As Hermione had asked in her letter, Harry sent out Hedwig the next day. Harry wondered briefly as he walked down from the Owlery how exactly Owls were able to find their destinations. Did they instinctively know every wizard on the planet? That did not seem likely, even if owls were as intelligent as they were purported to be. That led to another research rabbit-hole, and apparently, as he found out after an hour or two of reading, a magical person writing a letter somehow gave it a trace of some magic, on which formed the basis of owl post. It sounded interesting, but he quickly slammed head-first into a brick wall of numbers, equations, and theory with any attempt at further research, and he spent the rest of the day resting and having tea with Hagrid.
True to Neville's word, on the morning of the twenty-first, a great, majestic owl arrived, a large package tied to its legs. Harry, wanting to open the package but seeing that Hedwig had not yet arrived back from Hermione, decided to wait until Christmas to open his presents – it would be nice, too, he thought, to have a Christmas for which others had taken care to send him presents, anyway. Dutifully – but a little painfully – he went upstairs to stash it away underneath his bed.
When he returned to his dormitory, though, to his surprise, he found that, in the time that Harry had been at breakfast, someone had put two packages right at the foot of his bed. One of the packages was the shape of a small rectangle, not much bigger than the size of Harry's hand, while the other looked to be something soft, almost like the package of one of the robes that he had purchased from Madam Malkin. It was, however, intricately wrapped in a deep blue fabric, on which was printed a pattern of golden stars.
Harry wondered what the two other packages could be, and who had sent them, for they clearly looked like presents. The Dursleys would not have sent him anything, he thought – they had made a big enough deal about the great effort that it had taken for them to write him a Christmas card in the past – and even if they did, it would certainly not be a package.
Ron's return to the room, though, distracted Harry from those wonderings, and it was with some envy and anticipation that Harry watched as he opened his presents. Despite the temptation, though, he stuck to his original plan, waiting for Christmas – or at least for Hermione's presents to arrive – before he opened his. Nonetheless, it tested his determination to watch as Ron played with his new wizard's chess set, snacked on the various sweets and snacks that he had been sent, wore the jumper that his mother had made for him, and read his greeting cards. Ron had tossed Harry a Chocolate Frog, and Harry, having never had one before, was caught completely unprepared as it leapt from its box and onto his face.
'You have to be prepared to catch it,' Ron said, laughing. In the last week or so, the 'admiration' that he had towards Harry at the beginning of the year had mellowed out significantly, and it became possible now to have a normal conversation with him – though Ron did not seem to be the most interesting conversationalist when talking about a subject that was not Quidditch.
Hermione's present came on the morning of Christmas Eve, just in time. The moment Harry woke up the next morning, he could not resist even waiting for another minute, knowing that for the first time in his life, he had real presents waiting for him – not just yet one more hastily written card with the same, cliché greeting, along with a wrinkled twenty-Pound note.
Harry dragged all four of the packages out from underneath his bed, and after some deliberation, decided to leave the two mystery packages for last. He could not, however, choose whether to open Hermione's or Neville's first. Finally, selecting at random, he picked up Hermione's gift. Carefully but with excitement, he undid the ribbons and peeled back the wrapper.
Inside were two books. One – the thicker one – was a guidebook to the lesser-known sights of Paris. The other, meanwhile, was a book titled French for Englishmen. Harry flipped through it briefly, and it appeared to be a book for learning French, complete with jokes every several pages, most of them appearing to make fun of the English.
'Thanks, Hermione,' Harry breathed, setting them aside and moving onto Neville's package – though he already could not wait to start reading Hermione's books.
He moved onto Neville's package next, and it, too contained a book. This one, however, captured Harry's attention even more. It was titled Practical Self Defence – Spells, Exercises, and Guides for Beginners. He looked at the table of contents, and though it contained several spells that they had already learned, there were many that he had never even heard of. He knew what he was going to be doing for the rest of the holidays.
Before he opened the two unmarked packages, Harry took a moment to read Hermione and Neville's cards. Both had written what might be described as full letters in them, not just wishing him a good Christmas and New Year's, but also telling them how they were doing and asking him how he was doing. They had put far more than Harry had expected, but in a way that made him feel unexplainably warm and happy. He wondered what he could give them in return for their thought, and felt a little embarrassed that he did not know what to gift them.
It was on a high note that Harry moved on. He picked up the square package first. There was no name nor any indication of what it was on the outside, but by feel, Harry thought that it might be a book inside.
He tore away the packaging, and as Harry anticipated, he found a book inside, as well as a note. It was a rather old book which looked well-used – to say the least. It was not a familiar-looking book like Hermione's and Neville's presents were, though. There were three different languages on the cover. The top two were written in the Latin script – the first line spelled out Das Wörterbuch der Alten Sprache (Eltrysischen), the second, Clewojomkszjen eltreny hnes Riczot – and Harry could, at least, read them, though he had no idea what they meant. The third line, however, was written in an entirely alien system that, at first glance, looked like a combination of symbols, pictures, or even simply random lines and curves.
Guessing from the words that Harry could read, the book had something to do with Eltrys. Wanting to know if his suspicions were correct, he picked it up from the packaging to look inside. When he did, though, he found a note at the bottom of the package. In curiosity, hoping that it might explain something, Harry grabbed the note and opened it.
You asked me what Eltrys was, the note read. Rather than trying and failing to explain it to you, here's the dictionary I used as a student in Berlin. It's printed in German, but it has my notes next to each word. There's also a section on how the Runic Script works in the back. I hope that you'll read it, realise how absurd the runic language is, and decide that it's not worth all the pain of trying to learn it. It's yours to keep and torture yourself with. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. – Anna
Harry put down the note and carefully opened the book to a page in the middle. Words were listed in two columns, both in a Latin-alphabet variant that Harry could read, as well as in its Runic form. Several words, Harry saw, seemed to even have several different runic forms. In the margins next to each word, in small, messy handwriting, was written what Harry presumed to be the word's English translation, occasionally accompanied by a little note about its usage. Megwjes, for example, apparently meant 'large', while meni meant 'to think', and so on.
He flipped to the back of the book, wanting to take a look at the section on the Runic script. To Harry's dismay, though, this section, too, was written in German, and there were far less of Anna's notes there – even the ones that were there were not in English. Based on the pictographic charts, however, Harry could see what Anna had meant when she had told him that the Eltrys runic system revolved around meanings. One chart, for example, showed a base rune that seemed to depict a fire of some sort, and several different variations on the basic rune for different modifications and combinations of meanings. A dash at the top seemed to indicate a fire used for cooking, while a combination with another rune appeared to mean the act of extinguishing the fire.
Despite finding the concept quite interesting, his head was already spinning a little after seeing only these two pages. Deciding to come back to it later when he had more time to figure out the intricacies, Harry set down Anna's present on his bed and turned to the final package – the one wrapped in the star-studded cloth. Harry picked it up and pulled on the knot at the top, beginning to unwrap it, but then, suddenly, the knot and the strings undid themselves, and the package fell open by magic.
Inside the package was something of the likes of which Harry had never seen before – and he did not know how to describe. Harry thought that it resembled some kind of fabric, though it was unlike any sort of clothing that he had ever seen. The fabric was silvery and glimmered a little, and was so fine that it looked almost impermeable. Harry touched the flowing, almost smoke-like surface. It was indescribably smooth and cool to the touch.
Harry lifted the material out of the package, and it was incredibly lightweight as well – almost as if he was holding air. Carefully, he gave it a tug, and it gave just very slightly before it stretched taunt. When he had removed the entire thing from the wrapping, Harry found, just like in Anna's present, a note at the bottom.
Dear Harry, it began. You are holding in your hands a Cloak of Invisibility. Your father left this in my possession before he passed away. I believe that, having seen you these last few months, it is appropriate for it to be returned now to its rightful owner. Use it responsibly. – A. P. W. B. D.
A Cloak of Invisibility – that was what it was. Harry knew what that was – or he thought he did, based on what he remembered seeing on television. As he got up eagerly to test it out before the mirror in his room, though, something else struck him. This cloak had belonged to his father. He was holding in his hands, for the first time in his life, something that had been his parents'. He looked in the mirror at his reflection, then at the silvery cloak in his hand, then back again, unable to form coherent thoughts. This was more than he had ever anticipated from this Christmas day – an heirloom from his father.
After a long while, he finally found the strength to try it on. Slowly and carefully, treating it like the sacred object that it was, he draped the cloak over his head and shoulders. It was too large for him, and folds of it fell on the ground, but when he closed it around his front and he looked back in the mirror, he gasped.
He could see through the cloak perfectly, with only barely a hint that there was any material in between him and the outside at all. His reflection in the mirror that he had seen just seconds ago was gone, bed hair and all. In fact, he could see nothing at all besides the furniture and walls of the room behind him.
Harry pulled the cloak off, and there he was in the mirror, fully visible again. After blinking, making sure that it was not all just an illusion, he draped the cloak over his head again, and he disappeared instantly. Next he tried pulling it off of himself and draping it over his arm. His arm, to his mingled amusement and terror, disappeared, only to reappear immediately when he removed the cloak.
His mind was already spinning fast at all the ways that he might use the cloak, but he forced himself to not do anything rash and instead stash it securely in his trunk for whenever he might need it. A. P. W. B. D. – Dumbledore, Harry realised, remembering his Hogwarts letter – had told him to use it responsibly. It was not like he needed to be told to do so, though. Could he really face his father's legacy if he did something stupid with it and destroyed it? Or lost it? The cloak was more valuable to him than all the gold in the world.
Having put away the invisibility cloak – though not quite succeeding at keeping it off his mind – Harry returned to the other three presents that he had been given. He could not decide which one to start with, but after a while, he finally settled on Neville's book.
As he was reading, Ron woke up. 'Good morning, Harry,' he said as he walked past Harry's bed. 'Happy Christmas – that's how you say it, right?'
Harry nodded. 'Thanks, Ron.'
'Got anything interesting?'
'Just some books,' Harry replied, gesturing at the small pile in front of him. Briefly, he considered whether he should talk about the cloak, but quickly decided that he should not.
'Aw, bummer,' Ron said, sounding like he felt a little sorry for Harry, who simply shrugged in reply. 'Your muggle aunt and uncle sent them?'
'No,' Harry replied. 'Hermione and Neville did. And An – Professor Vesnova – gave me something, too.'
Ron's eyes noticeably bulged a little. 'A teacher gave you a present?'
Harry nodded, smiling inwardly a little at what he was not telling Ron. 'She thought I might be interested in what the book was about.'
'Bloody hell,' Ron breathed. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something about Harry being the Boy-Who-Lived again, but he, thankfully, managed to hold his mouth. 'Well, that's good for you,' he said instead. 'Making friends with teachers…'
Harry wanted impulsively to comment about how if Ron and Raul stopped disrupting Professor Ross's class – or any class, for that matter, though especially History of Magic – every other day with their antics, he might, too. In light of Ron's recently improved behaviour towards him, though, he chose not to. Instead, he simply shrugged again, getting back to his reading.
Harry spent the rest of the day mostly in the vicinity of his bed, reading. Later in the afternoon, he wrote thank-you letters to Hermione and Neville for their presents and cards, and tried not to go on too much about how much he – really – appreciated their thought. He also found Anna in her usual corner of the library, and she replied to Harry's thanks with a hug that, unlike Hermione's the day they left, did not seem to make him feel too awkward.
'Well, as I said before, you must like pain,' she said after Harry told her about his attempts at deciphering the Runic Script. 'But if you really are interested, even after seeing all that, then you definitely should explore it a little. Just don't be too surprised when you get hopelessly lost from time to time – or maybe every day.'
That night, after dinner, Harry sat down on his bed and opened the dictionary to the back, beginning to stare at the symbols. After thirty minutes, he had still made no progress – everything seemed so mindlessly random – and gave up for the night. Thinking he might want to end the day with something lighter, Harry opened up Hermione's present. Tu es une pomme was far easier, he thought.
The day after Christmas, Harry, unable to come up with any presents to give to Hermione and Neville, sent them both long letters of appreciation, letting them know how genuinely he appreciated that they had taken the time to send him something. Their cards, meanwhile, Harry, determined to preserve them, tucked securely away in a secure corner of his trunk.
Harry spent the better part of the next several days in various empty classrooms, practising the spells from the book that Neville had gifted him for Christmas. His success, though, varied. Some spells, such as the Fast Levitation Charm, which could be used for quickly levitating objects into the path of an oncoming spell, were quite easy to learn, requiring only a few modifications to the basic spell. Others, though, were obviously far more involved and quite a bit beyond his current level. After trying the Shield Charm in vain for the better part of an afternoon, he gave up, deciding to focus on the ones that he could feasibly learn instead of setting himself an impossible challenge.
On the afternoon of New Year's Eve, Harry made his way to the classroom on the fourth floor where he usually went to practise spells. When he got there, though, he found that the door was locked. Thinking that it was nothing unusual – the door of that room had been locked once before several days ago, after all – he went down to the next room and tried its handle, only to find that it, too, was locked. Harry found that a little odd, but still, he did not think much of it as he crossed the corridor to try the next door.
That one, thankfully, was open, and when Harry entered, he noticed that the room appeared quite a bit more littered than the other classrooms that he had been to before. There were chairs and desks stacked along the back wall, and in a corner to his right stood a large mirror, whose frame was elegantly embroidered and gilded with what looked like pure gold.
Harry did not look at the mirror more closely, for he was itching to try out the Searchlight Charm, a modification of the Wand-Lighting Charm that produced a light so bright that it could reputedly momentarily blind someone. Some time later, he left for dinner, and when he returned, he also paid it no notice, continuing to work on the spell.
It was not until it was nearly nine, when Harry had finally managed to get the spell to work, that he paid any attention to the mirror again. Curious as to what it was, he walked up to the mirror slowly, wand in hand. His reflection, which had been foggy at a distance, grew clearer. Harry's eyes were not focused on the mirror itself, though, but rather at the top of the frame. It was as intricately carved as the rest of the mirror, filled with patterns that Harry recognised as runes. In the centre, however, across the width, was engraved a row of Latin letters, all in an ancient-looking calligraphic font.
Cejkem heg texej ojw Lejcomow tewa njew, ni hnes Zaletiwentow ojw Kernot tewa, the inscription read in what Harry assumed to be Eltrys. He did not know what those words meant – or even if they were Eltrys at all, in fact. Having seen the entirety of the top of the mirror, Harry's eyes drifted towards the mirror itself.
That was when he was shocked to find two people standing right behind him. On his right was a man with tangled black hair that resembled eerily his own. On his left, meanwhile, was a woman with long, auburn hair and brilliantly green eyes. The most striking thing, though, was not her physical appearance, though she was beautiful, but the look on her face. As she looked down at Harry, her face bore a proud, warm smile that was unmistakeably maternal.
Harry turned around to look at his mother, his heart leaping in his chest, but when he did, he saw nothing but an empty room. He spun around, looking for what must have been his father but he, too, was nowhere to be seen. He looked back towards his mother again, and once more, saw only emptiness.
But in the mirror, they were still here. His mother was still smiling down at Harry with that heart-warming smile of hers. His father, meanwhile, had moved, and his hand was now on Harry's shoulder. Harry, in irrational hope, reached up towards his right shoulder, hoping to feel a hand, but there was nothing there besides the fabric of his robes.
He reached forward and touched the mirror, wondering if that act would suck him into a parallel dimension – a world within a world within a world – where his mother and father were, but nothing happened. Inside the mirror, his mother took his reflection's hand and gently pulled it away from the mirror's surface before raising it to her lips and briefly kissing it. Outside, Harry's own hands remained as cold as ever.
'Mum?' he tried desperately to speak to them. 'Dad? Can you hear me?'
His mother looked up slowly and gave a smile, but not saying anything. 'You can?' Harry asked.
Both looked at him and smiled, but neither showed any sign of having heard him, nor of responding. His reflection in the mirror, however, suddenly looked content, a bright smile coming over his face. They had heard him. They must have.
'How are you, Mum? Dad?' he whispered, and a second later, Harry watched as his mother and father both gave small nods. They were all right.
'I'm doing well, too,' Harry replied, and he was filled with euphoria when his mother smiled. 'I've been at Hogwarts for almost four months. You've missed so much…'
And once Harry started talking, he could not stop. His mother and father deserved to know everything, he thought, and he needed to tell them everything now. What if he came back here tomorrow, and they were gone? What if the mirror, which somehow seemed to have raised the dead, was taken away? What, then, would be the next chance he had to talk to his parents again – if ever?
And his mother and father seemed to listen as patiently as anyone could, and Harry was touched. They genuinely seemed to be happy for him, perhaps even proud of him. What more could he ask of this Christmas, he thought, for it seemed like all that he had wished had already come true…
When Harry finished, it was already close to eleven, and he knew, with reluctance, that he would have to return to Gryffindor Tower. 'I'll be back tomorrow,' he promised as he grabbed his books and prepared to go. 'Please don't leave,' he pleaded.
His mother and father smiled again, and that was all the confirmation that Harry needed. Spirits higher than ever, he returned to Gryffindor Tower, imagining in his mind that, perhaps, he would be able to return here and visit his parents for years to come. Would they, one day, also begin talking back to him? It seemed unlikely, but he had already seen the impossible. Would that really be far too much to ask of magic?
Harry returned the next day, and there they were, still in the mirror. Even though Harry had told him everything he desperately wanted to the previous night, he still, somehow, managed to find things to talk about with them. They never said anything back – and Harry was beginning to doubt that they even could – but their smiles, gestures, and interactions with Harry's reflection in the mirror provided him with all the feedback he needed, and a part of Harry began to wonder how he ever managed to live without them for so long.
And he returned the next day, and the next. He began forgetting to go to meals, sometimes skipping both lunch and dinner by accident, though that did not exactly upset him. He was right where he wanted to be, and he felt happier than at any time he could remember in his life.
In the afternoon on the fifth day, Harry thought that he heard Dumbledore's voice behind him as he looked into the mirror, but he thought that it must have been an illusion. After all, just minutes before, he had been talking about Headmaster Dumbledore to his parents. He had not heard the door open, and several minutes later, shut again.
Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. At first, he did not register it, but then, all of a sudden, his heart sped up. There was a hand on his shoulder. His mind flashed back to the first day, how he had seen his father place his hand there, and how Harry had felt for it, only to find nothing there. Now, there really was something there. Magic had, once again, done the impossible.
He spun around, expecting to find his father. And for a moment, he thought that he did as he saw black hair. The next moment, however, he realised that it was not the same black hair that he saw in the mirror. It was not short and tangled, but long, smooth, and shoulder-lengthed.
'Harry?' Anna asked.
'What're you doing here,' Harry breathed, caught off-guard and feeling unreasonably angry that she had disrupted him.
'To check on you,' she replied. 'You've been missing for days. You haven't been coming to lunch and dinner, and you weren't in Gryffindor Tower, either. I've been worried. We all have been. Albus came in here an hour ago, and he said that you wouldn't even respond to him. He said that you didn't even hear him.'
'I'm fine,' Harry said, not without sounding a little accusatory. 'I'm okay here.'
Anna ignored this. 'Have you been looking into the mirror all this time?' she asked instead.
And suddenly, the excitement was back. 'Yes, I have! Of course I have! I saw my parents in it! And I didn't just see them – I could even talk to them, and they'll…just look into the mirror and see! Don't you see them?'
There was a long silence before either of them spoke. 'You see your parents, too?' Anna asked finally, in a much quieter voice than Harry had anticipated.
'Yeah,' Harry said, feeling a little confused as he stated the obvious. 'Don't you see them? My mum's on the left with the red hair, and my dad's the one on the right.'
'No, I don't. I see…'
'What do you see?' Harry questioned.
'My parents. Both my parents and my…my adopted…'
'Your parents?' Harry asked, more confused than before. 'But…but how? I see my mum and dad. I still see them. How do you – '
'This isn't a mirror, Harry,' Anna said gently, sitting down on the floor next to Harry. 'Well, it is, but it's not something you'd find in the washroom.'
'What is it, then?' Harry demanded. She had to be just playing tricks on him. His parents were right there – it was an indisputable fact that he could verify with his own two eyes. 'What is this thing?'
'It's called the Mirror of Erised,' Anna explained. 'The witch who created this mirror in the fifteenth century named it so because "Erised" is "desire" spelled in reverse. Desire is what it shows, Harry. See the top, where it says "Cejkem heg texej ojw Lejcomow tewa njew, ni hnes Zaletiwentow ojw Kernot tewa"? That's Eltrys. It roughly translates to "I do not show you your reflection, but the desire of your heart".'
'I guess my desire is my parents, then,' Harry replied. 'What's wrong, then? I saw them, didn't I? My desire came true.'
Anna shook her head. 'You saw them, Harry, but they aren't really there. They're not here with you in the room. It's all the work of magic manipulating your own imagination, Harry.'
'But you saw your own parents,' Harry argued, knowing that she was not telling the truth. 'Are you telling me that they aren't real?'
'They aren't, as much as I wish they were.'
'But…but when I spoke to them, they responded,' Harry said desperately. 'They smiled at me, they waved back. How could it…'
'Your imagination,' Anna answered. 'Your imagination and magic. This mirror is an exceptional item, Harry. I've studied it a little with permission from Albus. It has magic that tricks you in ways that you would never expect.' She sighed, and in a quieter voice, 'I told him that he shouldn't leave it here, where anyone could find it, but he told me it was only temporary, and he'll move it soon. This is what happens…'
'You're wrong,' Harry said, sounding angrier than he was feeling. 'My parents are there. I saw them with my own eyes. They can't be just an illusion.'
'They are just an illusion, and if you cannot face it, you will become one of the many who have wasted their lives in front of it,' Anna replied, her voice suddenly hard. 'There are reports, terrible stories, of people who saw riches, deceased loved ones, or whatever else, and did not realise or did not want to realise that it was all their mind. If you cannot realise it, then you will go the same way.'
There was a long, tense silence, and Harry's eyes floated towards the mirror, wishing for something that might confirm that it was real – maybe for his father to place his hand on his shoulder and for him to feel it. Just as his eyes met the mirror's edge, he watched as the image of his father lay his hand on his own reflection's shoulder, but when Harry reached up, he felt, once again, only cold fabric.
And he felt a sense of defeat as he realised that Anna had to be right. The mirror was showing him everything that he wished for, and exactly what he wished for, but it could not be real. Suddenly, Harry felt tears come to his eyes. He had come here for nothing. He had opened his heart to nothing but an inanimate piece of glass and metal, masquerading as the manifestation of his ultimate wish. A rage boiled over him, and Harry wanted to lunge at the mirror and destroy it, but at the same time, he was glued to the floor by an overwhelming grief and denial.
'It's really all fake…' he breathed, sniffling.
Anna nodded. 'Yes, Harry.'
'How did you not get sucked in?' Harry blabbered, not able to control what he was saying in his emotional tempest. 'I mean…you must've seen your…your parents…when you were here. Do you not…not miss them?'
'Of course I miss them,' Anna said, her voice far away. 'I miss them a lot. It's been years…decades, even.'
'Did you know your parents?' Harry asked as tears continued flowing down his cheeks.
'My mother, yes. My father, no. He died before I could remember. He was killed in a war.'
'At least you know how he died,' Harry rattled on without thinking. 'I didn't know until months ago how my parents…'
'Is it better, though?' Anna asked. 'He died thousands and thousands of kilometres from home, in a war that ultimately meant nothing to any of us, and for a dying country that, since a few days ago, doesn't even exist anymore. "Stepped on a landmine," the official records said. There was nothing of him left to bury.'
'I'm – hic – sorry,' Harry said, quickly regretting his words earlier. 'I shouldn't have asked.'
'It's fine. I know what you see and why, it's only fair that you know what I see, too. After he died, my mother and I moved. We were fine where we were for several years. Until I came into the magical world, that is.'
'What happened then?'
'Well, you know there's a civil war happening,' Anna said. 'There's been tensions building up for years – maybe decades – but the year that I came into the magical world, it exploded.'
'Why? What happened?'
'The tsar. He's never been universally popular – not since when he first came to power – but in the years before the war, more and more people have been against him,' Anna answered. 'The people against him were divided, though, between many factions, and there were still a lot of people who supported the tsar, anyway, so nothing really happened besides some fights in the streets. Everyone knew, though, that the tsar's control was slipping.'
'Did the tsar go to war to…stay tsar?'
Anna sighed. 'No, not exactly. You know how some wizards believe in the Istworjancis – the Creators?'
Harry nodded, recalling Dumbledore's 'offering' on the first day that they had arrived. 'Yeah, I think so.'
'Well, there are seven "gods" that make up the Istworjancis,' Anna said. 'Everyone agrees on six of them, but there is a seventh – Hwjerikwun – that some people believe isn't legitimate. Hwjerikwun, see, is supposed to be the protector of non-human beings and muggles. Some wizards…well, some of them do not believe that they are worth protecting.'
'Why not?'
'Because those wizards believe that wizards are superior to everything else,' she answered acidly. 'And that their gods shouldn't look after those who they don't think are as good as them. By the way, Harry, these people are everywhere – in Russia, in Prussia, in Britain, and everywhere else, and as you get older, you need to realise who these people are and how to protect yourself. They're not the majority, but they're a large enough minority to be dangerous.'
Harry nodded along, not exactly comprehending in full what Anna had meant by 'those people' but keeping it in the back of his mind as she continued. 'Anyway, people like these don't believe that Hwjerikwun was ever a part of the Istworjancis, and instead believe that Xarnjale is the rightful seventh – which is bollocks, because only starting in the seventeenth century was Xarnjale even mentioned, and Hwjerikwun goes back to the earliest texts.'
'The tsar would do anything to stay in power, so he began courting the people who believed in Xarnjale's rightfulness – they called themselves "The Protectors", because Xarnjale, in Eltrys, translates roughly to "Protector". The Protectors had grown more powerful in the last half-century, and they were generally on the side against the tsar, since they thought he was a traitor for doing things like opening the Koldovstvorets to children like me, who came from non-magical families. To appease them, the tsar put a minimum quota on the number of Xarnjale-believers in his government, and then, just as I started my first year, he outlawed worship of Hwjerikwun entirely, and made Xarnjale the official seventh Istworjanc.'
Anna sighed. 'And that's how the war started. The Protectors, seeing that the tsar endorsed them, began attacking people with impunity in the streets and killing their enemies. Saint Petersburg, the tsar's seat, was declared a "Freed City" by the Protectors, and everyone who did not support them were either expelled or killed. They then pivoted south, attacking magical Kiev, probably the second most important city in the Empire after Saint Petersburg, for six months. When the city surrendered, they hunted down everyone who had any connection to the Hwjerikwunists – that's the name that the anti-Protectors began calling themselves – and killed them.'
'The Protectors murdered my mother,' she whispered.
'What?'
Anna nodded, her eyes glistening a little. 'I don't know what happened, but the muggle police found her dead in her home one day. There were no marks on her body, no sign of violence. They ruled it as an accidental sleeping pill overdose – she had insomnia – but we know better. This happened right during the Protector's purge of Kiev – they sometimes killed the families of those who were not Protectors, too – and there are magical ways of murder that leave no trace on the victim.'
Briefly, Harry thought back to how his mother and father had died. In his vaguest early memories, he could remember a flash of green light, a high-pitched, feminine scream. Had his own mother died just like Anna's mother? Had there been no trace of foul play visible on her corpse, too?
'Was that what got you to go to Berlin?' Harry asked after a while.
'No, I was far too young,' Anna replied. 'Then, I was only eleven. After my mother died, the family of my friend took me in. They were very nice people and cared for me as another daughter, and for a while, I was even happy. I missed my own mother, of course, and a lot, but I had some sort of family, and to eleven-year-old me, nothing was more fun than being around my friend every day.'
'It didn't last, though,' she continued. 'My friend's parents were two half-bloods, but more importantly, they were Germans. It also helped that at the beginning, they were Hwjerikwunist sympathisers, living in Riga, which was controlled by Hwjerikwunists – but mostly, the fact that they were German gave them protection. Even when the Protectors captured Riga, they were spared, because both sides feared that Prussia might intervene against them if they attacked the Germans. When the situation got worse, though, both sides stopped caring, and did whatever they fancied. A lot of times, it was murder. Entire cities that changed hands several times – Yekaterinoslav, for example – were completely wiped out, foreigners or not.'
'The Hwjerikwunists, at the beginning, you might call the "good guys". My friend's family and I certainly thought so. Many of them wanted to remove the tsar and install a sort of representative government, and open the country more to muggle-born wizards. But then, after a year or so of war, all the ideals were out of the window. The reformers lost power and were purged, and the religious zealots took over. The war became nothing more than exterminating the "heretics" of the other side – or anyone who looked like they didn't support yours – and seizing power for your own. Just before the end of my third year, the Hwjerikwunists re-captured magical Riga. They cleansed the city, and when they saw that my adoptive parents had not been murdered by the Protectors, they automatically assumed that they were Protectors themselves. They dragged them out of their homes and killed them without even letting them plead their case.'
'And that was when I decided that I needed to go, that it was no longer safe there. Living with my friends' parents, I learned to speak German, so I applied to the Reichszaubereigynasium and was accepted. And after that…you know the rest.'
They stared at each other in silence, at the feeling that they could almost be lost siblings hit Harry again, but harder. At his age, Anna had already seen everything that he had – maybe even more. Harry knew that he should not be happy about what she had just told him, but some small part of him felt almost glad that there was someone else at Hogwarts who he could relate to, could understand.
'I…well, thanks for listening,' Anna said after a while, her eyes red and looking a little awkward.
Harry shrugged. 'It's fine. I'm sorry if I…if I forced you to talk about it.'
'I needed to talk about it,' Anna admitted quietly. 'I needed to tell someone who might understand…actually, no. I know that you don't really understand, and I hope that you never have to. I'm not saying that as anything against you, but just…well, I think you might be lucky to not remember what it was like, back during your war here.'
'I just wish I remembered my parents,' Harry muttered bitterly.
'I know you do, but be careful what you wish for,' Anna said. 'I have so many memories of my mum, but that just made losing her in that way so much worse. Maybe…maybe it's better this way. Some things are just better to not even remember, or to imagine, or even to dream about. It might make the grief and longing a little more bearable that way.'
Harry glanced back at the mirror, seeing for a second the image of his mother and father next to his reflection, and swallowed. 'Not even about them?'
Anna shook her head. 'No matter how much you look and wish, they cannot return, Harry. In time, you'll learn that magic can't give something life, and neither can it reverse death.'
'What do I do, then?' Harry asked, pained at the idea that he had to simply give up, now that he had seen what might have been. 'I can't just…I can't just…'
'You have to realise what you still haven't lost,' Anna replied with a sigh, leaning back. 'I'm stuck here at Hogwarts, you know. When the Ministry here released me, the goblins refused to cancel their arrest warrant for Ilse and I. In Hogwarts, I am under Albus's protection, and there's nothing that the goblins can do to me, but if I go out into Diagon Alley, the goblins might – will – arrest me, and who knows what would happen then. But at least I'm alive, and there's no war going on here, and even if I'm stuck at Hogwarts, I'm safe here. That's enough to appreciate.'
After that night, Harry did not seek out the Mirror of Erised again. Despite Anna's words, though, Harry could not help but ache at what he had lost. He knew that what he had seen in the mirror had all been false, an image created by magic and his mind, but he could not keep himself from dwelling on the what-ifs. What if, in an alternate universe, it had all actually been real? And every time he did, he wanted to leap down the rabbit hole of fantasy and imagine what might have been.
Disinterested in practising spells, Harry instead now spent his days reading. He had gotten partway through Hermione's French book. Occasionally, he would take a look at Anna's Eltrys dictionary – though oftentimes giving up as quickly as he started as he tried to make sense of the runes. Anna had changed since that night in front of the Mirror of Erised. She had always liked him, Harry supposed, but their interactions grew more informal, less hurried, and somehow more familiar.
And as quickly as it started, the holidays were coming to an end, and Harry quickly grew excited as the weekend before the new term drew closer. Soon, Hermione and Neville would be returning, and Harry could not wait to show them all that he had learned over these last several weeks. He was itching, too, to hear Hermione's stories from France, or what Neville might have to say about his holidays spent in and out of dinner parties.
Friday evening – the last he was to spend alone in Gryffindor Tower – Harry decided to open Hermione's guidebook to the lesser-known sights of Paris. He had, rather regrettably, neglected that book, having opened it once on Christmas Day and then forgetting about it. He opened the book and began skimming through the pages, mostly looking at the pictures and wishing that he could see them in person. Each one of the points seemed to have its own uniqueness to it, be they the Catacombs – which creeped him out – the various smaller art museums and churches, the gardens, the Nicholas Flamel house, the oldest house in Paris.
Harry at first did not realise what he had just seen, but when he was already a paragraph into the page, the name suddenly hit him. He read the paragraph over again, making sure that he had not misread – he had not. The name here was spelled exactly the same as it had been in the potions book that they had seen in the library.
His first instinct was that it must have been a coincidence. What was a clearly magical name doing in a muggle book? A tourists' guidebook, no less. Curious to who this Nicholas Flamel was and what he had to do with the lesser-known attractions of Paris, Harry read on a little more.
The house on 51 Rue de Montmorency is likely, if not the oldest, one of the oldest houses in the city of Paris, the book said. Finished in 1407, it was commissioned by the noted manuscript merchant Nicholas Flamel, known in popular legend as a successful alchemist, who purportedly discovered the Philosopher's Stone and achieved immortality. Originally built to house the homeless of the city, Flamel never himself lived at the address. Today, it is a private home, but its façade remains on the list of monuments historiques.
'Alchemist', 'Philosopher's Stone', 'immortality'. Those three words floated about in Harry's mind, and suddenly, it all made sense. Anna had alchemy training, he realised, and must have naturally been interested when Dumbledore offered her something made by Nicholas Flamel, who was evidently well-known enough that even the non-magical world knew about him. There was no doubt in his mind that the Nicholas Flamel in the guidebook was the Nicholas Flamel that they had been looking for.
Wanting to know more, Harry dug into his trunk and pulled out the invisibility cloak that he had stashed there days ago. There was an alchemy section in the Restricted Section of the library, he recalled, and now that he had the invisibility cloak, he might be able to access it without needing anyone's permission.
He ran down into the Common Room, surprising Ron, and before he had even heard the other boy's surprised questioning, he had dashed out of the portrait hole. Without stopping, he sprinted down the staircases to the library, hastily signed in – to the disapproval of Madam Pince, the librarian – put on his Invisibility Cloak in a deserted row of bookshelves, and made his way to the Restricted Section.
Thankfully, Anna was not at her desk, for Harry had not even considered how he might have to distract her if she were, so that she would not notice something invisible opening the door to the Restricted Section. He turned the door handle and was delighted to find that it was unlocked. Making sure to close it securely after him, he began searching the shelves, looking for the alchemy section.
Finally, he found it, tucked away in a corner of the Restricted Section. To Harry's mixed dismay and relief, the section was rather small, with only about twenty to thirty books. He would be able to look through them quickly, but he did not know whether they would have the information he needed.
Harry looked through the shelves, picking out the thickest book he could find, one titled Modern History of Alchemy. Practised at this now, he flipped all the way to the index and looked for the name, finding it nearly immediately. Turning back the pages at lightning speed, he arrived on page 512 and immediately caught sight of the paragraph titled 'Nicholas Flamel'.
Nicholas Flamel (b. 1330) was a French alchemist and potioneer. Throughout his life, he made many important contributions to the field of potions, including most notably a general formula for antidotes against all ordinary classical poisons. His most famous achievement, however, was the creation of the only surviving example of the Philosopher's Stone, the magnum opus of alchemy, and a substance which allows for the creation of the Elixir of Life, the apex elixir, which, when drank, extends life infinitely and can bring a person near death back to full health. Flamel's Philosopher's Stone is the only known specimen created on the European continent, though others have been recorded to have been created by the Chinese and Malians, as well as possibly others (though unverified). These examples, however, have all been lost in the course of history or destroyed, leaving Flamel's as the sole surviving example of the pinnacle creation of alchemy.
The Elixir of Life. That sounded more than miraculous to Harry. Curious, he read on.
Flamel's work with the Philosopher Stone has been well-documented, and it is thanks to his research that its properties are as well-known as they are today. Creation of the Elixir of Life, a highly impractical and essentially impossible process by conventional means, requiring oftentimes years or even decades of waiting for astronomical alignments, is rendered trivial by catalysis with the Philosopher's Stone, about as simple as a moderately complex potion. The Philosopher's Stone also catalyses the creation of other elixirs, though if a wizard is in possession of the Philosopher's Stone, it is much more efficient to first create the Elixir of Life, then reduce that apex elixir to lesser elixirs as opposed to mixing each from the base. Elixirs such as the Elixir of Magical Strength, which temporarily increases the magical power a wizard can channel, or the Elixir of Seerhood, which temporarily gives the user abilities mimicking True Seers, would take more than a year to create by conventional means, but can be elucidated via reduction from the Elixir of Life in under an hour. Flamel, in his works, also confirmed a secondary property of the Philosopher's Stone first mentioned in Malian texts, that any object can be transformed to solid gold with aid of the Philosopher's Stone, though he notes that this is merely a side effect of the nature of the Stone's magic, and not its primary property.
Harry finished reading and looked up, awed. If he had not known that magic was real, he would have called it magical. It could create elixirs that could extend life, give a person greater magical powers – and who knows what else.
And if one wanted to become the most powerful wizard on Earth, what more could they want?
