Reflection
October 27th
The sound is so faint it almost doesn't register at first.
Tap…Tap…Tap…Tap
Hermione abruptly halts the slow, circular caress of her fingers through the foaming, aromatic mass of bubbles covering her hair. Is that someone at the bloody door?
Shifting her body out of the warm, steady cascade of water, she tilts her head and listens.
Tap…Tap…Tap…Tap
Fuck!
With an irritated growl she yanks the curtain back, grabs her robe and a towel, then steps out of the enormous clawfoot tub as quickly as she can without sending herself arse over teakettle to the floor. Winding the towel around sudsy, unrinsed hair she darts to the door, flinging it open.
There is no one there.
Hermione huffs in disgust, all but stomping back to the still steamy bathroom. She turns to hang the robe back on its hook and freezes when she sees words scrawled across the fogged surface of the mirror.
I will drag you to Hell
Instantly her wand is in her hand, her heart pounding a rapid staccato as she frantically checks her wards and hurls revealing spells into every nook and crevice in her flat imaginable.
Nothing.
She doesn't sleep that night. Or the next.
October 29th
Hermione leaves the bathroom door wide open, and her shower is such a rapid, cursory affair that there is virtually no mist in the bathroom at all. The metal rings scrape gratingly along the rod as she draws back the curtain; she reluctantly drags her eyes up to the mirror, then drops as her knees give out and smack hard against cold, wet porcelain.
You will join me in death
Like hell I will, she thinks, even as a sob escapes her and her fists clench tight enough for her nails to break skin.
"Pranked?" Harry's expression conveys an appropriate level of concern, but there is a perceptible undertone of skepticism in his voice. She ignores it.
"Well, either that, or…the flat is haunted - and honestly, neither option is particularly… logical" she says somewhat disdainfully, then mutters, "or sane. Seriously, I've gone over every inch of that flat with a fine toothed comb, and…nothing," she gestures frustratedly.
"Right. Look, if you like, I'll have a word with the leasing agent. See if the building has any history that wasn't disclosed, who lived there before you, or if anyone in the building bears a grudge."
"They're not going to tell you anything."
Harry's features take on a devious glint. "They will if they're compelled to by Code Enforcement."
A disbelieving bark of laughter escapes her, and it feels so good, like a break in the clouds - even if only for a moment. "Harry Potter, abusing his authority. Whatever would the Minister say?"
"That I should have started doing it a long time ago," he replies drily.
October 31
Fully clothed, shielded from the soaking spray by a charm, she stands inside the tub, fingers gripping the edge of the curtain as she peers carefully around it, her eyes fixed on the mirror. She berates herself for not having noticed some of the finer details - obscure runes and glyphs nestled, almost hidden, within the intricately carved wooden frame. The mirror was old, far more so than she'd originally realized, and perhaps if she had paid closer attention, hadn't been so eager to move into the flat in the first place, she would have noticed.
Beautiful and distinctive, my arse.
She is exhausted, and more than a tiny bit irritated at the necessity of running an actual shower. How an inanimate object could differentiate between real steam and the mist she'd conjured, she had no idea. It was ridiculous, really, that her facsimile hadn't worked.
It doesn't take long for the entire bathroom to fog up completely.
Abruptly, the fine hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stand on end.
Something is…different.
She shivers as the temperature in the room plummets precipitously.
She detects a flutter of movement; the surface of the mirror appears to ripple and move, as if it's some sort of living, organic thing. Locking her gaze onto the its glassy surface she feels as if her blood is congealing, freezing in her veins as the pattern of symbols on the mirror's frame begin to glow.
Through the swirling mist, a faint, shadowy silhouette becomes visible, drawing ever closer to the opposite side of the glass.
Hands, ghostly white and spidery, skeletal fingers that taper to long, talon like nails come to rest against the mirror.
She stares, transfixed.
Those hands.
She's seen those hands before.
She goes absolutely cold, stomach dropping like a stone, and suddenly reality unspools, grows surreal, like she's Alice Through the Looking Glass,only this particular rabbit hole is nightmarish and macabre, like a Hieronymus Bosch painting come to life. It isn't hard to deduce what is coming next.
Before she can stop herself she is out of the bathtub. Her wand is held limply, all but forgotten, as she moves with slow, dreamlike steps toward the mirror. It draws her like a magnet, the runes alight and pulsing with hypnotic, malignant energy.
And then his face appears, cadaverous features twisted into a rictus of pure malevolence, his shining red eyes regarding her with something akin to glee.
And he silently beckons her near. Come to me. Now.
Her will goes completely numb, then, snuffed out like the guttering stub of a candle. With detached, horrified fascination she watches as her fingertips extend outward of their own accord. She is no longer pilot of this ship, powerless to wrench herself free as her hand reaches up and makes contact with the surface of the mirror.
And goes right through.
Voldemort's thin, bony hand clamps around hers and pulls.
"Alohamora!" Harry bursts into the flat, heart pounding in desperation. "Hermione!"
He races to the kitchen, to her bedroom, but she isn't there. "I was right!" he shouts, urgently, halting as he notices the sound of running water. The bathroom door is wide open, and he swallows hard, his stomach clenching in trepidation. He edges toward the door, hesitant to walk in on her if she's..well, naked. "The leasing agent…turned out to be a former Death Eater…Hermione?"
He reaches the doorway. The bathroom is a mess.
The empty shower is running full blast, the open curtain allowing water to spray out onto the floor.
Large, jagged shards of broken mirror litter the surface of the sink vanity and floor.
He spots her wand, lying in the sink, and his heart seizes in his chest.
One large section of broken mirror remains intact, hanging precariously in the wooden frame, and he grips the doorframe until his knuckles turn white, insides churning in unadulterated terror as he sees the words scrawled across the glass.
Help me.