After saying all this, the portrait of Hufflepuff ceased moving entirely.
It was as if that final moment of lucidity was the last warning mechanism Hufflepuff herself had left behind. With the completion of this last task, the magic in the painting vanished completely.
Hearing this ambiguous prophecy, Bruce furrowed his brows, pondering the keywords.
“From beginning to end, three Dark Lords…”
He looked up, puzzled, and asked Kathoom, “Where did the third Dark Lord come from? In magical history, there are only two Dark Lords with the title, right?”
Grindelwald. Voldemort.
Who could the third be?
Kathoom was just as baffled. He’d read Harry Potter himself—where would a third Dark Lord come from? Unless they counted Harry Potter himself?
Even if they did, the plot of the first book didn’t go like this.
Could the timeline be shifting this fast?
“Who are you asking, me?” Kathoom shook his head. “As far as I know, there should only be two pieces of Voldemort’s soul floating around Hogwarts right now—no third Dark Lord to be found.”
Wait a second…
Kathoom suddenly remembered the diadem he’d hidden away in the Room of Requirement.
That was a Horcrux, containing a fragment of Voldemort’s soul.
By that count, Quirrell, Harry, the diadem—Hogwarts really did have three Voldemorts!
“Stop overthinking it.” Kathoom snapped back to the present. “Didn’t the portrait tell you to go inform the headmaster? Then go do it!”
Perfect timing; he wanted to swing by the headmaster’s office himself, find that book Advanced Dark Arts Unveiled, and get the details on how to make a Horcrux.
But at that moment, little Bruce was completely thrown by Kathoom’s offhand remark.
“Wait a minute, what did you mean by two pieces of Voldemort’s soul?”
“None of your business. There’s someone to deal with that. We’re only here to scare them!”
The owl cawed with laughter, already picturing Dumbledore’s intense expression when he heard this so-called prophecy.
“Bruce, hurry up—let’s go rattle the old man!”
At that moment, their small misunderstanding was entirely forgotten.
Kathoom grabbed Bruce by the robes, yanking him insistently toward the headmaster’s office.
Bruce clutched his robe, protesting, “I can’t just go to the headmaster directly! I need to see my head of house first!”
—
Ten minutes later.
With the guidance of Hufflepuff Headmistress Professor Sprout, Bruce arrived at the headmaster’s office.
“Bruce, are you absolutely certain you’re not making this up?”
Professor Sprout’s expression was serious. “I don’t mind a joke now and then, but in front of the headmaster, no fooling around!”
“I’m telling the truth.” Bruce’s expression was solemn. “It was the portrait of Hufflepuff herself who spoke to me.”
“All right, then.”
Professor Sprout chose to believe her student. She stood before a hideous, giant stone gargoyle.
“Lemon sherbet!” she said.
The gargoyle sprang to life, leaping aside, and the wall behind it split open.
Beyond the wall was a spiral staircase, slowly ascending like an escalator.
Professor Sprout led Bruce up the stairs, stopping in front of an oak door with a griffin-shaped knocker.
She knocked, and the door swung open. The room was empty.
“Dumbledore’s out,” said a portrait of a former headmaster hanging on the wall. “Who knows when he’ll be back?”
“Oh, I see…” Professor Sprout nodded and turned to Bruce. “You’ll have to wait here for him, then. I have other matters to attend to, but rest assured, the headmaster’s office is very safe.”
With that, she knelt down, giving Bruce a kind smile and a gentle pat on the head, then left.
Only Bruce was left in the office. Well, him and an owl.
“Are all Hogwarts teachers like this?” Kathoom remarked.
He recalled how Professor McGonagall had brought Harry to Dumbledore’s office the first time and promptly left him there alone, too.
Bruce didn’t answer; he was busy surveying Dumbledore’s office.
It was a round room filled with all sorts of strange magical instruments. The Sorting Hat was there, dozing in its place.
In addition, an elderly red bird with a weary look in its eyes perched on a tall, gilded stand behind the door.
This was Dumbledore’s companion, Fawkes the Phoenix.
It would die next year, only to be reborn from the ashes.
“Rude creature,” Kathoom called out to Fawkes. “Have you never seen such a dashing, energetic owl?”
Fawkes turned away, looking deeply disgruntled.
“Much better!” Kathoom crowed, pleased with himself.
It was only then he noticed a mirror standing in the corner of the office.
It was an imposing mirror, reaching to the ceiling, with an ornate golden frame and clawed feet at its base.
At the top, there was an inscription that seemed to have no meaning.
Because, when read backward, it said: “I show not your face but your heart’s desire.”
“Well, well, the Mirror of Erised.” Kathoom perked up, fluttering from Bruce’s shoulder to hover in front of it.
Then, all of a sudden, he saw hazy figures standing behind him.
They were his loved ones from his past life. Seeing them made even this unflappable owl feel a pang of sorrow.
He wondered how they were doing now…
Bruce stepped up to the mirror as well.
In it, he saw his parents appear behind him.
“Dad? Mom?”
Bruce felt a moment of confusion, then quickly snapped out of it. No, his parents had died before his eyes; how could they appear here?
He took a sudden step back, refusing to let himself be drawn into the illusion.
“Not bad!” Kathoom chuckled. “You caught on pretty fast.”
“Only an idiot wouldn’t catch on!” Bruce snapped, breathing heavily.
Clearly, he wasn’t as calm as he pretended to be; seeing his parents’ faces again tempted him more than he would admit.
But Bruce was more afraid that the mirror held some kind of sinister trick.
“This is the Mirror of Erised. It shows you what you most desire,” Kathoom explained. “Those with weak minds often get lost in it.”
“Is that so?” Bruce wiped the sweat from his brow.
This mirror was indeed strange.
After a brief pause, Bruce asked, “What did you see, then?”
“Me? I saw my family.”
Kathoom felt a little down, not hiding his sadness, hoping for a bit of sympathy from Bruce.
But Bruce tilted his head and asked, “So you’re an orphan too?”
Otherwise, how could he be seeing the same thing as him?
Kathoom: ???
Hey, can’t you word that a little more delicately?
Never in his life had the owl imagined his joke could come full circle—and hit him right in the heart!
Reader discussion
0 Comments
Be the first reader to share a thought about this chapter.