Chapter Text
Helena was a mold of her mother, carved into perfection, instilled with obligation. Yet, a fire smoldered in her soul, the ember burgeoning with each year kept under a meddling maven.
She once believed every arbitrary stipulation that left her mother’s mouth, but as she grew older, her mind molded into one of her own. Sycophantic, yes, but careful, calculated. She was born into repute, primed for an inevitable fate to carry on her mother’s name.
Ravenclaw. A name she’d never escape. A name linking her to an expectation that tied her hands behind her back, tugged a smile onto her lips, and forced cordiality into her words.
September marked the annual reminder of her fate. A new environment was meant to be enticing, but even in the castle, her mother was there. Watching. Listening. Commanding.
She studied her reflection in the mirror, wondering when her eyes darkened as the lady’s maid constricted her curls into a braid, adorning the back of her head with a veil of golden chains, stars dangling from the metal.
The maid reached for a pan, a rouge emulsion filling the surface. “I have crafted it myself, ma’am. A shade I believe is just right for your complexion.” She pressed her finger into the dish, reaching for Helena’s cheek.
“No, Maira. That will be all, thank you.” Helena dismissed her maid, itching for a second to herself. She could sense her mother approaching, hear the light steps that disguised her true power, feel the faint buzz of energy emitting from the diadem.
A knock interrupted the brief silence, her mother entering before Helena had a chance to reply. She studied her daughter’s figure, ensuring the maid had met her rigorous requirements.
“Posture, Helena,” she reminded in a grunt, veering towards the bed, “How many times must I remind you, a lack of dorm mates does not allow for a lack of order.” She stretched the sheets into place, smoothing out every wrinkle, fluffing the pillows into the perfect shape.
Helena stood from the vanity just as her mother raked through her closet, preparing her uniform. She knew not to retaliate, her mother prepared her clothes each morning, dressing her as if she were a doll.
“Thank you, mother,” Helena mumbled as the clothes were laid onto the bed.
“You are not a child anymore. You must start preparing for your future,” she reminded, smoothing the top of her daughter’s head. She placed a kiss on Helena’s forehead before pacing out of the room, robes billowing behind her.
Helena sat in silence, watched in scrutiny. She had tuned out her mother’s lecture minutes in, eyes locked on the Baron. He had neglected their annual midsummer ball, the first time she had missed his presence.
Like her, he wasn’t given the chance to shed the responsibility embedded into his name. Still, he rebelled in his own ways. Subtle, but Helena always noticed.
He wore his nobility with pride, collar popped in spite of the occasion, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He let his hair fall down to his shoulders, overgrown and shaggy. His breath held a hint of whiskey since their fourth year, a riveting, hungover disguise all that remained of the boy she watched grow from afar.
Every member of that house shared the same pretense–Salazar couldn’t control the castle, so he settled for his own house. They were devout followers, hand selected by Slytherin himself.
Ambitious, cunning, wise. Salazar held a regime over these the moment the students flocked into the castle, practically begging to be under his hand. He had chosen the Baron first, sensing the same arrogance he held himself. The Baron never failed to remind the others of that fact.
Even with the societal pressure, he relaxed into his seat and snickered with his friends. Free to do as he pleased. She caught him passing a note to Reina Vale–it couldn’t have been proper by the way Reina’s cheeks flushed into a deep red.
The Baron must have noticed her stares, catching up to her in the hall before arithmancy. “Ravenclaw!” he shouted, though Helena only fastened her pace.
It seemed the Baron grew over the summer, catching up to her in a few, long strides. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path around him. “Are you jealous, Ravenclaw?” he asked, tilting his head towards her.
“And why would you have that impression, Hastings?”
The Baron’s smirk shifted to a smile–perhaps he had missed her over the holiday, too. “I could feel your eyes on me the moment I entered the classroom. Seems you longed to see me over the summer–or, perhaps, you were simply captivated by my charm,” he teased, leaning his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.
She tightened her grip around the textbook. “In reality, your absence went unnoticed. I see your time is occupied elsewhere, in any manner.” Her gaze drifted, wondering once more what that note held.
His smile never faltered. He was beaming with confidence. “I know you miss me, Helena.” Her stomach dropped the second her name left his lips, overcome by the medley of emotions erupting inside of her.
“I do not,” she fabricated, “I only find it curious that you have already moved on to your next conquest. In all earnest, you chose Reina Vale?”
“And why are you concerned with whom I spend my time?”
“I am not. I am going to be late, as are you, if you carry on with this soulless conversation.”
She stepped to the side, the Baron remaining on the wall, letting her pass. He savored every moment with her, the way her eyes seemed to glisten when he was around. Still, those moments were fleeting, her mother always watching, scorning, from afar.
The quill moved in a blur, faultless, Insular script inking onto the parchment. She never dared to miss a night, recording every thought she had held in throughout the day into her one true friend.
She kept her diary tucked in the vanity, under a false bottom. She figured she’d use some of the supposed wisdom she had inherited from her mother–and manage an ounce of privacy, something her mother had no control over.
She jumped as the door to her room creaked open, the lady’s maid slipping in. “Maira, what is your purpose here?”
“I have a note for you, ma’am. I snatched it from your mother’s desk before she had a chance to read it.” Maira reached into the pocket of her apron, pulling out a parchment folded into the shape of a crow.
“Thank you,” Helena whispered, tucking the parchment into her bosom, “Is that all?”
“No, ma’am. Your mother wishes to see you in the morrow.” She curtsied, bowing her head slightly before slipping out of the room, footsteps light on the floorboards. Helena swayed onto the bed, reaching for the note.
It felt cruel to unfold the delicate design, but she was desperate to know what he had scribed.
Do you dream of that night, too?
- P