Chapter 307 — The Master of the Crown
Ghosts were usually pale, pearly white, and translucent—frozen silhouettes of the moment they died. Most of them appeared exactly as they had in their final seconds.
Nearly Headless Nick, for example, still carried the half-severed head he had been left with, the blade never having completed its cut. And just like humans, animals could also become ghosts. The Headless Horseman's spectral mount was one such creature—an animal spirit tethered to this world through the magic of its long-dead master.
But whether human or beast, ghosts all shared the same limits.
They could not touch or move objects.
They couldn't taste food or feel warmth.
They could pass through walls but not experience the world.
They were phantoms—present, but untouchable.
And while they could not be killed, they could be driven away or briefly petrified by ancient, powerful curses.
No matter what happened, they would eventually return to their original form.
Even their clothing—like the Bloody Baron's chains—was nothing more than a shadow of the physical items they wore before death. These ghostly garments could be removed, yes, but they would always return to their owners unless consciously manipulated by the ghost.
Some spirits even resented this immutable nature. Harry once heard about a Celtic ghost who had died naked, and because his subconscious preferred that state, he remained that way in death. His friends tried to help by lending him robes, but the garments always faded away and returned to their owners. The poor man eventually hid from wizard society altogether.
This inability to enjoy food, warmth, or touch drove many ghosts into despair.
Countless magical scholars had tried to help—creating spells meant to convert food into spectral essence or allow ghosts to interact with objects—but none had succeeded.
The only solace ghosts had left was spiritual comfort: memories, conversations, and the faint illusion of taste when passing through rotting food.
But today, something impossible appeared before Harry's eyes.
A ghostly crown floated above Helena Ravenclaw's head.
A spectral object—an actual piece of ghostly equipment.
If anyone could break the ancient limitations of death, it would be Rowena Ravenclaw.
The Ravenclaw common room was nearly silent, save for gasps and murmurs. Students who knew nothing about ghosts stared at the ethereal diadem in awe. Those who were knowledgeable were even more stunned—not because of the crown itself, but because it had become a ghost.
Helena sat motionless beneath it, as if wrapped in her mother's long-lost warmth.
Only one person in the room remained calm: Helena herself.
Harry, who had been momentarily enchanted by the beauty of the scene, blinked and stepped closer.
"Is this Ravenclaw magic?" he asked quietly. "You'd know best, wouldn't you?"
Helena closed her eyes. "No… no, I finally understand why my mother's health failed so quickly."
She lifted her face, the faintest mist forming around her eyes—ghosts couldn't cry, but emotions still shaped their magic.
"This isn't the crown I stole. Mother made a new one. She must have foreseen something… and poured an unprecedented enchantment into it. All for me. All for the daughter who betrayed her."
Her voice trembled.
She wasn't speaking to Harry anymore—she was speaking to herself, to her memories.
Ron stumbled out of the dormitory behind them, half-awake and rubbing his eyes. When he saw the scene, he froze, then grabbed the nearest first-year.
"Oi—why does Ms. Grey have a crown floating on her head? And Harry's got one too? They're the same as the statue, aren't they? She really is Ravenclaw's daughter?"
Harry gently touched Helena's shoulder. "Helena… whatever mistakes happened before, your mother clearly wanted you to live freely. Even as a ghost."
"I know," Helena whispered. "And that's exactly why I can't forgive myself."
Her eyes lifted to Harry's, filled with a soft, ancient grief.
"Do you know what this crown does, Harry?"
He opened his mouth, but she continued.
"It absorbs my sorrow, my pain, my resentment… all the things that haunt me. It turns them into peace." She exhaled slowly. "I can still feel those emotions, but they fade—just slightly."
Her gaze shifted to the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, standing tall in the corner.
"I understand, Mother. I'll live happily from now on… even like this."
Helena pointed at the physical crown still in Harry's hands.
"Harry, this crown is yours now. I'm Ravenclaw's only descendant—there's no one else who can claim it. I'll tell Dumbledore myself. If you want it, it belongs to you alone."
Her form shimmered, then slipped through the wall and vanished.
Harry remained frozen, staring at the diadem in his palms.
A treasure born from Rowena Ravenclaw's final years.
Half of it had become spirit and joined her daughter.
What power did the remaining half hold?
Could it guide him?
Grant him wisdom?
Help him find the Resurrection Stone—and perhaps… see his parents again?
For the first time in a long while, Harry felt temptation stirring in his chest.
But before he could think further, a flood of Ravenclaw students rushed toward him, surrounding him from all sides. They had kept their distance while Helena was present—but now only Harry Potter remained.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing to Harry?" Ron barked, stepping protectively in front of him.
The crowd stopped immediately.
They suddenly remembered who Harry was:
The boy who had defeated Voldemort.
The one who saved the invisible beast.
The Ravenclaw Phoenix.
Their Quidditch captain.
Their house-cup champion.
Their hero.
And now—
The boy holding Ravenclaw's crown.
(End of Chapter)
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