Chapter Three
Tom's point of view
It was bright white, or at least it should have been. There were orbs hanging in the air, no visible means of holding them up. They were glowing, and different colors, they were memories. Green fog obscured the contents of all the memories belong ing to Voldemort. Tom could see but some of his own. The pink memories were his favorite, pink symbolized joy. Memories were flying passed him. Some of them were his, some he shared with Voldemort, some were the monster's alone. None of them here were pink. He was being careful, taking his time, there was no rush. The longer he waited, the easier it would be to gain control again. Tom was attempting to push past Voldemort's mental defenses, one after another, after another. Something stopped him, a pulsing red and gold light, it was beautiful, like phoenix fire. Smoke. Tom's mind was filling with smoke. No, that was silly. That's what it felt like. There was someone else there. Why? Who was it? Tom had to know. He made his way over to him. The boy, so familiar. Who was it. Couldn't think. Couldn't think. So tired. Why was he so tired? Falling. Falling through nothing. Sinking into darkness. Cold. He was so cold. Was he dying? How would that feel? The boy noticed him. The eyes. The emerald eyes. Harry, it had to be. Darkness, closing in around Harry's face. Voices. Voices were whispering. No, yelling. Whispering again. Back to yelling. Just talking now. What were they saying? No, they were gone. And back again. So confused. Needed help. Harry. He grabbed Tom's hand. Darkness. It was clearing. The voices. They were gone. The smoke, it was lifting. Everything was bright white, no dark green fog obscuring memories, in fact there were no memories at all. A picture was starting to take over. Papers, and a desk, some ink and a quill. An oil lamp beside him, burning brightly, casting shadows on the wall like long, dead fingers, reaching out for you.
A person was sitting at the desk, no, it was a monster. Both, it was Voldemort. He looked as though he were about to fall asleep. His eyes were even more red than usual. He was slouching badly. Tom stood... wait, stood? He looked down at himself. He was wearing black robes. He was much shorter than usual. He had his own body. That didn't make any sense. His spirit was eleven, but his body was somewhere around seventy, and how was Voldemort alive if he needed Tom's body as a host. The answer came to him. When Voldemort made Harry, the boy Tom felt was his older brother, participate in the ceremony to bring him back to life, he had created a new body, and no longer needed Tom's.
"Go ahead and drop off to sleep." Tom said, without knowing why. Voldemort's eyes widened. He stood, and made to draw his wand, but he fumbled, and dropped it. "You need sleep if you want to beat anyone." Tom sneered. " It's not like I can do anything to you now, anyway." With that he turned and ran, not knowing where he was running to, or who was down that way, but it wasn't Voldemort, and that's all he cared about at the moment... saving himself... his own worthless skin... he was acting just like the monster. He skidded to a stop. He was outside, but he didn't remember going through a door. How had he gotten out? He shook his head to clear it. Harry was out there, being treated like a liar and an attention seeking brat, all because he tried to protect everyone from Voldemort. Tom wanted to help him, maybe for the last time this time. To do that he needed to find her.
Harry's point of view
He had just woken up from the strangest dream. It wasn't of the graveyard, or Cedric. It wasn't of seemingly endless, dark corridors, with doors that swung wide open for him. It wasn't of Voldemort, not really any way. He was in a very strange place. It was bright, but there was fog. Beautiful and glowing orbs were hanging in mid air. There was a boy there, he looked like Tom Riddle, but at the age of ten, maybe eleven or twelve. He looked as though he'd been running from something, he ran into one of the orbs by accident, it seemed. He'd stopped dead in his tracks, just standing there, looking sick. He looked at Harry, but it didn't look like he knew who he was looking at, but then he smiled. He started falling backward and, without knowing why, Harry reached out and grabbed his hand. In a flash of white light, Harry had woken up. It wasn't green like the killing curse, it wasn't gold like the priori incantatem from the graveyard, it was white, pure, and honest. He'd never had a dream like that before, and he was sure he wouldn't have one again. He sat in a chair behind a desk, staring out the window. He was trying to figure out what the dream had meant. There was something about the fact that it was young Voldemort Harry was trying to help. It didn't make sense to him. After about a half hour he came up with a meaning. Voldemort may need to see true value in love and friendship, before I can take him down, it seemed silly, but that's all he could come up with. He sighed and went back to his bed. He turned over, trying to find sleep. It never came, but he didn't get up, he didn't want to, there was no reason to. He was in another one of his moods.
Voldemort's point of view
Tom had gotten out. How could that have happened? He had to have had help, but from whom? She didn't know anything about Voldemort not really being Tom Riddle, so who could've helped him escape? Potter had almost free access into Voldemort's mind, but he wouldn't know how to set Tom free, unless he had some kind of power, Voldemort needed to hear the real prophesy for himself, word for word. He needed to know what this power was.
