The Mirror of Erised shows the beholder their heart's desire. Warm socks – we know the headmaster was lying. What does Dumbledore really see in the Mirror? A complete family? The love of his life? And why socks?

A Pair of Warm Socks

"Oh…" he peered absently at the reflecting glass. He had not meant to come here. Somehow his nightly wanderings had taken him back to this long-forgotten corner of the castle. He should not look. There was no time to waste pondering on what could have been, should have been. He could feel his strength seeping away like sands through an hourglass. One year. Not even the talented Severus could concoct an antidote that would give him longer. Merlin, will that be enough? Will his plans come together? Too many things could go wrong…

They should have covered up the Mirror, lest it snared any unwary…

Pointedly ignoring the images in glass, he hooked a dust-cloth off a nearby cabinet with his staff and draped it over the Mirror of Erised the best he could. Useful thing, a stout length of hickory cut for him by dear Hagrid when the boy noticed his steps were no longer as sure as they once were.

It took more than it expected from him. His knees gave. With a groan he fell back onto a settee that he was sure had not been there earlier. That left him in the unenviable position of sitting with the white-draped mirror in his direct sight. The white cloth was so thin as to almost be translucent. Grasping his staff, he tried to rise but his legs refused to obey. With a huff, he resigned himself to wait for his body to recover. He disliked that artefact.


White. White muslin shrouding his little sister's pallid face in her coffin.

They called her a poor squib. Little did they know her potential was possibly equal to her eldest brother. The problem was after that incident, she tried to shut her magic off, until it soured on them all. After Father was taken away, the family's fortunes declined. Mother tried so hard to keep them together like Father wanted. In the end, she proved unable to deal with her young daughter's raging magic. Ariana had not meant to do it. His gentle sister never wanted to hurt anyone.

The brothers knew Ariana needed extra care. Mother was firm with all of them as was typical for that era. She did the best she could. Albus was the golden boy, the one destined to restore their family's good name. Hogwarts was a haven for him, a reprieve from the constant cycle of tears, rage, and destruction at Godric's Hollow. How he had dreaded the holidays.

Aberforth was, well, a disappointment to poor Mother. He could barely read until he was twelve. Something about the letters on the pages getting mixed up for him. Then there was the endless list of suspensions thanks to his perchance for getting into fights and butting heads with the masters at Hogwarts. However, he was the one who Ariana turned to, and those goats they kept for their wool to supplement the family income.

When had he given up on her? Would it have made a difference if he had been more patient with and kinder to her?

As a boy, he found her brooding presence a slight annoyance to be tolerated in the family home. He recalled trying to get her to use her magic once, repeat a simple spell to tie a ribbon, only to have her burst into tears. He had thought she was ready, how her eyes seemed to glow watching him tie that ribbon using magic alone. She just could not express her magic properly.


"It ain't her fault and you know it. She can't help it…"

Aberforth had chided him once in their cramped bedroom. At fourteen, he had been extremely vocal about his frustrations that summer night. Had she overheard his tirade then? His remarks about Father being sent to Azkaban thanks to that incident, her uncontrollable magic… Her room was just next to theirs.

After that night, Ariana stopped speaking to him entirely, shutting herself further away from her family. They had not understood the nature of an Obscurus then. Not even the healers at St Mungo's understood. It would take years of hard work by Newt and other Magizoologists to even scratch the surface.


"She knitted them herself," young Aberforth announced proudly. "Well, put them on…"

Albus stared at the lumpy wool socks – the colour of old moss and puke. An unwelcome Christmas present from his sister, who now hung back a safe distance at the kitchen door. Perhaps coming home for Christmas was a mistake.

"Later…" he replied and put the pair of socks aside, never to be worn or even thought of for many years to come. More socks followed each Christmas and birthday, steadily improving until that last heady summer. He never wore any of them. The colours were either too ugly or too loud.


Summer 1899

"Wake up, sleepyhead…" Someone kissed him on the cheek. Albus rubbed his eyes and opened them.

"Gellert, what time is it?"

Albus sat up. His best friend, no, soulmate was already fully dressed, and likely had been for some time. They had been experimenting with magic late into the night and he was so tired. It was a blessing Mother had given him his own room two years back, believing he needed his space away from his more boisterous brother.

"Time to go." Gellert seemed as bright-eyed, and bushy tailed as a squirrel. Not a hair seemed out of place.

"You should have woken me up sooner," he whispered hoarsely. He reached for his shirt and pulled it on. He had to keep his voice down, lest he woke up his siblings. It was increasingly rare for them to steal time together. Aunt Bathlida was getting nosey about what her nephew was getting up to with that Dumbledore boy and Aberforth had taken a strong dislike to Gellert's monopolizing Albus' attention.

"You cannot wear those. They have holes in them," Gellert frowned and pointed at the sock Albus was pulling on. His big toe stuck out.

"Well, these are what I have…" Albus grumbled. "No one will see…" The other young man was already rummaging through a drawer.

"Socks," Gellert announced smugly as he yanked out a pair of Ariana's unworn woollen socks, this pair striped red and white.

"I am not wearing those."

"How about I help you wear them?" Gellert dropped down to his knee and gently yanked the offending old sock off Albus' foot. With a smug smile, he rolled the candy cane-hued sock onto his foot. The touch sent a tingle up Albus' spine.

Ariana had had one of her bad nights. Aberforth would have been up at her bedside. There was no better time for them to leave. Little did they expect that Aberforth had already decamped to the hall and all hell was waiting to break loose.

They never understood why Ariana just stepped out into the middle of it all. Whenever Gellert visited, she would shut herself away in her room, only emerging when the stranger had left the house. She was dead at fourteen and there was nothing any of them could do to change that.

Well, there is, but one need not be warned of the dangers of using Time-Turners to stop a three-way wizarding duel.


Albus roused himself from his memories at a familiar cry. Fawkes. His friend must be worried when he failed to return to his chambers. The bird perched on the windowsill, studying him.

"I will walk back, Fawkes." The idea of being whisked through the night air back to his room did not appeal to him. Not in his current state. Fawkes nodded his assent and flew off.

Aurelius had a phoenix as loyal as Fawkes back then. That boy should have been a treasured heir to the Dumbledore name and a powerful wizard in his own right had Fate been kinder. Instead, the child was taken from the very people who could have provided him with a loving, nurturing home and cast into a pitiless, harsh world where he had to suppress his own magic, finally turning into an Obscurial as his ill-fated aunt did.

In a kinder world, Aberforth would have married the girl he so loved, and they would have raised the child together. Albus would have been looking forward to welcoming his nephew at Hogwarts. They had only a matter of months together before the condition claimed young Aurelius' life. It was too late for them to do anything for him. It was a nightmare hearing the boy cry out in pain and watching him steadily weaken despite their best efforts.

There were those in the wizarding community who believed Aurelius deserved to be locked up for his ill-advised foray into the Dark Arts under Grindelwald. Killing a Qilin does put a wizard beyond the pale, even if Aurelius did not know any better. Then there were those who believed an Obscurial so powerful should be locked in the most secure ward in St Mungo's for everyone's safety. That had Albus calling in multiple favours from the Ministry of Magic and even the Supreme Mugwump for his nephew not to be tried or confined in a cell or ward.

The press was another issue. Newt had to host both father and son in his suitcase for a time as the village of Hogsmeade and The Hog's Head were besieged by the hordes of reporters seeking interviews with the family and Aurelius. Aberforth's hot temper and propensity for ejecting unwanted callers violently did not help matters.

What Aurelius wanted was to be with his loved ones and to know the family he never had a chance to know. Albus did what he could, trying to track down Aurelius' few friends and any surviving family on his mother's side. Her father wanted nothing to do with him. Other relatives, paternal and maternal alike, declined to visit. Aurelius was constantly writhing in pain from his illness, sometimes needing to be physically restrained to stop him from harming himself. When the pain got bad, his phoenix would sing, trying to give the patient comfort and ease his pain.

Neither Dumbledore brother was around when the end came.

Albus was thankful his brother tried out the spell on a goat first. Desperation drove his brother to it. Aberforth misread the incantation and the spell backfired spectacularly, enough to bring in multiple Aurors and have him hauled before the Wizengamot. He got off lightly thanks to a technicality that made the difference between an illegal charm offence and dabbling in the Dark Arts. Aberforth would spend the following months in a lesser prison.

He had apparated back to Hogsmeade too late after the sentencing. The first thing he noticed on entering the room was the pair of canary yellow wool socks sticking out from the end of the blanket. Newt had drawn it up to cover his poor nephew's face. The phoenix peered quizzically at him from its habitual perch at the foot of the bed, silent as if in mourning. The stillness of those feet caught him off-guard.

Ariana's socks. Aberforth had his own stash and had given them to his son to wear under all those blankets as the boy felt constantly cold when he was not delirious with fever. There was more evidence of their late sister's handiwork scattered about the room despite Newt and Bunty's efforts at housekeeping. Pale blue socks stuck under the bed. A single muddy brown sock with cherry red stripes tossed carelessly over the bedstead. More rainbow-hued socks lay forgotten in the laundry hamper. All time-worn enough not to chafe the skin but still warm.

The funeral was well-attended for all the wrong reasons. The Disillusionment charms then only went so far as to hide them from the eyes of Muggles. Aberforth would have cursed at all the gawkers and reporters. Perhaps he might have even challenged the lot to a duel. There was even a bold chap who had set up a roast peanut stand at the entrance to the cemetery. Outside the cemetery one might be forgiven for thinking it was a carnival.

Newt Scamander had taken the boy's death badly. He had been at his side for much of the past weeks, nursing him in his family's absence. It brought Albus some consolation that his nephew had a friend by his side at the end. The redhead had cried openly through the eulogy. Not Albus. He had no tears left by then. Tina and Theseus' work kept them away. Bunty had to mind a sick mooncalf. The Kowalskis remained in America as Queenie was not feeling well enough to travel. The phoenix flew overhead once the last clod of earth was laid, lamenting a young life too cruelly snuffed out, before disappearing into the clouds.

His brother retreated into the familiarity of The Hog's Head and his goats after he was released. He never visited his son's grave or spoke of him, not unless he was deep in his cups. Albus turned his attention and energy back to nurturing the students of Hogwarts until he was finally called on to confront and end Grindelwald's reign of terror once and for all.

He had been concerned for Harry when rumours trickled back to him about the Dursleys' shabby treatment of the orphan. He had installed Arabella in their neighbourhood to keep an eye on the lad, just in case. Thankfully, the Potter lad was not precociously powerful as Ariana was, or as sorely abused as poor Aurelius. Dear Arabella spared him enough scraps of kindness to get him through and there was Lily Potter's love protecting her son. Still, it was to his great relief that an eager Harry Potter finally stood in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts as a first-year student.


Somehow, the headmaster had made it back to his room. He was old, too old to be confronting dark wizards.

When Gellert fell, he did not just fall. Their final duel broke something in him. The spell had been meant for Dumbledore, he just deflected it back to the caster. After the duel, he was a shadow of his former self. Gone was all the charm and swagger that had so characterized him.

You should have just killed me… those eyes accused him as the prisoner was sentenced and taken away to Nurmengard, to be locked up for the rest of his life. The Austrian authorities had thought it fitting for him to face the ruins of his dreams. At least he was spared the horrors of Azkaban.

He had written at first, hoping to somehow mend the rift, that somehow his friend was not a lost cause. Gellert never wrote back. Albus stopped writing when Voldemort rose to power the first time. He did not wish to draw any attention to Grindelwald or the Elder Wand he now possessed, however unwillingly.

When he last heard, Grindelwald was still alive, albeit a spent force, interred in the very same castle he had once used as his headquarters in pursuit of his vision of the Greater Good. Wizards tended towards long lives if they survived wayward spells and magical beasts. How long has it been? Fifty years?

They were both old men now.

Gellert would have been fed and clothed. Surely the Austrians are not cruel. A spartan existence in a cell. Does he feel the cold of the Austrian mountains as keenly as he feels the bite of the Scottish night now? Albus toyed with the idea of writing again, perhaps a gift of warm socks. Store-bought of course. Ariana's socks had not survived the passing of time and his fingers were no use for knitting, magic or not. First, he would need to have a secure way of ensuring it reached Nurmengard without drawing unwanted attention, once things are calmer… if they have time left…

Author's Notes:

A bit of angst and insights into the headmaster's remark on warm socks and Aberforth's infamous goat charm.

How many phoenixes are there flitting about the Dumbledore clan? We see at least two in the movies. Given the loyal nature of the phoenix, doubtful it will transfer its allegiance so readily.

No socks or letters were sent.