The Untouchable

C9: Übermensch

"Hello, Harry," Voldemort said.

Harry sat in Doctor Welsh's office and from across the desk, in the dark abyss, red eyes watched back. Harry's sure that there's a saying somewhere about peering into abysses, but Harry couldn't remember nor find it within himself to care. Philosophy isn't his strong suit, anyway.

This dream happens a lot.

Harry stared at a trinket on the mahogany desk. Harry doesn't know what it is, but it's made of an arch and three balls hanging on strings in a row. One ball would swing out and roll back in, hitting the middle ball. The ball on the furthest side would then bounce away. And so on and so forth it would go. Despite the metal constantly touching, there's no sound. But Harry can hear it, just watching it, can imagine the tack...tack...tack. The ball in the middle never moved, but the trinket stayed in constant motion, constantly back and forth in a battle of energy.

Harry feels like the middle ball. Constantly in motion yet never moving. A frozen pendulum. Harry finds it odd that he can relate to a trinket better than a human being.

"You're certainly very moody tonight," Voldemort tutted, voice crushed velvet. "Hormones, again?" Always trying to get under Harry's skin.

Harry knows the one thing Voldemort hates the most (and that's quite an accomplishment as the monster hates a lot) is being ignored.

Harry ignored the Dark Lord.

Harry is still pissed off about being stood up in the Ministry. Harry's angry that that weak wizards and insane witches in masks and cloaks were sent to Deal With him, as if he were some nuisance. Perhaps Voldemort was still smarting over Harry revealing his spy Year Four; perhaps Voldemort just doesn't care. Harry doesn't know why this infuriates him so, but he is tired of analysing his emotions and doesn't want to think about it.

"You can't ignore me forever, Potter," Voldemort stated suddenly as he leaned forward, the chill of his voice breathing forth like an Arctic dragon and crystallising the baubles on the desk. The room slowly iced over, frost climbing up the window panes and winding around Harry's forearms in the way only possible in dreams. Or perhaps Voldemort really is a Hydra. Harry doesn't know. Either answer wouldn't surprise him.

The pendulum swung and Harry ignored the Dark Lord, wishing the man would leave him alone. Harry didn't wish Very Hard, though. He doesn't know why.

Voldemort snapped, snatching the pendulum with the speed of a striking viper and stopping it mid-swing.

Harry woke up.

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"Let's talk about your aunt and uncle," Welsh said.

"Alright," Harry answered easily. Doctor Welsh often asked after events and emotions that Harry never wanted to discuss in his life. But refusing to speak about a subject resulted in Doctor Welsh needling the topic, sneakily inserting it into every single session (Harry was up to four a week now that it was summer) and eventually Harry would find himself cornered into talking. It was simpler to agree on the spot and control the conversation from there. Harry's not sure if that's a point won on his side or Doctor Welsh's.

"Your aunt and uncle, you lived with them up until the start of your third year, is that correct?" Doctor Welsh asked politely, lacing his fingers together as he peered at Harry over wire-rim glasses.

Harry is not supposed to answer in monosyllable. He's meant to answer in a sentence. It's hard to come up with an entire sentence on the topic of the Dursleys.

"Yes, that's correct. I lived with the Dursleys up until I lived with Sirius," Harry concedes, leaning back in his wingback chair and smiling blankly at Doctor Welsh, trying to force his hands to not clench the softened leather arms.