FicWad

The house at number four, Privet Drive looked like a pleasant enough place, to anyone walking by. It was large and square, of course, like the hundreds of other similar houses in the old neighbourhood, but the white paint on the exterior was clean and bright, and the low wall in front was covered in wisteria vines. It had a nice garden, with bright flowerbeds neatly lined with polished river stones. There was even a small greenhouse in the back garden, to give the impression that the occupants loved green and growing things. One could easily picture an older couple, plump and cheerful, happily laughing together as they weeded the flowerbeds. You could almost see the tender care the woman would take as she tied up fragile tomato vines in the greenhouse.

Then, if you looked closer, you'd see a boy's bicycle, new and fancy, neatly parked on the front porch. The ages of your imagined owners would drop, and a young boy would be added to your mental picture. A happy child, probably, with such obviously caring parents. A boy who'd spend his days playing games with his schoolmates, riding around the peaceful, pretty neighborhood on his bike, occasionally waving a polite greeting to his neighbors or stopping to help an elderly lady across the street. Quite a lovely picture, really.

Unfortunately, you would be completely and utterly incorrect.

Harry Potter, age fifteen and the least welcome resident of the house, hissed as the cold water hit his sweaty, grimy, sunburned skin. His muscles tensed from the pain, intensifying the ache of far too much work in his shoulders and arms. He concentrated on breathing steadily for a few seconds as he adjusted to the temperature. The temptation to open the hot tap was great, but the trouble he'd be in if he got caught just wasn't worth it.

Eventually, he was able to relax a bit, and hurriedly took advantage of the opportunity to get really, truly clean. There was no guarantee that he'd get another one this week, and Aunt Petunia had had him doing work in the garden every day since the current heat wave had started. So, cold water or no cold water, he was determined to enjoy it. Thick black hair was hurriedly lathered and rinsed, and two days worth of dried sweat scrubbed joyously off. He was just finishing when there was a heavy rapping at the door, and his uncle's gruff voice informed him that he'd wasted enough of the family's water, and told him to get out and get to his room in the next two minutes, if he wanted to be allowed to bathe again.

He grabbed his glasses, shoving the thick lenses into place, and hurried to comply. The Dursleys might be less physically abusive these days, but they still took quite a bit of joy in 'disciplining' him in every nasty, cruel, vicious little way they could think of.

Once he was out, Uncle Vernon locked him in the bare little cubicle that he called... well, not 'home', obviously. Prison, maybe. Home was Hogwarts, not this horrible place where he was tortured every summer.

Harry raised the window enough to let Hedwig, his owl, squeeze out through the bars to fly for a bit. The food they shared - scraps that the Dursleys consented to allow him on occasion - lasted longer when Hedwig hunted for her dinner, and she seemed to prefer it that way, anyway. Harry didn't blame her; sometimes he looked at the disgusting gruel or muddled, slopped together leftovers and wondered if perhaps her raw mice and squirrels might not be the tastier option. They were almost certainly the more nutritious. With a sigh, he lay down on the bed, pulling the worn, patched blanket over his bare legs. With his schoolbooks locked away downstairs, on the rare nights when he wasn't so exhausted he fell immediately to sleep, or the more common nights when he hurt too badly to sleep, no matter _how_ tired he was, boredom was his worst problem. He glanced at the window wistfully, but his uncle had forbid correspondence from his friends and threatened to use his grandfather's ancient hunting gun on any owl he saw trying to slip through Harry's window with a message... even Hedwig, if she had a letter tied to her leg. So other than one message to Hermione explaining the threat (he'd begged shamelessly to be allowed to send that message, and had very nearly not been able to come up with enough painful, degrading tasks to offer in exchange for permission, but eventually he'd managed it), he'd neither written to nor heard from his friends all year, and the only owl to appear at his window was Hedwig, when she returned a couple of hours later, looking happy and full, and hopped into her cage and onto the perch. He sighed again, then closed his eyes and finally drifted off, despite the constant irritation of his burned skin.

Nightmares weren't anything new to Harry. He'd had nightmares his entire life. Or rather, he'd had nightmares since his parents were murdered when he was just a baby. He doubted he'd had as many before that, as the murder itself seemed to be the basis for over half of them. In recent years, of course, his nightmares had become far more complex than a simple recounting of that gruesome night. Lord Voldemort, his parents' murderer and self-styled "Dark Lord" of the wizard world, was his personal enemy... and the star of most of his nightmares. And this summer was worse than most. Over and over again, he relived that horrible instant where he'd seen Cedric killed and been helpless to stop it. Over and over again, he felt the pain of the Cruciatus curse. And, perhaps worse, he kept seeing Amos Diggory's face when he realized his son was dead. It goes without saying that he'd seen every one of his friends, every single person who was important to him, die horribly in his dreams. So, Harry Potter was no stranger to nightmares. He expected he was getting to be pretty much of an expert on the subject, really. The nightmare he found himself in that night, however, was unlike anything he'd ever imagined.

He was having tea. Excellent tea, really. Hot and sweet, served in a fragile china cup with a gold edge. There were even biscuits. He was seated in a comfortable chair, and warm golden light caressed his skin. A cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace. But outside of the cosy little tableau, the house was falling apart around him. Dusty cobwebs hung in sheets from dark corners. Rotting boards creaked as a cold wind blew outside, rattling decrepit shutters and making the old house shift and settle. And worst of all, seated in the chair across from him and drinking tea from a cup that matched his except for its silver rim, was the Dark Lord himself, Voldemort.

Harry stared at the resurrected Dark Lord, distantly wondering why he wasn't terrified. He should be, he knew, but he wasn't. He didn't feel the aura of... corruption... that had almost visibly emanated from the dark wizard in the graveyard. Perhaps it was the faint sound of phoenix song in the background, though he couldn't understand how Voldemort could stand it. Wasn't phoenix song supposed to be painful to the impure?

The man didn't seem to be in any pain, though, as he sipped his tea. But then, he didn't really seem to be _Voldemort_, either, though Harry was damned if he could pinpoint why. Then, as the song grew louder, the wizard glanced towards the broken window and smiled, and Harry noticed that his face was changing. Constantly. Little things, like the slant of his eyes, then bigger things- his skin changed from sickly grey-green to a normal, if still pale tone. His eyes changed from vivid scarlet to a glowing greenish yellow. His previously bald scalp was now covered with sleek, straight, shining black hair that was gathered in a long braid that trailed down one shoulder. His lips were full and red, and framed by a short, dark goatee. He leaned back in the chair, and crossed his legs under a robe that was now made of sumptuous black velvet rather than tattered rags. By the time the phoenix flew past the window, a beautiful flash of red and gold, the man looked nothing like Voldemort. There was a slight, superficial resemblance to the young Tom Riddle, if Harry looked hard for it, and slightly more resemblance to Draco and Lucius Malfoy, but no hint of the newly revived Lord Voldemort. "Biscuit?" he asked mildly, and the voice was smooth and rich, and bore no resemblance to any of the voices Harry had heard Voldemort speak in. "You look half-starved."

Harry stared at him. This couldn't be Voldemort. He couldn't imagine Voldemort putting a phoenix in his dream. "Who are you?" he asked.

"That's... a complicated question," the man said, with another smile. "It's more a matter of 'what' than 'who', really. I suppose though, that you might as well call me Salazar. That's most of me, right now. Well, most of the sane part, in any event. And that's the appearance I'm wearing right now."

"Salazar?" Harry asked, confused. "I don't understand."

"I know. That's why I'm here." He cocked his head. "Well, part of why I'm here. Another part is to negotiate the destruction of the vessel you first saw when you looked at me. I'm an old, old spirit, young Potter, and I'm tired beyond belief. It's time I was allowed some peace."

"Negotiate-- you want me to kill Voldemort?" Harry asked, shocked. "Are you mad?"

The strange yellow eyes blinked deliberately, once, twice, then widened in feigned astonishment. "Why, isn't that your fondest dream, dear boy? It, or the equivalent, has been the fondest dream of every Heir of Light who's been chosen in over nine hundred years. Besides, the poor insane creature has certainly given you more than reason enough to want him dead, even if it wouldn't be an absolute public service."

"He'd kill me!" Harry said. "I only got away because-- because of my mum and dad and-- and Cedric."

Salazar snorted. He even managed to do _that_ elegantly. "There were other reasons you got away. I did what I could, of course, but not too much... if you couldn't get away on your own, you wouldn't stand a chance of being the one to break this endless cycle, you see, and I did need to know. But rest assured, I don't intend you to perform this task without aid." He steepled long, almost delicate fingers and peered at Harry over their perfect tips. "I wish to offer you a deal, young Heir. You gain a long, potentially peaceful life, and I..." He sighed, and an intensely wistful note came into his voice. "I get to finally die completely."

Harry stared at him, more confused than he'd ever been in his life. "I don't understand," he finally said.

The man cocked his head. "Do you recognize me, young Potter? Surely there are still portraits, or at least statues around the old place?"

"No--" Harry stopped mid-sentence. He _had_ seen him before. As a statue in the Chamber of Secrets, twisted and deformed, but still recognizable. "You-- you're Salazar Slytherin," he said. "How-- why--"

"Salazar Slytherin... _I_ was the last Dark Heir to be fully and properly invested with the full power of Darkness. My first Heir died in a tragic 'accident', shortly after I began the process of transferring power. My second also died before more than the initial binding was complete. My third... I kept closer watch on. He was kidnapped, instead, and kept away from me until the bond faded. When, inevitably, I was driven to try again, I kept him by my side every moment until it was time for the final ceremony." He smiled grimly. "I should have known it was a trap when it was so easy to sneak into the school. We were attacked halfway through the ritual, and my body was killed. The Heir... now the new Dark Lord... managed to escape, but the transfer wasn't complete, and he went quite mad. When he died, the power, and my spirit, jumped to the next vessel, his heir, but without the Ritual, he couldn't use it. Without the completion of the ritual, my spirit and the power are bound together, and I _cannot_ die fully."

"I don't understand," Harry said weakly. "What are you talking about?"

"Since my death, there has been no true Dark Lord," Salazar said, staring at him intently. "And the Balance grows weaker and weaker. This last vessel, the fool who calls himself by that ridiculous anagram, very nearly managed to complete the ritual. He made it to the Chamber. He knew what to do. But he was too careless, and ignored my guidance, and was half-mad already, so he failed. They managed to keep him away past the age when he could still have completed the Ritual, and that drove him the rest of the way into insanity. Much pointless death followed."

"What are you talking about?" Harry said again, feeling stupid. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

"I managed to do some good, though," Slytherin said, softly, not seeming to hear Harry. "Especially as his madness increased. The fool decided he could cheat death itself, and damned if he didn't nearly manage it. But not quite, oh no, not _quite_, Tom Riddle! Part of him died for good, just enough to give me real control, at least while he was weakest. And I found an Heir. A perfect Heir. Strong and sane, brilliant and full of fire, and such courage! It could have all been over. I could have finally passed on this burden, and restored the Balance, and gone on to my rest. But that _bastard_! That utter bastard manipulated his own Heir into destroying it all. Interrupting the Ritual, nearly killing my innocent Heir, and not even dirtying his own pristine white hands! Now... my Heir will go insane. Too much power was transferred, but without the knowledge to use it, to protect the mind."

"You... act like you expect me to believe that's a bad thing," Harry said.

"Do you know _nothing_ of the Balance?!" Salazar hissed, his eyes glowing. "Are you so mind-bound that you think it is _good_ that this endless cycle of death and madness continues?"

"What balance?" Harry asked. "I mean, of course death isn't good, but I don't understand how letting a Dark Lord live would mean fewer deaths."

Salazar stared at him for a long time, then said, slowly. "Of course. Of course he would teach you that. After all, he never intends his Heirs to actually take his place, so why should they need to know about the Balance? They're disposable. Just placeholders, really. Or conveniently powerful minions to use in dangerous encounters."

"Could you _please_ stop talking in riddles?" Harry asked.

"You're the Heir of Light," Salazar said, bluntly. "You'll never be the Lord, though, because the old Lord doesn't care to relinquish the position. Ever. You'll grow out of suitability or get yourself killed in his schemes, and he'll choose another as we're driven to do, and _that_ Heir will grow too old or die, as well, just as they've been growing too old or dying for the past nine hundred and some odd years. Meanwhile, his blasphemous crusade will continue, and eventually he will, indeed, succeed in wiping out both the current Dark Lord and the Heir, and any suitable vessels who might be spontaneously chosen by the power, thereby destroying the world. It's all very simple."

"Destroying the world? By stopping the Dark Lord? That doesn't make sense."

"There have always been two," Salazar said, patiently. "There must always be two. That's the way it is made to work. It's a magic as ancient as the earth itself. As ancient as night and day. One for the Dark. One for the Light. And all is Balance. Sometimes the two have been opposed, but never has anyone been so... so arrogant, so _stupid_ as to think to destroy the Balance! But then, never has a Lord of Light hated as much as this one. In his own way, he's quite as mad as any of my poor, half-invested successors."

"Balance...." Harry said slowly, then stopped. "What do you mean, sometimes the two have been opposed? They're Light and Dark!"

"Does day oppose night?" Salazar asked. "In daylight, is there no shadow? At night, are there no stars? Is there no moon? Did you know, young Potter, than when man is kept in constant light, with no darkness to mark the change of hours, no soothing shadow in which to rest, he grows mad? And of course, without light, the plants would not grow, and not even those creatures who love the darkness would have sustenance to exist. Both are needed. Both _are_. Magic, life, the world, they're all the same, and in each, there is Balance."

Harry wanted to argue with him, but he couldn't. What he said made sense, and he'd said himself that Voldemort was insane. Still... "Why should I believe you?" Harry said. "Why should I _trust_ you?"

"Why not? At least _I_ answer your questions. I very much doubt he ever did."

"Who?" Harry asked, confused.

"The Lord of Light." Salazar tilted his head. "Come now, child. Don't tell me you haven't yet realized who I am speaking of? Who shapes your view of Light and Darkness to suit his own goals. Who has pushed you towards death, but for the very best of intentions. Who helps you when it suits him, and abandons you when it does not? Who claims to be your protector, but does not protect you? Your mentor, but does not teach you?"

Harry swallowed. Surely he didn't mean... but he'd always wondered... "You mean... Professor Dumbledore?"

"Does the description fit?" Salazar asked, almost gently.

"I always wondered... the Philosopher's Stone was supposed to be so well guarded, but we were only first years and we managed to get it... and then in second year, how could he have _not_ known it was a basilisk if Hermione managed to figure it out? And last year, was there really no way to get me out of the tournament?" Harry asked. "I don't know. I want to trust him, but...."

"But why are you thrown, every summer, into circumstances designed to distract you from questions, point out your differences, make you grateful for his intervention, and keep you determined, once school starts, to please him enough that maybe, next time, you won't have to go back?" Salazar asked. "Just for an example, of course."

Harry sighed. "So why are you telling me this? It's not like I can do anything. I just get people killed."

"That's all he's allowed you to do, true," Salazar said. "Of course, it's up to you whether or not you continue to be obedient, loyal, self-sacrificing... and gullible."

"Even if I believed you, and stopped listening to him, I couldn't do anything," Harry said.

The ancient wizard rolled his eyes. "Really, child. Has he trained you so well? Do you believe every one of his ploys? Harry James Potter, _look at me!_" The gold eyes held Harry's, and phoenix song swelled outside the window. "Do you really think that a wizard of his experience and expertise did not _know_ that the trophy was a Portkey? Do you truly think the Lord of Light couldn't sense the Dark Lord's magic on it? He sent you to _die_, boy. And. You. Did. _Not!_"

"So what!" Harry yelled back. "_Cedric_ did!"

"And _he_ knew that you might not win, too. That some other young hero might be the one to meet the Dark Lord. He didn't care, you see... because he counted on you to follow, anyway. If only to attempt a rescue."

Harry didn't want to believe him, really he didn't, but... it made sense. It made far too much sense. How could someone who seemed to always know what was going on at Hogwarts not know about Crouch? For that matter, how could he have not known about the way the Dursleys treated him?

"I still don't see what I can do," Harry said.

"You can help my Heir," Slytherin said softly. "Then, together, you can stop this madness before more innocent children are killed."

"_How_?" Harry asked. "In case you don't know, I'm pretty much a prisoner here. And I don't even know who your Heir is."

Salazar looked disgusted. "Gryffindors," he said, shaking his head. "All of Godric's worst qualities, magnified a hundred times. That's what he's turned the lot of you into. Well. Almost, anyway," he added, with a secretive smile. "Don't play by his rules, boy. Why should you? He's lying. He's manipulating you. He _wants_ you to believe you're helpless, Potter. You'll be easier to dispose of that way. But now you have one very important advantage... you know he's doing it, and he doesn't know that you know. Use it." Outside, the phoenix song took on a strange, urgent note, and Salazar glanced that way, looking troubled.

"I wasn't speaking figuratively," Harry said. "My aunt and uncle have me locked in my room, there are bars on my window, and I don't have my wand."

"You don't need your bloody wand, boy! You're the Heir of Light! Don't you understand _anything_?" The phoenix cried piteously, and Salazar stood up, jarring the table. He ran a hand through his hair, quickly, roughly. "Of course you don't. Sorry, son. The bastard-- But there's no time.... Wait. There's one thing I can do. It'll be hard for you to adjust, but I can give you what you need. But if I do, you must promise that you will do the same for my Heir, so that the Balance is maintained. And there's no time to explain, so..." He reached down, holding out his hand. "If you're willing, then I must ask you to trust me." The phoenix cried again, sharp and pained.

Harry hesitated. Should he trust him?

It was the phoenix that made the difference. It seemed to be warning the man, and Harry decided that was as good a recommendation as he could get. Taking a deep breath, he took the offered hand.

He had an instant to register the cool grip, then the world exploded, accompanied by the terrified shrieks of a tortured phoenix.