Voldemort looked at him with the same insane gleam in his ruby red eyes.
"Who are you?" Harry repeated, clenching his fists, "The leader of the Death Eaters? The crazy man that I dream of—the one who's afraid of death?" Harry added in, remembering something from an article he'd read a while back. What was that magazine again? The quibbler. Yeah. That was it Either way, he did not expect Voldemort's echoing laughter, though he probably should have.
"Afraid of death," he chortled, "Pray, are those the lies Dumbledore's been spreading?"
"What does this have to do with Dumbledore?" Harry wondered if this Quibbler magazine might actually have some truth in it. Laughter cowed for now, Voldemort tapped his chin as he stared off into snowy oblivion.
"It would simply be easier to show you, perhaps," He declared out of nowhere, and Harry didn't even have time to object before the ground was pulled out under his feet. The world went tilting, and when he could open his eyes again, he found himself kneeling on solid ground, inside a wacky looking room. Clocks sprang from every corner, and a motley of colorful objects seemed to be shoved under every cranny.
In the center of the room, under a velvet chandelier, stood the small frame of Albus Dumbledore. Facing him was an older version of the Voldemort Harry had become so familiar to. Speaking of which, where was his Voldy? A cold hand was placed on Harry's shoulder making Harry jump. The young Voldemort helped Harry to his feet while the older one was still locked in conflict with Dumbledore.
"-there are worse things than death." Dumbledore's voice was strong and passionate as always.
Older Voldemort's voice, however was unaffected. Maybe slightly amused, even? Harry couldn't tell.
"I highly doubt that," Yep. Definitely amused.
"Alas, you will forever be plagued by this fear-" Voldemort smirked, and Dumbledore stopped, looking quite confused, "Tom? Is something wrong? You have seemed to-" Dumbledore looked for the right word,
"-changed," he settled on.
"Do you know who my Death Eaters really are, Albus? Or what I truly am?" Memory Voldemort taunted. Dumbledore closed his eyes with a sigh.
"I don't know what you want from me Tom. Why are you here?"
"To make you a deal," the shadows seemed to grow as the Memory Voldemort's appearance turned wraith like. His face went nearly transparent as his eyes flared with fire. Dumbledore stumbled back. "What have you done?"
"Made a deal with a man far more powerful than us mortals," Memory Voldemort's ghostly features were serious for once, "I will grant one wish to any soul who I deem worthy. In exchange though, you must join me for eternity."
"The death eaters? They are those who have taken up your offer then?" Dumbledore asked, ever the voice of reason.
"Finally caught up, old man. I personally would rather you not join, but I have orders," Memory Voldemort pulled out a pocket watch with a dark skull on it, and flipped it open,
"Well? I don't have all night. Are you in?"
"I-." Dumbledore hesitated, before his gaze steeled, "No." The pocket watch was snapped close, and the memory Voldemort turned on his heel and left Dumbledore staring after him blankly.
Then the dream Voldemort who had stood quietly next to Harry as they relived the memory, snapped his fingers. The scene froze, freezing Dumbledore's bewildered expression, and leaving the memory Voldemort's leading foot hovering midstep.
"So-" His Voldemort turned to look at him. "Now do you understand?"
Harry shook his head.
"Was I supposed to get something from that? Because I didn't,"
"What you were supposed to get from that is that I am not a power hungry dark lord. Actually, well, I am a dark lord, but I have no interest in destroying all muggles,"
"But that doesn't make sense! What about the war?"
Harry voiced the question that had been pestering him.
He was rewarded yet again with one of those insane laughs.
"Harry, Harry, Harry. Did you ever hear the saying that history books are written by the winners?"
"Yes, but-"
"The purebloods have always been in the minority. The oppressed. I knew if I gave them a bit of power they could do anything they wanted. They would be perfect for my cause." Harry was about to ask what this 'cause' was, but Voldemort raised a finger stopping him."The easiest way would be to pretend I disliked muggles. That way, I would gain their trust-"
"But why do you need their trust?" Harry finally blurted out, feeling lost.
"Because I needed people to go to hell." Voldemort said quietly, the euphoric gone from his eyes.
"What!"
"There's something Dumbledore doesn't know. Something no one really knows," Voldemort spoke in a hushed whisper, "You saw how I changed out there. In the memory. You saw my face. That's because the person I made a deal with is Death himself,"
Harry's knees felt weak, as the world blurred in front of his eyes.
"Harry? Are you alright?" hands grabbed his shoulders keeping him upright, but Harry was barely aware. A memory of a skeletal creature with a obsidian scythe flashed in his mind. It was the dream he'd had when he was young.
"How," Harry gasped, leaning against the wall, Voldemort's fingers still wrapped around his arm. "Tell me, how did you meet death." The words felt different coming out of his mouth. A strange electricity coursed in his tongue and as soon as he spoke the words, Voldemort's eyes glazed over,
"Death only delivers one's deepest desires. Whenever someone is on the verge of death, he can hear their hearts. I met Death when I was six. I had been nearly beaten to death by some bullies. At that moment, all I had wanted was love. I'm normal cases, I would have been taken to heaven where I would receive the love and kindness I wanted. But heaven was getting a little crowded those days, and death needed to bring more souls to hell to balance it out. So he gave me a choice. Take the option of heaven, or become his advocate in the human world and carry on living. I chose the latter, obviously. As an advocate, I need followers to trust me, so I can make deals with them that leads them to hell. Just like the deal you saw me do with Dumbledore. Eventually, I was able to convince the purebloods to take up my offers. I tied them to hell through a tattoo you all know as the dark mark." Voldemort stopped, and blinked the glossiness out of his eyes.
"No. This is impossible,"
I feel the same, Harry thought, "What's impossible?"
"You-you just used compulsion on me?"
"Wicked!" Harry couldn't stop himself from saying, "Wait-why are you looking at me like that. Isn't it just another magical quirk?"
Voldemort slowly shook his head.
"Harry, the only people who have the power of compulsion." Voldemort gulped, "Are descendents of Death himself."
—-xxxx—-xxxxxxxxx—xxxxx
Harry woke up shivering. 'Just a dream,' he reminded himself, 'Just a crazy, insane dream.' But then why did it make so much sense?
It explains why Dumbledore isn't taking any action against the death eaters. Why he isn't doing anything about Voldemort. Though latter was probably because besides the Potter family, no one knew that Voldemort was still alive.
Harry still remembered the time Dumbledore had come to their home and sat down Harry to explain the prophesy to him. It had gone way over his eight year old head, and when he finally grasped it, he hadn't cared.
Well, he cared now.