Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any associated texts! All rights belong to JK Rowling and no profit is being made from this fiction. No real ghosts were harmed in the making of this fic. At risk of joining Miss Ravenclaw (almost a Baroness) in a sword-induced death, I lightly suggest not reading this when playing with your sword. Because everyone owns swords these days—Godric was such a trendsetter.

He tried to speak to her, once. But that matter had been swiftly and quickly resolved, and for centuries, no further conversations took place between them.

His words were far from apologetic, but he had fleetingly mentioned love-

And it was then that she snapped, lashing out at him with all the force and anger she had pent up in her now-intangible, translucent and grey pathetic excuse of a body.

"Are you proud of yourself, Baron?" she had asked of him, once. When they were both alive and well, young and in love-

Unburdened and untainted.

He had raised an eyebrow in consideration, given her a slow smirk, a short nod, and that was that.

Not a word more.

Are you proud of yourself, Baron?

His answer would surely have changed by now-

He had, after all, managed to destroy the two things he treasured most: his life, and his greatest love.

Both had escaped his grasp in two fluid moments; with the same blade.

And wasn't that a shame? That they should both remain on the same plane of existence, even after death, destined to forever know each other and never forget.

Forever, she found, was such a terribly long time.

Her mother once told her that she was born wailing, a screaming baby desperate for attention and in all ways needy for love.

She was baptized in jealousy, received the Eucharist with envy in her heart and said her bedtime prayers with a little green eyed monster casting curses on all who dared to cross her.

At the very least, she had never claimed to be someone she was not: lies never served her. As such, in being completely honest with herself, she came to the realization that she truly was a horribly sinful, jealous and spiteful person.

She was surely going straight to hell for never being satisfied. She bore her contempt the way lovers bore their hearts on their sleeves.

She was never satisfied: not with her mother, not with her suitors, and certainly not with herself.

But for all her words of grandeur and speeches of greatness, Helena found that she actually had quite an inferiority complex.

Where she never measured up to her mother's standards, Helena made sure that no man ever measured up to her own.

It was her little way of slapping her mother in the face, saying 'Ha! You can't force me to continue the Ravenclaw line. Your blood will die with me, and only your memory will remain. I win, you old cow.'

Helena took pleasure in what little victories she could manage.

And it wasn't in vain, either. Rowena Ravenclaw really was a cold bitch in all things concerning her daughter-

But more than anything else the old woman had wanted grandchildren. Not for doting upon or loving, of course. Rowena wanted grandchildren for the sake of continuing her legacy, so that one hundred years later, people would still dote upon and admire the famed Ravenclaw brilliance.

To the world, Salazar Slytherin may have been selfish.

It was Rowena Ravenclaw whom Helena condemned for her greed.

After all, for all of her mother's virtues, Helena had only inherited her flaws. In which case, who the better to name them than the daughter cursed with them?

"Come in," she called out, still lounging lazily in her chair with her book in hand. The knocking ceased and when the door creaked to an open, she looked up. "How can I help you?" she asked, her good mood slowly evaporating thanks to the man standing in her doorway.

"I wish to take you to lunch," the man replied, arms folded across his chest in an infuriating show of arrogance and self-confidence that rivaled only her own. "I will not be denied."

"Can't you see I'm busy, Baron? Go find some vapid serving girl to entertain yourself with."

Her words were frosty and her tone biting, but he was well-accustomed to her attitude and rather than run away with a proverbial tail tucked between his legs, he gave her a terribly conceited smirk.

"I'm sorry- was there an echo in here? I don't believe it was a request. Five minutes to get your things together, Helena, before I drag you off kicking and screaming." Without another word, he was gone, leaving her staring after him, contempt written all across her face.

She spent three of the five minutes considering her options.

There was some serious debate concerning whether or not she was going to make this at all easier for him by complying with his demands. Weighing her decisions, she finally sat her book down on the oak desk and left her chair in search of a hair brush.

With the remaining two minutes granted to her, she had successfully brushed the tangles out of her hair and changed into somewhat of a more respectable state of dress.

He was back right on time, as per usual- punctuality was a trait that she could perhaps admire if found in anyone else. In him it came off as awfully obnoxious.

"Well don't you look ravishing?" he remarked, touching a lock of her brown hair reminiscently.

She frowned. "Nervous compliments don't suit you," she told him snidely, crossing her arms tightly against her chest.

He laughed.

She bristled.