Disclaimer: still own nothing, duh.
Wow. I haven't written anything in a long time. I unearthed this from my files yesterday and decided to submit here... Turns out I wrote this July of last year XD So it's.. crappy. I edited parts, changed everything to present tense, and ... the story itself is pretty shitty. What was I thinking? Oh well, whatever.
Set during OotP, some things are probably inaccurate.

Sirius returns to Grimmauld Place and finds the other two-way mirror to give to Harry and remembers an old friend.


It is black and silent. Every corner is home to either a mass of cobwebs, or a blanket of cool dust. The floor is conquered by armies of cardboard boxes, claiming floorboard territory for more than a decade. And the cobwebs and dust and boxes all reside here, undisturbed, at peace in their deepest phases of sleep.

That is, until a dark-haired man forces open the door, stuck fast with old age, grunting from its stubbornness. The room drowns in white.

A swarm of flaky dust clouds into the air, and nearly suffocates the man, but he waves it off and forces the old door shut with a slam, muttering about any blasted house elves trying to get in. He feels the tiny particles settling on his eyelashes.

Coughing and inhaling the musty smell of mold and dust, Sirius Black sweeps strands of hair out of his face. Before he even lifts another toe off the ground in the direction of the mountain range of boxes presented before him like a king, he whips out his wand. He mutters, "Lumos," and the light is back. Had he kept going, he would have tripped over the box right in front of him.

Stepping over it and clenching the wand between his teeth, Sirius crouches near a different box illuminated by the quivering light. None of these damn boxes have labels; if you are in the Black Family, certainly you'd know where everything is. You'd know everything there was and is to know about the Blacks and their noble history and traditions that go back for centuries if you're a faithful Black, right? And he's part of the family, right?

Wrong. Sirius doesn't, has never and will never consider himself to be a part of that so called family and their filthy beliefs. Even thinking about them put a brackish taste in his mouth. His mother disowned him, anyway, so what does it matter?

Yet here he is, rummaging through a box in one of the storage rooms of the only house he ever despised, where everything that isn't of value (which included his possessions) is tossed into.

Aah, here we go- Sirius unearths a mirror layered in a thin coat of crusty grime. With his thumbnail, he scrapes it off the surface, and finishes by rubbing with the hem of his shirt over the entire thing. Pretty soon, it looked good as new. Well, as good as a mirror should be when it's been stuffed to the bottom of a box for at least 17 or 18 years.

Hell. 17 or 18 years ago is where he'd like to be. When they don't have to worry about wars or getting older and have only detentions and homework forced upon them. Where they could drink as many butterbeers as they want and hide behind statues and hex the ignorant passersby as many times as they please.

Taking a glance, he sees only himself and the forlorn look he can easily recognize in his eye. Oh, how he wanted to whisper, "James Potter!" into the mirror and see his old friend again.

Never too late to try again, is it?

"James… Potter?" he muttered, ending on high note.

Well, guess it is.

The mirror laughs silently at him. Of course. It's because he's dead, Sirius. He's been dead for years.

The very thought sends a chill to both ends of his spine. It doesn't seem like it's been that long since they were murdered. Of course, he'd spent a long time in prison… Does he miss him less than he thought?

Well, he has what he's looking for; something to pass on to Harry, just in case… just because. This mirror, in Sirius's hand, is James's mirror. Sirius has his up in his room, with his other few belongings that are spared the storage room. He stirs patches of dust on the uneven floorboards as he gets to his feet, and turns to exit the room, when-


Sirius suddenly finds himself sprawled on the floor, his right knee throbbing and the wand clattering off to the side. He glares suspiciously behind him; oh, that stupid box. Snarling, he kicks it and as he straightens his posture, he notices the mirror's gone. He locates his wand and shines the beam of light around him.

Not having to look far, he stops just after a few moments when he finds the mirror, only it's not as whole as he hoped it would be. It has broken into at least a dozen, sharp and uneven parts. Growling again, he snatches up the largest fragments from the fields of thick dust, and examines them.

Well that isn't a smart move, because almost immediately, something dark blooms and smears on one of the pieces and Sirius notices it's coming from the pad of his thumb.

"Great," he remarks, and he wipes the blood on his shirt. He doesn't even feel it.

Of course. That's how James and Lily must have felt when they died. They didn't feel a thing.

It is quick and painless. The only difference is that Sirius has a tiny ribbon of blood curling around his hand and down his wrist.

And he's still alive.

He shakes his head and murmurs, "Reparo," and the pieces fly back together, reassembling themselves on the ground. Scooping it up and lifting himself off the dusty floor, and his knee whining with pain, his eye spies something else.

He brings the mirror closer, and sees the tiniest dark sliver in the glass that hadn't be there before. It is a miniature vein of blood that somehow failed to disappear clean off the mirror when it was fixed. Sirius tries brushing it off with his sleeve, but it stays. It appears to be wedged inside the glass.

"Even better," he sighs.

Hey Harry, I got you this old mirror you probably don't care for from about a billion years ago, and guess what? It's covered in my blood and it won't come off!

Yeah, joyful.

Man. Thinking of Harry just makes him think of James again.

Maybe he misses him more than he thinks. Maybe that's why he's giving this mirror to his deceased best friend's son.

He's not James.

Quick and painless.

He's not Prongs.. he's not.

And still alive.

He's not Prongs…

Sirius wipes at the mirror again, but this time drying off the tears that are still quite warm.

He's not Prongs…

He stuffs the mirror under his arm and seizes the doorknob, wrenching it open and stepping swiftly into the bright hall outside. His eyes are dry now. He has to leave that delightful life and those tears behind, inside the dark room. Where they can rest there in peace. Like the dust. Like James.

He's not…

The door creaks to a close, immersing the memories in the dark for a final time.