Chapter 4: Play Pretend
Meet me in the cemetery
Get it in your head
We can play pretend
We can play pretend
We can play pretend
We can do it all night, doesn't have to end
– Aviva, Cemetery
Christmas lights brightened the streets in several colours and sparks. Christmas trees lined the road, and one could smell all the sweet desserts baking. If one strained their ears enough, they could even listen to light carols being sung a block away.
Another such decorated house was the Number Four, Dursely residence. Smelling of cookies, cakes and pines. A giant christmas tree, decorated so brightly and colourfully that it could blind the person looking at it, stood in the living room. Under it a pile of presents so big, one could get lost in it.
At least this time Harry didn't have to stay in the cupboard, so tantalisingly close to every good thing yet unable to reach it.
In his tiny, dilapidated room, if he didn't look at the window, or breathe in too deeply, he could almost pretend it was just any other night.
Mr. Lord's voice was a comforting drone in the back of his head. He'd requested a story from the man, and he'd complied; in Christmas Cheer, he'd said.
But Mr. Lord always told him a story when Harry asked, so he didn't think too much about it.
Earlier that day, Mr. Lord had taught him how to make floating lights. It had been easy, especially with all the inspiration he could've wanted available right outside the window. He'd even helped Uncle Vernon put up the Christmas lights, and had gotten two whole pieces of boiled sugar candies for it. Mr. Lord had scoffed, but Harry thought it had been brilliant.
He didn't have to do as many chores while his burns had been healing. At least according to Aunt Petunia. The day after the incident, she'd looked at his hands, sniffed and said he'd be useless like that. Even though his injuries had looked several days old rather than just one. The usual pinched expression had appeared on her face, with a strange look behind her eyes.
She'd then given him bandages and snapped at him to wrap his hands up. Even though Harry didn't think he needed the bandages anymore. She'd looked so furious at his back chat that Harry had hastily agreed. She'd even given him another one of Dudley's large, orange sweaters, with frayed elbows and a dull chocolate stain at the collar. It had covered his arms up completely, and came down to his fingers.
Mr. Lord had said that it had been a good idea, so that no one would get suspicious about his quick healing.
About a week after the incident, Aunt Petunia had even given him a blanket. Because his old one had been a charred husk in the trash.
All in all, they hadn't given him as bad of a time as he'd feared after setting his cupboard on fire.
Mr. Lord still seemed to think it was horrible, but Harry didn't complain. And he knew enough about Mr. Lord by now to know he had very high standards. It made Harry feel special, to know someone cared enough to be angry for him and not at him.
Right now Mr. Lord was telling him the Tale of Three Brothers, it seemed to be his favourite. Harry liked it, but not as much as Fountain of Fair Fortune. Still, he'd hear any story from him, favourite or not. No one had ever read stories to him before, after all.
The pleasantly warm bed and the even baritone of Mr. Lord lulled him to sleep.
Voldemort trailed off as Harry fell asleep.
He'd need to get the boy a proper copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard. His recall of children's story was abysmal at best, and the boy would surely be delighted in the whimsical way the stories were narrated.
But he digressed. Onto more important matters; he'd been feeling their connection growing stronger. A lot stronger than he'd have expected after three years of inactivity. More than he had dared hope for.
He could probably traverse into the boy's dreamscape tonight. He should, really. That'd be one step closer to true possession, if he wished to do so. A growing connection would also mean he'd be able to get a body, incorporeal as it may be, soon. Limbs to move, world to see. Provide Harry with an image to connect to the voice.
Soon being in a few years, but not out of reach. And that would be a step closer to getting a corporeal body.
He stared at the sleeping figure and tried to identify what he was feeling.
Nervous, that's what.
He didn't know how Harry would react to seeing him for the first time, if only in a dream. He still didn't know if the shape he would show up in would be well received. If he could even appear to the boy at all.
And wouldn't that be a blow to his pride. Most powerful legilimens.
And a small part of him felt like this would be deception, a lie. If he showed up in anything but his latest form. A snake-like, inhuman monstrosity. He'd stopped caring about his looks at the height of his power, something he'd relied on when he'd still been Tom Riddle. His charisma and looks had won him quite many hearts to exploit. Once he'd become Voldemort, good looks weren't needed.
Except now he didn't want to scare away Harry. And what if his visage triggered some memories in him? Harry was his ticket to a body, to resurrection, to life. He could ill afford to risk that.
He knew this was probably an irrational worry. The boy had been a one year old, for Merlin's sake. He couldn't possibly remember that night.
He wanted Harry's trust. He knew he had a lot of it right now, mostly courtesy of being the only caring person in his life, and his young age. But if he wanted to build on that trust, he'd have to be careful.
So he chose to look as he had before he'd made the locket and cup horcrux. Human enough, if a little gaunt. He'd briefly considered going as his sixteen year old self, hoping that maybe Harry would be more comfortable with another, older child. But then discarded that idea. Harry clearly saw him as an adult figure, showing up as a teenager would only throw him off.
Harry's dream started off as most children's dreams are wont to do, bizarre and entirely nonsensical.
He looked around, noting how every looked a little fuzzy, like seeing through a misted window. Purple coloured grass rolled around for miles on end, amidst which sat the Dursleys' house, looking strange and out of place without all its identical counterparts lining up around it. The house shot out flames from the windows and the chimney, silently even as Voldemort stood a stone's throw away from it.
"Mr. Lord?" a tentative voice said from behind.
Voldemort whirled around and saw Harry, looking up at him with wide eyes, and nearly hopping on his feet in excitement. He noted absently that the boy's skin seemed completely unmarked except for the lightning bolt scar on his head. None of the bruises or the burn scars were visible.
"Yes," he said, tilting his head to the side as Harry's eyes lit up and he actually started jumping up and down. The world around them started to warp a little, like a painting which only had limited perspective. The Dursely household and the lush purple grass remained, but he couldn't see more than a few yards beyond them.
He turned his attention back to Harry, raising an eyebrow, "How did you know it was me?"
"I-" Harry paused, frowning, "I don't know. I just… knew."
Voldemort nodded, "I see. Well-"
He didn't have time to finish his sentence as Harry hurled himself at him, wrapping his thin arms around Voldemort's waist as he shrieked in unbridled joy.
Voldemort stiffened, standing still for one moment before wrapping his arms around Harry and patting his back awkwardly. He couldn't remember the last time someone had initiated touch with him, especially not such an… intimate gesture.
"You're here! You're here! I..." Harry pulled back and blinked at his surroundings, "Where is here?"
Voldemort stepped back, straightening his dark robes, and adjusting his cuffs. It felt… different. Being here, having a body, imaginary it may be. To be able to move his limbs and feel fabric against skin. His lips twitched at Harry's question.
"You tell me, we're in your dream."
Harry's eyes widened, "Dream?"
And then, unexpectedly, his face fell. "Does that mean you're not here either? You're just part of the dream? Shouldn't I wake up now? Since I know this is a dream and all?"
Voldemort shook his head, "I really am here. I told you you would see me soon, didn't I? And here I am. I will remember this happening after you wake up too. Although I'm not quite sure if you will." Voldemort continued before Harry could speak up, "And for not waking up after realising this is a dream, there's this phenomenon called lucid dreaming, where you can dream and be aware that you're dreaming. You could wake up if you tried, I suppose."
"I don't wanna!" Harry said quickly, "What's phomonenon?"
"Phenomenon," Voldemort corrected, "Means…" he searched around for a definition a four year child could understand, before settling on a simple one. "It means something that happens, an event or occurrence."
Harry shrugged, not really paying attention, and Voldemort sighed.
"Is this how you look?" he asked next, looking him up and down, "Those are some funny clothes."
"They're called robes," Voldemort sniffed, "And these are the proper attire for a wizard."
"Will I get them too? When I am older?"
Voldemort looked down at Harry, in his worn down muggle clothes, but ones that seemed to fit him in his dream world, and without any obvious rips and tears. Then said, "This is your dream world, you can get them now if you want."
A smile split Harry's face, "Really? Lemme! Lemme!" he squealed and squeezed his eyes shut, brows furrowing as he concentrated hard.
A few moments later, Harry stood in robes identical to the ones Voldemort himself wore. He gave an excited little twirl and giggled. Voldemort smiled and crouched down, smoothing out the lapels and murmuring, "Perhaps shorten it a bit here?" he pointed to the bottom of the robes, which seemed to be sweeping the floor.
Harry grinned and did as asked, before giving another flourished twirl and saying, "Look, Mr. Lord, we match!"
Voldemort had reached a state where he didn't even twitch at Harry's use of his name. He'd regretted telling the boy to call him 'Lord' almost immediately after saying it, but Harry had latched onto it like a bowtruckle to a tree. But he didn't really know what else to ask Harry to call him either. He'd never lower himself to be called 'Tom' ever again, and Voldemort… well. He'd rather the boy found out about who he was on Voldemort's terms rather than someone else.
And… the name had been growing on him, he thought with a grimace.
"Mr. Lord?" Harry peered up at him curiously.
"Yes?" He cleared his throat.
"Will you tell me another story?"
Voldemort blinked at him slowly, "What?"
"I wanna hear another story!"
Voldemort ticked his head to one side, considering. Well, it wasn't like he had a better idea. The boy had wanted to see him, and he'd done so. He supposed he could follow the boy's demands instead.
He nodded then, and conjured up a chair behind himself. Thought it up, really. He couldn't really do magic here, this was all imagination and thoughts and dreams. He could probably also think himself up his yew wand, but didn't really fancy the thought of having his wand in hand yet not feel the true rush of comforting magic that came with it.
Nothing was real here, after all.
He didn't bother changing their surroundings, leaving the larger parts of the dream world up to Harry. It won't do to take too much control and leave Harry with a headache and disorientation.
He lowered himself to the chair and revelled in the feelings. Standing, sitting, moving his limbs, blinking, breathing. The feel of the comfortable armchair behind his back and under him, the slow rustle of his robes against his skin.
None of it was real, but that didn't mean it felt unreal. He would enjoy this opportunity for everything it was worth.
He'd only just opened his mouth to tell Harry to make himself comfortable, expecting the boy to make himself a chair– visualisation skills were necessary for several branches of magic–when the boy rushed at him, jumping into Voldemort's lap and wriggling around until he was comfortable.
Voldemort unthinkingly wrapped a hand around the little boy's waist to steady him, blinking down at him. Harry grinned up at him, green eyes wide with delight as he leaned against Voldemort. His first instinct was to throw the boy to the floor and immediately exit the dream. The second was to swear out loud.
He did neither.
Instead he just let himself feel the weight of a warm body against him, tiny and fragile. It felt infinitely more intimate than the hug Harry had initiated. He cleared his throat. Pushing the boy off would be a bad idea, especially if Voldemort wanted Harry to trust him.
"I want a new story," Harry said; demanded, really. Voldemort bristled a little, but didn't reprimand him. He stared at Harry, who just stared right back at him, unblinking. He still had the lightning bolt scar on his forehead in the dream. Meaning the boy considered it a part of himself. A lot of people unconsciously took care of any blemishes and unwanted traits when in their dreamscapes.
Voldemort nodded, and Harry grinned at him, before sticking a thumb into his mouth and snuggling against him comfortably.
Voldemort leaned back against the armchair and watched the world ripple around him as Harry shifted their surroundings. It was disconcerting, but he'd spent long enough using legilimency to not really be bothered by it.
He started reciting a muggle fairytale he'd heard as a child in the orphanage, absently taking Harry's hand out of his mouth, and adding his own bits and pieces to the story where his memory was spotty.
Harry woke up feeling groggy, yet comfortable and warm. He blinked a few times rapidly to get rid of the sleep induced blurriness, and peaked his head out of the blanket he was buried in. He shifted around, and whispered softly, "Mr. Lord?"
'Yes, Harry?'
"Were you in my dream today?" He asked, rubbing his eyes a little. He remembered bits and pieces of the dream, and the way Mr. Lord had held him. He remembered Uncle Vernon holding Dudley like that. They didn't anymore, because Dudley had gotten too big. But they still hugged him.
It had felt really nice to be hugged and held by Mr. Lord. And to see him, finally.
'Yes. How much of it do you remember?'
Harry just shrugged, then said, "You're very tall."
There was no reply, so Harry turned over under the blanket and snuggled in, falling back to sleep.
A/N: Just a quick note, this fic is NOT any sort of romance between Voldemort and Harry. Voldemort will remain strictly a mentor figure. And while the dream part might feel slightly pedophilic and insinuating, it's not meant that way. Voldemort has just been suffering through severe sensory deprivation the last few years, and human contact for even longer. He's a little off kilter from it right now, with every sensation heightened.
