Standing in front of the mirror, Hardwin's focus was on his bare torso and the jagged lightning-bolt scar that crossed it. For as long as he could remember, this scar had been a reminder of the car crash his parents died in, but knowing that James and Lily Potter weren't actually dead and he had never actually been in a car crash made him wonder how he had actually gotten it. According to the rumours around the school, the Boy-Who-Lived's scar was from when Lord Voldemort had attacked the Potters just over ten years ago and tried killing the boy, but the curse had rebounded.
Considering their scars were the same shape, Hardwin had a feeling that they were from the same occasion.
It had always been a pale white, nearly blending in with his skin, but since his arrival at Hogwarts, it had slowly been growing darker. It was now an evil blood-red—but at least there was no pain to accompany it. If Hardwin hadn't already suspected it of being a magical scar, the change in colour undoubtedly confirmed it.
Hardwin was proud he had been able to hide any memories of it from Professor Quirrell during their lessons in Occlumency. He didn't want to be considered a bigger freak or outcast than he already was, and having a scar like the Boy-Who-Lived's—but so much worse—was the easiest way to ruin his life.
Hardwin smiled when he thought of his favourite teacher's lessons. At the end of their last encounter, Professor Quirrell had informed him that they would be starting on duelling after the holidays—now that his skill with Occlumency was good enough to keep out surface attempts, but he would have to keep working on their mind exercises if he wanted to block out a true attack from a master of the Mind Arts, such as Dumbledore.
Hardwin vowed to himself that he would—it was very important to keep his mind protected.
He worked hard over the next few weeks in every class. He maintained his status as the best student in Slytherin— and possibly the year—by managing each new spell faster than anyone, getting top scores on every assignment and earning several points for Slytherin in the process.
Hardwin was confused when he woke up one morning and found the common room void of any other students. He was even more confused when the Great Hall was just as empty, aside from a few teachers and only a couple of Weasleys.
Then it hit him: the Christmas holidays had started and everyone else had gone home.
He had received a letter from James Potter inviting him to their home for the holiday break, but the letter had been written so formally—and signed as 'Lord Potter'—that Hardwin didn't even consider responding and had instead burned it to ashes.
It had been a strange adjustment, learning that the magical community of Great Britain still used the outdated Lord-system, but not as strange as it was to learn that his father was one of them.
Hardwin knew he had made the correct decision when he saw how empty the Slytherin dormitories were—him being the only member of the House to have stayed behind. He spent most of his time reading a book in front of the warm fire and eating snacks to his heart's content. He had already gone through and finished all of his textbooks for his first year about a month ago, which allowed him to keep his nose buried in a book from the library, memorizing and practicing the spells in private when he wasn't busy with homework.
On the coldest day of the year so far, Hardwin was curled up in a blanket with the fire at his back while he read A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions. He remained that way for an indeterminate amount of time before a familiar voice spoke from above him and startled him from his reading. "What are you doing?"
Hardwin looked up to see Professor Snape looming over him like a giant bat.
"Studying, sir," Hardwin answered truthfully, holding up the book so his teacher could see the cover.
Professor Snape's eyebrows rose. "And why," he said slowly, "are you not at the feast?"
Hardwin frowned. "Feast, sir?"
Professor Snape gave him a calculating look. "Do you know what today is, Mr. Potter?"
"It's Wednesday, sir," Hardwin answered immediately.
"Today… is Christmas."
Hardwin's eyes widened.
"Did you not know that today was Christmas?" Professor Snape asked with surprising softness.
Hardwin's silence was answer enough. Not once in his life had he ever received a present of any kind, so it was hardly surprising for him to learn that today was a holiday of gift-giving and he had not been given anything. There was no way the Dursleys would send him something and he didn't have any friends at Hogwarts, so he didn't see a point in keeping track of such frivolous occasions.
"Mr. Potter, did you receive any gifts today?"
Hardwin felt his face heat up at the question, but he didn't know why he was embarrassed—because he suspected that that was what he was feeling. He had never been bothered by that fact before, but the sympathetic tone that Professor Snape had used made him feel smaller than a mouse.
"No, sir," he said quietly.
He didn't have to look up to know that Professor Snape's black eyes were focused on him, giving him that pitying look that Hardwin had always hated seeing whenever the teachers back in Little Whinging saw how small he was, how his clothes were too big for him, how his cousin bullied him — but they had never done anything about it, and Hardwin had quickly realized he couldn't trust anyone to ever be there for him when he needed help. He had taught himself how to be self-reliant just to stay alive.
At least, that was the case until Professor Quirrell had offered private lessons.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was the first person that had ever truly helped Hardwin in life—teaching him defensive magic and helping him learn Occlumency, was it any wonder why Hardwin respected the man who so many others thought was a wimp? He was confident that he knew more about Professor Quirrell than anyone else in the school, although the same could be said in reverse, thanks to their Occlumency lessons.
"Mr. Potter…"
Hardwin's head snapped up, nearly giving himself whiplash, for never had he heard the usually stern and frightening Professor Snape speak with such kindness and… understanding?
Professor Snape stared at him with something that Hardwin could only guess was along the lines of kinship, and he knew in that moment that Professor Snape understood — he knew what it was like to have a family that didn't care for you, what it was like to be the outcast of the school, to be the one that people bullied for being different.
"Clyde," Professor Snape called.
There was a sharp crack, and Hardwin reeled back when a small creature appeared out of thin air, spawned from nothingness. It had floppy bat-ears, green eyes the size of tennis balls, and wore a tea towel stamped with the Hogwarts crest, tied like a toga.
Hardwin recognized the distinct appearance of a house-elf from his reading and wondered for what purpose Professor Snape had called it. They were used in Hogwarts to prepare their meals and keep everything clean, but they could also run errands and do several other tasks for their masters.
"Bring us some platters of the Christmas feast," Professor Snape told the elf.
"Yes, Master Snape." Clyde bowed then disappeared with another crack. He returned less than two minutes later with plates full of varying foods Hardwin had never eaten before.
The two Slytherins ate in silence, which Hardwin appreciated. He hated how often the people in the Great Hall talked while they ate, some doing so messily and spitting food everywhere—the biggest examples of which being Crabbe, Goyle, and Weasley.
After the last bite was consumed and Clyde had taken their empty dishes away, Professor Snape rose from the chair he had been sitting in and said, "Come with me, Mr. Potter."
Hardwin, not wishing to anger his Head of House, followed the man out of the Slytherin common room and through the dungeons to his office.
"Sit." Professor Snape indicated a seat in front of his desk.
Hardwin did as instructed and looked around the office. It was a gloomy, dimly-lit room that had shadowy walls lined with large glass jars full of slimy and nasty things for potions. Directly opposite the door was a fireplace big enough to fit a person, which Professor Snape lit, and a cupboard with even more potions ingredients was in one corner.
Professor Snape moved to take a seat at his intricately-carved desk. Hardwin watched as he searched through a drawer for at least a full minute before emerging with a vial filled with a blue liquid that was luminescent in the darkness of the room. "Do you recognize this particular brew, Mr. Potter?"
"A Sleeping Draught, sir."
Professor Snape gave Hardwin an impressed smile.
"That is a second year potion, Mr. Potter," he revealed. Hardwin's eyes widened. "It is good to see that all of your reading has not gone to waste. But while I commend you for your studiousness, it is apparent that you have not been getting the proper rest you need."
Hardwin was struck with the realization that his eyes felt heavy, having spent almost all of his waking moments reading to improve himself. He rarely checked the time outside of class, aside from when he woke up in the mornings, so it was very likely that he hadn't been going to bed early enough.
Professor Snape's smile turned amused. "Take this tonight, no later than nine o'clock."
"Yes, sir," Hardwin promised.
"Good — If you need more, I trust that you know how to brew it sufficiently."
Hardwin felt a rush of pride fill his chest. That was the closest to genuine praise he had ever received from Professor Snape.
"However, do be careful," Professor Snape warned. "This particular concoction can become addictive if taken more frequently than necessary or should you neglect to moderate yourself. This is to return your resting cycle to proper times for a boy your age."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Hardwin took the potion and was almost out the door when Professor Snape said, "Merry Christmas, Hardwin."
"Merry Christmas, professor," Hardwin returned, holding back his surprise at being addressed so informally by Professor Snape for the first time. He left the office and returned to the common room without interruption. He read by the fire for a couple more hours before taking the potion and getting into bed, intent on keeping his promise to Professor Snape.
Hardwin fell asleep that night with a smile on his face, having received his first present ever.
He woke up the next morning feeling more refreshed than he had in months and made a mental note to thank Professor Snape again the next time he saw him. He spent that day like usual—reading a book by the fire—but remembered to take a break for meals and periodic rests.
When he laid down to go to sleep, however, he found that he couldn't. He had even taken another Sleeping Draught, but it didn't work. Hardwin was positive he had brewed it correctly, if not as potent as Professor Snape's had been, but it should have at least made him feel drowsy. Instead he felt wide awake, as if his bloodstream had been injected with an Invigoration Draught.
After what felt like hours, a nagging feeling in the back of his mind had Hardwin getting out of bed and leaving his dormitory against all common sense. It was after curfew, completely dark outside, and he was bound to get in trouble, yet Hardwin couldn't resist the pull that had taken control of his body and was carrying him somewhere he didn't know.
Hardwin wandered through the castle—somehow not encountering a single entity, living or dead; not even the caretaker's awful cat. His feet carried him without thought — out of the dungeons, through the entrance hall, up the marble staircase. Higher and higher he went, all the time wondering what was going on. He finally stopped climbing stairs on what he presumed was the fifth floor. He followed the pull through winding corridors and saw the light of a lantern as it disappeared around a corner on the opposite end of the hall.
He was in a narrow corridor now. Hardwin prayed that no one else came down it at that moment, otherwise they would run right into him.
The pull led him to an open door on his left. Hardwin walked inside and marvelled at the sight within.
At first glance, it looked like an unused classroom—the dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls —but then Hardwin's eyes landed on an object propped against the wall facing him. The object was a magnificent mirror that looked incredibly out of place, as if someone had put it there just to keep it out of the way. It stood as high as the ceiling on two clawed feet. The top of the mirror had an ornate golden frame that was carved with an inscription: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Hardwin moved closer to the mirror, sensing that this was what the pull had been leading him to—almost like the mirror wanted him to look into it.
He gasped when he saw what was in it and whirled around. His heart was pounding furiously in his chest — what he had seen simply could not be possible. His eyes had to be playing tricks on him, there was no way what he saw in place of a reflection was real. Looking back into the mirror, Hardwin realized that he had seen correctly the first time.
He saw himself—sitting atop a beautiful throne of obsidian and trimmed with silver designs. He was tall and strongly-built, his eyes pulsing with power as rich as jade. His dark silver hair was blowing as if in the wind. Dressed in robes of the finest black silks with golden lapels, Hardwin looked like a king. On his image-self's left hand was an elegant golden ring with a stone as black as nightmares. He tried to get a better look but couldn't identify the coat of arms carved into the stone, not that he knew any other than the four Houses of Hogwarts, anyway.
Standing on either side of the throne were two people—a man and a woman. They had fairly similar appearances, both pale with handsome features, jet-black hair, and sinister eyes. They were looking at Hardwin with pride—he had done well and proved himself better than everyone.
But it was the last detail that disturbed him — laying at his feet was a corpse of a man with albino skin and a bald head facing away from Hardwin so he couldn't see who it was.
A voice echoed in Hardwin's mind—a voice so deep it sounded as if the very earth was speaking to him—and gave a message that chilled him to the marrow of his bones.
"This is your destiny… Do not let the weak sway you from your path… They will not understand you, but you must do what is necessary… You will prove them wrong when you claim your rightful place…"
The voice felt familiar to Hardwin, though he was certain he had never heard it before. It felt as if he were being tenderly embraced and a warmth flowed through his body like he was being given a small taste of that which his mirror-self possessed. It was addictive—Hardwin never wanted that feeling to dissipate and leave him in the coldness of powerlessness that he had felt for so long. He felt as if were being kissed by the sun, warmth pushing away the darkness that had clouded him his entire life.
And then it was gone.
He felt the pull that had led him here disappear. Hardwin was left staring at the image his apparent destiny, his heart's greatest desire. It was his fate to be above everyone else—he knew that now—and he would not let anyone or anything stand in his path.
Hardwin would rule them all.