Chapter 163: Death?
It was the third night after Christmas.
Harry sat quietly on the cold floor in front of the Mirror of Erised, hidden away in the abandoned classroom on the sixth floor. The room was silent, lit only by moonlight streaming through the dusty windows.
"So—you're here again, Harry?"
A gentle voice broke the silence. Professor Dumbledore emerged from the shadows, his expression unreadable as he looked down at the boy.
Harry jumped, startled as if someone had stepped on his tail. His messy hair practically bristled, and in the Ravenclaw dormitory, Ryan Smith, who was observing remotely through magical means, was genuinely surprised to see that human hair could actually stand on end like that.
"I—I didn't see you there, sir," Harry stammered.
"It's rather strange to become so nearsighted while under an Invisibility Cloak," Dumbledore said, smiling slightly.
Harry, reading Dumbledore's tone, relaxed. His posture eased, the goosebumps on his skin faded, and the hair on his neck settled.
"Can this magic mirror show the future?" Harry asked, eyes shining. "I saw my family… I brought them back!"
Dumbledore didn't answer right away.
"Harry," he said gently, "what is lost cannot be restored."
"Beautiful flowers bloom… but one day, they wither. The living are all but travelers in time, passing through."
Harry clenched his fists.
"No," he said firmly. "That's just giving up. Magic is supposed to be miraculous—it's supposed to let us defy the rules. If we simply accept death, then what's the point?"
Dumbledore looked at him, his blue eyes ancient and full of sorrow.
"Death is not the end of everything," he said slowly. "It is a transition. Flowers bloom and fade. Stars sparkle and die. Even the earth, the sun, the Milky Way—this entire universe—will one day cease to be. In such brief lives, humans laugh, cry, love, hate, rejoice, despair… but in the end, we all sleep in death."
As he spoke, Ryan, watching from afar, saw something extraordinary: the Elder Wand in Dumbledore's hand glowed subtly. A divine, unknowable will seemed to stir around him. It was not visible to most—but Ryan felt it.
Was it the influence of Death itself?
Even Dumbledore didn't seem aware of it.
This was the truth of Nicolas Flamel's acceptance of death—the essence of the Philosopher's Stone. Contrary to what muggle-born fan theories once imagined, it wasn't merely an alchemical tool that granted immortality at the cost of magical ability or endless aging.
No, it was far more.
The Stone was like the golden core of eastern legend—true, perfect immortality. With it, one would not only avoid death but retain their youthful vitality. It could create immortal tools, and its elixir could rejuvenate.
Those who claimed immortality was boring? That was only because they couldn't have it. Sour grapes masked as philosophy.
Immortality is the ultimate desire—the culmination of every lesser want.
Harry slowly came back to his senses. The awe faded, replaced by a more grounded question.
"So… what is the real function of this mirror?"
"Harry," Dumbledore said gently, "look at the inscription on the frame."
Harry stood and squinted at the top of the mirror:
"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."
He frowned. "It doesn't make any sense."
"Read it backwards," Dumbledore advised. "It says: I show not your face but your heart's desire."
"So that's it… it shows what I want most," Harry murmured.
"And what your friend Ron saw," Dumbledore added, smiling slightly, "was himself as Head Boy."
Harry's eyes widened. "How do you know that?!"
"I don't need an Invisibility Cloak to be invisible," said Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his eye.
Ryan, listening in from the dormitory, rolled his eyes. That's nonsense. You weren't even there yesterday. You spied through the mirror, old man.
"You and your friend spent the entire night here," Dumbledore said, rubbing his knees with a grimace. "These old bones don't do well standing around too long."
"You—you were just watching us the whole night?!" Harry gasped.
Dumbledore nodded shamelessly, then sat beside him on the floor.
"Harry, the Mirror of Erised teaches us nothing," he said gravely. "It shows us dreams—yes—but not truths. If Ron becomes Head Boy one day, it will be because of his effort, not because of what he saw in this glass. If he wastes time here, that future will never come to pass."
Harry looked down. "What about my dream? My family…?"
Dumbledore paused.
"To hold on to a dream is a wonderful thing, Harry. But when you cling too tightly to something impossible—or worse, something that should never come to pass—you start to waste your life."
"The mirror shows what the heart longs for most. But if we live in dreams and forget to live in the real world… we wither."
Harry looked up slowly, heart heavy.
"I'm going to have the mirror moved tomorrow," Dumbledore said quietly. "I ask that you not try to find it again. But if you do stumble upon it someday—be prepared. Do not lose yourself in what you cannot have."
There was a long silence.
"Now, why don't you put on that marvelous cloak and get back to bed?"
Harry hesitated. "Sir… Professor Dumbledore, may I ask you something?"
Dumbledore smiled. "You already have. But I'll allow another."
"What did you see when you looked in the mirror?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with mischief.
"I—I saw myself holding a pair of thick woolen socks."
"Socks, sir?" Harry asked, confused.
"One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore with a sigh. "Another Christmas has come and gone, and I didn't receive a single pair. People always insist on giving me books."
Harry stared, wide-eyed.
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> Author's Note:
It's been nearly a month since the story went on the shelf. Thank you all for your support.
This book will not end in tragedy. It will not drag endlessly into seventh year.
Voldemort will be defeated. Innocent characters will not be senselessly harmed.
This fanfic is not meant to be poisonous or sad, but a magical journey worth reading to the end.
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