Chapter Two

"Tell me everything that's happened since we've arrived."

Voldemort stood and Harry quickly backed away.

"We were on a beach."

"Beach?" Voldemort turned toward one of the tall windows. They were just like the ones in the Gryffindor common room. Exactly the same. Right down to the rearing lions etched in the glass.

"I spotted the house and—"

"Carried me," Voldemort finished, cutting his eyes to Harry. "You have my gratitude."

Harry ground his jaw. The dying rays of the sun flashed upon Voldemort's teeth as he grinned.

Bastard.

Voldemort stepped away from the window. As his thirty year-old version, he was just as tall as ever. "And did you see anything else. Anyone?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "No. And you gave the impression that we're the only ones here. Two enter and all that."

"On that regard, yes. We are the only two wizards, but you would be a fool to assume that nothing else exists in the Carcerem." Voldemort finally noticed the burn on his wrist. He inspected it.

"I have one too."

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow at him. "Interesting. Why would it need to link us?"

The bile rose again. There was nothing Harry wanted less than to be tied to Voldemort. He had spent nearly his entire life being wound tight to the Dark Lord and now, just when he thought he'd been rid of the monster, something else wrapped them back together.

"You said that we have to get along in order to leave. Maybe this is its way of keeping track of our, I don't know … emotional state."

Even as he said it, Harry thought it sounded like idiocy, but to his surprise, Voldemort considered him.

"Perhaps." The man crossed the room toward one of the snake-shaped candle brackets. Something shifted on his face that almost looked nostalgic before he lifted the candle from its holder, picked a match from a holster mounted beside it, and struck it on the underside. Without another word, Voldemort, with his lit candle, left the room.

Harry, taken aback by the abrupt departure, hurried after him. He found him in the entrance hall, clearly trying to decide which direction to explore first.

"Why do you look this way?" Harry asked. "Why did the Carcerem change your appearance?"

Voldemort made up his mind. He moved up the staircase, which, now that Harry focused on it, looked very much like the one in Grimmauld Place, and as Voldemort's candle traveled upward, its light flickered over a series of heads mounted to the wall.

Voldemort paused. "My, my, Potter. Such company you keep."

Harry bristled. "They're in my godfather's house and you haven't answered my question."

"Because I see no reason to," Voldemort sneered. He continued upward.

"Don't play games with me, Tom."

Voldemort jerked to a stop. Slowly, he turned, his back ramrod stiff.

"Use that name again, boy and—"

"You'll what?" Harry demanded. "You'll do what to me, exactly?"

He could feel the rage radiating off Voldemort and was deeply grateful he was no longer a Horcrux. His scar would have been agony.

"Perhaps it would be best," said Voldemort in a voice of forced calm, "if we separated, for both our well-beings." He did not wait for a response, spinning on the step and marching upward, the darkness swallowing him up.

Harry let him go. He was too busy reeling.

It was true. All of it. Though he clearly longed to, Voldemort had not attacked him for using his given name. They were trapped and, according to Voldemort, the only way out was to … get along? The very idea was lunacy. But at least he had a consolation. He needn't fear Voldemort killing him in his sleep. Harry didn't understand this Carcerem, but he was positive now that Voldemort would not harm him. Not if he wished to escape.

With no interest in following Voldemort, Harry returned to the common room and lit his own candle. Sunset was quickly fading, twilight casting the house in deep shadow. On the other side of the entrance hall was a door and Harry turned the handle. Cautiously, he peered inside and nearly dropped his light. It was a kitchen, and more specifically, it was Aunt Petunia's. The flowered wall paper, the rose-colored curtains over the windows, even the table and chairs. But there were significant alterations. The lighting was not electric, but more candles and oil-fed lamps. The television was missing, along with the blender and dishwasher. Harry opened a few cabinets and found Aunt Petunia's fine china that she only used for special occasions along with mugs and plates and a full set of silverware. Dudley's championship heavyweight mug sat beside cups and saucers. It felt as if the Dursleys would tromp in at any moment. Deeply unnerved, Harry returned to the hall.

The Carcerem seemed to have built itself around his memories, but not just his, Harry realized as he moved down a stretch of corridor and entered what looked like a workshop. It was plain and sparsely decorated, the paneling of the walls a dark wood. A strong smell of dust and candle wax hung in the air. Shelves ran along the walls, loaded down with all sorts of strange bottles that put him in mind of Snape's office. Where there was space, there were books. Harry lifted his candle and read half a dozen spines before he turned away, sickened. None of these books would have been at Hogwarts. Not even in the Restricted Section. This room was Voldemort's. There was something Borgin and Burkes about it. Maybe it was the clutter or the collection of oddly shaped skulls behind a glass cabinet. The tiny room felt suddenly claustrophobic and Harry quickly left it, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Onward he went. Moving up a different set of stairs than the ones Voldemort had mounted. The house was bizarrely large, especially for just two people. Harry knew that he would never spend time in half the rooms he passed. Parlors, sitting rooms, what looked like a very exotic gambling den, and even the Defense Against Dark Arts classroom. Amazed, Harry entered it, staring at the skeleton of a thestral that hung from the ceiling, which had not been there in his time. The glass tank Lupin had kept a grindylow for study was set under a window and in the teacher's desk Harry found a thick stack of signed Gilderoy Lockhart photographs, all perfectly frozen in wide, toothy grins.

Through the house he went. As he explored, he met ghosts from his past and ghosts that did not belong to him. The first bedroom he found had him looking about in puzzlement before dawning recollection came: the orphanage. The slate-gray walls, the wardrobe, the rod-iron bed … Tom Riddle's bedroom. Why the Carcerem had latched onto certain memories for its house, Harry could only guess, but he knew Voldemort would not be pleased. He moved further down the hallway, expecting another bedroom, but when he turned the next knob he came to he found himself back in Grimmauld Place. It was the bathroom he'd shared with Ron. Harry set down his candle and sat on the edge of the claw-footed tub. He stared at his trainers, caked with sand and damp with salt water. In a wave, his exhaustion crashed over him. It was crippling. He sagged. When was the last time he'd slept? The last time he'd eaten? Harry pressed his palms to his eyes, blocking out the flickering candle.

Shell Cottage.

They had only left for Gringotts yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Harry had never felt such debilitating weariness. He honestly thought that if he closed his eyes, if he let his body go limp, he'd never wake again.

Dumbledore's face bloomed out of the darkness. And then Ron's. Hermione's.

Ginny.

Harry's eyes snapped open. He gave himself a shake. He couldn't give up. Not now. Not after all he'd been through. Not after dying.

He reached a hand out for the bath's tap and felt the first surge of relief as water gushed into the tub.

.


.

The bath rejuvenated him, especially so as the hot water did not work. He returned to the bedroom down the hall and found clothes in the wardrobe, all resoundingly Muggle. Warily, he eyed the gray bed. He did not fancy the idea of sleeping here. Perhaps it what the familiar red and gold, but Harry felt that the first room he'd found in this house was the safest. He got lost a few times, but eventually Harry made his way back to the entrance hall.

He lit all the candles there, as well as the ones in the common room. Voldemort was nowhere to be seen. Harry sat on the couch, suddenly full of tension. His eyes found the Mirror of Erised and if he hadn't already been convinced, what he saw would have done it. Frightened, thin, and far too pale, his reflection was alone. His mother and father did not stand behind him.

Harry looked away. He stood, the exhaustion from before replaced with nervous energy. He could not settle. He crossed the hall back into the kitchen, lighting every candle and lamp he came across. The light helped. It was childish, he knew, but their glow made him feel safer. He searched the cupboards, pulling out pots and pans. He opened what had always been the pantry and instead found stone steps leading downward. An oil lamp in hand, Harry descended the stairs to find a cellar of monstrous proportions. Astounded, Harry's lamp illuminated sacks of flour and potatoes, stocked shelves of canned vegetables, honey and jam. It was a maze. He turned and spotted more bottles of wine than anyone could possibly drink, all thick with dust. A different turn and he stood in a chamber with stacks and stacks of firewood. Intricate piping ran along the ceiling from a large metal box set in the center of the room. A boiler, Harry realized, delighted. He needn't dread cold baths after all.

Down another long trek of steps and Harry's arms crossed against a frigid, biting cold. Seconds later, he stepped into what was quite literally an ice box. Large crates sat between thick blocks of ice. He heaved one open and found cuts of meat.

He would question these finds later. Grabbing what looked like a pack of sausages, he hurried back up the stairs.


xXx

Voldemort stood before a mirror, glaring at the face he now wore. He'd forgotten his eyes used to be gray. He'd forgotten many things. His lips were full again, his nose long and sharp. His hair was blacker than fresh ink, a coy curl falling over his brow. He looked nothing like Voldemort.

In the mirror, Tom Riddle's lips twisted in disgust.

Why do you look this way?

Why, indeed.

He needed answers. His knowledge of the Carcerem was limited. The glowing runes on the ceiling a floor below had not divulged near enough.

Voldemort commenced his search, shutting doors almost as quickly as he opened them. He needed information, not Quidditch paraphernalia. Left, right, straight, right, dead end. He doubled back and at the end of a stretch of corridor, he finally found what he sought: a library that could have been scooped up from Hogwarts.

For a moment, Voldemort had to close his eyes. Memories were funny things. Some barely elicited a response while others had his knees giving out. Salazar, it was as if he were eleven again, stepping into this Goliath of knowledge for the first time. It was in this labyrinth that he'd chosen his destiny. It was among these volumes that he'd made plans to fortify himself against the greatest of weaknesses. It was here that he'd first discovered Horcruxes.

They came in a flood.

Locket, ring, cup, diary, diadem.

Nagini.

Gone. His anchors to this world, eradicated by a child.

How? How had Potter known everything?

The rage was sudden and blazing. If magic had still been at his disposal, it would have laid everything to waste. Instead, he ripped and tore, curtains and portraits shredding beneath his hands. Books flew across the room. Something shattered. He snatched up a poker. Wooden shelves splintered under his blows and all the while it wasn't enough — not nearly enough. He wanted to maim. Death wasn't a severe enough punishment for Potter. Not anymore. Voldemort had finally learned that lesson. Death was an end and Potter's punishment could never end. Dumbledore had been right, all along: there are things worse than death. Potter would suffer a thousand times over for what he had done to Lord Voldemort. He would bleed. He would beg. He would watch as Voldemort killed every one of his loved ones. And then, maybe then, it would be enough.


xXx

The pan of sausages sizzled. A pot of boiling water sent steam into the air. Harry felt a great triumph as he dumped potatoes into the bubbling pot with a splash. The oven had been an unexpected challenge. For a full five minutes, Harry stared at it before it dawned on him that the oven was wood-fired. After another trip down the cellar steps for wood and a furious test of patience to get the fire hot enough, Harry would soon have dinner.

A loud crash had his head whipping upward. He picked up the chopping knife from the counter and moved into the hall as thuds issued from up the dark stairwell.

"Voldemort?"

A commotion raged overhead — glass shattering, the sounds of a chair thrown against a wall. As if Harry had been waiting for something like this all along, he rushed upward, knife at the ready. He followed the sounds until he came upon a library. It looked like a hurricane had blasted through. Books, glass, and wood were scattered in all directions. Voldemort stood in the middle of it all.

"What is it?" Harry demanded. His eyes darted around the demolished room, poised for someone or something to jump out at him, but Voldemort was alone. "What's wrong?"

Breathing heavy, Voldemort turned, a poker in his hand. One look told Harry everything. Nothing had attacked Voldemort. Harry knew the look in his eyes. It was the same lethal glaze that filled his nightmares.

But instead of advancing, instead of lifting up the poker and taking a swing at Harry, Voldemort let it slip from his fingers. It fell with a thud. His face was whiter than chalk, sweat plastering hair to his forehead. Without warning, Voldemort's eyes rolled into the back of his head and Harry darted forward just in time, grabbing him before he hit the floor.