AN: Written as a birthday gift for the amazingly wonderful Nekokaijuu-chan. Go read her stuff.

Echoes in a Mirror

There's a castle on some faded English moors, visible to most as a crumbling veteran of time. But to some, it's been caught out of time, unravaged—the same as they and their culture have been. Many of them have lived in it, at one point. Some of them do now.
They call it a school, the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as if magic were something that could be taught. But it can't—it can only be learned. It's eternally something to be learned about oneself. Not something you can drink in during lectures only to spit the knowledge back out in papers and tests.
Oh, you could learn a bit that way, some basic spells, some not-so-basic. But the big things, those you needed to find yourself. Because sometimes, often more than sometimes, those lecturing professors didn't know themselves.

High in one of that castle's towers, a ring of dorm rooms was arrayed. Each held perhaps five beds—four-posters, with comfortable mattresses and big poofy pillows. Theoretically they were sleep-spelled, to cure students' insomnia. But these spells must have been imperfectly laid. One boy was still awake, wondering.
It was what, six years now? Yes, six years since they'd met. An odd thought, that—to know someone six years and in the end not know him at all.
Why had Draco said that? They barely ever spoke, and most of the time both thought it good riddiance. Or at least Harry had thought that, and thought Draco felt the same. But in Potions that day...
Snape had assigned them as partners, as he seemed to be doing so much lately. And they'd had another fight—no surprise that—over something completely trivial, again unsurprising.
So we add four ounces of fish-scale powder? Harry had asked Snape. Or at least, he'd meant to ask Snape—their professor wasn't listening, apparently.
Draco had drawled back, condescending.
You're sure? Harry had said, pulling out his textbook. It seems a bit little to me.
Draco rolled his eyes and looked as if he were about to slap the text out of Harry's hand. Of course I'm sure. I'm not the half-Mudblood here.
Harry sighed and opened his textbook. Three and a half.
Draco leaned over. Three and a quarter. You know, your books might be a bit more readable if you didn't spill things all over them.
I think that stain was you, Malfoy... remember when you tipped Neville's cauldron a week ago?
Of course! Funniest thing I've seen in my life....
Now it was Harry's turn to roll his eyes and quench an urge to slap something.
Then Draco had said it.
It's odd, isn't it. With every word, his voice grew softer, more reflective.
Harry's eyebrows twisted in puzzlement.
Someone listening to us... if they didn't know better, they might think we were friends.
Harry, dryly, They'd have to know nothing, in that case.
Look—what you said just now. Don't we sound like friends bantering? Yet we're not. It's odd to think that—but we could have been, so easily.
Potter, have you ever thought of when we met? And what might have happened if we'd chosen differently?

Potter, have you ever thought of when we met? And what might have happened if we'd chosen differently?
Harry hadn't—but now he did, lying awake in bed. He struggled against his thoughts' grip, trying to fall asleep. But the anti-insomnia spells laid on his bed failed to work.
What if he had chosen differently, that day on the train? He wondered...
Would he have stayed the same person? He couldn't help but wonder that too. It was strange, Draco was admittedly right there—they could have been friends so easily, yet weren't.
I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.
My God—had he really said that? It was full of all the arrogance he despised in Draco. But he had, that day on the train.
No wonder they'd become enemies. In ways, it was as much his fault as Draco's...
Harry finally gave up his struggle with wakefulness, and climbed out of bed. Nothing like a cold midnight walk to knock some sense into you, he thought, half-annoyed. He'd probably wind up more awake when he got back, but walking beat just lying there—at least walking, you'd accepted that you weren't going to fall asleep anyway.
He dug his Invisibility Cloak from where he'd cached it, under his bed, and with a quiet sweep put it on. No use getting caught. Then Harry oh-so-carefully opened their dorm's door—it had been known to creak, and he didn't want to wake his roommates. Then he stole down the stairs to the common room, invisible and inaudible as a breath of air. It hadn't been that way, first year. First year he'd been noisy under his cloak, and it was a wonder he'd never been caught. But all skills improved with practice.
Through the common room now, down to the portrait hole, all the while indetectible to normal senses. Open the portrait hole, again slow and careful. Then duck out quick and quiet, and shut the hole. Never wake the Fat Lady. She'd make noise, even if you didn't.
Then through the halls—really, most dangers were over now. Harry still had to worry about Filch and Mrs. Norris, but they were only two, and spread out over a school Hogwarts's size, two was nothing. The real danger, really, lay in escaping the common room. There were so many more people to disturb in there.
Harry straightened with the elation of a job well done, as he nearly always did after sneaking out. He felt a ridiculous urge to whistle. It was odd how all troubles seemed dwarfed, out here in Hogwarts's echoing halls.

Hogwarts had a Magic to it that Dumbledore always said no one could really understand. Its corridors would rearrange overnight, so that no one could be really sure if his routes to class would still be there come morning. Some rooms might be cut off from the rest of the castle. Some might be opened up.
It was one of the latter that Harry found now, one that had been opened back up perhaps only a few nights ago. He noticed it less by its newness to him than by what it contained—a boy, a mirror, and a shaft of moonlight. The moonlight flared past the boy to the mirror, where it was reflected back on him—the boy was altogether so outlined in light it seemed unearthly. And so Harry couldn't tell his identity.
Harry stepped into the room—later he couldn't recall why. He always assumed that it was the call of one kindred spirit to another, because whoever was in the room obviously shared his love of midnight walks. But really, who can tell what magic pulled him in at that crucial moment?
Harry noticed the mirror's details first, because the boy's uncanny light seemed to wash all detail from his face. Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. The mirror of Erised, which could only reflect the deepest desire of your heart.
Harry pulled the other boy up, out of his trance. He whirled around in anger, and Harry could finally see his face.
Draco.
What the hell did you do that, for, Potter? A pause, in which Draco's features relaxed. A in puzzlement, then a gentler, What the hell are you doing here?
To Harry's surprise, his voice had assumed the same contemplative tone Draco's had held earlier.

What you said earlier.
A not-quite-flinch passed over Draco's face, and he glanced back at the Mirror. Harry noticed, and questioned in answer to Draco's unspoken comment.
What do you see in the Mirror, anyway? But Harry already knew.
You. And me. Friendship.
And that's why you said that? Though Harry's tone was one of query, his words were really those of answer.
Said what?

Draco glanced at the Mirror again, and this time Harry looked with him. Yeah. That. I suppose...
You know, we really do sound like friends, now—Harry.
You're right.
I wonder... Draco reached out, touched the Mirror. It seemed to ripple as he touched it, like silver water disturbed by a pebble. He drew his hand back abruptly, surprised. What if I could reach in there, become what I see there?
You can't. It's just the Mirror's illusion....
I know. Still... I wish...
Harry snapped out of reverie. That's the point, Malfoy. You wish. It's not reality, maybe can never be. Then he looked back at the Mirror. And he saw what Draco saw.
Two boys, perhaps eleven years old, standing on stepstools, being fitted for clothes. And talking. Just talking. As friends.

Snape called. Get with your assigned partners! He moved to intercept Potter... he always tried to work with some other Gryfindor, not Malfoy as he was supposed to. But to his surprise, Potter moved over to Malfoy's desk amicably.

For true magic lies in learning about oneself. And true magic, in return, helps in ways less physical than mental.