10: A Room Of Hidden Things

                                    

                                          
He stood in a room that could compete with the size of a cathedral. Many towering walls rose as to as high as the ceiling giving it the vague appearance of a small city, each of the towers belongings of long-forgotten young witches and wizards.
                          
He crossed the threshold of this peculiar place, drawn, almost like a moth to a flame, by a silky, honey-coated voice that called for him. 
                          
He knew this place. He had seen it countless times in countless dreams over the years. He knew exactly what came next. He knew that the silky voice that called to him was nothing but a delusion, an excuse for him to play this scene out as it had done many a time in his dreams. 
                          
He set off in a brisk walk down the aisles, conscious of the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the towering piles of junk, of bottles, hats, crates, chairs, books, weapons, broomsticks, bats...
                          
Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth he went, which was an example of how vast this room was. He knew what he was looking for, as well as the location of what he looking for, and yet, minutes went by like seconds as he proceeded with his search, his search for the item that appeared in his dreams, that was the cause of his nightmares. 
                          
And finally, he found it. 
                          
Tucked away in an inconspicuous corner, and covered by a large velvet sheet, as black as night. 
                          
He reached out his hand, as his dream self had done, curled his fingers around the silky material, and with a flurry of movement, he tossed the black sheet aside. 
                          
The magnificent mirror, tall as a classroom ceiling, that had been covered underneath was as eerie it was in his dreams, and the face that sneered back at him from its reflection was indeed the face that haunted his nightmares. The face that was the cause of many sleepless nights ever since the very first dream that night in Grimmauld Place. 
                          
And who could blame him? The reflection that stared back at him would frighten even Merlin himself. Not him though. He was never scared. Nothing ever scared him since that day at the end of his fifth year. 
                          
Unswayed as ever, he tore his eyes away from the mirrors gloating surface, and lifted his head, now locking his gaze on the inscription carved upon the top. 
                          
'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi' 
                          
'I show not your face but your heart’s desire' 
                          
* * *
                          
"Y/N, wake your arse up, Mum's throwing a fit! She says we'll miss the train!" 
                          
Ron was already dressed, and had very a comically shaken face. When he saw that Y/N was no longer asleep, he breathed a sigh of relief. 
                          
"Finally! C'mon, get ready! The woman's going ballistic - eh? What's up with you?" 
                          
His voice shifting from panic to concern impressively quickly, he winced as Y/N looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. An impressive amount of sweat was dropping from his scalp. 
                          
"Have you... been crying?" 
                          
Y/N drowsily shook his head. "Not that I can remember, no." 
                          
"Thought not... you never cry..." as though shaking himself free of some odd trance, he violently shook his head. "Anyway, you'd better wash your face before you get dressed. You look like crap."
                          
"That a fact?" 
                          
"Uh, yeah."
                          
When Ron hurriedly left the room, along with a sleepy Harry, Y/N trudged himself into the bathroom next to their bedroom. As he caught sight of his unruly appearance in the mirror, it yelped, and began scolding him.