Title: Desires of a Wounded Soul

Pairing: Thomas Marvolo Riddle Jr./Harelda Potter

Thomas Marvolo Riddle Jr. clenched his hands into fists and shook. How dare Dumbledore refuse him? Tom was more than qualified to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had followed Headmaster Dippet's advice; he had traveled and learned more. Then Dippet had retired, and with Dumbledore's hatred of him, there was no chance he would ever be able to teach at and live in his home.

Hogwarts was his!

"If I can't have it, no one can," Tom hissed.

He stalked through the familiar corridors, knowing that the other applicants (whom not an hour ago Tom had been sure would be sent away wanting) would keep Dumbledore busy.

It wouldn't take long to cast a curse he had learnt while in Albania.

As long as the Defense position was denied to him, no one would be able to have it for long. How many interim professors would have to die before Dumbledore owled him and conceded defeat, allowing Tom to return to his home and teach? Ten? Twenty? However many it took, it would be worth it.

Tom would do anything to claim Hogwarts as his own.

Someday, perhaps far in the future, perhaps sooner than expected, he would rule the Wizarding World from Hogwarts, if necessary. If the only way he could have Hogwarts was to take over Wizarding Britain by force, instead of reform, Tom would do it.

A glint of light shining through an open door caught Tom's attention.

He paused in his determined march to the Defense Professor's office and pushed the door open. Tom leaned against the doorframe, gaze trailing across a dust-ridden floor. The room was empty save for a large, ornate mirror. The cloth that had covered it lay on the floor in a heap.

He knew what it was the moment he set eyes on it. Researching magical objects and artifacts was one of his preferred hobbies. He couldn't stand ignorance in others, and wouldn't abide such a trait within himself.

Tom had to know.

He didn't care what the subject matter was as long as he could attain a sufficient grasp of the knowledge inherent therein.

"The Mirror of Erised," Tom whispered.

Taking an aborted step forward, Tom propped himself against the doorframe again. The temptation to leave footprints in the dust on the floor was great. However, he knew the tales of people who had wasted away before the Mirror, gazing desperately into it until they died.

In this case, Tom's greatest weakness might be his fierce ambition.

"What would you show me?"

Tom knew himself well, perhaps too well. He knew exactly how far he was willing to go to achieve his goals. He was the orphaned scion of Salazar Slytherin's great bloodline. He had been raised in a Muggle orphanage, treated like an abomination, ridiculed and bullied.

Tom had returned to the world he never should have lived outside of at the age of eleven. Yet he wasn't aware of the customs and rules that should have been taught to him since birth. He hadn't held himself with the right stature, or projected the proper image when he first arrived.

The pureblood heirs and heiresses had turned up their noses at his Muggle last name. They had sneered at his inferior manners. He had been an outcast in his own house.

He, the legacy of the great Salazar Slytherin, was no better than a common Muggle to many. The last remnants of an Olde family, abandoned and neglected.

Tom had changed that, though.

He had thrown himself into his studies. He had perfected his manners, had stunned them with his brilliance, and awed them with his heritage.

Right now, there were students—servants, really—who had sworn their lives to his service, waiting for the new school year to start to return to various dormitories throughout the castle; just as there were heirs and heiresses in the Ministry and other jobs, all sworn to him.

Soon enough, Tom intended to undergo the trial at Gringotts to claim the Slytherin Lordship. If it worked, he could live in Hogwarts. He could fire Dumbledore. He could claim his home, rightfully and legally. No one would ever be able to evict him again.

"I have so much," Tom said, "and yet nothing at all."

He took a step forward, disturbing the dust on the floor. What would the Mirror show him? Would he be living in Hogwarts in Lord Slytherin's Suite? Would he be the Minister for Magic? Would his reform Bills be voted through the Wizengamot, so that no Magical child ever had to live in the Muggle World ever again?

All of his followers, as loyal and obedient as he knew them to be, loved his power, or his name, or his heritage, his blood, or an ephemeral idea of what he could change. They loved the possibility of a future shaped by his power, changed by his genius, and altered by his words.

"But they don't love me."

Tom wasn't stupid. He knew the difference between adulation, adoration, and love. The last was something that had been absent from his life.

Envy filled him each time he saw others pairing off, or announcing their engagements, or bonding. No one ever offered him love. It was infuriating. What did they all have that he lacked?

So, while Tom might wonder what the Mirror of Erised would show him, picturing future victories and power, deep down he already knew the answer.

He knew what it would show him: love.

Love was an emotion. It wasn't something that he could buy with the mounds of gold in his vault. It wasn't something he could forcefully induce in others—not really.

In his sixth year, Tom had briefly used Amortentia on a half-blood witch, just to see what it would feel like to be loved for the first time in his life. At first, he felt powerful, in control, and undefeatable. But when he looked into her eyes, they were glazed and sycophantic. When he kissed her lips, they were pliant and unemotional.

He Obliviated her and sent her away.

That wasn't love.

"I'm not my mother," Tom spat into the silence as he walked across the room.

He had been busy a few years back, when he was still a schoolboy—finding memories and relatives who denied him. What Tom had seen (his mother forcing his father to love her) had proven to him that it wasn't possible. Hadn't his father left them both as soon as she stopped dosing him with Amortentia?

True love couldn't be coerced.

Tom's future heirs would not be relegated to a Muggle orphanage. His children would be conceived by a wife who truly loved him; they would be protected from all harm, so that he never had to fear losing them.

Because once Tom had people who loved him, he would never let them go. Whatever it took to keep his future lady-wife and children happy and loving him, he would do it.

"If they ever even exist," Tom muttered, bitterness coloring his voice.

The magical world had seemed like a blessing when he learned of it: being with his own kind. Belonging didn't bring love, though. It didn't ease the loneliness that ate away at him. It didn't heal his wounded soul. All it did was remind Tom of what he didn't have, no matter his power, position, or prestige.

Gaze trained on his yew wand, Tom remembered Abraxas Malfoy's engagement announcement in the morning paper during their seventh year. His friend, if Abraxas could be coined that, had chosen a pretty witch with a large dowry. Tom recalled the shattered look in Sylff Selwyn's eyes at the announcement; the fifth-year had been painfully, visibly in love with Abraxas. At least, Tom thought it was obvious. Instead of accepting that love, Abraxas had stomped on it and cast it aside as if it were unwanted and held no significance.

"I would give much to have someone look at me in such a way," Tom said.

He touched the glass of the mirror, and then glanced directly into it.

At first, all Tom could see was his reflection. He was tall, handsome, and possessed the bearing of a man who was accustomed to giving orders. Then a blurry outline appeared at his side. The more he tried to focus on it, the fuzzier it became. Until, finally, it snapped into sharp clarity.

If Tom didn't know better, he would say he was looking through a window, and that she stood on the other side of it.

The witch in the mirror had bone-pale skin and peach lips. Her hair was the color of a night meant for Dark Magic Rituals. Her eyes were the color of the basilisk's scales. There was a scar on her forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt, and Tom wondered if she had been struck by death.

The girl was captivating, no doubt, but the cloak hanging down her back made her enrapturing. It was the Cloak of Invisibility.

"Peverell!"

Tom rubbed his left ring finger, brushing across the Disillusioned ring. It had taken him a while to realize the Resurrection Stone had been set in Slytherin's ring. Once he figured it out, though, he couldn't let it out of his reach. It was both a great weapon and a great protection.

If his enemies managed to get it in their grasp. . . .

The witch turned to face Tom's reflection; her eyes overflowed with love the moment she saw him. She lifted her arms and cupped his face, before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. Tom's reflection crushed her against his chest, arms winding about her body with familiarity and assurance that he was welcome. When the passionate kiss ceased, Tom's reflection caressed her stomach; the grin on his face was radiant and smug. Then he picked her up and spun her around, before showering her face with tender kisses. His eyes were alight with laughter and contentment.

He was loved.

It was his deepest desire, taunting him.

For a moment, he almost shattered the Mirror in a rage. However, seven years of Cursed Luck would do nothing but harm his plans that were in motion. Tom would not undermine his own efforts.

So he stared a little longer at her beauty, even though it hurt.

Pressing his hand against the Mirror of Erised, as if he could feel her warmth, Tom spoke the most honest words of his life: "If I could have you, I would never use you. I would protect and cherish you until my dying breath."

The Mirror of Erised blazed with a golden luster, and then dimmed back to its usual appearance; Tom's reflection winked at him, before kissing the beautiful woman who loved him.

"Where am I?"

Stunned that someone had been able to sneak up on him, Tom snapped his head to the left, only to bite his tongue before cursing the intruder.

Standing beside him, wand brandished threateningly, was a witch. She had bone-pale skin and peach lips. Her hair was the color of a night meant for Dark Magic Rituals. Her eyes were the color of the basilisk's scales. There was a scar on her forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt, and Tom wondered if loneliness had decimated his mind.

"Hogwarts," Tom answered.

Would he truly care if his mind were pulverized, if the hallucination he was gifted with was someone who loved him?

She took a step away from him, eyeing him as if he were a threat. She couldn't possibly be more wrong. Though, to be fair, if he suddenly appeared in a new location he would be wary as well.

"How did I get here from the Manor?" she asked, lips twisted in a moue.

It sounded a lot more like: What did you do to Summon me here?

It took everything Tom had not to follow her retreat and grab her hand to see if she was real. He had the feeling that, if he did, she would curse him first and ask questions later—if ever.

"I don't know, my lady."

"That's a likely story," she scoffed.

"I'm Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Jr., Lord Gaunt, Heir of Slytherin," Tom said.

He was careful not to brag or gloat, even though he was proud of his heritage. A bloodline wasn't something he had earned; it was something he had no control over. If this was real—please let it be real!—he didn't want her to think he was an unbearable snob.

Tom had watched Arnold McMillan drive off three witches with his disgusting, entitled attitude.

"I'm aware."

She frowned, but offered a perfunctory curtsy at the same time. Her wand never wavered.

"What's your name?" Tom asked, refusing to accept this might be a hallucination.

"Harelda," she stated, voice resolute, refusing to add her surname or titles.

Wasn't that interesting?

Names were a powerful blessing or curse in the magical world. They helped shape a witch or wizard's destiny. His name meant: Twin. Tom had never been destined to be alone; his name pleaded and demanded an equal to stand beside him. Her name meant: Strong in war.

At his side, Harelda would be a boon.

What would it be like to stand with someone, instead of only standing against someone? What would change with someone at his back, covering it, instead of at his back, following him?

Tom had already committed murder multiple times in his life; he had split his soul. He had tortured, lied, controlled, and stolen. There was very little he would not do to ensure that this beautiful witch would love him. He would gladly bathe in the blood of her enemies, and then cast a cleaning charm on himself before tucking their future children into bed.

"Tempus."

"Would you—?"

Tom lurched forward when Harelda staggered after casting the Tempus Spell.

His hands barely brushed her skin before her magic rippled across him, causing the Resurrection Stone to flare up against his skin. It illuminated the room. Harelda's Cloak of Invisibility began to glimmer like a liquid galaxy.

Harelda jerked away from him.

She was real. She was here.

"Don't touch me!"

Tom held his empty hands palm up and knelt before her. Her gaze was wary, hunted, and he was determined to fix that. The last thing Tom wanted was for her to be scared of him. How could love grow out of fear? He wanted what the Mirror of Erised had shown him, and he wanted it as soon as possible.

"Lady Harelda, you don't need to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid!" she protested.

She straightened her shoulders and raised her wand higher. There was a calculating glint in her eyes that Tom recognized in himself, from when he was plotting.

Tom had to convince her he meant no harm. Otherwise, she was going to escape.

He couldn't let her.

"I'll never hurt you," Tom vowed.

He wanted to keep Harelda. He wanted what his reflection in the Mirror of Erised had possessed, and he would do anything to get it. Anything except what his mother had done, because true love was freely given.

Whatever vow Harelda wanted, it was hers.

"Do you swear?"

Harelda's gaze scorched him, and Tom's lungs ached in his chest. If Mother Magic hadn't brought her to him, how much longer would she have been able to fight alone before everything smoldered to ashes around her? Life was a war, but not one meant to be fought alone.

"I swear."

Tom's magic fluttered in the air, stirring up the dust in the room.

The calculating glint in her eyes intensified as she stared at her hovering Tempus Spell again, before piercing his kneeling form with her gaze.

Harelda lifted her left hand and extended her little finger to him. The dust in the room shot into the air and spun around them like a tornado at the action. Did she know she was offering him the First Rite of Moste Olde Hand-fasting under the Olde Magick?

Asking would be the honorable thing. Asking would be proper. Asking would show he was a man of good character.

Tom Riddle curled his little finger around hers without saying a word.

He couldn't bear to ask.

Besides, Tom would spend the rest of his life making sure that Harelda never regretted it. He would win her heart, so that she never wanted to withdraw from their now-exclusive courtship.

As Harelda kissed their entwined fingers, her magic crashed against his like a tsunami. The windows in the room blew outward, the sound of fracturing glass almost impossible to hear over the sound of his heart thumping.

Then she tumbled against his chest from, he assumed, magical exhaustion.

Tom swept her up in his arms, being careful to wrap the Cloak of Invisibility around her. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as he stood; there was a victorious smile on her face as she slept.

It was overshadowed by the triumphant and overjoyed one on Tom's face as he stared into the Mirror of Erised and saw nothing but their reflection.

Harelda was his now.

And, by Mordred the Betrayer, she would be his forever.