Christmas had come and gone, leaving behind the crisp, serene air of winter and a castle filled with warmth. The morning after, Hogwarts was alive with excitement as students gathered around the Christmas tree or in their dormitories, unwrapping presents.
Harry, still clad in his warm pajamas, sat on his bed, looking down at the unexpected gift he had received—a cloak, not just any cloak, but an invisibility cloak. It shimmered softly under the dim light of the Gryffindor dorm, the material smooth and impossibly light.
The moment his fingers brushed against it, something clicked inside him.
It felt familiar. Not in the way of a simple heirloom, but something deeper, something more fundamental. When he focused, he sensed two more presences—one small, almost like a stone, and another... a wand? But not his wand.
His breath hitched as realization crept in.
There's more…
Shaking the odd feeling away for now, he moved on to his own gift-giving. He had gotten Ron a collection of sweets from Honeydukes, which the redhead immediately tore into, and Hermione, a book on advanced spellwork—something he had already mastered but knew she would devour eagerly.
"Harry, this is amazing!" Hermione beamed, holding the book like it was the greatest treasure she had ever received.
Harry just smiled. "Figured you'd like it."
Harry had never been one to ignore opportunity when it presented itself. And now, armed with an invisibility cloak? There was only one logical course of action.
The Restricted Section of the library.
Slipping out of bed in the dead of night, he wrapped the cloak around himself and ventured through the darkened corridors of Hogwarts. The torches flickered dimly, casting eerie shadows against the stone walls, but Harry moved without hesitation, his steps light and precise.
The library was silent when he arrived, the massive bookshelves looming like silent guardians of knowledge. He wandered between them, trailing a finger along the aged leather spines. There were so many books here—some titles whispered secrets of ancient magics, others glowed faintly with protective enchantments.
He pulled out a tome at random and flipped it open. The words were handwritten in an old, spidery script, detailing spells that twisted the very fabric of magic itself. Some were dark, others neutral but highly advanced, things no first-year should even dream of reading.
Fascinating.
He absorbed what he could in the short time he had, but a sharp meow sent his heart leaping into his throat.
Mrs. Norris.
"Damnit!"
Harry cursed silently. He knew that sound too well. Filch wouldn't be far behind.
Quickly, he grabbed another book, hurling it into the opposite aisle. The loud thud echoed, and the distinct sound of claws against the floor turned in that direction.
Not wasting another second, Harry ran.
He barely made it out, slipping behind a pillar and tugging the cloak tighter as Filch's lantern glow illuminated the hallway. The old caretaker grumbled under his breath before turning away, leaving Harry to catch his breath.
And that was when he saw it.
A massive mirror stood against the far wall of the abandoned room. It was ornate, its golden frame towering over him. His eyes traced the inscription carved at the top:
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Harry muttered the words under his breath before realization dawned.
"I show not your face but your heart's desire."
His curiosity got the better of him. He stepped closer and peered into the glass.
What he saw made his breath catch.
His parents.
Lily Potter. James Potter.
They stood behind him, smiling, warm, real. His mother's green eyes—the same as his—shone with gentle love, her red hair cascading around her shoulders. His father, tall and confident, looked proud, ruffling Harry's already messy hair.
Harry's throat tightened.
He had never seen them before. Not in pictures, not in dreams. And yet, here they were.
A perfect family.
A family that had been stolen from him.
His chest ached, but clarity struck before the emotion could consume him. They weren't really there. They never would be. But… it was nice.
Nice to see them. To know what they looked like. To imagine, even for a moment, what it would have been like to grow up with them.
A quiet sigh escaped him.
"Not real… but still beautiful."
A soft sound behind him made him turn.
Dumbledore stood there, his blue eyes twinkling yet unreadable.
"You are remarkably aware for your age, Harry," the old wizard said, stepping forward.
Harry nodded. "It's just a reflection, isn't it?"
"In a way," Dumbledore admitted. "It shows us what we desire most. For some, that is love. For others, power. But it does not grant wishes."
Harry looked at the mirror once more, then back at the headmaster. "Have you ever looked into it, Professor?"
Dumbledore's gaze flickered for a brief moment before he chuckled. "I have. And like you, I eventually chose to look away."
There was a pause before Harry spoke again.
"Why is there a three-headed dog on the third floor guarding a trapdoor and what is this about Flamel, Professor?"
Dumbledore chuckled at the unexpected shift. "You must pick one question, Harry."
Harry thought for a moment before deciding. "Then tell me about Flamel."
The headmaster smiled, as if expecting that. "Nicolas Flamel is a dear friend of mine. A brilliant alchemist."
"And the Philosopher's Stone?"
"Ah, so you've put the pieces together."
Dumbledore nodded approvingly before continuing, "The Stone is currently here, at Hogwarts, under protection. And yes, it is tied to the events unfolding. There are whispers that Voldemort may not be as… gone as we once believed."
A slow, unfamiliar emotion stirred in Harry's chest.
Not fear. Not anxiety.
But rage.
Cold, quiet, controlled fury.
The will to kill.
He had only felt this once before—when he realized how easily someone could take another's life. And now, faced with the possibility that the man who murdered his parents still lived? That silent storm within him raged ever stronger.
But his face remained calm.
Dumbledore seemed to notice nothing, only offering a kind smile. "Be mindful, Harry. The Mirror does not show truth. Nor does revenge bring solace."
Harry simply nodded.
"Good night, Professor."
"Good night, Harry."
As Harry walked back to Gryffindor Tower, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts.
The Philosopher's Stone was here. Voldemort might still be out there.
And one day, one day, Harry would make sure he finished what started all those years ago.
A promise.
A vow.
He would not let the past repeat itself.
AN: Hi, Author here, I hope you are enjoying this Story, if you do, I wouldn't mind some stones and maybe sharing this with your friends, thank you and till the next chapter. Bye-bye!