A/N: Just a quick note to say that this was written for pheonical-maniax. Enjoy!
"Harry, Harry." He hears it, far away, in the back of his head, but he can't respond because his lips aren't working, and he's just so damn tired. "Harry!"
He bolts upright and looks wildly around. He's in the Great Hall, surrounded by people and the usual breakfast chatter. There's a cool hand on his shoulder. Hermione's, of course, because she's the one who's been calling his name all along.
"Harry, are you okay?" He takes a deep breath before answering.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"
She snorts. "Because you practically had your nose in your porridge."
He grins at her and rubs his eyes. "I'm just a little tired, is all."
"Having trouble sleeping?" Her voice is anxious, worried. "Having nightmares again?"
He nods, but says nothing. How can he? These nightmares, dreams, figments of his sleeping imagination, they're unlike anything he's ever experienced before. It's the same dream, over and over again, a hundred times a night, a thousand, every night. The dream has taken over his life. It's become him. It's the bags under his eyes, the light yellow tinge in his skin. The dream is in control of him, but he loves it as much as he hates it. At night, when he lies down in bed, he dreads it; a smoky fear creeps out from under the bed and smothers him while his skin tingles in anticipation.
In his dream, he's at Hogwarts. He knows this because of the stone floors and the familiar suits of armor. He knows this because there is sometimes a window and when he looks through it, he can see the lake, but mostly he knows it's Hogwarts because he's had the dream before.
There's a slight mist around his ankles, but he ignores it and starts walking. He realizes then that he's holding books, clutching them close to his chest, gripping them so hard it almost hurts. The corridor he's going down is completely unfamiliar to him and every so often, there's a door, but he passes them by without a second glance. Behind them, he knows, there is only a wall, part of the corridor itself.
Eventually, after what feels like hours of walking, he comes to a dead end. He shifts his books to one arm and slowly runs his fingers over the stone wall in front of him, looking for a crack or chip or even the tiniest of crevasses, but he finds nothing. Only complete and utter smoothness. He sighs, then starts as he hears footsteps behind him, and this is the best part, his favorite part because when dream-Harry turns, he doesn't know what's coming, he doesn't even begin to imagine, but sleeping-Harry does; he knows and in his bed, with the darkness pressing down around him, the corners of his mouth turn up just a fraction turning it into something like a smile.
"Are you lost?" That's the question that makes dream-Harry turn.
And there he is, in his Hogwarts robes, a shiny prefect badge looking at Harry from right beside the green and silver Slytherin crest.
His entire body goes cold, except for the pit of fire in his belly. Voldemort, he thinks and then, No, Tom Riddle. But he hates them both just the same.
"Are you lost?" he repeats, his face curious, with perhaps the slightest hint of concern, his hands poised, ready to guide him gently towards his destination, but in his eyes is a minute glint of something that doesn't quite fit his expression.
Instinctively, Harry reaches for his wand, but it's not there because Harry is in his pajamas. He panics. His eyes are wide and he's so incredibly scared, far more terrified than he can ever remember being, the fear eats and eats at him until he can't breathe, until he's sure he's going to pass out. He turns again, banging against the wall, begging it to let him through. He's screaming and before he realizes it, he's crying too because Tom Riddle is standing just a few feet away from him, as real as ever, and Harry is trapped. So he screams because that's all he can do, but in the next moment, his terrified shrieks are muffled because there's a hand over his mouth, and arm around his belly, a body against his, and a quiet, insistent voice in his ear saying, "calm down, calm down," over and over again.
And after a few moments, he does.
He breathes normally and the screams die in his throat, though there are still tears running down his cheeks and his body is tense.
"Now," says the voice in his ear, taking his hand away from Harry's mouth, but making no move to step back or let go, "who are you, and what are you doing here?"
And it occurs to Harry at this point that Tom Riddle doesn't know him and that maybe he has a chance after all.
"I'm, I'm…" but Harry doesn't know what he's doing here or even who he is supposed to be. "I don't know." He's trying to think, trying to get out of this somehow, but his brain is foggy and he wants nothing more than to give up and let Tom Riddle win. "I'm tired," he mumbles.
"Come on," says Riddle and his voice is firm, but not entirely unkind. Only, there's still a tiny something, like the glint in his eyes. Harry, however, cannot bring himself to care because he is just so exhausted. So he doesn't fight when Riddle wraps one of Harry's arms around his shoulder and tugs him along, pulling him, leading him down a maze of corridors and staircases, and Harry just lets it happen.
They stop in front of a door. Harry hears him mutter something in parseltongue, but he doesn't quite catch it. The room they enter is furnished rather simply. Dark cherry woods and cream-colored linens. A bed, an armchair, a desk, a sink, and nothing more. The door closes behind and Harry perches on the end of the bed, swaying to and fro. A hand on his shoulder stops him.
"Where are you from?"
"England," answers Harry, the word like taffy in his mouth.
"What's wrong with you?"
Harry shrugs and lets himself fall back on the bed. He's forgetting things- or trying to- things like who he's with and the fact that he's scared. His eyes close.
Riddle swears and murmurs something of which Harry only catches, "don't know why I bother."
"I need to go home," says Harry. "Take me home."
"You're in England, aren't you?" He sounds meaner than he has since he found Harry, colder.
"I hate you," Harry tells him. "And I'm going to kill you."
Riddle only laughs. "You don't even know me." His eyes narrow momentarily, a half-second of suspicion he doesn't bother to hide. Harry says nothing, but smiles.
And then, suddenly, he's on Harry, pinning his arms down. "Who are you?" Cold, cold, his voice is sharp-as-knives icicles. His eyes flash.
"Harry," he says.
"Why are you here?"
Harry laughs, and Riddle repeats his question, which only makes Harry laugh louder.
Riddle climbs off him, letting himself land lightly beside Harry.
In his bed, back in the Gryffindor dormitory, Harry smiles again as dream-Harry lays on his side to get a good look at Tom Riddle.
"We look just alike," he says quietly, but Harry already knows this so he does not reply. Instead, he reaches over to touch that face, that hair. His hand slips down to Riddle's neck. Silver and green.
"Just alike," Harry echoes and closes his eyes again. Behind his eyelids there is nothing. There is silence (except for the sound of their breathing) and the feel of silk beneath Harry's fingers.
And after a little while, there's the taste of Tom's lips, which are wet and a little salty and powerful, and Harry allows himself to be swallowed up by that power. He submits to Tom Riddle, mostly because his body is weak and he's sick of fighting.
He kisses Riddle back lightly, allowing him to do as he pleases, opening his mouth when that forceful tongue demands it of him and moaning a little when he just can't hold it back anymore. It's then that he feels Riddle's hand, which has somehow gotten past his pajama bottoms, take a hold of him and squeeze and squeeze and stroke while his tongue is still invading Harry's mouth. His cheeks are flushed and he's gripping Riddle's tie so hard that he's a wonder he can breathe. Riddle's hand starts moving faster and faster until Harry can't handle it, until the room is spinning and Harry is coming harder than he ever has, right into Riddle's hand.
When he wakes up, his sheets are a mess and his head is pounding. His heart beats loudly in his chest.
In this moment, right before the self-loathing begins, before the tossing and turning, before a night of keeping himself awake, those words ring in his ears and echo:
"Just alike."