Harry was dreaming.
He dreamt he was standing in front of a mirror. It was ornately decorated and in the frame the words Erised Stra Ehru Oyt Ube Cafru Oyt On Wohsi were carved. Beside him stood the wizard in the colourful clothes wearing a turban; his face was contorted, in anger or concentration, and there was a red gleam to his eyes.
"Get me the stone, Wormtail, now!" he hissed and Harry looked back into the mirror.
The reflection was a swirling mass of rapidly changing scenes. He saw a pudgy boy with a rat-like face being carried on the shoulders of three other boys; they were all laughing and cheering. He saw himself with a red-headed, freckled boy and a bushy haired girl with rather large teeth; the three of them were laughing and joking.
"Now, you miserable little wretch, he's fighting me!" that voice hissed again and Harry concentrated and then he saw himself holding a stone, putting it in his pocket. He looked down, put his hand in his robes and pulled out a stone.
Excited, relieved, he held it out to the other wizard.
"My Lord, the Philospher's Stone."
The man reached out for it with one hand that started trembling heavily, while his other hand gripped a wand.
"Stop it, Quirrell! You are mine; it is too late to turn back now! I will punish you for this insolence!"
The hissing voice wasn't coming from the other wizard's mouth: his mouth was clenched shut and there was heavy perspiration on his brow. Rather, it seemed as if the voice was coming from the back of the man's head, from underneath the hideously colourful turban. The wizard, Quirrell, no longer had red eyes, instead they were a bright blue and his face was a mask of agony, despair, and fear.
"Master?" Harry asked in confusion.
With a shout Quirrell grabbed his chest with the hand reaching out for the stone, holding it tightly as if to stop his hand from doing anything else, and he made a sharp downward motion with his wand, pointing it at himself.
"Incendio!" he shouted and then burst into flames.
"Nooooo!" the hissing voice cried out, and to Harry's horror the turban slipped and Harry saw that there was a face on the back of the wizard's head. Quirrell lurched forward, burning like a torch, his eyes flaming red again.
Harry backed up, he was terrified, and the stone was still clenched in his out-held hand.
"Save me, you fool," the voice rasped and those burning hands closed around Harry's arms, burning him. He tried to scream but was already blacking out. He imagined he heard somebody shout a spell, imagined a burst of green light enveloping Quirrell's rapidly burning form. After that: nothing.
*~*
Harry opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, blinking away a few tears of pain. The burning in his scar was quickly fading and his rapid breathing calmed. With a shudder he pushed himself upright and pulled the blankets tightly around him. He reached for the quill and ink on the bedside table and pulled the leather-bound journal from under his pillow.
This wasn't the first dream he'd had about his doppelganger, but it was by far the most vivid and disturbing one. And it was the first one to prominently feature his other kidnapper. Who, he suspected, was apparently now dead. And maybe his doppelganger was too, although for some reason Harry didn't think so.
As Harry unstoppered the ink pot and opened the journal, he wondered not for the first time just how long he'd been trapped in this place, in Riddle Mansion. Riddle Mansion that was silent as a grave; where the kitchens were magically stocked to provide all his needs; where the windows were all covered in grime obscuring any view of the outside world; where he could not get closer than two feet to any outer door, window, or wall; where time seemed not to pass, nor seasons, nor night or day, an eternal twilight. Well, it was pointless to dwell on such thoughts. And at least Harry wasn't alone.
'Hi, Tom,' Harry wrote and he watched the words disappear into the page.
'Hi, Harry, did you sleep well?'
Harry had found Tom's diary on the third day of his imprisonment in Riddle Mansion. He'd explored the house from top to bottom, searching for a way out, for any sign of life other than his own.
With the exception of one door on the second floor none were locked. There was a spiralling staircase leading down to the cellars (or dungeons, as Harry later discovered); on the first floor there was a large hallway (where the red-eyed wizard had dumped him), a ballroom, a conference room, the kitchen and pantry, and a study. On the second floor there were five large bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms, and a sixth room that was locked.
Harry had claimed one of the bedrooms for himself; it wasn't the largest, but it had the most lived-in feel to it. He wasn't surprised to find out later that it was indeed the master bedroom. There were all manner of clothes in the cupboard, robes and slacks, and shirts: most in black, a few in green, some with silver trimming. They were obviously meant for a man taller and with a broader build than Harry, but compared to Dudley's cast-offs they fit Harry wonderfully.
On the third day he'd been lying on what he had started to consider as his bed, and desperately trying to think of a way out, of a way to contact help. There seemed to be some kind of invisible barrier that stopped him from getting close to any of the outer doors, walls or windows. In desperation he'd flung himself against it, thrown chairs and anything he could get his hold on at it, but all to no avail.
Then, as if his fervent wishing for help made it happen, a hidden door had opened and revealed a small chamber off the bedroom. In it Harry had found Tom's journal, the quill and ink, a wand, and a snake. The snake was asleep, or in hibernation or something like that, but he'd overlooked it at first. As soon as he'd spotted it he'd grabbed the journal and writing instruments and bolted out of the room, closing the door and barricading it with a desk. Only afterwards had he realised he'd left the wand in there. That had probably been a good thing after all, for Tom had told him later that using another wizard's wand was extremely dangerous and he could have been badly hurt, or even killed.
Not that Harry entirely believed that explanation after Tom had emphatically forbidden him to touch the wand, when Harry suggested he use it to try and open the locked library door. Harry knew there was a lot Tom wasn't telling him, that Tom had motives of his own for helping Harry; Tom was always keeping him sufficiently occupied that thoughts of escape became secondary and were often completely forgotten. But Tom was also Harry's friend, his first and only ever friend, and in the end Harry trusted that Tom would never see him fall to harm.
'Not really. I had another dream about the other me and my kidnapper.' Harry began to detail his vision, and elaborated on all the points Tom asked questions about.
The first time Harry had dreamt of his doppelganger he had experienced the impostor being sorted. Tom had explained the sorting, and the different houses, and what Hogwarts was like, and then taught Harry another spell to cheer him up. Being confronted in your dreams with the fact that somebody else has stolen your face and your life would hardly make anybody happy.
But Tom had taught Harry how to cast a light spell, Lumos, which allowed Harry to venture into the dungeons. He'd found an honest-to-gods potions laboratory. There were wards up, so he couldn't attempt to brew a potion himself, couldn't open any of the jars with ingredients. Tom had made him promise not to try either: creating potions was dangerous work, and in his journal incarnation Tom would not be able to protect Harry if something went wrong.
After Harry had discovered Tom's journal, and they had discussed Harry's imprisonment, Tom's first task had been to get them into the one locked room in the mansion: the library. It had taken a lot of effort, but Tom had managed to teach Harry a little wandless magic: the Alohamora spell. Apparently you didn't need a wand to practice magic, but it was extremely difficult to do anything without one, and it cost a lot more energy and focus to succeed. But because Harry had never used a wand, and had in the past in fact practiced magic without a wand (however subconscious and uncontrolled that had been), they had succeeded in the end.
When at first it hadn't worked, Tom had show Harry how to enter the diary so they could speak face to face in one of Tom's memories; that way Tom had been able to make sure Harry pronounced the spell correctly.
Harry had been pleased to discover that Tom was only a few years old than he was, sixteen, and also surprised at how much they looked alike: same dark hair, same green eyes. Of course, Tom was a lot taller and broader than Harry was, but maybe he'd grow taller as well. Now that he was no longer in the Dursley's care he was finally eating properly, finally eating. Moreover, not having to spend nearly all his time locked in a cupboard or doing heavy and stressful chores had done wonders for his health. Harry was sure that in the time he'd spent trapped in Riddle Mansion he'd grown at least another four centimetres and gained at least five kilos. He was still short and thin, but at least there were no bones poking out anymore.
The library turned out to be a veritable treasure trove of knowledge. There were even a few old newspapers lying around, but none more recent than late October 1981. The vast majority of books were on the Dark Arts, but there was also a sizeable collection of Potions volumes and books in every other magical discipline.
Tom had at first promised to help Harry find a way to break the magical barrier keeping him trapped in Riddle Mansion, but nothing had come of that. Instead he distracted Harry by teaching him small spells and urging him to read the books on Wizarding History, Herbology, Magical Theory, and Potions. Harry had realised what Tom was doing; he knew that Tom was effectively keeping him too preoccupied with study to think or plan an escape, but with such interesting books to read and Tom's journal to keep him company, Harry eventually resigned himself to his captivity.
This didn't stop him from searching through the other books for a way to break the barrier (though he didn't tell Tom about this), but he realised that even if he did find something he would need a wand to perform any greater magic than the simple Accio, Alohamora and Lumos spells he'd mastered. He didn't want to risk an encounter with the diamond patterned snake in the secret chamber just yet.
'If that Quirrell wizard is dead now, what does that mean for me? He and my doppelganger, Peter, they're the only ones who know I'm here. Am I going to be trapped here forever? Because I don't think my doppelganger is going to do anything to set me free.'
Harry's dreams of Wormtail, of Peter, allowed him to sense some of his doppelganger's emotions. He was aware that Peter was enjoying Harry's life far too much to give it back willingly. There was this overwhelming feeling of gratitude, of being given a second chance.
'Don't worry, Harry. Quirrell will have only been a vessel. I doubt he would have been able to vanquish a powerful wizard like Voldemort. He'll be back.
'And you'll be freed, Harry, I promised you that and Tom Riddle always keeps his word. You just have to trust me, you do, don't you, Harry?'
Harry hesitated, and then penned a quick yes.
'Good. Don't worry, I'll think of something.'
Harry closed the journal and put it aside. He still wasn't entirely sure of the relationship between Tom Riddle and Voldemort, or what part Tom had to play with his imprisonment in Riddle Mansion. Most of the books in the library were initialled LV, but there were a few – old school books mainly – with the initials TMR. Add to that the place was called Riddle Mansion, and the words Voldemort Salazar Slytherin were etched into the library door, and the Dark Mark was branded into nearly every piece of furniture and cropped up in every ornate wood carving, well, it was obvious the two were connected.
Tom had suggested that this might be his future self's residence, but didn't comment on what his future self might have to do with the Dark Lord who had terrorized Britain during the seventies, and maybe still did.
Harry had read the few newspapers that were lying around the library; he'd seen the photos of destroyed homes with the dark mark floating above them. When he'd told Tom about this Tom had become upset, said that in any war there were bound to be casualties, and then proceeded to tell Harry that all Voldemort was after was protecting the wizarding world from muggles, protecting people like Harry and Tom himself.
It was hard to remember that there were good muggles as well; difficult when Harry's only experiences had been the Dursleys' abusive care, the harassment at school and by Dudley and his friends; difficult when he read Magical History books detailing witch hunts and the prosecution of magic in ages past; difficult when Tom confided in Harry about his own youth spent in a muggle orphanage and how he was sent back there every summer by the almighty Dumbledore to endure even more, increasing, escalating abuse.
It had been conversations like these, confiding in Tom and Tom confiding in him that had made Harry feel that despite all the questions left unanswered, despite the ambiguities, despite everything he could trust Tom. Tom was his friend, his first, best, and only friend. Tom would never let him come to harm.
Harry spent the rest of the day in the library studying, reading Potions texts and books on Herbology (for the Potions ingredients), Magical Theory, and History. It was all fascinating, the Potions texts in particular, and Harry discussed the content with Tom: quill, ink, and diary always at hand. There was an air of distraction to Tom's answers, and Harry knew he was thinking about what had happened at Hogwarts but he didn't pry. Tom would confide in him when the time was right.
When Harry woke the next morning (or whatever time it actually was), he felt more tired than when he'd gone to sleep. There was no way to tell the time in Riddle Mansion that seemed caught in a perpetual dusk or dawn. Harry could just make out that it was probably night time outside, but how long he'd been asleep was impossible to determine. His limbs felt heavy and his thoughts were slow and sluggish.
Waking up feeling drained wasn't a new experience; it had happened a few times before, and Harry couldn't help noticing that afterwards Tom's journal seemed to emanate an even stronger sense of magic. He'd thought about not sleeping with the diary under his cushion, he'd thought about questioning Tom, but in the end he kept sleeping with Tom's journal and didn't bring the subject up. Tom was his friend and he trusted Tom: Tom would not harm him.
As he did every morning he took up quill and ink and wrote in the diary.
'Hi, Tom.'
'Hi, Harry.'
'Have you given any more thought to Quirrell and what happened yesterday?'
'Harry, do you trust me?'
'Of course I do, Tom. You know that, we're best friends.'
'Yes, we are. Harry, I need you to do something for me, and I promise if you trust me and just have patience it will ensure your freedom, will ensure that you'll be able to start practicing magic properly and not just reading theory from a book.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'I need to go to Hogwarts. In a few hours a wizard is going to apparate into the Mansion and I need you to put my journal on the table next to the front door and stay out of sight until he leaves.'
'No, you can't leave me here!'
'I swear I will return as soon as possible, in a few months at most. I will return for you!'
'No! You know of a way to get me out of here! You want me to stay here, locked away with not even you to keep me company? No!'
'Harry! It's not safe for you out there. Trust me, please. I've told you about Dumbledore, it's not safe for you at Hogwarts and I can't do anything while I'm stuck in this diary, stuck here. I need to go to Hogwarts and I need you to stay here. Please, will you do this for me? You are my best friend, my only friend, I know you don't understand, but I promise this is the best for the both of us. I won't be gone long. Trust me, Harry, my friend, please trust me.'
Harry was gripping the quill tightly; Tom's last words were still displayed on the journal's pages. How could Tom ask this of him? He'd admitted he'd found a way out, admitted that he was keeping Harry here, although he claimed it was for Harry's own good. Harry bit his lip and his eyes were drawn to the hidden door in the wall of his bedroom, to the hidden chamber where a wizard's wand lay.
Very well, Tom was Harry's friend, he trusted Tom, and he would do this.
'Okay, Tom.'
'Thank you, Harry, you won't regret it, I promise you.
'Now, I need you to leave me on the table next to the entrance and after that I want you to go to the library and stay there. Stay away from the door, whatever you do, don't let the wizard see you.'
With a heavy heart Harry left Tom's journal on the table and went back upstairs, hiding behind a corner. He'd penned a short goodbye, stroked the leather one last time, and now he was waiting for the wizard to appear. He would keep out of sight as instructed, but he was going to watch.
He didn't need to wait long, there was a 'pop' like the night he'd been kidnapped from the Dursleys, and suddenly a man appeared in the entrance hall. The man was tall and wore expensive robes, his hair was long and so blonde it was nearly white. A cane with a silver snake head was held in one hand, while his other held his wand at the ready.
Harry took care not to make a sound and his heart pounded while the wizard let his gaze sweep over his surroundings. Then he saw the journal and the blond wizard picked it up, flipped it open before putting it away in the folds of his robes. After a last look around, the man pointed his wand at himself, spoke a curt 'Apparate Malfoy Manor', and disappeared.