Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All characters go to their respectful owners. I only own this story.

Bloody and Broken

You look at the grimy mirror and see your bloodshot eyes stare back. The image is almost a perfect reflection of how you feel. The dark eyes that you see are more red than green. Your hollowed cheeks are nothing new, just as the dirt on the mirror has become a regular sight. What was once messy hair has now become a whirlwind of strands, and it is difficult to recall what it used to look like. Yes, the mirror shows all of this nicely, but it is not cracked. Not like you. Not like your mind.

You find yourself fantasizing about the days when you got regular sleep, and dreams were pleasant to have. Because now, you spend your day fighting to stay awake to avoid the horror and death that poisons your slumber. Your hours are spent drinking coffee to remain coherent enough to remember what spells should be used on which enemies. It is only because of this drink that you are able to remain functioning until sheer exhaustion makes you collapse. It is not a life you enjoy, but one you have accepted in order to survive.

But there are flaws, the fatal one being your body's unfortunate need for rest. This flaw allows your mind to be free and explore territory you have seen far too many times:

It is land filled with bodies you know have fallen. It is rivers flowing with blood you know has been spilt. It is sky filled with nothing but tears you know have been shed. It is what you dream of, but what you know he lives. It is both a nightmare and a reality. It is why you wake up, chilled with sweat and dread, looking at shaking hands that feel heavy and disgusting. And it is why instead of using the few hours of rest you are allowed, to sleep, you instead are in front of the mirror, running the water over your clean hands; hands that do not feel clean at all.

And when you are not rubbing your hands raw and watching dirty blood run down the drain, you are painting it on the walls, trying to get out. But you cannot escape your own mind. You cannot run from yourself, no matter how desperately you desire it. The blood you lose will never be enough to repay the loss of life you could not prevent. It will never be enough because your blood is tainted, poisoned by the one responsible for the many deaths. Poison that has no cure.

As you stare at the mirror, you become angry, because you are truly alone. There is no one else that is plagued with your nightmares, your mind, and your incurable disease. The mirror is almost a perfect replica, but not quite. Instead of consoling you, it taunts your weaknesses and flaws. And this infuriates you more than anything else. So you yell out and smash your fist into your reflection. You smile as the image shatters and cuts deep into your flesh, splattering both the mirror and your hand with blood. Your face is now distorted and even wilder looking, but it is perfect. Now you have spread the poison to your reflection, and made it equal. It finally shows how you feel, perfectly.

But it is not enough. Your hands are dirtier than ever, now, and you return them under the flow of running water. Not bothering to remove the shards of glass that shred your skin and only cut deeper as you continue to rub your hands raw.

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