Dear METMA,
I speak to you on behalf of all of the mirrors belonging to a Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart. We have begged and pleaded with you to rescue us from this man. Yet you have done nothing. Every day, every single day, and every night, every single night, he kept us awake and from rest by constantly checking his reflection. At first we chalked it up to nerves. Maybe he had someone to impress, perhaps? Then we thought Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or some other human mental disease was to blame. Why else would he constantly look and look and look? But no, we mirrors unfortunately found out, he was past OCD, way far past it. He was infatuated with himself. He kept buying more and more mirrors! He wouldn't stop! Soon there were hundreds of us, thousands of us, but he would not stop looking. I, being the oldest mirror, was appointed head mirror. I had to govern over so many of us. We were misused, we were abused, mistreated! Yet you did nothing, simply let us stay there. He broke us if his face was too red, he smashed us if he had a pimple, like it was our fault. Over his house loomed the ghosts of so many young mirrors lost. Soon his house was over-flowing, though he left often to write new fake books. Books in which he described awesome feats which he never really had partaken in. Had you come to save us, METMA, we would have told you. I, since I was his oldest and most trusted mirror, accompnied him everywhere, even though I was as big as him, and very heavy, with my silver paned glass and oak frame. He spoke to me, he kissed me, he whispered sweet nothings in my ear. But those nothings were the ravings of a deranged lunatic. Oh, now, of course, I'm sure you are nodding, yes, yes, this is true, but, dear METMA, when we first wrote you, you probably shook your heads, no, no, what are they saying? This cannot be, but ah, dear METMA, it was. Gilderoy became at teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and, I am sad to say, he took each and every one of us with him. Had he not, some of us may have been able to escape. Alas, however, each and every one of us was carefully wrapped in newsprint and lovingly stacked in a box to be taken with him. I, however, and most unfortunately, never left his side. All through the train ride, he checked me to make sure he did not appear too green, to make sure his hat was on just right, to check to see that the garlic and choclate brussel sprout bean ((his very favorite kind)) was not stuck in his teeth. He spoke to me. He kissed me. He told me he was georgous, and wise, and handsome, and powerful, and, the best of all, cute. He told me that he would take this Harry Potter and become the most awesome of celebrities. I told you, METMA, but you refused to listen. You closed your ears and eyes and heart to us, though we begged and pleaded for rescue. This continued for the whole school year, through late night book signings, and avacado masks to keep his face young. And then, came that fateful night, which I am sure you all heard about, in which Mr. Lockhart had his own memory curse fail, and hit him instead. From then on, he has been scared of us. At first he thought we were pools, in which to bathe, and he tried to jump into us. He had quite a few cuts. So then, he saw his own face in them, and thought someone had cloned him, or he had a twin. This, he didn't like, so more of us perished. He is still smashing us, and we have taken to hiding in the upmost corner of the attic. Please save us METMA, as we still trust you, even though you have done us wrong.
Sincerely,
The Head Mirror
A/N: this is one seriously depressed mirror. Sorry bout that. Don't worry, in the next chapter, all will be well! Oh yeah, I don't own Gilderoy Lockhart, but I suppose that thousands of his mirrors belong to me!
I speak to you on behalf of all of the mirrors belonging to a Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart. We have begged and pleaded with you to rescue us from this man. Yet you have done nothing. Every day, every single day, and every night, every single night, he kept us awake and from rest by constantly checking his reflection. At first we chalked it up to nerves. Maybe he had someone to impress, perhaps? Then we thought Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or some other human mental disease was to blame. Why else would he constantly look and look and look? But no, we mirrors unfortunately found out, he was past OCD, way far past it. He was infatuated with himself. He kept buying more and more mirrors! He wouldn't stop! Soon there were hundreds of us, thousands of us, but he would not stop looking. I, being the oldest mirror, was appointed head mirror. I had to govern over so many of us. We were misused, we were abused, mistreated! Yet you did nothing, simply let us stay there. He broke us if his face was too red, he smashed us if he had a pimple, like it was our fault. Over his house loomed the ghosts of so many young mirrors lost. Soon his house was over-flowing, though he left often to write new fake books. Books in which he described awesome feats which he never really had partaken in. Had you come to save us, METMA, we would have told you. I, since I was his oldest and most trusted mirror, accompnied him everywhere, even though I was as big as him, and very heavy, with my silver paned glass and oak frame. He spoke to me, he kissed me, he whispered sweet nothings in my ear. But those nothings were the ravings of a deranged lunatic. Oh, now, of course, I'm sure you are nodding, yes, yes, this is true, but, dear METMA, when we first wrote you, you probably shook your heads, no, no, what are they saying? This cannot be, but ah, dear METMA, it was. Gilderoy became at teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and, I am sad to say, he took each and every one of us with him. Had he not, some of us may have been able to escape. Alas, however, each and every one of us was carefully wrapped in newsprint and lovingly stacked in a box to be taken with him. I, however, and most unfortunately, never left his side. All through the train ride, he checked me to make sure he did not appear too green, to make sure his hat was on just right, to check to see that the garlic and choclate brussel sprout bean ((his very favorite kind)) was not stuck in his teeth. He spoke to me. He kissed me. He told me he was georgous, and wise, and handsome, and powerful, and, the best of all, cute. He told me that he would take this Harry Potter and become the most awesome of celebrities. I told you, METMA, but you refused to listen. You closed your ears and eyes and heart to us, though we begged and pleaded for rescue. This continued for the whole school year, through late night book signings, and avacado masks to keep his face young. And then, came that fateful night, which I am sure you all heard about, in which Mr. Lockhart had his own memory curse fail, and hit him instead. From then on, he has been scared of us. At first he thought we were pools, in which to bathe, and he tried to jump into us. He had quite a few cuts. So then, he saw his own face in them, and thought someone had cloned him, or he had a twin. This, he didn't like, so more of us perished. He is still smashing us, and we have taken to hiding in the upmost corner of the attic. Please save us METMA, as we still trust you, even though you have done us wrong.
Sincerely,
The Head Mirror
A/N: this is one seriously depressed mirror. Sorry bout that. Don't worry, in the next chapter, all will be well! Oh yeah, I don't own Gilderoy Lockhart, but I suppose that thousands of his mirrors belong to me!
