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The name Tom Riddle carried a special kind of infamy among those who knew the truth.
Helena Ravenclaw was one of Riddle's victims.
When Voldemort had been a student, he was young, handsome, unfailingly polite—the kind of boy who could charm anyone while hiding his ambition and darkness where no one could see. By chance, he'd learned Helena's true identity from the ghost of the Bloody Baron, and from that moment, he'd set his sights on her.
Feigning kindness and empathy, wrapping every word in warmth and flattery, he'd slowly won her trust. And in the end, she'd told him everything—even the secret none of the Headmasters themselves had known.
So when Rowena Ravenclaw once told Tom that Helena wasn't her biological daughter, he'd been surprised for about half a second, then found it oddly fitting.
Helena was, frankly, an idiot.
She'd convinced herself that stealing the diadem was an unforgivable sin, terrified herself into running away from Scotland all the way to Albania—like a kid who'd stolen a couple hundred pounds from their parents and decided to flee across the border to Siberia.
Then she got stabbed to death by a jealous man with a pocket knife. No magic, no dignity—just dead.
And after centuries of being a ghost, she still hadn't learned.
At sixteen, Voldemort had already managed to sweet-talk her into revealing the diadem's location.
Tom couldn't help but laugh.
She hadn't been very old when she died, sure, but ghosts could still think, still learn, still grow. Yet after a thousand years wandering Hogwarts, she was still painfully naive. It really did say something about Rowena's "creations."
...Come to think of it, most of Rowena's constructs weren't that bright. Case in point: that idiotic gargoyle by the main gate.
As Tom silently mocked his mentor's craftsmanship, the Grey Lady's expression twisted into a bitter smile.
"I have no interest in speaking with Slytherins," she said coldly, starting to turn away.
"Helena," Tom said gently, "don't be so distant. We're closer than you think."
That single change in address froze her midair. The ghost stared at him in disbelief, her eyes widening before narrowing again with sharp anger. Her pale form shimmered, growing thinner with rage.
"Baron again? Don't play those games with me. You think knowing a few of my secrets makes you special? I don't care."
"Of course not," Tom said smoothly, shaking his head. "My relationship with the Baron is... strained. Honestly, I get along better with Peeves than with him. He didn't tell me who you are. Someone else did."
Her eyes flicked toward him. "Who?"
"The one who guided you to make the Garland Charm."
Helena's form trembled violently, her pupils contracting. Then her expression hardened. "You're lying. She doesn't know... she doesn't know what I became."
Her voice shrank to a whisper, so faint it was almost a sob.
The Garland Charm had been the first spell Helena ever invented—useless except for summoning a crown of flowers to wear on one's head. Pretty, decorative, and utterly harmless.
"She told me many things about you, Helena," Tom said softly. "Daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw."
"You mean—my mother's still alive?" Helena gasped, voice trembling as hope flared in her face. "Yes... yes, that makes sense," she muttered to herself. "Of course she's alive. She's the most brilliant witch in the world—no illness could ever defeat her..."
"I'm sorry," Tom interrupted quietly. "Rowena Ravenclaw is dead. She passed away while the Baron was searching for you—so ill that her body was completely burned away by her own magic at the end."
Helena froze.
Tom's tone remained calm, but the cruelty behind his words was surgical. "I came across her legacy by chance. There was a fragment of her memory sealed within it. She spoke of many things, but most often of you. She regretted only one thing—losing you."
He smiled warmly now, eyes soft and kind, voice gentle as sunlight. "In that memory, she said she never blamed you for stealing the diadem."
"Really?" Helena whispered, tears trembling in her silver eyes.
"Of course."
Tom stepped closer, his voice full of compassion. "Her greatest regret was not seeing you again before she died. Not knowing whether you ever made it safely back to Hogwarts. That's why she left only one test in her legacy—to find you, to learn what became of you."
"Do you know where her legacy rests, Helena? It's in your old living quarters. The Room of Requirement on the seventh floor. If you go there, even as a ghost, you can awaken the last memory she sealed away and see her again. You could finally make peace."
He paused, then smiled faintly. "But you didn't. I found it first. You missed your chance to see your mother one last time."
His voice was soft as silk, but each word sliced deeper than a blade. Every sentence dug into Helena's heart like a knife, twisting the ancient wound until she could no longer bear it.
The Grey Lady crumpled to her knees, sobbing.
"...Whhh... Wahhh..."
Tom watched, fascinated. So ghosts could cry after all.
Silver tears beaded in the air like tiny pearls, drifting downward before evaporating into mist—then sinking back into her translucent body.
He quietly set up a soundproof barrier—didn't want anyone wandering over because of the noise—and simply watched her tears with idle curiosity.
Comforting her never even crossed his mind.
Only when her sobs began to fade did he smooth out his expression, crouch down beside her, and say gently, "Helena, I'm a Ravenclaw student. You're Rowena's daughter. That makes us, in a way, the closest family left in this world."
He smiled faintly. "If you ever need help, come find me."
"I won't." Helena kept her head buried against her knees, her voice muffled and full of spite. "I hate Slytherins. Especially ones named Tom Riddle."
"My name and my house weren't my choices," he sighed. "And honestly, who wants to be a Slytherin? Someone as clever and knowledge-hungry as me should've been a Ravenclaw. The Sorting Hat just made a terrible mistake."
That made her look up at him.
This Tom… he was even more handsome, more impressive than the last one.
Even though she rarely spoke to anyone, Helena had still heard stories about him—how he'd protected school property, slain a basilisk, and even invented some groundbreaking alchemical devices.
"You said you were my mother's student," she said cautiously. "What did she leave you?"
"Memory magic," Tom replied, tapping his temple. "And full control over that room. I can also access every bit of knowledge stored in the library."
Helena finally believed him. Her expression softened.
"Would you consider transferring to Ravenclaw?" she asked hopefully.
Tom chuckled. "Not impossible, but come on—Hogwarts has existed for a thousand years. We've had expelled students, dead students, even ghosts. But a transfer student? Never."
Helena said nothing. She realized how foolish the idea was.
Even if such a rule existed, transferring would be seen as a grave insult to Slytherin. If Tom actually did it, every current and former Slytherin would hate him for life. That kind of move could ruin his future.
"You're right," she said at last. "It doesn't matter what house you're in. If Mother accepted you, that's enough. If you ever need me, send a Ravenclaw student. I might just be a ghost, but even Dumbledore and Flitwick show me respect."
She lifted her chin proudly. Rank alone gave her plenty of authority to throw around.
"I do need your help," Tom said without hesitation. "The quarrel between you and Lady Ravenclaw began because of that diadem. I want you to tell me where it is, so I can bring it back—and take you with me to the Room on the Seventh Floor."
Helena's form flickered. Ghosts couldn't blush, but her translucent cheeks darkened anyway. Her voice came out small and stammering. "I… I can't give it to you."
"You're worried I want its wisdom?" Tom's tone turned mildly offended. "True wisdom doesn't come from trinkets. It's born from knowledge and thought. If that crown could really transform people, you wouldn't have died by the Baron's hand."
Helena lowered her head in shame. Her mother had told her the same thing countless times, but she'd never understood back then. And now, this younger student grasped it perfectly—better than she ever had.
"I'm sorry, Tom," she whispered. "I lost it."
"That's fine. I can find it again."
"No… I mean, I was tricked. By someone else named Tom Riddle." Her voice trembled. "That's why I got so angry when I first heard your name. He used sweet words to get me to reveal the diadem's hiding place—and then he vanished. I know he took it."
Inside the "study space," where Tom's consciousness was linked to Rowena and Ariana, Rowena's lips twitched upward at first when she saw her daughter crying. But as the story continued, her smile froze.
Then she fell silent.
Pressing her fingers to her temples, she sighed. "A thousand years, and she hasn't grown a bit…"
Ariana, watching curiously, mimed Helena's ghostly figure in the air, then turned to Rowena with disbelief. "Wait—she was 16 when she died?"
"That's right," Rowena said absently. "She was sixteen. Still a Hogwarts student. Why?"
Ariana: "…"
Completely speechless. Sixteen, and this naïve? Unbelievable.
...
Back outside, Tom sighed. "No wonder you hated me so much at first. Voldemort really ruined my name."
He reached out as if to pat her shoulder, but his hand passed straight through, meeting only a chill that seeped into his skin.
"Don't be sad. Since he stole it, we'll just take it back. It's not your fault. Voldemort was a born liar—he hid his evil well."
"Think about it—he fooled plenty of people. Even Armando Dippet, the headmaster back then, thought he was perfect. You're hardly the first he deceived."
Tom was very good at comforting others. His method was simple: dig up someone else to throw shade at. Worked every time.
Sure enough, Helena's face relaxed.
"Tom, you must study my mother's teachings well," she said earnestly. "Find the diadem and bring it home."
"I will."
Tom nodded, then looked thoughtfully at the faint black scar on her chest. "Is that the wound the Baron gave you?"
"Yes." Her tone dripped with contempt. "He was a lunatic. I never loved him. He killed me over an argument—and now he wants forgiveness? Ridiculous."
She lifted her cloak, revealing the dark mark slashed across her pale chest.
"My scars will never fade," she said coldly. "And I'll never forget that ugly face."
Tom studied the mark for a long moment, eyes narrowed with fascination. Then he murmured softly, almost to himself, "Such a deep scar…"
.
.
.