Throne of Magic

On the opposite side of the castle, nestled in the safety and familiarity of the Slytherin common rooms, Helena lounged on one of the green couches, body spread out as she languidly twirled her wand in her finger: a silent warning to those who wished to approach her. It worked, even if they all knew she wouldn’t need a wand to bring them to their knees, to have them begging for mercy, to have them pay.

She shook her head, dispelling the unwanted thoughts as she locked down her occlumency shields, bringing them down with a sharp slam.

She could just hear Lorcan’s chiding voice admonishing: “For Wryd’s sake child, your mind is a fortress to be treasured beyond measure, not an empty room where you can play around all willy-nilly.”

A soft smile crept over her features at the sound of his voice - even if it was in her head. Lorcan Salvatore was a cold, hard-headed bastard at the best of times, but he was one of the great, big, chaotic mess of people who raised her, who had taken her from the cold hell that was Wool’s orphanage and welcomed her into their family, their kingdom.

He was one of the many people who had stayed by her side as she mourned the loss of Adeline, one of the few who had not smothered her with hugs and empty platitudes but had instead offered her a grim smile and the knowledge that she was not alone, that when the time came they would be there to pull her out of the overwhelming pit of desperation and grief that she found herself submerged in. The entirety of her chosen family had felt the burden of death and war on their shoulders countless times, sometimes by choice and sometimes on the orders of those they could not refuse.

And because of that, they understood her more than she had hoped anyone could. They understood that she was prone to mood swings, that on some days should could be the picture-perfect heiress they had taught her to be and on others, she could be a sobbing mess. She missed her family dreadfully so, she was planning to have visited them during Samhain and stay with them ‘till Yule, but the unexpectedness of the Triwizard tournament had ruined those plans.

She focused her attention back onto the room, knowing better than to let her thoughts wander. Rowle, the Slytherin King - though for how much longer was a question - met her gaze head-on, minuscule amounts of fear seeping through the near-impenetrable mask of determination he had chosen to don, so little she wondered if he was even fully aware of it.

She smiled at him then, a pretty little quirk of her lips, eyes twinkling warmly as she kept her eyes on him, waiting for a few seconds (one, two, three) and there it was.

A flinch.

Perhaps not noticeable to those on the opposite side of the room, but it was enough for the conversation around him to halt, the silence spreading like the plague until the whole room quietened, the Slytherins looking at him and tracing the direction of gaze before having their eyes land on a still smiling Helena. She kept the grin on her face, tilting her head to the side in a gesture that was purely feline, replicated from the way her Mother had stared even the most stubborn of Terrasen’s Lords into submission.

They immediately averted their gazes, causing Helena to resist the urge to cackle. The smile she had adorned a few moments ago certainly wasn’t threatening, not in the slightest. In fact, it was the complete opposite, the movement terrifyingly angelic on her misleadingly endearing features.

And that was what had scared the living daylights out of Thorfinn Rowle.

It was the understanding that Helena was able to hide the creature of darkness and power that lurked beneath her skin, that it was done with something as trivial as a smile, no matter how brillant or pretty it was.

Not a single trace of coldness or wickedness shone through that smile, it was a bright patch of sunlight beaming down at them: so whole, so present, so warm and so utterly and completely brillant.

It was as if she had taken on the grace of Hestia herself, the famed Greek goddess of the Hearth, whose embrace was rumoured to mimic the feeling of returning back to their creator, their first true home.

But then they turned their heads to the left and saw the way Rowle was practically shivering in fear, eyes wide as he stared at her in uncontrolled fear, and they were reminded that no matter how angelic she might look, no matter how much they would vie for her attention and favour, she might as well be the demon himself reincarnated.

And it was that knowledge which had them recoiling in fear when she directed her gaze towards them.

A soft chuckle came from the right of her, and she cocked her head to see the gently smiling face of Blaise Zabini.

She could feel the smile being mirrored on her face almost instantly, although people didn’t flock to him as they did her, he was not without his charms either, one of the reasons he was so high in the Slytherin Hierarchy despite him being raised under the teachings of his Italian mother.

“Yes?”

He merely tilted his head in response, subtly gesturing towards a group of Slytherins seated comfortably next to one of the fires in the common room. She didn’t bother replying, merely shuffling herself nearer to him under the guise of reaching for a book on ancient wandlore.

She snuck a glance at them as she pulled herself back to her original seating, unable to stifle the giggle that came out of her mouth at the sight. Draco was staring at her with wide eyes, no fear in them yet, but it was to be expected, considering he had been raised with the belief that he was on top of the world, looking down upon the measly peasants that made up the rest of the wizarding population.

Gods, how on Earth had Lucius, a man raised by Abraxas Malfoy himself, teach his only heir to be such a complete prat? It could have been Narcissa of course, but Helena held on staunchly to her belief that someone she was closely enough related to happily call family would not be such an idiot.

Of course, there was that matter of the Potter, but they were nothing more than a little speck of dirt on the otherwise shiningly intertwined tapestry that made up her family, those by blood and by choice. She often likened the Potters to flies, the menaces to society they were, and yet there were still people weak-hearted enough to not kill them the instant they saw one.

James Potter was the human embodiment of period cramps, that was it really, the worse insult Helena could think of at the top of her head. Lily Potter ought to start using a glue stick instead of those pink-tinted rose chapsticks she was so fond of, God knows she loved her muggle roots, using a glue stick should be second nature to her. Or if for once in her life she felt more like a witch than a muggle a sticking charm would work too, she wasn’t picky. As for Charles Potter, he looked and sounded like a dying - no she wouldn’t go so far as to insult him, she would quite happily gouge a man’s eyeballs out but she certainly wouldn’t sink to animal abuse.

A hand wrapped around a wrist suddenly, the cool touch causing her to lunge out before she had fully regained her bearings. Her wrist twisted in a smoothly singular movement, pinning whoever’s wrist it was to the couch and contorting her body so she was straddling them, a knee poised towards their stomach, ready to be redirected to between their legs if needed. Her palm pressed against their throat, a choked noise escaping Blaise as he wheezed out platitudes.

She immediately rolled off him, glaring and snapping: “You know not to do that.”

“Apologies,” he croaked out, two fingers gently massaging his throat. “Hoped your reflexes had stopped being quite so-”

“Reflexive,” he finished, looking at her amusedly despite the bruises beginning to form on his wrist and neck.

She rolled her eyes, the action so oddly human and out of place on a face on regal as hers Blaise stopped in his movements to soothe the ache on his throat and stare.

“Well?”

Blaise frowned, hand flung casually over the back of her seat as he surveyed her through those piercing bronze eyes.

“What’s up with your magic?”

~

Blaise closed his eyes, redirecting his magic to brush up gently against hers. The control he had over his magic wasn’t quite as razor-sharp as hers was, but after hours of careful practice under her tutelage, he could divert its flow with minimal effort. He winced as her magic lunged out, ready to pull on the invading tendril of magic and decapitate whoever had dared approach it. As if sensing the oncoming catastrophe - and she probably did, with that clear-cut sensitivity she so easily wielded - her eyes widened as her magic pulled back sharply, much like a skittish horse stopping suddenly in its tracks.

Her magic bubbled, dangerously close to erupting as she fought to keep it under wraps, her struggle evident as her magic clashed against its self-imposed restrictions.

He stared at her in horror, stopping in his attempt to skim the edge of her magic. How long had that calm expression concealed the turmoil beneath, the continuously raging hurricane of magic that begged to be set free, to be allowed to flow lazily around her?

He stood up suddenly, the abrupt movement causing the room to hush once more. He held out a hand to the still seated heiress, the very picture of courtly grace.

“Shall we?”

He marvelled at her immaculate control as she willed a blush to rise and spread over her porcelain skin, a bashful giggle escaping her lips as she slipped her hand into his. The Slytherin’s around them crumpled in relief at their typically teenage, a few of them even sneering at the pair as they left the room. Blaise shook his head inwardly, even knowing what she could do, what she would do if prompted, they could still find the courage and foolhardiness to direct such an expression towards her.

But no matter.

They would learn their lesson.

They would learn their place.

Beneath her.

~

“The Room of Requirement,” explained Blaise, leading her inside. “It takes the form of whatever you wish.”

He smiled at the awe that overtook her features, pushing her further into the room and leaving, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

She barely spared him a glance as the door disappeared, focusing on the brillant magic that trailed around the room, lingering in every corner and crevice. It gently nudged at her, playful and light as it collided into her and encased her in its soft warmth.

She closed her eyes and pictured the practice room in Terrasen, the floor to ceiling mirrors, the weapons, the dummies, and the mats that never did much to soften a fall. The weapons that lined the shelves, the posters that detailed how to knock a man unconscious in three steps and the makeshift hospital in the corner, which really was just a store of poison antidotes, blood replenishers, and bandages.

She looked around in wonder as the room around her morphed in a blur of dull greys and whites, her vision clearing to see the familiar room in its entirety.

Making her way to the weapon rack, she trailed her fingers over the swords, finally landing on a wooden staff leading against the wall. She picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand experimentally as she moved to the centre of the room, watching her reflection carefully in the shiny mirrors.

It was nothing more than a stick formed out of pinewood, but it had been her trainer’s weapon of choice for practising both close combat and wandless magic. She had spent many an afternoon with nothing but that stick, running herself ragged as she trained in the large expanse of the courtyards in Terrasen, not stopping even when she had broken her ankle. The weight of the stick was familiar in her hand, slotting between the callouses dotting her palm.

She glanced into the mirror, bending her knees ever so slightly as she swept her foot around in a circle, arms moving in near synchrony as a familiar calmness she had not felt in weeks settled over her. She twisted when her movements prompted her to, thrusting her entire body to the side and landing in a wide crouch, wrenching on her simmering geyser of magic and letting it soar.

Silence reigned for all of a second before the air around her was set alight, her magic exploding and showering her in sparks of radiant colour. She allowed her magic to take control of her movements, easily falling into the familiar routine of twists and kicks, her magic flowing freely around her as she weaved her way through invisible opponents. Swirls of refined, untouched magic surrounded her, robes billowing around her legs with the force of her magic. The grace surrounding her fluid motions belied their violent nature, turning her destructive actions into an elegant dance that was as stunning as it was lethal.

She paused, a soft, intoxicated laugh falling from her lips at the pure exhilaration that filled her. She extended an arm only to pull it back sharply moments later, a leg sweeping forwards and flooring whoever might have attempted to attack her, followed swiftly by a staff to their throat. A burst of unadulterated adrenaline settled over her as she fought, bracing her staff on the floor as a dummy appeared before her. She lunged forwards, unsurprised when the blow aimed at the dummy’s head yielded no results as it ducked. She had fought against her family enough times to learn to never assume a blow would hit, to never stop fighting until your opponent was dead.

A confident smirk appeared on her face as she continued with her relentless attacks. Drawing from the ever-present magic of the room, the dummy lashed out with a coil of magic, no doubt intended to incapacitate whoever had the misfortune to be struck by it. Helena let out an elated laugh at the unexpected challenge, tossing her upper body backwards without hesitation, easily slipping into a flip as she moved from the attack. She landed lightly on her feet, inky hair flowing free behind her as her braids came loose.

She fought fiercely, punching and ducking with no hesitation, relying fully on her gut instinct to watch her back. With a satisfying smack, Helena drove the staff into the dummy’s side, a little magic assisting her and softening the metal. She stepped away, a contented smile on her face as she watched the battered dummy whir and whine before falling silent, toppling over and vanishing with the magic of the room.

She panted as the adrenaline left her, basking in the magic that lingered in the room still.

“Impressive,” said someone from behind her.

Before they could say anything else, Helena summoned a sword and threw it behind her blindly, whirling around and smirking when she saw it impale her target.

Only for that smirk to be replaced by a grimace when it registered in her head the target she had so successfully hit was a portrait, and that the unimpressed man staring at her was the spitting image of Salazar Slytherin.

Oh-

That was Salazar Slytherin.

As in one of the four founders of Hogwarts.

As in the Parslemouth Salazar Slytherin.

Fuck.

And no, Tom, that was not an invitation.

~

“Lord Slytherin, well met,” she greeted politely, dipping into an elegant curtsey without breaking eye contact. “I did not realise you had a portrait made before your demise.”

He stared at her impassively before snorting, muttering under his breath: “You could be one of Godric’s with that nonchalance after nearly spearing me through.”

She merely batted her eyelashes at him, a lovely smile appearing on her face as she tilted her head in confused innocence.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He rolled his eyes, the lack of decorum causing her to raise an eyebrow.

“So you’re a Slytherin, then.”

He rose his voice, looking at her amusedly and replying matter-of-factly.

“Despite what they think, magical folk do not know the secrets of the universe, it is natural for you to be unaware of some things.”

She accepted the non-answer with as much grace as she could manage, answers which did not hold an explanation within them was a staple in politics and a skill she had mastered, but not one she favoured when used against her.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage, My Lady,” he spoke after a few moments, voice oozing charm as he smirked at her. “You seem to know exactly who I am whereas I have no clue of your identity, a shame as I dearly wish to know the name of one as stunning as yourself.”

“Helena,” she introduced. “Helena Natalie LeFay.”

Any trace of flirtatiousness vanished, the man staring at her contemplatively.

“You hold the LeFay Lordship?”

“Indeed I do, though I serve on the France Wizengamot.”

“Yes, you will do well there.”

“Pardon?”

“Your reflexes are impressive for one so young,” he praised, ignoring her displeasure at the blatant change in subject. “You have talent, little Deathling.”

“You reek of death,” he explained dismissively in the confused silence that followed, eyes still watching her carefully. “You did not know?”

“No,” she murmured contemplatively. “I didn’t. What does it mean?”

“It means,” he began, voice quietly curious. “That you have experienced far too much death for one so young, that the blood staining your hands is those of your enemies as well as those of your loved ones. Death lurks in your shadow, your one constant, unwavering companion. It means, Helena LeFay, that Death follows you, that when you stare into the darkness, it will stare back.”

She stood up suddenly, swallowing tightly as she made her way to a door that had appeared sometime throughout Slytherin’s lengthy rendition of Nietzsche's words.

“I have to go.”

He nodded, seriousness lining his face as he cautioned her.

“Go, little Deathling, but do not dwell on my words, you will understand them in due time. Come back soon.”