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Chapter 105: Investigation, Rumor
The words had barely left his lips when the eerie voice vanished instantly. Michael Panic’s expression froze in shock, then quickly melted into utter exasperation.
After a moment, two red-haired heads peeked out from either side of the Mirror.
“Huh, how did you know it was us?” Fred asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Probably because your foot wasn’t hidden properly,” George said, stepping forward.
“We’re identical!” Fred shot back with a grumble.
Just moments before, the twins had thought it was Professor McGonagall. In a panic, they’d hidden behind the Mirror—part of one foot tucked behind the clawed stand, the other leg awkwardly lifted, clinging to the glass like an octopus.
Now, with Wade and Michael’s arrival, their playful mood returned. They’d decided to imitate a ghost’s voice, hoping to scare the two newcomers. But their prank had been instantly exposed.
“What are you two doing here?” Wade asked.
“Same as you—checking out why our little Ron got knocked out,” Fred said, stepping forward and crouching down to poke at the grayish mass with a finger.
Michael said, “You should’ve gone to the Infirmary!”
“Percy already did,” George replied, winking. “Besides, investigating the Forbidden Area is way more fun!”
Fred frowned, staring at the smoldering pile. “So this is Quirrell? What kind of magic could burn someone like this?”
“Inferno Flame?” Michael guessed. He’d only heard the name before—rumors of a Dark Magic far more powerful than Fiendfyre.
“Impossible,” George said. “Inferno Flame burns everything flammable. It wouldn’t leave clothes intact—this looks more like… something else. Some other kind of Dark Magic.”
“Wait till Harry wakes up,” Wade said, turning to the more pressing matter. “Did you two explore Inferno Flame?”
Fred smirked. “We sneaked into the Library one night—read a few books Professor McGonagall forbids. Compendium of Spells, Secrets of Advanced Dark Magic, that kind of thing…”
George added without hesitation, “Inferno Flame’s too dangerous to control. But Poison for Poison? That’s useful. Teaches some solid minor Dark Curses.”
The group lingered around the pile, examining it in silence. Nothing conclusive came of it—except the twins pocketing a small amount of ash, claiming they’d make a keepsake for their younger brother Ron.
Michael wandered through the stone chamber, checking every corner. No rewards, no clues.
As he passed the Mirror twice, a strange sensation tugged at him. He paused, turned back slowly, and stared.
His eyes widened in shock—then flushed red.
Inside the Mirror, he saw himself… but Wade and the Weasley twins were gone. Only Padma stood beside him.
She had sun-kissed skin, glowing with health and vitality. Her delicate oval face was framed by a warm, intoxicating smile. Dressed in a deep blue sari, she revealed long, smooth arms like lotus stems.
Her arms were wrapped around the image of Michael in the glass—pressed close, inseparable.
For a heartbeat, Michael felt a pang of jealousy toward the version of himself in the reflection.
“What do you see?” Fred suddenly leaned in sideways, grinning. “You’re blushing like you’re about to boil water!”
“N-nothing! Nothing at all!” Michael stammered, hastily shielding the Mirror.
Wade joined him, tilting his head up to read the inscription carved into the Mirror’s frame.
“It shows not your face… but your deepest Desire,” he murmured.
He looked at Michael with a knowing, quiet gaze.
Michael cleared his throat, took a deep breath to cool his flushed face, then stepped aside.
Once he’d regained composure, he realized—when viewed from the side, the Mirror was completely empty. Nothing but blank glass.
“A Mirror that reveals your innermost longing,” Fred declared, laughing. “I saw our prank products selling like hotcakes—me and George lying on a pile of Galleons!”
George chuckled. “I saw the Quidditch Cup!”
Michael glanced at Wade, who hadn’t moved toward the Mirror. “Wade… don’t you want to see?”
A pause.
“…Yeah,” Wade said softly, then smiled. “But it’s just an illusion, isn’t it? So what’s the point?”
Michael nodded in understanding. Wade knew exactly what he wanted. He didn’t need a Mirror to confirm it.
Still, Michael couldn’t help glancing back at the image of Padma one last time.
They lingered before the Mirror a little longer, lost in the fleeting illusion of happiness—before finally tearing themselves away.
As they turned to leave, Wade paused. He looked back once more.
The Mirror stood alone in the center of the empty room, silent, still—almost calling out.
Wade lowered his eyes, quickened his pace, and followed the others, as if fleeing from a whirlpool.
…
Harry remained unconscious in the hospital wing for three days before finally waking.
During that time, rumors spread like wildfire across the school. Dumbledore made no official statement, nor did he try to stop the students from talking.
The few who had entered the hatch were besieged daily, begged again and again to retell their tale.
Neville, having been knocked out early, quickly escaped the frenzy. Theo, the most patient of them all, grew hoarse from repeating his story—sometimes even getting corrected mid-sentence with a loud, “No, that’s not how you said it last time!”
Soon, every student knew the entire story—except for the part Harry had lived through alone.
Everyone now believed: Professor Quirrell had tried to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, failed, and been defeated by Harry Potter and his friends.
Ron, who had made the ultimate sacrifice, became a hero of Gryffindor. The day he woke up, several Gryffindor boys lifted him onto their shoulders, carrying him from the Infirmary all the way to the Great Hall. His mischievous older brothers cheered wildly beside him, turning Ron’s face as red as his hair.
But beneath the surface, another, wilder rumor began to circulate—more absurd than any other.
Some whispered that Quirrell wasn’t really Quirrell at all. That he had been taken over, manipulated by the Dark Lord himself.
Thus, Harry Potter had once again defeated the one whose name must not be spoken.
Of course, few believed it. But precisely because it was so far-fetched, those who did believed it all the more fiercely.
They’d lean in, eyes gleaming, and whisper to anyone who’d listen:
“Know what? The truth isn’t what you’ve been told…”
Rumors took flight, spreading like wings across the castle.
Dumbledore’s response remained ambiguous. When directly asked, he simply said, “Ah… the Philosopher’s Stone. It does attract many who wish to flee Death.”
The questioner understood immediately—Voldemort meant “he who flees Death.”
“Yes,” Dumbledore continued, his voice soft, warm. “Some of our students showed great courage. They stood against evil with bravery and selflessness. They protected the Stone.”
He paused, then smiled gently. “But Nick and Pereinal have destroyed it. They’ve decided to handle the remaining matters, then set out on the Path of the Unknown.”
He looked out over the room, his eyes twinkling.
“For those of us who live long enough… Death holds its own kind of beauty, doesn’t it?”
(End of Chapter)
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