Morning.
All the candles were out; only the far horizon and the silvery ghosts gave off a faint glow.
"Good morning."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sean noticed the torches and lanterns in the corridor gradually lighting up.
"Morning or night—it makes no difference."
The Grey Lady's gaze drifted toward the distance.
Sean didn't answer right away. Watching the corridor where an occasional witch or wizard passed by, he understood.
Ghosts probably couldn't sleep.
In other words, after becoming a ghost, they could neither live nor die, had no sensation—only thought wandering the world forever, with no end.
For someone who had lived hundreds of years, death was finally rest.
But as a ghost, there was never a choice again—never any rest.
And ghosts were a "lower" kind of existence: they couldn't eat or touch, couldn't interfere with the living world, and even their thinking was rudimentary.
They knew one plus one equaled two, but couldn't explain why.
Seeing everything but touching nothing; witnessing everything but influencing nothing; experiencing everything yet unable to truly think… enduring others' endless change with one's own unchanging self—an agony.
It was one of the reasons so few witches and wizards chose this way of "survival."
"Maybe you should rest," Sean said.
"Green—your head is always full of those absurd ideas."
The Grey Lady shook her head and smiled.
"Call me Helena, Green. By rights I should hate you, but someone like you… like her… is hard to— You have class, Green."
"Five minutes and twenty-three seconds," Sean nodded.
"Mhm. I knew it—you're like her."
Helena watched him.
Only when facing a young witch or wizard did she ever mention that person, only then did she dare to recall anything connected to her.
"So are you," Sean said—naturally thinking of Ravenclaw. She had said the same.
Always full of absurd ideas…
"Heh…"
Helena, of course, didn't believe it.
A shameful traitor—how could someone like her have anything to do with a great name like Ravenclaw?
She stared at the distant snow-capped mountains—high, pure, white.
The gray in her eyes slowly dimmed.
"I think only when Lady Ravenclaw acknowledges the betrayal, Helena… only then will you truly step onto that path.
Before then, any scolding is meaningless," Sean said quietly.
Of course, by any moral standard, the betrayal was already an established fact.
Maybe this world no longer had a place for Helena Ravenclaw at all.
But besides Rowena Ravenclaw—who had the right to judge her soul?
They were… outsiders.
"Green…"
Helena smiled blankly.
"I've never heard you talk this much—never seen you this interesting. It reminds me of Tom Riddle, years ago.
Maybe you have a point. Maybe you've even let my shameful life breathe a little.
But Green—thank you. And please, don't trouble yourself with my matters anymore."
It was a gentle refusal, and Sean had expected it.
"Helena," Sean said.
Helena sighed and looked at him again. No matter how much he interrupted her, he was never truly irritating.
It was strange.
"If you'd be willing to hear a story…" Sean continued.
"I won't refuse you, Green—you already know that," Helena drifted away, "but don't push your luck."
"Oh, and you have one minute."
Would Sean arrive late to class?
That was about as likely as a troll beating Dumbledore.
So when Sean reached Transfiguration, not all the students had sat down yet.
Still, it was a little odd—Sean usually arrived early.
As Hogwarts students liked to say: you could find every quality needed to master magic in Mr. Green.
Minerva McGonagall's eyes paused on him for a moment, then she announced the topic for this Transfiguration lesson:
Turn a white rabbit into a pair of slippers.
The students immediately got busy.
BANG!
A loud explosion came from behind Sean—Seamus's wand slipped from his hand, and one of the desk legs suddenly blew up.
Professor McGonagall flicked her wand, restored the desk leg, and fixed it back into place. Then she turned—instinctively glancing at Sean.
He was practicing Transfiguration calmly, again and again making dozens of white rabbits appear out in the snowy grounds beyond the window.
Even though his Transfiguration skill had long since advanced, he still didn't have that impatient, shortcut-hunting streak that "geniuses" supposedly had.
Or perhaps only witches and wizards like this deserved to be called geniuses.
Minerva McGonagall felt pleased, and moved on to correct and guide the other students.
"Your motions must be decisive. You must have a clear image in your mind…"
She said sternly, then raised her voice:
"Very good, everyone—look here. Mr. Weasley has succeeded!"
Ron? Harry had never imagined the day Ron would stand out like this.
The class broke into chatter; the room filled with whispering and craning necks as everyone looked toward Ron.
"You can see clearly—no ears on the slippers. A very good transfiguration, Mr. Weasley," she added.
Ron's face went red. McGonagall's words sounded oddly familiar—exactly the way Sean might say:
"Ron, you did it. That's a good transfiguration. I think you're quite suited to this. Proficient."
Sometimes Ron felt Sean's standards were brutally strict—bringing an inanimate object to life was only "intermediate transfiguration."
Making that "living thing" run around for three minutes was still just proficient.
But then Ron remembered Sean could make the ground collapse in the Chamber of Secrets and trap a basilisk more than ten meters long—and suddenly it all felt fair.
So in Transfiguration, amid the chirping of animals, the loudest sound became the amazement circling around Ron.
And at the center of it, Ron couldn't help looking toward Sean practicing seriously—where dozens of snow rabbits hopped and bounced.
…
After class, Sean tapped his wand; the Wizard's Book shrank rapidly into a pendant, and he left the classroom at once.
But at the door, someone blocked him.
"Sean…"
Ron wore an awkward, un-Ron-like expression.
Behind him, Hermione and Harry had already hidden themselves to eavesdrop, curiosity written all over them.
"Mhm." Sean glanced past Ron's shoulder, then stopped.
"I've wanted to say this for a long time…"
Ron looked like he'd forced himself over a cliff.
"You know, I always thought I'd never be like… Fred and George.
But you made those Transfiguration standards, helped us practice, and shared the most detailed notes…
I don't know how to say it. I used to think I couldn't do anything.
But your standards meant I didn't have to fumble around in the dark anymore.
Yeah—this is what I really want to say.
If it weren't for that set of standards… part of me would have stayed lost forever."
~~~
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