May Your Road Ahead Be Bright, and May You Live Without Regret

If you're standing beneath the Astronomy Tower right now, or anywhere you can see the Forbidden Forest to the west of the castle, look up at the sky.

My end should involve a magical explosion spectacular enough that I hope they'll describe it afterward as "an unfortunate laboratory accident."

That would be for the best.

A professor obsessed with dangerous research meeting the consequences of his own actions is better than having the name Caesar Habs linked to deeper conspiracies and longer-lasting suspicion—and dragging you into it.

I imagine that, with your intelligence, you've pieced together most of the truth by now: my bargain with Tom Riddle, my designs on the Philosopher's Stone, and this body that's falling apart.

Yes, I need it—so desperately that I'm willing to walk a razor's edge. But "curing myself" is just an easy excuse to understand, or perhaps the least significant part of my goal.

What truly drives me is the allure of an ancient power, one that touches the very source of magic, discovered deep within the Divine Mountain Tribe Ruins.

I arrogantly believed I could master it and turn it into the cornerstone of reshaping certain laws.

Perhaps... I could even permanently banish the darkness that grew from a fractured soul, like the darkness in Tom.

I failed.

The backlash from that power far exceeded my expectations. It wasn't destroying my body so much as "erasing" the very foundations of my existence as a wizard.

In theory, the Philosopher's Stone was the only thing that could temporarily "anchor" me.

So you see, rather than being driven to this point by Tom's schemes, I brought myself to the brink through my own ambition and arrogance.

I sacrificed myself to an all-consuming thirst for knowledge that was far too dangerous—a textbook Ravenclaw tragedy.

I must confess the deepest and heaviest deception of all:

My feelings for you.

I once thought I could simply explain all the care, indulgence, and companionship that went beyond my plans as "admiration for an outstanding student" or "the responsibility of family."

For a while, I even used that explanation to convince myself that the growing difference between us was just your imagination, or a passing dependency.

I was wrong.

I don't know when it began. Perhaps when you first gazed at me with that look, mingling admiration and defiance.

Perhaps when, after winning a Quidditch match, you secretly left a model Golden Snitch—the symbol of victory—on my desk.

Or perhaps it was simply the light in your eyes as you shared your seemingly trivial thoughts with me, day after ordinary day.

You were no longer just a part of my plan, or a younger sister who needed looking after.

You became the only variable in my cold calculations, the only warmth in a bleak landscape, the only reason on this long road that made me want to turn back and linger.

That was precisely why I became more afraid.

Afraid that these feelings would cloud your judgment and drag you into my abyss.

Afraid that once you knew the whole truth, you would make an irrational choice in the name of "love" and doom us both.

So I pushed you away—with coldness, distance, and lies about leaving soon.

I'd rather have you misunderstand and hate me than risk your life for my sake. But in the end, I underestimated you, Hermione.

You aren't a fledgling who needs shelter beneath someone's wing. You're an eagle born to soar. You sensed something was wrong, and chose to face it.

At this moment, I can imagine the resolve with which you're walking toward the danger ahead.

Forgive me for being unable to stop you myself, and for no longer being able to protect you.

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

The power of its contract will unravel when I'm gone. The fading rainbow glow isn't your fault.

But the pendant itself is still an ancient protective artifact.

It's your choice whether to keep it or destroy it. It's no longer a bond, only a keepsake of a memory.

Don't let "love" or "duty" hold you hostage. You don't need to prove your feelings for me, and you don't need to bear any part of my fate. I alone am responsible for my choices.

Your road lies ahead: bright, broad, and full of endless possibilities.

Become whoever you want to be—the greatest Minister of Magic, a groundbreaking scholar, a steadfast reformer, or simply a happy, free Hermione Granger.

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

If one day you meet someone you can trust without reservation, someone who will walk beside you, don't hesitate for even a moment.

In eternal silence, I'll offer you my most heartfelt blessing.

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

Thank you, Hermione, for giving me a warmer ending at the very last moment.

Farewell.

May your road ahead be bright, and may you live without regret.

Forever yours,

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

The Mirror of Erised stood silently in the center. Its surface was deep and dark, reflecting no clear image, only a blur of swirling light.

The ancient runes carved into its frame cast warped, shifting shadows in the flicker of the wall torches.

Quirrell—or rather, the will represented by the face on the back of Quirrell's head—stared impatiently at the mirror.

They had bypassed Fluffy, the snoring three-headed dog, stumbled through the limp, withered Devil's Snare, solved the flying keys, the life-and-death chessboard, and the logic puzzle. At last, they stood before the final—and most daunting—line of defense.

"Quick... get it!"

Quirrell's voice was hoarse with tension. His fingers nervously picked at his purple turban.

Yet his gaze kept darting toward the back of his own head, as though seeking instructions—or afraid of something.

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

But a closer look revealed the fingers of his left hand twitching faintly at his side. The blue cracks beneath his skin seemed clearer than before, like undercurrents speeding beneath ice.

His gaze rested on the mirror. Unlike Quirrell, he showed neither greed nor impatience, but seemed to be examining an old object with a hint of... understanding and weariness.

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

Caesar's voice rang especially clearly through the silent stone chamber, its calm almost jarring. "Dumbledore likes these little tricks with moral lessons."

"Th-then what do we do?" Quirrell cried. His hand strayed to 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 stepped closer to the mirror.

His shadow stretched across the cold stone floor, its edges blurring slightly, as though it were slipping away from reality.

"Or rather, we need to make the mirror 'see' that taking the Stone itself fits the definition of 'not using it.'"