Thomas Riddle and the Lamb of Dreams, a harry potter fanfic

Warnings: Alternate Universe (Reincarnation/Canon Divergence), cute, fluff, seriously academic vocabulary, gods and champions, trust issues

Pairing: TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter)

Summary: Tom Riddle is granted his right to reincarnate under one condition: a probation period of 25 years in his next life, supervised by the very god that's claimed him—the God of Dreams, formerly (in life) Harry Potter.

No one mentioned being born back in time, in an alternate dimension, forced into the "champion" role by said god. Or, now that he thinks about it, actually liking his supervisor, who is a cuddly lamb at his best and an irritating nuisance at his worst.

And a horse. Tom figures it's rather important to mention that part, since everyone else seemed more than happy to ignore it.

By now he's sure his life is just cosmic irony defined.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling

"I'm afraid I've never heard of a student bringing a sheep to school," Armando Dippet, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, says with eyebrows furrowed and fingers steepled. "They usually stay... ah, at home..."

"I couldn't ever imagine why," Tom replies. He hears Harry snicker at his side and restrains the urge to kick him. "They make wonderful pets. Very... intelligent, yes, intelligent. I don't think I could ever live without my pet lamb. He's my—my—" the word comes out somewhat strangled; Dumbledore notices, but not Dippet, "friend."

Needless to say, Dippet is vulnerable like any other adult to the pleading face of an eleven year old. Victory is but on the horizon. Tom mentally sighs in relief.

"Well... You're sure he's accustomed to in-doors?"

Tom forces himself to brighten. "Oh yes. He lives inside our house at the farm—completely domesticated. Harry's actually very spoiled—we never let him sleep in the barn!"

"And he's accustomed to people?"

"Harmless. If anything, he's very shy."

As if to emphasize his point, Harry moves to hide behind Tom's short eleven year old legs. When three pairs of eyes turn to look at him, the lamb makes a show of ducking his head and wiggling his wiggly listeners, blinking his little peepers like all cute baby animals were born with the ability to do. As the finishing move, Harry boops his tiny snootle against Tom's hand, and at that point he knows the two aged wizards are basically in the clips of his cloppy thumpers.

"But of course he likes people after he gets to know them," Tom continues smugly to nail in the proverbial coffin. "Loves to be pet, actually. Sort of like a cat." Here, Tom makes a smooth stroke down Harry's back, and the lamb melts into the touch purely on instinct.

Harry doesn't need to fake cuddle time. When Tom pulls away, Harry's little front thumpers clip-clop on the marble floor of the office, showing his want for more pets.

"Baaa," Harry bleats. Tom twitches.

"How absolutely adorable!" Dumbledore says with his grandfather smile, "May I?"

"Of course."

Tom nudges Harry forward. Acting hesitant, the lamb approaches the old wizard, and when he reaches a hand out to pet him, begins to act shy but curious. He wiggles his fluffy puffer the closer Dumbledore gets to him, but allows the wrinkled hand to pat his head, even flicking his wiggly listeners.

Dippet looks torn between keeping a professional face and asking for a try too.

Tom smirks. Too easy. "Would you like to pet him too, Professor?"

"Mm... Ah... Well... If you insist—"

Harry exaggerates his small skip-gallop to the headmaster and even offers his head. Dippet is charmed and lost.

Tom gives him two minutes before calling attention back to the situation at hand. "So... may I bring him to school, Professors?"

"I see no problem with it!" Dumbledore happily replies.

Dippet nods his head. "Neither do I," he says, and Harry bleats again a soft baa.

Tom and Harry leave the office.

"For a god, you're absolutely shameless," Tom sneers.

"You can't resist me either," Harry counters. He bleats once, skips forward while wiggling his wiggly fluff-puff, and then turns to circle Tom before he rubs up against a clothed leg urging for pets.

"Spoiled, rotten creature," Tom spits, malice on his tongue and disgust bleeding through his voice. He still reaches down to pet Harry's head.

"If anything, I've spoiled you."

Tom doesn't have anything to say to that.

Tommy had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Tommy went
The lamb was sure to go.

It followed him to school one day,
Which was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school.

And so the teacher turned it out,
But still it lingered near,
And waited patiently about
Till Tommy did appear.

Why does the lamb love Tommy so?
The eager children cry;
Why, Tommy loves the lamb, you know,
The teacher did reply.

"You're disgusting," Tom hisses under his breath.

Harry is unperturbed. He continues to munch on the grassy bundle before him, behind the bench that Tom sits on at the Slytherin table of the Great Hall. He doesn't need to eat, but to keep appearances he might as well. (Though, he's already stopped his aging as a lamb and no one ever calls him out on it due to the wonders of cosmic power, so.)

Besides, the house-elves fell in love with him on day one, which means Harry gets the best forbs on the grounds—just like Merope always gives him. And as a lamb, grass tastes great!

"I'm your pet lamb. You're supposed to love me, Tom."

"What is supposed to be is different from reality," Tom mutters.

Harry snickers. "I don't believe you," he replies, ending the conversation when he dips his head and grabs a mouthful of grassy goodness. Unfortunately, the flowers on it tickle his snootle, and Harry ends up sneezing (adorably, of course).

Pretty much the entirety of the Great Hall is wondering why there's a lamb in the school, and who does it belong to, and how can something non-magical be so cute. Harry doesn't particularly favor the attention, but it gets on Tom's nerves, which is reason enough to enjoy it. So he preens under their lovestruck eyes and Tom grumbles something about shameless gods and not cute at all.

Harry knows he's lying, but he leaves Tom to his delusions anyway as a sort of pity-move.

School is fun as a pet. In his first life he should've figured out how to be an animagus and lived like that forever—kind of like the rat who once upon a time was a pet to his old best friend long ago. That would've been pretty funny.

A fifth year Hufflepuff proves as brave as a lion as her affection for cute things wins over her fear of snakes. Harry rewards her bravery by booping her hand with his snootle and turning in to her touch. There is a hushed aww from the female student body, and the only the thing that makes her stop and move away getaway STOPTOUCHINGMYLAMB is the evil, weighted glare that Tom shoots her.

"It's not nice to glare at people, Tom," Harry chides, taking the role of the conscience that Tom never had before. He's on probation still, even if it doesn't seem like it, and Harry is determined to make a relatively humane champion out of him by the age of twenty-five.

Tom turns the weight of his glare on him. Harry is unaffected, but that doesn't stop him from trying anyway. "Have some dignity," Tom sniffs. "You're a god."

"And you're jealous," Harry teases. "It's okay Tom, I like your cuddles best. You've had eleven years to learn what spots I like, after all."

The physically eleven year old doesn't even deem that worthy of a reply. He sneers, turns back to his food, and leaves Harry to snicker and act as cute as a button. Feeling the attention of more than half of the Great Hall, Harry tilts his head, wiggles his wiggly tuffs of puff, wiggles his figgly wiggler, and then bleats a soft baa.

Not even the female Slytherins, supposedly infamous for their cold-blooded, icy nature, are immune from the cuteness of a fluffy baby sheep.

As much as Tom claims to hate him, Harry knows his mortal actually is kind of maybe grateful. It's been two hundred years since Voldemort died and Tom Riddle appeared in the after-life (to go on to conquer the Realm of Hell, as well as become commander of the Demon Army, and rally the Devil-Dijinn Alliance—), at least for Tom, and pretty much all that was left of his first life is a passive loathing for the Boy-Who-Lived.

A pretty good deal.

Now in his second life, Tom has a reluctant and grudging respect for the God of Dreams. Because Harry has picked a generally okay dimension to plop him in—aside from the Dark Lord Grindelwald and his problems, and World War II—both of his parents are alive and happily in love (and married; eloped, but married), they are attentive and caring, and Tom even keeps his Slytherin line Parseltongue since Merope is still from the Gaunts.

Their life may not be in riches and wealth, but it's a simple sort of happiness. It's what Tom needs, Harry knows, because once upon a time he needed it too.

Harry shifts on the mattress of the bed. Tom's arms are tight around him, and it's getting hard to breathe. He doesn't really need to breathe, but it's uncomfortable having his lungs squeezed. Once he's properly rearranged, Harry lowers his head again to rest against the pillow. Tom murmurs in his sleep.

They have been accustomed to sleeping in the same bed ever since the beginning of this life. Perhaps it's because Harry made sure to dote love and affection on Tom since day one that the once Dark Lord has come to be quite the unconscious snuggler—he's not sure, but he's not questioning it. Tom's cuddles are nice.

Contrary to his personality and indeed even his attitude, Tom is always careful and gentle when handling him. As if it's because Harry is in an animal form and he cannot bring himself to harm the creatures that unconditionally provide him comfort, Tom is... nice. But only while cuddling him.

It shows humanity, humanity that once upon a time Harry had been convinced—indeed, even Tom himself had been convinced—that never existed. And Harry is extremely glad that it does, because that means that he's been right the whole time in choosing Tom as his champion.

The champion of a god is important because gods can only do three things in the physical realm: stir the air with their breath, call the rain with their tears, and give blessings with their touch. Champions become the bringers of the gods' will. Their extended limbs, so to speak. If something needs to be done, the god's champion will perform it.

With all the main gods resting on Mount Olympus, their individual pantheons are left to do all the work. Hecate is the leader of the pantheon Harry is a part of now; he isn't sure about other pantheons, but Hecate's chooses her gods using the Deathly Hallows. Across all dimensions, should any witch or wizard manage to gather all three items and have each accept them as their master, that magical being would ascend to the status of a minor god after their death.

There is a surprisingly small amount of humans who ever manage to succeed. The chances of such fickle items as the Deathly Hallows all agreeing on one human to be their master is far less than a hundredth of a percent—Harry is the most recent addition.

It is why the issue in this dimension calls for direct interference from a god's champion. The Gellert Grindelwald of this dimension is far closer than any other to brute force his way into getting all three of the Deathly Hallows. That, that is unacceptable. Death had personally sought Harry out for this mission, being so close to what he had experienced in life, and so Harry chose Tom.

A long time ago, he had picked Tom.

Time is relative. According to the gods' will, it flows quickly or slowly, stutters or pauses, runs or creeps. They control their own individual times—existing in a place above dimensions and therefore everywhere, every time, simultaneously. Only mortals born into the physical realm have a more definite sense of "time," locked into the dimension they last lived in. Two hundred years has passed for Tom, but for Harry, it is as vivid as yesterday and as distant as the beginning of the universe.

Harry shifts. He does not like being helpless, and indeed in some ways he is in this form in this life. He has power, but not all of it. The restraint is as uncomfortable as the first time he decided to reincarnate. In this world, the most powerful mortal is Grindelwald, and Harry knows he must protect Tom until the time his champion is strong enough to oust the Dark Lord from his throne.

The lamb wrinkles his snootle and boops Tom's cheek with it. Asleep.

But Tom is stirring anyway. And that is unacceptable—someone is trying to tamper with his champion in his domain. The presence is unwanted.

Harry decides to put a stop to it, now.

Tom is walking.

He isn't quite sure where he is or where he's going, but his mind tells him that he really doesn't care—so he walks. Weaving through the trees of a forest, stepping over bulging roots and scrappy foliage… Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot… Breathe.

It reminds him of the Albanian forests, Tom thinks. Or is it instead Scotland—the Forbidden Forest—

He doesn't know. Strangely, this fact doesn't bother him in the least.

At one point during his walk, Tom reaches a clearing. No—maybe it is better to say that he has arrived at the end of the forest? Past the trees there is nothing more than grassy meadow, stretching all the way into the horizon. No, is it a meadow, or is it a wheat field? It reminds him of the wheat that the farmers grow, the farmers in his sleepy little slice of countryside.

He imagines the man who is his father in this life time, trading eggs and milk for grain.

But then he recalls the pastures of the ranch, and the cattle being herded, and the woman who is his mother in this life time is there, too—watching, smiling, in the background—cross-eyed and wispy-haired and in a very strange sort of way, beautiful. Pretty, not the prettiest—no, certainly not, but with a charm about her that only those in love seem to possess.

Tom stares out into the horizon, endless green and endless yellow and just endless, and recalls a million different things as if he's looking down into a pool of his memories from atop the world.

It makes him think of Harry, Tom realizes with a start. Harry, his little pet lamb—no, Harry, his lifelong companion—no again, Harry, the God of Dreams—yes, that's right. Harry is the God of Dreams. His supervisor. He's on probation, still.

Tom looks down at his hands. Tiny, thin and callused. He is not a man—he is a boy, an eleven year old lanky little boy.

Harry is his. It sounds right, that possessive word. His. Harry might be a god, might be as old as the universe, might be shameless and irritating and fluffy and warm and caring, but Harry is his. No—but? Why but? Is Harry not supposed to be his? That can't be right. Tom frowns, squints, stares out into the distance as if the answers are hiding somewhere, out there in the long, grey expanse of sky.

Grey… cloudy? No, just grey.

The sky should be blue, Tom thinks. There is a moment of confusion between the thought and his expectation that, as if realizing its mistake has been recognized, the sky would indeed turn its proper color, but the moment fades away and it doesn't happen. Tom frowns. What was he thinking about?

Farm. Ranch. Parents. Life. Boy… Probation. He is on probation. Until he's twenty-five. That's in fourteen more years. Fourteen years… He's eleven, now.

Eleven. Wraith. Snakes. Albania. Alone. Nagini…

What?

No—no—that can't be right.

Fire. Brimstone and ashes that never quite settled—suffering and pain, but not enough. Insufficient. Pathetic. Fight.

Tom blinks. Where is he, exactly? What is he doing here? This isn't Hell—no, no he left that. The succession battles must be going on right now, surely. Lots of chaos. Lots of war and strife. Oh, the demons must like that. Too much peace under him—a peace ruled by an iron-fist, but peace nonetheless. They didn't quite like that.

Yes, demons like battles and blood and chaos and war. They especially like sacrifices in the name of aforementioned things, preferably—

Sacrifices… sacrificial lamb? Lambs… Tom has a pet lamb. His name is Harry.

Ah, Harry. Tom blinks. That's who he was thinking about… right?

Harry is such a common name. What in Salazar's name made his mother name him such a disgustingly plebian thing? Harry. Harrison. Henry. How… normal. Just like his own name—Tom. No, Thomas. After his father—not the father he killed, well alright maybe that one kind of, but his father now. In this life time. Thomas Riddle, Senior. He is… Tom is Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Junior.

Thomas Marvolo Riddle…

Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort… Tom closes his eyes and sighs. It has been a long time since he's thought of Voldemort. Voldemort the Dark Lord. Voldemort the failure—no, he, Tom Riddle, failed. And Voldemort failed with him. Maybe? Or is it the other way around…

Voldemort was weak, Tom thinks. Felled by a child. The Boy-Who-Lived. How old was the Boy-Who-Lived then, again? He can't remember… It's been two hundred years, hasn't it? Two hundred…

Boy-Who-Lived. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord… was it? What was the power? What did he have? Why did Voldemort not see it?

Because Voldemort was weak, Tom thinks. Foolish. Pathetic. Boy-Who-Lived…

Tom realizes with a start that he doesn't recall the boy's name. Imagine that, his arch-nemesis, the bane of his existence when alive, and he can't even remember the boy's real name. What a joke. Lusted for his death, wanted to see the life leave his eyes forever, and he can't even remember the boy's name. What a joke.

It must've been something common, Tom thinks. Something horribly plebian. Merlin knows the gods love their irony so of course whoever killed him—no, Voldemort—has to have been someone normal. Dull. Pathetic, maybe. Inexperienced. Boy-Who-Lived. Yes, the Boy-Who-Lived must have had a common, undistinguished name—something dreadfully boring, just like his own—Tom.

A gust of wind shoves Tom back, but he doesn't stumble. Instead, Tom opens his eyes again, meets the wind even though it stings the corners of his eyes, and stands straight and tall in defiance to it. No wind will push him down. Perish the thought—no wind could ever push him down. No weak force such as air could ever topple him.

He was the Dark Lord Voldemort! He was Tom Marvolo Riddle! He walked farther upon the path of immortality than anyone else—

But Voldemort was weak. And Tom Riddle failed. And he died.

…He's on probation.

Tom blinks. The world around him seems a lot more dreary and grey with that thought—quite literally, actually. It's like the sky, heavy and long, cried and dripped all its shades of grey onto the world beneath it, and lo and behold all that was bright and green and lovely is now as dull as an old brick, and maybe even duller than that.

His hand twitches, and Tom feels the sense of keenly missing something. What is it, he wonders. He tries to imagine it. Something soft and white and fluffy, familiar on cold nights and warm nights and mornings too. He imagines pressing his face to it, running his fingers through it, reminding himself that this life is real.

Baa, Tom hears, a stupid, irritating sound because it's not even a legitimate bleat. It's just… "Baa!" Fake! From human vocal chords! That baa, just to annoy him, he's sure. Baaaa, Tom's mind whispers, echoing louder and louder. Baaaa!

On cold nights, warm nights, mornings too. That accursed baa! Smug, amused, sarcastic and mocking. Baa! Oh how Tom wants to strangle that sound with his two bare hands! Baa, he hears, repeated on a loop inside his head. All the annoying variations of it, that baa.

Smug. Sarcastic. Teasing, in jest and in laughter and with smiles. Comforting…? No, how could it be—but Tom hears it all the same, always when he needs it most. When his hands tremble and his mind shouts, what are you doing, why are you just standing here? Yes, during those times, he hears it too—baa, and then a soft nudge at his hand, and a sniff, and if he still doesn't reply an earnest boop and maybe even a lick—and then his hands would bury themselves in the soft, fluffy fur, and he would lie there, with—

Harry.

…Where's Harry?

Tom looks around, a growing panic that he knows he'll never admit rooting itself in the pit of his stomach. Harry… Where's Harry? Harry's always with him. Always. He—he isn't doing his job if he's not! He's on probation. Harry has to be here. He's his supervisor, for Merlin's sake—his supervisor and a god and gods don't just… just… Gods aren't just suddenly not there!

Well… at least not Harry.

Tom curses. The grey is getting darker, he thinks. Darker and darker, and while he likes black well enough—he was a Dark Lord, black basically made up his closet and then some—this sort of shade is ominous and uncomfortable. It is foreign, which is strange because black and dark and darkness is never foreign to Tom of all people. But this one is, and he hates it and it's disgusting and dirty and unknown.

Tom doesn't like the unknown. He doesn't have control over the unknown.

Where the bloody hell is Harry?!

It's like sludge, he thinks—thick and goopy and all sophistication is out the window as it turns his surroundings into little better than melting blobs. Tom tries to move his feet, but finds he is unable to, and when he looks down, he realizes with a start that he's—he's—sinking.

First of all, disgusting, second of all, what the hell, thirdly, where is Harry whereismylamb whereisthatstupidgodwhenyouactuallyneedhim—

Oh, yes, and what in the name of Merlin and Morgana is going on?!

Soft laughter makes Tom look up. A man who was not originally there before stands straight and tall—though maybe that last part is relative, considering the fact that Tom is currently in an eleven year old body.

His hair is dark, like Tom's, but messier and fluffy. His clothes are—well, they're clothes. Normal, muggle actually. A pair of well-worn jeans and a loose sweater. Barefoot, which Tom can sympathize with, and no other distinguishable features that call much attention.

The air stirs again, as if someone is breathless with laughter, and the wind blows the man's bangs from his forehead. Tom sees a red angry scar in the shape of a lightning bolt—a curse scar, his mind supplies—and it is only then that Tom notices the man's eyes. Green and endless, like the field and horizon and sky, with a weighted sort of wisdom and a lightness only gained from the experience of life and death and the otherworldly.

This man—this man is a—

Perhaps?

No…

Green like a killing curse, Tom thinks all of a sudden. Bright with due foreboding, colored by a strong will and desire. Avada Kedavra, the words are there on the tip of his tongue but Tom doesn't say them. Can't say them, maybe. He doesn't know. Doesn't think he wants to know. Because Avada Kedavra is like the name of an old friend, so smoothly does it slide—could slide from his lips. And the connection between that spell and this man, well the possibilities could be endless—and because the possibilities could be endless, then it's only right that they actually aren't, and there's one single possibility that he simply hasn't considered.

That's how his life has been, for the past eleven years and probably the past seventy before that. The gods' fault, probably. Cosmic irony and all that.

…He feels like he should know this man.

The man laughs again, and it strikes him how… young his voice sounds. Oh, don't get Tom wrong, the laugh is as old and ancient as the concept of time itself, but just the voice, clear and unhindered by the erosion of age, is youthful. Now that Tom thinks about it, the man isn't truly a man at all—not a child, no, but the appearance is too young to be man.

He had assumed a man because of the weight in his eyes and the experience in his posture, but man isn't the proper word—nor was child or infant or adolescent or some such, Tom would concede that, but… man. Not right.

The gender associated with the word, on the other hand, acceptable. Male. But not—not man.

Something above such a human term. A mortal—

No. Tom decides he isn't going to go there.

"Just like that," the male encourages. "Calm down, nice and easy. Everything is going to be fine."

"Who are you?"

The male smiles, laughs, grins a very wicked grin but laughs the laugh of an angel. "You've forgotten," he says with a degree of amazement and incredulity, "You've forgotten! Ah, how blissful the mortal time is!"

Tom wants to say he'd never forget such a strange stranger, for lack of a better word, but the comment never makes it past his lips.

"I always knew you didn't remember, of course," the male continues, "But I didn't think you'd forgotten. Well, I suppose it doesn't really matter, in the end. This form… I don't hate it, no, but I don't like it either. I don't think I have a reason to like it. So I don't. If that makes sense. Ah, but that's a tangent for another time…"

"Where am I?"

"Don't start panicking again," the male warns. "Stay calm. You're safe here—always safe. You'll never be harmed in this domain—it's yours, to an extent. No, nothing is allowed to hurt you here. I won't allow such barbaric things. No, you're fine. Just relax. I'll handle it, like I always do."

"Where's—" Tom wonders if he's crazy for asking this question, but he feels like the male knows and he can't simply not ask then, "Where's Harry?"

The male smiles, close-lipped and genuine. "Always with you."

"Here?" Tom demands.

"If here is where you are."

"Then why can't I see him?"

"You see only what you want to see."

"What I want," Tom snaps, grinding his teeth together, "is to see Harry. So why don't I?"

"Are you sure that's what you want? You must be very sure—dreams, after all, follow whims, and if you have a whim for something else, then surely they won't show you what you need to see."

Dream, Tom thinks, I'm in a dream. That actually makes a lot of sense. Tom eases, relaxes, and the restraint of his movement is slowly released.

"I think you're lying," Tom says slowly, "I don't think Harry's here."

The male shrugs. "If he's not, it's only because you don't want him to be."

Does he? He isn't sure. All he knows is that Harry is always there, whether he likes it or not, and Tom—as a general rule—can't do a damn thing about it. He isn't supposed to have a choice about that, and now this stranger is telling him that he does. It would be foolish to get confused just because of this little problem. Tom sniffs and shoves all his panic and concern aside.

Harry is fine, he knows. Harry is a god. Harry will be in trouble with a lot of other gods if he isn't doing his job properly—which means Harry will come back, return to forcing his irritating presence upon Tom's unwilling person, and that will be that.

The male smiles again. "Very good," he praises. "Faith makes a god stronger. As a champion, you must have faith."

And then he is gone, just as he came—quick, and never truly there to begin with, just like the wind.

Tom takes a step forward. The ground trembles with the hoof-falls of galloping. It sounds like a stampede, coming from all directions, until it's finally upon him and then he realizes that it isn't. Well, it is, but it isn't at the same time. Because they appear from nowhere and everywhere, from above and below and left and right and just there—like misty apparitions, made of fog and smoke and bone.

They are a herd of horses, black as night and grey as twilight. Their manes and tails are made of some sort of wispy flame, the color of smoke at dusk. Their eyes are smothered fires, still hot coals—but the dull steel of their hooves corral the brightness to remain only in the glass marbles of their eyes. Tom thinks they're beautiful.

There is one that is the clear leader. Taller, more muscular, sleeker with the aura of a master. All other horses defer to this one.

It whinnies a command, and the night-mares all scramble to comply. They gallop off in different directions, each with a purpose, fading into the shades of grey misty fog and sky.

Tom reaches out a hand. The lead nightmare approaches, bends down, and nuzzles into it.

"Harry."

"Are you alright?" Harry asks. "You weren't sleeping very well. I came to see what's wrong."

"…A nightmare," Tom replies, and realizes it's the truth.

"This is my domain," Harry says. "No night-mares under my command will disturb you. You are forever safe in your dreams. Come, let me show you."

Tom climbs onto his companions' back. It is a tall task, all things considered, but he manages. Harry whinnies a laugh.

"I will show you the world of dreams, my champion—but tonight, we deliver the nightmares. I am the messenger of Prophecy, Fate, Life, and Death—the God of Dreams! I deliver the bliss of sleep as the Lamb of Dreams while bearing omens as the Night-mare of Dreams. You receive only what I choose to give, anything else is malignant and foreign. Have faith in me, my champion, and the world of the night will no longer be unknown to you."

I believe you, Tom's soul tries to whisper. He hushes it before the words can leave the confines of his innermost labyrinths.

Together they ride into the grey of dusk, and what comes next, Tom does not remember when he wakes.

When Tom feels a familiar wet boop to his cheek, he knows it's time to get up.

"Good morning," Harry bleats. Tom grumbles an insult for an answer and tries to bury his face in the soft, warm fur available to him. Harry snickers.

"It wasn't that bad, Tom," his companion says. "Not that baaad at all."

"Silence," Tom hisses, "You infernal beast! No one appreciates your puns!"

"I think you secretly like them," Harry whispers conspiratorially, "I think you're laughing somewhere deep, deep down in your black, blaaack hole of a heart—"

"Harry I am three seconds away from shoving you off this bed—"

"You wouldn't. I'm too warm."

"If you don't shut up I'm going to have lamb for breakfast. Personally butchered."

"Grumpy pants," Harry huffs, but allows Tom a few more moments of blessed sleep. It only lasts a few more minutes before Harry starts to wiggle again.

Boop, boop, boop. Tom snarls when he feels Harry peck the top of his head. "I'm serious, Harry. I haven't had lamb chops in a long time—"

"Suit yourself. Don't go yelling at me when you're late to your first class today."

"…Why didn't you say that sooner?!"

Harry wrinkles his snootle. "You didn't ask?"

Tom glares.

"Baa," he adds for good measure with a wiggle of his fluffy tuff-puffs.

"Move!"

Life doesn't exactly slow to a halt, but it doesn't feel rushed or draining either. Five years pass easily without much ruckus; Dumbledore hasn't the time nor the suspicion to be digging around, investigating students, and Tom is under no scrutiny at all because he never got a visit in that blasted orphanage.

It's frankly amazing to be out from under Dumbledore's scheming machinations. Instead, the deputy headmaster is holding the front over on the war side; he tries not to bring his battles into Hogwarts, but it's difficult—Grindelwald, Harry says, was his friend after all. Best of friends. Maybe even… more, if it is to be understood properly.

There is a point where Tom realizes time is actually of the essence… In his defense, Harry makes time feel like a non-factor with how laid back and ridiculous he is.

"So, when exactly are you going to be teaching me what being a champion means?"

"My champion," Harry corrects, apparently putting a lot on the distinction.

"Alright, fine—the Champion of the God of Dreams. Well?"

"Oh, that comes later. We have more pressing things, like Grindelwald. You know, the reason why I chose this world in the first place. I can teach you how to be a champion anywhere, really—dreams and all that—but that body I put you in is too young to start past the extremely rudimentary, and I don't think you'd like that without being able to learn more. So, for now, Grindelwald."

"…That doesn't have anything to do with being a champion?"

"Not my champion. I'm the God of Dreams, not the God of War."

Tom shoots him a hard glare. "Then what are we doing here?!"

Harry shrugs. "You need a body, I figured you'd like a second life, the gods are unreasonable and… eh, that's about it. Oh, and since you've already trained to be the most powerful wizard of the century before, I figured I wouldn't have to do any work and leave you to it."

"…I hate you. I legitimately hate you."

"Hey—actually, fair enough in this case. Have fun."

Tom has already been training up his magical core and whatnot, but it isn't until that delightfully enlightening conversation does he really start picking up the pace. Living back in Hogwarts reminds Tom of a few details that he wouldn't have originally recalled just back at the ranch; he remembers that Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald a few years before he graduated, and obviously that isn't going to happen naturally again because why else would he be here, so Tom figures he doesn't have twenty-five years to do it, but actually a lot less.

Aside from all serious situations, Tom is now significantly taller than he was as a scrawny eleven year old. He can pick up and hold Harry without it looking ridiculous—other than the image of him holding a lamb of all things, and doubtless Harry would make it even more embarrassing—

"Baa," Harry bleats cheerfully as a student pets his head.

Ah, right. Carrying Harry also has the additional welcome effect of warning other students not to pet him.

"Harry," Tom snaps, because he doesn't want to pick him up now that he's admitted he doesn't like other people touching his god.

"Coming, Tom," is Harry's indulgent, mocking reply.

Tom has to resist kicking him. He's certainly tall enough to topple the god now, but doing so is plebian and disrespectful to a higher power, so he doesn't. He never does. Even though he wants to.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop. Harry skips along beside him down the hall.

"Where're we going, Tom?"

"Chamber of Secrets."

"Oh—wait, what? Why now? You aren't going to let it loose again, are you? Killing people is baaad Tom, very baaad—"

"It's only one person."

"…Oh, well I guess if it's only oneperson—No! Killing any person is bad!"

"What if I said it was Grindelwald?"

"…Well, naturally. Champions do bad things for their gods. They just get the perks of being considered heroes afterward."

Tom rolls his eyes. "I would not want you to be my moral compass, Harry."

"Too late!" the lamb happily bleats. "So what's the real reason we're going to the chamber?"

"I'm going to feed the basilisk."

"Oh, with what? I don't see you have any meat on you—"

"Lamb."

Tom resists looking down when he hears Harry stumble. It would ruin the effect of his answer, Tom thinks, so he doesn't even risk peeking at the corners of his eyes. He's sure the sight is absolutely hilarious though, which is disappointing, but…

"You're joking, right? Tom, please tell me you're joking!"

"I do not jest, Harry," Tom sneers. "Her favorite might be humans, but I think she'll like lamb too."

"Wha—but I'm too skinny, Tom! There's not enough meat on me for a fifteen meter basilisk!"

"Ridiculous," he waves the concern off, "The house-elves have been feeding younothing but the best. I can certainly contest to your weight gain—"

"Tom, nooo—killing people is baaad!"

"You're a sheep," he deadpans.

"Sheep are people too! Come on, just look at me! I'm adorable. You can't kill something this cute, Tom!" He hears Harry's hooves clip-clop against the floor, and he knows the little lamb is jumping back and forth to get his attention. Tom sighs, stops, and feels Harry collide with his legs.

He looks down. Harry feels his gaze and immediately tries wiggling his wiggly listeners and wrinkling his snootle.

"You're shameless."

"Is it working?"

Tom sighs. The wandless notice-me-not he's casted has been slowly working—they're alone now, in front of the girl's bathroom on the second floor—but he still layers it with one cast on the door. Harry waits patiently, and after Tom is done with a few more protection spells, he bends down to pick the lamb up and cradles him in his arms.

Harry nuzzles him. "I knew you were a good person, Tom!"

"Silence, before I change my mind."

They enter the Chamber, Tom cleaning up the entrance as much as he can on the way. It's not much, but every little bit helps. Harry starts humming as they make their way through the tunnel pipeline. Annoying God of Dreams, Tom thinks, no wonder dreams are such silly things with such a silly god overseeing them. He's not fond of him in the least. Not at all. Troublesome god of his.

Harry nuzzles his furry cheek against Tom's. "Adventure," he bleats softly, "Hooray, adventure time with Tom!"

Stupid, childish, adorable god of his.

When they reach the vault door, Tom hisses out a command for it to open and they step inside. His shoes meet with the wet, flooded floor, and Tom huffs at the realization that he needs to fix that too. He unceremoniously decides to drop the animal in his arms, does so, and takes a moment to appreciate getting one over the God of Dreams before he focuses on calling the basilisk.

…That is, before Harry's panicked bleat meets his ear.

"Tom, help!"

Tom sighs. "What is it this time?"

"Help, Tom! It's too deep!"

Tom looks over. A bit off the main path that was bordered by snake statues was an area probably deeper than the flooding where he stood. Since the main path was elevated and the water came up to bit above his ankles, then that meant the area further away from him was probably—

"Tom!"

Tom gives him a deadpan stare, but after a moment realizes Harry might actually be serious. The little lamb is trying to keep his head above the water with a pitiful version of a doggy paddle, but he isn't getting anywhere—well, not anywhere soon. A spike of real worry runs through him. How low was the floor over there again? It's been two hundred years; he doesn't remember—

Tom wades over, the water level hitting his knees. He bends down, scoops up his pet lamb, and cradles him as he wades back. Harry sniffles, front thumpers resting on Tom's shoulder as he looks back.

"I thought I was going to die," Harry miserably bleats. "Why didn't you come faster?"

"You're a god. Why didn't you just float yourself out, or better yet grow and walk?"

"I'm the Lamb of Dreams, not the Ram of Dreams for a reason, Tom. And you need to get stronger before I can do things like that. I'm only as strong as you make me—champion, remember?"

Tom stiffens. "I'm not eleven anymore."

"Age isn't the only thing that matters," Harry mumbles. He doesn't say more on the matter, ending the conversation when he sneezes. Tom casts a silent drying and warming charm on the poor creature. When the champion tightens his hold, Harry doesn't say a word and just takes the warmth in as it's given. Nothing, not even magic, can compare to the heat of a real body.

"Why do you need the Chamber?" Harry asks.

"What I need is Slytherin's library," Tom corrects. "I don't remember everything from my last life—but I do remember it was rather useful. No, I won't be making horcruxes again—that look you have on your face is telling me you'd tackle me if I do that—and besides, I'm sort of immortal anyway, aren't I?"

"Yes and no. Not many gods want to give up their champions, you see, but on occasion it happens and should you cull another god's anger… Well, nothing will save your soul from being destroyed, I mean. But I won't sit down and let that happen unless you do something gravely heinous, of course. And for what it's worth, I think I'm a fairly reasonable god—"

"So my life depends on your good will. Figures."

"Champions are connected to the gods far more directly than a normal human," Harry allows, "but you get some wicked powers in exchange!"

"Like what? For me, specifically."

"…Uh… A really good source of gossip…? You get to see dreams and nightmares before anyone else! Not even the other gods can traverse the Realm of Dreams—that's why I exist—don't you feel special now?"

"No," Tom drawls. "Anything else?"

"…Well you're my first champion, so…"

"You don't know."

"Nope," bleats Harry with zero hesitation.

Tom is tempted to drop him again. "Is this why you haven't been telling me anything about my real job? You don't know anything about it?"

"I know some… stuff," Harry defends, "but not everything, no. I just know you're not ready yet. You still act like a mortal soul."

Frustrated, Tom snaps, "Could you be any more vague? Can't you tell me what I need to do?"

"This time it's on you, Tom," the lamb replies, unperturbed, "You've got to figure it out for yourself. I have a job to do, too, but it's rather situational. I'm giving you everything I can give right now—we'll talk more later once you've grown some. And we have all the time in the world, technically—I have complete faith in you that you can defeat Grindelwald without my help."

"Naturally," Tom sneers. "Who do you think I am?"

Tom calls forth the basilisk, introduces himself and his lamb who should not be touched, and feeds him some raw meat he'd asked the house-elves for. Afterward, he adjourns to Slytherin's library and sets about making some space for himself to start really practicing. When the time comes, Tom knows he'll be ready. By Merlin, Grindelwald better savor these coming years, because Tom is determined to make them his last.

Because that's what's on the agenda, naturally. If he doesn't finish it, Tom isn't sure what will happen if the gods (the gods, but also Harry) begin to operate under the assumption that he's incapable. He isn't, obviously, but if they begin to think he is—

He's got some responsibility as Harry's first champion. He can't let them doubt him, can't let them doubt Harry's choice, because the idea of another person other than himin this exact spot is highly disturbing. The thought of Harry loafing around with anyone else isn't even something he wants to consider in the safety of his mind—

…The God of Dreams didn't say it, but Tom knows. Tom feels it. Grindelwald is a test, maybe not by Harry but by the other gods. It's a test, of course it is—and they're waiting for him to fail. Tom won't. He definitely won't. No matter how much stronger in this dimension Grindelwald is, he definitely won't—and he doesn't need Harry's faith in him to know that.

Harry starts to hum, and Tom considers for a moment to tell him to stop because it's distracting, but he doesn't. The sound is… nice.

What has the world come to, Tom thinks, and willingly begins the same path that's destroyed him once before—the journey to power, power and nothing but—only this time, he's well aware of what he's getting into.

"Tom, I completely forgot. We need to get the Gaunt ring."

Tom turns away from the papers strewn across the old wooden desk. They are down in the Chamber, in Slytherin's study, though it is long past curfew. In fact, Tom isn't sure what time it is, just that it's past time when all students should be in bed and it's not yet breakfast.

"What for?"

"Umm… It's kind of an important item," Harry says cautiously. "It's kind of a really important item. Uh, sort of like Deathly-Hallows-important."

"Deathly Hallows?"

"…I forgot that you don't remember. Right. Bollocks. Uh…"

Tom sets down his quill and gives the god his full attention. Harry quickly explains, first from what the Deathly Hallows are (Tom suddenly remembers the ordeal with Dumbledore's wand, that was the Elder Wand, that was won from Grindelwald… It all sort of connects) to what exactly they mean, and how it is imperative that Grindelwald not get them all. That would be bad. Very baaad.

Tom is not amused. "And you didn't think to say something for the last sixteen years?"

"I can forget things, too," Harry defends. "And technically you couldn't do anything for awhile, so—"

"How do we know he hasn't gotten it yet?" Tom demands.

"Well it's not exactly common knowledge what the Resurrection Stone is—you didn't know. It was by luck that Dumbledore figured it out in your last life—and he certainly doesn't know in this , it'd just be safer to have it. Uh, a lot safer."

"Do we have a day?"

"Uh, sure."

"Then over break."

"Okay."

"…Where is it again?"

"With your uncle," Harry offers. "On your mother's side. The insane one. Forgot his name."

"Little Hangleton?"

"That place—sounds right, yes."

"Hm," Tom sighs, "Before we go home then. Hopefully they won't mind us being a bit late."

Harry hides a smile. "I'm sure they won't."

After getting off the Hogwarts train, Tom bundled up in a thicker jacket to face winter the technically muggle way—no one said he couldn't cast a few warming charms—he and Harry duck into a conveniently placed empty corner, take one last glance around, and apparate out directly to Little Hangleton. Harry still doesn't like apparation after all these years, and later when Tom is less mortal and more champion he swears to remember to teach him how to dream walk.

Dream walking is useful—relatively fast, too. And entirely less of an arduous ordeal than the bastardized teleportation that wizards preferred as their main source of transportation.

They go by instinct and vague memory to find the Gaunt shack that Merope herself had lived in for the first seventeen or so (give or take a few) years of life. There is a snake nailed to the door, which Harry also kind of maybe remembers—more than Tom, certainly—so the god makes the call that this is the one and they should go in and get out without unnecessary killing. Maiming—when he thinks of kind Merope who always enjoys petting him, Merope who was abused and tormented by her own brother, Merope who is still alive in this dimension—is completely okay. Especially if Morfin is unwilling to give up the ring.

Tom agrees, though his eyes tell that the killing thing is more viable in his mind than Harry's. But Tom has yet to kill anyone in this life and Harry's not about to just let him for no good reason. Again, he's spent forever fixing up Tom's soul, and as long as the man is more mortal than champion, it'll take another forever to fix it up again. Now, if his champion was already a champion then it'd be as simple as willing it done, but…

They blow the door off the hinges (not a tall task; Tom figures Harry could kick it down even without magic) and head inside. The place is empty.

"He's supposed to be here, right?"

"Rather sure, yes. Maybe he's out getting lunch?"

Tom shoots his companion a deadpan look.

"Oh, right, it's past lunch. Maybe an early dinner?"

"The door is right behind you if you can't control your lollygagging—"

"Fine, fine… Geez. No need to get your knickers in a twist, Tom. Let's just track him and get home so Merope's tea doesn't go cold."

Tom is in agreement. A quick point-me spell, however, shows that Morfin is not in Little Hangleton. In fact, with another, more wider-scoped location spell, Morfin is—

Tom grabs Harry and they're off with a crack. Morfin is at home, where he certainly should not be, and they both doubt that he's there for tea and biscuits to catch up with his sister and her husband (there are so many things wrong in that sentence that it's hardly worth the time to clarify).

They arrive just in time to see Morfin holding Merope at wand point. The fear is palpable; Tom Riddle Sr. has his hands raised in some show of surrender, and Morfin watches him with a half-eye as he steps forward toward his sister. The crack of apparation is not close enough to startle the fool, however, and they are too far away to do anything.

A green light builds at the end of Morfin's wand. They aren't going to make it—

At the last second, Tom's father tackles his wife out of the way. The spell flies over both of their heads. He might not have recognized what it was, but certainly the man had seen the danger behind it, the threat of death and desolation—perhaps seen it in his wife's eyes, yes. Maybe even saw it in a daydream. If he had, Harry certainly wasn't the one to deliver it—but all the same, he's thankful for whatever the reason the muggle Riddle found to not let the damn thing hit Merope.

Morfin readies to fire another one.

Tom is faster.

"Avada Kedavra," he casts, sending the same green light out of his own wand. It hits Morfin in the chest—of course it does, Tom's aim is always perfect—and the body falls. Harry doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

History repeats himself, always. He should've known. Even in the strangest ways, history repeats itself. Maybe Morfin was always destined to die by the end of Tom's wand—who knows.

They finally manage to reach the two. Merope, who knows what the spell does and what it is, looks at her son with wide, crossed eyes. Riddle Sr. does not know. He holds his wife close, sitting up now, and immediately starts to say— "We have to get him to the authorities before he wakes up. Thank God you were here, son—"

Merope shakes her head, "No, dear. He's dead."

"Dead?"

"Dead," Tom replies, voice cold and distant. Harry does not like it. He doesn't say a thing, instead preferring to rub up against one leg in a sign of comfort. For what it's worth, Tom bends down to scratch behind his ears and pet his head.

"Then he was about to—" Riddle Sr. turns to his wife and she nods again, "—That was your brother?"

Tom answers instead. "Not anymore," he sneers, and walks over to the corpse to divest it of the Gaunt ring, which he slips into his pocket for later.

Harry gives Tom one more look before skipping over to the couple still on the ground. He nudges Merope, who tries to smile, and then bleats softly at Riddle Sr., "Are you alright?" They can't understand him, but a bit over a decade living with him is enough to get the gist of what he means. They take him into their arms, cuddling him and running their hands through his soft fur for comfort. Harry nuzzles them right back. Anyone who just about died would need someaffection. Harry would know.

Tom looks over at them and imperceptibly sighs. He walks over and extends a hand. Riddle Sr. accepts it, but instead of letting go right after he's pulled his wife up too, he wraps both of his arms about Tom in a fatherly hug.

Tom stiffens, Merope smiles beneath a hand, and Harry, figuring it's as good a time as any, quips, "Dear Mother, there are degrees of cute going on here that even I can't handle."

Fortunately, Riddle Sr. finds it proper a time to murmur, "Thank you," which is just enough to cut off the hard glare Tom is fixing his pet lamb with. Harry, pleased, bleats, and this time Merope bends down to pick him up and kiss his forehead.

Looks like there won't be too big of a crack to fix up after all, the God of Dreams thinks.

Their break at home is generally peaceful, after that affair. Tom uses his magic to help out around the ranch, and Merope, like every break, asks about Hogwarts. She never went, her magic being too weak (almost on a squib's level) to get a letter, but she's heard stories and read books about it. Her potion brewing is brilliant, which is why she asks for more details about Potions than anything to compare.

Tom indulges her. He tells her about Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, too, and Merope's pallid, cross-eyed face lights up at the mention of books in Parseltongue and a basilisk. They speak in the snake tongue, lacing it with English like a wave—falling into complete hisses and rising to pronounced drags of the sibilant 's'. When Riddle Sr. comes back from town, he enters the dining area, kisses his wife, and pats his son on the shoulder before taking a seat as well, telling them of business among the community.

He is unbothered by his wife and son's strange language, something learned to be accustomed to over the years, and Harry thinks, sitting on the rocking chair, that he cannot imagine a better second life for his champion. He went through his own perfect life, now it is Tom's turn. Maybe it will finally ease, once and for all, the yearning, bitter disposition he knows is rooted in the depths of Tom's soul. It is something he, the God of Dreams himself, feels improper to touch or approach in any way—coming from someone who often sees personal details laced in the messages he delivers, from the gods or the self, that's saying something.

It is probably the only area that Harry feels uncomfortable with, that subconsciously he still thinks is an unchangeable part of Tom, like a facet of the man's character. Which is—wrong… Perhaps. Harry hops off the rocking chair and clambers over to his champion, raising his front thumpers to show he wants up. Tom picks him up like he's been doing it forever—maybe he has—and puts the lamb onto his lap without pausing in the conversation. Harry settles down again and thinks he prefers this type of peace.

It cannot last forever, he knows, but maybe he can make it last long enough to properly enjoy it. He and Tom, that is. They will be bound together until Harry chooses to let his champion go. Power, for Harry, has never seemed so merciless.

Tom, inevitably, grows.

In strength, in magic, in faith—yes, that last one; most gods found it easier to nurture faith by eliciting respect, but Harry, in this situation, couldn't exactly go about that route. Perhaps Tom would be one to respect him if he acted liked a god, who could tell, but that was not the sort of distant relationship he wanted. A god and his champion…

Harry hadn't wanted to be a god in the first place. None of the gods had, really, but his own disposition—

He's in a different place. Naturally, having a champion think of him as a god and nothing but would be a problem.

So Tom grows, and Harry waits and watches. Slowly, the God of Dreams grows in powers in the physical realm. He can help Tom, but not as much as he would like—so he decides, one day, to begin. Grindelwald is still about, yes, but it is time that Harry starts raising a champion rather than nurturing a champion-to-be.

"If you had any weapon in the world, what would it be?"

Tom looks up. "Other than a wand, you mean."

"Other than a wand, are weapons of magic and only for magic. Say you enter a dimension where magic works differently—the wand would, essentially, be useless. As for the powers of the gods—that's will—you could use, but not through a wand because the magic would be different, which would leave you defenseless without it. Magic is very delicate," Harry says. "It won't be often that you're without it—I'm part of Hecate's pantheon—our domain is over the magical realm—but in the case that you are, other weapons are better."

The champion gives him a thoughtful look. Tom is seventeen, a seventh year, not Head Boy but still a very good student. Harry has told him they have other things to be concerned about rather than Wizarding World politics, so Tom takes his word for it and doesn't go about doing what he had in his first life. And to be honest, there's little loss there—compared to conquering Hell, ruling Wizarding Britain seems to pale in comparison. Tom isn't all too interested when he's already had bigger fish fried, which is one less thing to be concerned about in Harry's opinion. He doesn't want yet another obstacle to stand in their way.

"What weapon do you use?" Tom asks.

Harry blinks in surprise. "Pardon?"

"If I'm to be your champion, wouldn't I be more powerful if the weapon I used was synchronized with your own?"

"Yes," Harry admits, pleased, "but guess."

Tom takes a moment to think. "A bow," he finally says after due consideration.

"Oh? Why a bow?"

"Because you are the God of Dreams. Dreams are vague, ever-changing—they follow whims, and often in the Land you cannot tell the next from the last. To have a weapon that could slice through illusion, that follows its path true and steady—in the Land of Dreams, it'd be ideal. It must reach across distances; why is obvious. It must not be hindered by doubt or hesitation—must not take on the character of dreams, for a ruler must be able to rise above his subjects. A bow, and quiver of arrows. Is that not what you use?"

Harry laughs. "Bullseye!" Despite normally reproaching the lamb's jokes, this one makes Tom almost smile. "Now, there are two parts to the bow-and-arrow—which would you prefer to have?"

Tom takes another moment. "The bow," he answers.

"Why? Wouldn't you normally be the arrows as the hands and feet of a god?"

"No," Tom says, "normally yes, but no. You are the God of Dreams. You are not held by restrictions where you roam. That world is the same as your home. You send night-mares to do your bidding, and they obey. If I was to be an arrow, I would simply be among the rest of your quiver. But I am your champion, and there is only one of me. You would not take on another. So I am your bow; what takes aim at your target and gives strength to your arrows to fly true. Arrows are fleeting—replaceable; on the other hand, without your bow you would have nothing."

Harry laughs again, the tuff of his puff wiggling in pride and approval. "Hm, you're on point today," he praises. "Then in the physical realm, which would you be?"

"Neither," Tom replies immediately.

"How do you figure?"

"The physical realm is not your domain. Your night-mares cannot wound. You have no arrows, but I cannot be such because what could one do with one arrow? And I cannot be your bow because in the case that an enemy is close and about to strike, I could not protect you—it is not your domain; you cannot be your own shield. If I was to be either part of your weapon, your bow or arrow, I could not be your champion, and I assume being that is more important than striking down a foe."

"So what weapon would you be, if not a bow-and-arrow?"

"I never said that that wasn't your weapon," Tom says. "Simply that I would not be either of the two."

"Then what would you be?"

"Your archer, of course. Your bowman. He who is master, who draws the bow, who shoots the arrow, who finds the enemy and strikes him down before he can lift a finger—all this and more is the bowman. The bowman can plan—he can form thoughts, choose choices, outwit and outmaneuver when required. He can defend and attack. He is master, and for a god, who can only do three things on earth—stir the air with their breath, call the rain with their tears, grant blessings with their touch—he is champion."

Tom expects to hear Harry's laugh. He doesn't. Instead, the God of Dreams sighs, wise and ancient, and solemnly says, "You win."

"I wasn't aware we were competing."

"Not you and I," Harry corrects.

His champion smirks. "Ah, but I have won but one battle then—not the war."

"Yet," Harry agrees. He hopes Death is as pleased as he is.

When the time finally comes, Tom is twenty-four and Grindelwald feels like a non-factor. Tom isn't worried, Harry isn't worried, the world according to them is already saved. They head into the battlefield thinking they'll be done in time for dinner.

They are wrong.

Harry is the first to sense something is amiss. He lifts his head, angles it—as if the wind has brought him some message from further out—and turns toward Tom, who has just finished with another group of Grindelwald's men.

"Something is wrong," he bleats.

"What is it?"

"I don't know…"

"Hm, let's go on then. You said Dumbledore and Grindelwald are that way?"

"…Yes…"

Tom waves. "Let's go then."

"Tom, wait."

"What?"

Harry paws the ground. "I don't like this feeling. We might… They might… We might be outmatched."

Tom scoffs. "Absurd. Who do you think I am? Who do you think Grindelwald is? And who do you think is stronger? How could we possibly be outmatched when you know all answers to that?"

"Something's at work here. Something strange," Harry says. "I don't know if it's divinity. I just know that something's not right… We don't have the full picture here."

"What are you suggesting? We pull back? We've come too far," Tom begins to head forward again, "Besides, I'll not admit defeat. You know me better than that. I have a war I can't afford to lose, after all."

"It's okay; they doubt you but ultimately it's my decision," Harry persists, growing anxious and frantic now. "I really don't think we should go. I really don't think it'll be safe if we go."

"What's a little danger in war time?" Tom asks. "What's a little risk in the face of a reward? I'm not a Gryffindor, Harry—I know what I'm doing. Didn't you choose me specifically because I knew what I was doing? I've conquered Hell. What mortal could face me on even ground now? Frankly I'm offended by your lack of faith."

"Tom, you don't understand—"

"What then? You either tell me or we go!" Tom snaps. "What's wrong with you? Have you gone mad? Are you a god or not?"

"When I mean it's not safe, I mean your soul might not be safe. I can't lose you, Tom—that's a risk I'm not about to take—"

"You clearly don't know me at all if you're worrying," Tom states, cold and sharp. "Whether you go or not, I don't care. But you're not stopping me, if that's your only answer. I don't need you to win a battle."

Harry shrinks in on himself, taking a step back at his champion's glare. He says nothing as Tom passes him, does nothing as Tom disappears from sight. He, the God of Dreams, does nothing, even as he senses death and desolation looming across the horizon. Something is not right. His senses do not lie—something is not right. And his champion does not see it.

Does not trust his god to see it.

Perhaps he is wrong after all, Harry grimly thinks, to have nurtured his champion-to-be in such a fashion. Maybe he should not have sympathized at all. Maybe he should not have invested too much of himself in it. Maybe he should've been like the other gods—distant and godly, divine and omniscient. Maybe he should've known earlier, that Tom Riddle was not a soul to be tamed through love and affection. Maybe he should've chosen someone else.

Someone less of a person than Tom Riddle is, who will be loyal to less and protect for less, who will obey for less and love more. Respect more. Maybe the other gods were right after all, thinking he was foolish for setting his sights on something as unruly and broken as the stray mutt Tom Riddle is.

Or maybe all Harry needs is faith. He doesn't know which, and frankly, isn't inclined to place bets on either option.

Well, first of all, something isn't right, and Harry knows he needs to get to the bottom of it.

"We told you so," Prophecy states imperiously. "We told you so. This is what you get for not listening to Prophecy, Dream."

"He's not lost yet," the God of Dreams insists. "Better wait to count your cards before they're all in your hands, Prophecy. Besides, that isn't why we came."

"Oh, we're sure it isn't."

"That's because it isn't."

Prophecy begins to speak again, but is cut off before they can finish.

"CAUTION, BEFORE YOU LUST AFTER THE DISPLEASURE OF OUR FAVORED."

"How… pleasant. Death. Did your favored call you here?" The jab is obvious. Dream twitches, restless to defend themself, but does not move.

"HE COMES BECAUSE THERE IS A DISTURBANCE… ONE THAT YOU AND YOUR SISTER, FATE, HAVE BEEN NEGLIGENT IN."

"I beg your pardon!" Prophecy snaps, "Are you saying that we aren't doing our job? Us! Not the child god still wet behind the ears? We—"

"He is right," Fate says, speaking for the first time, "There is something in the aether… Someone has tangled thread in ours."

"…What? Impossible—"

"Oh, get off your high horse," Dream cuts in. "The only threat to the gods, other than themselves, is humans' unpredictability. That you, of all gods, think you are above accounting for such things is a show of dangerous overconfidence that needs to be rectified immediately—now we want to know why we weren't informed of all information regarding our mission, why we had to come back all the way to the spiritual realm, and why our champion is now in danger due to your gross arrogance. And we expect answers now."

Prophecy latches on to the last bullet they have. "Your champion? He isn't even half of one yet! Know your place, Dream—for it is not among our pantheon that you have power."

"Your oracles wouldn't last a second against us," sneers the god. "Remember well not to bite the hand that feeds you. You once made a prophecy of me, true, and I once was victim to it, true again, but now we are the one ferrying the majority of your messages, and you are the one victim to our grace. Stand against us and we will obliterate you, sister."

Affronted and fearful, Prophecy turns to Death, but is met with a wall of indifference. "YOU ARE REPLACEABLE. OUR FAVORED IS NOT. YOUR MOTHER HERSELF LOVES HIM WELL. KNOW YOUR PLACE IN THIS PANTHEON, PROPHECY."

"Our sister begs your pardon," Fate says when their sister remains silent, "Whatever retribution that you seek may come at a later time, Dream. First, the matter of the thread—"

"Of course."

"—It is not one of our spinning. It is of a divine."

Dream hisses at the revelation, "Who?"

"Misfortune."

"We hope then that Misery and Chaos do not mind the disappearance of their fallen love child—"

"DO NOT BE RECKLESS. YOU ARE MORE VALUABLE THAN YOUR FLEDGLING CHAMPION. IF WE LOSE YOU, THERE WILL BE NO GOD OF DREAMS FOR MANY AN ETERNITY TO COME."

Dream—no, Harry—materializes and smiles a very sharp, grim-visaged smile. "We know," he says to the deities drifting in the aether, "but we'll have him for our champion, or there will be no strength in Dream and Boundary for many an eternity to come. We'll take no other half. His loyalty is absolute, should it be given."

"May the Mother bless you," Fate mumbles as their brother leaves. Their focus is to the distance, fixed on the tangled thread.

Death directs his next words at Prophecy. "DREAM IS THE BOUNDARY. WHAT DO YOU SEEK BY DESTROYING THE VERY BEING WHO SEPARATES THE SPIRITUAL FROM THE PHYSICAL REALM? THE BEING WHO OUR HALLOWS AND YOUR MOTHER HAVE CHOSEN TO PROTECT HER CHILDREN?"

"We—we do not seek for his destruction! Only that he respects his betters—"

"HARRY POTTER AND 'RESPECT' ARE NOT COMPLEMENTARY WORDS, YOU KNOW THAT. YOU USED HIM ONCE." Death paused. "WE MAY BE WATCHER OF YOU ALL, BUT I AM NOT JUSTICE. DEATH IS NOT JUSTICE. HE WAS ONCE TO BE MY CHAMPION, NOW HE IS NOT. IT IS FOR THE BETTER—HIS JUSTICE AND OUR LACK THEREOF WOULD NOT HAVE MIXED WELL. YOU PLAY WITH FIRE IF YOU TRY TO STOP HIM."

"No god is to be ruled—"

"WHICH IS WHY DREAM REQUIRES HIS CHAMPION. HALF THE TIME HE DOES NOTHING, THE OTHER HE HAS NO RESTRAINT. FOR ONE WHO STRADDLES THE BOUNDARY OF MAN AND GOD, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT? HE IS NOT IN BALANCE. NOT YET."

"You think Tom Riddle is his balance? The same Tom Riddle that defied gods to find the ultimate power? The one who butchered his soul almost irreparably? The Dark Lord, once conqueror of Hell—that Tom Riddle? You think he'll quietly bow down and become balance? We'll all become part of the aether before that happens!"

"YOU UNDERESTIMATE HIS SWAY."

"Humans are predictable. Tom Riddle is no different."

"HE IS BOTH MOST HATED AND SECOND LOVED BY THE MOTHER," Death remarks. "BUT HE CANNOT BE A GOD. YOU WILL SEE. EVEN YOUR SISTER FATE KNOWS BETTER TO TURN AWAY FROM THEIR THREAD WITH THEM."

Twenty years pass.

Twenty years after the final battle—

Twenty years after the fall of the Dark Lord Grindelwald—

Twenty years after the destruction of the God of Misfortune—

Twenty years after Tom becomes the Champion to the God of Dreams—

Twenty years after Harry leaves.

Twenty years since he's seen him.

Twenty years since, twenty years—

And not a day goes by that Tom doesn't remember.

He remembers dying—almost. There's a spell on the lips of the Dark Lord Grindelwald, a dark and terrifying beast—no, a god—shadowing the man, Tom on the ground with a large 'X' cut into his chest. Death had been close. Tom remembers praying; thinking of Harry, thinking of the God of Dreams, thinking and thanking all the gods he can name that Harry isn't here in his place. He's at the full mercy of the God of Fortune and yet he's at the strongest he's ever been, thinking of him.

And then—and then Harry, appearing in a clash of thunder and lightning, not a lamb or a mare but a god, and then—

But then Harry leaves, after telling Tom that he's become a formidable champion and "Thank you."

What the hell?

Seriously, what the hell?!

But Tom isn't given an answer, and the only thing that he can do is live the life he's been given…for twenty more years.

Wasn't Harry supposed to watch over him until he became twenty-five? He'd been twenty-four then. He was supposed to have one more year. So why had Harry—why had he—

…left.

The word is ugly and hollow on his tongue. Tom can think and curse and shout the most horrible, ugliest things, but none of those words can compare to that one. Nothing can compare to that fragile, jagged word stabbed like a piece of glass into his heart. Into his soul, maybe.

Just up and went, just like that. If Tom knew becoming a champion entitled his god just…just leaving him, then he would've never agreed. Harry is supposed to be with him, until the end of time or whatever the case is. Harry isn't supposed to leave his champion! Tom was supposed to have Harry forever and ever; the sole champion to the God of Dreams for the rest of eternity.

So where is Harry now?

Twenty years have passed. Compared to eternity, that's not even a drop in a bucket, Tom knows. But twenty years pass by undeniably slow, and if he finds out that Harry has left him for twenty bloody years because he wants him to "experience life on his own" or "have a fulfilling second chance at living", Tom is going to butcher that stupid, foolish, blasted lamb and make perfectly medium rare lamb chops to eat! He'll see how Harry likes that.

Stupid god.

Tom doesn't want to think about what will happen to him if Harry doesn't come back. Tom doesn't even want to consider never seeing Harry ever again as an option. Gods can't do that to their champion, right? That…that wouldn't make sense. Harry—

Harry is part of him. If he doesn't have Harry, Tom would be—would be—

He doesn't even know the answer to that. Maybe…maybe without Harry he would be nothing. Wouldn't exist as 'Tom'. Harry is his friend, his companion, his lord and his vassal, his heart and his soul, his god and his shrine, his other half, his sin and his virtue, his—

…everything.

Twenty years pass, before he is visited by a deity—just not the deity that he wants to see.

"Champion of Dream and Boundary," the goddess addresses, "We are She of Fate."

"Did Harry send you?" Tom asks, bitter and uncaring of his manners.

"No."

It is an unexpected answer. "Then why are you here?"

"Dream was once fated to be the Champion of Death. He was once our vassal, in life. He was many things—victim to Prophecy being one of them. You and they are tied in more ways than just this life. Do you want to know?"

Tom is suspicious. "Why do you offer?"

"Because we owe Dream a…debt. And you as well, we suppose, for your act of valor against Misfortune."

"And you waited twenty years to say something?"

Fate's lips twitch into a frown. "Mortal, your sense of time is different from ours. Champion you may be, but you still see life in the eyes of one who is fated for death. Do you want to know?"

Tom grimaces. It's a fair point; previously, he's already considered the possibility of twenty years being the equivalence of a second. "What I want more is Harry's location."

"We cannot give it to you. Crossing Dream is not a particularly wise pastime."

"Then I don't want to know."

"Don't you? Most mortals are obsessed with possessing irrelevant knowledge."

"If it truly matters, I'll find out later. From Harry's mouth. He's already everything that I am; there's little else he can be to surprise me."

Fate's gaze is indifferent. "A wise and ignorant answer, as always. Do as you like, then."

Seeing as the goddess is preparing to leave, Tom calls out, "Wait. Is Harry—will he…"

"We are unconcerned with whatever issues you have with your god. It is not our job to mind the champions of our brothers and sisters."

"But you know," Tom stresses, vicious with urgency, "You know. You have to know. Why can't you tell me?"

"Mortals truly are obsessed with knowing pointless information."

"It isn't pointless! Harry's my god. Isn't that supposed to mean something?"

"It means whatever you both care to make it."

"That makes no sense!"

"Because you use no sense to make it with."

The Goddess of Fate disappears. Tom grits his teeth in frustration. So close, and yet so far—

Harry… How long will you make me wait?

"Your champion is a mess," is the first thing Fate says.

"Thanks," Dream replies, sarcasm dripping.

Fate is a deity of few words. That she has voluntarily spoken first is both a sign and a reprimand, but Dream refuses to visibly sulk at it.

"You won't run forever."

"If that's the case, then why are you bothering us?" the god grumbles.

"Our thread does not like to be tangled."

Dream sighs. "Don't you have a champion to pay attention to? She's dreaming of you right now, you know."

"Do you see your champion's dreams as well?"

"Of course we do."

"And you aren't moved to action?"

Dream shrugs. Fate abruptly turns away.

"We never took you as one who indulges in neglect, Dream."

She leaves. Dream grumbles to himself, "Even you can be wrong sometimes, you know."

Another year passes. Tom thinks about Fate's words, mulling them over in his head and trying to dissect every little piece for some sort of clue. The first thing that hits him is the difference between 'mortal' and 'champion.'

Tom has held onto his rage and loss for twenty years. His memories of Harry are vivid, emotions fresh like it had just been yesterday when he was holding a plush little lamb in his sleep. In twenty years, a normal human—a mortal—should've forgotten. The feelings should've muted, faded and clouded to be but a memory of the past.

They haven't, for Tom. Twenty years…

He's been seeing time like a mortal, but his soul has been feeling them like a champion—an immortal being. That's what Harry had been trying to tell him, all those years ago in Hogwarts. The difference between a mortal and a champion—

He is the latter, now.

Maybe, the reason why Harry left was not out of spite, or anger, or abandonment or what-have-you. Maybe the god left because Tom needed time—not time to live a fulfilling life, not time to enjoy a second chance, but time to finish being a mortal and start being a champion. Maybe there are things he can only learn on his own that Harry knew he couldn't help him with, and Tom needed to go through this…this…realization by himself.

…Maybe he's on to something.

A mortal. A champion. A god. What are the essential differences? What makes each existence act apart from each other? What does it mean to be the Champion of the God of Dreams?

What does Harry do, and how can Tom help him?

Tom realizes he knows absolutely none of these answers. They've been hinted at, but nothing explicit has been ever told to him. And maybe…maybe that's enough to find out his own answers.

Tom's time starts moving again. Where there used to be nothing to do, now there's too much. Tom spends the next five years traveling to different parts of the world, scouring cultures in order to find out more about the connection between dreams, man, and gods. He compiles this information, mixes it with what he's already been told, and tries to find out the truth of it all.

Dreams serve as the boundary between mortal and god. Physical and spiritual realms. They are the boundary line—and Harry, God of Dreams, is also—

How has Tom not seen it before?

When Fate visited him, the goddess had called him, "Champion of Dream and Boundary." That was a hint. Harry's other name, aside from the God of Dreams, is the God of Boundary. And what is a boundary but a line? A line between man and god.

Tom continues his search. What is Harry, then? He can't just be a normal god. That would make no sense—if there is a God of Boundary, then that isn't exactly a proper representation of what the boundary is. A god cannot be the line between man and god. Not a normal god, anyway.

Fate also seemed reluctant to go against Harry's will. What kind of power does Harry hold as the God of Dreams and Boundary?

No…Harry had told him before.

"I am the messenger of Prophecy, Fate, Life, and Death—the God of Dreams!"

A messenger god…a god that spends more time among mortals than with his fellow deities. Does that make Harry different in some intrinsic, cosmic way?

Tom looks through paganism across the globe in his travels. Ancient Greece's pantheon of gods, transitioning into the Roman's…in the Americas' ancient civilizations, in Egypt's; Japanese Shintoism, India's Hinduism, Norse mythology…

He focuses on representations of Death as well. Fate mentioned Harry had once almost been Death's champion, but instead became the God of Dreams. How did that work? Why did Death want Harry to be his champion?

And in asking that question, Tom stumbles across the question he feels he probably should've asked a lot sooner. Why does Harry want Tom to be his champion?

…Fate had said that he and Harry are tied. Does their supposed shared past have something to do with that?

So many questions, and no one and no way to answer them. Tom feels like he's stuck. Death and Life…Prophecy and Fate…

Something rings a bell inside of Tom's head. All of those things connect somehow, but for the life of him Tom just can't recall why. Well, Death and Life make sense. And Prophecy and Fate, obviously. But how do those four things combine?

…There was a prophecy about him once, Tom recalls with a start. About Voldemort. It's been a long time since he's thought of his past life—his life as a Dark Lord. There was someone prophesized to…to vanquish him. Imagine that! Ah, yes. His arch-nemesis, the Boy-Who-Lived.

Boy-Who-Lived… Life.

Voldemort… Death.

And a prophecy…both fated to fight each other—

Neither can live while the other survives.

"The Boy-Who-Lived," Tom mumbles, and as if by habit, the name that had eluded him for so long slips out right after. As if he'd said it so many times that his mouth had just needed to force it out. "Harry Potter."

Wait. What.

"Harry Potter?"

The name sounds right. Tom tries again.

"Harry Potter. Harry… Potter…"

Tom blinks. Wait a second. There is no way in hell that this is a coincidence. Absolutely. Not. His life is cosmic irony defined! Coincidence does not exist. Nope.

"Harry…?" The God of Dreams is Harry Potter?

…Actually, now that he thinks about it, that makes a lot of sense. In fact, several things make a lot of sense now.

Tom is forced to sit down and try to reconcile his new-found realization in his head. Harry Potter. His Harry. His adorable pet lamb-actually-is-a-god probation supervisor Harry, had been the Boy-Who-Lived Harry Potter, vanquisher of the Dark Lord Voldemort who just so happens to have been Tom.

And Harry Potter may or may not have obtained all three Deathly Hallows at the time, thereby becoming "Master of Death" (in reality, obtaining god-hood), and thus becoming the God of Dreams off of that life.

And he's only just now realizing it.

…My life—no, my existence is a mess.

Merope and Tom Riddle, Sr. die the next year.

In retrospect, they've lived a long life. Tom is now sixty, technically; his parents died at the old age of ninety—give or take a few years. Merope as a witch had been expected to outlive her husband, but they both went to death together. Somehow, that fact gives Tom some semblance of peace afterward. In his previous life, Merope had died alone.

And he'd killed his father.

This time, they both had gone in their sleep.

Sleep…

Tom's mind is in a constant state of fluctuation nowadays, all revolving around the concept of gods and champions and dreams. But he'd forgotten about sleep—sleep is essential for dreams to take place. Sleep is—

Sleep is the gateway, Tom realizes. Sleep is the mortal gateway to the boundary line that Harry supposedly guards. And Tom, in the mortal world, has access to this gateway—the only gateway that he knows how to get to. If he finds out how to open that gateway through his own willpower, wouldn't that be as good as reaching the boundary line? And if he reaches the boundary line, couldn't he theoretically find the God of Dreams there, as dreams are Harry's territory and that's where he should be found?

Tom's research begins anew, directing itself toward mortal encounters with the spiritual during sleep and dreams.

Maybe this is what Harry is hoping his champion would find. Maybe this is why he's alone—to test his ability, his drive, his motivation. Maybe this is the last test—find his god, reach the boundary that no mortal should in all rights be able to reach. Maybe this is how he'll end his life, and be reborn as a champion.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Tom won't know until he tries.

So he does.

He combines research from both magical and muggle worlds. Muggles have done extensive research on dreams and sleep—a necessity for sanity, as it is. Tom stumbles across something called sleep paralysis, and manages a summary of what it is. When the body falls into deep sleep, it 'paralyzes' itself as a safety measure in order to stop movement that could be caused by dreams. Occasionally the conscious wakes up during this deep sleep, and the natural human response is an overwhelming amount of fear.

Unable to move, feeling the haunting ghost of a dream in the real world…

Many who have experienced sleep paralysis report feelings of being watched, or being suppressed or sat upon. Some say they see demons, monsters, ghostly ladies and terrible things all in the same room—watching them. The stuff of nightmares, really.

Tom feels like he's on to something. Some people never experience sleep paralysis, and for others it is a constant plague. Some experience it only in certain sleeping positions and some have even figured out how to cause it. Why anyone would want to experience sleep paralysis is a mystery to Tom, until he discovers something called lucid dreaming.

The ability to control dreams.

This is what he needs to do to reach the boundary line. Tom is sure of it.

Tom looks for the best way to fall into sleep paralysis. There are other ways to control lucid dreaming, but sleep paralysis is apparently the easiest. The next night, he tries it.

Now, Tom is experienced with dealing with demons. He'd been the ruler of Hell, after all. Tom is very familiar with demons and creatures of the underworld; he never once considered being afraid of them. Especially because he knows they won't actually be there during sleep paralysis—it'd only be the hallucination of a demon, or some other ghastly creature.

But then he experiences sleep paralysis, and there is nothing that could possibly have warned him of the sheer panic that runs through his veins. It's like being struck by a stunner, except maybe worse. Stunners may paralyze the body, but the affected wizard or witch doesn't feel anything that isn't already there. There aren't any hallucinations, no ghost sitting upon the chest or legs. And another thing—when Tom is stunned, he can breathe. Sleep paralysis? Breathing proves a struggle.

Besides, Tom can flick off stunners like he flicks off annoying flies at the ranch, easy. The problem is he wants to remain in sleep paralysis—wants to fall deeper into lucid dreaming. And it's not like foreign magic is keeping him stunned, either; it's his own body, so his magic can't help him like this.

There are pinpricks all over his body. Instinctually trying to move, Tom is met with the realization that he cannot. Logically he knows that of course he can't, but it's different to feel something. It's as if his whole body is shaking, struggling to fight against invisible binds—and there, the feeling of someone watching him, someone at his bedside with a weapon of some sort—an assassin, it has to be—

But the fear is overwhelming. Tom doesn't want to open his eyes. The image of the demon he knows isn't even a factor; this can't be the sort of demon from Hell. It's quiet. Silent. Steady, but with such an infinite amount of killing intent that Tom is absolutely sure he has to wake up now wake up wake up dear Merlin wake up!

It's fake.

He knows that this is fake.

Tom reaches for his occlumency shields, a practice that he knows will relax his mind while simultaneously fortifying it. He deepens his breath, slows his panicking heart, and focuses. He wants to open the gateway, wants to reach the boundary line. Wants to find Harry.

Harry…

The God of Dreams.

His god.

He…he is the Champion of the God of Dreams and Boundary!

Control. Focus. Breathe.

"You are forever safe in your dreams."

"You receive only what I choose to give, anything else is malignant and foreign."

"Have faith in me, my champion, and the world of the night will no longer be unknown to you."

Faith. Ah, yes, faith. It is a surprisingly recurring word in Tom's life. He's heard it before, used in so many different situations…the person who first told him had been Harry. Harry—no, the God of Dreams…faith…

"Faith makes a god stronger. As a champion, you must have faith."

And at the final battle versus the God of Misfortune. Hadn't he believed in Harry then? Tom had felt strong when he had no right to be, at the complete mercy of Misfortune, and yet because of his faith he'd calmed and reached some state of self-awareness—an awakening—

And then Harry had been there, as if Tom had called him forth from the spiritual realm. Harry had walked as a god among mortal men, then. With waves of power rolling off his form, a locus.

Harry had called him a "worthy champion", after that.

Tom is a very independent person. He dislikes having to use someone else as a crutch, dislikes being unable to do what he wants. In battle, the only person he knows for certain can do the job is himself, and he trusts in his own skill and ability for ninety-nine percent of the situations he finds himself in. Tom doesn't need faith in someone else—or he hadn't, but then Harry came along.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived?

No…Harry, the God of Dreams.

Since the beginning, Tom's soul had faith in Harry. Harry had saved his soul, piecing it back together after death. But did Tom have faith in Harry? Not at first. Did he grow to?

…Yes, Tom realizes, he had. He never, ever wanted to acknowledge it, but…he had.

And now—

Tom opens his eyes. His body, no longer paralyzed, is able to sit up, so he does so.

"Who's there?"

The sound of hooves clicking against his wooden floor makes Tom pause, looking toward the shadows at the corner of his room. And then what appeared to be a young colt steps forth from the darkness, made of fog and smoke and darkness. It is as black as night and as grey as twilight. Its eyes are smothered fires, still hot coals—but the dull steel of its hooves corral the brightness to remain only in the glass marbles of its eyes.

A night-mare. A young night-mare.

The colt whinnies, and then nervously clip-clops forward. Tom instinctively reaches out for it, and is reward with an adorable boop to his hand—reminiscent, of course, to his once pet lamb. Tom's hand moves on its own as he strokes the wispy mane, surprisingly corporeal underneath his fingertips.

"This is my domain…No night-mares under my command will disturb you."

"Did you get lost?" Tom finds himself murmuring. "Awfully young, aren't you?"

The colt whinnies again, clip-clopping anxiously before calming and relaxing beneath the champion's touch.

"Oh, looks like someone found you first."

Tom looks up at the voice. There is nothing, at first, and then from the same corner that the colt had come from materializes another horse—taller, bigger, clearly a grown mare. There is a rider on its back, Tom realizes, cloaked in dull stars and sandy clouds, alight with the luminance of a milky moon.

"Harry," he says.

Harry dismounts, and the colt at his side immediately goes to him. It nuzzles his hand, rubbing up against his body much like a cat, before going to stand beside the protection of the taller mare.

"Hello, Tom," Harry greets softly. His stance and tone are surprisingly demure, from what Tom knows of him.

There is a pause. Then, Harry waves off the night-mare at his side, and she fades once more into the shadows with the colt following close. Their walk of clip-clopping hooves can be heard for a few more beats before they fade away completely.

"I'm not at the boundary line," Tom says first. There is a bit of disappointment in his voice that he refuses to acknowledge—otherwise, it would feel as if he'd failed.

Harry shrugs. "There is no definite line, so to say," he replies, "No designated place where it exists. That is why it is the boundary—because it is wherever it needs to be. Don't look sad—you did an admirable job."

"You know what I've been doing?"

"Yes."

Tom hesitates. "And?"

"You did very well," is Harry's soft praise. "You were right in recognizing that that night-mare was lost. She's new to the herd, you see, but not quite fast enough to keep up with the usual pace. Well, not fast enough yet. It would've been a messy chase had we had to hunt for her—but she felt you, you know. She felt your presence as the Champion of Dream—an impressive feat for a new champion. It means your aura is strong enough for even a developing night-mare to feel safe with you. They're usually very shy creatures."

"But it was a failure."

"Pardon?"

Tom looks away. "To lucid dream. It was a failure. I didn't reach you the correct way." He is startled by Harry's soft laughter.

"Oh, Tom…what makes you think that?"

"The only reason you're here is because the night-mare found me."

Harry shakes his head. "Tell me, do you think you're awake or asleep right now?"

The question is an odd one. Tom furrows his brow, suddenly confused. "Awake, aren't I? I'm in my room…"

Harry smiles. "Night-mares can't materialize in the physical realm. They move by galloping through dreams. As I've said, you've done an admirable job, Tom."

The god's answer takes a moment to completely sink in.

"I'm dreaming…?"

"Yes. Congratulations, you've entered the gate of dreams through the mortal pathway! On your first try, too. Very impressive." Harry continues to smile at him, which confuses Tom at first until he realizes why.

"You passed."

"Normally, the gate of dreams in unreachable even through lucid dreaming. That's how we keep mortals out, you know. However, because you consciously reached for your source of power—the link between you and I—you were able to enter. I expected it to take you a bit longer—good work."

"It's been twenty-six years," Tom points out.

Harry smiles somewhat sadly. "I'm well aware of that."

They're walking along something like a pumpkin patch. Gourds are scattered all across the ground, as well as stacked one on top of the other; large and small, fat and skinny. Tom doesn't know where they are, just that Harry had said they should go for a walk and this is where they ended up. He supposes this is part of the spiritual world, though where it lies—on the boundary or across the boundary—he doesn't know.

"It wasn't exactly esoteric information. Should I be offended?"

Harry shakes his head. "It wasn't what you had to do that was difficult. It was who you had to be. As far as I know, Tom Riddle would've never trusted Harry Potter with his soul."

"You're not Harry Potter anymore," Tom says, patient, "and I suppose I'm a little bit less of Tom Riddle than I used to be. That aside, isn't your point moot anyway? You knew I would manage it; it was simply a matter of when."

When Harry doesn't answer, Tom frowns. "You did believe I would do it, didn't you?"

It takes awhile before the god manages a reply. "I don't know. For awhile, I thought I made a mistake—not in choosing you, so don't look at me like that!—I mean, in how I decided to raise you as a champion. A lot of the other gods didn't like how I was doing it, you know. And still, I'm not sure if it was the best way…"

"You're being intentionally vague," Tom points out. "Cease doing so, and perhaps I can offer some insight for you."

"I didn't want you to see me as a god," Harry explains, "for a lot of reasons. Some very selfish reasons. I intentionally took the form of a lamb. To supervise you, I didn't need to take a mortal form, but I did. I tied myself to you very early on, because I trusted you—no, that's not completely true. I trusted my idea of you. I realize now that what I did was wrong. And I owe you an apology for it, for causing you unnecessary trouble."

"You've always caused me unnecessary trouble," Tom huffs. "And this is the first time you decide to apologize for it? Two hundred years too late, Potter."

Harry flinches. Perhaps that wasn't the best thing to say…

In an attempt to rectify the mistake, Tom continues in a less antagonistic tone. "I'm here," he states, "Isn't that proof enough? Whatever our tie was in our last life doesn't matter—not to me, and it certainly shouldn't matter for you either, considering how changed we are. What more do you want?"

"It matters," Harry mutters, "It has mattered. For me, at least. I told you, didn't I? Selfish reasons. It's just—it matters…"

Tom sighs. "Did you want the Dark Lord Voldemort, then? I'll warn you ahead of time—he was a complete and utter failure. Just as well, he no longer exists, so you're out of luck there."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then, pray tell, what do you mean?"

"Do you remember the prophecy? You probably don't. It was a long time ago. But I always—I thought about it, okay? No matter what form you came in, it was an undeniable truth that my life quite honestly revolved around you. Sometimes I felt I existed for you—existed to be the weapon to end you. Fate told you—told you I'd been close to becoming Death's champion. Well, now you know why. I was to be your grim reaper, and the grim reaper of any others who came to be like you. That was my destiny, ordained by the gods. And it all started—it all started with you and your horcruxes. Your splintered soul. My birth—it was because of you."

Tom avoids looking at him. Harry takes in a shaky breath before continuing.

"Obviously, it didn't happen. I changed my fate. It's why Fate and Prophecy aren't on particularly good terms with me—didn't exactly win me any points in their books. Our ties, in that respect, are over. You're right about that. Tom Riddle is Tom Riddle, and Voldemort has ceased to be. The reason for Harry Potter to exist is no longer—so he doesn't. Instead, there's me—which is a problem, because I'm not really…I'm not really whole, if you understand."

"I don't," Tom replies bluntly.

Harry's smile fails. "My soul. It's not…really…whole."

"You broke it?"

"No. Worse."

"What?"

"You remember, don't you? Harry Potter…was your horcrux. Accidental, true, but maybe not such a big accident since everything that happened was all part of the prophecy. Planned. Fated. Destined. However you want to phrase it. Your soul latching on to mine was on purpose. Harry Potter was purposely born with an incomplete soul—your splintered soul piece acting as the missing part. If that hadn't been the case, your horcrux would've corrupted me by the age of three and I would've been long dead. Death told me. It wasn't a very fun conversation. I tried to hex him."

"…That…"

Harry looks away. "Is a pretty big snafu. Yeah. But, well, it gets worse. Since I didn't become Death's champion, my soul couldn't be balanced by him. Instead, I became the God of Dreams…a position only to be held by a mortal who had become a god while still retaining part of his humanity. And, you know, I've always had that stupid saving people thing—"

"Hero complex."

"Yeah. That. Well, it's all balanced out now…thanks to being a god. Usually gods lose their sense of morality. Because mine was pretty much above average, I just had it…dimmed down. So they stuck me in as the God of Dreams. Boundary. This. Problem is, I've got an incomplete soul, and as a god that's kind of a problem."

Tom's reply sounds a little strangled. "I think I see where you're taking this."

"Do you? Because it's a really weird situation."

"Are you telling me you've been prepping my soul to…to eat it?"

"What?!" Harry exclaims, "No! That's barbaric. I wouldn't do that. No, no I'm not going to eat it. Ugh. Your soul is safe and sound. I fixed it all up for you. No—you see, the relationship between a god and their champion…isn't exactly equal. Naturally the champion is the one in the inferior role, because you know, gods and their godliness, and what not. My problem is…I kind of need an equal champion to serve as my balance, since I'm unstable because of my soul. This hasn't exactly ever happened before, so the other gods gave me leave to do what I felt I needed to do—"

"And you chose me."

"Uh, yeah. I mean, you were the obvious choice, right? I didn't—I didn't know who else. It's not like gods normally choose champions from their past life. It's more of a discovering thing…but I didn't have that kind of time, nor did I see how I could possibly have an equal champion who I haven't established some sort of trust with beforehand."

Tom gives him an incredulous look. "You trusted me? I tried to kill you. I did kill you. The only reason you didn't stay dead was because of some—"

"Bullshit, yeah, Dumbledore. I hear you," Harry quickly interrupts. "I—…ugh. It wasn't—I thought it was trust, but it wasn't. I see that now. It was…well…we were similar, you know? As Harry Potter. As Tom Riddle. I could…I saw myself as you, sometimes, in my dreams. Saw myself becoming you. It was scary. But it was because of that that I was able to understand what sort of person you were—are. And so I believed in that. So I chose you. I honestly don't think I could choose anyone else at this point, either. It's a pretty done deal."

Tom is stuck between anger, reluctant understanding, and indignation. Because he can't decide on one, he settles on all three. "So you're regretting your choice. I get it."

"Wha—no! I'm not—you're—that's not what I meant to say. I never even said that!"

"Then you were thinking of it."

"No! I wasn't! I never have. Look, I sure as hell don't trust you anymore, but I have faith in you. And for what it's worth, I'm pretty damn sure that that's as much as you can expect from me now as you can get."

Tom instantly turns on him. "Oh? And why's that? Because you made the wrong choice, you expect me to pay for it? Just a silly little mortal now, am I? I bet you're satisfied with your revenge now—"

Harry groans in frustration. "Oh Merlin you're such a prat! No! Whoever said anything about revenge?! Does God of Misfortune ring a bell with you? How the hell do you expect me to trust you when you clearly didn't trust me? You turned your back on me, Tom! I tried to warn you and you ignored me! I thought we'd been closer than that! Did you even consider how worried I was? Or did you forget that little fact over the course of your twenty-six years of sulking? Because that's pretty much what you did for half of those years!"

Tom recoils both in shock and realization. He…he had forgotten. Honestly, that moment…he didn't remember at all. Never took that into account. When he—

"…Oh."

"Yeah," Harry grunts, speeding up his pace. Tom speeds up to catch up with him.

"You were comparatively pleasant earlier," Tom says cautiously. His own rage seems to have died out at this point.

"Was trying to see where we stood. Was trying to apologize to you. Kind of wanted an apology in return," Harry bites out. "Clearly I'm not getting one."

"Harry—"

"It doesn't matter anymore. I know what I did was wrong, and that's enough. I shouldn't have expected you to figure everything out—you may be brilliant, but I was made to fool you. Should've taken that one into consideration," Harry huffs. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Just forget it. You passed. Hooray. We can start your training now."

"Harry."

"You were the one who said it didn't matter first. Let's just drop it like you wanted to drop it, okay? You're right. What happened in our past life doesn't matter. I shouldn't have let it matter. Let's just leave it and move on."

"Harry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

Harry blinks. "…What?"

"I…apologize." Tom grimaces. "At that time…There was only a year left. I thought…if I didn't hurry and defeat Grindelwald—…I didn't want you to be taken away from me. As if that helped. You still left in the end, and that was why I was content to be so angry with you afterwards, for such a long time. It was like whatever I did didn't matter. I was impatient. I rushed. I didn't listen to you, even when I knew I should've. So I'm apologizing to you."

Incredulous, Harry repeats, "What?"

"If you make me repeat that all over again, I'm going to rescind my apology and hex you. Do you really think I'm unable to acknowledge my past mistakes?"

"N-No! Well…not until five seconds ago?" When Tom tosses him a nasty look for his comment, Harry bites back a smile and laughs. "Sorry. Uh, for that, and before."

Tom's nod is stiff. "You're forgiven."

Harry starts walking again, taking the lead though his champion follows at his side. An easier silence pervades, but it's so clearly lighter than before that it isn't disturbing in the least. Most of the tension is gone. Tom relaxes.

"I met with Merope and Tom before they passed," Harry reveals.

"How were they?"

"Pleasant. Calm. Together. They were standing side by side in a dream—forming a connection. They went together without pain, if you were wondering. They—" Harry swallows, "—They told me they were proud of you, and were glad that they could see you grow up. It was what a parent would've said."

Tom nods.

"Where do we go from here?"

Harry shrugs. "We learn together. We grow together. You'll be stuck with me whether you like it or not. I don't imagine it'll be easy…but if you've ever heard of the saying, 'don't put your eggs all in one basket,' I'm completely ignoring it and putting all my figurative eggs into one metaphorical basket. The other gods think I'm wrong to choose you. I don't really care what they think. You're mine, now."

The simplistic way his god phrased what he wanted to say makes Tom avoid looking at him. Something fierce grips his heart, squeezing it painfully once before it lets go. Tom breathes in.

"For someone who was just insulting me, you're surprisingly optimistic."

Harry laughs. "Because I believe in you. You don't need to trust someone to have faith in them—we're playing opposite roles now. I hope you don't mind."

Tom finally shrugs in return. "You've always caused me unnecessary trouble. What's a bit more?"

Tom doesn't know how much time passes afterward. All he knows is Harry, the world of dreams, night-mares and spiritual otherworldliness. He doesn't ask what happened to his body in the life he'd been living—he assumes he's dead there.

All he knows is Harry, and all Harry sees is him.

It's a situation he would've liked to be in earlier, but now he acknowledges that there are flaws with it. Harry said they'd grow together, but Tom just feels like he's running to keep up while Harry parts all of his knowledge of the job to him.

It's not…bad. Tom's always done well under pressure, and isn't that what this is now even though his god looks as unbothered as he had all those years ago?

"Focus," Harry says.

Tom sighs and mentally agrees. He takes up his bow, notches an arrow, takes aim and lets it fly. Instead of hitting the core of his target, it skims the shoulder. Tom curses.

"Close."

"Hardly," the champion sneers. The black misshapen thing he'd shot at turns around and notices him. Immediately, more rise from the ground and soon enough there's a veritable small army running at them from their position on a cliff side.

Tom curses again. "Run," he says, fully ready to turn around and sprint back the way they came. Harry, however, is still unbothered and merely shrugs at the command.

"Seriously?!" Tom groans.

"It's not good to run from every encounter, my archer."

"I'm hardly adequate with a bow and arrow. What else do you expect me to do?"

Harry laughs. "Learn."

Tom mutters something definitely blasphemous toward his god. Said god simply smiles and points at the infringing monsters.

"Come, begin before they get closer. You're doing well—at least you skimmed it at 500 meters. They're what, 400 meters away now? You should be able to hit one easy."

"One out of fifty!"

"And then they'll get even closer, and you can shoot them again, and then it'll be less."

Tom sighs in frustration, but returns to his position anyway and readies his bow again. "What are you going to do when they get here? These things can hurt you, you know—forgot to tell me that bit when I first became your champion."

Harry shrugs. "I'm the God of Boundary. Naturally there would be something to protect it from. That aside, I'm sure it'll be fine."

"How do you figure?" Tom asks as he fires his first shot. It hits its mark, and the inhuman scream that sounds after it goes up in flames is immensely satisfying.

Harry smiles from his seat beside him. "Because I trust you as my champion, of course."

omg another stupid long oneshot I hate writing these but I love it at the same time p_q

So this, much like Elements of Lordship, was a fic I've been letting sit around mostly fully written (sans the ending) for a really long time... and it's not really beta'd so sorry for any typos you may find in it.

Things to address:

This fic is for Krysania because your goat icon on ffnet inspired like a lot of it. LIKE A WHOLE LOT OF IT. LIKE HALF.

Death speaks in caps because I had this head canon for this fic where he's the babysitter of all the gods, so he's constantly talking in a really really loud voice to stop their squabbles.

Also this was my dream pun: Land of Dreams - Lamb of Dreams - Ram of Dreams

ALSO: the world record for distance an arrow is shot is 350 meters. Tom actually manages to hit something (kinda) at 500 meters. Too bad he's a champion and not a human. The end, in this respect, is really important. If you noticed, Tom listens to Harry when Harry pretty much says, "nah you can do this." It's a direct 180 from when Tom didn't listen to Harry...which is why Harry says he now trusts Tom, because Tom is not afraid to trust in him.

I wanted this fic to go to actually romantic slash but Harry and Tom just were not working with me so open endings yay! Sorry I'm really tired after finishing this monster...

Hope you enjoyed the cute ^_~

Sincerely,

R.R.