The deep, dreamless sleep was a rare gift, one Echo cherished. It was a blank canvas, a brief respite from the constant data streams and emotional fluctuations of his waking hours. So, when a gentle but insistent rapping began to sound through the Room of Requirement, a low, rhythmic thudding against the heavy oak door, Echo's black hair stirred with a faint, annoyed grey.
He groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. "Five more minutes," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, a futile protest against the encroaching morning. The rapping, however, only grew louder, more persistent.
Sniffles, disturbed by the noise, let out a tiny, indignant squeak from his perch on Echo's chest, burrowing further into the robes. Shimmer, the Demiguise, manifested for a fleeting second on the bookshelf, its large eyes reflecting a shared exasperation before it vanished again.
"Echo?" a familiar, calm voice resonated from beyond the door, a voice that, even in its quietude, carried an undeniable authority. "Mr. Echo, I assure you, this is quite important. I apologize for the early intrusion, but there is something I believe you ought to see."
Echo's black hair flared with a wave of deep, irritated purple. Dumbledore. Of course. Just when he was finally getting some decent, uninterrupted rest, he pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his limbs feeling heavy and disinclined to move. He swung his legs off the bed, a soft thud as his feet hit the rug, and slowly shuffled towards the door. He pulled it open, his face a mask of profound, sleep-addled annoyance. His purple hair, still pulsating with his irritation, was a stark contrast to Dumbledore's usual serene demeanor. The Headmaster stood there, his long, flowing robes immaculate, his blue eyes twinkling with an almost maddening cheerfulness, completely unfazed by Echo's evident displeasure.
"Headmaster," Echo grumbled, his voice flat. Do you even know what time it is? I'll tell you, it's 3 in the morning. I thought holidays meant I got to, like, actually sleep in. For once, I was hoping to stay in bed until, maybe, noon." He gestured vaguely towards the empty corridors. The whole castle is dead. Couldn't whatever 'important' thing you wanna show me wait until a more normal hour?"
Dumbledore merely smiled, a gentle, knowing smile that did little to soothe Echo's frayed nerves. "Ah, Mr. Echo, I quite understand your predicament. However, the hands of time, much like certain magical discoveries, rarely adhere to our personal schedules. What I have to show you, I believe, warrants this… premature awakening." His eyes twinkled with a hint of something intriguing. "And trust me, Mr. Echo, I believe you will find this far more stimulating than any dream, however pleasant."
Echo sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy black hair, which now had streaks of grumpy purple. "Fine," he relented, his voice still heavy with sleep. "Lead the way, Headmaster. But if this involves singing house-elves or a surprise transfiguration into a newt, I'm going back to bed."
Dumbledore chuckled, a soft, warm sound that filled the quiet corridor. "Nothing quite so... aquatic, Mr. Echo, I assure you. Although a newt's perspective can sometimes offer valuable insights." He turned, his long strides effortlessly leading the way down the dimly lit hallway.
Echo followed, his mind slowly shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. His purple hair began to calm, fading back to its thoughtful black. He wondered what could possibly be so important, so urgent, that Dumbledore would rouse him before dawn. A new dark wizard? A breach of the castle's ancient wards? Or perhaps, given Dumbledore's penchant for the theatrical, a particularly complex new flavor of sherbet lemon.
They moved through the silent castle, their footsteps echoing softly. The morning chill was beginning to seep in, painting the high windows with a pale, pearlescent light. Echo noted their direction—away from the common areas, towards a less-frequented wing, one that housed older, seldom-used classrooms and forgotten storage rooms. His black hair flickered with a curious blue. This wasn't the usual path to the Headmaster's office or to any of the places where major magical events typically unfolded.
Finally, Dumbledore stopped before a large, unadorned wooden door, almost indistinguishable from the others in the long corridor. There were no intricate carvings, no glowing runes, no obvious magical wards. It looked utterly mundane, almost deliberately so.
Dumbledore turned, his blue eyes fixed on Echo, a rare, profound seriousness in their depths. "Mr. Echo," he began, his voice a low, almost reverent whisper, "what lies beyond this door is a mystery that has puzzled Headmasters and scholars for centuries. It reveals itself only when it chooses, and only to those it deems worthy of its secrets." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "And tonight, it has chosen you."
He reached out, his hand hovering over the simple doorknob. "Are you ready, Mr. Echo? To look upon a reflection unlike any you have ever seen?"
Echo's black hair pulsed with a deep, inquisitive indigo. His mind, now fully awake, raced through every magical artifact and legend he knew, but nothing fit Dumbledore's cryptic description. His usual flat expression was tinged with genuine curiosity, a rare sight. "I am ready, Headmaster," he said, his voice quiet, filled with an almost primal anticipation. "I am always ready for new data."
Dumbledore nodded, then slowly, deliberately, turned the doorknob. With a soft click, the door swung inward, revealing not a room, but a cavernous, dimly lit chamber. In the very center of the chamber, bathed in an otherworldly, soft, glowing mist, stood a mirror. It was magnificent, ancient, and impossibly tall, reaching almost to the high ceiling. Its ornate golden frame was intricately carved with symbols Echo didn't recognize, symbols that seemed to shift and shimmer in the faint light. The mirror itself wasn't reflecting the room around it; instead, its surface glowed with a soft, ethereal light, like a window into another world.
Echo, his black hair still pulsing with curiosity, turned back to Dumbledore, a hint of exasperation in his hollow eyes. "Headmaster," he began, his voice flat with a renewed surge of irritation. Seriously, you woke me up at three in the morning just to show me my own reflection in a giant mirror? What's the big deal with that?"
Dumbledore chuckled softly, his blue eyes twinkling even more brightly now. "Ah, Mr. Echo, but this is no ordinary mirror." He gestured towards the shimmering surface. "This, my dear boy, is the Mirror of Erised."
Echo's indigo hair pulsed, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face. "The Mirror of Erised? What's so special about a mirror with a backwards name?"
"Erised, when read backward," Dumbledore explained patiently, a gentle smile on his lips, spells 'desire.' It shows us the deepest, most desperate longing of our hearts. It's powerful and sometimes dangerous. It's driven people crazy with its appeal because it shows them what they want but can't have."
Echo stared at the mirror, then back at Dumbledore, his expression unreadable. "My deepest desire," he mused, a faint, troubled frown creasing his brow. "I'm not even sure what that is anymore. Maybe just something constant. Or the answer to how the universe ends. But why, Headmaster, did you bring me here? And at this insane hour?"
Dumbledore's smile softened, losing some of its earlier twinkle, replaced by a profound understanding. "Mr. Echo, you've been through a lot this past year."
"That's the understatement of the century," Echo quipped, a sarcastic edge to his voice. His black hair flared with a momentary flash of cynical purple.
"Indeed," Dumbledore conceded, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "You've fought many battles, both outside and inside. Battles for your life, battles for who you are, battles to get back what was taken from you. And each time, you've worked really hard to fix things, even with your amazing friends helping. But the fight's still going on, isn't it? You're still... off-balance. And maybe," he gestured to the mirror, "seeing what you really want, right there in front of you, might help you figure out things you didn't even know you were missing."
Echo turned his gaze back to the mirror, a long silence stretching between them. Finally, he looked at Dumbledore. "What do you see, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled once more. "Me? Oh, I see myself with a thick pair of woolly socks."
Echo's purple hair blazed with disbelief. "Poppy cock," he stated flatly.
Dumbledore blinked. "What, Mr. Echo?"
"I said, 'Poppy cock,'" Echo repeated, his voice firm and utterly convinced. "You are definitely not seeing socks."
"And what, pray tell, do you assume I see in the Mirror of Erised, Mr. Echo?" Dumbledore asked, a faint, challenging smile on his lips.
Echo stared at the mirror, then back at Dumbledore, his purple hair shifting to a thoughtful indigo. "Given your past and your well-documented emotional suppression, Headmaster, I would surmise you are likely seeing your entire family, happily reunited once more. Or, perhaps," he paused, a mischievous glint entering his hollow eyes, "you're seeing yourself in your younger, more… passionate years, being, and I quote, 'laid out' by your old flame, Gellert Grindelwald."
Dumbledore's eyes, which had been twinkling moments before, snapped wide with genuine shock. His jaw dropped, and he took an involuntary step backward. "How in the bloody hell do you know that name, Mr. Echo?!" he blurted out, his voice utterly devoid of its usual calm, laced with pure, unadulterated astonishment and a hint of panic.
Echo's indigo hair pulsed with a triumphant, knowing blue. "Oh, that? Well, Headmaster, in my pursuit of a deeper understanding of the art of Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall and I have spent a considerable amount of time together after-session tea. And during these… informal gatherings, we talk. About school, about life, about friends… and, occasionally, about when you, Headmaster, are inebriated with her and regal all of your woes to her, then proceed to weep copiously on her lap." Echo offered a reassuring, if slightly unsettling, smile. "But don't worry, Headmaster. Professor McGonagall is very discreet. She never delved into any of the more… raunchy details. Besides the 'laid out' part, of course."
Dumbledore, still wide-eyed with shock, stared at Echo, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. His customary composure had utterly vanished, replaced by an expression of profound, almost comical mortification. His silver hair seemed to droop slightly, and his usually twinkling eyes were dull with abject horror. "Minerva told you what, Mr. Echo?" he finally managed, his voice a strained whisper. "And she… she certainly did not discuss my… my lamentable condition when inebriated? Or… or the specifics of my past indiscretions?"
Echo, ever unperturbed, merely shrugged, his blue hair pulsing with a serene, almost innocent honesty. "Oh, no, Headmaster. Not the lamentable condition, per se. More of the 'copious weeping on her lap' aspect. She found it quite… endearing if a bit annoying after a few dozen times. She needed someone to vent to, and I was willing to give my ear." He paused, his hollow eyes fixed on Dumbledore's shell-shocked face. "And as for the indiscretions, she merely described them as 'youthful follies involving a dark wizard and an ill-advised blood pact.' The 'laid out' part was my own inference, given the context."
Dumbledore closed his eyes, a pained groan escaping him. He ran a trembling hand over his face. "Merlin's beard, Minerva," he muttered under his breath, then opened his eyes, fixing Echo with a look that was a desperate plea. "Mr. Echo, I implore you, let us never speak of this again. To anyone. Ever. Consider it a… a matter of utmost national security. For the good of the wizarding world, even."
Echo nodded slowly, his blue hair still shimmering with quiet amusement. "As you wish, Headmaster. Though I do believe Professor McGonagall finds your moments of vulnerability quite… instructive, but if you ask me, you need to get some help and get over that man."
Dumbledore merely waved a dismissive, almost frantic hand. "The mirror, Mr. Echo! Let us return to the mirror!" He took a deep, shuddering breath, attempting to regain some semblance of his usual gravitas, though a faint, lingering blush still stained his cheeks. "Now, if you would, Mr. Echo, please step before the Mirror of Erised. Let us see what profound desire it reveals for you."
Echo turned, his gaze slowly drifting towards the magnificent mirror. He stepped forward, his footsteps barely audible in the hushed chamber, until he stood directly before its shimmering surface. His black hair, a thoughtful indigo just moments before, began to pulse with a curious, almost expectant silver. He peered into the depths of the Mirror of Erised, bracing himself for whatever profound, hidden desire it might reveal. At first, there was nothing. Just a swirling, ethereal mist, formless and indistinct. Echo frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. More cryptic nonsense, he thought, a familiar wave of frustration rising within him. Seriously? His silver hair darkened to a dull, confused grey.
But then, slowly, a faint image began to coalesce within the mist. It was blurry, out of focus, like a half-remembered dream. He strained his eyes, trying to make sense of the shifting shapes. A familiar setting? A classroom? A laboratory? No. As the image sharpened, a cold knot of dread began to form in his stomach. He saw himself, but not the self he inhabited now. This was his old body, thin and pale, lying in a hospital bed. Around him, a different group of faces. His old family. They were smiling and laughing, their faces beaming with warmth that felt like cruel mockery. He saw their hands, gentle and loving, touching his old self, stroking his hair, holding his hand. It was an image of pure, uncomplicated happiness, a family whole and joyful.
But Echo wasn't smiling. His face, reflected in the mirror, was a mask of pure terror. His hollow eyes, usually so devoid of overt emotion, were wide with a horrifying realization. No way, a silent scream echoed in his mind. This isn't it. This can't be what I want.
He staggered backward, away from the mirror, his breath catching in his throat. Tears, hot and furious, streamed down his face, blurring the horrific image even further. "No!" he choked out, his voice a raw, desperate whisper. "This isn't it! This is fake!"
His purple hair flared wildly, streaking with an angry crimson. He backed away further, shaking his head, denying the truth that was slowly, inexorably, becoming clearer. "Lies!" he shouted, his voice rising, echoing through the chamber. "All lies!"
But the more he refused, the fiercer he denied, the clearer the picture became. The smiles of his old family solidified, their laughter seemed to ring in the silent room, and his old self, healthy and loved, seemed to beckon to him. The joy on their faces was so vivid, so real, that it twisted his gut with terrible, agonizing pain.
He fell backward, stumbling over something unseen, and scrambled away, desperate to escape the horrifying truth. "Make it stop!" he screamed, his hands flying up to cover his eyes, as if that could block out the image. "Stop!" His hand, flailing blindly, closed around a loose stone on the cold floor. He clutched it, his knuckles white, and with a guttural roar of pure anguish, he lunged back towards the mirror, raising the stone high, his crimson hair blazing with a destructive fury. "Filthy filthy lies!"
Before he could bring the stone down, Dumbledore, moving with surprising speed, was there. The Headmaster's arms wrapped around Echo, pinning his flailing arms to his sides. "Mr. Echo! Stop!" Dumbledore's voice was firm, laced with alarm.
Echo struggled violently, thrashing in Dumbledore's grasp. "Let me go!" he shrieked, tears and snot streaking his face. "The mirror's lying! It's all lies! It's not real! Let me smash it!" He kicked and squirmed, trying to twist out of the Headmaster's hold, the image in the mirror still burning behind his eyelids.
But Dumbledore held firm, his grip unyielding. He held Echo tightly, allowing the boy to rage and fight, offering no words, only a silent, steady presence. Slowly, agonizingly, the fight began to drain from Echo. His struggles weakened, his furious shouts dissolved into ragged sobs, until finally, utterly exhausted, he went limp in Dumbledore's arms. He sagged against the Headmaster, his face buried in the soft fabric of Dumbledore's robes, his body shaking with uncontrollable, profound grief. He sobbed, raw and heartbroken, as Dumbledore held him, a silent anchor in the storm of his despair.
Dumbledore gently disengaged, his hands still on Echo's shoulders, guiding him away from the shimmering, deceitful surface of the Mirror of Erised. Echo stumbled, his legs feeling like lead, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to banish the haunting image. Dumbledore led him slowly, patiently, out of the chamber and back into the quiet, dimly lit corridor. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing away the terrible reflection.
Echo continued to shake, his sobs subsiding into silent, racking shudders. Dumbledore, still holding him, began to walk, leading him with a steady, comforting presence through the silent castle. Echo barely registered the journey, his mind replaying the mirror's cruel vision, the impossible happiness, the unbearable longing for a past that was not his own.
They finally arrived in Dumbledore's office. The familiar, chaotic room, usually a source of mild irritation, now felt like a safe harbor. Dumbledore guided Echo to a large, plush armchair by the roaring fireplace, its warmth a welcome contrast to the chill that had settled deep within Echo's bones. With a silent flick of his wand, a thick, tartan blanket materialized, settling softly around Echo's trembling shoulders. Another flick, and a steaming mug of hot tea, fragrant with a hint of lemon and honey, appeared on a small table beside him.
Echo clutched the mug, letting the warmth seep into his cold hands. He huddled deeper into the blanket, burying his face in its soft wool, trying to regain some semblance of composure. The raw, guttural grief slowly receded, replaced by a dull, aching emptiness. His black hair, still streaked with agitated purple, slowly began to calm.
Dumbledore settled into his own chair, his blue eyes watching Echo with a profound, uncharacteristic stillness. He patiently waited for Echo to find his voice. The only sounds in the office were the crackling fire and Echo's ragged breathing.
After a long moment, Echo finally looked up. His hollow eyes were red and swollen, but the furious tears had stopped. He took a shaky sip of the tea, its warmth a small comfort.
"Mr. Echo," Dumbledore said softly, his voice gentle. "In all my years, I have never witnessed such a visceral reaction to the Mirror of Erised. Tell me, if you feel you can, what you saw. What profound desire could elicit such… profound despair?"
Echo stared into the depths of his tea, swirling the amber liquid. His purple hair pulsed, then shifted to a thoughtful, troubled grey. "It's… a sorted story, Headmaster," he finally murmured, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "And even if I did tell you, you would never believe me."
Dumbledore merely raised an eyebrow, a faint, almost imperceptible sadness touching his lips. "Mr. Echo, I have seen many things in my long life. I have witnessed magic that defies logic, love that transcends death, and acts of cruelty that curdle the blood. I have known sorrow that threatened to consume me whole, and joy so profound it felt like a physical ache. I assure you, there is little you could tell me that I would not, at the very least, endeavor to believe. And as for believing you... Well, my dear boy, I have always found you to be remarkably forthright, if a touch dramatic when particularly agitated." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "Try me."
Echo took another shaky sip of tea, the warmth doing little to soothe the tremor in his hands. His grey hair pulsed, then solidified into a steady, thoughtful black. He met Dumbledore's gaze, his hollow eyes filled with a raw, undeniable truth.
"Alright, Headmaster," he began, his voice still hoarse but gaining a new, steady resolve. "You want to know what I saw? I saw what I could've had. And what could've had… it wasn't just a life. It was a whole world. My world. And it wasn't this one." He paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm not from here, Headmaster. Not from this time, not from this dimension. Where I come from, magic… It's make-believe. A fantasy. There's no hidden world, no wands, no spells, no Hogwarts. It's just… stories. Books, really. A series of books about this world, in fact."
Dumbledore remained perfectly still, his eyes wide, fixed on Echo. Not a muscle twitched on his face.
"I died there," Echo continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "In that world. And then… I woke up here. In this body. A boy, in a new life. And the craziest part, the most mind-bending part, is that this world, your world, is known to mine. But it's known as fiction. As something someone wrote down." He looked at Dumbledore, a flicker of desperate irony in his eyes. "So, yeah. I saw my old family. The family that hated me enough to leave me to die in a world where magic wasn't real. The world I can never go back to and never want to."
He finished, exhaling slowly, watching for Dumbledore's reaction. The Headmaster said nothing. His eyes, usually so animated, were utterly still, almost glazed.
"I know," Echo said, a bitter note entering his voice. His black hair flared with a cynical purple. "You don't believe a word, do you? Who would? It's absurd. Even to me, it's absurd."
Dumbledore finally moved, a slow, deliberate blink. He ran a hand through his long, silver beard, his gaze still distant. "No, Mr. Echo," he murmured, his voice surprisingly calm, though a tremor was evident. "I… I believe you. Or rather, I endeavor to. I simply… need a minute. To process all of this." He closed his eyes, then opened them again, a deep, thoughtful furrow in his brow.
Echo watched him, taking slow sips of his tea, waiting. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls. By the time Echo had finished the last drop of the lemon-and-honey brew, Dumbledore's eyes had regained their usual sharp focus. However, a new, almost somber intensity replaced the usual twinkle.
"So," Dumbledore began, his voice soft but clear, "if our world is, as you say, chronicled within the pages of books in your… previous dimension… then you must know how the story ends, Mr. Echo?"
Echo sighed, running a hand through his now calm black hair. A faint, almost embarrassed flush touched his pale cheeks. "No, Headmaster," he admitted, looking down at the empty mug. "I don't. The books… they were never really my thing, back then. I was more into…well, actually, I can't remember. And now," he added, a wry, self-deprecating smile touching his lips, "I feel rather stupid for it. The only thing I know, one hundred percent, is that a boy with a lightning bolt-shaped scar will eventually kill Lord… what's his face. And bring peace. That's it. That's all I remember."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful. "A boy with a lightning bolt scar... fascinating. And you don't recall his name?"
Echo just shrugged. "Nah. Just the scar, and that he always wins. After that, it's a blank." He looked up at Dumbledore, a flicker of something almost hopeful in his hollow eyes. "So... you still think I'm nuts?"
Dumbledore smiled with a gentle, almost wistful expression. "Nuts, Mr. Echo? No. Extraordinary, perhaps. And certainly unique. But then, true wisdom often stems from the acceptance of the truly improbable." He paused, his gaze softening. "And I have always found that the most remarkable truths often masquerade as the most outlandish fictions." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "But tell me, Mr. Echo, if this world is, to you, merely a story… then how does it feel, to live within the pages of a book? To be a character, rather than a reader?"
Echo considered this, his black hair pulsing with a deep, contemplative indigo. "It's… weird," he finally admitted. "At first, it was just code. A new game to learn, new rules, new physics. A really complicated, really dangerous game. And then… then it got real. The pain got real. The fear got real. And the connections… the friendships… they got real too." He looked down at his hands, then back at Dumbledore. "It's like… like I'm a glitch. A bug. Something that shouldn't be here, but is. And I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do, in a story that wasn't for me."
"A purpose, Mr. Echo," Dumbledore mused, his eyes twinkling softly once more. "Perhaps your purpose is simply to be. To experience. To influence. To… rewrite the story, perhaps, in ways even the original author could not have foreseen." He stood, walking to a nearby shelf and plucking a small, ancient-looking book from its perch. He offered it to Echo. "Perhaps, Mr. Echo, a deeper understanding of this 'story' might yet reveal more to you. Or, perhaps, it will simply offer another piece of the grand puzzle that is your unique existence."
Echo took the book; its leather cover was worn smoothly with age, and its pages were brittle. It was a history of magic, a comprehensive account of significant events and figures. He looked at Dumbledore, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. "Thanks, Headmaster."
"For what, Mr. Echo?" Dumbledore asked, a soft chuckle escaping him.
"For believing me," Echo replied simply, his indigo hair shimmering with genuine gratitude. "And for the tea. It was good tea."
Dumbledore's smile widened. "Indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have some… discreet conversations to have with Professor McGonagall. About the sanctity of private information, and the detrimental effects of oversharing on one's reputation." He gave Echo a long, knowing look, a hint of his usual mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes. "And Mr. Echo, I highly recommend you spend the remainder of your holiday, not brooding on the intricacies of alternate dimensions, but perhaps… exploring this one. There is much to see, and much to learn, beyond the confines of a book."
"Headmaster, you needn't worry," Echo said, his voice firm, his indigo hair shimmering with a resolute calm. "My old world is exactly that – old, long behind me. I prefer not to remember it. This world, this life, is my new home. The only one I care about."
He watched as Dumbledore, with a final, almost imperceptible shake of his head, swept out of the office, leaving Echo alone with the crackling fire, the ancient book, and the quiet hum of his own extraordinary thoughts. The morning was still early, the castle slowly stirring to life, but Echo felt more awake, more present, than he had in a very long time. The Mirror of Erised had shown him a painful truth, but Dumbledore's understanding had offered something even more profound: acceptance. And with it, the freedom to look forward, not back. The story of Echo was not yet written, and for the first time, he felt a genuine, quiet excitement about what the next chapter might hold.