Title: between
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slight Non-Con, Dark themes, Tom Riddle with Candy
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: 'They both agreed it wasn't a dream, and Tom dragged him back to his feet with one hand...' Some dreams are too real, and some aren't dark enough.
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Time Period: Seventh year
Word Count: 1,069
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

between

When he had been seven and locked up underneath the staircase of his aunt and uncle's house, Harry Potter had often had strange dreams. Most of these consisted of talking snakes, or brilliant lights, or any other countless things that he could explain now that he was a wizard.

But not the one.

There was one where Harry was in a cold, dark room, and the darkness was killing him. There was nothing in the room but the darkness, and yet he was dying, and even a seven-year-old could comprehend that. He ran, but his legs didn't work, and he fell. And a man dressed in black with silver chains and ink stained hands helped him up.

Harry could vividly remember that dream because he had it almost every night, and it was always the same. Always the same darkness, and the same man, and the same foreboding feeling in his stomach when he accepted the man's hand. And always the same ink staining his own hands, then, black smeared over too-white hands. And he would always wake up there.

But he had been seven then, and now, his dreams were much more frightening, and much more real. Voldemort's forces, the loss of his godfather, failing an exam, asking any girl out to a dance.

Only, he was having that dream again, and this time it wasn't the same.

He still was left alone with the darkness and the damp, and his chest was caving in and his eyes watering. He was dying, like he had died countless times before death was even a factor in his life. And even though he knew he would fall, he ran, because that's what this dream made him feel like. Running away from his problems, and his friends, and hope itself.

The man didn't help him up this time. The man stood and watched as Harry fell to his knees, the fabric of his jeans ripping and the skin ripping and his blood trickling out in streams. The man stood and watched as Harry bit his lip, because the pain was real. The man stood and sneered when Harry turned toward him, looking for help.

"Please?" He was seven again, or at least he wished he were, because the man had always laughed and helped him up and given him an imaginary stick of candy which Harry hoped would still be in his pocket when he woke, but never was. The man frightened him, yes, but he had also always helped him. "Please?" Stronger now.

"Why? You never helped me up when I fell, when they pushed me." The man was towering over him now, his inky fingers locked together in front of him. Only, the ink wasn't black, it was red, and wasn't ink at all, but blood. And only now did the man extend his hand, and Harry still took it, because he was scared. "You never protected me from the name calling or the teasing. You never did anything but push me and d-"

"You must be mistaken! I never pushed you!" The man rocked back and forth on the balls of his heels, and Harry could hear a laugh echoing from deep within his throat. "I'm only dreaming, anyway."

"Harry Potter, you wish it was a dream now, but trust me, it's not." The man burst into flames. Like a phoenix, only this was not pure or beautiful, and he would not be reborn a bird, but as Tom Riddle. And Harry screamed. "Poor Harry, so alone in the darkness with me again, and no sword or beast or hat to help you now."

"A dream, a dream, a dream. I'm dreaming. It's Christmas break, and I'm in bed at Hogwarts, and Ron should be waking me up any moment now because… because…" Because he was crying, and because Tom Riddle was laughing and of all the things that he wanted to happen, it was not the touch of Tom's palm against his cheek, though that was what did.

It was surprisingly soft, and Harry looked up, tears dotting his eyelashes. He was too old to cry over nightmares, and too old to cry because his lips were pressed against Tom's, and his hands grasping at the other boy's, the dead, evil boy's, shoulders. Tom smiled against his mouth, breath heavy and hot and smelling like candy. "A dream."

Harry closed his eyes, and backed into a wall. The darkness had formed a wall and was pressing against his eyelids and filling his mouth, though that might have been Tom's tongue. And the feeling against his chest was Tom's chest, and his hands holding Harry's arms, and his legs pinning either side of Harry's body.

"A good dream?" And Tom's tongue rolled over Harry's lips, soft and smooth and like the snake that the boy was, and Harry liked it, beside his thoughts screaming NO! "Or a bad dream?" And Tom was all teeth, flashing and biting and drawing blood on Harry's neck and shoulder blade and chest. "Am I a dream?"

"I don't know. But you're not real, in any case." Harry was panting slightly, eyes rolled back and mouth working on its own will. "And that's because I killed you once, and I destroyed this form of you once, and I'll do it countless more times if necessary, because you're evil and I'm-"

"Say good, and I break more than your arm, Harry Potter." Tom twisted with his wrist, and twisted hard, and Harry sunk to his knees involuntarily. It wasn't broken, but it wasn't hard to tell that any tighter and it would have been, and Tom was smiling and Harry stopped screaming. "A dream?"

"No." They both agreed it wasn't a dream, and Tom dragged him back to his feet with one hand and pressed him against the wall and kissed him again.

When Harry did finally jolt awake in his bed at Hogwarts, snow was drifting down outside and Ron was shaking him because it was near noon and Hermione wanted to study in the library (did Harry want to come?). Harry didn't know what do say. He didn't know what to do, what to think, what to want to think, and knew only that there was blood on his lips and bruise marks running up and down his shoulder blade.

And a stick of candy in the breast pocket of his nightshirt.