Ghost
Harry couldn’t rip his gaze away.
The mirror was tall as it was wide—a world of endless black lurking beyond the glass. It was just as Harry had remembered, but now, there was no Dumbledore to guide him away from its lure.
He was alone with the Mirror of Erised, and the longer he looked, the more he stood in its calm darkness, the more obvious it became that he wasn’t alone.
Hadn’t been for a long time since the war had ended so many years before.
He touched his scar without meaning to, fingers probing over the skin as if waiting for it to twinge, to explode into a flurry of anguish and pain, as it had so many times in the past.
But it didn’t. The scar hadn’t hurt in years, would never hurt again now that Voldemort was dead, and yet—
Standing beyond the glass, in a darkness more opaque than the bottomless depths of the lake, stood Tom Riddle himself.
Harry didn’t move when he stepped closer behind Harry’s reflection, that familiar set of dark eyes catching his own through the glass.
Harry wasn’t surprised to see him. It was always him, always the face of the monster that had devoured most of his childhood life, that had wiped out any chance of a normal life after Voldemort had died.
There was a moment of silence between them, and then, Harry was moving towards the glass, eating up what little space there was between them. Tom’s expression remained unchanged, unmoved.
“Hello again.”
Harry started at the sound, at the familiar sibilant tone he’d heard time and time again in his nightmares.
“What brings you back? Trouble with the world you tried so hard to protect?” Tom’s lips curled into sardonic grin, white teeth flashing like a gem in the light.
“Shut up.”
Harry’s nose flared as he tried to rein in his sudden burst of anger. They both knew things weren’t going well for Harry since the war had ended.
Everyone had moved on, had somehow managed to swat away the demons and the shadows in the corners of their eyes. Harry had had no such luck.
Tom followed him through the looking glass.
From a beer bottle to a pool of standing water, there was nowhere for Harry to run.
Tom was a spirit that refused to die.
“It’s your fault everyone thinks I’ve gone stark, raving mad. It’s your fault I—“
Harry’s anger diminished as quickly as it had come, hand carding through his hair to stop himself from saying something he might regret. He almost told him about Ginny, about how his relationship had gone up in smoke because he couldn’t stand to look at her, not without thinking about the war.
Not without thinking about empty eyes and a cold, dark cavern.
“Really now?” Tom’s lips curled further, as if he knew exactly what Harry had been about to say. “Must I now suffer the blame for all your misfortunes after my death?”
Harry’s hands curled into fists, a wave of anger so violent consuming him. Tom’s expression had grown more smug, more malevolent. It would only be a matter of time before Tom managed to provoke him.
He always did.
“No, Harry. There is no one else to blame but yourself.”
Harry slammed his hand against the glass, wishing more than ever that he could hit Tom. Just once. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t.
“You are the villain to your own story. Have and always will be.”
Harry bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. It wasn’t true. He wasn’t the bad guy here. From the start of it all, it had always been Tom, always been him.
He’d destroyed Harry’s life, still was destroying his life, even now.
“If only I had seen it then, perhaps things might have ended differently, perhaps—“
Tom’s voice was a low purr now, a sound that made the hairs on the nape of Harry’s neck stand on end.
“—perhaps, I could have saved you.”
Harry turned away and ran, Tom’s laughter following him through the halls.
Through the windows.
Through standing water.
There was nowhere to go where Tom didn’t follow.
Not anymore.