Chapter Text
June 1st, 1980
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...
Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…
A commotion broke out at another table at the Hog's Head pub, concluding with the slam of a door. Dumbledore paid it no mind as he sipped his tea and listened to the seer sitting across from him.
"And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...
And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives...
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…
Born to the same soul, divided but unconquered, born with the emerald string around soul, eyes, and neck…
And he will bestow his greatest power upon the Dark Lord…
And Death's hand will finally slip, for He will unhallow once more…"
Trelawney snapped out of her trance as Dumbledore fell deep into thought. His forehead wrinkled under the heavy weight of his frown. Finally, a look of realization dawned upon him, and then, despair. Oh, the despair.
December 25th, 1991
The mirror towered over Harry in its gilded extravagance. It stood on two clawed feet and reached toward the ceiling of the abandoned classroom. An inscription carved its way across the top:
“Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.”
His heart beat furiously inside his chest. So mesmerized was he by the mirror he almost forgot why he came into this room in the first place. He glanced toward the door he'd just entered through, holding his breath.
Footsteps hurried noisily down the hallway past the door, fading until not even their echoes remained. Finally, Harry breathed out, and his eyes darted back to the mirror. Moonlight flooded in through a window, illuminating the mirror in the night. Curiosity finally compelled him to step toward it.
His reflection appeared in the mirror, a crowd behind him. He snapped his head to look behind him in disbelief, only to find the classroom empty of any life. Dusty desks, books, and chairs abounded, but the crowd had disappeared. Finally, he turned his gaze back to the mirror.
There, his reflection stood in its center, dwarfed by the tall members of the crowd who returned. Their faces blurred together with no distinguishing characteristics as far as the eye could see. That was until one figure stepped forward to stand beside him.
The man—no, it wasn't a man. His youthful features, sharp yet underlaid with softness, betrayed his age, likely that of a teenager. Despite this, he carried himself as if he had lived lifetimes. His brown, almost black eyes bore deep into Harry's, framed by dark hair falling in elegant waves.
Harry puzzled over the boy's appearance, so familiar yet so inextricable. Perhaps he should have felt intimidated by the stranger's emotionless stare, but something deep within him called out to Harry. He might have thought the boy was a ghost, with how pale his skin glowed in the luminescence of the night, if not for how very corporeal he looked in that moment.
Maybe, if Harry reached out, he might be able to feel him—
His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the mirror to no avail. Where the boy's clothed shoulder should have been was nothing. The other boy's brow quirked in amusement, his lips smirking ever so slightly.
Harry flushed in embarrassment. "Hey, don't blame me for trying."
In response, all he got was a bemused eye roll and tepid silence.
"Not too talkative, even for an illusion, are you?" Harry said, sitting down cross-legged on the floor.
The boy shook his head with a sad smile and sat across from him in the mirror.
Harry frowned. "Can't you say anything?"
He shook his head again, his expression more grim and apologetic than before.
"That's okay," said Harry despite his disappointment. "You don't need to." His presence alone comforted Harry, so much so that he wished the moment might last forever.
The time soon ran away from him while watching and being watched with an unfamiliar longing deep within his chest. A distant noise from outside the classroom finally broke Harry from his trance, and he rose to his feet instantly.
Though his eyes fixated on the door, he couldn't help but linger near the mirror. If only he could stay all night.
When his eyes flickered back to the mirror, the boy within it nodded solemnly in recognition—no words needed to be spoken for Harry to understand he understood Harry had to leave.
As Harry moved away from the mirror, the boy's image distorted more and more until Harry was at the precipice of seeing and not seeing him.
Softly, he whispered, "I'll come back."
The following morning, he couldn't have predicted the extent to which the boy in the mirror would occupy his attention. Who was he? Why was he in the mirror? And why did Harry feel he knew him somehow? Not only could he not stop thinking about him, Ron, who had also stayed at Hogwarts for the winter holidays, quickly caught on to Harry's distraction. It was only a matter of time before Harry found himself outright questioned by his friend about his strange behavior.
Part of him wanted to guard the knowledge of the mirror jealously, his own little secret. But if Harry couldn't tell Ron, then who could he tell?
He returned to the mirror the following night, Ron in tow this time. The boy from before stood in the mirror as if Harry had never left, his eyes glinting knowingly.
Ron did not see him but something else entirely. Some help that was, Harry thought as they returned to their dorms after quite nearly getting caught by Filch.
Harry could only lay back in his bed, curtains drawn, and stare at the canopy as his heart ached dully.
Something in the air felt wrong when the two boys sat down for breakfast the following day.
"I know what you're thinking about, Harry—that mirror. Don't go back tonight."
"Why not?" Harry asked, taken off guard.
"I dunno." Ron shrugged as he tucked into his breakfast. "I've just got a bad feeling about it."
Harry rolled his eyes. "That's not really a reason, you know."
"Well, duh, but still. It was nice while I was looking into it, but I realized it wasn't actually real once we left. I know that sounds stupid, but do you really think I'll ever be Quidditch Captain, let alone Head Boy? I'm not Charlie or Percy."
Harry swallowed a hard lump down his throat at the thought. Was the boy only a figment of his imagination? What did that mean? If he didn't exist, he was just an image in a mirror. What harm could that do? Even if he never was able to meet him, at least he had the mirror. No matter what Ron said, he was going to go back. For now, he would ignore the strange voice at the back of his mind and the hollow emptiness within his heart, whispering maybe Ron had a point.
That third night, he found his way to the room quicker than ever before. He walked so fast he knew he was making more noise than was wise, but no patrolling professors crossed his path.
The boy stood in the mirror once again, looking almost bored until Harry approached. His eyes smiled at the sight of him, and Harry's lips followed suit. Tonight, there would be no interruptions. He could stay here all night if he wanted to. And he very much did.
"So, back again, Harry?"
Harry's heart almost leaped out of his throat at the Headmaster's voice. His head whipped to look behind him as he took a step back. Sitting on a desk by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry must have walked straight past him, so desperate to get to the mirror he hadn't noticed him.
He cleared his throat in embarrassment. "I didn't see you, sir."
"Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," said Dumbledore, and Harry, while relieved to see he was smiling, still felt dread curl tight like a snake within his stomach.
"So," Dumbledore continued, slipping off the desk to stand beside Harry, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."
"I didn't realize that's what it was called."
Dumbledore nodded. "But I expect you've realized by now what it does?"
Did he? "It—well—I'm not sure, Professor."
"You saw your father, did you not? And it showed your friend Ron himself as head boy."
Harry blinked. It hadn't been his father—it couldn't have been. The boy was far too young and looked far too different from the few photos he had seen of his father.
Despite this, Harry couldn't bring himself to correct Dumbledore. "How did you know?"
"I don't need a cloak to become invisible," said Dumbledore gently.
Harry felt terrified at such a thought then caught himself. He had an invisibility cloak, and what did he do with it? Run around and cause mischief in the night?
Dumbledore continued, "Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us?"
Harry shook his head.
"Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror. That is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?"
"Does it show us what we want then?"
"Yes and no," said Dumbledore quietly. "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, ever overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.
"The Mirror will move to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to look for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"
Harry nodded and walked to the door, more confused now than ever but determined not to show it. A thought occurred to him. "Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?"
"Obviously, you've just done so." Dumbledore smiled. "You may ask me one more thing, however."
Harry frowned. "What do you see when you look in the mirror?"
"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."
Harry stared. Did Dumbledore know Harry didn't tell the whole truth? Harry didn't lie, but then again, he didn't correct him when he assumed he saw his family. Dumbledore couldn't have possibly known… Could he?
"One can never have enough socks," continued Dumbledore. "Another Christmas has come and gone, and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books."
Harry realized for the same reasons he failed to speak up, Dumbledore may have lied about what he saw in the Mirror of Erised. After all, knowing someone else's true heart's desire could be a very dangerous thing. Such a thing could be especially dangerous when one doesn't even understand or recognize their heart's desire.
The encounter with Dumbledore left Harry conflicted. He technically got the answer he was looking for in learning the purpose of the mirror, but when one door closed, seven opened. What bothered him the most was knowing Dumbledore lied. He couldn't argue lying on principle was wrong, as he had also lied. Still, he couldn't get over it as much as he couldn't get over the mirror itself and the boy inside the mirror.
He knew there wasn't much point in seeking it out once more, as the castle was far too large to search. Besides this fact, Dumbledore had asked Harry not to go looking for it. Despite the resentment Harry felt, Dumbledore wouldn't purposefully try to lead him astray, would he? Maybe he should forget the mirror. But the boy inside it—Harry wouldn't forget him, even as his first school year began to end.
The next time he encountered the Mirror of Erised, Lord Voldemort revealed himself and attempted to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. Harry saw the boy in the Mirror no longer, in that moment of desperation, and instead saw himself putting the Sorcerer's Stone in his own pocket. Voldemort commanded Quirrell to seize Harry, only he could not. Every time their skin touched, Harry's scar stung with pain while Quirrell screamed.
Quirrell drew back his wand, but Harry was quicker. He launched himself at his professor, hands on both sides of Quirrell's face. Harry couldn't tell if it was his own screams blasting his eardrums, Quirrel's, or both of theirs. The pain was blinding, and eventually, the world went black as Harry passed out.
He woke up in the Hospital Wing, his head fuzzy as he regained consciousness. Specks of light danced mockingly across his vision like a snitch just out of reach.
Quirrel was dead, Professor Dumbledore told Harry when he arrived. He explained why everything happened the way it did, but still, Harry was left unsatisfied with his answers.
"Sir, there are other things I want to know the truth about..."
"The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing and should, therefore, be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."
Harry almost couldn't respond to that. "Voldemort said he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me, and you said my mother's love for me saved me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?"
Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time. "Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day. Put it from your mind, for now, Harry.
"When you are older... I know you hate to hear this, but when you are ready, you will know."