Work Text:
There were some things a woman should never have to trouble herself with, Angelina thought, glaring at the lime green stains that just wouldn't wash out of her kitchen floor. She'd tried three separate cleaning charms, Slick's Magical Stain Remover, and even some dubious paste her husband had once brought home. Works like magic, he'd said. It only made the green spots that covered the floor turn more lime green than puke green.
"George Weasley!" she hollered, casting a sonorus charm for extra effect. "What did you do to the floor?"
The man in question tiptoed down the stairs in hopes to get away before she caught him. Two pairs of curious little eyes peeked around the kitchen corner.
"I can see you," Angelina said to George, an angry tick developing in her brow. She put her hands on her waist and glared. "What, exactly, is this?"
George laughed nervously. "It looks like there're green spots on the floor. Possibly. I've been reading up on a bit of philosophy, and read that perhaps what we see isn't really what we see and—"
"And I'm imagining things?" Angelina drawled. She was very much not amused. "I'm a lunatic. Of course, that explains everything. Just drop me off at St. Mungo's and be done with me already!" She grabbed the stain remover and emptied the bottle on the floor. Had the stains been normal, they and the stain remover would have vanished instantly. "Well? What is this?"
George finally entered the kitchen and wiped the stain remover off the floor. "I might have brought a product home while you were at work." He raised his arms up as if to combat her glare. "But I cleaned everything else! It just wouldn't get out of the floor. Sorry, Angie."
Angelina rubbed her temples and slumped down into a chair. She and George had a rule: he wouldn't bring home store products, she wouldn't try to kill him for the messes he made.
"You planning to kill me now?" George asked. He sat down in the chair next to hers. "I'd like a warning in that case. Gives me time to tell you how beautiful you are."
"Shut up." Angelina stood up, belatedly noticing their two children listening in. She and George fought at the worst possible times, it seemed. "I'm going to go grocery shopping. Don't wait up."
George nodded and let her go. Neither acknowledged that no respectable food supply store would be open at nine in the evening.
x
Angelina did, in fact, go to Diagon Alley. Not to a food supply store—that was moot point, as it closed at six o'clock—but she did stroll the long street, wandering inattentively and thinking. Most of the time, she was so happy in her marriage to George. He was a good man.
"A good man," she repeated out loud, as if saying it might make their marriage work.
George was kind and attentive, loved their children, had a good job, wasn't a workaholic—everything she'd always wanted in a man. And she was happy with it all. So damn happy. So happy she was wandering Diagon Alley at night instead of sleeping beside her husband.
She noticed an open store and walked inside, finding it was an antiques store.
"Is there anything special you'd like to see, dear?" an old woman behind a desk asked.
Angelina shook her head and the old woman went back to her book.
The store was nice, she supposed, for an antiques store. She didn't know the first thing about antiques, and the items here looked a bit old and worn and sad. Sometimes, that was exactly how she felt. Angelina sat down on a plush-looking sofa, glancing at the elderly woman to make sure she wasn't breaking a store rule. The woman said nothing, so Angelina made herself comfortable.
"You!" yelled a man's voice.
Turning her head, Angelina saw an elderly man pointing his finger towards her and walking quickly towards her. "Excuse me?" she asked, confused.
"How would you like to see your deepest darkest desires? Are you facing an important, life-changing decision? No? Then you will soon!" He plopped down on the sofa next to her. "I have here—"
"Fletcher stop harassing my customers!" the old woman yelled. The man, Fletcher, threw a rude gesture in her direction.
"She's not harassed!" he yelled back. Fletcher turned towards Angelina again. "As I was saying, I have here the biggest shard of the Mirror of Desire there is. Got it from Dumbledore myself, I did. Well, close enough to that."
"The mirror of what?" Angelina asked, curious despite her shock at the elderly man's gall.
"Mirror of Desire! Had a different name once, but that didn't sell. Someone was angry enough to break it, he was." He stared at her until Angelina began to feel uncomfortable. "I might," he stressed the might, "sell it to you for forty-five galleons. Great price, used to be higher, but you're a nice-looking girl. Need a mirror? A special mirror?"
"No, but thank you." Angelina began to get up, but the man held out a shard of glass about as big as her hand. She was frightened for a moment until she realized this was the mirror he was trying to sell her.
"A look?" the man asked. "Just for a little bit. A minute. Call it a promotional deal." He urged the mirror into her hand. Angelina took it and looked into the mirror.
At first, she only saw a white haze and was prepared to give the man the mirror back, but then, slowly, shapes started appearing.
"Enchantment's faded a bit," Fletcher said, but his voice felt far away. "Still works well."
Angelina saw herself in the mirror. She looked beautiful and dressed up and very young. Angelina didn't have to guess when the event was. It was the Yule Ball, so many years ago. There she was, dancing with her date. Her wonderful, amazing date. Angelina ran her thumb over the glass, but the redhead didn't feel her touch. He didn't turn from the Angelina in the glass, staring at her with love-filled eyes. Or at least that was what she assumed his eyes were filled with. Then, he turned to look at her, not the Angelina in the past, and she knew for sure which emotion Fred's eyes were filled with.
Her wedding ring felt too heavy on her finger and the mirror—Fred was turning away now, back to the Angelina in the past—made her want to throw up.
"You like it?" Fletcher asked.
She handed it back to him and left the shop without another word. She heard him behind her, yelling something, but by now she didn't care. She needed to get home. She needed to get back to George and fall in love with him again, because she knew that image would destroy her one day. Honesty, desire, truth... they were overrated, anyway.