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Tom Riddle notices the translucent haze weeks into his first year at Hogwarts.
At first he thinks it’s just a trick of the light, so he ignores it. The dim lighting in the Slytherin common room is perfect for illusions. He turns back to his book, nimble fingers flicking through the pages as he tries to absorb as much information as possible.
It had been embarrassing the first day of classes when his fellow Slytherins could produce gleaming bubbles and make images dance at the tips of their wands while Tom himself was fumbling with the odd wood between his fingers. It didn’t help that he was a mudblood, something he quickly learned was not a compliment. Slytherin did not have many mudbloods. They didn’t have dirt tainting their great, noble house. As far as Tom had learned in the past couple days, the last mudblood to dirty Slytherin's walls had a terrible accident with the stairs.
There is another flicker in the corner of his vision, and this time Tom lifts his head fully. His fingers twitch against the book as the flicker grows, until it takes the form of a translucent body.
A ghost.
Tom knew there were ghosts that walked the halls of Hogwarts. It had scared the living daylights out of him the first day he saw the bloody baron seated at the table in the great hall.
The ghost is a boy. Older, possibly a 6th year if he were to guess. Messy black hair stuck up as if he were caught in a permanent storm. Round glasses perched on a slim nose, and blank eyes blinked at him from behind the glass. He was dressed in school robes from what Tom could tell, but they were torn and tattered. He flickered in and out, his blue sheen making it even harder to keep your eyes on him.
The boy blinked at him slowly, much slower than a living human. And he didn’t say a word, not like the usual Hogwarts ghosts who were more than happy to talk. The boy just stood in the corner, watching. Waiting. For something Tom couldn’t place.
And then as their silent stare grew uncomfortable, Tom’s ears filled with an unbearable, unholy screech. Painful howling pounded the inside of his skull, and he went tumbling off the seat, clutching his head. He rolled to the side, curling up into himself as the horrible scream quieted.
He lay there, panting for some time, silently grateful there wasn’t another student in the common room. It was late. Tom was always the latest to go to bed and the earliest to rise. As he shakily got to his feet, he looked up at the ghost again, wand raised threateningly, but the spirit was gone. He disappeared just as easily as he had come. Tom sheathed his wand and breathed shallowly through his nose. His head thumped uncomfortably as the shriek slowly disappeared from his ears, leaving only a faint ringing.
There was a cold breeze that ruffled Tom’s robes. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his stomach twisted. He was being watched. He turned, but there was nothing. Maybe the lack of sleep was finally getting to him.
——
Tom Riddle sees the same ghost the next year, sitting at the Slytherin table during the opening feast.
The wraith sits at the very end of the table. Nobody sits there; a large gap separates the ghost and the other students, but they make no indication that they even notice the spirit. The boy flickers as light catches his gray, translucent skin. He stares ahead, making no attempt to converse with the students like the other ghosts.
He mentions the ghost to Slughorn the next lesson.
“Is there a ghost that looks like a boy hanging around Slytherin? Perhaps a past student?” He asks the professor carefully after classes. The portly teacher laughs loudly in the booming way Slughorn does.
“No, dear boy," chuckles Slughorn, “perhaps just a trick of the light? Muggleborn students usually have that happen to them the first couple years.”
But Tom knows what he saw. And he knows Slughorn is lying.
“Are you sure, sir? No…accidents in the past couple centuries?”
Slughorn turns a deep red, running up his flabby neck and face. His fingers play a beat on his desk as he seems to think hard about something.
“Well, I suppose I could tell you about one, being such a good student and all.” Slughorn says nervously. Tom feels his face twist into a smile.
“About a couple centuries ago, there was a boy. Nobody knows his name. Or where he comes from. But he was a Gryffindor, brave and bold. Daring. He was a strictly light wizard, but he got caught in some…dark magic as he grew. Evil soul magic. Frightening stuff. Now the rumor goes that one day he snuck off into the forbidden forest to perform one of his dark rituals. A friend or lover. Mentor. Nobody really knows who chased after him. He was late. The boy had already started the ritual. It was consuming him, turning him into an unrecognizable monster. The mystery person supposedly tried to blast the boy away with a wave of pure magic, but it only mixed with the ritual and caused a gigantic explosion. The boy was killed, and so was the other. The only thing we know about the other person is they were a Slytherin, so now the ghost haunts Slytherin. Supposedly."
“Supposedly?" Question Tom. Mesmerized by the story. He imagines the magic, the drunken feeling that would overtake him. he’s read about it but can only dream. He imagines the slim, small boy from his first year and the great hall consumed, drowning in the effects of dark magic.
“Ah, well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? There’s only been one recorded sighting of the boy…nobody even knows if he actually exists. But some Slytherins mention a cool breeze passing them during an overall hot day. Or in the common room.”
“How tragic," simpers Tom. Slughorn nods sadly, as if he even cares. But then his chubby face brightens considerably.
“They say you can find the remains if you go deep enough into the forbidden forest,” Slughorn stuttered over his words, considering, "...ah, but don’t do that. Against the rules and all.”
“Thank you, sir. It was very informative.”
So he was special. Tom knew he wasn’t just a regular mudblood. Not just some dirty blot on the map. He was extraordinary. He was powerful if he practiced, and he was the only one who could see the ghost.
Something possessive curls in his gut at that thought. That boy was his. His ghost. His prize. Tom had always liked shiny things.
And Tom wouldn’t let this one go.
———
Tom dreams that night.
It's dark. And he’s surrounded by trees, miles and miles of dark, towering trees. They continue for hours. Tom is lost immediately, but something deep inside of him pulls him through a path until he’s standing in a clearing. A huge clearing where the trees disappear as if they were never there.
Someone streaks past him. An older boy, with long limbs. Tom zones in on the robes.
A Hogwarts student. Slytherin.
The boy screams something. A name that Tom can’t make out. Tom stares further and makes out another boy and immediately knows who it is.
The spirit he saw earlier.
Tom walks closer, but an invisible force stops him meters away.
“You promised we would do it together, Harry!” Yells the unknown boy in a familiar voice.
“I promised nothing.” Snarls Tom’s ghost, Harry. His voice is like music, soft even in his anger.
“But you did.” Hissed the other boy angrily, “We promised each other. You swore."
“Funny thing that. I don’t remember.”
The unknown student clenches his fist, and that is when Tom notices the wand clenched in his fingers.
Oh.
Tom knows where he is. This is the night Harry died and haunted Slytherin centuries later.
“Oh, you insolent little—"
“Shut it. I promised nothing. I thought you weren’t that trusting, Tom Riddle."
That is when Tom wakes with a gasp.
——————
Tom does not see the ghost for many more years. But he never forgets that dream. Even as he works his fingers into the minds of his Slytherin classmates, twisting and pulling until they are nothing more than manageable puppets, he never forgets.
Even as he traces his family lineage and finds out about his parentage, he never forgets. And he definitely doesn’t forget when he is walking the halls of Hogwarts deep at night in search of the chamber and stumbles upon it.
The portrait.
Harry is even more beautiful than Tom remembered, frozen in time as a painted picture. Hidden deep in a forgotten corridor of Hogwarts, shrouded by dust and shadow. He doesn’t move, not like the other portraits. He stares ahead. Blankly, just like his ghost form. But this version has much prettier coloring.
Green eyes stare back at him. A venomous color, bright like the killing curse. Inky black hair spills over the boy's eyebrows. Tom moves closer, eyes narrowing in on the background.
The forbidden forest.
Tom reached out almost absently, placing his fingers softly against the portrait's canvas. Then his world erupts into light.
He falls to the ground. Or maybe he doesn't. He can’t tell. He can’t feel or hear. His sight is gone, and his head has exploded in a symphony of pain. He tries to suck in a sharp breath, but his ribs rattle as if he were dying.
And then it is done.
His long limbs are sprawled across the cool floor, his head pounding like someone has taken a hammer to it. He breathes in the dusty, frigid air of the hidden corridor. Nothing has changed, except for the new body in the hall.
“I was hoping you’d find that soon.” Says a soft voice. Tom looks up blearily, his sight slightly blurred. But he knows who that is.
“Harry," he croaks.
“Tom." Greets Harry. He is dressed in the same tattered robes as in their first meeting.“I don’t have much time. That spell won’t last long, so pay attention.”
“What—"
“I'm stuck. That night I died, I never really passed on. I was stuck in a limbo state, something to do with the ritual. I need you to find the mirror, the one with the writing. I need you to want it, Tom Riddle."
“Want what?”
“Me Tom. I need you to desire this. it has to be something you desire most if you want me real.”
“But you are real.” Rasps tom, “You're right here.” Tom reaches out, fingers stretching for the other.
“NO!"
Tom’s fingers slide through air, and the illusion of Harry disappears in a wisp of smoke and a high-pitched scream.
———-
Tom finds the mirror not long after. It is not hidden well, not even warded. It’s hidden in a large classroom on the west side, covered with boxes that shield it only from glancing eyes. Not snooping ones. Tom moves the offending boxes of DADA textbooks with a flick of his wand and reveals a tall mirror.
It is cloudy. A useless mirror, as Tom can’t even see himself in its reflection. But Tom has a hunch that the mirror is not meant for looking at one’s self.
I need you to want it.
Tom’s eyes flutter closed, thinking hard. Pulling on the tendrils of thoughts about Harry. Tugging on the possessive feeling that fills him at the thought of touching Harry, hiding him away from curious eyes that want to take him.
Harry is his. Tom is the only one who can see him, the first one to find his dusty portrait hidden away. The first one to know his name, to know the truth of that night.
When he opens his eyes, Harry stares back at him. He smiles impishly, all mischievous cheek, as he gives Tom a flirtatious wink. He beckons Tom closer, but Tom cannot step through glass.
Unless….
Tom presses his fingers against the cool mirror. Nothing happens for a beat, and then he is falling.
———
Tom wakes on a bed. When he flutters his eyes open, he stares at the familiar white walls of the Hogwarts infirmary. His stomach drops.
It hadn’t worked. Dread pools in his fingertips and legs as he realizes it. He hadn’t passed through the stupid mirror.
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi
I show not your face but your heart's desire.
He had desired it. It’s all he would ever want.
There is a shuffle distantly, and low voices get louder. It sounds like arguing.
“Oh, be quiet, Ronald! The poor boy is probably traumatized.”
“Oh yes, why don’t we scream louder? That will surely help him. Honestly Hermione, don’t you think?”
“Both of you shut up.” Snaps another voice, softer. And Tom recognizes it.
But he’s in Hogwarts. He didn’t make it through. There’s no way.
Green eyes stare at him in concern, inky black hair falling into his eyes as Harry smiles at him.
“Are you alright? Took quite a tumble…what was it again?”
Tom surges up, staring at Harry with something akin to hysteria. Harry might not recognize Tom, but he recognizes him.
“Tom," he says breathlessly, "and you’re Harry.”