-o-o-o-
"In sleep he sang to me
In dreams he came
That voice which calls to me
And speaks my name"
– The Phantom of the Opera
-o-o-o-
Over a year passed by, and he eventually almost forgot all about it. Until that night, when his scar hurt again.
Harry was lying in his bed, listening intently to any noises, but all he could hear was Dudley's snores from behind the wall. He was half expecting Voldemort to suddenly appear in his room, but that thought was ridiculous.
Another crazy thought flashed through his mind. If Voldemort did suddenly appear there… Did Harry have anything to fear from him anymore? If what he had said was true, then he couldn't hurt Harry without hurting himself. Of course, if what he had said was true, it also meant that Dumbledore was a lying bastard, using Harry like a piece of meat in a war, which hasn't even come yet.
Still, none of it changed the fact, that it was because of Voldemort that Harry had no parents in the first place. He sighed, rubbing his aching scar.
There was still Sirius. Wanted and on the run, but still alive. He decided to write to him. He stood up and rummaged through his school stuff to find a piece of parchment, a quill and ink.
Sirius was the only family he had. For a moment he believed he would leave the Dursleys at last, and live with his godfather. For a moment he believed that life would finally get better. And then it all went to hell, when Pettigrew got away.
Harry sighed, bent over the blank parchment. He wished he could tell Sirius everything. But how could he ever tell anyone about his feelings? How could he ever tell anyone about his doubts about the great Dumbledore, or the premonition that Voldemort wasn't lying, when he said a part of Harry belonged to him?
Dear Sirius, he began. He casually mentioned in the letter, that his scar hurt again, asking if he thought it could mean anything. He didn't dare say anything about the dream. If he let it slip, that he was sure it wasn't really just a dream, it would only raise more questions he wasn't ready to answer. He rolled up the letter and gave it to Hedwig to carry. He stood at the window, as she flew away, watching his only companion disappear in the brightening, morning sky.
-x-x-x-
Harry was sitting on the bed in his room after a nasty fight with Uncle Vernon. The Weasleys invited him over and to the Quidditch World Cup. They sent a letter by the Muggle post, which, of course, caused a tragedy.
"How dare you give this address to the likes of you?!" Uncle Vernon yelled, waving the envelope completely covered with stamps in front of his nose.
"Well, I live here," Harry pointed out.
Uncle Vernon's face went purple with fury.
"You should show some gratitude for that, you brat! We took you in, we feed you, we cloth you… and that's how you thank us!" he thrust the envelope in Harry's hand, as if it was the greatest disgrace imaginable.
Harry considered countering with the fact they've never given him a piece of clothing other than what Dudley's worn out, or that he was barely getting any food this summer, since the Dursleys were starving themselves for the sake of following the diet Dudley was obliged to, but he knew there was no point. He has always been nothing but a liability for them.
Harry realized he was crushing the envelope still in his hand. He put it on the desk and threw himself angrily on the bed. It was exceptionally hard to take crap from the Dursleys this year, knowing he actually had a godfather out there, who wanted to give him a real home. Harry couldn't stand the injustice of it all. How was Sirius ever going to prove his innocence with Pettigrew gone?
Harry clenched his jaw at the thought of the small man. He remembered his dream from last night. Wormtail cowering at the Dark Lord's side, probably wishing he was anywhere else. That pathetic, repulsive, disloyal rat. Harry wanted to hurt him, see him lie at his feet, screaming…
What?! Harry shook his head. Where the hell did such thoughts come from? He felt as if he had slipped into that dream again, thinking Voldemort's thoughts. He pressed his hands to his face. He must be tired. He didn't get much sleep last night. He took off his glasses, closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try to calm down.
-x-x-x-
Harry was back in the old house. He was walking up the stairs, pulled towards the room, he knew was there, by some unexplainable power. He could see a stray of light in the dark hallway, coming through the door cracked open.
He stopped at the door. This was exactly like his dream again, and he glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see the large snake slide past him any moment. But it didn't come. The Muggle from his previous dream wasn't there either. He didn't hear any voices speaking; Wormtail wasn't around. He knew Voldemort was, though. He could feel him. He felt an irresistible urge to get to him. And somehow he wasn't afraid. He knew Voldemort was expecting him, waiting for him. He pushed the door open.
The room looked exactly like in the last dream – the dancing flames in the fireplace, the rug, the armchair… except sitting in the armchair was not the distorted creature, he had seen before, but young, elegant, handsome Tom Riddle. Harry swallowed nervously and stepped inside. Riddle smiled at him – a charming, nonchalant smile – and Harry's stomach fluttered.
"Hello again, Harry," he said pleasantly.
Harry just stared at him, frozen to the spot. He wondered how far this vision, or whatever this dream was, extended to the real world. If Voldemort killed him here, would he ever wake up from this?
"I'm not going to kill you, Harry," Riddle announced softly.
Harry's eyes widened. Was Riddle reading his mind? Tom smiled, amused.
"You're my Horcrux, remember?" He tapped his finger against his temple. "Your thoughts are my thoughts. Your dreams are my dreams."
He stood up and paced towards him, his intense gaze never leaving him. Harry suddenly felt very warm, as Tom got closer. He swallowed.
"So this… this is real?"
"Well, it's still a dream. But it's ours. I am here with you consciously."
"But you don't really look like this now, do you?"
"No," he admitted sadly. Then a playful spark flashed in his eyes. "But I can, eventually. Would you like that?"
"What do I care about how you look?" Harry spat, knowing well he was fooling himself. And Riddle knew it too. He smirked and his gaze dragged over Harry's body so suggestively, that he blushed and looked away, feeling hot and short of breath. He cleared his throat. "Well, if you're not going to kill me, what do you want from me?"
Voldemort stepped back from him and took on a more serious expression.
"I want you to join me. I want you by my side as I rise back to power and rule the Wizarding World."
"I will never join you," Harry said, although not as convincingly as he hoped.
"You can't deny me forever, Harry," he hissed. "We are connected. You are a part of me."
"You killed my parents," he spat through gritted teeth. "You tried to kill me. Thrice."
"And you took away from me more than I was willing to lose. I have been barely alive since then, you saw what I've become!" His words were laced with venom. He clenched his jaw. "You are not as innocent of killing as you like to think. You killed my basilisk. You destroyed my Horcrux. You killed a part of me." He glared at Harry with such rage, that his heart almost stopped in fear, and for a moment he was sure Riddle would break his promise and hit him with Avada Kedavra, Horcrux or not. Voldemort closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to control himself. He spoke again, still not looking at him, but his voice was much softer, "I regret the circumstances in which our story began, Harry. We both caused each other a lot of pain on all three of our encounters."
As profoundly as he hated Voldemort, he realized he had just as much reason to hate Harry. The truth was, they both lost everything in Godric's Hollow that day. The second time they met, Harry snatched the philosopher's stone from under his nose, stopping him from coming back not only to power, but also to proper life. He did it again in the Chamber of Secrets, not to mention his macabre pet. And there was the Horcrux incident. He never really thought of destroying it as killing, but he supposed Voldemort was right.
Voldemort was right. That thought chilled him to the bone. What else was he right about? Harry's heart started beating faster as Tom Riddle approached him again, and wave of heat swept over him. He was right about many other things, he realized. He was a part of him, he could feel it. He longed to be close to him, where his place truly was. The handsome boy touched his cheek and he felt a shiver go down his spine, as well as a throbbing pain in his scar, he tried to ignore.
"Embrace what you are. Join me, and you will be my most prized accomplice," he purred. "Join me, and you will have my protection."
Harry stared into his eyes and felt like he was exactly where he needed to be. Voldemort was right about another thing – he could not deny him forever. The older boy leaned into him and their lips met. The splitting pain in his scar was overridden by an incredible sensation of joy, warmth, excitement, and an immense feeling of being complete, as if he hasn't been whole this entire time.
Then suddenly everything started to lose color. The room was fading and there was a light flooding it from somewhere behind the walls.
"What's happening?"
"It seems our time is up," Tom Riddle's voice sounded as if they were under water. "But worry not, my sweet Horcrux. I am always with you." Then everything dissolved into the light. The last thing he heard from a distance was an enticing promise, which, at the same time, sounded strangely like a deadly threat: "I'll see you in your dreams."
And Harry awoke to the blinding, morning sunlight seeping through the window, and a burning pain in his forehead.