It took Harry no large stretch of time to realize that though surrounded in blackness as he was, he was indeed dreaming. However it appeared as though he'd be repeating the same dream he'd had for over a week. He'd walk down an olive green hallway in some Victorian mansion to a lovely set of doors. His scar would tingle with an odd sensation, but no pain, and in his dream he'd know Lord Voldemort was behind that door. Then he'd open it, and the Dark Lord would be standing at a window, back to the door as if contemplating something. Voldemort would turn and fix Harry with a dangerous half smile that stirred something deep in Harry's loins. Then the boy would wake with disgust to find the hard-on of a lifetime bulging beneath the sheets.

Regardless of how well he knew the dream, Harry continued anyway just to see if anything would change. He got to the door, opened it, and stepped in as the Dark Lord turned from the window. He walked towards Harry with that half smile planted firmly on his face, wand in hand until they were inches apart. Harry froze. As opposed to the Voldemort he'd witnessed return to life, this dream interpretation looked healthier, younger, quite unlike the sixty-plus year-old he was. Full, black, wavy hair covered his head, and crimson eyes were lit behind dark lashes. His skin did not crack and wrinkle as he smirked down at Harry, appearing more like Tom Riddle, and not the power-ravaged menace to the wizarding world. He lifted his wand, but Harry did not flinch, just anticipated. He felt the cool wood slide softly down his cheek and he thought he might have trembled before Voldemort leaned closer as if to steal a kiss.

Harry didn't stay asleep long enough to find out.