Harry Potter: Returning from Hogwarts Legacy

"Also, Professor," Harry turned toward Dumbledore's long beard, "I don't think it's a wise decision to keep the Mirror of Erised here. I'm not convinced that other Hogwarts students have the same level of self-control as Ron to resist the illusory temptation it offers."

Ron, initially uneasy after being caught by Dumbledore, raised his head, his eyes sparkling as he looked at Harry.

"If a young wizard becomes obsessed with the illusions they see and can't—or won't—accept that it's just fantasy, it won't just be Hogwarts that suffers," Harry added.

From the moment Dumbledore appeared, Harry had already connected the dots in his mind.

This was undoubtedly a setup by Dumbledore, specifically designed to lure him to the Mirror of Erised.

But why? What was the purpose of this? Harry pondered for a long time but couldn't figure it out.

Dumbledore suddenly felt a bit choked up. These were words he had planned to use to lecture Harry.

But now? How had things flipped so that Harry was using them to lecture him instead?

He looked at Harry and found the boy meeting his gaze steadily.

The young man radiated like the sun at seven or eight in the morning—bright but not blinding, exuding an unyielding righteousness.

Perhaps I was overthinking this, Dumbledore mused.

A child like this must be truly extraordinary.

"I have to admit, you're absolutely right, Harry," Dumbledore said with a warm smile. "I'll have someone remove the mirror later tonight."

"Very well, Professor. Then Ron and I won't disturb your rest any further," Harry said, pulling Ron along. "Goodnight, Professor Dumbledore."

"By the way," Ron suddenly asked, "Professor Dumbledore, what do you see in the mirror?"

Dumbledore paused, then smiled. "Me? Hmm, much the same as Harry—woolen socks."

---

The two boys hurried back to the Gryffindor common room. After the Fat Lady confirmed the password, Ron sighed in relief.

"Merlin, I thought Dumbledore was going to dock points from us. I can't believe he let us off so easily," Ron said, dropping onto a chair and carefully folding the Invisibility Cloak.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he just forgot. Let's get some rest."

Lying in bed that night, Harry couldn't shake the question of why Dumbledore had placed the Mirror of Erised there, seemingly baiting him to approach it.

He doubted it was mere curiosity on Dumbledore's part to see what the "Boy Who Lived" desired most.

He decided to keep the matter in mind and discuss it with Hermione once she returned.

---

The day before the holiday ended, Hermione finally came back to school.

After hearing Harry's analysis, Hermione offered a different perspective.

"I don't think Professor Dumbledore means you any harm," she began. "He's the greatest white wizard of our time. If he had any intentions toward you, it might simply be to test your character—like whether you'd become obsessed with the Mirror of Erised."

"I agree with Hermione," Ron said, raising his hand. "But Harry's concerns aren't unfounded either. Could it be that you're performing so well that he suspects you've come into contact with some dark magical artifact?"

"Hard to say." Harry idly spun a fountain pen in his hand. Perhaps he was too forceful, as a streak of blue ink flicked from the pen's nib and splattered onto Draco Malfoy's face as he passed by.

"Sorry," Harry said to Draco.

Draco shot Harry a cold, venomous look, wiped his cheek, and continued walking without a word.

"What's going on?" Ron whispered. "That's not like him. The old Draco would have been yelling, 'I'll tell my father!' by now."

"Have you noticed that he looks even paler than before the holiday?" Hermione leaned closer to the table, nearly lying on it. "Honestly, his eyes just now gave me the creeps—like a snake's. It was unsettling."

Harry didn't pay it much mind. After all, Draco hadn't said anything, and besides, Harry was the one who splattered ink on him first.

When Draco sat at the Slytherin table, Pansy let out a gasp.

"My goodness, Draco, what happened to you?"

She took out a handkerchief and walked over to wipe his face with concern.

Draco allowed Pansy to clean his cheek but felt increasingly irritable.

Later, back in the Slytherin common room, Draco sat in a secluded corner, instructing Crabbe and Goyle to stand guard and keep others away.

He opened a notebook, dipped his quill in ink, and wrote:

Ancestor, you once said you'd teach me some spells to deal with that insufferable Potter. Just now, he even dared to flick ink onto my face. Now that we're back at school, I hope you'll keep your promise.

Moments later, elegant handwriting appeared on the notebook's pages.

"Relax, my descendant. The great me never deceives a child like you..."

But I can't wait anymore! I want to curse that wretched Potter's face right now! Draco wrote in agitation, not even understanding his own emotions.

After writing that, Draco felt a brief moment of confusion.

What's wrong with me?

But he couldn't dwell on it. Another faint wave of magic passed from the notebook.

Draco's agitated emotions surged again, brushing aside his doubts.

Along with them, his patience with the notebook wore thin.

At home, the notebook had continually delayed, saying it would teach him spells only once he returned to school.

Now they were back, yet the notebook still showed no intention of teaching him anything. Draco was losing his patience.

"If you wish to defeat Harry Potter, I have a suggestion for you."

The notebook's words were enticing.

Consumed by emotion, Draco was completely captivated. He gritted his teeth and wrote, "What is it? Just tell me."

Elegant handwriting surfaced on the page.

"Have you ever heard of the 'Heir of Slytherin'?"

"The Heir of Slytherin?" Draco wrote back, confused.

"Yes, my descendant," the notebook replied. "A friend of mine is the Heir of Slytherin. Through him, I learned of an absolutely safe, absolutely secret location. My Merlin's treasure is hidden there..."

At this, the writing faded entirely.

Before Draco could respond, new writing appeared.

But this time, the script was no longer elegant—it was jagged and erratic.

"Do you... want to know?"

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