a very weird oneshot based on Harry's feelings after Sirius died.
When the Battle in the Department of Mysteries ended, Harry didn't notice at first, the small round mirror that was in his robes pocket. When he found it, he stared at it, wondering where it had come from. He had certainly never seen anything like it before. It was old, and the backing was coming off in places. His face stared back at him, but, through some trick of the light, the reflection seemed darker than it should have been. It matched Harry's mood perfectly. Around the edge, etched straight into the mirror, were the words imatah wu oyera tone rauoy ta hwmai. The words went straight around the mirror, and he couldn't tell where the sentence, if it was one, started or ended.
Harry stared deeper into the mirror. Where had it come from? Perhaps the Department of Mysteries itself? He didn't remember seeing any mirrors there; and yet, in the confusion, it might have fallen into his pocket unnoticed… still, it was a strange coincidence.
And there was something off about the shadows in the mirror. There seemed to be more of them than there should be, and the reflection itself was almost too perfect… he could see every detail equally clearly, and the effect combined to make something eerie and somber. His eyes, in the reflection, were not striking emerald, but strangely bleached, more of a grayish blue with emerald shadows that only hinted at their natural color.
His hair blended into the shadows above his head, and his skin was white—it was almost like a black and white photograph and yet… not.
Harry thought he should look away. If this came from the Department of Mysteries, it had a good chance of being dangerous, and yet he couldn't pull himself away. He noticed that the curtains behind his reflection's head—why were their curtains there?—were swaying, ever so slightly, in a nonexistent breeze.
As Harry watched, the scar on his reflection's head faded—unnoticeably at first, until he suddenly noticed that it was very faint, that it had disappeared. He caught his breath. The reflection's strange, washed-out eyes stared back at him. And yet washed-out was not the right way to describe it—they held color; they were striking, pulling all attention to them just as his did—but they were not emerald. They were, perhaps, the opposite of his eyes, dark and sparkling; this was misleadingly shallow at first glance, but the longer you looked the deeper into them you saw; the more play of color in what seemed at first glance to be grey.
Harry leaned in still closer. Strange, how had he not noticed that the reflection wore no glasses? It should have been one of the first things you would notice in a reflection that was behaving oddly.
The reflection smiled—the smallest, smallest curve of the lips—so small he thought he might have imagined it—and spoke: Hello.
Hello, Harry said back. The reflection said nothing, but the smile grew.
Who are you? Harry asked.
I am you, the reflection said. I am your reflection.
But you're my opposite.
The reflection's eyes sparkled for a moment. Haven't you heard, it said, that all mirrors show the opposite of what they reflect?
Harry paused. Of course I know that, he said. But not like this.
Oh? The reflection said. I think you are mistaken. You are only looking into a real mirror for the first time.
A real mirror? Harry asked.
Did you think those polished pieces of glass you use can be called mirrors? No, the art of making true mirrors has long been lost. For a moment, the reflection looked almost wistful.
I never knew that, Harry said.
His reflection blinked, once; and Harry realized that was the first time it had done so. Would you like me to show you a true reflection? it asked.
I thought you were a true reflection, Harry said.
No—not yet. The reflection turned, as if to look at something beyond the mirror.
It turned back to Harry; deep, unfathomable eyes once more on his. Come, Harry, it said softly. Come.
At any other time, Harry would not have listened. At any other time.
Harry paused. Thought of all he would be leaving behind. Thought of Sirius, laughing, fallen through the veil, never to return.
As if he had always known what to do, Harry murmured, yes.
His fingers touched the smooth surface of the mirror, which rippled, before breaking; his arm joined the reflection, looking beyond where it had submerged just like the reflection did—the same sharp definition, deep shadows, aching beauty.
He took a deep breath. The reflection held his gaze. Harry closed his eyes and let himself fall in, merging; becoming one with the reflection, becoming lost in the world beyond the mirror; so perfect, so utterly empty, the empty of oblivion.
His arm met the arm of the reflection and where it met, it overlapped, blurred; his elbow into that of the reflection's; his arms, his legs; pressing together, against each other, dissipating.
The eyes were the last to go.
For a moment, the reflection stared out at the empty room; emerald green, the light in the depths of the forest, sparkling with sunlight—and then they faded, like a pool disturbed, reflections breaking up, light dancing on the water; grey-blue-green hints of what used to be—
On the bed, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sat delicately on the bedspread as if they had just been set down.
Next to them, fallen, sat an old, old mirror, reflecting nothing but the ceiling; the red curtains. The words imatah wu oyera tone rauoy ta hwmai were trailing around the side; so you could not tell, glancing upon it, where one sentence ended and the other began.