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Notes: Written for Painless J, who asked for Sirius/Harry with a two-way mirror.
Mirror, Mirror
by
When Harry got to the Dursleys', the first thing he did was to pull out the two-way mirror and call Sirius' name again.
He knew it wouldn't work, of course. He knew it with a sense of bitter unavoidability, a feeling that coiled heavily in his chest and bore him down, down, so that he couldn't think of anything else. He knew it wouldn't work, but he couldn't help it anyway--and he didn't even know why he was doing this, but he couldn't stop himself. Every morning at the Dursleys', he woke up to speak to the mirror--saying Sirius' name, telling him things--Transfigurations will de difficult next year don't you think Sirius Sirius Sirius--and before he went to sleep too, and sometimes in the middle of the day, and even at night, if he woke up from a troubled sleep, because he took the mirror to bed with him.
It was strange that he didn't have any visions, as though Voldemort were silent or unapproachable--but Harry had enough dreams of his own, dreams that were half-nightmare and half-something else. He dreamt of Sirius falling through the Veil, again and again and again, and he woke up with his throat raw and his face wet with tears--and yet he also dreamed of Sirius in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, talking to him. It felt so strange in those dreams because Harry knew Sirius was dead, but it didn't feel like it, and Sirius' hand felt warm on his face, and Harry couldn't begin to explain why he was hard when he woke up; why he turned aside, in the darkness, and pressed his mouth to the cool mirror as he jerked himself off, quiet and whining, breath leaving fogged silhouettes on the glass.
It was strange that the Dursleys didn't bother him much anymore, although that probably had to do with the Order--they let Harry stay in his room all day, growing pale with lack of sunlight and not caring to see the world outside, because here he had his mirror, he had Sirius, and he could stay up talking to him all night.
* FIN *
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