Disclaimer: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and all related characters and materials are property of J.K. Rowling, not me.

Author's Note: This was originally written for Minerva McTabby's "Blame Each Other" challenge on LiveJournal. I was challenged by LJ user Draco_Noctis to write a Riddle/Trelawney fic that didn't use the diary as a plot device. So the idea was hers, but the execution is my own. Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated.

Through the Looking Glass Named Desire

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An ordinary purple Muggle cigarette lighter clicked softly as she flicked it. The tiny teardrop of flame threw a small nimbus of light that glinted off her fuchsia thumbnail as she bent to light the first candle. She tossed the lighter to the rug, picked up the white taper, then walked around the outside of the circle, lighting the rest of the candles. Black, then red, then green, then yellow, then indigo, then palest blue. Finished, she set the white one back into its place and stepped into the circle.

Gods, she'd waited so long for this. She'd wanted so long. Surely the task could wait a moment longer, for she wanted so badly and could not wait. She knelt slowly, the movement accompanied by a rustle of flowing robes and the quiet clinking of bangles and beads.

She closed her eyes. Her pale, spindly hand, tinted rosy gold from crimson-decked lamps and candlelight, swept over the cloth of her skirts. It found the hem and crept under, trailing slow, cold fingertips up her thigh. She shivered. Bent legs parted, and her fingers slid inwards, seeking warmth. She touched hot, soft skin.

She stroked and grasped and rubbed, her spindly neck arched backwards, her thin chest shaking with sharp breaths inhaled through nose and half-parted lips. Her fingertips rubbed expertly over damp skin, and she rode the wave, trembling and seeing him behind closed lids.

Two thin fingers curled and slid inside, and she bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn't scream his name. Her hand thrust. She rocked her hips in time with the litany pounding, silent and encompassing, in her mind.

He will be mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. MineMineMineMineMine…

She rode the wave higher and higher, until there was no wave and she simply flew weightless among the clouds--

And then there were no clouds, she was higher still, and all was clear and her inner eye was clear and she could see forever from this height--

And then she gasped, and her hand was warm and hot as the skin around it clenched. And she gasped, and she came, and sex tasted like jasmine and patchouli and, oh, gods—

And she fell, heavy and hot and damp and flushed, and he was hers.

She removed her hand and smiled as she wiped it on her skirt. He was hers, now, and the bitch couldn't do anything about it. She'd fought for so long with the bitch, but it had never been enough.

The bitch wore spectacles. So she'd bought spectacles—bigger, prettier ones—and he hadn't even noticed.

The bitch was thin. She'd whittled her body away until it was thin, thinner, thinnest! She was nothing but bone and skin, and still he hadn't noticed.

The bitch had the Sight, or so it was rumoured. She had it too! She could fly forever in her mind, and she was a true Seer, and the bitch was nothing but a dried up old prude who could turn into a cat.

No one understood her. They all thought they were so clever, with their wands and spells and stinking potions and their "tripe, Sibyll?"

And he hadn't understood her, back at school when he had the bitch on his arm and was a fifth year, and she was only a first year with eyes only for him. She'd tried to make him see, with her beautiful spectacles and beautiful sparkling jewellery and her pretty, thin body, but he hadn't even noticed!

He'd only spoken to her once, when she had been brave and had given him a love-letter. He had called her a little Squib, but she knew it was because the bitch wanted him to. He only had eyes for the bitch, the prude, with her ugly muscular Quidditch-player legs and scraped-back hair and her stupid, stupid transfigurations.

But now the bitch had turned her back on him. The bitch wasn't in the way anymore. She would show him how much she loved him! She would show him that only she still cared!

She rocked her hips again in anticipation, feeling herself get all wet again. She didn't indulge herself this time, though.

She had to hurry before they came in to check on her. They came all the time now—the old man and the fat nurse and the bitch. Ever since she'd started prophesying, they came to her tower often and talked to her, asking how she knew what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was doing all the time, and asking how she knew how they'd die, and did she really mean it when she shouted what she'd like to do to all of them.

Of course she knew. She could see forever.

The children had stopped coming, but no matter. She didn't need them. She didn't need their little white throats and soft, pretty little bodies there tempting her. She didn't need to be beautiful for them. Let the bitch have them.

The bitch always asked her if she'd be more comfortable at Saint Mungo's. She liked her tower, with its pretty furniture and the safe, locked door. There used to be a ladder, but someone had stolen it. But a place was a place was a place, and it didn't matter where she was as long as she had her beads and her secrets and her expert hand…

And she had to hurry or they'd come again, so she rose and looked lovingly at the object in the circle with her. It was her secret.

The old man had known about it once, years ago, when he'd put the mirror in the tower with her and asked her to keep it safe. But he didn't remember it now! He didn't know the secret. But she did, and she giggled softly, hugging herself and rocking back and forth a little as she looked at it.

It was time. At last, it was time!

She reached into the pocket of her robes with a shaking hand and pulled out her other secret. It was only a quill, moth-eaten and ragged and old, but it had been his, and that was all that mattered. She had kept it for years and years. It was all she needed, for this spell.

Holding the quill in one hand, she reached out with the other and pulled the long, patterned scarf off of the mirror. It flowed to the floor like water, leaving the surface of the mirror bare.

It was time!

She giggled again. The bitch thought she was so smart, but Sibyll had figured this spell out herself, and nobody else knew. She'd figured it out after she found the mirror, and then all she'd wanted to do was look into it forever…

After that, she'd started prophesying and the students had stopped coming and the ladder had been stolen. She'd looked into the mirror, and then she had known. She was a true Seer, and she could see forever.

And she'd known and she'd planned and she'd bided her time, but now everything was ready.

She took the quill that had been his, once, and wrote his name on the mirror in ink that wasn't there.

Then, as she'd known he would be, he was there! And he was smiling at her, and his dark blue eyes were shining because he was so proud and he thought she was pretty and thin and brilliant and he loved her, now! And the bitch was nowhere in sight.

It was perfect.

She smiled and stepped closer to the mirror, dropping the quill in order to run her hands all over the smooth surface. It was so cold beneath her touch, colder even than her bony hands, and he must have been so cold inside…

Because that's where he was. He was in the mirror, and all she had to do was let him out and he'd be hers forever. She knew it, because she was smarter than the bitch. And she wouldn't turn her back on him.

She touched the glass and stroked it with hands that shook with need, and then one hand went down to grasp between her legs through the soft fabric of her robes and she moaned, because she was so hot and wet and empty and she needed him.

And he needed her—his hands came up to press against hers on the other side, and then she could see herself in his hands, and he was touching her and bending his dark head to her breasts. And then he looked up and his eyes met hers, and she could see that he wanted her because he was in the mirror named Desire.

She was flying again and so far gone, and she could feel his gorgeous hands with their long fingers touching her most desperate places and she let go of herself in order to touch the mirror.

Her fingernails clawed the glass to let him out, but they weren't enough, weren't enough, so she pounded her fists against the mirror in time with the pounding of her heart—

And she gasped and tasted the sex-smell of jasmine and patchouli and her own wetness as her fists broke through the glass. She reached through and could feel his hands slowly sliding over her skin, his fingernails raking her arms in his passion—

There was blood when she looked down and she couldn't see his hands that were so hot and smooth, but blood didn't matter.

They'd already brought their needles to fuck her veins so many times, plunging in and out, what did a little blood matter now when she had her heart's desire?

And she closed her eyes and leaned forward, still seeing him, and kissed so deeply, feeling his sharp teeth bite deeply into her lips and tongue. The warm wetness of his tongue filled her mouth, and she caressed it with her own tongue and swallowed, and it was so good--

She leaned closer still and wrapped her arms around him, feeling him, at last, so solid and whole. He smelled like patchouli and jasmine and sex, or maybe that was her, but it didn't matter. She was flying and she was weightless and it was so clear, she could see forever.

She fell back onto the floor, still holding him, and he came down on top of her, so heavy, his fingernails and teeth still digging deep, deep into her skin.

It felt so good as she bucked and writhed under him. He tore her dress in his need, and he was still looking at her like she was beautiful. He was looking at her, he noticed her, and she knew it, even with her eyes closed. Behind her lids, she could see everything.

Her robes were ripped and she was hot and wet all over as she came, and she screamed his name this time and held him tighter.

It was so dark and strangely weightless as she fell this time, like it was the end of the world, but everything was so clear—

Tom was hers. Oh, gods, he was out at last and he was hers forever.