It's been years since I've stood here, in Hogwarts. The dust is a part of the place now, stifling you with every breath you risk.
It took some finding. Dumbledore had it moved in my first year of course, but after that no one knew. Severus thought it was in his old rooms, there to taunt him of his yearnings for family, much as I would have done given half a chance.
It was literally caked in dust, the engravings only visible when I ran my wand over it with a ventilation charm. It swept off in a great flurry and there it was. The Mirror of Erised - the realm of the unreachable dream according to old Dumbledore, but I'm happy. I've been happy for a while. I've managed well enough without my parents there to hold my hand. I've made my own life, out of the ashes of the past, and I'm proud of it.
I was a bit wary to look into the glass. I was scared of what it might show me. My tastes have matured and twisted, and I've only to look at the weapon arsenal I carry upon me as evidence. I can count every drop of blood I've ever spilt. I might as well be carrying scalps.
I wonder if the mirror judges you as it peers into your soul for the elusive wish, the heart's true desire. Did it rebuke and try to shatter as it reached in to draw out the image that arose before me.
I looked into it and I could almost hear the clattering sounds, taste the air and feel the cold moon kiss my skin as I looked on that dark landscape. Me in the centre of all things and yet nothing. I could see glimpses of fire in the distance. I knew men were shouting, pleading and praying, and my vision showed me myself on my knees, my ear to the earth and my eyes fastened shut as I sought out the rhythm of the world's madness, the worlds turmoil and pain, and I sighed. Did this mean then that I desired to be alone, to be in control, to be a tyrant, or a killer? Who were the screamers in the flames, the shrivelling blinking beasts that fell steep into the pits? Were they the enemy of the cause or only to my fallibility? Who was I, this figure in the pale light, with his bare back awaiting a strike from the Heavens for his sins, and apparently at peace knowing it would come, at one point or another. I must desire the peace of death. I must crave controversy, fear, and respect. Who could respect a man that did not weep for the slaughtered, that gave no heed to the tortured, that simply lived in his own world where the sun need not shine, for the moon still warded his back against the nightmares, and still found breath in the wastes?
This is what my heart desired then; a land of ghosts, for all demons to be laid to rest and then to be finished, and left to myself in the aftermath of execution.
It is to be hoped then, for the remnants of the wizarding society that my happiness is not top of my agenda, and my desires put the terror in me as much as they would another.
I'm drawn out of my reveries by a hand on my shoulder, and as Severus holds me tight, never knowing what it is I saw, the legacy of my ancestors falls into the dust.