Harry watched Dyna devour his food at the long table—lying across the bench, practically sprawled out—and he couldn't help but sigh in admiration. "Dyna, the way you eat… is something else," he said.
Dyna shrugged without looking up. "I don't want to either."
"What's wrong?" Harry asked.
"My magic went berserk again. I can't control the surging power."
Ron's eyes widened. "Magic going berserk? Isn't that something that happens only to eleven-year-olds?"
Harry glanced at Ron for clarification. Ron, drawing on everything he'd learned from his wizarding heritage, replied, "Yes. If a young wizard loses control of their magic and suppresses their emotions, they can become an Obscurial—almost none survive past age ten. If Amyrise can't control this, he might die."
Harry's heart sank. Suppressed emotions—was that what had been happening to Dyna? Over the months at Hogwarts, he'd seen that Dyna was avoided by practically everyone. Only Hermione and Hannah Abbott had shown him kindness. Harry felt a pang of guilt—how had he let Dyna drift out of his orbit?
Later that afternoon, Dyna practiced channeling magic in the courtyard under Professor McGonagall's watchful eye. The two battled continuously—Dyna against McGonagall's formidable Transfiguration. Despite McGonagall's age, she wielded magic with breathtaking strength and precision. If not for Dumbledore, she'd be Hogwarts' most powerful spellcaster.
Dyna's spellcasting grew faster, more accurate. He'd begun casting silently, a sign of high skill. McGonagall guided him with a proud, astonished expression—this child's comprehension of magic was unlike anything she'd ever seen.
Meanwhile, in Ravenclaw Tower, Quirinus Quirrell stood in a quiet corner, his head bowed as he watched. Most of Ravenclaw's students had gone home for the Christmas holidays, leaving only a few who were either buried in books or out on dates. Without eyes on him, Quirrell conversed aloud with the whisper of his secret master.
"Master, Dyna Amyrise is powerful," Quirrell said in muted tones. "If he's always by Harry Potter, I won't dare face Harry."
"Don't forget your task," came the raspy reply behind him. "Find the Philosopher's Stone. Harry Potter… at this stage, he is not important."
Quirrell stiffened. "Yes, Master. But Amyrise's connection with Harry, and Harry's investigations on the fourth-floor corridor—what if they get involved?"
A disdainful snort. "A coward," the voice spat. "With me here, what is there to fear?"
Quirrell swallowed hard. He knew the strength of the spirit bound to him—but he also understood his own mortal limitations. He'd nearly collapsed during his encounter with the three-headed dog, even with his master's help.
"Heed me, Quirrell," the voice hissed. "That child might be our asset."
Back on the courtyard lawn, Dyna hurled a powerful Exploding Charm at McGonagall, who deflected it skillfully. The spell struck the far wall of Hogwarts, making a smoking hole. Quirrell watched in horror.
"Help?" He asked quietly.
"Yes," said the voice behind him. "His potential is enormous. His bloodline—Avery on one side, Amyrise on the other—is pure and strong. He's been ostracized, filled with hatred—hatred for being wronged, hated being tortured in Azkaban, hated by his peers. Just a slight push, and he'll become a sharp blade in my hand. He was born to be a Death Eater."
Quirrell stared blankly. "But he hates the Avery family deeply already. If that conflict arises…"
"Fool!" the voice snapped. "You can't think that far ahead. This is an Amyrise. Sacrificing an Avery when needed—a trivial matter."
Quirrell swallowed. "Yes, master."
"The Druids," the voice continued softly, "once spoke of Amyrise—you know the legends."
"Merlin?" Quirrell whispered.
That afternoon's practice ended with Dyna standing on his tiptoes, successfully holding himself there—an accomplishment he'd struggled to reach. McGonagall praised him, though inside, Harry wondered how many magical mishaps he might still cause.
Dyna rushed through dinner and returned to his dorm room in Gryffindor Tower. Every step on tiptoe made him feel absurd, like a dancer in a Hong Kong ghost film. If not for the holidays, he'd have been ruined socially—probably the same degree of shame as Dunat Avery, incapacitated by a dung bomb.
In his room, Dyna didn't rest. He spent hours kneading parchment, trying to control the wild magic inside him. He learned to moderate his spells—to about fifty or sixty percent of full strength. Exhausted, he finally fell asleep, unaware that someone trickled quietly out of the common room below—Harry, donned in the Invisibility Cloak.
Harry crept through the empty castle, drawn to the Mirror of Erised. The massive mirror stood tall, its frame golden and ornate with clawed feet at the base. Etched along the top were the familiar words: "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."
Harry slipped off the cloak and gazed at his reflection. His parents stood beside him, smiling with joy. His lungs constricted; the sight broke his heart.
"So—you've come again, Harry?"
Dumbledore's voice startled him. Harry spun around.
"Professor, I'm sorry," he whispered, bowing.
Dumbledore regarded him kindly. "Harry, though the Mirror reflects illusions, it brings happiness," he said. His eyes gleamed with that familiar wisdom. "Why not bring Dyna to see it too? He's a friend of yours. It might ease his burden."
Harry brightened. "That's a wonderful idea!"
"But only for tonight," Dumbledore cautioned. "Promise me you won't become enraptured by the mirror."
"I promise, sir."
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