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. + Voldemort is close to achieving his goal. And I give you some fluff at the end. Please R&R!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. The chapter title comes from the song 'Sleeping Beauty' by A Perfect Circle.

Special thanks: to Mizstorge for beta-reading.

A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews! hugs This is coming to an end, sadly.

Chapter 8

Beyond A Visible Sign Of Awakening

Voldemort pulled the boy's sluggish body out of the bed (how could someone so lazy and unkempt have defeated him?). This time it required no shock to take control. Voldemort smiled contentedly. He had much more time now, the whole night ahead of him.

He found an open packet of juice in the fridge. The liquid felt odd, familiar to his mouth, yet slightly different. The organism welcomed it with doubt; perhaps because it was Potter's favourite, not his.

The Dark Lord had more time to feel things now: the soft cotton of the shirt he'd put on, the rough fabric of his jeans, Potter's messy hair beneath his fingers. Reality. Voldemort's stomach clenched. Perfection. Since he had been brutally ripped out of this pathetic little world, it had become pure perfection that he desperately wanted to own.

The doorbell rang. Voldemort knitted his eyebrows. What the hell; did the boy expect guests? After midnight?

He almost swallowed a smile when he saw that black-haired girl standing on the doorstep. She was, to say the least, relentless.

"Hey, I'm sorry if it's a bad time," she said, flushing. "I needed to talk to you so much."

"It's all right," said Voldemort, letting her through. "But I was kind of leaving…"

"I won't take long! All this time, I couldn't stop thinking about you… I know what you probably think. But I need to know… if there's still a chance for us."

Voldemort stared at her blankly (fortunately, it seemed to be Potter's natural expression when it came to girls). She was rather pretty with her huge watery eyes and sad, hopeful smile.

"Cho, I…" he said quietly, his mouth very dry. "I don't know what–."

The girl drew forward and kissed him deeply, wrapping her arms around him. For a moment he felt the youth's body react to her minty breath, and the fruit sweetness of her lip-gloss, and the feeling of her body pressed to his.

He pulled away and mumbled, armed with Potter's embarrassment and awkwardness: "I really need to go. We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Cho's face became crimson. He took her by the hand and forced a weak smile. "I'm just very busy right now."

As soon as she was gone, Voldemort Apparated to the neighbourhood of Hogwarts and strode calmly towards the gate. He tore a huge white blossom from the tree and breathed in its scent, enjoying the mix of flower incense and thunderstorm in the air. The mighty towers of Hogwarts dominated the skyline. Voldemort wondered if there was any sensible reason behind his sentimental attachment to this ancient castle. Not really; it was just a pile of rocks. But a familiar pile of rocks. There had never been a graduate of Hogwarts who would have hated this school.

"I should say I'm surprised to see you here, Harry," McGonagall said, eyeing him suspiciously. "Especially at this time of night. But it is not within my right to deny you anything. Professor Dumbledore is much better if that's who you want to talk to."

"Thank you very much," Voldemort said. "I was going to request your permission to visit the dungeons, Professor."

Minerva's face twitched slightly. She opened her mouth, then closed it, trying to maintain control; with a quick flourish of her wand she summoned a key and sent it flitting towards Voldemort.

"We haven't found a replacement yet, you know," she whispered in a strained voice. Voldemort nodded gravely. "F-for Severus… Looks like the DADA position is cursed."

"Maybe you should have given it to Voldemort," said Harry Potter with a strange gleam in his eyes. Minerva pursed her lips.

"Don't be silly! Now do whatever you need to do in the dungeons and leave, Mr Potter. You ought to be in bed."

'She still thinks he's her student,' Voldemort smiled, making his way down into Snape's former office. 'Typical Minnie.'

The office was in perfect order as kept by its owner, albeit every object was covered in a thick layer of dust indicating that it had been empty for all these years. It's funny that in the end Slughorn chose to move out. Voldemort trailed his fingers over the shelf, and they came away stained with greyish substance. He wiped them with his sleeve briskly.

It didn't take long to find the hiding place where Snape kept illegal potions. The Order failed to locate it when they searched the office. Voldemort raked the vials out carefully and counted them. Five, precisely. Five long-lost recipes of Slytherin required for the ritual of Revival and Transference.

"I knew I could trust you, Severus," Voldemort murmured and thought irritably: 'Damn it! It's time to get rid of this annoying habit of talking to myself. Unless I want to turn into Potter completely!'

---------------------------

Voldemort entered the studio with a mixed feeling of wariness and curiosity. It was a reckless act, but he couldn't resist seeing his old Transfiguration teacher again. He couldn't resist taunting the portrait of a dead wizard with his cold, mocking look upon Harry Potter's innocent face. Would Dumbledore see through the mask? Would he recognize him? To miss the opportunity meant to be tormented by it forever.

"Ah, Harry," the portrait drawled in a weak but cheerful voice. There still were scorch-marks visible upon the canvas. The frame was splintered in places. "I'm so sorry to have frightened you, my boy. Professor McGonagall tells me you've been doing quite well with your studies…"

"I'm glad to see you're better, Professor," said Voldemort evenly.

"Ah, well, Minerva's prone to exaggerating things sometimes. There has never been anything serious. One of our Defense Against The Dark Arts trainees accidentally spilt a potion on me."

The old man smiled carelessly and surveyed the visitor over his half-moon spectacles. What he saw was a youth shifting his feet by the door, looking at him with concern and relief in his eyes.

"How is your work with Lord Voldemort going?" asked Dumbledore.

"Progressing." An uncomfortable silence. The youth braced himself and said: "I'd better come to visit you at a more appropriate time. Have a good night, sir."

He walked to the door, and behind him the old man chuckled into his beard: "Good night, Tom."

Voldemort halted and looked back with a smug grin on his face. "When did you know?"

"I've always known. I wanted to see if you really thought me to be so foolish to continue this act."

Voldemort sneered. "I was having fun."

"What do you want this time, Tom?"

"Is that it? Not going to try and stop me? Not going to call out to Harry, begging him to wake up?" Voldemort shook his head in mocking disbelief. "I must admit I'm disappointed. You ask me what I want. What everyone else wants: life. I could take this body, you know."

He raised Potter's hand, moved his fingers, trailed them over the youth's cheek, his lips and his chin. His smile widened.

"I could take over right now, so that your precious little hero who's sleeping peacefully in his London apartment would never wake up. Nothing can stop me. I just don't want to live the rest of my life as the acclaimed Hero of the Wizarding World."

"Have you come here to boast, Tom?" Dumbledore asked calmly. "You have always been far too arrogant."

Harry Potter's form leaned against the wall with an effortless grace that Harry Potter never possessed. Voldemort didn't want to destroy the portrait. Dumbledore had said it himself, hadn't he? 'There are worse things than death.' In the end, everyone gets what they believe in. The wand appeared in the youth's hand. He raised it and chanted the spell, enjoying the helpless look in the old man's eyes.

"You can't stop me, Dumbledore. Right now I'm going to walk out of the School and head to my old orphanage. And no one will pay attention because to them I will be Harry Potter. And you will not be able to tell anyone about this encounter. By the time they cancel the spell, I'll be already gone. Good-bye, my dear Professor."

He walked out of the office without further delay. The School was quiet.

He Disapparated and entered the abandoned building of the orphanage where he planned to perform the ritual. His old room was still empty except for a rusty iron bedstead with a broken leg. Voldemort lifted a floorboard in the corner of the room and opened a small hiding place underneath it. He put the vials in it next to the dirty bundle and moved the floorboard back in its place.

'Tom Riddle! You will pay attention in my class!' his old teacher's voice rumbled vividly in his ears.

There he was again, back in his classroom, wearing his threadbare grey uniform. Numbers and fractions writhed across the surface of the blackboard. It rained outside. It seemed that it had always been raining.

'Riddle! Do I not make myself clear enough?' Mr Parker loomed over him. Tom's face hardened. 'How many times have I warned you about daydreaming in my class?'

'I… I wasn't daydreaming, sir,' Tom stuttered. An iron ruler came down on his fingers. The boy bit his lip to hold back a whimper.

'You are a vain, disrespectful child, Riddle,' said Mr Parker through gritted teeth. 'I shall beat this out of you.'

In his room Tom gave vent to tears. He cried so hard he could barely breathe past the sobs. His fingers still hurt, the knuckles dark with bruises.

Voldemort shook off the memory. Children are weak, and they have every right for it. He wondered briefly what could have happened to Mr Parker. How did he die? Perhaps he had been murdered by some desperate student…

For a moment his hand hurt as if being struck by a ruler again. He rubbed his fingers unconsciously and said: "Everything is going as planned. I'm almost done. Soon we can complete the ritual."

He heard someone move behind him, closer and closer, and he found himself staring at the young, handsome face of Tom Riddle. The last piece of a puzzle.

"I'm not quite sure it's what I want," Tom said gravely.

Voldemort touched his cheek affectionately. "I know. But it's what I want."

I dream again.

I ran through the battlefield, a single thought pulsing in my mind: I have to find him. As soon as possible. I have to get it over with.

I wasn't sure how it happened that I found myself staring into the face of my greatest enemy, not Voldemort, but someone I'd come to hate even more. I directed my wand at him. He was sprawled on the ground behind a crumbled wall, not hurt visibly but seemingly paralyzed.

His lips twitched upward in a hideous smile as his impenetrable black eyes met mine.

"Brave move, Mr Potter. You wouldn't stand a chance against me if I was up on my feet. Come on, kill me, if that's what you want so badly!"

Vast cold emptiness opened up within me. "I don't want to kill you," I said contemptuously. "I want you to suffer."

Snape smiled widely, daring me to act. I uttered as clearly as I could, 'Crucio!' and watched his body jerk in agony. Weak and wounded, he couldn't defy the influence of the curse. He writhed on the ground, biting his lip till the blood welled up.

"If you want the pain to stop," I said, "you'll have to beg me."

He laughed breathlessly. "I shall… never b-beg you for anything!"

I shot another curse at him. This time he screamed. His voice broke; he wheezed and panted, and I heard him swearing through gritted teeth. I brought my face closer to his; I could see every bead of sweat that covered his forehead.

"Is that all you… c-can manage?" Snape sighed.

"How did it feel to kill the man who trusted you? He gave you another life after the First war, and that's how you paid him for it!"

"You know n-nothing!"

"Then tell me!"

He closed his eyes. For a moment I was afraid he'd pass out. I held his hand unwittingly, tears streaming down my face. I suddenly felt guilty and very miserable.

"Took a nasty curse… I was too slow…" Snape muttered. His piercing black eyes opened to scrutinize me. I felt uncomfortable. "I'll die one way or another. So if you want… satisfaction, you'd better kill me now."

"Not before you tell me," I whispered mechanically.

"You're so much like your father… Always… thinking about yourself."

That was not true! I knew I acted like a Death Eater torturing the half-dead man, and I was disgusted with myself. I didn't want his forgiveness. I merely wanted him to look at me with different eyes, just this once.

Oh God, deliver me from this pain. He deserved it!.. deserveddeserveddeservedit!!!!

"God, I wish you knew how much I hate you." I could hardly speak past the tears. He could not be saved. I knew it. "Just tell me! Explain it to me while you still have time!"

Snape uttered a gurgling sound that was most likely a chuckle. His image was distorted by my tears; I blinked them away and continued to stare at him from behind my cracked lenses.

"It's between the Head… master and… me…" Snape breathed.

Something within me crashed. How many people had I killed to get to Voldemort? To satisfy a bloodlust which seemed larger than me…

I wake up screaming, and panting, and weeping. Panic and hysteria grip me. I curl up in a foetal position, bite the corner of my pillow between my teeth and give vent to my agony. It's too late to go back to Tom now. And he must be tired of me already… I want somebody to hold me.

But I'm alone.

I go there next night. Tom is half-lying under a tree, his eyes shut. He looks so peaceful. I know better than to trust his deceptive appearance, but right now I want peace, I want serenity… I want Tom.

I kneel beside him and nip playfully at his neck. His eyelids flutter, and a small smile emerges on his lips.

"Aren't you tired of sleeping yet?" I tease.

"Rebuilding this place is tiresome."

I mount him and unbutton his shirt. His smile grows wider. He must be wondering… It's the first time I initiate it. He usually has to persuade me.

He squirms with pleasure as I cover his chest in open-mouthed kisses. I unzip his trousers and stroke him underneath the fabric. I slide down and take him into my mouth; he pushes his knee up and presses it into my groin. I rub myself to hardness against it.

Merlin, I want him. I fucking want him. I wanted him before, of course, but never this much.

And when it's over I kiss him gently on the shoulder. Tom's eyes are closed, his head is turned away from me, but I can still see a small smile that plays on his lips every time I touch him.

"I want you to tell me something," I whisper.

"Hmm?"

I kiss him again and go on, my lips moving against his skin: "I want you to tell me that I mean a lot to you. That I'm special. Not because of this," I point at my scar, "or the Prophecy, or whatever else binds us. I want to be special for who I am."

Tom rolls to his side and gives me an apprehensive look. It looks a little too theatrical. I snigger. He locks his lips with mine and smiles into the kiss.

"You're special."