Title: In the Face of Fear, Bravely
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Word Count: ~980
Prompts: Challenge 251: Reflect, and the "Character Study" square on my genprompt_bingo card.
Content notes: Talk of scars, war, and death. Like, one (1) swear word.
Summary: There is a mirror in the room, oval-shaped and big enough to stand in front of it and see your whole reflection. Lavender used to love it.
Author notes: I played a bit with HP canon. More details under the cut.
In HP canon werewolves transform only during the full moon and can infect others only then, too. Here, I've played with that and instead werewolves are like those in Teen Wolf -- basically, they can change when they want and only Alphas can infect people they bite (which can be outside the full moon.) That's all.


In the Face of Fear, Bravely

There is a mirror in the room, oval-shaped, and big enough to stand in front of it and see your whole reflection. Lavender used to love it.

It was a gift from her grandma, given when Lavender received her first Hogwarts letter. She has always loved to play with her hair and her clothes, changing hairstyles and outfits all the time, listening to the charms in the mirror compliment her or give her fashion advice. Before, though, she had to make do with the one downstairs if she wanted to check not only her face and hair but also her whole body. Having her own mirror in her room changed that, and Lavender was thrilled.

The memory is bittersweet.

She enters the room and the lights turn on, the magic still intact even though it’s the first time in over a year that she’s back home.

(It’s been two months since the second of May. Since the final battle. Since—)

She was discharged from the hospital last week, and stayed with the Patils after that until her friends were sure she was ready to be on her own. Because she is, now. Her parents helped during the battle, and now they’re gone. Grandma died two years ago, so she’s also gone. Dead. The worst part is that it wasn’t even the war what took her, just old age.

There’s a hole in Lavender’s chest, and she can almost hear a soulful howl, full of loneliness and misery and want. She shakes her head, short blond curls barely touching her shoulders, and takes another step inside the room.

It’s clean. Of course, it is. Millie is still alive, though grieving, and she’s not about to let her owners’ home fall to pieces just because Lavender isn’t there to tell her so.

(She should speak with Millie. After seeing the Hogwarts elves fighting for their home, after all the help they freely gave, Lavender thought about Hermione’s words. She’s right, she decided sometime during her convalescence. Elves do deserve better working and living conditions, even those like hers who don't live in abusive homes.)

After a deep breath she takes another step, then another, and another until she’s right in front of the mirror, eyes closed tight.

Lavender’s trembling. Her limbs feel weak and powerless, and she absolutely hates herself for it—for the weakness, for the fear she feels now, for this, when she’s survived a goddamn war.

She forces herself to calm down and take another breath. The loud tattoo of her heartbeat inside her ears is almost deafening.

The mirror scares her. It scares her what’s going to show. Her reflection.

She hasn’t yet seen what she looks like now. She can guess, though.

Scars.

Scars on her face, on her neck, on her arms. Scars on her stomach, her back, her thighs (though all of those are easily covered). Greyback didn’t hold back when he got his hands on her; she’s lucky she even survived.

(Sometimes she wishes she didn’t. Sometimes she wishes she had followed her parents to peace.)

She clenches her fists and winces—too tight. Too uncontrolled. She’s just stabbed herself with her own claws.

The pain serves to wake her up, though; to bring her out of her thoughts and back to the present.

Lavender is scared. She knows that. She recognizes it.

But she’s also a Gryffindor, and if there’s something this ugly pointless war has taught her is that the Hat did not make a mistake when it sorted her. Seventh year was the real eye-opener that forced her to grow up and leave behind her childish, simple self behind. Having to fight inside her own school to keep herself and other students out of the Carrow’s wand-point, having to fight against men and women so much older and crueler than her, having to kill the beast who was trying to kill her back broke the girl she was, and re-made her into the woman she’s now. And even though she’s afraid, she’s not going to let that fear rule her.

Lavender survived. Lavender’s alive; she can walk and speak and breathe on her own. One day she may even be able to relax and laugh and love. She can do this.

She can.

She opens her eyes and takes her reflection in.

Curiously, it’s the short hair that calls her attention first.

It’s just so different to what she’s used to, but she likes it. It frames her face a little more, making it look a little softer around the jaw. It’s still blonde, still curly, but the lack of weight makes it bouncier, in a way. It suits her.

The scars stand out, now that she’s stopped paying attention to the hair. She fights the reflective flinch and forces herself to study them critically. They are—bad. Four slashes start just beneath her left eye and travel down her pale cheek towards her neck, and then they disappear beneath the collar of her shirt. Those are the most prominent ones, though there are several smaller ones around them, too. She can’t make herself look beneath her shirt, to see the rest of the scratches and the terrible bite mark that mars her left side. She’s confronted enough of them, for now.

She glances over her nose (it’s unchanged, still straight, on the small side, with a handful of pale freckles sprinkled over it) and then looks at her own eyes in the mirror. They’re mahogany brown, dusted with the barest hints of honey.

Greyback is dead. She killed him, after he bit her and almost killed her. Lavender knows, in theory, what that means, but she needs to see it for herself.

She concentrates, searching inside herself for the mournful howl, for the helpless rage and the feeling of dirt under her feet as she runs and—

Brown eyes flash red.

(She was right.)

(She’s an Alpha, now.)