was not her murderer she was close to, it was her mother. Her mother who was sick, who sent her murderer after her. Her mother who just wanted to see her one last time despite her betrayal. Her mother who didn’t know about her being but a ghost, her mother who had hoped that she had come home at last.
Slowly, as slowly as possible, Helena turned around. It was blindingly obvious that Rowena Ravenclaw was no longer the proud scholar she remembered. Her eyes were marked by dark circles, her face was sunken, her skin was sweaty and pale. No longer proud, she was clearly only inches from her ultimate demise. Helena would have never believed it possible to see her mother this defenceless, this weak.

“No”, Rowena Ravenclaw breathed, recognising her daughter for whom she was, for what she was. Gasping ever so slightly, she started to sit up straight, before clutching her chest and turning blue.

“Mother,” Helena whispered, though she felt like screaming. Rushing over to her side, running almost – or would it be floating, as she was a ghost? – she tried to help her up, to ease her pain, to help in any way. But she was too late. Rowena Ravenclaw, the famous Rowena Ravenclaw, had passed on.

For the first time, Helena realised the consequences of her running away. She had destroyed her mother, had drowned her in a sea of hopelessness and despair. She was a horrible daughter. Not appreciating what she had, she was always seeking for more. More fame, more recognition, more cleverness. It was her, solely her, who destroyed her life, and her mother’s life. She had to put it right, somehow, eventually. She no longer deserved to be called a Ravenclaw; she did not deserve to ever have been called her mother’s daughter. She had destroyed her, out of nothing but greed. She was despicable.

Staring at her mother’s fallen form, she could no longer look at herself in a mirror. Her mother was dead. She had caused her mother’s death. She didn’t deserve that flowing robe, that intricate hairdo. She deserved a sinner’s robe, a simple vestment, unflattering, grey. Following her train of thoughts, her appearance changed from the young, joyful lady to a mournful girl, a grey lady. Never speaking, never changing, never feeling anything. Just existing.

No one noticed the young woman’s ghost as they discovered Rowena Ravenclaw’s corpse. No one questioned her, took any notice of her. Caught up in their own sadness, their grief, Helena remained unnoticed, invisible. No one ever noticed her when she was alive, why should it have changed now that she was dead? Struck with grief, nothing but self-recrimination taking up her existence, Helena didn’t leave her dead mother’s side, hovered over her corpse. No one else was to blame, no one but her. She had to make it right somehow, sometime. Thinking back on the last years of her life, she recognised her ignorance. Her mother had been right after all. She didn’t succeed in anything, she didn’t use all the chances that she got. And look where it got her now. A broken figure, a broken ghost. Unable to change the past, regretting the consequences of her actions. She was a scholar, yet she dropped out of school. She was creative, yet she hid her work and feared that she would never succeed. She was young, yet she had never fallen in love. She hadn’t succeeded at all. Now all that was left for her to do was to repent for her actions, to become the wise scholar her mother wanted her to be. To discover something that may aid others. To find a worthy person who loved her just the way she was, shy and insecure, yet haughty and intelligent. She would set it right, sometime in the future. She couldn’t bring her mother back, but she could try and... and live up to her legacy at the very least.

This is why in the following school year, a young ghost was seen amidst the students, attending the older students’ classes. Though many tried talking to her, she never answered, gliding through the corridors like a breath of wind, shimmering ever so slightly in the candlelight. Months and months passed, and still she attended her courses diligently, taking notes, being attentive. However, she never spoke a word and soon it was rumoured that she was not unwilling, but unable to speak. No one realised that she would have spoken, if only spoken to and not only spoken about. As the years went by, her former choice not to talk was incorporated in her behaviour completely. Not speaking unless spoken to, not reacting unless acknowledged, Helena lived the lonely life of a scholar. However, this did not matter to her very much. She was happy, thank you very much. For the first time in her ghostly existence, for the first time since she ran away from home, she started to consider the school, Hogwarts, to be her home and safe place again. At least, it was until he came again. Happy that she had escaped the baron and his never-ending tries to pursue her, she would have never believed that she would see him again. No longer a prone, proud figure, he wore heavy chains that weighed down his posture, still wearing the blood-splattered clothes that he had killed her in. And though she had changed, he recognized her. But she would not have any of it. Running away, hiding, it should work this time that he could no longer use magic to scout for her and she was no longer bound by the physical world. To her greatest surprise, he approached her only once. Whispering in a hoarse, grief-stricken word, he only managed to get out the word “Sorry” before she left, leaving him standing in the open looking crestfallen like a drowned rat. There were many things that she had learned ever since she returned as a ghost, like forgiving herself. However, forgiving her murderer would not happen any time soon.

In the years to come, the baron and she managed to co-exist peacefully. He was staying within the house group that he had once belonged to, and she was avoiding all Slytherins at any cost. And as the decades passed by, it soon became obvious that the school was changing from its former ideals at a high rate. No longer being just a distinction with respect to whom was sleeping where, the houses established themselves as separate entities at school, creating enmities. The courses were no longer distinguished with respect to what depth the topics were covered, but split according to the houses instead. The spirit of unity, of friendship that had once been present in school seemed to have been lost forever. Instead, hatred and bigotry found their breeding ground, worsened by the school’s separation and the overall fear as witch hunt moved as far north as Scotland. Families were destroyed, schoolchildren were tortured and burned. In retribution, war was brought to non-magical people, trying to cause as much misery as was caused to them. No longer could one hear children’s laughter in the hallways of the school. The silence was threatening, a dead calm, only interrupted by the occasional cry when another child learned of their families demise, their little sisters being burned at the stake, their best friends not returning and being tortured to death. Images of horrors unthinkable, of horrors unspeakable were omnipresent in the ancient castle, spreading through the stone walls as if they went viral. Cries of woe and sorrow were soon replaced with plots of dire revenge and vengeance. Though this crisis might have bound the school together as a whole, it led to even further separation. It was but the non-magical population who brought these horrors upon the school, and it was their children who were persecuted for it. Helena was devastated, but she could not act. Unwilling or unable to interfere, she kept observing the various attempts of retribution, not leaving the victims’ sides to hopefully prevent another murder like hers. When the old nobility finally implemented their coup on November 5th, 1605, nobody would have ever expected them to fail. With barrels of Erumpent fluid, the explosion of the parliament and the subsequent death of the royal family were ensured. Nobody would have expected the barrels to leak, to be discovered beforehand. Nobody would have believed it possible that the group’s leader, a nobleman of the highest heritage, a powerful wizard, would be discovered due to carelessness. Nobody would have believed that non-magicals, Muggles, would torture him to give his co-conspirators’ names, that they would sentence him to death. Nobody would have ever expected this, least of all their children. When the message of the failed coup and the consequences for the responsible wizards were made public knowledge, Slytherin table was at an uproar for weeks. There was not a single person coming to their fathers’ aid, rescuing them. They were left to the Muggles’ mercy, forced to pay for their crimes and be humiliated and killed. Looking back, Helena would say that it was this very moment that led to the hostility towards Muggles in Slytherin house. The remaining members of non-magical families were soon forced to seek housing elsewhere on the threat of death and torture. Slytherin, it was said, would never accommodate those again who helped murder prominent members of its house.

As much as Helena hoped that this separation was temporary, she soon had to admit that it was not. Instead, it became even more pronounced as the time went by. Muggles were hunted for a sport, were tortured without any reason. Whenever reading about it, she felt sick, felt as if bile was rising up to her throat. Innocent families were destroyed, people were dying needlessly. It was mainly in Gryffindor house that those of non-magical descent were able to live peacefully, without anyone blaming them for their ignorance of the many conflicts. In fact, Helena decided, their stay at Hogwarts would possibly be as hard as hers was, though due to different reasons: Whilst she was unable to live up to what was expected from her, they were unable to break free from their perceived limitations due to their so-called blood status. She had to admit that she did not believe in this distinction and limiting people’s chances – she meant to say, even two of the school’s founders did not have only magical parents! This at least was supposed to say something.
When in 1892 a young boy crossed the entrance to the enormous castle for the very first time, she was not at all surprised at his characterisation as a muggle-hater’s son. There were far too many of them anyways. However it was his transformation that amazed her, as he grew up to be a genius, the brightest mind that the castle had ever seen. She was itching to meet him, hoping to meet a fellow scholar, a person willing to help her fulfil a purpose. So when she finally met a young Albus Dumbledore, it was with trepidation. Soon, this trepidation turned to bitter disappointment and frustration: As wise, as intelligent as the boy was, he did not see her, she stayed beneath his notice. Never in all his time at Hogwarts had he managed to see her, to talk to a lowly ghost. He was just like everyone else, interested in but his own success. As he graduated, he managed to beat almost every record that ever existed, yet he didn’t seem able to see past his not-yet crooked nose. And even as a headmaster, this had hardly changed. Soon, the most cruel, most miserable years at Hogwarts followed: Britain was at war. This time, it was not only the wizarding population who fought against each other, who were mourning devastating losses and were leaving desperate families behind. The whole world was at war, destruction and devastation prevailing in both the magical and the non-magical world. Every so often horrible fates were recounted, people were exclaiming in either hope or fear, learning of their relatives’ fates. To Helena however, the war mattered only very little in the end. Surely she was still trying to find someone to notice her, to talk to her. Surely she still tried to watch out for the students who were in danger, trying to protect them. But it was during these years of war, these horrible experiences that were threatening to take the spark of life out of Hogwarts, that she finally met him. Her soul mate, or so she thought at the very least. A young boy, just coming through the magnificent doors in the entry hall, fascinated by the wonders of Hogwarts. And wondrously, miraculously, when his gaze swept through the great hall, she could feel his eyes on her for the tiniest of moments. It was the first time that anyone alive had ever looked at her, had ever acknowledged her existence, ever since her mother’s death. Though embarrassed, she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She was several years older than he was, not to mention that she wasn’t even alive! But yet she couldn’t stop looking at him, couldn’t stop imagining a happy life. For the first time in her entire life, Helena had started to fall in love.

It was remarkable how unlikely this seemed. Helena, the haughty Lady Ravenclaw, falling for but a little boy. Prima facie there was nothing special about the boy. His frame was slender, making his slightly too large clothes seem even bigger. As he approached the Sorting Hat, Helena discovered a slight shiver in his pale, spindly hands. It was quiet as the hat fell over the curious eyes, hiding the almost aristocratic face completely. As the hat finally shouted out, “SLYTHERIN!”, there was no reaction at all. The silence was palpable. Almost nervously the boy, Tom, straightened his dark hair. Slowly, deliberately he passed the tables and headed to the Slytherins, keeping his smallish figure as tall as possible, showing no meekness. Though still a little boy, it could be easily seen that he would grow up to be a handsome, charismatic man sometime. And he had seen her. He had seen her. He had seen her. Helena was intrigued.

If only he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin, Helena mused. Of all possible houses, he had to go into that of her tormentor, that of her murderer. And she knew the baron, knew that he would protect his students as she tried to protect all those lonely forsaken ones. And if she was going to get close to him, to Tom, he was bound to notice something. And certainly, he would try and ruin her life, well, after-life, again. But nothing of the sort happened. Days and weeks went by, and she still hadn’t seen Tom again. When he wasn’t in class, he was hiding somewhere; she never managed to see him once. Until one afternoon, that is. On a sunny day, most likely one of the last sunny days that year had to offer, she once again went to the library to enjoy the quiet life of a scholar. Surely, Tom had already forgotten about her, wouldn’t even see her again if they ever met again. Surely he was out with friends, busying himself with childish play, enjoying the warmth of the sun tickling his pale face. She should have never given in to that wondrous feeling of him seeing her, liking her. Who would fall for a ghost, who could love a faded shell? And there he was, unexpectedly, poring over some old, thick tomes. As she entered the library, quietly as always, he started from his intensive reading, glancing around haphazardly. On seeing her, he relaxed noticeably, as if he had expected to be pursued, persecuted. His tattered clothes seemed to be even more ragged than when she last saw him. Getting closer, she realised that he was checking old Hogwarts registers. From the dark circles under his eyes she got the impression that he had hardly slept at all. Looking for his family, probably. She turned slightly upon receiving no sign that he was seeing her. It was too nice of a thought anyway, what had she expected. As she turned and started to glide away to the section on enchanting, she was startled by a quiet, shy voice.

“Wait! I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry!” He talked to her, he actually spoke to her! For the first time in a couple of hundred years, a human had addressed her, like a sentient being. Like she was alive and more than but the nameless Grey Lady. Slowly, she turned around to see him fidgeting with his hands, his dark eyes even wider than at the sorting.
“I have never seen you around after the sorting,” he began to babble, “but you are a Hogwarts ghost, aren’t you? So you must have known loads of students already, don’t you? I’m... I’m just looking for something about my family. I never knew them. My name’s Tom. Tom Riddle.”

A ghostly smile was raised on Helena’s face. “Hello, Tom.” The first words that she had spoken since... since what felt like forever. He was just a little boy, with curiosity shimmering through his every movement. But why was it that he wanted to look up some information on his parents? Could it be that he was marked by the horrors of the last two decades, that the war had destroyed his remaining family?

“Have you been at Hogwarts for a long time? Do you know my parents, my father, by any chance? He was called Tom Riddle, too.” A small voice, insecure, not used to asking for something it seemed. He sounded just like Helena felt.

Thinking hard, Helena tried to recall the various sorting she had experienced. But there was not a single moment in which she could have ever recalled to have heard the name Riddle. But he was that hopeful, that keen on finding some connection to his late family. She would have to disappoint him, and then he would hate her, never talking to her again.
“I can’t say I have, sorry.” Turning quickly, she started to glide away, not willing to witness the devastation in his face turning to hate. She liked that little boy with his neatly kept hair, and she just could not bear the thought of never talking to him again. But if this were to come to place, at least she wanted to remember his face as it literally glowed with curiosity, with hope to find any information about his family.

“It’s not your fault,” she heard a quiet whisper behind her, a suppressed sob. “I just hoped, you know. That I would find something about my family, that I would have someone to look up to. To have some heritage, so that I could aspire to my forefathers’ greatness.”

And slowly, steadily, they began to talk. To be more precise, Tom talked, while Helena listened, hardly providing any information about her past, her identity. He talked about his life at the orphanage, how he was estranged from anyone. He explained how he first realised that he was different, that he was special. How he was able to manipulate his powers, to make them do his bidding. That he was finally able to punish those that were bigger than him, making them fear him. That he had managed to survive hostilities, that no one cared for him. And Helena understood. Told him how she knew what it felt like when people just saw the person they assumed you to be, not acknowledging the real you behind your shell. As Tom’s first year at Hogwarts went by, they kept meeting, talking about the past, about their hopes and dreams. And though Helena never even gave her name, she told all about her dreams to become a scholar, to step out of her mother’s shadow. How she was murdered when her life was just to begin. Like that, the most unlikely of all possible friendships at Hogwarts began. Helena Ravenclaw, though known only as the Grey Lady, had befriended the little orphan, Tom Riddle.

The summer holidays came and went by, and Helena was more excited for the new school year to start than she had ever remembered. The new school year would mean that she would finally see her Tom again, finally talk to him again! She felt as girly as never before, feeling butterflies in her stomach at the mere mentioning of Tom. And though she couldn’t just glide over during the welcoming feast and talk to him, she was relieved to see his face, almost glowing, shining out of the masses of students. When they met again, she was ecstatic. Though trying to hug him and seeing him flinch back and shudder made her regret that she were dead. She would never be able to feel this kind of pleasure again, never experience a loving touch, for as long as she needed to finish her mission, to bring back her mother’s treasure and legacy to the school she had dreamt of.

“You won’t believe what I learned when I was away during the summer,” Tom began babbling, more excited than ever. “I asked about my parents, and I got some more hints at least! My father was called Tom Riddle, too. I don’t really like to be called that, it’s such a common name. You know, my middle name, Marvolo, that’s like my mother’s father. And she was called Merope. But she can’t have been a witch, or she wouldn’t have died...”

She did understand his disappointment. They had spent the last school year looking for any hint on some Riddle, someone that left Tom even the tiniest legacy. But his mother wouldn’t have left him if she had had a chance to prevent it, would she? A mother would love their baby, irrevocably, and would never die if they had a chance to live. At least, this was what Helena expected. But if he had some information on his other family, maybe there was some information that could be used to find some long lost relatives of him. And the name ‘Marvolo’ did ring a bell, somewhere.

“Marvolo, you say? I think I heard that name somewhere, sometime ago. Maybe we can find him. And if he had a daughter called Merope, you will have found your family, at last.” Not willing to give him more hope than sensible, Helena did not want to leave him crestfallen, either. She would look it up, just for Tom. It was the least that she could do for him, to make him smile again. “During your time here, did you notice any special talents that you have? Some of these run in some families, that would make our search much faster. For my family, it was encha-” Quickly, she shut her mouth. No need to give any information on her identity. For all she knew, Tom would hate her. She had a mother, a family, a legacy, but tried to escape from it, tried to disown herself from the very thing he was craving more than anything else. Tom, however, was lost in his own thoughts, it seemed.

“Special talents,” he whispered, seemingly struck with awe. “I always knew I was special.” Helena could not help but to agree, he was special. It was he who saw her. “I could always do much with my magic, you know, without a wand. I can make bad things happen to mean people, and make animals do what I want. Especially snakes. I can speak to them. They always find me, they tell me stories.”

“Well, this should narrow down the possible families immensely. Speaking to snakes, Parseltongue, is what Salazar Slytherin was famous for,” I did not even realise that I was speaking loudly, voicing my unprocessed thoughts. I wouldn’t have even realised this, if not for Tom looking at me with wider eyes than I have ever seen him have.

“Slytherin? Salazar Slytherin? The Slytherin? The founder of my Hogwarts house? And you think that I could possibly be related to him?” Totally, completely awestruck. Well, he was looking for some minor legacy to live up to, and now it was possible that his legacy surmounted everyone else’s.

And in as little time as a couple of weeks, Helena was able to prove her suspicion. Tom’s mother, Merope, was probably little Merope Gaunt, who had never even gotten a Hogwarts letter. His grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt, was at Azkaban, as was Tom’s uncle, Morfin. With the two of them imprisoned, he was the person that legally held their legacy. The legacy of being Slytherin’s last descendant. It was astounding, Helena noticed, how this little titbit of information changed the entire demeanour of little Tom. No longer a meek little boy, he was now striving for greatness within his house, establishing himself as the rightful leader. Soon, he was no longer friendless, but had some faithful followers surrounding him. And still he sought to meet Helena every now and then. Growing up, Helena decided, definitely suited Tom very well. Still slender, his face looked even more aristocratic, more dignified. And when he asked for her name, to talk to her properly, like two lovers would do, she did not hesitate for a second. She introduced herself as Helena, and he instantly realised that she would have to be the founder’s long-lost daughter. No longer talking about Tom’s past, he prodded her in the direction of telling about her time. And slowly, carefully, she did.

Tom was fascinated with her story, it seemed. His eyes shone with a fire she had never seen in them before. Was it fascination, desire, maybe even love? She avoided mentioning the diadem though, ashamed of her treachery. And as they talked and talked, she grew closer and closer to Tom. And after a while, he confided that he was uncomfortable with being called Tom. There were that many Toms, there was too much to live up to. He wanted to be known as someone else, a more powerful, more important name. A name that was his and his alone, that people would not utter in an everyday conversation. And Helena understood as no one else would probably have been able to understand. After all, she had changed her name, too, no longer wanting to be compared with her famous name, her famous mother. And for a while she had felt lighter, without the family name weighing her down. Now, she was enthralled by Tom’s arguments on how to choose a new name. He aimed for a strong name, radiating nobility, a lord of some kind, to prove himself of equal worth to her, he said. Though he did still allow her to call him by another name, as it proved that there was some kind of intimacy between them, so he said. Though she was not to call him Tom no more, only Marvolo. It was the name given to his wizarding ancestor, the only counting ancestor. He would no longer be known by an ordinary, common Muggle name.

As he grew older, Helena noticed, he managed to find more and more friends among his year mates. Tom, no, Marvolo she corrected herself, was popular indeed, having his loyal club of friends. And still he never forgot about her. And she was happy about whatever time he spent with her, savouring every second of it. He was hers, and she was his. When they met in secret one evening in the library in the middle of his third year, she was over the moon. Whispering promises in her ear, being close to each other, like lovers.

“Helena,” he breathed, as quietly as possible. She would have almost missed it. “Helena, how I wish that I could actually hold you. That you were like me. Is there no way to preserve oneself, to regain life after one has died? Is there no chance that you could become human again, like me?”

Flushing, Helena thought about this. She did not know, she had never researched anything similar. If there was a possibility, it had to be rituals. And those were dangerous, sometimes even dark. Voicing these doubts, she studied Tom’s face intently. Though his expression did not seem to change, something darkened in his glance.

“If there is any way, any way at all, you would find it for sure, my dear sweet Raven. Just think of it, we could be together for real!” Telling gentle tales of this imaginary life, of a flourishing wedding, children and grandchildren, Helena felt that she could not resist. If she lived with Tom, really lived, she would manage to experience love more deeply than this shallow ghostly illusion. Finally, she agreed.

“But promise me that you will never tell anyone what we found out,” Helena voiced her most pressing doubts. “If there was a chance, any chance at all, the baron would start to chase me again, and I don’t want him to mu... to pursue me again!”

“Never fear, sweet Helena. I won’t tell if you don’t. Let’s make a vow on this, just to be sure.” She could have sworn that she saw him smirk, but assumed this was only due to the silliness of her fears. They made the vow, and Helena felt her very existence change. She would not be able to tell anyone about his plans anymore, not if they didn’t know about it beforehand. An innocent, harmless promise, or so she thought at the very least.

Browsing the library took a long time. There was no mention of it in the regular section, Helena assumed, it would be much too dangerous to allow uneducated children to play with rituals. The summer holiday started and went by, and still Helena hadn’t found any ideas on how to attain immortality or come back to the living. During term time, Tom came and helped her every now and then, the two of them sitting silently in the library, hardly talking, just enjoying the company of each other. At least in her thoughts, Helena decided, she would keep calling him Tom. She fell in love with little Tom Riddle, and she loved the young man, Marvolo, that he grew up to be. But nothing would ever overshadow the wonders of meeting little Tom, she thought. As they searched and searched for some information, Helena started to consult books of the Dark Arts as well as to find a ritual that could be amended somehow to retain the effects without containing Dark Magic. Finally, she found some possibility, a term that she had never come across during her years of studying magic. Horcruxes. Used as containers for a soul part, they enabled a wizard to reconstruct their body with a simplistic ritual, the book said. Delving into the ritual, it seemed to be not too complicated, though it would have to be modified. She was a ghost, not a Horcrux. And reading about these foul things, she was certain that this was not a possibility at all, Tom would never consider the murder of an innocent soul. But it was a point to start from. Telling Tom, they looked at the creation of Horcruxes together, as to find a way to modify it. If she were still a human, Helena quickly decided, she would have been awfully sick. Killing a person to tether a part of your soul to theirs, ensuring eternal damnation for both souls. Using their life force to keep you alive. Sending your soul to... she did not even want to think about it, these were certainly secrets of the darkest arts, necromantic, unspeakable. But Tom was fascinated. Telling her that he would need much time to research possibilities to make the ritual less dark and make it work for her, she never even questioned that he no longer had time to meet her in the next time. She hardly ever saw him, and when they did meet, she noticed that he had changed somehow. His eyes were somewhat different, no longer sparkling with curiosity, but rather with some grim determination. No longer keeping a week, submissive pose, he was now standing straight, confident. No longer friendless, he was surrounded by a big crowd, assuming the position of a leader.

As Tom’s fifth year arrived, they were hardly ever able to meet. He was busier than ever, having to write his exams at the end of term. Helena sighed. She had tried to sit those exams, but never succeeded. No one wanted to set an exam for a ghost, after all. The year progressed as usual, until the horrors started at Halloween. Tom had told her not to look for him, that he would lie down and catch up on some sleep. He was paler than ever, Helena noticed. But it was this night when the horrors started. While the wars were raging outside the castle walls, Hogwarts had always retained a friendly feeling, like a safe haven for all those who were threatened by the ongoing persecution and destruction. Now however there was something hostile, something dangerous lurking around in shadowy corners, no one knew what exactly it was. Students were found all over the place, as stiff as a board, petrified. All of them of Muggle origin, already threatened by both wars, had lost their last safe place at Hogwarts. When the first boy was found on Halloween, most people assumed that it was just a prank which had gone wrong. In the following weeks however, many more students were petrified. First-year student Michael Rabnott was discovered in the bathrooms, washing his hands. Lily MacFarlan was found gazing out the window, Alicia Coote in the library where she was reapplying her make-up. And everyone assumed that Tom was but another Muggle-born student. Helena could not stop worrying. Finally, the attacks escalated, and young Myrtle Warren was found dead in a bathroom. And Tom, ever the brave warrior, managed to find the responsible person. And finally, peace came to Hogwarts once more as the attacks stopped. Helena was worried though as to how the attacks had affected Tom. His face was no longer healthy looking, but was rather ghostly pale and sunken in. He no longer looked peaceful at times, but more determined than ever. And since that day, she had never seen him truly smile again.

They kept talking about the founding days of Hogwarts afterwards. Tom was ever so attentive when they talked about them, and there was hardly any joy for him anyways. Sure, he made prefect and even head boy, but there was a big chance that he would not survive either war that was raging due to his supposed status as a Muggle-born. So he was telling them tales about her mother’s contemporaries. About the amulet that Slytherin crafted, to hide something he had never wanted known to anyone else. About Hufflepuff, who was a gentle lady and always sought to improve her healing draughts. How all of them shared ideas, until Hufflepuff managed to craft a chalice, enhancing every potion’s effects. How Gryffindor had always been a hothead, and spent much time enchanting his sword to grant it even more powers. And her mother, how she enchanted her diadem, and how Helena was gliding in the shadows, even more invisible as ever before. But Tom did not mind. He was listening, he was attentive. And he promised her that he would do his best to find these treasures and to safeguard them, so that nothing might ever happen to them. And at her pleading, he even agreed to hiding the diadem at Hogwarts under sufficient wards if he ever came across it. This made it clear to Helena: Tom was the one to help her fulfil her promise. He was the one to return the diadem to the school, so that she could correct her mistakes, to return what she never should have taken. So she fell victim to the charming boy, telling him the entire story. And he promised that he would go looking for it, as soon as he got out of school. And when he managed to return it, he would tell her. He would let her have all the glory of guiding him, of allowing him to find the long lost diadem.

As Tom had left the school, Helena spent a lot of time pacing well-known paths. She knew that she could never expect Tom to succeed quickly, however much she hoped for it. She kept waiting and waiting for eleven long years. Eleven years, in which she had seen neither hide nor hair from her love. Eleven years, in which she could not do anything but daydream of their future together. He had gone abroad for some time; he must have found a solution somewhere. And there he was. Entering the castle, he did not head straight to the headmaster’s office. He rather strolled along the hallways, seemingly taking in the whole beauty of Hogwarts, of his first home he hadn’t seen for a long time. Though she was following him all the time, he never once saw her, acknowledged her. But maybe he just didn’t want anyone to know about their relationship, about the depth of his, of their feelings. Finally, he entered a room. The room of all the hidden things, the most wondrous room that the founders ever created. Taking out a concealed object from his pocket, he transfigured a spare quill into a bust, placing the diadem softly upon it. Upon the image of her treachery, Helena could not help but approach it. Something felt off about it. It no longer radiated the magic of innocent curiosity, of inquisitiveness. It was calling her to put it on, to allow it to control her thoughts. Her mother’s diadem had never done that. And its aura... though she could not smell anything, she would have sworn that it had the distinctive feel of rotting flesh, of decay. She did not understand, questioningly glancing at Tom. He was no longer the pretty young man that had left school a decade ago. His face was no longer aristocratic, but sharp and unforgiving. Looking into his eyes, she noticed that they no longer had the warm feeling of dark chocolate, but were a dark, reddish brown, like dried blood. He no longer was the man she knew, something had happened to him. Her Tom would never smirk like that, emitting an aura of malicious glee and spitefulness.

“Helena,” he smirked. No longer the friendly voice, but a high-pitched voice, as cold as ice. “I returned the diadem. And you will not be able to tell anyone about it, nor about what it became. It is you who allowed me to become who I am now, and Lord Voldemort is grateful about it. Your knowledge will allow me to live forever, to finally purge this school of all those that are unworthy. It is only you who facilitated my rise to power. Enjoy it.”

“But, Tom...” she sobbed.

“Don’t call me that!” he snapped. “My filthy Muggle father’s name. I am Lord Voldemort. Never shall another soul call me by that foul name.”

“But you said you loved me, you said you’d...”

“And you were a naive little girl to actually believe a word I said. Me? Love you? Who could love a shell of a human, a little girl? Not me, that’s for sure. You were a useful tool, providing me with information I could not have gotten my hands on. But love you? Never.” A high-pitched, cruel laugh. Then he left, and Helena was left next to the diadem. For the first time in almost a millennium, she cried. He had defiled it. And she was responsible. What had she done, what monster had she helped to create? And she would not even be able to tell a soul... If only anyone had known about what had happened. If only she had a way to set it right. It was all her fault. Every bit of torture, every drop of blood, every needless death. It was all on her shoulders, she was to blame for every single day of misery. She was a broken person, a broken shell, a broken ghost.

Soon afterwards, the Second Wizarding War started. And it did not take a long time until she felt the misery creeping through the very bricks of the school. Muggle-born students were often found crying, hearing about their families being wiped out completely in a raid. Half-blood students were meeting the same fate, with parts of their families being specifically targeted. Pure-blood students were threatened to join, or else. And the war continued in school as well. Certain students were upholding the ideals of those now known as Death Eaters. Just thinking about them made Helena’s stomach turn. How very true that name was, considering what was needed to create a vassal for immortality, for eternal life. And yet the students managed to keep at least a bit of normality even in times that dark. Playing together, having fun. Playing pranks on those that aspired to become Death Eaters as well, having jam sessions in the evening. Who wants to live forever? In these days, this was even harder to imagine than ever before. It was even hard to be sure whether one would live until the next term. As the two students intertwined their hands, she could not help but to smile sadly. It was her fault that their lives would be interrupted by the horrors of war, that she had lost her parents just a short while ago. It was her fault that he would be persecuted for loving one of a lower blood status. It was her fault if they died. And somehow she was sure that even though they sang about living forever, loving each other until their dying day, they would only manage the latter. They would be targeted too, they would be killed as many others before them.

Never would she have imagined that this prediction turned out to be true. The two of them did die, but they died as the last victims of the raging war. Somehow, miraculously, their little baby boy lived. He was the prophesised one, the one to end the dark ages. He was the one to finally destroy Tom, to cleanse the world, the diadem, from the evil that inhabited it. The end of the evil age was near. And Helena could wait; she had certainly waited long enough already. She knew that this was not the end of war, the end of Tom, but only a short interlude of peace, though she was unable to tell. But though she was the only one to know of Tom’s continued existence, she knew that others suspected it, too. There was hope, hope in form of the prophesised child.

She would have never expected that she would be disappointed that deeply. Instead of the well-educated, confident child, a small, shy boy emerged. How would this meek little figure ever be able to defeat the most evil of all wizards if he appeared to be scared of everything and not have the slightest bit of trust in his abilities? Observing him through the shadows, she was never noticed by either him or his friends. The invisibility she was hoping to leave behind with her mother’s name and reputation was even more pronounced now. She was not able to shake it away. As the school year went by, she was astounded to see Harry’s resolution. He wanted to fight, even if it meant that he had to die. He was willing to sacrifice himself, his very life, at the mere age of eleven years. He was an unsung hero, not due to surviving, but due to his own actions. Maybe he had a chance. At least she hoped that he did. As his second year arrived, she was shocked to see the same terrors emerge that had happened during Tom’s time at Hogwarts. Though it was impossible that it would be the same person to go on a rampage again, it was such a long time ago. As even a ghost was petrified, she feared for her life. If she was petrified or disappeared in some way, no one would know about the horrors that Tom committed. No one would know how to fight him, how to get rid of him completely, if they didn’t know about the diadem. And she couldn’t tell if they didn’t suspect already and confronted her. It was in this panicky state that a sing-song voice of a little lost first-year student got through to her. It was the oddest little girl that she had ever seen. And she was comforting her, calming her down. And, curiously, she was calling her by her given name. A name that no one knew, no one but Tom. But she just shrugged when she asked her how she knew, talking about nargles. While Helena was watching Harry Potter grow up and face many challenges, the little girl, Luna, sometimes came back to her, talking to her. Though odd, she was slightly comforting in her curious way. Somehow, she managed to give the ghost some hopeful thoughts. Whatever happens, will happen if it is predestined to occur. There is no need to worry about something that you cannot change anyways. And departing, little Luna whispered one night that she were not to worry, he would get there in the end. He would live up to what was expected from him.

And that he did indeed. Bloody, battered, he returned one night, clutching the corpse of a fellow student. Saying but one thing over and over again. He’s back, Voldemort’s back. The reign of terror would start again, and Helena did know he was telling the truth somehow. The diadem had changed. The evil it emitted had become even darker than it had ever been before. And the war began anew. Greater and more terrible than ever before. But finally Harry Potter received additional lessons. Lessons that might teach him how to vanquish Tom, how to cleanse the diadem, how to help her find her peace. But her hope was deceived, her expectations dashed. He left the school, leaving it open to Tom’s followers. Never before had the school been taken over, never before were the teachers allowed and encouraged to torture their students. Hogwarts had fallen to the dark side. There was no longer anything worth fighting for, if it were not for the diadem. She had to see it destroyed. She had to make it possible for children to live in peace again, before she would be able to pass on. And finally, she felt some kind of change. Hope, hope that had long before been lost, returned to those students hiding from the evil forces in the classes. She heard the whispering in the halls, felt the hope creep among the students: Harry Potter was at Hogwarts again.

She had never expected to see him. But Luna, sweet little Luna, brought him to her. But he was just like the others, calling her the Grey Lady, not even recognising her for whom she once was, several lifetimes ago. Seeking the diadem, asking for it. Like so many people before him. But she couldn’t take the risk, not again. Turning away, she tried to hide her tears of despair. All was lost, the war had come to Hogwarts. Well, all was lost until she heard him speak again.

“Wait! Please! I want to destroy it!” Destroying the diadem, destroying the epitome of her mother’s work. Destroying all she ever lived for, the only true relict she had left. But it meant destroying Tom. It meant that it would become possible to end the war. She had to tell him her story. Telling her life story, for the second time ever, he had the gall to actually try and talk down to her, to comfort her, as if she had never known. She knew who he was. She knew what he’d done. He had defiled it with Dark Magic. But she swore to never reveal a thing to those who did not know. She couldn’t even tell him the place where it was hidden. But he knew the place, he had to.

“If you have to ask, you will never know. If you know, you need only to ask.”

And he did know. After a while, she felt it. The darkness, the darkness that had always haunted her, had finally gone. So had the diadem. Not knowing what to do, she just stood by a window, watching the raging battle. Watching grown men fell kids, watching wolves maul little girls, watching giants hit the helpless. And finally, it was quiet. It was him, Tom, calling out to Harry Potter. But he was no longer the Tom she once loved; he was a monster, an abstrusity. And as they brought back the corpse of the one they had hoped would save them all, the world seemed lost forever. But he wasn’t dead. And he defeated Tom. And all seemed to be well, for the tiniest of moments.

Then, the destruction became obvious. The many people who had died, the families who had been torn apart. Everyone was grieving, mourning the dead, but joyful due to the final end of the war nonetheless. It was time, time for her to go. She had finally managed to set her mistakes right. Tom was no more, her Frankenstein monster was gone forever. Her mother’s diadem was retrieved, its ashes among the ashes that once were parts of the castle. She had atoned for her sins. Finally, she was willing to go on. Gliding to her mother’s grave, she sat down to tell her what happened. She talked about how sorry she was, how she wanted to change the past, finally voicing her apologies after such a long time. She felt lighter than she ever had before. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel herself fade into nothingness, ready to see her mother again. Then she opened her eyes.

She was at Hogwarts still. Unable to move forwards, never-changing, always the same. Though she had redeemed herself, she would never be able to leave this place. She would never be able to experience forgiveness, happiness, love. The world appeared different somehow. No longer tainted with the cold light of war, full of evil and betrayal, one could literally taste the people’s hope for peace and love. Though the new age was only dawning upon them, they were about to step out of the fogs of hatred and fear, of violence, cruelty and needless death. They would finally experience a sunny day after all that misery. Mourning those who had died, rebuilding their lives, it would all take some time for sure. But the children born now would never have to experience the cruelty, the inhumanity connected to the last decades. They would not learn to fear a name, they would not be persecuted for whom they were born to, they were allowed to live happily ever after.

All was fine.

Or was it? She had fought, too. Though her battle was of a different kind. Her eternal battle was a battle against the consequences of her betrayal. Now, the diadem was reunited with her mother like she would never be, ashes to ashes. Remember that you are made of dust, and unto dust you shall return. She would never be able to, she would remain a ghost forever. There was not even the slightest chance for redemption, for moving on. No matter what this ‘on’ would be like, it would be better than this existence. She was to blame for too much, her conscience was weighed down by what felt like the entire world. Only a couple of days, a couple of hours ago, the end of the world was nigh, but they had managed to prevent this catastrophe. For now. But she would be here to witness every other catastrophe, would witness even more deaths, more destruction, more misery. Though she couldn’t spot any evil just now, she knew it had to be lurking around, waiting to resurface when you least expected it. She had created Lord Voldemort, she had given young innocent Tom the necessary tools to create his alter ego and start the most horrendous of wars. Who was to say that he did not leave this information somewhere for some other innocent child to find, to rise as the next Dark Lord?


Hogwarts had fallen. It would take time to rebuild what once was home, to clear away the rubble, for the school to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. But it was not only the school that had been destroyed, Hogwarts had fallen. Her ideals, her reputation, the safety connected to her. Her spirit was broken, broken as the halls filled with shrieks of pain instead of laughter, as ignorance was taught instead of tolerance, as fear lingered everywhere instead of hope and curiosity. The sleeping dragon slept no more, it had spread its wings and left. Though Helena was at home, it had never felt less like home than it did today. Her safe place, a stronghold of violence and fear. Would it ever be the same again? Hogwarts had been hit, she was burning. Would she manage to raise again?


The weight of the entire world seemed to be on her translucent shoulders. Never changing, never moving forwards. One decision that would lead to this cursed life, one decision that would haunt her forever. The joy, the light, the happiness - they were mocking her. The little ray of sunshine, the short moment of relief and hope, they all seemed to recede in the distance, blue clouds taking their place.

Who wants to live forever? Though this once seemed to be a worthy goal, she would never consider it again.

Who wants to live forever? To experience the pain of many generations, to be alone forevermore?

Who wants to live forever? She definitely didn’t. Not anymore.

But she did not have a choice any more. She was bound to this existence. She did not deserve redemption, forgiveness, peace, love happiness. Her existence was a cursed life, a half life. She didn’t live, but she couldn’t die.

Nothing would be fine ever again.