Author's Note: I understand that I'm still writing 'Bloom, but I really, really, REALLY had to take a break from it! Ha ha. And besides, it's almost done anyway.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'Harry Potter' or any of the characters. Nor do I own an actual mirror.
Mirror, Mirror
She stares at the mirror before her, ignoring the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.
Her husband was beautiful. Why couldn't she be?
She coldly criticizes her features, eyes hardening as they gaze her form.
She hated mirrors, absolutely despised the inferior things.
… Too much flesh here, not enough there…
They showed her who she was, and who she could never be.
… Hollow cheeks and noodle-thin arms and legs…
How dare they not show her another's reflection? How dare they deny her the right of pretending she was beautiful?
… No outline of a woman at all…
She wants to destroy the mocking glass in front of her. She'd love nothing more than to hear it shatter and break and watch it all fall down.
"Mirror, mirror on the wall," she mutters, fingertips grazing the flawless glass, "Who's the fairest of them all?"
'Not you,' the mirror mocks, her own reflection turning against her, 'You know you're not good enough. You've never been good enough.'
"Shut up," she whispers, her hand still on her reflection, "I don't wanna be good enough."
'You're too impassive,' the reflection sneers, narrowing its eyes, 'You're too blank and uncaring. Too weak, just like your father. That's why he hated you, remember? Because you never looked like you cared.'
"Daddy loved me," she whispers, and the cooling sensation of glass on her fingertips is gone, "Daddy still loves me."
'Does he?' the girl in the glass asks, and her eyes look almost sad, 'Can you really say Daddy still loves us? Can you still say Daddy really loves you?'
She stares into the reflections eyes, the color of hot chocolate but icy as hell.
"Hell is cold," she says, ignoring the question, "Hell is really cold."
'What makes you say that?' the mirror asks her, and it never strikes her mind that she's speaking to glass.
"Your eyes," she whispers, her voice lowering, "I mean our eyes." She sighs and shakes her head. "My eyes."
'What about your eyes makes you think hell is cold?'
"I don't like the cold."
'It reminds you of Daddy's eyes.'
"It reminds me of my eyes," she whispers, clenching her fists, "So give me someone else's eyes."
'No.'
"Give me Mommy's eyes," she begs, "Icy blue but warm. Very warm."
'You're not Mommy,' the mirror mocks, and all of a sudden, it's mean and evil again, taunting her, 'You'll never be Mommy.'
"Shut up."
'You can't be strong like her.'
"I can."
'Do you really believe that? You can't! You can't!'
"I can!"
And she launches her fist at the mirror and she feels free as it breaks and tries not to smile because she's absolutely sure that the bones inside the skin of her hand are broken.
The glass breaks through her skin but that's okay because she listens to it shatter and watches all the pieces fall down, down, down.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, she's finally free.
