The one that lives rent free in my head | Tomarry

1: Harry

He was having another nightmare. It was the summer after his second year.

He was in Dudley's second bedroom. It appeared that his aunt and uncle finally gained some sense. He was turning thirteen. He grew - a little, but he did - and he didn't fit into the teeny tiny space of the cupboard under the stairs.
So they made a 'sacrifice out of their hearts' goodness' and allowed him to take the spare room. It was spacious enough. He had his own bed... The first real bed he was given in that house. The improvements, for him, were vast.

But then the nightmares entered. Just like in the summer of the first year when he saw Quirrel with Voldemort's face in the back of his own. The difference was that now it was Riddle's instead of the distorted one of Voldemort's - which was even scarier.

'We're the same, you and I. You know that, right?'

Harry is tossing and turning on his bed. He feels trapped amongst the white bedsheets which he had pulled out of a cupboard for the night was quite chilly. He kicks them off the bed. His grey t shirt is damp on the point below his armpits, due to sweating.

'Dumbledore fooled you, hero. He knows what's going on and yet he sent a little boy to do a grown man's work. How much I pity you at the moment...'

He opens his eyes. He isn't in the house of the Dursleys anymore but inside a classroom. Professor Lupin. Boggarts. Entities that feed on fear. Feed on fear. Fear. Riddle. Oh no.

'What will you do now, Harry?'

"Harry, come on. Step forward. It's your turn." That is... Remus' voice. It's a kind voice. It echoes thunderous inside his eardrum.

His head is killing him. He jumps from the noise of the children talking hushedly with each other. His feet have a will on their own and so he makes a few steps forward. He stands in front of a cupboard made of oak wood, dark brown.

"Why don't you look up, Potter? Afraid? What could our great hero possibly be afraid of?"

Harry grits his teeth. Malfoy. Not the person he wants to be thinking of right now.

He raises his head and inhales once, curling his hands into fists. The girl before him was afraid of puppets and she couldn't counter it. Harry sees a porcelain doll, a young lady with black hair and dress and strings forcing her to move. The doll dissolves into smoke before the black mass of magic gets inside the wooden furniture.

'Don't think of him. Not him. Anything else but him.' He repeats inside his brain like a mantra.

The doors open. First there's merely darkness.

'Think of dementors. Or aunt Petunia. She's scary enough.'

There's a leg dressed in black fabric. A polished black moccasin is creaking down the granite textured floor.

'Think of Vernon or Dudley. Anyone.'

Then the other foot follows suit. The figure becomes much clearer. It's a boy.
Clearly older than Harry or any of his classmates.

'Anyone. Anyone else but him. Snape, maybe.'

The face comes into full view. It's handsome. Riddle always looked older than his age. Sixteen melts into eighteen with these cheekbones and almost black eyes. The hair styled as per the forties fashion, curls perfectly rolled.

Murmurs fill the room. Who is this student? How could the Gryffindor be afraid of a mere boy?

Harry may stare at the sight before him, but his eyes are not really there. Images from the fight with the basilisk assault his previously focused mind. Now the colorful glass marbles inside his head can only jump around. They are as disorganized and unsettled as he is.