Hogwarts: Proficiency Panel

Chapter 403 404: An Unexpected Cat

The sky was a bruised purple when Sean finally stepped out of the Alchemy office.

It was a typical winter evening—dark, heavy with clouds, and bitingly cold. In the Entrance Hall, Peeves was passing the time by playing solo tennis against a stone wall. A group of younger students was huddled near the oak doors, waiting for the poltergeist to grow bored so they could pass without being pelted with spectral balls.

As the Grey Lady drifted through the hall, Peeves let out a sharp, high-pitched squeal. He shriveled up like a deflating balloon and zoomed into the ceiling in a frantic blur.

In the wake of the phantom's passing, Sean approached, his black robes fluttering. He was carrying a small velvet pouch containing his latest masterworks. He intended to gift the seven Magic Hand Mirrors to those he trusted: Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, and Headmaster Dumbledore. With Professor Terra already possessing one and Sean keeping the last, the set of seven would be complete, forming a private network for the castle's elite.

Wrapped in these thoughts, he moved toward the Transfiguration department. On his way, a voice reached him—light as a passing cloud, yet heavy with emotion.

"Sean."

Helena Ravenclaw was watching him.

"Most people treat the date of a death as a day of mourning," Sean said softly, stopping before her. "But at Ilvermorny, a Headmistress told me that for a ghost, it is the greatest of festivals. Happy holiday, Helena."

"Don't make me weep now, Sean. It would be most unseemly," Helena replied.

Sean saw a side of her he hadn't glimpsed before—a vulnerability that suggested the ghost was finally beginning to inhabit her own soul again. Perhaps that was the definition of a friend: someone who allows you to be truly alive.

"Are you ready?" Sean asked.

"Should I trust you, Sean?" she whispered.

To believe a young wizard... to believe he had seen her mother in a dream... to believe that Rowena had never truly harbored a grudge for the betrayal... it was a fairy tale. And yet...

"They call me 'The Grey Lady,'" Helena murmured, her gaze turning vacant. "Grey. The color between black and white. Neither the brilliant light of expectation nor the absolute darkness of exile. I have been nothing but a shadow of regret for a thousand years. But you... you call me Ravenclaw."

Sean felt a surge of awkwardness. He opened his mouth to offer comfort, but the words felt too small for the weight of ten centuries. He remained silent, focused on the preparations for the Requiem Ritual.

They walked together through the castle, passing silent suits of armor and flickering lanterns. Time seemed to blur against the unchanging stone.

In the hundredth year of her death, Helena had finally found the courage to drift past the corridor where her mother's portrait hung. Back then, Rowena's eyes had been sharp as an eagle's, but they had never once landed on her daughter. Now, in the eleven-hundredth year of her penance, they passed that same corridor again. This time, Rowena's painted eyes seemed to have found a focus.

Eventually, they arrived at the Room of Hope.

The Owl Gentleman—Rav—did not offer his usual insults. He watched them with a solemn, unblinking stare and allowed them to pass. Sean intuitively felt that this was the right place, just as the Stone Cottage had been the right place for Isolt Sayre.

Inside, the room had transformed.

It was no longer the cozy study space decorated by the students. It was a realm Sean did not recognize. The portrait of the owl was perched against a wall near the hearth. Behind him were rows of ancient photographs and shelves crowded with alchemical jars. A massive oak desk sat in the center of the room, and upon it rested a silver diadem.

Beside the desk, a sliver of the winter sky was visible through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, the pale light illuminating the blue silk of the domed ceiling. The room was silent, save for a sound that shouldn't have existed: the soft, rhythmic breathing of Helena Ravenclaw.

Sean realized he was standing in Rowena's original office. He saw piles of priceless materials and scrolls of ancient lore, but he ignored the academic bounty. He set to work immediately, tracing the lines of the ritual on the floor.

Helena moved through the room with a ghostly grace. She brushed her fingers over the spines of the books and sat briefly in her mother's favorite armchair before rising again. Finally, she stepped into the center of the runic circle.

"The hour is late," she whispered to herself.

"Tomorrow is a brand-new day," Sean promised.

"Everything about this is impossible," Helena said with a faint, beautiful smile. Translucent, pearly droplets gathered in the corners of her eyes. "But I believe you, Sean. Let those be my final words."

She didn't look back.

Another ghost had moved on.

Sean stood in the silence for a long time. He looked at the portrait of the Owl Gentleman and noticed that the bird seemed unusually quiet now that the office had returned to its hidden state.

When Sean stepped back out into the main corridor, the Owl resumed his usual chirping:

"Oh, look at Green! Look at the little wizard! Such a busy boy, sending off the spooks and thinking he's quite the hero—"

He was singing a modified version of one of Peeves' more annoying limericks.

"I imagine you're quite happy too, Mr. Owl," Sean said, looking the bird in the eye.

"Nonsense! Rubbish! Not at all!" The Owl's feathers puffed out indignantly. He pecked at his frame with a series of loud thuds, looking ready to dive out of the painting and strike. His gold pince-nez slipped once more, but as always, the roll of parchment remained held fast in his claws.

"Goodbye, Mr. Owl," Sean said politely.

"Good riddance, clever wizard!" the Owl huffed.

Twilight deepened, and the warm lights of Hogwarts flickered to life. Torches lined the walls and candles floated in the classrooms. Everything felt solid, real, and certain.

But in another place—a place draped in mist—reality was a more fluid thing.

In the soul-forest, the silver lake was gone. Most of the streams had run dry, leaving only exposed earth and clusters of kaleidoscopic mist embedded in the riverbeds.

In the middle of the wasteland stood a weary-looking witch. She held a tattered book in her hands, her silhouette still and silent. This was the loneliness every lingering soul had to endure—every happy memory from their life had to be paid for with a debt of solitude in the void.

But this time, Rowena Ravenclaw sensed something.

She set her book down and began to walk toward an unfamiliar part of the woods. Just as Sean could follow the silver threads to find those he sought, Rowena knew that ten centuries of waiting had been leading to this exact moment.

Standing in the white void was another witch, looking just as bewildered as she was. Strangely, the moment the younger woman set foot on the barren earth, flowers began to bloom in her wake—a miracle of sudden, vibrant life.

Helena stumbled, looking around in a panic, and nearly fell.

But before she could hit the ground, she was swept into a warm, solid embrace.

"It's alright to fall... I'm here to catch you, Helena."

A voice spoke, and then there was only silence.

Sometimes, language is a hollow thing. But it didn't matter; tears are the final, most honest form of communication.

After a long time, a single sentence broke the stillness.

"Tell me, my dearest Helena... do you finally know what Love looks like?"

"It looks like an unexpected cat."

Rowena Ravenclaw laughed through her tears as she held her daughter tight.

[End of Chapter 404]

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