Chapter Warnings: minor violence, twist

Dream

The shadows churn and spiral into the chasm of darkness before him. A lull sweeps through heavy limbs. It caresses Harry's skin from the inside out. Rocking from left to right, then up and down, it slithers in long looping patterns like the soft waves lapping at a shore. He drifts in this state, hovering between thoughts and emotions that ravage his existence. What... why... how?

I don't want to answer all these pestering questions...

For a drawn out moment, Harry cannot respond to the voice. There's a delay in hearing that sarcastic tenor before his brain can focus and understand the meaning behind that sentence. It's as if a hazy barrier is filtering sensations at the wrong intervals. His senses are confused and muscles are to hard to move. Lips part as his tongue rolls around, forming a simple word that is lost in the void that cradles him. His ears don't catch the sound and he wonders if he said anything at all, but then it finally reaches him. 'Hello?'

Yet the voice doesn't answer. Nothing does. Nothing happens. The air doesn't shift, nor is there an occurrence of variable changes to his vision. It remains the endless unwavering space that stretches dauntingly.

Somewhere inside of him, a growing sense of fear begins to make itself known. A suffocating response to the realm and being trapped here. It claws within his ribs, scraping its way higher and higher towards an opening throat that screams aloud, muted by the darkscape.

Silence!

The anger behind that single word makes the youth's jaw snap shut and swallow painfully. Regardless of the hatred fueling the tone of the other, relief soothes his distress. He reaches out to the one who spoke, turning and leaning in the blackened world of floating essence. His fingers brush against a chilly surface and he draws back in surprise, half expecting not to find anything. A trap of some sort clamps down around his wrists and pulls him close. Harry screams again, this time the force behind the sound causes the reaction time to be instantaneous. Unfortunately, he's far too weak to escape the shackles, but he continues to struggle until his body becomes exhausted. Cold bands dig tighter into his skin with an icy burn. He's waiting for that part of his brain to channel the physical pain elsewhere, to hand it off for the sickening pleasure that should eventually tingle though his form... but it never comes.

His esophagus locks up with horror. The pleasure, where is it?! He would much rather have that than deal with pain!

The boy can feel the wetness of tears dripping down his cheeks as he hunches into himself, trying to protect the center of his vital points from harm. The manacles tug viciously at him and the voice is far closer than before, whispering with a fierce annoyance.

You're always crying. Always screaming. You don't do anything besides feel sorry for yourself. It's disgusting.

Harry realizes then that there aren't shackles around his wrists per say, but incredibly freezing hands with a powerful hold. As he slowly distinguishes the fingers wound about his bones and nails biting into his skin, something else bubbles in the cavity of Harry's chest; rage ignited by this stranger. Born from the truth of what the person is speaking and twisted by the ugliness used to say it. It hurts to hear such things. 'Who?'

Who?

The ire doubles with a mocking laugh. Harry flinches as those dark silken words cut him like knives.

Always asking questions. Never trying to figure it out yourself. You're lazy Potter, pure sloth. Do something for yourself and just think.

Harry can feel the shallow breaths leaving his body, the heat roils within him, building from an intense anger. Searching for help only to be ridiculed. There's no need for that. It's just plain rude. Nastiness even. Suddenly, he doesn't care who this unknown individual might be or how he ended up in this place of darkness, only how he can escape. Trying to twist away, those fingernails only cut deeper into his wrists. 'Release me!'

A cold breath slides across Harry's cheek and his spine tenses. No.

Desperation uncoils and the youth reacts wildly, hissing and spitting in fright. 'Let go of me! Let go!'

Laughter only reaches his ears as the invisible foe torments him further, that amused voice seething above his own shouts. Is this all you can do? Scream and cry? Pathetic. You're pathetic Potter. I can't understand how you were able to defeat the greatest wizard in history! And I was the greatest! I was the going to purge this world of pathetic creatures like you!

The fear returns. It crashes down on the boy like a tsunami crushing everything in it's wake. He can feel the sudden lurch of his stomach and heart hammering in both ears as blood pounds through quivering veins.

You're nothing! And yet here I am, woken from slumber and trapped here with you. But not for long.

Pain flares up in Harry's arms, stabbing through the nerves that travel along his shoulders, seeping downward and upwards at the same time. He leans back with a shriek. He can't escape it though. The grip on him is absolute and where would he be able to run anyways? The freezing aura penetrates him, searing everything it touches.

Reacting on instinct, the Potter heir strikes. Not with hands or feet, but with his teeth. Sharp canines find purchase on pliant skin. His jaw locks down and he's rewarded with a high screech in return. Blood floods into his mouth, the liquid not tangy or thick, instead it's thin and sweet like a fruit's juice. It's different, it's strange, it's wonderful.

The hands release him, but he doesn't notice until those iron appendages shove the raven-haired male free. A wet tearing of meat rips Harry off and stumbling backwards in the blackened realm. He swallows the cool texture, the lump of flesh passing through his throat and inducing the delightful and almost forgotten pleasure that races after the pain -which once tried to overcome him. It buzzes inside, sending euphoria that calms any fear. In many ways it impairs him though, for he flails his arms in search of the unseen one, wanting... 'M-more.'

A maddened hiss of rage rises in the darkness. It's Harry's only warning before a magical signature attacks him. The sudden burst of energy slams into him, exploding against his empowered body. The effect disperses harmlessly into pinpricks of light sizzling across his skin. The sparkling light dances off into the background, growing brighter and brighter. He can now make out a figure standing before him. A boy, the same height and age as himself, with deep chocolate hair framing a cherub face. Harry's always noticed the unfair beauty in others, and this person standing with confidence in naked splendor is certainly that. Blood trickles from the open wound on the curve of a slender shoulder. Those gray-slate eyes glare back with hostility.

Voldemort...

The answer hangs between their nude forms unspoken.

The truth sinks in. A name created to inspire fear, to control the world and bring those labeled unworthy to their knees. Instead of fear though, a sense of wonder comes over Harry. Voldemort, the Dark Lord who terrorized the Wizarding World. The one who killed his mother and whom Harry destroyed as a babe. Here the crazed sorcerer who courted monsters stands in the body of a boy.

More questions grow. Is this a dream? Just a figment of his imagination crafted from too much stress? If it is a dream how can he wake from this nightmare? His panting fills the air, and he naturally licks his lips in a nervous habit. A sticky substance tingles on the tip of his tongue and Harry lets out a low groan at the taste of it. Surely he's never tasted anything as good as...

Those gray orbs narrow and nostrils flare.

With that one look Harry deduces the sheer uneasiness shifting through the other. An uneasiness that comes to life in himself. For what could a monster possibly fear than another unpredictable monster? It's then that he understands what he did. He ate a piece of the male. Voldemort or not, he devoured flesh and loved it, wanted more...

He steps back. The once darkness continues to brighten from grey to blinding white.

Don't think this is over, Potter! I will never continue to stop fighting for freedom. Never!

A flash of light overloads his senses, washing away the vision completely.

Harry falls, whirling and tumbling, landing upon an object that catches him.

Voices rise, jumbled and random words that scramble each other.

Eyelids flutter and green irises glow from between thick lashes. A familiar place comes into view, and without the help of glasses, Harry can see the notches and imperfections of the Infirmary's ceiling. Someone says his name and for a moment he believes it's the young personification of the one named Voldemort. Yet, when he turns to look into the flecked gray-blues, he finds himself swimming in the mercury orbs of another.

"M... Malfoy?"

A little smile is flashed his way, but the blond Slytherin turns to glance over a should with a frown.

Seeing the usually put-together Pureblood fidgeting in a seat, Harry starts to squirm in the bed. The warmth in his limbs cause them to be sluggish as he sits up. Figures move as sweeping shadows behind the curtains that are drawn aside and Harry knows then why Malfoy is unsettled. Their Head of House stands there, mouth downward and black pupils demanding answers already. Though, it's the Headmaster who holds an air of collected calm that makes Harry dread what's to come.

How did he even end up here in the Infirmary? He had been doing something else right? Wasn't he?

"Harry, thank Merlin you're alright." Dumbledore's voice is sincere, but it changes as the elderly man continues with a dreadful inquiry, "Where's Gemma Farley?"

End Chapter.