Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter…and I'm sure a great number of people are happy of this fact.
Authors Note: Written whilst avoiding doing my homework. I suppose it could be viewed as a sequel to "Reflections On a Winter's Night" but that wasn't really my intention…
Title: Flight Of The Imagination
His footsteps echoed as he paced, emerald eyes never leaving the concealed object standing in the center of the room. He knew what lay behind that pale, white sheet. Knew the effects of staring into the Mirror of Erised for too long…but his pride be damned if he wasn't tempted.
The Minister had entrusted the object into his able care until it could be moved elsewhere. So there it stood, taunting him from the middle of the room, right in his own home. He chewed at his bottom lip agitatedly. He knew he wouldn't last until the other Auror's came to retrieve the accursed thing in the morning. Surely it wouldn't hurt to take a quick peek…just one look, one chance to see that which he wanted most…
He took a steadying breath, turning his back on the mirror. No. He was happy man. He had a wife and three wonderful children. He had a good job, decent pay, a nice home…he had friends that cared for him. There was nothing left to be desired.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, worrying his lip once more. Nothing but that which he lost so long ago. Truth be told, he was frightened of the mirror. Afraid that he would not hold up under the heartache the reflection would surely cause him.
So much for his Gryffindor courage. He narrowed his eyes, turning on the spot to face the cause of his worries. Fingers flexed as he straightened his shoulders and stalked towards the object. His fingers gripped the smooth fabric of the sheet, knowing he would regret this later. But then, who would he be if he wasn't the ever stubborn and impulsive Harry Potter?
He tugged, ripping away the sheet with unneeded force.
He blinked.
His reflection blinked right back at him. No tall, dark and mind numbingly mysterious man in sight.
The sheet slipped from his lax fingers, silently pooling on the floor at his feet. He closed his eyes with a sigh. Why was he so disappointed? He should be relieved. Happy that the mirror had nothing for him to see, that he had no desires. A single tear slipped from his eyes as he opened them to peer once more at the copy of himself.
A startled gasp left him as he watched a pale hand stroked his cheek, brushing away the stray tear with an elegant finger. He felt his knees buckle as he lost himself in those intense, grey orbs.
The dark robed man's hands traveled lower, brushing against his throat, over his chest and abdomen with heart wrenching tenderness before they split courses. One continued it's decent, stroking a hip bone as it slipped beneath his muggle jeans and ah! Oh god…the other hand had worked its way beneath his shirt, teasing his nipples as he nuzzled his throat. His breath hot and sticky against his skin.
He watched as his mirror image tossed back its head, breath hitching and a moan escaping its lips. Or was he the one that was moaning? He felt the strong presence surrounding him, could feel those expert hands touch him in all the right places.
He was no longer able to discern the difference between what was real and what was occurring in the mirror. Those lithe, pale fingers could have been his own, but oh, he didn't care. He was too lost in this long anticipated pleasure, too desperate for that horrible scene in the Shrieking Shack and the two decades that had followed to just be some bad dream. He wanted this moment to be real. Needed it to be.
He was thrashing now, the sensations becoming too much. He could hear that silky voice whisper in his ear, those dizzying touches growing firm as the familiar voice told him to come. Told him to topple over the edge and drift into the cloudy meadow of the heavens.
A graceful bend of his spine and he was thrusting his hips into that intense touch as his voice tore from his throat, crying out his loved one's name in such anguish and devotion that no one could deny the passion he held in his heart.
Spent, he lay on the cool floor of the spare room. The sheet entangled around him and his hand covered in his own essence. Tears came then, as he looked into the mirror. He found no relief from his pain as he watched his copy kiss the man he wanted to hold so much.
He was so foolish. Falling so deeply into a fantasy he knew was all too impossible to be real. He buried his face into the soiled sheet, no longer fighting his tears as his sobs racked his thin frame. So caught up was he in his torment that he did not see the door to the room shut quietly.
Ginny Weasley leaned heavily against the door frame, her own salty tears streaming down her freckled cheeks as she stared at the floor boards. She had always felt that something was wrong with their marriage. Felt that something was missing on Harry's part. Now she knew what it was. Harry may have given her his hand, but his heart would forever belong to Severus Snape.
End