“Why aren’t you jumping up and down?” Ron demanded in disgust.
“That thing’s worth more than everything else put together.”
The other three glared at him.
“It’s nice to have something of my father’s,” Harry said evenly, “but it’s not as though I need it. I could probably design a rune cluster that does the same job better—smaller, more portable, and without the bulk.”
“Well if you don’t want it, just give it to me.” Ron held out his hand.
Harry snorted.
Before he could answer, Fred and George moved to either side of their brother and took an arm each.
“Dear brother,” Fred said smoothly, “I believe it’s time for breakfast. Shall we?”
“We’ll see you later, Harry. Merry Christmas!”
Despite spending most of the holiday designing his new Ninja rune cluster, Harry still found himself wandering the castle after dark beneath his father’s Cloak—more out of restless curiosity than any real plan.
On one of those nocturnal rambles he discovered an extraordinary mirror.
A mirror he found almost impossible to leave.
A mirror that showed him his family.
“Mirror of Erised?” Harry asked when Professor Dumbledore appeared.
He did not want to look away, yet he finally forced himself to glance at the Headmaster.
“Yes, Harry.
It shows the deepest desire of one’s heart.
A remarkable artefact… and a dangerous one.
Many have wasted away before it, content to stare at what they have never possessed rather than strive to attain it in the living world.” “Unless you happen to know a way to bring back the dead,” Harry answered quietly, “my necklace, my mother’s notebooks, my father’s Cloak and this mirror are the closest I will ever come to my family.
So you’ll forgive me for spending a little time here… sir.” He turned back to the glass. Find the original chapter at g.com.
He had not forgotten what McGonagall had revealed about the people his mother had hated.
“My boy, no magic can raise the dead.” Dumbledore sighed and reached out as if to rest a hand on Harry’s shoulder.
Harry scowled and shrugged the touch away.
“I know that, Professor. I’m not an idiot. I might one day design a cluster that offers a convincing imitation of life—but it would never be real.” Still facing the mirror, he missed the brief flash of fear and longing that crossed Dumbledore’s eyes.
“Did you have my father’s Cloak?”
“I did.”
Harry ground his teeth, fighting the urge to lash out.
“Then why wait a decade to return it… sir?”
“I knew your relatives would not value such a treasure. I wished only to keep it safe until you returned to us.” Harry exhaled sharply, forced to concede the point.
“Well… thank you for making certain I received it. I would have preferred it the moment I arrived at Hogwarts, but at least you didn’t keep it.” Dumbledore inclined his head slightly.
“You’re taking the mirror away, aren’t you?”
“I am.” “Fine.” Harry rose slowly and laid his palm against the cool surface, a sad smile touching his lips.
“Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad. Bye, everyone.” He turned and walked past the Headmaster.
“Thank you for giving me a little time with them, Professor.”
“Have a pleasant evening, Harry.”
Dumbledore watched the boy leave, then faced the mirror himself.
The glass showed Harry—cloaked entirely in black, yellow eyes wide and empty—lying lifeless on the floor.
A phantom Dumbledore stood over the body, pressing a glowing rune cluster to the chest of a young girl.
As the phantom sister’s chest began to rise and fall once more, the real Albus Dumbledore began to weep.
When Neville and Hermione returned from the holidays, Harry showed them the Invisibility Cloak and the first sketches of his Ninja cluster—an improved version that would incorporate sound-dampening as well.
“Any luck in the Restricted Section looking for Flamel?” Hermione asked, correctly guessing he would have used the Cloak to borrow the books.
“None of them mentioned him.” Harry shook his head.
He was certain he had seen the name somewhere, yet it kept slipping just out of reach.
“Gran didn’t recognise it either,” Neville said.
“She thought he might be foreign.”
“That would make a certain amount of sense,” Hermione agreed with a sigh.
“It would also make the search considerably harder.” “Shame he never did anything famous. Then he’d be in more books even if he was—” Neville broke off as Harry suddenly slapped his own forehead.
“Harry?”
“I am such an idiot!”
Hermione snorted.
“You are not an idiot. You’re a savant. In the magical world that’s practically the opposite.”
“Exactly, Hermione!” Harry exclaimed, looking from one friend to the other.
“A savant!”
“You’re going to have to explain that a bit more clearly,” Neville said, frowning.
“Nicolas Flamel alchemical savant!”
is a savant—an
“He’s what?” Neville asked.
Hermione’s eyes went wide; she leapt up murmuring that she would be right back and vanished up the stairs.
“An alchemical savant, Nev! After my first talk with Shiva I borrowed a book on historical magical savants. He was listed—thirteenth century, French, specialised in alchemy. I think he’s even on a Chocolate Frog card. He may also have helped establish one of the continental schools, or at least raised its reputation.”