A/N:

this is for the halloween big bang hosted in my discord server! written for trixie aka goldenzingy46!

title taken from the song 'mirrorball' by taylor swift.

this would have been a one-shot (i swear!) but i had to post to my self-imposed deadline, hah. if this fic is not two chapters i'll have to cry in a corner somewhere.

thank you to coral for betaing this first chapter for me! love u

also a warning: expect darker themes in this story than my usual.

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Shining Just For You

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Part 1

Harry's cheek smarted. His face was red, most likely, and the burn of it would not fade for some time—his shame and embarrassment stung more than the cut that bit into the palm of his right hand. The cut was shallow on the ends and deep in the middle, right over the meaty part below the thumb.

Below him, fanning around his bent knees in shards and specks—like delicate patterns of snow and ice—were the remnants of the large mirror that had hung in the entrance hall of Number 4, Privet Drive.

The mirror that Harry had not meant to break, but the mirror he had been blamed for breaking nonetheless.

Harry knew about superstitions. He knew that smashing a mirror gave you seven years of bad luck. But he could not help but wonder, then, how much worse his luck could get. Dudley had knocked him into the wall, Aunt Petunia had smacked him and scolded him. No doubt when Uncle Vernon returned home from work, a second punishment would be given out.

With his left hand, Harry gripped the brush handle and swept the pieces of glass towards the dustpan. His hand shook slightly while he worked. Harry swallowed with difficulty, knowing that the shiver was not because he was cold, but rather because his other hand hurt and he was on the verge of tears. His tears, however, would not help him here.

Harry tidied the mess, gathering all the glass up into the dustpan. It did not take too long; he was used to working quickly, and if he ignored the sting of his palm and the throb of his cheek, he could even convince himself it was fun. That the fine dust of glass was sand and the stretch of the entrance hall was a sandbox. Harry made little piles of glass and wrapped them up in newspaper before tossing the bundles into the rubbish. Once done, he gave the area one last look, wary of any lingering pieces that he had somehow missed.

Nothing glittered at him. No winks of light, no shiny surfaces. Harry was reasonably certain he had caught all of the pieces. Now he could retreat to his cupboard for the rest of the afternoon. Hopefully, he would be left alone until dinner.

Harry's prediction came true. When Uncle Vernon arrived home, it was not cheerful. Harry stood still as he was yelled at. He stared at the floor, did not see out of the corner of his eye how Dudley was grinning smugly.

His aunt and uncle had taken him in, had fed and clothed him, and now a new mirror would have to be purchased. Harry was a burden to them. The expenses of his living were not repaid by the chores he did. All this Harry knew, had heard a thousand times before, but it did not stop fresh tears from welling in his eyes.

What child liked to be yelled at? What child enjoyed being told that their existence was unwanted? Harry tried to not blame himself for what happened, but it was difficult.

Harry's dinner was taken late. Only after the Dursleys had finished and the dishes were cleared away was he allowed to retreat to the darkness of his cupboard.

Part of Harry was relieved. He had once been afraid of the dark, of the unknown monsters that lurked in its shadows. Now that Harry was older, nearly eleven, he knew there were worse things waiting for him in the daylight.

Bad luck or no, there was little that could reach him in the small space that was his. The cupboard under the stairs where he slept, where he could close his eyes and dream.

Harry shut the door and settled onto the floor, curling his body up and wrapping his arms around his knees, mindful of his injured hand. The cut no longer hurt so long as he kept his hand still. He had washed the wound out in the sink. Aunt Petunia had given him a bandage for it so he would not bleed onto the dishes. So if he kept his hand still, he could pretend it was fine.

With a sigh, Harry slumped slowly against the door, allowing his shoulders to sag. He was tired. His bones felt tired. It had taken a lot of energy to stand and listen to Uncle Vernon shout at him. What Harry wanted now was to sleep, to end this day and begin a new one, but it was too early for that. Though he was tired, he was not sleepy.

Harry closed his eyes. There were a number of fantasies he liked to think about. Imaginary worlds where someone would hold him and tell him everything was going to be alright.

It was only here, in the dark, that Harry allowed himself to think about such things. If he carried these daydreams with him out into the real world, they would inevitably be ruined. The worlds and ideas he created were for him and him alone. A special part of himself that he would never share.

Harry drifted away, lost in his head. There was no clock in his cupboard, no way to track the time. The distant sounds of the telly faded in and out of focus, the chatter of the news giving way to the laugh tracks of a funny show that Dudley liked to watch in the evenings.

After some time, Harry grew uncomfortable in his cramped position. He shuffled around, stretching his arms and legs, then decided he would get into bed. He could lay his head down on his pillow and bunch the blankets around him.

Harry tucked himself into his bed. At first he lay flat on his back so he could stare up at the ceiling, but eventually he got tired of that, too. He rolled onto this side and tugged his blankets closer. The blankets were warmed by his body heat, curled over his body like a hug. Harry breathed out quietly into the silence. The telly had gone off at some point. Everyone was upstairs. It was now late enough that he could fall asleep if he tried.

With his good hand, Harry pried his glasses off his face and set them on the floor a short distance away from his face. His vision was blurry, not only because he needed his glasses to see, but also because his exhaustion was finally catching up to him.

Assured that he wouldn't roll onto his glasses while he slept, Harry felt his eyelids grow heavy, already accustomed to being closed after hours of mindless daydreaming. He was tired, so tired, and maybe this was why, as his consciousness tumbled into sleep, he caught a flash of a ruby red gaze reflected in the left lens of his glasses.

I.

Tom appeared in mirrors. In the glass windows of shops, in the glossy rain puddles that collected on roads and pavements. In the light that bounced off of Harry's glasses.

A boy his age with dark hair and red eyes. An impish smile that dimpled on the sides. A friend.

At first, Tom did not speak. He watched with a funny tilt to his head, like he was curious. Like Harry was interesting. Harry had never been interesting to anyone. He was just Harry. But Tom was always there, always everywhere. In the school bathrooms, in Mrs. Figg's polished vanity, and in the shiny new mirror that Uncle Vernon had installed in the entrance hall.

Harry knew he was too old for an imaginary friend.

But Tom was real. Wasn't he?

Tom scowled at Dudley, sneered at Aunt Petunia, and balled his fists in rage whenever Uncle Vernon shouted in Harry's vicinity. And when it was just the two of them—Tom and Harry—Tom would try to speak. He would press his hand against the surface that separated them and mouth words that Harry tried his hardest to understand.

Harry was trying. And Tom was trying, too, to communicate. But it was difficult when they only ever caught snatches of moments alone together.

So Harry saved pocket money and purchased a compact mirror from the corner shop. He kept Tom with him. He stared into the tiny circular mirror and practiced reading Tom's lips until they could have proper conversations.

Until he learned the name of his non-imaginary friend: Tom Riddle.

II.

"It'll be summer hols again soon," Harry whispered as he tugged at a particularly stubborn weed in Aunt Petunia's garden. The sun was high, not hot enough to be sweltering, but warm enough that, combined with the physical exertion of gardening, gave cause for Harry's forehead to break out in a sweat.

In the compact on the ground, Tom frowned. The plastic of the lid was cracked on the right side; Dudley's attempt to shatter the thing on the floor. Harry had been more careful after that, to only let the little mirror out of his pocket when he was sure no one else was around.

"I know," Harry said quietly. They had mixed feelings about finishing school for the year.

On one hand, Harry would have more freedom at home to bring the mirror out. It was difficult at school. Some of the other students already made fun of him for talking to himself.

Harry had taken to eating lunch in the strangest of places to get privacy. In a bathroom stall, up a tree, behind the dumpster in the alley outside the school. Tom did not need to eat, but he did like to keep Harry company while Harry ate.

On the other hand, more time at home meant more time spent around his relatives.

Tom hated the Dursleys, hated them more than Harry did. Tom smacked silent, angry fists on the glass whenever Harry was harmed or berated.

For Harry, there was comfort in seeing Tom everywhere. In the polished metal of the sink, in the glass of the cabinets. If Harry was hurt, Tom was there with him. There was only one person in the world who did not like the fact that he was being hurt. It was fine that Tom could only ever bear witness. Tom's anger on his behalf was more than enough.

Soon enough, Harry finished with the garden and went back inside for some water. Harry trudged to the sink and began to wash his hands, scrubbing with soap until all the dirt was gone. As Harry dried his hands, the distant sounds of Dudley playing in the living room filtered into the kitchen.

Anxious, Harry patted at his front pocket to check that Tom's mirror was still there.

There were two options: Harry could go outside, or he could go to his cupboard. Harry didn't particularly feel like being cooped up after an afternoon spent crouching in the garden, but if he wanted to talk to Tom without interruption, it was the best choice. Either way, he would have to pass by the living room.

Harry decided that since Dudley seemed to be in a rowdy mood, the cupboard was likely the safest choice. Slowly, then, he made his way into the hall that led past the living room. Aunt Petunia was in there as well, chattering on the phone. Her laughter set Harry's teeth on edge.

She glared at him as he stepped towards her, then gestured sharply towards the living room. Harry widened his eyes and made a motion towards the cupboard, but Aunt Petunia shook her head and pointed. She must not have wanted the sound of the creaky cupboard door to interrupt her call.

In the living room, Dudley was sitting on the couch, waving a large plastic sword around. The sword was leftover from Piers' birthday last week. Dudley had taken to carrying the sword around and whacking Harry in the behind with it. Uncle Vernon, who found it all amusing, had encouraged this behaviour.

"Harry!" exclaimed Dudley, only to be shushed by his mother out in the hall. Dudley narrowed his eyes at the door and stood up. "Where've you been all day?" he demanded.

"Out in the garden," Harry said dully. "What about you?"

"I've been practicing my sword fight skills." Dudley gave the sword a wave.

Harry was annoyed. He had behaved all morning and now he just wanted to be left alone. "You need all the help you can get," Harry agreed flatly, eyeing the sword.

There was a measure of protection here for Harry because they both had to be quiet. If Dudley tried to hit him, the sword would make noise. A swooping sound would trigger when you waved it wildly enough.

Dudley narrowed his eyes, then glanced shiftily out at the hall. "I might practice with you," Dudley said warningly. "Then you'll see."

"I'd like to see you try."

Dudley gave the sword a swish, mindful of the speed. This meant Harry had ample time to dodge out of the way. Not only that, but Harry was able to wrench the sword out of Dudley's grasp.

Dudley lunged for the other end, grabbing hold. The two boys began to struggle, yanking this way and that, their tug of war carrying them over to the couch. Harry stumbled onto the cushions, trying to keep his feet under him as Dudley tried to drag the sword up and out of Harry's reach.

Their arms stretched over the back of the couch as Dudley continued to pull. Harry kept a firm hold on his end of the sword and gave a violent tug, using his body weight to drag the sword towards him. Dudley fumbled, slumping forwards as the motion jerked them both.

Then the sword made a noise as the trigger was activated.

Both boys froze in horror. Harry was now angled awkwardly on the cushions, the pointed end of the sword held in both his hands at chest level. Dudley loomed over him, handle gripped by chubby fingers.

Aunt Petunia came into the room, her face pinched in anger.

Dudley reacted first, yanking the sword with a viciousness that took Harry by surprise. The sword snapped out of his hands and clipped Harry full in the mouth.

Pain blossomed into existence. Harry was stunned as his mouth filled with the salty taste of blood. He was bleeding. He was—

Harry licked with his tongue, alarmed by the taste, and felt his stomach drop away as one of the teeth he touched moved.

Dudley lurched back, triumphant, mouth moving as he prepared to lay the blame at Harry's feet. Harry could hardly see, his eyes were so blurry with tears.

Dudley was yammering in the background, seemingly ignorant of the blood that coloured Harry's lips and palm. But Aunt Petunia was not staring at Dudley. Aunt Petunia was looking at him.

Aunt Petunia strode towards them and wrenched Harry's hand to eye level. Then she lifted a panicked gaze to Harry's face.

Harry did not know what to do. Baby teeth were meant to fall out, only these ones had not been loose. Harry clenched his hand shut and clumsily got to his feet. He wanted—he wanted to see Tom. That was the only thing he had in his head, that he wanted to see Tom.

So Harry took a shaky step forward. Aunt Petunia stepped back, her eyes wide. Then, after a pause, she seemed to snap out of her shock and reached out to grip him by the forearm.

"Go into the bathroom," she instructed. "I will fetch you ice and saltwater."

There would be a mirror there. Harry ran to the bathroom.

His heart was pounding in his ears like his head was stuffed full of cotton. Harry stumbled into the doorway in his haste, but he managed to shut the door behind him. His head spun. There was red on his hands and on his face—

"—going to kill them. I'm going to kill them, Harry, you wait and see, I will, I'm going to, they're going to pay for hurting you—"

Harry clung to the sink to steady himself, then turned his eyes to the mirror. Tom was there, face red, yelling at the top of his lungs. Harry's own face was pale, his chin streaked with thin lines of blood and drool, his eyes puffy from crying.

With great effort, Harry unclenched his stiff fist and let his baby teeth tumble into the sink. Then he lifted that same hand, possessed by an urge to touch, and placed his bloody palm against the mirror.

"Tom?" he whispered, his voice raw and raspy like he'd been running for ages. "Tom?"

Tom paused in his ranting to look at him, at the hand pressed to the mirror. Now that he had Harry's attention, his brows pulled together. He stepped closer and enunciated, "Harry? Are you alright?"

"I—" Harry broke off as the bathroom door swung open.

"What are you doing?" Aunt Petunia shrieked. "Get your hand off that mirror, boy. Here," she said, thrusting an ice pack, an empty glass, and a salt shaker at him. "Rinse your mouth. And clean that mirror." Then she looked down into the sink, where Harry's baby teeth rested.

"They're whole," she muttered to herself. Her eyes flickered back to Harry. "Are there splinters? Pieces?"

It took Harry a moment to realize what she was asking. "No," he mumbled, forcing himself to answer despite the uncomfortable sting in his mouth. "I don't think so, Aunt Petunia."

Aunt Petunia exhaled noisily, her shoulders relaxing. "Very well. I'll see about soup for supper." Then she left and shut the door behind her.

Harry set the ice down on the counter and turned the tap on with shaking hands. Tom watched him as he filled the glass with water and added the salt to it. It took three rinses before Harry felt he could speak without his mouth filling with blood.

Tom had quieted after Aunt Petunia's departure. His hands were twisting and untwisting together. He was waiting for Harry to look at him so he could speak.

"Tom?" Harry repeated softly. His voice sounded better now, at least.

"I'm here."

Tom was always there. He was the only one who was always there. Harry trembled, and this time it had nothing to do with pain. On the mirror, the bloody handprint hovered between them. Harry stared at it, then said, "I can hear you now."

Tom's lips parted in surprise. "You can?"

Harry nodded, a laugh burbling in the back of his throat. "I can."

III.

Tom's voice was pretty. It never faltered, never cracked or stuttered. Tom spoke fluently, intelligently, with a confidence that Harry could only dream of achieving. Tom whispered to Harry late at night, quiet stories as Harry drifted off into slumber.

Harry begged Aunt Petunia for a metal pencil case all summer long. He promised perfect behaviour and completed chores. He kept his mouth shut and bore Dudley's bullying even when Tom demanded that he fight back.

But it paid off in the end. Harry had a slightly-battered tin pencil case to bring with him to school. The reflection was not perfect; Tom's face was warped and blurry, his voice sounded like it came from behind a thick layer of glass. But it was something. It was a comfort. Tom whispered facts on world history and muttered about maths under his breath while Harry scribbled out his homework and exam answers.

Tom was with him everywhere. All hours of the day, Tom's compact was a solid weight in Harry's pocket. Tom could not keep him safe, could not shield him from words or blows, but Harry could not imagine life without the security of Tom's constant presence. Better than any toy or treat that Dudley had. Better than any of the other kids at school.

"You're my best friend," Harry said shyly, confiding the secret, opening his heart to the one person who truly cared about him.

Tom smiled. "You're my best friend, Harry."

Harry warmed at the praise, reassured. Then he stopped in the middle of the pavement to pick at a loose scab on his knee. It stung a little, but it wasn't too bad. Harry remembered the feeling of pavement on his skin and winced. Though Dudley had gone on to Smeltings, Harry's lack of popularity at school remained.

"You're the only person who likes me," Harry said as he resumed walking again.

"Don't think of it that way," Tom advised. "The people around you are not worth your time. They're not worthy of you."

Harry had dreamt of hearing those words before. It was easier to believe them when they came from Tom. Tom, who was always right. Tom, who thought Harry was smart and funny.

"I wish you were here with me," Harry said sadly. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

A shadow fell over Tom's face, which was awkwardly cropped in Harry's compact mirror as the two of them walked home from school. "I wish I was, too."

Over time, winter had grown into Harry's favourite season. The idea of a long, dreary afternoon spent shovelling snow with cold, numb hands was improved by the sight of Tom's face reflected in the ice and in the metal of the shovel.

Fat flakes of snow tickled Harry's cheeks and melted on the tip of his tongue. Harry licked at his chapped lips, shoving hard against a particularly stubborn chunk of frozen snow. The shovel was heavy and too tall for him, but he made do, using his meagre weight as leverage.

"Go inside," Tom said, high and tinny, the sound echoing off the curve of the shovel. Audible only to Harry's ears

"I'm nearly done," Harry grit out. "And you know I can't go back in yet."

"Sneak in," Tom said. "Warm your hands and then come back."

Harry huffed a cloud of condensation into the air, propping the shovel up so he could look at it. With a careful hand, he fumbled with the compact in his coat pocket, pulling it out and flipping it open so he could stare at Tom properly.

"I'd get caught. Besides," Harry paused to sniffle, wiping the back of his hand under his nose, "like I said, I'm almost done."

Tom made a noise of frustration and smacked his hand against the surface of the glass, which resulted in an odd warbling noise.

"Sorry, Tom." Harry shut the compact and placed it back in his pocket. Then he lifted the shovel and resumed his work.

Tom's red gaze glared at him from the distorted surface of the metal handle. "You're going to get sick."

"If I'm not already sick, a few more minutes won't hurt me."

"Hardly reassuring."

True to his word, Harry finished after ten minutes or so. He dragged the shovel back into the garage and dumped it against the wall in its designated spot. His nose was pink and dripping with snot as he trudged into the house, mindful of any snow clumps clinging to his jeans.

"The heater," came Tom's muffled voice, the words barely audible through the plastic compact lid and the thickness of Harry's damp coat pocket.

Harry gave his tired limbs a shake to loosen them up, then moved as directed towards the space heater plugged into the living room. Aunt Petunia was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Dudley was upstairs in his room playing video games. Uncle Vernon would not be home for at least another half hour.

The heater was set to medium and radiated a decent amount of warmth as Harry waved his hands over it, rubbing at his fingers to try and get the blood going.

"Go change your clothes."

"One thing at a time," Harry muttered under his breath. Then he sneezed, doubling over from the force of it. He thought he could hear Tom berating him even while the sneeze was happening.

"I'm fine," Harry said, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.

'Fine' lasted all the way until night fell and the temperature dropped. Harry curled in his room under the stairs, wrapped in his coat and two blankets. The house had heating, but Harry shivered anyway.

Tom was watching, stone-faced, from the open lid of Harry's pencil case. The image was fuzzy, but Harry had already removed his glasses and put them away, so it was not like the quality of Tom's face mattered.

"You're sick," Tom said eventually. Then he added, "Don't lie."

Harry rubbed at his eyes with his cold hands. He was too tired to argue. It wasn't like there was anything either of them could do. "If I get sick now," Harry said, "then I get sick."

"You shouldn't have to get sick in the first place. They should be the ones out there in the cold."

Tom wanted the Dursleys to pay. Tom wanted to deliver punishment for the way Harry had been treated for so many years. But Harry could not. He would not. And so they were at an impasse. Tom could not do anything from inside the mirror, and Harry was unwilling to lash out at his family, no matter how terrible they were.

Harry lowered his hands and tugged his blankets closer. "Tell me a story, Tom."

Tom hesitated, his stern expression sliding away. He moved, leaving the surface of the pencil tin in favour of the open compact, where his voice would be clearer. "What kind of story?"

"Any story." Harry suppressed a yawn and bent over to scoop the compact up into his hands. Then he flopped back on his bed and set the compact down next to his head so they could stare at each other. "Something with a happy ending."

Tom told good stories. Harry had once asked if they were stories from Tom's childhood. Stories told by Tom's parents. That was the only context Harry knew of for bedtime stories. Only, Tom did not remember anything of his childhood, did not know how he had come to live in the mirror of the Dursleys' home.

"I've got a new one," Tom said with a smile, "a story about three brothers who tricked Death."

"Death?" asked Harry.

"Yes, Death. Like the grim reaper, Harry."

"Oh." That made sense, then. "They tricked Death into leaving them alone?"

"Something like that." Tom hummed, which Harry took as his cue to be quiet. Then Tom began to speak in a low murmur that filled every crevice of the tiny space. "There were once three brothers who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…"

Harry snuggled deeper into his bedding, focused intently on the gleam of Tom's red eyes in the darkness of the cupboard. The tale of the three brothers washed over him like a lullaby, the gentle cadence of Tom's voice adding a pensive depth to each sentence spoken.

When the story was done, Harry was having difficulty keeping his eyelids open. His body had warmed the spot he was laying in; if he rolled over, he would be greeted with the cold side of his bed.

"Time for sleep," Tom said kindly.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry mumbled. He stretched a hand out from the cocoon of his blankets. The air was cold. It raised goosebumps on Harry's arm. But this was part of their usual good night routine. Harry touched the tip of his index finger against the icy surface of Tom's mirror and waited.

In the compact, Tom lifted his hand and pressed a matching fingertip against his side of the mirror.

Their fingers did not touch, but it looked like they might have. Like they could have.

"Feels warm," Harry mumbled. "Your finger."

Tom did not need to sleep. Therefore, his voice was perfectly alert as he asked, "Warm?"

"Warm." Harry's lashes fluttered, his eyelids heavy with the desire to slide into slumber.

Tom's hand shifted, pressing flat against the reflective surface. Heat blossomed against Harry's palm. It felt nice. Safe.

"Good night, Harry." Tom's voice was warm, too. A happy feeling settled in Harry's gut, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"G'night, Tom." Harry trailed his finger down the surface of the mirror, down Tom's palm, and let his eyes close.

He fell asleep like that, arm laid out across the floor, the tip of his finger touching the image of Tom's hand.

IV.

At school, Harry kept mostly to himself. He ate lunch on his own and did his homework in the quietest corners of the library. Other kids talked of crushes and dating, but Harry wondered if he needed any of that—if he even wanted any of that. Who would look twice at him? Harry was short for his age. Short and skinny, with knobby knees and messy hair. His clothes were baggy and ill-suited for a boy his size.

Tom, by comparison, was tall—also skinny, but in a way that could only be described as 'lanky'. His clothes were forever neat, forever well-pressed. Harry envied Tom, though he would never say it. Instead, Harry would compare himself to other people, and in this way, the insecurities Harry held back from the world were shared with Tom.

"What other people think does not matter," Tom insisted. "You and I know the truth. I wouldn't look twice at any of them, Harry. I only see you."

Harry thought the world of Tom. It was hard to believe Tom felt the same way about him. If Tom was not trapped in the mirror, they would not have become friends. If Tom lived outside in the real world, he would see Harry as a nobody, just like everyone else did. But Harry wanted to believe Tom's kind words, and so he was willing to give Tom the benefit of the doubt.

With what little free time he had, Harry delivered newspapers in the neighbourhood. It was difficult to manage deliveries on top of everything else he was expected to do at home, but Harry soldiered through it, using perseverance earned from years of abuse at the Dursleys' hands. He had a goal in mind, and he would achieve it.

After a long summer of avoiding Dudley's gang and sweating in the back garden, Harry was permitted to take Dudley's second bedroom upstairs. There were two reasons for this, Harry suspected. First, he was outgrowing the space under the stairs. Second, living in a cupboard was not normal, and it would not do for other people to find out. Dudley spent most of the year at Smeltings, meaning the second bedroom often collected a layer of dust during its months of disuse.

Harry loved his new room; it opened all sorts of opportunities. He had begun saving his pocket money for a vanity mirror. Tom was also excited to exist in a larger, more permanent form. They could have better conversations if Tom was not confined to the small size of the compact mirror and Harry's infrequent, awkward trips to the loo.

"Someday we will leave this place," Tom assured him.

Their hands were no longer the same size; Tom's fingers extended past the tips of Harry's. But the warmth was there, almost like touching—Harry couldn't complain.

"Someday," Harry repeated. Then he had a thought, one that excited him so badly he pressed both hands against the glass, eager for Tom to know it. "Do you—do you think—?"

Tom frowned, impatient for Harry to get past his nervous stuttering, but lifted his hands to meet Harry's. Their palms pressed together, the closest they could get to each other.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Do you think you'll ever be able to leave?" Harry asked, then promptly flushed, cheeks colouring with a rush of blood. "The mirror. Will you?"

Tom's gaze widened. But the surprise was rapidly wiped away, replaced by a neutral, thoughtful expression. "I don't know. Maybe I am growing more powerful in here. You can hear me. You can feel—" He flexed his hands against the glass, the glass that heated between their joined hands. "Maybe someday," he allowed.

"I hope so, Tom." Harry had never wanted anything more in his entire life. He wanted Tom to be real, to be here with him.

Tom dropped his hands and shifted to lean his forehead against the glass. "I hope so, too."

Harry wanted to touch his forehead to the mirror, but the sink was in the way. So he could only smile sadly at the reflection and fastidiously wipe his handprints off of the surface. Someday. He couldn't wait. He could do anything so long as he had Tom with him.

Some months later, Harry caught a ride to the mall along with Aunt Petunia. Once there, Harry went directly to the secondhand shop, intent on finding the perfect vanity mirror for his room. The perfect mirror for Tom.

There were all sorts of funny, intriguing things to look at in the shop. Old lamps that came in fancy shapes and little porcelain figurines of cats. But aside from those items, there were lots of mirrors. Some big and tall, some fat and short. Harry looked over them all, trying to judge each of them based on their various merits. As Harry browsed, Tom followed along, passing through each surface with a serious twist to his lips.

Eventually, they settled on a plain mirror with three panels built into a sturdy wooden frame. Harry had considered metal at first, but wood was more likely to cushion the glass if someone—namely, Dudley—was to drop it or otherwise try to sabotage it.

"This will do," Tom said proudly as he admired it from Harry's little compact mirror.

Harry was excited. Maybe it was girly to have a fancy mirror in his room, but what did it matter? Lots of people already thought he was crazy. It had not escaped the notice of his relatives or his teachers that he had a tendency to mutter under his breath. What they didn't know, what they would never understand, was that his words were meant for Tom.

"This one," Harry agreed. He tucked his compact away and carried the big mirror to the front of the shop to pay, where he proceeded to spend fifteen minutes haggling with the shopkeeper.

From the mirror they were attempting to buy, Tom was able to speak loudly and clearly. Harry parroted each sentence to the shopkeeper as instructed and was pleasantly surprised when it worked. Tom was good with words and very convincing when he liked to be. Harry had not thought that skill could transfer to him; he had always been an awful liar, but it seemed he had been mistaken.

With Tom directly in front of him, it was easier to mimic the tone and facial expression, to say the right words in the right way. In the end, not only did they get the price lowered, but they also walked away with a neat set of vintage cufflinks. Was it really that simple to charm people? Tom certainly acted as though it was simple.

During the ride home, Aunt Petunia eyed Harry's purchase oddly. Made anxious by her sharp expression, Harry kept careful hold of the box on his lap. He was expected to help his aunt unload groceries when they arrived back at Privet Drive, which meant his mirror would be unattended for a short while. Dudley was still away at school, which meant Harry only had to worry about Uncle Vernon's reaction.

Luckily for Harry, the house was empty. He helped Aunt Petunia bring all the groceries into the house, then carried his new mirror up to his room, making sure to shut and lock the door behind him. It took a few minutes for him to get the tape off of the box, his fingers fumbling in their eagerness.

Eventually, Harry got the box open and removed the stuffing. Then he lifted the wide mirror out and placed it on top of his dresser. The wood of the mirror did not match the wood of the drawer, but Harry didn't give one whit about that. Tom's face was there in the reflection, beaming widely.

"Hello," Tom said.

"Hello," Harry whispered back. This greeting was different from all the other times he'd looked at Tom. Here, now, was an image that truly belonged to him. To the both of them. Harry could stare at Tom as long as he wanted to, as long as he liked. Tom could come close and not be limited to the tiny space of the compact mirror. Tom could now talk without distortion for hours and hours, if he wanted to.

Tom raised his right hand and placed it gently to the glass, his brow lifted in anticipation. Harry scrambled forward, to place his hand atop Tom's. Their palms met like usual, and there was the familiar sensation of heat that Harry associated with Tom's touch.

Tom smiled, squishing his hand further against the mirror—

His hand fell through, fingers lined up with Harry's, pressing into the gaps.

Only falling wasn't exactly it. There was a film that separated them; a thick, glossy sheen that stretched over Tom's hand like plastic wrap.

Harry's jaw dropped open, a gasp of air pulled from his lungs. His other hand came up to clasp at Tom's, to grasp as tightly as he could.

Tom's eyes went wild. "Pull," said Tom, voice hoarse.

Harry pulled. He gripped both of his hands around Tom's and leant back, yanking with all this might. The slippery substance that covered Tom's hand refused to budge, however. Harry could not move Tom's hand at all. It was like tugging on a stone statue that was rooted to the ground.

"It won't move," Harry said desperately. "I swear I'm trying, Tom."

Tom shifted, removing his hand from Harry's. Then he turned his hand this way and that, examining the look of the mirror wrapped around it like silver water.

"It's one way," Tom said after a moment. Then he stretched his hand back out, reaching, pushing. Harry waited with bated breath. Everything up to the wrist was out of the mirror when Tom stopped, his eyes shuttering over. "It stopped me," he said dully. His hand rotated, his wrist twisting around as the shimmering film clung to each of his fingers.

Harry could only imagine the crushing disappointment. "But this means you'll be able to leave eventually, won't it? You started off not being able to do anything, and now—"

"And now," Tom agreed, his face cheering slightly as he tore his gaze away from his hand to glance back at Harry. "Come hold my hand again."

Harry obeyed, taking Tom's right hand in his and lacing their fingers together as best he could despite the funny layer that still kept them apart. "Okay. Now what?"

Tom's eyes slid shut. He was breathing deeply, slowly. Harry had fallen asleep listening to this sound for years now. It was a part of him as much as his own heartbeat. To hear Tom close to him with such clarity was nothing short of a miracle.

"Nothing," Tom whispered, his voice feather-soft. "I just wanted to hold it."

Harry felt his heart pound uncomfortably in his chest. He gave Tom's hand a tentative squeeze. How long had it been since Tom had touched anyone? Had gotten any kind of physical contact at all?

"I wish I could hug you," Harry mumbled, the words slipping out.

Tom made a quiet, wounded noise that Harry pretended not to hear. They stood there for a while, hands entwined. Harry stared at Tom's face, intent on memorizing the slopes and angles, determined for Tom to know that there was someone in the universe who saw him, who cared.

"We'll both be free someday," Harry said roughly, hoping that someone, somewhere, was listening to him.

"Someday," Tom echoed faintly, and for once the irregular edge to his voice was not a product of the medium he was displayed on.

A/N:

this story will be two parts. part two will come whenever i get to writing it, oof

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