Chapter 115: Nicolas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone, the Mirror of Erised
Hogwarts Great Hall.
Leonardo sat at the long table, eating breakfast at an easy pace.
Only a handful of students were around. Most had gone home for Christmas, and with no classes during the holidays, those who stayed were still sleeping in or busy opening their presents.
He was about to lift a spoonful of lean pork congee to his mouth when someone called his name in a rush.
"Leonardo!"
"Leonardo, good, you are here."
Harry and Ron arrived one after the other. Harry clutched a Chocolate Frog card with Dumbledore's portrait and thrust it out anxiously.
"Leonardo, look. I knew Nicolas Flamel sounded familiar. I saw him on a Chocolate Frog card."
Leonardo took the card calmly and glanced over it. Good. They had noticed. Not a wasted effort. With this as the excuse, Harry could learn about the Philosopher's Stone. Then it would be reasonable to go speak to Dumbledore directly. If he could get access early, he could use it for potion-brewing and pay off Aurelius's yearly loan.
"You two did well, finding a clue on a Chocolate Frog," he said, patting Harry's shoulder and offering the boys a modest compliment.
But Harry waved both hands. "No, no, it was luck. A lucky bird helped us."
Leonardo's spoon paused midair. What?
Lucky bird?
"Let me tell it," Ron burst out. He recounted the morning's events, including George's tale about lucky animals on Christmas Day, all the way through without skipping a beat.
"Leonardo, I am going to the Owlery later. Maybe that owl is still there."
"Come with me. If it leads me to endless Galleons, no, good fortune, I will not forget you."
Ron looked as if he could not wait to sprint off and hunt down the "lucky bird." Leonardo took a sip of congee and found himself unsure where to start. George and Fred must tease Ron constantly, and yet Ron still trusted those twins without question.
They had been helped by him, in an owl's shape. Lucky bird? Meet a creature on Christmas and feed it daily, and you would be prosperous and blessed for life? In the wizarding world, even legends had a habit of coming true.
Then again, the old tales of animals transforming to repay kindness—fox spirits, snake spirits, clam spirits—could those all have been an Animagus game?
He shook his head and reined his thoughts in. "I will pass. There are books to finish."
Harry and Ron were not surprised. They had long grown used to Leonardo's relentless study habits.
"Oh, Leonardo, did you get our presents?"
Leonardo nodded. He had already looked through them. Classmates mostly sent sweets or books. The professors varied more: a Transfiguration toy that could become several different things, a pouch of harmless magical plant seeds, a hand-copied folio of ancient spells, a potions recipe…
Even Quirrell had sent something—a very ordinary magical notebook. Its content was truly standard fare, nothing alarming, nothing impressive. Best to bring it when he speaks with the Headmaster and have him take a look. If Quirrell—or Tom—had laced it with anything troublesome…
Quirrell's extra tutoring had been shading increasingly toward the Dark Arts of late. He was still cautious and never explicit, but the intent was obvious. Lure the student deeper into the dark, then use that to coerce or keep him from obstructing the plan.
Dumbledore already knew.
The Headmaster's own gift was a special permit for the Restricted Section, covering most of the collection, excluding a few items considered too dangerous and vile. Leonardo had always found the categories between Restricted and General a little odd. Some Restricted titles were sold openly at Flourish and Blotts, while advanced household hexes turned up in the General stacks for anyone with a free period.
Hagrid's present was one he particularly loved: a dozen bookmarks made from all sorts of materials—Snidget feathers, Fwooper feathers, unicorn tail hair, and more. They were simple, even rough, but Leonardo could feel how much care had gone into them. He knew Hagrid had collected those materials in the Forbidden Forest.
One in particular tugged at him—almost invisible at first glance. Not truly invisible, no. Present, but beyond his sight. It was made from a Thestral's tail hair. Hagrid had made special note of it, worried Leonardo might overlook it entirely. Thestrals were a peculiar magical creature; only those who had seen death could see them. They had long been thought an omen of ill luck. Leonardo had not yet witnessed the death of a person, not in a way that had pierced him to the bone.
"I did. I liked them all," he said. "Oh, Ron, thank your mum for the sweater. It looks great and it is very warm. I will thank her in person this summer."
He lifted his robes to show the midnight-blue sweater beneath, with a large L on the chest.
Ron eyed it with a twinge of envy. "Why do yours always have the nice colors…"
Leonardo chuckled. "Back to Flamel. I was about to bring him up."
He drew a gigantic, thick, battered volume from his pocket. With a flick of his wand, the pages whisked by and settled on a particular spread.
Harry and Ron leaned in, long past marveling at how many strange things Leonardo could draw from his pockets.
"The Philosopher's Stone can turn any metal into pure gold and brew the Elixir of Life, granting immortality to the drinker."
"The only known Philosopher's Stone belongs to the noted alchemist and opera lover, Nicolas Flamel."
"Nicolas Flamel celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year."
Harry and Ron's eyes grew wider and wider.
"The Philosopher's Stone."
"Pure gold."
"Elixir of Life."
"Six hundred and sixty-five years."
They looked at each other, shock and disbelief reflected in both faces.
"No wonder," Ron muttered. "No wonder Hermione pushed us through a mountain of Modern Magical History. All those books gave me a headache…"
"Six hundred years is hardly modern," Harry breathed.
A sudden thought seized him. He wanted to search the library for more about Nicolas Flamel. To a child, the Philosopher's Stone was almost too wondrous to believe. Gold from nothing. Life without end. But the General stacks might not have enough detail, so…
That cloak.
—
A corridor somewhere in Hogwarts.
Moonlight was thin and faint, barely picking out the stones.
Harry stumbled along under the Invisibility Cloak, checking behind him every few steps for Filch or Mrs Norris. He had slipped into the Restricted Section to hunt down more about Flamel. The first book he opened had shrieked. The scream had nearly deafened him. Of course, it brought Filch running. The caretaker had been patrolling nearby.
Harry had played a wild game of hide-and-seek through the stacks to shake him off. He had managed, for now, but in his panic, he had lost his bearings. He did not recognize this corridor. Regret gnawed at him. It was his first time using the cloak—and it had been his father's. He had wanted just once, this once, to use it by himself. So he had not called Leonardo or Ron.
One use and his heart had nearly leapt out of his chest. If only Leonardo were here. He always knew where to go.
Far above, atop a carved stone capital, a pair of dark green eyes glimmered and dimmed in the dark. Leonardo, in an owl's shape, watched a patch of shadow below. The cloak hid the wearer's own magic from sight, but earlier that day, he had left a small mark on Harry's shoulder when he had patted him on the back. The trace of magic there did not vanish beneath the cloak. After all, the cloak did not block all magic. It only cloaked the wearer.
Harry would likely wander into a certain room and discover a certain mirror.
It was never a coincidence. Dumbledore was probably "watching," waiting to slip the Mirror of Erised into the room just before Harry walked in.
Vortices turned faintly in the owl's eyes as he tracked the magic on Harry's shoulder.
"I do not know why you chose to meet me here, Severus…"
Harry heard a whisper from a shadowed corner of the corridor. Stammering, shaky. Familiar.
"You do not want me as your enemy, Quirinus," came the reply, unmistakable. Harry knew that voice all too well.
Snape.
"I do not… know you…"
"You understand me perfectly."
"Your secrets. Your tricks. I am waiting."
"B-but… I-I do not…"
Harry crept closer, using the weak moonlight to see. There was Snape, and there was Quirrell, purple turban and all. Snape was threatening him.
"You should decide where your loyalties lie. Then we will talk…"
Snape broke off and turned. His black eyes were fixed on a spot that looked empty. Harry clapped a hand over his nose and mouth and held his breath, edging back inch by inch. Snape's hand reached out and missed the hem of the Invisibility Cloak by a whisper.
A sharp hoot split the corridor. A plain owl swooped out of the dark, traced a curve, and pecked Quirrell smartly on the head.
"Ah!"
Quirrell clutched his turban in fright. Harry took the chance to retreat several more steps, out of Snape's reach. The owl brushed past and swept away. In that instant, Harry caught a glimpse of its eyes—an uncommon green. There was not enough time to name the shade, but he felt sure, somehow, that it was the same owl as that morning.
He now felt the same as Ron. Lucky bird.
He had not gone far when he ran into Filch again. Harry turned down a side passage. An old door stood there, and there was a gap. He twisted sideways and slid through, careful not to touch the wood. He was small and thin. He barely made it, but he did. For once, he was grateful for the meager meals at the Dursleys. Being small meant he was not caught, not punished, not expelled.
Inside, he looked around. An abandoned classroom, by the look of it. Dusty desks and chairs. And a mirror.
A grand, ornate mirror that seemed to belong anywhere but here. He did not study the frame. The first sight in the glass made his heart stop.
He was not alone in the reflection.
People stood behind him. Many. All looking straight at him. He whirled. The room held only him. He looked back at the glass, braver now.
A beautiful red-haired woman. Her eyes were his, exactly his eyes in a mirror. A tall, thin, black-haired man in glasses, with a cowlick in the back just like his own. Others, some with his eyes, some with his nose.
"You… you are…" he whispered.
He did not know how long he stared. Voices in the corridor snapped him out of it. He fled.
A few seconds later, an owl swept in and shifted shape midair. Leonardo touched down lightly and looked at the mirror. Not a speck of dust. Completely at odds with everything around it.
Dumbledore, at his age, was still carting mirrors about in the middle of the night.
He looked at the inscription at the top.
"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."
Mirror, mirror. Read it backward: "I show not your face but your heart's desire."
He let his eyes fall to the glass. It did not show him at all. Pages flew, inked symbols and spells overlapping, magic cast bright and plain, cauldrons bubbling, all crowding the surface. He focused and caught a line of mathematics.
"∭E(x^2 + y^2) dV. The domain E is bounded by the surfaces…"
"The answer in the mirror is wrong."
"How dull."
He shook his head. The Mirror of Erised could not even do a triple integral. Useless, then. He turned to leave, then lifted his gaze to the ceiling and smiled.
"How is my Animagus, Headmaster?"