I' Mor Elen: The Black Star


Elise: Mirror, Mirror on the wall who owns Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings?

Mirror: rolls eyes Elise {sigh} J.K Rowling and J.R.R Tolkien respectively.

Elise: Dang it! Time to go get my poison apples. stomps away

Mirror: psssht dreamers.

Chapter 1: The Ending Dream

Red. A color of passion, of strength, courage, and royalty. A color that could be seen as positive to many people. A color that most women painted their lips with.

A beautiful color that sometimes paints the sky or your lover's cheeks. Who could hate it? Harry Potter did.

He hated it because of what it represented to him. What it reminded him of...

glassy, empty eyes.

Bodies laid around him covered in that awful color. The color of the one that hunted him.

Voldemort's eyes.

He hated the color. Couldn't stand being around it.

Flashes of it behind his eyes.

How could he live being surrounded by these memories? The past memories of friends, the ones he thought of as family. The color of their noble house.

The same color that wrapped around them when they died.

Red heads laughing

It hurt his heart as much as the betrayals did after Voldemort's defeat.

Celebrations as he mourned.

Letters sent to him full of gratitude for the Wizarding World. People pledging their loyalty to him. Asking him if there was anything they could do for him.

The magical creatures bowing to him wherever he went. The vaults of people that died in the war being gifted to him from their wills.

Some people even tried to make him Lord of their houses.

The Ministry of Magic became scared of the power he seemed to be inheriting. They struck quick and hard.

Rumors spread, and they used the biggest sacrifice he could ever make for the Wizarding World to manifest them.

His death.

Word spread that Harry died and came back to live. "Necromancer," They'd hiss. "Next Dark Lord," They'd whisper.

It spread from the Ministry to the people like a plague.

For the greater good.

Harry had sat alone eating what little he could hold in his stomach at his vacation home in Norwich when news of his execution reached him. He hadn't even had the strength to exhibit such a raw and destructive emotion as anger.

That night he had fallen asleep on his bed, soaked with his tears. Something that had become routine ever since Voldemort had been defeated.

The only thing that seemed to pass the time.


He cried for his lost ones and his pain. He cried for the unjustness and of his guilt for living on when all his other friends had died.

He cried because he was broken.

He had forgotten how to live.

And that night as he slept he dreamed. He was in what seemed like a room surrounded in darkness.

Too vast. Too endless.

He could see nothing but his hands. The room felt large.

His eyes strained to pinpoint anything when suddenly a full-length mirror appeared a few feet in front of him.

Mirror of Erised

It had a golden trimming that was decorated with amethyst vines which sprouted small pink cherry blossoms. He admired it as he cautiously walked towards it.

His magic responded in his need to be cautious. It swirled around his skin protectively. His body pulled as taut as a bow.


Once he was close he peered into its depths. The mirror shimmered like crystal water. He made to step back but something made him pause and keep looking.

A ripple of a rainbow passed over it before images appeared. Tears filled his eyes, he watched as images of laughing loved ones flashed past his eyes.

Alive. Happy.

Then the mirror stopped and shimmered again. A slightly hazy image of nine people appeared. He gasped at what he saw.

They were so different from what he'd ever seen in his world.

There were four people smaller than the rest of the group standing in the front, they had big, hairy feet. By their height you would think they were children but, they had the face of an adolescent.

New. Different

Out of the four the one on the second to the left had dark hair. He looked somber and tired like a great burden was on his shoulders.

Like him

They all had wavy hair that reached their shoulders. The two on the right looked like brothers to him or close relatives. Laugh lines were prominent on their faces.

Twins. Fred and George

The shortest one had a darker shade to his hair. One of the small people to the left of the somber looking one had a very serious although he looked anxious.


The next one behind the four was taller than those in the front row, but shorter than those in the back. He was gruff looking and had an ax.

He had a big beard that mixed in with his hair. Harry couldn't tell where one began and the other ended.

A dwarf

In the last row a blond that looked too fair to be human.

He wore a harmonious air, however his body language implied hostility towards the one carrying the ax. He had pointed ears, making him guess that the man could be an elf.

A fairytale elf.

A muggle stood to the right of the elf behind the ax carrier. He had shoulder length, dirty blond hair. It was straight with a slight wave to it.

His pale green eyes held conflicting emotions. They held a sense of good mixed with wrong as if he was in a war against himself.

He didn't smile, and looked deep in thought as he looked at the dark haired one with the big feet.


Harry's eyes moved onward.

An old man stood next to him wearing gray robes. He had long white hair and a beard. His eyes twinkled mischievously. In his hand was a staff.

A sorcerer.

The other man made him pause. He wondered why he hadn't noticed him before.

He had rugged looks and was a brunette, but that was not what caught his attention. He was regal, but humble. He had a royal air about him even though he looked like a warrior.

He was the epitome of a good king. The mirror changed again. Green eyes stared back at him in place of the image.

His reflection.

His windswept hair that he inherited from his father stuck up everywhere, defying gravity. The lighting bolt showed proudly on his forehead.

He had been told all his life that many of his features resembled his father. He lifted a calloused hand and traced the few scars he had on his face.

He studied the gray hair mixed into the sea of black on his headf The color of his skin was sickly and he had dark spots under his eyes.

He looked older than eighteen. Looking at his state he felt so broken. Even more than before he was filled with despair and sadness.

He sunk into this never ending depression that made him want to end it all.


What was he doing to himself? His family wouldn't have wanted this for him. He suddenly felt sick with himself. When had he started to think of suicide?

He was a stronger person than this wasn't he? He could feel even his magic was weaker because of his stubbornness not to use it.

He had been so connected to it and he could feel it felt rejected and sad. He hated what he had become. He wanted to become stronger. He wanted a new life.

He wanted to live again. A new fire burned within in him lighting up his mother's green eyes.

He stretched his arm across to touch the mirror. He felt compelled to do it. It was like this was the answer to what he needed.

His hands brushed across the mirror lightly. The surface was solid. He let his hand fully press on it and the mirror liquified under his touch.

His hand touched a slimy, silver liquid.

He flinched back but it was to late the liquid snapped his hand back in. He was sucked inside before he could even make a sound.

He felt as if he was being pushed through jelly, everything felt as if it was going through slow motion as he sped by.

He kept tugging himself back, afraid of where he might end up, but the force pushing him was too strong. Even with all his struggling he still could not break free.

He eventually landed in a white room.

Losing his balance he tilted backward, and before he could straighten, gravity took over and he fell.

Pain traveled from his behind up his spine, making him groan. It seemed he would never get used to these types of travel.

Suddenly immense pain traveled through his body and he screamed. He thrashed on the ground in anguish. It was worse than the cructiatus curse.

Afraid he would injure himself by thrashing he curled into a ball and held his body. Racks of pain coursed through him.

He felt as if he was being boiled in hot oil. He bit his lip to stop his screams making blood gush out from them.

Slowly, the pain drifted from his toes to the top of his head. He tried to open his eyes and put the pain behind him, but they were heavy. His brain felt foggy and slow.

With the darkness swooping in he finally lost consciousness.