Chapter 5:
James reached out his fingers, which were red and throbbing from the cold, and ran them alone the cool, smooth surface. The vapour from his breath was clouding up his glasses, but he was seeing more with his heart, he knew. The glass felt cold beneath his fingertips, and he pulled them away, not wanting to disturb the picture in front of him.
He stared at his reflection. He supposed he couldn't really call it a reflection, because it neither reflected the scene or the atmosphere of where he was standing; though he knew it captured his expression and body language perfectly. His eyes were filled with tears, tears of anger and bitterness and longing, but his mouth was turned upwards into a smile. And he knew why.
There she was. Her beautiful hair held up by white lilies, covered in a flowered white veil. Her perfect body was cocooned in flowing white silk, and her petite feet were bare. She was holding a bouquet of white roses, and tears were falling softly down her cheeks, but he had never seen her looking happier in his life.
And she was standing next to him. He was wearing a jet-black tuxedo of the finest quality, with tails at the back. His crisp white shirt was the colour of innocence, and his bow tie was crooked, leaning towards her.
They were standing next to each other in what looked like a muggle church. Of course, James thought to himself, Lily's family were muggles, so she'd want to have it somewhere they could see her, that wasn't full of magic.
Pink and white petals were falling from the sky, and he saw in the background his mother and father waving and smiling, but they were also crying.
He also saw Sirius and Remus standing behind him. Remus was smiling softly, but Sirius had a huge grin on his face, and kept winking at the two of them, mouthing "Have fun tonight!"
Lily gave a small laugh, and placed her hand upon James' shoulder. He felt it with his heart rather than his body, and he brought up his hand to take hers in his, but when he reached up to grab it, he felt only the rough fabric of his wizard's robes. He looked down, and his tuxedo had disappeared; in place of it were just his usual, dirty old robes. He gasped and felt a fresh batch of tears come pouring down his face. He looked around the room, which held no secrets or lies like the mirror. It was what it was, a plain, cold, stone room. It was blank, dirty and grimy, with no emotion. Somewhere deep inside his heart, James felt a feeling similar to how the room looked.
He turned back and looked into the mirror. There it all was, his deepest desire, staring him straight in the eyes. But this time, he noticed something else, in the background. Sitting on his mother's lap, was a little boy. His jet-black hair was sticking up in all directions, untamed and wild, and his big green eyes were wide, and he was smiling happily. Suddenly, James knew who this little boy was. He knew it with every ounce of his soul. But as clearly as he knew who it was, he knew that he would ever only exist in this mirror. As clearly and perfectly as he saw this scene and wished for it to be true, he knew that it was about as likely as the little boy being the one to diminish Voldemort.
And suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. His son laughing. His perfect wife smiling and crying. Him, but not him, surrounding by friends and family, standing in the midst of a scene that was and could only ever be a fairytale. He gritted his teeth, and tightened his fist. He felt a mad rush of anger come surging through his body, making his head throb. He roared, and every ounce of strength that he possessed he sent hurtling towards the mirror in his fist, aiming right at Lily's face.
Upon impact, the mirror shattered, but just as the jagged pieces were just about to hit the stone floor, they stopped, and floated eerily back up to the frame.
James looked down at his fist. One of his fingernails had been ripped off, and he was bleeding freely from several deep cuts. He could have conjured bandages, but the crimson blood trickling down his arm, the thick liquid that was the life of him, fascinated him. The same colour of her hair, he thought to himself.
He felt the pain, of course. He suspected he had also broken a knuckle, or a finger, but instead of making him sad, he felt powerful. Through the pain and the blood, he felt stronger.
Suddenly, he felt a presence in the room. He felt them walk towards him, and stop, just behind him.
He whirled around, with "And what do you think you're doing here?" ready to come bursting out his lips, but before the first syllable had even begun to be formed in his mouth, his breath caught in his throat.
There was no one there.
Yet he heard them. He felt them. He almost thought he could hear them, breathing deeply. He glanced hastily at the corner, but his invisibility cloak was still lying there, untouched. He supposed it wasn't impossible for someone else to have a cloak.
He cleared his throat. 'Who's there?' but as soon as he spoke the words the feeling was gone, the presence was lost. He shook his head, and blinked his eyes hard. He must be tired.
Suddenly, he heard a voice in his ear, whispering.
'Look in the mirror.' it said, and he spun around, his arms outstretched. His hands came in contact with nothing. He plunged his hand into his pocked, and pulled out his wand.
'Accio Invisibility cloak!' he cried, pointing his wand straight at where he heard the voice coming from. An invisibility cloak came soaring into his hands, but it was only his own.
He felt his body tremble, and it was not from the cold. Spells, snitches and cloaks he could deal with; voices with no source he could not. He cleared his throat again.
'Look,' he started, hearing the tremble in his voice but begging himself to go on, knowing he would never have the courage to continue if he stopped, 'I know you're in-' but suddenly he stopped, the full impact of the person – or thing's – words hitting him. He turned around, and looked slowly up into the mirror.
What he saw horrified him. It was no longer the beautiful church scene, with the smiling, crying faces. It was him, and only him. Swirling around behind him was thick, black smoke, shifting and changing. He was bruised, battered and bleeding tears of crimson blood, but a sick smile was playing upon his face. He laughed softly, his dark, hollow eyes betraying his pretence. He stared into them, and they stared right back, devoid of emotion.
He turned to examine his body. His arms, legs and torso were thicker, stronger, but he had a large gash in his side, issuing copious amounts of blood.
Yet still he was smiling, still laughing softly, although nothing in the picture seemed remotely funny. He saw the power that was radiating from his body, and he felt it through every heartbeat. He saw that although he was bruised and battered, he was invincible.
James stared back at his reflection. He was disgusted and fascinated. He saw his reflection's mouth move, and he moved closer, straining to hear it.
'I'm...I'm a free man. No one tying me down. No one to fear, not even Voldemort! I don't need Lily...she's not even a part of my world anymore. Or Sirius. Or Remus. Or anybody!' his reflection continued on muttering in this manic way, but James didn't want to hear it. He stumbled away from the mirror. He fumbled with the door, becoming painfully aware of the state his hand was in once more. He wrenched it open, and staggered down the hallway, not bothering to summon his invisibility cloak, not bothering to take a secret passage to avoid any teachers who might be patrolling the corridors. He wasn't quite sure where he was going, anyway, because he wasn't quite sure where he was. He had stumbled on the room by accident.
But he didn't care. All he cared about was getting as far away from the mirror as possible, as though if the distance between him and it was further, then he could push it out of his mind.
He kept on walking, rasping loudly and leaving a small trail of blood behind him. Suddenly he felt his knees buckled, and he fell to the cold stone floor. He pulled himself into a corner, and leant against the wall.
He had no desire to get up soon, or in the morning, or even at all. What was making James so miserable was not the throbbing pain in his hand, nor the prospect of having to spend a whole night in the cold; it was that as he cast his mind back to the image of himself; torn, bleeding, half-mad and powerful, as much as it repulsed him, he knew that the mirror never lied, nor the voice inside his head, telling him clearly and surely, that that was the deepest, most desperate desire of his heart, and he knew it.