A bit closer
Harry scratched at his hand, fingers grazing over the words ‘I must not tell lies’. It had become a habit. The scars were pale and stark white against his tanned skin, much like a specific scar that ran down his forehead. What’s with him always getting marked by people he hated?
He was so tired, Sirius was dead and it was all his fault. Why had he been so dumb? Voldemort being able to trick him so easily just proves how weak he was, and how behind he was on his training. How was he supposed to save the wizarding world when he couldn’t even protect his own mind? It was ridiculous.
He was back at the Dursley’s yet again. This was going to be a long summer, especially now he couldn’t hold the fact that his godfather was a ‘mass murderer’ over their heads anymore since the order had to tell his uncle that Sirius had died when they met him at King's Cross. His uncle almost worked him to death the first week he got back. Harry tossed and turned in his bed, stomach empty but he wasn’t hungry.
Dumbledore had become more secretive than ever, always giving Harry half answers to all his questions. It was infuriating. Harry had contemplated informing Dumbledore about the dreams he’d been recently having, but he eventually decided against it. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Ron or Hermione. Oddly, Harry felt these dreams were, in a certain way, sort of…intimate? These were probably memories of the dark lord nobody else knew about, Harry figured he’d at least grant the man some privacy. He didn’t think he was supposed to have access to these memories anyway. Unless his dreams revealed any important information he could use to win the war, Harry would just keep everything under wraps for now.
Honestly, he had begun looking forward to the dreams in a way. It served as a nice break from reality, plus it was always quite interesting to find new information on the ever-so-secretive dark lord. Harry pulled the covers over himself and mentally crossed his fingers he would get another dream.
Harry opened his eyes to, once again, find himself in the same dream-like realm he had been in many times prior. This time, however, instead of the dreary landscape of Wool’s orphanage, Harry landed in a room bathed in warm light he knew all too well.
This was, unmistakably, Hogwarts’ great hall. Judging by the magically enchanted ceiling, it was nighttime. Dinner time, perhaps? Harry looked around and noted the sea of unfamiliar faces seated at their respective house tables. He glanced up at the staff table, all of the adults seated there sported unfamiliar faces, all but one.
He figured he could recognise the face of Albus Dumbledore anywhere, the man had practically been the first figure of authority Harry could trust and had been Harry’s mentor -albeit a bit unreliable at times- for years. Harry also recognised Armando Dippet, he had heard of him a couple of times and it seemed the man was still Headmaster at the time.
Harry walked towards the Slytherin table, he felt fully conscious, not at all like how his normal dreams felt, and nobody even looked in his direction which further solidified his theory of everything being a memory rather than just a dream. But how he suddenly had access to such memories whenever he slept brought about even more problems, but that was for awake Harry to worry about.
He skidded to a halt when he spotted a few familiar faces. The most familiar one being a lanky boy with icy blue eyes, definitely a Malfoy, maybe he's Draco’s grandfather. Harry glanced around the table and noted a few more people mainly Nott and...Black. The thirteen-year-old boy looked so much like a young Sirius it hurt. It hit him then just how much he missed his godfather.
He had gotten in a fair bit of trouble with his friends when he told them how he cast an unforgivable on Bellatrix Lestrange in a fit of rage and grief. Looking back now, Harry did not regret it one bit, hell, he'd even do it again and he would make sure he meant it. The deranged woman definitely deserved it.
He snapped out of his trance when his ears picked up a familiar voice, just a few seats down the table was thirteen-year-old Tom Riddle and seated beside the young dark lord was a just as familiar green-eyed boy.
Harry discreetly walked towards them although he didn’t really have to since nobody would bat an eye even if he decided to lie on the table. Harry listened with rapt attention as he heard young Tom sternly tell the boy beside him to eat more, then proceed to stack more potatoes onto his friend's plate at the boy’s protests.
Harry almost laughed at how much Riddle resembled Hermione every time he tried to skip breakfast. He sniffed when the realisation that the dark lord was worried about someone’s food intake had dawned on him. Perhaps the thirteen-year-old hadn’t become the insane and evil dark lord he knew all too well yet. Speaking of evil, why wasn't Riddle sitting with Malfoy and his gang? Dumbledore had mentioned Voldemort had first gained a following during his time at Hogwarts and he was certain Malfoy was one of them. Perhaps Riddle had still been a normal child up to this point, well, as normal as a teenage dark lord could be.
Actually, now that Harry thought about it, it seemed Riddle didn’t have many friends. The only person who interacted with the thirteen-year-old so far had been the green-eyed boy from the orphanage. Harry leaned in and got a closer look at the boy. The teenager was, undoubtedly, beautiful. The boy was quite skinny, as was Riddle, which was probably due to the malnourishment they received at the orphanage.
Harry felt sorry for the child, having first-hand experience with not receiving adequate nutrition during his growing years. All that aside, the boy’s green eyes still shone with child-like innocence, while Riddle’s looked like he held some uncanny knowledge of the world. They were deep pools of eerieness, dark blue eyes that made you feel like you were drowning in them if you stared for too long, eyes that seemed to peer into your soul. Harry had to admit that despite young Riddle only coming up to his shoulder, the boy was utterly terrifying.
His attention was drawn again as Riddle’s blonde counterpart started speaking, something about dancing trolls, Harry didn’t pay much attention. Could the boy even be considered blonde? Malfoy was blonde, but his hair, though still incredibly light, had more of a slightly yellow tint to it. The boy in front of him though, had platinum hair with a slightly beige undertone, wait why was he so focused on his hair anyway? Harry also noted his facial structure, the boy probably had come from a mainly pureblood family with his aristocratic features. Harry wracked his brain to figure out which line the boy had come from, but nothing. Perhaps he should do some research.
Harry didn’t have time to dwell on the thought as he felt a familiar pull at the back of his mind. One moment he was standing in Hogwarts’ great hall, buzzing with activity, the next he was blinking up at the ceiling of his room, pleasantly silent as rays of the morning sunlight poured through his half-closed blinds, blinding his slightly opened eyes.