Work Text:
"What is it? What is the last task?!" Voldemort hisses. He should let his servant concentrate, but he's tired of living in a shared body without a will to protect himself.
"It is… a mirror, my Lord," Quirrell murmurs. "I don't understand. I see the stone in my hand, but where is it? How do I take it?"
A mirror?
"Show me," Voldemort orders.
"But Master, you are… too t-tired…"
"Show ME!" He repeats, this time with more venom. He promises as soon as he has his body again, he'll reward Quirrell for all the times he's doubted him!
Quirrell hastily unwrapped the turban cloth, letting him breathe (not that he needed it in the state that he was) and take note of his surroundings. A stoned room empty saved for a large mirror.
Voldemort sees a reflection of himself. The crude and contorted shape of his 'face' mesh with the skin on the back of his servant's head. This is what he has become… how far he has sunk… a decade of life as a pitiful wraith, forced to take and live off another.
He yearns, with a yearning so deep, he can taste the foam of the desire in his mouth. Oh, how he wants—desperately to live as he was, in his prime. He was the greatest wizard alive! He didn't need any stone, no unicorn blood, he had his Horcruxes, and he had already defeated death!
He sees it! He is standing. Fully bodied and capable. His face as it was. He looks stronger and healthier, his magic menacing and powerful.
Quirrell screams, clutching his head. Voldemort can feel the faint sizzle of magic around him, what has happened? He's being pulled, absorbed into the reflection of his true self!
Darkness overwhelms him.
It takes Voldemort a while to blink and comprehend that he is staring at a ceiling. His fingers twitch.
Voldemort clutches his chest, internally gasping. He's moving… his fingers?
He checks his hands, every sturdy digit displayed in front of him, and he feels— he sits up, inspecting his legs, his body, it's all his again!
He feels his face, delighted that he does not have to share it with another. Had he retrieved the stone? Where was Quirrell?
Voldemort finally takes notice of his surroundings. It's dark, except for the light coming from the squared opening—that seems to be a gateway to the stoned room Quirrell had last stood. There on the floor, sprawled, face down, unmoving, was his servant.
Voldemort stands (internally delighted by how energized and strong he feels). He walks towards the opening—but is met with resistance—is it glass?
Voldemort touches the material. Yes, it is glass. He can see the fire flicker in the stoned room; he pushes it, tries to break it—
A spell. He needs his wand, a wand?
A wand does appear in his hand. Voldemort does not stop to think of how; he quickly aims it at the glass and shouts, "Diffindo!"
Nothing happens. The mirror… was he in the mirror??
Voldemort presses his face, his palms, his body against the glass, trying to move it, break it—
The purple flames roar again, and this time a young boy steps through.
Voldemort hisses upon instinct. He watches as the boy—his prophesied nemesis—scrawny and small, stops midway as he spots Quirrell’s motionless body. The boy whips his wand out, and Voldemort would laugh if he wasn't in such a perilous situation himself (because what first-year spell could ever go against a full-grown wizard), but that doesn't deter the boy from taking tentative, stupid steps closer, inspecting his possibly demised servant, then frowning.
The boy is pale and searches the room suspiciously. His gaze finally rests on Voldemort, no, the mirror. He doesn’t see Voldemort! His green eyes came to a realization faster than Voldemort would have expected.
The boy recognizes the mirror.
Harry Potter stands in front of it, murmurs something, tilting his head. Voldemort feels a swirl of magic—around the space?—and is ready with his 'wand' should he defend himself, but nothing else happens.
Harry gasps and pulls something out of his pocket. It's the philosopher's stone!
Voldemort punches the glass in fury, "No! Give it back to me! That is mine!"
He takes his wand out and throws as many spells as he can at the glass; they are absorbed, and nothing happens. Voldemort screams in frustration at Harry, who is pocketing the stone and standing over Quirrell's body with pity.
The flames flicker purple again, and Severus walks through—his servant!—Voldemort tries to call on him, bang the glass for attention, but Severus purposefully does not look in his direction, keeping a stern frown on Potter.
Severus makes a move to leave with Potter, a firm hand on his shoulder.
"No! Come back!"
He couldn't be trapped here!
*
Heaven was still a prison for the undead who could not return to the world of the living. No matter how many gifts and comforts it provides.
Dumbledore ordered the mirror to be kept in a secure place. Voldemort had paced and shouted and tried to destroy the glass, using Muggle or magical means. Dumbledore had wizards cover the glass with a large cloth, and Voldemort could see the light change from the glass.
Was he still at Hogwarts?
"It's too dark here," he thought, and he wished he could see something other than darkness. Suddenly, his surroundings were illuminated from above. A large expanse of white.
Voldemort spent days, months—he couldn't tell, there was no naturally rising sun—studying the mirror and its limits. He could conjure anything of his desire, but he understood there was no authentic quality to it. The mirror was mocking him. He had a wand, had his body, but he didn't really 'have' it. He was trapped in this other mirror world of his design.
*
Voldemort was used to his own company. He had travelled alone during the prime of his youth, studying and learning all types of obscure magic. Gaining his power, his strength, mastering the dark arts.
When it was time to return to England, the company of others had been difficult to adjust to. People were just too slow, too mediocre, and too useless to get things done the way he liked. He was not a patient man and had wanted to win Great Britain. He didn't want to spend eternity waiting for the throne that he knew was rightfully his. People stood well out of his way. His followers, though loyal (or so he thought) would not spend more time with him than necessary.
Here in the mirror; he was truly alone. He could move freely and explore the made-up realm of the mirror world. He spent hours, and months, conjuring, and designing his world from memory. Busying himself with questions he’d put on hold.
But it was empty.
Always empty.
*
Voldemort had once been fixated on it, staring numbly through the cloth-covered glass as if turned to stone.
Then, by chance, the cloth that covered the mirror was pulled back and it revealed a boy, Harry Potter–Voldemort saw the scar– now taller and slightly older, in Hogwarts robes, peering intently into the glass.
Voldemort’s first thought was shock mingled with relief. He was still in Hogwarts!
(He tried not to think about the time that passed.)
Voldemort, invisible to Potter, noticed the boy's intense scrutiny. Potter whispered, "Where are you?" eyes peering intently, visibly upset by his reflection or lack thereof.
Voldemort took that time to study his nemesis as well. Although older, the boy was pale, eyes sunken, frowning. Potter knew the mirror was able to conjure his desire, and had somehow found the mirror again…what desire was it that he sought?
Potter visits become more frequent, almost an obsession.
Potter had once used it to obtain the Philosopher's Stone. He could take things ‘out’ of the mirror. Perhaps he would be the answer to Voldemort’s escape?
One day, after hearing Potter's wishful sigh, "I wish you were here," Voldemort focused all his will and intent on revealing himself.
"I am here," he said, startling Potter.
“Who–”
"You called for me," Voldemort claimed.
Potter furrowed his brows, “I thought I’d see my parents. My heart’s…desire…”
“I am your heart’s desire– you wish for a friend to listen.”Voldemort, his cunning mind turning, “To understand you.”
Potter didn’t trust him at first, suspicious green eyes and mouth silent. Voldemort persisted until one day, Potter returned looking more haggard than usual, rummaging his wild black hair.
“What do I call you?”
“Tom.” Voldemort internally baulked at his slip. But it was too late.
“Tom.” Harry repeated, “Why are you in the mirror?”
“Because you desired a friend.” Voldemort lied. “I am here for you.”
Potter’s shoulders finally lowered, and he sighed. “Well, I could use some advice.”
*
Potter usually comes after night, in his ratty pyjamas, using an invisibility cloak and a map that shows him Hogwarts and its occupants.
(Voldemort was salivating at that idea, when he left the mirror he would be taking that)
He talked about his lessons and his life. Potter was in his final Newt Year. His life had not been what he was expecting. He said after his first year, it only got worse.
“I hadn’t realised I was abused, the Dursleys have always hated me–”
“Lockheart tried to Obliviate me–”
“Accidently killed my best friend’s pet rat and we haven’t been the same since–”
“Made a fool of myself in front of Cedric Diggorry, yeah, my gay awakening was not fun–”
“My Godfather died in prison, didn’t even know I had a Godfather–”
“Almost got expelled last year, even though it was Malfoy’s sodding fault–”
Voldemort grew an appetite for these interactions, the boy was the only external stimulation he had (in a long time). Curious, and perhaps too conscious of others, Harry asked ‘Tom’ to share as well… Voldemort showed Harry the world he conjured. Shared with him what knowledge he had. Even helping the boy with his studies.
“You're brilliant.”
Potter was wrong, he was exceptional.
The boy was obviously depressed. When Voldemort escaped the mirror, he would end the boy’s life for him.
He couldn’t outwardly ask it from Potter. No. He had to be clever about it. Potter had to desire for Voldemort to leave.
“Your friends don’t understand you, unlike me…”
“I wish I was there and I would help you…”
“You can tell me anything Harry… it doesn’t bother me at all…”
Little things. To help build trust, make the boy depend on him emotionally and hopefully desire for Voldemort in all sense.
“You understand me.”
Voldemort preened at that, palms open and splayed on the glass. “I do.”
Potter’s eyes were rimmed red, leaning his forehead against the mirror. “I’m not ready to leave Hogwarts, or…” shyly, he looks up from his black eyelashes, “leave you.”
Voldemort smiled. He was so close to his goal. “Then don’t.”
*
Potter is in muggle attire, standing in front of the mirror, his jaw set and determined.
“I want to be with you.”
Voldemort felt an odd tingling warmth at those words.
“Then be with me.”
Desire, is powerful magic, especially in the hands of a powerful wizard.
A bright light shone between the glass, and suddenly Potter stumbled through the glass, into Voldmeort’s chest. Heavy, weighted, real.
No, this wasn’t supposed to happen–!
Harry adjusted his glass. Green eyes staring into Voldemort’s meagre soul. Trapped in an empty magical void. A blinding smile.
“Hello.”
His world welcomes a new sun.