When Sean walked over to the fireplace, he saw a ghost.
Beside her stood a short, grey-skinned Pukwudgie with long ears.
A bow and quiver were strapped to his back, and he seemed to be glaring at Sean in displeasure.
"You can call me Morrigan," the ghost lady said.
Sean understood at once—this must be one of the "secrets" Headmistress Herrera had mentioned.
"Say… Mrs. Morrigan," he said—his mind racing so fast that he let the wrong word slip out.
"Has anyone ever told you you're sharp-eyed, child?" Morrigan—Isolt Sayre—smiled, amused.
"Headmaster Dumbledore and—" Sean began, but a startled voice cut him off.
"Isolt, your judgment is, as always, absolutely terrible."
The Pukwudgie stared wide-eyed at Sean—because even with a Pukwudgie's straightforward brain, you wouldn't answer like that.
Sean didn't understand what he meant. But Whitey, perched by the bed, let out an indignant "Hoo!" and lunged as if to swallow the Basilisk biscuit hanging at Sean's chest.
"Sorry—William is always like that," the ghost lady said with mild apology. "William, today you forgot to polish the statues for me."
The Pukwudgie—William—snorted, but vanished instantly.
Whitey flared her wings and shot off in a huff. Sean's soul relic flashed faintly, then went still.
Sean knew Whitey was already exhausted from nonstop errands, and besides, it was hunting time for owls—no matter how strong a Pukwudgie's magic was, Basilisk eye-contact wouldn't give it time to react.
"Whitey… come back, okay?" Sean called.
Whitey pecked the hem of his robe in irritation before hopping back onto the perch by the bed.
"You seem very loved by magical creatures," the ghost lady said, curious.
Sean thought of his epic-tier affinity with magical beasts and nodded.
"In that one respect, you're like me…" the ghost lady said. "You came from Hogwarts? If it isn't rude to ask—what House were you in?"
"Ravenclaw," Sean replied.
"And here at Ilvermorny?" Her smile warmed noticeably.
"Horned Serpent," Sean answered.
"Wonderful!"
Ilvermorny's founder bounced with delight—so enthusiastically that her head popped right up into the ceiling.
Sean could guess why: as a child, Isolt's dream had been to attend Hogwarts as a Ravenclaw.
"You look like you have a lot of questions," the ghost lady said as she floated back down.
"Why are you… still here?" Sean asked carefully.
"As long as equality and justice are not secured—so long as prejudice and persecution remain—then I will not pass on.
The children here are still young. I must make sure those wretched days never return."
Her voice was calm and steady.
Sean looked at her—and saw sorrow in her eyes, oddly enough. Ghosts weren't supposed to have emotions.
"You've done enough," Sean said after a long pause.
No wonder Ilvermorny had never drifted from its course for centuries—Isolt had been here all along.
But for someone clear-minded, death was only a grand adventure—and Isolt, who had always lived with daring in her bones… a life full of adventure, family, and love. At twelve, she had dared to sail alone just to escape her cruel aunt Gormlaith's control—so staying might have been harder than leaving.
"My dear little wizard—should I say it's because I still have knowledge left to carve into the stone?" the ghost lady laughed, delighted.
She waved her hand. The room abruptly turned colder—and in that chill, all the runic characters on the walls flared into visibility.
"William helps me carve this knowledge. He helps me manage the school—these legacies, born from years of love.
And I'm satisfied with my Ilvermorny. It's time for me to leave."
"Leave…?" Sean blinked, confused.
As far as he knew, no magic—not even the Killing Curse—could "kill" a ghost a second time. You could disperse a ghost, but it would re-form. Physical attacks did nothing.
And ghosts couldn't truly enjoy sensory pleasures—eating, sleeping. Over time they grew forgetful and distant, trapped in the emotions of the moment they died. An eternal torment.
So in the vast history of wizardkind, ghosts couldn't truly "die"… yet what they most wanted might be exactly that: rest.
"You don't look surprised at all… adorable child." The ghost lady drifted closer, too pleased with him. "If you're willing to attend Ilvermorny from now on—sorry, Herrera has been going on about it for far too long—I can teach you everything I know."
Before this, she had only known Sean as a genius who appeared out of nowhere. Now she looked at him like he was simply a good kid.
"Sorry," Sean said—still calm, as if nothing could stir him—but even he sensed that wouldn't be convincing enough. "Hogwarts…"
In the long winter night, snow still fell outside.
But Sean knew it wasn't his snow.
That faintly lost expression seemed to snag on the word "Hogwarts." He stared at the pale-blue sky for a long time, then finally said:
"Hogwarts is my home."
"Then… all right."
The ghost lady smiled softly. She silently stepped aside from the hearth.
"A few of the Floo Network routes keep malfunctioning. Would you help me take a look? As payment, I'll tell you some things… about how ghosts can truly die, and about the magical creatures that exist at Ilvermorny."
With that, she vanished. Sean had no idea where a ghost could even go.
So he did as she asked and went to the fireplace.
But then the green flames suddenly surged. Sean stared into the fire—and a large figure appeared within it, spinning fast.
A few seconds later, Professor McGonagall stepped out of the hearth, brushing soot from her robes.
"A shabby setup. A remote little stone hut—and this is where they put you?"
Her voice was tight with restrained anger.
"Professor…" Sean froze. He clearly hadn't expected Isolt to link him to Hogwarts's Floo Network.
"Child. Where's Tayra?" McGonagall snapped, scanning the room.
Whitey fluttered over and landed on the professor's shoulder, hooting as if to lodge an angry complaint.
"Professor…" Sean realized Isolt probably hadn't gone far—meaning they might be blaming someone right in front of her.
"What is it, child?" McGonagall looked down at him.
"…Merry Christmas," Sean said.