The Bloody Baron's roar reverberated so fiercely that it shook the stones of Hogwarts Castle and carried as far as Maud Hogg Village.
But Damon's voice cut through it—louder, sharper, unyielding.
Amplified by the Raising Charm, his words echoed through every hall and tower of the castle.
"Baron," Damon's voice thundered, "Helena guided you toward atonement. Yet your lingering presence proves it was never remorse for her that bound you here, but something else entirely. You feared Lady Rowena's wrath—and chose cowardice dressed as penance!"
His words were baseless, yet Helena gasped as if struck.
"Is it true, Bloody Baron?" Her voice trembled. "Did you take your own life after murdering me, not out of guilt or love, but only because you feared my mother's vengeance?"
"No, Helena, no!" The Baron's dark eyes twisted with anguish. "I would die for you a thousand times over!"
But even as he spoke, his face only grew darker, his form trembling with shadows.
"What's happening here?" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice cut in, eyes fixed on the unfolding storm.
"This is between the Bloody Baron and Helena," Damon said coldly. "Stay back."
He slashed his wand through the air, forming a barrier that pushed everyone a full meter away. Peeves tried to dart forward, cackling, but a fierce gust sent him spinning halfway across the castle grounds.
Damon's gaze bore into the Baron. "Is this your plan? To use them as your shield, your excuse to linger? Forget it. As long as I'm here, you will not escape."
The Baron did not look at him. His eyes—dark, endless—were fixed only on Helena's. He saw the shock in her face, and a long, hollow sigh escaped his chest.
"I understand," he whispered. "Don't look at me that way anymore. If this is what you wish… I'll be gone."
"Ahhh!"
The ghost's cry tore the sky, a roar laced with pain and desperate love.
"Helena! I only wanted you to be happy. I am sorry. I love you."
A brilliant light burst from his spectral body. The silver bloodstains, which had clung to him for centuries, began to fade. His towering figure straightened once more, then slowly bent beneath Helena's gaze, as though surrendering to her judgment.
The light blazed brighter, brighter—then shattered, scattering into the starry heavens.
All that remained was a final, weary sigh, drifting on the wind.
---
Helena clutched the folds of her skirt, her eyes brimming with emotions too tangled to name. Resentment faded, leaving behind sorrow, pity, and something dangerously close to relief.
"…The Baron has ascended," she whispered.
Around them, murmurs rose from the gathering of ghosts.
"Well, I liked him, at least—he kept Peeves in check."
"Hah! One less noisy fellow. Perhaps things will finally be quiet again."
Their voices echoed across the square, but Damon stood unmoved.
"The spectacle is over. Leave."
His wand flicked, scattering the spirits like dry leaves in the wind.
The professors, however, stood frozen. Their eyes were fixed on Damon—on the sheer, unrestrained torrent of magic flowing from him.
Even McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick, who had long known of his apprenticeship under Dumbledore, were shaken to their core.
"It's as though… Dumbledore himself were here," McGonagall murmured.
Snape's lips curled into a thin smirk. "No. His methods are far more ruthless than Dumbledore's."
McGonagall and Flitwick shot him sharp looks, but did not deny it.
Above them, the castle grew still once more. From the distance drifted the restless laughter and footsteps of students—children too young to grasp the weight of what had just transpired.
McGonagall's stern voice cut through the corridors, her commands scattering them like startled birds.
---
Helena, listening, drifted down until she sat beside Damon, her knees drawn to her chest.
"Tell me," she asked softly, "is it true? Was the Baron's love for me nothing but a lie? Did he kill me in a fit of rage, and end his life only to escape my mother's judgment?"
Damon's gaze was steady, unyielding. "Who can say? I only know he committed an unforgivable act. To me, he is nothing but an enemy—and I show no mercy to my enemies. If you find truth in my words, then let them be the truth."
He lifted a hand and brushed it through Helena's hair. Of course, he could not touch her, and she could not feel him. But still, she asked:
"What does it feel like?"
"Like touching clouds," Damon replied. "Cool. Soft. Comforting."
Helena smoothed her hair with pale fingers and, for the first time in centuries, looked at someone with unguarded tenderness.
"Thank you," she said. "If not for you, I may never have found the resolve. You see… even as he vanished, they mourned him."
"Bah. Hypocrites." Damon scoffed. "When he haunted these halls, they feared him, prayed for his absence. Now that he's gone, they praise him? Pathetic."
"…You're far wiser than they are."
Helena's lips curved into a smile—a fragile, radiant smile, brighter than the moon overhead. It was a beauty unseen for a thousand years, a beauty that outshone even the so-called glory of the Baron.
But no one noticed.
Damon least of all.
And perhaps that was why Helena cherished it—cherished him—for he did not care.
---
"Well?" Damon asked suddenly. "Do you still think I'll become the next Dark Lord?"
Helena shook her head. "…No. But I think you may be even more frightening than him."
"Oh?" His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"
"The Baron lingered because he could not let go. Even as I cursed him, he clung to this world, waiting for forgiveness I could not grant. He hesitated."
She paused, her voice bitter. "Until I forgave him, he would never leave."
Damon snorted. "Like a piece of foul candy—clinging, sickly, impossible to swallow or spit out."
"That's why I learned to pretend," Helena admitted, gazing at the night sky.
"Well, you played your part well. Otherwise, that shameless wretch would never have left. A thousand years of moaning about atonement—what atonement? He deceived himself."
Helena tilted her head, curious. "You knew?"
"Was it difficult to guess? Deep inside, you still believed he loved you. Even your mother believed his feelings were real. That kind of love… it cannot be faked."
"…I thought so too," Helena whispered. "But after tonight, I'm no longer certain. If he truly loved me, how could he strike me down? Perhaps I was never more than something to be owned. In Albania… when I defied him, when it was just the two of us, his rage was enough to kill me."
Her voice faltered, trembling with doubt. "So tell me, Damon. Did he die out of regret? Or, as you claim, because he feared my mother's judgment?"
"It doesn't matter," Damon said firmly. "What matters is that you leave this behind. Forget him. Live as best you can—even if you call this half-existence living."
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers.
"You're leaving?" Helena's voice was soft, almost pleading.
"Of course. If I linger, it will be time for the Night Parade. Didn't you warn me? Best to begin by keeping to your own advice."
Helena scowled faintly. "You always do this—accept what others say only when it serves you."
She spat toward his retreating back. "You awful man."
But her bitterness was hollow. For it was this very ruthlessness that made her loathe him… and perhaps something more.
Helena drifted from the tower, creating a wide, empty space around her—space where Damon had just sat. She hovered quietly, her skirt whispering in the wind.
Above, the moon shone bright and clear.
For the first time in a thousand years, she felt no eyes upon her, no shadow of the Baron's obsession weighing her down.
For the first time… she felt free.
---
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Author's Note:
I'm still working hard on this translation. Please don't lose hope.
Thank you for reading 😊
(End of chapter)