(Author's note: I am not a writer, just taking my first step into creating fanfiction. I heavily used ChatGPT, so if there's anything wrong or things I should add, inform me so I can fix it.)
Winter crept into Hogwarts gradually, but departure came all at once. Trunks thudded along stone corridors, owls swooped through open windows carrying letters ahead of their owners, and the Entrance Hall filled with overlapping voices that echoed far louder than usual against the high ceilings. Snow pressed gently against the tall windows, muting the light into a pale silver haze, while enchanted ceiling frost drifted lazily overhead. The castle felt suspended between movement and stillness—half of it already gone, the other half lingering in anticipation of departure. Evelyn stood near the Ravenclaw table during breakfast, fingers loosely curled around a warm goblet, watching as students exchanged hurried promises to write and return sweets from home. It struck her how quickly energy drained from a place once intention left it.
Hermione's departure was efficient, as everything she did tended to be. Her trunk was packed with exactness, books stacked in descending order of current relevance, parchment bundles tied with labeled ribbon. Yet beneath the efficiency was unmistakable reluctance. "You'll keep looking, won't you?" she asked, adjusting her scarf before pulling it tighter against the draft rolling through the Hall. Harry nodded earnestly, and Ron mumbled agreement through a mouthful of toast. Evelyn assured her she would continue cross-referencing what they already had, though she did not promise progress. Hermione's presence had been structural; she organized chaos into direction. Without her, the search for Nicolas Flamel would not stop, but it would diffuse.
When the carriages finally rolled away toward Hogsmeade Station, the castle exhaled. Sound receded first. Corridors that once thrummed with foot traffic now carried only the distant crackle of torches and the faint sweep of wind through arrow slits. Even portraits seemed to speak more quietly, their conversations softened to murmurs rather than debate. The Great Hall that evening was half-empty, long stretches of table unoccupied, plates appearing only where students remained. Professors conversed in smaller clusters than usual; the faculty table no longer a public display but an intimate gathering. The physical absence of bodies changed the acoustics of the entire building. Every footstep became distinct.
Harry and Ron attempted enthusiasm about having the castle largely to themselves. Ron speculated about exploring unused classrooms, while Harry suggested this quiet might make it easier to investigate restricted sections unnoticed. Evelyn listened but felt the absence differently. It was not freedom she sensed; it was thinning. The intellectual hum Hermione carried with her—the constant exchange of theory, the immediate referencing of obscure texts—had evaporated. Their conversations that night drifted more loosely, looping back on themselves without resolution. The search for Nicolas Flamel continued, but it lacked architecture.
Later, as Evelyn climbed the spiral staircase to Ravenclaw Tower alone, she became acutely aware of how solitude reshaped her thinking. Without Hermione's steady analytical rhythm or the unpredictable momentum of Gryffindor energy, her thoughts turned inward more fully. Snow pressed thickly against the tower windows, blurring the horizon into an indistinct wash of white. The castle felt vast in its quiet, as though its older enchantments stirred more freely when fewer students crowded its halls. She could almost imagine the deeper layers of magic humming beneath the stone, subtle currents moving unnoticed by most.
In the dormitory, the beds around hers stood neatly made and unoccupied, curtains drawn back to reveal emptiness rather than shadowed silhouettes. She set her books down carefully and sat for a moment without moving, listening to the wind brush against the glass. There was something clarifying about the stillness. Without constant external stimulus, the ceilings she had been pressing against felt sharper in her awareness. Nox remained immovable at nineteen percent. Wingardium Leviosa hovered there as well, poised but unbroken. The patterns were no longer distractions beneath academic noise; they were singular and insistent.
The castle had quieted. The search had slowed. Hermione had gone home. And in the echoing space left behind, Evelyn felt the unmistakable sense that whatever came next would not arrive through noise or haste, but through confrontation—with knowledge, with limitation, and perhaps with something far more revealing than she expected.
The absence of Hermione became apparent the very next morning, not through silence but through inefficiency. Harry arrived in the common room with three books he had pulled from the library the night before, each selected because the title had sounded promising rather than because it fit any coherent system. Ron followed with an armful of chocolate frogs and a scroll he had forgotten to open. They spread everything across a low table near the fire as though sheer volume might substitute for direction. Evelyn joined them quietly, observing the arrangement before sitting down and beginning the quiet task of sorting what they had gathered.
Without Hermione's precise indexing, their search for Nicolas Flamel shifted from strategic to hopeful. Harry flipped pages quickly, scanning for names rather than reading context. Ron lost interest halfway through paragraphs and leaned back in his chair with a groan whenever a chapter proved dense. Evelyn tried to compensate by cross-referencing mentions of alchemy, longevity, and historical partnerships, but even she could feel the difference. Hermione had a way of narrowing fields of information until patterns revealed themselves. Now the information simply accumulated.
By midday, their progress amounted to little more than repetition. "He has to be somewhere," Harry insisted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Dumbledore mentioned him directly. That means he's not obscure."
"Maybe he's so obvious we're skipping him," Ron muttered, though his tone suggested he did not fully believe that theory.
Evelyn closed one of the volumes and leaned back slightly, eyes unfocused as she considered the shape of the problem. It wasn't that they lacked information; it was that they lacked filtration. Nicolas Flamel could be connected to alchemy, to historical magical partnerships, to artifact preservation, to longevity theory, or to entirely unrelated academic circles. Hermione would have constructed a narrowing grid. Without her, the search expanded in all directions at once.
They attempted the library again that afternoon, taking advantage of the reduced student presence to occupy an entire table near a tall window frosted with delicate crystalline patterns. The quiet was almost oppressive. Pages turning sounded louder than usual. The scratching of Evelyn's quill as she made notes felt conspicuous. She tried reorganizing what they knew: Dumbledore and Flamel had worked together; something valuable was hidden at Hogwarts; someone else was trying to obtain it. The facts sat in a neat column on parchment, but they refused to connect.
Ron eventually abandoned his book for a game of wizard chess with himself, muttering strategies under his breath. Harry persisted longer but grew visibly restless. Evelyn remained the last focused at the table, though her concentration drifted from Flamel to something else entirely. The slow progress mirrored her own internal stagnation. Nox remained sealed at nineteen percent. Wingardium Leviosa hovered there as well, unmoving despite weeks of refinement. The search for Flamel and the search for breakthrough had begun to feel structurally similar—both halted at the edge of understanding.
As the afternoon light dimmed into early winter dusk, Evelyn closed her book with measured care. The castle's reduced population had changed the rhythm of research. Without competition for space or books, there was no urgency imposed by others. Time stretched rather than compressed. In that stretch, she became more aware of her own impatience. Hermione's absence removed not only structure but distraction. There was no rapid-fire exchange of theories to divert her thoughts from her spell ceilings. No immediate intellectual challenge to anchor her focus outward.
That evening, as they walked back from the library through corridors that seemed too large for the number of footsteps echoing within them, Harry spoke again about the mirror he had mentioned in passing days earlier. Ron teased him for being cryptic. Evelyn listened without much comment, though she noted the way Harry's voice shifted when he referenced it—quieter, almost reverent. Something in the castle was holding his attention as persistently as her ceilings held hers.
When they parted ways at the staircases, Evelyn climbed toward Ravenclaw Tower with her thoughts split cleanly in two. The Flamel search was not over, but it was no longer advancing. Hermione's absence had exposed the fragility of their investigative structure. In that slowing momentum, another question pressed forward with greater insistence: if external research could stall without proper framing, perhaps her spells had done the same. Perhaps she had been pushing at the wrong angle entirely.
The castle was quieter, yes—but in the quiet, patterns became audible. And Evelyn was beginning to suspect that stagnation was not failure, but misalignment.
That night, the quiet did not soothe her.
Evelyn sat cross-legged on the rug beside her bed, wand resting lightly across her palm, the fire in the Ravenclaw common room reduced to a low, steady glow. Snow moved past the tall arched windows in slow, drifting sheets, catching moonlight and diffusing it into a dim, silver wash across the stone walls. The emptier dormitory amplified the silence; there were no whispers behind drawn curtains, no rustling of parchment from neighboring beds. Even the enchanted ceiling above the common room seemed subdued, its stars dimmer, as though respecting the season's stillness.
She raised her wand and whispered, "Lumos."
Soft light bloomed at the tip, steady and obedient. The spell responded easily—too easily. Lumos had long since crossed its threshold. She could vary intensity now without conscious strain. She could hold it, taper it, brighten it in pulses. It obeyed.
"Nox."
The light vanished instantly.
She inhaled slowly and repeated the sequence, adjusting her internal focus the way she had done dozens of times before. Lumos. Nox. Lumos. Nox. The extinguishing remained immediate and absolute. Clean severance. No resistance, no nuance.
That was the problem.
Nineteen percent.
She could feel it—an invisible plateau just beyond reach. The system did not announce stagnation; it implied it. The sense of proximity without progression was unmistakable. For weeks she had been refining cadence, wand movement, intention. She had experimented with shortening the incantation, elongating it, introducing breath control, varying mental emphasis between light suppression and energy withdrawal. None of it shifted the internal threshold.
She lowered her wand and leaned back against the side of her bed, eyes half-lidded as she began dissecting the pattern instead of the spell.
Lumos had broken past its wall after exposure to a higher-tier manifestation—Professor Flitwick's controlled brilliance during the charm demonstration. She had witnessed a greater structure, and her understanding had expanded to accommodate it.
Wingardium Leviosa hovered at nineteen as well. That ceiling had begun to feel less like resistance and more like incompletion. She sensed that her interpretation of levitation remained too narrow, too literal—lifting as a vertical act rather than manipulation of force.
Nox, however, felt different.
Lumos expanded outward. Leviosa reoriented weight. Nox… removed.
Extinguishing was subtraction. Suppression. Absence imposed upon presence. The more she examined it, the more she realized she had been treating Nox as merely the inverse of Lumos. A simple off-switch. But what if that interpretation was flawed? What if extinguishing light required more than negation?
She stood and moved to the desk near the window, pulling a blank sheet of parchment toward her. With deliberate strokes, she wrote:
Light is emission.
Levitation is displacement.
Extinguishing is…?
Her quill hovered.
Is it cancellation? Containment? Nullification?
She tapped the quill lightly against the page, then lifted her wand again.
"Lumos."
The light flared.
Instead of immediately extinguishing it, she focused on compressing it. She imagined the light folding inward, collapsing upon itself like a star exhausting its core. "Nox."
The light vanished as before—clean, instantaneous, unchanged.
She frowned slightly and adjusted again.
This time she tried dampening rather than severing. She visualized the light dimming gradually, as though sinking into deep water. "Nox."
Instant extinction.
No variation.
She attempted sequential extinguishing, casting Lumos twice in rapid succession and trying to suppress one before the other. The magic did not differentiate. It ended both simultaneously. Total termination.
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The spell refused granularity.
Nineteen percent.
She closed her eyes and reached inward, focusing not on performance but on sensation. The system's presence was subtle, never intrusive, but she had grown accustomed to feeling its responses—the faint internal shift when comprehension deepened, the almost electric recognition when a spell aligned more fully with her understanding. With Nox, there was nothing. No tremor of growth. No hint of unlocking.
For the first time, frustration surfaced not as impatience but as suspicion.
Perhaps the barrier was not mechanical.
Perhaps it was conceptual.
Or worse—ethical.
She recalled the way Lumos felt when she first cast it: illumination as intention. Safe. Revealing. Constructive. Nox, though neutral in practice, touched something different. To extinguish was to remove visibility. To impose darkness. Darkness could protect… or conceal.
Her gaze drifted toward the window, where snow blurred the world beyond into indistinct shadow.
If higher understanding required exposure to greater application, then perhaps she needed to observe Nox used in a context beyond classroom demonstration. But that thought carried weight. There were branches of magic that expanded through force rather than refinement. She had no desire to stumble into something reckless.
Still, the question persisted.
If Lumos advanced through witnessing brilliance, then what did Nox require?
She lowered her wand slowly, the tip no longer glowing. The silence pressed closer around her, thick and contemplative. Nineteen percent was no longer just a number. It felt like a warning marker, placed precisely at the edge of something she did not yet fully comprehend.
For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, she wondered whether every ceiling was meant to be broken immediately—or whether some existed to test restraint.
The wall of nineteen did not feel weaker tonight.
It felt deliberate.
The decision to approach Professor Snape was not impulsive. Evelyn considered it for nearly two days before acting, weighing not only the potential information she might gain but the cost of drawing his focused attention. The dungeons during winter felt colder than the rest of the castle, the air thick with stone-cooled dampness and the faint metallic tang of potion residue. Torches burned lower there, casting elongated shadows that seemed less decorative and more structural. It was an environment that did not forgive uncertainty.
She arrived outside his classroom shortly after the midday meal, when most remaining students were scattered across the grounds or tucked into common rooms. The corridor was empty, the silence dense enough that the faint rustle of her robes sounded intrusive. For a moment, she questioned the wisdom of the inquiry. Then she raised her hand and knocked.
"Enter."
The word sliced cleanly through the stone walls.
Professor Snape stood behind his desk, robes falling in sharp lines, dark eyes already fixed upon the doorway before she fully stepped inside. Shelves behind him carried rows of glass jars, their contents suspended in murky fluids that reflected torchlight in distorted glimmers. The atmosphere was controlled, measured, and distinctly watchful.
"Yes, Miss Evelyn," he said, his tone neither welcoming nor overtly hostile, but edged with anticipation. "To what do I owe this interruption?"
She inclined her head slightly, choosing her phrasing with care. "I had a theoretical question regarding spell structure, sir. Specifically, the extinguishing charm—Nox."
The faintest narrowing of his eyes betrayed interest.
"Nox," he repeated softly. "A curious subject for extended contemplation."
"I was wondering," she continued evenly, "if there are known variants of the charm. Alternative structures within its branch of magic."
A pause settled between them, thin but heavy. Snape did not respond immediately. Instead, he studied her as though the inquiry itself were an ingredient to be examined for hidden properties.
"There are," he said at last. "Several."
Her pulse sharpened almost imperceptibly.
"However," he continued, voice cooling further, "those variants are not typically discussed outside advanced study. They belong to a more… specialized lineage."
She held his gaze. "Specialized in what sense, Professor?"
"In the sense," he replied smoothly, "that Nox, as you have been taught, is the only form within its branch considered neutral. The others are categorized under darker classifications. Suppression taken further. Extinguishing extended beyond illumination."
The implication settled heavily in the room.
Evelyn did not recoil. She had anticipated something adjacent to this answer. "So the structure exists beyond simple light termination," she said carefully. "It scales."
Snape's expression sharpened. "Everything scales, Miss Evelyn. The question is whether one possesses the wisdom to leave certain escalations unexplored."
She absorbed the warning without lowering her eyes. "I have no intention of pursuing dark magic, sir. My interest is structural. Conceptual."
"And yet," Snape replied, folding his hands behind his back as he circled slightly around his desk, "structural curiosity is precisely how many begin."
The silence that followed was not empty. It vibrated faintly with assessment.
"You have a habit," he continued, "of pressing at boundaries that are clearly marked. It is academically impressive. It is also… predictable."
Her jaw tightened subtly, though her posture remained composed. "Understanding limitations often requires examining their edges."
His gaze flicked briefly toward her wand, then back to her face.
"Nox," he said slowly, "is sufficient for your year. The variants you imply involve broader nullification—dampening magical constructs, obscuring detection, even suppressing energy fields. Such applications demand more than intellectual interest. They demand alignment."
The word lingered.
She recognized the shift immediately. Alignment was not about ability; it was about inclination.
"I do not intend to align with anything dark," she stated evenly.
Snape's lip curled almost imperceptibly. "Intentions are… malleable."
A beat passed.
"If your concern is conceptual stagnation," he continued, tone sharpening, "perhaps you would be better served refining control rather than seeking escalation. Mastery of fundamentals often reveals more than reckless advancement."
There it was. Dismissal wrapped in instruction.
"Understood, Professor," she replied, inclining her head again.
As she turned to leave, his voice halted her at the doorway.
"Miss Evelyn."
She paused.
"Curiosity is not inherently virtuous. Be mindful of what you choose to pursue—and of who notices."
She exited without further reply.
The corridor outside felt colder than before, though whether from the dungeon air or the exchange itself, she could not immediately determine. Snowmelt from students' boots earlier that day had left faint streaks along the stone floor, now refrozen into thin, slick lines. The castle above remained quiet, unaware of the subtle tension that had just passed in its depths.
She replayed the conversation carefully as she ascended the staircases. Variants existed. Broader nullification. Suppression beyond illumination. Dampening magical constructs.
The ceiling at nineteen percent no longer felt mysterious.
It felt guarded.
Snape's warning had not extinguished her curiosity. If anything, it had refined it. The barrier was not about mechanics alone; it was about intention. The branch of magic extended into territories that required more than comprehension. They required willingness.
And willingness, she knew with absolute certainty, was something she would not grant lightly.
Yet the knowledge that Nox was merely the shallowest ripple of a deeper current altered her perception entirely. The spell was not small. It was restrained.
As she reached the brighter corridors nearer the upper floors, torchlight warming the stone walls to a gentler gold, she recognized something else beneath her calm analysis.
Snape disliked her more now.
Not because she associated with Harry Potter.
Not even because she excelled.
He disliked that she did not retreat when cautioned.
That she listened—and still considered.
And though she would not pursue darkness, she refused to pretend it did not exist.
Nineteen percent was no longer just a ceiling.
It was a line she had been told not to cross.
For now, she would obey.
But she would not forget.
Harry did not intend to tell them about the mirror.
It happened because silence, like magic, accumulates pressure.
They were seated near the fire in the Gryffindor common room late one evening, the castle wrapped in heavy winter stillness. Ron had been complaining about the continued lack of progress on Nicolas Flamel, flipping idly through a book he had already skimmed twice. Evelyn sat across from them, parchment on her lap, reorganizing their scattered notes into something marginally coherent. The fire cast warm gold across the stone walls, but beyond the tall windows the grounds lay buried in silver frost.
"I found something," Harry said suddenly.
Ron looked up first. "About Flamel?"
Harry hesitated.
"Not exactly."
The shift in his tone was immediate—quieter, almost distant. Evelyn's quill paused mid-stroke.
"There's a room," Harry continued slowly. "Up near one of the unused corridors. I only found it because I was avoiding Filch. There's this mirror inside."
Ron frowned. "A mirror?"
"It's not normal," Harry replied. "It shows… things."
Evelyn lifted her gaze fully now, studying him. His expression was not excitement. It was something more complicated—drawn, unsettled, yet pulled toward the memory.
"What things?" she asked evenly.
Harry swallowed. "It showed my parents."
The fire crackled softly between them.
"They were standing behind me," he continued. "Like they were really there. Smiling. I could see them. Properly."
Ron's mouth parted slightly. "That's brilliant."
Harry shook his head faintly. "It didn't feel brilliant. It felt… real."
Evelyn felt something shift in the air, subtle but sharp. Magic that replicated reality so convincingly that it blurred the boundary between memory and presence was not trivial enchantment.
"What did it show you?" Harry asked Ron, almost defensively.
Ron leaned forward eagerly. "Me? It showed me as Head Boy. Holding the Quidditch Cup. Mum and Dad looked proud."
He grinned, but the grin faded when he noticed Harry's expression hadn't changed.
Evelyn did not speak immediately. Instead, she asked the question that mattered.
"Did either of you see the same thing twice?"
Harry nodded. "I went back the next night. It was the same."
Ron blinked. "You went back without me?"
Harry ignored that.
Evelyn folded her parchment carefully and set it aside. "Mirrors in magical architecture are rarely decorative," she said quietly. "If it shows the same thing consistently, then it's not reacting to environment. It's reacting to you."
Harry looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?"
"It's not projecting the past," she replied. "It's projecting desire."
The word settled heavily.
Ron frowned. "You're saying it's not real?"
"I'm saying," Evelyn continued calmly, "that the magic must anchor to something stable. Desire is stable. It persists."
Harry stared into the fire, jaw tightening. "It felt real."
"I don't doubt that," she said softly. "That's likely the point."
The room grew quieter.
After a moment, Harry looked back up. "You should see it."
Ron nodded vigorously. "Yeah. All of us. Maybe it'll show something about Flamel."
Evelyn almost corrected him, but she stopped herself. There was value in observation.
"Where is it?" she asked.
Harry explained the path—two left turns past a suit of armor, a staircase that did not appear on most floor plans, a corridor that narrowed unexpectedly before opening into a chamber with high ceilings and frost-kissed windows. As he described it, Evelyn built the spatial map internally, committing each turn to memory.
They waited until late.
The castle after curfew carried a different quality than during break hours. It was not simply quiet; it was alert. Portraits whispered more softly. Suits of armor seemed to stand more rigidly. The echo of their footsteps stretched unnaturally along stone corridors as they followed Harry's memorized route.
When they reached the door, Harry paused only briefly before pushing it open.
The chamber beyond was larger than expected, dust motes drifting lazily in the moonlight streaming through tall windows. At the far end stood the mirror.
It was immense, framed in ornate gold, its surface gleaming unnaturally bright despite the dimness of the room. An inscription carved along the top caught the light in reversed lettering, though none of them paused long enough to decipher it fully.
Ron stepped forward first.
His breath caught almost immediately. "It's me," he whispered. "It's exactly the same."
Harry moved beside him, eyes searching the glass. His shoulders stiffened as recognition flooded his expression.
Evelyn approached last.
For a moment, she saw only her own reflection—pale in the moonlight, dark hair falling precisely as it always did, wand resting at her side. Then the image shifted.
The castle behind her reflection changed.
She was older.
The robes she wore bore insignia she did not yet recognize. Around her, the air shimmered faintly—not with uncontrolled bursts, but with layered complexity. Threads of magic intertwined around her form like structured constellations. Spells hovered half-formed in her palm, balanced, stable, entirely obedient.
Behind her stood no crowd.
No applause.
No recognition.
Only power—precise, complete, unrestrained by percentage ceilings.
Her magical core radiated without fracture.
The image did not smile.
It simply existed.
Evelyn inhaled slowly.
Desire is stable.
She stepped back first.
Ron was still staring, entranced. Harry had moved closer to the glass, as though proximity might collapse the distance between reflection and reality.
"It's not giving you anything," she said quietly.
Neither responded.
"It doesn't teach," she continued. "It shows."
Harry's voice was almost distant. "What did you see?"
She considered the answer carefully.
"Potential," she replied.
Ron finally tore his gaze away. "That's not helpful."
"It's not meant to be," she said evenly.
Harry's eyes remained fixed on the mirror.
For a moment, she understood the danger completely. Magic that anchors to desire bypasses logic. It bypasses discipline. It rewards fixation without requiring growth.
This mirror was not dark.
It was worse.
It was passive.
And passivity invites obsession.
"We shouldn't come back," she said firmly.
Harry did not respond.
But she saw it then—the faintest tightening in his expression.
He would.
The mirror's surface gleamed silently in the moonlight, reflecting not reality, but longing refined to its sharpest edge.
And as they slipped back into the sleeping castle corridors, Evelyn knew with unsettling certainty that this was not merely a curiosity hidden in an unused room.
It was a test.
And not all tests announce themselves as such.
Harry lasted one night.
By the following evening, Evelyn already knew he had returned to the mirror without them. She did not need confirmation; she recognized the signs in the way he moved through the corridors that afternoon—slightly distracted, gaze pulled inward, responses delayed by a fraction too long. Obsession rarely announces itself loudly at first. It seeps in through repetition.
She did not confront him immediately.
Instead, she waited until after dinner, when the Gryffindor common room was loud enough to conceal private conversation. The fire was roaring against the bitter cold outside, casting restless light across scarlet tapestries and worn armchairs. Students clustered in small groups, arguing over wizard chess or exchanging Chocolate Frog cards, blissfully unaware of subtler tensions.
"You went back," she said quietly, taking the seat opposite him.
Harry's shoulders stiffened. "How do you know?"
"You're not looking at what's in front of you," she replied calmly. "You're looking at something remembered."
Ron glanced between them, confusion dawning slowly. "You did go back?"
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "Just to see if it was the same."
"And was it?" Evelyn asked.
"Yes," he admitted. "Exactly the same."
The confirmation did not surprise her. Magical constructs anchored to desire would remain stable unless the desire itself shifted. The mirror was not reactive in the traditional sense; it was reflective in the purest, most dangerous form.
"Did you notice the inscription?" she asked.
Ron blinked. "What inscription?"
"At the top of the frame," she clarified. "There were words carved into the gold."
Harry frowned faintly. "They were backwards."
"Most inscriptions on enchanted artifacts are," she replied. "They're designed to be read in reflection."
Ron looked irritated. "Why didn't you say that yesterday?"
"Because you were both too occupied to listen," she answered evenly.
Harry flushed slightly but did not argue.
She leaned back, fingers interlacing thoughtfully. "We need to see it again. Not to look at the images. To read the text."
Ron groaned softly. "We're going back?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "But this time we observe the artifact. Not ourselves."
The distinction mattered.
They waited again until the castle quieted, though tonight the atmosphere felt more charged. Harry walked slightly ahead, pace quickened by anticipation he did not attempt to disguise. Evelyn followed deliberately, mapping each corridor again in her mind, noting every portrait and branching hallway. Precision calmed her.
When they entered the chamber, the mirror stood exactly as before—silent, gleaming, impossibly inviting.
"Don't step directly in front of it yet," she instructed softly.
Ron exhaled in frustration but obeyed.
They approached together, positioning themselves slightly off-center so the reflected images blurred at the edges rather than locking fully into view. It required effort not to look directly.
"Read it," she murmured.
Harry squinted at the reversed lettering.
"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi," he read slowly.
Ron grimaced. "That's nonsense."
"It isn't," Evelyn replied quietly. "Reverse it."
Harry's lips moved silently as he worked through the inversion.
"I show not your face but your heart's desire."
The chamber seemed to grow colder.
Ron let out a low whistle. "Well. That explains it."
Harry's gaze drifted involuntarily toward the glass again. His breathing had subtly changed, deeper and more uneven.
Evelyn felt the pull herself. The older version of her, steady and complete, flickered at the edge of her peripheral vision. It would be easy to step forward. To analyze it more closely. To search for clues within the illusion.
But illusion it remained.
"This mirror doesn't lie," she said slowly. "But it doesn't give truth either. It isolates desire from consequence."
Ron shifted uncomfortably. "You're making it sound evil."
"It isn't evil," she replied. "It's indifferent."
Indifference can be more dangerous than malice.
Harry stepped forward despite himself.
Evelyn caught his sleeve firmly before he reached full alignment with the glass. The contact startled him enough to break the trance-like focus.
"You already know what it shows," she said evenly. "Looking again will not change it."
He hesitated, jaw tightening.
"It feels like they're there," he admitted quietly.
"I understand that," she replied, her voice gentler but no less steady. "But they aren't. The mirror doesn't resurrect. It reflects longing."
Ron shifted closer, unease replacing earlier excitement. "So what are we supposed to do? Just leave it?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "Because if we don't, it will become a habit. And habits built on unreality weaken judgment."
Harry closed his eyes briefly, then nodded once.
It was not full agreement. It was compromise.
They turned away together, the mirror's surface swallowing their retreating reflections without resistance. The chamber seemed almost disappointed to be abandoned so quickly, its moonlit quiet returning to stillness as the door shut behind them.
Halfway down the corridor, Ron spoke again.
"Do you think Dumbledore knows about it?"
Evelyn did not answer immediately. The mirror's placement was too deliberate, its magic too refined to be accidental.
"Yes," she said finally. "I think he knows exactly what it does."
Harry walked in silence beside them, expression troubled but clearer than before.
As they reached the staircases, Evelyn felt something subtle settle inside her—not closure, but understanding. The mirror had shown her potential unrestrained by limitation. It had offered a version of herself untouched by ceilings and percentages.
But it had not shown the path.
And that was the difference.
Desire without method is fantasy.
Method without desire is stagnation.
The mirror gave one and withheld the other.
As they reentered the warmth of the common room, noise and firelight washing over them in welcome contrast to the moonlit chamber, Evelyn knew the temptation would not vanish entirely. It would linger, quiet and patient.
But she also knew something else.
Nineteen percent was earned through work.
The mirror's version of her had skipped the work.
And that was precisely why it could not be trusted.
The morning of Christmas arrived wrapped in white silence.
Snow had fallen steadily through the night, softening the edges of the castle towers and blanketing the grounds in untouched brilliance. From the Gryffindor dormitory windows, the world looked quieter than usual, as though even the wind had chosen restraint. For a brief moment after waking, Evelyn lay still beneath her blankets and simply listened—to the muted sounds of distant movement, to the crackle of fireplaces carried faintly through stone walls, to the subtle hum of the castle's magic layered beneath it all.
Winter altered Hogwarts in ways most students did not consciously perceive. The corridors felt wider. Footsteps echoed more sharply without the crowding of bodies. Even the staircases seemed to shift more lazily, unhurried by the press of schedules and packed transitions between classes. With most students gone, the castle no longer needed to hurry.
Ron's delighted exclamation shattered the dormitory's quiet from the boys' side of the tower.
"Presents!"
Harry's laughter followed shortly after.
Evelyn allowed herself a faint smile before rising. She dressed methodically, folding her blankets with habitual precision before descending to the common room. The fire was already blazing, and beneath the tall Christmas tree—a recent addition conjured by Professor McGonagall—lay a modest scattering of packages.
There were far fewer than there would have been during term, but that absence gave the room a peculiar intimacy. Every gift here belonged to someone who had chosen to stay.
Ron was already tearing through wrapping paper with unrestrained enthusiasm. Harry sat cross-legged nearby, examining a sweater knitted in unmistakable Weasley fashion, his expression soft and slightly overwhelmed.
Evelyn approached the tree more slowly.
She did not expect many gifts. She rarely did.
To her mild surprise, three small packages bore her name.
The first contained a neat tin of Honeydukes dark chocolate, accompanied by a brief note from Hermione written in precise script, expressing hope that Evelyn's "research pursuits" were progressing and that she was not neglecting proper rest. The second was a simple but well-crafted quill from Ron, who muttered something about it being "good for all that writing you do," before immediately returning to unwrapping his own presents.
The third package was lighter than the others.
Inside lay a small, leather-bound notebook—blank, its cover embossed only with a faint geometric pattern that resembled interlocking runes. There was no note attached.
She turned it over in her hands thoughtfully.
The leather was warm, as though recently handled.
She glanced briefly toward the staff table in the Great Hall through the distant archway, where preparations for the Christmas feast were already underway. Professor Flitwick stood on a small stack of books directing floating garlands into symmetrical arcs. Professor McGonagall supervised the levitation of a massive evergreen tree into position near the staff end of the hall.
Professor Snape was nowhere visible.
Evelyn closed the notebook carefully and slipped it into the inner pocket of her robes. Whether the gift was coincidence or deliberate remained uncertain. The geometric pattern on its cover was not decorative in the casual sense; it followed structured symmetry consistent with magical matrices.
She would examine it later.
The Christmas feast began shortly before noon.
The Great Hall had been transformed into something almost ethereal. Twelve towering Christmas trees lined the walls, their branches heavy with golden ornaments and softly glowing candles that reflected against the enchanted ceiling. Snow drifted gently above, melting before it could reach the tables. The long House tables had been consolidated to accommodate the small number of students remaining, bringing them closer together than usual.
It was not crowded.
It was not loud.
But it was warm.
Harry and Ron sat opposite her, both visibly lighter than they had been in days. For once, neither mentioned Nicolas Flamel nor the mirror nor hidden corridors. They spoke instead about broomsticks and wizard chess strategies, about the peculiar way Percy had reacted to receiving a new badge for prefect duties, and about the taste of the enormous turkey that appeared with theatrical flourish in the center of the table.
Evelyn listened more than she spoke.
Professor Dumbledore sat at the head of the staff table wearing an unusually vibrant hat patterned with tiny dancing reindeer. His eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles as he raised a goblet in greeting to the remaining students. When his gaze passed briefly over Evelyn, she felt a flicker of something unreadable there—not suspicion, not quite amusement, but awareness.
The mirror.
He knew.
The realization did not unsettle her. It clarified things.
If the mirror remained in the castle during break, it was because it served a purpose. Whether that purpose was cautionary or experimental remained unclear.
The meal itself unfolded in courses that seemed almost excessive for the number of attendees—roasted meats, golden potatoes, steaming vegetables glazed with honey, puddings lit briefly with blue flame before being extinguished by amused flicks of wandlight. Laughter rose more easily in the absence of academic pressure.
For a few hours, Hogwarts felt less like a fortress of ancient magic and more like a home.
After the feast, many students retreated to the grounds to enjoy the snow. Harry and Ron immediately proposed a snowball fight, already scooping up handfuls of powder before she had fully stepped outside.
Evelyn joined them, though her participation was measured rather than chaotic. The cold air sharpened her senses, and she found herself acutely aware of the way breath crystallized in the air, the way snow compressed differently depending on the force applied, the way magic subtly interacted with temperature.
At one point, Ron attempted to enchant a snowball to chase Harry across the courtyard, only to miscalculate the charm and send it spiraling upward into a nearby turret instead. Laughter echoed off stone walls, dissolving into the open sky.
For a brief span of time, the weight of mirrors and breakthroughs and suspicious professors receded.
Yet beneath the levity, Evelyn felt the steady undercurrent of something unresolved.
Wingardium Leviosa had reached twenty percent. She had secured her second rune fragment. The knowledge of the higher-tier levitation charm lingered in her mind like a distant horizon—visible but unreachable.
Nox remained stalled.
And the mirror's image of her older self continued to hover at the edges of thought, not as temptation now, but as a question.
Potential without structure is meaningless.
Structure without ambition is inert.
As evening approached and the sky deepened to indigo, she withdrew quietly from the others and returned to the castle interior. The corridors glowed softly with enchanted candles, their light reflecting warmly against polished stone.
Back in the common room, she retrieved the leather notebook from her robes and settled near the fire.
She opened it carefully.
The pages were blank.
But as her fingers brushed the parchment, faint geometric lines shimmered briefly beneath the surface—guidelines invisible at first glance, arranged in patterns she recognized from advanced spellcraft diagrams. The book was not empty.
It was structured.
She exhaled slowly.
Someone had not given her a gift.
They had given her a framework.
Outside, snow continued to fall against the windows in silent sheets of white. Inside, the fire burned steadily as Evelyn turned the first page and began, carefully and deliberately, to write.
After settling by the fire, Evelyn allowed herself a moment to breathe. The outside world seemed hushed, the usual bustle of Hogwarts replaced by an almost meditative quiet that stretched from the snow-covered grounds to the high ceilings above her. Even in this calm, her mind was alive with calculations, theoretical possibilities, and faint threads of magic she could almost feel humming in the background. The leather-bound notebook rested beside her, open and waiting, as though it understood that she needed more than just a receptacle for her thoughts—it needed to act as a conduit.
Her gaze drifted toward her wand, still resting against the arm of the chair, and she flexed her fingers thoughtfully. Wingardium Leviosa had finally surpassed the nineteen percent barrier with Flitwick's guidance, and now at twenty percent, the Nordic ruin fragment she had unlocked pulsed faintly in her awareness. It was as though the magic itself acknowledged her progress, providing a subtle confirmation that she was on the right path. That awareness lent her a sliver of confidence, but it also emphasized just how much further she still had to go with Nox. The spell had lingered at nineteen percent for days, an invisible wall she had not yet figured out how to breach.
She started methodically laying out possibilities in the notebook. Each line of thought was carefully weighed. Could she combine her understanding of Lumos variants with the subtle control needed for Nox? Were there protective elements embedded within the dark variations that she had overlooked? She made sketches of wand movements, trying different angles and arcs in her mind, visualizing the flow of energy and the interaction of light and shadow. The notebook absorbed her planning, shimmering faintly when she paused at particularly complex sequences, almost as though it recognized potential spells forming in thought alone.
Hours passed in this silent focus, broken only by the occasional cheer or shout from the Gryffindor courtyard where Harry and Ron were still engaged in their playful snow battle. Hermione was not there to pull her attention outward, and that absence was both freeing and isolating. Evelyn recognized the quiet as an opportunity. The lack of external distractions allowed her to trace the contours of magic in ways she could not while surrounded by the chaos of her friends or the pressing questions of a full classroom. She imagined how variations of Wingardium Leviosa might interact with her emotional intent, and in doing so, her mind wandered over potential connections she had not yet made between the Latin shards she had accumulated and the Nordic runes already integrated into her system. Each idea fed into another, creating a network of possibilities that seemed to stretch beyond her current comprehension.
Finally, as dusk settled over the castle and the last glow of sunlight faded behind the distant hills, Evelyn's attention returned to Nox. She had decided that tonight she would attempt something different—not a full breakthrough, but a controlled test. The wand in her hand felt heavier than usual, as if it was aware of her intent and waiting for her to commit fully. She aligned her posture carefully, recalling every subtle motion she had observed and practiced: the wrist tilt, the flick of the fingers, the precise pronunciation of the incantation. Each component of her preparation was deliberate, measured, and rooted in the patterns she had been studying all week.
The first attempt was cautious. The tip of her wand glimmered faintly as the faintest shadow began to pull itself across the floor, curling slowly at the edges before dissipating. It was a small effect, almost negligible, but it was enough to confirm that she was engaging the correct aspect of Nox's energy. She paused, taking careful note of the feedback her system provided—the vibrations, the subtle shift in magical resonance, the way the Nordic rune fragments responded to her emotional intent. She recorded everything meticulously, aware that tonight's work was laying the foundation for the next stage of progress, even if she could not yet see the full path.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Evelyn repeated the movements, each time adjusting her mental focus, refining the wand motion, and concentrating on the protective intent that underlay her emotional drive. Though Nox did not surpass nineteen percent tonight, she felt the wall weakening in ways she could perceive internally: the shadow control was more stable, the subtle vibrations more harmonious, the feedback from her rune fragments more receptive. Her body hummed with the energy of controlled experimentation, and even as exhaustion began to tug at her, she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Progress, she reminded herself, was not always measured by immediate breakthroughs, but by the incremental mastery of forces larger than oneself.
Outside the window, the snowfall continued, blanketing the castle and the grounds in unbroken white. Inside, Evelyn packed away her wand and notebook with care. Her thoughts still buzzed with possibilities for both Nox and Wingardium Leviosa. She knew that tomorrow would bring more experiments, more calculations, and perhaps even the long-awaited breakthrough she had been waiting for. But for now, the quiet and the stillness of the snow-wrapped castle were enough to let her pause, take stock of what she had accomplished, and anticipate the challenges that lay ahead. The magic of her first-year year, the shard fragments she had earned, and the lessons gleaned from Flitwick's guidance were all tools now firmly in her grasp. The journey was far from over, but the path was clear, if demanding.
Her breath fogged faintly against the windowpane as she stared outward, the snowy world reflecting back a sense of both possibility and responsibility. Evelyn felt, more than ever, that she was walking a line between understanding and mastery, between curiosity and control, and between the limitations of a first-year and the potential of something far greater. Tonight, she would rest, but tomorrow, the magic would continue to unfold.
The next morning dawned crisp and bright, the sunlight bouncing off the snow that had collected in thick drifts along the castle walls. Evelyn had barely finished breakfast in the Ravenclaw common room when a familiar pair of footsteps echoed on the spiral staircase above. Harry's cheerful voice carried immediately, followed by Ron's louder, more energetic greeting, and within moments, they were standing before her, urging her to come see something "amazing." Hermione's absence for the winter break had left a quiet gap in the castle, but the boys' enthusiasm filled it quickly, pulling Evelyn into a sense of shared curiosity and camaraderie that she always appreciated.
Harry led the way, weaving down the corridors with practiced ease, while Evelyn and Ron struggled to keep up. They moved toward the unused section of the castle, where many portraits and forgotten hallways converged—a place that Harry had kept secret, returning to it night after night for his personal observation. Evelyn's mind raced with questions. What could be so important that Harry and Ron would wake her from her own work so early in the morning? She briefly wondered whether it had something to do with Nicolas Flamel, but nothing Harry had said hinted at any new clues. She kept her curiosity tightly in check, following the two boys through the long hallways, her wand loosely in hand.
When they reached the designated room, Evelyn's eyes immediately fell on the Mirror of Erised, standing tall and ornate at the far end. Harry's face lit up as he motioned for her to step closer, his excitement palpable. "You've got to see it, Evelyn! I've been coming here for nights. It's… it's amazing!" he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Ron was just as eager, nodding vigorously and craning his neck for a better look. Evelyn approached cautiously, trying to center herself amidst the boys' enthusiasm. The mirror's polished surface reflected not just her image but something more elusive, something that felt almost alive with possibility.
Harry stepped forward and explained what he had been seeing: glimpses of his family, together and safe, different from the reality he experienced. Ron followed with his own commentary, detailing how he often saw himself as a hero in a wide array of adventures and scenarios. Evelyn nodded politely, listening intently, though her attention was gradually drawn elsewhere. When her gaze fell upon her own reflection, however, the scene that unfolded was unlike anything she had anticipated. The mirror showed a vast library, the shelves stacked high with every kind of book imaginable. In the center, she saw herself, older and more confident, holding a large, thick grimoire that seemed almost alive with magical energy. The book's pages radiated light and shadow simultaneously, symbols and scripts flowing across them as if they were aware of her presence. She could not read the words, but the power emanating from the grimoire was unmistakable.
Evelyn's mind spun as she took in the sight. Every book in the library seemed to pulse with potential spells, many of them beyond her comprehension. The older version of herself moved fluidly between the stacks, her motions calm and deliberate, a sense of mastery surrounding her like a tangible aura. Evelyn could feel the same vibrations she had been tracking in her system—though here they were reflected externally in a way that was both awe-inspiring and slightly overwhelming. For a moment, she forgot about Harry and Ron, the two voices now just background noise to the vision in the mirror. This older version of herself embodied all the knowledge and control Evelyn sought, and the grimoire at her hands symbolized the culmination of every shard, rune, and ounce of magical understanding she had accumulated.
The boys tried to draw her attention, nudging her and speaking louder, but Evelyn's gaze remained fixed on the library and the self she could become. The possibilities stretched infinitely before her, showing her that the path she had started with small increments—pushing Lumos, mastering Shieldum, and breaking through the first barriers of Wingardium Leviosa—was only the beginning of something far larger. The reflection was more than just an image; it was a promise of potential, a window into what her dedication could manifest in the coming years. Even without Hermione there, Evelyn felt an invisible tether linking her to the future she had glimpsed, a silent affirmation that her experiments, no matter how challenging, were steps toward a mastery she would one day achieve.
As the boys continued to chatter, Evelyn finally tore her eyes away, taking a deep breath. Her mind hummed with ideas, already drafting plans for how to push her spells further. She felt both grounded and elevated at the same time, the mirror having provided a rare moment of clarity amidst weeks of experimentation. Though she could not yet access the grimoire, the library's vastness reminded her that every breakthrough—every shard unlocked, every new variant discovered—would bring her closer to the image staring back at her. With a quiet nod to herself, she turned toward Harry and Ron, ready to leave the mirror behind for now but carrying its lessons and inspiration with her, her resolve strengthened for the work that awaited over the winter break.
After leaving the quiet of the Mirror of Erised behind, the three of them made their way back through the castle corridors, the morning sun reflecting off frost-laden windows and the lingering scent of woodsmoke from the hearths below. The castle had taken on a tranquil, almost festive air as students began trickling down from their dormitories, many carrying small bundles or letters for their families. With Hermione away for the holiday, Evelyn found herself acutely aware of the subtle shifts in the dynamic of her group. Harry and Ron were talkative, but without Hermione's constant prompting, their energy seemed more casual, less guided. Evelyn felt oddly liberated, able to focus on her thoughts without being constantly steered, though she missed Hermione's incisive questioning and her relentless drive to uncover every angle.
By the time they reached the Great Hall, the preparations for the Christmas feast were well underway. Long tables were lined with shimmering silver platters, holly and evergreens festooned across every surface, and a subtle warmth emanated from the enchanted torches along the walls. The few remaining students who had not yet left for home were finding their places, laughter and conversation echoing under the magically floating candles above. The sight brought a small smile to Evelyn's face. Even amid her intense focus on spellwork, these familiar rituals reminded her of the rhythm of Hogwarts life—the consistency of magic and companionship that made the challenges of her studies feel more manageable.
As they settled at a table near the Gryffindor section, Harry leaned closer and whispered that he had been visiting the Mirror of Erised nightly, and that Evelyn's vision had been entirely unlike his or Ron's. Her response was measured; she shared only the broad strokes, speaking of a vast library and her older self with the grimoire, without giving away any detail that could betray the depth of her magical tracking system. Ron, ever the straightforward one, erupted into exclamations about how "cool" it all sounded, and Harry nodded in agreement, though both boys clearly struggled to grasp the subtlety of what she had seen. Evelyn allowed herself a quiet amusement at their simplicity, realizing that even this small exchange strengthened their bond and left her more motivated to push the limits of her own magical understanding.
The feast itself was a lively affair. Professor Dumbledore moved among the students with his characteristic calm, nodding and exchanging a few words with those remaining, while Professor McGonagall made careful observations of the still-busy Gryffindor table. Snape, predictably, maintained a watchful glare, his eyes lingering on Evelyn for a moment longer than necessary, clearly intrigued and perhaps even slightly unsettled by her ongoing magical development. Evelyn noticed the subtle scrutiny but chose not to dwell on it; her mind was already spinning with plans for what she would tackle next over the break. She allowed herself a few moments to savor the warmth of the hall—the sounds of plates clinking, the low hum of conversation, and the comforting glow of enchanted candles reflecting off polished surfaces.
As the feast wound down and students began to drift toward the exits, collecting letters or farewells for their families, Evelyn, Harry, and Ron lingered for a moment longer. They exchanged small jokes and quiet commentary about the past weeks, discussing experiments, magical progress, and the ongoing search for Nicolas Flamel. Evelyn kept her notes mentally organized, prioritizing which spells to focus on during the break, and which minor improvements she might attempt before returning in January. The castle, usually a place of structured lessons and enforced order, felt expansive and open during these final hours before the holiday, offering her both the freedom and the quiet space to consider her next steps.
By the time the trio finally rose from the table, the hall was nearly empty, students and staff alike having made their way to their respective dormitories or exits. Evelyn carried a quiet sense of accomplishment, tempered with anticipation. She knew the winter break would provide uninterrupted time for her spellwork, the kind of focused experimentation impossible during the daily rush of classes. The echoes of laughter and conversation faded behind them as they left the Great Hall, but the energy lingered in Evelyn's chest, a reminder that even in these pauses, Hogwarts was alive with possibilities, and that she, as a first-year Ravenclaw pushing the boundaries of magic, was right at the center of them.
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