Our Carnival of Dreams

As Harry ambled down the street, he was lost in thought. So many things popped up in his mind, reminding him of events and places and people and objects, only to disappear in an ocean of other thoughts. They came and went like a tide, quick and incomprehensible. When Harry tried to grasp one, his attention slipped in favour of another, and the previous thought flitted out of his grip.

Harry didn’t fault his mind. Really, these days he had so much to ponder, so many mind-boggling events to analyse, that his disorientation was forgivable.

Yet, all those thoughts were tied to one: a person.

That boy, Tom Riddle; the one Harry had woken up next to, had seen first thing in the morning, had bantered with...

Tom, who had almost killed that morning.

Harry shivered, although no wind bit him or swept by. In fact, the weather was sunny and irritatingly pleasant, and there weren’t even any bullies or Dudley’s henchmen around to spoil it – not that Harry needed their help.

He felt oddly... empty.

As if some essential hunk of him had been carved out of his body and placed elsewhere. A portion of him he hadn’t paid that much attention to, hadn’t even been aware of its existence, but still there for a long time.

Until today’s morning. Until that boy had come.

Harry felt a pull, a weird kinship to that Tom Riddle, which showed vividly even in the way Harry had blown up and demanded answers, painfully gripping and shoving the other, unafraid to hurt him. (Which reminded: he had to apologise to Riddle later. While Harry didn’t look like it, he could throw one fine punch.)

Still, Harry never back-chatted or generally showed more attitude than a doormat.

He satisfied his vindictive feelings in other, smaller ways: who cared if salt found its way into a fruitcake instead of sugar? Or sometimes accidents happened and Petunia’s favourite dresses found themselves in a dumpster instead of the laundry basket (and of course, Harry timed things so that his Aunt never found out it was him to help). On bad days his Aunt’s beloved petunias kept dying – pesticides, of course – and cockroaches sneaked into Vernon and her bed. 

And that’s not taking into account all those really strange things that kept happening around him.

So, when real confrontation came, Harry restrained himself with chipper thoughts of revenge and stood under the cascade of badmouthing and an occasional hit or two courtesy of Uncle Vernon. He made his eyes grow large and repentant, tucked his hands behind his back, and created a picture full of remorse.

With the Dursleys, the sneaky, tricky way worked much better than brute force, especially if you took a moment to consider Uncle Vernon’s bulk and brawn. If I punch him, they probably won’t be able to scrape me off the walls, Harry thought solemnly.

Then again, thanks to Tom... Could he hope for the things to improve?

Well, no way to find that out ‘til I arrive, right?

As Harry neared the familiar hated house, he curiously noted that the curtains were drawn and didn’t allow even a meagre ray of waning sunshine in. Harry cocked his head at that, because it was six and Aunt Petunia loved entertaining guests at the time, shoving Dudley to the Pierses for a tea with crumpets, and usually every time he came home after both school and a long walk through the park, he caught the windows full of bright artificial light, displaying cheerful conversation, amiable gossiping neighbours, and some tea-drinking.

Sometimes, Harry thought she did it on purpose: to force him see a life he could not have.

This time, though...

It’s as if she is afraid of someone glimpsing what’s going on inside.

The curious soul that Harry was, it didn’t take him long to quicken his pace and stride up the staircase and turn the doorknob.

The atmosphere in the house reminded him of mourning.

Except for the titbit that no one in the Dursley household looked dead or dying, only somewhat constipated – but that was Aunt Petunia’s default expression.

Well, at least it’s not Uncle Vernon with a belt as part of the welcoming committee, Harry thought dryly.

“Didn’t take you long,” Harry’s aunt bit out. He ignored it. She was always snippy, so he usually resorted to looking at her body language to decipher the level of her annoyance. Right now her hands were in a nervous clasp on her knees as she stiffly sat in a plush armchair. Oh, not too angry then, mostly anxious.

Harry’s eyes drifted past her and widened. Blimey!

Amazingly, Tom Riddle occupied the sofa.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled absently to satisfy his Aunt, and flicked a curious glance at Tom, who scowled at his appearance. “You’re in the same room... And you haven’t killed each other yet- Oh, I mean, what are you both doing here?”

It was Tom, who answered, in the same drawl Harry remembered from the morning.

“In a few minutes our living issues are going to be resolved.”

Harry inclined his head, uncomprehending. “Er... In what sense?”

Suddenly, he felt a cold shiver run down his spine, a premonition of sorts, as if his control on his life was slipping, along with the normalcy and the routine. Apart of Harry wanted to rejoice, while the other one wanted to recoil in fear. Tom’s nasty smirk did nothing to alleviate his inner confusion.

“We are about to get out of this hole, Potter. I made it obvious this morning that we are not going to stay in this wretched place a second longer than needed, didn’t I?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult my home,” Aunt Petunia snapped. Harry saw her fingers twitch, once again giving him an impression that she was about to strike either Tom or him, but found restraint at the last moment. “After all, nothing is set in stone yet. He may just as well decide you’re better off here than with the rest of your crowd.” She grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

“If that man has half the common sense normal people do, he will not let us remain here.”

“That’s the point, boy. Your crowd has no common sense. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have found yourself at my home at all.”

Touché, Harry acknowledged reluctantly, although he was still in a bit of confusion over most of Riddle and Aunt Petunia’s quarrel. Who were they talking about? And what was going to happen?

Harry hated being in the dark. Illogically, since that morning and Tom Riddle’s appearance in his life, things hadn’t become any clearer.

Riddle scoffed and threw his head backwards to rest on the gigantic cushion. Warily, Harry sneaked to the sofa and stiffly dropped on the edge of it. His legs were tense, he himself was ready to jump to his feet at a moment’s notice if Aunt Petunia so much as hinted at snatching the nearest vase and smashing it into the ‘freaks’, as she was prune to when Harry misbehaved in a spectacularly weird way.

Then again, a vase is too expensive. What if Riddle’s head turns out to be too firm? She’d fetch the frying pan, I think.

Thankfully, no Uncle Vernon around. Harryloathed the man. He had worked his way into Harry’s childhood list of The People I Hate but Don’t Have the Guts to Gut (Yet) – a completely fictional document with the Dursleys’ names at the very top, followed by Piers Polkiss and that nasty headmaster who reported him for every little thing. Often, when a purple-faced rage overtook Harry’s uncle, the man would raise his fist, and in those moments Harry wished to retaliate or shout or storm out of the house or even reply with his own fists and bites-

But as much as Harry hated Uncle Vernon, he feared him even more. Brutality never solved anything, even less so familial quandaries.

For the man to break the sanctity of household relationships with force...

Harry tiptoed around his Uncle in the best of times.

“You look like you are overworking your fragile brain matter.”

Harry threw an unimpressed half-glare at the boy, his mouth opening to snap a sharp retort- Recollections sped past him in his brain:The morning. Tom Riddle’s jiggery-pokery. Uncle Vernon and dark veins.

Harry’s teeth clanked.

You didn’t just insult loony boys who dropped from the sky and into cupboards and had the ability to freeze grown-up, obese men like how a python would a frightened bunny. Being extra cautious every once in a while didn’t hurt.

At his side, but some space on the sofa away and in a more comfortable position, Tom regarded him coolly for a second before a smug smirk bloomed on his mouth.

“Scared to reply, are you now,” the infuriating boy commented with no questioning intonation to his remark. Harry gritted his teeth but flickered a glance to his Aunt. With her sour face in his line of vision, Harry felt more submissive, eager to please and compliant than he was. “Where’s that fiery temper from the morning, the shaking of my shoulders and all that drama?”

Uncle Vernon was weaker than Tom. Harry was weaker than Uncle Vernon. Clenching his fists, the smaller boy had to remind himself of that.

Still...

Bullies and mocking people occupied the middle part of Harry’s childhood hate list. Tom was acting like one at that moment. The realisation clinched the deal, and Harry freed some particle of his inner temper that he usually guarded.

“No theatrical performances for free,” he snapped irritably. He inched even closer to the edge of the sofa, uncoordinated and awkward, almost falling off. He felt suddenly scared by the morning occurrence – the guy near him had almost murdered, for God’s sake! – but when Harry had a spur of courage, he carried on undaunted all he wished. “I hope you go soon and leave me be!”

Tom narrowed his eyes.

“Watch your attitude. I am not someone you wish to cross, just as I am not a person to tolerate stupidity and brash words. You should be grateful, you little runt, because, hopefully, in a few hours we will be out of this hole and in a loving family.”

“As if anyone would love you,” Aunt Petunia sneered. Her hands fisted the bottom of her flowery dress, strangely fancy for a quiet evening at home.

Tom shot her a dark warning look while Harry flinched in hurt, his eyes glossing with a faraway haze, and fumbled with his hands. True. The words felt like razors.

“Well, if you managed to come across a husband, muggle, I don’t see why worthy, magical people wouldn’t–” Tom abruptly cut himself off and sneered. Throwing a glance at Harry, he hurried to address the other boy in a snappish tone, “Not that you are the next best thing, mind.”

Harry quirked his lips uncertainly. His mouth snapped open to retort, when the doorbell rang. Aunt Petunia paled. Her hold on the hem of her dress tightened to the point where Harry had to pity the poor fabric: the woman looked near destroying the material.

“That person you were talking about?” Harry guessed out loud.

“Probably. Get the door, woman!”

Aunt Petunia shot Tom a smouldering glare, but complied, rising to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles on her clothing, and sniffing haughtily. With a hiss of “Don’t you dare talk to me that way, boy!” she strode to invite the guest. Harry breathed slower.

“Nasty muggle, the worst sort,” Tom muttered by his side with a sneer painted on his face.

“She’s just nervous. You gave her quite a scare this morning, and I can’t imagine what you’ve been scheming the entire day while I was away.”

“Doesn’t excuse her.”

“True.”

Harry heard the steps first. They weren’t particularly loud – on the contrary, muffled by Persian carpets, they seemed almost sneaky, inconspicuous. Especially for the person who appeared after them.

His eyes wondered. He could only stare, mesmerised and appalled, both contradictions true.

The doorway revealed an old man, who possessed the most crooked nose and the most twinkling eyes Harry had ever seen, as well as a long white beard and garish, awful –dress? – with dancing blue cucumbers and laughing purple clouds that made his eyes burn just by watching them. Aunt Petunia’s sneer showed how unimpressed she was. Harry knew that he, too, shouldn’t find anything pleasant in that gaudy appearance, and probably stay as far away from the lunatic as possible-

But the man looked so un-Dursley-ish, so kind and grandfatherly, that Harry felt a tug on his heart and a wave of sadness that washed over him, overwhelming him for a second.

“Ah, young Harry.” The old man twinkled at the boy full blast, his lips stretching into a nice smile. “What do we have here–”

As his eyes drifted to Tom, the light in them dimmed and died completely. Suddenly, the kindly grandfather bared the side of a world-weary warrior. 

“Tom Riddle,” he said without intonation.

Tom inclined his head. His claret eyes pierced their target, a python’s stare bestowed upon the old man as the connection between them never wavered, even as Harry shifted and looked from one to the other. An uncomfortable silence hung in the room, unbroken even by the sour Aunt Petunia, until Tom asked slowly, “You know me?”

The old man wizened even more.

“Better than you know yourself.”

Tom’s expression sharpened.

“How?” he demanded slowly. The underlying order transmitted through the room and invoked spine-tingling shudders in Harry with the hidden force it carried, dangerous and breathlessly powerful.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that, Tom?” The old man advanced a step forward. “You have always loved to gloat, and I suppose you have more reason than ever right now, when you are holding your most accursed enemy hostage? Little Harry here, is he another victim of yours?”

The old man continued walking, just as the temperature in the room dropped until those icy blue eyes held Harry’s entire world, even if the full power of them was directed not on him, but on Tom. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure he liked the man as much as before.

What right did he have to spit nonsense to Tom, when the kid had done nothing that the old man knew of?

“Do you believe you will succeed where you failed before-“

Harry had had enough.

“Excuse me, sir,” he started politely. The tension in the room snapped. All eyes flew to him. “I think you are scaring Ri- Tom.” The claret-eyed boy indeed had gone pale as bone, but glowered at Harry at the words. Harry shrugged it off. “He doesn’t remember anything. He appeared here out of the blue this morning, without memories or things, y’know. And you’re not making things better.” Harry didn’t bother keeping the accusations out of his voice. The way the old man had pounced on Tom had been cruel and unjust.

Now, looking at him, those blue eyes sparked with kindness once again. Harry frowned in confusion.

“Do you believe his claims?”

Harry shot a side-glance at Tom, who was studying his every movement with an unnerving intensity no one had ever deemed Harry worthy of before. It was flattering and challenging and frightening.

The smaller boy averted his gaze before sighing and saying, with determination filling every syllable, “I believe in giving him a chance to prove them.”

The old man scrutinised them both for a second until he came to a decision with a sharp nod and a reappearing smile. “I know how to do it, Harry.” He addressed Tom then, “I require for you to raise your chin and look me in the eye, Tom. If things stand indeed as you say...”

“Of course they are,” Tom bit out. “Do you think I would truly waste my time in this unambitious town and even worse company?”

“Hey!” Harry bristled in offense. “I’ve just saved you!”

Derisive, Tom snorted. A withering hand grasped his chin, with a bit more pressure than needed, and jerked it upwards – just enough for Tom to glower defiantly into the man’s face that wrinkled down in concentration. Harry watched the interaction quietly, intently, and he didn’t know whether it was a flight of imagination after a completely weird day, or reality, but for a moment the mad twinkle in the stranger’s eyes evaporated and gave way to sharpness.

Harry heard Aunt Petunia stomping out of the lounge, but still watched the scene in front of him with fascination.

The boy had half a mind to step in at the sudden frown on Tom’s face, holding out his hand to touch the old man’s sleeve, when the stranger moved away himself. He looked satisfied, and a bit puzzled, if Harry had to say so himself, as if whatever he had witnessed in Tom’s eyes had hit him with surprise.

“Happy now?” Tom ground out. His scowl only deepened and he rubbed his temples in soothing motions.

Worried, Harry tentatively reached out to ascertain that everything was all right. As soon as his fingertips ran into Tom’s shoulder, they felt it.

Completeness.

It was not an obvious feeling, as they had both pretty much missed it earlier, when Harry had shaken Tom for explanations and answers. Instead of burning heat, it resembled steady, friendly warmth, not unlike a bonfire. It didn’t overwhelm, but it sustained.

Harry realised what he had been missing the entire school day.

With a hiss, Tom wrenched his shoulder away. His eyes glimmered like magma as he skewered Harry with another trademark glower. It was getting repetitive. Harry made a mental note to remind Tom to work on the variety of his facial expressions. They were scary, too.

“Don’t touch me,” Tom hissed at him.

Harry bristled in offense. With no Aunt Petunia in sight, he felt bolder, more himself. True, the stranger’s presence also placed inhibitions on his attitude, but those weren’t the bars on his real self that the Dursleys imposed.

“It’s not my fault! Besides, what is this thing? Do you know why-“

“Fascinating!” The old man drew attention back to himself again with a loud clap of his hands. Harry suspected that he knew a fight was brewing, and preferred to avoid it.

The joviality that had vanished at the first sight of Tom shone full-blast now. He dipped into one of the numerous pockets of his dress-thing and fished out a few round sweets, which he held out to Harry and Tom.

“Lemon drops, my boys?”

Harry didn’t like acid things, but he rarely got any sweets, and surely those wouldn’t taste like real lemons, so he reached out to grab one – only to have his hand slapped midway by an irate Tom.

“What’s your problem?” he rounded on the taller boy.

A sneer responded him. “Don’t you know what you should do if a stranger offers you sweets?”

Harry blinked and recounted what the Dursleys told him, Vernon always with a wistful little smile on his face.

“Er... Yes? Grab it, ask for more, and if I get lucky and they ask me to come with them, accept?”

Tom just shot him an unimpressed look.

“Now, now, children,” the old man placated, sauntering to plop down on the armchair in front of Harry and Tom’s sofa. “I’m not a stranger. My name is Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Magic. You do know what magic is, right?”

Tom narrowed his eyes, but stayed stubbornly silent, only sending a warning look at Harry, which the latter interpreted as an order to keep silent about Vernon and those black vein-thingies. Harry shuddered. He didn’t wish to be reminded of that himself.

“Magic...” Harry began uncertainly. He fiddled with his hands. Suddenly, he was nervous again. After Tom’s performance, deep suspicion crept in, and no matter how hard Harry attempted to batter it away, it held resiliently. “It’s the stuff of fairy tales, right? Like, witches, monsters, winged horses, happy ends, and cauldrons? Right?”

Harry had never been told a fairy tale in the traditional way, but when he had been younger, he would sneak about the house late at night and settle down by the door of Dudley’s room, and listen in to Aunt Petunia’s voice, which lulled in a hypnotic way amid the silence of the house, as it spoke stories of valiant knights and beautiful princesses and the victory of the good against the bad. He would close his eyes and imagine himself in the land of magic and wonder, all the while dearly hoping that it would be the world of his dreams that night instead of the terrible nightmares that showed him green light and high-pitched laughter.

The old man – Dumbledore, Harry reminded himself firmly, the Headmaster of something – only popped a lemon drop in his mouth in response.

Harry was getting agitated. He wanted to hope... but couldn’t allow himself to.

Imagining a magical life different from his own made him hurt in yearning.

“Just tell him and be done with it,” Tom ordered imperiously.

Dumbledore glanced at him sternly, unhappy with the demanding tone, but complied, inclining his head. Harry wondered why the man’s face always softened when he looked at him, and hardened at the sight of Tom. Was there a logical reason? Or some preconceived notion?

Besides, hadn’t it seemed that Dumbledore had recognised Tom?

All those questions flew out of the window when Dumbledore started talking.

He told Harry about his parents, how valiantly they had fought against that evil Dark Lord Voldemort, how much sorrow their death had brought on, and Harry’s own miraculous survival of the Killing Curse, an unprecedented feat. About the wizarding world and its wonders, about Hogwarts, about muggles and muggleborns, about Diagon Alley, about brave Light witches and wizards – Harry listened with an opened mouth and soaked every last word in, while Tom intently stared at Dumbledore.

Harry had felt sadness, brief anger, awe, marvel, confusion, disbelief, joy...

He felt like Dumbledore kept silent on some issues, but didn’t let that deter him from the longing he experienced, the desire to thrust into that world and forget about the life he led now.

Finally, when another lemon drop popped into Dumbledore’s mouth symbolised the end of his tale, Harry uncertainly asked, “Umm... You mentioned that you tell the muggle-raised about the magical world only when it’s time for them to enter it, to go to Hogwarts. But you’re telling us this now... What does it mean?”

Dumbledore chuckled. His eyes twinkled in merriment. When Harry caught his gaze, fleetingly, all his memories resurfaced. The sensation sped by, and Harry chose to ignore it.

“You see, my boy, initially I believed this to be the best place for you. To give you a happy, normal, humbling childhood-”

“Oh, it is a humbling childhood all right,” Tom sneered.

“-but now I realise you have shaped to be a well-mannered, kind boy already, and won’t be swept off your feet when you enter the world of magic.” Harry flushed at the praise, and then perked up.

“Does it- Does it mean I’m going to live among wizards now? Oh, and Tom, I suppose-“

“Yes, yes,” Dumbledore interrupted him with an indulgent quirk of lips. “I have just the family who would like to adopt you both. They have a few children of their own already, so you won’t feel bored. They are a nice, caring family, and instil proper values in their children-“

Harry, however, didn’t listen. His mind was stuck on the first phrase.

“Adopted? As in, really-really adopted?” he continued to mutter, mostly to himself, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Tom’s glare burned through the back of his neck, but Harry paid no mind; he wouldn’t let Tom spoil this!

“Of course, you must not reveal your real name, Harry.” Looking at Harry over the top of his half-moon glasses, Dumbledore went back to serious again. “The Dark Lord’s servants are still lurking around. In fact, had you not had a... ‘brother’ now, you would have still remained here.”

“’Brother’?” Tom spat out the word as if it were an insult. The disgusted expression he wore wounded Harry.

“Yes, Tom, ‘brother’. You will act your part as orphaned muggleborn twins named Hadrian – Harry for short – and Thomas – Tom for short. We’ll think of a surname for you later-“

Loud, stomping sounds drifted nearer. Harry paled and hunched in on himself. He was acquainted with those more than he would have ever wanted to be.

Uncle Vernon arrived.

The door burst open to reveal the man’s angry face.

“What’s going on? No more of this nonsense, I tell you! Pet, how did this-“

Dumbledore smiled jovially and held out a hand with another lemony treat, unfazed by the furious spittle. Uncle Vernon staggered back from the offered lemon drop staring at it as if it were Devil himself. Or poison. Harry supposed for his Uncle it didn’t make that big of a difference.

“Ah, Mr. Dursley. You chose the best time to join us. The boys here and I were just discussing the ways for them to enter the wizarding world sooner than expected...”