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.

Play My Game

Chapter One – Voices Inside my Head

"Ugh" was the first thing that came out of Harry's mouth when he finally woke up. He half expected the blinding white light of the infirmary, but he was pleasantly surprised to find himself in a darkened room. The Gryffindor Tower first came to mind, but the thought was squashed when he felt the silk sheets caressing his body. Wait a moment! Silk sheets? Who would actually let him sleep on silk sheets? Stupid question, the Boy-Who-Lived in him quipped. Who would bother to get him silk sheets in Hogwarts? Wait, what if he wasn't in Hogwarts? For that matter where was he? The last thing he remembered was Neville blowing his glass up in Transfiguration, and that horribly realistic dream – nightmare – whatever – afterwards. Or was it a nightmare? He remembered Voldemort casting some weird curse, then pain … a lot of pain. From what that, he reckoned the curse didn't work as it was supposed to, so he probably got back to his body, an extremely sore body. Wait, what if he didn't get back to his body all? He flexed a finger as if to test his theory and immediately he calmed down as it responded to the mental stimuli.

Almost automatically, his hand travelled to the nightstand beside the bed, groping for his glasses - that weren't there. He panicked (for a moment), before deciding that whoever owned the bed had forgotten to leave his glasses there.

But what if the glasses purposefully weren't left there? What if he had been kidnapped? What if the kidnapper was a Death Eater or Voldemort? Would they kill him fast or would they- he decided that train of thought wasn't exactly logic,since Death Eaters wouldn't lay him on silk sheets. Cold, damp and dark dungeon cells without even a pot to piss inyes, but certainly not a warm room with a big bed and silk sheets.

Sighing, he opened his eyes and tried to distinguish something in the blurry room. Almost instantly, as his gaze focused on a wardrobe on the right side of the room, his first big shock came: he could see perfectly. Had someone repaired his eyesight? That was really advanced magic, and only a certified healer should do it Hermione had once told him. Maybe his captor – no, the owner of these rooms was healer.

The chamber was very spacious, with a high ceiling from wich a beautiful crystalline chandelier hung. The healer who owned the chamber was obviously very rich, but had taste. The chandelier didn't seem to give the chamber a far too opulent air.

The bed, wich was covered in green and silver sheets, was placed directly opposite of a door, and right next to it was a large window overlooking a wild-looking, but still striking garden and a dark, disturbing forest. In the far he could even see mountains. On the wall to his right was another door, right next to a small collection of books and silverware neatly organised and a full-length mirror. On the opposing wall was a fireplace faced by a pair of black leather couches and an ebony table, above wich was a painting of an ashen man with ablack goatee, and vivid green eyes not unlike is own. The man had a vacant look inthem and didn't move, making Harry wonder if it wasn't a muggle portrait. Still, the man looked somehow familiar …

Tearing his eyes away, Harry noticed a desk almost next to his bed; quills, parchments, old tomes, a half-full glass of some burgundy liquid (probably wine, he mused), a pensieve and a wand were thrown messily, in obvious haste, on it (the glass and the pensieve were, obviously, not thrown he corrected himself). Various potion ingredients and strange-looking items were on the shelf above it, carefully labelled and arranged, in stark contrast with the desk. As an afterthought he noticed that almost everything in the room was done in green, silver or black - even the doors and the furniture were ebony. The owner of the room was very obviously a Slytherin, he concluded when he saw a –surprise, surprise- snake carving on the door in front of him.

Curiously, he stood up –noticing his black silk garments- and looked over the desk. The parchments were covered in odd drawings and formulas he recognized as arithmancy equations. The books were written in strange runes he couldn't read, all besides one that was written in Latin. However the script was so flamboyant that he could only recognise the words 'Anima', 'Sanguis' and 'Carmen'.

He decided not to dwell on it and reached for the long wand, a feeling of slight guilt invading him at thethought of using another's wand, but he rectified it by thinking that at least he wasn't touching the pensieve. He didn't want a repeat of the scene with Snape last year, and besides, who would leave his wand unguarded if it wasn't supposed to be touched? He lifted it and weird and wonderful warmth overflowed him, like the first time he had picked up his own wand, back then at Ollivanders. He waved it and silver and green sparks shot out of it. It was fascinating! He had always thought that there was only one wand that fit a wizard absolutely, but he was obviously wrong. Measuring it with is eyes he saw it was about thirteen inches long …

Abruptly, he let the wand drop and backed away from the desk … he knew that wand … he had seen it so frequently in his nightmare … thirteen inches, yew, phoenix feather, brother to his own … Lord Voldemort's wand … and it felt bizarrely right …

He collided with a smooth surface and twisted swiftly around. The full-length mirror stood in front of him … but it wasn't his visage that was starring back. Stunned catlike crimson eyes were watching him avidly, sallow features contorted in purest disbelief…

Voldemort

Dazzling rays of light invaded his still closed eyes as Voldemort finally rejoining the land of the waking. The Dark Lord had long since learned not to show any sings he was waking once regaining consciousness, particularly if he woke in a disquieting situation; and disquieting it was! His private chambers had a restrained Darkening Charm on them as to prevent such a situation – like waking up with the sun burning in one's eyes – from ever occurring.

Subtly, he moved his hands over the sheets and recognised the soft, yet the far too coarse for his tastes, quality of cotton. Now that was wrong; in his own chambers he had silk sheets. Sniffing around, he felt the faint odour of antiseptic – he was in a hospital. Collecting his thoughts, he let his mind wander over what might have possibly happened. If Voldemort prided himself on being something, it was being patient and controlled –and, yes he was patient and controlled; it wasn't his fault if some of his followers were dim-witted.

Regardless, not showing any perceptible reaction, he began thinking. Could he have been captured? Wouldn't he already be deceased then? Well, he wasn't dead, of that he was sure. Death felt different, and he would know it. After all, Dumbledore, or any member of that insipid light side for that matter, wouldn't let the opportunity to slaughter him pass. And if that was the case, why would they be keeping him on cotton sheets? Or in St Mungos? No one sane would risk doing that. No, it had to be something else.

He heard a light chuckle. "I know you're conscious, Harry, no use pretending to be fast asleep"

Dumbledore. That was Albus bloody Dumbledore's voice. Albus bloody Dumbledore's voice that was speaking to him like some ridiculous variety of a grandfather. Albus bloody Dumbledore's voice that had just called him 'Harry'.

No use to pretend, he thought as his eyes snapped open only to notice, disgusted, that his gaze was blurry at best. So the great leader of the light side had taken it upon him to blind his captured foe, rendering him more or less defenceless. Dumbledore seemed to grow increasingly senile day after day, because he had always assumed Dumbledore knew about his ability to distinguish the flows of magic around him. Well, it wasn't all that that surprising, really; how old was Dumbledore now? Hundred forty, Hundred fifty? Not that he cared, mind you, but it was amusing to know that his rival was twice as old as he himself was, bearing in mind he was around seventy himself. With an afterthought he noted that the old man hadn't even blinded him completely, only as much as to assure he couldn't distinguish anything less vague than then the area where Dumbledore was standing and where the walls and windows where approximately located. Not that it helped him much; he was quite sure there were anti-magic fields specifically keyed to him around the room – not that he could prove it, without alerting his enemy he was more than able to escape.

Dumbledore's voice, now serious brought him back to reality. In seventy years he hadn't been able to overcome the practically, for someone of his status, suicidal habit of dozing off! His Death Eaters of course admired even this trait on him! It was highly disturbing … and ridiculous … the only ones that seemed to have the valour to shake him out of it were Severus, Lucius and Nagini, although the last one didn't count as minion. Well, perhaps the several Cruciatuses also contributed to his servant's wariness. Oh, for Salazar's sake! He was drifting off again! "Here" said Dumbledore and handed him something. Glasses, he recognized; why would Dumbledore give him glasses?

Regardless, in an act that he would undoubtedly later classify as completely and utterly stupid he took the glasses and put them on. Rather than burning his eyes out, or something similarly un-Dumbledore, his gaze focused and he could see fairly well. The prescription wasn't exactly fitting, but it worked well enough. He was lying in a plain and small typical hospital bed with the curtains drawn to the side. Dumbledore was sitting at his bedside, watching him withhis typical serene look, but that wasn'tby farthe most shocking: he was familiar with the infirmary he was in! He was in Hogwarts' Hospital Wing...

"So, now let us move on to some more grave matters, shall we? Or do you want to have a lemon drop first? No? Well, they are very good, and just last night I … oh, I'm getting off-track again!" - Voldemort gave him a flabbergasted look - "I heard of today's incident in Transfiguration. Am I right in assuming your scar was involved?" Scar! One moment! Had Dumbledore not previously called him Harry? He knew only of one Harry with a scar, and who incidentally wore glasses: Harry Potter! Did Dumbledore think he was the Potter boy? He didn't know whether to laugh hysterically at the irony – and not to mention absurdity of it all- or to snarl that he was Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter's polar opposite!

But when he looked down at his hands, his mind stopped working. They weren't spidery and ghostly white (something they stayed even after the special ritual he took to regain his former looks), but petite with a faint golden tan. Speaking of rituals, images of the failed ritual just before he lost consciousness flooded him … the eerie light connecting him and Potter (he only called the boy 'kitten' tohis face– without having the satisfaction of seeing the boy furious, it made little to no sense) instead of Potter with the crystal … with the images coming back to him he let out a mental yelp of astonishment that resonated peculiarly through his mind. 'What the hell!' –and again that strange echo was heard. 'Is someone in there?' he asked himself. Great, now he was talking to his own head. 'Idiotic thought' he admonished, but this time he was sure he heard 'dumb' instead of 'idiotic'. And that reverberation had the slightly high-pitched tenor of a teenager. 'Now this is plain unnerving' he thought while the echo exclaimed something analogous to 'Who's there? Where? What?'

"Harry, is everything alright?" Dumbledore sounded vaguely worried. Well, he should be. It wasn't everyday that he was talking to his greatest enemy in Hogwarts. Still, the situation could prove usefull.

"Err, no, Professor, I'm just … sleepy … yes, sleepy. Can we hold this … conversation … later?" he said, twisting the corners of his mouth into what he hoped to be a sheepish and altogether gullible smile. Only after the statement he remembered Dumbledore was not a professor anymore, but he hoped the comment would slide. Nonetheless, he was grateful he hadn't said 'Dumbledore', or worse, 'Albus'. Later, he might think of several more appropriate reactions.

His luck was that in that precise moment the matron, of whom he didn't know the name of, came waltzing in. "You heard Albus, the poor boy is completely tired out! Not that I blame him, mind you! He needs his sleep, you two can speak when he is healthy again!" She gave the impression he had some incurable malady, or better yet, that he was on his death bed. How apropiate."Now out! I told you, remember, if the boy isn't able to speak to you yet, you shouldn't push him. Now shoo, shoo! He needs the precious sleep!" Dumbledore stood up almost serenely, said his goodbyes and went out under the woman's death glare. After the infirmary was cleared of 'trespassers' again, she focussed her attention on him. "Now hear here, young man, I'll let you sleep now, but if you experience any pains, stiffness or insomnia call me immediately. Is that understood? You are still weak, so you better not move if it can be helped"

"I'm not going to die, madam" he said defiantly, only to realise what a foolish move that had been. But she just sniffed and marched out, as if she was familiar with that comment from him, what she probably was, in retrospect. Not that he particularly cared. What he did care about was that this ... body, for lack of a better word was accustomed to speaking without thinking it through first.

In any case, he already had a fair idea what the elusive ricochet had been and still was. After his last response, he was fairly sure it wasn't only an 'idiotic/dumb echo'. For once in his life he hoped from the bottom of his inexistent heart he was wrong.

More to reassure himself than anything else, he asked it 'Who are you?' Apparently it had the same idea, so Voldemort found himself groaning softly, half-exasperated. He said 'One at a time', without echo. The echo-voice-whatever was silent for a few moments, and Voldemort dared say 'you first'. Annoyingly enough, the voice had the same idea.

This was going to be a long afternoon…

A/N: Well, Voldemort might seem a bit OoC, but, let's not forget that he was a little under shock.

And, I need a beta. A spellchecker may be halfway reliable, but it doesn't tell me if my characters are OoC or if certain OCs are mary-sueish. Not that I plan on introducing any new major characters anytime soon.