"I am much, much more than a man."
And she laughs, a soft, light thing that is too quiet and too forced and too sad.
They're staring at the Mirror of Erised, him cross-legged and intent, her with her knees drawn up to her face and smiling, oh so sadly.
She had laughed. He is serious, but he smiles anyways.
"Every man, every person has desire. You can't just- you can't just see yourself."
And he raises an eyebrow at her, through the mirror, and she looks away, draws away, through the mirror and through their bonds and would through everything if she could.
"I mean, you can, of course, but such a thing would mean that you are completely happy as you are."
And then she smiles, a real, true smile, or, at least, the closest he had ever seen on her, "And, my dear Tom, I feel as if you have many a desire left in you."
And it's true, of course it is, but he's not going to tell them to her, no matter how much she may continue to pry, no matter how sad she may look, no matter how much he may long to put a true smile on her face. His desires would frighten her, take her further into the arms of Alphard, take her further away from him.
"Well, what do you see for yourself?"
And she almost seems surprised that he asks, but she turns away from him, to look into the mirror, and he sees her eyes soften, her lips curl up gently, her face relax.
"Home. I just see home."
She balls into herself, her arms tightening around her legs, her head dropping to the joints.
He's tempted to ask her to be more specific, to explain exactly what her mind projects, but he doesn't. He doesn't because he knows she would tell him and he knows that would upset her and, in this moment, he does not want that. He only wants to sit here and look into the mirror and into her and not worry about anything or plan for anything and, for a moment, for this moment, just be.
But he can never just be.
"Power."
And she looks confused for a second, her head rising from her knees, her eyes squinting a tiny bit as she focuses on him and on understanding his words, having given up on understanding he himself a long time ago.
"I see power."
And she thinks it's ridiculous. He can see it in the way she narrowly avoids rolling her eyes, in the way her hands tighten around her knees, in the way her jaw clenches, in the way she seems to draw away from him, just a bit.
"You don't believe me."
It's not a question, even if it is framed as one, and she knows this, but she answers it anyways.
"I believe you. I just still think it's ridiculous."
And he doesn't say anything and he knows she expected him to.
"What does power even look like? Is there a shining crown on your head? A pile of skulls beneath your feet? A beautiful woman at your side?"
And he smiles at her now, not through the mirror, as they have been all night, not through this added thing where their futures seem to stray from each other so fully and completely.
"Something like that."
And he can almost swear she blushes.
But it's dark.
And it's late.
And he's afraid his own desire to make her blush is creating the effect in his mind.
So he doesn't comment on it, tries to forget that the idea even crossed his mind.
He simply looks at her and enjoys the moment, lives in the moment, and smiles.
The velvet rope appears unassuming, unthreatening, the easiest possible barrier to get through to the Restricted Section. Tom Riddle, however, knew that assuming that the rope's façade was the truth of its condition would be a disastrous mistake.
The simple velvet rope was laced with spells meant to not allow any person without express permission to be in the Restricted Section to cross over into it. Tom Riddle, as may be expected, did not have express permission to be in the Restricted Section, so, he had to take some extra measures to ensure his entry.
He had studied the spells that protected the area. He had found ways to counteract them. He had practiced, in the dead of night, and he knew how to do this. Quickly, easily, correctly, and not a single thing goes wrong.
He is the heir of Slytherin and, for the first time in his life, he is so very close to power. Unimaginable power, everything he knows he deserves and is destined for.
And the Restricted Section is beautiful. All the knowledge contained in its dark shelves and ancient books entice him and, with a sudden shock, with a sudden anger and grave disappointment, he realizes that he's thinking of Hermione. Thinking of how much she would like it here, of how beautiful she would find it, of how much she would appreciate all the knowledge, all the banned knowledge at the tip of her fingers. And, with another rush of shock, he realizes how very similar Hermione and the restricted section are. He realizes how much work each of them take to know, how rewarding the experience is. And how much he is not allowed to have either of these things, how very out of his reach all her knowledge and beauty is.
He tells himself that he will not bring her here. That he did all this work for himself, that he is trying to find the power he deserves, that she would only distract him, with her sadness, with her disapproval. No, he would not bring her here. All this knowledge is for himself, of himself. He would not bring her here.
"Aguamenti."
She's amused and he was certainly not expecting it and is watered over and confused and she's amused. And he's ready for it all. But so is she.
"Confundus. Langlock. Impedimenta."
She blocks them all or dodges them or catches them in a shield and remains unscathed.
But she's a little out of breath, still gleeful, but winded and, before she can get a word out, he's on her again.
"Incarcerous. Levicorpus. Immobulus. Obscuro."
And it's the last one that does her in, placing a blindfold on her eyes and, in her momentary confusion at the darkness surrounding her, he is able to cast the spell that would win him the battle.
"Petrificus Totalus."
And it would have hit her, he knows it would have, and he would have cast Expelliarmus straight away afterwards to take her wand and he would have won.
But the spell never reaches her. The lightest tint of a shield rises around her and Tom doesn't have to look to his right, to where Alphard is dueling with someone else in the class, to know that he is not looking at his dueling partner at the moment, but at his life partner instead. Tom is sure the protection had come from him and he can't bring himself to be angry as she cancels out the Obscuro and comes at him. The magic flowing from her lips and wand with practiced ease, her feet taking small steps forward and large steps back, inching to the side and jumping to the other, always ready for whatever he throws at her, always ready to throw more at him.
And then, after what could have been seconds or minutes or hours, their spells meet each other. Their eyes widen, their magic touches, they gasp, and the force of their power meeting so head-on, so completely, sends them both flying back. Their spines lying flat along the stone walls of the classroom and then both bodies reaching the floor together, and disoriented, their backs pained, but his mind mesmerized, impressed, more now than ever before and he knows that he must have her. Feelings be damned, she is important and powerful and absolutely stunning.
Her eyes are wide and glittering, the gothic shelves reflecting in her wide orbs.
She reaches for a book, he doubts it matters which one it is, so long as she can feel one of them, feel the power of this banned knowledge beneath her fingertips, have it become a part of her.
And he reaches to take her hand.
"You can't just take whatever book, it might be cursed."
He sees, now, that she has her wand out, her eyebrow raised.
"It's safe. I checked."
Of course she did. She's Hermione James, always prepared, always ready, and his fascination, his admiration, his elation only grows.
She takes the book. It's red. About magical artifacts or some such thing and he is looking at her, trying to figure her out, trying to understand and then he asks the question without thinking much about it, without calculating what her response might be.
"Have you never wanted power?"
She pauses, obviously unsure of how to respond, obviously weighing her options.
"Yes."
He pauses then, making sure to choose his words carefully, and he knows she was doing the same.
"Why does my desire for it… irk you?"
Another pause.
"I only ever wanted power to bring change."
A glance downwards.
"Er, positive change."
She looks at him and her eyes are tired and almost condescending and the idea of her thinking she's better than him infuriates him.
"You, on the other hand."
She laughs.
"You want power for yourself, solely for the sake of being powerful. And, of course, you don't care what it takes to get there, even if it means joining a pureblood elitist group, besides the fact that you, yourself, are not a pureblood."
He wants to kill her for daring to mention that fact, for knowing about it all, but he can't bring himself to reach for his wand.
"I am the heir of Slytherin."
"And he would be gravely disappointed to see what your mother has done to his precious lineage."
His fists clench, itching to hurt her, but he can't. He can't bring himself to do anything to her.
"I will do good."
"Right."
"However, I must gain power first."
"Even if that means killing thousands? And good for who? The purebloods? The only ones left alive after you've finally taken over the ministry?"
She's tipsy. He sees it now. Her eyes gleam, not just in anger, but in a lack of sobriety. Her words run into each other, her steps wobble. She's saying more than she ever would have otherwise.
And, partly because she's stepping closer to him and he does not want to do anything she might regret, partly to distract her from an argument, and partly out of pure curiosity, he speaks his next words.
"Let's take over the ministry."
She stops, her words coming to a stop, her eyes clouding with confusion for a second before child-like laughter fills the air, a sound he had never heard from her before.
"Take over the ministry? Whatever for?"
"Oh, come now Hermione. You cannot tell me you are happy with the condition of the wizarding world. The archaic laws? The discriminatory practices? The far-spread ignorance?"
She frowns, her lips forming a pout, her brow furrowing.
"You're trying to distract me."
"And succeeding, I believe."
She looks into his eyes, gold and hazy and angry and sad, always sad, meeting calculating blue, deep blue, unreadable blue.
"You're lucky I've drank some, or else I would never let this go."
He is amused, of course, at her dizzy display of haughtiness, at her ever-present need to argue with him.
"I'm well aware."
And they merely look at each other, deeply and without saying a word and he thinks he might be able to kiss her, to make her love him. She breaks the moment and pushes his chest, throwing him back.
"Well? Did you not have an idea ready for me? Was I meant to do all the work?"
And he almost laughs and the ensuing conversation is a welcome introduction to letting go.