Chapter 5: Dream

"Fancy seeing you here," said the stranger, Harry's stranger, as a third song began to play, soft and sweet, a melody suited to the dance they were about to undertake.

"Funny," Harry said, but truthfully he was elated that the man had come to him. Then, because Harry wanted to clarify that nothing untoward had been going on between him and Myrtle, he added, "I think you might have disappointed my sister, though."

The man's mouth twisted up on one side. "She'll live."

They revolved several times in pleasant silence. Harry eyed the plain ivory mask that hid a majority of the man's features. Now that they were close, Harry could see the stranger's eyes were a very rich, warm brown. So warm, in fact, that they seemed to reflect firelight when there was none to be seen.

"Have you enjoyed yourself so far tonight?" asked the man.

"Yeah," Harry said with a nod. "It's been really nice, actually."

"I'm glad." The man lifted his gaze to the ceiling above them, a casual glance that melted into a look of astonishment as he caught sight of what lay beyond the glass. "It's snowing outside."

Harry looked up. The skylights were covered in a faint dusting of fat white flakes. "A nice way to end the masquerade," he said with no small amount of melancholy.

The stranger's grip on his waist tightened almost imperceptibly. "Perhaps." The man tore his eyes away from the ceiling, resting them upon Harry's face once more, inspecting Harry in a tender way that made him feel seen rather than exposed. "Will you be happy, then, to go home to your family?"

It was a difficult question to answer. "I love my parents," Harry said quietly. "I love them a lot."

The music slowed, the notes stretching on and on until all that remained was the faint tinkling of a piano. All the people around them faded to non-existence, until the two of them—Harry and his partner—were left alone, spinning their steady dance across the glossy stone floors.

"If you could stay," whispered the man, rough words that resounded in the enormous space of the ballroom, "if you could stay here with them, here with me, would you?"

There was too much to consider, too much to think about. "I don't know," Harry said with a wince.

The stranger danced the tips of his fingers over Harry's forehead. The sensation tickled, a far cry from the searing pain that Harry was used to. Harry held fast to the stranger's arms while they danced without steps to a song without melody.

"That's alright. Some decisions are not made because of knowing."

Harry relaxed, relieved that his indecision had not come off as offensive. "What are they made from, do you think?"

The man's mouth curved into a lush smile. "I believe you know the answer to that particular question, darling." His hand moved, tracing the side of Harry's face, dropping to the shoulder before it slid to rest upon Harry's chest.

"Someone once told me that love was the most powerful magic in the world," Harry admitted. The man's hand was likely listening to his erratic, fluttering heartbeat.

When the man hummed once instead of providing a verbal response, Harry assumed the conversation was over, but as it turned out, that was not the case.

"What do you think, Harry? Do you agree that love triumphs over all?"

The serious question gave Harry pause. The concept of love reminded him of many things: his parents, who had died for him to live, and Voldemort, who had been born as the result of a love potion.

Harry wanted to stay here, to be wherever his parents were. He'd said as much already, had confessed this wish to his parents in a rare moment of vulnerability.

This was his heart's desire: to have a family. To have his family. He'd experienced more happiness here, where time was nothing more than a pile of sand in a soggy cardboard box, than he had during fifteen years of living with the Dursleys.

This dream was a dream in every sense of the word. A dream come true.

Overhead, the skylight continued to fill with snow. The twinkling stars began to vanish behind a blanket of white, the moon blurring into nothing but a shapeless glow.

The man's hand lifted from Harry's chest to his forehead, fingertips settling atop the edge of Harry's mask. "May I?"

Harry swallowed and nodded, not trusting his voice.

Despite having been tied on, the mask came away easily. Harry's stranger held it in both hands, turning it this way and that.

The mask had changed again, Harry realized belatedly. As he continued to stare, it transformed further, the eyeholes disappearing as the metal thinned and thinned, a blue gem forming in the center.

"Do you know the story of Ravenclaw's Diadem?" asked the man as he ran a finger over the tiara's brand new inscription.

"No," Harry said honestly.

"They call it the Lost Diadem," the man continued, glancing up. "It is said that Rowena infused this relic with rare magic, the first of its kind. To this day, it has yet to be replicated, such was the greatness of her ingenuity."

"Increasing the wisdom of the wearer," Harry said, for once glad he had decided to pay attention in Binns' classroom.

"Close, but not quite." The man's hands stilled in their inspection of the diadem. "It is much more powerful than that. The diadem enhances, yes, but it does not merely enhance the wearer's wisdom. To put it simply: it learns."

"Learns?"

"This piece of jewelry learns from each and every person it encounters. It collects this knowledge, this capacity for knowledge, and draws upon these reserves to fuel its growth."

The man smiled and, with a flick of his wrist, gave the diadem a dainty toss—Harry watched the metal circlet spin once in the air before the man caught it with the opposite hand.

"Someday, I daresay it may learn how to breathe."

Harry wasn't quite following. "How did it get lost to begin with?"

"It was stolen by Rowena's daughter in a fit of pique and jealousy. Irreconcilable differences, or so both parties believed. The daughter fled, vowing never to return, and for many years, this grudge held. Then a sickness befell the mother, a terrible ailment for which there was no known cure."

"How awful," Harry said. "Did the daughter come back?"

The stranger shook his head. "Rowena sent a man to retrieve her, a past suitor of her daughter's who took to the task with great fervor and devotion, but neither suitor nor daughter ever returned to the castle."

The man offered the diadem out.

"It is said that Rowena passed not from illness but from a broken heart."

Harry held the diadem gingerly in both hands. It was clear to him that this story was related to his predicament.

Did Rowena's daughter regret her actions? Did she wish she had chosen to stay?

Harry would have gone anywhere in the world, to worse places than this, if it meant he could stay with his parents.

We'll stay with you as long as you want us to.

They would stay with him if he asked. But why did he have to make the choice? Why was it his responsibility?

There was kindness in the man's eyes as he extended his hand, palm up, in Harry's direction. "So what do you say? Will you stay?"

Harry still had no answer to give. He gave his head a shake before he registered that the motion would be interpreted as an answer. "I don't know," he said for the second time.

The man's resulting smile was rueful. "Then how about another dance? We have the time."

Music began to play, the low hum of a lullaby meant to prelude sleep. After a momentary fumbling, Harry settled the diadem onto the crown of his own head and allowed the stranger to pull him into another slow dance.

It was a new position for them. They were nearly chest to chest, close enough that Harry could comfortably rest his head upon the man's shoulder. Harry lost himself in the careful sway of the man's movements and trusted that his feet would remain solidly on the ground.

The snowstorm overhead, the precious passing seconds, and the very real world that existed outside of this dream... those were tiny and unimportant when compared to this moment.

Harry and the man kept dancing. They danced and they danced, like the ballroom floor was a space that existed just for them. Harry closed his eyes and relished in the sensation of being held.

It was silly to think that prior to this dream, he had been worried to death over a potions textbook. The diadem on his head carried much more than the burden of knowledge. It carried the persistent weight of regret.

Harry felt the man's lips touch where his scar had once been; a scar that, in this realm, existed only in spirit. Harry felt his heart ache with the decision he was about to make, with what he was giving up.

The clock chimed midnight. Harry raised his head and smiled.

The man gazed at him with fondness. "Have you decided?"

"I love my parents," Harry said softly.

The man nodded, eyes wide and intent.

"And they love me," Harry added, voice trembling. His hands clung to the man's shoulders, scrunching up the velvet fabric. It was important to him that he said this aloud. "They loved me enough to leave me. They loved me enough to tell me to let go."

"Harry—"

Harry dropped his arms and took a step back. "I love them enough to let them go."

"Harry, you don't have to."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I wish I could stay. You have no idea how much I wish I could stay."

Knowing he needed to leave, it hurt so badly that nothing else would ever come close. But there was a world that needed him. Friends who needed him. He could not abandon them. They were his family, too.

Someday, he would see his parents again. For now, he could let go.

"Then stay." The man took Harry's hand in his and dropped to one knee. "Stay with me. We could dance like this every night. Every night you wished to. You could dance with your parents. An eternal masquerade, just for you. For us."

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated. "I have to go." He tried to pull his hand away, but his heart wasn't in it.

"If you leave," the man said, pleading, "I will remain. I will sit in the rose garden every night, alone."

"That's not fair," Harry cried, and this time he succeeded in yanking his hand back. "No, you can't—"

The man shook his head, his expression agonized. "I must."

A rush of distress washed down Harry's spine. Somewhere outside, the clock continued to chime. He was sure, now more than ever, that he was making the right choice. That he had to wake up, to return to his friends.

Underneath his feet, the floor moved, the stone tiles expanding into stone strips and carrying him away from the center of the ballroom. Carrying him away from the lonely stranger.

Soon enough, the two of them would be separated for good.

"Come with me," Harry shouted across the rapidly widening chasm. He extended his arm, stretched his fingers out. "Come with me, then, and we can go together!"

The man's eyes widened. He staggered to his feet, mouth agape, face contorted in confusion.

"Come on," Harry said again, gesturing. He attempted to move forward, but his feet were rooted to the floor, frozen to the stone. Trapped.

Panic sank in as Harry cried, "You have to run!"

The stranger started running.

To Harry's horror, the tiles below continued to expand, stones glowing with powerful magic. High above him, the skylight, packed with snow, was a bright, blinding white.

This space, Harry realized, would soon become nothing but light.

If only he could move! Harry struggled in vain to move his feet, instead toppling over and sprawling upon the ground. He stared, agonized, at the ever-increasing distance between himself and his stranger. Even with the obstruction of his mask, the man's fear at being abandoned here, in this world outside of linear time, was painfully evident.

But it was too late. Harry had made his decision, and this distance between them was the dream's way of telling him it was too late.

The distance grew, and as it grew, the light surrounding Harry blazed brighter and brighter. Harry's eyes began to water, but he refused to shut them, intent on shouting himself hoarse until the very end.

Eventually, there was nothing left to see. No one left to shout at.

Harry sobbed into the vast, empty whiteness and let the light swallow him whole.

When Harry came to, he was crumpled awkwardly against the side of the dusty, unused cupboard. The cupboard he had hidden the Prince's textbook in.

Harry fumbled for the diadem on his head and tugged it off. The metal was scalding to the touch—with a raw gasp, Harry dropped the diadem to the ground with a loud clatter.

"No," he said, horrified. His voice was rough, not from the screaming he had done in his dream, but from being unconscious for an indeterminate period of time.

With shaking hands, Harry tugged the sleeves of his robes down over his hands and picked the diadem back up. He jammed it on his head. The metal was cooler now, no longer burning.

Nothing happened.

"No," Harry repeated, squeezing his eyes shut, "no, no, no!"

Harry took the diadem off and put it back on. In his mind's eye, he pictured the ballroom, just like he would have if he were Apparating there.

Still nothing.

This was not what he wanted. Snape was waiting for him, but he no longer cared about that. If only he could go back and save the stranger from being left behind.

Furious, Harry yanked the tiara off his head and glared at the inscription on the bottom. This was supposed to make him smarter! It was supposed to help him solve the problem.

"Wit beyond measure..." Harry muttered in disgust, his eyes tracing the words—

—words that were now fading from sight.

The diadem began to glow, and with the glow came heat, and with the heat came pain. Harry yelped, his hands jerking involuntarily, launching the artifact into the air.

Up it sailed, spinning round like a carousel, until it landed on the bust of the ugly warlock.

It sat there while Harry nursed his tender palms, cursing every atom of the universe for ruining his life.

And then it moved.

Harry had sometimes glimpsed cartoons on the telly, the hop and bop of animated characters that would have looked ridiculous in real life.

This was real life.

Harry's breath hitched. Passing seconds trailed through the air like errant snowflakes as the stone bust rose shakily and leapt off of the cupboard, coming to a wobbly halt a few meters away.

It hovered there, at the height one would expect a head to exist, its movements unsteady as the silhouette of a body flickered in and out of view like a dying candle flame, like a ghost gathering its wits.

Harry had no name to call. Instead, he bore silent witness to the figure that materialized, piece by piece, into existence before him.

The charcoal cloak, the ruby-red waistcoat, the ivory mask. Most importantly, the man wearing those things. The man who claimed to not like dancing.

There was a story there, probably. This man must have loads of stories about masquerade balls and dancing for hours and the meaning of a mask.

"You made it," Harry whispered in awe. Suddenly, there was a great deal of room in his chest: room for laughter, room for joy, room for hope.

The man removed the diadem from his head and looked down at it. "It would seem so."

As the shock of delight faded, Harry became reacquainted with reality—namely, this reality in which he was dressed in Gryffindor robes, had no parents, and possessed quite possibly the knobbiest knees in the entire school.

"Er, I'm glad you did. I'm really glad. I was—" Harry swallowed, his feelings of inadequacy threatening to drown his own voice out. "I was worried."

The man's gaze jerked up, and Harry couldn't breathe, he was so afraid. Afraid of rejection.

They made eye contact for but a moment, and then the stranger unceremoniously cast the diadem aside, where it landed, lopsided, in a large pile of junk.

"Harry," breathed the man, and the word was loving, was kind, was spoken with such affection that Harry felt his stupid knees go weak. "Harry, Harry, Harry."

The stranger cupped Harry's face with both hands, thumbs smoothing gently over Harry's cheeks. His eyes were full of wonder as he slid his hands to Harry's shoulders and spun them around in a wild circle, an enormous grin threatening to overtake his entire face.

His enthusiasm was catching. Harry let out a joyful whoop, clinging to the man's arms as they spun about, laughing.

"I'm free," the man said fervently as they slowed to a stop, "thanks to you."

Harry was so happy he could hardly speak. "You're free," he repeated, wondering what they would do now.

The man withdrew from their pseudo-embrace and finally pulled the ivory mask off his face, revealing the half that Harry had yet to see.

Or so he thought.

A mask could hide so much. It could hide insecurities. It could hide scars. It could not hide pale skin, curled hair, and vermillion eyes so dark they appeared brown, but it could hide—

Tom Riddle, a voice in Harry's mind supplied, his own internal monologue too stunned to respond on its own.

Older than the teenage version from the diary, but younger than the monster that had emerged from the cauldron in the graveyard. This handsome face was hardly tainted by the effects of dark magic; years spent in the diadem must have healed it from the hollow, sickly appearance of the man from Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve. Eyes no longer bloodshot, skin no longer waxen and sickly.

That did not change the fact that it was Lord Voldemort holding him close and praising him.

"Harry," murmured the stranger who was not a stranger at all, but the man who would go on to murder Harry's parents in cold blood, "I will keep my promise to you."

Harry was shaking. How could he have been so blind? The dream... The reality of the dream… Harry had been studying Horcruxes. Studying Riddle. He should have known.

"Stay with me, darling boy," Riddle continued to whisper, "and I will return your parents to you." He caressed the side of Harry's face, words sweet like honey pouring forth from his lips as he said, "Give me time, and I will see to it that all your dreams come true."

Harry recalled Professor Dumbledore's warnings: Tom Riddle was a siren, dangerous and deranged, and his offerings were not to be trusted.

Harry knew all this and yet he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't care. He had already given his parents up once. He was not strong enough to do it again.

Lord Voldemort rewards those who are loyal to him...

Riddle pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead, right over the scar. "I will build the grandest ballroom for us to enjoy together, just you and I. We'll dance as long as you like. As much as you like."

Harry licked his lips and tasted hope there, right on the tip of his tongue. "And Myrtle?"

Riddle paused. "And Myrtle… I will see her exorcised for good, I suppose. She will move on to the afterlife, as all ghosts ought to. She will be reunited with her family."

"Okay," Harry said. "Okay." Myrtle deserved family just as much as he did. "Can I—can I go get my things?"

If Riddle was surprised that Harry had anticipated their departure, he kept it to himself. "Of course."

It was a good time to leave, Harry thought to himself as he glanced at the rickety old cupboard. It was as good a time as any to leave. Better to leave before he was expelled, before he got anyone else killed by simply being here.

He would leave the bottle of Felix Felicis for Ron and Hermione along with a brief note explaining his departure.

He would leave with Riddle, and someday the two of them would return and free Myrtle from the girl's bathroom.

Riddle guided Harry to the nearest wall, where a plain wooden door was waiting for them.

"Your dorm room," Riddle said confidently. When Harry failed to respond, he added in a gentler tone, "Are you ready, darling?"

Harry laid his own hand flat against his chest and thumbed at his own rib cage, pressing down on the bone. Real. This was real.

"Yeah," he said, dropping his hand and reaching for the doorknob. "I'm ready."

.

END.

A/N:

huzzah! there we have the end! this was meant to be a short, fun story, which means i couldn't quite fit all the explanation i wanted... it's also why sirius isn't mentioned, though i'm sure harry also loves him very much.

for those of you interested:

tom has indeed been trapped in the world's longest masquerade ball. this is the diadem's doing, not his own. lesson learned: don't meddle with shit you don't understand. tom does believe that he needs to trap harry in the dream world with him; whether it is simply to have harry's company, or to use harry to take his place is up to you lmao.

what happens, of course, is harry decides to leave, and it is this sacrifice/acceptance that enables them both to leave the diadem. (some such nonsense about how it fulfills the gap of knowledge that both rowena and helena ravenclaw failed to possess)

anyway, i hope you all enjoyed this story 3 i don't see myself revisiting this world, as the ambiguous ending is intentional, but you're welcome to speculate!