Pulchritudinous
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A broken mirror would mean seven years of bad luck – one for each flaw in his face, one for each piece the mirror had broken into. He wondered if the mirror had broken because of the flaws in his face.
He remembered when it broke. He had been seven – a particularly bleak year. His face was a mishmash of aristocratic features; seven beautiful people had been dissected and squashed into his small visage. A horribly maimed person remained. He'd always harbored internal hatred for the number seven, and three hundred sixty-five days of it was even more damaging to him than the laughter of his peers.
He supposed that they didn't know he could hear them, as he didn't want to believe them sadistic. His class was that of twenty-nine students, and, removing him, as the social circles often did, that left him with four students to laugh at each flaw of his face. He hadn't yet learned the disrespect needed to walk out of class, away from his twenty-eight tormentors.
He would curse to himself, when he'd arrived safely at home, that seven was such a terribly common number – why couldn't his mirror have broken into four hundred seventy-six pieces? Although, if it had, maybe his face would have mutated into four hundred seventy-six different flaws, a pothole in his skin for each shattered reflection.
He'd fixed the mirror upon his entry to Hogwarts, proud that at least a part of him had been cured of its mutation. Cured, however, seemed to be too strong a word – or too hopeful. His return from a visit to the small charms professor, who taught him the spell to repair the bane of his existence, took him to the shadow of James Potter. Later, he'd counted the pieces, cursing his cut, scarlet fingers as he came to the digits four, seven, six.
The irony of the situation had made him laugh bitterly, the sound awkward in his eleven year old mouth. His first year at Hogwarts had provided a total of four hundred and seventy-six run-ins with Potter. If he screwed up his eyes hard enough he could almost make out a scar on his body for each one – but only if he tried. He cursed his long memory.
By the time the curse from his repaired and re-broken mirror wore off, he was standing solemn and slouched next to his fellow Slytherins at his graduation ceremony. Potter was standing at the podium, valedictorian for the class of 1976. The crowd was laughing at Potter's words, and he clenched his hand painfully around his mirror. His shoulders tensed and jealousy writhed. As the clapping began, he forced himself to uncoil, his hands becoming flaccid.
His mirror slipped from his clammy fingers, dropping soundlessly to the floor, the shattering of glass unheard in the storm of approval. A high, keening sound rose in his mind, like that of a wounded animal, and he closed his eyes, seeking his imperturbable control.
He could still count the scars; it only took him seven minutes to count the thirty-three hundred thirty-two shiny flaws lying serenely on the dais. His hands lifted fearfully to his face, his stained digits fingering invisible potholes. Indeed, he wasn't beautiful anymore.