Chapter 4: Reflection

Harry paid little attention to his and Myrtle's return journey. He was preoccupied with thoughts of his evening out in the gardens. Thankfully, Myrtle was also quiet. Together they exited the carriage and traipsed the stairs that led to their rooms.

Their rooms, one of which was lit around the door frame with light. Harry didn't dare hope for it, but—

"Mum! Dad! We're back!"

The door to Myrtle's room swung open. "Oh? And did you have a nice night?" Lily asked, beaming at them. She was dressed for bed, her hair neatly braided into one long tail that hung over her left shoulder.

"Harry's got a suitor," Myrtle said smugly, and Harry's jaw dropped as he swung to glare at her.

"Knew it!" James whooped, smacking his hand on the door in triumph.

Lily shushed him and dragged them all into the room, which once again had two beds. Harry sat down reluctantly next to his father and shot Myrtle another mutinous look.

"I do not," Harry protested, wondering how Myrtle could have possibly seen without his noticing.

"Who is the lucky winner?" Lily asked, reaching over to cover his hand with her own. "If you'd like to tell us, that is."

"No one," Harry said, now embarrassed. "We were just talking, that's all. Didn't even dance."

"I didn't get a good look because it was so dark out," Myrtle said in a conspiratorial tone, "but he must be very rich. Certainly very handsome."

"How can you tell how handsome someone is, if you can't even see them?" Harry asked irritably.

"No fighting," James said, but it was half-hearted. "It's late. You can argue over Harry's handsome beau in the morning."

Sleeping sounded like an excellent plan. Harry stood up and looked expectantly at his father.

After sharing an amused glance with his wife, James followed Harry back out to the hallway and into the other room.

"You alright?" James asked mildly. "None of us meant to upset you. I'm sorry if it did."

"I'm fine." Harry tugged his cloak off and hung it on the hook by the door. "I'm... It was just..." How to explain? He wasn't used to talking about these kinds of things with—with his family.

James looked at him for a moment, then said, "Nothing sleep can't fix," in a cheerful tone that didn't fool Harry in the slightest, but he was glad for it all the same.

Harry peeled off his fancy clothes and, after glancing cautiously at where James was lying in bed, apparently engrossed in a book, stepped back in front of the mirror. He was wearing the nightgown again, but it felt more comfortable than it had before.

That was not the only difference. Though his body was draped in cotton, Harry could tell that his shoulders were broader, his limbs less like skinny tree branches and more filled out, more healthy. He could run his hands over his torso and not immediately feel his own rib cage.

And then, most surprisingly, his forehead was bare.

Harry stared at the skin there, smooth and unmarred for the first time in his life. He couldn't help but touch his fingers to his reflection, to the disbelief plain on his face. The scar that symbolized so much loss, so much grief and pain…

It was gone.

A funny gasp worked its way out of his throat, a hiccup gone wrong. Harry clapped a hand over his mouth to cover it, to trap the noise inside. His eyes pricked with tears that were not real, but the feeling of wetness on his cheeks did feel real, it felt very real indeed.

"Harry? Are you coming to bed?"

Slowly, Harry lowered his hand. His reflection stared back at him, happy and healthy and not real.

"Yeah," Harry said roughly. "Be right there."

What happened next was Harry blinked and turned at once, then suddenly it was morning. James was now fussing with something on the side table while Harry stood there, disoriented by the missing time.

"Ah, nevermind," James said with a half-laugh. "I'll figure this out later. We're going to be late for breakfast."

They went downstairs, where Lily and Myrtle were waiting. The four of them, as a family, entered a new part of the inn that Harry had never seen before, and sat down at a small oaken table that was filled with plates and plates of food. Platters of fruit, baskets of pastries, and tall glasses of smoothies.

"Mmmm," Myrtle said, peering over the top of her large, round glasses at a stack of pancakes. "What do you think, Harry? Pancake day?"

The concept of pancake day being something they did regularly enough to give a name to, it threatened to upset him all over again. To distract himself, Harry tried to stab some fruit, but his fork kept missing.

"Let me help," Lily said, placing several melon slices and a piece of toast onto his plate.

Harry was used to eating well at Hogwarts and at the Burrow. He was used to eating with his friends while they pestered him to take second helpings. What he was not used to was his parents stealing food off each other's plates while Myrtle snorted with laughter and threw grapes at him to annoy him.

Breakfast didn't last long enough. Morning morphed into afternoon into evening, the table's contents fading in and out of existence as everything was replaced with lunch and dinner foods respectively.

Harry hated it, hated the way the hours melted into seconds. It wasn't enough time. It wasn't fair.

"I'll help you get ready," Lily said to him as they stood from the table, like they had not sat down merely twenty minutes ago.

Myrtle was engrossed in a conversation with James, waving her hands around her head. Would those two be doing hair together? Was that why Lily was coming with him?

Lily placed her hand on the small of his back. "Come on," she said conspiratorially, "we'll leave those two to their nonsense."

Harry followed his mum upstairs and to the bedroom he shared with his dad. The wooden chest that contained his mask was waiting on the vanity, but they didn't need that just yet, so it would have to wait a while longer.

The process of getting ready took longer than breakfast had, much to Harry's relief. He had never been more excited to put on elaborate, expensive clothes.

In Lily's presence, the corset made a reappearance. Tonight's choice was a pale blue-grey colour, with pretty black ribbon to lace up the back. The fit was snug, but he was used to it, just as he was now used to wearing a nightgown to sleep. Harry placed a delicate hand over his stomach and pressed down, noting how his newfound physique made the sensation of constriction more comfortable.

The rest of the outfit came together one piece at a time, with the new addition of a green waistcoat that reminded Harry of the red one worn by the stranger in the garden.

"Dressed like a prince," Lily said proudly, smoothing her hands down his forearms. "My little prince."

Harry could only smile at her. If he tried to speak, the words would come out all wrong and he would do something stupid like cry.

"Now for the mask." Lily undid the latch on the chest and removed his mask—now wholly silver, not a speck of green in sight—to place on his face. "There we go," she said softly. "Perfect."

Harry turned to the mirror, knowing it would be there, and examined himself. If he were feeling unkind, he might have said he was unrecognizable, but that was not true. That was his hair, his eyes—both attributes inherited from his parents but his nonetheless. The person in the mirror was still him, just a different version of him. A changed version.

"Have fun tonight," Lily whispered as she came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and hooking her chin over his shoulder. "Give that cute boy of yours a kiss."

Harry was shaking his head before her sentence finished, but he did not get a chance to respond because the bedroom door opened, revealing James and Myrtle, who came to join them in front of the mirror.

It was the Mirror of Erised revisited, except the physical presence of his family standing next to him and behind him was very real. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his parents like this. He could recall, vividly, his parents calling to him in the graveyard, telling him they would protect him from Voldemort. Telling him to let go.

"I don't want to go," Harry said at last.

There was a lengthy pause in which they all watched his reflection, watched the embarrassing tear tracks trickle down the half of his face that was not covered by his mask.

"Myrtle, sweetheart, why don't you wait downstairs?"

The door open and shut, leaving Harry alone with his parents. His parents, not Myrtle's parents, for as much as he was glad to see her finally happy and no longer miserable, this was his dream, which meant this moment was his and his alone.

"Are you nervous?" James asked, his hand resting firmly upon Harry's shoulder. "Is that it?"

"No," Harry said, wiping at his face. "It's stupid. Forget I said anything."

"I'm afraid it's our job to remember everything you say and do, no matter how much you'd like for us to do otherwise," Lily said, matter-of-fact. She squeezed him in a one-armed hug. "Do you not want to go to the ball? You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I could take Myrtle and you could stay here," James added.

"No," Harry said. He was thinking of the promise he'd made to the stranger in the garden as he answered. "No, I do want to go. I want to go but you—you both have to be here. When I get back. You have to be here."

"Of course we will," Lily said, sounding concerned. "Where else would we be?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know," he said, defeated. "I don't know."

"How about this," James said, "we'll go with you. We'll stay with you for as long as you want us to."

The offer was tempting. To know that his parents were nearby would soothe his anxieties greatly. But for some reason it didn't feel right. Harry had the suspicion that if he said yes, and his parents attempted to come with him, something would happen and they would all fail to arrive at the castle.

"No," Harry said, as confidently as he could manage. "It's alright. I'll be fine tonight." On the final night of the royal masquerade.

Lily smoothed a hand over his head. "If you say so, sweetheart. Whatever you want to do is fine with us."

Harry breathed out and loosened the stiff set of his shoulders. "I want to go to the ball."

James nodded. "Great," he said, cheer returning to his voice. "Then we'd best get you downstairs, quick as a fox!"

"To the carriage," Harry said solemnly.

Harry did not even make it into the carriage. Walking down the stairs morphed into walking down the grand staircase of the castle, but Harry was beyond any feelings of bewilderment; he had grown used to the lack of transitions in this world. All that remained was a bone-deep sadness that he had not gotten to say a proper goodbye.

Myrtle's delighted laughter filled the air, her hand reaching for his and squeezing tight as she raised her head to whisper in his ear.

"Look! They've redecorated for tonight."

The ballroom was no longer lit with bright golden lights. The ceiling, now primarily composed of curved glass panels, permitted the stars and moon to shine down upon the masquerade dancers. There was not a single cloud in the sky to obstruct the view.

Harry allowed Myrtle to drag him down the last few steps. When they reached the bottom, she proceeded to guide him towards the dance floor.

"Wait," he protested, "where are we going?"

"To dance, silly," Myrtle told him, smiling. "Remember? You promised me."

Harry had made a promise to Lily, though he had never planned on following through. However, now that his hand was being forced by Myrtle, he could not say he was staunchly opposed.

"I'm terrible at it," he said half-heartedly. "I'll step on your feet."

"I'll lead," Myrtle said primly, and that was the only warning Harry got before she swept him into the swirling mass of dancers.

Dancing was a lot easier when he wasn't the one in charge. Myrtle was shockingly skilled at orienting them in time with music, though Harry supposed she must have been practicing with Hannah Abbott for the past two nights.

For the first time in his life, Harry kept pace with the steps. Myrtle circled them through the moves, and Harry found that he enjoyed them.

As the song drew to an end, Harry took a moment to look at Myrtle. She was not really his sister, he thought, but in this dream, she felt like she was. In this dream, they had gotten along far better than they had in the waking world. Without the misery of her past to loom over her, Myrtle remained irritating, but she was also funny and kind.

"Thanks for the dance," Harry said honestly. "I had fun."

Myrtle beamed at him. She was prettier when she was happy, Harry noted. Her cheeks were a rosy pink and her smile was less forced and more charming. "Did you want another? I don't mind."

Harry hesitated. He did not know how long he would have to find the stranger in the garden. A moment spent here with Myrtle might mean one moment less with the man who Harry had come here to see.

"We have the time," Myrtle said gently, taking both his hands in hers. Then she sniffed and turned her nose up at him. "I promise I'll let you run off to the rose gardens right after."

Harry expelled a world-weary sigh. "Alright." They had time.

"Maybe if he sees you dancing, he'll get jealous!" Myrtle added as a new song began, a faster one.

"He knows I came with my sister," Harry pointed out.

"He doesn't know I'm your sister," Myrtle retorted. She preened, fluttering her lashes. "Besides, you haven't danced with a single person since the ball began! I would know because I'm constantly embarrassed by this fact."

"I don't like dancing," Harry protested, but it sounded feeble compared to his previous protests, doubly so because Myrtle proceeded to deftly spin him under her arm and catch him by the waist.

"You haven't been dancing with the right people," Myrtle said in an obnoxious tone, and although Harry knew she was referring to herself, his thoughts immediately went elsewhere.

Which, of course, was how they wound up on the edge of the dance floor, their movements slow enough for a hand to grasp Harry by the shoulder and a familiar voice to interject—

"Might I have the honour of cutting in, Miss Potter?"

Myrtle gasped, a flustered inhale of pleased surprise. "Why, yes, yes, go ahead—"

Harry was promptly pulled into another set of arms and launched back into a complicated waltz. He caught a brief glimpse of Myrtle's face—flabbergasted was the most applicable word here—before she melted into the background, another colourful dress in the crowd.