Little Gidding:

Dream Kingdom

Author's Note: I own none of these characters, unless you count Thanatos, who is such an archetype he can hardly be attributed to any one creator anyway. This is created purely for the entertainment of myself and other fans of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series.

The Dark Lord did not sleep. Ever. He had not slept since his return to power. He had not slept for years before that, even before his exile. Immortals do not sleep, and Voldemort fancied himself a demigod.

Besides, he liked the night. Night was his element. He liked the dark moonless and starless, illuminated only by the faint grey-green glow of his pallid skin and his demon-red eyes. When all around him was obscured by the night, he felt himself to be at the center of the multiverse. Perhaps this was what it was like before any world was created, before the first Word set all things in motion. Sometimes he liked to sit and speculate on what that Word was, and wonder if he had it, if he could not remake all things to suit himself.

The Riddle mansion, where he stayed, settled in the cool of the night, creaking and groaning like some vast creature in pain. The tap in the bathroom down the hall dripped off and on. And now and then, in the room below him, Wormtail whimpered softly in some dream. All else was still. But a feeling was growing in him, a sense of another presence. He reached out with all his senses, but felt nothing corporeal, aside from Wormtail and a few insects. Nagini had gone out hunting.

Speculating aloud, he murmured, "Is that you, Potter? If the link between us allows you to spy on me, I would very much like to know it…or perhaps you are astral projecting? Traps can be set to catch spirits as well as flesh, you know…"

There was no answer. He had not expected there to be. Still, the feeling of the other presence increased. He fondled his wand pensively, unsettled, but determined not to show it. Immortals do not get the creeps. A creak in the floorboards behind him made him stiffen and turn suddenly. "Who's there?"

"You do not know me…" the voice that answered him sounded both sad and cold. It was just barely loud enough to be audible, but as it spoke, all the sounds around it were muted, making the words almost tangible in the dark.

"Who are you?" Subtly, he gathered power. Whether flesh or spirit, the trespasser would pay. But first, Voldemort wanted to know how the stranger had crossed his wards.

"As I said, you do not know me. But you will." The voice was closer this time, and there was a threat in the tone.

"Lumos!" A red glare lit up the room. A few feet away from the Darklord's chair stood a figure that looked like a boy, naked, except for a length of black silk around his loins and a wreath of some sort of herb in his hair. He was slender, as lean of build as Voldemort himself, and his ribs showed. But his face had the soft roundness of youth. His hair was shoulder-length, black and wavy, his skin as pale as porcelain, his eyes bright black, like obsidian shards. He held no wand, but in one hand he bore what looked like an unlit flambeau. He held it upside down. Shadows clung to his back and shoulders.

"Can you see me now, Thief?" the boy asked calmly. Whispers danced along his statement.

"As well as you can me, Trespasser," he replied in a tone of soft menace.

The stranger smirked. "This is as much my domain as yours. I have followed you, unwillingly, for some time."

"Indeed? And why have you not shown yourself until now?"

"I thought to, once, fifteen years ago. But you were blind to me then. I have not had the opportunity again, until now."

"You barely look fifteen yourself."

"And you look in your thousands. Looks can be deceiving. You are more of a child than I am."

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

"Is truth an insult?"

"Sometimes."

The boy studied him, nodding gravely. "You are no fool. Still, you will not be forgiven; all your cleverness will not save you when your time comes."

"I gave up fear of reprisal long ago." Voldemort's eyes gleamed.

"Fear serves no purpose," the boy agreed, "but Balance will not be denied. You have given great pain, and you will receive no less in return. The score is not settled, and you are not turning it in your favor."

"I suppose you're here to tell me I have one last chance?"

"No. You have no chances left. You will suffer." The black eyes gleamed. "I am here to demand my freedom."

"From me? If I do not know you, how can I be holding you captive?"

The youth shook his head and arched slightly. The shadows behind him unfurled slowly into a pair of great, black, feathered wings. They spanned the room, one tip touching either wall, and on them, in ceaseless motion, were eyes. Human eyes, animal eyes, insect eyes, eyes of great beauty and great ugliness, eyes in every color of the rainbow. The pupils flickered this way and that, looking sightlessly around the room, and the lids fluttered and blinked, heavily lashed with black down. There were too many to count, it seemed, too many to fit in the room, but they were there nonetheless, scattered across the surface of the wings like stars across the midnight sky.

"Do you know me now?" asked the boy, his voice soft and resonant.

"I know that you are no human." Voldemort replied evenly, determined not to show his sudden misgiving.

"You are not as wise as I had thought," the boy smiled.

"Thanatos," the Dark Lord gripped his wand.

"Much better. Yes, that is one of my names."

A jagged smile crept across Voldemort's face. "And I hold you captive? Without being aware of it?"
The myriad eyes glittered angrily at him. "Through no virtue of your own, I assure you. There is a spell you use…"

"The Killing Curse…I had heard that its secret lay in binding Death to the will of the caster. I assumed that was merely a pretty metaphor. I see I was mistaken."

"Do not look so pleased, Theif."

"Why not? Not only have I achieved immortality, but I have Death Itself under my command."

The shadowy wings wrapped around Thanatos' thin white form. "I take no issue with your murdering," he said quietly, "there are many butchers in this world. I take no issue with your use of magic to do so. You are not the first Dark Wizard to cast your realm into chaos, not even in this century--"

"No, there was Grindelwald before me …it was he who invented the Killing Curse…and yet he rarely used it."

"He had proper respect for me. And he has been rewarded for it."

"Has he? He's dead, last I heard."

"Yes. His score is settled. He is in balance." Thanatos moved closer, only his face visible beneath the eyed wings. "You are unbalancing me. You are overusing the Avada Kedavra. I am a force of this world. I will not be held accountable for your powerlust."

"And what will you do about it? If you could take me, you would have done so by now."

Thanatos' face went, if possible, even whiter. "I will find a way. Mark my words, I will find a way. Grindelwald was evil, but he was a man. You are only a wicked, angry child, and by a child I shall break your power. Mark my words, Thief."

The red gleam from Voldemort's eyes lit Death's face. "That has been tried once before. I am still here."

Thanatos sneered, "It will not fail a second time."

The Darklord's wand hand jerked suddenly, "Crucio!"

A bolt of red light struck Thanatos' eyes and crackled over his skin. He staggered back and hissed with pain, but the spell failed to reduce him to a writhing, screaming mess the way it would have a human. The hand holding the flambeau emerged from between the dark wings, and the crackling red light was drawn into it. Thanatos straightened, panting and glaring. "For that, too, you will pay."

Grinning, Voldemort raised his wand again, "Avad--"

But Thanatos was gone.

Disappointed, the Dark Lord sighed and put the wand away. It would have been very interesting to see what effect, if any, the Killing Curse would have had on Death Itself.

But there would be other opportunities.

He was sure of that.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In the boys' dormitory at Hogwarts, Harry sat up abruptly, panting. His scar burned, and the rest of his body throbbed with it.

There had been a dream. He remembered the Riddle Mansion. Voldemort. And a boy…with wings? That wasn't right, surely…he closed his eyes and fought for the memory. After several minutes, the ache faded, and the memory of the dream had grown no clearer. Harry groped for his glasses, then picked up a quill and his diary. He had begun keeping a record of his dreams this summer. Most of them were mercifully vague, but there were many entries--far too many--recording blood and fire and screams of agony. Harry scribbled down what he remembered of the dream, then drew a small sketch of the winged figure in the corner of the page. Maybe it had just been a dream, but if there had been any truth to it at all, he wanted to record it. He would take the diary to Dumbledore tomorrow.

He set the diary aside again, then took a few sips from the glass of water by his bed, calming himself. He took off his glasses, then sank back into the pillows with a sigh. He closed his eyes determinedly, tuning out the lingering unease of the dream by thinking about Quidditch practice. Before long, the golden glimmer of the snitch was leading him into the dream-realms.

He was soon so deeply asleep that he neither felt the wind nor heard the beating of enormous, dark-feathered wings.

Author's Note: To be continued? Maybe, maybe not. This is something of a departure from my usual style. I have ideas as to how to continue it as a multi-chapter story, but it may be better left as a one-shot. Opinions?

Also, for those of you who've read 'Pig in a Wig', the next chapter is about half done. I hope to have it up within a week or two. I'm a bit stalled on the prequel for 'An Unexpected Regret', but I'm still working on it. Wish me luck…