When Tom Riddle looked in the mirror, he saw the eyes of Voldemort staring back at him. It was all he ever saw—looking exactly like his father wasn't something new to him—and yet, for some reason, as he gazed into the broken glass of his desolate apartment in London, something looked different.

His black eyes regarded himself with a cool civility. They were like pools of darkness, one of his favorite things about him. His father's eyes were dark, too, but Tom realized that they looked more snakelike than his did now. Was it possible that he was changing, becoming less like his father?

He shook the thought off. Of course he wasn't changing; that was ridiculous. People didn't change. His father certainly never did. If he had changed, if he wouldn't have let his own arrogance go to his head and simply let the Potters live, he would have been alive. But his father hadn't changed and neither had he.

Tom smoothed back his hair. It was a rich, dark brown, almost black, and curled just in the front. His dark brown eyes matched his hair; they, too, were almost black. He was tall and handsome, always pursued by some incessant crowds of females at Hogwarts, though he ignored them all, unlike his brother who pursued practically any woman with a heartbeat and a decent face. Tom knew he was the more handsome of the Riddle brothers; he had been told it constantly, even by his younger brother. His dimpled smile drew in everyone who saw it, revealing a set of small, straight teeth and charisma that could hardly be contained. His body was lean and fit, muscular underneath the suits he often wore.

Yes, he was a nice-looking bloke, which served him usefully. People were always disarmed by his charm and good looks. Disarmed people were much easier to manipulate. Tom always loved how he could use a few smooth words and an enchanting grin to make others do his bidding. It was always easier than the Imperius curse or using his skills in legilimency. His father was a skilled legilimens, though Tom was easily better. Tom was better than his father at everything. That was why all of Voldemort's followers regarded Tom as The Dark Heir, waiting for the day he ascended to his rightful place at the top of the Wizarding World. Tom was much more powerful, much more intelligent, much more strategic, and overall better than his father. He didn't care for ridding the world of mudbloods and muggles; even vermin could serve a purpose to him. No, Tom only cared about power, power that he was easily gaining even during his years at Hogwarts. His goal was simple: he wanted to rule the Wizarding World without a care in the world. He wanted a grand estate, hordes of money, legions of followers, and for every man, woman, child, and creature to know the name Tom Riddle. His followers liked that about him. They could continue about their lives unless called and he didn't call them often, not when he hardly had use for them.

His father thought small. He wanted to rid the world of vermin (someone else's pathetic plan) and find a way to live forever. But Voldemort failed before he even got close and his only chance at immortality was his legacy living through his two sons: The Dark Heir and the Prince of Fire. That was what the Death Eaters called them. As long as they respected that title, remained loyal, and were useful when needed, Tom allowed them to live. They couldn't say the same under his father's rule.

"Tom." A voice broke him from his thoughts. Mattheo, his younger half-brother. They shared the same father, though, at this point, Tom was pretty much both of their fathers. He was six years old, almost seven, when Voldemort perished to Harry Potter—his pathetic excuse of a parent couldn't survive an infant—and Mattheo was one and a half. They would have lived with Mattheo's mother, had she not been thrown in Azkaban the moment Voldemort died. Bellatrix Lestrange. A bloody idiot for torturing those two aurors when his father was clearly dead but her stupidity had her thrown in prison. Rightfully so. After that, they lived with other Death Eaters, bouncing around until Tom turned 11 and moved them back to their father's spare apartment in London. After that, Mattheo lived with Death Eaters (usually the Malfoys or, on occasion, the Notts whenever Theodore's father was in town) while Tom attended Hogwarts until Mattheo was old enough to come too. In the summers, they returned to the apartment.

"Tom," Mattheo repeated. Unlike Tom, he didn't look exactly like their father. With his very curly brown locks, warm brown eyes, and cheeky, dimpled grin, Mattheo looked like the perfect mixture between his two parents. Tom's looks left little room for argument as to who his father was but his mother was nonexistent. He didn't even know who she was, nor did he care to. "It's time to go."

Tom nodded and grabbed his trunk and Mattheo before apparating them to a secluded alley just outside King's Cross. Mattheo grabbed his owl and rushed to the platform so he could join his friends. They were suitable friends so Tom didn't interfere. Malfoy, Nott, Zabini, Berkshire, Greengrass, Parkinson, Goyle, Crabbe. All pureblood families who would serve him when the time came. Loyal friends, good friends. Tom didn't have any of them. He didn't need them. He would spend the train ride being avoided like the plague; everyone feared the son of the Dark Lord too much to sit with him. Not that he cared, it meant that he would have a dorm room to himself again. Mattheo was mostly immune to their avoidance. The boy was outgoing, charming, funny, and good at Quidditch, plus he wasn't old enough to know their father when he died. He only really had one enemy and that was just a silly girl his brother so clearly had a crush on. Crushes were ridiculous. Love was ridiculous. But Mattheo hadn't learned that yet.

He walked onto the train and loaded his trunk in the compartment. As he meandered through the corridor, towering over everyone, their eyes turned to watch him. He was used to it by now, the students always pointing out that he was the son of the Dark Lord. He didn't care whether they stared or not; the whispers of lesser wizards had no effect on him. Plus, by now, they had learned that he wasn't all bad. Sure, he was dark and completely terrifying beyond all reason but he was a fair flyer, talented in all of his classes, charming, extremely powerful, and was recently named Head Boy. After several years at Hogwarts, the whispers of gossip had mostly subsided and were instead placed with ones of respect.

After all, he was one of the few wizards who could do wandless magic and silent magic, completing spells without uttering a single word. The fact that he was the best legilimens of all time was rather unknown. He could influence people without even trying, read their minds without a trace, and compel them to do his bidding with just a flash of a smile. The spells he conducted couldn't be beat nor could the potions he created. Yes, he was powerful. Very powerful.

Tom spent most of his night instructing the prefects on where to patrol (that insufferable Percy Weasley was asking far too many questions), guiding idiotic first-years to their tables and dormitories, and then patrolling the corridors himself. He didn't mind patrolling; he liked being alone. He could think on his own.

Tonight, he decided to think through his final year at Hogwarts. It should be relatively easy. He had practically passed his classes the moment he walked through the gates. He quit the Quidditch team—where he was their seeker—in favor of becoming Head Boy, though he always felt like the useless sport was taking too much of his time. And though looking after his brother was a full-time job, he didn't have any friends and certainly no lovers to distract him. No, his final year at Hogwarts would be spent preparing for his life after school, a life of power and luxury. The barest hint of a smile graced his face as he thought about moving his brother to a grand estate in the countryside. Mattheo would love that.

Mattheo. The boy had been a nuisance all evening. Like his older brother and father, Mattheo seemed to have a sort of sixth sense that could detect the future. The younger boy must have sensed a shift in the air, a sign that something was to change. Tom didn't feel it, though that might have been because he was too distracted by tiny Slytherins annoying the shit out of him.

Mattheo, however, wouldn't let up. "Tom, do you feel that?" he asked as he motioned for his older brother to join him at the table. Tom obliged, rather unhappily he might add. Just because he approved of Mattheo's friends didn't mean that he wanted to start having afternoon tea and biscuits with them.

"Feel what?" Everyone's eyes widened at the older boy's voice. It was deep and smooth and far less scary than they imagined, though that wasn't saying much. But it was rich, drawing them in with each syllable. Like his good looks, his voice also held a bit of charm to it.

Mattheo scrunched up his face as he bit off a chicken wing. "Something feels different. Like things are going to change."

"I hope it's you that changes. You could use a bath while you're at it," the snotty voice of Nora Rosier said from down the table.

His brother scowled. But before he could make a retort, a sudden burst of green air went off in front of the blonde girl. She screamed and, soon, third-year girls were scattering from the smell. And yet, Mattheo and his friends remained untouched by the smell. Tom smirked just as Mattheo yelled how awesome it was. Nobody messes with a Riddle. Not even his brother's crush.

"I'll keep an eye out for any 'changes,'" Tom muttered as he stood up to go patrol.

"You mock but I really feel something, Tom," Mattheo said simply with a shrug of his shoulders. He was far too headstrong already for a thirteen-year-old. He would be an awful teenager as he grew up. Tom could certainly feel that. "Maybe you can't feel the change because it's going to happen to you."

Tom resisted replying. His sixth sense was far better than his brother's so if he didn't feel anything, it was likely that it was simply because Mattheo was probably hungry or bloated from all of the constant eating he did. He just ruffled his brother's curls before standing up and walking out to the corridor where he now patrolled.

The middle of the night approached and Tom was still meandering through the corridor, now by the library. He highly doubted anyone would be out, not on the first night back. Not even the Weasley twins—horrid fifth-year boys with absolutely no respect for school rules—would be rulebreaking this early. No one dared to mess with the fresh prefects, new Head Boy and Girl, and an all-too-eager Filch yet. His job would probably be quiet for the next couple of weeks, he reckoned.

Except it wasn't quiet. Not now.

Tom felt the shift in the air before he heard the small footsteps approaching him. They were light and delicate, either a woman's or a younger student's. It could have been a professor, though Snape was usually the only one who offered to help patrol and that was usually just on nights where the Head Boy didn't. So this is a student. He grinned at the opportunity to punish someone. And this early in the year. How lucky.

Tom waited in a dark corner for the rulebreaker to pass. He was right, it was a woman. She was slender with dark, curly hair that crawled down her robes. She clutched a book in her hand as she walked down the corridor without a care in the world. The girl was small, at least compared to him, though she probably was a little taller than her peers. She was quiet with a sort of dark aura around her that couldn't be explained.

She's different, he realized. Here was an older girl—sixth or seventh year if he had to guess, as she was wearing Slytherin robes and wasn't in his year—back at Hogwarts, and yet she wasn't spending her night conversing with any friends. She was breaking the rules to read a book in the library.

It was then that Tom decided to step out of the shadows. "My, my, my," he drawled. "What do we have here?"

She turned to look at him and for the briefest of seconds, Tom felt the wind leave his lungs. She was pretty. No, she was beautiful, effortlessly so, without a spot of makeup on her face. Her face was regal, with high cheekbones and soft features that both drew him in and demanded respect. Her lips were full and parted with shock as she gazed at him. But while Tom had seen many pretty girls, it wasn't her beauty that shocked him.

It was the way he looked into her deep, grey eyes, full of sadness, and saw the world.

Literally. When Tom looked the girl in the eyes, he saw glimpses of things he had never seen before. Visions of deep, murky water, a rainstorm in a graveyard, a woman's laughter, dark clouds above the forest, the feeling of soft, warm skin, and grey eyes, piercing grey eyes that stared at him a thousand times over and over.

He faltered, taking a step back as if he had been wounded. Did she get into my head? he wondered as the memory of the visions repeatedly assaulted his mind. But when he looked at her innocent, slightly surprised fact, he knew she hadn't. She had no idea what looking at her had just put him through.

Tom forced himself to straighten out even though his mind was in shambles. Get a hold of yourself. It's just a silly girl. He immediately felt ridiculous for showing even the slightest weakness in front of her.

When he next spoke, his voice was smooth, deep, and disarming, meant to charm her into answering. She would be no use to him fearful and students were always afraid when they first met him. "Why are you alone in the corridor? Haven't you ever heard that it's... dangerous?"

She sucked in a deep breath at his voice when it dropped to a whisper. But to his surprise, her eyes held no fear. She's not afraid of me. That was the first time it ever happened. Even his brother and his little friends were afraid of Tom. Everyone was. And yet this girl wasn't. Why?

"I apologize," she said in the softest voice he had ever heard. It was just as beautiful as she was. He didn't scold himself for thinking that, not when it was a fact. Beautiful women existed, not that he had ever cared before. Why should this one be any different? "I lost track of time in the library."

It's a lie. He could sense it, an ability his father had passed down to him. Though he had to admit, this girl was a damn good liar. If he hadn't had the ability, he wouldn't have been able to tell. Tom smirked and looked down before at his shoes before gazing at her again. "Didn't your mummy ever tell you it's not polite to lie to others?"

"No," she said simply. "She didn't have the chance. She was too busy being gone."

I know what that feels like. The thought blazed across his mind but just like with everything else, he ignored it, instead studying her. Why was she not afraid? Why was she out in the corridor alone? What was she so bloody beautiful? What was she—

Why was she desperately trying to hide her arms under the sleeve of her robes?

Quickly, Tom reached out and snatched her arm from her side. The girl dropped the book in shock but didn't try to tear it back from him. Ignoring the warmth of her bare skin against his cold fingers, Tom gazed down at her arm to find it completely covered with deep purple, blue, and green bruises. She even had a few dark red scratches on top of the already harmed skin.

He could feel white-hot fury begin to course through his veins, though he didn't understand why. He hardly knew this girl and he had done worse to others (there was a body somewhere deep in the Forbidden Forest who could attest to that). And yet seeing this girl—this beautiful, melancholy girl—completely littered with injuries made him want to burn down the castle. With a firm grip, Tom continued to inspect the arm. He could feel her questioning gaze on him and yet she still didn't pull away.

"Who did this to you?" he muttered under his breath.

"What?"

His jaw clenched as his voice turned darker. "Who. Did this. To. You?" It took everything in him not to kill the first thing in sight—the first thing that wasn't her, that is—but the fact that she was still here forced him to pull himself together.

"N-nobody. I tripped." Another lie.

"Off a cliff? You'll have to try a little harder to convince me, Little Dove." The name slipped out of him. Standing there with her soft grey eyes staring at him without fear—the very emotion that would probably save her life in his presence—and her body beaten and battered, she reminded him of a wounded bird. She seemed so gentle, so sad, so alone. Like a dove without a partner. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to move past it, instead staring at a nasty green mark that went up her arm past his vision. He had the sinking feeling that she was carrying much worse. "Now, who did this to you?"

My grandmother. Her voice appeared in his head, practically shouting out the answer. What was odd was the fact that Tom wasn't the reason he heard it. He didn't use his legilimency on her, didn't try to invade her mind. It was almost as if he was already there, like the bridge between his thoughts and hers was something that didn't need to be established.

Angry that someone did this to her at all but satisfied that it at least wasn't anyone in the castle, Tom let her arm go. "It is no matter," he said coolly. "You shouldn't be wandering alone. Never know what sorts of... unsavory things you might find." Like him.

"I apologize," she said softly. Her voice reminded him of rain hitting grass in a meadow. "As I said before, I was in the library." That wasn't a lie so she must not have lost track of time. She knew what she was doing and chose to stay there anyway. "It won't happen again."

But why was there a part of him that wanted it to happen again, that wanted to corner her alone in the dark corridor again just as he did now? Mattheo was right; his head was all out of sorts. It was uncharacteristic for him. Tom was used to always being cool and collected and this? The way the girl's soft eyes had his power pulsing was the opposite of cool and collected.

"I'll walk you back to your dormitory." He wasn't lying. There was probably worse just beyond the corner. Hogwarts held many secrets. How else was his father able to amass most of his followers while only a student? And this girl clearly needed protecting. Her arms had proven just how vulnerable she was.

For a brief moment, he swore her lips upturned at the corners. But the expression disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving only a soft, blank look. "No. I've taken up enough of your time."

He pursed his lips. "Nonsense. I have nothing better to do and you wouldn't want to be discovered by someone less forgiving." Tom couldn't believe he was calling himself forgiving but apparently with this girl, he was.

She nodded. "Alright. Let me grab my—" He swooped down and grabbed the book from off the ground, noticing that it was a muggle horror book as he did so. "Book," she finished softly. "Thank you."

"No problem, Miss..."

"Black." Tom felt for the bridge between them, searching for the cord of a bond that was established earlier. It was there, illuminated against all of the others in the castle like a bright light in a sea of darkness. When he pulled on the bond, he fell into her mind effortlessly. It was different, this mental connection he made with the girl. Stronger. More powerful. Stepping into Miss Black's head felt like slipping on a familiar pair of shoes, feeling the way they melded to his feet as if they had always been there. He had never felt anything like it in all of the minds he had entered.

Evelyn Arcturus Black. The only daughter of Regulus Arcturus Black and an unknown mother. So she was right. Like him, she had no idea who her mother was. But Regulus Black? Regulus was one of his father's loyal followers—Voldemort kept a book of all of them, one that Tom read regularly. Regulus died a few years before his father's downfall in a drowning accident in the dark lake in front of the Black summer home, though he suspected that Evelyn didn't know that last tidbit. Tom had no idea that Regulus had a child and he found as he searched her head that Regulus didn't know either. Evelyn hadn't known her father or her mother. All she knew were two harsh grandparents who beat her regularly.

Tom felt his jaw tense as he saw many memories of their cruelty directed toward a soft person who clearly was too fragile to handle it. It is no matter, he thought to himself, feeling a surge of protectiveness for her. I shall take care of her since they are too incapable of doing it themselves.

"Regulus's daughter?" Tom asked more for formality than anything as the two of them began to walk down the corridor.

She nodded. "Yes. But he died before I was born so I didn't know him." With Sirius in Azkaban and Regulus dead, that makes her the sole heir to her family's fortune and estate. Perhaps Evelyn had just revealed her usefulness after all.

"I hardly knew who my father was. He died when I was six years old." The words felt both like a lie and not a lie. He did somewhat know his father, the image his father presented to him. But no one knew the real Tom Riddle II, not even his own son. "And I've never met my mother," he continued. Why are you telling her this? But he reasoned that it wasn't an unknown fact and there was no harm in telling her.

"Who is your father?"

He looked at her incredulously. Did she truly not know? Had she truly not heard of the son of the Dark Lord? Tom gazed into her mind to find that, yes, she truly had no idea who he was at all. She didn't know the whispers or the warnings. All she knew was that he was the Head Boy who chose to walk her back to her chambers instead of turning her into a professor for punishment.

"Voldemort. My father was the Dark Lord," he said quietly, watching her face for any sort of reaction. But there was none. No fear, no screaming and running, not even a sliver of recoil. She truly didn't care who he was. "Are you not afraid? Of me? Of who my father was?" He had to force himself to keep the bite from his words. You want answers and you won't get them by being disrespectful.

Evelyn shrugged lightly, though, by the wince on her face, the movement seemed to cause her pain. "Not really," she said softly. "I'm not really afraid of anything." And while there seemed to be parts of that statement that was a lie, there was a part of it that was true as well. She was afraid of some things but she also didn't care about her fears. This girl is fascinating. So unlike the others.

"Interesting."

"Not really. The son should not be judged for the sins of the father. You are your own person and I'll judge you for your sins, not his."

Tom scoffed. "I'm hardly my own person. I look exactly like him, was raised to be his heir, and share the same name as him. Just another one of his minions acting on his behalf twelve years after he died."

Evelyn looked up at him. He returned her gaze and was reminded, for a moment, of the visions she gave him when he first looked at her. Deep, murky water, a rainstorm in a graveyard, a woman's laughter, dark clouds above the forest, the feeling of soft, warm skin, and grey eyes, piercing grey eyes that stared at him a thousand times over and over. What did they mean? "I don't think you're a minion. You may share all of those things but you're your own person too. You're different from Voldemort."

"How so?" He was baiting her but he realized with somewhat of a startle that it was because he liked the sound of her voice too much for her to stop talking. She was quiet, yes, and he had the feeling if he didn't continue to ask her questions, she wouldn't continue speaking so even though conversing wasn't his strong suit, he forced himself to do it anyway.

"Would your father have picked up my book for me? Or cared about my arms?"

"No," he said quickly. No one could have cared about her arms, not as he had. He was still itching to apparate to Black Manor and kill her grandparents where they stood. The option wasn't entirely ruled out.

"Well, I don't know you very well but there are two differences. I'm sure there's more, too."

A hint of a smile graced his face as his lips turned upward in a small smirk. "Are you insinuating that you'd like to know me, Miss Black?"

Her eyes widened and the faintest blush hit her cheeks. By now, they had reached the Slytherin common room but Tom had no intention of leaving her there. He told himself it was because he, as Head Boy, had a duty to make sure she went to her room and didn't come back out, not because a core part of his soul was dying to make sure that she remained protected throughout the night.

"No," she said softly. Lie. It brought a small smile to his face, one that he forced himself to lose as he looked at the ground and watched his feet ascend the staircase.

Before he could ask anything further, Evelyn halted in front of one of the doors on the girl's side of the dormitories. "Well, thank you for walking me here. Goodnight..."

"Tom," he finished. "Tom Riddle."

She smiled softly. "Goodnight, Tom."

His lips turned upward again before he became stoic again. "Goodnight, Evelyn." Tom bowed his head to her and left once he heard the click of a locked door.

It wasn't until the next day he realized his mistake. She never told him her first name.

Long chapter but what do you think? Kind of a different Tom but hopefully not too different. I just can't write a love story where someone's only redeemable quality is that they're hot lol. Tom is definitely morally grey and will do some questionable things in the story but he's not completely evil either.

Review and follow! Thanks all 3