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HP: Infinite Talent, Ch 43-46
🕑 Added 2025-10-14 12:21:18 +0000 UTCChapter 43 — Harry: Someone Wants to Hurt Me
That day, the first-year students at Hogwarts were reviewing the Levitation Charm in Charms class.
The castle had already been decorated for the upcoming Halloween feast—pumpkin lanterns hanging everywhere, each one enchanted personally by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore to emit a soft, eerie blue glow. Floating in midair, they gave the whole castle a strangely ghostly atmosphere.
Professor Flitwick, who was in charge of hanging those very pumpkins with the Levitation Charm, decided to have his first-years review the spell. It seemed he wanted to make sure that anyone who still couldn’t cast it properly would at least reach a passing standard before the feast.
And indeed—though it was already almost November—there were still plenty of students who couldn’t perform a decent Levitation Charm. Among them were Harry and Ron.
“Wingardium~Leviosa!”
The classroom was filled with overlapping incantations, a chaotic chorus much like their first attempts weeks ago—like a roomful of poltergeists having a brawl.
Harry was making progress; the feather on his desk twitched when he cast his spell. Ron, however, was growing increasingly frustrated with every failed attempt. His arm swung wider and wider, his voice rising with irritation, until he looked seconds away from grabbing that stubborn feather and eating it out of spite.
Hermione, sitting behind them with Ark, frowned at the sight.
A few weeks ago, she would’ve jumped in immediately to lecture Ron on pronunciation and wand movement.
But after a glance at Ark—who was effortlessly guiding his feather through a jaunty little tap dance across the table—she held her tongue and kept practicing in silence, trying instead to make her own feather change direction midair.
Ark, who was always half-aware of Hermione’s actions, caught the look out of the corner of his eye and smiled quietly before turning to help the Patil twins beside him.
Within minutes, both Parvati and Padma managed to make their feathers float properly. Professor Flitwick was delighted, awarding five points each to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.
“Bang!”
A sudden explosion rocked the room, making everyone jump.
“Oh dear me—how on earth did someone turn a Levitation Charm into an Exploding Charm?!” cried Professor Flitwick.
When the smoke cleared, one unfortunate Gryffindor boy stood with his mouth open, coughing out puffs of black smoke. His face was completely covered in soot, and his hair had transformed into a full-blown explosion.
A wave of laughter rippled through the classroom.
“I’m starting to think Seamus Finnigan might actually be a human fire crab,” Hermione muttered later, walking down the corridor with Ark after class. “He can turn anything into an explosion—spells, potions, you name it.”
And it was true. Nine times out of ten, whatever Seamus cast would end with a bang. The tenth would probably burst into flames instead. Even his potions were disasters waiting to happen; the simplest mixture became a cauldron bomb in his hands.
Ark chuckled. “That’s… probably a kind of talent, don’t you think?”
He wasn’t joking—he actually meant it. In his mind, Seamus’s knack for explosions might be its own strange gift, not unlike his own Mind Guidance ability or Harry’s Parseltongue.
“Maybe he should consider a Muggle career,” Parvati said with a grin. “Demolition crews would love him.”
She and Padma walked on either side of Ark and Hermione, the four of them chatting and laughing together like a cross-House group of friends—two Ravenclaws and two Gryffindors, drawing curious looks as they passed.
Parvati even looped her arm through Hermione’s, the two of them looking every bit like close friends.
It was a new development.
Since Hermione had stopped showing off her knowledge quite so smugly, her dormmates had warmed up to her, and her friendship with Parvati had grown especially quickly—helped along by all the times Ark brought them together.
In classes shared by Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, Ark, Hermione, Parvati, and Padma always sat together now—a little mixed group of their own.
The side effect, though, was that Hermione didn’t grow as close to Harry and Ron as in the original story. She still called them “Potter” and “Weasley,” and they still called her “Granger.” The legendary trio hadn’t formed at all.
No one noticed this shift except Ark, who didn’t particularly care.
Time passed, and evening came. The Halloween Feast began.
As the students poured into the Great Hall, their eyes widened at the sight. Hundreds of pumpkin lanterns floated in the air; bats flapped across the walls and ceiling; low-hanging clouds drifted just above the dining tables, making the candle flames inside the pumpkins flicker.
All four Heads of House were present at the professors’ table. Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout chatted cheerfully, tiny glowing bat patterns twinkling across their robes. Even Professor McGonagall had set aside her usual sternness to clink glasses with Dumbledore.
Some professors were already eating, others were laughing and talking. Only Professor Snape sat in silence, his face expressionless. But anyone who looked closely would see a trace of sorrow in his eyes—something rare and raw.
October 31st. Halloween night. Ten years to the day since he’d lost the woman he loved.
As that beautiful face surfaced in his mind again, Snape downed a full glass of wine in one gulp, then turned his gaze toward the Gryffindor table—toward Harry Potter, who was happily tearing into a chicken leg beside Ron.
How dare you smile like that?
Ten years ago, your mother died protecting you from Voldemort. Do you even know? Do you care?
If only you’d inherited more of her… you might’ve had a lovely smile.
But no—you had to have his face. James Potter’s smug, infuriating grin. Laughing, just like him…
Names of disfiguring potions drifted through Snape’s mind, each more creative than the last. He started imagining ways to trick the boy into drinking one.
As long as those green eyes stayed unharmed, the rest of that face could rot, for all he cared.
The malicious thought must’ve crossed some invisible link, because Harry suddenly shivered.
“What’s wrong?” Ron asked, noticing him glance around nervously.
“Nothing,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Just felt like… someone wants to hurt me.”
“Who?” Ron blinked, then his expression brightened with what he clearly thought was brilliance. “Malfoy, obviously! Who else is always plotting against us?”
Harry immediately turned toward the Slytherin table—and sure enough, his eyes met Draco Malfoy’s.
Malfoy didn’t look guilty in the slightest. Instead, he smirked and made a throat-slitting gesture.
That settled it for Harry. He believed Ron completely and started wondering if he should strike first.
Poor Malfoy had no idea he’d just taken the blame for his Head of House.
Not that it mattered—Snape’s own misfortune was about to begin.
“BANG!”
The Great Hall doors burst open with a deafening crash.
Professor Quirrell stumbled inside, his face white with terror.
“Troll! Troll in the dungeon!” he cried. “I thought—you ought to know!”
Then he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
For a moment, the hall was utterly silent.
And then, chaos erupted.
Chapter 44 — The Ghost in the Common Room
A troll.
A massive magical creature of astonishing strength—and pitifully low intelligence.
Standing nearly twelve feet tall and weighing well over a ton, a troll’s skin was dull and gray like rough granite. Its body was bulky, its bald round head small as a coconut, and its legs thick as tree trunks. Huge, calloused feet slapped the ground with every step, and its long arms hung down almost to its knees. The stench that poured off its body could make anyone gag. Ask ten people to name the most disgusting creature alive, and nine would choose trolls. The tenth would probably be an idiot—like Barnabas the Barmy.
Because of their notorious stupidity, “troll” had even become a grade level on wizarding exams—reserved for utter failure. Maybe that explained their violent tempers. Trolls often attacked without warning, seizing wild animals or even humans for food. So while most wizards despised them, they also understood just how dangerous a troll could be.
And now, on Halloween night, during the grand feast at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Professor Quirrell had just announced that one of these creatures was loose somewhere in the castle’s dungeons.
Panic broke out instantly. The Great Hall erupted into chaos as hundreds of young wizards shrieked and stumbled over one another in fright.
“Silence!”
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore—who had been smiling moments ago—rose to his feet. His eyes flicked briefly, and not without meaning, toward the collapsed figure of Quirrell on the floor. Then he drew his wand, knobby and pale like bone, and tapped it to his throat.
When he spoke again, his magically amplified voice boomed across the hall.
“Prefects, lead your Houses back to their dormitories immediately. Take roll and make sure no student is left behind!”
The Prefects jumped into action at once, shouting orders and ushering terrified students toward their respective exits.
Ark exchanged a quick glance with Hermione Granger at the Gryffindor table, then followed the Ravenclaw Prefect toward the doors while sneaking a look at the staff table.
Every Professor had drawn their wand, faces set in grim determination as they hurried out. Among them was Severus Snape, though his sharp, watchful eyes lingered on the fallen Quirrell like a predator studying prey.
Clearly, the Head of Slytherin already suspected foul play.
And he was right.
The troll wasn’t an accident at all—it had been brought into the castle by Quirrell himself. His true purpose was to lure Dumbledore and the other Professors away from the Great Hall so he could slip upstairs and steal what lay hidden beneath the room at the end of the fourth-floor corridor: the Philosopher’s Stone.
Quirrell’s collapse was only an act. Once the Professors were gone, he’d be making his move.
Snape, meanwhile, would head to the same floor to make sure the Stone remained safe—and would end up with a nasty bite on the leg from the Three-Headed Dog guarding the trapdoor.
That was no small injury. Getting bitten by a rabid dog was bad enough—being mauled by a monster like that was something else entirely. But really, who could Snape blame but himself?
Because the truth was, Severus Snape was powerful.
How powerful?
Even Voldemort himself had praised his abilities and personally taught him a method of flight through pure magic—making him one of only two wizards in recorded history capable of flying unaided, without a broom or Animagus form.
Back in his school days, Snape had already begun inventing his own spells. By fifth year, he had several original curses to his name. His magical talent was at least equal to his genius in potion-making. Though the youngest of the four Heads of House, his power placed him among the strongest. Even Professor Flitwick, a former Dueling Champion, and Professor McGonagall, the master of Transfiguration, might not necessarily surpass him.
In Ark’s eyes, Snape stood at the pinnacle of ordinary wizards—stronger than most of the Ministry of Magic’s elite Aurors.
If Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Voldemort were the world’s “Tier Zero” monsters—gods among mortals—then Snape was Tier One: one of the closest mortals could get to their level.
A man like that could probably defeat a dragon in single combat. And yet he’d been bitten by a dog.
That, Ark decided, was on him.
The Three-Headed Dog might be fierce, but it wasn’t stronger than a dragon. Snape had no excuse.
Quirrell, on the other hand, did. Before being possessed by Voldemort, he’d been more scholar than fighter—known for his theory, not his skill. And with a half-dead Dark Lord clinging to him, neither had the strength to face the beast head-on. That was why they needed tricks to get past it.
But Snape? No, he’d simply been careless.
“Should I… follow them?”
As the Professors disappeared through the doors, Ark trailed behind the Ravenclaw line, the thought flickering in his mind.
After a moment’s consideration, he shook it off.
“Forget it. No need to stand out. The last thing I want is to catch the attention of that noseless lunatic.”
Better to stick with the plan. Until he could form his special Patronus—strong enough to counter Dark Arts—he’d stay as far away from Quirrell as possible.
It had been two months since Ark arrived at Hogwarts, and he’d spent most of that time training secretly in the Room of Requirement. He’d mastered advanced spells like Apparition, the Disillusionment Charm, and the Undetectable Extension Charm—yet his special Patronus still hadn’t taken shape.
He realized he’d underestimated both the difficulty of creating it and the sheer intensity of positive emotion required.
Even with his Mind Guidance improving by leaps and bounds—his control sharper, his magical output stronger—his Patronus remained incomplete. He’d even studied restricted Dark Arts spells from the library’s forbidden section, learning to channel negative emotions to enhance their power, but the special Patronus continued to elude him.
If not for the faint signs that the forming Patronus was no longer taking an ordinary animal shape—but rather that of a magical creature—he might have thought his entire approach was wrong.
“Maybe I should get a Dementor to practice with?” he mused later, sitting cross-legged on his bed after returning to the dormitory.
After all, Harry Potter had trained against Dementors to perfect his Patronus Charm. Why couldn’t he?
Except… where would he even find one?
Dementors weren’t ordinary magical beings. They were dark, foul creatures that fed on human happiness, leaving nothing but cold despair in their wake. Their very existence symbolized decay and hopelessness.
Most of them were under Ministry control, stationed as guards at Azkaban prison—the one place Ark knew for certain was crawling with them.
Was he really going to break into Azkaban to catch one?
“Yeah, no thanks…” he muttered.
With a sigh, he flopped back on his bed. “Guess I’ll just keep practicing the hard way.”
He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
…
Late that night, after catching up on rest, Ark woke easily. He cast a Disillusionment Charm and a Silencing Charm on himself out of habit before slipping quietly out of the dormitory.
Yawning, he made his way through the Ravenclaw common room, intending to head to the eighth floor—to the Room of Requirement—for another round of late-night practice.
But as he reached the exit, Ark suddenly froze.
Because there, floating silently in the middle of the common room—was a ghost.
Chapter 45 — Ravenclaw’s Legacy
At this point, Ark was hardly the type to be frightened by a ghost suddenly appearing beside him.
He’d long since grown used to these spectral beings who might drift right out of the walls of Hogwarts at any given moment. Even if one happened to float into his dorm while he was asleep, he wouldn’t so much as flinch anymore.
If it had been any other ghost wandering around the Ravenclaw common room, Ark would’ve just pretended not to see it—ignored it completely and gone on his way.
But when he saw this particular ghost, he stopped in his tracks.
It was a tall woman—an unusually tall female ghost.
She wore an elegant medieval gown, her transparent features forming a face of striking beauty. Her figure was graceful, curvaceous, even a little sensual—a hauntingly beautiful ghost in every sense.
At that moment, the ghost floated silently before the white marble statue that stood in the middle of the Ravenclaw Common Room. She gazed at it blankly, her expression heavy with a sadness so palpable that even her translucent eyes seemed to shimmer with grief.
Watching her, Ark hesitated for a moment, then quietly lifted the Disillusionment Charm and Silencing Charm from himself. He stepped closer.
“Happy Halloween, Lady Grey,” he said softly.
The beautiful ghost before him was none other than the Grey Lady—the House Ghost of Ravenclaw.
She turned her head toward him, her sorrow giving way to cool indifference as she met his gentle smile.
“My apologies, young wizard,” she said, her voice airy and distant, yet tinged with quiet pride. “If you’ve come because you’ve lost something and need my help finding it, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’m not in the mood tonight.”
Her tone carried that familiar Ravenclaw hauteur, but the fact that she hadn’t simply ignored him showed she wasn’t heartless.
“You do seem to be in rather low spirits,” Ark said softly. “Forgive me if I’ve intruded. I was only curious about the famous ghost of our House and thought I might take the chance to speak with you.”
“You’ve certainly picked a fine time for it, young wizard.” The Grey Lady gave him a sidelong glance. “All the well-behaved students are already in bed. Even those troublesome teenagers who sneak here at night for their little romantic escapades have gone back to their dormitories. And yet you choose this hour to chat with a lady? That’s hardly proper conduct.”
Clearly, she was chastising him for roaming about in the middle of the night.
Ark didn’t respond. He only smiled quietly, then turned his gaze to the marble statue she’d been staring at.
“Were you speaking to Lady Ravenclaw just now?” he asked.
That white marble statue was none other than Rowena Ravenclaw herself—one of the four founders of Hogwarts and the founder of their House.
A delicate crown rested on her head, and her sculpted features radiated wisdom and intelligence. She looked like a brilliant witch at the height of her power—her expression poised and commanding, like that of a traditional professor whose intellect carried its own quiet authority.
The Grey Lady stared at the statue as though she couldn’t wipe away the grief in her eyes no matter how she tried.
“How I wish she could move again—speak to me, even for a moment,” the ghost murmured, her voice trembling with longing. “And yet, I feel I have no right to face her. If I ever truly saw her again… I think I’d only run away.”
“It sounds like you knew Lady Ravenclaw personally,” Ark said carefully. “Were you… related to our founder, perhaps?”
“Prying into another’s past isn’t polite either, young wizard.” The Grey Lady tossed her head irritably, as though shaking off painful memories. “Don’t think I don’t know who you are—Ark Byrne, first-year, Hogwarts’ rising star. A rare prodigy of Ravenclaw, they say. Everyone insists you’re well-mannered, yet here you are, forgetting your manners in front of me.”
Her tone sharpened. “Or do you think that because I’m merely a ghost, you don’t owe me courtesy?”
“You misunderstand me.” Ark gave a wry smile and raised both hands in surrender. “I’m simply curious about our founder. After all, Lady Ravenclaw is said to be the wisest and most brilliant of all witches. As a Ravenclaw, how could I not be fascinated by the one who embodies knowledge itself?”
At that, some of the frost on her face began to thaw.
“Very well, I believe you,” she said finally, drifting closer until she hovered right before him. Her sharp gaze roamed over his face for a moment before she gave a soft, disdainful huff. “Still, your charming face and silver tongue remind me far too much of a deceitful scoundrel I once knew. But since you’re a Ravenclaw, I’ll choose to trust you—for now.”
Her voice softened, but her expression grew distant again. “That said, young wizard, there are certain topics about Ravenclaw I would rather not discuss.”
She floated upward slightly and extended a hand toward the castle beyond the windows.
“Since you’re so fond of knowledge and spend all your time buried in the Library, I’ll point you to a better place. On the eighth floor of the castle, there’s a hidden room—a chamber of wishes. It’s concealed behind a wall and only appears when someone truly needs it.”
“If you can find that wall,” she continued, “walk back and forth before it three times, thinking clearly: I need a place to read. Do that, and you’ll find yourself in a room filled with the knowledge you seek.”
The Grey Lady rose higher, looking down at him as though delivering a final secret.
“I’m telling you this only because you’re a gifted young man—and a Ravenclaw. That room is precious, and its existence must remain a secret. Tell no one else of it.”
“As for whether you’ll find it… well, that depends on whether you are worthy of the mother’s blessing—the blessing of Ravenclaw herself.”
With that, the Grey Lady turned and glided away, vanishing through the wall before Ark could even think to stop her.
He stood there, staring blankly after her for several long seconds before muttering to himself, “A wishing room on the eighth floor… isn’t that just the Room of Requirement?”
The Grey Lady knew about it too?
And from the way she spoke, it sounded like the room had some deeper connection to Ravenclaw—one that might hold knowledge meant only for her chosen heirs.
“Could it be…”
Ark’s mind flashed to the tales of the Four Founders.
It was said that each of them had left behind a treasured relic—and perhaps even a legacy hidden somewhere within Hogwarts.
Salazar Slytherin, for instance, had built a secret chamber within the school, created during a rift with the other founders. It was meant to find a true heir who would uphold his belief in pure-blood supremacy.
The heir of Slytherin alone could open that chamber—using Parseltongue, no less—and once opened, Hogwarts would be “cleansed” of all Muggle-born students.
It was a legend passed down for centuries—one few believed—but Ark knew it was true. Salazar Slytherin had built such a chamber. The entrance lay within a girls’ bathroom on the second floor, and inside dwelled a thousand-year-old basilisk. Next year, that very creature would plunge Hogwarts into chaos once again.
Voldemort himself had once opened it—becoming Slytherin’s heir, inheriting his founder’s legacy, and commanding the basilisk to kill.
If that were true… could it be that the other founders had also left something behind?
Perhaps Ravenclaw had created a similar space within the school—one hidden room containing the wisdom she so cherished.
“The knowledge one desires…” Ark murmured, deep in thought. Then, without another word, he left the common room.
After recasting the Disillusionment Charm and Silencing Charm, he made his way swiftly to the eighth floor of the castle.
“I need a place to read… I need a place to read…”
He paced three times before the blank wall, repeating the words just as the Grey Lady had instructed. Moments later, a door appeared in front of him.
Ark opened it and stepped inside with practiced ease.
But what greeted him wasn’t the familiar open space he used for practicing spells—it was a study.
Chapter 46 — What a Wasteful Woman
It was a large study.
The atmosphere reminded Ark somewhat of the Library at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—the decor carried the same scholarly air—but unlike the Library, this place held only a few massive bookcases lined against the far wall, rather than row upon row of endless shelves.
The room itself was open and oval-shaped. The back wall curved in a graceful arc, with the bookcases arranged in a half-circle around a raised platform. At the center of that platform stood a luxurious desk and an armchair, the kind that immediately told you this space was meant for reading—or perhaps for work of great importance.
As the door closed behind him, Ark slowly walked forward, eyes roaming over every detail until he reached the platform and approached the desk.
There were sheets of parchment, bottles of ink, quills, and a few open books scattered across it. On one corner of the desk, a short inscription had been carved:
“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.”
The moment he read it, Ark was certain.
“This is Rowena Ravenclaw’s study.”
That quote was famous throughout Hogwarts—it was her very own maxim.
Which meant…
“The Room of Requirement might’ve been built by Rowena Ravenclaw herself,” Ark thought, the idea striking him like lightning.
Otherwise, why would her private study appear inside the Room of Requirement?
The original books never explained who had created the room, but among all possibilities, Ravenclaw was the most likely.
After all, Rowena Ravenclaw was regarded as the most intelligent witch of her age—the one who had designed the ever-shifting blueprints of Hogwarts Castle itself. In a sense, the castle was her creation.
So perhaps, just as Salazar Slytherin had secretly built his Chamber of Secrets, Rowena Ravenclaw had done the same—but for a different purpose. Slytherin’s chamber had been a test for his chosen heir, a place to preserve his ideals. Ravenclaw’s secret chamber, on the other hand, might simply have been a quiet place to read.
The evidence was right in front of him. There were open books on the desk, elegant handwriting still visible on unfinished parchment—the ink yet to fade. The scene felt less like a vault of inheritance and more like someone’s hidden retreat, a personal haven for study.
“Rowena Ravenclaw used to sit here, quietly reading, writing down her thoughts by candlelight…”
Ark could almost picture it. He picked up one of the books on the desk and flipped through it.
He’d never seen this particular volume in the Library before.
One glance was enough to tell him it wasn’t something an ordinary student could understand—not even most adult wizards. The writing was dense, abstract, filled with advanced theory. It was the kind of material only a true scholar could make sense of—a book written for intellectuals.
When he checked the author’s name, he froze.
It was written by Rowena Ravenclaw herself.
“Don’t tell me… all the books here were written by her?” he whispered.
The thought made him swallow hard.
If every book here truly came from Ravenclaw’s own hand, then wasn’t this place essentially her legacy?
Eagerly, Ark hurried to the bookcases and began to examine each shelf.
After about an hour of careful inspection, he came to a conclusion: every single book here was either written by Rowena Ravenclaw herself or handpicked by her for their exceptional value.
And if even she had deemed these works worth preserving, their worth was beyond measure. The knowledge contained here had to be extraordinary—perhaps even beyond what the Restricted Section held.
Ravenclaw hadn’t placed them in the Library for a reason. Either they contained truths too advanced—or too dangerous—for ordinary wizards, or she simply saw no need to share them. The books she authored, for instance, had likely never been intended for public release.
Their value was unimaginable. They represented the culmination of Ravenclaw’s lifetime of learning—organized, refined, and codified into something greater. Even in the modern era, such a trove of magical knowledge would be priceless.
“Just by virtue of these books alone,” Ark murmured, “this study might be more valuable than the entire Hogwarts Library—perhaps even surpass it.”
He was certain of it.
“The true heart of the Room of Requirement is this place. This study is its greatest treasure—greater, perhaps, than any of the founders’ legendary relics.”
As far as he could guess, the only people who knew of this study’s existence were Rowena Ravenclaw herself—and the Grey Lady.
After all, the Grey Lady’s real name was Helena Ravenclaw—Rowena’s daughter.
“She really gave this away that easily?” Ark muttered, half in disbelief. “What a generous woman…”
It was almost absurd. All of Ravenclaw’s personal research, all her collected wisdom—if the existence of this room ever became known, it would shake not just Britain’s wizarding world, but the entire magical community across the globe.
And yet her daughter had casually handed it over… to a first-year who’d only just enrolled two months ago.
On their first meeting, no less.
That was one hell of a gift.
“Seriously? Just like that?”
Ark frowned, then reconsidered.
“No… perhaps the Grey Lady—or rather, Helena Ravenclaw—doesn’t actually understand how valuable this place is.”
It made sense. Compared to her brilliant mother, Helena Ravenclaw had never been particularly bright. In fact, she’d been rather foolish.
In life, she’d idolized her mother’s intellect—so much so that admiration turned into envy. Desperate to surpass Rowena, she’d stolen her mother’s diadem and fled to Albania.
That diadem, one of Rowena’s most famous relics, was said to grant wisdom to whoever wore it. Helena had wanted that wisdom for herself.
But instead of becoming wiser, she’d only met tragedy. When the man Rowena sent to retrieve her finally found her, their confrontation in the Albanian forest ended in her death—an impulsive killing born of anger. From then on, Helena Ravenclaw became a ghost.
Even in death, her folly persisted. She never grew wiser, and decades later, she was deceived by Voldemort, revealing the location of the diadem—allowing him to corrupt it into a Horcrux.
Every part of her story screamed of poor judgment. A woman with access to an endless well of knowledge, yet she never truly learned. She’d sought shortcuts instead—stealing her mother’s relic, dying for it, and later betraying it to a charming liar. Hardly fitting for someone bearing the name Ravenclaw.
She may have known of this study’s existence, but she clearly didn’t comprehend its true worth. To her, it was just her mother’s old reading room—nothing more. Something akin to another Library.
That was likely why she’d mentioned it so casually.
Ark remembered her exact words:
“Since you’re curious about the one who favors knowledge, and you spend every day in the Library reading, I’ll introduce you to a good place.”
When she’d said that, her tone hadn’t been solemn at all—just offhand, almost cheerful. It was exactly how someone might describe a quiet study nook, not a priceless magical archive.
Given her intellect—or lack thereof—she probably couldn’t understand most of the books here anyway. No wonder she didn’t think much of it.
Ark groaned softly, rubbing his temples. “Good grief… what a wasteful woman.”
Her mother’s relic—the diadem that could enhance one’s wisdom—given away to an outsider from another House.
Her mother’s study—the vault containing a lifetime of magical knowledge—handed to a first-year who’d barely settled in.
Ravenclaw’s two greatest treasures, both gone thanks to her.
“Good thing you changed your name,” Ark muttered with a crooked grin. “If the world ever found out what you’d done, your mother would probably claw her way out of the coffin just to scold you.”
He sighed, then chuckled softly to himself.
Well, either way, he wasn’t about to complain.
Since fate had handed him such a fortune, he’d accept it without hesitation.
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