The Three Brothers

23rd December 1991

Mark's breath condensed on the windowpane as he stared out at the urban landscape of London that was zooming past him. Now that the Christmas break had begun, he was eager to return home to his Dad.

That was what his mind had been occupied with since yesterday—the question of his Dad's health. They had exchanged quite a few letters over the past four months, but his Dad hadn't been exactly forthcoming about the progress of the treatments. Knowing his Dad, that could imply anything from a miraculous recovery to a sudden deterioration of his condition. And all that did was make Mark think of the worst.

Frankly, it wasn't as if he was mentally unprepared for it. On the contrary, Mark had a propensity to overthink the issue. Even now, staring out a fogged window on the Hogwarts Express, his mind performed these random thought experiments. Imagined if his Dad was dead. Imagined the things that his twelve-year-old self would have to manage. Imagined the funeral and imagined his life afterwards. And when his consciousness would finally catch on to this errant train of thought, dismissing it off unceremoniously.

Trying to avoid this predicament, Mark turned his musings to his friends. Along with him and Neville, most of the other students were headed home for the break. Fred and George, along with Percy and Ron, were staying in the castle for the break as their parents had gone to visit their older brother Charlie in Romania. Harry was also staying over for the break, and from what Mark could figure out, he wasn't that fond of the people with whom he lived. Mark hoped that Harry would appreciate the present he'd gotten him—he had been quite specific when he asked his Dad to send the package via the owl post.

Harry had been another point of contemplation that Mark found himself often pondering about. Ever since he had read about legilimency, Mark had a fair idea that Harry was some kind of Occlumens—someone who had could defend against legilimency. In his curiosity to find out more, he found himself making repeated attempts to subtly penetrate his classmate's defences. But, he couldn't. Once, he'd even made an uncontrolled attempt—accidently, of course. Even that didn't work. Whatever Harry was, he wasn't a regular Occlumens. Just like Mark, he was an anomaly—albeit of a different kind.

As the Express began to pull into the platform, Mark turned away from the window and got up. Neville—stirred awake due to the slowing train—joined him in getting their luggage out of the carriage. Once he was out on the cold platform, Mark scanned around for any sign of his Dad. Finding none, he turned back towards Neville—still a bit sleepy—and bid him goodbye. Slinging the large duffel bag over his shoulder, Mark then briskly walked out of the barrier, spotting Edwin standing near a newspaper stand immediately. The old man gave him a sly smile as Mark neared him.

"Hey kiddo," said Edwin as he lowered the newspaper in his hand. "You've grown."

"Nice to see you too," Mark said with a smirk, moving in to give Edwin a one-armed hug. As they began moving towards the car park, Mark spoke out the question on his mind.

"How is he?"

"Good," replied Edwin. As Mark gave him a sceptical look, he reaffirmed his statement. "No, I really mean it. John's doing good—he's just been a bit tired lately." As Mark put his duffel in the boot, Edwin continued, "Actually, he was planning on coming with me today. But I insisted that he take some rest. Maybe even have a welcoming party for you," he added with a quick wink.

"That's good to hear," said Mark. "The treatments —?"

"All as expected," Edwin replied as he sat in the old Ford Escort with Mark. As they pulled out of the car park—and out of earshot—Edwin began his questions.

"So, how was magic school?"

Mark rolled his eyes as he slumped back in his seat. Trust Edwin to make Hogwarts sound like a—well wherever circus magicians learned their stuff.

"Great. A bit better than I had expected," replied Mark. "And before you ask—no, they haven't taught us any card tricks. Yet."

"You've joined a sports team of some sort?" Edwin asked after chuckling. "You mentioned something in your letter. Kiddish—Quadish—?"

"Kwi-ditch," corrected Mark.

"Huh. Sounds like some kind of French bread," Edwin remarked. "So, you're on a school team?"

"Reserve team for now. The starting team is too good to consider any amateurs like us," said Mark.

"Harry's the only first-year on the main team—He's the Seeker."

"Seeker is the one who catches the golden ball, right?"

"Yes. It's called a Snitch," replied Mark. "You know, I'm pretty sure you would enjoy watching it," he said after a moment.

"A game in mid-air with flying brooms and complicated rules? Sign me up for a ticket," said Edwin.

"Didn't you say the game doesn't end unless the—the Snitch is caught?"

"Yes. There's no other way to end the game."

"What if no one catches it? There has to be a time limit, right?"

"Nope. No time limit," replied Mark. "I think the longest recorded game had lasted nearly three months or something. They had to sub in players every few hours."

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"So, Mark, how was Hogwarts? What all did you learn?"

Mark looked up from his plate at the question, a slight smirk on his face. He'd been wondering how long his Dad would take to ask that question. And a quick glance at the wall clock revealed the answer to be twenty-seven minutes.

"It's been great," replied Mark. "The teachers are great—the classes are great. The castle—it's actually a real castle, by the way—it's also great." After taking another bite from his plate, he continued, "We haven't gotten the chance to learn a lot of spells yet. It's mostly basal theory and all the implicit etiquettes and precautions about magic—things which we may experiment with and things we are explicitly forbidden to dabble around in."

"What are all your subjects again?" asked Edwin, taking a sip of wine from his glass. Mark mirrored him with his own glass of water before replying.

"Well, there's History—interesting subject, boring teacher," said Mark. "Then there's Herbology. It's like Latin and botany and abstract art all mixed together —"

"Oof," remarked his Dad. Those were few of the things that Mark was definitely not good at.

"Exactly," said Mark. "But I have a secret weapon—my new friend Neville Longbottom. He's an utter genius in the subject. Been casually practising Herbology in his greenhouse for years."

"That's good to hear," said his Dad. "Friends is good. You mentioned a couple more—the ones you're practising with?"

"George and Fred," Mark supplied. "They're third-years. Brilliant, the two of them. Though they've convinced themselves that I can teach them music."

"Well, to be frank, you are a pretty good guitar player, Mark," said Edwin. "Certainly better than whatever horrible cacophony your old man here produces with it," he added with a chuckle.

"I will not respond to that since I agree with the underlying sentiment, thank you," replied Mark's Dad. Turning to Mark he continued. "You said something about taking your Strat back?"

"Yes," Mark replied, "We need more instruments if we want to practice seriously. Drums were easy to transfigure, but guitars aren't. We asked Professor McGonagall to help us, but she just encouraged us to experiment ourselves."

"That is quite teacher-like of her," remarked Edwin. "From what you and John have told me, she sounds like an interesting woman. It's a pity I didn't get to meet her."

"Why Edwin, I didn't know you were interested in my teachers," said Mark, trying to suppress his laughter. "She's quite a bit older than you, you know."

A brief silence followed before Edwin spluttered in mock outrage.

"Why you—little rascal. Just wait until dinner is finished—you'll see"

"Why don't you tell us about your other subjects till then," interrupted Mark's Dad. Turning to Mark he gave him a quick wink and mouthed, 'Good one.'

"Well, Professor Snape taught us to make boil curing and boil causing potions," said Mark taking his Dad's cue. "Also, some basic herbicide potions. Basically, we're being taught how all the different ingredients and techniques interact." Mark took a few bites as he surreptitiously watched Edwin before continuing.

"In Charms, we learned some base theory along with the Lumos and Levitation Charms. It's actually quite interesting how the spells work, you know. We have to know the proper incantation, the correct spell movement, and the proper power draw pattern. We also need to properly visualize the effect the spell would have, and how to manipulate the power draw to alter the effects accordingly. Transfiguration is actually my favourite subject right now, you know. I think that with changing the power draw pattern I can actually —"

Unbeknownst to Mark, his Dad and Edwin shared a look. Yes, Mark was definitely enjoying Hogwarts.

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25th December 1991

"What did you expect, turnips?"

Harry turned to look at Ron—who was already engrossed in his own pile of presents—before looking back at the incredible sight that lay in front of him. A small pile of colourfully wrapped presents, all with his name on them. The sight might not have been as impressive to some other kid his age. After all, it was Christmas day today—the day everyone usually received presents.

But it was different for Harry. He had not been expecting any presents because—well, because he hadn't gotten any presents for Christmas before. Not real ones anyway. Sure, Aunt Petunia had handed him a rusty coat hanger, or a flaky old leather belt that had once graced Dudley's waist. But just because they had been handed out on Christmas didn't make them any less of hand-me-downs. If he was being honest, Aunt Petunia had probably considered wrapping them up to see the look of disappointment on Harry's face before dismissing it as a waste of good paper. So, it was but natural for Harry to not expect any presents this year.

But then, this year was different, wasn't it? He wasn't at the Dursleys any more. He was a wizard, studying in the wonderful castle of Hogwarts. He had friends—real friends, who had cared enough about him to get him presents. A large pang of guilt spread through Harry's c.h.e.s.t as he realised how much of a lousy friend he had been; he hadn't gotten anything for any of his friends. It was something he had never had to consider before, not being used to having real friends. But that was no excuse; he needed to find some way to rectify the situation and show his gratitude to his newfound friends.

Deciding to head to the bathroom before looking at his presents, Harry slipped off his bed. These last few days at Hogwarts had been the best ones yet—certainly the best Christmas he had ever had. As all the other first-years had gone home for the holidays, it was only Ron and him occupying their dorms. The rest of Gryffindor tower was similarly empty; which meant that Harry and Ron could lounge around in the common room, toasting all sorts of food on the fireplace and spending their time playing Wizard's chess.

It was an interesting take on the game, to say the least. The rules were identical to chess, except for the fact that the chessmen were alive and had to be verbally ordered around the board. Being an inexperienced player, this meant that the chessmen kept shouting contradictory advice to Harry, confusing him at times. Other times—when he was confident about his move—the chessmen would refuse to follow his orders. On top of it, if a piece was captured, the attacking piece would physically knock out the other piece—often breaking it into pieces. All in all, it was a confusing and barbaric game; exactly the kind that Ron and he enjoyed playing.

Returning back to his bed, Harry turned his attention to the pile of presents. Controlling his impatience, he neatly opened the one on top. It was beautifully whittled wooden flute from Hagrid. Feeling the grain beneath his fingers, Harry raised it to his lips before blowing on it. A weird sound emerged—something in the back of his mind found it similar to Hedwig's screeches.

Feeling satisfied, Harry moved to the next thing on the pile. It was a plain envelope, one that Harry recognised as one of Aunt Petunia's cheap envelopes from the third drawer—reserved specifically for unimportant mail. Inside was a note.

We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.

"That's friendly," said Harry as his eyes found a fifty pence piece taped to the bottom of the note. His sudden comment must have drawn Ron's attention, for Ron quickly began to examine the piece of currency.

"This is muggle money?" he said, examining the coin. "Weird."

"Keep it," Harry said, stifling a laugh as Ron's face lit up. Shaking his head, he moved on to the next parcel. It was rather large and lumpy, wrapped in inexpensive yet elegant paper.

"Tha' ones from ma' mum," Ron said interrupting Harry's observation. Swallowing the chocolate frog in his mouth—probably two—he spoke again, this time more clearly. "That one's from my mum. I—I told her you weren't expecting many presents and—oh no," he g.r.o.a.n.e.d, "she's made you a Weasley sweater."

Harry had by now opened the parcel to reveal a thick hand-knitted sweater in emerald green wrapped around a large box of homemade fudge.

"She makes one every year for all of us," said Ron, hurriedly unwrapping a similar package from his pile, "and mine's always maroon."

"That's—that's quite nice of her," said Harry, burying the small torrent of emotions in his c.h.e.s.t. Trying to distract himself, he opened up the fudge—it was very tasty.

Turning his attention to the next parcel, Harry found another article of clothing in it. It was a black T-shirt, with AC/DC printed on the front. Harry laughed at it since Mark had clearly chosen a band which had a lightning bolt symbol like his scar. He promised himself to get Mark something good later. Only two parcels were left now. The first was from Hermione, containing a large box of chocolate frogs. A quick glance at Ron's pile showed that she had gotten both of them identical gifts. Harry snorted as he imagined Hermione's reaction if he told her about Ron eating two chocolate frogs at once. Popping one in his mouth, Harry now looked at the last parcel.

As Harry picked it up, he found it light to the touch. Unwrapping it, something fluid and silvery slithered to the floor. Ron, who had been eating a box of candy, got a look of awe on his face.

"I've heard of those but never thought I'd see one. They're supposed to be really rare." Ron said slowly.

"What is it?" Harry asked as he picked it up.

"I think— put it on. I think it is an invisibility cloak." Confused, Harry donned the cloak and heard Ron gasp again. "I was right!" exclaimed Ron. "Look! Look below!"

Harry looked down and just as his friend had said, found himself invisible. He looked in the mirror, then pulled the hood of the cloak. He disappeared completely from view.

"Look there's a note!"

Harry turned towards the floor where Ron was pointing. The piece of parchment must have fluttered downwards when Harry unfurled the cloak. The note was written in a loopy handwriting—one that Harry had never seen before.

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.

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"Hey, champ."

Mark turned away from the window to look at his Dad standing in the doorway. His lips curled into a small smile as his Dad sat beside him on his bed. There was a moment of silence as Mark ran his fingers over the wand in his hand.

"What's on your mind?" his Dad asked finally. Mark just shook his head absently.

"Nothing," said Mark, trying to look anywhere else but his Dad. "Just—just all this. Magic. Hogwarts. Me being a wizard." He took a pause, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Just—what mum would have thought about all of this. About what I can do. All of —"

"Your mum would have been proud of you," his Dad interrupted, clapping Mark firmly on his shoulder. "She would have been proud of you, and not because of your abilities. She would have been proud of how you have grown up to be—as a person. That was the thing she wanted. For you to grow up to be a good man."

"And am I that? A good man?" Mark turned to look at his Dad, who took a deep breath before replying.

"Yes. And do you know why?" asked his Dad. "Because you ask that question."

Mark snorted slightly as he wiped off the tear in his eye. As much as he tried denying them, the thoughts of his mother threatened to invade his mind on some days. And today was one of them—after all, it was Christmas day, and twelve years ago his mother had passed away holding her infant son in her arms. It wasn't exactly Mark's favourite holiday.

Still, there was some good. He still had his Dad with him. After all, his dad had suffered from a loss much greater than his own; it wasn't as if Mark had memories of his mother to draw upon. He remembered almost nothing of her.

Over the years, the two of them had learned to live without Sarah Smith. They played together, cooked together, did the chores together. Had fun together. Even though Mark's Dad had been diagnosed with leukaemia, John had always ensured that they had some fun in their life.

Edwin had helped, becoming an honorary uncle to Mark, taking care of him when his Dad was getting his treatments. He was a sold pillar of support in their lives, an irreplaceable presence, providing love and guidance to two men who would have probably lost their way without him. It was Edwin who had taken Mark to the pool and taught him to swim; it was Edwin who had held Mark steady when he was learning to ride his bicycle.

So, it wasn't as if Mark had felt anything missing in his life—neither materialistically nor emotionally. He had—was having—a happy childhood, despite the absence of his mother. But there was an errant thought that popped in now and again. How would his life had been—how different would it all have been—if she had been alive.

This curiosity had plagued Mark, especially ever since his ability had awakened. It was partly academic, partly something else. Questions about her nature—about what his mother's reaction would have been to all of it. What she thought about it. What she would have wanted him to do with it.

He had asked Edwin about her, trying to find out more about how she was a person. Having him recount incidents about her, then gleaning him to experience them himself. Of course, the best person to do this with was his Dad, but Mark had never considered it before. It was obvious that there was a lot of pain and sorrow associated with the memories, and he didn't want his Dad to relive them. Or maybe it was just him who didn't want to experience it. He didn't think he could handle it—not until today, that is.

Mark turned back to look at his Dad, a hand slipping to the silver locket hanging by his neck—a memory of his mother. Looking his Dad in the eye, Mark spoke slowly.

"Dad, will you tell me about her?" said Mark slowly, his eyes unwavering. "About how—how she was?" After a small pause, he added in a small voice. "I think I'm ready."

Mark's dad—who had raised his eyebrows in surprise—took a deep breath as he nodded in understanding. Looking at his son, he finally spoke in a proud tone.

"Yes, son. I will."

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28th December 1991

"Back again, Harry?"

Harry froze. He looked behind him slowly, only to see Professor Dumbledore sitting on one of the desks by the wall. In his hurry to find his way back to this classroom, he must have somehow missed the venerable wizard entirely.

"I didn't see you, sir" he replied timidly. Professor Dumbledore smiled gently, and Harry felt a little relief.

"Strange how near-sighted being invisible makes you," he paused before continuing. "You, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

Harry turned back to look at the large ornate mirror that had drawn him to this classroom for the past two days. It wasn't just the fact that it was clearly out of place in an abandoned classroom; it was what it had shown Harry.

It all began on the night of Christmas when Harry had set out to search the restricted section of the library for any reference to a Nicholas Flamel—the name that Hagrid had inadvertently revealed to them. Thanks to the invisibility cloak that he had received, it had been quite easy to sneak in the library at night. Unfortunately, Harry hadn't anticipated any protective enchantments on the books themselves—the moment he opened one, it began screaming loudly. The sound alerted the prowling figures of Filch and Snape—who had chosen that very night to patrol the hallways. In his narrow escape from them, Harry had ended up in this classroom, stumbling upon the mirror.

It was large, almost as tall as Hagrid. The mirrored glass was stained with age, an ornate gold frame adorning it on all sides. His eyes briefly flitted to an inscription on top, written in a language he had never seen before:

Erised stra ehru oy tube cafru oyt on wohsi.

A strange sensation drew him close to it, and when he stepped in front of it, Harry was taken aback in shock. To his surprise, the reflection wasn't of Harry alone. There were people, standing all around him. More particularly, they were his family; all of them, including his parents, holding him in a way that he wished he could remember. Once the shock wore off, Harry found himself stuck to the ground, mesmerised by the sight in front of him. It was only after the bright morning sunlight crept in through the window that Harry reluctantly left the classroom.

But he couldn't stay away from it for long. He returned the next night, this time with a sleepy and reluctant Ron. But it didn't work; at least not in the way that Harry intended. Instead of seeing Harry's family—or even his own—Ron saw something else entirely. He saw himself older, and as the Quidditch Captain for Gryffindor. He was the Head Boy, and he had won the House cup for Gryffindor—things Harry found extremely stupid to be happy about. Wanting to see his family, Harry tried pulling Ron away, only to be met with an angry friend. They had ended up nearly fighting for the right to stand in front of the mirror, only for Filch to come prowling nearby. They had left immediately.

The next day, Ron advised Harry to not go looking for the mirror, but Harry paid him no heed. He couldn't help it, and he didn't even want to. All he wanted was to stay here, in front of this mirror, with his family as long as he could. And he did—until he was caught.

"Have you realised by now what it does?" asked Professor Dumbledore and Harry tore his eyes away from the reflection to focus on the inscription.

"It—It shows me my family —"

"And it shows Mr Weasley himself as Quidditch Captain and Head Boy."

"How —"

"There are many ways to become invisible," Professor Dumbledore said gently. "Now, can you figure out what it shows us all?"

Harry shook his head, his attention still half diverted towards the image of his family.

"Let's see. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised as any other mirror." Professor Dumbledore paused. "He would be able to look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Now?"

This seemed to have sufficiently drawn Harry's attention. He pondered for a moment.

"It shows us what we want…whatever we may want…"

"Hmm. Yes. And No," said Professor Dumbledore, slowly pacing around Harry to come and stand in front of the mirror.

"It shows us the deepest, desperate d.e.s.i.r.e of our heart," he said quietly, "You, who yearns to know your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, who feels inadequate and overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, with all the recognition he d.e.s.i.r.es."

Turning towards Harry, Professor Dumbledore spoke in a voice steeped in wisdom.

"The Mirror of Erised will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen. Some have been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or possible, forgetting to live the life that they do have."

Harry was shocked by all of this. The very idea of him wasting away in front of the mirror was shocking—but not as much as the realisation of the fact that it was entirely possible. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. This wasn't real. As much as he wished it was a true reflection, it wasn't. it was nothing but an image—an image that would be burned into his memory for the rest of his life; but an image, nonetheless. Wiping away an errant tear from his eye, Harry slowly turned to Professor Dumbledore.

"Harry, this Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow. I ask you not to go looking for it. If you ever do run across it, you will be prepared to face it."

Harry nodded. Professor Dumbledore gave him a small smile.

"I think it is time you put on that admirable cloak of yours and get off to bed"

Harry was about to leave when he stopped.

"Sir, can I ask you something?"

"You just did" Professor Dumbledore smiled. "You may ask me another question."

"What do you see sir, when you look into the mirror?"

"Me? I see myself holding a pair of thick woollen socks," he replied rather quickly.

Harry stared.

"One can never have enough socks," said Professor Dumbledore. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People insist on giving me books."

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