A/N: Inspired by a drabble contest I stumbled upon, I wrote a oneshot about what Voldemort would see if he looked into the Mirror of Erised. Then, I realized how fun it would be to do a piece about what every character would see. So, The Mirror was born. I won't update very often, only when inspiration strikes, but here it is.

This chapter is, quite obviously, Tom. Marvel, and review.

Summary: A collection of drabbles about what assorted HP characters see in the Mirror of Erised.

Disclaimer: All characters in these chapters belong to JK Rowling.

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Tom

Unreachable, that's what it was. Untouchable. He could never have it, that was the honest truth. He hated it, and what it stood for. He hated what feelings it triggered in him, the doubt and regret that he had to pretend didn't exist. He hated the mere idea that he wasn't as strong as he wanted people to believe, and he hated the fact that he had to hate it at all.

It should have shown fire, or darkness, or him standing tall on a pile of rubble that Hogwarts would hopefully someday be reduced to. Perhaps he would be holding Potter's bloody head, his long skeletal fingers gripping the boy's dark hair. Or maybe it would show the mangled body of Albus Dumbledore, burnt and bent at odd angles. It should have been anything other than what it was, anything other than the honesty that he didn't want to face.

Voldemort skimmed his fingernail along the cool glass of the mirror, breathing slowly through the slits that he could hardly call his nostrils. He didn't want to face it, but here he was again, staring longingly at the secret that everyone wished to know.

It was him, natural and not disfigured by a serpent face or red eyes. His hair was wavy and cut to the tips of his ears, dark and slightly streaked with gray stripes. He was smiling, comfortably and happily, for reasons that were not death or destruction. He was wearing plain gray robes, not the wispy black cloaks that he always used to cover his pale body now, over tan trousers and a white, button down shirt.

His arm was around a tall woman, who always changed each time he peered into the mirror, but for now was a brunette. She was grinning, sending loving looks at her husband every few minutes, her face round and warm. She laughed at something he whispered in her ear. Joyful. Peaceful. Very much alive.

At their feet was a little girl, his daughter. She had his dark hair, slightly curly and below her shoulders. Her dress was blue, with little green bows along the bottom of the skirt and along its collar. She was innocent, with her mother's blue eyes and features, although she had his nose. She cradled a small doll, and, like her parents, was the picture of happiness.

There was nothing wrong with this picture, so like a family portrait. They were loving, they were happy, and they were undisturbed by any war. The Riddles.

But they are not real, he reminded himself. He was not a father, or a husband. He was the Dark Lord. He had no time for such a trivial life.

And yet whenever he looked into the Mirror of Erised, he saw this. It would never change. An annoyance, true, but proof that he was human.

And he hated it.