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Rating: PG-13
Word count: 760
Characters: Harry/Draco (implied romance-ish)
Warnings: Mental illness, probably grammatical errors, and it's kind of angsty.
They can lead you to the mirror, but they cannot make you see.
Shards of reflective surface glitter in multiple sizes around you. The sight torments you as you shy away from the mirrored pieces. They mock you with their truths, disturb you with their brazen realities, and scream of tortures embedded in your skin.
“No more.” You whisper, hugging thin white knees with broad red gashes to your cold chest. “No more.”
“What is your name?” The man in the shadowed corner of the room asks you, his tone distant with professionalism.
Your hesitation brings the scratching of his quill, and you shift away. Closer to the corner you move, away from the eyes in the echoing glitter on the floor.
“Your name.” He repeats, his tone that of the upper class; people you’ve associated with well your whole life.
“Malfoy.” You try to sound defiant but you fall flat and from the scratching of the quill he notices.
“Which Malfoy?” His bored drawl makes your head ache.
“Draco.” You say with a satisfied sigh, the scratching quill picking up pace.
Silence stretches between the two of you, encompassing the room and you shiver at the coldness it brings despite the fact the air is warm. Shifting robes rustle and a body comes closer, a hand touches your exposed knee and you jerk away. The professional man chuckles but it isn’t humorous and you shiver as the heat from his face heats your own. His breath tickles your ear as he says, “Funny you always feel the need to pretend you are me Potter.” Grey pupils and white blond hair are visible when his wand lights at the tip. Looking into his face is worse than the mirrors and you shift back, where you press as hard as you can against the wall all the while chanting “No. No. No!” Your voice rising louder and becoming shrill with each one that exits your mouth.
He holds up a mirror he pulls from his pocket and when you face it your screaming increases. Bags hang heavy under dark green eyes you loathe, messy ink coloured hair makes a ghost white face more eerie, and that damnable scar is to infamous to deny. Looking in the mirror you see Harry Potter. The boy who lived to be a murderer. Tears track down the cheeks of the man in the mirror and you feel their warm wetness on your own face.
“No.” You say weakly, “It’s a trick.”
“No Potter, it’s not.” The Malfoy before you says, “We do this every two days.” He sighs and you recoil from the honesty in his words.
“Who are you?” He asks you again.
The images flood you then.
Your mother’s scream, your father’s shout, Sirius falling through the veil, Hedwig, Remus, Tonks, Moody, and all the others who died protecting you. The eyes that stare at you, such light grey eyes, speak of a life less horrifying. The hands that reach for you are not soiled with the blood of innocent loved ones, and when they hold you; you remember why you pretend that you are him.
He holds you as you sob on his strong shoulder, “You couldn’t kill him.” You mumble into the cotton of his robes.
A broad hand runs up your spine and back down in a soothing repetition, “Harry you didn’t kill any of them either.”
When he says that you remember the scaly white face of a still Voldemort with wide red eyes that stare vacantly at a destroyed Great Hall ceiling. The sobs wrack your body harder. “I’m a killer!” Your horrified shout does nothing to deter the soothing motions of Draco’s warm hand. For that you are forever grateful. In two days time when you break all of the new mirrors and they lie shattered on the floor he will come back into this elaborate prison. Where he will wake you from this world of pretend that your guilt ridden mind sends you to.
“I will come back; over and over.” He whispers against your hair, “Until you are better.”
“Promise?” You always ask.
“I promise.”
Tomorrow is a new day, but you will still be here as the world moves around you. Always changing, everyone except for you and Draco. He needs this room and your reactions just as much as you need the mirror less walls and lies you tell yourself. Because he needs you in this state you don’t get better, he knows it, you know it, and the world doesn’t care anymore.
Word count: 760
Characters: Harry/Draco (implied romance-ish)
Warnings: Mental illness, probably grammatical errors, and it's kind of angsty.
They can lead you to the mirror, but they cannot make you see.
Shards of reflective surface glitter in multiple sizes around you. The sight torments you as you shy away from the mirrored pieces. They mock you with their truths, disturb you with their brazen realities, and scream of tortures embedded in your skin.
“No more.” You whisper, hugging thin white knees with broad red gashes to your cold chest. “No more.”
“What is your name?” The man in the shadowed corner of the room asks you, his tone distant with professionalism.
Your hesitation brings the scratching of his quill, and you shift away. Closer to the corner you move, away from the eyes in the echoing glitter on the floor.
“Your name.” He repeats, his tone that of the upper class; people you’ve associated with well your whole life.
“Malfoy.” You try to sound defiant but you fall flat and from the scratching of the quill he notices.
“Which Malfoy?” His bored drawl makes your head ache.
“Draco.” You say with a satisfied sigh, the scratching quill picking up pace.
Silence stretches between the two of you, encompassing the room and you shiver at the coldness it brings despite the fact the air is warm. Shifting robes rustle and a body comes closer, a hand touches your exposed knee and you jerk away. The professional man chuckles but it isn’t humorous and you shiver as the heat from his face heats your own. His breath tickles your ear as he says, “Funny you always feel the need to pretend you are me Potter.” Grey pupils and white blond hair are visible when his wand lights at the tip. Looking into his face is worse than the mirrors and you shift back, where you press as hard as you can against the wall all the while chanting “No. No. No!” Your voice rising louder and becoming shrill with each one that exits your mouth.
He holds up a mirror he pulls from his pocket and when you face it your screaming increases. Bags hang heavy under dark green eyes you loathe, messy ink coloured hair makes a ghost white face more eerie, and that damnable scar is to infamous to deny. Looking in the mirror you see Harry Potter. The boy who lived to be a murderer. Tears track down the cheeks of the man in the mirror and you feel their warm wetness on your own face.
“No.” You say weakly, “It’s a trick.”
“No Potter, it’s not.” The Malfoy before you says, “We do this every two days.” He sighs and you recoil from the honesty in his words.
“Who are you?” He asks you again.
The images flood you then.
Your mother’s scream, your father’s shout, Sirius falling through the veil, Hedwig, Remus, Tonks, Moody, and all the others who died protecting you. The eyes that stare at you, such light grey eyes, speak of a life less horrifying. The hands that reach for you are not soiled with the blood of innocent loved ones, and when they hold you; you remember why you pretend that you are him.
He holds you as you sob on his strong shoulder, “You couldn’t kill him.” You mumble into the cotton of his robes.
A broad hand runs up your spine and back down in a soothing repetition, “Harry you didn’t kill any of them either.”
When he says that you remember the scaly white face of a still Voldemort with wide red eyes that stare vacantly at a destroyed Great Hall ceiling. The sobs wrack your body harder. “I’m a killer!” Your horrified shout does nothing to deter the soothing motions of Draco’s warm hand. For that you are forever grateful. In two days time when you break all of the new mirrors and they lie shattered on the floor he will come back into this elaborate prison. Where he will wake you from this world of pretend that your guilt ridden mind sends you to.
“I will come back; over and over.” He whispers against your hair, “Until you are better.”
“Promise?” You always ask.
“I promise.”
Tomorrow is a new day, but you will still be here as the world moves around you. Always changing, everyone except for you and Draco. He needs this room and your reactions just as much as you need the mirror less walls and lies you tell yourself. Because he needs you in this state you don’t get better, he knows it, you know it, and the world doesn’t care anymore.
