A/N: Thank you so much for the warm welcome! Here's chapter one.

.

PART ONE

Chapter One

Harry heard the waves first. He felt the sand, rough against his cheek, second. The burning in his throat came third. He lifted his head and his lungs heaved up … salt water? Confused, Harry squinted against the sun's glare. His glasses were gone, but he found them resting beside his hand. He put them on just as a wave rolled over him.

"What the—" His voice came out as a croak, his throat searing as badly as if he'd swallowed the ocean.

He rose on shaking legs, confusion increasing with each passing second. He stood on a stretch of empty beach, which was impossible because he had been at Hogwarts just seconds ago. He had been in the Headmaster's office, dueling—

Harry froze.

He wasn't alone.

Narrowing his eyes against the salt smudges clouding his glasses, Harry saw another form farther down the beach.

"Ron? Hermione?"

No response. The form did not move. Harry staggered toward it, his legs like jelly. The all too familiar itch of fear covered his skin. He closed the short distance, his trainers sinking and slipping in wet sand. As he neared the person, he knew it was neither Ron nor Hermione. And when he dropped to his knees, and with great trepidation rolled the figure over, he knew in his gut who it was before the man's face was revealed.

Harry's brain disengaged, because this was absurd. This was insane.

Dark haired and pale and completely unconscious was Tom Riddle.

It was the fresh crash of a wave that brought Harry back to his senses. Shaking salt water from his eyes, he realized he'd tumbled over — a haste of trying to scamper away from a far too human Voldemort, tugging his wand from his pocket as he did.

For the second time, everything seemed to freeze, all surroundings blackening as his attention zoomed in on another impossibility. The wand. The hawthorn wand clutched in his fist was nothing more than a stick. Panic crawled up Harry's throat. The wand was still. Lifeless. Empty.

It fell from Harry's fingers as he yanked at his shirt. He pulled open the mokeskin pouch that hung around his neck and fished out his own wand. Nearly snapped in half, the thinnest fibers of wood and phoenix feather barely kept it together. Harry held the holly inches from his nose and felt that he cradled something dead.

"No."

His wand didn't simply feel broken. It didn't feel like a wand at all. A spell rested on the tip of his tongue, but Harry could not bring himself to utter it. Dread encased his heart, flooding his chest as a terrifying thought came: magic was gone.

But magic couldn't be gone. Harry barely noticed the next gush of ocean water knocking against his shins, threatening to carry the hawthorn away as he stared down at the holly. Magic was behind this. Magic had done this.

Whatever this was.

Harry shut his eyes. Think. There had to be a logical explanation. He'd been at Hogwarts — he was certain of that. Hagrid had carried him out of the Forbidden Forest. Neville had defied Voldemort, killing Nagini with a single great swipe of Gryffindor's sword. Chaos erupted. Under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry had darted through the fight. He'd revealed himself. With everyone watching, he'd faced Voldemort in the Great Hall, his wand hand steady as he waited with baited breath for the Killing Curse to come, but Voldemort, red eyes wide with fury and fear, had done the opposite. He'd fled, taking Harry momentarily by surprise, but only for a second. Up the marble staircase, down the Charms Corridor, Harry followed — the whole school rushing behind him — until Voldemort was cornered in the Headmaster's office. Even the portraits had followed. From his painting above the desk, Dumbledore shouted something in warning as —

Harry opened his eyes and looked down at his right wrist, noticing the burn there for the first time. He remembered very clearly Voldemort sending the cabinet that usually held the Pensieve right at him. There'd been no time to jump clear; he had shouted 'Confringo!' and the cabinet exploded, showering the office with wooden splinters. Harry remembered lifting his arm to protect himself and … and…

And he'd come to half-submerged in ocean water? On a beach he'd never seen before in a place that seemed miles from Hogwarts with a Tom Riddle dressed in Voldemort's robes, looking as young as he had when he worked for Borgin and Burkes? Had the blast addled his brain? Was he actually wandering around the mental ward of St. Mungo's and this was all a highly vivid hallucination?

Or…

Harry took in the burn on the inside of his wrist. He couldn't make out the mark in detail, but it looked like a half-moon, the skin around it angry and inflamed.

With conscious effort, Harry tamped down the panic threatening to unhinge him. There must have been something within the cabinet that hadn't reacted well to being blown up. He needed help. He needed to find Ron and Hermione.

"Ron! Hermione!"

Harry turned on the spot as seagulls soared overhead. They had to be here. They'd been right behind him when he'd charged up the Headmaster's staircase.

A flash of white caught Harry's attention. On a hilltop, past a stand of thick trees, was a house. It had spires and turrets that looked startlingly like Hogwarts, but it was far too small. A manor house, perhaps. Certainly not a castle. Its white stone gleamed in the sunlight. It amazed him that he hadn't noticed it before and his heart leapt at the sight. Ron and Hermione would have seen it. They'd be there. Harry scooped up the hawthorn from the sand and had taken five steps toward the trees when he stopped.

Voldemort.

He had not moved, still lying unconscious on the sand. Harry watched as the encroaching tide sent its next surge up his body. Was he dead?

And what if he wasn't?

Harry stowed the wands back away. Grimacing, he reached out a hand to Voldemort's throat. He felt for a pulse and found one.

How? How was this happening? How could Voldemort now look like Tom Riddle? Or was this really Riddle from the past? Could there have been a time turner hidden away in that cabinet? But that was wrong. Hermione had said every last one had been destroyed in their fifth year and regardless, a time turner would not explain why there was suddenly no magic. Whatever this was … this was sorcery Harry had never encountered before.

Voldemort didn't look like he'd be coming around any time soon. Would he before the tide swept him away?

Leave him.

Walk away. Walk away and find Ron and Hermione.

And if Voldemort woke? Wouldn't it be better to have him where Harry could keep an eye on him?

Mouth twisted in disgust, Harry took Voldemort beneath the armpits and heaved him upright. A wave of déjà vu rolled over him: fifteen and staggering under the weight of Dudley after a dementor attack. Harry's shoulder and back buckled under Voldemort's limp weight. He gritted his teeth and started toward the trees.

.

.

The house was unlocked. The front doors — oak and tall and strangely like Hogwarts — swung open effortlessly under his hand. The entrance hall was spacious and unoccupied.

Harry tried to shout 'hello' but was too short of breath to speak. Voldemort was still unconscious and he was like a sack of bricks. The trek up the hill through the trees had felt endless. Legs wobbling, Harry stumbled inside and the door swung shut behind him. To the left was an archway and Harry spied a handsome fireplace and a cluster of cushioned armchairs. He carried Voldemort into the room and deposited him in a heap on the floor. The moment Harry was rid of his load he nearly tumbled over again, his legs giving out from exhaustion. But Harry had to find rope. He had to tie Voldemort up. He could wake any moment.

Harry lurched toward a cabinet and opened drawers, growling in frustration as he found nothing but knickknacks and jewelry boxes. He shoved a glass paperweight out of the way; it fell to the floor and rolled across the room. In a side drawer he spotted a salmon pink silk scarf, neatly folded beside a pair of old-fashioned women's gloves. It looked like the sort of thing Aunt Petunia would wear. Harry snatched the scarf up and hurried back to Voldemort.

He was amazed and utterly grateful that Voldemort was still out cold. Harry pushed him into a slumped sitting position against an armchair, and using the scarf, tied his hands together behind his back. Harry's breath came up short. He hesitated, and then reached for Voldemort's left wrist. On the pale skin was a burn.

Harry snatched his hand back and moved away. What did it mean? Why did they both have the same mark? He had to get out of here. He had to get back to Hogwarts.

"Hello?" Harry shouted into the dark entrance hall. "Is anyone here?"

The house was silent.

But someone must live here, Harry reasoned. The house was furnished, belongings cluttering side tables. An umbrella stood in a … troll leg.

Harry blinked his eyes hard. It looked just like the one Tonks tripped over every time she'd entered Grimmauld Place. Such decor was clearly more popular than Harry had first thought.

The owners must have gone out. Surely they'd be back soon. Harry hoped they weren't Voldemort supporters. That was the last thing he needed.

"Potter?"

Harry spun around, his wand jumping into his hand, even though it was useless and why, why, why was it useless?

Voldemort blinked slowly at him, giving his head a little shake. "What —" He stilled. His eyes grew wide and incredulous. They were transfixed three feet to Harry's left where a life-sized mirror rested against the wall.

Harry looked at the mirror too and did a double take, not due to Voldemort's reflection but because of the mirror itself. It was the Mirror of Erised. Harry would recognize it anywhere. The gold filigree, the clawed feet, the runes etched along its frame. What was it doing here? Harry stumbled to it, the better to see it.

"What is this?" Voldemort demanded. His voice, Harry noticed, shook. "What have you done?"

It was the same. It had to be. Harry knew Dumbledore had removed the mirror from Hogwarts. He must have brought it here. Though Harry was still totally confused, the fear that had been threatening to choke him dissipated. Dumbledore had moved the mirror here — wherever here was. A triumphant grin spread across Harry's face. This house belonged to wizards who knew Dumbledore.

"Potter!"

Harry's eyes flew to the fireplace. He ran to it. Behind him came the sounds of Voldemort struggling with his bonds, but Harry ignored him. He'd found what he was looking for: a little tin box on the mantel. He clicked it open and inside was floo powder. With complete confidence, Harry showered the empty fireplace.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, Harry tried again. The green powder settled on the cold brickwork, as unimpressive as glitter.

"Potter."

Harry shut his eyes. This was a dream. A dream. He'd wake up any second in the tent and tell Hermione and Ron all about it.

"What did you do, Potter?"

Harry's eyes snapped open.

"Me?" he said, rounding on Voldemort. "What did you do?"

Voldemort glared at him with such blistering hatred, Harry was surprised he was not engulfed in flames. He gripped the hawthorn, as useless as it was, and the rage on Voldemort's face shifted to surprise. His eyes — so unnervingly human now — flickered around the room. He actually swiveled around to look behind him, as if Harry was nothing more than a statue.

Harry felt a jab of annoyance.

"Impossible," Voldemort breathed.

"What is?" Harry demanded, wanting Voldemort to face him. "Where are we? What is this?"

A flash of blinding light cut him off. He gasped and threw up his arms to shield himself from the burning glow … or was it his wrist that was on fire? The light grew until it was unbearable —

It stopped. Shaking, Harry lowered his arms and looked up. On the ceiling was a golden disk. As Harry watched, it began to move. Triangles peeled away, like the petals of a flower. Where the flower's center should have been was a long, jagged line that ran from one edge of the circle to the other. The line split, forming two half-moons that slowly rotated around each other while the petals gently turned in the opposite direction. Runes of glistening gold spiraled outward across the rest of the ceiling like rings in a pond. It was beautiful and strangely mechanical. It was the sort of thing Luna would paint.

"The Carcerem."

Harry looked back at Voldemort and what he saw made him far more worried than anything he'd yet encountered: Voldemort was frightened.

"The what?" said Harry.

Voldemort did not shift his gaze from the golden flower above them. Feverishly, his eyes darted over the runes. When he finally lowered his eyes, he looked nauseous.

"These bonds are unnecessary, Potter."

Harry let out a snort of a laugh. "Sorry if I don't take your word on that."

"Unnecessary," Voldemort continued, his cold voice at odds with his words, "as I have no intention of harming you."

Harry blinked. Out of everything Voldemort could have said, Harry never would have bet on such a statement. Perhaps he really was dreaming.

"We are in the Carcerem," Voldemort explained, "an ancient artifact that's sole purpose is to contain the two most volatile forces near it within itself. It must have been in that cabinet," he cursed.

Harry's heart thundered. "What do you mean contain?"

"We were dueling. The Carcerem was present in the room. We activated it and have been sucked inside." Voldemort jerked his head upward at the revolving flower. "The Carcerem creates a pocket universe, separate from our time and space. We cannot break out of it. Only it can release us and only when we—" Voldemort's mouth twisted with revulsion. He did not go on.

"When we what?" asked Harry, taking a step forward.

Voldemort looked deadly. "When we resolve our differences."

Harry stared and then a wild laugh escaped him. It sounded hysterical to his own ears, but Harry couldn't stop. He doubled up, hands on his knees.

"Are you done?" said Voldemort, unamused.

Harry regained himself, though he was still short of breath. Wiping a tear away, he said, "I don't know what you've got to gain by this, but you can stop, right now."

Voldemort's eyes flashed. "This is not a game, boy! There is nothing that I would love more than to kill you here and now, but I cannot. Not if I wish to leave the Carcerem." His eyes darted back up to the ceiling. "It's all there, Potter," he spat, sounding suddenly like Snape. "Or did you never bother to learn ancient runes?"

The barb stung sharper than Harry would have expected.

"Look around you!" Voldemort insisted. "There is not a trace of magic here, save for that monstrosity on the ceiling. That wand you're holding is nothing more than a bit of bark. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Harry's face flushed, but he did not lower the wand. "This doesn't make any sense. I've never heard of the Carcerem."

"That," said Voldemort, voice dripping with disdain, "is not saying much."

Harry felt his ears burn. "You did this! This is some last ditch effort to save yourself. You've … fiddled with my mind. I'm imagining all of this!"

For one of the few times ever, Voldemort was speechless.

"Give me a reason!" Harry raged. Rays of deep red streamed through the windows, signaling night's approach. They weren't bothering to keep their voices down. Someone should have come in by now. A suspicion that he could no longer ignore was taking root in his heart: there was no one here. "Give me a reason to believe you."

Voldemort's gaze was hard and steady, as unwavering as an adder's. "I have attempted to murder you by my own hand no less than five times. I have destroyed your family. I have cursed your life. With every breath I still possess, I will dismantle you until there is nothing left. It is a promise and Lord Voldemort always fulfills his promises. So know, Harry Potter, that when I say you are now vital to me alive, I mean it."

Harry re-gripped his wand, searching Voldemort's face. "What do you see in the mirror?"

"Excuse me?" Voldemort sneered.

"You heard me. What do you see in the mirror?"

The expression Voldemort sent him would have withered a giant. "Myself. As I was in 1956, the day I came into contact with the Carcerem at an auction. It seems that in the creation of our prison, it reverted my body back to that day. Perhaps the Carcerem has been impaired. If my recollection is true, and it was in that cabinet, it got blown up."

Something cold slithered into Harry's stomach.

"Damaged enough that it may not let us out?" he asked.

"Impossible to know," said Voldemort, not looking remotely pleased.

"What did you mean when you said you couldn't kill me if you wished to leave?"

"That's how the Carcerem works," said Voldemort, growing impatient. "Two enter and two leave. It has been used on numerous occasions to try to force an armistice. If one of us were to kill the other while inside the Carcerem, the victor remains trapped within it forever."

"So … so we're just supposed to trust each other?" said Harry in disbelief.

Voldemort's mouth curled into a ghost of his old smile, villainous and deadly. "Shall we make terms? I will, however, need my arms free in order to shake on it."

Harry didn't want to believe this. Voldemort was a liar and a manipulator. He'd say anything to free himself. But Harry could not ignore the facts. His wand did not function. The floo powder was void. The mirror did not show Voldemort his heart's desire: victorious and immortal. Seemingly against his will, Harry's eyes traveled the room and once he began to truly look, the oddities glared obvious. It was a poor mashing of the Gryffindor and Slytherin common rooms, the wall paper and rug a clash of silver green and golden red. The armchair Voldemort was bound to was Harry's favorite, one from the set he and Ron and Hermione always chose by the fireplace. The couch, however, was the one located in the Slytherin common room. Harry remembered it from Second Year. The candle holders around the walls were all in the form of serpents. Harry's stomach jolted. On a table was Ron's Wizards Chess set, the pieces immobile … and further away, tucked beside one of the high-arched windows was clearly Oliver Wood's model of the Quidditch field. In the dwindling light streaming through the window, Harry caught the glint of wires supporting the brooms. It looked like a Muggle's toy. What he'd taken as a paperweight Harry now realized with a start, was Neville's Rememberall.

This was madness.

This was insanity.

"You know a way out?" Harry asked Voldemort, his mouth dry. "Of the Carcerem?"

"No," said Voldemort. "But release me, and I will find one."

Every instinct screamed at him not to, but Harry walked across the room and freed his enemy.