Faces in the Mirror

The night was cold and bitter inside the castle. At two in the morning most of the students were tucked safely and snuggly in their warm beds--draped in either blue, yellow, red or green—and as far away from the bone chilling, teeth-chattering cold as possible.

But there was one student who could not sleep. For the life of him, he simply could not settle down. His mind was racing with thoughts of the past and his dismal future running around in utter chaos. If he had decided to be honest with himself he would have admitted that he deserved this torture, but he was rarely honest with himself, always believing that he was stronger, or smarter, or braver then he really was. That’s what had gotten him into this bloody mess in the first place.

And it really was fairly bloody; two men were now dead because of him. Two. But if he had just been able to follow orders in the first place his father would have been spared. Or at least that’s what everyone kept telling him. His aunt, his uncle, and even his mother blamed him for the death of Lucius Malfoy.

Draco clasped one of his hands to his head as he stumbled around the castle, a large glass decanter of Firewhisky clasped in his other hand, which was now half empty. The blond boy continued to roam the halls looking for a release from the pain that was driving him to madness.

True, it was nothing short of a miracle that had gotten him back into this school after what he had done, after what he had tried to do, but nothing was the same now. Everywhere he went he was alone. Those who had been his companions before, companions because Draco had never really had friends before, had either been removed from the school indefinitely, or refused to even look at him. Anyone who had hated him before now loathed even the ground he stood on and the breath he wasted.

Except for her. No she refused to hate him; she would not give him that luxury. She did what only she could, the only thing that was worse then hatred, she dared to pity him. Dear little Ginevra Molly Weasley, one girl who had the right to hate him for eternity and damn him to Hell, which at this point he figured would be nice, had nothing but sympathy and kind words for Draco Malfoy. The very thought of her smiling face and concerned brown eyes made him sick. Or was he to credit all the alcohol in his system for forcing him to toss his dinner in the corner outside the Charms room?

Whatever the reason, Draco found the sudden urge to be out of the halls, but he had no where to go. Nowhere to go to escape from his reality. This reality that had a Dark Lord after him, and even the teachers of Hogwarts, glared at him anxiously, yes not even they could hide their disdain for the pathetic blond-haired boy. Draco made his way as best he could to the Room of Requirement, wondering what it was to bring him tonight. On nights past, it had offered him Butterbeer, or a place to study without risking the ridicule of the other students of Hogwarts. It had always been good to him, even after he’d used it to bring an attack straight into the castle everyone had once thought of as impenetrable. Draco managed to stagger around, in front of what would soon be a door, the three necessary times before the handle magically appeared. With one more swallow of the amber liquid he was carrying, he opened the door, curious as to what tonight had in store for him.

Once inside, Draco waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the dim lights of the room. How thoughtful he thought, smiling half heartedly when he found the small table to place the now empty crystal decanter upon. He secretly hoped there would be no more alcohol to tempt him tonight, and maybe even a sobering potion, but he could see nothing beyond his outstretched arms. Fumbling around aimlessly, Draco let himself teeter onto a comfortable chair facing one of the walls.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the light, or lack thereof, Draco found himself to be facing a full length mirror. This was not something he wanted. Why in the name of Merlin would the Room of Requirement, this special place that he had begun to think of as the only thing with his best interest in mind, force him to see something he hated? Glaring at the image that confronted him, Draco saw what others had the unfortunate inability to avoid.

There he was, Draco Malfoy, former resident ‘bad boy heart throb’ of Hogwarts, in all his glory. His once, pale but perfect skin now looked ashen and grayed, and there were dark circles riming his eyes. Oh his eyes, the ones his mother had once loved to look into because of their ‘shimmering pools of potential’ as she had called them. Well Draco failed to see any potential in them now. Now that they were dull, dull and glassy, and lifeless, from the drinks he had poured himself earlier in the evening. His hair which had once shown radiantly and kept to immaculate perfection had grown long, dragging listlessly into his eyes, and it too had lost its healthy glow. Draco had had enough. He no more wanted to look at himself than he wanted to gaze into the eyes of his now deceased father, and see his disappointment.

But something happened as he went to stand. The chair refused to let him go. Terrified, Draco began to struggle; he didn’t want to be trapped here, with only the vision of himself for company. Yet as he thrashed about, something flickered across the mirror’s surface, as if it was nothing but water touched by a careless had. Draco stilled, immediately forgetting that he could not have left even if he’d wanted to. Colors in the mirror began to swirl and twirl, winding in and out of one another perfectly. Draco was completely hypnotized, his eyes now transfixed to the glass structure in front of him. Slowly, as if waking from a dream, the colors faded together to form one picture. Draco was not prepared to see what he saw, however, and almost threw up for the second time that evening, an action very unbecoming of a Malfoy.

Dumbledore, the crazy old Muggle-loving Headmaster was standing, very much alive behind the surface of the mirror. Draco watched as he too appeared in the picture, smiling, looking much better then his reflection had only moments ago. He and the old wizard were shaking hands; it appeared as if they had made some type of agreement. Well whatever it was they had been doing, Draco watched with a mix of horror and intrigue as his refection was hugged by that of his Headmaster.

A hug? He thought. When was the last time he had received a hug? Draco couldn’t remember, but he knew it had been a long time. His mother had hugged him once, before the start of term last year, meaning it had been nearly a year and a half since his last hug. But that couldn’t be right…could it?

A wave of nausea hit Draco full on as the pictures in the mirror began to spin again. Once his stomach had settled, Draco found he was eager to see what the next picture would hold. A smile found itself briefly on his lips as he began to recognize the peoples’ faces. It was his mother and father, both of them, his father was alive, and they were smiling; they were smiling at him. Draco felt the happiness in him begin to swell. All the darkness in his life felt as though it was slipping away as he watched the approval and love on his parents’ faces. But just as it had appeared the vision of the happy and functional family he had never truly had faded away.

Draco tried to reach out to the image, he wanted it to stay, stay forever and chase away the feelings of inadequacy he felt constantly burring though his flesh. When the image was finally gone, the mirror nothing but a swimming vortex of colors, Draco felt more alone then ever. The joy and zealousness for life that had accompanied the faces of his parents had moved on, leaving him behind, stuck in the leather armchair. If he had not been a Malfoy, and therefore still trying to hold onto the last strands of his dignity, Draco would have let his tears fall; those tears that stung his eyes like acid as they pushed forward trying desperately to escape. Pressing the pads of his fingers to his face he hoped to quell them, for even if there was no one around to see him, Draco refused to cry. He was a man, and a Malfoy, neither of which, according to what he had been taught, were aloud to cry, ever.

He was so caught up in his losing battle with his emotions that he did not see the next moving image melt gracefully onto the mirror’s surface. When he finally looked up he saw her caramel-colored eyes gazing back at him, as if she was standing behind his chair, just waiting for him to turn around. He did in fact spin his head, just checking to make sure this hadn’t all been some cruel joke, standing there just to have a good laugh at his expense. But no, the room around him was as empty as he had found it, even the side table he had placed the empty decanter on had vanished.

Turning back to the mirror, he watched as the image of the little Weaslette, moved around from the back of the chair and was now sitting on its smooth leather arm. Her graceful demeanor stunned him, and he was thrilled to see the lack of pity in her eyes. No, her eyes held no sorrow for him as they gazed steadily back into his own icy blue orbs. Draco continued to be astonished as he watched his mirror image ensnare the petite redhead with a single arm around the waist. She tumbled, laughing happily, into his lap. Draco swore he felt her weight on him; he even looked down at his legs to make sure they were without the pressure of a human body.

And in the time it took him to glace away, the characters on the glass did something Draco would have never imagined, never in his wildest dreams. According to the mirror, there he was, his arms wrapped around her protectively as they kissed. The mirror showed him kissing a Weasley. But much to Draco’s surprise he did not feel disgusted as he believed he should have. Quite the contrary actually. Draco felt light, giddy, and whatever happiness he had felt as seeing the approval in his parents’ eyes was met ten fold when he saw himself kissing her.

‘What on Earth is this thing,’ Draco mused to himself out loud, many minutes after the image of he and Ginny Weasley locked passionately at the lips had faded from view, but not from his memory. Surely it could not show the past, because Draco would have remembered if he had ever kissed her. But there was no way those images could be of the future either, he would never hug his now dead Headmaster, and his father had never looked at him with such joy and approval in his eyes. Nor would he ever get the chance, Draco reminded himself. So not past, but not present, then what was left? Draco sat quietly contemplating the answers before him, remembering every detail, the way every picture had made him feel. But he could not even begin to wrap his mind around it.

Standing from his seat, and not really reregistering that he could finally stand, Draco made his way back to the door. He would return again, he told himself. This riddle was not yet solved, and Draco had always had an aptitude for riddles and conundrums.

---


It had been a week since Draco hand been out roaming the halls and found that peculiar mirror in the Room of Requirement. A full seven days and he had yet to decipher its mystery. Yet he had been so caught up in looking for the answers, not once this week had he had a sip of alcohol, nor had he stayed in bed longer then necessary. He was just about to return from his night at the library, which had been as useless as always, when he heard a noise.

No, he thought to himself. Noise was not the correct term for the sound he now heard. It was someone, someone who was singing. For whatever reason, Draco became obsessed with the sound, which drew him closer and closer to the owner of that voice. It was then that he saw her. There she was, her fiery mane of hair flowing out behind her as she walked, the shining silver prefects badge pinned proudly to her chest. When she finally laid eyes on him, her singing stopped mid-word.

“Can I help you?” she asked, innocently enough.

Unmoving, Draco blinked his eyes at her, unsure of what he was doing, or why he was there. Why had he been stupid enough to follow the sound of singing?

But as the seconds ticked on with out his response, Ginny did nothing but study him with her big brown glowing eyes. She was taking in every minor detail of his disheveled appearance, down to his untucked shirt and improperly applied tie.

“Draco, can I help you?” she repeated again, this time shifting her weight to one side so that she could lean on her hip in annoyance.

Still Draco continued to stare at her or through her even, until finally an idea came into his tired mind. With a nod of his head he grabbed her hand and began running. Without hesitation or words she ran beside him, easily keeping up. They ran until they reached the spot in the wall that Ginny knew held the Room of Requirement. Puzzled, she placed her small delicate hand on his shoulder.

“Draco?”

But he shushed her with a wave of his hand as he began passing the hall three times, all the while muttering under his breath.

Any sane person would have been afraid, but Ginny, who did not count herself as mentally impaired, refused to be afraid. She refused to let anything about this boy, who had nothing left in his world, frighten her.

When the handle of the door appeared, Draco lunged for it as if fearing it might disappear before they were inside. With her hand in his, they vanished through the open door.

Draco noticed that the room was lighter than it had been last time, and with its brighter lights it seemed much more welcoming. He was grateful; he hadn’t wanted the dimness to scare her.

Ginny continued to allow herself to be led by him, her fingers intertwined with his long pale hand. She smiled when they stopped in front of a full length mirror. She knew what this was; she had heard Ron and Harry speak of it before.

“It’s a very pretty mirror, Draco,” she said, playing dumb, pretending to know nothing about this particular looking glass.

But again Draco shushed her. He was waiting for the colors to start to swirl again, waiting for whatever pictures the mirror had to show him. But even after fifteen minutes, all he saw on the surface was his reflection. His refection along side of hers, their fingers meshed together.

When his eyes began to wander, he saw what he had missed before, the Latin engraved in beautiful script above him. And then he understood. He understood everything. Leaning down slowly, still watching his refection, he placed a small chaste kiss on the forehead of one Ginevra Weasley. So this was what he had really wanted. He had asked for an escape from his tortured and tangled reality, and the gods had sent him her. How kind of them for finally answering one of his prayers.