Lurker in the Gaps

Written for the Snarry Olympics fest on LiveJournal. The prompt was "correspondence," meaning "similarity or analogy." Many thanks to my wonderful betas.

It looked nothing like the Mirror of Erised.

It was short and squat, for one thing, and the glass was grimy and cracked. In fact, Harry wasn't even sure it was a mirror at first. The light in the room Sirius had shared with Buckbeak -- Witherwings, Harry reminded himself -- was dim, and Harry thought it was a glass-fronted cabinet until he drew nearer and saw himself.

His face looked pale and drawn, even in this light. Small wonder. He hadn't been sleeping much the past few weeks, between the late nights of research Hermione was making them put in ("We have to be prepared for anything!" she'd say whenever he or Ron protested, which meant she'd said it at least a dozen times) and the suffocating feeling of anxious anticipation that rose in his chest every night when he finally crawled into bed. A shudder made Harry's shoulders twitch as he stepped closer and studied the familiar shape of his face in the mirror. They were leaving in the morning for Godric's Hollow. What would the mirror show when their search was over?

"I was wondering when I'd see you."

Harry jumped. The voice, which seemed to come from nowhere, sounded ear-splittingly loud in the oppressive silence of Grimmauld Place. He whirled, his wand in his hand, eyes darting from the door to the dark shadows in each corner of the room. There was no one there.

"Who said that?" he demanded, flicking his wrist so his wand bobbed back and forth. "Who's there?"

"I've been waiting to speak to you for a long time," the voice answered. It sounded oddly distorted, as though its owner were underwater.

"Where are you?" Harry said, lifting his wand over his head. "Lumos!"

"You still haven't managed to master non-verbal spells, I see," the voice replied with a snort. "I'm behind you. Here, in the mirror."

Harry spun back to face the mirror, still brandishing his lit wand, and for the first time he noticed the top edge of the mirror was engraved in a fancy antique script that read:

What you see today can change tomorrow.

Harry dropped his eyes to his reflection, now glowing in the wandlight, and looked for the source of the voice. The mirror showed nothing but his own face and the reflection of the room behind him. "I don't see anything."

"Hardly a surprise," the voice said. "You never were terribly observant. Look again."

Lips pursed in annoyance, Harry squinted at the mirror. Still nothing. He was about to voice another protest when he noticed a dim shadow taking shape deep within the mirror. Its outline was blurred, and Harry reached out with his free hand to wipe at the dirt on the mirror's surface. The shadow grew clearer in the clean stripe his hand left behind, and Harry swiped at the mirror again until the outline was in bold relief against the darkness surrounding it. "There. That's got it."

"Well done," the image said sarcastically. Its face was still hidden in shadow. "You finally managed to work something out without Hermione Granger's help."

Stung, Harry furrowed his brow in confusion. "Who are you?" he said, lowering his wand in a futile attempt to throw some light on the distant face. It was obviously someone who knew him, but the only detail of the figure's appearance he could make out was the fall of hair around its shoulders. A hot burst of rage made Harry's body grow rigid as realization dawned. "Snape," he hissed.

"Professor Snape, Harry," the figure mocked, in what might have been a good imitation of Dumbledore's voice had the mirror not distorted it.

"What do you want?" Harry said coldly.

"I have something to tell you."

Harry sneered. "What makes you think I want to hear anything you have to say?"

The figure shrugged. "Whether you listen or not is none of my concern. I will have lost nothing if you don't. My path has already been determined. You, on the other hand, will gain much if you do."

"I don't care," Harry said defiantly. Anything Snape had to tell him was sure to be rubbish, of that he had no doubt.

The figure gave a mirthless chuckle and shook its head. "I'm sure you don't. I didn't care either, when I was your age. And by not caring, you ensure that you will be the same as I am, when you get to mine."

"I'll never be like you," Harry said, his tone fierce.

"You already are. We're practically the same person now."

"I'm not!" Harry shouted. "You're a Death Eater!"

"Voldemort has marked us both."

"That's not the same -- "

"It is. It's exactly the same. Only you're too blind to see it."

Harry's jaw worked furiously. "You're a murderer!" he spat. The image of Dumbledore's broken body lying at the base of the Astronomy Tower flashed into his head.

"You'll be a murderer, too, soon enough."

That brought Harry up short, and he swallowed hard. It was true. He'd known it for a long time now, but hearing it spoken aloud by someone else drove the point home as thinking about it never had. The realization made him dizzy.

"And there's one more thing we have in common," the figure said quietly. "We are both helpless in the face of our hatred."

Harry allowed a cold smile to stretch his lips. "Well, that's one thing we agree about. I do hate you, Snape."

"That's what I've come to warn you about," the figure replied. "You must guard against that hatred, or it will consume you. Just as it has consumed me."

"I don't want to hear this --"

"Listen to me." The voice grew softer yet, like the angry hiss of a snake. "Let go of that hatred, or you will lose everything you care about. You'll end up just like me: alone, bitter, an outcast."

"I'll never be alone. Ron and Hermione will always be there for me," Harry said, anger giving way to a grim sort of triumph. He and Snape may have more in common than Harry had realized, but in this way, at least, he would always be the better of the two. "And Ginny. The rest of the Weasleys."

The figure shook its head. "No. Your hatred will drive your friends away, too."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do. Hate that powerful can make you do things you'd never dreamed you were capable of. Your friends will come to realize they don't know you anymore, and don't want to know the person you've become. And the saddest part is you won't even care at first, you'll be so busy stewing in your hate. But the first time you walk down the street and a mother grabs her child's hand and crosses the street so they don't cross your path, you'll realize just what you've lost."

Harry stared into the mirror, his eyes wide with disbelief. Was Snape actually trying to evoke his pity?

"Do what you must to Voldemort," the figure continued when Harry did not respond, and its tone sounded almost like a plea now. "But then let the hatred go. Don't let it drive you to destroy yourself, as well."

"Forget it, Snape," Harry snapped. "It's not going to destroy me. After what you did to my parents, and to Dumbledore? You're the one who's going to pay." He leaned in so close to the mirror that his nose almost met the cracked pane of glass. "I'm going to find you," he whispered. "And I'm going to kill you. My hatred is going to kill you. Nox." The light from his wand flickered and died, and Harry turned and stalked out of the room before the figure could say another word.

For a long time afterwards, the room was still and silent. A cloud shifted outside the window, and a bar of moonlight fell onto the bedroom floor. The figure moved slowly closer to the glass until its face could finally be seen, had Harry still been in the room. Its green eyes looked haunted as it passed from the shadow into the light.

"Yes," it sighed, rubbing wearily at the lightning-shaped scar on its forehead. "Someday it will."