Title: Look Into the Mirror (Part 1 of 3- other two written and ready to be posted)

Rating: T (or PG-13, for m/m situations and mild language)

Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated, nor associated, with J.K Rowling or Bloomsbury Books. The characters depicted in this fiction belong to them, in no way do I claim ownership. This is strictly a non-profit piece, written only for entertainment purposes.

Summary: Look into the mirror and you'll be surprised at what you'll see. Even something you won't believe.

A/N: I wrote this a little while ago whilst on the writers hiatus; in which I couldn't get it to feel right. Now though, it seems to fit together. Feedback much loved.

Tell me what secrets do you see?

It’s that mirror, that damned mirror that keeps reminding him of all his flaws. He hates coming back to look at it, look at himself, because what he sees leaves him walking away feeling angry and bitter. There are things there, reflected on the surface, that should not be seen by anyone.

But yet, despite his utter loathing for the place, he comes back night after night to stare at his reflection. It’s not because he is vain and it’s certainly not because he has nothing better to do (after all he could sleep); but because there’s something about the reflection that leaves craving more.

The corridors were deserted at that hour; most of the students never dared to venture out past curfew. He could never fathom why they were afraid of Filch; he’d learnt not to care about some stupid squib. This was far too pressing to be stopped by a caretaker. Instead, he takes to the corridors at the dead of night, sticking close to the shadows and avoiding catching himself in the moonlight. He knows that, in that sort of illumination he is hideous.

He keeps a look out for the cat, the stupid feline that is the only thing smart enough to give his position away. He slinks down the corridors that have become far too familiar, imprinted on his mind, he’s come this way too often. He slips past some of the portraits, fast asleep after too much firewhisky and he wonders whether that could be his solution, the end to all his problems. But he doubts he’d be able to play professional Quidditch if he were drunk all the time- though, if what everyone else says is true he won’t be able to play looking like he does.

Ascending a flight of stairs quickly before they decide to change, he freezes as he sees Peeve’s humming merrily up ahead; directly outside his destination. He looks back, wondering whether it’s worth being caught, but knows the answer already. So he waits (and holds his breath) as Peeves cackles wildly, probably about his latest trick, before disappearing into the stonework of the castle walls. Immediately he sprints for the door, skidding to a halt outside his sanctum. He checks the corridor, already knowing it is empty, but it wouldn’t do well to expose this to some snotty nosed first years.

As he grips the handle, he can already feel the flux of emotions taking him by storm. There’s nervous excitement of what he’ll see tonight, for it’s never the same (he often catches himself contemplating what it’ll show him). Then there are the painful beginnings of something akin to sorrow, though that’s always quickly covered by his rage. He pushes the door open anyway, because he’s been anticipating this right from his last trip.

The room’s completely vacant apart from the mirror that stands pride of place in the centre, looking out of place in amongst the dust. He wonders whether it’s fate that’s lead him to it, but he always scoffs at the idea, yet some part of him still wants to believe it. He steps towards it, his outstretched hands run over the frame, his fingers rolling over the inscription with reverence- wondering who spent so much time labouring over it. He sends a silent thanks to whoever it was, but he has no desire to research about it, perhaps that would spoil the mystery of it. It was just one of the meaningless thoughts that always occurred to him right before he stares at his reflection.

For a moment (and it is these moments that hurt him the most) it is just the same old person staring back. The same frown-lines etched into his forehead, the same tombstone teeth and the same old resemblance to a troll that everyone sees. There’s still the bulky frame, and the permanent presence that terrifies people before he even has the chance to speak; not that he’d have it any other way. He can feel the anger riling up inside of him, having to stare at the reflection he doesn’t want to see, so he clenches his fists but restrains himself from smashing the glass.

But the reflection ripples for a moment, as if it is going to pull him inside, before another figure is reflected back. He knows who it is and it eases him slightly, because this is what he’s come to see. This is the reason he comes back, not for himself, but for the other.

The other moves over with the grace (can he think grace and still be taken seriously?) that he possesses in the air and he’s got an unmistakable swagger of confidence. He looks up at the other and can see the warmth and the mirth there, and he revels in it, because he wants to be the reason it’s there. So he smiles slightly, because when he’s in this sanctuary he can smile, and it’s a perfect smile. Not a smile obscured by his crooked teeth that could make children whimper; but a smile that is straight and revered. The younger smiles back with such voltage that it’s electrifying and sends chills down his spine.

An arm slips around his waist and pulls him closer; and it’s so vivid that he’s sure he can actually feel him and his skin prickles in anticipation. The other drops his head to his shoulder, or at least he does in the reflection, and it fits so well that he knows that they should go together.

He shudders from the mere thought.

He wants to haul him forwards, feel his frame beneath his fingers and kiss him until they both run short of breath. But he can’t, because it’s just a mirror and it can only bring so much satisfaction. So, he squeezes his eyes shut because he can’t take anymore, and storms out of the room.

And the figure winks out of existence.

It’s gone.

Fucking gone.

No where to be found and he’s absolutely sure of it; he’d spent the whole of the previous two nights looking for it- and it’s simply vanished from within the castle. He suspects some first year, probably that brat Potter, had stumbled upon it and completely exposed his secret to the rest of the world. He can no longer settle his thoughts by staring into the glass and watching as his dreams unfold. He’s actually had to try and sleep without the scenarios to help content him.

He’s not impressed with it.

He returns to the only thing that can comfort him now; hurtling Quaffles through the goalposts despite knowing it’s Gryffindor training. Maybe it is his subconscious trying to reach out and touch the figure in the mirror. Or maybe it is because his needs far surpass those of the poxy team.

He can hear Oliver Wood protesting vehemently somewhere beneath him, yelling that he booked the pitch days ago, so what’s the excuse for the intrusion of some grumpy ogre from Slytherin. He chooses to ignore him, ignore everyone; he’s had enough of it and from now on he’s not going to listen.

Instead, he just increases his assault on the goalposts because it’s making him feel content; the sound of splintering wood had a tendency to do that for him.

“Are you bloody deaf?” The thick Scottish accent screeches, the Gryffindor Captain finally given up on shouting from below, and so now rests on the same plain that he does. He doesn’t even need to look up to know that he’s not impressed; he never did play well when others took up his Quidditch time. “I just told you to piss off, now.”

He snarls in return, it would take to much energy and focus to respond. He settles on throwing another ball towards the goal, smirking to himself when it richocettes off the post and almost hits Oliver instead. He wishes his team had been there to see that, he’d be a hero if that had been just a little more to the left.

“Are you even listening to me?”

He doesn’t even acknowledge the other speaking now because honestly, doesn’t the younger boy get the hint he doesn’t actually care? There’s a reason he’s out there and Wood, as thick as he is, doesn’t understand that he wants to be left alone to work out his anger.

No, the other just hovers in place, trying to verbally assault him. Doesn’t he realise that he is trying to work out his anger in more productive ways that pummelling him into the ground like they used to?

“Get off our pitch Flint.”

He freezes in place when he realises that, a few inches from his face is the figure from the reflection, close enough to touch. He can feel the other’s presence, and his face flushes.

“Don’t you understand English?”

It’s a venomous hiss, and it’s dangerous; the whole situation is dangerous. He wants to grab hold of those robes and haul the other forward and finally feel what it is like to kiss a sworn enemy. He knows that it’s wrong, oh-so-wrong, and Wood’s looking at him with an expectation of some action; but the only action he can think about taking is kissing, and that isn’t acceptable.

He’s sure that the other is surprised when he abandons the pitch without another word; it’s not his style. Really, he wanted to fight it out with the other, but how can he if his brain isn’t working properly? No, he’s got to retreat and figure it out before he does something irrational and stupid.

Damn that mirror. Damn it to hell and back.