Title: "Spiritus Mundi"

Author: Shaitanah

Rating: R

Timeline: post-war

Summary: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Harry has troubles with his superiors. Meanwhile, Voldemort agrees to talk, but on his own conditions. Please R&R!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling…

Special thanks: to Mizstorge for beta-reading

A/N: Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews! Seriously, guys, you're my inspiration! Even you, my dear flamer! Did you ever for one bloody second think your trash reviews could upset me? ;)

Chapter 3

Let's Talk

I tripped and fell, holding my hand pressed to my knee. It began to throb as the pain spread through the leg. My face was covered in dust, only the bleeding scarlet scar stood painfully bright against my forehead.

My right eyebrow was broken. Blood trickled down my temple, dripping on my eyelids. It obscured my vision. I brushed aside the fringe drenched in blood and looked around. It was hard to breathe because of the foul smoke that poured in puffs from the burnt ruins of Riddle Manor.

'Crucio!'

A high-pitched scream pushed itself out of my throat. Oh God, please, just let me pass away! I don't ever want to be in pain anymore!

But the pain wouldn't go away. The spell wouldn't fade. Convulsing in the Cruciatus-induced agony, I writhed on the ground, gasping, moaning, whimpering – my concentration was ruined, the attack came unforeseen… nothing I could do about it… failed…

"Get up, little Potter!" a woman shrieked. My name almost drowned in abrupt laughter.

I recognized the demented creature. Her voice, how could I ever forget it? Even if I wanted to… I reached for my wand – yes, yes, one more inch closer, got it! – and I sent the curse right back at her, meaning it, meaning every bloody syllable of it. And she collapsed, unable even to scream. I wanted her to whine, to beg for mercy, but she became mute. The pain made her powerless.

"What's the matter, Bella?" I cried out. I used the name the Dark Lord had always used with her. During our last fight she bragged about being his favourite; we were about to see if it were true. "Where is your beloved master? Why isn't he here to save you?"

She could only look at me with dim eyes. I had already destroyed her.

I didn't have to do it. but I did. I imagined Sirius falling through the Veil. I thought that because of her I'd never see him again. I remembered how she'd tortured Neville's parents. I remembered how she'd looked at Neville; she'd probably wanted to finish the job.

I said, 'Avada Kedavra!'

It's strange that a couple of words can kill. A couple of words combined with that sinister green flame… I tried not to look back when I left Bellatrix's body. I felt no guilt. Should I have?

"Potter!"

I give a start of surprise, drop the pencil I've been toying with, and I realize that Nichols is looking directly at me. From the corner of my eye I notice Kingsley, who's giving me some strange signs.

"How nice of you to join us, Mr. Potter," Nichols drawls in his low unpleasant voice. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything important. Surely daydreaming is a tiresome and responsible activity; you cannot afford to be distracted."

The last word sounds menacing. I give myself a mental slap.

"So Shacklebolt here tells me that you have no progress concerning You-Know-Who. That's very aggravating. You do realize, Mr. Potter, that we cannot let him stay like this forever. So we either find a way to wake him up, or we gain information now and quickly!" And then he utters something that makes me grit my teeth in silent anger. "However, should you find yourself unfit for this work, the Department will be sure to replace you with a more experienced employee."

I let the words drop listlessly. "I shall give you all the information you need, Mr. Nichols."

The corners of his mouth twitch up in a smug smirk. I drill him with a hard gaze until he walks out into the corridor and then I spit: "He hates me."

"No, he doesn't," Kingsley replies.

"Yes, he does! He hates me the way Snape used to hate me at school."

Kingsley sits back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, and says calmly: "Stephen belongs to the breed that cannot stand another's success. It's your reputation that does it. I'm not saying that he envies you. It's just that Steve thinks you're here because of your fame and your victory over You-Know-Who."

"I'm more than willing to prove him wrong."

After a few minutes of heavy silence Kingsley asks in a low voice: "So how has it been with you two? What do you usually talk about?"

"We don't actually talk as much," I admit reluctantly. "It's more like I do something and he does… he draws, you know."

Kingsley arches an eyebrow at me like I've just said something ridiculous and utterly improbable.

"Does he? Somehow I never thought the Dark Lord would fancy art."

I shrug thoughtfully. Neither did I, for that matter. To be honest, I never thought Voldemort would do anything else other than continuously plot to destroy me.

"He's pretty good at that, you know. Seems like he's really got talent."

"Well, then he's not entirely lost," Kingsley remarks. I bite my lip to suppress a grin. For some reason I just don't feel like smiling but a smile really tries to show up. "Just make sure there's nothing personal between the two of you. No desire to avenge those who you lost…"

Kingsley's voice sounds grave and heavy with warning now. I can tell that he, too, is annoyed with the delay, but unlike Nichols he's my friend and he tries to show some understanding.

As if having read my mind, Kingsley hastens to comment: "Four months is not such a long period of time. And when it comes to You-Know-Who, the Boy Who Lived is probably the best choice, passing over the professionals. I just want to make sure you're in control of the situation, not him."

I nod firmly. I don't know how to make him believe me. He'll just have to take my word for it.

I muse a lot about Voldemort and all this awkward situation. He's at our mercy, but why do I not feel like the victor I'm supposed to be?

I try to put my thoughts down when I come home. About him, about Ginny (including my recent hallucination in the hospital ward), about everything. I'm not good at writing even when it's for personal use, so the entry looks like a first year's essay on Potions written in a trembling hand of a child who's scared of his own shadow after having met his Professor. Yes, I'm still under the impression…

But at least now that everything's organized I feel a little better.

When I go back to Voldemort at night, I can't help but tremble nervously. Our last meeting didn't go very well, after all. Once again, the first thing I notice is a change of the scenery: it's a beautiful flower garden, the tree is in the middle of it surrounded by high grass billowing in the wind. One thing keeps me on the lookout: Voldemort is nowhere in sight.

I know he can't hurt me here, we saw that. But still, I sense some plan has been put to action and it unnerves me.

"Don't turn around."

I freeze. His hand is on my shoulder, compressing it gently. I can feel his lips barely touch the back of my neck. His breath makes the hairs there rise.

"I wish you'd stop doing this," I say, appalled at how weak my voice sounds now that he's so close to me.

"Shh," he interrupts me. "I've been waiting for you to show you my latest idea. Take a good look."

I peer into the skyline, trying to understand what he wants me to see. The sky is tender blue, the same vibrant colour that was shining above the sea. And then I see it: something is coming towards us. It's a swarm of insects, buzzing, whirling through the shimmering summer air. And they engulf us. They're butterflies, bright, multi-coloured, they sweep past us, and then they return, pouring golden powder on us. Their wings make barely audible rustling noises.

Simply beautiful. How can someone so evil create something so pure? Enthralled, I can't look back. Voldemort's lips glide along my neck. His tongue points tiny moist dots on my skin. I try to stop it, this is strange, this is abnormal, this is obscene. He wraps his fingers around my wrist.

"I like it," I say.

He chuckles; he must have misinterpreted my words. Ambiguity starts getting on my nerves. He senses it and remarks smugly:

"Oh, Harry, I wouldn't survive a day if I didn't know how aggravating I could be to you."

I walk off to the tree and sit down, glaring at him irritably. I relate my conversation with Kingsley briefly. Voldemort's face is unreadable.

"The point is," I conclude, "that I have problems because of you, so it's entirely up to you to solve them. Let's talk."

Voldemort nods. My heart skips a beat. But joy never lasts.

"What would you like to talk about, Harry?" Voldemort asks suggestively. "The weather? Or the wonders of nature?" He gestures at our oak nonchalantly. "Or perhaps, Lizzie?"

I lower my head and ball my fists, digging my nails into the softness of my palm. Lizzie is the name of another girl I met a few days ago before I fell ill.

"You are really enjoying this, aren't you?"

Voldemort's lips tremble slightly. Suddenly his face brightens into a full-fledged smile. A breathless 'yes' comes out. One word hits me like a bullet, flat in the chest.

He wants to play.

"This is not a game!" I growl.

A gust of wind sweeps past me. The sky darkens, becoming leaden and heavy. The thick scent of rain saturates the air.

The storm breaks through the clouds. Thousand of raindrops crash down, bathing me in cold. They spin and whirl around me. I'm soaking wet. Streams of rain slide beneath my neckband, slip down my back. I shiver.

The rain ends as abruptly as it started. Sun glimmers through the soft layer of clouds.

"Everything is a game to me, Harry," says Voldemort, smirking.

"All right!" I almost yell. My voice sounds hoarse and strained. What if they're right? What if I can't control him? "What are the rules of the game? If I play along will you answer my questions?"

"Come back tomorrow. I will tell you the rules."

I open my eyes in the darkness of my room and lie motionless for some time, staring at the ceiling. My alarm clock is ticking on the night-table next to the pack of pills for cough. I feel about for my glasses. Six in the morning. Loads better, indeed.

The scent of flowers hangs heavy in the close air. The atmosphere in the greenhouse is moist, saturated with fumes of warm earth. Like aforest after rain.

Neville tries to tame a huge flesh-eating geranium (at least, that's what it looks like). It rumbles, trying to nibble his finger when he extends his hand towards the gap between its leaves. Some weird thing that looks like a thick green tongue aims at him, but Neville proves to be faster.

I grimace at the plant. Neville grins.

"Would you say fighting dark wizards is safer than this?"

"Dark wizards don't bite," I parry. "Not all of them, at least."

The Ministry would have my head on a plate if they found out I've been discussing the details of my dealings with Voldemort with my friends. But I have some naïve, unshakable trust in Neville. Somehow he knows how it feels. We have a lot in common. I still shudder at the memory of how he looked at me when I killed Bellatrix. As if saying: 'She should have been mine.'

Neville has become a famous herbologist. I can't contain a smile when I look at him dressed in his medical robes, walking about the hotbed, checking up on his plants with an air of pompousness. Where's that clumsy boy that used to break everything he touched (and didn't touch, for that matter)? He is still a bit awkward but he's been to a battle now… I don't know how to formulate it, but it does change a person.

"I'm not so sure it's a good idea, Harry," Neville draws out when I tell him about my last meeting with Voldemort. "I mean, will you really let him lay down the rules? I think I saw a film a couple of weeks ago. It was pretty much about your situation."

"Hmm?" Here it comes. Neville's been watching too much Muggle television these days. His grandmother was a pretty orthodox Pureblood witch and she thought Muggle television would spoil 'imagination and taste'. Can't blame her.

"There was this scary killer in prison. And an FBI agent came to seek help to locate another killer. He agreed to help but in turn he started asking questions. Private questions, you know."

I shake my head. Nice movie. I think I saw it too, a long time ago, at night, when the Dursleys were asleep. I had to cover my mouth with my hand to refrain from crying out every time something unexpected happened on the screen.

"The title's is something about sheep," Neville says.

"Lambs. And come on, Voldemort knows more about me that I myself do! He doesn't need to ask me any questions. I'll do the talking."

Unimaginable! He still flinches at the sound of the Dark Lord's name. I thought I'd beaten it out of all the members of the DA.

"Just be careful," Neville shrugs.

I do have wonderful friends! Friends who watch Muggle television and can see a parallel between my greatest enemy and an insane cannibal from an old thriller. Friends who get married and leave me alone. Friends who warn me against my own superiors and do nothing to help me out. Bitterness in my voice is so thick you can cut it with a knife. I love my friends but sometimes I'm just so lost.

Great! Talking to myself again. Hello, St Mungo's? Harry Saint Potter has gone utterly insane. Do you have a spare bed next to his comatose girl-friend? And another one specifically for his theory textbooks.

This reminds me that I need to go home to do some homework. I'm such a bookworm now; Hermione should positively be jealous of me.

Naturally I fall asleep very soon. These studies are just so boring. The dream welcomes me. It's still a flower field and it makes me glad: I like this decoration.

"Where are my butterflies?" I ask theatrically.

"Do you want to hear the rules?"

I nod. Voldemort motions for me to sit down. My vivid imagination pushes forward a weird image of a horribly long scroll where all the instructions are written in detail. I'll just have to sign some sort of agreement. In blood.

"I tell you one fact per meeting," Voldemort says. "One random fact about where the Horcrux is hidden. Only one. After that – no questions until the next meeting."

He falls silent. I wrinkle my nose. Is that it? That's… not bad. His eyes are fixed on me. I knit my eyebrows, expecting something worse. He has beautiful eyes. Have I already mentioned that? No matter, he has very beautiful, mesmerizing eyes.

"And you have to grant one wish of mine."

Here comes the worst. I throw up my hands, indignant.

"What else? The moon from the sky? Come to your senses! I can't bring you the wand, or let you go, or help you conquer the bloody world! It's just…"

"Not the Harry Potter way," he laughs. This bastard is laughing at me. I feel like slapping him. "Relax, Harry, I don't ask for the impossible. Some small insignificant wishes, that would be quite enough."

I pout. He looks at me, almost grinning (oh how I hate the way he grins; it makes his face look almost… real, and such beauty is not supposed to be real!).

"And by the way, Harry," he notes sardonically. "Since when do I require someone's help in conquering 'the bloody world'?"

I should probably say no. I should go home, prepare a dreamless potion and sink into the healing, all-powerful darkness of a sane sleep. I should report to Kingsley as soon as possible. I should, in the end, step aside and let the specialists take care of this abominable thorn in my side.

But does the great Harry Potter, the boy wonder who somehow lived (when no one clearly asked him to do it!) ever do what he should?

I. Don't. Think. So.

"I knew you wouldn't turn me down," Voldemort whispers. "Now tell me: where would you like to go? I'm a little tired of staying here even though I can change whatever I like. Let us take a walk around the world. Where do we begin? Someplace exotic?"

It's the first time he reconstructs his world while I'm present. Reality shifts, blurs and melts; I raise my head and breathe a hundred different streams of air in: the sweet-scented smog of a big city, the cloying heat of a desert, the fresh mountain chill. I'm on top of the world, all at once: the Eiffel Tower, the skyscrapers of New York, the mighty brick-red walls of the Kremlin, the pyramids bathed in golden sunlight, the deepest oceans and the richest forests. My head begins to ache. I'm overwhelmed, overjoyed, I want it to last forever.

He wraps his fingers around my hand. His touch feels so real, so earthly. How he loves to play the part of God!

He has the whip hand over me. I surrender. I'll gain control again… maybe a few minutes, a few hours, a few days later.