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Chapter 367: The Golden Meteor and the Talk of Hogwarts
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 15:52:12 +0000 UTCIf you were to ask what magic truly is—
Perhaps no one could give you a definite answer.
But if you asked what magic can do, then the answers would be as countless and varied as the stars in the sky.
Maybe it's transfiguration by will, or apparating across continents, or soaring freely on a broomstick…
But no matter how wondrous the answer, it never includes one thing:
Bringing someone back from the dead.
The Great Hall at Hogwarts
Students from Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts were gathered together under one roof.
It was meant to be a lively evening banquet.
But the hall was silent—eerily so.
All eyes were on Hermione Granger's ghost. Before anyone could react, her spectral form began to shimmer, turning into a dazzling, radiant gold. The glow she emitted was so brilliant it dimmed even the floating candles above, like a newborn sun rising in the middle of the hall.
Bathed in that warm, golden light, everyone felt a deep and inexplicable joy—soothing, peaceful, almost euphoric.
Then, just as quickly, Hermione's ghostly figure drifted upward, higher and higher, until it vanished into the night sky.
The silence shattered.
A ghost changing color and flying off wasn't something even the oldest professors had ever witnessed. The head table was a mosaic of stunned expressions.
Professor McGonagall covered her mouth, softly sobbing.
Professor Flitwick looked lost in thought.
Snape and Dumbledore gazed at the sky with a piercing focus, as though trying to see beyond the veil of the heavens.
If even the professors were like this, the students were barely holding it together. Those who didn't know Hermione personally tried to make sense of it, offering analytical or cautious commentary. But those who had been close to her—
Ginny Weasley burst into tears on the spot.
Because she'd overheard Nearly Headless Nick say something that hit like a Bludger to the chest:
She might never see even Hermione's ghost again.
"It's a good thing!" Nick floated midair, muttering almost reverently, his tone a strange blend of pride and envy.
"She was brave, you know. So very brave. She moved on… even if she only lingered a week as a ghost. She let go. She moved on…"
As the longtime ghost of Gryffindor Tower, Nick had seen a lot in his centuries. Though this was rare, he'd heard tales.
When a ghost fades, it usually means the person has finally found peace—has chosen to let go of regret and embrace whatever lies beyond.
Nick wasn't the only one who knew this. As the castle's many ghosts began to explain the phenomenon, more and more people quietly offered their blessings to Hermione.
It was the kind of event that would be remembered for years to come. The kind of story passed down in whispers, retold over late-night cocoa, becoming legend.
After all, legends often begin this way—with awe, grief, and the retelling.
The Scottish Highlands That Night
The night sky above the Highlands was breathtaking.
Utter silence. Only stars remained.
Like scattered gems across a vast midnight canvas, the stars twinkled, serene and eternal.
Hermione wasn't sure how long she'd been flying, but the once-grand castle now looked like a toy model beneath her—shrinking with distance, fading with time.
At first, she could still make out the castle's outline. Then, just the faint orange flickers of firelight—probably from fireplaces and lanterns, spilling out through tall windows.
They looked like earthbound fireflies, dancing in harmony with the stars above.
Thinking of the stars, Hermione lifted her gaze again.
She'd seen them in Astronomy class countless times. But this was the first time they felt… reachable.
Then suddenly—just as she began to feel the monotony of floating endlessly—one star flared with dazzling brilliance.
Startled, she instinctively closed her eyes.
Elsewhere, By the Sea
Far from the bustle of cities and the glittering lights of ports, about three miles from the nearest harbor, nestled a quiet, humble fishing village.
At the break of dawn, fishermen had already set sail. The village itself, in their absence, had fallen into a rare stillness—only children and elders remained behind.
On the village's outskirts stood a modest cottage—weathered by time and salt air.
The morning sunlight filtered through sparse clouds and poured into the house, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the wooden floor.
The furnishings were simple, sparse. A few old pieces of furniture spoke of long-forgotten stories.
A worn but sturdy wooden table, its surface marred with scratches of history. Several bamboo chairs, light yet durable. And that was it—until today.
Because today, there was one new addition.
At the center of the room sat a coffin—ice-blue and crystalline like frozen water.
Beside it stood Ino.
He gently placed a golden apple on Hermione's chest.
The moment it touched her, the apple melted like warm wax, its golden sheen spreading outward until the entire coffin shimmered with soft, celestial light.
In the corner, a middle-aged man named Hans sat quietly on one of the bamboo chairs, half-lidded eyes watching the open window.
The window faced the sea.
The breeze flowed through, bringing with it the scent of salt and the whisper of waves.
The sea stretched beyond, endless and familiar.
Within the still room, there was only the sound of the sea.
Peaceful. Timeless.
Then, from inside the crystal coffin, a soft, dry voice emerged:
"I want some honey lemon water…"
Hermione opened her eyes.
The dazzling starburst from earlier still danced at the edges of her vision.
As her eyes adjusted, she blinked at the sight in front of her.
"Ino…" she whispered.
At the same time, Hans opened his eyes as well, then rose with the sort of calm that suggested this was all part of the plan.
He walked out toward the sea, leaving the two to talk.
Thirty Minutes Later
Hermione sat in the same room, now fully awake, sipping a warm cup of pale yellow honey lemon water. She looked around with quiet curiosity.
Everything here was so… simple.
But the sensation of touch—of warmth, of gravity—made her feel more alive than she could put into words.
When her cup was empty, she set it down gently and turned to Ino.
"So this is the other world you mentioned?" she asked.
"Yup," Ino nodded with an almost wistful smile. "A world of miracles."
Hermione's resurrection, he thought, was nothing short of a miracle. One of the most impossible riddles of the magical world—bringing the dead back to life—had been solved by, of all things, a golden apple delivered by a bird.
If that wasn't a miracle, what was?
"It is a miracle," Hermione agreed, her voice soft but resolute.
No one else could possibly understand the torment of being a ghost better than her.
The first day or two had been mildly interesting—new sensations, a novel experience.
But soon, the novelty wore off, and only suffering remained.
She had drifted through the castle like a forgotten echo, watching the world of the living continue without her. No matter how close she got, she was always apart. Always dead.
She couldn't imagine how ghosts like Nearly Headless Nick managed to endure for centuries. The loneliness. The isolation.
Shuddering slightly at the thought, Hermione turned to Ino once more, hesitant.
"Ino… the other ghosts… is there anything we can do for them?"
He sighed.
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Some things are rules. The miracle that happened to you—it's the exception, not the new standard."
"Miracles… don't scale."
