Lynn looked calmly at Ron and spoke in a flat voice, "This is the mirror of erised; it shows a person's deepest desire."
"Deepest desire..." Harry murmured, gazing at the mirror of erised with eyes full of longing and infatuation.
Of course… the family he yearned for, the family who could stay by his side.
Ron couldn't help turning back to the mirror. What he longed for… was it to outshine Charlie and Bill? Watching Harry and Ron still entranced, Lynn spoke without joy or sorrow.
"Created as an alchemical artifact, this mirror can give those with firm conviction a clear direction for the future, but it can also trap the weak-willed, leaving them to waste their lives before it until only bones remain."
Lynn's indifferent voice made Harry and Ron shiver.
Even Harry, lost in the image of his parents embracing him, was pulled back by her words.
He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to turn away from the mirror of erised.
Eyes open again, Harry panted, every ounce of will-power straining; cold sweat coated his forehead.
"Thanks for the warning, Lynn." He managed a smile—he'd almost surrendered to it.
She regarded him impassively. "I merely repeated what the book says about its effects."
Harry felt as though he'd swallowed air—he'd been moved too soon; she hadn't been advising him at all.
"So what would you see?" Ron asked curiously. He longed to know what desire lay hidden behind Lynn's emotionless, study-obsessed exterior.
Harry was equally eager; what did she want most?
Yet the mirror did seem dangerous—should they let her look?
Lynn herself gave it no thought. Hearing their question, she reasoned that to answer she must look into the glass, and stepped before the mirror.
The images began flickering the instant she arrived: a sunlit, inviting bed where a peaceful Lynn lay curled in sleep.
Next flashed a table laden with delicious food, Lynn seated, eating at leisure.
Finally came a glimpse of her and Hermione strolling in the hills; then mist swallowed the vision, as though even the mirror of erised could probe no deeper.
"What did you see?" Harry blinked expectantly. Perfect scores? Ravenclaw winning the House Cup?
She turned back, voice level. "First I was asleep in sunlight, then eating, then walking with Hermione—each moment flashed by, ending in fog. Nothing more."
Harry and Ron exchanged glances; Ron frowned.
"Your heart's greatest wish is sleeping, eating, and walking?"
"And the fog at the end?"
Lynn shook her head calmly. "The book doesn't mention that."
"All right..." Ron scratched his head.
With a last reluctant look, Harry left the classroom with Ron and Lynn, never to return.
He vowed never again to seek the mirror of erised.
His parents had died protecting him from Lord Voldemort so he could live, not waste away in fantasy.
At the next corner they parted; Lynn sped to her Dormitory and slipped instantly into study mode.
The excursion had cost an hour; she now owed eight hours of study.
Eight nights of sleep could repay it, her mind calculated.
Morning study over, she closed her book, prepared to head for the Great Hall—and, as penance, pinched her left arm for wasting study time on the mirror.
She left the Ravenclaw Common Room at a brisk walk.
Lunch had just appeared when she entered the Great Hall; Professors and students had yet to arrive.
With no Professor to stop her, she finished lunch in three-and-a-half minutes and hurried back to her Dormitory to read.
By the time staff and students arrived, she was already studying again.
Seeing the touched holiday platters, the understanding Professors—and Harry and Ron—sighed in unison.
For the next four days Harry and Ron never caught sight of her.
Each morning at seven she returned books to the Library, borrowed the day's supply, breakfasted, and studied in her Dormitory.
She emerged only for lunch and dinner, each meal taking three-and-a-half minutes; seven minutes in total including the walk.
Even Professors couldn't waylay her; the Hogwarts stairs seemed to aid her every step.
Only Madam Pince saw her daily.
She watched the girl grow paler, her spirit flagging.
On the fifth morning, as Lynn checked out another stack, Madam Pince spoke.
"Miss Lynn... are you unwell? You look terribly pale."
"Thank you for your concern. I'm not unwell, Madam Pince," Lynn answered tonelessly, her voice oddly hoarse and distant.
It was the fifth day; she had gone four full nights without closing her eyes, yet she had only made up half of the study time she'd lost. The other half still waited.
Madam Pince pressed her lips, studying Lynn. "If you're not feeling well, go to the Hospital Wing. Don't make us worry, all right?"
Lynn nodded, her gaze lifeless. "All right. Thank you, Madam Pince."
Taking the books Madam Pince handed her, Lynn stuffed them into her bag, wolfed down something in the Great Hall, then hurried back to her Dormitory to resume studying.
Harry and Ron couldn't run into her, and they couldn't keep trekking to Ravenclaw Tower—especially with their own homework piling up.
So the idea of helping her relax was pushed to the back of their minds.
At last, on the ninth morning after Christmas, Lynn had traded eight full nights of sleep to reclaim every hour she'd missed.
She slid the finished books into her bag and braced herself on the desk to stand. Suddenly her breathing turned heavy, her head swam, and the whole world seemed to spin.
Darkness swept across her vision; with a thud she crashed backward onto the carpeted floor of the Hogwarts Dormitory—lucky for the rug, or the fall might have been nasty.
Black hair spilled across her face, making her skin look even paler, as lifeless as a Vampire's.
The bruise-coloured shadows under her eyes screamed exhaustion. The sun crawled above the horizon, its light climbing from her ankles upward.
By the time the sun stood high and its rays struck her face, Lynn still hadn't moved.
Day yielded to night; only when moonlight slipped into the room did she finally, painfully, pry her eyes open.
That same dead calm lingered in her gaze as she struggled onto her hands and knees.
She stared dully out the window. The glaring night made something click in her fogged mind.
Staggering back, she sank onto her bed and lifted her right wrist to read her watch.
Eight p.m.—so she'd been unconscious the entire day.
Her brain lurched through the math and, without effort, produced the next thought: she'd lost nearly fifteen hours of study time, from five that morning till now.
She raised her head slowly, meaning to fetch her bag and, before curfew, return her books to the Library and borrow new ones.
Before she could rise, her reeling brain betrayed her balance and dumped her back onto the mattress.
'Mm...' She let out a flat grunt. Unable to walk, she simply rolled off the bed and crawled.
Inch by inch she dragged herself toward the washroom, arms doing all the work; her legs no longer answered her commands.
Her mind was too muddled even to control her body. Cold water—amid the haze, the solution surfaced automatically.
At home, whenever study left her this dazed or too weak to get up, Mum or Dad would dash a basin of icy water over her, jump-starting her brain.
It hurt afterward, but it worked.
She hauled herself into the washroom, slapped the tap open, and—no hot water—let the winter-cold stream crash over her.
Head and clothes soaked, shivering, she felt the chill jolt her mind awake.
Her face went whiter still, lips blue-black. She shut off the water and braced against the wall, head in hand.
After a moment she stumbled out, snatched a towel, scrubbed her hair twice, peeled off the drenched clothes, and threw on dry ones.
A glance at her watch: another hour gone—nine o'clock.
Sixteen more hours of study, her aching brain informed her.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and lurched into the corridor.
At the doorway of Ravenclaw's little Library she froze.
She touched her cheek—icy like her hand—and recalled the mirror's image: pallid skin, black lips, sickness written across her face.
Memories surfaced; this had happened before—illness.
Mum's rule: even sick she must keep studying. A few pills and off to school she'd gone.
Teachers and classmates had never told her to stop.
But Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, Headmaster Dumbledore... they had made her rest on Christmas Day. They would make her rest now.
Study could not wait; illness was no excuse, and this was only grogginess, not true sickness.
She must not be seen. She would stay in Ravenclaw Tower and work in her Dormitory.
Abandoning the trek to the Hogwarts Library, she pulled four books from Ravenclaw's own shelves and staggered back to her room.
She dropped into her chair, opened a book, and slipped into study mode once more.
Night deepened; pale moonlight on her bloodless face made the scene even more bleak.