When Harry rose at a healthy 6 A.M. on Christmas morning, he felt an unfamiliar giddiness. Although the oddity was present in his mind as he gazed out the window into the darkness, he figured it was left well enough alone.

A brilliantly white blanket was visible in the soft, glowing aura emitting from the enchanted torches that lined the stone walls of the castle. Harry couldn't imagine conflict on such a perfect morning, even as he followed the sheet of snow into the distance, where he knew the Forbidden Forest lay. Perhaps the beasts that rested beneath the cover of branches and bushes were celebrating Christmas in their own way.

Like so many other mornings, Harry stayed completely silent, staring out toward something unseen. He felt almost like an audience member waiting apprehensively for some unknown event to take place. He didn't know what would happen or when, but he was intent on seeing it.

The sun broke through the tense horizon like a pin piercing tight cloth. If Harry had possessed any inkling of his truly minute size and meaningless presence in the vast universe he occupied, he might have felt special for being there, and witnessing a brilliant sunrise from his unique and unshared perspective. Experiences like this became memory – the most valuable possession anyone could have, locked away in their own mind.

A glimmer more brilliant than the blanketed ground caught Harry's curious eye, breaking his mind from the cage of reminiscence in which it so frequently imprisoned itself. For a split second, he laid eyes on a magnificently white horse, purer than the fresh snow, and brighter than the rising sun. Before he could process the creature, however, it disappeared. Had he been the only person to see it?

What a perfect example of how memory could be more valuable than gold, than diamond. No one else had seen what he'd seen; it existed only in his own mind. The goblins may have gold, gems, and a never-ending cave system to hide it in, but Harry had seen a unicorn frolicking in the snow of the Forbidden Forest. He doubted any goblin had that.

Here Harry was again, trapped in his cage of philosophy, overthinking everything as per usual. Sometimes he felt like he'd spent more time in his jail than in real life. He finally turned away from the window, facing the empty interior of the dorms. Off to the right, Ron was still asleep. His parents were on vacation, so he and his brothers were staying at Hogwarts for the holidays. Past Ron was Dean, who was also asleep. Harry had no idea why he'd chosen to stay, but in all honesty, he didn't care. He'd no intention of interacting with them anyways.

Harry suspected neither of them were going to wake up without the help of an alarm, and with ease, Harry located Ron's wand, quietly muttering the counter to Ron's alarm charm. When returning to his bed, he stumbled across a small pile of packages, catching himself on the bedframe. Reaching down, his hands wrapped around three packages.

The first package he picked up was wrapped in a deep purple, and the tag read, To Harry, Love Hermione. Inside was a large book; golden letters spelled the title, Unknown Versatility of Common Spellwork.

Harry only needed to read the first half of the label on the second package to know who it was from: To Harrie. (From Neville). Harry unwrapped the small, orb-shaped present, and did a double-take.

Merry Christmas, Harry. This gift doesn't mean I think you are stupid or anything, these things are just useful for everyone, especially people like yourself. Minds overflow, mate. Hope this helps. Best regards, Neville.

P.S. - There is probably something else I meant to put here because it's glowing red as I write this.

Harry stared curiously down at the glistening glass Remembrall. Upon further inspection, Harry found a small crack along one of the golden support wires, and small pieces of grass were stuck inside. Harry smiled to himself.

The third package was a different experience altogether. Harry couldn't even be sure it was meant for him, it had no tag, saying neither who it was for, nor who it was from. Within the curious lattice-like packaging, an equally puzzling object - or substance - poured out onto the ground. When he scooped it up, he was surprised to find the smoothest cloth he'd ever felt. It shimmered a dark silvery-blue and seemed to change pattern constantly. After holding it for several seconds, it disappeared completely, along with his hand and half of his arm beneath it.

To say he was confused was an understatement. No matter how cool the cloak, the invisibility cloak, appeared to be, Hary couldn't really believe it was meant for him. There wasn't even a note…

But Harry was mistaken. There was a note, it appeared where his hand was supposed to be, hidden in the folds of the cloak, only revealing itself when the cloak became invisible. It was a clever detail, in Harry's opinion, and he eagerly read the note.

Your father left this in my possession when he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.

Harry no longer had any doubt it was for him, even though the note didn't explicitly state it was. His only concern was who could have given it to him, and what their intentions were. If they were simply passing it along from his father, they could've just given it to him in person at the start of the year. And what was with the mysterious note? What did they mean by "use it well"? Whatever their reasoning, they were putting a lot of trust and responsibility in Harry, and he wasn't sure what to do. The cloak yielded infinite possibilities, but at what cost?

The flawless cursive handwriting spoke more about the writer's identity than the words. Harry doubted there was a single student in the school with such precision, so that left the professors. He didn't think he was friendly enough with any of them to justify the gift he'd received, but McGonagall was usually nice to him in comparison to the others...

Ron snored and rolled over noisily in his sleep, causing Dean to begin stirring. Harry tucked the cloak away into his pocket and, meaning no offense to either of them, silently snuck out the door. He wanted answers, and because he had no other ideas and nothing else to do, he headed to McGonagall's office.

Harry didn't know where McGonagall's office was, so when he left Gryffindor tower, he turned down a different path than he normally would have, and walked slowly down the hall, peering into random classrooms. After circling the fifth and fourth floors, he remembered how vast the castle was, and how inefficient his searching method was. In addition, he had grown hungry.

Christmas morning seemed to yield earlier wake-up times, even among older students. Even with most of the school gone, there were more students out and about that morning than he'd ever seen. The Great Hall lived up to its name with a breathtaking display of Christmas trees and enchanted snow, looking like a true winter wonderland. McGonagall was not there, but Harry treated himself to a scone and continued his way.

Harry finally spotted the woman in the last classroom before the east side stairs. Through the open door, Harry could see her shape lazily scratching her quill across a stack of papers. A roaring fire had been built in the mantel behind her; it flickered her long shadow across the ground.

"Merry Christmas, Potter," she greeted casually. "What brings you here?"

"Er...nothing particular, Professor," he walked into the room, trying to seem like he'd arrived by chance, not by choice.

"I'm glad I caught you before break ended. I have things I've been meaning to discuss with you, namely your transfiguration marks,"

His internal floodgates opened just a crack, and panic started to flood into his body.

"Please, sit. We've much to talk about. Have a biscuit." McGonagall shoved a tin toward him. He sat slowly, flinching as the chair complained with a loud creak. He reached into the tin, pulled out a butter cookie, and took a bite.

"Are they bad, Professor?"

"Merlin, no - quite the opposite,"

"I'm not sure I understand,"

"At the start of term, I told you to keep impressing me and that you wouldn't regret it. Here I am, months later, giving your essay full marks before I'm through the first half of it,"

"Thank you, Professor,"

She shuffled some papers, moving the large stack out of the way, and folded her hands on the tabletop.

"Firstly, I'd like to compliment you on this essay, it brought up ideas I've never thought about, like this one in reference to animal transfiguration-" she pointed at the paper, "- I haven't even taught you about that yet, and here you are making me question my own methods."

"Yes, ma'am,"

" Yes, ma'am," she mocked good-naturedly. "Loosen up, Potter, it was a compliment." She moved his essay to the stack of papers and looked back at him. "Anyway, I'm aware that you and Granger have been teaching yourself defensive magic. I assume you are taking after your parents?"

He stared at her. "My parents?"

"I can think of no other reason for teaching yourself combative magic than to become an Auror." Her face fell after a moment. "Well, I take that back, but I can think of no other reason for you to be teaching yourself combative magic." She wore a fake smile.

Harry racked his brain. He'd definitely heard of Aurors – perhaps from Mrs. Figg? It didn't matter. If his parents were Aurors, it couldn't be bad. "Yes - of course, ma'am. I'd like to be an Auror."

"I'm glad my assumptions were correct," she said. Silence rang out for several seconds. "It is possible to teach yourself advanced transfiguration, but I wouldn't recommend it. Let me teach you. It's rare to find students with your level of ambition, and as a teacher, I hate nothing more than wasted potential."

"Of course, Professor. You will be teaching Hermione as well?"

"Oh yes, you needn't worry. There's one more thing I'd like to address if that's alright,"

How differently the woman spoke outside of lessons – asking for permission to speak to him. It contrasted violently with the stark, no-nonsense demeanor she so often wore during classes. "Certainly, Professor,"

"Madam Hooch told me of your skills on the broomstick. I trust it was your first time flying?"

"Yes, ma'am,"

"I see," she looked at him thoughtfully. "Your father possessed the same aptitude for flying – must be genetic..." she didn't laugh, but the skin around her eyes creased with an invisible smile. "I expect you on the Quidditch field next year, our team could use some victories."

"You want me to join the team?" he asked incredulously.

"Certainly, the Gryffindor team has suffered since your father's graduation. I'd have you on this year, but rules and all that... I didn't see you flying, courtesy of an injured student-" Harry thought of the Remembrall, sitting in his trunk in his dorm, flecks of grass sticking out of the wire casing, "-but by the sounds of it, you'll live up to the Potter name. In more ways than one, if you take today's conversation to heart."

The words echoed in his mind. Auror. Quidditch. ...Invisibility cloak...?

" I received a gift from my father," he blurted. At her obvious confusion, he explained, "Not - from him, I mean. Something that used to be his, though." Her expression shifted to interest.

"Something of your father's?"

"Yes, but it didn't say who it was from. The note said something along the lines of, y our father left this to me, use it well."

McGonagall's face became stone. "It's not that damned map, is it?"

"No, no – What? It wasn't a map," she piqued his interest, though. "What map are you talking about?"

"It's not important, I didn't mean to interrupt. Please continue." Just like that, she nipped that branch of conversation at the bud. He was still interested in this map she had mentioned but saw no reason to pursue the topic after she had so quickly dismissed it.

"Well, that's it, Professor. I just don't know what the note means, or who it came from," he studied her expression – was she not the anonymous gifter?

"Well, what was the gift?"

His mind ran through everything he knew about his father. It didn't take long. "A Quidditch ball. You know, the tiny one,"

Recognition flashed across McGonagall's face, catching Harry off guard. "Oh... his Snitch. He used to carry it around all the time, playing with it, trying to impress girls. Your mother, namely." She looked reminiscent. "I thought he lost it after their wedding, though."

Somehow, his spur-of-the-moment lie had been entirely plausible, providing Harry even more information about his late parents. "I - apparently not, Professor. You know more than I,"

She looked at him sadly. "Most unfortunately... well, I didn't send you the snitch, if you were wondering."

He believed her.

She continued, "But I'm sure it was someone close to your father if he'd left it to them when he died. As for the note, I'm sure the sender would want you to use the Snitch exactly as your father had. Another reason for you to join the Quidditch team next year, if you ask me,"

Harry stood up, remembering the biscuit in his hand, which he hadn't eaten. "Right. Thanks, Professor, I appreciate it... did my father get in trouble a lot when he was at school?" he asked slowly.

" James Potter in trouble? That's like asking if Dumbledore passed his classes,"

Harry smiled, both at the joke and at his newly gained justification. The sender wanted him to use it exactly as his father had.

"Thank you, Professor. I look forward to our lessons, and I'll tell Hermione when she gets back." He turned away, heart racing, eerie excitement filling his limbs, but McGonagall called out.

"One week after term starts, Potter. Come to my office at six,"

"Yes ma'am, sounds good,"

"And Potter?"

"Yes, Professor?"

"Write me a paper on animal transfiguration, I'm intrigued."

As Harry crept down the vast, open hallways of the castle, he was reminded of why he loved midnight. The castle, nearly empty of students due to the break, seemed to be slumbering. Torches were out, paintings comatose, and no teachers felt a need to prowl the halls when there were so few students.

Harry was still cautious, of course. There was no reason to be careless; it would only draw the attention that had been so fortunately diverted from him. It was this seriousness that restrained Harry's use of Lumos while searching for the third-floor corridor. He was proud when he arrived, though; he'd only gotten lost once. When Harry arrived, one look at the dust-coated environment told him nobody would be passing through. He pocketed the invisibility cloak, not wanting to damage it.

He stood in the hallway, which felt darker, more silent than all the others. The door between him and the corridor seemed to grow, looking more ominous and foreboding than any of the others he had mindlessly passed on his journey. He held his breath, realizing the low, pulsing thrum that filled his ears was not his own breathing. He pressed his ear against the door, feeling it vibrate almost imperceptibly.

Hermione was right – the door was charmed, spellbound, whatever. But really, when was she ever incorrect? She had the most logical mind he'd ever encountered – but remembering his "family", that wasn't saying much. Nevertheless, the doorknob was sure to serve absolutely no function, and he didn't even test it. It might as well not even be there, the damned thing. Why would a door have a doorknob if it couldn't be used?

"Alohomora,"

Nothing. Was he surprised? He bent down, looking through the keyhole. His head blocked any light provided by the solitary torch from entering, and the only thing he could see within was blackness, rippling and breathing like lungs. It made him deeply uncomfortable.

"Aberto. Aperio. Surgito."

Nothing. Harry remembered a simple spell Hermione had pointed out in a book once. He steadily aimed his wand at the door. "Specialis Revelio."

The wand vibrated in response, sending a tingly, electric feeling up Harry's arm... but what did that mean? What did that chart in the book say? He desperately tried to summon an image in his mind, even a word... charm. What was he supposed to do with that information, though? Knowing the door was charmed didn't help if he had no way to counter it.

As a last-ditch effort, he tried a random incantation he'd heard in the hall.

"Dissendium."

The white-yellow spell deflected off the doorknob and hit a tapestry on the wall to his left, leaving no effect on the door. Harry felt stupid and disappointed – a fucking door was the only obstacle between him and whatever was inside, and he couldn't get through it. What did that say about his abilities?

"God-damned- door!" he whisper-yelled, kicking the wall. A rattling noise drew his attention, and his hand flew to the source of the noise. With a simple twist, the door swung open.

The goddamned knob?

Obviously, the only explanation was that his spells had unlocked it without him noticing. It didn't matter, however, and Harry had no time to dwell on his ignorance – the pulsing thrum demanded his attention, and the pitch-black caught his gaze, clinging to it relentlessly.

As he stared at... nothing, the same deep-seated discomfort revisited his body that had minutes earlier. Harry's logical side was calmly telling him that there was a room there – it wasn't just a void. It was outnumbered by his literal side; his senses screamed at him to stay where he was, to not enter the gaping hole that had appeared when the door swung open on its rusty hinges.

It was like a black hole – it seemed to suck in all light while eluding illumination. Harry felt the urge to turn away, to relish in the light of the torch, but the longer his gaze rested in the darkness, the more unsure he grew that there was any light at all.

What the fuck was he waiting for? He'd taken an hour to silently walk there, and another fifteen minutes trying to get the door open. Now that it was open, he wasn't going inside?

Then again, what the fuck was he thinking? Had he any plausible reason to be there? Had he any idea what his goal was? Had he any idea what lay between him and his unestablished, unrealistic goal, whatever that may be? Surely Hermione was right, there was much more than a door between him and this... object of interest.

He couldn't look away, he couldn't move. All his mind provided him was unease and hindsight, both useless in his situation. He steered his thoughts... what would Hermione do?

The answer was obvious – if she had gotten this far, she would be sure of her goal, sure of what she needed to do. And she would confidently stride on, ready to face whatever the fuck was in the shadows before him.

Just like that, he found his feet carrying him forward. His mind screamed in protest, but his legs were numb; beyond controlling. His senses heightened, managing to overwhelm him in the absolute nothingness he was immersed in. He wished that something would happen – a noise for him to focus on, movement around him, anything that would move his petrified wand arm from his side and cast a damn spell.

He turned around, but no torch could be seen. Had the door closed?

His arms remained glued to his side, terrified that if he reached out, he would find something. His eyes strained, providing no information. His ears were filled with the low, pulsing, sighs he'd heard from the hallway.

His legs carried him forward, stopping abruptly as Harry picked up a subtle change in his surroundings. A putrid, foul smell filled his nostrils. A particularly large whiff caused an unavoidable gag, and the small noise was enough.

The pulsing stopped. Silence for a moment, shuffling, and a growl. Harry would've shat his pants if given time, but with a whoosh of air, his body was struck with such force that he felt the air evacuate his lungs, and his feet lift off the ground.

He spiraled through the air for what felt like an eternity, landing hard on his back before slamming into the wall of the room. For a moment he lay there helplessly gulping air, the feeling of suffocation doing exactly what it did best – induce panic. He could practically feel the troll's fist wrapped around him once more, squeezing ever harder, crushing his bones like twigs.

Oxygen, pungent but fresh, pumped through his veins. Harry pulled himself onto his hands and knees, crawling blindly toward where the door might be. He wanted – needed – to escape the room before he exhausted his adrenaline supply, and his nerves were free to scream their complaints.

Harry shuffled as fast as he could, making mental notes that, yes, his robes were wet, but no, none of his limbs were broken. After wildly scanning the emptiness behind him, he dismissed the act as useless in the pitch-black environment. He relied on the only sense left that wasn't over or underwhelmed – his hearing.

Thunderous, bassy footfalls shook the air around Harry; he couldn't tell where they were coming from. Between them, he could hear the breathing of whatever the vile creature was, coming in triplets. Were there three trolls in this room? He crawled even faster, till his limbs were burning and his lungs were aching. With every gulp of rotten air came the urge to vomit, which he fought to resist.

Glorious torchlight caught his eye, and he bolted towards it, stumbling into a wobbly run as he rose to his feet. He could feel its breath, so putrid he felt his eyes water, and he pushed harder. He was so close... only a few more feet...

The door frame came and went in a blur. A BOOM from behind Harry signified the end of his pursuit, but the creature had a parting gift. A sequence of three booming barks rang out before Harry could close the door, bouncing down the hallway and crashing off the walls.

Filch would be there any moment, and he was standing in the middle of a torch-lit dead end. If he was caught, would he be expelled? Surely any professor, even Filch, would know exactly what he had done. Then they would find his invisibility cloak, take it from him, and he would lose the only piece of his father he possessed. Plus, Hermione told him they would snap his wand if he was expelled, and he would be exiled; forced to return to the Dursleys until adulthood released him.

Perhaps he had just royally fucked himself. Perhaps his stupidity, his overconfidence in his abilities, and his arrogance that night would expulse him violently from the wizarding world, never to return.

But no – he would return – Tomorrow. No matter what, that was inevitable. Accepting his predicament... being caught and expelled... would only ensure his defenselessness and guaranteed demise when Tomorrow arrived. And if that was true... there would be many more and much greater consequences than his solitary death.

He leaned against the wall, feeling the soft tapestry against his sore body intending to catch his breath for a few seconds before fleeing. His bad luck wasn't over, however, and the wall shuddered beneath his touch. Before the feeling registered, the wall behind the tapestry disappeared, and Harry fell through the opening.

While falling, seconds feel like minutes, but there still isn't time to fight it; to try and grab something, to right yourself in the air... you just fall.

And that he did, for about five seconds, each of which amplifying the pain he would feel when he landed with a dull thump on the dirty, stone floor. He had no adrenaline left this time, so the impact felt like that of a train, and the pain immediately filled his body. His lungs were empty once more but seeing as how there was no immediate threat – namely a troll, or huge, three-headed dog – he simply lay there, waiting for his breath to catch like the jumpstart of an engine.

Looking up, he could see a ladder leading to the false wall he'd fallen through – a secret passage. Bad news, like everything else that'd happened that night. Filch knew the secret passageways of the castle like the back of his hand, so it was only a matter of time before he was found, lying helpless and broken on the cold stone floor.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, regaining his breath and slowly rising to his feet, a new headache beating his head like a hammer. Check for concussion, he told himself. All in due time, of course. His immediate priority was not a medical diagnosis.

Looking around, Harry found himself standing in a long, linear path running along a corridor, which seemed to mirror the one above him. His mediocre sense of direction told him he had fallen to the second floor. He stumbled down the path for twenty feet or so, finding an exit to the corridor beyond and, checking the corridor for wanderers, climbed out. He withdrew his invisibility cloak, which was somehow clean and undamaged, and pulled it over himself.

He walked fifty meters, found a door, and quietly entered.

Lumos, Harry thought. His wand satisfyingly lit up, illuminating the surrounding room. Chairs and desks were piled against walls, covered in old, dust-coated tapestries, and various random objects littered the floor and shelves. All clues pointed toward a storage room.

He swiftly and silently closed the door behind him, moving behind a pile of desks so his wandlight wouldn't be seen from the doorway. He sat against the cold, stone wall, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. It had only been five minutes since that damned door swung open, but it felt like he'd run a mile – his limbs ached, his lungs heaved with each breath, and a headache split his mind; from physical strain or the mental battle he'd fought with the darkness, he'd no idea.

His body was telling his mind to take a rest, to fall asleep where he lay. His mind fought back, however, insisting on constant vigilance. He was in a dark, cold, unexplored room of the castle, and he'd barely any idea where said room was located. What if there was another creature lurking in this room? What if Filch decided to sweep through here?

His body ignored his mind's attempt at logic and had begun winning the fight. Harry felt his eyes drooping, his limbs falling limp at his side as he crumpled against the wall at an uncomfortable angle. His mind, accepting defeat, forced his body into one more action: pulling the invisibility cloak off the ground and over his head.

His arm weakly reached to do so, but his wandlight struck a shiny, red substance across Harry's robes, and his alertness returned. Was he injured? There was blood... not a lot, but too much to scoff at. He quickly reached for the robes and examined the skin underneath, looking for punctures or wounds.

There were none. Where had the blood come from?

From across the room, his gaze locked with a pair of brilliantly green eyes, and his panic vanished, replaced by grim calm, almost acceptance – of what, he couldn't be sure. Something about that color...

Harry rose, eyes locked, and slowly walked toward the glowing orbs. Halfway across the room, the eyes disappeared behind a curtain, and his calm vanished along with it.

Before him stood a massive frame. A dusty curtain was draped elegantly over its surface, masking the contents. The third-floor corridor had been intimidating in a similar way – Harry didn't know what lay within, and with his new experience, he didn't have a desire to.

And yet, he grasped the dusty silk in his fist, tearing it off with exaggerated force.

Within the great frame, venomous green eyes stared back at him... from his own face. A damn mirror, he thought, inexplicably disappointed.

The frame itself was a grand flourish of oxidized gold. A Gaelic font spelled an odd message across the arch, left to right:

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

Harry assumed it was Latin or Greek or some other ancient language; nevertheless, he couldn't understand it. He paid no thought to the words, instead wondering why there was a big fancy mirror tucked away in an unmarked room.

He looked back at his reflection, meeting his own gaze. Those eyes couldn't be his, he thought; it felt like they were piercing him. He was almost shocked at the power, the authority... the emptiness within his own stare. And the color felt... unnatural... cold.

Those are my mother's eyes, he remembered. How could such a warm person carry such a tormented gaze? Then again, he'd never met her.

He tore his eyes away from ...themselves... and examined the remainder of his reflection. He'd expected to be dirtier, maybe have a split lip or something, but his reflection was flawless. There were no cuts, no grime, no blood on his robes. His face was young, untouched, his soft hands grasping a glowing glass ball.

Harry held his hand out, waving it around. The boy in the mirror did the same, waving the glass ball at Harry and following his sporadic fashion.

What the hell was wrong with this mirror? It was clearly broken - that wasn't his reflection. No, that was a different person. An entirely different wizard without blood on his robes, without scars across his back and forehead, without any perception of the future. A wizard who had a family to go home to.

Harry frowned, shaking his head, and turned away.

He hated him.

Harry frowned, shaking his head, and turned away.

He envied him.

"Whatever are you doing, Harry?" the Headmaster asked politely. Harry jumped slightly, having forgotten the old man's presence amidst his frustration.

"...Trying to show myself how lucky I am,"

"What do you mean, my boy?"

"He - I don't understand, but I need to,"

"Perhaps you underestimate the effects of time. I am quite a lot older than I look,"

Harry rolled his eyes; Dumbledore just didn't get it. How to explain?

"Would you like to know what I saw in the mirror, Headmaster?"

"Only if you trust me enough to share such personal information, in which case I would be most honored."

"I saw myself, covered in dirt, grime, and blood. I held no prophecy, for it already lived in my mind. I could see it eating away at me... it was all in the eyes... all in that haunted green gaze...

"I've been thinking, Professor, about what we see in the Mirror," he paused, resisting the urge to return to the mirror. "We see what we desire most, at least, that is what the inscription tells us." He looked at the frame of the mirror, keeping his eyes from its reflective surface. "I show not your face but your heart's desire," Harry read, left to right.

"As much I have figured out myself," said Dumbledore, growing impatient.

"Does he see what he desires most?" Harry asked, pointing at the Mirror.

"Our reflection?"

Harry nodded.

"That is not how the Mirror works,"

"Hypothetically, Professor. You yourself said magic has limitless capabilities. Open your mind a little,"

"What are you suggesting?"

"What..." Harry pointed with emphasis at the mirror, "...does he see?"

"He... sees... us,"

"His deepest desire?"

"...Perhaps. But why – why would he want this?" Dumbledore waved at the surrounding room.

"Who knows, Professor? Why do we desire what we do?"

"Philosophy and Magic are a dangerous mixture, Harry."

"As much I have figured out myself," said Harry, walking to the doorway. "That is not a mirror, Professor. Our heart's desires are often unattainable, it's our mind's way of pushing us through life. If we chase one goal long enough and we realize it's unattainable, we either choose a new goal, or we choose to stop." Harry emphasized the word 'stop' by running his finger across his neck.

"In the future, perhaps we will have a mutual, attainable goal. At the moment we achieve said goal, will we still be different souls, separated by a magic mirror? I say no. I say we become one and the same, having both reached our apexes in the same place, same time, doing the same action, whatever it may be. And in that time, we will both be free, having achieved our goal."

"Are you suggesting an alternate reality?"

"What the hell does it matter what I'm suggesting?" Harry snapped. "You're being too literal, Professor. What I'm saying is that you and your reflection will either meet in the future, embracing each other as brothers, or you will die miserable. I suppose you've done the latter, so what does that leave your reflection?"

"I don't-"

"You never did. For the greater good, was it? Merlin, you were naïve. Why have you even come today?"

"...You summoned me,"

Harry stared at Dumbledore for a few moments, stewing in his anger toward the man. He didn't remember summoning him.

"I've realized what the boy in the mirror wanted."

"Oh?"

Harry looked at the prophecy in his hands and rubbed his thumb over the dusty label, which read:

S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D

Dark Lord

and Neville Longbottom

"This is what he saw. Of course, if I'm right... I know exactly what I desire."

Harry looked out of the doorway, through the rubble of the castle, and across the scorched forest. In the distance, Thestrals frolicked in the setting sun; they hadn't been so happy in decades. Skeletons, young and old, littered the broken stone floor, and blood covered the walls. The ghost of Dumbledore stared down at him with forever sorrowful eyes.

"And what do you want, Harry?"

He thought about all the people dead. He thought about the chosen one abandoning everyone and everything that depended on him as he was slaughtered in his crib. He thought of the endless path of havoc and rage that followed the immortal snake-eyed man as he enslaved the country. Things went differently on the other side of the mirror.

"I want... to suffer."

Dumbledore sat in his office, his mind on the boy, as it was in most undistracted moments. An important topic, not one to be dealt with lightly, and only by the most experienced, honed minds of wizarding kind.

The boy was worrying as of late – he'd seemed off at the start of the year, but he only grew quieter, more suspicious, as time went on. Suspicious of what, or whom, Dumbledore had shamefully little idea. He knew Harry was sharp-minded, witty, careful... burdened, as their prior conversations had shown. Of course, burden is quite vague, but Dumbledore only had theoretical stones with which to grind the word "burden" into something useful to him.

Someone might have told him of his parents' fate... Minerva? Rubeus? Arabella? That ghastly muggle family of his? None seemed likely. When Harry's aunt had consented to bring him to Diagon Alley, which was strange in and of itself, it had eliminated the possibility of Hagrid growing immediately close to the boy. Dumbledore was sure that Minerva and Arabella wouldn't disobey direct orders from him – they seemed frightened by his power... as they should be, for the greater good.

"Phineus," his voice rang out in the quiet office.

"Yes, Headmaster?" Phineus sighed.

"What activities are Harry Potter, Gryffindor, year one, currently partaking in?"

Phineus looked confused for a moment, but turned away in his portrait, muttering to nearby portraits. The portraits, over many decades, some of them centuries, had grown into a kind of web that stretched across the castle, living and breathing like the stone walls themselves. It was quite impressive how fast messages and information could be spread using the portraits if their trust was gained. As Headmaster, they had no choice regardless, but Dumbledore always preferred to have good relationships when possible.

Phineus turned back, taking a breath, and reported, "Presently, Harry Potter is in the Gryffindor common room... there is no one else in the tower. He is reading a book called, ' Musculus Tenebris'. The page he is on appears to feature a Grim."

Dumbledore furrowed his brow. "I dare say he has more than one book, what may the others be?"

Another pause, with several exaggerated sighs from an annoyed Phineas. "Let's see, 'Unbeknownst Spell-lore', 'Incantation: Adaptation', 'Unknown Versatility of Common Spellwork', 'Wands - the Dark and the Light', and the last one appears to be 'Secrets of the Darkest Art'."

Alarm flared in Dumbledore's mind. "That last one, Phineus. Have a house-elf retrieve it as soon as possible. Bring it to my office, put it face down on the left side of my desk – this is imperative. The rest... you may leave." The boy was sharp, Dumbledore thought. He didn't want to arouse suspicion of his involvement. Besides, the other books he had told of ancient beasts, many of which were extinct, or of wand and spell lore, which took both a committed mind and a long time to interpret and manipulate.

"Very well, Headmaster," Phineus said stiffly. The old Slytherin Headmaster didn't enjoy being bossed around by anyone, least of all a former Gryffindor. He was still every bit as proud, arrogant, and prejudiced as he had been during his reign over the magical arts, but a few aspects pushed through the haze – he was sympathetic, noble, and loyal, making him an excellent assistant to the Headmaster, no matter how sarcastic his conversation was.

The thought of that book festered like an itch on the surface of Dumbledore's mind. "I cannot stress the urgency of retrieving that book. It contains topics that should never enter one's mind, least of all the vulnerable minds of our young students. Perhaps a house-elf can produce a diversion of some sort to draw him away-"

"He's gone, Headmaster. He just walked away,"

"Oh, did he, now? How convenient. Please retrieve the book with haste," he said, one of the many, many weights lifting from his chest. He remembered something in its absence. "He is venturing to meet the train, I assume?"

"I don't know, that's just what the Fat Lady's said."

"We will see, then."

And Dumbledore waited, sitting contentedly in his Headmaster's throne, and twirling a Pheonix feather quill between his fingers – one of Fawkes'. After a few moments, the vile book appeared on the left side of his desk, the house-elf disappearing with a final adjustment of the pages' position upon the wooden surface.

Dumbledore grabbed his wand, muttering under his breath and prodding the pages as they flew past, his gaze wracking the texts and binding for any missing information. It only took one page torn from that book to produce another Dark Lord, and one was hard enough to deal with. He ignored the smoke rising from the pages, the smell of death emanating from the spine. When he reached the front cover, as he had combed it back-to-front, he silently stunned the figure displayed on the leather hardcover. Black liquid leaked from its eyes.

He slid it into place on one of his charmed shelves, making sure it had no wiggle room in case it decided to escape. The enchantments on the shelf could handle most dark texts, but this was among the worst, so he cast a few of his own wards upon the binding.

"The train will be late, Phineus, but Harry will not know. He will wait obediently at the window of the entrance hall for sixty minutes, missing dinner, and growing disappointed. I will meet him there, offering him tea in my office."

"Certainly, Headmaster,"

"I will return shortly."

Dumbledore withdrew his wand, pale and bony as his fingers, which gripped it loosely yet securely. He closed his eyes, extending his long, ribbed forefinger toward the tip of the wand. His left hand curled into a similar shape – his pinky, ring, middle finger, and thumb curled into his fist, with his index pointed outward. He pushed the shape into the dorsal of his right hand and, taking a deep breath, gathered magic, pushing it through his arms, through his bony hands, through his wand of elder. Feeling the resistance of the magic, the grinding of bone and gears just beyond the ether, he rotated his left hand. He pushed his index finger, the minute hand, ever closer to his other. He could feel the air rushing past, hear the passage of time, see the bright, sky-blue glow emitting from his wand. Finally, he felt his hands click into place, his index fingers parallel, and he opened his eyes.

He looked at the clock, the glow of his wand dying. Sixty minutes had passed, and he was due in the entrance hall. With a swish of his cloak, he left the office. Just as predicted, Harry sat on a sill of one of the massive entrance hall windows, his face pressed against the glass, his eyes glazed over as he stared through the dark fog outside. He would see nothing through the window, nor did he expect to, Dumbledore thought. Nevertheless, he awaited the arrival of the train as patiently as possible – he must be hungry.

"Hello, Headmaster," the boy said as Dumbledore approached. Having been quite silent, this was slightly alarming, but... of course. The window, the reflection. He had seen him coming, perhaps for quite a while.

"Good afternoon, Harry. What brings you to this unhappy sill?"

"I'm waiting for the train – I want to discuss the holidays with my friends,"

"And who might they be? I thought you got along well with your fellow Gryffindor boys,"

"Fiction, Headmaster. I don't get along with those boys, with the exception of Neville Longbottom, who possesses the level head I desire in relationships. Another level head I spent my time with is Hermione Granger."

"I see," said Dumbledore, analyzing the boy. He hadn't yet moved from his slumped posture upon the sill, which was quite impolite; but something told him Harry knew what he was doing. "You fit well together, I must say. I see you and Granger at the top of every test sheet,"

"Yes, we often study together. Neville joins when it tickles his fancy,"

Harry was speaking so formally, feigning emotion while in reality showing nothing but cold indifference. It so contradicted his posture, his worn-down sneakers, his scratched face, and surfaced uncomfortable memories of past students who'd claimed the same demeanor.

"Harry," Dumbledore started, changing the topic as politely as allowed. "You've missed dinner, and reports tell me the train is still an hour away, due to the heavy rainfall. Would you like to join me for tea?"

That got Harry to his feet, albeit slowly, where he dusted off his clothes and slowly lifted his gaze to meet Dumbledores. He adjusted his cracked glasses, held together by muggle duct tape, and Dumbledore observed his pupils growing smaller amidst the sea of emerald green.

"Of course, Headmaster. Much obliged," he said slowly, beginning to walk out of the entrance hall. Another strange, unpolite act, cloaked behind perfectly formal speech and demeanor. He hadn't waited for Dumbledore to say anything else, for him to start walking, or even tell him where they were going.

"There'll be no need of walking there, Harry," said Dumbledore, turning to him. At his questioning expression, he explained, "It's all the way on the seventh floor, and I'm afraid my bones are more brittle than they used to be..."

"So how will we get there?"

"Just take hold of my arm, my boy," he said. He didn't evaluate; intending to disorient him if possible. Harry rested his hand lightly on the Headmaster's arm, and in an instant – half an instant, perhaps – they were standing in his office.

Harry stumbled, grabbing a chair for support. Dumbledore took the split-second opportunity to inconspicuously cloak his bookcase before sitting on his throne. Harry had closed his eyes, resting entirely on his grip, taking deep breaths. He couldn't blame the boy – Apparating was unpleasant at first, especially if unexpected. Location was also a large part of the discomfort; Apparating up and down would make your ears pop and your blood rush through your body. Harry would be dazed, nauseated, and awed for several minutes.

"Did we just Apparate?" Harry asked predictably.

"Yes, I'm afraid I forgot to warn you. I apologize deeply,"

"Does it always feel like this?" he asked; his face clenching with effort, his hand gripping his abdomen.

"No, you get used to it after a few months," Dumbledore replied. "Please, take a seat. I have calming draughts on hand if you need them; don't hesitate to ask."

"Yeah, that sounds good. Please," said Harry meagerly, his formality seemingly vanished, replaced by a new daze. Dumbledore waved his wand, silently summoning a corked calming draught from his stores. Harry stared at the blue, shining liquid swirling absently in its glass imprisonment. He made no movement to uncork the bottle but instead turned to the Headmaster. "On second thought, I think I'd prefer that tea you mentioned."

"Of course," Dumbledore smiled, waving his wand once more and pouring Harry a glass of earl grey. Upon taking his cup, Harry looked closely at the steaming liquid but put it to his lips. "Now, you said you didn't get along well with your fellow Gryffindors. Is there any particular reason?"

Harry grabbed an unused coaster from the corner of the desk and placed his teacup atop it. "They bore me, mostly."

"In what way, if you don't mind my asking?"

"They have no... drive. In our lessons, I mean. They've been given a wand, which, depending on your disposition, can be viewed as a source of limitless power and ability. They've been given magic, the opportunity to do anything they please, and they ignore it to throw enchanted airplanes at each other."

Dumbledore said nothing, his mind was spooling like a turbocharger, revving like an engine, thrumming like the exhaust of a great machine. The boy's views were fascinating.

Harry continued, "One of those airplanes hit me in the ear, you know. It quite hurt. I said nothing, of course. Not to a professor, not to the pilot, not to my friends. It would've been a waste of time. Instead, I paid attention for the rest of class, taking diligent notes and completing my homework before the lesson's end."

Dumbledore didn't see what point Harry was trying to make.

"That weekend, after finishing all work from that week, I fancied a visit to the infirmary. My ear had begun to leak blood – I had grown tired of cleaning my pillow each morning. I couldn't hear out of that side, either. It turned out to be a perforated eardrum, untreatable with muggle medicine. Madam Pomfrey simply waved her wand, and my hearing was restored. I asked her what spell she'd used – praesuo, it was. As for my work that week – I got top marks because whenever the Gryffindor boys were being particularly loud or annoying, I could simply turn my broken ear to them, and it would be silent."

"And what, pray tell, did you learn from that?" Dumbledore asked, more for himself than for Harry.

"Oh, I don't know, Professor. I suppose I learned a new spell. Other than that, I was just telling you a story,"

"I see," said Dumbledore. He suspected something more, but Harry's mind deflected any prodding or prying. A dangerous defense, which would turn on him if broken, but quite sound. He must have learned Occlumency from the forbidden texts he'd been riffling through like pamphlets. "Do you often see your reflection, Harry?"

Confusion mixed with alarm shot across Harry's face. Bingo. Of course, he knew that Harry had been to the Mirror of Erised... the castle had told him so... but this confirmed the news. Whispering walls couldn't always be trusted, after all – no matter how loyal.

"Not often, Headmaster," Harry responded carefully. The question had caught him off guard, Dumbledore thought, but he was sure the boy knew what was coming - he was sharp as the Sword of Gryffindor.

"And what did you see... in the Mirror?"

"I don't know what you mean," Harry said unconvincingly.

"You may remember an inscription on this mirror. Ironically, you need only a mirror to read it in perfect English. Quite strange, as English wasn't recognized for a thousand years after its creation." Dumbledore finished reminiscently. Indeed, the Mirror of Erised was a mystery to this day.

Harry's face had returned to slate, showing no emotion, and his speech had returned to its formal glory. The only sign that he'd understood Dumbledore rested in his emerald eyes, green as death, as venom. They darkened, and he responded.

"I... saw... what I desired most,"

"And what would that be?" Dumbledore asked patiently, defying how he was feeling. Realizing he'd unintentionally invaded a personal topic, he quickly added, "If you don't mind my asking, of course. It's quite personal,"

"My family, I think," Harry answered slowly, carefully. Dumbledore pushed magic through his eyelids like an electrical current, but his mind contained only his own thoughts. After the war, many people had dismissed the risk of rogue Legilimens and Swipers; only a few people he knew kept their defenses up constantly... Severus, Minerva, and Sirius, namely. Now that list contained Harry Potter, of all people – whether the boy's response was fabrication could not be immediately determined.

"You saw your parents?"

"My parents, yes... my mother had green eyes... grandparents, uncles, aunts, a young girl, perhaps a cousin... there were many,"

When words were not enough, tone always told. Harry's tone; sad, confused... regretful, felt genuine. Besides, Dumbledore couldn't think of anything else the boy would want. For heaven's sake, he had no family left besides a single set of extended relatives, who were worlds away from him.

"...I apologize, Harry."

"For what, Headmaster?"

"Your upbringings."

Harry stared at Dumbledore, his deathly green eyes a tragic story, speaking volumes. Dumbledore turned away.

"It was nice talking to you, Harry. Unfortunately, I have business to attend to. Please return to your dorms and get some sleep, I've no further updates on the train's progress."

"Goodnight then, Professor," Harry paused. "Er... how do I...?"

"Through the far door, down the steps," Dumbledore replied, still facing away, and withdrawing his wand once more. When he heard the click of the door, he spoke to the walls. "Phineus, tell Severus I require his presence in nine hours."

"Very well. Goodnight then, Dumbledore."

"Goodnight, Phineus."

The room filled with a sky-blue glow, vanishing the night.