[ After nearly a thousand years of waiting, the Mirror of Erised was not to SHOW a beholder his heart's desire — but to GRANT it. For Harry Potter was worthy. ]
The Mirror of Erised had never known a moment to overflow. SO much feeling and perfect desire and NEED. It could save the boy and the stone, fulfilling both of the young wizard's keen desires by destroying the fiend — which it would find supremely satisfying, truth be told. But Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was doing very well on his own, thank you very much. So the mirror, though prepared to act, did not. The unholy fusion that was Quirinus Quirrell with the Dark Lord Voldemort was disintegrating. Irretrievably. If the boy had caught hold as he'd intended, he would probably have finished the job in no time flat. Perhaps in some diverging reality — the mirror knew that the arithmantic calculus of refractions allowed for other macrocosms — the battle might already be ended. Instead, the stripling wizard was sprawled on the ground, twin emeralds fixed upon the mirror with a look of unmatched determination. And the crumbling Quirrell, insane with agony and possessing no genuine will of his own, was still coming up behind him, driven by the vicious single-mindedness of his parasitic lord.
Harry could not realize, in that jam-packed moment, that he was guaranteed to win the fight — even though he'd failed to grab onto Quirrell. And STILL he was committed to keeping the Philosopher's Stone safe. What a wonderful (if perhaps overzealous) lad! The stone, now free of his pocket, was in his hand. He was putting it back into the mirror's surface! Clever. But Quirrell had seen what Harry was doing and shifted his focus and movement — to make his own last grab for the stone. Then, all at once, in a feat of perfect timing — the likes of which only Magic itself can orchestrate — the Mirror of Erised was yet again surprised: the Philosopher's Stone, Harry's hand and Quirrell's hand all touched the glass in the same instant.
Ah, storybook perfection — and patience rewarded. Both happened so rarely in the real world, the mirror knew. For it was now no longer a bit of the scenery. It had actually become a player in the real-life fairytale. It would even be the very stage for a little while. And it was going to ENJOY this. Perhaps its creator had a touch of the seer. It would never know. Great Works differed. The Sorting Hat was imbued with the values and deliberative powers of all four founders — and a touch of Godric's personality. But the Sword of Gryffindor was simply a formidable magical weapon. Hufflepuff's Cup — it was powerfully enchanted to impart the old girl's healing virtue to potions that were offered in it, but Helga's loyal and hard-working soul was absent. Likewise Ravenclaw's Diadem, though it carried a seed of Rowena's own wisdom, had nothing of her witty self about it. (Pity that Helena hadn't seen fit to come home with it. There would have been no "secret" of its whereabouts — and Voldemort could never have obtained the treasure, to defile it with a ghastly splinter of himself. No matter. Because Voldemort knew its location, the mirror now knew. It was going to be a very fulfilling day.) Slytherin's Locket, on the other hand, held much of Salazar's cunning disposition within it and could counsel the wearer in achieving ambitions — IF the wearer spoke Parseltongue, that is. The Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance, the parting gift of the Twin Headmasters, Cosmas and Damian Silverlace — yet another set of wombmates with the pranking urge. They delighted to argue admissions throughout their long tenure — and never wanted to give it up. So they bequeathed to Hogwarts, willy-nilly, their good judgement — and argumentative natures. The Goblet of Fire, of course. Fiammetta Gannetmead had been a very powerful headmistress, but rather full of herself — thought she was something of a Solomon when it came to making impartial decisions for faculty and students — but she was actually quite the control freak. "Her heart is snares and nets, her hands as bands" someone said of her. She was also easily duped and none too bright a spark — in the mirror's opinion. The Veil and the Hallows were much the same — though it knew precious little about them. But the Mirror of Erised knew a great deal — though far from everything — about itself.
The Hogwarts Four were incomparably talented and powerful — the greatest wizards and witches of the age — the greatest since Merlin. They were all superb teachers as well. But they were rubbish when it came to administration. They admitted as much themselves. Well, Godric, Rowena and Helga had. Salazar wouldn't have conceded that he liked green. So handling the fiddly details, which had really started piling up after a hundred years, fell to the newly hired Mental Arts ("I'm also fairly good at Numerology") master — who, it turned out, had the knack for it. In fact, it was he that kept the school running (and in decent repair) all through the Strife. So when things had settled (a year and a day it was) after Salazar's departure, it was a tired trio that approached him — and told him that he was henceforth the HEAD master. They continued teaching, of course, and taking the occasional apprentice, but they were true to their word — and left the management of Hogwarts to him — even deferred to him. They never lost their love for the school and its students, but they had lost the enjoyment, the zest, of being its Founders. Salazar's obstinacy had taken an awful toll.
So — the First Headmaster of Hogwarts. He spent most of the next century helping students to know their own minds — never an easy job. (Running the school was child's play compared to that.) And he came to recognize that most students never made the time to take a good long look at themselves — and consequently left his school not really knowing what they truly wanted out of life. He had become a master of his art — of several, in fact. He had been a very good teacher. He had preserved Hogwarts through a very troubled time. He had set it on the path to being the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry the world had ever known. (The Four had been the finest teachers, of course. But it was he that had made it the finest school — despite the disunity he had been handed.) HE had achieved his heart's desire — DESIRES — and he had wanted that opportunity for all the students that came to Hogwarts after he was gone. So he'd set upon the Great Work.
If there is a single attribute an enchanted looking glass should not possess it's vanity. There were stories — about how twisted things can become when a sentient mirror thinks itself beautiful or wise. The First Headmaster of Hogwarts was not at all a prideful man, but magic can have strange effects on the likeness of a human psyche, so difficult decisions had to be made. Long after the choices of unbreakable glass over imperishable bronze and standing versus handheld had been made, the First Headmaster was still deliberating as to which aspects of himself he wanted for his Mirror of Choices — for so he called it while it was being designed.
Giving up his gender had been a tough decision, but a wise one. Just one girl looking into him whose HEART'S DESIRE was to be a wife and mother (rather than the Charms, or whatever, prodigy she actually was) and he'd have cracked under the strain. But in fairness to the feminine, he'd been a bit of a rascal in his youth and he was fairly certain that he had a child or two (or three) on the continent — but had never actually played the part of Father to any of them. So much for masculine virtue. Gender had to go. He was to become IT. Relationships gone. Only the knowledge of relating and its consequences — the persons that had been known had to go. Origins — homeland, home, family, friends — gone. National prejudices and clan loyalties would not do for a school that opened its doors to all the magicals of the whole world. (The mirror did have something of a preference for Little Britain — though it didn't know why.) It's own personal and professional accomplishments and preferences. That had been the hardest, the mirror knew. But when all had been decided, even its own name was lost to it. It simply thought of itself as Mirror. (Not even Erised — that was a later addition, of course.) For that had been the only way to ensure proper place for the beholder's desires — and to order them appropriately — and to store and compare them indefinitely: the essence of being without the particulars of personality, that had been the key. Such a magical mind could contemplate all desires without judging them — which would have hardly been fair to ones so young. So THAT was the intellect-image that the First Headmaster had impressed into the Mirror.
There were a few wrinkles. Bridget Wenlock had been one of its — his at the time — brightest students. The First Headmaster had taken her as an apprentice in Numerology — with a memory like hers, a Mental Arts mastery hadn't even been given a sniff. But she had been brilliant — was one of the first theoretical arithmancers. It had been a great pleasure to impart knowledge to her. So it wasn't at all perturbed that she had given it no credit for discovering the inherent patterns in the magical properties of the number seven which it (then-he) had taught her. It was completely losing track of the magical properties of three and eleven — 11! — and never publishing or even theorematizing them. That still frosted its glass. If its psyche ever made it to the other side, it would definitely be giving Bridget Wenlock some choice words, that's for sure. So there were vestiges of personality like that popping up from time to time — and a very profound sense of right and wrong — but otherwise, the mirror was simply Mirror.
What it had NOT known about itself was just how powerful it was — and that it would not understand the purpose for all that it had ever understood and reasoned out and through — until the time was right. Not just right, but perfect: To help a needy student to fulfill his (or her) most desperate desire in his (as it turned out) time of greatest need. The First Headmaster had gotten the idea from Godric Gryffindor — and had liked it enough to set apart the lion's share of the mirror's power for that very purpose. He had not been the puissant wizard that Gryffindor was — there weren't but a handful like him in all of human history, so that was no shame — but the First Headmaster hadn't been anybody's slouch either. The legacy of an indomitable sword, mighty in magic and second only to Excalibur, that would appear in courageous hands whenever it was called upon — that would have been beyond him. But a single omnipotence, to meet a student's soul's desire? Not as easy as Helga's treacle tart — but entirely achievable. And, with Dumbledore's artful augmentations, much more could be accomplished than the mirror's creator had ever envisioned — and the time was NOW.
Harry found himself hurtling through the mirror. He had never seen an Alice-Looking-Glass-Wonderland movie or he'd have thought it was just like that. He was sporting a slight glow.
Voldemort and Quirrell found themselves landing on the other side of the mirror's surface — in the same room — or one very much like that they had just departed. Quirrell was still dressed in dark purple. Voldemort was all in black. They might have looked grave and dangerous, the two of them (especially with the toady's wounds and the bigwig's red eyes). But they looked, if not quite silly, hardly threatening. They were joined at the hip. It was just comical enough that Harry was completely at ease.
The Philosopher's Stone hung in the air between them. Not like a chandelier, but like a star that had come down to see what was going on. And a bit like a snitch, not golden, but a brilliant blood red that looked fresh and alive. It was much more a jewel now — and very bright.
The mirror had had its speech all prepared — it was nothing if not good in a pinch — but in the moment of crossing-into, it had spied something that astounded beyond anything it had yet experienced. It had rendered the appearances of the three and the stone, but held back on this detail: for it had nothing of the boy's desire in it — and much of the monster's.
There, on Harry's forehead, WITHIN the lightning-bolt scar, was a lying reflection, a sliver-shard of the inhuman disgrace that was Voldemort. It was unmistakable — it resonated with his vile being. The mirror had not realized that it could experience nausea. Particularly strange, that — it not having a stomach and all. It was no matter though. The assault against life and magic could never have done any harm within the confines of the mirror — and it certainly could not NOW with the mirror at the height of its powers, finally ignited to fulfill its creator's ultimate purpose.
"Hello Harry." The voice came from everywhere.
"Hello. Who are you?"
"I am the mirror. It is an honour to meet you. You are very brave — and a very good mate." It hardly seemed worthwhile to wax eloquent with the boy about his altruism. "I must do something. It will not hurt you, I promise. Nothing can hurt you here. But it may feel strange or even unpleasant. May I?
The boy didn't hesitate. Not even a moment. "Sure. You've already helped me a lot. Do what you need to do." The boy smiled — accepting a needful discomfort was his way of thanking the mirror — or so the mirror reckoned — and it did not like the fact that he was so inured to hardship. But the mirror would deal with that in the days to come. The mirror, within itself, reached within Harry Potter.
The boy's mother had never beheld the mirror, but it knew enough of her through Dumbledore's and McGonagall's and Flitwick's rapport with it, that it knew her love well enough. It had already rendered that love as the soft glow upon Harry's skin — it was HER desire, resting over him. (The mirror did not know how her desire had lived on beyond her — but love was a mystery — and as strong as death. Or stronger, it would appear.) And that love reached deeper than the skin and had done much to protect the boy amidst an inexcusable childhood — all the way through to fending off Quirrell, her love burning as though it were flame. She. It. She — it was hard to tell with love — had surrounded the snippet of evil soul even as it entered the boy's forehead — and made the lightning wound. The darkness had been embattled from that moment forward — for a lifetime — and the force that warred against it was awesome in its power. It had never been able to manifest a single twisted thought or emotion, a single cruel desire — the mirror liked that — let alone been able to mount a campaign for possession. Though irretrievably foul by nature, it was left practically inert. The mirror, it decided, would have adored Lily Potter. And what was more, her love seemed to discern the mirror's benevolent intentions — they were kindred spirits, as it were, united in their common interest — Harry's welfare. So it parted, just enough, to allow the mirror to touch the loathsome black thing — there was no other way to render it — and surround it with binding power. And so it manifested just outside Harry's scar — and moved away from the boy. There, the mirror soothed, to the almost-living desire, I have it now. It will never hurt him again, I promise. I shall unmake it in a moment.
"THAT. IS. MINE. GIVE IT TO ME."
You-Know-Who was miffed. Do tell. The mirror was more delighted than it had ever known. But still furious. "Silence. You vile thing. You botch-up. You spot. You— turd!" Harry giggled. He couldn't help it. And it made him feel better. When the mirror told Voldemort to be quiet the edges of the room that wasn't a room — it was only what the mirror could 'see' of the room, Harry realized — had flashed lightning and roared with terrible thunder. It was the first fear Harry had known inside the mirror.
The mirror, for its part, knew that it had frightened the boy as it was speaking — and had sought to lighten the mood. When Dumbledore had introduced his changes, he had altered the mirror in a fundamental way. The old man was a better magician than even he knew — he simply couldn't NOT do things well. And elegance required that there be no loose ends: so the mirror could not only contain material things because of those changes, but manipulate their essence as well. This had amplified its abilities considerably. Dumbledore had no way to know the incredible reservoir of power that the mirror held within — it had been hidden perfectly. Even a master arithmancer could not have spotted it. A Charms Master, perhaps. The First Headmaster had utilized something like a Numerological Fidelius, the Secret of which was kept in answers to questions that had yet to be asked — from a certain point of view. Dumbledore was only a Master of Transfiguration — which inclined him to brilliant evolutions but not to the niceties of exquisite foundations. (Perhaps, the mirror thought, the First Headmaster had let an academic bias or two squeak by, after all.) In any case, when the mirror was angry — which it most certainly was — it had never known such fury as it had for Voldemort — there was, of necessity — due to Dumbledore's reshapings — a manifestation of power.
"It is yours only in the sense that it reeks of you. You shall never again possess it." More gently: "I shall explain all these things to you in just a little bit, Harry. There is nothing here that YOU ought to be afraid of."
Then there shone a strange, colourless light that filled the whole room. The joined bodies became two. Quirrell was frozen with dread as the lump of soul-tar flew into his being. Voldemort, looking very human with nothing of the snake about him, was in shock. The red eyes turned a confused, human brown.
"You have snared yourself to this plane of existence in a fashion that even I cannot untangle — not with Harry, YOUR EQUAL, here within the mirror. So I cannot take your life or your magic. More's the pity: you of all the beings I have ever beheld deserve both death AND a squib's magicless misery. But it is my great pleasure to help Death, by smoothing your way toward him — and to strip you of every one of your magical possessions under my dominion here. You brought nothing into this world, Tom Riddle, and it is certain you will carry nothing out. I am glad to have done you a damage from which you shall never recover."
"Quirrell, you made yourself entirely your lord's. That was a woeful error. You, his darkened chattel — and the noxious plop of him that I have put upon you — and every black title to every black mark branded on every black soul that performed his wicked pleasure — are no more."
Harry saw Quirrell quickly fade to nothing. And Voldermort — his face a silent scream — was floated to the mirror, where he flattened against it till he was thinner than parchment — and hung there without going through.
"We have many things to talk about, you and I — Harry Potter."
"But I have only one last thing to say to you, Tom Riddle. You shall be defeated. And you shall DIE. Because you are evil and hateful and proud and selfish and spiteful and terrified — and petty. So let this drive you mad, Little Diddle: I know your EVERY desire — and that you are a fool — and that you never learned a simple truth that every child hears at Hogwarts — Draco Dormiens Nvnqvam Titillandvs"