In a corner of the corridor.
A gleaming suit of armor stood tall, and atop it sat a pitch-black cat.
With a graceful leap, the cat shifted into a young wizard and slipped silently away.
Sir Cadogan's pony was more loyal to chivalry than he was. Sean figured if he wasn't completely sincere—or at least acting the part—he wouldn't be able to ride it.
So he came to check. Turns out Sir Cadogan had gone off to prank the prefects.
Back in Hope Cottage.
Sean lit a magical candle at his desk.
For two straight days, he pored over the notes.
They were messy, scattered, and sometimes wildly off-track—like debating whether the water from Aguamenti in ancient runes was drinkable…
But compared to Professor Tella's notes, these had advanced runic sections.
Tella's notes had skimped on high-level runes—probably to keep Sean from doing anything too dangerous.
Like Columbus discovering the New World, Sean found the real runes in the other pile.
Mostly failed experiments from wizards long past. But their failures weren't useless. Sean picked up key ancient runes. In old Forsak's rune poems, g stood for gift, positivity, miracle; o for possession, gaining things beyond consciousness and experience.
These would be gold for transforming into magical creatures.
Thanks to the notes, Sean also had ideas about runes and materials.
Once Professor Tella returned, he could start testing the cat idiom biscuits.
Third evening of Christmas break.
Harry and Ron burst into Hope Cottage, out of breath.
"Sean, you have to come see this!"
Harry looked dead serious.
…
Night.
The castle slept. Whispers echoed down a fourth-floor corridor.
"You putting it on, Sean?"
A patch of air spoke—Harry under the Invisibility Cloak, next to a shivering Ron.
Sean shook his head and cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself.
[You practiced the Disillusionment Charm to skilled standards. Proficiency +10]
He never missed a chance to practice spells.
"You just…"
Harry's eyes went wide.
"I read about this somewhere—this is a Disillusionment Charm?!"
Ron yelped, then clapped a hand over his mouth.
And so the mission began.
Sean hadn't wanted to come, but then he thought: what if the mirror showed him a book he'd overlooked—one he secretly craved?
Memory can trick you. And it wouldn't take long.
December always brought more snow, sometimes with biting wind. In the corridor, Ron was already trembling.
"I'm freezing," he muttered.
"Let's just go back."
"No way!" Harry hissed.
"I know it's close."
They passed a tall, wandering ghost but saw no one else.
As Ron started whining that his feet were going numb, Harry spotted the armor.
"Here—it's here—yes!"
They pushed open the door. Harry flung off the cloak and bolted to the mirror.
He saw them—still there. His mom and dad beamed the moment they spotted him.
Ron froze. When Harry stepped aside, Ron saw himself wearing Bill's old prefect badge—holding the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup—captain of the team?!
Sean let the charm fade and scanned the room. It looked like an abandoned classroom.
Desks and chairs were shoved against the walls in dark clumps. An upturned wastebasket. But against the far wall stood something that didn't belong—like someone had stashed it there with nowhere else to put it.
A magnificent mirror, tall as the ceiling. Ornate gold frame. Supported by two clawed feet. At the top, an inscription: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Sean knew if you read it backward: The Mirror of Erised shows the deepest, most desperate desire of your heart.
So what would he see?
He was curious now.
Harry and Ron were still bickering:
"You had it all to yourself last night—give me a turn!"
Ron complained.
"You're just holding the Quidditch Cup. What's fun about that? I want to see my parents."
Harry shot back.
"Don't shove me—"
"Oh—Ron, wait—Sean!"
"Merlin's beard—how did we forget?!"
Harry and Ron spun around, sheepish, and quickly made room.
Sean nodded and stepped up to the mirror.
At the same moment, a figure slowly appeared.
A pair of pure, deep green eyes. Sean locked gazes with the reflection for a moment—then heard Harry stammer.
"Oh no, Sean—why… why did it turn into a normal mirror for you?"
Only Sean knew how much the image had shifted in that instant.
Soon, the night grew deeper.
A black cat darted back through the shadows, transforming into a black-robed young wizard.
Sean stared into those green eyes. The scene blurred slightly.
First: a rundown orphanage. The dead children appeared again.
Then: the towering grandeur of Hogwarts. The Great Hall—every professor crystal clear. Even Dumbledore at the head table, blinking.
The images flashed by. Finally, one remained: a black-haired, green-eyed young wizard, staring back at Sean from afar.
"So to you, it's just a mirror…" A soft voice came from the shadows. "Mind if I saw your past?"
A long-bearded, white-haired old wizard stepped forward, voice lighter now.
"Those… children. Are they still there?"
Sean greeted, "Headmaster Dumbledore," and shook his head.
"I'm sorry for it. But child, I once knew someone in a place just as worthy of hate.
He was gifted. Brilliant. Like you, he wanted to escape. To be extraordinary. To shine.
But child—why does happiness come so easily to you?"
Sean knew who Dumbledore meant. None other than Dumbledore himself.
"The past is a ghost, Headmaster. To me, it's vague. Weightless. The future matters.
…And imagined futures are unreliable. My gut's always told me one thing: rely on yourself. That's the best bet."
Dumbledore had to admit—he'd never met a wizard quite like this. A stubborn soul, stumbling step by step toward a home of his own.
He'd seen the fleeting image of Hogwarts. The quiet, forged resolve the boy might not even realize he had.
This land had endured ten centuries of cold and hardship. As the biting wind from the high tower whipped around his throat like a blade, only one thing remained in Dumbledore's mind:
Those brilliant, blazing green eyes.