The Reflection of Intent
It was nearly midnight when Harry slipped through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, his footsteps silent against the cold stone floor. The castle seemed to hold its breath, the usual creaks and murmurs of the old structure subdued in the stillness.
Harry hadn’t planned to explore the forbidden third-floor corridor tonight—it was merely a matter of curiosity. He’d overheard some students whispering about the area during lunch, their hushed tones speaking of danger and secrets. It was enough to pique his interest.
The door to the third-floor corridor loomed ahead, slightly ajar. As Harry approached, he hesitated briefly, his senses sharpening. There was a faint growling sound coming from beyond the door, low and rumbling like distant thunder.
Slipping inside, Harry’s eyes widened at the sight of the enormous three-headed dog standing guard. Its heads turned toward him simultaneously, growling in unison, saliva dripping from its massive jaws.
"Fluffy," Harry muttered, recognizing the creature from an offhand comment Hagrid had made weeks ago. He’d been too detached at the time to pay much attention, but now the information clicked into place.
Harry’s mind worked quickly, recalling the bit of lore he’d read in one of the books he’d borrowed from the library. A cerberus could be subdued by music.
Reaching into his robe pocket, he pulled out his wand. With a flick and a whispered incantation, a soft melody began to play, filling the air with a hauntingly beautiful tune. The dog’s growls faltered, its heads tilting slightly as the music washed over it. Slowly, its massive bodies sank to the ground, and within moments, the creature was fast asleep.
Harry stepped around the slumbering beast cautiously, his movements precise and deliberate. The trapdoor beneath the dog was heavy, but with a bit of effort, he managed to lift it. Peering into the darkness below, he saw the faint outline of a long drop. Without hesitation, he lowered himself in, landing with a soft thud on the stone floor below.
The next few minutes felt like a strange, surreal puzzle.
The Devil’s Snare that writhed in the chamber had been no challenge for Harry, who remembered the plant's weaknesses from his reading. A simple Lumos Solem sent it retreating into the shadows.
The room with the enchanted flying keys had been mildly irritating—Harry didn’t care for the frantic movement of the wings or the slight cuts they left on his skin as he grabbed the correct key.
The life-sized wizard’s chess set, however, was oddly satisfying. Harry had always enjoyed strategy, and seeing his calculated moves play out in real-time was almost fun. When the game ended, and the path forward opened, Harry barely spared the fallen chess pieces a second glance.
Finally, Harry reached the last chamber. The room was unassuming, its only feature a tall, ornate mirror standing against the far wall. Harry approached it cautiously, his eyes scanning the room for traps or hidden threats.
As he stood before the mirror, his reflection gazed back at him, though it was... different.
In the glass, Harry saw himself standing in the woods, the moonlight streaming through the trees. Teeth was there, standing beside him, its massive form as imposing as ever. The creature’s glowing eyes seemed to pierce through the glass, meeting Harry’s gaze.
Harry’s chest tightened. He reached out a hand to the mirror, his fingertips brushing against the cool surface.
The reflection shifted slightly, and Harry saw something else—a small, golden object cradled in his hand. It was the Philosopher’s Stone.
"Curious," a soft voice said from behind him.
Harry spun around, his wand snapping into his hand instinctively. He relaxed slightly when he saw it was only Professor Quirrell, though his sharp instincts told him something was... off.
“Professor,” Harry said evenly, his tone detached as always.
Quirrell’s pale lips curled into an unsettling smile. “You’re far more capable than I imagined, Mr. Potter. To make it this far, alone…”
Harry said nothing, his wand still raised.
Quirrell took a slow step forward. “You’ve seen something in the mirror, haven’t you? Something you desire?” His tone was sickly sweet, almost coaxing.
Harry’s green eyes narrowed. “Why do you care?”
Quirrell chuckled, though it was a hollow sound. “The mirror shows your heart’s deepest desire, Harry. Surely, you must want something.”
Harry’s gaze flicked back to the mirror briefly, his jaw tightening. “What I want,” he said slowly, “is none of your concern.”
Quirrell’s expression twisted into something darker, and before Harry could react, the professor raised his hands, muttering an incantation.
The air around them shifted, a thick, oppressive magic filling the chamber. Harry’s grip on his wand tightened, and his mind raced.
Quirrell lunged toward the mirror, his hands outstretched. “Tell me what you see!” he hissed.
But Harry didn’t hesitate. With a sharp flick of his wand, he sent a spell flying toward the professor, forcing him to stumble back. The room descended into chaos, spells flying and the mirror’s surface shimmering ominously.
Through the cacophony, Harry’s mind remained sharp, his movements precise and calculated. He wasn’t sure what Quirrell wanted, but he wasn’t about to let him have it.
When the dust finally settled, the mirror stood intact, its surface glowing faintly. Quirrell was nowhere to be seen, and Harry stood alone in the chamber, his breaths coming in short, quiet bursts.
He glanced at the mirror one last time, his reflection staring back at him with the same detached expression he wore now. Teeth’s presence in the reflection seemed to linger, a silent reminder of the bond that had shaped him.
Harry turned away, his footsteps echoing softly as he left the chamber. Whatever the Philosopher’s Stone was, he didn’t care. He had what he needed already, and nothing—not a mirror, not a stone, not a power-hungry professor—could change that.