Whenever he fantasised of visiting the grave, Albus pictured himself armed with a bouquet of bluebells. Although she’d never felt the softness of their petals, they had been her favourite flowers.

It was actually the painting Ariana had loved, if one had to break it down to the bare bones of things: a painting done by their mother, Kendra, when she’d still been cheerful enough to fiddle with her paints. How the bluebells moved on the wall of a darkened room that was ironically pink, forever tickled by a breeze trapped within the canvas. Once, when Albus had been alone with her, coaxing her to eat the fried egg he’d made, he could’ve sworn he saw the flowers reflected in the enthralled, shining eyes.

“Or perhaps,� he remarked to a non-existent audience, as all the portraits were sleeping, “it was just the colour of her irises.�

“Mmmpf?� mumbled a bleary-eyed Dexter Fortescue from his left. “What was that?�

“Nothing,� said Albus. “Good morning, Dexter.�

Dexter didn’t respond for a while, his attention entirely caught by a succession of deep, loud yawns. Meanwhile, Albus settled down to read the Prophet. He’d already finished skimming the front page when Dexter coughed.

“Yes, Dexter?�

“May I know what that is?�

Without looking up, Albus answered, “It’s a mirror.�

“Yes, yes, it’s a mirror, all right. But what is it doing here? Surely you haven’t fallen prey to vanity at this age?�

“I daresay you’ll find that vanity has always been a failing in my character.�

“Pah!�

“Or have you simply decided to ignore the flamboyance of my sartorial style, Dexter?� Albus continued, now amused. “The buckles of my shoes? My complete excitement over the fact that they have a Chocolate Frog Card featuring my exploits?�

“Well, you have achieved a lot in life, Albus,� Dexter said. “You deserve to be on a Frog Card.�

“But surely, I’m under no obligation to wear a velvet cloak that sweeps majestically over the ground as I-�

“Arrgh!� cried Dexter irritably. “Don’t lead me astray. Now that I’ve observed it more closely, I can tell that is no ordinary mirror there!�

“It isn’t.� Albus paused for a second; he thought of the certainty that somebody was hunting for the Philosopher’s Stone, of the possibility of who it could be, of the young boy who must ward him off, and the role the mirror was to play. It was a long story, a secret only he knew the full details of. “It is enchanted,� he said finally.

“Enchanted to conceal something?� Dexter asked with interest. “All I can see upon its surface is fog.�

Before he could stop himself, he glanced at the mirror. It flashed something back at him, clear as Veritaserum. He blinked. Bluebells.

Don’t you dare speak her name again, threatened a young boy’s gruff voice inside his head.

“Precisely, Dexter,� he replied, eyes closed. “It's enchanted to conceal something.�

To his relief, the banter between him and his predecessor turned to other things. It was why Albus was fonder of Dexter than the others; the latter had a habit of shifting his thoughts whenever it was required of him. He pried, but only enough. He knew when to give up. As Albus floated the copy towards the portrait so that the former headmaster could read it, the room became quiet once more, and his attention returned to the mirror.

The Mirror of Erised. The words swirled across his eyes. Can I do it? Can I force the boy to face it when I cannot?

Yes, he could. That was the only way. Harry couldn’t afford to wait for Albus to overcome his personal dilemmas. He covered the mirror with a cloth woven from air and left the office, bidding Dexter a good day.

At some point after lunch, he found himself struggling with an immense desire to pay his brother a visit. All attempts made to quell it failed.

It was quite late in the evening when Albus reached The Hog’s Head. The clientele was as colourful as ever: drunken, rough wizards who could barely string two words together, an old witch who had silvery grey hair that fell to the ground, a few young men who were gambling with Gobstones, their voices filling up the air with much shouting and swearing. Perusing all of them under two greying, bushy eyebrows, was the barman.

“Good evening, Aberforth,� Albus wished him.

The barman frowned in reply. He didn’t seem very pleased to see Albus there. “What brings you here?�

“Thirst.�

Aberforth’s bright blue eyes didn’t waver as he appraised Albus’ answer. Albus, on his part, took a stool, and folding his hands on the bar, politely waited.

“What do you want?�

“A pint of mead would be incredibly nice.�

With a gruff nod, Aberforth turned away. Albus twiddled his thumbs as he waited. Since the faint hum emanating from his throat was lost in the noise of the crowd, his absent-minded observation of his hands almost gave off the impression that they were performing some complicated ritual. He glanced up only when a lidless copper tankard was plonked without ceremony in front of him, its content almost spilling over. His gracious bow was duly ignored. There was no further conversation.

Later, when it was time to leave, he put three Galleons on the counter and got up to leave, but his wrist was pinned to the wood by a firm hand.

“Your drink,� said Aberforth, “cost less than that.�

They stared at each other, and Albus was the first to break away. He pulled one of the three gold coins back with his finger. “My mistake,� he murmured with a smile.

Aberforth let him go. As Albus turned to leave, he heard two distinct clinks issuing from his pocket. “Your change,� he heard the barman explain.

Albus closed his eyes.

“You weren’t the only stubborn one in the family, Albus,� Aberforth continued. “You ought to know by now that I will never need you or your particular brand of familial love.�

A faint nod was the only response he returned. You’re right as always, my brother, he thought before the thought itself could be lost to the unsympathetic night. You are.

If only he’d realised that sooner.

But I have no right to regret.

“I try not to, I try.�

I am not trying enough.

How could he when his remorse itself had become so tangible? There it was at his office, so cold and balefully erect under the veil. The room seemed to be contracting, sucked in gradually by the open presence of his secret shame. He could destroy it if he wanted to with a single jab of his wand. Instead, he carried it down, all the way to an unused classroom near the library.

Then, he forced himself to focus on other things, all of which were connected to Harry, and to his self-machinated misfortune, the Mirror. Too soon, Hagrid was refusing to meet his eye; too soon, Madam Pince was telling an interested headmaster which books Harry and his friends were reading; too soon, he was sending the boy his father’s cloak. If Harry was anything like James had been, he’d use the present for a midnight stroll.

And Harry was indeed like James, at least where it mattered for the moment.

The night Harry left his dormitory hidden under the Invisibility Cloak, Albus was sitting in his office, awake and alert. “The Gryffindor tower’s entrance opened on its own,� reported a portrait.

He thanked the portrait, stood up and casting a Disillusionment Charm upon himself, got on the circular stone staircase. Within seconds, he was stepping out on the third floor, where the library was also located. He waved his wand and made sure all the rooms were locked on that floor, save for the library and the one where he was headed.

There, he waited, a seamless part of the piled up desks and chairs.

After what felt like twenty minutes, a high-pitched scream issued from the direction of the library. He congratulated himself on how satisfactorily loud it was, having placed the charm on the books earlier in the evening. Before long, Harry was hurrying inside in an effort to escape Severus and Argus’ clutches.

Then Harry was looking at the Mirror. And Harry, bless his untainted soul, was devouring the sight of the family he had lost a decade ago.

Albus couldn’t breathe; he wanted to leave right away, but he had to make sure the boy didn’t get into trouble. So he stayed, eyes averted.

“I’ll come back,� Harry whispered at last.

The Mirror was covered yet again; Albus got his respite.

The next night wasn’t easier. Ronald Weasley came with Harry, and Albus watched the two of them argue over who deserved more time with what they desperately wanted to be real, but were mere illusions. As soon as he’d left, he raised his wand to cast the same spell he’d been using to create the veil, but he wasn’t quick enough.

Albus Dumbledore was acutely aware of how people thought of him. They called him one of the best and bravest wizards of all time, a worthy Gryffindor; they said he was the only one Voldemort feared. But that is how one is remembered: his deeds, his achievements, the difference he makes. No human being, however, can be grasped in full. No human being wants to be grasped in full. What defines a person in the eyes of others is a summation.

The summation of Albus Dumbledore hardly did him justice. He wasn’t entirely brave. He wasn’t entirely fearless, for when Albus Dumbledore faced the Mirror of Erised, his knees positively trembled.

Oh, it hardly told him anything new. Unlike Harry, who was assaulted by the sudden appearance of his dead parents, and Ronald, to whom the false promise of an exciting and glorious future had been given, Albus saw what he acutely understood was irretrievable: kind, naive, expectant bluebell eyes.

They said he was forgiven.

And that was how he’d known it was all a mirage.

After two nights of nearly getting caught, Albus had thought Harry wouldn’t return. Besides, hadn’t the boy seen enough? It was time to pack the Mirror up and send it through the trapdoor.

But then, the sound of quickly approaching footsteps could be heard. To his amazement, Harry was back. Still camouflaged by the powerful Disillusionment Charm he’d been using for three nights in a row, he quickly moved away from the Mirror, determined to give Harry his space. When he noticed the hunger in the boy’s eyes as he settled down on the ground, ready to spend a whole night there, he halted.


He was taken a hundred years back.

The punch on his face had been so powerful his nose broke with an audible crack. The agony, however, was not enough to blur the perception of his eyes; he saw Aberforth, eyes filled with tears and anger and hatred, and above all, loss. A loss of such magnitude that nothing earthly could compensate for it.

It was there, that same craving, that same ache, in Harry’s bright green’s eyes now.

It was there in his, too, though unseen by anybody.

The only difference between the three of them was that Harry could be still be saved from the inevitable, unyielding despair that had claimed Albus and his brother. And he had to save the boy, before he had to be accountable for one more ruined life.

Removing the charm from his body, he said in a firm voice that betrayed nothing, “So, back again, Harry?�**

Harry whipped around and upon finding Albus sitting on a desk, stammered, “I-I didn’t see you, Sir.�

“Strange how short-sighted being invisible can make you,� he said to the boy amicably as he too sat down on the floor. “So, you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.�

Then, he was asking the boy if he knew what the Mirror did, coaxing and guiding him until he said, “It shows us what we want. Whatever we want.�

Did it?

Once upon a time, Albus would have agreed. Now, he was too old and had seen and felt too much to realise it wasn’t that simple. “It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts,� he explained. “It will give us neither knowledge nor truth.� He reminded himself of the countless hours he himself had wasted before he understood the illusion of the mirror’s magic, and added, “The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.�

There. He had done it. He had done the right thing. His head lighter than it had been for days, he said, “Now why don’t you put that admirable cloak back on and run off to bed?�

Harry was standing up now, his expression one of confusion but acceptance. “Sir?� he spoke up again. “Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?�

Albus encouraged him to go on.

“What do you see when you look in the Mirror?� Harry asked him.

Now, could he answer that? Perhaps, it was time. He felt prepared, after all.


*


“What would you like for your birthday?�

She didn’t reply for some time; her attention was fully occupied by the soup she was slurping rather audibly. Albus coughed. “Ariana?�

Her eyes were bright when she looked up.

“We will have a birthday party,� he said. Even to himself, his voice didn’t sound comforting. He tried to smile.

“Soup,� she said, “too hot.�

“Ah.� He raised his wand. For a few moments, they watched the wand-tip siphon off the steam rising from the bowl. The ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall was too loud, Albus thought.

“Socks,� mumbled Ariana.

“Hmm?�

“I want socks.�

“It’s summer.�

“Thick ones. Made of wool.�

Once more, he began to object, but she’d already returned to her soup. He waited for her to finish without speaking any further, his hands unconsciously balled into fists, thumbs rubbing up and down against the index fingers. His breathing became easier only when Aberforth bustled into the kitchen, smelling of grass, dirt and goat.

He hated himself for that, even though no amount of resentment could stop him from leaving the tiny room as fast as he could. Gellert Grindelwald was waiting in the study, where the air wasn’t so thick. Indeed, all thoughts of socks and birthday cake dissipated the moment he saw his friend.

There was so much to do with Gellert, so much, and they kept Albus on the alert, incinerating the toxic dullness of his family life. He was blindfolded by youth and ambition, and he wouldn’t realise how far he had sunk into Gellert’s spell until that one night when his illusion was blown asunder. Suddenly, he and Aberforth were arguing over his impossible dreams to expose the wizarding world to the Muggles, and Gellert was joining in, and their wands were out and curses were ricocheting off the wall. Albus’ brain had never worked so quickly, yet for all his learning and speed, he failed to stop the duel when he saw Ariana appear in the room, looking bewildered, and he didn’t know from which wand-tip the deathly red beam had flown; he only knew it was going to hit her. And it did.

*


“I?� he said to the boy. He didn’t have to look at the Mirror for confirmation before answering. “I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks.�