Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
First in The Ones Left Behind Trilogy
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Another mirror smashed by hand or wand, it didn't matter. More fragments of broken glass scattered across the slate floor. Reflection distorted, pieces of a broken man. Poetic really, wasn't it?
Pieces, shards, slicing into skin, into soles of feet, embedding themselves deeper and deeper with every step. Knuckles raw, cut, blood dripping, mixing with the reflections of red hair. Red was their favourite colour. Always had been, hadn't it?
It was a curiosity that drove them, drove him. A pushing of boundaries. How far could they go before the repercussions were too much, too heavy to carry, too hot to hold? They'd always stopped before they'd hurt someone else though. Never cared much for their own safety, did they?
Life and reflections. Too many reflections. All of it shining, reminding him of what he's lost. His twin in everything, not just looks; his best friend, brother, confidant. A glass window is broken with the shoe he'd taken off long ago. More shards and broken skin. More pieces of himself cut into tinier fragments.
A face, staring at him from the temporarily shattered glass tabletop. Not his own, his brother's. He can even see his ear, right where it should be. The table smashes beneath his fist, the image gone forever. Always was the prettier one, wasn't he?
It's methodical almost, the way he goes through the entire house, smashing, breaking, cutting, shattering it all. Every surface in which he can see Fred - never himself - is gone. Just like him. He even comes close to breaking his own wand, sure that he can see Fred's teethmarks on it from when they were joking about one evening. Not a reflection, but still a reminder. He's not surprised when no one stops him. They all Disapparated the moment they first heard him scream in the bathroom, hadn't they?
Another floor, another mirror, another surface. He can't feel the pain in his feet anymore. The throbbing in his hand has stopped too. He's sure his wand has stopped working, or possibly had fragments of glass in it. He's not too sure how long he's been doing this, how long he'll keep doing it. But he can't face reality, can't face the reflections. He'll keep going until they're done. Always determined and stubbornly persistent, wasn't he?
There's a squeak of fear, terror lacing the edges of the sound. Ginny, Gin-bug, their littlest sibling and dearest sister. Unable to get to their parents, unable to escape, unable to escape from him. He knows he must look horrible, broken and torn and bleeding and sweating and angry. Oh, how angry. Sad, fear, desolate, all of it inside and exuding from him. He can't keep it in, doesn't think he'd want to. He's just sorry she has to see him this way. He didn't mean for her to, wanted to do this all himself. A bit selfish, perhaps, but hadn't he loved Fred best?
He doesn't apologise, doesn't think he can anyway, and just smashes the window pane behind her head. He's leaning in close to her, breathing heavily, still dripping blood. Probably ruining her bedspread, but she doesn't seem to care. She's just staring at him with wide eyes. She scampers out from under his arm. He turns, worried that she's going to hex him to sleep, like their parents had done last time. He can't sleep, doesn't want to sleep. He'll just dream again. The same dream, the ever-waking nightmare. He can't go through it again. Instead, Ginny, Gin-bug, youngest sibling, dearest sister, holds up her wand and shatters the mirror on her dresser. Let's go do some damage, shall we?
A slight grin - the most joyful emotion he's had in a very long time (this doesn't count since it's not joyful destruction) - and the glass-covered painting behind her is smashed into a thousand pieces. She doesn't even cry out when they hit her skin. He just closes his eyes and lets them all fall. Walks over them to get to her. She always loved them best, didn't she? Always looked out for them, played their pranks with them, had a way of handling their mother so they wouldn't get into as much trouble when something went wrong. And she never did tell about the toilet seat. She even looked like them, the female version of the twin pranksters. They'd loved her best, out of all of their family, hadn't they?
Mirror after mirror after picture after reflection, gone. Shatters and fragments, all of it. Pieces of themselves, of their anger, of their hurt, of their pain, all of it mixing and breaking and rejoining. It doesn't make sense anymore, but the emotions are still there, they know that they'll always be there. But there's hope for the future. Maybe they be able to rebuild themselves into something that can handle the pain, the anger, the hurt, all of the emotions that they shouldn't have to feel. It could happen, couldn't it?
For now, they'll just shatter the world around them, every reminder of their dearest brother's face gone with every broken surface, and hope that maybe they'll find solace somewhere in the fragments they leave behind.
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The end.
Thank you for reading.
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