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ONLY SO MANY BATTLES
By Splitbeak
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter ain't mine, nor any other characters that appear in the books. There shall be no sue-age! You hear me? No sue! (Please?)
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CHAPTER ONE: KNOW YOUR OPPONENT
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"We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry!" Voldemort taunted. He could all but imagine the trembles racking the small form hiding behind the headstone. As if he were truly safe behind what could easily be reduced to rubble with the merest incantation. He chuckled, hearing his servants chorus around him. Good. Let the fools know the force of his power.
"Expelliarmus!" the boy's voice cracked as he shouted, trying to topple a troll with a toothpick. Voldemort's grin grew as he launched his final blow upon this pest.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Voldemort knew this part well. He still kicked himself fiercely in the privacy of his own mind that he could have once again overlooked so basic a tenant of magic. As the spells connected, the Priori Incantatem lit up the graveyard. As always when he dreamed of this event he remembered the bright light filling his vision, the struggle to match the boy's will. And his failure.
The Dark Lord slept comfortably in his silk sheets, replaying the memory again and again in his dreams. Despite what that old fool Dumbledore may think of him, Voldemort was not a wizard to repeat his mistakes. It had never happened before, and but for this one blip, it will never, ever happen. So Voldemort did what any smart campaign leader would do: he reviewed his errors over and over until he understood what had gone wrong.
He studied the two figures ensconced in the bright shield, observing Potter's weaknesses. The boy was shaking and sweating fiercely; perhaps some tears were mixed in as well. But he held firmly, despite his obvious exhaustion and terror. Voldemort shook his head. No, the secret to defeating Potter lay not in an outright confrontation of the likes of Gryffindor; that much was certain.
The pulsing stream jolting between their wands slammed into dream-Voldemort's, and in that moment the glowing dome exploded. Voldemort felt the resounding impact ringing in his ears even knowing it was just a dream, a memory. He had experienced this before each time he replayed the events. He stood with his phantasmal feet spread, mentally braced for the burning magic about to sear his body to the core. It had hurt beyond all measure that night. Even the echoes he felt in his dreams were agony.
Tonight was no different as he felt the rebounding magic slingshot through his soul. He felt something in his periphery shudder and thought he heard a low moan. Voldemort paused, no longer interested in watching dream-Potter make his dash for freedom. No, it was this new presence that held his attention. Something or someone else was bearing witness and had responded to the magic unleashed in this memory-dream. This had certainly never happened before. Intrigued, Voldemort sent subtle tendrils of his mind across the graveyard, searching for the intruder.
Invisible snakes weaved through the gravestones, sniffing out the alien presence. Voldemort held himself stiffly, listening for anything abnormal. His head jerked sharply to the right when he felt one of his tendrils bump into the mysterious figure. Voldemort stalked towards the intruder, certain they did not yet know of their peril. Increasing his angle to be further away from his mystery prey, Voldemort walked around the hill that had acted as a stage for his legendary duel.
A hint of red caught his attention, causing his eyes to focus in on the red shirt of a boy silently watching the fight from behind a gravestone carved into an angel holding a heart. Voldemort immediately recognized the mop of dark hair, not needing the confirmation of the boy's face.
So, Potter had discovered his little study session then, eh?
Voldemort smirked. Thus far Potter seemed unaware of the real Voldemort's presence. The boy's gaze was riveted on the body of his classmate lying still on the ground. As dream-Potter grabbed hold of the portkey and Diggory and disappeared, real Potter stood as if to leave. No longer hidden by the stone, Voldemort was granted a look at his enemy's face.
Potter was clearly torn between fear and anger. The first was as it should be, the second annoyed Voldemort. What did Potter have to be angry about? He had won that round after all.
Voldemort snorted in frustration and prepared to exit the dream. Let Potter watch. There was no way for either of them to affect each other in the dreamscape.
A grunt distracted Voldemort before he could disappear, making him look at the boy. Potter had collapsed on his knees, retching. Voldemort froze, shocked. What had made the boy sick? Could he actually hurt him here? He watched and waited, hoping for some clue to reveal itself.
All things do come to he who waits.
"Stupid, stupid," Potter mumbled to himself, shaking his head to clear it. "It's just a dream. It didn't hurt like that in real life. It's just a dream."
If Voldemort had eyebrows they would have risen to the top of his hood. Potter had felt the backlash? Obviously not in real life, but at least in this reality he had. And not only had he felt them, but they had affected him enough to make him ill. Excitedly pondering the possibilities, Voldemort drew his wand. "Crucio!"
Potter never flinched, never acknowledged the curse. Voldemort frowned, knowing it had been too good to be true. Unwilling to give up, he tried again. "Imperio!" Again Potter had no reaction.
Voldemort sighed. An aberration then, but one that merited careful consideration. If his time in exile had taught him nothing else, it had certainly taught him patience. He would just have to pick at this mystery more carefully.
"Avada Kedavra," he incanted dully, if more out of longing than any real hope the spell would work.
Potter jerked, overbalancing and falling onto his back with a gasp. Voldemort barely registered his enemy's reaction as the world exploded within his mind. Visions of walking Hogwarts halls with another boy and a girl filled his mind. Laughing, stressing, arguing, studying, just hanging out… all the feelings of friendship Voldemort had so long denied flooded into his mind. Wind whipping his face as his hand closed around the spirited snitch burned his skin. A red, portly excuse for a man was bearing down on him, screaming in incoherent rage. The man's red face morphed into Voldemort's pale one with red eyes.
Potter's memories. Voldemort jerked himself back, gasping himself. He blinked as the graveyard came into focus, Potter still laying panting on the ground. Voldemort reached out tentatively with his mind and was surprised to not only touch, but to practically engulf Potter's with absolutely no resistance. Potter's mind was raw and wide open, offering no defense against his intrusion.
Disbelieving the power he held in his hands, Voldemort slowly, gently started exerting pressure on the vulnerable mind. Potter screamed, hands gripping either side of his head. The harder Voldemort squeezed, the more Harry screamed, but more importantly, the closer Voldemort felt to the mind. Some instinct inside him compelled him to try and align his own thoughts with the mind he held captive. He could not describe what he was doing, even to himself, but it was wonderful. This was his birthright.
Potter's continued screams were just icing on the cake.
Voldemort was becoming giddy with the power flowing from Potter's pulsing mind into his own. He could feel a vitality filling every pore in his brain. Vitality so young and raw he hadn't realized he was missing it. His youth was a long time ago.
Voldemort eagerly sucked, draining Potter's strength like a succubus. He was unstoppable. Nothing on this planet…!
A brick wall rushed up to meet him as the connection was abruptly severed. Voldemort screamed in pain and rage. His body shook, his thoughts scattered. What…? Where? He tried to put a coherent thought together, but all he was capable of acknowledging was that the power was gone.
He looked up just in time to see a black specter whisking Potter away, out of his reach. Voldemort sat on the imaginary grass, panting, unsure whether he felt revitalized or like his soul had been cleaved once more.