Harry sank down on to his bed and unwrapped the package. Out fell a small, square mirror. It looked old; it was certainly dirty. Harry held it up to his face and saw his own reflection looking back at him.
He turned the mirror over. There on the reverse side was a scribbled note from Sirius.
This is a two-way mirror, I’ve got the other one of the pair. If you need to speak to me, just say my name into it; you’ll appear in my mirror and I’ll be able to talk in yours. James and I used to use them when we were in separate detentions.
Harry’s heart began to race. He remembered seeing his dead parents in the Mirror of Erised four years ago. He was going to be able to talk to Sirius again, right now, he knew it—
He looked around to make sure there was nobody else there; the dormitory was quite empty. He looked back at the mirror, raised it in front of his face with trembling hands and said, loudly and clearly, “Sirius.”
His breath misted the surface of the glass. He held the mirror even closer, excitement flooding through him, but the eyes blinking back at him through the fog were definitely his own.
He wiped the mirror clear again and said, so that every syllable rang clearly through the room:
“Sirius Black!”
Nothing happened. The frustrated face looking back out of the mirror was still, definitely, his own…
Sirius didn’t have his mirror on him when he went through the archway, said a small voice in Harry’s head. That’s why it’s not working…
Harry remained quite still for a moment, then hurled the mirror back into the trunk where it shattered. He had been convinced, for a whole, shining minute, that he was going to see Sirius, talk to him again…
Disappointment was burning in his throat; he got up and began throwing his things pell-mell into the trunk on top of the broken mirror—
But then an idea struck him… a better idea than a mirror… a much bigger, more important idea… how had he never thought of it before—why had he never asked?
He was sprinting out of the dormitory and down the spiral staircase, hitting the walls as he ran and barely noticing; he hurtled across the empty common room, through the portrait hole and off along the corridor, ignoring the Fat Lady, who called after him: “The feast is about to start, you know, you’re cutting it very fine!”
But Harry had no intention of going to the feast…
How could it be that the place was full of ghosts whenever you didn’t need one, yet now…
He ran down staircases and along corridors and met nobody either alive or dead. They were all, clearly, in the Great Hall. Outside his Charms classroom he came to a halt, panting and thinking disconsolately that he would have to wait until later, until after the end of the feast…
But just as he had given up hope, he saw it—a translucent somebody drifting across the end of the corridor.
“Hey—hey, Nick! NICK!”
The ghost stuck its head back out of the wall, revealing the extravagantly plumed hat and dangerously wobbling head of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington.
“Good evening,” he said, withdrawing the rest of his body from the solid stone and smiling at Harry. “I am not the only one who is late, then? Though,” he sighed, “in a rather different sense, of course…”
“Nick, can I ask you something?”
A most peculiar expression stole over Nearly Headless Nick’s face as he inserted a finger in the stiff ruff at his neck and tugged it a little straighter, apparently to give himself thinking time. He desisted only when his partially severed neck seemed about to give way completely.
“Er—now, Harry?” said Nick, looking discomfited. “Can’t it wait until after the feast?”
“No—Nick—please,” said Harry, “I really need to talk to you. Can we go in here?”
Harry opened the door of the nearest classroom and Nearly Headless Nick sighed.
“Oh, very well,” he said, looking resigned. “I can’t pretend I haven’t been expecting it.”
Harry was holding the door open for him, but he drifted through the wall instead.
“Expecting what?” Harry asked, as he closed the door.
“You to come and find me,” said Nick, now gliding over to the window and looking out at the darkening grounds. “It happens, sometimes… when somebody has suffered a… loss.”
“Well,” said Harry, refusing to be deflected. “You were right, I’ve—I’ve come to find you.”
Nick said nothing.
“It’s—” said Harry, who was finding this more awkward than he had anticipated, “it’s just—you’re dead. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”
Nick sighed and continued to gaze out at the grounds.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” Harry urged him. “You died, but I’m talking to you… you can walk around Hogwarts and everything, can’t you?”
“Yes,” said Nearly Headless Nick quietly, “I walk and talk, yes.”
“So, you came back, didn’t you?” said Harry urgently. “People can come back, right? As ghosts. They don’t have to disappear completely. Well?” he added impatiently, when Nick continued to say nothing.
Nearly Headless Nick hesitated, then said, “Not everyone can come back as a ghost.”
“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly.
“Only… only wizards.”
“Oh,” said Harry, and he almost laughed with relief. “Well, that’s OK then, the person I’m asking about is a wizard. So he can come back, right?”
Nick turned away from the window and looked mournfully at Harry.
“He won’t come back.”
“Who?”
“Sirius Black,” said Nick.
“But you did!” said Harry angrily. “You came back—you’re dead and you didn’t disappear—”
“Wizards can leave an imprint of themselves upon the earth, to walk palely where their living selves once trod,” said Nick miserably. “But very few wizards choose that path.”
“Why not?” said Harry. “Anyway—it doesn’t matter—Sirius won’t care if it’s unusual, he’ll come back, I know he will!”
And so strong was his belief, Harry actually turned his head to check the door, sure, for a split second, that he was going to see Sirius, pearly-white and transparent but beaming, walking through it towards him.
“He will not come back,” repeated Nick. “He will have… gone on.”
“What d’you mean, ‘gone on’?” said Harry quickly. “Gone on where? Listen—what happens when you die, anyway? Where do you go? Why doesn’t everyone come back? Why isn’t this place full of ghosts? Why—?”
“I cannot answer,” said Nick.
“You’re dead, aren’t you?” said Harry exasperatedly. “Who can answer better than you?”
“I was afraid of death,” said Nick softly. “I chose to remain behind. I sometimes wonder whether I oughtn’t to have… well, that is neither here nor there… in fact, I am neither here nor there…” He gave a small sad chuckle. “I know nothing of the secrets of death, Harry, for I chose my feeble imitation of life instead. I believe learned wizards study the matter in the Department of Mysteries—”
“Don’t talk to me about that place!” said Harry fiercely.
“I am sorry not to have been more help,” said Nick gently. “Well… well, do excuse me… the feast, you know…”
And he left the room, leaving Harry there alone, gazing blankly at the wall through which Nick had disappeared.
Harry felt almost as though he had lost his godfather all over again in losing the hope that he might be able to see or speak to him once more. He walked slowly and miserably back up through the empty castle, wondering whether he would ever feel cheerful again.