A Lack of Humanity
"Harry, simply because an idea is mad does not
mean you can assume the creator to be the same."
"But sir, this is Voldemort we're talking about."
The most singular quality of Voldemort's dreams is that they do not involve people. They exist at the edges, like swiftly-forgotten scenery, all the leaves and screams too much the same in the end. A man might tumble out the doorway of his once-existent house, shrieking and convulsing in agony as marrow melts from his bones, but these events are only cheap sideshows. Distractions.
(Though fire has always entranced Voldemort. Few things in the world are so momentously destructive yet rewarding, swift enough to deter boredom yet excessive enough to terrorize those who don't control it. Even magic sometimes pales in comparison to the very primal satisfaction of burning a village to the ground.)
Perhaps it is better to say that his dreams lack humanity. Not even his perspective is that of a man. He can remember when he dreamt from his own eyes, or even the eyes of an anonymous body. But that was when Tom Riddle fell asleep and spent the night tossing, turning, muttering, in pursuit of answers that his conscious mind refused to find. The other Slytherins learned to ignore the sounds rather than wake him.
In Voldemort's dreams, he has no autonomy. At first, he considered the idea that his viewpoint aligned with the God Muggles speak of so fondly: an omniscient Ra, considering his domain. But this theory could not explain why he had no control over what he saw or dwelled on. Rather, the view reminded him of a train window, and all his fancies like the world outside the glass, indiscriminately passing him by.
(Since childhood, windows and Voldemort had misunderstood each other. He could spend hours gazing past the glass and admiring the bravery of the sunshine, its determination to conquer every inch of grass and dirt and scattered leaves. When temptation proved too much, he would sneak outside. But the sun that seemed so worthy of praise spat in his eyes and the dirt snatched at his clothes, making Ms. Bartle scream and shake his shoulders. Nature could only comfort him from a distance, but that was still more than most people accomplished.)
Sometimes, it is as if people would enter his night-wanderings, but are held inexplicably at bay. A few times, while he was consumed with plotting the man's death, he felt Dumbledore's smile at the edge of his dream. Periodically, a Death Eater who had served him well or incredibly dismally strayed into his mind as he slept. And every now and then, he had the strangest sense of déjà vu; a perfect certainty possessed him, that if he could take a step and round the corner, Tom would be loitering there against the wall, waiting to be found.
One person, though, frequently comes close to interfering with his dreams. The boy was never truly there; it seemed to Voldemort like the boy had lived within each dream, then brightly stepped out to lunch just as he arrived.
In a dream of the sea, raging black waves hurl themselves at each other in momentous effort; the Titans could not have roared louder in their mad fury to reach Zeus' throne. The sky above envied their struggle and drew closer, closer; it abandoned blue and white to mirror the bleakness below. Everything so dark and pounding, like the world's frantic pulse, everything but one tiny boat, a slit of white within the beast. The waves swallowed and spat in turn, the vessel resurfacing each time to meet another blow. He thought it a pointless battle, but could not turn away. Only as the dream faded did he catch sight of dark hair and two pale arms struggling at the side of the boat, hands slipping and shaking in terror.
(He considered going back to sleep to watch the boy drown, but the dream made his shoulders ache. He had always despised water, since two older boys shoved him in the stream and held his head down until he puked. The next day, their wardrobes both caught fire, and the care-workers demanded they hand over the matches before someone was seriously hurt. Tom smiled until his face hurt.)
Another night, his perspective wandered through a house like a potential buyer. Every room he investigated felt the same, warm and worn down like the pages of a favourite novel. Someone had pushed all the furniture to the ceiling and there it nestled amongst the lightbulbs and fans, elbowing the vents for space. He toured the house three times, always hearing the inhabitants laughing or making coffee or sex the next room over. A door shut somewhere, and as he felt the dream conclude, he noticed a newspaper tossed open on the armchair. The boy's awkward blinking and bashful smile contrasted the headlines' boast: The Chosen One Arrives At Hogwarts.