A Reflection of Himself

Chapter One

Harry absently picked at the three-day old salad with his fork. The lettuce, brown and shriveled around the edges, moved around on the plate in a complete disarray as his gaze turned from the wall to the window. The mid-July sunlight practically blinded him, reflecting itself off his round spectacles, and he squinted his eyes, not really paying any attention to the others who sat around the table.

"Boy, are you going to finish your salad, or should we just send you away from the table this instant?" barked his uncle Vernon's fierce voice.

Harry, not the least bit shocked by Uncle Vernon's persistent threats, shrugged his shoulders and stood up from the table. Without looking any of his relatives in the eyes, he muttered, "It's not like I'm missing out on some sort of rare delicacy anyway..."

Harry picked the plate up and emptied the remains, which was actually most of the salad that had initially been given to him, into the waste bin. He could hear his aunt Petunia scoff as he left the kitchen, her squeaky voice complaining about "no respect" or something ridiculous. The boy made his way through the living room and toward the front door, knowing that he needed some fresh air. Being trapped in the same house as the Dursleys was hardly Harry's idea of a good time, and since the day outside was promising enough, he thought a nice, long walk might be just the very thing he so desperately needed.

As Harry stepped out on to the front stoop, he closed the door quietly behind him and took in his surroundings. Number four, Privet Drive was just like all the other houses on that street, being square and conforming to the "normalcy" of the Muggle neighborhood. From a very young age, Harry was viewed by the neighbors and his relatives as different, and on Privet Drive, being different was not a welcome thing. Few people extended invitations to parties or gatherings to Harry over the years, and he was used to the strange looks people gave him as he walked past their homes. They were comfortable with things they understood, and at that very thought, Harry let a sarcastic laugh escape his mouth. Normal. Well, normal hardly described what happened last summer in this neighborhood. Two dementors attacked Harry and his cousin Dudley, and that was just the beginning of what had proven to be his most difficult and challenging year at Hogwarts ever.

Hogwarts. Just two more years left, and what would they bring? Harry's thoughts turned and cycled relentlessly through his mind. These Muggles didn't know what types of threats lay hidden from their safe and protected world. They didn't have any sort of understanding or appreciation for the efforts wizards and witches made to ensure that the world kept going, despite the likes of Voldemort and his fellow Death Eaters. Harry hadn't heard anything particularly strange in the news these past couple of weeks, but it was almost inevitable that Muggles and magical-folk alike weren't safe, not as long as Voldemort was still alive.

Still alive. Harry thought about the Prophecy, about how he had to be the one to kill Voldemort, and at this thought, Harry's head spun and his insides churned. What price would be paid in the end to defeat the Dark Lord? Being just shy of sixteen years, Harry was just truly beginning to understand the weight of the burden he carried on his young shoulders. The famous "Boy Who Lived" would have given anything five or more years ago to be recognized by somebody. Now, it seemed, his life had done a complete one-eighty. And people wondered why he was angry at the whole world...

Harry stopped. He suddenly realized where he was standing. Just a few streets over from Privet Drive, Harry now was standing in the exact same spot where he had first seem Sirius Black in his Animagus form three years prior. The black dog had scared the already-frightened thirteen-year-old Harry, and Harry now found himself scared in a completely different way. He wasn't just scared for his own life anymore. Things had since become much more complicated than that. Dumbledore's most recent words hung in Harry's mind like a raw piece of meat left to drain the blood from the flesh.

Dumbledore. The old, wise wizard who Harry had looked up to, the man who seemed too good to be true, and he was. Harry had experienced the bleak weakness of Dumbledore during his fifth year, and Dumbledore admitted his defeat to Harry only too late. Harry was still angry at the old man, although angry didn't begin to describe how furious Harry truly was with Dumbledore. Yes, Harry thought, you should have told me the truth about the Prophecy a long time ago... Dumbledore, being a century and a half old, admitted how he had forgotten what it was like to be young when he realized he should have told Harry about the Prophecy when Harry was eleven. At eleven, Harry had already defeated Voldemort twice, but the final defeat was yet to come. But at what price?

Innocence lost and innocent lives... That was the price, or was it? Were James Potter and Sirius Black as innocent as Harry had once believed? Harry blinked a couple of times at the thought of Sirius. The death of Cedric the prior year had been bad enough, but losing his own godfather too soon left him feeling empty and confused. How well did Sirius even know Harry? Harry had mixed feelings regarding his late godfather. Sirius had told Harry that he was less like his father than he thought. How was Harry supposed to take that?

An insult or a compliment? Nothing was clear-cut anymore. Sirius wanted his childhood best friend back, no doubt, but Harry needed someone who was more like a father than a friend. Sirius never really had the chance to be a father-figure toward Harry, but was it something he was even capable of? A father-figure.

Father. Harry's father, James Potter, a man who he had never really known. A man who he had seen in old photographs waving at him, looking at him sadly from the Mirror of Erised, spoken about by his old friends (and enemies), an echo from Voldemort's wand, and a memory frozen in Snape's pensieve.

Snape. Harry wanted to spit at the thought of that man's name. With everything else Harry had to endure and tolerate (or fight), the last thing Harry wanted to deal with were thoughts regarding the Potions professor who insisted on making his life a living hell. Or was it really a living hell? Harry ventured that he had yet to see the worst of what hell really was. Snape might have been a threat to Harry (or so he saw it that way), but Voldemort was the real threat here. Snape was on the same side as Harry now, and that added to the confusion. Snape had been telling Harry the truth all along about his father, but still, Harry didn't want to venture down the road of trying to figure out the man who was and is Snape. He had his own set of problems.

The wind blew fiercely, adding to the dryness of his eyes. Tears refused to come; they were a weakness, anyway, and Harry refused to be weak. If he had any sort of dignity left, he wouldn't let people see him as a weakling. Ignorance was bliss sometimes.

His hair was matted even worse by the relentless wind, and Harry realized that clouds were starting to roll in. Yet another summer storm, but all the rain or tears in the world couldn't wash away the filth that was Voldemort that quite literally plagued Harry's mind. His vision blurred, almost as if he had removed his glasses, but he knew the wind was drying them out. If there were any tears worth shedding, they would have been blown away, but there would be no tears.

His feet and thoughts had taken him far enough for one day, and as Harry continued to wander down the streets and through the neighborhood, he came only to realize that he was back where he had started. Number four, Privet Drive. His feet were aching, and Harry wondered just how long he had been walking. He glanced through the front window to see his uncle and aunt watching the television. The evening news were on, and the news reporter's voice echoed through the window and into Harry's ears as he listened tentatively. Nothing new, nothing life-threatening. With that, Harry sighed heavily and proceeded to the front door and turned the knob. With a click, the handle turned and the door opened.

Harry stepped into the room, his uncle glaring at him with complete distrust. "And where have you been, boy? You haven't been getting into trouble, have you?" he demanded ferociously.

"No," Harry mumbled, staring at the floor. Admiring his feet clad in a pair of Dudley's old shoes, Harry realized he would rather look at worn shoelaces and torn soles instead of his uncle's purple face twisted in anger. "I was just thinking about how my life is so different from yours."

"Well, that's one thing you're bloody right about," Uncle Vernon replied with malice before he turned his attention back to the television. Aunt Petunia "hmphed" and gave her nephew the cold shoulder.

Funny, thought Harry, funny how this place protects me from the likes of Voldemort, yet I'd much rather be anywhere else in the world right now.

Harry proceeded up the stairs and down the hallway, closing his door to the world and locking himself away from yet another night. Another day had passed, and the world as all Muggles knew it had continued on, with no thought or worry about whether the sun would rise the next morning. Harry, however, knew better. Those days were numbered, and as he lay on his bed, the clouds cleared away, and the sun slowly sank into the western horizon. Harry wondered just how many more lives would be lost. That would be the final cost. He closed his eyes. For tonight, anyway, his scar would leave him in peace, but his dreams and thoughts wouldn't. That was the cost indeed.

Chapter Two

Passersby on the street were none the wiser, for to them, this street on which they trod was simply another English residential street, lined with identical houses inhabited by normal, everyday people. The summer evening was mild, and a light breeze blew, rustling the leaves in the neighborhood trees. The whole place was placid and calm, and it was a gorgeous night for star-gazing. One star in particular, Sirius, sparkled brightly in the constellation of Canis Major.

What lay hidden from the common eye, however, was of little consequence or concern to the people who lived here in this quaint quarter of town. To them, there was no such address as Twelve, Grimmauld Place, but oh, how they were wrong and how little they knew what Number Twelve housed. Invisible to the eyes of Muggles, the so-aptly named non-magical folk, Number 12 existed only in the sight of wizards and witches. In fact, Twelve, Grimmauld Place had been the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix for the past year or so, but now the house was empty and cold when the members weren't there for a meeting.

Inside the rundown house, members of the Order were concluding their latest meeting. It was mid-July, just a couple of weeks after the conclusion of another school year at Hogwarts. The Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, stood up from his seat near the fireplace and looked at the last two members who were in the room.

From the door, Minerva McGonagall called, "I'll see you back at Hogwarts, then, Albus."

"Yes, yes, Minerva," Dumbledore replied with apparent exhaustion in his voice. He yawned and spoke to the two who remained. "What a long meeting this has been. After what happened at the Department of Mysteries a couple of weeks ago, it's of little surprise..." he trailed off, knowing that the events of that night at the Ministry were difficult for everyone to address, especially for the one younger man who remained in the room.

This particular younger man looked worn out beyond hope of ever regaining his youthfulness, but he smiled wanely at Dumbledore. "It's late, Albus. Don't worry about waiting up for me. The moon is nearly full, so it will be a few days before I will see you again."

"Very well, Remus," Dumbledore remarked, trying to smile, but there was little reason to smile nowadays. Turning to his right, Dumbledore addressed the other younger man in the room. "Good night, Severus. I trust you have everything under control," he said cryptically.

"Yes, Headmaster," Snape replied a bit too formally for the situation.

Dumbledore gave a brief nod and then was gone. The door creaked shut, leaving two men in their late thirties alone in the rather dark room. The fire was slowly dying in the fireplace, but neither of them made any movement to add another log. For what seemed like an expansive length of time, they stared at opposite walls, watching the shadows the firelight cast dance across the broken plaster.

Finally, Remus Lupin spoke, "You have it, then?"

The sudden words caught Severus Snape slightly off-guard. He had drifted into a daze, but luckily for him, Lupin didn't see him jump in his high-backed leather chair.

"Yes," he said tersely. "The Wolfsbane potion is prepared and sitting on the table in the corner."

Lupin tried to be sincere and replied, "Thank you, Severus. You know, if it weren't for your formidable abilities to brew such a complicated potion as Wolfsbane-"

But Lupin was cut off when Snape interjected, "Do not flatter me, Lupin. Just take the bloody potion and be on your way."

"But why are you still here, then?" Lupin couldn't help but to ask, for Snape never stayed late after any meetings for the Order.

Snape gritted his teeth and sulked in the chair, refusing to allow Lupin to see him. If the werewolf could see the look of scorn on his face, he would have been smarter than to insist on asking such superfluous, nonsensical questions - or at least they were to Snape.

"Are you going to answer me?" Lupin persisted.

"Here's a question for you, Lupin," Snape sneered. "Why are we still meeting in this cursed place? Why are we holding meetings in a deserted dump of house that belonged to-"

"To my friend?" Lupin inquired shakily, feeling a surge of mixed emotions stirring within his inside. He was more vulnerable when the moon was nearly full and he was about to undergo another transformation.

Snape didn't answer, so Lupin stood up from his chair and walked across the creaky floor boards. Normally not one who was quick to anger, Lupin was feeling upset this evening to the point of no return. He circled around the chair and faced Snape squarely, his eyes boring into Snape's eyes.

"What do you want from me?" Lupin questioned Snape softly, trying to keep his voice steady, but his eyes were starting to water.

"Funny," Snape drawled. "I could ask the same thing of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lupin immediately asked, taken aback and feeling an accusational finger being pointed in his direction. "What are you saying?"

Snape sighed and shook his head in dismay. "This whole charade you've been putting on these past few years, Lupin... What are you trying to prove to me? Your false sincerity and politeness is hardly convincing, and no doubt, you are siding with the famous Harry Potter on this one."

Still shaken by the thought of his late good friend, Lupin took a long, deep breath before speaking. "I haven't spoken to Harry since... since that night," he said softly, looking away from Snape.

Lupin knew he should have turned away from Snape, taken the potion, and left the room at that moment, but something held him back. His emotions were whirling around relentlessly in his mind and churning his insides. His eyes burned with unshed tears, and while staring aimlessly at a rather large crack in the wall, Lupin had no choice but to listen as Snape's voice rang into his ears again.

"Potter blames me for Black's death," Snape spat bitterly. "Besides," he continued sarcastically, "I was the one who taunted the fool, who told him he was of no real use to the Order by staying locked up in this shack. It's always easier to blame others than to face the reality of the situation, wouldn't you agree, Lupin?"

Lupin made a choking sound and slowly faced Snape again. If Snape was going to persist in taunting him with his sardonic attitude and sadistic mind games, Lupin was in no mood to handle them any longer. For too long he had sat quiet while others spoke for him or to him. After all, Lupin was the nice guy, wasn't he? He was the fair one, the one who didn't pass judgment, the one who Dumbledore had made Prefect to be a role model for his close friends, but time and again, Lupin had been walked on, trampled, and wiped thread bare and left with only the muddy afterthoughts to clean up.

Not this night, though. Lupin's normally soft eyes glared at Snape, not afraid to look into the other man's black eyes that seemed like endless tunnels. Long, black hair hung gracelessly in Snape's thin face, where his thin lips seemed permanently pressed into a sneer.

"I never accused you of being guilty for anything except ignorance, and that was two years ago when you flat out refused to listen to Sirius and me in the Shrieking Shack. You came barreling into the room that night, over-confident that you had captured a murderer, and all your provincial mind could think of at the time was more or less death for Sirius... I bet you're quite proud and happy now, aren't you, Snape?" Lupin hollered. "Because Sirius is dead now!"

Snape was at a loss for words. Never in his life had he witnessed such outrage from Lupin, even that night in the Shrieking Shack two years prior. He studied Lupin carefully, trying to discern all the emotions that must have been pumping through the werewolf's quickly beating heart.

He swallowed and then said softly, "There was a time I would wished him dead, I will admit that, but that has not been the case for a long time."

Lupin couldn't believe what his own two ears were hearing... sorrow, regret, honesty? There had once been four Marauders; now there was only Lupin, and here he was, standing in a dreary room with the said opponent to everything the Marauders stood for. In their mischievous eyes and minds, Snape was always sticking his large nose in places it didn't belong, trying to find a reason to get the Marauders in trouble. Very real trouble now loomed all around the wizarding world, and those who were once friends were now adversaries, and sometimes, though it was rare, the opposite was true. Sometimes, old enemies became allies.

"Severus-" Lupin began quietly, feeling sudden guilt washing over him for having accused Snape of wishing Sirius Black dead.

"No," Snape said with a rough edge in his voice, "don't. Just don't." He turned away from Lupin and stared out the window at the night sky. There among the stars, he gazed upon Sirius. "I tried to tell him not to leave the house that night," he whispered almost inaudibly, "but he refused to listen to me. The stubborn fool... always doing whatever his emotions told him to do, running head-long into danger, never once thinking about what the consequences might be... such Gryffindor foolishness and over-prided bravery..."

Snape trailed off, shaking his head in chagrin. His words weren't spoken with malice, however; they seemed coated with something that Lupin thought was a mixture of sorrow and disappointment.

Lupin let loose a faint laugh and admitted, "I fear to say you are quite right about Sirius. He could be rather thick-headed, but then again, I suppose we all can be at times."

Snape turned to face Lupin and nodded in acknowledgment and agreement. "Yes, I suppose that can be the case."

Silence. Time seemed to stand still those next few moments as they stood there, staring at each other intently, eye to eye. Finally, Snape broke the gaze and eyed the Wolfsbane potion.

"You should probably drink that soon," he said matter-of-factly, gesturing with his hand toward the table where the potion sat.

"Yes, I suppose you are right. It's quite late, but I think I will pay Harry a quick visit before going home. I know Sirius's... death... has affected him deeply... as it has us all."

Snape moved uncomfortably in the chair but said nothing.

"Would you like to come with me?" Lupin offered.

"I'm afraid-" Snape paused, "I'm afraid Potter wouldn't take too kindly to seeing me, of all people, especially over the summer. There are just six short weeks until the start of the new school year, so we will be having the unfortunate experience at seeing each other again all too soon."

Lupin just smiled and shook his head, knowing that some things (and people) would probably never change. As the fire neared its end, Lupin turned once more to Snape and nodded. "Well, I will see you soon, next meeting."

"Likewise," Snape replied shortly.

With a popping sound, Lupin Disapparated, leaving Snape alone in the room. He examined the room quickly with his eyes to make sure nothing of importance was being left behind and then walked to the window. He stared intently at the sky once again and found Sirius among the stars.

"I suppose," he said quietly, "that you may be up there with the stars, looking down on Potter... Harry. Don't fret too much and let those silly Gryffindor feelings get the worst of you. The boy is in good hands."

The popping sound again and Snape, too, was gone. The starlight momentarily flooded the room just a little brighter as the last flame in the fireplace burnt out. The black veil of night covered the earth once again, but tomorrow the light would return. However, even in the darkest night, the stars still shine.