Disclaimer: Unless J. K. Rowling died this morning and left an extremely improbable will, I do not own Harry Potter.
Harry looked at her, and found himself thinking. "Helena Ravenclaw"? How had he not noticed a Ravenclaw on the Marauder's Map all those years? And then, he knew of her hunger for distinctions she hadn't earned – and her tendency to half-truths, narrating a journey to 10th-Century Illyria as though it were a refugee's flight from civilisation…
He rose abruptly, and went outside and withdrew the Map. I do solemnly swear, etc., and the plan of the castle appeared, showing a single dot in the room he had just vacated – a dot labeled, not Helena Ravenclaw, indeed, but something quite different…
The wind was whipping the waters of the firth into a rage. Eilidh was glad of it; the air's ferocity seemed to justify her own, as she turned her back on her late parents' cabin.
"Leave me, then," she whispered. "I don't care. Lady Ravenclaw's my true mother now anyway, and she'll not die on me under the waves like an Earth-Born fool. D'ye hear?" she cried to the heavens. "It's no pelting fisher's orphan I am! I'm Helena Ravenclaw, born daughter to the mightiest enchantress in Britain!"
She didn't really believe it – not yet, not quite. But she would.