Chương 2: Chapter 1 Life is but a Dream
Number Four, Privet Drive: July 1st, 1996
Startled, Harry practically flung himself up in his bed. His gaze flickered around as he drew in a few shaky breaths, trying his best to still his rapidly beating heart. But his breathing was more sharp pants than anything else, mouth dry as he tried to suck in more air. His hands were sweaty and trembling as he brushed hair out of his face. A shiver raced down his spine, spreading out through his limbs to his extremities.
After several agonizing moments, he finally calmed. His heart took on a normal rhythm, no longer doing its utmost to leave his chest. However, his skin was still clammy and cold, and Harry suddenly realized that he was freezing.
'What was that?' he thought as he drew up his raggedy blanket.
His fingers immediately traveled to his scar, but it was not burning. In fact, it did not hurt at all.
Was it a vision? A dream? Nightmare?
He froze, one hand hovering just in front of his face. Harry had just dreamt that Godric Gryffindor had murdered Salazar Slytherin. But that couldn't possibly be right. In the dream he'd been Salazar! And it had all been so real, hadn't felt like a dream at all! He had felt the blood running across his skin, could smell and taste the copper in the air. He'd felt the amulet burning as it tried to protect him.
Harry shook his head and ran his hands over his face tiredly. He was surprised to find that there were the remnants of tears on his skin. He trembled again, drawling the cover around him even tighter as he tried to warm his practically frozen body.
"What is going on?" he asked himself aloud, silently praying for an answer. But none was forthcoming.
He shivered then, still drenched in sweat. Yet, he ignored it as he slowly unclenched and examined his right hand. Harry half-expected burn marks, the faint outline of a bird with unfurled wings. However, his flesh was whole and unmarked, if not a bit red.
The Gryffindor sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking over what he had just experienced. Every detail was etched clearly in his mind, almost like he had actually been there. But that was silly. Harry had obviously been in his bed the entire time, and he certainly hadn't been around during the time of the Founders.
And his dream… vision… nightmare… whatever had been was certainly over. And he as now wide awake, alert if a bit sluggish.
Harry sighed. He had actually been having a quiet rather night. No dreams of Voldemort terrorizing innocents and not-so-innocents or Sirius falling through the Veil. He said a quiet apology to his godfather at that thought, a tiny spark of guilt welling inside. It was fierce for an instant but ebbed away as quickly as it had struck.
His talk with Luna at the end of the term had helped Harry in more ways than one. Dreamy, loony Luna was more than most people thought her to be. Within ten minutes, she had comforted Harry as no one else ever had or could. All she had done was listen and talk to him, but it was more than enough. She wasn't like the others, like Ron and Hermione. Harry knew that his two friends were trying to help him. But hearing "It's not your fault, Harry. How could you have known it was a trap?" at least twenty times a day only made him feel more and not less guilty. He didn't need to be constantly reminded of his own stupidity.
But even with that, his current summer was infinitely better than the last.
The discussion that the Order had with Vernon Dursley at the train station had had a profound effect on life at Privet Drive. Harry was no longer a slave in his own home. The Gryffindor was no longer forced to cook, clean, or do any number of other things. In fact, the Dursleys were now hesitant to breathe in his direction. It was almost as if they feared that by even looking at Harry, they would bring down the wrath of the Order.
That little talk had done Harry a world of good. And he tried to remind himself of that as he attempted to center his focus on something else. The only true complaints he had about his current situation were his nightmares and the occasional vision. If it wasn't memories of Sirius and Cedric, he saw Voldemort and his minions.
It figured that his first somewhat peaceful night of sleep in weeks would be interrupted. And of course, he would dream that he was blamed for the torture of Muggles and then murdered.
Harry exhaled very slowly, massaging his temples. At least, it hadn't been another vision, and perhaps it would be only this once. However, the teenager couldn't help but snort at the mere thought. Knowing his luck, he had a better chance of becoming the next Minister of Magic.
And as if summoned, echoes of his dream began to resound in his head. There were images, flashes of things he had seen. There was a sharp pain in Harry's heart when he thought of Salazar's wife.
A memory rose up in his mind. There was laughter, followed by a bronzed-skinned woman happily rubbing her very pregnant belly. Her eyes were filled with an indescribable joy, and tears of happiness clung to her dark eyelashes.
Harry exhaled heavily and groaned to himself, trying to dispel the image of the woman with a dreamy smile. She looked so very happy, as if it were the best moment of her entire life.
He forcefully shook his head. The image disappeared, and his room came back into focus. The teenager sat silently for a few moments, absentmindedly rubbing his right hand in the exact spot that had been burned in his dream. After some time had passed, he decided to get up, knowing that he wouldn't be able to return to sleep. Plus, there was no sense in simply sitting there until dawn.
Harry reached for his glasses, his hand first landing a recent letter from Remus before finding them. He took them from the bedside table and glanced at the alarm clock. Only to sigh yet again.
It was 4:30 in the morning. He'd only been asleep for a little over three hours.
Cautiously, Harry turned on the light, the sudden brightness causing him to blink rapidly a few times. He eyed Remus' letter, debating whether or not he should write his response. He had read it just before going to bed, deciding to reply in the morning, which it now was. Nonetheless, Harry didn't quite feel up to responding just yet.
The werewolf was not taking the loss of his last packmate very well, as evidenced by his letter, but he was at least trying to reach out to Harry in his grief. In turn, the sixth-year needed time to word his reply, to think it through. He didn't want to lose Remus, not when both of them had lost so much already. He couldn't risk alienating the final link to his parents, so Harry to be careful with what he wrote as there was just no telling how the man would react.
So instead letter-writing, the teenager decided on another course of action. Harry slipped out of bed, kneeling just beside to silently wiggle free the loose floorboards underneath. He bent forward to retrieve a book, thinking about how much had changed just since hearing the prophecy and imagining what Ron would say if he knew.
Harry Potter, the non-studying, Quidditch playing, Boy-Who-Lived, was now a bookworm.
Harry's eyes twinkled in a very Dumbledore-esque fashion, and he actually chuckled. Hermione would just love this. She now had someone who would actually listen to all her study lectures. Though in all honesty, she'd probably insist that his study habits were more of an obsession than an attempt to receive good marks. But learning that one had a proverbial death sentence hanging over their head tended to be a very good motivator.
The teenager knew that he was as good as dead if he didn't do something about it. As he was now, there was no possible way for him to ever defeat Voldemort, and he was the only one capable of it. Harry was not about to die if he could help it; he had survived too much to simply give up now.
Yet, there was a fatal flaw in his scheme. Voldemort was one of the most powerful magic users of all time, far above the average wizard. He was capable of great feats of magic with a single wave of his wand, perhaps even just his hand. He was a fully fledged master in several subjects and knew more Dark Arts than all his followers combined. On the other hand, Harry was only a scrawny, soon-to-be sixth-year with slightly above average grades and a tendency to survive the impossible.
However, the Gryffindor had carefully considered this. And while Voldemort was most definitely superior in terms of raw power, Harry himself could not be too far behind; he had been marked as an equal, after all. To that, he had been able to conjure a corporeal Patronus at thirteen. One strong enough to drive off over a hundred Dementors on its own. Most of the Order members couldn't even do that. Hell, he wasn't certain some of his professors were capable of such a thing, and most of them held masteries in their chosen fields.
Nonetheless, power wasn't what truly set Tom Riddle and Harry Potter apart. Instead, it was knowledge. Magical knowledge. By Harry's reckoning, Voldemort had fifty years of magical learning on him. It would be to his benefit to try to bridge the gap. It was all but impossible for the teenager to catch up completely, but he also needed to learn as much as he could. Voldemort underestimated how much he actually knew, and the Gryffindor planned to use that to his advantage. Harry only needed one true opportunity to kill Tom, while the man constantly had to defend himself.
Still, it would not be good if Petunia, Vernon, or Dudley saw any of his books. Something Harry had realized and conceded very early on in his Hogwarts career. His relatives would certainly panic if they even glimpsed some of his chosen subjects. At best, they would blanch at the mere thought of him studying magic. At worst, they'd probably think that he was trying to poison them.
Fortunately, he had the perfect hiding place.
All in one motion, Harry deftly removed a single book and gently replaced the floorboards. He cautiously propped his single, flimsy pillow and climbed into bed. He leaned back very lightly, careful not to make his loose headboard rattle. It would not do for the Dursleys to walk by on the way to the bathroom, only to hear him making noise.
He scowled as he caught a sight of the title, Intermediate to Advanced Potions. He briefly wondered if the universe was out to get him, making him study Snape's subject on a night like this. It had to be a conspiracy, he realized. He had angered some vengeful deity in a past life, made the Maker regretful for even giving him life.
Harry rolled his eyes at that. And he silently opened the well-perused book to a marked page three-fourths of the way through.
The Consterno potion was originally used in conjunction with the Inordinatus spell during the Middle Ages. Combined, the spell and the potion have a rather unique effect on non-magic folk (more commonly referred to as Muggles). They create extreme confusion in those who have little or no magic. As such, they provided an excellent means of escape from Muggles and the occasional Squib.
During this time period, Muggles were known for their distinct fear of magic and for their desire to destroy all magic-users. Oftentimes, when wizards were visiting local villages or simply exploring, they would find themselves in a riotous situation. In such an event, the wizard would throw the Consterno potion at the mob (carefully as to not hit anyone), use the Inordinatus spell, and quickly escape.
These two in conjunction are also useful for…
A sudden movement just outside of the lamp's light caught Harry's eye. To his left, a shadow was stealthily creeping across the floor. Slowly and surely, the shadow moved closer. Harry listened, but there was no sound. Coming up with a plan on the fly, the Gryffindor pretended to still be engrossed in the text. He gently eased his hand toward his wand, which lay on his bedside table.
The shadow continued forward, oblivious to its discovery and Harry's movement. The teenager's fingers brushed the smooth wood of his wand. In one motion, Harry picked up his wand, left his bed, and turned toward the shadow …
But nothing was there.
Neither a person nor a being. There was nothing.
The teenager quickly scanned his room searching for a trace of whatever it was, hunting around. He looked in every corner, searched under every piece of furniture. He even opened up the battered and beaten wardrobe that had once belonged to his cousin, glancing through the drawers.
But again, there was nothing.
Harry paced around in vain, looking for any spot he might have missed. After a time, he stopped in the middle of his room, studying the lengthening shadows warily. Harry quieted his breathing as much as he could and cocked his head to listen. All he heard were the distant snores of Dudley and Vernon, and his gaze roamed around once more.
After ten more minutes of futile searching, in which he even looked behind his desk and under his loose floorboards, the teenager sat on his bed. Harry's eyes went around again, still looking. He absentmindedly began to rub his right hand. The fact that he hadn't found anything did not comfort him in the least. In fact, it only made him edgier. Something was not right here.
"I must be going crazy,"Harry said to himself. "I have to be! Weird dreams and then seeing things! I know… or at least, I think I saw a shadow move on the floor." In his distress, Harry did not even notice that he was whispering in Parseltongue. "I don't know. Perhaps I just imagined it." He shook his head and looked at the quickly-setting yet still bright and almost full moon. "It was probably just the light from the moon casting a weird shadow."
Harry unexpectedly smirked. He was becoming as paranoid as Mad-Eye Moody. Next thing, he'd be going around hexing random passersby for looking at him strangely. However, a tiny little voice in the back of his mind insisted that he wasn't becoming paranoid. It insisted that he had actually seen something move, that there had been someone else… something else in his room.
Exhaling dejectedly, Harry glanced at his clock and blanched. His face immediately drained of color, while his eyes bugged out.
It was now 5:40!
There was no way he'd spent that much time reading. Ten, twenty minutes tops. But over an hour? He hadn't even read a full page. Further, he highly doubted that he'd accidentally fallen asleep, especially after the dream before.
Something was most definitely wrong. A feeling of dread settled over him. There was a sinking sensation in his stomach. He grimaced, face tight with worry.
What was going on? Was it just his imagination? Were all those years of Voldemort-induced paranoia getting to him?
Harry continued to rub his hand, not even realizing that he was doing it.
Whatever was going on was connected with that dream. He just knew it! It had all started after his strange dream.
Harry glanced at the clock again. The Dursleys would rise soon. Vernon to get ready for work, Petunia to make breakfast, and Dudley… well, he would probably not be up until noon. As if Big D would even make an attempt to wake this early, probably still hung-over from the night before, and Harry rolled his eyes, imagining his cousin awake or even lucid at the crack of dawn.
But even this comical thought could not dispel the uneasy feeling. His face did not lose its worried cast. There was a lurking suspicion in his mind; he knew that he had not imagined it.
There had been someone… or something in his room.
Unknown, The Dark Lord's Personal Library: July 4th, 1996
Tom Riddle leaned back in his chair and slowly rubbed at his temples. His head ached painfully. And in a distinct mockery of all his power and magic, he could do nothing to get rid of it. Even several draughts later, he was still in agony. It had been like this for days now, and his servants were even more skittish and fearful around him than usual, terrified that he would snap at any moment. His patience was held together by a thin string, one that was fraying even more as his temples throbbed in time to his heartbeat.
He curled one hand into a fist, using the other to close the book sitting on his desk in front of him. As he was at the moment, it was of little use to him, though that did nothing to diminish its true worth. Priceless, the gem of his collection. The book itself was dark blue, almost black, with shifting runes all along the cover. And even in his current state, he very carefully returned it to the drawer, setting it down with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Tom absentmindedly layered protections over his desk as he stood, but his brain suddenly gave another agonizing stab when he moved too quickly. He growled to himself and shoved his chair roughly back into place, still careful not hit his desk.
Voldemort was not pleased, not pleased at all. In fact, he was so far from happy that the next being he saw would undoubtedly share in his agony via liberal use of the Cruciatus curse.
Unless it was Bellatrix, of course. She always did seem to avoid punishment.
A sharp pain lanced through his brain, and Voldemort jerked back. He winced as his neck cracked loudly, now throbbing just a badly as his head. He made a noise in his throat, a sound that was in no way, shape, or form like a groan. Not at all.
Voldemort had the very sudden urge to collapse back in his chair and bash his head on his desk. It honest couldn't make the throb any worse, might actually alleviate his utter agony. Or perhaps simply knock him unconscious. The only thing that stopped him was how unseemly such behavior was for a man of his caliber.
And the cause of his torment, of this unending torture. A dream. A nightmare really.
Even the mere thought of it was enough to set him further on edge, teeth grinding together. He was the Dark Lord; he wasn't supposed to get nightmares! People like that sniveling weakling Pettigrew had nightmares. Dumbledore had nightmares. Potter had nightmares. Lord Voldemort, master of the Dark and greatest mage in the world, did not!
He wasn't weak. He wasn't afraid of anything. Not even the undead. They were just a tool, a means to an end. They were not supposed to leave him shaking and in a cold sweat. They were not supposed to make him glance nervously over his shoulder whenever he heard a strange noise. They were not supposed to frighten him. They hadn't before, and Voldemort couldn't fathom why they did now.
But perhaps Potter found them just as unnerving as he currently did. Hm… he would have to consider that.
However, that was beside the point. So many peculiar things had happened as of late, and this was only one in a long string of oddities. Bizarre feelings, sensations, flashes, visions of places and people he did not know, surges against his Occlumency shields.
Something odd was going on. Something very odd indeed. And by Salazar Slytherin, he intended to find out what.
Consterno: Alarm, Frighten. Potion. Causes the victim to become exceptionally frightened and to flee.
Inordinatus: Disorderly, In Confusion. Verbal and non-verbal. Causes bewilderment and confusion.
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