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. + The Dark Lord's power is boundless. Harry gets a taste of it but he won't even remember that in the morning. Something terrible happens. Please R&R!

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

Special Thanks: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

A/N: Thank you for your reviews, guys! hugs This chapter is written in the past tense for those who feel tired of the present. But I will get back to the present again. Oh, and we get a lot of Voldemort alone here))) Enjoy!

Chapter 6

Honey

There's something wrong with me. I can't remember what happened yesterday. It drives me crazy. A few days passed since my confrontation with Voldemort. I didn't go back to him. Let him grow to miss me (insert a derisive smile).

To be honest, I'm in no mood for jokes. Something seems very-very wrong. Neville and I took a trip to the countryside and… Oh, I'd better keep it in order.

Someone was banging at the door persistently. I crawled out of the maze of sheets and leapt towards the door. I left my glasses on the night-table, so it took me a few moments to realize the blurred silhouette on the doorstep belonged to Neville.

"Hey, Harry," he chimed cheerfully, walking in.

I blabbered something sleepily, rubbing my eyes. Neville threw a sideways glance at the room (the bed was rumpled, the creased blanket hung over the edge, the pillow lay on the floor) and seemed to have realized something.

"Oh, I… I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Uh, no, I'm fine," I waved dismissively at him. "What's wrong?"

"I think I know where the Horcrux might be."

I stared at him, astounded. "Hang on," I mouthed and rushed to the bathroom. I splashed a handful of water in my face to refresh myself. Back in the room I put my glasses on and made a clever face, waiting for Neville to speak.

"I put all the clues together," he said hastily. "Yard of stone – it's either something very old like a real yard, or modern: concrete and stuff. A tree – well, nothing curious about that…"

"Yeah, what about honey?"

My tone must have been a bit sardonic; at least Neville gave me a skeptic stare and went on: "At first I thought it was some kind of a pastry chef's there. But I remembered reading a book about–."

I rolled my eyes. When did Neville start acting pretty much like Hermione?

He took a page ripped out of a book out of his pocket and handed it to me. The page was frayed and tattered, with a lot of markings and stains of grease. Before I could have a better look at it, Neville burst into a hasty explanation.

"It's a Phantom Guard, the ghost of an evil witch that is usually summoned to guard something very important. She's very dangerous. Poisonous claws, dreadful howl and so on. But what's more important: the scent of honey accompanies her everywhere."

"Why honey?" I frowned.

"She feeds off the living energy," Neville shrugged. "Honey helps attract children. But that is not the point! I looked through the lists and I located a few evidences of such witches' existence in Britain. And one of them supposedly lives in the area of a modern cemetery right here!" He pointed at a miniature map imprinted on the other side of the page with the tip of his wand and grinned triumphantly. "All of the geographical clues are true, then."

I grabbed my jacket and my wand. Impossible that Voldemort should tell me the truth. Impossible that Neville should deduce all this about the Horcrux. Yet here we were, so close already. I compressed my lips, determined to finish this pointless odyssey tonight, and so we Apparated.

It was indeed a graveyard exposed to the showers of silver starlight, a bed of dry weed encased in stone. The cold yard of stone. There were several trees scattered about the graveyard. I guessed that all we had to do was to count ten paces from each. Unfortunately we found nothing. Ten paces brought us to the middle of nowhere.

The closer we seemed to get to the Horcrux (and I had a feeling we'd come very close), the more uneasy I felt.

"Listen, we're unprepared," I said, gripping Neville by the elbow. "And there's clearly nothing in here. Let's come back later. I need to get the bigger picture."

"Of what!? It's here, I'm telling you."

If only I was so sure… I sniffed the air. Indeed, the faint scent of honey was floating all around us. I moved forward, explored all the trees and started counting ten equal paces to where the smell was more intense. I had a sweet metallic taste on my palate.

There.

I raised my wand and aimed at the thin air. There had to be something unless that lying bastard directed me into the wrong place.

'Reveal your secrets!' I chanted.

Neville yelped, astounded, as the air stirred and melted down around a ramshackle wooden house with broken windows. I stepped back and stifled a gasp of wonder. They must have paved the concrete after the house was concealed beneath the magic curtain. And they built the cemetery around it. Nice place for a ghost.

We came in, holding our wands in front of us, the faint glow of the Lumos spell lighting our way. I surveyed a staircase going up to the dark and dusty depths of the house, piles of old dirty stuff scattered all over the floor. I hate old filthy houses that harbour evil secrets. Have I mentioned this before?

I trotted through the corridor and up the stairs, trying not to shiver as the floorboards made strained, sinister noises beneath my feet.

"I've just had this idea, you know," whispered Neville somewhere in the back. "You made him tell you exactly where the Horcrux is. But he said nothing about what it looks like."

I snorted wearily. Ditto.

Something rumbled behind me. I spun around, goggling at the darkness that condensed in the corridor.

"Neville? Neville! What the hell, it's not funny!"

No response. Excellent! This was getting worse with each passing second.

I dashed back to the stairway landing and caught a glimpse of a limp body sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.

"Neville!"

A ghostly figure materialized before me. Her hands were enveloped in dirty white sleeves, thrown up in the air like a pair of wings. She wailed in a shrill voice; the choking sound died in an outburst of hoarse laughter.

I took a step back. She lunged at me; I toppled over and tumbled down the stairs, tiny pricks of pain shooting through my entire body. Neville's body vanished. Right on time, damn it! Moreover, I couldn't see the ghost now, either.

I pressed my back to the wall and crawled towards the exit, clutching my wand tightly. If she was close, I couldn't sense it. I lost track of time. I'd been in this house for too long. My head began to ache. I felt dizzy.

I held my hand up to my face and wipe the sweat from it. My palm came away stained with red. I lowered my fingers to my neck and felt four deep bleeding furrows. She hit me. I stumbled and leaned heavily against the wall.

The wand slipped out of my grip.

Damn!

An intense smell of honey blew softly in my direction. The ground was shaking beneath my feet.

I stretched my hand out to summon my wand. A powerful gust of wind pushed it aside. I staggered and slid down, my back still against the decaying wood.

The ghostly witch appeared before me like something out of a bad dream. She knelt beside me, covered my hands with hers, pressing them harder to the floor. Her skin was sallow, her features were sharp; she sucked at the scratch marks on my neck, making small noises of delight. I grunted. My pulse quickened. It excited her. She mounted me, and I felt my power seeping into her. She tilted her head back, and an exultant shriek escaped her throat.

The air around me buzzed, electrified with power. Blood trickled from my ears. My eyes began to bleed, my parched lips were covered with tiny splinters and burning.

"Get off!" I demanded hoarsely. I was powerless in her grasp. And I spat in the fury of a stubborn, helpless child: "Arrrgh! Get the fuck off!"

She snarled at me, and I was torn out of reality and thrown into the chilly darkness, spiralling down into the honey-scented oblivion.

-----------

Voldemort opened his eyes and smiled. His hand shot forward, constricting around the ghost witch's throat. She wheezed and howled in agony.

"I created you," the Dark Lord whispered. "You are mine to command."

She threw her hand up and slashed at him. Her claws dipped into his cheek. He screamed, pushing at her fiercely. She managed to tear off the glasses.

Voldemort sprang to his feet. Damn, the boy was awfully short-sighted. He could hardly operate without glasses.

The ghost witch was upon him before he could locate the spectacles. She punched him in the back, flinging him into the wall. Voldemort span around.

"Accio wand!"

It felt intoxicating to have the wand in his grip, the brother of his own weapon, the Phoenix feather brimming with power inside it.

Voldemort brandished the wand and shot a curse, sending the demoness into exile back to where she'd come from. A blast wave knocked him off his feet. He lay face down on the floor while the fire raged in the room.

He grabbed his glasses. One lens was shattered; he repaired it with a quick spell and looked around. Unnatural stillness reigned in the house now that its guard was gone. Voldemort strode carefully down the hall until a shady figure that stepped out of the dark blocked his way. He threw up his wand, prepared to strike. The figure mimicked him. Its gaunt face was stained with blood. Voldemort inhaled deeply and burst out coughing, cursing Potter who didn't have enough prudence to dispel his damned flu. Finally he realized the figure in front of him was Potter. He was staring in a big dusty mirror. A huge splinter crossed its dim surface.

Voldemort lowered his wand, releasing a small breath of relief. It was peculiar to look at the face that temporarily belonged to him, knowing it was the face of his greatest enemy. He touched his cheek, smearing blood all over his fingers; he ran his hand over his forehead, making the scar ache slightly. And he sneezed. His hands were covered in a thick layer of dust.

Voldemort wetted his lips. The sight of Harry Potter's reflection doing exactly the same was oddly exciting. Still not fully adjusted to this body, Voldemort reacted incredibly slowly. It was only now that the gleeful feeling of complete control over his helpless enemy filled him to the brim, and he drawled with the most charming smile: "Oh, Harry… You will lose everything just like I promised! And then I'll kill you, slowly, painfully, so that in the end you shall thank me for finally taking your miserable life." This fateful promise was uttered in a sweet, even tone without a hint of menace. The Dark Lord smiled, pleased with his little trick.

He pressed his fingers hard against the dusty glass; they went through the obstacle with difficulty. The glass melted into a viscous glue-like substance. His arm shoulder-deep in it, Voldemort grabbed a small object confined within the depths of the looking-glass and pulled it out. It was a bundle of fabric hardened with time and covered in dried filth, small enough to fit perfectly into the pocket of his jeans.

The Dark Lord came downstairs. The silence, interrupted only by the sibilant sound of his breath, was beginning to get on his nerves. His body's temperature seemed to be rising, plunging him into the chill of upcoming fever. Sweat mixed with dust turned into sludge that dried into a sticky scab all over his face. Voldemort balled his fists, exasperated.

"Double the torment for that, Harry!"

Someone tugged him by the sleeve. Voldemort recoiled; his hand shot forward.

"Harry! Harry, it's me!"

Voldemort clenched his teeth. Just that other boy, the one that had accompanied Potter here. His left eyebrow was cut deeply; blood still dribbled from the wound. He pressed his hand there, trying to control the blood flow. Guiding the hand away from the boy's forehead, Voldemort wiped the blood off with his handkerchief. The boy drew in a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry," he murmured perplexedly. "I tried to get to you–."

"It's all right," Voldemort interrupted mechanically. "Let's get out of here."

Longbottom's eyes were still wide with shock. "Where… where is she?"

"I sent her back."

They left the unstable shack behind and made their way through the rows of tombs back to the gate. Voldemort cast 'Incendio!' over his shoulder, setting the house ablaze.

"Did you find the Horcrux?"

Voldemort's fingers wrapped around the bundle hidden safely in his pocket. "It wasn't there," he informed Longbottom matter-of-factly.

"What!?" exclaimed Neville. "It's not possible! All the clues were… It had to be this place!"

"Someone might have already taken it. It wouldn't be the first time," Voldemort said thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, we've been intentionally lured into a trap. The Dark Lord is… a liar, you know."

Longbottom wrinkled his nose and nodded stiffly. He didn't seem very convinced. Voldemort grasped his shoulder and looked him in the eye, trying to keep the magnificent emerald green of Harry Potter's eyes untainted by the red of his own.

"Forget it, Neville. I'll deal with him tomorrow. He wants me dead; well, he won't have it his way this time."

He couldn't suppress a smile. For a moment he was almost willing to believe his words.

Back in Harry's apartment in no time, Voldemort checked the boy's stock of potion ingredients. It was a well-known fact that Potter's talent in Potions was abysmally low, which explained the lack of the necessary herbs and powders in his kitchen cupboard. Some of them were too dry, others damp and half-rotten. With a sigh of exasperation, the Dark Lord brewed a potion from what choices he had and swallowed it at a single draught. Soon the fever was gone, the dizziness had subsided, and the only thing that still remained of this body's pitiful condition was an overwhelming weakness that signalled he should go to bed as soon as possible.

However, the Dark Lord had other plans for the rest of this night.

He returned nearly at daybreak, put the Cloak back in the wardrobe and lay down on the bed. "So this is where the enemy sleeps," he chuckled. Ah, this was almost too easy.

I'm trying to recollect last night, but there's just no memory of what happened after I blacked out in the shack. How did I end up at home? Where is Neville now? Is he even alive? I blame the fever, the stress, my general absentmindedness, but I just know – there's something wrong here. Something unclean.

Guess Tommy and I are going have a serious chat about this.

I hear ringing. I'm so tired that it takes me ages to deduce it's not ringing in my ears. I pick up the phone. The first thing I hear is a series of stifled female sobs.

"Harry…" Hermione's voice.

My hand drops. The receiver fell to the floor. A low thudding noise.

I don't ever want to feel this pain again…