Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I claim ownership of nothing but ideas and plots that are not mentioned in her works.

Crossing Over

(Written by pouf with suggestions from ellyanah)

...

Prologue

October 31, 1981

Voldemort wakes to a blinding headache, and he has a strong suspicion that the pain has something to do with his last memory. He remembers the Potter infant, his own voice as he casts the killing curse, and then his surprise when the green beam of light somehow rebounds off the brat's forehead and hits him directly in the chest. From this, he concludes that he should be dead by his own curse, and that he is in a condition that is only slightly preferable, because he is most definitely no longer in his body.

He panics. That angers him. Voldemort does not like to feel fear.

His migraine peaks and grounds his thoughts for a while. He evaluates the situation. His peaking migraine grounded his jumbled thoughts long enough for him to evaluate the situation. He is perplexed. He expected that he would be reduced to a wraith in the event of his 'death' because of his horcruxes, but that is apparently not the case. He is… in a cage?

He feels rage: rage, rage, endless rage. He is ready to torture and kill whoever dared imprison him, Lord Voldemort.

He is startled out of his tumult by a loud shrieking wail. For a moment, he draws a blank, but then he thinks a name. Potter? He reminds himself that the killing curse has rebounded, so it is conceivable that the child is still alive. But Voldemort realizes that the wail is too close to be Potter, because it is almost as if it comes from... the cage itself?

He is confused. He does not like being ignorant. It makes him angry, because ignorance makes people powerless and weak, and he views it as the worst possible thing other than death. He determines to resolve the ignorance issue immediately.

He examines his noisy entrapment. It is warm, soft, and panicky. The last observation stops him: emotion from an object? The situation is getting too far out of hand. He is relieved to find that there seem to be orifices to the outside world—a world that is blurred and disproportionately tall. His relief fades. He sees the mudblood woman's corpse lying not too far away from empty robes and—is that his wand? The wail grows louder, and he finally notices bars and blankets around him.

The realization sets in with a frigid, sinking calm.

He is in the brat's body. The only way it can have happened, short of accidental possession while in wraith form (which is sadly not the case, because he can't for the life of him move any part of his prison-body), is if his consciousness is a horcrux—a horcrux that is trapped in the body of a very much living Potter.

It is preposterous. Lord Voldemort does not throw ineffective curses, nor does he fail to kill mere infants—and he most certainly does not make a mess of his horcrux rituals only to end up a powerless entity sealed off in said infants.

He cannot possibly allow himself to remain in the humiliating situation, and that is why he extends his awareness within the cage to search for Potter's soul. If he is lucky, it will be weak and easily pushed out of the body.

As it turns out, he does not have any luck after all.

Like everything that night, things go wrong. He does not find what he is looking for. He is horrified to find that the brat's soul is quite solidly attached to its body. Not only is it frighteningly bright, it is also protected by an odd shield—is that love it is made of?—that seems to harbour some very hostile intentions toward Voldemort.

He tries to reach for the soul; the shield blocks him. He tries to push the soul away; the shield merrily shines brighter. He tries to steal energy from the body to throw it at the shield to see if it might be destroyed; it remains unaffected. He tries lashing out with the strongest, most destructive legilimency attack he can muster; the stubborn, godforsaken shield still holds.

The arrogant mudblood has seemingly set up an infallible protection against his efforts. It is impossible to outright oust the brat.

He wonders if perhaps there is another way. He certainly is not going to give up: he is going to get the situation under control no matter what it takes. Ideas fly madly through his mind. Each is examined and rejected in a flurry of angry thoughts… until one of them—a word, really—causes the hubbub to quiet.

Merge.

He does not like the idea, but knows that it is the only possibility. Unless, of course, he is inclined to be imprisoned until his original self kills Potter and unknowingly destroys him in the process.

It will work. His consciousness is, after all, only a very small piece of soul. It will not take much to merge it with the still-developing soul of the infant. The shield will probably not protest: he will not be harming Potter—in fact, he is going to strengthen him, because Voldemort's own magic will combine with the brat's, and he will still have all of his memories. He hopes the shield will interpret the knowledge as an extra protection from magical attacks rather than a nefarious influence on Potter's disgustingly innocent mind. Voldemort will, of course, be getting what he wants: a body, with the additional bonus of a much larger magical core. In a word, power.

He refuses to even consider the possibility that merging his small soul sliver with a complete one might change him in any way. He is, after all, Lord Voldemort: surely he can overpower any influence of the brat's soul. So it is without any hesitation that he draws nearer to the glowing orb and its shield. He makes sure to keep his intention to merge without harming Potter in the forefront of his mind. The shield does not attack or repel him. He edges closer and closer, until he feels Potter's foreign presence curiously prodding back at him—and then the child's soul is both around his own and inside it, and it is stifling, and he hopes the unpleasant brat is suffering more than he is, and—and he is Harry, no, Potter—he is Lord Voldemort, not some helpless child!—it is overwhelming, and he no longer knows who he is—oh, but he resists, long after he forgets what he is fighting—and then Harry and Voldemort black out for a hardly noticeable second, and when they wake… they are no longer two entities.

A quick examination confirms to the consciousness that it is in Harry Potter's body. Only, it does not know its identity: it is both Voldemort and Harry, and neither. Voldemort-who-isn't-quite-Voldemort-anymore decides that he will most definitely never go anywhere near soul magic again. His current predicament is complete and utter chaos, and he does not like it. He is both the malevolent culprit and the anguished witness of his parents'murder—it is utterly confusing, and he hates it. He distinctively recalls both perspectives: one gloating about the Potters' murder, the other half-aware and panicked. He will definitely not touch soul magic again.

He hopes that, once he manages to sort through the current pandemonium in his mind (he finds out the hard way that mixing an adult's mind with an infant's within a one-year-old body is not a good idea), having a complete soul will make him sane enough to permanently stay away from the current bane of his existence.

And so, Voldemort/Harry, still wrestling with his identity and trapped in his crib until someone sees fit to release him, attempts to bring his fingers to his temples to relieve his growing migraine. Only, he finds that his infant body lacks basic motor control. Instead of the desired effect, an exaggerated muscle spasm sends one of his arms flying into the crib's banister, and his fist slamming painfully into his nose. Abject frustration and wild disbelief fuel the stream of profanities running in his thoughts.

For the second time that night, his emotions are cut off by a loud cry. Well, well, well. It appears that a very devastated person has finally stumbled upon the scene. At least, whoever it is—luckily, probably not the old coot, as he wouldn't have such an exuberant reaction and is more likely to send a sycophant anyway—will not be trying to kill him. Hopefully, if this person is any danger to himself, he will be able to force a bout of accidental magic to defend himself…

He waits with bated breath as rushed footsteps hit the stairs and grow louder. The intruder finally runs into his room and skids to a halt before Lily Potter's body. He watches Sirius Black sink to his knees and the torrent of emotions that cross his features. The man's face is agitated, caught between rage and grief as he swears to torture and murder Pettigrew. Voldemort/Harry doesn't really pay attention to the wording.

Instead, Voldemort/Harry, once more a victim of his identity crisis, finds that he is darkly pleased by the idea of making his family's betrayer suffer. In fact, he has quite a few ideas for drawing out the rat's pain indefinitely, most of which rely on dark magic to force his would-be victim to remain alive and conscious long after the pain levels should have caused his nervous system to shut down…

It is therefore his amused and uncontrolled gurgle (he absently notes that it is a far cry from Voldemort's hysterical laughter, which actually sounded better when he heard it as Harry earlier than when he heard it from Voldemort's body) that finally draws Black's attention to him.

He is engulfed in shaking arms before he even processes Black's movement toward him. He is being hugged. And—for Salazar's sake, why?—cried on. Lovely. It is almost worth it to say something silly in parseltongue to make his torturer let go of him and end this farce. But if he is to judge the affectionate monster a priori… the Black family doesn't exactly breed in favour of quintessential sanity, and distraught men who have just lost their best friend and been betrayed by a close friend can't possibly be stable. Parseltongue is not a good idea. The man would probably think him possessed (not entirely false), an imposter (again, not entirely false), or a dark wizard (not false at all). Either way, Voldemort/Harry is likely to be an accidental casualty of Black's insanity if he even so much as hisses a single word.

As he reaches these conclusions, Black seems to regain some sense; he begins to look around frantically, muttering a string of incoherent nonsense about secret keepers, traitors, and guardians. Really, for a pureblood from a Dark family, it is almost insulting that Black doesn't even have enough of a grasp on occlumency to lucidly organize his thoughts. At this rate, the idiot is going to hunt down little weak Pettigrew while everyone thinks he has betrayed the Potters. The endeavour is almost sure to end in disaster. Well, no matter. He is a blood traitor, an irresponsible one without any sense of self-preservation. Voldemort/Harry inwardly scoffs. Black is as foolishly Gryffindor as they come.

He wishes he was in better company.

His wistful hopes meet an abrupt demise when worse company comes along: Rubeus Hagrid. Of course, he hears him lumbering around like a great big oaf before he sees the half-giant, but it is his words that finally make Voldemort/Harry realize that he is not yet out of the proverbial woods even if the 'soul situation' is no longer an immediate concern.

"Er, Sirius—look, yer goin' ter have ter hand 'Arry there ter me, yeh see," here, his chest puffs out in pride, "Dumbledore sent me ter get 'im, I'm s'posed ter bring 'im, fer safety I mean, yeh understand."

The barmy old coot! The nerve of him! Sending an incompetent, uneducated half-giant to handle a toddler! And Hagrid, barging in like that and demanding things… why, has he no sense of tact?

Thankfully, Black appears to share Voldemort/Harry's opinion. At the very least, he seems reluctant to release him to Hagrid's tender care; his arms stiffen around him. Voldemort/Harry takes the moment of hesitation as his cue to make sure that he stays with Black—definitely the lesser evil—and draws on the trauma of the evening to push a loud and distressed wail as he tightens his grip on Black's jacket. He even burrows his face into the man's chest for effect. There; that should be enough of a hint.

Miraculously, his act works; it favourably tips the balance in Black's struggle to decide between Harry and Pettigrew.

"Well, he's safe with me," Voldemort/Harry inwardly cheers as Black speaks, "Dumbledore probably just thought that Harry was alone in here." Not a particularly coherent explanation, let alone for someone like Hagrid, but he can't expect much out of a mentally unstable wizard. Once again, sheer luck seems to be on his side; the half-giant actually accepts the flimsy argument!

"Yer prob'ly right," a tear slides down his face—has he no pride?—as he continues, "but don't yeh think yeh ought ter bring 'im somewhere else?" His query is met with silence; it is quite clear that Black is still disoriented. Voldemort/Harry hears Hagrid shuffle his feet when the other man's silence grows long.

Finally, Black gathers his dismal wits and hoarsely lets out a whisper, "I… I don't know what to do."

"Dumbledore would know what ter do," Hagrid mumbles under his breath before addressing Black, "We could always bring 'Arry to Dumbledore, he'd know."

A quick glance at Black's face, disguised within a particularly exaggerated gasped sob, reveals that he is actually considering Hagrid's idea.

Voldemort/Harry does not like where this is going.

Where is Severus with his acerbic tongue when you need him to ward off floundering idiots? He toys with the idea of using the imperius curse on one of the imbeciles. He looks at his wand, which is still lying on the ground next to his crumpled robes, from the corner of his eye. Even if he doesn't use it right now, he can't just leave it there to be snapped or placed in a ministry exhibit. It is his wand and he is tired and sick of this idiocy, and he needs it and—the yew wand flies into his clumsy hand. Aghast at his burst of accidental magic, Voldemort/Harry abruptly whirls his head around to see if it has been noticed. Apparently not; the two men are still discussing what to do. Presently, Black is back to being hesitant, and Hagrid is still singing his cherished headmaster's praises. Good; they are not watching him. He once again turns his attention to the wand. He needs to keep it safe in one way or another. He can't exactly crawl or apparate away to find a hiding spot for the wand while he is 'supervised' by these two, but neither can he openly keep it. The entertainment of seeing the Light wizards' reactions if they find Harry Potter 'playing' with a Dark Lord's wand isn't worth losing it to them.

Before he can reach a decision, a voice he could have picked out among thousands interrupts Black and Hagrid. "Gentlemen," its owner points his wand at Black with a stern face, "I'm terribly sorry to put an end to a discussion which I'm certain is delightful, but I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to." Dumbledore. Why is he not surprised? Everything in the last few hours has gone spectacularly down the drain, so of course the manipulative, meddlesome old fool shows up.

With Dumbledore's sudden appearance and frosty tone of voice, Voldemort/Harry freezes right along with Black and Hagrid. He can just imagine what they look like to the old fool; a criminal holding an innocent child hostage in an attempt to manipulate a poor, gentle half-giant. He gurgles in amusement at the completely erroneous interpretation (after all, he is the criminal, Black is the innocent in need of help, and Hagrid is doing the persuasion). He curses his lack of motor control as his giggle causes him to accidentally wave his wand, which creates a shower of green sparks.

Dumbledore's piercing eyes dart down from Black's face to Voldemort/Harry. With a sinking feeling, he realizes that the blue orbs are far from twinkling. He believes he is doomed. In an instant, he feels his blood rush from his face—Dumbledore is going to figure it all out, he always does, he knows… His panic brings about the recollection that his nerves have not felt this frayed since the day he inadvertently looked into his basilisk's bulbous eyes before he had created horcruxes, only to realize, after practically feeling his heart stop out of fear, that the great serpent can control its gaze and that it would never harm a descendent of Salazar Slytherin.

And then the moment ends. Dumbledore's eyes snap away from him to focus on Black. Voldemort/Harry's attention comes back to the present and he recalls that, to the world, he is Harry Potter, a toddler. Not Tom Riddle. Of course, Dumbledore will not suspect him. Though he is currently helpless, as he had been at the time of that incident with the basilisk, Dumbledore would never consider harming Harry Potter. He probably thinks that Black had taken the wand first and that he merely grasped it as a toy. He is safe. Voldemort/Harry lets out a calming breath.

"Mr. Black, I believe it would be in your best interest to relinquish your hold on young Harry," the headmaster's voice has grown even colder. Apparently, Dumbledore does not agree with Voldemort/Harry's latest assessment of his own safety.

"But—wand—what? No, no, the rat, we have to…" Understanding finally dawns upon Black's face when he trails off; he realizes that the headmaster thinks him guilty.

Dumbledore, either not noticing the change or unaware of its true meaning, insists: "I will not repeat myself, Mr. Black."

Hagrid is ignored when he enquires, "Dumbledore? Wha's goin' on?"

"Professor," Black grows even more agitated, eyes wild and voice urgent, "You don't understand, I—"

He is cut off by Dumbledore's disarming spell. Black's wand flies out of his back pocket, but Voldemort's wand curiously stays in Harry's grasp, unaffected but for a slight glow. Voldemort/Harry realizes that he has yet again had a bout of accidental magic. Twice in just a few minutes is a bit much. Surely, Voldemort's control over his power can't have been shattered by the addition of Harry's still immature magic… He stores the odd happenstance in a corner of his mind for later consideration: the situation with Dumbledore is still not resolved.

"Wha…? Wait!" The poor man is even more confused, but Dumbledore does not give him time to recover as he immediately attemps to summon Harry out of his grasp. Voldemort/Harry's magic has apparently not yet calmed down, and it seems that he implicitly considers Black the lesser evil; though he gives a startled yelp when he feels the tug of the accio, it is dispelled instants later. This constant accidental magic is beginning to annoy him; he hates losing control. Truth be told, he is even starting to feel a little light-headed from the power rush. Bodies as young as this are not meant to act as conduits for much magic at all. He is going to end up knocking himself out if he isn't able to reign in his magic soon; already, he can feel his fingers weakening around his wand. That is unacceptable. Voldemort/Harry quickly allows his body to go limp in order to gather his strength in his hand, and tightens his hold on his wand. He is not going to let it slip out of his grasp to be picked up by Dumbledore of all people.

The older wizard appears as stunned by his repeated resistance to spells as Voldemort/Harry was. Fortunately, his shock gives Black enough time to get frustrated enough to blurt out a rather crucial piece of information.

"Would you just listen?! I wasn't the secret keeper! I was a decoy for Peter!"

Finally. Voldemort/Harry can practically see the highly entertaining 'Oh' of surprise on Dumbledore's face as he slightly lowers his wand, though he keeps it aimed in Black's direction. Well, at least that makes one half-resolved problem…

Or perhaps not.

"I find it curious, then, that you knew to come here at this time, Mr. Black, and that no one at all was informed of the change," Dumbledore has swivelled his wand back into an offensive position, "Surely, if everyone thought you the secret keeper, it would have occurred to you that you would be blamed if the Potters were betrayed. It hardly seems logical that nothing could indicate your innocence."

Dumbledore is such an exasperating, stubborn old man. To start using logic now of all times?! Whenever it is needed (Voldemort/Harry can personally attest to the case of the chamber of secrets), the professor displays a startling lack of forethought and bleats along with the other trusting, ignorant wizard sheep—and when he doesn't need to be suspicious, the old coot just goes ahead and does his best to hunt down every single possible break in logic. Voldemort/Harry sarcastically finds this to be fantastic.

"Oh for the love of—look, I was worried, alright? I wanted to check on Peter, to be sure that he was still alright, and he wasn't there. So how do you think I reacted, huh?! And we didn't tell you because we—just look at the rat!" Black's voice rises, "Can you honestly say you'd think him capable of what he just did? CAN YOU?! And now he's running around, and instead of going after HIM, you waste time accusing ME!" To his horror, Voldemort/Harry finds himself once again being cried on, this time out of frustration. It is mortifying.

Once more, Dumbledore slightly lowers his wand, clearly hesitant to believe Black. "Well then, dear boy," Dumbledore wearily persists, "You wouldn't object to lending the dear child to an old man until we reach the bottom of this matter?" A fossilized fool wants to protect him. He is touched.

"Fine," spits Black, "I'd rather hang on to my godson, but if that's what you want, do your thing."

And so, Dumbledore cautiously approaches Black and Voldemort/Harry. Well, he most certainly does not want to be handled by Dumbledore. It is time for an encore performance of 'Poor baby Harry doesn't want to let go of uncle Padfoot'. To think he has been reduced to this… He gives a masterful wail when Dumbledore attempts to take him from Black, and makes a show of shying away from the old man. The latter hesitates, but does not draw back.

Hagrid, who seems to have finally understood the gist of the issue, mercifully provides help. Voldemort/Harry refuses to appreciate him.

"Er, y'know, 'Arry didn't want ter let go of Sirius earlier either, wen I tried ter take 'im," he states, "Kinda reminds me of young animals, wen they're alone an' all. Want to cling to safety, they do, an' they don't want ter let go of it."

And, without further ado, in a typically light-hearted fashion, the tension wilts away. Voldemort/Harry wants to feel shocked. He truly, honestly does, because if he does not, it would be admitting that Dumbledore's behaviour is acceptable and normal. But it is so Dumbledore that he cannot bring himself to be surprised that Hagrid's comment—hardly of relevance for an important decision—has convinced him of Black's honesty.

"Ah, you're only too right, dear boy. In dire times and circumstances, the most unconscious of intuitions tell much of the truth."

The twinkly, psychotic old goat is insane. Voldemort/Harry has never been so tempted to obliviate himself.

Black tiredly nods. Hagrid looks proud. Dumbledore is twinkling again. Those three look as if it were a normal evening, when Dark Lords do not vanish away and just-orphaned young boys do not survive killing curses. Speaking of which…

"Nonetheless, I fear that we have yet to fully resolve the situation," Dumbledore turns to Black, "As much as it pains me to jump to such matters, Harry will require a guardian and security arrangements as soon as possible; when news of tonight's events spread, he will become a symbol for the Light—and a target for the Dark."

Ah yes. That. Why, almost forgot about that with the Black-Dumbledore situation. Orphaned. Orphaned, again. With the charming difference that, this time, it is entirely his fault. It is chilling, yet, at the same time, the thought feels like boiling water engulfing him. He thinks that perhaps he is blushing in humiliation. He could have had parents, parents that cared, and his parents weren't even two hours in the past, they'd been there—and now they aren't, because of him.

He begins to think that he is going to end up at the orphanage again. It makes him panic. He would rather anything but the orphanage. As his dread peaks, odd, fist-sized acidic globules drip from the tip of his wand and burn small indents in the wooden floor. The display attracts the attention of the three men in the room, who have yet to emerge from the solemn silence Dumbledore's words caused.

This sobers him. No, he will not let emotions drive him into a corner and weaken him even further than his previous accidental magic already has. He pushes down the feelings, not bothering to consider whether the merge with Harry's soul might be the driving force behind them; that is a question to be examined later. He has to calm down. He has to remain in control. Voldemort/Harry enforces the directions in his mind. Observe, evaluate, plan, and act. There has to be a way not to end up at an orphanage…

"Well, it certainly seems that Harry is feeling rather magical tonight," Dumbledore meekly chuckles, "and that he has quite an attachment to Tom's wand."

Voldemort/Harry mentally groans at the headmaster's change of topic and his use of that disgustingly muggle name, but quickly refocuses his thoughts. Keeping his wand is just as important as avoiding the orphanage, and if he knows the old coot as well as he believes he does, if he is going to allow him to keep the wand, it will be on the basis of some silly idea. Perhaps another 'hint' to elicit a reaction…

"Ain!" His attempt at claiming ownership of the wand with a well-placed 'mine' comes out as a ridiculously pathetic squeal; he tries once more. "Mai—n!" Slightly more satisfactory; at least this one is comprehensible.

"He even seems to have decided that it belongs to him, correct, Harry?"

Voldemort/Harry resolves to let out a happy affirmative gurgle for the old coot. After years of being the recipient of his mistrust and dislike, it is truly bizarre to have Dumbledore so clearly besotted with him.

"But—Professor Dumbledore," Black intervenes, "You can't mean to let Harry keep that—that—monster's wand!"

Voldemort/Harry's eye twitches, but he succeeds in suppressing other outward signs of his resentment.

"Indeed, I intend just that," comes the cheerful rejoinder.

The response shocks Black into an outraged silence, but apparently stirs Hagrid into action.

"But tha's You-Know-Who's!"

"Yes, yes, my boy, I'm well aware of its previous owner," Dumbledore once more answers innocently just as Black recovers.

"Then why are you even suggesting to let a toddler keep it?!"

"Ah, but young man, do recall Mr. Ollivander's preferred phrase: it is the wand that chooses the wizard, and it would appear that we have before us an exemplary case of such a selection. In fact, legends of old allude to powerful wands' ownership passing from the defeated to his defeater—in this case, from Voldemort to Harry. I'm certain you were read the Tale of the Three Brothers in your youth, and that you know of the legendary Elder Wand's criteria for its chosen master. I would not presume to interfere with the complexities of wandlore, my boy."

Ah, there it was, the expected silly, completely ludicrous idea concocted by Dumbledore. The arrogant old man thinks himself so omniscient that he overanalyzes everything. He probably even enjoys mystifying his audience with long-winded, obscure deductions derived from his 'great wisdom', but at least the despicable tendency is working in Voldemort/Harry's favour.

"Then you'll only give it to him when he turns eleven?"

It really is interesting, how practically every Light wizard is so subservient to the coot; his involvement in business not his own always seems to result in others relying on him to make all the decisions, even when the concerned parties clearly disagree.

"Why, Mr. Black, Mr. Potter won't know how to use it before he attends Hogwarts! I see no harm in permitting the poor child to keep it as a memento when the most he can do is throw a few sparks around," Dumbledore concludes sternly, as though he were reprimanding a wayward student.

Black looks conflicted for a moment—Voldemort/Harry thinks that he might be about to point out that acidic globs hardly count as sparks—but it is not long before his shoulders sagged and he visibly caves in, looking chastised.

"Fine," he sighs and pauses, "I guess I'll just… go home then. Harry doesn't seem to be hurt—other than the scar, but I don't think it's worth a visit to St. Mungo's. We'll need to get him settled in soon enough, so what do you suggest I do about security? My dearest mother is still at Grimmauld Place, so living there for the wards is out of the question… My apartment is protected, but…"

Voldemort/Harry is almost confused when his assumption about the orphanage is contradicted by the fact that he will apparently live with Black.

"At the risk of rubbing salt in the wound, I would suggest placing it under the Fidelius immediately; I will be the secret keeper for the location, and will not reveal it to anyone. You two will be perfectly safe for the moment. I will, of course, add wards and attempt to find more efficient ways of protecting Harry."

The conversation continues, but Voldemort/Harry is no longer paying attention; instead, he is focusing on a single fact.

He is not going to the orphanage.

He is… happy. He concludes that it must be the name of the odd feeling he has. The emotion bursts out of proportion just as his unstable magic decides to spike again. The mix overflows into his wand, and he has just enough time to curse his uncontrolled magic when he registers the formation of what might be a spherical patronus—and then the magic overuse harshly throws him into unconsciousness.