Disclaimer: I don't own DN or HP.


Professor Dumbledore sat placidly in the Hogwarts Headmaster's office waiting for his 9 a.m. appointment. The aged professor had no idea about what the man from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wished to speak to him. The letter he had received requesting the appointment gave no clues, either. The fresh sheet of parchment was marred only by the neat, flourishing script that was standard for all Ministry of Magic documents.

At exactly 9:00, Dumbledore's fireplace erupted with large, spitting green flames. Out of the fire came a tall man dressed impeccably in a crisp, black, muggle suit with matching black tie and his dark hair slicked back in a fashion akin to the Malfoys. He looks like a person the Dursley's would like, at least until they discover he's a wizard, Dumbledore thought wryly, hiding the cringe that arose every time he thought of Harry's despicable, though necessary, living conditions. The Boy-Who-Lived, the boy who just might save the Wizarding World again, had to be safe, after all.

Dumbledore rose from his seat as the man from the Ministry dusted the ash from his suit and primly adjusted his tie. "Welcome to Hogwarts! I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of this school," he greeted warmly. The man looked to Dumbledore as the headmaster offered him a chair. His mouth was set in a grim line as he sat stiffly. Dumbledore paused in surprise when steely brown eyes met his gaze. The man's eyes were cold; they spoke strictly of business.

Shaking his head slightly to kick his brain back into gear, Dumbledore smiled genially and asked, "What is it that I can do for you, sir?"

The man reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and revealed an ID. Flipping it open, he allowed Dumbledore to examine it. "I am William Jones, ICPO liaison for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, British Ministry of Magic." Dumbledore nodded as he read the ID through the lenses of his half-moon spectacles. Dumbledore was a little concerned that he'd never heard of an ICPO liaison for the Ministry, and he planned on having a talk with Fudge very soon. Jones closed his ID abruptly, and placed it back in his pocket. "Interpol requires use of the Mirror of Erised."

Dumbledore was stunned. What on earth could a muggle police agency do with the Mirror of Erised? "For what do they need a magic mirror, Mr. Jones?"

Mr. Jones face was impassive. "That information is classified. However, Interpol has agreed to allow your presence during the Mirror's use."

That assuaged Dumbledore's fears slightly, and he knew Fudge or someone similar must have mentioned such a stipulation as it was obvious Dumbledore would not have agreed otherwise. The Mirror of Erised was a dangerous device, capable of consuming one's sanity completely. However, if Dumbledore was there, he could prevent them from doing something inhumane with the Mirror. He would not abide by torture of any kind.

Dumbledore nodded. "You have my permission to use the Mirror, then."


Dumbledore would be lying if he did not admit that he had at least a bit of curiosity over what the ICPO wanted the Mirror for. He watched patiently as the mirror was brought into a typical, muggle interrogation room. Dumbledore and some other men who eerily reminded the professor of Mr. Jones stood before a one-way mirror, able to see the events in the room before them, but unable to be seen themselves. Once the Mirror was placed in an empty room, a large, plain, black frame was affixed over the Mirror's gold one, obscuring both the title of the mirror, and the words inscribed beneath. Whoever was to enter that room would not know they were looking into the Mirror of Erised or be able to decipher its purpose.

After a few minutes, a small boy was led into the room. The boy couldn't have been older than seven or eight. A fringe of wild, black hair obscured his eyes, leaving only a pointed nose and tiny mouth set on a ghostly pale face. When the boy turned to the one-way mirror that obscured the onlookers, he revealed his protuberant, black eyes. Dumbledore was even more startled by those eyes than he was by Mr. Jones's. The expression in their eyes wasn't very different, but the face that held them was just a child. They were cold. One look from them gave you a feeling that you were nothing more than a statistic, a bit of data that was to be analyzed and then discarded. Warmth and kindness, even joy, held no place in those eyes. Only raw logic, icy, uncaring rationale, could be found. Dumbledore wouldn't be surprised if behind those eyes he found metal, nuts, and bolts, the makings of a muggle machine, instead of warm blood and pulsing organs.

The elderly man with the boy led the child to the Mirror. Kneeling down so that he was eye-level with the child, the old man asked, "L, what do you see in this mirror."

The boy examined the mirror critically, his mind rapidly supplying every possible answer he could give, every possible trick this question could be hiding.

To Dumbledore's surprise, the boy replied, "I see my reflection."

Dumbledore could tell that emotions were warring beneath the old man's calm façade. "Do you see anything else, L?"

The boy turned back to the Mirror. "I see the reflection of the room behind me and your reflection, Watari. It is just a normal mirror."

"There is nothing…off about the reflection?"

The boy shook his head. "It is just a normal mirror, Watari."

The old man nodded. "Do you want anything, L?" he asked.

"I would like a strawberry sundae," the boy replied.

The old man smiled, and once again took the boy by the hand. "Then let's go get you that sundae." The boy popped the thumb from his free hand into his mouth and sucked in placidly.

The men next to Dumbledore were smiling and congratulating themselves. "I knew it! I knew we'd trained him well enough!" "Marvelous! A little despicable, I suppose, though highly necessary." "This is perfect! The culmination of all of our hard work!"

Dumbledore, however, heard nothing except the boy's word reverberating in his head. It is just a normal mirror.

Dumbledore had seen men waste away before the Mirror, trapped before the reflection of their desires. It was a horrible, gut-wrenchingly pitiful sight.

However, before now, he had never seen someone with no desires. He had never seen a person so empty, so completely void that no desire, no matter how small, no matter how hidden, could be wrenched from the person's heart by the incredible magic of the mirror. Dumbledore exited the room on shaking legs. He'd rather see a million men wasting before the Mirror than ever see those boy's eyes and hear his words again.

It's just a normal mirror.