The room's dark, save for a single candle that sits on the floor before the big ornate mirror, casting out a dim glow that does nothing to banish the shadows in his heart. Reaching beneath his shirt, he pulls out the tiny vial that always hangs about his neck, and swills around the dark liquid inside. He used to wear it as a reminder of his father, but recently it's become more of a reminder of the monster within. He's not a werewolf, but he's learned that everyone has a darker side – some more than others, and he sure knows how to tear people apart.
Dropping the little vial of Wolfsbane back to his chest, he looks up at his reflection in the mirror, and traces grey eyes over his haggard appearance. His usually bright hair is wilted and dull, just like the rest of him, and the only colour in his pallid cheeks is a bright red mark that stands out against his otherwise pasty skin.
Raising a shaky hand to his face he traces a finger along his swollen jaw and winces in pain. Looking back now, it's hard to remember how he got here – it all happened so fast. He was so used to swinging from the chandelier and living like tomorrow didn't exist, that by the time tomorrow came around it was already too late. He'd already gone too far. Done too much.
Taking another swig from the bottle, he lets the fiery liquid burn a trail down his throat before reaching up to his hair. Carding his fingers through it thoughtfully, he tweaks a strand between thumb and forefinger and watches as it fades to inky black. Frowning in concentration, he focuses on his features, and slowly they begin to shift and change as well. The final touch he adds is a lightning bolt shaped scar etched into his forehead. He stares into bright green eyes that glint in the candlelight, and remembers the last time he saw those eyes. The last time he probably ever will.
Pain explodes along his jaw as a fist connects with his face. He saw it coming, but made no effort to block the attack – he knows he deserves it, and more. He slumps against the wall, staring at the ground as piecing green eyes bore into him. He hardly dares to look up, knowing what he'll see in the older man's face, and not sure he can bear it.
When the dark-haired man finally speaks, his voice is laden with disgust and betrayal. His question is simple: he wants to know how he could do that to a seventeen-year-old boy. To his son. There are no answers though; no excuses to explain away his actions. There must be something wrong with him, he thinks. There has to be.
The dark eyebrows pull together in a slight frown, and the scar fades. Black hair soon becomes blond, and hard features soften until they're young and boyish. Silky strands flop about his face, and he sees reflected in the mirror one of the two young Slytherin twins. He remembers bumping into them that day, the same day he saw him for the first time since he'd turned seventeen.
The shop is full of students, bustling in and out, and he tries not to notice how many leaving are carrying Skiving Snackboxes. He's not looking forward to tackling that particular problem when he starts in his new post as Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts, but he doesn't have time to think any more about it as his attention is drawn away by an escaped huddle of Pygmy Puffs that are making a mad dash for freedom.
Amongst those attempting to pluck them off the shelves of Fanged Frisbees and Patented Daydream Charms are the two young twins, and he marvels at just how similar they are. He can't spot a single difference between them, and he realises that aside from all his existing concerns, there are going to be a whole host of other problems he hasn't even anticipated yet – and telling twins apart is probably the least of them.
Just as his nerves are increasing double-fold at the thought, one such problem bumps bodily into him. The raven-haired boy begins to apologise, but catches sight of familiar blue hair and stops, instead throwing his arms around the taller man's neck in greeting, just like he used to when he was little. Only he's not little anymore, he realises. He's grown, and he has stubble on his chin now, and strong lithe arms. He says he plays Seeker like his dad. The boy chatters away, and he listens patiently, doing his very best not to notice all the other changes too, or the fluttering feeling he gets in his stomach every time he smiles.
He should have known, really, from that very first day. He should have known there was something wrong with the way his chest tightened when his arms wrapped around his neck. He should have taken that as a warning sign and stayed well away. But he hadn't.
Picking up the bottle once more, he revels in the sensation of the harsh liquid warming his stomach and numbing his heart all at once. Closing his eyes, he focuses on another face he knows well, and feels soft hair tumble about his shoulders. When he opens them again, a blonde beauty is staring back at him. The cool blue eyes aren't quite right – he could never really capture their spark – but the rest is exactly the same: her sleek blonde locks, her smooth clear skin.
She screeching at him again, her pretty face contorted in an ugly scowl, and he can't get a word in edgeways as she barrages him with a wall of sound. She's screaming that she doesn't know what she did so wrong, that she doesn't know why he acts this way, and he can't help but roll his eyes – as if her standing there bellowing like she is isn't evidence enough.
The red-headed boy next to him is doing his best to sink beneath the table and out of view, obviously wishing he could be anywhere else right now. He's stood by as his friend enough times while she hurls her abuse, and had always been there to pick him up afterwards. It's not fair on any of them, really. 'Abracadabra!' he thinks to himself, wishing life was that easy, but she doesn't even pause for breath. 'Nope,' he adds, watching her go on and on, 'you're still a bitch.'
Finally something in him snaps, and it's like the last drop of patience has been bled right out of him. He exchanges a look with his friend, before grabbing a fistful of red hair and yanking him into an awkward kiss. Their lips smash together bruisingly, and finally she shuts the fuck up. He thinks he hears a choked sob, but he doesn't stop to look up, instead pushing for entrance until the boy gives in and lets him slip a tongue between his lips. He doesn't relent until he hears her turn and run from the room.
Staring in the mirror, he sees blue eyes shimmering just as they had that day, but not for her sake this time. It had been a stupid and selfish thing to do, but he hadn't realised just how stupid or selfish until he'd pulled away and seen the look on his friend's face. Freckled cheeks had burned red, and hazel eyes had swum with hurt and betrayal. He'd tried to apologise later, but the look he'd received just seemed to say 'Oh I'm sorry, I forgot that I only exist when you need something,' and he couldn't even deny that it was true. He'd used him. The damage was already done.
Observing his reflection, he twists a lock of blonde around a slender finger. In hindsight, it's easy to see why he chose her. She was the obvious choice, and he was so desperate to prove that he was normal; just like everybody else. That he could have what it seemed like everybody else had.
Tugging on the hair, he watches as it turns red, the rest of his head quickly following suit. Pointy features are soon replaced by softer ones, and a light spattering of freckles dash across his nose. Blue eyes darken to brown, and after a moment a new face is staring out at him. She's pretty, but still young.
They're standing a little apart from everyone else, heads together as they share hushed whispers, swapping smiles and laughter in the way that only lovers do. His godfather comments on how sweet they look together, and he can't help but agree. Their innocent young love looks so pure from the outside. Their fingers are intertwined, holding them together, and they look as though they're sealed inside a world just for them.
He knows it's childish to want what other people have, but he can't help it. They're almost ten years younger than him and yet they seem to have been able to find what he cannot. The platinum blond-haired boy tucks a stray lock behind her ear, and she bats her eyes at him.
He forces himself to look away. He knows that look in her eyes, and he doesn't like to think where he's seen it before.
Yes – he'd spent a long time denying what he knew was there. He'd hurt a lot of people in his pursuit of normal, and yet somehow hurt even more when he had abandoned it all together. His hands shake as he takes another sip from the bottle, swallowing down the rising lump in his throat, pushing back the emotions that threaten to drown him if he lets them rise to the surface, even if just for a moment.
Running a shaking hand through his red hair he watches as it fades into black, and swallows again, hard, at the sight of those familiar messy locks sticking up in all directions. Satisfied that it's true to the original, he begins to go through each feature on his face, making sure to get every one exactly right. He pays attention to every detail – every tiny little freckle – because he doesn't dare get it wrong. He doesn't dare alter such perfection. He leaves the eyes till last. Those dark, deep, dangerous eyes, flecked with gold and red, and full of life. His heart speeds up as he catches sight of them in the mirror, and yet still they're missing something. They're missing him.
He's backing away, but for every step he takes, the younger man takes two more. Pretty soon he's got his back to the wall, and there's nowhere for him to run, and nowhere for him to look but into those deep brown eyes. His mouth is listing all the reasons this is a terrible idea, but his body is saying otherwise, and the boy before him knows exactly what he's doing.
He begs him to stop, to think of the consequences, but pretty soon there's no space left between them and then he's not thinking at all. Soft lips find his, and all of a sudden he stops praying for an escape, and starts praying that he'll never, ever stop.
He trails a finger over those soft pink lips, remembering the way they felt on his, and his heart flutters erratically in his chest. Dropping the hand to his lap, he closes his eyes in disgust. He should feel sick. The thought should revolt him. He's only seventeen. But it doesn't matter how many times he tells himself that, those brown eyes are burnt into his retinas and they send shivers up his spine.
Without opening his eyes again, he focuses on the last face to complete the picture. When he does look, the seductive brown eyes are gone, replaced by ones of sky blue and his hair has faded to a soft mousy brown. His stomach clenches in guilt and shame as that face stares out at him from the mirror.
Brown eyes beg, in that way they have, and the older man never stood a chance. Shoving him up against the wall, he presses bruising kisses to every inch of skin he can reach and feels his heart race in his chest, never more certain of what it wanted. Hands are wandering – burning hot trails across his back and sides, when the door suddenly opens and a voice they both recognise cuts through their panting moans and makes their hearts stop.
He said something about Polyjuice Potion, but if that's what it was it's now a mess on the floor. He's not even looking at the shattered vial though, instead glancing between his Transfiguration Professor and his older brother, his eyes wide and frightened. There's no pretending he didn't see what he saw.
Their red-haired cousin is just a few steps behind. Ever her mother's daughter, she instantly takes control, sending the youngest from the room. She glances between the two of them, eyes hard and incredulous, but says nothing, only casting a quick Scourgify at the floor before slamming the door behind her. She leaves the two men to stare at each other in fear, as they smooth down their crumpled clothes, and realise that it's finally time to face the music.
And they did. Taking one last look at the young face in the mirror, he lets it fade, and his own lifeless hair and eyes slowly come back to him. Soft locks wilt around his face, and dark circles appear beneath his tired eyes. Picking up the bottle, he downs the remaining two fingers of whiskey. For a moment the room sways, then the candle flickers. In the mirror, his reflection wavers. Then everything goes black.
Written for: the 'Grand Battle Challenge'. Prompts: various (see underlined text)
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
CC cover image (entitled 'Candle') courtesy of The Bees on Flickr.
A/N: Okay so I thought this fic really sucked, but people said they didn't agree and that I should keep it up so I have renamed it (previously "A Really Bad Fic"). I hope you enjoyed it :) Please do let me know what you thought. GG x