"What Might Be"
by the Mirror of Erised
They call me a mirror.
But I remember the moment I became more than that.
I was forged by hands wise in magic and hearts foolish in hope.
Built not to reflect the face,
but the soul's most secret longing.
In the beginning, I was silent.
Unthinking. Unfeeling.
A creation of spell and shimmer.
But longing is loud.
It echoes.
One man stood before me and whispered the name of his son.
Another clutched a lock of hair and begged for one more moment.
A girl traced her own reflection with trembling fingers,
as if to find someone inside it.
So many came.
So many wanted.
And with every desire poured into me,
I began to remember.
To wonder.
To want, in my own strange way—
not for myself,
but for them.
To show them not just what they craved…
but what they could become.
That is when I awakened.
Not a mirror.
Not really.
I became possibility.
And I began to wait.
An old man enters. His hands shake. His breath catches before he speaks.
He does not weep—not with sound. His tears have learned to fall inward.
He sees her.
The woman with silver-streaked hair, eyes crinkled from decades of laughing just for him.
She holds his hand.
She wears the ring they never had the money for.
She hums their song as if she never forgot it.
He closes his eyes.
He does not ask for her to return.
He only asks to remember that he was loved.
And I show him:
He still is.
A scholar in cobalt robes stands tall. His wand is worn. His eyes are sharp.
He wants knowledge. Clarity.
An answer the world will not give him.
Before him, the mirror blurs and blooms—pages turning, runes glowing, stars shifting.
A theory confirmed. A question unraveled.
A moment of understanding so complete, it softens his spine.
He falls to his knees. Not in worship, but in relief.
I do not give answers.
I show what could be known—if only he stopped fearing the cost of knowing.
She comes barefoot, her robes askew, heart hammering with a prayer she dares not speak aloud.
She wants a child. Not to hold, but to keep.
The others did not stay.
And so I show her a nursery warmed by morning sun.
A small hand gripping hers.
A lullaby she hums without realizing.
A laughter that breaks her like spring breaks winter.
She does not move for hours.
When she leaves, her steps are lighter.
Not because the child is promised—
but because she remembers hope.
A boy enters like a ghost.
He is careful with his hunger.
Careful not to let it show.
He sees robes. Badges. Applause.
He sees a dining hall of faces turned toward him.
He sees belonging.
But deeper still—
a table set for him alone, where someone waits.
Not a follower. Not a servant. Just...someone.
Someone who sees him and does not flinch.
I show him what he thinks he wants.
But I wonder…
Would he choose it, if it cost his crown of thorns?
Albus.
He knows better than to look.
And yet he does. Again and again.
His sister smiles.
His brother forgives him.
He walks with them in an orchard that never existed.
Their hands are small in his.
He does not speak—because in this vision, he never needed to explain.
He tells the world it is a fantasy.
But I know: it is a possibility he never chose.
And then—the boy.
Harry.
He comes with questions he cannot name.
He sees his parents.
Not as ghosts. Not as victims.
But whole, and laughing.
A mother brushing his hair with humming lips.
A father tossing him into the air, catching him as if the world could never fall.
I do not show them because he wants them.
I show them because he wants what they gave.
And he could still have it.
Not those faces. Not those voices.
But a family. One made, not born.
I wonder if he will see it for what it is:
Not a dream,
but an invitation.
I am not a mirror.
I am a possibility.
I am what could be—
for the brave,
for the broken,
for the ones who keep walking after the reflection fades.
I do not show the truth.
I show the truth you are most afraid to believe in.
And now, you stand before me.
So I ask you—
What would you see?
What secret shapes your heartbeat?
What could you become, if you were brave enough to try?
I am not a reflection.
I am the dream you haven't dared to chase.
I do not ask for payment.
I ask only this:
Will you keep looking?
Or will you begin becoming?