The mirror was gone, but Harry still saw it sometimes — not in his dreams, but in reflections.
In the edge of a teacup, in the gleam of the windowpane at breakfast, in the polished brass of a cauldron.
A flicker of movement. A hint of faces that weren't really there.
His parents.
He knew it wasn't the Mirror of Erised — just his mind replaying that night, his heart trying to fill a space that had never truly healed. But even so, every glint of glass tugged at him like gravity.
The Mirror hadn't lied.
It had shown him what he wanted most — and what he'd quietly forgotten how to feel.
⸻
March sunlight poured weakly through the Great Hall windows, warming the air just enough to smell of spring and toast. Laughter echoed — a comfortable, everyday kind of sound.
Ron was arguing with Hermione about exams again.
"Revision isn't optional!" she said, stabbing her fork at him.
"And yet," Ron said cheerfully, "I've managed to make it this far without doing it once."
"By copying off me!"
"That's called cooperation."
Harry smiled despite himself, but the laughter felt… muted. Like the sound reached him from a distance.
He poked absently at his breakfast, half-listening, half elsewhere.
It wasn't just the Mirror.
It was him.
There was something different about the way his chest felt when he laughed, something dulled in how joy reached him.
He still wanted to laugh, to joke, to feel everything the way he used to — but it was like someone had put a thin wall of glass between him and the world.
He didn't say it aloud, not even to himself until that moment:
'Dying had broken something inside me.'
It hadn't hurt when it happened — the green light, the cold rush, the stillness.
The pain came after. When he woke again. When life returned, but didn't feel the same.
He'd thought knowledge would fill the hollow space.
It didn't.
And maybe that was what the Mirror had really shown him — not longing, but loss.
⸻
The next few days were ordinary, and maybe that was what saved him.
He helped Neville re-pot a shrieking mandrake in Herbology. Soil flew everywhere, and Neville laughed so hard his earmuffs slipped.
He spent an afternoon with Ron playing chess — Ron obliterated him, of course — and Harry actually swore at a bishop when it winked after capturing his knight.
In Charms, Seamus managed to blow up another feather, leaving the entire class covered in glitter.
Harry laughed — really laughed — when Hermione started sputtering about "flammable charms" and "irresponsible wand handling."
And for the first time in weeks, that laugh didn't feel thin.
It felt like breathing.
⸻
At dinner, Dumbledore's gaze caught him from across the hall. It wasn't sharp or probing — just knowing.
For a moment, Harry wondered if the Headmaster could feel the difference in him. If Dumbledore, in his endless wisdom, had always known what dying would do to someone's heart.
Harry looked down at his plate, pretending to chase peas with his fork.
He didn't need saving. Not anymore.
He just needed time to remember how to live.
⸻
That night, Harry sat by the common room window. The stars shimmered over the Forbidden Forest — silent, patient, eternal.
He thought of his parents, of the Mirror, of the version of himself who'd walked willingly into death.
That boy had been brave. Maybe too brave.
He'd given up everything for the world — and now he had to learn how to take it back, piece by piece.
He took out his notebook. No magical diagrams this time, no theories.
Just a few words.
Magic isn't what I lost.
It's feeling.
Maybe that's the hardest thing to relearn.
He stared at the words, then shut the book and smiled faintly.
Somewhere upstairs, Ron's snoring turned into what sounded like a marching band.
Hermione muttered in her sleep.
The fire popped softly.
For the first time since dying, Harry felt the warmth sink all the way in.
He whispered, almost to the stars,
"All right then. I'll live, too."
⸻
Spring crept into Hogwarts like a secret — warm breezes in the courtyards, damp grass, and the smell of melting snow.
Harry had almost forgotten what sunlight on stone felt like.
Classes were lighter now, laughter louder. Even Snape's dungeons felt a little less icy — though that might have been because Snape was too busy glaring at Neville's melting cauldron to spare time for Harry.
But one afternoon, just after Charms, a note arrived.
A thick scrap of parchment, smudged and slightly singed, dropped right into his lap.
'Harry — come by me hut. Got summat ter show yeh. Bring Ron. – Hagrid.'
Ron's eyes widened when Harry passed it over. "Every time Hagrid says that, something dangerous happens."
Harry grinned. "Then it's definitely worth going."
⸻
The hut was warm and smoky when they arrived, smelling of stew and burnt wood.
Hagrid sat by the fire, beaming, a massive black egg resting on a nest of embers.
Harry's stomach dropped.
He remembered this scene.
The nervous excitement. The soft cracking shell. The hours before everything went wrong.
But even with that memory, he couldn't help but smile. "You actually did it."
Hagrid puffed up proudly. "Ain't she a beauty? Won it off a feller in the pub! Bit of a dodgy character, come ter think of it, but still."
Ron groaned with half-horror. "Hagrid, that's a dragon's egg."
"Norwegian Ridgeback!" Hagrid corrected. "Got the book right here."
Harry leaned closer, eyes tracing the faint veins of magic shimmering around the egg. The air was thick with energy — old, primal. The egg pulsed faintly, resonating with life that hadn't yet been born.
He whispered, "You can almost feel it breathing already."
Hagrid blinked. "Eh?"
"Nothing," Harry said quickly, smiling. "Just… magic feels stronger around things that haven't lived yet."
Ron frowned. "That's a creepy thing to say."
Harry laughed. "You're probably right."
⸻
Over the next few days, the three of them found excuses to sneak to Hagrid's hut after classes.
Hermione, still unaware of Fluffy or the Stone, scolded them for "encouraging recklessness" — but she came anyway.
By the fourth evening, the egg began to tremble.
"Look!" Hagrid gasped. "She's hatching!"
They leaned close as the shell cracked, a sharp line of light running through it.
A scaly snout poked out, followed by small wings, and with a burst of smoke, a baby dragon tumbled free — all claws and hissing and astonished indignation.
"Blimey," Ron whispered. "It's hideous."
Hagrid looked offended. "He's beautiful!"
Harry couldn't help it — he laughed, genuine and loud. "He's perfect, Hagrid."
The baby dragon coughed, releasing a puff of black smoke that filled the hut. They stumbled back, coughing, laughing harder.
For a brief, shining moment, Harry forgot about the Mirror, the Stone, the war that hadn't yet come.
There was only warmth, chaos, and friends pressed shoulder-to-shoulder around something impossible.
He realized, suddenly and almost painfully, that he hadn't laughed like this before he died either.
⸻
The laughter didn't last long.
By the next day, Hagrid's "beautiful little Norbert" had doubled in size and singed two curtains.
His hut reeked of smoke and burnt treacle.
Hermione crossed her arms. "This is illegal."
Hagrid winced. "She's just a baby!"
Harry sighed. "Hagrid, even babies can get you expelled. Or roasted."
But he didn't feel angry. Just amused — and fond.
This, he thought, was what being alive was supposed to feel like: exasperated and happy all at once.
⸻
It was Hermione, of course, who came up with the plan.
"We can't keep her here," she said. "But Charlie — Ron's brother — works with dragons. If we send him a letter…"
Ron nodded eagerly. "He'll take her. He loves the things."
Harry leaned against the wall, smiling faintly. "Then we'll do it tonight."
They spent the afternoon whispering over parchment and owl schedules. Between the planning, they argued about food, homework, and Quidditch in equal measure.
For the first time in months, Harry felt like himself — not a strategist, not a survivor. Just a boy with friends and a ridiculous secret.
⸻
When night fell, they wrapped Norbert carefully in blankets. The dragon hissed and bit Ron twice, nearly setting fire to the curtains, but eventually quieted.
As they crept through the corridors under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry couldn't help laughing quietly at how absurd it all was — sneaking a dragon through Hogwarts at midnight.
"Shh!" Hermione hissed.
"Sorry," he whispered, still grinning. "It's just — can you imagine explaining this to anyone?"
Ron snorted. "I'm not explaining anything. I'm blaming you."
They reached the Astronomy Tower breathless, the night cold and clear.
Charlie's friends were waiting — silhouettes against the starlight.
The handover was quick, whispered, almost reverent.
Norbert gave one last smoky cough, then disappeared into the dark sky.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Then Ron said softly, "I'm going to miss that ugly little menace."
Harry smiled. "Me too."
⸻
On the walk back, under the faint shimmer of the cloak, Harry felt something lift in his chest.
It wasn't the usual thrill of adventure — it was lighter, purer.
He realized that laughter, friendship, and danger all tangled together were what made life worth it.
Not theories. Not power. Not control.
Just being alive.
He whispered, almost to himself, "Maybe I'm starting to remember."
Ron frowned. "Remember what?"
Harry smiled. "How to be happy."
Ron blinked. "Blimey, you're weird sometimes."
Harry laughed. "You have no idea."
⸻