the_debt_of_time

There he stood before her, or next to her really, as she gazed in the reflection and
saw herself standing beside him. Harry looked just as she remembered. The spitting image
of James, with two exceptions: a lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead and the most
brilliant green eyes, the colour of emeralds in direct sunlight.
Standing on either side of Harry were the smiling faces of his parents, though not
as adults. No, James and Lily appeared in the mirror as they looked to Mia right now,
fifteen and full of life. James looked like he could be Harry's brother.
The Potters, all together again.
Mia sniffed at the sight and wiped away a tear. She stood with them. Harry had
thought of her as a sister, allowed her to wear the words of his House that had provoked
a Familial Bond and made her a Potter. James, her brother in everything but blood, and Lily,
quite possibly the only female aside from Ginny Weasley that Mia could ever consider a
true friend. Mary and Alice were lovely girls, but Lily was more; Lily was... family.
Ron appeared close behind Harry, a hand on his shoulder, and Ginny beside him
making moon eyes at Harry.
To the left of Mia's reflection stood Remus, just as beautiful as he was right now,
perfectly fifteen and perfectly hers. However, his reflection changed, and she watched
closely as he aged right in front of her eyes into the professor she had originally met, except
his eyes; those were still the same eyes as her Remus. Only her Remus held a blue-haired child
in his arms, and Mia smiled at the sight of little Teddy Lupin and Tonks, who moved to
stand beside her husband. They were smiling brightly, and Mia felt guilty and jealous at the
same time until the reflection of Remus smiled at her with that loving expression she knew
too well.
She was not his mate, but she was still his memory, and Mia knew better than anyone
that Remus had a capacity to love that rivalled Harry's; there was room for her in his heart.
An older Sirius appeared in the mirror, slowly walking up behind her, his grey eyes
boring into her as if they could liquefy her very soul. He approached her reflection from
behind, but his eyes remained fixed on her as his arms wound themselves around her
reflection's waist tenderly, intimately. He knew her. He remembered her.
He looked exactly as she remembered: war-torn and battered by life but vivacious
and full of fire. He wore the scars and tattoos that his younger self had yet to bear, and she
mapped each mark with her gaze until it landed on one she was sure she had seen before,