Hey! So this is happening! Welcome to the rewrite. Here, you will find better characterisation, a smoother plot, and high quality angst!

Okay, so for those who hadn't followed the original write-up of this, then don't worry about reading it, it's not really necessary.

Also, there's not going to be anything from the upcoming tenth book when it comes out, so consider it canon divergent.

Okay! I won't waste your time anymore! Enjoy the new prologue, I like it much more than the original!

Prologue

The mirror was broken (You broke it. Again). There was blood on his hands, they hurt (of course they do. You punched a fucking mirror). His chest burned (breathe), his head throbbed (for God's sake, BREATHE!). His eyes stung and his face was wet (with tears. Why are you crying?). He was shaking, he couldn't think straight and there were shadows creeping in from the corners of his vision (you need to pull yourself together). His limbs felt like lead (pretty sure you're cutting off your own circulation) but the rest of him wanted so badly to run, run from all of this (coward), so that it wouldn't hurt, why did it hurt so much? Please, stop, stop, it wasn't supposed to hurt any more-!

Tap-tap-tap.

Everything froze. Time stood still. He didn't dare blink or breathe for fear of breaking these precious few moments.

He could hear a muffled voice on the other side of the door. Soft, familiar, one he hadn't heard in years since its owner had burst in screaming at him, demanding answers, with clenched fists and eyes that blazed with the agony of betrayal. They'd left him with a well-earned slap upside the head that had left him dizzy for hours.

The floodgates reopened, and he felt shaky sobs rattling his bruised, aching chest (still broken, still healing). He felt so pathetic and awful.

"Can I come in?"

They were asking? Of course they were asking. A strangled noise managed to force itself out of his throat, and it must have translated to a 'yes' because the door was opening (you forgot to lock it again. These doors have locks, you know). Gentle eyes looked in at him, a far cry from that one time ten years ago.

"What happened?" they asked, sitting cross-legged in front of him. Their tone was gentle and hardly surprised. It was no longer unfamiliar for him to be found curled up on the bathroom floor with bloody knuckles and tears streaming down his face. He didn't know why they kept asking.

"M-mirror," he gasped weakly, casting a glance to the now shattered bathroom cabinet door. Their eyes didn't even flicker. "I-I… I don't… know why…"

His throat tightened again and he choked, burying his head behind his arms.

"Okay," they said simply. He flinched at the hand on his shoulder. "Okay. Can you get up?"

He didn't know how to answer that. He was shaking, probably too much for him to be able to get up, but… but…

He nodded, but didn't move. His limbs weren't doing what he wanted them to do.

They said nothing, just waiting patiently for him to get up. When he finally found the strength to move, they offered him a hand and lifted him onto his feet, guiding him to the bed before getting the first-aid kit. Both of them were silent as they dabbed disinfectant onto his knuckles and stuck plasters over the cuts.

"Do you think I'm a waste of space?" he asked timidly, his voice rough.

They didn't reply until all the medical supplies had been packed away.

"No," was all they said.

"Really?"

"Really."

That was all they said, but somehow, it was enough to send a wave of relief washing over him. His eyes were heating up again.

"I printed some more of my book earlier," they said casually as they put the first aid kit back under the bed. "Would you like to read it?"

Perhaps a little too quickly, he nodded. They went and got the folder full of printed pages from their bag and gave it to him. Before long he was absorbed into the words, sat on the bed with a blanket over his shoulders. The only sounds were the scratching of a pen on paper and two individual sets of breathing.