Chapter 51: Aftermath and Reflections
The final chamber was a scene of surreal aftermath. Quirrell lay shattered on the floor, a crumbling monument to a failed master. Voldemort had fled, a wisp of defeated black smoke. Harry Potter was unconscious, the price of his victory. Ron and Hermione knelt beside him, their faces pale with horror and relief. And Solim stood apart, a silent observer to the play's final act.
But it was Draco Malfoy's face that told the most complex story. His expression was a shifting canvas of disillusionment. He had just witnessed the being his family and their circle spoke of in hushed, reverent tones—the supposedly invincible Dark Lord. And what had he seen? A pale, parasitic face, clinging to the back of a coward's head. A being so weakened that the mere touch of Harry Potter's skin—the same boy Draco dueled in corridors—had caused his host to disintegrate. The great Lord Voldemort had been forced to flee, once again, by the infant who had first felled him.
The foundation of Draco's worldview, carefully constructed by years of pure-blood rhetoric, was cracking. The "invincible" Dark Lord was a desperate, crumbling phantom. The stories were lies. The reverence was misplaced. The brilliant future was a fantasy. A slow, cold disappointment settled in his chest, replacing the shock and fear.
While the others—Neville first among them—rushed to Harry's side, Solim kept his eyes on Draco. He had watched the entire emotional journey: the initial surprise, the visceral horror, the stunned disbelief at Harry's victory, and finally, the crushing disappointment. Solim understood. When your childhood idol is revealed to be a fraud, the collapse is internal and absolute.
"How are you holding up?" Solim asked quietly.
"You knew," Draco stated, his voice flat. "You knew it was... him. All along."
"I had my suspicions," Solim replied. "We can discuss the details later." He gestured subtly to the room. The drama was over, and the cleanup crew was arriving.
As if on cue, the door swung open. Albus Dumbledore entered, his presence immediately filling the space, followed by a stern Professor McGonagall and a deeply scowling Professor Snape.
Professor McGonagall's eyes widened in astonishment at the sheer number of students present. She had expected three rule-breakers, not six, plus an unidentified adult.
Professor Snape, in contrast, showed no surprise. His black eyes swept over the scene, lingering for a fraction of a second on Solim before moving to Harry's unconscious form. He needed only a moment to connect the dots. This had Solim's fingerprints all over it—the boy's penchant for orchestrating spectacles from the shadows was becoming a pattern.
"Minerva," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but firm, "please take these students to Madam Pomfrey. They are in need of rest." He then turned his gaze, which seemed to see everything, towards Evans and Solim. "I believe I have matters to discuss with this gentleman. And I don't believe Mr. Selwyn is injured. He won't mind indulging an old man in a conversation."
Solim offered a noncommittal shrug. As Professor McGonagall shepherded the dazed and injured students from the room, and Snape swept out with a final, inscrutable glance, Solim found himself alone with Dumbledore and Evans. Rather than engage immediately, he wandered over to the Mirror of Erised.
Who could resist, when faced with such a legendary object? He stood before it, curious what his deepest heart would reveal.
He saw a room he recognized from a past life, filled with shelves of anime figurines and posters of virtual "waifus." But standing behind his reflection were two figures that made him snort with unexpected laughter: a grinning, mischievous-looking old man and a jolly, bearded man rubbing his fingers together next to a sign that read "-75%".
Really? Solim thought, a wry smile touching his lips. Is this my deepest desire? Or just a deeply ingrained grudge? The irony wasn't lost on him; it was 1992. He'd have to wait over a decade to give that particular "fat man" any of his money. "It seems my soul is still that of a shut-in," he murmured to himself, both amused and faintly disturbed. He turned away from the mirror.
He found Dumbledore and Evans watching him, their previous conversation paused.
"Aren't you going to take a look for yourself?" Solim asked Evans, partly to break the silence.
Before Evans could answer, Dumbledore spoke, his tone light but his gaze intense. "So, Mr. Selwyn, if it is not too personal, would you share what you saw in the Mirror of Erised?" The firelight glinted off his half-moon spectacles, obscuring his eyes.
Ah, back to formalities, Solim noted. In your office, it was 'Solim'. Now it's 'Mr. Selwyn'.
"Nothing of consequence," Solim deflected smoothly. "Just something... amusing." There was no chance he was telling Dumbledore about video game sales and anime merch.
Dumbledore accepted this with a slight nod; he had larger concerns. He turned his attention fully to the portly wizard. "So, this is our first proper meeting, is it not? Mr. Summerby?"
Summerby? Solim filed the name away. He wasn't surprised Dumbledore knew it; the Headmaster's network of information was formidable.
"Summerby..." Solim mused aloud, a connection sparking in his mind. "Felix Summerby?" The name belonged to the wizard who had invented the Cheering Charm—a staple spell on the O.W.L. examinations. It was an oddly cheerful association for a man who spent his time as a surveillance toad.
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