Title: "Play Tragic"

Author: Shaitanah

Rating: PG-13 (major angst and generally depressing atmosphere)

Timeline: post-DH

Summary: HP/LVHP/TMR Love is a game for two – and no winner. Harry might think he's won this round, but his nemesis will always find a way to prove him wrong. Please R&R!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling.

A/N: This is very insane, influenced by Matrix and some sci-fi books, generally difficult to read with all the POV and tense switching, HP/GW implications and a crazy concept. Scared ya? Now read! XDDD

Special Thanks: to my wonderul beta Mizstorge.

PLAY TRAGIC

Why would you offer more,

Why would you make it easier on me to satisfy?

I'm on fire…

David Usher. 'Black Black Heart'

Dream

"I love you," she says as she runs her fingers through my messy hair.

She plants a gentle kiss on my cheek and I smile automatically. She has nothing to do with this. She'll never know what hit us. To her, these things should remain non-existent…

…because she is the one who doesn't exist.

"I love you, Harry. You know that?"

"I love you too, Ginny."

She falls asleep. She sleeps so soundly; the rise and fall of her chest is so real, so alive. I can't bear to look at her. I hate her for being a simple illusion; I love her for being the only image of the woman I used to love that I have left. I escape the bedroom that looks like a prison and wander off into the kitchen. I've learnt not to let insomnia disturb my nights. I drink a cup of chamomile tea and nibble at my finger thoughtfully while flipping through the evening newspaper. It doesn't mean anything. It's a stupid make-believe about the non-existent politics, culture, sports and gossip, but the ritual of looking through the press is strangely relieving. Simply because it's a habit.

Our children grin and wave at me from the photos when I enter the living room. We are alone, Ginny and I.

I make sure she's asleep and walk out into the starless night. I halt only by the bridge and come closer to the handrail to take a better look at the dark water splashing in its granite bed. Slowly, soothed by the barely audible song of the water, I fall asleep.

In the morning, when the sky is gentle blue with a tinge of gold, his voice welcomes me back to the world of the living.

"You sleep like a horse," he laughs. I never liked his laugh. It is too senseless, deprived of individuality. He laughs because he knows it would be fitting at the moment, not because he really feels like doing so.

I blink at him sleepily and cast my eyes down at the river. "Good morning."

"You are not mad anymore," he says. It's not a question; he knows how I feel better than I do.

The first time I noticed there was something wrong with my life was after the Hogwarts Express left Platform 9¾ taking away my junior son into his first year at the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was a mere nothing, just a pause in the conversation, but it made me turn and look at Ginny – and notice that her face was as if frozen. I couldn't explain it to myself even if I tried. She smiled at me then as if nothing had happened. It had been nineteen years since Voldemort's demise.

It took me two years to figure out what was going on. Those things – I call them glitches – kept resurfacing. I was afraid to delve deeper. Afraid I'd have to take the road and come across the edge of 'the thirteenth floor' where there would be nothing.

I did take the road. It brought me to his doorstep. He owned a book workshop in Diagon Alley. It smelled thickly of old paper, leather and potions.

"It's pointless to keep the mask if you already know everything," he said. I expected him to change his looks, to revert back to his serpentine self with scarlet eyes and pallid skin, but he remained a handsome man with no particular distinguishing features. If I met him in the crowd, I wouldn't recognize him.

I panicked. I attacked and he shoved me into the wall, books toppling down from the shelves all over me.

"It's not happening," I murmured desperately to myself. "It's just not happening!"

"Oh, so you think that now that you know it is unreal you can control this place?" Voldemort chuckled dryly. "You are still so naïve. You are sleeping, Harry. It's just a dream."

"Since when?" was all I could think of at the moment.

"You died. I killed you in the Forest, but somehow… you refused to leave. You never give up, do you, Harry? I couldn't make you go away, but I could at least keep you dead for the rest of the world."

I recalled vaguely that moment of death. I had spoken with Dumbledore. I had come to and told Narcissa Malfoy her son had been alive. I had been carried to the castle by Hagrid.

"Yes and no," Voldemort said, having easily figured my thoughts out. "It was all a dream. The twenty-one years of your life that followed, your marriage, your children, your job, your friends… I have won, Harry."

I didn't hear him. I stormed out of the workshop – not because I had to run away, but simply because I needed a change of air. I had it coming. Ever since I noticed the first glitch, that frightening vacant expression on my wife's face, I knew…

"You're right, Voldemort," I say placidly. "I guess I should thank you. These years have been wonderful."

He eyes me in contemptuous suspicion. He doesn't like making presents, and I've practically told him such life was a beautiful gift.

"Tell me, why did you do this? You could have made me suffer. You could have killed everyone I love or made me battle you for all eternity. But this is the kind of life I've always dreamt of."

"I liked watching you degrade from a hero to a commoner," Voldemort chuckles. There is no cruelty in his eyes. He doesn't seem to mock me, but simply answers my question. "Who you were, Hero of the Wizarding World, and who you are now are entirely different people. I wanted to see the change. I wanted peaceful life to destroy you. You are not so different from me, Harry. By the time your hair turned grey, you would be praying for another war. Your dear Dumbledore with all his pacifism couldn't bear the thought of dying in his own bed."

He turns his back on me and starts walking away. Perhaps he's expecting me to follow. I stay where I am, too flustered to move.

She has been my entire life for over twenty years, yet now I feel that I pull away from her. She's not here. She's not real. The real Ginny is either dead or imprisoned in Azkaban. I have to let go of my fictional wife.

She puts her head on my shoulder; I close my eyes and let the fragrance of her hair and the soft tune of the radio carry me away. This might be our last night together. I'm not sorry that I won't see the kids. It's easier to let go of that which you don't see.

"I love you, Harry," Ginny murmurs dreamily. I return the words habitually, kiss her temple and whisper in her ear: "Sleep."

And then I go back to the workshop. Voldemort lowers the wand with which he was fixing the ancient cover and gestures for me to sit down. In spite of my business I can't hold back a question: "Why books?"

"You see, Harry, I'm not really Lord Voldemort," the man replies without delay. "I'm more like a projection. Of both your minds. Thanks to him, I call myself Voldemort and keep you here. Thanks to you, I act like a guide ready to answer whatever question you have."

"Then…" I pause and can't help but keep staring at his handsome face. Perhaps this is what he might have looked like if he hadn't sunk neck-deep into the Dark Arts. I want to touch his dark hair that falls in a smooth wave over his alabaster forehead. "You can demolish this world, right? Take it all down."

He nods. "Why would you ask about that?"

I smile sadly. I don't want to explain. He doesn't press. He doesn't even ask what I want instead. But he won't let me sleep either. I can't stop dreaming after two decades.

The world as I know it disappears in a blink of an eye. For a moment there is nothing but darkness. I hold my breath. It's neither cold nor warm. I realize that the chair I've been occupying is actually a huge box and there is a slit between its side and the cover. I dip my hand inside. My fingers drown in some dry grainy mass. I take a handful and try to take a better look at the substance. These are seeds. Ordinary garden seeds, tiny and brownish. I scatter them about and watch the faint glow that they emanate fade peacefully in the velvet dark. And then they sprout. A huge enchanted forest bursts into life around me. I lose myself in the showers of green, blue, purple and yellow; the colours rain down on me in a fluorescent waterfall.

"Will you come?" I whisper. For a person who has just destroyed his last chance for a normal life I feel strangely calm and confident.

The forest doesn't need me to be more specific; it replies in Voldemort's voice, slightly distorted, as if transmitted through a damaged sound system: "Why would you want me, Harry?"

I keep asking myself that question. I am silent for hours, watching drops of dew glide over the thick oversized leaves. Finally I say that if I can't bear to look at the ones I love I'd have to choose the company of the one I hate. He is the element of control; he has to be present in my personal Matrix.

"Do you like my forest?" I inquire as we walk side by side along a narrow path covered in yellowish grass.

His lips curl in distaste. "It's too cheerful. Much like yourself."

"Am I cheerful!? Huh!"

I feel empty. All I have is the forest and my enemy who is not even my enemy but some tiny part of him. I wonder what traits of his are real. His love for books, his composure, his intimidating look… Oddly enough, I appreciate his company because he reminds me of all the people I used to know.

"You are pathetic," Voldemort chuckles expressionlessly. "You seek solace with the only person you truly hate."

He lowers himself beneath a tree and looks at me with a hint of compassion in his eyes. Compassion? No… Not even this alien kind of Voldemort would ever feel something so human.

I place my head on his lap and shut my eyes. Coma or not, people don't live too long. Time doesn't matter here anymore. All I have to do is to wait for my organism to wear out. Maybe in death I shall be happier.

A touch snaps me out of my sad reverie. Warm fingers brush against my cheek, behind my ear, run through my hair. Without looking at him, I rub my face against his leg, the rough fabric of his trousers grazing my cheek, and suddenly he leans into me and silences whatever protestations I have with a rough kiss. He sucks me into it, coercing me to respond, and no matter how banal it sounds, the kiss steals my breath away.

"You're beautiful when I know you belong to me." His voice slithers through me, igniting me; I taste the half-forgotten feeling in the kiss, the real Voldemort, the darkness, the menace. There's more of him with me than he thinks.

I like it that he's here. There are days (if days are applicable to the way the time goes here) when we sail the vast oceans of grass in silence; days when we talk about anything and everything and never seem to grow tired; days when we lie on the warm ground next to each other; days when our bodies melt into one and my entire world becomes a universe of kisses, bites, gentle strokes and passion-strained sighs.

We discover new fields, jungle, rivers every day. One day he stops in the middle of a wheat field, throws his hands up in the air and raises his head to taste the first drops of rain on his lips.

"Harry, do you know what this is? It's a world after Apocalypse. I've always wanted to see it!"

"You could have made it a long time ago."

He looks at me. There's a small smile blooming on his lips. "I was waiting for the right person to play with."

I can't hold back a grin. Coming from him, it's almost like…

Something's wrong. Our eyes meet. He looks at me and through me. His eyes flash crimson; it's almost like he knows… but how can he? I've done everything according to their instructions. I let my mood fill this world, I played along, I…

Interlude

"Aguamenti!"

A powerful jet of water thrust in his chest. It hurt him as if it were solid. Harry awoke with a scream, tears splashing from his eyes. Water washed all over him. The world around him narrowed down to darkness drenched in water as he squeezed his eyes shut and let the sound of his own ragged breath consume him.

A woman's voice was calling to him. He didn't want to open his eyes, but she placed her warm fingers on his quivering hand and forced him to look at her.

"Harry, are you all right?"

"F-fine," he drew out through gritted teeth. "Wh-what happened?"

Hermione's soft brown eyes blazed fiercely. "You fell asleep, that's what happened! How could you be so irresponsible!? If you lose control of the dream he might wake up, and you know it!"

Harry blinked, adjusted his glasses and breathed heavily: "I remember. I'm sorry."

He wiped his face dry and smoothed wet streaks of hair over his temples. He felt tired, weakened by the night watch by the sleeper's bed. His duty was to hold the spell that kept Voldemort stable in the coma that came as a result of the backfired Avada Kedavra. Harry refused to understand why the spell hadn't killed him.

"Go home," Hermione said with a frown. "Have some rest. You look terrible."

Harry cast a single glance at the sleeper, wrapped his cloak around him and Disapparated.