The next day, the final Quidditch match of the year arrived right on schedule.
As Gryffindor's captain, Wood still strode across the pitch to greet Andre with his usual formality — even though Gryffindor had no Seeker this time.
He extended a firm handshake and gave a few quick words of encouragement: "Play your best. Don't let up. Give it everything you've got."
Andre watched him go, noting the slight droop in Wood's shoulders as he walked away. He couldn't help but feel a little sympathy.
"That man really lives and breathes Quidditch," Andre murmured, "but his luck… it's never been good."
He turned to Vizet, clapping him on the shoulder with a grin.
"How should I put it... I feel that as long as you haven't graduated, Gryffindor has a low probability... Nevermind, there is no chance of them winning the Cup."
The Ravenclaw vice-captain nearby gave a discreet cough. "Captain… maybe keep that to yourself? If Wood hears you, he'll march back and challenge you to a duel."
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Vizet still remembered the note Dumbledore had left him. In truth, his heart was brimming with questions — questions he hoped the Headmaster could finally answer.
After the raucous celebration in the common room, he quietly slipped away. On his way through the corridors, he passed many familiar faces.
"Vizet! That last goal — it was brilliant!" someone called out.
"Thank you!" he replied with a polite smile.
"Vizet! Ever considered joining a professional team?"
"Not yet... no such plans."
"Vizet! Can you sign my broom? If you go pro, your signature will be priceless!"
"Er — don't shove — one at a time, please!"
He managed, at last, to escape the chattering crowd and made his way toward the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office.
"Jelly Slugs!"
With a rumble, the stone guardian stirred, folding its wings and hopping aside to reveal the spiral staircase hidden behind it.
Vizet climbed steadily and knocked at the door.
After a short pause, the heavy door creaked open by itself, slow and deliberate.
As he stepped inside, a flash of warmth brushed against his shoulder — Fawkes the phoenix swooped down from the rafters and perched there, feathers glowing softly in the afternoon light.
Vizet smiled and pulled a Dirigible Plum from his pocket.
"Thanks, Fawkes. You've done so much... Must've been exhausting being my 'pendant box' for a whole term, huh?"
Fawkes gave a soft coo, nuzzling his neck gently. Then, with the plum in his beak, he took flight again and returned gracefully to his perch.
The Headmaster's office was unusually quiet.
Silver instruments on side tables puffed tiny clouds of smoke, whistling and ticking with strange little noises — but otherwise, the room was still. Most of the portrait frames were empty, and the few remaining figures within were dozing, their painted chests rising and falling with slow breaths.
"Where is Headmaster Dumbledore..." Vizet murmured, eyes scanning the room.
His gaze soon landed on something enormous standing in front of the tall window, blocking the afternoon light — a mirror, towering from floor to ceiling.
The carved snake motifs around its frame glistened as if freshly polished. The serpents at the base were so lifelike that Vizet almost expected them to slither forward, winding around an unwitting intruder.
He had seen this mirror before — just two nights ago.
Dumbledore had used it to reach the basement, leaping through the glass itself to protect Harry and confront Voldemort at the most critical moment.
There was no doubt about it — this mirror held deep magic.
In the wizarding world, magic was woven into every corner of life — from the movements of portraits to the flight of letters, the chatter of enchanted teacups to the shifting tides of the staircases. But some objects held mysteries so layered, so ancient, that even wizards hesitated to explain them.
And this mirror was one of those things.
Vizet stood before it, watching the dim light ripple across its surface, the snakes unmoving.
Vizet approached the bird stand. "Fawkes... do you know where Headmaster Dumbledore is?"
Fawkes gave a small shake of his head, then stretched his neck and glided over to the Headmaster's desk. He landed gently and began pacing — two steps forward, then a glance back.
"Are you telling me to sit down?" Vizet asked with a crooked smile, pulling out a chair and settling into it. Still, his attention inevitably drifted back to the towering mirror that dominated the room.
And then he saw it — three distinct images reflected in the mirror.
The left side was shrouded in chaos. Darkness churned endlessly, pulsing with ash-coloured red light that flickered like embers in a storm. From time to time, those lights gathered — coalescing into a haunting pattern: a skull with its jaws flung wide, and from its mouth slithered a thick serpent, twisting like a tongue through empty air.
Vizet stared at the image, and a strange shiver rippled down his spine.
There was something eerily familiar about it — something just beyond memory, like a half-remembered dream. It felt as if the image already belonged to him, etched deep into some part of his being, though its meaning remained elusive and veiled.
At length, he looked away from the left and turned his eyes to the right side.
This image was the opposite: pure white stretched outward like a pristine field of snow. But it was not cold — instead, it radiated a gentle warmth, untouched by any blemish. It shimmered with a flawless clarity that made it seem more dream than reflection.
Finally, Vizet gazed at the centre.
There, he saw himself — reading.
He sat amidst towering columns of books, their spines forming walls and ceilings, endless and sprawling, like the interior of a library without end. The books glowed faintly, casting a silvery light that framed the images on either side.
That glow claimed dominance, as if to assert that the centre image was the true vision.
Fascinated, Vizet rose and began pacing slowly in front of the mirror.
The outer images remained unchanged.
Only the centre image moved with him — mirroring his every step, his every pause, as if acknowledging a kindred rhythm between his real self and the reflection within.
Vizet stopped and turned to the phoenix. "Fawkes... what do you see in this mirror?"
Fawkes tilted his head thoughtfully, then took flight and landed before the mirror. He studied it briefly, blinked, and raised one wing to tap his chest.
"You saw yourself?" Vizet interpreted aloud. "So… is it just an ordinary mirror for you? You didn't see the black chaos or the white glow?"
Fawkes nodded twice — yes to the first two questions — and then shook his head one, signaling no to the last question.
"That's... truly strange," Vizet murmured.
Driven by curiosity, he activated the Eye of Insight, hoping to unravel whatever enchantments lay hidden within the mirror's surface.
But the moment the magic awakened in his eyes, everything changed.
With a screech of stone against marble, the serpents at the base of the mirror came to life.
They shot forward in a blur of movement, coiling around Vizet before he could retreat.
Instinctively, Vizet deactivated the magic eye and reached for his wand. His fingers closed around the hilt.
"Nox!" he cast, plunging the room into a dim, protective gloom.
Without hesitation, he followed with the Self-Shaping Spell. His fingers transformed into sinewy strands of Devil's Snare, writhing to peel the stone serpents off his body.
But before he could finish his attempt, the mirror erupted in a flood of silver-blue light.
The brilliance was overwhelming — blinding, consuming.
And in a heartbeat, Vizet was gone.
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