Reflections of a Mirror

Reflections of a Mirror

Harry had lost track of time, kneeling upon the hard wooden floor of a room at Hogwarts. It wasn't just any old room, for a power from beyond the grave had drawn him up from his bed in the tower and brought him down the winding steps of the tower. Not that any of that mattered, of course, for he could remember nothing of his distant past nor could he face such a taxing present. Time had stopped for Harry, and nothing outside of this room mattered. Had he the strength, he would run from the passing of time itself; he would not have given into fate that terrible night, two months ago.

"So... Harry Potter... at long last...and I see you brought some company..."

He pressed his hand against the uncomforting, cold glass before him, its magical energies flow into his body. Why didn't the voices stop... why couldn't they just go away and leave him alone? He was done, he was broken... why couldn't they just accept his surrender?

A prisoner was too lenient of a term for him, he was bound by nothing save the overwhelming desire for the grief to just end. Why didn't it? Could his body not understand that he neither had the strength nor the vigor to carry on? Not without his friends... never without his friends.

How did it go so terribly wrong? For years, Voldemort's minions had plagued Harry's existence, not allowing him to so much as breath without fear that he or his friends might be next. After fourth year, Harry learned to grow eyes in the back of his head, they looked out for him friends, not him. They had always tracked Ron and Hermione, those who were dearer to himself than his own life. How could he have been so blind?

Honor, valor... worthless. They had thought themselves so brave and so cunning, they had learned of the one spell and item, buried deep within books of forgotten lore, which could defeat Lord Voldemort for good. How could Harry turn up the chance to avenge his parents? How could he refuse Ron and Hermione's adamant stand by his side to the end?

And now, two months later... he could hardly draw breath and his eyes were all but dried out of tears. Voldemort had tricked him, foolish him, and he was too blind to see it. Voldemort had his revenge, for even though Harry lived, he knew deep down that he was dead.

"We are ready for you this time, Voldemort," he had proclaimed so triumphantly, for he... Harry Potter and his best friends... Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger... were going to banish Voldemort from this world forever. They had the will and they had the way, all they needed was the words.

It had been a dark, starless night in the early spring. They had done everything so perfectly... they saw the Dark Lord with just one minion walking the graveyard toward his father's remains. They had lured him here; they had thrown out the bait and the Dark Lord had accepted. By his side, Wormtail kept a look out, while Lord Voldemort waited, as stiff as the dead and as cunning as a bird of prey.

"I'm so sorry..." rasped Harry, as he rested his forehead against the mirror before him, as if wishing nothing more than to be taken into it, so that he would never have to stand on his own two feet again.

"Ah," cooed the Dark Lord, in a very even voice. "I see you have brought the Relic... you plan to use it on me then... as your blood gave me life again, your own blood can take it away... hmm?"

He had known then that there was a problem - a terrible, horrible problem. Voldemort should never have known... never in a million years. They had labored so long, for so many months, to find this answer. They had found it in a book all but forgotten by the passage of time, never to be remembered again.

Harry closed his soft, defeated green eyes as he felt more tears wrestling their way free. A single, salty drop ran down the length of his cheek and dropped to the unyielding stone beneath him.

"It ends now, Voldemort... you've done enough horrible things in this world to last five lifetimes," Harry had proclaimed so boldly... so foolishly. If only he had just seen how stupid and ridiculous he had sounded then, he would have realized this plan was doomed for the beginning. It had been his fault, his sin had brought his best friends along tonight. So blinded he had been after fourth year, he had thought of nothing but revenge. Two years passed, slower than a crawl, and he had gotten desperate. Willing to stake his whole entire life on a long shot, he had allowed Ron and Hermione to drag themselves out this night... "together, we can stop anything, Harry!"

Ron. The boy who was always there for Harry... jealousy and headstrong were his vices, but in a sea of virtues like loyalty, honesty and generosity, who could hold that against him? As fiery as his hair, he had lived the life he had never wanted. Harry should have followed such a magnanimous spirit - it should have been Harry who paid for Ron's mistake. How Harry wished it could have been so.

"Indeed... well, I am sorry to disappoint you children, but there will be no defeating of the Dark Lord tonight." He taunted them and relished in the creeping doubts that were filling their minds. Wormtail, who stood behind his master pathetically, laughed wickedly.

"This will work, don't you doubt it... the ancient tomes proceed a modern evil like you!"

Hermione: her last words. If Voldemort had expected to cow Hermione before the bitter end, he was out of his league. Hermione had a way of switching off her emotions by putting faith into someone or something. Hermione's faith was on Harry that night, and so long as he continued to draw breath, she would not be afraid. How could Harry love anyone more than his best friends?

"I do not doubt that..." laughed Voldemort... "Unfortunately, I had a loyal follower of mine switch the 'real' Relic for that worthless piece of trash you currently carry in your hand. Go ahead and cut yourself, Mr. Potter... bleed all over that relic, and have your friends cast your spell...let it be the last stand you ever make."

And, in defiance, Harry had done just that. He produced a knife from his robe and cut open the scar upon his arm... the scar that had been made by Voldemort, two years before. The blood trickled upon the relic while bittersweet pain numbed his arm. All the while, Voldemort watched... watched and waited, with the hungry look of a predator upon his face.

Ron and Hermione, having faith in Harry up to the end, cast their spell upon the Relic. Sure enough, what they expected to happen hardly happened. The blood red light that was supposed to strike Voldemort and reduce him back to the mere, pitiful thing he had been upon his resurrection did not appear. Instead, the relic they held in their hands exploded, sending all three Gryffindor's to the ground.

And, just like that, Harry was no longer in the room, his head pressed up against the mirror, seeking solace that would not be given. He was on the grass in cemetery, the dirt beneath his palms wet with his own blood.

"Crucio!"

Harry felt nothing at first, until he heard the screams of Ron bellowing into the night. It might as well have been cast on Harry too, for he struggled to his knees, to see Ron wreathing upon the ground with agony Harry had felt once. He leapt ontop of Ron, hoping to be stuck by the curse instead.

"To me," Harry cried. "Not them... please, not them..."

Voldemort lifted his wand, and pointed it then to Hermione. Ron's face was red and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Part of his face and clothing was strained red with Harry's blood; it had been an accident, Harry had tried to comfort Ron with his bleeding arm.

Without a word, just a methodical flick of the dark lord's wand, Hermione began to lift into the air, screaming in protest. Harry had his wand out, but it did no good; Wormtail pointed his metal hand at him and yelled "Expellarmus!" His weapon was gone, taken by the darkness and sent flying beyond the tombstones to his right.

It had all happened so quickly, yet repeated in Harry's mind every hour of every day since that horrible night. Hermione screamed as Voldemort lifted her over a large, jagged tombstone, like a lance sticking up from the ground. With the dead calm of a madman and the dark conviction of an evil fanatic, he dropped her... impaled her... Hermione Granger... the kindest person Harry had even known, upon a rock. There was an agonized gasp, the gargle of blood... and then silence.

Harry opened his mouth to cry out in protest, but found all of his wind had been stolen from his lungs. Begging for Ron to wake him up and tell him this was all a nightmare, he grabbed his remaining best friend in a protective embrace. If this was real, he could not let Voldemort target him as well. It was all a joke, anyway, Hermione wasn't really dead... she couldn't be. It just wasn't possible. Voldemort had used an illusion to dishearten him... no one could be that cruel!

If Voldemort had him alone... he would have charged... fists clenched, prepared to punch the lights out of the Dark Lord. He would die the death of a fighter. How pitiful he seemed indeed, cradling his best friend, all the fight taken from his body at the sight of Hermione's body.

"I give up," whispered Harry, as Voldemort drew closer to him, his wand extended. "No more... please. Kill me, let him live... let him live at least..."

He could feel Voldemort's hand upon his head. He was too weak in the neck to lift his chin to look at him. "Of course, Harry... of course... I have taken blood tonight... you have paid a sizable price. You and your remaining friend may leave..."

He could feel Ron trembling against him, no longer were they two sixteen-year-old boys... they were little children, reduced to helpless before unconquerable evil. He had failed, Harry had failed, and Ron was just coming to the realization that his faith in Harry was completely misplaced.

Just as Harry released Ron to stand up... Voldemort sneered wickedly and spoke the two words that had driven Harry to near insanity in the time to come.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Ron's eyes forever burned a place within Harry's memory that night. Wild-eyed, baby blue eyes, filled with terror. He could see the green light reflecting within them, just before the beam took him in the chest, sending him back to the ground, lifeless and empty.

And, just like that, it was over. Why Voldemort hadn't killed Harry off that night was not as question to be answered with the possibility of mercy. It was an act of cruelty. What better revenge could Voldemort ever wish for? Harry Potter, the boy who thwarted him at every turn, was inflicted with the most grievous sense of loss that could ever be experienced. Voldemort would have the satisfaction of knowing that every waking moment of Harry's life, he was in torment. Nothing mattered to him anymore. How could it without Hermione and Ron?

Harry, now back in the room at Hogwarts, lifted his head from the Mirror of Erised, the mirror he had no choice but to find again... the only place he could see what he desired most again. He looked into its depths and found himself, his arms slung over his two best friends... two friends he would never have a chance to hug again.

"I'm so sorry... it's all my fault..."

The trio in the mirror paid no attention to him, for they were happy... they had each other.

And Harry would have no one, ever again.