Standing just outside the door where the Mirror of Erised was kept, Tom took a slow, steady breath, rolling his wand once between his fingers.

“Alohomora.” The lock clicked open at once.

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The room smelled of dust and old stone. His eyes settled on the tall mirror at the center, its surface hidden beneath a heavy cloth.

He had read about it through the books at the restricted section—a mirror that revealed not your reflection, but your deepest desire.

Tom Riddle did not believe in childish fantasies. He had plans. Ambitions. A future that required precision and ruthlessness. Love had no place in it. Attachment was weakness. Dependency, a liability.

And yet… on sleepless nights beneath the carved canopy of his bed, there was always a quieter question beneath those grand designs.

What did he want—when no one was watching?

With a sharp motion, he pulled the cloth away. It slid to the floor with a muted thud.

He looked up—

—and froze.

He was not alone in the mirror.

You stood there. Clear. Looking at him the way you always had.

For a moment, his mind rejected it. He had buried that feeling long ago, crushed it beneath logic and ambition. You were useful. Loyal. Intelligent. From a respected pureblood family. A valuable ally. That was all he allowed you to be.

But the mirror did not lie.

In its silver depths, you stood at his side, your hand resting lightly in his. His expression was softer than he had ever permitted in waking life.

Memories surfaced—first year, the whispers, the isolation. The way the other children kept their distance from the quiet, odd boy from the orphanage.

You had walked up to him anyway. Spoken to him as though he were normal. Worth knowing. You stayed through every year, every triumph, everything before what he was now.

He told himself you were just someone he could take advantage of when needed.

But standing there, he understood the truth.

He did not crave power in that reflection.

He craved you.

His jaw tightened. His fingers curled at his sides.

Love was weakness. He had sworn to rise above it.

And yet the mirror showed what ambition never could fill—the quiet warmth of someone who had chosen him before he became extraordinary. Before he became anything at all.

For the first time in a long while, fear crept into his chest.

Because if this was his deepest desire—

Then it was the one thing he could never allow himself to have.

His fingers trembled once.

Tom tore his gaze away as if burned. He snatched the fallen cloth, and threw it back over the mirror without another glance.

He stood there a moment, forcing his heartbeat to steady, forcing the image of your hand in his to disappear.

Then he turned sharply and strode out, the door shutting harder than necessary.

He would not be ruled by something so quaint.

—

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with clattering plates and low conversation. Sunlight streamed through the high windows.

You sat across from him. Close enough that he could hear your breathing.

Tom kept his gaze fixed on his plate. He did not look at you. He couldn’t.

When you spoke, he answered curtly without lifting his eyes. When you laughed softly at something someone else said, his grip tightened almost imperceptibly around his fork. He was acutely aware of your presence—every movement, every shift—

And of course you noticed.

Of course you did.

And Tom knew you caught onto that as well.