Reflection

The room is dark as he slips in, not quite closing the door behind him. The faint glimmer of light that slips through the crack shows nothing of Harry's face, but his eyes gleam with a light that is all their own.

A quietly whispered lumos, and suddenly the room is lit with a harsh white light, eradicating shadows.

When all is calm once again, Harry stands alone in a circle of white, staring at something just out of range. His shadow shifts wildly as he steps forward, looking up into the green eyes reflected back at him.

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The tower is quiet in mornings, golden light just beginning to part the red curtains.

Harry can feel the dark circles under his eyes as he untangles himself from the sheets. In the half-light he trips over a partially eaten box of chocolate frogs, stumbling and sending the remaining contents into a nearby pile of socks. He silently curses the habits of his dorm mates, then continues on his trek to the bathroom.

Harry ignores the open door and just goes, the trickling stream breaking the early morning silence, somehow jolting him awake. As he splashes his face with water, out of habit more than anything else, he looks up at the blurry reflection in front of him.

Water drips off of his nose, runs in streams from the points of hair plastered to his forehead. The circles are just as he imagined, darkness fading slowly into skin. When he looks into his eyes they are just like always, but there is something missing. He is reminded of a dream, but can't remember what it was, and quickly looks away.

On the way out, he slams the door behind him.

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The dungeons are murky, torch light dissipating in the cool air. Harry can almost hear water dripping in the distance, echoing through the long corridors and bouncing off of dusty statues, but when he stops to listen there is nothing to hear.

He doesn't know where he's going, why he's here, but his feet carry him there, finally collapsing in the corner of an abandoned hallway. Cold, hard stone presses in on all sides, and he closes his eyes.

Hermione's voice crops up, telling him how he should really be in charms, how vitally important the lessons will be to his future, but he slams his head back against the wall, and in the momentary pain it disappears.

When he does it again, he doesn't feel, suddenly numb, but he continues, and suddenly there's a blurring sting. He opens his eyes, but sees only darkness, and when he closes them again the entire world is green eyes, empty and painfully wrong.

He curls up, not wanting to ever be found, but knows that he's not that lucky.

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That first summer back from Hogwarts, Harry stole one of Petunia's little makeup mirrors while he was cleaning out the bathroom. Each night he lay awake, scrounging what little light he could from the window, or the clock, or that little crack under the door, and systematically went through his features, attributing this to James and that to Lily.

When, a week and a half into vacation, Petunia found the mirror and punished him accordingly, with extra work in the yard and no dinner, he no longer saw himself, only disjointed mix and match parts of his parents.

In an odd way, it made him happy, gave him a sense of belonging.

It has always been a comfort to look in mirror and know that there were two people who loved him enough to create this, loved him enough to die for what they had made.

Now he avoids his reflection at all costs, spending more and more time in the dungeons, because there aren't any windows to act as mirrors, only shadows and damp and dust, which comfort him in their own painful kind of way.

Harry thinks that he's going insane, but he doesn't enjoy it quite as much as he thought he would.

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Harry's been avoiding his friends more and more, not looking in their eyes, foot scuffing the ground, mumbling excuses about needing to be there, anywhere but here. He knows that they don't believe him, can see it in Hermione's searching eyes and Ron's hurt gaze, but leaves anyway, walking just a little bit too fast.

He stumbles down random corridors, not paying attention, and finally finds himself on the seventh floor, the exact opposite of where he expected to be. He's not near any windows, and the floor is firm beneath his feet, but suddenly Harry feels dizzy, thinks that maybe the height is getting to him.

As he walks past the familiar tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, he reflexively turns, walking back again. He thinks only of safe, and answers, and an end to this madness, knowing that the room can give him nothing but hoping anyway, and hating himself for it.

When the door appears he grasps the handle and stops, feeling foolish, willing himself to turn around and walk away, but that spark of hope remains. And so he turns the knob and walks in, feeling childish and weak.

The room is small and dark and plain, and in the center stands an enormous mirror with two clawed feet and strange, indecipherable writing at the top.

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The next morning, Hermione and Ron notice that Harry is happier, smiling and talking and laughing. It's not quite the same as it used to be, and there's a strange twinkle in his eye that was never there before, but neither say anything, determined to be content with what they have.

Hermione quickly dismisses the flash of blue eyes much older than Harry's seventeen years as a trick of the light, and they head down to breakfast, a trio once more.

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Harry watches his face in the mirror, staring as blue eyes slowly revert back to green.

He sees himself smile and start to walk away, and pounds on the glass and screams and shouts and cries, but there is no sound.

And then the door closes, and there is only darkness and green eyes, empty and painfully wrong.