Disclaimer: I only own my computer, and my brother still insists on using it.
AN: This is the first fic that I post, because I like too much to begin new stories and not finish them, but I don't want to leave other people hanging. This is an one-shot, although it can seem the first chapter of a story or something. I thought it could go alone.
Also, my first language isn't English (I'm Spanish), so if something doesn't sound right, don't worry, it's not you!
Cyllan
MetamorphmagusHe had just been a couple of days back at the Dursleys and already seemed the worst ever. It seemed impossible than a few years back he had stayed always there. But then again, then he had just been an innocent child that dreamed about perfect parents and flying motorcycles.
It was just after dawn. After a night of little and troubled sleep, he had decided to get out of his room and take a shower while the Dursleys were still deep asleep.
He felt constantly as if an army of Dementors were surrounding him. All the things gone wrong in his short life haunted him day and night. When, for some moments, he managed to forget about the death of his godfather and his fate to kill or be killed, one of his relatives came by to remind him what a worthless freak he was.
He stopped the water, and just then realized that he was taking a cold shower. The hot tap was completely closed. He shrugged and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. It was already hot, so he didn't bother to dry up.
He stood in front of the mirror and looked at his blurry image. He could only see a mop of black that was his hair and two green points. He tried to focus his eyes on the mirror, not wanting to put on his glasses just yet.
He looked pale, and as skinny as ever, if not more. The lack of Quidditch hadn't gone well on him. And he was short, shorter that he should be. A part of him that continued alive inside him wanted to curse the Dursleys for that. The way they had always underfeed him had already done its wrong in his body, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to grow those few missing inches no matter how much he ate now at Hogwarts.
But this didn't have any importance now. And it wasn't as if he felt any hunger anyway. He couldn't feel it. How could he, when he knew that Sirius wouldn't be hungry ever again?
He focused his eyes again, looking at his own face. He almost didn't recognize it. Big black bags were under his eyes, and his lips seemed almost purple. His scar stood up in an ugly red, and his hair, the same messy mop that always had been, seemed somehow offensive now.
His hair reminded him of his father, as he had had exactly the same, and inevitably, this thought led to Snape's memory from the pensieve. He still couldn't understand it. Why was his father so cruel?
But he was trying to lie to himself. He understood why, but he didn't want to believe it. His father had just been a bully at school, no better than his cousin Dudley was.
"You always have to be the hero, just like your father!"
Why did he had to be like his father? He thought sadly. At first, when he had first gone to the wizarding world, he had felt proud every time that somebody compared him to his father. It was the relation that he had never had. But now that he had discovered what kind of person his father was, he felt only hurt for every time that somebody he considered his friend had said how much he was like his father.
He looked up to the mirror, to his eyes. Now they were shinning with tears, but lacked the life they had a couple of years before. His green eyes, his mother's eyes. Everybody had told him that too, he remembered, looking at the green orbs in the mirror.
Why couldn't I have been more like my mother? He asked silently. She had even defended Snape, he thought. If he had been more like his mother and hadn't had this… saving people thing… maybe Sirius would still be alive.
He glared at the mirror, at his messy black hair as if it was the most offending thing he had seen in his life. It was falling in his face, trying to hide his mother's eyes.
He closed his eyes tight, forcing the tears to stay where they were, forbidding them to roll down his cheek, although they escaped anyway. If only I had been more like my mother…
He stayed some minutes like that, until he calmed down a bit and allowed himself to open his eyes. He brushed the back of his hand to his face, trying to dry the few tears. He took a deep breath and prepared himself to look again at the mirror to wash his face, intending not to look at his father's hair.
He opened the tap and threw water to his face furiously, and immediately looked at his reflex. He opened his mouth in surprise for a second before he fell down in his bottom to the cold floor. He didn't even acknowledge the pain as he got up and began to look for his glasses frantically.
He put them on as fast as he could when he found them and looked again at the mirror. There was no mistake. He was finally mad. His wanting to belong had finally affected him, because he had transformed. He was now a Weasley!
The image on the mirror looked exactly like it had looked a few minutes before, except the hair. What was before short (but not so short), messy black hair was now straight auburn hair that fell to his shoulders, much like Bill's.
"Like my mother's." He whispered.