Written for the Those voices the Mirror of Erised challenge on HPFC by Primrose Amelia.

Character: Lucy Weasley

Beauty's ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and thy cheeks,

And death's pale flag is not there.

~Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

He's gone. And he's never coming back.

Her fingers press themselves forcefully against the surface of the flawed, opaque glass. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a sad smile as he expresses an amused sort of interest, his midnight blue eyes flickering as he brings his hand up to meet hers.

It almost seems like their hands are touching, meeting each other's. But they're not. They're separated by the mirror, in two different worlds – a layer that seems so thin, so fragile. She wants so badly to break through it, to reach him, to feel the warmth of his hand on hers.

"I'm sorry," she tries to whisper. But the two words, heavy with regret and sadness, die on her lips as she opens her mouth to speak them, and no sound comes out. He seems to be able to understand anyway.

And that's when the memories come back, vivid as ever.

The room flickers in her mind, changing to become almost like that particular night – the blanket of stars, the frosty air that lingered, the rough sheet of pavement underneath her feet.

She still remembers standing there in the middle of the street.

-:-

She stomps down the sidewalk, scuffing the soles of her boots, but she doesn't care. She stares pointedly at red hand telling her not to cross the street and waits as he stumbles next to her.

"Lucy," he says, with a hint of frustration that colors his voice, "wait up."

She rolls her eyes, and a little puff of cold air comes out.

"Lucy," he says again as he catches his breath and straightens up, drawing himself up to his full height, "you're being unreasonable."

"Oh, I'm being unreasonable?" she asks airily, and her voice is cold and unforgiving. He stares at her blankly, uncomprehendingly. The white signal to walk alights, and she picks up her speedy pace once more. She weaves through the crowd of muggles coming in the opposite direction, determined to keep her eyes off him. His gloved, forceful hand stops her.

"What, Lorcan?" she snaps.

"Lucy, stop." He spins her around to face him and they stand there in the middle of the street. Muggles grumble at them, and the crowd separates around the roadblock they have formed.

"You promised me." Her voice trembles, so different from the angry and ferocious tone it had before.

"You said that we would try, and you went back on your word. You know how much it would mean to me."

"Lucy, you know I couldn't," he pleads with her. He widens his blue eyes in desperation, and she struggles not to give in – after all, she knows the power of it as well as he does, having used that technique many times herself. Her fist clenches and unclenches. The silver chain around his neck seems to glow brightly, and it annoys her. It symbolizes the vow of abstinence that he took, a promise to himself.

"It's not that big of a deal." She has absolutely no idea where the words are coming from. Seeing his taken aback expression from her words (because, Merlin, this was the type of thing Roxanne would say – something to throw in people's faces, as if it didn't mean anything – and it was completely unlike her), she feels confident and draws on her inner strength to carry on.

"Lorcan, everyone's doing it," she says.

"Oh, so this isn't just about us," he snaps, starting to get fed up with her. "It's about everyone else, too."

"What? No! This is about us."

Her voice drops lower in an attempt to be quieter, but it only manages to make her sound more insensitive and frostier – in fact, she sounds like a total arse now – than before.

"Molly's done it with Lysander three times already," Lucy says, "and if he's broken this abstinence vow of yours, then it can't really be that important, can it?"

"It isn't of my concern what my brother decides to do with his body – and it shouldn't be yours for that matter, either," He says quietly.

"So that's what I am to you, is it?" he asks, straight to the point. "Just another boy to shag?"

"No, and you know that." She scowls furiously. "But you said you loved me. That we loved each other, and how can you prove that you love me unless we try?"

She tugs on his coat sleeve. "Lorcan, all I'm asking is that we try."

"You know," he says, his eyes closed, voice unforgiving, "you could show me you loved me by respecting my decision and waiting until it's time for me."

He tears his hand away from her arm, and they both pay no attention as the red light on the seemingly deserted street changes into an urgent shade of red. She frowns at him. Here she was, trying to meet him halfway, and he thanked her in return by throwing it back into her face.

"You're just too much of a coward to try," she accuses him. "Admit it. You're a prude."

He doesn't respond or react to her statement; he just stares at a point just beyond the right side of her head down the street.

"Don't you see?" she asks scathingly. "That's probably the reason why you were the family member who was sorted into Slytherin."

Once it comes out of her mouth, she wishes she could take it back. It's a touchy topic that he has never liked to talk about, something he is sensitive to. Everyone else – including his own brother – had gotten sorted into Gryffindor, and he was the first and only Scamander to be sorted into the house that had caused his family so much grief.

His posture stiffens, and when he turns to her, his face is set and stoic like a porcelain statue, his eyes cold and dark and like a frozen piece of ice.

"Everyone said you were naïve and childish, that you were selfish and didn't care about anyone but yourself." he says. "I always thought you were different. Different, Lucy. I told them they were wrong." The last part comes out in a hurt whisper.

"Well," she starts off, swallowing the guilty lump that forms in her throat, and it comes out quite nastily, "I'd rather be selfish than a complete coward."

Neither of them takes notice of the luminescent headlights that turn the corner onto the street behind them.

-:-

She remembers the bright lights from behind her that bathed his face and illuminated his eyes, which bore a frightened expression she hadn't ever seen in them before. She only glimpsed the desperation in them for a millisecond as he shoved her aside, sending her sprawling onto the sidewalk. Her knees and hands burned from contact with the coarse concrete.

But the pain was nothing, almost dull in comparison, to the helpless screams that escaped from her mouth as she watched the Knight Bus collide with him, screeching with protest as he crumpled to the ground. Sitting in the waiting room of St. Mungo's as one of the healers came towards her, face grimly expressing the news that she knew she didn't want to hear.

She remembers her twin sister Molly tugging on her arm a few weeks later – "Come on, Lucy, I want to show you something," – out of concern, leading her to a blank wall on the seventh floor with a portrait of dancing trolls and watching Lucy's reaction as dark swirls grew from the frame to form a door. Molly knew that her sister would see Lorcan in the mirror – which wasn't healthy, because everyone told her Lucy had to let go eventually – but she pushed her ahead anyways, because all she wanted was for her sibling to be herself again – no matter how long that period of time would be.

She knew that "I'm sorry," were two meaningless words that didn't change anything. But they eventually even came forth from her own pair of lips when she first glimpsed Lorcan in the mirror, as she tried so desperately to take back everything she said that night. He was never a coward. He was braver than anyone she had ever known. Everything that he had told her the other people had said about her – it was right.

But what did her repentance fix?

Nothing.

Her eyes start to sting. She's trying hard not to cry, trying to desperately hold the tears back, but her vision blurs as they fill her eyes and start falling down her face of their own accord. They streak her cheeks with their wet trails, becoming pearly drops that splatter the ground endlessly. And suddenly, he's behind her, reaching up to her face and gently wiping the tears from her eyes, as if encouraging her not to cry.

Her fingers reach up to where his are supposed to be. But when she swipes for them, all she feels beneath her fingertips is the air that dances playfully under her empty fingers and evades her grasp.

In a fit of anger, she bangs the mirror with her fist, and it cracks, but just barely. She pounds, hammers against it. Tiny but visible fissures sprout up the sides like weeds that have not been culled.

And yet, the mirror still does not break or shatter, standing defiantly against her will, taking her beatings silently and rigidly. Still, she sees him looking back at her with that unfathomable, partially forlorn expression spread across his face. The tears dripping down her face are angry now, hot with frustration and rage.

"Expulso." She points her wand at the mirror, and this time, it shatters, breaking into a million pieces. The shards explode out of the embossed, delicate golden frame, the tiny reflecting crystals streaking past her. Large jagged pieces are left standing alone in the frame.

She doesn't move. The splinters wound her, piercing her skin, drawing thin, crimson trickles that slide down her arms like snakes. The pain feels like nothing more than a few needle pricks, but she fights to concentrate on it, to not stare into the rainbow prism pieces settling at her feet that shine like midnight blue – like the sparkling, twinkling eyes she used to stare into, the orbs that would make her feel like she was on the top of the world.

And then she feels her face, the sticky, wet blonde strands covered with blood that cling to her forehead. When she looks down at her hand, it's covered in a wet, garnet glove. She feels the blood trickling down the back of her neck, cold as ice, and lots of it. A thin, sharp piece of the mirror is clutched tightly in her hand, cutting into her palm. She starts to get woozy, but the brilliant blue of his eye, each fine wisp of his golden hair, remains as clear as ever reflected in that glass.

A deep gash in her leg has lost enough blood to form a small puddle on the floor. She collapses to the ground when she feels her knees weaken. The room is a blur of colours, an array of rainbows and spectrums that she can no longer separate from one another. The floor stains with red and she closes her eyes upon impact.

The last thing she sees is like the sky – the deep, midnight blue of his eyes, the glints like stars that twinkle ever so brightly in them. She hears the voice she loves to hear whispering her name like a litany – Lucy, Lucy, Lucy –before her vision goes black, and she's surrounded by an endless void of darkness, alone. Then, she can feel him – coming over to her, lifting her up, pressing his nose into the side of her neck, embracing her tightly as if he'll never let go. And she opens her eyes. He's there, in front of her, watching her, his eyes shining, looking at her as if she's the only person in the world.

"Lorcan," she says quietly, "I'm so, so, sorry."

He smiles ever so slightly.

And his reflection winks cruelly at her, only visible in a small piece of the shattered mirror. She feels the cold murmurings of the wind brush over her as the glass pieces reconnect one by one until the mirror reforms. The piece in her hand is trying to twist out of her hold, but she refuses to let it go.

Lucy lies there by herself, blood spilling out and mixing seamlessly with her tears, which taste of rust and metal and salt as she cries.

A/N: Dedicated to my lovely beta, Riley (who deserves ohso much more thanks than this measly dedication) and to Indigo – who's angsty fics make you cry buckets =P. A little food for thought – the mirror was in the Room of Requirement (seventh floor, portrait of dancing trolls...ring a bell?) – so would the mirror in the room be fake, or would it actually be real? Lol, even I don't know the answer =P. It's up to you. :)