Hogwarts: Proficiency Panel

Chapter 382 - 383: Familiarity

As the mists receded, Ravenclaw Tower was left bathed in the pale, ethereal blue of the pre-dawn light.

Faint rays of morning sun crept into the dormitory. Sean rose abruptly, his hair a mess of dark tangles. He habitually surveyed his surroundings, his eyes eventually drooping with a sense of lingering loss.

Madam Isolt, who had dreamed of entering Ravenclaw since her youth, had actually met the woman herself in the soul realm. Hearing the joy in Isolt's voice had brought Sean a vicarious thrill, but the realization that he had missed one of the Four Founders—the most brilliant and well-read of them all—by a mere few seconds left him feeling thoroughly vexed.

He reached for the copy of Hogwarts: A History on his nightstand. The gold lettering on the spine shimmered in the dim light:

Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age: Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw. The four school Houses were named in their honor. They built the castle far from prying No-Maj eyes...

"Rowena Ravenclaw..." Sean murmured to the empty room.

The connection was obvious: Rowena was still wandering the Lands Between. As for who she was waiting for—it was painfully apparent.

If Sean could reach her, perhaps he could finally offer some assistance. Regardless of his own path, he felt a profound sense of gratitude toward the woman who had founded the institution that had become his sanctuary.

"Hogwarts..."

Sean looked at the walls draped in blue and silver, and at his bookshelves, which had grown heavy with knowledge over the last year. He looked out the arched window at the snow-covered Quidditch pitch and the vast, dark line of the Forbidden Forest.

Through the stone walls, he felt as if he could see the roaring hearth of the Transfiguration office and the bubbling cauldrons of the Potions dungeon. Was Professor Binns currently dozing in the staff room? Were the Mandrakes throwing another tantrum in the greenhouse?

Sean realized with a start that Hogwarts was becoming more than a school. It was becoming... home.

Morning.

After a night of freezing rain, the castle was coated in a thin, shimmering layer of frost. The corridors were slowly filling with life—and the occasional wandering spirit.

Sean passed the brooding Bloody Baron and the jovial Fat Friar, who was busy chatting with a group of sleepy Gryffindors. He paused, spotting a high-backed figure looking out a window. He walked slowly toward the Grey Lady.

She was staring at the silhouette of the distant mountains, radiating an aura that practically screamed at the living to keep their distance.

"Green," she said, not turning her head.

"Good morning, Madam Helena," Sean replied.

"You needn't avoid the title," the ghost lady noted, her expression unreadable.

Normally, she was addressed as the Grey Lady. But Sean always seemed to consider the person behind the phantom. Like his decision to destroy the Diadem, it was a gesture of respect that few offered her.

Yet, for Helena, hearing her real name was a jarring experience. It brought a mix of terror, shame, and an unbidden, tiny spark of hope.

"Madam Ravenclaw," Sean adjusted his address.

"Madam Ravenclaw... hah." She let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Have you ever contemplated the 'Final Rest'?" Sean asked.

"A festival of death for those who cannot die? I'm afraid that is my greatest fear," she replied.

"Madam Ravenclaw, if I told you that someone is still waiting for you... would you be more willing to celebrate that day?" Sean chose his words with excruciating care.

"Sean... you are a foolish, sincere boy." The Grey Lady seemed to relax slightly, her tone turning uncharacteristically teasing. "This is my day of shame, my well-earned punishment. For ten centuries, ghosts have existed in this cycle. There is no escape from this despair. Not even for you, Sean—her 'Chosen.'

"As for waiting... who would wait for me? Not a single tear remains to be shed for me in this world. I brought this upon myself." Her voice drifted, sounding like the rustle of dry leaves.

"Would you celebrate?" Sean repeated, staring directly into her eyes.

Helena Ravenclaw displayed a rare flash of agitation. Touching upon a ghost's lingering obsession was a sure way to unsettle them. Even if what the boy said was impossible, she couldn't help but dwell on the thought.

"Of course I would. But she will never forgive me."

With a tragic, fleeting smile, Helena drifted through the wall and vanished.

Sean remained standing in the corridor, his gaze deep and shimmering with a quiet light. He had his answer.

The Room of Hope.

The room changed daily now. Justin and Hermione's renovations were relentless. It now boasted a dedicated area for spell-work, a full kitchen, a garden, and—most recently—a massive, ancient-looking round table surrounded by translucent grey stone chairs.

It looked far more solemn and legendary than their previous study desk.

Sean spared the furniture a glance before settling into his usual spot to begin his day. His priority remained the Wampus Biscuits—the key to unlocking innate Legilimency and Memory magic. Beyond that, he needed to sharpen his combat effectiveness. He had been practicing Dark Arts, Transfiguration, and Charms without a single hour's break.

And now, he had a new objective: testing his own limits. He thought back to last Christmas; the retired Auror, Marcus McGonagall, had taught him more about real combat than any textbook ever could.

As the Christmas break drew to a close, the frantic energy of students returning from the holidays filled the castle. Most students were no longer seen wandering the grounds; they were huddled over their desks, desperately trying to finish their winter assignments.

Sales at Green's Bookstore had reached an all-time high as students scrambled for study aids. In the Great Hall, the atmosphere was thick with academic dread. Hogwarts homework didn't decrease for the holidays; if anything, it was soul-crushingly abundant.

Before joining the Room of Hope, Harry and Ron had often suffered the consequences of procrastination. Now, with only three days left, the Hall was full of the frantic scratching of quills.

Ron had developed a new habit of wandering between desks, checking on the progress of other Gryffindors. He didn't really need to ask; one only had to look at the length of their parchment. But Ron enjoyed the performance.

"All right, Dean? Nearly finished, are you?" Ron asked, leaning over Dean Thomas's shoulder.

"Opposite, actually. Just started," Dean grumbled, looking up with bloodshot eyes. "What about you? You done then?"

This was the moment Ron was waiting for. He launched into a theatrical boast about his completed essays, leaving Dean staring at him in stunned silence.

"If Voldemort ever truly returns, Ron will be the first to go," Hermione noted from across the table, watching the display. "He has no sense of self-preservation and spends all his time on things that won't help him survive a duel."

[End of Chapter 383]

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