Harry stared at the ceiling of his room, clenching and unclenching his fist. He lay on his back, his pale, unmarked wrists falling off the edge of his red-violet duvet. A teal dresser stood just in an arms reach.

The walls were painted in a bright shade of orange, brightening up the odd looking room. But Harry wouldn't have it any other way. Tilting his head towards the open door (pale pink) he stared at his twin's room, the same size as his. The rooms were in fact identical, except that Luka's had a slightly more monotone color scheme. And the lack of a piano. Harry proudly eyed his grand, black piano that his father had gifted him when he was eight.

His father.

Harry got up, and pulled up the stool in front of the piano. It had been a week since Harry had gotten the news that James had committed suicide. He and his twin had been granted leave from Hogwarts so they could look after family matters. The funeral was to be in a few hours, starting at 8:00 am. Harry had yet to decide if he was going. Remus and Sirius were probably still asleep in the guest room, that they had occupied since the last week, to look after them. Luka was probably awake, gazing blankly at the wall like he'd been doing for the last few days. Luka clearly wasn't dealing with the loss well. Harry however...

He hated his father. He knew that. Yet...he poised his fingers on the familiar keys of the piano, seeing his solemn face reflected in the smooth white surface. He had a feeling that his father didn't feel the same way about him. There was always a fragility surrounding James, an unstableness that had caused him to lash out on Harry. And it didn't help that Harry had murdered his wife. Yet, under all that anger, and abuse, there was love. James loved Harry, and as much as he tried to forget those few warm moments, Harry was pulled into a memory of a similar morning, when he had been sitting by the same piano, fingers hovering over the same keys. He had been significantly younger, but had harbored the same hate for his father. Of course, back then, he didn't refer to his father as "Father" The song so familiar that he had been playing was the piano version of "The Black Parade." Then just as he had played the finishing notes, he turned his gaze to meet James's. He had been waiting by the doorframe for who knows how long. James cleared his throat as if he was going to say something, but then turned away, and instead had headed into Luka's room across the hall.

Blinking back his tears, he realized that he was never going to know what his father had wanted to say. He would always have to bear this tainted memory with him. This monstrous version of his father that only few have seen. He would never stop flinching at a friendly touch. 'Though you're dead and gone believe me, your memory will carry on*,' he thought, laughing hysterically at the irony. His outburst awakened Remus, who luckily didn't question him when he found Harry laughing with his legs kicked up on the piano. Instead, he simply asked him whether or not he was going to attend the funeral.

To his surprise, Harry said yes.

That day, surrounded by coffins, dirt and, dust, Harry mourned not the death of his father, but the man he had never seen. The father he'd never had.

It was late at night when Harry could finally return to his room. He could barely keep his head up, so he flopped down onto the red-violet duvet, not caring if his handsome grey dress robes got messed up. The image of James's handsome face cold and still, burned into the back of his mind as he fell asleep.

That was probably what influenced his dream that night. Instead of under the hemlock tree, Harry found himself in a boneyard, staring the back of a familiar boy crouched on a tombstone. Hesitating for a moment, Harry headed toward another nameless tombstone facing the boy, and sat down.

"Hey? Voldemort?" Harry asked, his eyes flickering between the tired looking figure and the floor.

"You should probably stay away," replied Voldemort, not even looking up at him.

"This is just a dream. I fail to see what harm you can do to me in here," Harry said stubbornly, kicking away one of the stray skulls.

Voldemort laughed.

"Harm I can do to you? I'm talking about the harm this despicable place could do to someone like you," Voldemort looked up at last, his youthful face faded with something akin sorrow.

"What is this place?" Harry asked, curling in on himself slightly. The moonlight only seemed to emphasize the darkness, and the haunted boy sitting in front of him with those glowing red eyes didn't exactly help.

"The Abyss." Voldemort waved a hand, and the bones dissolved into dust. The pearly white powder then flew into the air, and with a soft whistle, fell like snow.

Snow.

The tombstone was pulled out under his legs, and Harry fell into the cold ground. Voldemort fell as well, but somehow managed to seem graceful doing so. The marble stone of the tombstones chipped into layers, and hovered in the air. Then layer by layer, they wrapped around and around to form a-

"The hemlock tree," Harry whispered, He spun around to face Voldemort who had calmly brushed the snow/bones off his robes.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, not for the first time.

Really sorry for the late update guys! Writers block is a (insert choice of swear word here) I'm still not satisfied with this chapter, but I'm gonna have to keep going or I'll never reach the end. I apologize once again.

*this was a reference to the black parade by My Chemical Romance btw.

Please review to help me get back in the groove. (That kind of rhymed, didn't it?)