Little Talks | Grey Lady

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[attr="class","title2"] Little Talks

[attr="class","subtitle2"]Hold My Hand
I'll Walk With You My Dear

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She was often relieved that she was the patron of the Ravenclaws, rather than one of the other Houses. While she was Living, she might have wished to be the daughter of a different Founder, caught up in her mistaken assumption that her mother cared little for her, though she had never seen herself as fitting into any of their Houses. True, Helga would have taken her, claiming her as all the rest (was that line from last year, a century past, or a few decades ago?), and both Godric and Salazar would have been picked her for their own, but Rowena had the tightest claim, and she was fairly certain no one had missed the narrowed glance her mother had given the rest when it was Helena's turn to sit under Godric's patched hat. Had she been Sorted before the Hat, her mother would have simply claimed her before her other parents could get in another word.

She had been a born a Ravenclaw, named for the black-taloned eagle like her mother before her. Her mother had designed the common room, and in her own certainly biased opinion, it was the better of the four, for all that her mother had been inspired by one of the competitions she'd often had with Godric and Salazar. Her students were preferred as well-- the Ravenclaws were a collection that she'd always felt more comfortable with. Lust was never something she'd felt in her body during Life, save for academic lust, and that lust was what drove Ravenclaw on an era later. She would never be able to exist with the bright spirits of Godric's lusty adventurers, Salazar's picked, or Helga's lot for as long as she had with her mother's chosen. They were able to understand in a way the others did not, the wish for solitude. Perhaps in another eight hundred years, she'd turn as gregarious as the Friar, but still she doubted it. Still, she had time endlessly stretching on before until the last stone at Hogwarts crumbled.

A smile curled at her lips at the child's shock and attempt at. . . humor, flattery, distraction, whichever. It was somewhat too late for the usual, she was sure. Time was still difficult to keep track of, but she was relatively certain that it was past the curfew for most. If the child before her fell into the younger section of students or the older, she herself was not precisely sure. She might have become a ghost at sixteen, yet that certainly didn't help with distinguishing ages, especially after a thousand years of students. Younger would be her assumption, as she was. . .relatively sure she'd seen some of the oldest students just earlier, unconcerned about curfew.

"Perhaps shadows," she allowed, her own attempts at humor. She'd never been especially proficient in that art, not while she Lived or in her timeline as a Spirit. Her mother had. . .like always, that was another knowledge her mother had known more of. The Friar was rather more experienced as well and while she had in the past, tried to study said art from him, it had become rather too irritating. "I don't believe someone's tried propping the door open, so I hope your mind's as sharp as ever. Or remains so, at least." She was better at reading people than she was humor, and if she was to guess the girl's intentions, it was not to draw her into conversation so that her lateness might be looked past or that the Grey Lady might take accountability for the lateness. No, it took some draw to conversation, and while she might certainly be tempted, it was not too entirely easy a task.

[attr="class","tags1"]☆ @eaglet, 616 words☆