Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had his eyes closed as his shaking hands caressed the edges of the gilded mirror in front of him. He had been careful not to look into it, wary of the last time he had become lost to its cruel lies. One hand traced the letters that ran across the top edge of the frame, spelling out the words he knew to be there.
"I show not your face but your hearts desire," he whispered hoarsely. Albus had been tempted, very tempted to visit the mirror regularly, but his modified memory charm had worked. He only remembered that the mirror existed every twenty-eight days, and only when he was in its presence, when he stood in front of it did he remember his previous visits. Each time was the same, and Albus knew exactly what he would see, however a part of him was masochistic enough to want to watch it again. And again. And again.
And now, it was being taken from Hogwarts. Being moved to a new museum of magical artefacts. Albus' visits would be limited, and this, this was his last chance.
Slowly, slowly, his eyes drifted open, the blue orbs raising and looking up, up into the heart of the mirror, and suddenly he was lost.
He was there, in the mirror, but a much younger version of himself. He had auburn hair, and no beard at all. When he had first seen himself in the mirror, he had pinpointed the exact age he was, due to the haircut, and the scars he lacked. Nineteen, he had worked out. Just before… well, just before.
Next to him stood a man, a once familiar face. He was beautiful. His golden blond locks fell in waves around his face, and his heavy eyebrows were relaxed in a way that Albus hadn't often seen. He was smiling, in the mirror, showing off straight white teeth, and full pink lips, swollen from kissing. He wore a dark blue cloak at a jaunty angle, over a white shirt and Muggle coat, one hand tucked into the front pocket of his trousers, the other loosely holding Mirror-Albus's hand.
His head turned to face Mirror-Albus, and they shared a deep, passionate kiss that left both of them gasping for breath, only stopping as a pair of hands tugged them apart.
Tears came to the real life Albus's eyes as he saw the young girl frown up at them, before bestowing them with a wide smile, waving her wand and turning Mirror-Albus's lilac cloak the same blue as his companion's. Mirror Albus picked the girl up, swinging her into his arms, and the other man descended on her, tickling her mercilessly.
Real life Albus's hands moved over the surface of the mirror, and more than one tear could be seen to track its way down his wizened face, tracing the paths of least resistance through the wrinkles. His lower lip shook, and his heart thudded in his chest.
"Arianna…" he breathed, a soft sob escaping him. "Gellert…" And with those two soft words, Albus crumpled, his head coming to rest against the mirror as his legs folded underneath him, leaving him kneeling at its feet. "Sorry…" he mumbled through his tears. "So sorry… all my fault…"
Tears streamed freely down his face now, and his arms wrapped themselves tightly around his body. He felt as if he were a gangly teenager again, the grief for his dead sister, and the loss of his first and only lover sharp in his mind, as if it had been only that day. Because Albus knew it was his fault. Knew that it had all been his own fault.
He had never told a single soul, but he had seen the curse that had hit Arianna all those years ago in the duel, and it had been his own. It had been he who had killed his dear, dear sister in cold blood, and he who had driven Gellert away through fear, turning him into the monster still feared as Grindelwald. And it had been he who had put a wedge between himself and his brother. Aberforth was so close, geographically, but emotionally the two could have been on different planets.
With a deep, gasping breath and a Herculean effort, Albus dragged himself up to his feet, eyes still locked on the happily playing threesome in the mirror. It took more strength than he had thought he possessed to wrench his eyes away, but once he did it was easier to move away, to leave the room.
And once he was out of the room, away from the mirror, his charm kicked in.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore looked around him in confusion. He was in a particularly obscure part of the castle, unused for decades or longer even. He frowned, slightly unnerved that he had once more sleepwalked across the castle. With a heavy sigh, and a silent promise to ward himself into his bedroom more thoroughly, Albus briskly walked back to his rooms in the Headmaster's tower. And, if he wondered at the tear-tracks down his face, at his hoarse throat, or at the grasping pain that had a hold of his heart, he brushed it away without giving it any credence.
For he was Albus Dumbledore, possibly the most powerful wizard in existence, Headmaster of Hogwarts - the greatest Wizarding school there was. He was the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, he had his own chocolate frog card!
Albus Dumbledore was the epitome of 'crazy old man', yet still the one who could always be counted on to be in complete control, the omnipotent man who knew every tiny little thing there was to be known…
And Albus Dumbledore could not be sad. And Albus Dumbledore could not be confused. For then, he was sure, he would not be Albus Dumbledore.