Mirror

He hates the Mirror.

It's not an easy hate, like his hatred of Potter, nor a complex hate, like his hatred of his father. It's simply hate, pure and simple.

He knows why the hate is so strong. Part of the hate is for the Mirror, and the other part is for himself. He hates the Mirror for mocking him, but he hates himself more for his weakness.

He hates himself for returning, time and again, to see how the Mirror will taunt him. Every day it shows him something different, but every new scene is but a variation on a theme. And he hates how much he wants to see each scene, how he is afraid not to look- as if he would somehow miss something.

Every night, without fail, he's snuck out of his bed and out of the safety of his House's Common Room to creep through the castle until he's reached the correct room. He enters the room and carefully removes his winter cloak and scarf, and though he knows the Mirror will only show him an illusion, he desperately wants to look into the silvery depths of the Mirror and let the illusion live for just those few brief moments.

So he'll stand in front of it, once every night, to peer into the Mirror and watch as the little snippets of a possible future play out before his eyes.

~

They'll be in the middle of a large crowd. He'll mumble something under his breath about the abject stupidity of the current Minister of Magic during a long speech, and she'll cover her mouth with her hand and desperately try to stifle her giggles so that no one around them can hear her laughing. Her eyes will dance and she'll shake with silent laughter until he will be forced to put his arm around her so that she can lean on him for support.

~

He'll interrupt her as she works, slipping behind her as she sits at her desk to rub her back. She'll arch into his hands with that soft sigh that makes him somehow feel satisfied, and she'll roll her neck and abandon her work in favor of turning around and kissing him.

~

Sometimes, though, she won't let him interrupt her, and she'll grow frustrated at him when he won't leave her alone. Then her whole face will kindle into fury and he'll simply sit back and watch her temper rise and enjoy every minute of it. She will get upset when he tells her that she's beautiful when she's angry. He won't understand why she's angry about it.

~

She'll be getting ready for a party in some shimmy gown that whirls and floats about her, and he'll just stand in the doorway and watch her brush her hair out until it flows like liquid flame down her back. She'll turn around and meet his eyes, and she'll just look at him without saying anything. She'll quietly let him drape her shawl around her shoulders without her normal protestations that she's quite old enough to dress herself, thank you, when usually she'll snatch it from his fingers and tug it impatiently over her own shoulders.

~

He'll give her a necklace for her birthday, diamonds and pearls, and she'll touch it with awed fingers as though she's afraid it'll vanish before her eyes. She'll be nervous to wear it, worried over whether or not she'll somehow break it, and when he will put it gently around her neck, her eyes will meet his in the mirror before them, and he won't be able to shake free of their gaze.

~

For their first anniversary, she'll give him a small silver ring. Its band will be worn and thin, smooth with the wear of years, but she'll tell him that her father gave it to her when she was ten and she wants him to have it now. He won't want to take it from her, but she'll close his hand around it when he offers it back to her. She'll explain that her father was given the ring by his mother, who was given the ring by her father. She'll tell him that it'll be his until he gives it to their first son. And even though it's not quite his style, he'll find himself wearing the plain silver ring on the smallest finger of his right hand, and every time it catches his eye he'll wonder about having children and what it will be like to be a father.

~

She'll arrive back from a day out with her friends, and she'll be laughing and bright-eyed, and he'll feel a sudden stab of jealously over the fact that there are others that are able to make her happy. He'll pull her tight into his arms and kiss her and simply hold her, reassuring himself that she's come back to him, and she'll smile up into his outwardly-calm eyes and tell him that she wished he could have come with her. And that little knot of tension in his heart will loosen up a bit.

~

They'll give a formal party on their second anniversary, more for the benefit of his friends than hers. He'll know that she's nervous about being hostess to so many rich guests, so many powerful families, so many of the people that looked down on her family. But she'll put on a brave front, and he'll watch her glide gracefully through the party, greeting those who despised her with a polite smile and kind words of welcome. At the end of the night, she'll come up the stairs and move straight into his arms and weep relieved tears that her first formal party was a success, and he'll hold her and stroke her hair and tell her that she was beautiful and calm and that everything was perfect.

~

He'll rest his arm around her shoulder, hugging her close to him, and rest his other hand on the rounding of her belly. He'll be perfectly content to simply sit with her and wonder about being a father, listen to her even breathing as her head droops down against his neck as she drifts into sleep.

~

He'll be standing for a formal portrait with his family. He'll be nearly overcome with the memories of how much he hated this activity as a child, when his father was strict and merciless in his orders on what to wear and how to stand, and he won't be able to stop the comparison of himself as a father with his own father. But she'll be standing beside him as the artist paints, wearing a black velvet gown embroidered with gold, and he won't be able to keep from putting an arm around her waist. The children will be fidgeting in front of them, uncomfortable in formal robes and unhappy with having to stay still for so long. He'll have one hand resting on his son's shoulder, and his daughter will be holding her mother's hand and doing her level best to hex the painter without her wand.

~

Yes, he hates the Mirror, with its impressive scrollwork and backwards writing at the top. He hates himself for coming to stand like a lovesick fool in front of it, watching a future that has no hope of ever become reality. He hates knowing that she'll never be his; he hates knowing that he'll never be hers. He hates that the Mirror only offers him proof that he loved her. Loving her is dangerous.

So he turns to the door, shrugging his cloak over his shoulders and wrapping his scarf around his throat. He forces himself to leave without looking back at the Mirror- he has that much control over himself, at least- and shuts the door behind him firmly. No one is supposed to know that the Mirror of Erised is back at Hogwarts, after all. The Mirror can be dangerous.

Oh, it can be dangerous. He knows just how dangerous the Mirror can be.

He wraps his cloak around himself and begins the journey down from the high tower to his room in the dungeons. It is just before midnight, and the castle is still and dark. The moon is nearly fully, and though just yesterday thee grounds were blanketed with the first heavy snowfall of the winter, the clouds have moved on, so the sky is clear and dotted with silvery stars.

He walks quietly through the school quietly. Seven years of sneaking out past curfew has made this a typical experience; he has no real fear of being caught.

Because of the idiosyncracies of the castle's architecture, he is forced out into an open courtyard to cross over into the castle wing that leads to the dungeons.

She is crossing the same courtyard, her worn shoes slipping and sinking into the fresh-fallen snow. It makes small crunching noises under her shoes, and her worn cloak drags across the frozen top layer of snow.

He pauses, and then decides to continue. He steps out into the courtyard with a satisfying crunch of snow under his boots, and she jerks her head up and freezes in horror as she realizes that she's been caught.

He enjoys the way her cheeks seem rosy in the moonlight, the way her hair doesn't seem subdued at all even in the shadows of darkness. He carelessly strides toward her, knowing that he holds power over her. As he nears, he can see her pale fingers trembling as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"Weasley," he says flatly, and comes to a stop mere steps in front of her.

"M-malfoy," she manages, and his name is stuttered because she is shivering.

He deliberately takes another step forward. "What are you doing out this late?" he asks. "I should report you."

"I f-fell asleep," she says, eyes liquid and terrified. "I didn't m-mean to, I promise."

He snorts in disbelief, and stares down at her. She is shaking, still in her uniform and obviously unprepared to be standing in the middle of a snowy courtyard at night. Her cloak is tattered and worn thin, and he guesses that even when it was new it wouldn't have done much good against the elements. He takes another step forward. "That was stupid of you," he tells her.

She is fighting not to take another step back; he can see the struggle in her eyes. "P-please, Malfoy, let me go t-to bed. It's late and I'm c-cold. Take points or give me a det-tention, just let me go inside."

Wordlessly, he reaches for the silver and green scarf around his neck and unwinds it. He steps forward and she does give into her fear and takes a halting step back away from him. Wondering exactly what horrors she thinks he can do to her with a scarf, of all things, he hooks the scarf around her neck and tosses the ends around her. He wishes he could dare slide his hand under her hair and against her neck to pull her hair free of the scarf, but he isn't yet that brave.

"Get to your common room," he commands, feeling the cool breath of winter air against his neck. "It's past curfew." And he steps off the path that's been tramped down in the snow to let her pass.

She stares at him in disbelief, and one hand comes up to touch the scarf around her neck. He grits his teeth; she is as moved by the gift the scarf as her Mirror-self was by diamonds and pearls. But she moves past him all the same, all wide eyes and pale skin, and she is nearly across the courtyard before she glances back at him and whispers, "Thanks."

And he stands in the courtyard and watches her move quickly and quietly into the shadows of the hallway, fleeing back to Gryffindor Tower. Then he turns away from her and nearly runs into the figure that had somehow also entered the courtyard.

"Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore says, voice soft. "That was nicely done."

He glares at the headmaster and shoves his hands into pockets concealed by his cloak. "So?"

Dumbledore says nothing; he merely stares down at him until he feels as though he were eleven years old again. "The Mirror will be moved tomorrow, Draco," the headmaster says after a moment. There is a faint tone of regret in his voice. "You should not have found it in the first place."

"I figured you didn't want any of us to know about it," he says, trying to ignore the sudden plummet of his heart at the news. It was better this way, he tries to tell himself. No more mooning over the Mirror like a lovestruck Hufflepuff.

"Indeed." Blue eyes regarded him over the tops of spectacles. "I believe that it is after hours, Mister Malfoy."

"Yeah, I know. Detention and house points. I'll go back to Slytherin," he says, and moves past the headmaster. But he has gone only a few steps before his name is spoken.

"Draco." Dumbledore is calm, his expression serene. "The Mirror shows only what you truly want. It is not impossible to turn what the Mirror shows you into reality. I am removing the Mirror, but it may still be possible for you to gain what you sought within it."

He wonders if it's true that the headmaster knows everything that happens in Hogwarts, and then wonders if Dumbledore knows what he's seen in the mirror. The thought is nearly enough to make his blood run cold, but still, he can't stop himself from asking, "Headmaster?"

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows.

"How do I make it come true?"

The old wizard regards him for a long moment. "That, Mister Malfoy, depends on what you see in the Mirror." After a pregnant pause, a faint smile finally softens the headmaster's stern face. "However, what I witnessed tonight makes me believe that you have already started down the correct path."

He stares at him for a long moment, and then nods his head curtly in thanks and turns to return to his room in the Slytherin's dungeon.

It was something to think about.