The Love Of A Good Wizard

Protective Instincts

Sleep was, not surprisingly, the last thing on Harry's mind by the time he was tucked into bed. His bed, in the Slytherin dorm. In 1942. Next to Vol... Tom Riddle. Merlin's beard!

He could almost hear Hermione berating him, and Ron gibbering in shock, at this latest stunt. With all the rule breaking the three of them had got up to during their six years at Hogwarts, this was on an entirely different level. Harry turned on his side, wincing when that put him in the position to see Tom, sleeping in the next bed over.

Yes, this was definitely on a different level, but more important than anything he'd done in his life, or would ever do. As long as he could keep his nerve. And he was determined to do so - he might be a Slytherin now, but that wasn't going to take the Gryffindor out of him.

He looked at Tom's sleeping face with that same sense of unreality that their handshake earlier had caused. What was it that made this boy so different from everyone? Why was he, no doubt already even now, plotting unspeakable evils? And why, Harry wondered, was there no one to stop him?

Tom's sleep changed as he visibly slipped into a dream phase. His eyelids started to twitch, his long lashes brushing the pale skin under his closed eyes. Harry frowned at the soft mewling sounds issuing from Tom's lips; it had never occurred to him that his enemy might dream, just like anyone else. What qualified as a nightmare to someone like Tom Riddle, when his reality in the future would furnish Harry's nightmares? But more importantly, what horrors was he dreaming now, in this time, while still merely a school boy?

Harry pulled his covers up to his chin and watched the other's sleep grow ever more restless. The thin duvet covering Tom was slowly twisting around his long legs, and he was restlessly shifting back and forth between his side and his back, moaning at irregular intervals. But for all that, the gut-wrenching wail to spill from his mouth all of a sudden jolted Harry, making his heart race.

"Shut up, Riddle!" came a growl from across the room, and a heavy-set boy, who had introduced himself during dinner as Wallace McKay, turned over with a noisy creak of bedsprings and went back to sleep.

Harry sighed and reached under his pillow for his wand. He softly cast a silencing charm around Tom's bed, then kept watching him. The next time Tom's lips parted and his brow creased, Harry knew there was a groan of distress, and somehow, not hearing it was worse. He felt awful about having cast the charm, as if he'd locked Riddle into a separate room with his demons while safely staying outside.

'Why should I care that he's having bad dreams?' he wondered, angry at himself because he did. But angry or not, he pushed away his duvet, climbed silently out of bed, wrapped his bathrobe around himself, and approached Tom's bedside.

Standing right next to him and thus inside the area of the silencing charm, he realised the dreams must have mellowed somewhat. Whimpers were spilling from Tom's lips only occasionally now, but he was still restless. Hesitantly, Harry sat down on the edge of the boy's bed, wondering whether an incautious move would find him with Tom's wand trained on his heart. But he held vigil there anyway, sharing in Tom's distress, if only by listening, until the boy was once more sleeping calmly. Only then did he return to his own bed.

It was a long time before he fell asleep. But once he did, there were no nightmares at all.

* * *

"Harry."

Mumbling and burying himself deeper in his bedding, Harry turned away from the voice and the faint room light.

"Harry?" His mattress dipped a little, and a hand gently cupped his shoulder. "Time to get up."

"Go away." Having slept better than he remembered in a long time, Harry was in no hurry to wake up, but it wasn't meant to be.