The Two Who
Lived (2/2)—Mirror, Mirror
By Lady Aeryn
---------------------------------
The walk was
short, and the moon was still in the eastern sky (though a bit higher) when
Hermione pulled Harry, still by the hand, into the familiar corridors of
Hogwarts Castle, now empty due to the summer holidays.
Any number of
memories passed by him unbidden—flying his old Nimbus... Malfoy being turned
into a ferret... discovering he was the Heir of Gryffindor... the final group
trek down the hall to the graduation ceremony, not long before everything had
been shot completely to...
"It doesn't
seem that long ago," Harry said quietly, as they passed a window looking
out on the old Quidditch pitch and the field below it, now cast silver in the
moonlight—but otherwise unchanged from his final House championship, a hard-won
Gryffindor victory.
"It
wasn't," Hermione said simply, then stopped at an engraving in a stone
pillar in the wall, frowning. "I think it was here... let me
see..."
She spent several
moments with her finger roaming over the various circles and curlicues in the
engraving, none of which looked remarkable to Harry, and he wondered just what
Hermione was getting at with this. "Hermione—"
he began—
She pressed on a
circle in the wall carving, and the section of wall fell away. Hermione
smiled triumphantly. "See?"
Harry
stared. Though he'd had enough experience to know things were seldom all
they seemed—it looked purely like an empty tunnel to him, and judging by
Hermione's reaction a moment later, he'd (without thinking) apparently said so.
She shook her
head and muttered something like, "like Ron... completely misses the
point..." but Harry said nothing, simply allowing her to lead him down the
passageway, the entry to which abruptly shut behind them. The passageway
was dim but wall-mounted sconces on either side of the downwardly spiraling
path seemed to light up just ahead of them as they walked, just enough for them
to see just in front of them but no further.
"What on
earth were you doing down here?" Harry whispered.
"You'd be amazed at some of the things that've been found
in the reconstruction," she said, referring to the restoration the school had
been undergoing after its razing in the final fight against Voldemort; Harry
distantly noted she'd not really answered his question and filed it away for
later reference. "I came here to... to
see it," she went on, Harry also taking note of her odd little pause. "I was fortunate I found this before anyone
else apparently had. Even during the
school year, though, not much traffic is in this section."
Harry raised an eyebrow, in slight suspicion. But he said nothing.
The sconces disappeared after a few hundred meters, and
the passageway seemed to get dimmer and dimmer as they walked—Harry thought
momentarily to take his wand and whisper "Lumos," but Hermione still
continued on, unheeding of the darkness, so he did as well. As it finally became dark enough he could
barely see the outline of her hair in front of him, she suddenly stopped. Harry could make out a large recess in the
right-side wall, and in the middle of it—
"Alohomora," Hermione chanted, a few tiny blue
sparks coming from her wand and opening a sealed door in the recess, which
swung open before them.
"I think maybe I was meant to find this now," she said,
letting go of Harry's hand and walking forward into the room, as dark as the
corridor itself. Harry caught a silvery
glint reflected in the corner—or so he thought, for when he looked, there was
nothing. "It's not logical of me, I
know—but even I have to admit that... that finding this on my own, not even
looking for it, is an... odd enough coincidence. Light up your wand," she directed him. Almost in unison they spoke the word "Lumos," the light
from both their wands filling an area about four meters in a circle around them
with a dim gold glow. Harry definitely
saw the silver glint this time, and he turned back to the corner.
His mouth fell slightly open, his wand coming down
slightly, and his feet began walking him towards the thing in the corner, the
silvery glint off of it, as he neared it, seeming to become a pale ghost of a
glow coming off its smooth, liquid surface.
"I'd hoped it would still be here," Hermione said from
behind him. "I thought it might be good
for us—for you—to see it."
Harry didn't speak for a moment, running his fingertips
along the intricate gold frame, the inscription along the bottom, apparently
untouched in the seven years since he'd last seen it. Never mind that at that time he had been fighting for his life
against the disembodied evil that had claimed his family—this thing was so much
more than that.
"I heard you and Ron talk about it so much those years
ago. It made me wish—wonder what I
would have seen in it."
A swirl of images so jumbled it made his head hurt
flashed across the mirror; he tried to sort out just one of them. The first thought that went through his mind
was it can't be, but that was stupid, because obviously, it was there in
front of him. And just like it had
seven years prior, the Mirror of Erised showed Harry Potter as a young boy, not
at all unlike the eleven-year-old who'd first stared into it and seen his dead
family. Hermione was still beside him,
but she was young too. And close beside
her, just as young as Hermione and Harry—
Harry quickly turned away from the mirror, drawing in a
sigh, pressing two fingers in the spot between his eyebrows. Desire must be a neat, tidy, six-letter way
of saying painful-as-hell, he decided.
What was it Dumbledore said? That human beings have a knack for wanting what's worst for them?
Perhaps the Mirror of Erised should have been named the
Mirror of... Yrekcom instead, he decided; the things you most longed for were
always the things that most eluded you—and this mirror always lobbed it right
back in your face, giving that desire its own face to mock you with.
Ron. His
parents. Dudley in obvious discomfort
on a Stairmaster. Ron. Himself after a Quidditch game, being lifted
up on the shoulders of his friends, including Ron—
And there was something else too. It remained there, a faded ghost
superimposed over the stronger images that flitted across the mirror... it
remained there even as other ones quickly passed it by, and Harry could only
barely make it out. He thought he saw
himself, but something (or someone, he didn't know) else as well... he only
knew for sure he wanted to see it, but no matter how he himself focused, the
image refused to.
Then came Ron again, waving and smiling at him, and Harry
tried to turn his gaze away, feeling as if he'd severed his optic nerves doing
so.
Voldemort killed him.
He's gone forever, and Ron's blood is on his hands. Not yours.
He repeated the last two words to himself, but didn't
seem to take much root beyond a thin surface layer.
Not yours.
The first weeks after it had happened, Harry was certain
that if he could change things, he'd have gone back and saved Ron if he
could. Even if it meant dying himself.
Hell, this wasn't right. He could feel it, as strongly as any pain in his scar had ever
been. Ron wasn't the one Voldemort had
wanted. He wasn't the one that had the
grudge with Voldemort. Voldemort wanted
Harry dead because he was the distant descendant of a tradition that had built
itself on destroying his ancestors. But
Ron? He was just the friend of that
descendant. (Albeit a damned good one.) Harry was supposed to be the one who got big
things thrown in his path; it was what he'd done all his life... he was the one
who, it seemed, was supposed to take the brunt of those things.
Even if that brunt included dying.
Even now, part of Harry was telling himself that he still
wanted to go back and change things.
But the mirror still didn't show anything remotely resembling that, and
he felt a little disoriented knowing that one of his "safety" beliefs was
discredited. But he couldn't shake the
feeling that, somehow, it had been his fate, his alone, to die that
day. Hermione would call it Harry
taking too much on himself again, and a grain of truth to that though there may
be, it was far from the root cause.
He'd been marked for death since his birth, and in surviving Voldemort
it felt—illogically—that he'd somehow been cheated of something he'd been
destined for his entire life.
(Before then, even, if the prophecies about Gryffindor's
Heir defeating Slytherin's at his own sacrifice were to be believed—but somehow
that had wound up only partly fulfilled.
Hermione had surmised that perhaps some sort of cosmic balance overrode
the original prophecy, that only one Heir was supposed to die; the fate of the
wizarding world backing on whether it was to be the Light or Dark one. But what was Ron in that equation,
then—nothing? Harry didn't like that.)
But some part of him had always been prepared, almost as
if it had been specifically bred in him, to die against Voldemort. And that part remained unresolved, useless
in him like an infected appendix.
But the image of Ron continued to smile. It refused to change to fit Harry's deep
feelings of guilt, which ran so deep in places it blurred interminably with
desire.
Except, it seemed, to the mirror.
In not so many words it was saying what Hermione had been
saying all along.
He turned away from the mirror's line of sight fully this
time, and he felt certain that some part of his eyeballs still hovered in space
where they'd fought against the movement of his body and succeeded. For once Harry was grateful for his unkempt
hair; it managed to block the corner of his vision from the sight of the
mirror's reflection. He started to say
something to Hermione, but the sight of her brought him up short.
Hermione, still staring straight into the mirror,
tightened her lips at something—he resisted the urge to look, reminding himself
he'd not see what she was anyway. But
as he watched, those same lips began to tremble slightly, and she walked
forward to the mirror and knelt before it.
He momentarily forgot his own vision, and watched his friend's
actions. She reached out a somewhat
unsteady hand to touch the silvery surface—Harry almost spoke out; he'd never
seen the mirror touched, didn't know if there was something against it. But Hermione seemed to be unaffected, but
for that a wall seemed to come up before her brown eyes.
The look in Hermione's eyes was very disturbing to Harry,
the way she stared so fixedly at the mirror; this was not his solid, strong
Hermione. He remembered what Dumbledore
had told him, about those so mesmerized by what they saw in the mirror they
wasted away before it...
The wall in her eyes flickered slightly and desire for a
moment shone painfully clear from them, and he thought he saw her silently
mouth a syllable—a name? She sat there
unmoving; Harry had no idea what, if anything, he should do—
Hermione suddenly closed her eyes. "Take me away from here, Harry," she
whispered, even so still making Harry want to jump. "I'm through here. Let's
leave."
Harry reached out to take hold of her shoulder, but
Hermione turned away and stood on her own, and he drew it away.
She looked up at him, her once-open expression suddenly
unreadable—there, but still unreadable—but at least the wall had gone from her
eyes. "Aren't you going to ask me what
I saw?"
Seeing her reaction to whatever she'd seen, honestly, was
more than enough for Harry. But maybe
she wanted to tell him?
"Do you want me to ask?" he said quietly.
She shook her head.
"Not really. And it's perfectly
fine if you want to keep yours, too."
Hermione sighed.
"I know why you brought me here, Hermione," he said,
quietly. "But why did you look
yourself? You'd seen it before."
She didn't answer.
He glanced back at the mirror, quickly enough to avoid
another vision from it. "Dumbledore
told me something when I came back to find the mirror one time," he paused, and
Hermione nodded ever so slightly for him to continue. "He said the happiest man on earth would look into this mirror,
and he'd see himself in it exactly as he was, like it was a normal mirror."
"You believe it?"
Harry quirked up a corner of his mouth. "I don't disbelieve something simply because
I've never seen evidence to prove it."
She pursed her lips, running her tongue along them for a
moment. "You remember those
two-meter-long essays we were always required to do in History of Magic class,"
she said—"All too well," Harry muttered—"Well," she continued, "you know that
every time we turned one in, we'd get it back, telling us what mistakes we
needed to correct in the rewrite. You'd
try to fix them, then you'd come back and turn it in again, hoping—"
Harry found he understood. "That when you looked again, they would be fixed."
"Gone," she murmured, looking at the mirror again; this
time Harry took a single step sideways, blocking her direct view of it.
"I said I accepted what happened to Ron, Harry," she said
quietly, "but I never said I'd completely gotten over it."
"You didn't find the mirror by coincidence, then—not that
you or I believe in things like that," he added hastily.
She managed a wan smile.
"Would you believe me if I told you a little ghost told me?"
He put a hand on her shoulder, and for just the smallest
moment, her eyes were so clear he swore he saw himself in them. Her face and his, together in one image...
her mirroring himself back exactly as he was...
Stifling the (very strong) urge to shake his head, he
inclined his head to the door. "Come
on, Hermione. Let's get out of here."
But Hermione was staring at the mirror again.
"Hermione?"
She jerked slightly, her eyes clearing once more as if
she'd awoken from a trance. She glanced
at the mirror, then looked at Harry, then the mirror again—her smile widened,
just noticeably.
Harry moved his hand so his arm was around both
shoulders, this time, and he began steering her towards the entry. As he did so, they turned back towards the
mirror again—and for a flash saw something he'd never expected to see.
"The happiest man on earth would be able to use the
Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror... look into it and see himself exactly
as he is. Does that help?"
Harry thought about this. Would it show exactly what was there if exactly what the person
wanted most at that moment was already there?
He thought about Ron, and the flash was gone; Hermione
squeezed his hand once, and the look in her eyes was—
"You saw it, too.
The moment you put your hand on my shoulder, I saw it..."
His eyes widened.
He hoped she didn't mean that, because that would have been...
well, weird, considering they'd stayed a certain way for eight years and showed
no sign, no desire to be otherwise...
"Of course I love you, Harry. I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't. But I've never had fantasies about the two of us locked in a dark
broom closet, if that's what you're worried about."
He was relieved enough it didn't even occur to him to be
insulted. (Until sometime later.)
He blinked at the mirror. The image it showed to him was the same as it had been for Harry
a minute ago. He and Hermione had
stared back from the mirror... looking exactly the way they did now.
Behind them in the reflection Harry caught the vague
outline of a tall, skinny human form... it was fading even as he watched, and
though Harry could never confirm it he would always swear he saw the moon catch
a dying, tiny glint of flaming red on it, near the top.
It should have hit him like the Hogwarts Express on full
speed ahead, but perhaps because he'd been resisting it for a long enough time,
it didn't.
He wanted to get over Ron's death. The mirror showed him what he'd not let
himself or even Hermione tell him, at the same time showing him he already had
something he wanted. As if to punctuate
it she reached up and tilted his head onto her shoulder, letting him feel it
for a minute. It... felt good. Nothing passionate, nothing that would
embarrass either of them, just... there, and warm and steady.
He had a friend there with him. No more, no less, and the mirror showed just that.
Harry reached out and touched the mirror, and it was
Hermione who finally had to gently tug him.
He looked back one last time and suddenly smiled warmly, and even
Hermione might not have understood why.
And somewhere in the room behind them, a tired spirit was
freed.
"Stay with each other," he murmured, freezing in his mind
the image of Harry's face that first time they'd met on the Hogwarts Express,
and the smell of Hermione's hair against his cheek during their first
kiss. "But even think of those
little broom closet fantasies, and I'll haunt you for eternity."
Holding the images in his mind as if in a perfect
adamantine case, he walked through the mirror and away beyond the perceptions
of all living things, Muggle or wizard.
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
Aww, isn't friendship grand?
For platonic H/H-ers, this fic ends here.
I'm undecided.
Whether to do a continuation and delve more towards a 'shippy
relationship with H/H, or leave them be.
I'd been thinking to do a continuation with Harry and Hermione still
very close but still platonic, and I do like the idea, but the idea of a 'shippy
fic's also been gnawing at my ankles too, rather persistently...
Honest critiques, please!
