Title: "Spiritus Mundi"

Author: Shaitanah

Rating: R

Timeline: post-war, Harry is 19

Summary: Harry, an Auror in training, receives an assignment to interrogate Voldemort who is a prisoner in his own dream world. + Harry falls deeper into the traps set by Voldemort; he also meets an old rival and attempts to make up. Life is getting even more hectic. Please R&R!

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

Special thanks: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

A/N: Honestly, I have the best reviewers in the world! Thank you so much!!! BTW, please, don't ask me what Lestrange there is in the end of this chapter, Rodolphus or Rabastan. I haven't made up my mind and, frankly speaking, it's not a vital piece of information. So it's simply Lestrange.

Chapter 4

Every Day Is A New Day

I thought I was dead when he took me to Indonesia. Dead and gone to Heaven.

The ocean was dark blue and smooth, breaking the isles into hundreds of pieces of velvet-green mosaic. We descended onto the largest island, flying like an arrow through the moist, hot air. I took a sip of it as if it were liquor. It was close, thick and sweet-smelling. I exhaled sharply and leaned against Voldemort's shoulder, feeling a bit nauseous.

We passed (or rather, it passed us) through mines where people worked hard to get gemstones; through fields where high grass was so still it looked like an emerald mirror; through terrace-like slopes covered in rice and surrounded with palm-trees. The land was populated with people of ethereal beauty with almond-shaped eyes and smooth light-brown skin.

The jungle whispered softly in my ear. I didn't understand its language, but it became dear to me like I'd heard it before. Like a call from my long-forgotten past. And when I looked into the eyes of a tiger, I saw Voldemort. They were the eyes of a cold-blooded predator, yet not the one that kills mindlessly, just for sport. I knew there had been a solid reason behind Voldemort's killings. Perhaps in his poisoned, sick mind he had compared himself to a tiger that kills to sate its hunger, to assert its right for freedom and dominance.

There might be a reason for Voldemort to bring me here.

I lie back on the steep bank of a river that ripples through the grove. It's a borderline where the jungle retreats and gives way to human habitation. I deliberately asked Voldemort to stay away from cities; I think I've had enough of London as it is. I know why these dreams are so attractive to me: they're too far from what I call reality, too beautiful, too fantastic.

Much like the face and the body of Tom Riddle where there should be the reptilian features of Lord Voldemort.

"Is this real?" I ask, waving my hand around the landscape. "I mean, is it really like this? Or is it another of your modifications?"

"It's real."

"How can you be fond of all this?" I demand impatiently as if it's a crime to love nature. "Never thought you could appreciate something so…" I stumble. He looks at me studiously. For the lack of a better word I say: "Impractical."

Voldemort chuckles. "Beauty is a very practical thing, Harry. It gives inspiration. And inspiration is everything."

"To do evil things?"

"Evil and beauty evolve from the same root," he shrugs. "Both true evil and true beauty make us weep."

I listen to Voldemort and I can't deny that he may be right. From a certain point of view. His words make so much sense that it frightens me. I roll on my belly and bury my face in the grass that smells faintly of honey. I can't tell if it is so or if it's an illusion; frankly speaking, it doesn't matter.

"The air smells of honey at night," says Voldemort. "Sometimes it's so intense that it seems you're at a pastry chef's shop."

"What are you talking about?"

"The smell of honey over the place where I keep the Horcrux."

I glare at him, annoyed to the point no words can describe. "How on earth is that gonna help, I wonder!? It has nothing to do with geographic coordinates!"

"Who said anything about geography, Harry?" he queries playfully.

Great! I sit up, throw up my hands and slam my fist into the ground. "Stop acting like it's all so funny!"

For Merlin's sake, who am I talking to!? Voldemort arches his fretted eyebrows at me, pretending that nothing is wrong. And then he takes me by the elbows and pulls me closer. I almost lose my balance.

"My wish," he murmurs. He's dangerously close again, and I'm transported.

"No," I give a faint response. "Not that."

Red sparks disturb the stillness of his dark eyes. "My wand, then?"

Resistance is pointless. Moreover, it makes me look pathetic. I don't want that. So I let him kiss me and I try to convince myself I do not enjoy it, I do not want more, I do not lust after him, I do not…

I break the kiss off for an instant to gulp some air. He only asked for one kiss. Yet here I am sitting on top of him, ravishing his lips with the second, and the third, and the fourth long, passionate kiss, pressing myself hard against him, letting him take off my t-shirt. I start to say something. His reply echoes in my head like a bell chiming through the mist.

This is not real, is it? – No, it's just a dream. – Why do I dream that way about you? I'm supposed to… - To hate me?

He bites at my collarbone gently. All too gently. I gasp. I wish I could restrain myself, hold all the baleful desire back, lock it somewhere and never recall this moment of weakness. I fail.

I don't even know what we're doing anymore. It's like I've distanced myself from all the action and dived into the feelings. And now I'm spinning, spiralling into the very midst of nowhere, and his tongue collides with mine when he sucks me into another searing kiss, and he unzips my trousers, and I feel his fingers flit over my length…

Not real. Not real. Not real.

I bite my lip.

He licks away the beads of sweat over my brow. It tickles. I grimace contentedly. I thrust into his hand, chanting to myself: 'It's not real. It's not real.' But it feels so real. I've never felt so alive before.

And then it's over. I shudder against Tom, run my fingers through his hair, and I'm pleased to hear that his breath is as erratic as mine.

He presses his mouth to my chest. My pulse is thudding against my ribcage. He nips at my skin, sending jolts of renewed excitement through my body.

"Tom," I say breathlessly. "No… Stop, stop, stop."

He looks at me, waiting for me to continue, but I'm just staring at him, unable to utter a word. All I know is that I have to go but I desperately want to stay. I want to repeat everything we've done – for real.

No wonder that when I wake up in my bed, it feels cold and lonely. Nine a.m. I overslept.

The world is so dull and grey compared to my dreams. It rains outside, sidelong needles of silver rain beat into the window, and it's impossible to believe that overseas there is a fairyland I've been to at night. I can't concentrate. I keep seeing a slender Java dancer instead of Nichols's dull secretary; ancient pagodas instead of modern buildings; tigers and peacocks waving their tails coquettishly instead of cars and passers-by.

"Daydreaming, eh, Harry?"

I blink away the delusion, and there's just Tonks standing in front of me in the endless corridor of the Department.

"I was reading," I say defensively.

"Reading? With your fingers? As far as I know, you're not blind."

I close my textbook and move to let her sit. Her hair is a mass of dark-red, bright-violet and sunshine-yellow braids coiled over her ears. She flashes me a jolly grin.

"So how's it going? Got any results yet?"

She refers to my last test, the one I failed and had to resit. Re-evaluation is humiliating enough as it is, but examiners take special pleasure in simply torturing the trainees in all possible ways, especially by withholding the results until the student goes insane with waiting.

"Dunno," I shrug. "They won't tell me. I honestly thought N.E.W.T.s should be enough for theory."

"To enter the training program, yes. To go straight to operative training, you should probably have an 'O' in every subject, which is fairly impossible."

I laugh humourlessly. Tonks is right, of course. Even Hermione got one 'E' in the end. She was, to say the least, disappointed.

"You'll be fine," Tonks says, patting my shoulder. "Hell, even I was."

"You're a natural-born Auror!" I protest.

"So are you."

The next thing I know is we have combat training cancelled. While they reschedule the next class, I take a walk through the Department, pondering this conversation. It seems only natural that I should be here. 'Born into it', as they say. Sometimes my stomach gives a light twitch: what if I've chosen the wrong career? Everybody compliments me that I'll make a good Auror, but is it so important now that Voldemort's already been captured? I have a very limited career choice: I have no talent for anything but sports, no perseverance for a clerk's position, no practical grip for business. I'm a fair flyer and a good fighter; more than a dumb soldier, but less than a valorous commander. Looks like the only thing I can do is to be a symbol, an object of fanatic admiration, the Chosen One, the legend, the Boy Who Captured Voldemort.

Engrossed in such unpleasant thoughts, I walk into a familiar face. He stands stock-still in the doorway, hands in his pockets. His face is contorted with disdain the moment he lays his eyes on me. He wipes it off; the usual mask slips back on. Residual self-image… Maybe Malfoy thinks he dreams it? I roll my eyes and want to pass, but the passage is so narrow we can't squeeze through past each other.

I have no time to stand there forever, so I step aside. He walks past, his robes brush against mine, and something unfurls in my stomach. Damn the little compassionate Gryffindor me!

"Wait," I call and step in front of him.

Malfoy drills me with a stern look. His grey eyes seem almost colourless in the dense twilight of the corridor. My cheeks are burning. I practically have to force the words out of my mouth.

"We had a bad start all these years ago. I thought we'd start over."

I hold out my hand to shake his. He looks down at it, then back up at me. Much like I did back on the train.

"I don't want your pity," he spits. Disdain blazes in his eyes. He feels humiliated; it's unbearable for him to see me so prosperous, so happy. But he doesn't know me at all! "Reveal your remarkable Gryffindor traits somewhere else. I don't need charity."

"It's not like that…" I trail off.

He has nothing to be pitied for. He is not a fallen enemy. He still has that amazing air of elegance and aristocratic arrogance, he is as handsome as ever, he has the future ahead of him. I was at his hearing. He was sentenced to six months in Azkaban and a criminal rehabilitation program. The trial period will be over in three months.

Malfoy leans into me and whispers vehemently:

"They think you're the hero, Potter. Well, go back to your pack of bootlickers, I'm sick of you."

As he walks away, I realize one very important thing. I go after him, saying:

"I don't pity you. I think you deserved what you got." He comes to a halt. His back is rigid; I can tell that he's listening. "But the war is over, Malfoy. I just want to heal the old wounds. Please."

He looks at me over the shoulder. I raise my hand again. He comes closer, touches it lightly, and I wrap my fingers around his hand, gripping it tightly. Malfoy releases a slow breath. And he smiles.

I heard a strange noise and darted to the nearest row of bushes. I tried to keep my wand at the ready. My hands were shaking. A Death Eater cornered me and attempted to Stun me. I forestalled him and dashed to the nearby piece of wall that would make a good cover. The stench of smoke and burnt flesh was overwhelming.

I pressed my hand to my nose, attempting to filter out the reek and crawled forward cautiously. Someone blocked my way. The man stepped on my hand with his heavy boot. I stifled a shriek. The wand rolled out of my hand. I raised my face to see the enormous smirk of Lestrange.

Another smug comment. (Merlin, they're so predictable!) He punched me in the face, shattering my glasses. I dropped my head with a quiet yelp.

Lestrange grasped a handful of my hair, pulled my head back and brought his face close to mine. His eyes gleamed feverishly.

"I'm going to make you wish you'd never been born, Potter!" he hissed. It reminded me somewhat of Uncle Vernon. Ah, family ties!

'Accio…'

"No-no-no, my dear boy! Not this time."

Damn, how they all wanted to earn Voldemort's goodwill!

Lestrange stretched out his hand. My wand slid into it and disappeared in the creases of his robe. He dragged me to my feet and hit me again. I tumbled backwards, blood spluttered from my nose.

"You'll regret what you've done, you little bastard!" Lestrange bellowed. He obviously meant Bellatrix. I highly doubted I'd ever regret anything concerning her.

I gave him a cold blank stare. I was too exhausted to do anything. I was enraged when I killed Bellatrix, blinded by the memory of Sirius falling through the Veil. All that hectic anger was drained from my heart. I thought he'd kill me now or worse and I didn't give a damn.

A small slithering sound reached my ears. Whispering, hissing. I skewed my eyes upon the ruins and saw a slick dark ribbon stream across the scorched place. And another one, and another one… There were dozens of snakes all around us. Their whisper grew louder. Pretty sure that Lestrange hadn't noticed them, I smirked.

-Help me, my friendsss!- I hissed in Parseltongue.

The sound boiled in my throat. The snakes filled all the stones around us and surged up over the Death Eater. He dodged them and made a go for his wand. A snake dived out of his robe and drove its fangs into his hand. With dark satisfaction I watched them wind around him, moving, coiling against his wriggling body.

I summoned my wand and turned my back on him. My task was after all to locate the Dark Lord.