Evening.
The Great Hall buzzed with the clink of cutlery and the soft chime of goblets as the professors dined at the high table, their chatter a warm hum of friendly exchange.
Professor Snape, the Potions master, and Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, leaned close, whispering and exchanging glances, their camaraderie almost enviable.
Overhead, owls swooped through the enchanted ceiling's skylights, their wings rustling as they descended to the house tables.
Harry received a mysterious package—long and slender, with a bulbous end, wrapped tightly in brown paper and sealed with a note:
"Do not open. It contains a Nimbus 2000. I don't want everyone knowing you've got a new broom. — Professor M. McGonagall"
Harry couldn't hide his excitement, passing the note to Ron.
"Nimbus! 2000…" Ron's voice rose in a thrilled shout before he caught himself, lowering it to a whisper, his grin stretching ear to ear. "A Nimbus 2000! I've never even touched one. Quick, hide the note before anyone sees!"
"Heh heh…"
"Let's go!"
"What about dinner?"
"Dinner? Who cares about dinner!"
Ron clutched the package and hopped off the bench. Harry followed, pausing only to stuff a couple of beef pasties into his pocket.
The two hurried out of the Great Hall, eager to slip away before full dark to the Quidditch pitch, where they could unwrap the broom in private—and maybe take it for a quick spin.
"New broom, new broom…"
"Nimbus! Nimbus 2000!"
"…"
From their seats nearby, Seamus and Dean watched the pair leave, giggling like fools. They exchanged a glance, their expressions complicated.
They were supposed to be a dorm of five, yet somehow, they were always left out.
Both turned to Neville, who was calmly eating his dinner.
"…"
Neville, mouth full of bread, looked confused and instinctively glanced at Hermione.
Hermione pursed her lips, saying nothing. She focused on cutting her steak, her face impassive, her thoughts undisturbed.
Boys, she thought. Most of the time, their brains were just for show.
Last night, Malfoy had baited them with talk of a midnight duel, and they'd actually believed him. No matter how much she tried to talk them out of it, they insisted on going—only to find Filch, the caretaker, waiting instead of Malfoy.
If they hadn't been lucky enough to dodge Filch and his cat, they'd probably be expelled by now, already on the Hogwarts Express back home.
"…"
Recalling last night, Hermione chewed her steak slowly, her mind drifting to the ferocious three-headed dog and the trapdoor beneath its belly.
Why was a three-headed dog in the school?
What was under that trapdoor, important enough to need such a guardian?
"No, no, that's against school rules…"
Hermione shook her head, trying to banish the thoughts, but her curiosity kept bubbling up, like a Whac-A-Mole game she couldn't stop playing.
It was annoying yet irresistibly compelling.
"What's down there, anyway?"
…
Night had fallen.
Melvin returned late, carrying two boxes of ice cream—one chocolate, one lemon—from Florean Fortescue's in Diagon Alley. Professors got a discount with a flash of their credentials.
Turning right from the staircase, he strode down the corridor, stopping before a massive, hideously carved stone gargoyle. After a moment's pause, he said, "Sherbet Lemon."
The crouching statue sprang aside with an uncanny nimbleness, and the wall behind it rumbled open, revealing a spiral staircase that moved on its own, not unlike the escalators in Muggle shopping malls, but twisted into a helix.
Melvin rode the steps up to the eighth floor, arriving at an oak door with a brass knocker.
…
The night deepened.
In the Headmaster's office parlor, steam rose from the teapot on the table, misting the silver ornaments with a hazy sheen.
A figure sat behind the desk, brow furrowed in thought.
Across from him sat two translucent figures, shimmering in silvery-blue hues. To the left, clad in a plain gray robe, was the Grey Lady. Beside her, wrapped in bloodstained chains, was the Bloody Baron—the man who had killed her.
Fawkes, nestled in the Sorting Hat's brim, peered at them with beady eyes. The hat's seam twitched, swaying slightly, but it didn't dare speak.
Earlier that evening, during dinner, Peeves had caused a ruckus in the Great Hall, spouting crude nonsense about dung and worse, disgusting the students. They were powerless against him, but Dumbledore quickly stepped in, stopping Peeves without punishment. Instead, he tasked the poltergeist with delivering a message, inviting the two ghosts to the Headmaster's office.
The Grey Lady was deeply reluctant to be near the Bloody Baron, but out of respect for Dumbledore, she agreed to come.
The Bloody Baron, forever remorseful for his past, longed to stay close to Helena. The invitation to join her in the Headmaster's office brought him a rare spark of joy.
Now, the Grey Lady was answering Dumbledore's questions about ghosts. "When a wizard dies but clings to the world, driven by intense emotions—regret, unwillingness, or denial of death—their soul and emotions are tied to magic. That magic, at the threshold of life and death, is extraordinary. It can transform a soul into a translucent form, lingering in places they knew in life."
Dumbledore frowned. "I've seen many wizards die with powerful regrets, yet their souls didn't stay behind."
"I don't know why," the Grey Lady said softly, her voice tinged with melancholy. "It might have to do with timing—some souls align with the magic of a full moon, others with a waning moon, or even the sun's power. They need to die at the right moment to become ghosts. Or it could be the place. Some locations hold magic of their own. Take Moaning Myrtle, who died in the school's bathroom. Hogwarts' magic might have unintentionally helped her."
She paused. "These are just guesses—my mother's guesses."
The Bloody Baron remained silent.
"Did Lady Ravenclaw truly research the nature of souls?" Dumbledore asked.
"None of her studies reached a clear conclusion," the Grey Lady replied.
"Is it possible to turn a soul that's been gone for many years into a ghost?"
"I don't know. There's no precedent in history." The Grey Lady hesitated, her transparent gaze settling on the old Headmaster. She wanted to offer a warning but couldn't find the words, only letting out a soft sigh.
Dumbledore sipped his cooled tea and said, "These questions are personal curiosities of mine. The real reason I asked you here is about Lady Ravenclaw's diadem."
The Grey Lady and the Bloody Baron looked up, staring intently at the Headmaster. "You found the diadem?"
Dumbledore nodded. "With Professor Levent's help, yes. It was hidden in the castle all along. Forgive me, but I can't return it yet, nor can I show it to you. It's been tainted by dark magic, turned into something vile. I haven't found a way to cleanse it."
The ghosts seemed ready to say more, but clear footsteps echoed from outside the office door.
"That's all for now," Dumbledore said. "I'll keep you informed of any progress."
"Please, Dumbledore," the Grey Lady said, her voice trembling.
"Headmaster Dumbledore…" the Bloody Baron began, but his words trailed off.
As they drifted toward the door, the Grey Lady turned back, her eyes filled with sorrow and regret. "Being a ghost isn't a continuation of life—it's a torment. Dumbledore, don't make a choice you'll regret."
"I understand…"