The silence in the mirror dimension wasn't empty; it was heavy, like the air before a lightning strike. Allen stood perfectly still, his wand held in a white-knuckled grip, his ears straining for any sound that wasn't the rhythmic thumping of his own heart.
"Was I just imagining things?" he muttered, the words barely a breath. "Maybe the isolation is already getting to me."
"Allen..."
The voice wasn't an imagination. It was louder this time, saturated with a profound, aching sadness that made his chest tighten. It didn't sound like it was coming from the room; it sounded like it was being filtered through miles of deep water, a pleading cry from a distant shore.
"Allen, please..."
In the crystalline walls surrounding him, Allen saw a thousand versions of himself looking back. His reflection was pale, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and determination. He realized then that the voice wasn't coming from the air around him—it was vibrating through the glass itself. It was coming from behind the mirrors.
"Luna? Is that you? Where are you?" Allen roared, his voice shattering the stillness.
"Allen! You finally heard me!" Luna's voice suddenly became sharp and clear, as if she had pressed her face against the other side of a window. There was a frantic edge to her tone that he had never heard before. "Listen to me! You have to move forward. You have to face the reflection. Defeat yourself, Allen! If you don't, you'll never cross over!"
As suddenly as it had reached a crescendo, the voice cut out. The silence that rushed back in was deafening.
"Defeat myself? Cross over to where?" Allen shouted, but the only response was the sight of his own confused face multiplied into infinity.
He didn't have a map, and there were no doors. Left with no choice, he picked a direction—away from where he thought the voice had come—and began to walk.
The transition was subtle at first, then jarring. The "room" he had been in seemed to stretch, the walls receding until the mirrored floor beneath his feet felt like a vast, frozen ocean. The temperature plummeted. Every breath he exhaled came out as a thick plume of frost, but there was no wind to blow it away. It just hung there, a ghost of his own breathing.
Allen stopped. "This is a treadmill. I could walk for a century and never hit a wall."
"I could walk for a century and never hit a wall!"
The voice that mimicked him wasn't an echo. It was identical to his own—same pitch, same cadence—but it carried a mocking, oily undertone.
Allen spun around, his wand carving a defensive arc. He wasn't alone. In the mirrors surrounding him, something impossible was happening. The thousands of reflections of himself weren't following his movements anymore. They were converging.
He watched, fascinated and horrified, as the figures in the glass bled into one another. They turned from transparent reflections into grey shadows, then into a dense, obsidian ink. Finally, a single figure detached itself from the surface of a mirror. It didn't step out; it seemed to melt through the glass like water through a sieve, solidifying as it touched the floor.
It was Allen. Exactly Allen.
The newcomer adjusted the collar of his robes—robes that were identical down to the last stray thread—and offered a smile that made Allen's skin crawl. It was a look of pure, predatory recognition.
"Hello, Allen," the reflection said. He stopped just out of wand-reach, his posture relaxed, almost bored.
Allen's eyes narrowed. He felt a strange, cold surge of relief. Luna's riddle finally made sense. If this thing was the barrier, then the solution was simple: he just had to destroy it.
"So, you're the 'self' I'm supposed to defeat," Allen said, his voice steadying. "I've dealt with boggarts and shadows before. You don't look that tough."
The mirror image tilted his head, his eyes—Allen's eyes—sparkling with a dark, hungry mirth. "Boggarts? Oh, don't insult me. I'm not a monster under the bed. I'm the part of you that you hide under that 'heroic' mask of yours. I'm the cold calculation, the ruthlessness, the side of you that would sacrifice anyone to reach the top."
The reflection stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that echoed like an icicle scratching against a windowpane. "Don't be afraid. Why would you be afraid of yourself? I'm here to do you a favor. You're tired, Allen. Tired of the responsibility, tired of the secrets. Let me take over. I'll go back to Hogwarts. I'll take your glory, your family's affection, your friends... I'll even take care of little Luna for you."
Allen's grip on his wand tightened until his knuckles turned white. "You aren't going anywhere."
"Why are you so tense?" The mirror image laughed, a sound as sharp as broken glass. "Are you really that terrified of seeing what's inside? I am your true reflection. I am the shadow you cast when the light gets too bright. And look at you... you're trembling. Do you really think you can win against someone who knows your every move before you even think it?"
Allen realized he was being baited. The reflection wanted him angry, wanted him sloppy. He needed time—time to figure out how this dimension worked. If the reflection was a perfect copy, then a standard duel would end in a stalemate.
"Whose mirror is this?" Allen asked, trying to keep his voice conversational. "Hufflepuff's? Or something much older?"
The reflection shrugged, the movement perfectly mimicking Allen's own habits. "Does it matter? Maybe it was built for a king who wanted to see his soul. Maybe it's just a cosmic accident. All I know is that my time in the dark is over."
"But how can you even exist outside the glass?" Allen pressed. "You're a two-dimensional projection. You lack substance."
"Time's up," the reflection interrupted, his expression shifting from mocking to eager. "The window is closing, and I'm not missing my flight. It's time for a trade, Allen. It's your turn to be the shadow!"
Without warning, the reflection blurred. It didn't just move; it split. Six identical versions of "Allen" erupted from the center, rushing at him from all sides like a whirlwind of black robes and flashing wands.
"Stupefy! Diffindo! Expulso!"
Allen fired off a rapid-fire chain of spells, but the red and blue bolts passed straight through the charging figures as if they were made of mist. He didn't wait to see if the next ones would land; he turned and bolted.
He ran with everything he had. His legs pumped rhythmically, his arms swung at his sides, but the sensation was horrifyingly wrong. There was no resistance from the air. No wind whipped past his face. His boots made no sound against the glass floor. It was like running in a vacuum—absolute, terrifying silence.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. The six reflections were gaining, gliding over the mirror-floor with effortless speed.
"Stop running, Allen!" his own voice screamed from behind him. "You can't outrun your own shadow!"
There was a note of desperation in the reflection's voice. Allen picked up on it instantly. He's anxious. Why? He remembered the reflection's earlier words: Time's up. "You're on a clock, aren't you?" Allen yelled back, his lungs burning despite the lack of air. "This 'trade' has a window! If you don't catch me soon, the door closes!"
"It doesn't matter!" the reflection shrieked, his voice becoming exasperated, almost feral. "I will follow you until the end of time! You can't escape yourself!"
Suddenly, the six figures merged back into one, a dark blur that lunged forward and slammed back into the nearest mirror surface. The vast, empty space was suddenly filled again with the thousands of static reflections, all watching Allen with judging eyes.
Allen skidded to a halt, his chest heaving. He realized that running was a stalemate. The reflection was a part of this world; it could move in ways he couldn't. But if the reflection was a copy, it meant it was bound by the same rules of magic that Allen was.
"Enough!" Allen shouted, turning to face the mirror where the main reflection lurked. "Come out! No more games, no more running. You want my life? Come and take it in a fair duel."
The glass rippled. The reflection stepped out once more, looking slightly disheveled but still wearing that arrogant, sinister smirk. He raised his wand—a perfect replica of Allen's—and pointed it directly at Allen's heart.
"A fair duel?" the reflection mocked. "How can it be fair when I have all the advantages? I know every spell you've ever memorized. I know your favorite opening moves. I know the way you breathe when you're about to cast a Curse."
The reflection's smile widened, becoming something truly demonic.
"I even know your biggest secret, Allen. The one that keeps you up at night. I know about the resurrection. I know you shouldn't even be here. You're a ghost in a stolen body, playing at being a hero."