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. + Their trips continue; Harry grows even more dependable on Voldemort and understands Voldemort has more power over him than he'd thought. Please R&R!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling… I'm just bored.

Special thanks: to Mizstorge for beta-reading

A/N: Thank you once again for your lovely reviews! Summer exams are killing me, and your support keeps me going. I love you, guys.

Chapter 5

Safe From Choice

The next few weeks fly past in a blink of an eye. My days are dull, and feverish, and hectic; and my nights, bright and luminous, are filled with passion, adventures and constant battles with my consciousness. We surf the Asian coast: the turquoise waters of Thailand that run over the snow-white sands, the snow-covered peaks of Chomo-lungma, the boundless poppy fields of Myanmar, the brown mud of Cambodia that hides sapphires, these precious little fragments of the sky…

The clues are mostly insignificant: a cold yard of stone, a tree that grows ten paces away from the hiding place, any ridiculous thing that would pop up into Voldemort's head. I consider them utterly meaningless but I have to deal with all his hints and put them together like the tiniest pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. So far it's given me nothing but headaches.

Then comes America like a big map made of mottled bits of paper. We skip through two or three states a night; sometimes we linger for a day or two and he takes me back in time to show me the conquest of the West or the Trail of Tears.

"I don't understand," I ask the living textbook that stands by my side. "To recreate all that, you had to witness it personally. But that's impossible, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily. I was an assiduous pupil in my History class. I can show you one of the goblin wars if you like. History has many lessons for the living, magic and Muggle alike."

"Some other time, I think." It's best not to tell him I had a 'D' in History of Magic.

Then there goes Russia. It's too big to swallow at a single draught. We sweep through it chaotically, darting up to the cold waters of the Arctic Ocean and down to the Southern steppes. It's intoxicating to know that I've been to all those places when in fact I never left my bed in my small London apartment.

I'm lying on my back on the bank of the Lake Nero. The brittle feather grass grazes my skin. The sky above me is pale blue; daylight is beginning to dawn.

"'Nero' means 'marshland'," Voldemort says.

I cough, a feeble attempt to disguise a snigger. "Honestly, stop acting like you know everything!"

He'd have made a good teacher. At least I don't want to sleep when he tells me something. Don't know about the DADA but everything else…

He looks a bit over twenty, twenty-five at the maximum. His hair is longer and messier than that of his sixteen-year-old Horcrux. We're almost of the same height, but he's well-built; compared to him I look like a walking skeleton. Mr. Weasley still thinks I'm underfed.

"It is in Britain," says Voldemort.

I slam my fist into the soft mud. He must be joking!

"Oh really!? No way!"

"Potter!" he cuts me off. "Did you seriously think I couldn't have kept something so precious anywhere else? Now, if I specifically say it is in Britain, then there is a reason for that."

It gives me a sudden jolt of anxiety. What's that supposed to mean? Does he have another Horcrux hidden somewhere in… the depths of hell?

He gives me no time to mull over these vexing prospects. His hand rests on my hip; he bends over me, and we kiss. His wishes are not always that radical: once he asked me to sing him a song (my face was as red as Ron's hair by the time I was done), and then he wanted a dog. I told him he could create one. He seemed opposed to the idea. In the end I found a homeless puppy and had to drag it to bed with me in order to transfer it to Voldemort's dream. Sounds insane, I know.

Right now the dog (that by the way is a fluffy black Newfoundland named Salazar a.k.a. Sally) is chasing birds by the water.

I push Tom away and look straight into his eyes.

"Why do you keep doing this? You're not like that, are you? I… I'm not like that."

"Like what, Harry?" His lips curve into a jeering, seductive smile.

"Look, if you're bored, I can bring you a whore!" I grumble.

I instantly picture it in my head: at first the poor girl lies in my bed doing absolutely nothing while I chant the spell and fall asleep, and then I sacrifice her to the lonely and lustful Dark Lord!

Tom lies down, his leg across my legs; his hand rests on my chest. My heart beats hard against his palm.

"You're not the cuddly type," I mutter.

"Not really, but I know you like it."

"Tell me more about the Horcrux."

The moment I said it I knew I did something wrong. Tom doesn't move (shit! shit! shit! NB: Stop calling him Tom!) but the weight of his hand gets heavier. He draws even closer to me and hisses against my skin:

-'One random fact', Harry. Wasn't that what I promisssed? Disssobedience just turnsss me on, ssso if I were you, I wouldn't play with fire.-

He presses his mouth roughly against mine. I know I should do something: either surrender or play along. I'm scared of him. How the hell did I let it twist this way? I bite his lip hard enough that I taste blood. It pours into my mouth. Voldemort's blood. I let go and spit blood into his face. He jerks away, but he is still close enough, and the blood splatters in a red rain.

-This isss going to cossst you dearly,- he whispers gravely.

I smile, intoxicated. Tom pulls my hair back from my face. I whimper and I hate it: I'm supposed to be brave and quiet. Even when he almost sinks his teeth into my vein, and it hurts like hell, and I'm thinking: 'What the fuck is wrong with me if I let him do such things to me!?'

The lake splashes serenely a few feet away from us. It's not exactly sunshine and butterflies with Voldemort; it never was. He's inside of me, he's everywhere, he's my entire world. The first time I heard his name I was eleven; could I have predicted that it would go this far? I don't think so…

I lick the blood off his face. He gives me the trademark sinister smile that makes his handsome features look less alive.

"It's fucking not fair," I whisper.

"What is?"

"You! Everything about you is so… complicated!" There it is. Not really what I wanted to say. But I'm getting so confused!

He silences me with a deep, rough kiss. And then this cruel, fascinating dream world around us falls apart as Voldemort loses his concentration for one tantalizing moment. I scream. Particles of dream dust float everywhere around us. It's bright golden, blinding, beautiful.

I caught Ginny in my arms, shielding her from another curse. I Stupefied the attacker, and we ran through the trees to get a moment of peace before the battle would start again.

Ginny's lips glided along the line of my neck. Her breath was warm against my skin. And I was so cold, so cold. I hugged her and held her in my arms just to make sure she was safe. I had managed to keep them all unaware of my attachment to her. Now, all the signs of affection were out in the open; it didn't matter – everything would soon be over.

"Stay safe!" she whispered. "Please, just be safe."

"I love you," I replied in a choked voice. "When it's all over–."

I didn't finish the sentence. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say anyway. The blast wave of a curse separated us. It hit me in the shoulder; my hand went numb, but a few seconds later stinging pain spread through it. I bit my tongue and swallowed a scream. I lost sight of Ginny. I could only hope she'd be fine.

I am obviously one of those masochistic types who can't help endangering themselves. This thought comes into my head in the morning (like all the wisest thoughts do). I brush my teeth, wash my face and put on my glasses. When I try to smooth my hair, I suddenly notice a big bruise that stands clear against the skin on my neck. That's the place Tom kissed at least a dozen times last night. I poke it with my finger to make sure I'm not dreaming. Ooh, I am wide awake. The simplest way to prove it is to take a look at my forehead: my 'lightning bolt' is still in place.

How come this 'gift' from the dream world is visible on my physical body!?

I can feel the entire spectrum of sensations there, but nothing can hurt me. And none of those things linger when the dream is over.

I erase the bruise with a quick spell and Apparate to Hogsmeade. It's my day-off, and I plan to visit Hogwarts.

I mount my new Firebolt and take a flight to the School. I haven't flown in a while. I rise higher than the clouds, throw my hands up and cry out victoriously. Here, in the sky, I am a nameless king of the boundless kingdom of blue and white. For a split second invisible crowds cheer underneath me, and a speck of gold passes me by at supersonic speed. If I squint, I can pretend I see its elaborate wings flutter like those of a dragonfly. My goal, my dream, my destiny is to catch it. The second my fingers lock around this little piece of sun I am absolutely happy.

"You've put on quite a show for our first years, Potter," Professor McGonagall says when I sit down opposite her in her office. "They saw you circling above the Quidditch pitch."

I shrug. "Well, you know… Image is everything."

She eyes me attentively; her stern face twitches, but a smile appears. She knows me too well.

"You probably want to speak to Professor Dumbledore. I'm sorry to tell you that he's temporarily indisposed."

"I beg your pardon!"

Just when I need his guidance so bad…

McGonagall tells me something's wrong with the canvas. A little accident… It goes in at one ear and out at another, but somewhere in my mind a half-formed thought flares:

'Way to go, Minnie!'

It is alien, out-of-place and too bold (I wouldn't dream of calling Professor McGonagall 'Minnie'!). I have a guess just who it belongs to. But how can his thoughts intrude into my mind when I'm awake? That's vaguely disturbing. Okay, edit: it's very disturbing!

'Minnie' offers me her help, but I decline politely. I don't feel like discussing my Voldemort problems with anyone but Professor Dumbledore. His portrait has been of help these years; I certainly hope he's not damaged beyond repair.

I take another miraculous flight over the School lands. When I descend, I suddenly find myself surrounded by a gaggle of cheering first years. Their delighted squeals ring in my ears. Some of them want my autograph, the others just gape at me like I'm the next wonder of the world. Some ask me questions about Quidditch. I answer all their queries and I find it quite amusing.

"Is it true that you hadn't even had a lesson before you flew for the first time?" a curly-haired boy whispers in delight.

I can't help but smile. The facts of my biography have always been a public matter.

I spot Neville by the trees. Sometimes he drops by Professor Sprout's greenhouses to discuss another mutated water lily with her. He watches me with a small smile that suggests that he understands a lot more than he reveals. As always.

"You seem pretty good at this," he comments just as we walk back to the gate.

"Not really. Actually I'm a bit afraid of children. But if they talk about Quidditch… Heh, that's fine with me."

I tell him about Voldemort's clues. For a moment Neville's quiet and thoughtful.

"Give me a list of all the hints, will you?"

"Whatever for?"

"I'll try to find a solution!" he says, looking at me as if it were obvious from the start. Who would figure out Neville likes brain teasers?

It starts to rain. We barely make it to the shelter in time. I end up with a cough (my metabolism hasn't fully recovered from the flu yet) and toss in bed for a few hours before falling into a feverish sleep. The spell works just like the usual, and I start yelling almost the moment I see Voldemort.

We're in Kazakhstan now on the bank of a deep mountain lake. The ring of rocks sprinkled with velvet-green bushes reflects my indignant outcries. A meandering stream ripples down the rock; its peal travels in the air. I can almost feel the water splash over the smooth pebbles. The air is piercing fresh and still. Voldemort is stretched out on the grass, his shirt unbuttoned, hands beneath his head.

"How dare you intrude my thoughts during the day?" I shriek. "How the hell is that possible in the first place!?" His reserve annoys the hell out of me. "You're a sodding bastard; you've always been! I'm an Auror in training, a representative of the law! If you don't stop fooling around, I'll have you Kissed within a few days!"

My cheeks flush when I realize what I have just said.

"Thank you so much for your enthusiasm, Harry," Voldemort purrs. "But I am not hiding anything. I told you before: spending too much time here may be harmful for your health. You're already beginning to imagine things."

"You-are-a-foul-lying-loathsome-sick-fuck!" I press menacingly. To my embarrassment, his voice affects me in the worst possible way: heat courses through my body, my very skin is aching for his touch.

He props up on his elbows, his eyes twinkle wickedly. I don't know where to hide from his daring gaze. I just rip myself out of the dream. The mountain wind whistles in my ears as I wake up and breathe slowly, cooling off gradually. My palms are sticky with sweat. I wipe them with the bed sheet irritably and lower my head back on the pillow.

I hate Voldemort.

Before you ask: there's only one Horcrux. That thing about another one being hidden "in the depths of hell" was merely Harry's vivid imagination and his wariness of Voldemort. Also, that Horcrux is not Harry himself.