Choices
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment.
...
She's the youngest of seven, framed by a latticework of red-gold hair emblematic of a house she's not sure she belongs to. The whole of school knows her by sight; as one particularly pale, pinch-faced blonde bit "Red hair, freckles, and hand-me-downs; no need to ask you who you are."
They judge her by her reflection without seeing her soul.
The red-hair is a family trait, yes, though the sparks of mischief woven like a ribbon is one shared with only two others (well, one really, if you consider twins an entity, as the Mirror does). The network of freckles across the bridge of her nose, cheekbones, and, incongruously, forearms are caramel-colored reminders that she doesn't and will not mar that space with visible scars and tattoo tributes. The pale, bone-white skin underneath is spotless except for the crescents of pink where just-bitten fingernails dug in; that kind of paleness is dichotomous against the alabaster noir of that will one day mark the image of the pale, pale boy. That, too, is a family tradition, but hers is the hand-me-down of justice and goodness, not prejudice and exclusion, and she's proud of it, same as she's proud of Uncle Fabian's book bag and Uncle Gideon's old ties.
Most people don't see her at all; just another member of a loving, if boisterous, family.
Ginny Weasley sees herself, though. There is no one else in the Mirror except for the seventh girl. Same red hair, freckles, and hand-me-downs, but she's damn proud of who she is, just by virtue of being herself, and damn confident in where she wants to go with nothing exception her strength and skill. Here, there, anywhere. Doesn't matter as long as she carries within all the courage of the times she thought fear would overwhelm. Mum and Dad's admonitions about jumping without looking need not matter. Ginny has nerve; maybe a touch too much sometimes, but if she wants to be seen, she has to see herself as brave first, even if the softest cadence a charming, charismatic sixteen-year-old still echoes across her soul.
...
He's the only son of a long-distinguished Wizarding line, forgotten by time and now forgotten by his Father. No one at Hogwarts knows who he is (much less care, really, given the sheer amount of talent the Blacks, Malfoys, Prewetts, Weasleys, etc. al sharing the tables), so he's determined to make them all remember. Carve his name into the walls in broad, harsh wand-strokes. Litter his signature across every classroom, corridor, and hallway. Emblazon his signature on every available surface.
He was nothing when he stepped off the Hogwarts Express; here, though, here he will be something, no, someone, and he will be so to such an extent that no one will ever forget him again.
Everyone judges him by his reflection without seeing his soul.
(All by design, of course.)
The darkly handsome face he wears is just another mask, a tool like any other, one of perhaps three useful things he inherited. Intelligence and charisma being the other two. With these, he can appear to be anyone he wants to be here, there, anywhere. The other boys and girls fawn over Tom Riddle Sr.'s features; the professors fawn over his perfect grades ("The highest in a century!"); the "friends" fawn over his charm.
Fools, he thinks. Useful idiots, with their inane chatter and asinine dreams. Why bend the opposition when you can snap them like a useless piece of wood? If you think about it; wands were just pieces of wood. One tool is like any other, useful only for the utility it provides a owner worthy of its obedience.
Why suffer when you can rule?
(And, oh, does he intend to rule.)
He intends to be the very best, too. Just like he only collects only the most impeccable witches and wizards, overwrites the existing records, and pushes magic to its very soul. This trinity is all for a Greater Purpose. Fashion a new tradition, a new order, a new world-view with the only trinity of resources his filthy Father who forgot him deigned to leave in remembrance.
All Tom Riddle Jr. sees in the Mirror is himself, conquering everyone and everything so that no one, not even himself, will ever remember that he was once the forgotten son of a forgotten line purposefully forgotten by two worlds that should have bowed down and welcomed him on their knees where they belong.
No.
The Mirror will not (cannot) forget Tom Marvolo Riddle, and neither will the world.