September 23 — After Midnight, Ravenclaw Tower
The stars above the Ravenclaw dormitory burned clear and sharp through the enchanted skylight, but Rowan's eyes were fixed downward—on the spiral of ink he had drawn across a page in his spellbook.
Twelve lines, branching like tree roots, each inscribed with a different rune sequence. They represented the castle's echo paths—corridors or rooms that changed based on magical resonance, intention, or timing.
And one line—the twelfth—led straight to Aurem.
The forbidden mirror.
Since his last visit, it had not summoned him. But the pull had returned tonight. Not from the stone in his pocket, but from something deeper.
A question he had tried not to ask.
And now he could not ignore it.
The Descent
Rowan walked the silent corridor, robes pulled tight against the castle's unnatural chill. He wore no shoes; quiet mattered more than comfort. His wand rested against his palm, unlit. He didn't need light. He knew every step.
Down past the fourth-floor arch, left through the crooked stair behind the Weeping Warden statue, and through the veiled tapestry that only parted when asked in perfect Old Runic:
"I seek what sees me."
The stone door opened. The staircase awaited.
He descended.
Aurem was waiting.
The Chamber of the Mirror
Tonight, the room was different.
The rune-etched stone that formed the walls pulsed slowly with a dim, amber glow. The air smelled faintly of metal and dust, like a storm on the horizon. The mirror itself no longer looked like glass. It had deepened, darkened—like an obsidian pool that held the sky.
And then it flickered.
Rowan stepped forward.
The mirror opened.
Not literally—but in his mind. It showed not his reflection this time, nor the strange cracked corridor he had seen weeks before. Now, it showed an event.
A vision.
A memory, perhaps—but not his own.
The Vision
A room of firelight.
Wood-paneled walls, high windows, and a long desk covered in vials and crystals. Shelves lined with ancient books. A wand resting atop a velvet cloth—strangely crooked and worn.
And then a figure entered.
Old. Robed in deep burgundy. Half-moon glasses perched on a long nose. A familiar twinkle in the eye.
Albus Dumbledore.
But younger. Much younger. And across the desk sat another man—a stranger with sharp eyes and silver-blonde hair cut close to the skull. He wore no House colors. No identifying mark.
They spoke, though the mirror gave no sound.
Dumbledore handed him a small, red parcel.
The man opened it.
Inside: a stone. Small. Dark red. Smooth as glass.
The Philosopher's Stone.
Rowan's heart quickened.
The man nodded. Took the Stone. Stood.
But just before he left, he turned—looked through the mirror—and stared directly at Rowan.
Then he spoke.
Rowan couldn't hear the words, but his lips moved slowly, deliberately.
He mouthed three words:
"He must choose."
The vision ended.
Silence
Rowan stood motionless for nearly a minute.
His breath returned slowly.
Then he whispered, "Who must choose?"
No answer.
The mirror went dark.
But as it did, something flickered across its surface—an afterimage, a burn.
Three letters. In gold flame.
V.I.T.
He pulled his wand. Cast a preservation charm over the chamber. Marked the glyphs in his notebook.
Then turned to leave.
But before he did, the mirror flickered one last time—just enough to show his own reflection, whispering something he couldn't hear.
Next Morning – Great Hall
He found Hermione seated alone with a mountain of books and a half-full cup of tea. He dropped his notebook beside her.
She jumped slightly. "What—?"
"Translate this," he said, pointing to the letters: V.I.T.
She scanned the letters. "Latin, probably. Could be magical acronym code. V-I-T… vitae? Something to do with life."
"Or eternal life," Rowan said quietly.
Her eyes narrowed. "You're serious."
"There's a mirror. Hidden. Older than the school."
"You saw something?"
"Dumbledore. And someone else. A man with the Stone."
Hermione leaned in. "And what did he say?"
Rowan hesitated.
"'He must choose,'" he repeated.
Hermione frowned. "Who? You?"
"I don't know."
But he did. Somewhere, deep down, he knew exactly who the man had meant.
That Night – Dungeons
He followed the echo again.
This time, it led not to Aurem, but to a corridor near the Potions classroom—one he'd passed many times but never noticed. The pull was subtle, a background hum.
There was a stone tile misaligned by just half an inch.
He pressed it.
The wall groaned.
A passage opened—not a spiral stair, but a direct descent.
And at the end: a vault door. Circular. Smooth.
No keyhole. Just a depression shaped like a hand.
He reached toward it.
The stone in his pocket burned suddenly hot.
Rowan recoiled.
The vault did not open.
But a symbol appeared on its surface.
The same letters: V.I.T.
This was what the mirror had shown him.
This was where the path led.
But it was locked.
Not by a spell.
By time.
It was not ready to open.
Not yet.
Back in the Tower
Rowan sat alone, the map unrolled before him.
Aurem. The echo classroom. Now the vault.
Each step deeper. Each truth more fragmented.
He drew a new diagram.
At its center: a name.
VIT
Beneath it, he wrote the question:
"If the mirror shows what is needed, not what is wanted… then why show me the Stone?"
He closed the book.
And for the first time in his young life, he felt something close to fear.
Not because he didn't know the answer.
But because he did.