A/N: Just a drabble that came to me in English class. That class is so pointless. Siriusly.
Anyhow, takes place after Sirius' death.
Ghosts walked the halls, a steady reminder of the one that wasn't among them. Everything constantly reminded him that the one person he had – the one sliver of a shadow of a parent, someone he could look up to that wasn't a teacher – was gone. He couldn't decide if he somehow attracted tragedy, or if he simply got the bad hand this round.
He pulled out the object beneath his pillow once again, staring at its glassy surface. He hated how he had no answers why fate had chosen him to fight Voldemort almost as much as the empty mirror.