The dim, chilly underground classroom was set for a deathday party prepared by ghosts, with house-elves assisting in the arrangements. Special candles cast a light colder than the night, illuminating maggot-ridden sheep stomachs, moldy green-furred cheese, and tombstoneshaped cakes of questionable material.
Besides Hogwarts' resident ghosts, Nearly Headless Nick had invited friends from beyond the school.
Every wizard in Britain had attended Hogwarts, and though most didn't linger as ghosts, they returned for Nick's 500th deathday, both to celebrate and to reminisce about their living days at the castle.
For many ghosts, it was their first return since graduation.
In life, they were too busy to come back. In death, with endless time, they struggled to feel the emotions of the living.
Nick, the star of the event, bustled about greeting guests. Apart from the Headless Hunt, all invitees had arrived. He returned to the main room with enthusiasm, only to find the band had stopped playing, and the party had fallen silent. The room was so quiet you could hear the breathing of the living.
The usually raucous ghosts were gathered in a corner, listening intently to a young professor conversing with a female ghost.
The translucent woman stood by the window, her long hair cascading naturally, her gray-white robes exuding Ravenclaw's wisdom and elegance.
"Professor, are you saying I'm not truly me, just a magical construct inheriting my living memories?" the Grey Lady asked softly, her voice tinged with sorrow.
Melvin shook his head. "I don't fully understand ghosts or the afterlife. These are just stray thoughts from studying soul magic and poring over ancient texts. Don't take them to heart, my lady."
"Perhaps you're right…" The Grey Lady's expressionless face carried a faint air of detachment.
Something stirred her memory, and she looked at the young professor. "My mother… the four Founders explored the soul and the afterlife in their time. With their wisdom and talent, each made unique discoveries, yet they all chose to embrace death without leaving magical portraits."
Melvin nodded. He'd noticed this too. "Even Gryffindor's Sorting Hat only carries the four houses' ideals and spirit, not their memories."
Even the enigmatic Slytherin, who had studied Herpo the Foul's dark magic and bred a Basilisk, showed a legendary wizard's grace in facing death. He could have made a Horcrux but didn't.
"…"
The Grey Lady nodded slightly, her posture refined, revealing a subtle, almost imperceptible pride.
"I happen to know some of their research. It might help you, Professor Lewent," a low, raspy voice interrupted. Another ghostly figure floated forward.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione shivered as if plunged into the frozen Black Lake, only to be swiftly pulled out by a giant squid.
"It's the Bloody Baron," Ron stammered, trembling.
Hermione looked up at Slytherin's ghost.
His translucent blue form was broad-shouldered yet gaunt, with a pale, haggard face and furrowed brows betraying suppressed pain. Dressed in medieval noble attire—tight tunic, trousers, and a cloak—he wore a bloodstained chain that inspired dread.
As the Bloody Baron approached, the Grey Lady glided upward, her ethereal form passing through the stone wall, vanishing from the deathday party.
The bloodstained ghost sighed, his somber aura deepening. Instead of pursuing her as usual, he whispered a few words to Melvin about Ravenclaw's research.
Then, with a hint of confusion, he asked, "Professor Lewent, does the afterlife truly exist?"
A thousand years later, he still recalled Rowena Ravenclaw, on her deathbed, tasking him to bring Helena back. A witch of her caliber could have delayed death, yet she didn't wait for him, and mother and daughter never said goodbye.
Such a heartbreaking regret, yet Ravenclaw left no ghost.
So many gifted wizards had embraced the afterlife, making him doubt.
If ghosts were merely magical constructs with inherited memories, had the true souls of wizards like Helena and Rowena already moved on, reunited in that other world?
"That's not a question for me," Melvin replied patiently. "You've experienced death. You should have your own answer. They say ghosts are souls unwilling to move on, lingering out of fear of death. But you, Baron, aren't afraid of death. You know best why you stay at Hogwarts."
The Baron and the other ghosts fell into contemplation.
Many weren't truly afraid of death. Over centuries, the reasons for rejecting death—regret, unwillingness, attachment—had faded into the river of time.
Melvin looked at the dazed Bloody Baron and paused. "But I can answer this: the afterlife does exist. Wizards who die normally pass through a waystation called the Veil of Limbo. Keep going, and you reach the afterlife."
A glimmer of silver flashed in the Baron's hollow eyes. "How do you get there?"
"Wizards reach it through death. How ghosts get there… I can't say," Melvin admitted, his tone uncertain. "Maybe you don't need to search for it. The Veil isn't a physical place. What you need to find is your own path."
"Your own path…" the Bloody Baron murmured, drifting away, passing through the wall and vanishing.
Other ghosts echoed the phrase, surging toward the young professor.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched silently as the ghosts bombarded Melvin with questions about the afterlife and the Veil. He offered no clear answers, saying he'd read about it in an ancient wizard's book in the library but couldn't recall its title.
Occasionally, Melvin steered the conversation, noting that wizards lacked a precise definition of the soul. He explained Muggle views instead: "The Muggle philosopher Plato believed the soul has three parts: reason, spirit, and appetite. Reason governs wisdom, thought, decision-making, and the pursuit of truth."
A Ravenclaw ghost remarked, "That sounds like Ravenclaw's spirit."
Melvin nodded. "Spirit involves emotions, honor, and courage."
"A mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin ideals," Nick added.
"Appetite drives basic needs—eating, sleeping, enjoying music, appreciating beauty."
"That's like Hufflepuff's nature," another ghost said.
Melvin continued patiently, then posed a question: "Ghosts inherit memories but can't learn new magic or knowledge, losing wisdom. Time erodes spirit, altering personalities—some ghosts grow obsessive or irritable. As for appetites, without taste or touch, are your current preferences truly yours?
"If you were sorted again, which house would you be in?
"Do you still possess your original soul?"
Most ghosts couldn't answer, falling silent.
When the Headless Hunt galloped through the stone walls on spectral horses, they found this quiet scene.
The ghosts stood frozen, staring at the food with complex expressions, hesitating to approach. The musicians gazed at their eerie, haunting saws with wistful nostalgia.
Patrick, holding his head, overheard one murmur, "When we were alive, we played violins…"
Even Nick, the deathday's host, stood stunned, staring at the tar-frosted cake's inscription:
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington
Died 31st October 1492
---
Ten o'clock that evening.
Melvin left Nick and returned to the Great Hall, catching the tail end of the Halloween feast and snagging the last fruit pudding.
As tomorrow was a weekend with no classes, Dumbledore suggested delaying lights-out. Professor McGonagall, slightly flushed from a few extra drinks, said nothing. The students lingered past midnight, finally returning to their dorms under prefects' guidance.
Melvin trailed at the back of the Ravenclaw group.
His presence caused a small stir. After calming a nervous Marietta and asking about the Drama Society, then chatting with Muggle Studies students about their essays, the crowd around him thinned.
The Ravenclaw common room was in a tower on the castle's edge. Entry required answering a logical riddle posed by the eagle-shaped bronze knocker—a rule set by Rowena Ravenclaw herself, who deemed it safer than passwords.
Ravenclaw students prided themselves on their wit, though some struggled with the riddles and had to slip in behind others—an embarrassing ordeal.
Apart from Professor Flitwick, faculty rarely visited the Ravenclaw common room, so students seldom saw professors tackle the knocker's riddles. They were eager to see how Professor Lewent would fare—especially if he got stumped.
At the circular archway, the students paused, glancing back at the young professor.
Melvin, amused by their expectant faces—Penelope, Roger, Cho, even Marietta sneaking peeks—decided it wasn't the time to dig into Ravenclaw's research.
But he didn't turn away.
"Might as well…"
He stepped forward and knocked on the bronze knocker.
A detached female voice spoke: "I exist in everyone's heart, yet no one can claim me. The more I am shared, the more I grow. What am I?"
Melvin pondered for a few seconds. "Knowledge."
Click. The archway opened.
He lingered at the threshold without entering. As he stepped aside, the students cheered. After a moment's thought, he pulled out a parchment, tapped it with his wand, and stuck it to the door.
Once he left, the Ravenclaws crowded around, reading the riddle he'd left:
The Ship of Theseus is a vessel that ages over time. To keep it seaworthy, sailors replace its planks, masts, and ropes until every original part is gone. Is this fully replaced ship still the original Theseus? If not, at what moment did it lose its identity?
---
"Mount my steed and charge!"
"Farewell, my comrades!"
"If you need a noble heart and iron strength, call for Sir Cadogan!"
In the Muggle Studies classroom, the Drama Society was rehearsing. Drawing from the lives of Hogwarts' ghosts and portraits, they'd chosen Sir Cadogan's story to showcase unyielding courage.
"They say I only joined the Round Table through Merlin's favor! But my courage will prove I earned my knight's seat! Wyvern, you fire-breathing beast, meet your end! My heart burns with fearless resolve!
"Oh no, disaster! My wand—blackthorn, giant's beard core, nine inches—burned to ash in your flames! My steed, swallowed in one gulp!
"My armor's broken, my lance shattered, my wand gone, my horse lost—but I'll never retreat!
"Come, little pony grazing by the road, together we charge that evil wyvern!"
"…"
Marietta and Neville watched from the sidelines, pride swelling as the performance took shape.
"I think we can report to the professor. What do you say, Neville?"
"Yep!"
They'd built this from scratch, without relying on the professor!
Just then, a figure pushed open the classroom door.
Before he approached, the Drama Society students squinted—gleaming golden curls meticulously styled, a lavish blue robe with sparkling buttons, even his boots reflecting light.
Gilderoy Lockhart flashed his signature dazzling smile, revealing flawless white teeth. "I hear you're looking for a good story?"
"…"
"A knight who bumbles through coincidences to defeat a wyvern pales next to a seasoned adventurer outwitting dark creatures to save villages. I've got five such stories."
"Well…"
"I, the protagonist, can offer hands-on guidance, with a fanbase and media contacts to ensure your play's success."
"Professor, we…"
"Professor Lewent himself has expressed interest in collaborating with me."
Seeing Marietta hesitate, Neville stepped forward, nudging Lockhart toward the door. "Sorry, Professor, our script's already set."
Bang!
Lockhart stared at the slammed door, his face reddening with indignation.
The Drama Society's announcement had been out for a while, and he'd dismissed it as Melvin's pet project for students. But seeing its momentum and the potential for Invisibility Mirror exposure, he'd offered free guidance—only to be rejected!
Lockhart resolved to confront the Drama Society and Mirror Club's leader directly.