Speech Is Silver, but Silence Is Golden

There was no one present. The room was silent except for a single quill that was rapidly moving in a very secluded corner, scratching in a fast-paced staccato across faded parchment. The sound reverberated from the old, thick, grey stone walls and filled up the empty space that usually was filled with quiet murmuring, laughing and merry, comfortable chatting.

The ebony tables and their chairs were empty, lone white candles, in black iron flambeaus, illuminating the whole room sparsely. The small windows were pitch black, the water an incredibly deep black space that seemed to go on forever, with many facets when looked upon closely and yet plain to the impatient eye.

The words seemed to flow unhindered from my head onto the parchment. The white quill moved up and down in long curly lines before losing contact with the parchment and then resettling, leaving another short, black line in its wake. Lone, snow-white strands trembled while it moved up and down, writing line after line. They fluttered with the movement, graciously and teasingly as if they were trying to mock. My eyes followed the movement as if mesmerized and I wasn’t even thinking clearly about what I was writing. In fact my hand was moving without conscious thought.

But the scratching of the quill on the parchment ebbed away as my eyes noticed the lone candle adorning the ebony table and spending enough light for me to write, flickering. It caused me rather much discomfort to avert my eyes from the white strands that had fallen into immobility as the scribbling had ceased. The comfortable wallowing in silence and seclusion had been disrupted.

As I finally looked up, eyes slowly adjusting to the new task after having remained in a blank stare for long, I only caught a glimpse of dark green and black robes that were vanishing through the secret door of the Slytherin common room at the opposite side of the large room. The candles throughout the room flickered with the draft created by the opening of the door, throwing enticing shadows on the low, arched ceiling.

But the door closed, the sound of steps ceased and the room returned to its former state of abandonment and silence.

I continued to stare blankly into the room before blinking twice and regaining my sense of reality again.

Turning my gaze towards my parchment again, I noticed how I drowned once again in my thoughts. My vision blurred, the words all becoming indistinct, becoming one black pattern that was undistinguishable.

For one moment I wondered why there was no one else in the room. Why it was so silent. But then I remembered that it was Christmas break and most of the students had gone home, to celebrate with their families. With a sigh I threw a look towards the small window to my right, embedded in the thick stone-walls. Judging from the blackness of the water the sun had already set.

The second it took me to concentrate on the parchment again, my ears twitched. My head snapped to the side, eyes scanning the room, expecting to see a familiar figure walking through the hidden doorway. But even as the seconds ticked by nothing happened. And I realized I had only imagined his voice.

Sighing I stared at the parchment in front of me. The dark emerald green ink formed words that made no sense as I skimmed through the text. The candle made the fresh ink in the glass in front of me sparkle. The quill’s strands waved through the air as I lifted my hand to set it down on the table acknowledging that today I wouldn’t be able to finish.

Instead, after crossing my arms on the table and resting my head on them, looking into the empty room, especially the table right in the middle, I allowed myself to rest.

All obligations were pushed to the back of my mind for a moment as I simply stared. When I concentrated hard enough, I could nearly see him. Sitting there, surrounded by his friends and admirers. Talking loudly, his voice carrying even in the most secluded corner. His eyes twinkling mostly in malice. I could nearly make out his shadow there, sitting in black and green robes, blonde hair illuminated by the candles overhead, the greenish glow of the lake giving his skin a sickly tint.

But something was still missing. Something that kept me from actually seeing him sitting there in the deserted room.

“You are thinking about someone.” Startled, my eyes widened and the muscles in my arms tensed, my feet pressing firmly against the stone floor. I wanted to lift my head, to see who had spoken, but my tension eased, when I saw a diaphanous hand moving through my vision, closely followed by the blood stains shimmering on dark grey clothes.

I drew my eyebrows together, falling back into resting, for the first time realizing the words the Bloody Baron had spoken. After remaining in a quite comfortable silence that wouldn’t necessarily have required me to speak, I did.

“What makes you say that?”

The Baron, who had hovered quite far into the empty room, turned around, his eyes fixing on mine. I was surprised for a moment and the next quite sure he had noticed. But the Bloody Baron usually didn’t look at me directly so soon. Yet now his dark eyes were holding mine. His expression was yet unreadable as he seemed to scrutinize me.

Then he moved, shrugging his shoulders the with frills adorned collar of his light shirt moving. “Only the fairly familiar look in your eyes.”

I nodded slightly to myself understanding the insinuation of a comparison. At the same time I wondered why he had even mentioned it. The Baron remained silent if there wasn’t any important, pressing matter to discuss. He knew that words were not the only way to communicate or to persuade.

I watched him make his way through the many tables, before coming to a halt in front of a window. His hands were intertwined behind his back, the sleeves showing beneath the darker shimmering coat he was wearing. The curls of his wig cascaded freely down his back, over his broad shoulders. The hat atop his head casted the slightest shadow upon the whole figure.

Suddenly the train of thought I had forgotten about shortly, came back to me. I knew what was missing, what was keeping me from actually deluding myself into thinking that he was there. My eyes flickered towards the deserted chair.

It was the pride. This uncanny pride that his posture spoke so freely of. He never hid it, probably didn’t even know it was there. It was the family pride that had been bestowed upon him. And it showed in his posture and the attention he demanded without ever trying too hard. People were just drawn to him.

It was the sense of power which did so. Because only those who had much power could indulge themselves in the flaw of pride. Therefore only those who had much to lose.

And yet, while the Bloody Baron didn’t have anything left that he could lose, he held the same pride.

“I would like to have a guess.”

I glanced back towards the Baron, who was still standing with his back towards me staring out of the window into the blackness of the lake. Looking at him I tried to make sense of his words. Remembering what he had said before, I contemplated my answer carefully. I was inclined to deny him. But then again, I wanted to know what the house-ghost was trying to initiate. After all he didn’t speak without purpose.

“Go ahead.”

I watched as the ghost turned around, his expression showing the slightest amount of surprise by the way his eyes were widened. Yet he regained control rather quickly while he hovered closer towards me.

His eyes were fixed on my face as he tried to read me. But I was sure he couldn’t, for all I felt at the moment was eagerness for his answer. He stopped right before hovering through one of the desks and simply stated. “The young Master Malfoy.”

Suddenly I felt uneasy as if my whole being had been presented in front of a destruction-hungry crowd. I couldn’t look at the Baron anymore and averted my eyes, ashamed and trying to reprimand myself for not knowing better. I shouldn’t have granted him his guess.

“Oh, love will ruin you, Milady.” The Bloody Baron spoke, his tone quite amused, yet solemn at the same time. “You will find out.”

I felt irritated suddenly and sat up, narrowing my eyes and throwing a nasty look in the ghost’s direction. “Do you think, because love ruined your life, that it’ll ruin mine, too?” I spoke with barely contained bitterness and anger, which made my voice sound more like a hoarse whisper.

In contrast, the Bloody Baron spoke as freely, highly and openly as always. “Forgive me, Milady. I did not mean to offend you.”

I nearly snorted but restrained myself in the last moment, instead sitting up straight and suppressing the anger inside of me. My dark stare was fixed on the emerald green, velvet fabric on the wall, bearing the emblem of Slytherin.

“Would you allow me to continue, Milady?” The formal inquiry made me stare at him again. I scrutinized him from the feather on top of his head, to the pointed shoes with a sturdy heel. Then, after another quick look into his eyes, I nodded rather stiffly.

“I do know that love always hurts. Because where there is happiness there is sadness as well.”

I simply stared at him, still trying to make any connection between the momentary conversation and the overall intention of the ghost. He took my stare as one of missing understanding and opened his mouth to elaborate. But before he could even speak, I rose from my seat.

“Excuse me. But I need to leave. The feast will begin shortly.” I spoke without meaning to, without thinking about it. I only heard my voice ringing in my ears. While I grabbed the parchment, the ink and my quill, I heard the Baron’s rather late reply.

“Then I shall accompany you to the Great Hall.”

He hovered closer towards me, his eyes scanning the words written upon the parchment, while I made my way across the room.

“What’s this? A letter you wrote to your loved ones?”

The comment sent my thoughts reeling. I knew that this question demanded a quick answer.

“Not quite.” It was the only thing I could come up with and thankfully, the Baron believed me and didn’t question me any further.

I retreated shortly to my dorm throwing my things on the nightstand. I only allowed myself a moment of regaining control, before returning to the common-room, where the ghost was still waiting.

Only my steps echoed in the low-ceilinged room, before we left and entered the cold stone-corridor. I was surprised when the Bloody Baron began a monologue without any grounds. He wouldn’t have needed to speak up. In fact it was rather unusual for anyone to speak up in such a moment. But he did.

“So I was speaking of happiness and sadness before. Allow me to elaborate.” This time he didn’t pause to wait for an answer. He simply spoke, hovering next to me while I made my way through the hallways of the dungeon.

“Not only does this theory apply here. In this particular story is also a lot of pride involved. You’ll see.”

“Are you again speaking of your own memories?” I inquired quite coldly. The Baron stared at me for a moment, lost deep in thought.

“I see your point, Milady.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Yet I have to reiterate that you will be no exception. Just as Lady Helena and I were no exception.”

As he said her name his eyes narrowed slightly, his stare becoming cold and unyielding. He was everything as terrifying in this moment as everyone seemed to say he was. I averted my eyes and instead allowed my thoughts to wander to Helena Ravenclaw. I had seen her occasionally. She was the house-ghost of Ravenclaw, a tall, beautiful, yet somehow haughty-looking woman. Her face seemed still very young, but her eyes spoke volumes of bitterness and arrogance, of intellect and intransigence.

“You killed her, did you not?” My voice was a quiet whisper, barely audible over the sound of my steps reverberating in the long hallway.

The Bloody Baron remained silent for a long time. He seemed to ponder his answer and I waited patiently. When we reached the foot of the steps leading towards the Great Hall, he spoke up.

“I did.” His voice was clear, free of any emotion. It was the voice he usually used when recounting events of the past, telling me the truth about history and how it had been twisted by younger wizards.

“After Lady Helena had stolen the precious diadem of her mother, Rowena Ravenclaw soon became deathly ill. She knew there was not much time left and she wanted to see her daughter again. So she sent for me. You must know that at that time, I was engaged to Lady Helena. Still she had left me without any word of farewell.”

Bitterness filled his eyes and his proud posture morphed into one of stiffness. “Rowena Ravenclaw sent for me, knowing that as Lady Helena’s fiancée I was probably the most suited, the most able man to find her and persuade her to return. But when I saw the woman lying in bed, I knew she didn’t have much time left.

Her eyes were sunken in, her forehead clammy, her skin sickly white. So I went to find the lost daughter.”

“And you found her in Albania.” I interrupted softly. His head snapped in my direction, clearly surprised. He hadn’t expected me to know that. But I had only concluded from many hours spent observing him.

“Yes. At first she seemed overjoyed to see me. She spoke of the regret she felt for leaving me behind. In the same breath, however, she informed me that I could not stay. So I began to unveil the reasons for my visit.”

He took a laboured breath before continuing. “To say she was not pleased would be an understatement. While she had been away she had developed so much resentment for her mother which I could not overcome with rational thinking. She refused to come back and after already feeling enraged, I lost my temper.”

His voice ceased as we climbed the final steps. He didn’t need to continue. The end of the story was well known to many students and teachers. It was the reason for his infamy.

I was trying to imagine the scene in my head, the proud Baron standing there in front of an arrogant Helena Ravenclaw. But I couldn’t imagine how this rational, calm, well-educated and formal man could ever draw a knife against anybody, much less against his beloved fiancée.

As we reached the Great Hall, I stopped and turned towards him.

“Why did Lady Helena steal the diadem?”

The Bloody Baron looked me in the eye searching for any indication of what my intention was. Then with a sigh he began explaining.

“She was young, intelligent, well-read but naïve. Her mother didn’t pay her the attention she thought she deserved. So she took away that which was most precious to her mother. It was revenge that made the decision for Lady Helena. A decision that ultimately brought death upon her.”

He paused as if not quite sure whether or not to add his thought. He seemed to decide for speaking up.

“You should enjoy it, while it lasts, Milady.”

I nodded still feeling solemn a thought from before coming to my mind. The Baron held the same pride, because he had already lost everything.

I whispered my words of farewell. “Merry Christmas, My Lordship.”