Seeing Ghosts

Fighting at Hogwarts had its own particular rules—more precisely, fights between Gryffindor and Slytherin did.

The other two Houses rarely took part in brawls. Ravenclaws were too busy fighting among themselves and were not particularly aggressive toward outsiders, while Hufflepuff—well, their numbers and unity spoke for themselves. Hardly anyone went out of their way to provoke them.

The bad blood between Gryffindor and Slytherin went back so far that no one could trace its origins, so their brawls had gradually developed a set pattern.

First, stay away from the castle. There were simply too many variables inside; if a professor happened to pass by, everyone would end up in detention.

Second, assign lookouts so they could run at the first sign of trouble.

Third, avoid using magic whenever possible. Even if they did use it, they stuck to curses with counter-curses—magical injuries were more serious than injuries from ordinary fists, especially if someone got carried away and used an excessively severe curse.

And finally, run if you could. If you could not, leave one or several people behind to take the fall. Lose some points, serve detention, and it would all be over.

This was not some exception unique to one class of students. It was an unspoken rule formed over years of conflict—a natural result of groups of highly destructive teenagers constantly clashing with one another.

That was also why the Hogwarts hospital wing kept enormous stores of Dittany and a large bottle of serious-injury remedies like Skele-Gro—thanks to these students, Madam Pomfrey could practically sit at the head of the table whenever she went to St. Mungo's Hospital for exchanges.

The reason these rules were being brought up was that first-year Harry Potter had somehow followed them—and somehow broken them.

In short, he had been cornered too.

Normally, the new students from both sides would only start fighting after their respective Quidditch matches. But this year brought a new trend: it had happened early.

The Slytherins had blocked Harry on the way back to the castle after Herbology class, once the students had scattered. They beat him up and ran before the Gryffindors could come to his aid.

Though Harry, Ron, and Neville, who had joined them of his own accord, fought hard, they were still outnumbered and sent to the hospital wing.

Andrew had heard all of this from his dormmate Hal over lunch. According to Hal, another conflict was likely to break out that evening.

"Most first-year problems are settled by first-years. Things only get a little chaotic during Quidditch clashes."

Hal enthusiastically educated his four dormmates on the so-called unwritten rules of those fights—though his explanation was a mess.

Anyway, after listening for half the day, Andrew only confirmed a few things—They would keep fighting until the people capable of rallying others were all put in detention. Then the students would more or less know who the future prefects were.

Unless there was a magical injury, Madam Pomfrey would not tell the professors.

There would be no fights on weekends. Those counted as truce days. Andrew had a strong urge to mock that one, but after thinking it over carefully, he realized it really was wisdom earned through years of fighting.

"Anyway, it depends on their Potions class this afternoon. Haha, the whole year might get dragged in—and it's the last class before the weekend!"

In short, it was going to be a major event.

But Andrew and the others had class too: Magical History.

There was nothing they could do about that. Their classroom was not just a little far away.

"Guess we won't get to see it. This afternoon, we should probably focus on taking proper notes..."

Andrew offered that concluding remark. Everyone checked the time and raised no objections—without any outside factors involved, Ravenclaws would not deny the facts.

"Haah... yawn..."

Having finally endured Magical History, Andrew covered his mouth and let out a huge yawn, then asked whether any of his dormmates wanted to go to the library and study together.

But he could not recruit a single one of them—Magical History was probably especially effective at draining people, and everyone wanted to go back and rest.

After failing to find company, Andrew had no choice but to head to the library alone to finish those two extra assignments and write a little on the side.

"Haah..."

With no one to talk to on the way, the drowsiness that had built up during Magical History refused to fade. When he yawned for the second time, he decided to use cold water in the bathroom to help wake himself up.

I remember there's a spell called the Water-Making Spell. Too bad my foundation is still nowhere near good enough...

As he splashed himself with water, his drowsiness gradually dispersed. Once most of it was gone, he carefully pulled a sheet of paper from his bag and tapped it with his wand, turning it into a towel.

Transfiguration, though—once I understood the theory and put it into practice, my progress became terrifyingly fast...

He casually dried his face with the towel and glanced into the mirror.

His pupils dilated. His breathing stopped. In the mirror, a transparent ghost stood behind him, staring at him intently.

Andrew's hair practically stood on end at once. The drowsiness that had occupied his mind so thoroughly vanished without a trace. He immediately pressed his left hand against the nails in his pocket and prepared to draw his wand.

A ghost!

Wait... as he pulled out his wand, Andrew finally realized. Oh. A ghost.

This was Hogwarts. Ghosts were perfectly normal here.

He had seen ghosts when school started. Ravenclaw's ghost had mostly ignored them, but he had clearly seen the ghosts of the other Houses.

He just... was not used to it yet.

He had been sleepy and looking into a mirror, only to suddenly see a ghost standing behind him—who could possibly get used to that?!

"What are you doing?"

The ghost behind him stared at Andrew with ill intent. Her gaze was aggressively hostile.

"Washing my face." Though Andrew's heart was still pounding after realizing what had happened, he was no longer afraid. The older students had explained it: the only harmful, flammable piece of trash in the entire school—the ghost—was Peeves, a ghost who looked like a man.

"You weren't planning to throw a book at Moaning Myrtle's head or stomach?"

This was most likely the female ghost called Moaning Myrtle, eyeing Andrew's bag suspiciously. It was stuffed full and looked like it contained the tools for a crime.

"I'm a Ravenclaw. I don't do boring things with no payoff."

The two points had nothing to do with each other, and Andrew had seen plenty of Ravenclaws who did boring things to pass the time, but he still stated that crooked logic with complete confidence—it was the quickest way to solve the problem.

He would have to be insane to try arguing with a female ghost who clearly seemed delusional. What kind of normal ghost went into the boys' bathroom and jumped out to scare people?! Any attempt at explanation was doomed to go badly.

"Huh?"

"Boring?"

"No payoff?"

The female ghost's mouth opened wider and wider. Then, under Andrew's confused gaze, she began to cry. "Useless, boring Moaning Myrtle..."

"Moaning Myrtle, looked down on by a first-year brat..."

"Moaning Myrtle, whom nobody cares about..."

Tears rapidly spilled from her transparent eyes. For some reason, the faucets abruptly turned on, and Moaning Myrtle plunged into the pipes and fled, crying all the way.