The Mirror of Erised

"Yes, because that wasn't entirely obvious," Harry replied with humour, ignoring the pain in his head.

He rubbed his forehead, and that was when he noticed a small note lying on the ground beside him.

Pulling off the strange cloak, he reached down to pick up the letter. Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen before were the following words:

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

Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to you.

Harry stared at the note, puzzled.

Dumbledore's handwriting, Tom commented mentally, curiosity evident in his thoughts.

Harry frowned. "How curious. I suppose my father was quite close to Dumbledore then?"

There was no answer.

"Well then..." He smiled. "I know exactly what I'm going to do with this."

The remainder of the day, Harry spent exploring the castle under the guise of his invisibility cloak. The ability to roam the castle uninhibited was...freeing, and he quite liked it.

The first thing he had done, of course, was visit the restricted section in the library. First years couldn't get passes, so Harry hadn't had the chance to check it out yet, much to his disappointment and Tom's ire. After scanning the enormous shelves with an huge grin on his face, he went about looking for a copy of Magick Moste Evile, which, to Harry, was quite legendary at this point. Tom said it was an essential reference book, and among several of his housemates it was well known as the one book their parents had that they weren't allowed to touch. When Harry finally located it he was thrilled to find that not only was is adequately creepy and mysterious looking, it was also gigantic. It would take him ages to read through it all! A worthy challenge indeed.

The restricted section of the library was a little like heaven to him. So much knowledge gathered in one place, and all of it, to varying degrees, forbidden. He blamed it on Tom – he got a certain thrill from knowing things he wasn't supposed to know. Yes, definitely Tom's fault.

What had him especially pleased, though, was that being able to access the restriction section would allow him to get started on his project. Well, it wasn't so much a project as the beginnings of a vague-ish ambition. The history books he'd gorged himself on had taught him about many great wizards and witches, but the most data had been collected on Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and Voldemort, and he had noticed something very troubling about these three characters. Grindelwald was a dark wizard, Dumbledore was a light wizard, and Voldemort, again, dark. Light, dark, simple, cut and dry. Where did these distinctions come from? What was the difference between a light wizard and a dark one? He figured it must have something to do with the type of magic one practices; light or dark. But why not practice both? What stopped people from becoming exceptionally skilled at both light and dark magic? He hadn't found a clear answer on the question, and Tom refused to comment, so he had come to a decision; as long as he had no reason to believe it wasn't possible, he'd endeavour to master both light and dark magic. Tom seemed very amused and somewhat pleased by this conviction, and had suggested that Harry begin his studies in dark magic on his own time, seeing as he would learn plenty of light magic in school. That's where the copy of Magick Moste Evile came in. It was a shame he couldn't take it with him to read in bed, but he'd resolved to come back to take a look at it regularly. Perhaps Thursday nights.

After leaving the library, he roamed around aimlessly for a while, eyes wide as he observed the vastness that was Hogwarts Castle. Despite the fact that he was in an enormous magical castle full of moving staircases, living paintings, and secret passageways, though, his expedition was rather eventless until he found himself in what looked like a disused classroom. He'd deduced as much from the dark shapes of rickety old desks and chairs which were piled against the walls, which seemed to be covered in a thin layer of dust. There was nothing particularly special about the room...except for one thing. And what a thing it was. Propped against the wall facing him was something that very clearly didn't belong there; something clean, and bright, and grand. It was an enormous mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate golden frame, standing on two clawed feet. Carved starkly along the top were the words:

'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi'

Curiosity getting the better of him, he took a step in front of the mirror, expecting to see nothing, as he was still under his cloak, but his eyes widened as he observed a reflection. His eyes widened even further when he realized it was not his reflection that he saw – it was his father's. Indeed, he looked just like he did in the monument in Godric's Hollow, except...Harry gasped. It wasn't his father; it was him. He recognized his eyes – no one had eyes quite like him; a bright, almost ghostly green that nearly glowed in the dark. It was him in the mirror, maybe a decade or two older, standing just where Harry was now...

Wait, no, that wasn't right. He wasn't standing; he was floating. It was then that Harry realized that in the mirror, the classroom he was in was filled to the ceiling with water, his older self just floating there with a serene smile on his face. He could see how pale his skin was; his lips were blue. But he was still smiling, and his smile was perhaps the happiest, most content smile he'd ever seen on his face.

Then, slowly, his older self began to open the hand he had been keeping balled into a fist at his side. As he did so, a wispy stream of blood began to stain the water, dancing into shapes of delicate crimson flowers as it did. It was then that Harry saw that his reflection's finger was sliced open, and bleeding profusely. He began to shake, as his mind traveled backward, to a memory, a memory lost in the days before he understood what he saw in his dreams; the days before he knew the name Tom Riddle. He remembered – the knife, the blood on his finger, the bathtub, the water, so cold and numbing and welcoming. Why was he remembering this? He'd almost forgotten. Almost. It was his one secret, the one thing he had never told Tom. And that's when he panicked. Tom was with him. Tom was always with him – Tom saw exactly what he saw, and his secret was no longer a secret.

Frantically, he turned away from the mirror, his heart beating at an incredible pace.

What was that? What was he seeing? Why would the mirror show him something like that?

He glanced cautiously over his shoulder, staring at the words carved on the mirror frame.

'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi'

'I show not your face but your hearts desire'

All the breath escaped his lungs. He didn't understand. He didn't understand at all.

He didn't. He didn't want that. That wasn't what his heart desired. What it did desire, he had no idea, but surely it wasn't that.

Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his breathing. It was just a mirror. Just an image. Just a trick. Just a magic trick.

Once his breathing was steady once again, he steeled himself and said, "It's nothing, Tom. Nothing."

And with that, he fled the room, never to return.

....

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