Chapter Text
I sat at the bar, nursing my second glass of Firewhisky, watching the rain streak down the window. The liquid burned its way down my throat, a sharp reminder that I wasn't here for comfort, just distraction.
I kept wondering if I should just go back to the Burrow, but the thought of facing Fred after the fight made my chest tighten like a vise. We'd been building to this for weeks…little arguments snowballing into something bigger, words we couldn't take back.
Tonight, it had all spilled out: accusations flying like hexes, me yelling that he didn't understand the weight I carried from the war, him snapping that I was pushing him away on purpose. His face had gone from frustrated to something colder, like I'd finally hit a nerve too deep to heal.
His words kept replaying in my mind, sharp and cutting, each one feeling like a tiny knife twisting over and over. "If you think I'm not trying, Selena, maybe you're the one who doesn't care enough." Could our relationship even survive this?
There was too much anger, too much resentment…too much pain from both of us. I'd stormed out without a backward glance, needing space to breathe, to sort through the mess in my head. But now, sitting here alone, the regret was settling in like a heavy
fog.
What if this was the fight that broke us? What if I went back and he looked at me like a stranger? The Burrow had always been our safe haven, full of Weasley chaos and warmth, but tonight it felt like a battlefield I wasn't ready to return to.
Grimacing, I drained the rest of the burning liquid and forced myself to stand. My legs wobbled a bit, the alcohol hitting harder than I'd expected. I told myself I’d go to bed, that by morning Fred might be calm enough for a conversation, even if it was just the start of one.
Maybe I'd apologize first—admit I'd been unfair, that the war's shadows still haunted me more than I let on. Or maybe he'd meet me halfway, like he usually did, with that lopsided grin that made everything feel fixable. The thought gave me a flicker of hope, enough to push me toward the hallway. I just needed to sleep this off, wake up clearer-headed.
But my head felt light…too light. I was not a good drinker, and maybe I’d had too much. The pub's low hum of voices blurred at the edges, and I blinked hard to steady myself. I stumbled down the hallway that should have led to the stairs. Only the stairs weren’t there.
I froze. “I’m not that drunk,” I muttered to myself, though my stomach flipped and my head felt like it was filled with cotton. I reached out a hand to brace against the wall, expecting the familiar rough wood under my fingers. Instead, my palm met something solid but unexpected. No stairs. No worn steps leading up to the rooms. Just a blank stretch of wall that shouldn't be blank.
I shook my head, trying to clear the haze. Had I taken a wrong turn? The Leaky Cauldron wasn't that big…I'd navigated it a hundred times, even after a few drinks. But doubt crept in, mixing with the unease from the fight. Maybe this was my mind playing tricks, projecting my confusion onto the world around me.
Where the stairs should have been, there was a door instead. Heavy oak, chipped red paint, a knob dulled almost to silver. A faint shimmer seemed to pulse along its edges, like the door itself was breathing. I could feel a faint vibration through the floorboards as I approached it.
It didn't make sense, doors didn't just appear in places they'd never been. But curiosity tugged at me, overriding the sensible voice in my head that said to turn back, find Tom, ask for directions. What harm could it do? I was already lost in my own thoughts; maybe a detour would shake me out of it.
Curiosity got the best of me. I touched the knob, and a subtle buzzing ran through my fingers, crawling up my arm. It wasn't painful, but it was insistent, like a spell humming to life. My heart picked up, a mix of intrigue and wariness.
The door creaked open, letting out a long groan as if it were alive. I hesitated on the threshold, peering into the dimness. Part of me wanted to laugh it off, but another part, the part that had survived curses and dark magic, whispered that this felt deliberate. Like the door had been waiting for someone like me, someone teetering on the edge of regret.
Inside, the room was almost empty. Dust motes floated lazily in the dim light, settling on chairs draped in dingy white cloth. But at the far end, nestled between two ancient cauldrons, stood a mirror. The space felt forgotten, like a corner of the pub no one bothered with anymore. I stepped inside, my footsteps echoing softly, and something about the quiet made my skin prickle. Why was this here?
The Leaky was full of oddities: enchanted nooks and hidden passages, but this room carried a weight, as if it held secrets it wasn't ready to share. I thought of Fred again, unbidden: how he'd tease me for wandering into trouble, how he'd pull me out with a joke and a kiss. The memory stung, reminding me why I'd come here in the first place, to escape the ache of our argument.
I stepped closer, closing the door behind me. I could feel the air thicken around me, almost sticky, as if the room wanted to keep me here. My breath came a little shorter, the earlier lightness in my head sharpening into focus.
The mirror drew me in, its presence impossible to ignore. What was I doing? I should leave, go back to the bar, pretend this never happened. But the pull was stronger than my hesitation, like the mirror was offering an answer to questions I hadn't even asked.
The mirror itself was taller than me, and quite wide. A smoky haze curled and twisted inside the glass, distorting my reflection in unsettling ways. I raised a hand slowly. It passed right through the glass, my fingers trembling as if I were touching water. The sensation was cool and fluid, rippling around my skin without resistance.
My mind raced…this wasn't normal magic, not a simple illusion or prank. I'd seen enchanted mirrors before, ones that flattered or advised, but nothing like this. Nothing that let you reach through as if the glass were a veil between worlds. Panic flickered at the edges of my thoughts: What if this was a trap? What if I'd stumbled into something dark, a remnant of the war's chaos?
“Oh,” I whispered in surprise.
A soft, breathy voice tickled my ear. “Go on, dear.”
I spun, gripping my wand at my hip. But the room was still empty. The door was shut tight behind me. The chairs remained draped. The cauldrons still sat like ancient sentinels, silent.
My pulse thundered in my ears. Who had spoken? The voice had been gentle, almost encouraging, but there was no one here. I scanned the shadows, wand half-drawn, ready for a threat. Nothing. Just the mirror, its haze swirling more insistently now.
Was it the mirror itself? I'd heard stories of sentient artifacts, objects infused with old magic that could whisper temptations or truths. But those were legends, not something you'd find in a pub hallway. Still, the voice lingered in my mind, urging me forward, and I couldn't shake the feeling that this was meant for me, a crossroads disguised as curiosity.
The smoke in the mirror swirled counter-clockwise, almost beckoning me. I could feel the air pulling me closer. I took a shuddering breath and pressed my face through. Darkness swallowed me, thick and cold, until I landed in a room that was… the same. The door was on the opposite end.
Disorientation hit me like a wave, my knees buckling slightly as I steadied myself. It felt like stepping through a Floo without the spin, but with an added twist of wrongness. I glanced around: same chairs, same cauldrons, same dim light. Yet everything carried a subtle shift, like a memory slightly altered. My heart raced, what had I done? This wasn't just a trick; this was something profound, something that could upend everything.
I looked back at the mirror. The smoky haze vanished, leaving only my reflection staring back. Everything else seemed identical…but a subtle unease lingered. Something was off, but I couldn't exactly tell what. The room felt quieter, the air a fraction heavier, as if the world had tilted just enough to notice. I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm the rising anxiety.
Fred would know what to do, he was always the one with the quick wit, the plan. But thinking of him only amplified the guilt. I'd come here to escape our fight, and now I'd wandered into something inexplicable. Maybe this was a sign: go home, fix things, stop running from the hard conversations.
Panic clawed at me. I stumbled out of the room, and down the hall to the bar. Everything looked exactly the same. The patrons were still murmuring, the fire still crackling faintly. But that unease followed me, a nagging doubt that made every step feel deliberate. I turned to the bartender, his expression blank and calm as he polished a glass behind the counter. Tom had always been a steady presence, unflappable through the war and its aftermath. If anyone could ground me, it was him.
“Uh… excuse me,” I said, breathless, my voice tight, “Was that room always there? With the mirror??”
He blinked. “Mirror? What mirror?”
I laughed nervously, shaking my head. Shit. “Yeah… never mind. Must’ve had too much to drink.”
His response rattled me more than the mirror itself. No recognition, no hint of a joke. I backed away, forcing a smile that felt brittle. If Tom didn't know, then what? Was I losing it? The fight with Fred replayed again: his frustrated sigh, my sharp retort…and I wondered if the stress had finally cracked me. No, I couldn't dwell on that. I needed to get out, get home, sort this out in the light of day.
I decided it was time to go back to the Burrow. At least there, I could collapse into my bed and maybe apologize to Fred tomorrow. We could laugh about the fact that I got so drunk that I was seeing mirrors that I could stick my hand through. The idea brought a small, tentative smile to my face. Fred loved a good story; he'd turn this into a prank or a tale to tell at family dinners. It was enough to steady me as I stepped outside, the cool night air hitting my face. I was sobering up, and decided to Apparate home.
The familiar squeeze of Apparition pulled me through space, depositing me at the Burrow's gate with a soft pop. The house loomed ahead, its crooked silhouette a comfort I'd taken for granted. I opened the door and made my way into the living room, expecting the usual late-night quiet, maybe Fred waiting up, or just the creak of the old clock.
The house was mostly dark, save for a few stray lights illuminating the figures on the couches. Molly, Ron, Hermione…they were all there, huddled together like they were in the middle of a vigil. Their heads snapped up as I entered, faces pale and drawn.
“Selena?!” Molly gasped, rushing over and clutching my arms. “Where on earth were you?!”
I looked at her confused. “I was just at the Leaky…I told you that before I left.” I said. Her eyes widened more, Ron was staring at me like I had three heads.
I reached my hand up tentatively and felt my hair…nope, still just one. The joke fell flat in my mind, but their reactions were throwing me off. Molly's grip was too tight, her eyes searching mine with a desperation I didn't understand. Ron shifted uncomfortably, his usual easy demeanor replaced by something guarded.
“Selena, you’ve been gone for three weeks. We’ve tried to find you, we’ve sent countless owls.” Hermione gently chimed in, her eyes looking just as confused as the others.
“Three… what?” My voice cracked. “No. I had a fight with Fred hours ago, and went out to clear my head.” I shook my head. “I came home to apologize.”
The words hung in the air, and I saw the shift in their expressions…pity, sorrow, something heartbreaking. Molly let out a sob as Ron pulled her in for a comforting hug. “That isn’t funny, Sel.” He said sharply. His voice was rough, like he'd been holding back tears himself.
I glanced between them, my mind reeling. Three weeks? That was impossible. I'd only been gone a few hours. And why were they acting like my mention of Fred was a cruel joke?
Hermione’s voice was quiet, but steady. “Selena… Fred died during the battle.”
She hesitated, eyes flicking to the floor.
“You know that. You were there.”
My stomach dropped. I shook my head, unable to breathe. “No… I just… I saw him hours ago. And he’s fine. He has to be!”
The denial burst out of me, raw and desperate. Fred…dead? The battle was over; we'd won, but not without losses. But Fred? My Fred, with his endless energy, his laughter that could light up the darkest days? I remembered the chaos of Hogwarts, spells flying, but in my mind, he'd made it through. We'd argued tonight because he was alive, because we had a future to fight about.
They looked at me helplessly, and I could feel panic rising in my chest. My mouth opened, but no words came out. I had to explain... “I was going to stay the night at the Leaky but there was a door instead of the stairs, there was a mirror! It brought me here.” I blurted it out, grasping for anything that made sense.
Molly's sobs quieted to shaky breaths, Ron's arm tightening around her. Hermione’s eyes widened, and suddenly her disbelief faltered. “Wait…a mirror brought you here?” she asked slowly.
I blinked at her. “Yes… yes, exactly that. I thought I was just drunk but…” the words almost choked me. Admitting it aloud made it real, and the implications crashed over me. If this wasn't my world, then what had I left behind? Fred, waiting for an apology that might never come?
Hermione looked at me, awe and fear flickering in her expression. “Selena, if you’re telling the truth… that mirror may have been a portal. I’ve read about certain mirrors that can take people to other timelines.” She drew in a breath. “Nobody’s seen one in centuries. They’re rare… and dangerous. Why would there be one at the Leaky?”
Her words sank in, piecing together the puzzle I'd been too disoriented to solve. Timelines? Other worlds? It explained the subtle wrongness, the way everything felt off-kilter. But it also meant this wasn't home…not really. I swallowed hard, the room suddenly feeling impossibly small. I shrugged a shoulder, “Tom didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“If this is true, does that mean there’s a world where Fred survived?” Ron asked, adjusting his arm over his mother’s shoulder. Molly peeked up at me, hope flickering in her eyes, waiting for my answer. The question hit like a punch; hope for them, devastation for me. If Fred was alive in my world, then in this one... the grief on their faces said it all. I nodded slowly, unable to speak, my throat tight with the weight of it.
Hermione interjected before I could speak.
“It’s just a theory, but I really don’t think this is our Selena,” she began, grabbing her beaded bag off the table, “Ron, don’t tell anyone else about this until we get back.” She instructed. Her mind was already racing ahead, the way it always did; analyzing, planning. Ron nodded, though his eyes lingered on me with a mix of suspicion and longing, as if seeing a ghost of what could have been.
“Where are we going?” I asked as she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the fireplace. Her grip was firm, grounding, even as my thoughts spun.
“I want to see the mirror.” She threw Floo powder into the flames, green sparks lighting her determined face.
As the fire roared to life, I glanced back at Molly and Ron, their faces a tableau of fragile hope and unresolved pain. Whatever this mirror was, it had shattered my night, and maybe more.
But if it could bridge worlds, perhaps it could mend what was broken. Or break it further. I stepped into the flames with Hermione, the whirl of travel pulling us away, toward answers I wasn't sure I wanted.