To those who knew the truth, the name Tom Riddle was already infamous.
Helena was one of the victims.
When Voldemort had still been a student, he had been young, handsome, courteous, and unfailingly polite. He buried his ambition and malice deep enough that no one ever caught a trace of them. After learning the Grey Lady's identity through the Slytherin ghost, the Bloody Baron, he had set his sights on her immediately, approaching her with calculated warmth, angling for clues about Ravenclaw's diadem.
Relying on his patient manner and carefully chosen words, Voldemort had succeeded.
He learned a secret not even the other three Founders had ever known.
Honestly, it explained everything. When Ravenclaw had once mentioned that Helena was not her biological daughter, Tom had been surprised, yes, but only briefly. Mostly he had found it perfectly reasonable.
This girl had simply been too foolish.
Foolish enough that after stealing the diadem, she had convinced herself she'd committed some monstrous crime, frightened herself half to death, and fled all the way from Scotland to Albania. The equivalent of a child pocketing two hundred from the family savings, then crossing mountains and borders overnight to disappear into Russia.
And after all of that, she had been stabbed to death by one small knife, with no dignity whatsoever.
Even death had not taught her anything. She had let herself be dazzled by a sixteen-year-old Voldemort and handed over the diadem's secret all over again.
Tom found it genuinely amusing.
Helena had not been especially old when she died, but ghosts could still think, still grow. To remain this naive after a thousand years of watching the world turn only proved that Ravenclaw's so-called human creation project had not been the triumph she imagined. Her creations did not seem particularly bright in general. The stone gargoyle by the entrance was proof enough of that.
While Tom was quietly cataloguing Ravenclaw's failures as a craftsman, the Grey Lady's lips had already curled into a cold smile.
"I have no interest in speaking to a Slytherin."
She turned to leave.
"Helena, don't be so cold. Our relationship should be much closer than this."
The shift in how he addressed her was enough to make her stop.
She stared at him, something moving behind her eyes. Then whatever it was hardened into anger. Her figure, already pale and translucent, seemed to grow thinner, whiter, like a candle burning down.
"Was it Barrow again? Don't try that trick on me. Knowing a few of my secrets isn't impressive. I don't care."
"Of course not." Tom shook his head. "My relationship with Barrow is ordinary. If anything, I get along better with Peeves than with him. He didn't tell me your identity. Someone else did."
"Who?"
"The person who guided you when you invented the Garland Charm."
Helena's figure wavered.
Her pupils shrank, and then her gaze went fierce.
"You're lying. She didn't know... she didn't know I had become like this."
Her voice had dropped by the end, barely above a breath, and there was something damp underneath it.
The Garland Charm had been the first spell Helena ever invented. It had no practical use. It simply conjured a wreath of flowers to wear on one's head as decoration.
"She told me many things about your past, Helena Ravenclaw. Daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw."
"You mean Mother is still alive?"
Helena's composure cracked. She began murmuring to herself, the certainty building with each word, her pale form almost seeming to brighten.
"That's right. That must be it. Mother was the greatest and wisest witch in the world. How could illness possibly defeat her...?"
"I'm sorry." Tom's tone did not change. "Ravenclaw is truly dead. She fell gravely ill and died while Barrow was still searching for you. Even her remains were vaporized by the force of her own magic."
He shattered the image cleanly, without hesitation.
"By chance, I inherited something from Lady Ravenclaw. Inside it was a preserved fragment of her memory. The person she spoke of most often was you. The person she regretted most was also you."
His expression softened, and he looked at the beautiful, sorrowful ghost with something close to gentle sympathy.
"In that inheritance, Lady Ravenclaw said she had never once blamed you for taking the diadem."
"Really?"
"Of course."
Tom stepped closer, one unhurried step at a time, the warmth in his face so convincing it might have been real.
"Her greatest regret was that she never got to see you one last time before the end. She never saw you come home."
He paused, letting that settle.
"There was only one condition for inheriting her legacy: to find out what had become of you, and where you had ended up. Do you know where the inheritance was hidden? In your old sitting room, the hidden chamber on the eighth floor. If you had entered it, even as a ghost, you could have activated the memory fragment she sealed away before her death. Mother and daughter, meeting one last time, clearing up every misunderstanding between you."
"But you never went back. I found the inheritance first. And you lost your only chance to see her again."
His voice was gentle.
Every word was ice.
Each sentence landed on the scar on Helena's heart like a blade pressing deeper than Barrow's knife ever had. She folded where she stood, trembling, her arms wrapped around her own knees.
Tom noticed, with mild surprise, that ghosts could actually cry.
Small silver pearls drifted down from her face. Before they could reach the floor, they broke apart into mist and drifted back into her.
He cast a Silencing Charm around them, then watched the little silver pearls with calm curiosity, making no move whatsoever to comfort her.
Only after the sobbing had run itself out did he finally compose his expression, crouch down beside her, and say quietly, "Helena, I am Ravenclaw's student, and you are her daughter. In this world, we are the two people closest to her."
"If anything happens, come to me."
"I won't."
Helena still had her face pressed against her knees. Her voice came out muffled.
"I hate Slytherins. And I hate Slytherins named Tom Riddle even more."
"My name wasn't something I got to choose."
The boy let out a quiet breath.
"And besides, who would willingly be a Slytherin? Someone like me, someone so hungry for knowledge, someone this clever, I was born to be a raven. It's the Sorting Hat's fault entirely. Its judgment was completely wrong."