There are mirrors, and then there are mirrors. Mirrors that allow for communication between two people, mirrors that show us our deepest desires, and mirrors that show the future. They come in all shapes and sizes, ornate and plain, talkative or silent, but they surround us.
Dumbledore had a very special mirror given to him by Fawkes one winter eve. It didn't talk, it didn't shine in any special way, wasn't tall, small or really anything. There wasn't anything remarkable about this mirror save for one thing. It only shone on one man and only at certain times.
The first time had been just hours after the Leaving Ceremony. It came to life, as Dumbledore was finishing up the final scrollwork for the school year. With no particular ceremony or noise it suddenly began to show Dumbledore a series of images. It took him even a few moments to even notice the mirror was even doing anything. When he'd been made Headmaster, Fawkes had arrived with the mirror, but for years it hadn't done anything. Just sat on the shelves that grew more and more crowded with other trinkets that it was almost hidden by the time it finally did something. Through the years as his shelves filled up, he'd managed to resist covering up the small mirror that could fit in the palm of his hand. No matter what he did, there was always some corner of the mirror that remained uncovered.
But despite all his efforts, the mirror never revealed anything to him.
But then there was that night.
He'd looked up from the paperwork and frowned at the small movements coming from a shelf. At first he thought it a mouse or a pixie might have got into his office. It was with some haste that he'd risen to check the shelves. At that time, he'd placed a certain stock on the items in his office.
Never again.
His hand went past the first row of items and brushed the small object in the back of the shelf, covered in dust and as he wiped clean the surface he abruptly sat down in an armchair by the fireplace. His throat dry he watched as the young man who'd spent his time at Hogwarts the butt of everyone's jokes knelt before the man who was the greatest threat in such a long time. His arm bared, Dumbledore watched as flesh burned and a Mark was seared into the flesh.
This young man who'd done this at the request of a man he had to hate, for a world that never welcomed him. The mirror didn't talk or convey the words of the men it reflected, but then it didn't have to. Dumbledore understood very well.
He tried to lose the mirror the next day, having not slept, unable to rid himself of the images that he'd seen. But he was a coward and couldn't. When the young man reported back to him, things that he'd seen in the mirror, that gave him nightmares, were never told. Instead Dumbledore watched as the young man drew strength from deep inside himself and reported only what he thought Dumbledore needed to know.
So Dumbledore steeled himself. He never let on what he'd seen in the mirror. He smiled and offered candy and tea and prayed for the day that mirror would grow dark again.
And knew he'd cry when it did.
There was one spot in the castle that had no mirrors, no reflective surfaces of any kind.
They weren't necessary you see. For if mirrors can show a person his soul, they can also show the dying of the soul, so Dumbledore prayed for the day the mirror would grow dark.
Please, he begged. Just stop.