With apologies to J K Rowling

The Mirror of Erised

In her dream, Sarah finds herself in a void, lit only by the shaft of light falling on an antique, floor-length mirror. Walking closer, she sees that the ornate gold frame stands on two intricately fashioned clawed feet. The way the light hits, it seems to her as if the fantastical carved beasts vie for position on the gilded frame, and the mercurial silver particles flit across the mirror's surface. At the bottom, there is an inscription: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. In the depths of her mind, a memory uncurls and flexes. Sarah, still entranced by the dancing surface of the mirror, pays it no mind.

As she comes to a stop in front of the mirror, Sarah sees herself – not as she is now, with her tattered flannel pajamas and green eyes misted from sleep – but clad in a sparkling white dress, her eyes dramatically highlighted by dark liner and her hair pulled back with silver flowers. She blinks – rubbing her eyes – and yet when she opens them again, still in front of her is this ethereal, intimidating persona – of herself.

Sarah touches her pant leg, assuring herself that it is still there. In the mirror, the other Sarah strokes the shimmering fabric of her bell-like skirt. Behind her a tall, lithe figure with blond hair standing on end approaches. Regal and heartbreakingly handsome, his mouth moves as though calling to her – 'Hello precious'.

Jareth.

The memory calls in her mind.

Sarah turns, intent on making sure he isn't behind her. There is no one there. In the mirror, the Sarah-who-is-not turns too, greeting him with a heated kiss. Jareth wraps his arms around her and they both turn back to face Sarah as she turns back to the mirror. As if he truly is holding her, Sarah's every nerve ending is on fire.

More insistently, the memory beckons, demanding to be heard.

Jareth pets her doppelganger's hair, whispering in her ear. It must be entirely inappropriate – just like him! – because in the mirror the Sarah-who-is-not blushes a dark cherry. His hands move on her abdomen, stroking her sides lovingly. The true Sarah gasps – as does Mirror Sarah – and both swat his hands away. They come to rest gently, possessively on not-Sarah's hips, the warm weight settling on true Sarah's hips.

In this one instant, the twin Sarahs differ. Not-Sarah winks through the mirror and turns her head, her body twisting sinuously sideways to kiss Jareth deeply. True Sarah simply gapes. She does not understand what she is seeing, refuses to comprehend the affection she looks on.

The memory keens in the back of her mind, crying for an audience.

Paralyzed and unsure, Sarah bangs on the mirror, as though by doing so she could cause the vision before her to cease. Jareth in the mirror breaks his kiss, looks directly at True Sarah, and produces a crystal. Sarah backs up, suddenly breathless, gasping for air. Not-Sarah turns from Jareth and faces the mirror dead on, gasping for an entirely different reason. With both hands, Jareth raises the crystal to mirror-Sarah's head. There, it morphs into a stunning, glimmering crown of glass, the razor-sharp edges of which curve gracefully upwards, refracting the sparse light of the void. It is at once beautiful and deadly, so bright that it hurts Sarah's eyes to look at. Reverently, Jareth places the delicate crown on her head. True Sarah feels its weight settle around her temples.

The elusive memory cries out, willing itself to be heard.

Looking into True Sarah's eyes, he drops a gentle kiss on the top of not-Sarah's head. That one touch shoots down True Sarah's spine, melting her legs. She reaches for him, instinctive need overpowering her reasoning. Her fingertips brush the mirror. She has just enough time to register that her doppelganger has reached out too – her expression for once mirroring Sarah's as she gazes at a point just above true Sarah's head, enraptured – before she collapses.

Sarah wakes, startled and off-center, to her copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, open to the page she was reading before she fell asleep. 'It shows us nothing less and nothing more than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts,' she reads.

Closing her eyes, she murmurs something that sounds vaguely like 'No power over me. Absolutely none,' before shutting the book and turning off her lights.