Harry Potter: Don't Touch the Badger's Plants

"What are you spacing out for? Get to work!"

Filch's hoarse voice snapped Ethan back to reality. He looked down at the grimy rag being offered to him, paused for a moment, and then took it without a word.

"Oh, and I need to remind you of something," Filch continued, his voice a low rasp. "You don't need to wipe the items under the cloth. And don't even think about getting curious and lifting it. I'll be watching you." He narrowed his eyes, his aged, cloudy gaze fixed on Ethan like a snake coiled to strike. At his feet, Mrs. Norris squatted quietly, her two eyes gleaming like malevolent embers in the moonlight.

Ethan glanced at the caretaker and his cat, then turned to begin wiping the old, tarnished trophies. A series of plans began to form in his mind. Two "Stupefy" spells? Or perhaps "Petrificus Totalus"? If I use The Portal, I can cast them from behind Filch and Mrs. Norris, making it look like someone else did it.* To accomplish that, however, he would need to be facing Filch, with his line of sight extending past him. He had no self-awareness that he was currently serving detention for assault.

Out of the corner of his eye, the mysterious, shrouded object continued to emanate an inexplicable attraction. Bathed in the misty moonlight, it called to him. With almost no hesitation, Ethan decided: tonight, he would uncover its true nature. He had a premonition that it would be of great help in his pursuit of art. All that remained was escaping Filch's suffocating surveillance. Feeling the two scorching gazes on his back, a cold glint flashed in Ethan's eyes.

He was currently wiping the glass cabinet that housed the school's most prestigious awards. His own cobalt-blue eyes were reflected in the glass, overlapping with the dusty golden trophy inside. He could just make out the inscription: "Special Contribution Award, Tom Riddle, 1943."

"You know," Ethan said suddenly, his voice breaking the suffocating silence, "I'll receive that award one day, too." He turned and offered Filch a serene smile.

"Huh?" Filch frowned, then scoffed. "Boy, do you even know what the Special Contribution Award means? That's for students who have made great achievements for Hogwarts! A troublemaker like you, who got detention so soon after the start of term, could never possibly receive—"

Filch's words trailed off. He was staring into Ethan's cobalt-blue eyes. Even with the ivory moonlight shining upon them, they held no warmth. They were like two blue planets, frozen over with profound ice, suspended in an endless, dark void. They radiated a bone-chilling coldness that seeped into his very marrow.

Under that gaze—even though Ethan's lips were still curved in a smile—Filch found he could not utter another word. As a Squib, he harbored a deep envy and resentment for these young wizards who could wield magic. His twisted psychology, born from a life of sweeping floors while others soared on broomsticks, made him wish he could punish these "show-off" students with whips and shackles. Yet, at this moment, facing this black-haired, blue-eyed boy who was merely standing there, a new emotion arose in Filch—fear.

"Hiss!"

Mrs. Norris arched her back, her fur bristling. Her vertical pupils constricted as she hissed at Ethan. Filch stumbled backward, his terror mounting as he noticed the wand that Ethan now unconsciously gripped in his hand.

"You—what are you going to do?!" he blurted out.

BANG!

A loud crash from the corridor shattered the eerie atmosphere. It was followed by the clattering sound of heavy footsteps, like a troll on the run. Filch, who normally would have been thrilled at the prospect of catching a student out after hours, looked as though he had been granted a pardon from the gallows.

"I'll go see what that was," he stammered, before limping away as fast as his legs would carry him. "Come on, Mrs. Norris!" The cat gave Ethan one last, wary glance before turning and agilely following her master. Soon, their figures disappeared from the doorway.

Ethan blinked, lowering his wand. "I just wanted to show him the wonder of magic," he murmured regretfully. "What a shame he ran off." But it was fine. It saved him the trouble of breaking another school rule. He wondered which student, not sleeping at night, had so conveniently drawn Filch away. The thought was fleeting.

Ethan turned, his gaze now burning with intensity as he looked at the tall, shrouded object. He strode over in a few quick steps and tore the cloth away.

What greeted his eyes was a magnificent mirror. It had an ornate, golden frame that reached the ceiling, supported by two claw-like feet. At the top, a line of text was engraved: "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."

"'I show not your face but your heart's desire,'" Ethan murmured, instantly recognizing the object. The Mirror of Erised. It was the very same mirror that would later ensnare Harry, the final defense Dumbledore would set for the Philosopher's Stone. He hadn't expected to find it here.

The moonlight shone on the mirror's smooth surface, reflecting his own thin, tall figure like a pale ghost. What will I see? he wondered. Will I see myself achieving success, admired by all? Or will I see myself standing at the pinnacle of art, revered by the world for generations to come?

But as he asked the question, he already knew the answer. It had nothing to do with money or fame. He would never compromise his vision for worldly aesthetics. What he pursued, what he had always pursued, was simply art itself.

As his thoughts settled, the surface of the mirror rippled like a disturbed lake. His reflection twisted, blurred, and then faded completely. The raw scent of earth and damp grass wafted from the mirror's depths. Moonlight seemed to pass through its surface, illuminating a world within.

Ethan's eyes widened. What appeared before him was a primitive, overgrown path, lit only by the faint glow of the moon. Dim, twisted tree shadows swayed, their leaves rustling in an unfelt wind.

[You have discovered a special location: Moonlit Path]

[Current Identity: Mortal]

["I know that all things in the world are but fleeting glories."]

Mortal? Ethan noted the descriptor. If there were mortals, then there must also be immortals. He thought of Voldemort, and of Nicolas Flamel, who had lived for over six hundred years. They had transformed themselves through magic and external objects, reaching a state beyond ordinary human limits. He wondered what awaited him in this dim, dense forest.

Taking a deep breath, Ethan stepped over the mirror's frame and onto the damp earth, walking deeper into the woods. The moonlight was faint, and everything around him was cast in shades of black. He pushed aside dense foliage, moving forward with difficulty as sharp twigs and thorns scratched his face and hands. For a moment, he felt a disorienting sense of being lost, forgetting the path he had taken, even forgetting to use his magic.

Just then, the wand in his hand flared to life, its light pushing back the shadows and revealing the path ahead, reminding him of the way back.

"Thank you, my friend," Ethan said, looking gratefully at his wand.

Finally, when the trees ahead became too dense to pass and his back was soaked with sweat, he discovered a hidden spot—a piece of tree bark, thick with moss. Words were carved into it. When he touched it, a ghostly blue light erupted, and a line of text materialized before his eyes.

[You have learned the Erised Spell!]

[You can now create captivating illusions through your paintings.]

[You have marked a special location: Herpo the Foul's Abandoned Mansion—The Hidden Room in the Tapestry]

[Perhaps you will find treasures within, or perhaps you will find dangers. Often, both exist together.]

(End of Chapter)

***

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