In his letter to Qin Yu, when describing the stone known as the Eye of Truth, Dumbledore had once mentioned that he'd been tormented by false visions conjured by a certain mirror. It was only with the help of this stone that he'd managed to see through those illusions and break free.
Though the letter didn't name it outright, Qin Yu knew exactly which mirror he meant—the legendary Mirror of Erised.
By rights, the mirror ought to be hidden somewhere in the Room of Requirement, but Qin Yu had visited that mysterious chamber several times and never once stumbled across it.
The Mirror of Erised reveals the deepest desires of whoever stands before it. Because these desires are buried so deep, the mirror's visions are dangerously seductive—people become lost in dreams, pouring their hearts into a fantasy, mistaking illusion for reality, and sometimes suffering for it.
Boggarts possess a similar magic, but work in the opposite direction: they become what you fear most.
Put together, the two are like the "Mirror of Passion and Disenchantment" from Dream of the Red Chamber—one side shows a beautiful woman, the other a skeleton. Jia Rui, lost in the mirror's alluring visions, ultimately wasted away, a cautionary tale if ever there was one.
A perfect anti-addiction fable—enough to make anyone start their "stay clean" streak from day one.
As Qin Yu explored the mysteries of mental alchemy, he too faced the challenge of separating illusion from reality. Naturally, he thought of the Mirror of Erised, boggarts, and even that ancient Chinese mirror. He took their lessons to heart, always reminding himself not to be deceived by fantasies during his magical training, to keep his mind clear and sharp.
Like right now—the little hand in his grasp felt utterly real, its warmth and softness impossible to fake.
He dared not savor that reality too deeply, though, because a certain little witch was fast asleep.
Perhaps Hermione truly had stayed up late reading; after breakfast and a bit of playful chaos, she'd grown so drowsy that, after tumbling into his arms, she simply never bothered to get up. She was living proof of the old saying: "Where you fall, you lie."
Well, let her sleep. The sofa was big and comfortable, after all.
As for Qin Yu himself, he wasn't the least bit tired. His nightly meditative practice was restful enough.
So he let his mind drift, thoughts wandering to other people he knew in this world.
Of course, the most important person was right here in his arms, so thinking of others hardly seemed a crime. He doubted this particular little witch would mind, anyway.
He turned his head and brushed a gentle kiss across a lock of her brown hair.
The scent was as real and vivid as anything in the world.
Savoring this undeniable reality, basking in a rare moment of peace and freedom from worry, he felt nothing but quiet joy.
…
Thousands of miles away, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Teachers and students who—for one reason or another—hadn't left for the holidays were spending Christmas at the castle.
Harry Potter and the four Weasley children left behind were among them.
Harry had no desire to return home; Ron and his three brothers stayed because their parents were away.
No classes, endless feasts, and friends to play with—at first, Harry was in heaven. Just as Qin Yu had predicted, he and Ron spent days running wild.
But, also as Qin Yu had foreseen, they managed to land themselves in a bit of trouble—not too serious, at least, and no points lost.
It all started with a very special Christmas present Harry received. No, not the green sweater from Mrs. Weasley—though that was special in its own way—but a magical artifact, rare beyond words: an Invisibility Cloak.
As the name suggests, drape it over your shoulders and you vanish from sight.
Now, if you had such a wondrous item, what would you do?
Our "legendary" Harry Potter? His first thought was to sneak into the library at midnight to read.
If certain Japanese netizens got their hands on an Invisibility Cloak, they'd have other ideas entirely—sneaking into girls' changing rooms, or the home of some crush or favorite teacher… Let's just say, several terabytes of video evidence would be omitted here.
Of course, Harry's midnight library visit wasn't about "secretly studying magic to wow everyone next term." No, he was after the Restricted Section, desperate to find out more about Nicolas Flamel.
He underestimated the dangers lurking there. Some of the books seemed alive—one nearly bit his hand off when he tried to open it, making him yelp loud enough to alert Filch, the caretaker.
Even shrouded in the Invisibility Cloak, Harry was nearly caught by the ever-watchful Filch. Fleeing blindly, he stumbled into a strange room.
Inside, he discovered a notebook that Qin Yu had left behind—something about Defense Against the Dark Arts, but far beyond the first-year curriculum. Harry doubted even second-years could understand it.
He couldn't help but marvel: "That's so typical of Qin—studying things this advanced… He must've left it here by accident. I'll bring it back for him."
Wandering further, Harry suddenly felt as if he'd passed through a thin veil—and found himself staring up at a towering, ancient mirror.
In its depths, he saw his long-lost parents—and perhaps his grandparents, too—reunited with him at last. The sight brought tears to his eyes, his heart aching with longing and joy.
For the next two nights, Harry returned to the mirror, this time dragging Ron along. But Ron saw only himself, grown tall and successful, outshining all his brothers.
Ron dismissed the mirror as a silly toy, and seeing the spellbound look in Harry's eyes, he instinctively knew this was trouble. He tried to warn Harry off.
But Harry wouldn't listen.
The next time Harry visited, he was intercepted by Dumbledore himself, who whisked the mirror away to a new hiding place.
Now, unable to glimpse his family in the glass, Harry Potter was in the throes of something like withdrawal—listless, gloomy, like a kid whose phone has been confiscated.
The Invisibility Cloak was packed away as well—he dared not return to the Restricted Section, and had no interest in sneaking into girls' changing rooms. For now, the cloak would have to gather dust.
…
Harry's misery stemmed from being unable to see his family—even if only as a beautiful illusion.
Charlie Weasley, meanwhile, was suffering a different sort of torment: his parents' Christmas visit had upended his peaceful, independent life at the dragon reserve.
His mother, especially, couldn't resist fussing over everything, smothering him with motherly love.
Take the sky-blue sweater, for example.
Charlie wanted to protest that he wasn't a child anymore. Never mind the color, but the giant "C" on the chest was just embarrassing—that was the sort of thing Ron, George, and Fred would like. (Ron, George, and Fred: "Excuse us? Absolutely not!")
But he didn't dare say so to his mother.
Luckily, the reserve was mostly deserted—his bearded wizard colleague, Benny, had gone home to Finland for the holidays.
That afternoon, after lunch, Charlie donned the sky-blue sweater with his initial and made his rounds of the dragon pens.
Even with no one to see him, he still felt a bit ridiculous.
When he passed the baby dragons' enclosure, he could swear they were laughing at him.
"Hmph, just wait till your dragon mothers catch you misbehaving. I'll be the one laughing then!" Charlie shot back, scowling at the little dragons.
The hatchlings stuck their tongues out at him, and Charlie stomped off in a huff.
After finishing his patrol, he returned to the keeper's hut before sunset—his office and home.
His father, Arthur Weasley, was busy repairing the fireplace—it leaked smoke, and the attached oven was acting up. He'd been at it since morning, determined to fix it for his son.
"You need to look after yourself, you know. Don't just throw meals together—make a proper dinner every few days. This oven'll serve you well then," his father said, inspecting his handiwork while giving fatherly advice.
"I actually used to cook big meals all the time, really…" Charlie's voice trailed off, a certain someone flickering through his mind. Suddenly, he lost all desire to continue, nodding listlessly. "I know, Dad."
Meanwhile, Molly Weasley was helping tidy up. On the chair beside her, a set of silver knitting needles were busily working red yarn into a new sweater.
Wait—a sweater?!
Charlie jolted in alarm. "Mum, why are you knitting another sweater? And it's red—I'm not wearing it! Absolutely not!"
Mrs. Weasley looked at him, puzzled. "Who said it was for you?"
"Then… who's it for?" Charlie asked, glancing at his father.
"It's not for your dad, either. It's for your neighbor," Mrs. Weasley replied, smiling warmly.
Charlie thought for a moment, then burst out laughing in relief. "Ah, for Benny! I just noticed the sweater has a 'B' on it!"
But Mrs. Weasley frowned, giving him a look reserved for the truly clueless. "Since when do we put lowercase letters on our sweaters?"
"Isn't this a 'b'?" Charlie pointed, confused.
"Oh, you silly boy."
Mrs. Weasley set down her knitting, walked over, flipped the nearly finished sweater inside out, then upside down, and held it up for him to see.
Charlie blinked. There, clear as day, was a different letter.
"That's a 'P'—for Percy!" Mrs. Weasley declared, tapping the letter.
"Who?!" Charlie's eyes went wide, every hair standing on end.
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