Chapter Five

A/N: Thank you all for the kind reviews and helpful suggestions. I would not say that my writers block has been blown to bits, but rather that it has been chiseled down to a modest paper-weight. Snappish79, thank you for reviewing and giving me suggestions. You hit the nail right on the head with how James fixed his women troubles, I hopped I hadn't made that too obvious or ambiguous. Anyway, on with the story!

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine!

            Harry woke with a jolt and a searing pain in the scar on his forehead. He sat bolt upright and found that he was drenched in a cold sweat. He tried to will the pain to go away. He needed to think of what had caused it. His attempts were fetal, and as if to say that it wasn't goin anywhere soon, the pain in his head intensified. Horrid visions, after a near sixth month absence, had begun to inhabit Harry's dreams again.

            Harry decided this time, when the dreams began to reoccur, that he would tell no one. Last time he ran around telling people about his dreams, what had that gotten him? He wound up being followed by the Order, Restricted, and his godfather wound up dead. No. This time, no one was to be told of his dreams.

            The thought of losing someone else to Voldermort was unbearable. The pain from losing Sirius was still too fresh for Harry; because of this he mostly pretended a war was not going on. There was no war. . . and he certainly was not the center of it. . .

            Harry's scar gave another painful throb. He clutched his head and leaned forward. As quietly as he could, Harry grabbed his glasses form the bedside table and made his way out of bed, down the stairs, and into the common room. The pain in his scar had lessened only marginally, but it allowed him enough comfort to think. What had caused his scar to hurt? He was sure that this was not just a surge of emotion from Voldermort. . . Something else had accompanied it. Harry thought long and hard on the matter. The closer he seemed to be coming to a conclusion, the quicker is seemed to flee from him. It went on like this for quite some time. It was just when Harry became furious with himself for not even being able to remember what his dream had been about, that it hit him. Suddenly, and fully, the vision came to him.

            A young man, maybe twenty, sat huddled in the corner of a very dark room. He was tall, with broad shoulders, brown hair, and eyes that seemed as though they could pierce through a person's soul. However, at this particular moment, these eyes were wide in shock and horror. A wand was clutched in the young man's right hand. He had the look of a person who had just done the unspeakable. . . And he had. Tom Riddle looked over to the far left wall of the room. There, laying in a lifeless heap, was the body of another young man. He had undoubtedly been murdered.

            Tom Riddle could not believe what he had just seen. . . what he had just done. How could he have actually brought himself to do it? Certainly this wasn't the first time he had killed someone. There had been that girl, Myrtle, when he was in school. But then he had only opened the chamber. He had never actually seen the girl die. He hadn't done it with his own two hands. . . Tom, or Voldermort as he had come to be known, had never doubted his abilities, and that had always worked in his favor. People had feared him. He supposed that now they would fear him even more.

            While Voldermort knew that on the path to greatness you had to step on a few people and tread a few toes, Tom Riddle had not been totally prepared for it. Somewhere, deep down inside, under the trembling exterior, a part of Tom had liked it. He liked how it made him feel powerful. He, Voldermort had taken the life of another. It was almost as if that made him Godlike. . . He had the power to relieve anyone of life if they were to cross him. . . And now the stories had scared people with were partially true.

            Voldermort had become increasingly persuasive over the years. He was going big places, doing big things, and he was taking a big group with him. It was tonight, the night that he unfurled his plan to his most loyal of supporters, that he had taken the life of one of them. Voldermort had explained with great passion and enthusiasm of his plan. The general consensus was that it was brilliant. Hardly anyone in the group would have dared disagreed even if it were a poor plan. They had heard things of this Voldermort character. Terrible things.

            It was one of the groups younger and more naive members who had spoke against him. He had said that it would never work, that Voldermort would never get the support he needed for such a plan. When asked if he could do better, the young follower said simply anyone could have. "This is just a childish fantasy, Voldermort (at this time the name did not carry the weight it would come to carry). If you're planning on making it work, you're going to need cunning and edge."

            Voldermort showed him edge. In a wave of furry, and before he knew exactly what he was doing, Tom Riddle, Voldermort had used the most unforgivable of curses on the man before him. Gasps and shrieks filled the room as the man who dared oppose Voldermort sunk to the floor.

            And Voldermort laughed. He laughed a cold methodical laugh. Everyone in the room stared, in shock. They had heard the tales, and had now just seen one come to life, right before their very eyes. Voldermort was not a force to be reckoned with.

            There was a knock at the door. The young Voldermort stood up and smoothed out his wrinkled robes.

            "Come in." he hid the slight tremble in his voice.

            "V-voldermort?"

            "Yes?"

            "Y-you are wanted in the parlor sir. T-there's a man here to see you."

            Tom strode over to the door, stepping over the body that lay in his way. "Take care of this mess." It was in that minute that Tom Riddle truly became Lord Voldermort, leaving the insecurities Tom Riddle in that room.

            Harry awoke as if from a stupor. Had he really just dreamt what he thought he'd dreamt? But. . . it couldn't have been. Why would Voldermort have let him see that? What was this supposed to get Harry to believe? Unless. . . Voldermort had not intended on Harry seeing it at all. . . Harry thought hard. There had been more to it. He was sure of it. There had been something else going on in Harry's mind. Another dream perhaps?

            It was in the wee hours of the morning, when sunlight was just beginning to be visible, that Harry let the refuge of the common room to go back to his dormitory. He would wake up just like everyone else. . . As if nothing had happened. Harry wasn't sure what this all meant, but he was sure that it wouldn't do him any good to have Ron and Hermione worrying about him. Whatever it was that this dream meant, he was going to deal with it on his own. After all, the prophecy had said that Harry alone was to kill Voldermort, he was not going to drag his friends into a battle he was not entirely sure he was going to win. It had just been a silly dream. . . a silly dream that no one was going to find out about.

A/N: A change from the ordinary, no? I had massive writers block, but all of my very very spiffy reviewers saw that it did not last long. All of you, thank you for your suggestions, they helped a ton. I decided to make this an all Harry chapter to compensate for the lack of Harry in other chapters, also to show that Harry's problems have not gone away, he's simply hiding them. I know it's short, and I beg your forgiveness. You waited three days for a full two and a half pages. School has just been the pits. I have a three day weekend coming up, so I shall utilize it!