Mirrors (A Larry Stylinson Fanfic) NEWLY REVISED

Drops of Jupiter

NEW REVISED

Harry's POV:

Boston.

A city filled with history and culture, a mix between both new and old. I loved the atmosphere that all the people surrounding me created. I was a part of something so big, yet still had that sliver of anonymity. I admit, at first I was intimidated by the hustle and bustle of the crowds of people, feeling as if they were going to swallow me up whole, but over time it gave me comfort and security. Something about it reminded me of my home in England. I had moved here four years ago to attend college for writing, and it was a decision I have never regretted. While I did miss my family and the familiarity of my home, I loved having the opportunity to start fresh in a new place, and to create a life for myself, especially after my rather complicated and eventful upbringing.

When I was ten, my parents divorced as a result to my dad's poor drinking habits. I remember the first night he came home and hit my mom. He wasn't usually a violent person, but when he drank the hard stuff things tended to get out of hand. My mom was strong, though, and refused to take that kind of treatment from him. She packed his bags and kicked him out the next day. I had no idea what to make of the situation; one minute I was cowering in the corner during their argument, and the next I was in the court room beside my sister as we dealt with the custody battle.

The divorce was hard on all of us, both emotionally and financially. When I was sixteen I got my first job working at the local bakery down the street from our house. It wasn't the best paying but it helped my mom with the bills. She did her best to support us, proving time and time again her strength and determination to give us a good life. After my dad was out of the picture, she started working two jobs; during the day she was a nurse at the hospital just outside the town limits. At night she would spend her time waitressing. I hated seeing her have to work so hard, but we had no other options. Between school and working at the bakery I couldn't afford to take up another job as much as I wanted to. My sister went down a very different route, however, often causing more trouble than not. She was fourteen when my dad left, and for a while I don't think she ever truly forgave my mom for making him leave. Her grades in school started to be negatively affected as she stayed out late into the nights with the wrong crowd.

Though I don't ever regret being there for my family, most of my teenage years revolved around me playing the role of the dad, as well as the "older" sibling. I remember waking up at night to Gemma and my mom arguing in the kitchen over her finding alcohol in her schoolbag. Or the times where I had to step between Gemma and her boyfriends who would try to take advantage of her. Mike was the worst one she brought home, though thankfully that relationship did not last long. I recall watching out the window as they pulled up in his loud, beat down truck. They were fighting when I saw him reach forward and hit her across the face. She looked at him stunned, her palms pressed against her cheek. Within minutes I had him ripped from the car and on the ground, blind with rage as I repeatedly knocked him down with more force than I thought I had inside me.

She didn't talk to me for a week after that, angered by my reaction. I didn't care though; I had watched my dad hit my mom and I'd be damned to see the same thing happen to my sister.

The worst incident happened when she was eighteen. I remember my mom getting the phone call at two in the morning, telling us that Gemma had been in a drunk driving accident and was in the emergency room. My mom broke into hysterics and I tried my best to calm her down while driving to the hospital. When we entered her room, my mom ran into Gemma's arms. I knew she was furious by her drinking, but at the moment all that mattered was that she was alive. That night was the first time I had seen my dad since the divorce. The three of us sat on the bed, each exhausted by the course of emotions that had been flowing through us, when he walked in with flowers in hand. My body went numb; I almost didn't recognize him. He was thinner, and looked much older than he should after only four years. I attributed that to the drinking.