THE MIRROR OF ERISED
“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was
wandering around at night, and somebody’s been in the library —
Restricted Section.”
Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he was,
Filch must know a shortcut, because his soft, greasy voice was get-
ting nearer, and to his horror, it was Snape who replied, “The Re-
stricted Section? Well, they can’t be far, we’ll catch them.”
Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape came around
the corner ahead. They couldn’t see him, of course, but it was a nar-
row corridor and if they came much nearer they’d knock right into
him — the cloak didn’t stop him from being solid.
He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood ajar to his
left. It was his only hope. He squeezed through it, holding his
breath, trying not to move it, and to his relief he managed to get in-
side the room without their noticing anything. They walked
straight past, and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing deeply,
listening to their footsteps dying away. That had been close, very
close. It was a few seconds before he noticed anything about the
room he had hidden in.
It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks
and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned
wastepaper basket — but propped against the wall facing him
was something that didn’t look as if it belonged there, something
that looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it out of the
way.
It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate
gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription
carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
207