Title: "Spiritus Mundi"

Author: Shaitanah

Rating: R

Timeline: post-war

Summary: HP/LV Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + When his two best friends get married, Harry feels even more lost in the maze of his feelings for his arch-enemy and his love for Ginny. Please R&R!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling… (For the funny bout of panic see chapter 1) The name for the chapter comes from the song by Blue October.

Special thanks: to Mizstorge for beta-reading

A/N: OMG, guys! Thank you so much for all the reviews! I can't believe the first chapter got so many reviews! You've made me so happy!

Chapter 2

Come In Closer

The fiddles whine, the rhythm goes faster and faster, taking the dancers, gripping them and swirling them in a hurricane of passions. It looks like an old Celtic dance, wild, untamable, free. I can't hold back a smile.

A hand reaches out in the air and throws up a handful of flower petals: red, white, pinkish. The wind catches them, and they float in the air, dressing the dancing couples in intricate medieval streamers.

Hermione is so beautiful. I can't take my eyes off her. The skirts of her pale green dress ("Anything but white!" she said stubbornly. "I don't want to look like my own wedding cake!") sway about her as she dances. Small flower buds in her hair glisten with drops of dew.She looks just like… magic.

I didn't know Ron could dance until I saw him with Hermione. When the dance is over, he holds her gently, her head against his chest; he brushes the lock of hair off her forehead; he plants a kiss on her temple, and she laughs. She has such a beautiful, rich laugh.

The dance begins again. I don't dance,but I'm standing in the circle that claps and cheers. Hermione's skirt sweeps past my legs, so close that I can see tiny dark-green leaves embroidered on the lighter fabric. Ron grins. I can see Bill lean into Fleur during the dance; he whispers something in her ear, she flushes, and then he kisses her lips tenderly. Tonks wraps her arms around Lupin, dragging him on to the dance floor. It seems extremely funny.

I catch Mrs Weasley's glance and smile at her sweetly. It's pretty hard for her, this could have been Ginny's wedding. At least she thinks so, and I don't want to disappoint her.

A young witch catches my attention. Brown hair, dark eyes, rather pretty. Weasley's very distant cousin. I shouldn't do this: not at my best friend's wedding, not when my best friend's sister (a.k.a. my girlfriend) has been in coma for a year. Besides, it's not some unknown Muggle girl. The next day she might be bragging about how she–.

Who am I trying to fool? We end up kissing passionately in a closet as she hastily unbuttons my shirt, as I take off her funny old-fashioned corset… Honestly, I could sink no lower.

Having defeated the slight tremour that wouldn't let me fall asleep peacefully, I drift off into the dream. I'm impressed by the change of decor: we are at sea. I don't mean the seaside, but the sea itself: sensual, moving slowly, alive and glimmering with thousands of sunbeams that glide across its surface. The tree remains in the middle of it. The canopy of leaves casts a cool shadow, shielding the roots from the sun. Voldemort is doing the same thing he always does when I come around. His charcoal pencil makes soft,rustling noises upon the paper. The water splashes quietly around the mighty roots of the tree.

"Not gonna try to kill me?" I ask right away. He flashes me an indifferent glance and goes back to drawing. "I thought that was why you poured an entire ocean here: to drown me."

He chuckles. I hate it when he chuckles because it's such a strange, beautiful sound… Against better judgment I take a seat next to him and peek atthe sheet that lies on his knees. This isn't quite what I've expected. It's my portrait. And to give him credit, he has captured me perfectly. 'Captured'… Ironic, isn't it? I feel like I'm looking in amirror.

"I hope you asked her name in the end," Voldemort remarks. I know he refers to the witch in the Burrow.

"Er… Cinna, I think. Why do you care?"

"Tell me about her."

I gape at him, then close my mouth with a loud clicking nose. I don't care much about how ridiculous I probably look.

"No way! You don't tell me about your private life, do you?"

"Oh, that's easy," Voldemort snorts. "I don't have one."

I tilt my head back and squint at the sun. It blazes like a huge patch of gold, and the sky above us is light blue and warm, the very definition of summer.

It's not summer outside.

Hell, it feels ludicrous to discuss my love life with him.

"I love Ginny," I say to him, and no one in particular at the same time.

His eyes twinkle mischievously as he turns to look at me. I cut to business as soon as I feel the steady ground beneath my feet shake.

My questions provoke a rather unexpected reaction. Voldemort starts to his feet, leans into me and murmurs:

"Why won't you be honest with yourself, my dear Harry? Why won't you admit it: you're not here because of the whole damnable Horcrux situation! You just what to know of sort of a spell was cast on your dying girlfriend. The point is, I can't help you there. It wasn't me who cast it."

"And if you knew what spell it was," I whisper almost plaintively after I finally recover my voice, "would you tell me?"

He drops the painting, and it sinks. The water swallows it without a sound.

"I would have given it a bit more thought."

I've been sleeping a lot these days. It seems that sleeping has become my hobby. I have no more nightmares, only occasional white nights. I spend every spare minute at night with Voldemort. He still refuses to answer my questions. My supervisors at the Department think I've grown too dependant on him. Ahh, four months and he isn't tired of his little game yet. I know that type of personwell enough. My Uncle Vernon is like that in a way, though a tad more… brainless and impatient. He likes to make me feel worthless.

Voldemort tells me I'll make a good Auror. Not a hintof mockery in his reserved tone. Sometimes he even looks through my textbooks and helps me out with particularly difficult passages. Is it me, or does he really act differently in this world?

Give me a break, he's Voldemort, after all! Must be a part of another cruel plan to show me my place. Been there.

He already drew three portraits of me. I forbade him to paint my parents, so he's switched to me. I'm afraid to look at these pictures. They are too perfect, every small detail duplicating reality.His pencil scratches the zigzag line of my scar in a sharp, precise motion.

I failed the second theory test, and in addition to that I also managed to catch a cold. I'm shivering in my bed in the grip of fever, my throat is raw, and I can barely breathe. My teeth chatter as I chant the incantation, trying to make every syllable sound as clear as possible.

I am not sick in the dream world, just like I don't have the scar or the glassesThe only thing that reminds me of my pitiful conditionin reality is a nasty rasping feeling in my throat when I speak.

Today I'm frustrated and angry, and I have no desire to disguise it. I climb up my branch without even saying 'hello'. I don't care how Voldemort looks, nor do I have any intention of interrogating him. I've been under a lot of pressure recently: Kingsley and Nichols (the other senior Auror who's in charge of the Death Eaters' cases) want results Nichols suggested we try something else.

Last time we talked I scowled, "Like what? Torture, for example? Oh, you sure as hell managed to fish a lot out of Greyback and Macnair by torturing them in Azkaban!"

Today I'm here just to remind Voldemort I won't back down. I'll stand my ground and I won't let anyone control me. They think I'm incapable of making him talk. I will make him talk. Just not today. Today,I'll let him know I will be here as long as it takes.

Voldemort looks at me curiously. I feel the need to smash that handsome face of his.

"What is it, Tommy?" I snarl, emphasizing the name. I don't give a damn about how he feels towards it. "Never seen a messed up Harry Potter?"

It's weird but Voldemort is being incredibly civil. He asks what has happened. I wish I knew…

"Bad case of being the third wheel," I confess all of a sudden. "My best friends got married, so I'm kind of out of place in their company. It makes me feel like shit. And now I'm ill. and I'm a loser and I have no idea why I'm telling you this!"

His fingers graze my cheek, and I'm trembling. He breathes in my ear "The man who triumphed over the great Dark Lord Voldemort a loser? Is that so?"

"Hang on," I say huskily. "Are you trying to make me feel better?"

His expression nearly makes me cringe. It seems he's going to smack me. I'm very glad that he has no wand.

"I just hate the implication that I was defeated by a loser," he points out.

His whisper is a rather sinister sound. It slithers along my skin, making it crawl. I try to define the colour of his eyes but I'm so used to seeing them in scarlet that they seem nearly colourless now. And very big. Larger than the sky itself.

My heart is pounding. I try to shift on the branch but Voldemort places his hand on my waist, holding me in place. I inhale, and choke as if a huge clot is stuck in my throat.

I don't dare breathe.

He brings his face closer to mine (as if there can be any closer, damn it!), his breath scorches my skin, and I'm suddenly hot, so hot, I'm on fire, ready to explode. My thoughts race. Why the hell does he affect me so?

I draw forward. I want to tell him to back away because he annoys me and makes my stomach clench (scratch that last!), but my lips collide with his, and he bites at me, savouring the feel of my lips against his. I gasp into his mouth. The pressure of his hand on my waist is light, but it feels like he's pinning me to the hardness of the goddamn branch.

I feel like I'm in the middle of consuming an entire bottle of strong firewhiskey. My throat is burning, I need more air, but I can't find the strength to interrupt it. I moan quietly. It's almost a whimper. I'm only glad that he doesn't move. He breaks the kiss off abruptly and steps down from the prominent root. I gasp for air, trying to regain control of my shaking body. I want more, though I know I shouldn't.

He definitely made me forget about my problems for a while.

I climb down clumsily, bump a bruise on my knee (amazing how real all these sensations feel in this artificial universe) and scramble up to my feet. I'm shaking. Lust builds up within me, the same passion that drives me to those clubs at night, the same adrenaline that makes me return to this world over and over again though somewhere in the back of my mind I realize that I will not make him talk. He's just too stubborn; we have that in common.

Voldemort grabs me by the elbow, pulls me closer, so close that my body is in fact pressed to his.

"I need to go," I mumble.

"Not before you promise me you will come back tomorrow. I will not tolerate it if you abandon me for a week for another wretched hussy!"

"I–. Let me–."

"Promise me, Harry!" his voice thunders in my ears. He doesn't speak that loud but I'm overwhelmed. When he calls me 'Harry' it affects me almost as much as it affects him when I call him 'Tommy'. Although it's not that funny.

"All right, all right!" I shout at him. The grip on my arm is loosed, and I tumble backwards, hitting the trunk with my spine. The pain is dull and immediate. "I'll come! I'll be here, I promise!"

I wake up and roll to my side with a muffled moan. My body is covered in sweat, and damn, I've just had that kind of a dream about Lord Voldemort.

He kissed me.

I hate him because it felt a little too good, like liquid fire in my veins.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!? Why am I talking to myself? Why do I desire those dark forbidden things that have their dwelling in the dreams of my greatest enemy? Why can't I learn the wretched theory? Why do I cheat on the girl I love? She is the best thing that happened to me! Why can't I hold on to whatever blessings have been given to me!?

I summon my wand, change the bed sheets with a quick flourish and take a look at my watch. Aaarrrgh! It's four o'clock in the morning! I curse Voldemort for being such a relentless nightmare, and drag my misfortunate, sick body to the kitchen. The night is considerably long when you're insomniac. But I'm afraid to fall asleep again. It takes hard concentration to end up in Voldemort's dreams, even though he's more than willing to let me in; but when I've just gotten out of it, it can easily suck me back in if I go back to sleep. Not a very good explanation, I know.

I yawn and make some coffee. The hours of waiting are going to be long…

The nurse at St Mungo's beams at me when I set foot inside the room.

"Mr Potter! Long time no see!"

"Yeah… I've been busy," I mumble, averting my gaze. I feel awkward. It seems to me that everybody knows I'm lying. All my problems are just no excuse for not visiting Ginny.

I'm unpleasantly surprised to find Mr and Mrs Weasley by Ginny's side. It's not that I don't want to see them. But they're engrossed in a heated argument with the doctor, and a little panic grips my heart. It's been ages since Ginny laughed, smiled chatted cheerfully in her usual manner. She's scarcely able to breathe on her own. Muggle doctors would have given up months ago. But here in St Mungo's they keep stubbornly looking for the cure

"Harry, dear!" Molly exclaims. Mr Weasley turns to look at me and flashes me a pale shade of his usual warm smile.

The doctor walks away, and I ask what the matter is.

"We just want to take our girl home," Mrs Weasley says, trying to hold back the tears. I frown. "The doctor thinks she'll be better off here but I know Ginny. I know she would want to wake up at home. I'm sorry, Harry, I just–."

And she breaks down. Her motley shawl flickers before my eyes as she storms out of the room, sobbing. Arthur comes closer and whispers: "Make him talk, Harry, please. He knows how to cancel that damn spell, I'm sure he does!"

He goes to find his wife. I have a few minutes alone with Ginny before the doctors comes. I wrap my fingers around hers, amazed how cold my hand feels next to hers, delicate and warm. And I kiss her on the lips, tears forming in my eyes.

Ginny opens her eyes abruptly, gasping, choking as she inhales. I recoil, the stool tips over. She eyes me, startles, almost as astonished as I am. Her face is deathly pale, dark shadows lie beneath her eyes.

"Don't kill me," she mouths. "Don't do it."

I want to move, to hold her in my eyes, to kiss her crown and assure her I'd never hurt her – but I can't move. I'm standing stock-still opposite her. Her chest heaves with with each breath, it's too hard for her to talk, but she keeps repeating, "Don't do it. Don't kill me."

I fall to my knees. The vase with a bouquet one of her brothers must have brought crashes on the floor. The water splashes, the stems of the flowers snap.

"Rescue me, Harry," Ginny pleads.

I'm snapped out of this reverie when Mr Weasley's hand pats my shoulder lightly. I bounce up and discover that Ginny's still deep in coma on the bed. I must have fallen asleep. I sweep my fringe back, my breath erratic. The doctor is standing on the doorstep. Mrs Weasley looks at me with deep concern. I nod to their unvoiced question; I'm okay.

I leave before they come to any decision. I can't bear to stay there waiting, to look at her like that. I still have a lot of time before I will have to return to Voldemort. I take a walk to the Ministry, knowing I will have to face Nichols and to endure his inquiries today. Beautiful start to a beautiful day!