May Your Path Be Bright, Your Life Without Regret

If you are standing beneath the Astronomy Tower right now, or anywhere you can see the Black Forest on the western side of the castle, please look up at the sky.

My end should involve a sufficiently spectacular magical detonation—I hope they will later describe it as "an unfortunate experimental accident."

That would be best.

A professor obsessed with dangerous research reaping what he sows is far better than letting the name "Caesar Habs" become linked to deeper conspiracies and lasting suspicion, thereby implicating you.

I imagine that, with your intelligence, you have already pieced together most of the truth: my dealings with Tom Riddle, my designs on the Philosopher's Stone, and this body of mine that is crumbling.

Yes, I needed it, desperately enough to walk on the edge of a blade. But "healing" was merely a convenient excuse, or rather, the least significant layer of my purpose.

What truly drove me was the temptation born from a discovery deep within the Divine Mountain Tribe Ruins—an ancient power that touched the very essence of magic.

I arrogantly believed I could harness it, transform it into a cornerstone for reshaping certain rules.

Perhaps even... permanently eliminate the darkness that springs from fractured souls like Tom's.

I failed.

The backlash from that power far exceeded my expectations. It was not destroying my body; it was, in a conceptual sense, "erasing" my very foundation as a wizard.

The Philosopher's Stone was the only thing that could theoretically "anchor" me temporarily.

So you see, reaching this point was less a product of Tom's schemes and more the result of my own ambition and arrogance leading me to a dead end.

I sacrificed myself to a dangerously insatiable thirst for knowledge—a textbook example of a Ravenclaw tragedy.

I must confess to you the deepest and heaviest deception:

My feelings for you.

I once believed that the care, indulgence, and companionship that exceeded my plans could be simply dismissed as "appreciation for an outstanding student" or "a familial sense of responsibility."

I even convinced myself with that reasoning for a time, trying to define the growing clarity between us as your illusion or a momentary dependence.

I was wrong.

I don't know when it began—perhaps the first time you looked at me with that gaze blending admiration and stubbornness.

Perhaps it was when you secretly placed the model of the Golden Snitch, symbolizing victory, on my desk after winning a Quidditch match.

Or perhaps it was just the light in your eyes on countless ordinary days as you shared those seemingly trivial thoughts.

You were no longer merely a part of my plan, or a younger sister in need of my care.

You became the only variable in my cold calculations, the only warmth in my gray landscape, the only reason on this long road that made me want to stop and look back.

That is precisely why I am even more afraid.

Afraid that this feeling would cloud your judgment, dragging you into my abyss.

Afraid that after learning the full truth, you would, in the name of "love," make irrational choices and fall into ruin alongside me.

So I pushed you away—with coldness, with distance, with the lie of my impending departure.

I would rather you misunderstand me, resent me, than have you take risks for me. But I underestimated you after all, Hermione.

You are not a fledgling needing shelter beneath a wing; you are an eagle destined to soar. You sensed the anomaly and chose to face it head-on.

At this moment, I can imagine the determination with which you are walking toward unknown danger.

Please forgive me for being unable to stop you myself, or to guard by your side any longer.

That One-Winged Bird pendant is the last thing I can leave behind.

Its contract power will dissolve with my passing; the fading of its rainbow light is not your fault.

But the pendant itself remains an ancient protective artifact.

Keep it or destroy it—the choice is yours. It is no longer a bond, merely a token of memory.

Do not be bound by "love" or "duty." You need not prove your feelings for me, nor bear any burden for my end. My choices are my own responsibility.

Your path lies ahead—a bright, broad road full of infinite possibilities.

Become whoever you wish to be—the most brilliant Minister of Magic, a pioneering scholar, a steadfast reformer, or simply a happy, free Hermione Granger.

Use your wisdom and courage to build, to protect, to love those worthy of love.

If one day in the future, you meet a partner with whom you can freely place your trust and walk side by side, do not hesitate for a moment.

In eternal silence, I will offer you my most sincere blessings.

I once thought my story would end in hatred or obsession.

Thank you, Hermione, for allowing me to find a warmer final chapter in my last moments.

Farewell.

May your path be bright, and your life without regret.

Forever yours, ...

Late at night, in the cold stone chamber, the air seemed frozen solid.

The Mirror of Erised stood silently in the center, its surface deep and unfathomable, reflecting no clear image—only a blurry, shifting haze of light.

The ancient runes carved into the frame cast twisted, flickering shadows under the leaping light of the torches on the walls.

Quirrell—or rather, the will represented by the face on the back of Quirrell's head—glared at the mirror with restless agitation.

They had bypassed the snoring three-headed dog Fluffy, slipped through the wilted, cowering Devil's Snare, solved the flying keys, the life-or-death chessboard, and the logic puzzle, and now stood before this final, most fearsome line of defense.

"Hurry... get it!"

Quirrell's voice was hoarse with tension, his fingers nervously clawing at his purple turban.

Yet his eyes kept darting uncontrollably toward the back of his own head, as if seeking orders, or perhaps fearing something.

Caesar stood half a step to the side of the mirror, his posture seemingly relaxed.

But if one looked closely, they would notice the fingers of his left hand twitching slightly at his side, the faint blue cracks beneath his skin clearer than when they had arrived—like an undercurrent beneath ice, surging faster.

His gaze fell upon the mirror's surface, devoid of Quirrell's greed and urgency. Instead, it was as if he were examining an old relic, carrying a trace of barely perceptible... understanding and weariness.

"Only someone who doesn't want to use the Philosopher's Stone can take it from the mirror."

Caesar spoke, his voice unusually clear in the silent stone chamber, even startlingly calm. "Dumbledore likes these little tricks with moral lessons."

"Then... what do we do?" Quirrell urged, unable to stop himself from touching the back of his head again. "The Master... the Master needs it!"

"We need to make it 'believe' that we don't want to use it." Caesar took a step forward, closer to the mirror.

His shadow stretched long, cast across the cold stone floor, its edges faintly blurred, as if peeling away from reality itself.

"Or rather, make the mirror 'see' that the act of taking the stone itself fits the definition of 'not using it.'"