Author: bellichka (Bethany)
Rating: er, PG? It says "damn" once, I think.
disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JKR, Warner Brothers, Bloomsbury, and whoever the hell else owns them. Not I.
Notes: This is the first fic that I have actually started and finished. It is un-betaed, and I haven't really gotten anyone's opinion on it. I'm just throwin it out there and praying that it doesn't suck (altho galesmystique assured me that it would not suck.) I've never done the thoughts of Harry before, so this is a first. I don't know where this plot bunny came from... I think of what would happen once he was back out on his own. I feel for the little guy, I really do. A bit of a tribute to our Padfoot.
Feedback: I'll take anything, as long as it's an intelligent response. Tell me what I can do better so I can therefore become better.
Archive: on my site, and I guess if anyone else wants it, ask. I will say yes :)
Harry Potter sat back in his room at Number Four Privet Drive, opening his trunk. He had been back with the Dursleys for more than three weeks, but all the while he hadn’t seen the necessity of opening it. Going through his school things would only bring back pain, suffering, heartache, loss – it would bring it all back…
… everything, that is, except for Sirius.
Sirius, who had been more of a father to him than anyone he could remember, even his own; Sirius, who would risk being discovered just to be with him; Sirius, who would live as a flea-ridden canine in a cave for weeks at a time, just to make sure he was safe…
His Sirius was gone.
Harry began to unpack… his tie. His sweater vest. His robes. His books that Sirius and Remus had given him for Christmas…
There he was, thinking about Sirius again. He knew that if Sirius could tell him one thing, it would be to stop dwelling on what happened and move on. His godfather was good like that – he could always take any situation and make it seem like nothing in the grand scheme of life. It was like he always used to tell Harry when the boy was complaining; when faced with a problem, ask yourself two questions – one, “will it really matter twenty years from now?” and two, “will it affect the price of firewhiskey?” If the answers to both of those questions is “no,” then it really wasn’t that big of a problem to begin with.
He pulled out the books, and looked at the inside flap of the top one. In it was the Christmas note Sirius had written to him: “Remus decided to play ‘professor’ again and get you these. Thought you could use them when it comes time for you to defeat all the evil in the world. Don’t do any of the spells that I wouldn’t do. Love ya kid – Sirius.”
He set the book down and took a deep breath. Sirius always picked out the best presents. They were sometimes flashy, like the Firebolt, or other times just downright cool like the books. That was one thing he always loved about Sirius – the fact that he could be such a responsible, curse-blocking, I’m-concerned-for-my-godson type of person, and yet never forget what it was like to be thirteen and want the fastest racing broom on the market.
Harry pulled out Hermione’s book next (double the ‘c’ and double the ‘s’ and you’ll always have success!) and placed it next to Sirius’ books. He pulled out robe after robe when something shiny caught his eye. He searched for it.
It was what remained of the mirror Sirius had given him before leaving Grimmauld Place. Sirius had told him that if Harry ever needed him, to use what had been in the package – the mirror. But Sirius’ words of advice didn’t stop Harry from getting his Godfather killed. If he had only stopped acting so damned rash all the time, Sirius would still be alive.
Hermione’s right, he thought. It wasn’t up to me to play the hero. It’s all been luck… Wasn’t so lucky then, was I?. He picked up one of the shards of the mirror.
He shouldn’t have broken it. It was all that he had left from Sirius, save the books and the Firebolt, and he had destroyed it. His only link with the man he loved as a brother and a father was shattered into dozens of crystallized pieces. And he was the cause.
He hastily removed all the robes from his trunk, along with his spellbooks, his Potions kit, and his chocolate frogs. Littering the bottom were tiny pieces of mirrored glass, none bigger than an inch. He swiftly began to pick them all up, one by one, and place them on his bed. He was working so fast that his fingers bled from the jagged edges – but he didn’t care. This was his one opportunity to not destroy the last link that he had with his godfather, and he’d be damned if a silly thing like blood could stop him.
He placed the pieces on the bed, mirror side-up, and removed his wand from the pocked of his jeans. Pointing it at the broken glass, he muttered, reparo. Nothing happened. REPARO! Still nothing. OCULUS REPARO! The glass remained shattered, still as death.
He got an idea, and bolted to his small desk. Rummaging around in the middle drawer, he turned up a tube of Kwik Tyte Super Glue. Going over to the broken glass on the bed, he began to piece the shards together. Piecing and gluing, he worked for quite some time, until he eventually found himself out of pieces. The only problem was – he was not finished.
Feeling around the bottom of his trunk and turning up nothing, he began going through his other items to see if the last piece had somehow gotten lost in there. Searching, he eventually came up empty. He looked at what remained of the mirror.
It was broken, yes, but still whole. The super glue would make it durable, and you could barely tell that there were any cracks whatsoever. They were still there though, and without the last piece, the mirror would never be whole again. There would always be that one important piece that would be missing…