Someone borrowed, someone blue

Mira wasn't sure where along the line she had lost herself. Had it been when she had resigned to move into this two bedroom apartment or when she had let herself fall apart in a muggle hospital? Perhaps it went all the way back to the day she had been summoned to the Ministry to marry Albus Potter while her fiancée remained completely dethatched. Whatever the cause, it was clear that Mira Anderson was slowly becoming.. average.

Truthfully, she felt a little cheated. Had she not done everything correctly? Bore Elijah Krum's insults in silence, remaining soft, delicate, ladylike, and willing to pretend like she hadn't noticed his love for her sister. She had let the man come and go, slip in to her bed whenever he was lonely enough to crawl back to her. Somehow the whole affair had never damaged her pride. Mira liked that he needed her - that she was the one woman who could act as both a drug and a healing balm for the Bulgarian. Because in her heart of hearts she knew that, no matter which witch he claimed to love, she could always have him by virtue of just being her.

She knew she had gone too far. Love, children, family.. that had never been in the cards for the pair. She had pushed too quickly, assumed too much (or perhaps not enough), and in the end she had been left broke and engaged to a loveless man. The boy had disappeared quickly but the bank vault had remained empty, a hallow reminder of not just Elijah's final betrayal but the life that she had been promised all those years ago.

It was a Friday evening and Mira stood before her small closet, considering the drawer of night clothes that laid open before her. She was just considering if she was in the mood for Chinese or Indian takeout when she caught her reflection in the vanity mirror. Turning, Mira locked eyes with herself, and for the first time in a long time she was forced to really look.

There was a startling contrast between the woman who stared back a year ago and the woman who stood there now. Mira had let the white gold glow of her hair had fade down into her natural dirty blonde and her lips looked startlingly light with a soft pink gloss that had been left behind by Avery. Being clad in underwear gave a clear view of a layer of fat beginning to form over her delicate stomach. And - wait - was that a pimple forming on her forehead? Breathe in, breathe out. Mira pursed her lips and striated her lax posture, taking another deep breath before abandoning her sleepwear to head for the vanity where her reflection was framed so mockingly.

She sat and stared for another moment, taking in the symmetry of her features before reaching out to open an ivory makeup box. Out of the small trinket spilled bottle upon bottle, shelves of little vials and pens that could be used to edit every aspect of the girl's features. Mira moved deliberately - from hair to skin to eyes - in an orchestrated dance that she had been practicing and preforming for years. Her lips were last. In two clean motions the matte pink was buried under the same shade of ruby red that she had been wearing since she was seventeen.

Mira pushed back from the mirror, the most comfortable of smiles settling in to her newly defined features. She stood and turned to view her profile, resting her hand on her stomach and gently sucking in. So it wasn't perfect, but it was better.

After a return to the closet, Mira found herself dressed and ready for a night out. She needed to go somewhere, anywhere, to prove to herself that her youth was not a complete lost cause.

Less than a half hour later the remodeled blonde was perched on a barstool in London, drink in hand, laughing politely at whatever joke the bartender had just offered.

A year ago, James Potter never would have been able to walk into a pub – and if he did, he’d stagger out broke and drunk. It’d be a miracle if he made it home. Oftentimes, he’d wake up in one of the sin-bins the street wardens who looked after the louts in the clubbing areas stored the disorderly in overnight until they sobered up. He’d be a familiar sight, slumped and snoring at the back of the room. He’d be coaxed out of his restless sleep by the same lady who offered him some hot chocolate and a bucket for when he finally threw up his guts. Then he’d be put in a taxi and sent home. A lot had changed since then, though.

The dark-haired man was forever grateful that things had changed. He’d never imagined he’d be able to walk into a bar and sit down and nurse some larger and not feel out of control. He’d decided to go out for some work friends. They’d gone to the football during the afternoon and had shouted themselves hoarse as Chelsea had cruised into a four-nil win. Thereafter they’d gone for some curry and were going to round off their evening down the pub. That last port of call had given James a little bit of pause but he’d smiled and nodded and decided to go with them, albeit half-terrified by the idea.

When they entered, the other guys were already rowdy, living in the afterglow of the football. James trailed in behind, pulling the door closed as he was the last one in. They dropped off their coats and the others found a table. It was James who was demanded to get the first round in and once he got over the smells and sights of the pub, he found he could relax and actually enjoy his drink. He found he could hold it, too. It was only lager, he knew this, but it still left him stupefied with fear.

A few rounds later, it was James’ turn again and he got up, removing his wallet from his back pocket. Winding through the tables, James made his way up to the bar. One bloke moved away with a glass of wine and a gin and tonic as he arrived and James slid into the space, resting against the bar as he waited for the bartender. He rubbed at the back of his neck absently, fiddling with a bit of loose cotton on his wallet. He happened to glance round and James found his eyes widening a little at the sight of a woman he knew he’d recognise anywhere. She’d been nigh famous, after all.

“Let me buy you the next one,” James leaned over to her with a smile, gesturing with his index finger to her drink. His eyes flicked up to hers. “You don’t look any different, Anderson.”