"A herd of Erumpents crossed the frozen tundra, fearlessly roaming the grasslands, embarking on a grueling, epic adventure. The leader who guided the herd to the eve of their journey has fulfilled his duty, but the legend of Pomlock has only just begun…"
Hagrid sat in the dim light of his Forbidden Forest hut, one hand clutching his beard, the other gripping his moleskin coat, his eyes fixed on the flickering images in a small Mirror of Shadows.
Melvin had mentioned a Muggle psychology concept: people often feel embarrassed or uneasy hearing their own voice, due to complex reasons like sound conduction and ear structure. It was all very intricate.
Right now, Hagrid only felt shame.
"It actually looks pretty good, doesn't it?" Kettleburn sprawled on the sofa nearby. "If Melvin hadn't asked me to dig up memories from my younger days, I'd have forgotten how spectacular the Erumpent migration was. Gets my blood pumping!"
Could Professor Kettleburn only see the Erumpents?
Hagrid dismissed the slightly offensive thought and released his aching beard. "Professor, are these images really going to be seen by every wizard in Britain?"
"That's what Melvin said," Kettleburn replied, sounding unsure. "But I reckon it might be wizards worldwide."
Hagrid already regretted it. Why had he listened to them and provided narration for these animal images?
"Well, looking forward to it?" Kettleburn asked with a grin. "I could make your name stand out more—bold and black, listed solo at the opening and credits!"
"No, no, no!" Hagrid waved his hands frantically.
"Fairies flutter their wings in the glow of dawn, rising gracefully from the flowerbeds, forming neat rows as they dance, their movements elegant, like princesses in evening gowns, singing and laughing…"
His narrated voice echoed from the Mirror again, deep and gruff, deliberately theatrical to match the visuals.
The nearly ten-foot half-giant sighed, slumping helplessly into the sofa, ignoring Fang's playful nips at his trouser legs.
…
Several candles floated in the air, their flames not the usual burning orange but a stark white, like winter sunlight on fresh snow. They cast a bright, almost piercing glow across the room.
The person seated behind the walnut desk sat rigidly, mindful of their posture even when breathing, eyes fixed forward while subtly scanning the parchment draft on the table, too tense to relax.
From the doorway, it was clearly a studio, albeit one with a makeshift, imitative feel.
"Cecilia just graduated from Hogwarts last year. Can she handle hosting?" a middle-aged man across the table asked. "Editor Guff, this video news program you're proposing takes time and effort. What if the audience doesn't buy it? Readers prefer newspapers for news. The Mirror's outcome is uncertain. Shouldn't we focus on the paper or wait a bit, see how it plays out?"
The evening edition editor's words were echoed by reporter Betty Braithwaite, who nodded in agreement. Cecilia, a newcomer, was only there because she was pretty—why should she get the anchor spot?
"There's no time to wait. The Daily Prophet succeeded because its founder was the first to emulate Muggle newspapers," Editor Guff said sternly, exuding an unspoken authority. "There are plenty of publishers in the wizarding world—three on Diagon Alley alone. We need to seize the advantage before others catch on."
"You think the Mirror is as big a game-changer as newspapers?"
"No, it's more important!"
The room fell silent, everyone stunned.
Cecilia, chosen as the anchor, grew even more nervous, feeling like she could barely breathe.
The evening editor, a pure-blood wizard, frowned, baffled by Guff's logic. "How do we make money, then? Mirror programs can't be sold like newspaper subscriptions. Is the Mirror Club charging a fortune? I heard Bagman made a killing selling Quidditch footage…"
"You won't believe this, but I spoke to Professor Wright myself. The program's distribution is completely free," Guff said calmly. "He offered to pay, but I refused."
The editor scratched his head, utterly confused.
If it weren't Guff, he'd have flipped the table and cursed. But The Daily Prophet's past success proved Guff's vision, so he could only trust him.
In a corner by the wall, Rita Skeeter quietly flipped through news drafts, her mind conjuring the young professor's face.
"Multiple Ministry department heads rally support, Minister Fudge reluctantly yields…"
"The wizards behind the Mirror Club: Marchbanks and Dumbledore…"
"What you don't know about the Mirror: Hungary and Romania have already adopted it…"
The parchments were filled with Mirror Club news, some penned by Rita herself. A few made it to print; others were rejected by Guff. Rita sensed something monumental rising.
A glimpse of a colossal force behind the curtain.
…
The weekend before Hogwarts' term began, middle-aged wizard Tucklot got wind of something and arrived early at the Three Broomsticks, eagerly waiting. Madam Rosmerta hadn't shown, only servers tending to patrons.
His heart burned like ignited Firewhisky.
According to a friend in the Department of Magical Transportation, the Mirror Club would start selling small Mirrors of Shadows this weekend. Ordinary wizards might assume it'd be Sunday morning, but Tucklot, a seasoned patron who'd attended Quidditch matches and film screenings, had a hunch.
He suspected the Three Broomsticks might sell early.
After downing two Butterbeers and two meads, foam practically clogging his throat, Rosmerta still hadn't appeared. The pub ran as usual, calmly serving customers.
"Did I guess wrong?"
Tucklot burped, swaying as he stood to leave. Then he caught a faint noise from the back room behind the bar.
It was subtle, like someone moving things carefully—definitely not the pub's oak barrels or brewing supplies.
Having spent too much time with Malcolm, Tucklot felt he'd picked up some Gryffindor recklessness. Without much hesitation, he strode toward the back room.
Lifting the curtain, he saw shelves and cabinets everywhere. Two servers were handling trunks, sealed tightly, the earlier noise coming from their careful movements.
"Are those Mirrors in there?" Tucklot asked, unabashed, channeling his rival Malcolm's boldness. "They go on sale tomorrow, right? Can I buy early? I'll pay extra!"
"?"